I come back to the Dorchester with my brain buzzing and my fingers itching. I call Bec and tell her I need a little more time. I don’t tell her anything else. Not yet. I find a quiet corner in the coffee shop, slide my laptop out of my bag, and type for my life.
“Look, I’m probably going to be pretty screwed up for a while,” Brandon admitted, his voice deep and confident. “There’s a lot I haven’t figured out yet. But we’ve got six weeks left of summer, and I think we owe it to ourselves to be screwed up together.”
Brandon waited for a verdict. He braced himself for Abel’s back turning on him, for the sick rumble of sunflowers in the garbage disposal.
“Is it okay to kiss you?” Abel asked.
Brandon stepped forward first. They met in the middle of the room, and their lips acted out a string of impressive adjectives as they came together.
I hop on the hotel wifi, consult thesaurus.com.
Gingerly, haltingly at first. Then ecstatically, jubilantly, hopefully.
When I’m finished with the whole scene, I don’t go back and change stuff; maybe it’s cheesy, but the words are all true. I address an email to amcnaughton128@gmail.com. I add a note:
See attached for the last chapter of “How to Repair a Mechanical Heart.”
What do you think?
***
I find Bec sprawled on a blue plastic beach chair by the pool, her sandals kicked off and a gift-shop true-crime novel in front of her face. I sit down, pull her feet up on my lap, and dangle a big white bakery bag from the shop I passed on the walk back.
“What’s this?” she grins.
“Red velvet cupcakes.”
She gasps. “Why?”
“For being a good friend. Putting up with me. Having cute toes.”
“You are an admirable young man.” She tears the bag open. “So this text from you. Explain.”
“It was a mysterious mission.”
She takes a big bite of red velvet. “So you said.”
“You won’t believe it.”
“Okay.”
“I mean, you really won’t.”
“Tell me!”
I pull my phone out of my pocket, call up the Lenny Bray shot. Bec’s mouth drops open.
“Is that—”
“It is.”
“Oh. My God.”
“That was just the beginning.”
She grabs my wrist. “Start talking. Now.”
“I’ll tell you on the road.” I pull her to her feet. “Assuming you’re fine with missing the 2:00 panel on ‘The Ethics of Redemption in Castaway Planet.’”
She grins and tosses me the keys. “Let’s go home, cupcake.”
Home
Chapter Thirty
The annual St. Matt’s Fourth of July Funfair is the year’s third biggest deal, after the Christmas Eve Mass with the kiddie pageant and the May Procession where the Mary statue gets crowned with fake flowers and we pray for a thousand years in the hot church and one kid always passes out. My parents have been all about the Funfair since Nat and I were kids. Dad helps hammer all the game booths together and Mom decorates and arranges the food tables. The center table always holds three giant platters of her famous angel eggs, which are basically deviled eggs with cream cheese whipped into the filling and a name that won’t make the organist boycott them. Every year I stuff myself with angel eggs and fried chicken and try to beat Bec at ladderball and volunteer in the dunking booth, and then we all watch the fireworks over funnel cake and frozen lemonade and Dad and I throw a ball around behind the karaoke stage.
Every year except this one.
It’s after 4:00 by the time I park the Sunseeker back at my house, swap it for Mom’s old Jetta, drop Bec off at her place, and make the short trek to Donovan Street. The cars of the devoted already dot the St. Matt’s parking lot. Mom and Dad’s Ford Focus, Mrs. Heffler’s silver SUV, the Donnellys’ new Camry, the beatup blue Saturn Father Mike’s had forever. I slot myself into a spot surrounded by empty spaces. I check my email for a response from Abel, like I did every five minutes on the trip home.
Nothing.
I tap my shorts pockets. Plastic Sim in the right, Plastic Cadmus in the left. The Mom-and-Dad reunion looms like a one-on-one with Xaarg; I’m in no hurry.
Plus there’s one last thing I need to do.
I haven’t walked through the front doors of St. Matt’s in over five months. I clutch my breath as the door creaks open, as if a horde of crystal spiders might be sleeping in the shadows inside. But when I tiptoe up the three carpeted steps, it’s the same old church, everything familiar and summery. Red, white, and dyed-blue carnations on the altar, the faded tang of incense and sweat, a warm breeze wandering in through a few open windows and swaying the felt dove banners Mom helped sew.
I wander up the aisle, the same path my parents took on their wedding day. I trace a beam of light from the stained-glass Holy Spirit window to the bronze-and-oak font where I was baptized. Three tiers of red votives flicker next to it, each tiny light connecting a problem with a prayer. I’m surprised by what I don’t feel, standing here alone. A rock in my stomach, a hand around my throat. Father Mike would say that this isn’t peace, that I’m empty in a bad way. Spiritually flatlined, like he said once in a sermon. But no one’s behind the altar now, and I don’t have to listen.
I stop by the marble holy water font. Press a finger in the damp yellow sponge, like I did when I was a kid and St. Matt’s felt like home. Now it feels like a stop on a long trip somewhere else. Until this summer that thought would have made me sad and scared, but now I can’t wait to see where the road turns next.
I just wish Abel was in the seat beside me.
***
My parents are out on the Funfair field behind St. Matt’s, wearing matching sweats in my high school colors and hauling the ring toss platform together. Normally this is where I’d jump right in, grabbing a corner of something heavy and tacking up signs and testing extension cords. Two things stop me: the fact that they possibly want to wring my neck, and the fact that Father Mike is sitting on a stool by the ticket booth, tuning his guitar and blocking my way.
I shove my hands in my pockets and squeeze Plastic Cadmus and Plastic Sim, trying to absorb what I need. Control from Sim. Bravado from Cadmus. The rock in my throat shrinks down to a pebble.
After a minute, my legs start to walk.
“Brandon. Welcome back.” Father Mike doesn’t get up when he sees me coming. It’s a sly calculation: assume friendly nonthreatening pose, let the lost sheep come to you.
“Hi.” I nod. Neutral smile.
“Trip okay?”
“Yep, it was fine. Thanks.”
“Your mom and dad thought you might show up today.” He plucks the A string on his instrument—a haggard old thing with a GOT GOD? sticker on it—and twists the tuning peg. I think of the first time he passed me a guitar, showed my fingers how to shape the C and G chords. “I know they’ve been pretty worried. They’ll be super-relieved to see you here safe.”
“What’d they tell you?” I square my shoulders like Cadmus.
“Well, they—”
“Actually, it’s all right. I don’t want to know.”
“Okay. That’s okay.”
“I’m gonna go talk to them.”
“Want me to come along? It might help.”
“No. No thank you.” Sim takes over: smooth and composed. “I can do it alone.”
“Sure, sure. I know. That’s fine.” He smiles that old I’m-just-a-dude smile, and my shoulders go soft. I’m not Sim or Cadmus anymore. I’m a kid, whispering fake sins to him in the face-to-face confessional, his mellow voice calming my jittering leg. hey_mamacita’s mean Father X caricature pops to mind, and my face heats up. It’s easy fighting villains with daggers for teeth and crosses that shoot hellfire. But he’s not Father X, or Xaarg. He cares about me, the way I hope my own father still does.