by Dave Connis
I tell her about each one. How, in every one, my family leaves me and I’m alone in darkness so crushing it feels like I can’t breathe.
“I’ve been thinking the dreams were about the moment I realized my family left me. I mean, they are, but I also think they’re about how I didn’t do anything about it. The deception is the distraction of me blaming the crushing darkness on everyone who left. Some of it is their fault, but I gave myself to isolation without a fight. Maybe the dreams are saying as long as I think the darkness is other people’s fault, I’ll wait for them to fix it. I’m deceived into thinking I have nothing to do with my own isolation, so I just stew in my hurt and drift further and further away from shore.”
She holds my hand and considers the dreams. “It sounds to me like maybe you get off the log and swim back.”
I laugh at the simplicity of it, but it makes so much sense. “Yeah. Yeah. Me, too.”
“Deception Pass Park,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”
I laugh. “I’m sort of afraid of it now.”
She kisses me again. “Maybe we can fix that. Now, let’s sing together about the woes of an old man riddled with cancer.”
I let out a sigh of relief and sit in the office chair. I might have romantic feelings for Dez, but they’re temporarily replaced with how thankful I am for a friend as kind and caring as she is.
I’ve never respected anyone more than I respect Dez Coulter right now.
—
Dez and I walk into Mr. Cratcher’s room, and I’m not sure which one of us isn’t letting go of the other. It was the same way when we came four days ago.
“My dad said yes,” I say. “All our parents said yes. We won the battle. Mostly thanks to Addy, but still, your Knights of Vice are going to Nashville over Christmas break. We’re going to get your album back. We’re going to finish it for you. We promise.”
“It helped a lot that we could all use the ‘our mentor is dying card,’” Dez says. “So, thanks for that.”
“I’m going to take our daily morning time and get better at the guitar. I may have snuck into your house the other night so I could listen to the last eight versions of your album and dig through your journals. I also may have stolen the extra house key under the planter.”
“I helped,” Dez says, smiling. “It may have triggered a new addiction—stealing—but I’ve managed it by taking paper clips out of my dad’s office. I’m not sure how long I’ll be happy with that, but the good news is it’s a lot cheaper vice than alcohol.”
I look up at Dez. “Did we tell him everything?”
She thinks for a minute. “Oh, I keep thinking about your stupid question and I don’t know yet.”
“I don’t either,” I add. “And it is a stupid question.”
The smirk on Dez’s face disappears. “Wait.” She bends over and whispers something into his ear. “Is that it?” She stares at him for a few seconds, waiting for him to answer.
“It’s close? That’s good.” She turns to me. “Future Boyfriend?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you ever make a guess at his question?”
“I tried ‘we’re all variables’ once and he shook his head.”
“Was it a ‘no, you’re an imbecile’ kind of shake? Or was it a ‘you’re close’ kind of shake.”
“The latter.”
“Hmmm.”
“What?”
“I’ve just decided that I’m going to read Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury during our Nashville trip.”
“Okay, then.”
—
It’s the Monday before Thanksgiving, and Addy and I are sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner before we go to Transparency Forum (which has, not surprisingly, grown to include Dez and Addy) when my dad comes through the doors, talking on the phone.
“Really?” he says. “Wow, that’s … weird. Yeah, I’ll sign it. Just send me the papers. Okay. Yeah, that sounds great. Yep. Bye.”
I shove a spoonful of Life in my mouth. “Wbho wub thbat?”
“So attractive, Papi,” Addy says.
“Hbey, wbhen”—I swallow—“a man needs information, he needs it. Why Papi?”
“When a woman needs a ham sandwich, she needs it,” she says. “Am I right?”
We fist bump, and I look back at my dad.
“Mr. Cratcher’s lawyer,” he says.
Mr. Cratcher must’ve finally let go. The doctor keeps telling us the next time we see him he’ll be gone, but Dez and I go every other day and he’s always there, breathing. It isn’t much of a life, but it’s still life.
“So …” I say, waiting for Dad to drop the bomb. I’ve been preparing for this the last few weeks. I tell myself every morning I’ve seen the last of him, and that the heaviness will go away eventually.
That somewhere in this chaos there’s beauty.
“So, before I say anything else, how long did you look at porn last night?”
I drop my eyes back to my bowl.
“Adam?”
Addy flicks my ear. “Adam?”
“Does anyone else find it awkward that my porn habits are being discussed by the whole family at the dinner table?”
My dad shakes his head.
“Nope,” Addy says, “love makes this totally normal. Now answer.”
I groan. “For like, two hours.”
“Why?” Dad asks.
“Dez hung up on me like she always does when she’s pissed about something, but this time it just made me feel horrible.”
“So you medicated?”
I sigh. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Okay, well, I want you to consider this. I’m not going to force you to do it, but just consider getting rid of your laptop, or at least getting some sort of accountability thing for it. Same deal with your phone. This is one of those life or death decisions Mr. Cratcher was always talking about, and you have to make it for yourself. You affect others now. You know, the Knights of Vice, your girlfriend—”
“We’re not dating.”
Addy rolls her eyes.
“It doesn’t matter if you are or aren’t,” Dad says. “Think about how porn trains your ability to love others. It’s a battle, I know, but it’s only a battle if you keep fighting. Your sister and I can only knock on your door so many times. We have work to do. We’re willing to help, but in the end, you have to choose what you want.”
“I’ll pay for the accountability software,” Addy says, “that way you have no excuses. Actually, after this conversation, I’m marching you upstairs and we’re signing up for it. How about that for some action steps?” She leans toward my ear and whispers, “Boom.”
I stare at them both, reminding myself I wanted them to ask me hard things.
“Now,” Dad says, pausing to make sure I have nothing to say to Addy. “About Mr. Cratcher. His lawyer, Mr. Stevens, said Mr. Cratcher’s will was made out to Gabby even though she passed on. Apparently, Mr. Steven’s pushed Mr. Cratcher to change it for the last five years, but Mr. Cratcher and Gabby had no children and neither had family, so Mr. Stevens assumed it still hadn’t been updated when he flew into town last night to deal with the estate, but he found a new will.”
I nearly choke on my cereal. If he says I’ve inherited Mr. Cratcher’s estate, I may have to fill out a will of my own.
“And there were four inheritors.”
“Adam Hawthorne, Elliot Brickman, Trey Lyons, and Dez Coulter?” I ask.
“Yep.”
Holy.
Addy laughs, “No way, that’s crazy.”
“So, we get all his stuff?” I say.
“Maybe. We don’t know a ton about how this is going to happen, and Mr. Cratcher isn’t dead yet. He still might recover.”
He won’t recover. He’s been in the lion’s den way too long to come out whole.
“Mr. Stevens is calling everyone or their parents, so the rest of the Knights of Vice will know about—”
My phone rings.
&n
bsp; “Hello?”
“We’re inheriting all his stuff?” Dez says.
“Yeah, I guess. Crazy, huh?”
“I call his old man books.”
“I don’t know how we thought we were going to record the album if this didn’t happen. All his recording equipment would’ve been sold off.”
“Our destiny hath been ordered by the almighty to be folk stars.”
“I don’t think folk stars exist. Sorry, baby.”
Did I just say baby?
Addy’s eyebrows bunch and she looks at me. I just shrug.
Why am I suddenly a fountain of pet names, especially one as stock as baby? I’ve never called her anything but Dez and/or objects found in nature. A mountain in the morning sun. A forest of trees in a northern fall.
“Want to go to the house early and look around?”
Okay, so she has no response to essentially being called “a useless human.” That’s good. Why is baby a pet name? If Dez and I ever get to the pet name stage, it’s off the list.
“Yeah, I’ll head over now.”
I stand and put my dinner plate in the sink. “Addy, do you want to come over early with me?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. I’ve still got to take a shower.”
I wave the comment away. “You don’t have to take a shower; there’s no one to impress.”
Addy shrugs. “I don’t want to impress anyone. I just smell like garlic toast. See?” She holds her hand out to my nose. I take a whiff and smell nothing, but I fake gag like I just ate something disgusting.
She laughs, drops her plate into the sink, flicks my ears, and runs up the stairs.
—
“This man should’ve been on a hoarding show. Look at all this.”
I turn to the right, but I can’t see what Dez is pointing at, which I guess is kind of her point.
“It’s just his garage, though,” I say. “His house is pretty clean.”
“Adam, I can’t even see you. It doesn’t matter how clean his house is.”
I push against a pile—and by pile, I mean mountain—of whatnot. The thing-mountain tips to the side, hits another thing-mountain, and Bothell, Washington, has its first ever avalanche.
“Sorry,” I say, waving dust away from my face. “Are you okay?”
“I was just hit in the head with a kazoo signed by Bob … Dylan. How does that even happen?”
I poke around in a box of what I thought were vinyl records, only to find folder after folder of tax records.
Vinyl records. Taxes. Honest mistake.
“I’m pretty sure this guy collects Seattle’s 2011 tax forms,” I say. “Wait. These are just his, from the last fifty years. Holy … Mr. Cratcher was making between $100,000 and $300,000 a year for the last twenty years. How is that possible?”
I’m not going to lie. I feel both giddy and guilty when I think of how much he’ll leave behind.
“I might know,” Dez says. “Come over here.”
I walk around boxes, totes, and stacks of newspapers to find Dez staring at a box filled with pictures. No, not pictures, sheets of lyrics matted in picture frames.
She holds a long, skinny frame out to me. Behind the glass are five sheets of paper. Her mouth hangs open in shock, which is kind of sexy. I want her to be surprised more often. I grab the frame and read the sheets of college-lined notepaper. I know these words. I know these words. I skip to the last page.
To the man willing, and forced, to be invisible. Your willingness to enter into my mess has always been the deepest of sleep to me. You are rest, my friend. Your line, “blaze of light in every word,” will haunt me forever. However, as always, I wrote everything else. Just in case you decide to forget. As your letter requested, I will not reveal your name or location. However, if you decide to work under a pseudonym, please let me know so I can help you advertise what your beautiful wife calls “an underground songwriting career.”
All the best,
Leonard Cohen
“There’s a ton more,” Dez says, “but none of them use Mr. Cratcher’s name. Some use The Chaos Writer, but that’s it. I wonder how many music stars know the Abbey Road scandal guy was writing their songs?”
“Okay, can we first talk about the fact that he has a letter from Leonard Cohen talking about how he wrote the line ‘blaze of light in every word’?”
“Do we have to? It kind of makes Mr. Cratcher seem like a douche.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or to defend him. “You probably shouldn’t call a guy who’s about to give you his estate a douche.”
“But he played that song for both of us, knowing he wrote that line.”
“It shouldn’t matter. The words impacted him, and he wanted to share it with us. It makes those moments where he played the song for us a little different, yeah, but it shouldn’t lower Mr. Cratcher to douche status.”
“Since when did you become sensitive?” she asks.
“I met this girl who made me care about stuff and my machismo has been declining ever since.”
She puts a frame down, grabs my hands, and slides them around the curves of her waist.
“The world doesn’t need any more men who don’t care,” she says. “Or any more men who think that machismo declines because you’re vulnerable and keep tabs on how you feel.”
I want to tell her I’m kidding about my machismo declining, but I feel her sincerity and decide against it.
Her blue eyes melt me in the middle of a hoarder’s garage. I want to kiss her, but I’ve already tried that and it didn’t work, but then again, here she is, putting my hands around her waist and I wasn’t allowed to do that before. Confused, I put my feelings somewhere else. I try to feel such a strong hate for porn that I’ll never think about it again, although, thinking about not thinking about porn makes me think about porn.
God.
I feel guilt rise in my gut, but I focus on her arms around my neck and the warmth of her waist sending the beautiful kind of pain up my arms.
She pulls herself tighter into my chest. “The world and I need you to be Adam who cares.”
“I lo—”
She puts her finger on my lips just like she did when I tried to kiss her in Cratcher’s studio a few days ago.
“Not yet. I want it to be true when we say it. If we want to survive, our love can’t be a shadow. It’s got to be a blaze. I need to know addicts can blaze.”
“I know they can. If there’s anything I’ve learned in the last few months, it’s that there’s a blaze of light in everyone.”
“You say that, but blaze equals fire, and fire still consumes. In the end, I still need a high, and I want/don’t want it to be you.” She makes a greater than sign with her fingers and points it at my chest. “I want the greater-than love. Until we have that, we’re just volcanoes. Keep believing in us, Adam.”
There it is again. The idea that I’m the one who has to believe in us. The idea that just me believing is good enough to carry us through to the other side.
“Hello?” someone yells in the other room. It sounds like Trey. Dez and I let go of each other and go back to looking through the lyrics.
“Hey! We’re in the garage!” I yell. “Be warned, this place is an avalanche of loot and plunder.”
“Did you guys get the phone call?” Trey asks, being vague in case we didn’t. He sticks his head into the garage, “Holy …”
“Yeah, welcome to our next, like, million years,” Dez says.
“How are we going to decide who gets what without killing each other?” Trey asks.
“I don’t need much,” Dez says. “I just want to be able to finish the album.”
“Let’s save that discussion for when Elliot gets here,” I say. “No need to start a Lord of the Flies reenactment.”
MOMENTARY COLLISION OF BEAUTY AND CHAOS
It’s December 17th, and Christmas break has struck. I stuff some shirts and the one other pair of jeans I own into a backpack. I look around my room, wo
ndering what else I have that deserves to be brought to Nashville. It’s been a month since Dad got the call from Mr. Cratcher’s lawyer about his estate, and, in that time, the Knights of Vice have kept meeting. Pritchett’s switched to holiday flavors for milkshakes, I only have a month left of suspension, and Mr. Cratcher is still somehow hanging on.
As I’m packing, I notice the Ask List on the back of my door. I’d forgotten it was there. I walk over to it, unpin it, and dump it behind my door. The first thing in my official throw-in-Dez’s-pool pile. I grab my computer bag and absentmindedly unplug my laptop cord from the wall.
Wait.
This is a trip where we beat our addictions by being together and focusing on the hallelujah moments. Why would I bring my computer when it’s like, half the problem? A month’s time of accountability software has definitely helped, but I’m nowhere near fixed. I’m as far from fixed as Michael Phelps is from winning a gold medal in lacrosse. Would Dez get mad at me if I brought it? Maybe she’d run it over with the SUV her mom secretly bought us just for this trip.
SUV + just for this trip = rich white ignorant person mindset = Dez pissed = Trey, Elliot, and me having to beg Dez to use it.
I rub my eyes and pull my computer out of the bag, but I don’t put him down. I stare at him, waiting for something to rise within me and choose the right thing. What if we need him for research? What if we need to write stuff down, or put our leads into a spreadsheet? What if all our phones die and this is our only way to communicate? This is a communication decision, not a vice decision. Besides, Addy did sign me up for that accountability software. She’ll hear about it if I look at anything. It’s fine. I slide it in my bag, zip it up, and head downstairs.
I drop my bags by the front door next to Addy’s duffel. “Addy?” I yell, but she doesn’t answer. I look outside and she’s leaning against her truck, talking on her phone. I head over to my dad’s office, but he isn’t there. I go down the hall and see him moving around in his room. I knock and open the door. He jumps.
“Dad, we’re leaving.” I look past him. Each of his dresser drawers is open, and I see the handle of a suitcase peeking out from behind his bed. “What are you doing?”