someone had to be the son his father wanted, and Billy wasn’t going to do it. It was pretty clear the kid was hopeless when it came to things like sports. He was a good kid, and most of the time he didn’t bother James too much, but sometimes James wondered how they could have come from the same parents. Celeste could be a pain in the ass, but at least he understood her. Billy he just didn’t get. It was as if he were an alien or something. He just didn’t fit.
Anyway, he had resigned himself to the fact that he was the one who had to fulfill his father’s expectations. And it wasn’t such a bad job, really. But sometimes he wasn’t sure which part of him was real and which part was him being what his father wanted him to be. He thought he ought to know, but it wasn’t always totally clear in his head. Sometimes he looked in the bathroom mirror and saw someone he didn’t recognize at all.
When he was with Nancy, though, he felt like himself. She didn’t care what his grades were, or how he’d played in a game, or anything like that. When he was with her they talked about other things—music, and movies, and what they wanted to do when they were old enough to get out of Cold Falls. And they both agreed that they would get out. Maybe to Albany, or even New York. Nancy made him feel like he could do anything he wanted.
But now she was gone, or might as well be. Now all he had was homework and baseball practice and trying to make his father happy. It wasn’t much to look forward to. I’ll do it, though, he promised himself as he opened his history book to the chapter on the Reconstruction. If it means I get her back, I’ll do it.
CHAPTER 7
1991
Billy looked down into the empty glass he held in his hands, cradled like a wounded bird. It was empty, but he brought it to his lips anyway, tilting his head back and extending his tongue, searching for any last drips of vodka. Finding none, he slammed the glass on the counter and nodded at the bartender.
“Another one, Cory.”
He watched as Cory took a bottle from the shelf and poured him another shot. As soon as the bartender pulled the bottle away, Billy picked up the glass and drank. He closed his eyes, letting the vodka slide down his throat. It was crisp and clear, pure liquid fire. He never drank the flavored stuff. That was for the queens who liked their drinks with little straws in them, who drank cosmos like a bunch of catty women. Billy hated those queens. They looked down on him, thought he was trash.
“You and everyone else,” he said, laughing as he emptied the glass with one more swallow.
“What was that?” Cory looked over at him, a washrag in his hand as he wiped down the bar.
“Nothing,” Billy replied, wiping the back of his hand over his lips. His skin was dry, his lips chapped. He felt as if he’d been walking through a sandstorm.
He looked at the bartender. How long had Cory been working at the Engine Room? He thought he’d asked him once, but maybe he’d just meant to ask. He meant to do a lot of things, but somehow they almost never got done.
Billy had been an Engine Room regular for less than a year, since the night of his twenty-first birthday. Before that they hadn’t let him in, even though he’d tried plenty of times. Despite his father being dead for almost eight years he was still known as Sheriff Dan’s boy. The bar’s staff had been given strict orders not to let him in, as if somehow his father’s ghost would come back and close them down.
Looks like they might be right about that after all, he thought, chuckling at his own joke. But he was legal now. He could do what he liked. And his father couldn’t do anything about it.
His gaze wandered once more to Cory. The bartender was kind of hot. Tall. Not skinny like most of the cosmo-swilling queens. Shaved head. Dark eyes. Yeah, he would do, Billy thought. The place was nearly deserted. Maybe he should see if he could get Cory to fool around in the back.
“I’m sorry to hear about your dad,” Cory said. He was chopping up limes, getting ready for the night’s business.
Billy pushed his empty glass toward Cory. “Thanks,” he said. “Let’s drink to him, shall we?”
Cory glanced up. “Another one?” he said. Billy knew that what he really meant was, “Seems to me you’ve had enough.” He was familiar with that tone, although he’d never heard it in Cory’s voice. Cory had always been friendly.
“Yeah, another one. For the old man.”
Cory hesitated for a moment, looking at Billy. Billy met his gaze, daring him to say no. Finally, Cory wiped his hands on a towel and brought out the bottle of vodka. As soon as he was done pouring, Billy raised the glass. “To Daniel McCloud,” he said. “Best dad a son could ever want.”
He drank half the vodka in one swallow, then set the glass on the bar. He knew Cory wouldn’t give him another drink, so he had to make this one last. He looked at his watch. It was just after nine. He considered his options. He could wait a couple of hours and then go to his mother’s house. Celeste would probably be gone, and James might be asleep. He could probably get up to his room without running into any of them. But they would be there in the morning.
That brought him to Option Two: going back to his own place. That solved the whole running into James problem. But he didn’t want to go there. He didn’t want to be alone. What he wanted was to be able to help his mother. The thing with his father was really doing a number on her. But now James was there, so nobody needed him. Just like always, he thought.
He lit a cigarette. Inhaling the first rush of smoke, he closed his eyes and relaxed into the buzz the vodka had brought on. He imagined his body filling up with smoke, pictured it seeping out from his lungs and wrapping tendrils around his heart, cocooning it. He liked that image. Like a butterfly. He sometimes dreamed that his whole body was cocooned, that he was waiting inside to be transformed. Into what, he didn’t know. Something beautiful. Something different. Something better.
He was startled from his reverie by a touch on his hand. When he opened his eyes he saw Cory looking at him. “You okay?” the bartender asked.
Billy smiled at him. “Depends who you ask,” he said. “What do you think?”
Cory looked at the half-empty glass in front of Billy. “Maybe you should go home,” he said. “Get some rest. You look tired.”
Billy reached out and took the glass. Don’t pity me, asshole, he thought as he picked the glass up and downed the rest of the drink. He set the empty glass down and pushed it toward Cory. Then he got up and made his way to the bathroom.
Inside, he stood over one of the three sinks and looked at himself in the mirror. He ran his hands through his hair. When had it gotten so long? He couldn’t recall the last time it had been cut. Now it fell almost to his shoulders. He leaned forward and looked at his eyes. They were still the familiar dark green, but now the whites were shot through with red. And his skin was even paler than usual, looking yellowish in the bathroom’s harsh fluorescent light.
I look like a vampire, he thought. He curled his lips back, exposing his teeth and snarling. He laughed. He did look like shit. But he was still handsome. Beneath it all he still had the face of a boy; that boy just needed a good night’s sleep and some sun. That would do it. Then he would be his old self again.
The door opened and a familiar face appeared in the mirror beside Billy’s. There was no mistaking Red, whose hair color gave him his nickname and who would have been identifiable anyway by the Tweety bird tattoo on his neck. There were more tats on his arms, all of them cartoon characters: Sylvester the cat, Speedy Gonzales, Foghorn Leghorn, Pepé Le Pew. There were more, but Billy couldn’t remember all of their names.
“Hey, handsome,” Red said as he came over and leaned against the sink. He reached up and pushed Billy’s hair out of his eyes. “How’s tricks?”
Billy pulled away from Red’s touch. “Okay,” he said.
Red cocked his head. “You don’t look so good,” he remarked. “Need something to make you feel