by Dave Connis
“Elliot, stop,” Trey begs.
“This is hilarious,” I say watching the two of them go back and forth.
“I hate this,” Trey snaps, so I start copying Elliot.
Trey walks away, slamming the back door of the patio. Elliot gives me a fist bump.
Dez is staring at all of us and frowning.
“Well, I’m not going in the house,” she finally says. “So you guys will have to hang out here with me.”
“Would you at least hang out on the back porch?” Addy asks. “Meet the guys in the middle here, Dez. Rein your idiosyncrasy in a bit and get on the bandwagon. Don’t make a mountain out of a dust pile. I know that’s like, your thing, but suspend it for now.”
“It’s not my thing,” she snaps, crossing her arms, but I can tell she knows it is her thing. It’s hard because I know why it’s her thing and no one else does.
She looks at the sky and sighs in disgust. “I’ll meet on the back porch if someone brings me dinner every night.”
“Dez,” Elliot says, almost disgusted. “Are you really bargaining right now?”
“Fine,” she says. “I’ll hang out with you on the back porch.” And with that, she disappears into her tent.
—
Trey makes us TV dinners and gives Elliot the lobster one. He gives Addy one, too, but hers is on a fancy plate, all arranged and set up like it’s a gourmet dinner. He even makes one for Dez, even though she hasn’t come out of her tent. We don’t want to wait for her to eat, so we head out to the back porch and dig in. Somehow, Trey, Elliot, and I start telling our best “that one time I was such a pathetic addict I did this” stories. They’re funny but not at the same time. It’s not like any of us are above doing pathetic addict things. This conversation seems like swimming with floaties around your arms while making fun of the time you didn’t know how to swim.
Addy eventually gives me a look that tells me to cut it out, so when the story pipe comes back to me, I start talking about finishing the album.
“Trey, you’re willing to play electric guitar, right?”
“Yeah, man! Absolutely, that’d be kickass. I’ve always played classic rock so I’m going to have to study up on my folk/Nashville sounds. I got some ideas, though.”
“Elliot, do you play anything?” I ask him.
“Eh, not really.”
“Yes, he does,” Trey says. “Stop being humble.”
Elliot flicks his head to the side. “It’s kind of embarrassing. I got made fun of all the time about it in middle school.”
“Have you noticed you’re not in middle school anymore? Just tell him.”
I widen my eyes. “Do you play the harp with your toes or something?”
“No … I play the cello.”
Trey throws up his hands and begins to points in random directions. “He doesn’t just play the cello; he dominates the cello. He’s the first person at least three Seattle recording studios call when they need a cellist. He’s even played on a Death Cab for Cutie record.”
“You play for the Cutie’s cabina de muerta?”
Elliot looks at Addy. “What did you just say? I hate it when you say stuff I can’t understand. Why do you do that?”
I look at Trey and he’s laughing hysterically.
“Elliot, relax,” I say. “Why are you embarrassed by that?”
“Like I said, I got picked on a lot. I mean, look at me. Emo is short for ‘emotional,’ and unlike other posers, I deserve the title. When shit hits me, it transfigures to concrete. Obviously.”
“Well, you have to play on the album then,” I say. “Mr. Cratcher wanted a cello.”
“I’ll play if we can give the thing a title. This album is such a mysterious thing, I feel like it should have a name.”
Trey nods. “What about: What Do You Mean Where am I From? America. I’m From America.”
“Pancreas Noises?” I say.
Elliot chuckles. “Cancer Ward.”
“El Cocina de Diablo?” Addy says.
“Love, Dark Matter, Jumbo Shrimp, and other Metaphysical Conundrums,” I say.
“Music to Pants Your Friends To,” Trey says in the middle of laughing.
“Ghosts of Christmas Pastors,” Elliot says.
We’re laughing like someone said poop in kindergarten when we finally hear Dez unzip her tent. A few seconds later, she appears on the back porch. She takes a moment to give the house the finger before opening the door to the screened-in area where we’re sitting.
In our silence, I notice the comforting roar of the giant propane heater heating the porch and, strangely, it gives me a hallelujah moment by reminding me where I am and who I’m with. Here’s to more of those. Here’s to hallelujah moments replacing porn.
Dez walks past me, her path aimed toward a nylon camping hammock strung between two of the ceiling supports. She’s changed into gray sweatpants and a striped hooded sweatshirt. Even in sweatpants, she looks like she could win awards in every category of attractiveness.
She puts up her hood and falls into the hammock. She grabs the fabric on its edges and pulls it over her so she disappears. I study her shoulder blades as they press against the hammock, moving and flexing as she tries to get comfortable.
“You look like a banana made out of synthetic polymer,” I say.
“You look like a banana made out of synthetic polymer,” she snaps.
She’s done being mad, I guess.
“Do you want your food?” Trey asks. “I’ll have to heat it again.”
“Yeah,” she says.
Trey disappears into the kitchen to microwave Dez’s previously microwaved dinner. She must hear him come back outside because a lone hand shoots out of the fabric in a very zombie-escaping-out-of-the-ground way.
Trey puts her food in her hand and it disappears into the Hamana (hammock + banana = Hamana). “Thanks,” she says, with a sigh. “Everyone, I’m sorry that I’m a bitch sometimes.”
Trey, Elliot, and I look at each other. Trey mouths, “What do we say?” Elliot shrugs and they both look at me. I throw up my hands in a “why would I know” kind of way, but in the end, I know the most about the tiger in the Hamana.
“Hey,” Addy says, beating me to the punch. “We all have our bad days. Don’t worry about it.”
“I guess I just got swept up in the trip,” she says, not mentioning anything about her family. “I liked being able to forget about being an addict for a little while. I just want to be seventeen instead of like, thirty.”
“Seventeen?” I bark. “I thought you were sixteen?”
“Today’s my birthday.”
I can’t believe I know more about Dez’s problems than the little human facts of her life. I don’t know if I should feel guilty, because she’s never told me when her birthday was, but at the same time, I didn’t ask.
“It’s your birthday?” Trey asks.
“Yeah.”
“Well, a birthday party is more fun than sitting around talking about album names! Elliot, Addy, let’s go find some birthday things.”
Elliot pushes himself off his chair. “Maybe they have flecks-of-gold-fetti birthday cake mix. I’ll check.”
Addy stands, too. “I can cook up some killer cupcakes if they don’t.”
Trey pats my shoulder as they walk by. I flash him a thank-you smile.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?” I ask.
“Because having a birthday in December sucks. Everyone pays attention to Christmas and being done with school. Why bother trying to make a birthday happen? Also, you didn’t ask.”
I walk over to the hammock and part the fabric. As soon as I see her face, I smile.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I roll the hammock down and sit on the edge. “Happy birthday. Is there anything you want?”
She grabs my hand and puts it against her face. The tip of my thumb dips into her TV dinner mashed potatoes.
“To be whole.”
“Anything I can actually get y
ou?”
She opens her eyes, and for the first time, I see love staring back at me—not confused attraction or obsessive addiction. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. It’s like when you know someone is watching you but can’t see them.
She gives me the most beautiful and thankful smile in the history of smiles. On a smile scale that starts at Mona Lisa and ends at Jessica Alba, she’s the sun.
She leans up and kisses my forehead. “You’ve already healed five parts of me, I think.”
“I won’t be able to heal everything. I want to, but I’m as unhealed as you are.”
“Five is greater than none, I guess.”
“I could swear I love you, Dez Coulter.”
“Then you probably do.” She grabs my shirt collar and pulls me close to her face. She makes a greater than sign and puts it against my chest.
“I love you, too,” she says. “Saying that is my birthday present to myself.”
EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE
The morning comes and the Knights of Vice are all up at eight thirty. Well, everyone except for Addy. She’s still out. Like the older sister she is, she tucked all us porch kids in and then went up to her room. She’s never been one for roughing it when it comes to sleep. If there’s a bed nearby, she will occupy it.
Trey, Elliot, and I are trying to figure out how to cook over-easy eggs without breaking the damn yolks while Dez plots our day in the Hamana. I look at her and study the little crease between her eyes while she thinks.
Trey throws another failure-easy egg onto the pile. “I’m not touching another egg.”
“Understandable,” I say. “Over-easy eggs are impossible.”
Elliot points at the plate. “Just grab those and the toast and let’s eat. Who gives a shit about the state of a yolk? It will be fine.”
“That doesn’t make being defeated by unborn chickens any easier to handle,” I say.
Trey snickers, grabs a pitcher of orange juice, and walks onto the back porch.
“So, what’s the plan for today?” I ask Dez while Trey makes her a plate of food.
“Should we wait for Addy?” Dez asks. “She’ll probably want breakfast anyway.”
Trey stands up. “I’ll go get her.”
“You touch her, you die,” I say.
He gives me a toothy grin. “You couldn’t kill me, man. I’m too scrappy.”
“I was thinking we could go out tonight,” Dez says.
“For what?” Elliot asks. “To find the album or just hang out?”
Dez looks at Elliot, confusion scrunching her eyebrows. “Oh, Elliot, sorry. I was talking to Adam.”
Elliot curses.
I stop chewing.
Did she just …
Did she?
“Did you just ask me on a date?” I ask.
Her cheeks flush. “You don’t have make it a big deal, I just thought—”
“I’d love to take you on a date. Please, for the love of Harvey’s glass, let me take you on a date.”
“Okay,” she says with a bashful smile. “You get to pick where we go.”
Finally, I get to take Dez on a date. Finally. Does this mean we’re dating? Does that mean she’s accepted it? Does this mean we can forget about this whole kick-our-addictions-first thing?
Addy and Trey come down the stairs. Addy’s laughing at something, but I’m not sure what. Trey looks like he was just slapped in the face. I watch her, still feeling overwhelmed and undeserving that she’d quit her job just for me. They grab their breakfasts and take their respective spots on the porch. I stare at her in disbelief until Dez begins her briefing.
“I think we should research today.”
“Research?” Elliot asks. “I thought you’d researched everything.”
She looks at him with a cold stare. “When Edison decided he wanted to invent the light bulb, do you think his assistant said, ‘I thought you researched everything already’?”
“Okay. Edison actually invented stuff. We’re just trying to find an old album,” he snaps.
Dez waves her fork at him and some egg flies off the tines. “All I’m saying is that we should be as precise as possible. If all five of us are researching, making calls, and finding people who knew Mr. Cratcher, would it hurt?”
Addy shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me. I’m just along for the ride, to make sure things stay kosher, and to make Trey squirm.”
Trey shakes his head and then looks at Dez. “I think it’s a great idea. I’m willing to be the guy making calls.”
“Trey,” Dez says, now pointing her fork at him. “You’re a true journalist, explorer, and overall conqueror. Adam and Elliot will look through all the news articles on the murder and Abbey Road US. Addy and I will look at news from before the murder and see if we can figure out who he worked with/who would know him.”
“Alright,” I say. “I’m okay with that as long as I’m next to someone while I’m looking. I don’t want porn to be a part of my research.”
“Adam, just use your computer,” Addy says. “I’ll get notification if you start having problems.”
“I can just see us debriefing at the end of the day.” Dez raises her finger. “I, Adam Hawthorne, have discovered that boobs look like boobs, and that our culture thinks women are disposable sex toys.”
“I, Adam Hawthorne,” Elliot says, “have discovered that men are supposed to last longer than one minute.”
Trey opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “I, Adam Hawthorne, have discovered that all of my friends are dicks.”
—
I tip a cup of coffee toward my lips. The last of it drops onto my tongue as Trey walks out of the house. “I just called Marcus Richmond, the director of Abbey Road US.”
“Is that the guy who didn’t make any statements about the murder?” I ask.
“Yeah, he said he knew nothing about the album except it was named Hounds of Eden. When I asked what his opinion was on who killed Elias, he said ‘I don’t know,’ and hung up.”
“So maybe Marcus Richmond is the killer,” Dez says, writing something down on her clipboard.
I put my empty mug on an end table. “I think what’s more important is that we’ve found out the title of the album: Hounds of Eden.”
“I think you guys thinking the murder isn’t worth solving is straight up white of you. This is a crime of injustice. Does that mean nothing to you?”
“It does,” I say. “But we aren’t the ones—”
“Then what are we?” she asks. “What can we do? We can’t beat our addictions, so why shouldn’t we try to conquer this?”
I stare at her for a few seconds. “Why would you say that? We just talked about this as a group last night. It was half your pitch for this trip. Now you’re saying we can’t?”
“Does it matter?” she asks. “What’s the harm in trying to solve a murder case?”
“You two bicker like you’ve been married for years,” Addy says, looking up from her computer. “It’s almost cute.”
I shrug, but here’s the thing: humans need attainable goals, especially humans like us. Like she said a while back, we’ve got to be able to catch the ball every once in a while. Does she really think that solving a murder case that’s been cold for almost fifty years is more attainable than beating our addictions? Heck, getting Beyoncé to be my girlfriend might be more attainable.
She wants to conquer something. I get that. But what happens when she, a seventeen-year-old girl, can’t solve a murder case? Isn’t that asking for more pain, and in consequence, more addiction? Finding an album is attainable. We can do that.
Solving a murder = bring on the vices.
I want to love and be loved by Dez Coulter. I want us to focus beating our addictions and being dateable past our first date, not fighting crime. I thought she wanted that, too.
“What made you change your mind?” I ask.
“I didn’t change my mind.”
“Dez—”
“Adam, I don’t fe
el like talking about it.”
I sigh. “Just, be careful. Greater than, remember?”
She looks at me as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking, but there’s something in her eyes that tells me she’s still unconvinced, which makes me unsure why she asked to go on a date or why she said she loved me.
She mouths, “I love you,” but her posture is tight with something I’m afraid to ask about.
—
I roll up my button-down sleeves and then shake my head out so my hair returns to its craziness. I take a deep breath and then head downstairs to grab Dez.
It may be a ruse, but there’s no stopping it now.
It’s first date time.
I smile like an idiot when I see Dez standing by the door, holding out the keys to her SUV.
“Are you ready?” she asks.
“I’m so ready. I’ve been ready for this since I met you.”
“Hey, you two,” Addy yells, poking her head through the back door. “Be back by eleven, capiche?”
Both Dez and I groan, and then whine, “But Mom!”
“Shut it, capeesh?”
“Got it,” I say.
Addy beams. “Have a good first date.”
We get in the SUV, and I start driving to our first destination, a little restaurant on the fringes of downtown Nashville.
We pull up to a quiet neighborhood. It doesn’t seem like there’d be a restaurant here, so I grab my phone, which Addy allowed me to take out of the house, to check if we’re in the right place.
“Are we like, visiting someone for dinner?” Dez asks.
I shake my head. “No, there’s supposed to be—ah, there it is. Huh, well that’s cool.”
A bunch of the little houses have been turned into businesses, and in the first row, there’s a teal one with a ramp leading to the front door. A sign on the wall proclaims the name of our destination: THE LOVING PIE COMPANY.
“Oh. My. God,” Dez says, turning down the Christmas music on the radio. “You’re bringing me to a pie place?” She screams. “You are perfect, Adam Hawthorne! Pie is literally my favorite thing outside of witty conversation.”
I park the SUV behind the building and then turn to her before I turn it off.
“Before we get out, you need to tell me something.”