“It’s ghoulish.”
Alchemy lifted his hands off the steering wheel and then grasped it hard with his long, agile fingers, his voice pleaded to no one but himself. “What the fuck do they want me to say? I couldn’t save her. I tried. I fucking tried.”
“I’m sorry,” Moses said. He closed the magazine and put it under his seat. Alchemy pressed his foot down on the gas pedal as they sped back onto the 40. “Is this kind of crowd reaction typical?”
“Goes up and down. Depends where I am and if we’ve been in the news. It’s part of the bargain and I accept it. I despise mewling celebs, but sometimes you just want to buy a few Cokes and potato chips in peace. Or be allowed to die in peace.”
Or grieve in peace, thought Moses.
Alchemy lapsed into a turgid silence.
Moses didn’t know the extent of Alchemy’s tangled relationship with Absurda. He assumed that they’d had some kind of affair. They sped along for a long while with no radio, no talking, just the sound of the Focus’s hissing engine and the roars of eighteen-wheelers.
Alchemy broke the silence by asking Moses to grab him another water. He drained the bottle and asked Moses pointedly, “So, what did you think of your new mom?”
“I didn’t really meet her. I saw her. What I know comes from Dr. Ruggles. I wasn’t prepared to confront her.”
“Understood. If I’m still trying to get my head around the idea that you weren’t stillborn, no telling how she would react.”
“With what little I know, I can’t separate the various dueling mythologies.”
“Fabricate, bro. Family tradition.”
“I sort of have done that, but now that needs to be refabricated. If I don’t, I figure I’ll have some kind of nervous breakdown. If I even survive this other shit.”
“Mose, nervous breakdowns are also part of the Savant heritage.”
“You? You worry about that?”
“Hell, yes. Sometimes I feel like I’m in a state of perpetual breakdown.” Moses, unprepared for this admission, didn’t know if Alchemy meant it or was just trying to make him feel comfortable in his new clan. “It’s not just me or the genes. Famous people are the most unstable bunch you can ever meet. You said you’re a history prof, right?” Moses nodded. “How many of the people who had a tangible effect on the world were nuts?”
“Highly neurotic, most. Nuts, too many.”
“See? And with a mother like Salome … how can I not worry about a breakdown every now and then?”
“Great, I’ll add that to my list.”
“Ah, Mose, yours spiked in your body. You’re steady upstairs, I can feel it. You still have to meet our mother. After the operation, when you’re stronger”—Alchemy’s innate confidence that they’d be a match did not derail Moses’s pessimism—“we’ll both go see her. I need to spring her from Collier Layne again.”
“I’d appreciate that. You said before that about fifty guys have claimed to be your father. You don’t know him?”
“I guess you don’t tread in the gossip troughs much.”
“Depends what you call gossip. I read history books that are filled with academic-jargoned polysyllables dissecting Lincoln’s possible homosexuality or Hitler’s getting off on erotic asphyxiation while having someone defecate on him.”
“That’s what I mean about famous people being nuts. And politicians are the most craven ’cause they have the most power. Who was more twisted than the Adolf? Him getting dumped on makes sense to me. Was it a guy? Girl?”
“Supposedly it was his niece who did the dumping. I believe it.”
“Me, too. And Abe, a lover of mankind, that figures. Why he’d have the balls to free the slaves. I bet being a repressed gay guy back then was like being an invisible Negro. Who knew that you history guys were such a lurid bunch? Good thing they didn’t have the Enquirer or People back then, or you’d be out of business.”
“It’s not exactly a lucrative calling now.”
“Back to your original question, I do know who my father is. We met when I was six and then again when I was thirteen. And neither of us had any desire to keep up the relationship. It’s the one secret I’ve been able to keep from the predators.”
From Alchemy’s hard-edged tone, Moses understood that this subject was off-limits. But then he continued, “Our mom was pretty active and they had a one-night stand and, as she says, his sperm won.” His voice was once again relaxed, intimate.
“So you don’t know anyone named Malcolm Teumer?” Moses asked, not sure he wanted Alchemy to answer yes.
“Nope. Should I?”
“Guess not. He is my father. His relationship with Salome is a blank slate to me. He married my mom and then split on us when I was two. Never seen him since.”
“Mose, you got the double, no, triple whammy. No wonder you got cancer.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, it’s that Salome, she’s got these theories about disease. Don’t worry, she’ll tell you all about it.”
Moses didn’t respond right away. He wanted to meditate on cancer and his “whammies” and how Alchemy spoke with such equanimity about their crazy mother and his own barely known father.
In the enveloping sunset, the Focus hiccupped up the mountain pass from Sedona, which, in twenty years, had transformed from pristine landscape to a tourist town dotted with signs for the Vortex Inn and the Crystal Rubbing and Convergence Committee, before arriving in Jerome, a former copper-mining town. Jerome remained less New Age commercially corrupted than Sedona. As they neared Trudy’s home, Alchemy asked almost offhandedly, “Hey, you want me to see if I can hook you up? Trudy might have some friends.”
“Um, I—”
“Sorry, Mose, that’s trespassing. Upon a moment’s reflection, I sense it’s not your gig.”
“Nope. Not my gig.”
“I respect that. I’ve partied with musicians, athletes, politicians, and civilians like you, and they all were fucking their brains out before crawling home to wife and kiddies. I’m not into subterfuge.” Although he didn’t sound like he’d completed his thoughts, Alchemy paused. “I didn’t mean ‘like you,’ Mose.”
“No, I understood.”
“Okay, good. I’ve been to shrinks and I’ve always been exceedingly cautious when it comes to their analysis of me. Most accuse me of being a sexaholic or a hedonist with intimacy issues. Fine. I counter that they have a control problem and most of them are envious and the others are phonies. I’m just doing what most guys, and women, too, would do if they had the chance. I do my best never to hurt anyone. I never coax. You wanna dance? Great. If not, cool. They got to know I don’t promise more than one night of dancing before I bounce.”
“Bottom line, though, how many women … I mean all those rumors of the legions, they’re not an exaggeration?” Moses figured one injudicious question deserved another.
“Well. No. The answer is too many and not enough.”
“Come again?”
“Oh, hell. What BS.” He mocked himself. “That’s my standard response: ‘Too many who just wanted a quick fuck and not enough who were about love.’ Come on, who buys that? I get more love than anyone deserves. I got all the intimacy I can handle in the band. You get to know the other members better than you could ever know your wife. Being in a band is like being married. My loyalty is to Absurda, well, shit, was, and Ambitious, and Lux. My mom, Nathaniel, Xtine. That’s it. And now — maybe you.” He paused and let the promise or threat of that remark reverberate. “I’m thirty years old. Maybe someday I’ll change and want a wife and kids. Now, no way.”