The Grand Ballast (22 page)

Kilroy stood a few feet away, eating chips
from a plate covered in baked bean drool. Bode went to Kilroy
first.

“
Hey,” he said
icily.

Kilroy whipped around,
startled. His
eyes flared with anger. “You
shouldn’t be here.”

“
I want to know what’s
going on.”

“
What’s going on is I’m
sharing an evening with Driscoll, on his birthday.” Kilroy lowered
his voice. “And you might want to leave before you make a fool of
yourself.”

“
Who am I, then?” Bode’s
voice was dull.

Kilroy closed his eyes
briefly. “Please don’t.”

“
I mean it. Who am I to
you?” He glanced at Driscoll. “Should I ask him?”

He stalked over to
Driscoll, who was knobby with sickness. Unhateable, because to be
hated required a person to have substance—to make vicious, lively
choices, and Driscoll looked like he’d never been vicious or lively
ever. Like he hadn’t even sucked in the air to scream when he was
born—he’d politely coughed himself into what was to be a quick,
uneventful existence.

Driscoll’s conversation
partner noticed Bode first, and gave a little jerk of her head.
Driscoll turned. Something about his expression suggested that he
knew who Bode was and was less than pleased to see him. Still, Bode
made introductions.

“
Hi, I’m Bode. I live with
Kilroy.” He was aware of Kilroy standing at the periphery, watching
without intervening.

“
Hi.” Driscoll was staring
like Bode was something mildly interesting he’d stumbled
upon.

“
I wanted to congratulate
you. I asked Kilroy to make a choice—you or me.” Bode blew out a
breath and tried to smile, shaking his head. “And here he with you
tonight. So I guess you have him. Congratulations.”

Driscoll’s jaw twitched,
and that was heartening. Maybe there was some life in him after
all. He looked past Bode at Kilroy and called, “What’s he doing
here? Tell him to leave.”

“
What’s this?” The blond
woman stepped toward Bode. “Leave my son alone.”

For some reason, that was
the final knife. The idea that Driscoll had a mother who was here
with him on his birthday. Who cared enough to defend
him.

“
You
don’t have to tell me.” Bode nodded once. “I’m going.” He flipped
open the cake box. There was a fly on one of the icing roses, and a
massive knife wedged in the cake. Huge, like something for
butchering cattle. Slowly, deliberately, Bode cut himself a large
piece of cake and put it on a paper plate. His slice had blue
frosting and
y, Drisco
in yellow piping. He held up his plate. “For the
road. Hope you don’t mine.”

“
I
do
mind.” The woman’s voice rose.

“
Mom,” Driscoll said. “Just
let him go.”

Yes, do. I’m very easy to
let go.

Bode gazed at the cake
piece. The blue frosting and the yellow letters. Every last bit of
hope he’d been holding onto drained out of him.

He lifted the plate and
slammed it into Driscoll’s face.

The cake fell off as soon
as he tilted the plate, so all that hit Driscoll was the paper,
which made an unsatisfying crumpling sound. Bode held it there for
several seconds, staring at the faint outline of Driscoll’s nose
through the cardboard. Driscoll made no move to escape. Bode let
the plate fall to the ground beside the cake. The grass was smeared
with blue and yellow frosting.

People had gathered around,
slack jawed and murmuring. A couple had taken out their phones and
were filming.

Bode turned and stalked out
those perfect iron gates.

***

Kilroy didn’t come home
that night. He returned around noon the next day, looking
disheveled, and he ignored Bode as he strode into the kitchen and
flipped on the coffee maker.

“
Can we talk?” Bode asked
coldly. He didn’t want to feel guilty over what he’d done, so he’d
worked hard to turn his guilt into anger.

Kilroy still didn’t look at
him. “What is there to discuss? You behaved like a fool. I was
ashamed of you.”

Bode felt stunned,
horrified. Kilroy wasn’t allowed to be ashamed of him, because Bode
was already ashamed of himself. Kilroy ought to have understood
that Bode wouldn’t act that way without reason. His anger rose,
eclipsing his embarrassment. “I don’t behave the way I do to please
you. I’ve got my own damn feelings, and right now, I’m
pissed.”

Kilroy glanced at him.
“Really, Bode? You’re making me tired with all your whining and
chest-thumping.”

“
What do you want me to be?
Some dumb animal? When you go visit that fucking farm you can see
all the human cows you want, but I’m not gonna be that for you.”
Bode stopped, suddenly afraid of going too far, driving Kilroy away
once and for all. But wasn’t love an art, and shouldn’t it be all
the things art was? Infuriating and frightening, bold and angry and
obsessive? Didn’t they need these battles in order to feel
alive?

Yet Bode couldn’t afford to
lose the one person who stood with him against the impossible
monochrome of the future. He couldn’t have
no one
.

He was suddenly aware of
Kilroy staring at him with a hunger that looked almost sexual. He
took an involuntary step back.

“
No?” Kilroy’s voice was
soft. “You don’t think you’re an animal?” He reached out, and Bode
jerked away.

“
Don’t touch
me.”

They stared at each other.
“You were wrong last night, Bode. You know you were
wrong.”

Something hissed out of
Bode suddenly, like the release of air from an untied balloon,
leaving him shrunk.
I don’t know. Yes. I
was wrong. I’m ashamed. I don’t do things like that. I never have.
You’ve made me into something that’s not me.

But he’d always had the
potential to be this thing. Somewhere deeper and darker than skin,
he’d been waiting to hurt like this.

He didn’t move. The coffee
maker crackled and spat. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, suddenly unsure
whether he wanted to be forgiven or to win.

“
Are you?”

A last bit of anger welled
in Bode. “No.” A little, maybe, to have lost control. “You’re the
one who should be sorry.
I
told
you what I
needed.
”

Kilroy gazed at him steadily. “I want you to
accept that there is more to my life than indulging your
insecurities.”

“
He doesn’t
need
you. He’s sick; he’s
going to die. You can’t do a thing about it.”

“
What would you
know?”
Kilroy was suddenly in Bode’s face,
snarling like a dog. “Do you know anything about him?”

Bode felt Kilroy’s power
like a fanning of flames, the jamming of filthy fingers into a
spitting wound. “I hope he dies
soon
,” Bode snapped.

Kilroy grabbed Bode’s shirt collar and
raised a fist.

Bode put his hands up.
“Don’t! Kilroy,
don’t
.” If Kilroy hit him, they could never come back from that.
Never.

Air rushed through Kilroy’s
teeth and his eyes flashed with animal savagery.
“I…
want…
to.” A
pause between each soft word, and his breath moistened Bode’s
cheek.

Kilroy let him go and lowered his arm.

Bode stood there, his heart like a broken
toy in his chest, scattered in hopeless pieces. He stepped back,
careful not to touch his neck, the throbbing spot where his shirt
collar had dug in. He didn’t want to let Kilroy see how shaken he
was. His skin began a post-shock prickling, and his throat ached.
They were worse, those words. Worse than if Kilroy had done it.

“
I want to.”

Kilroy was breathing hard. He rubbed his
knuckles. “Go,” he whispered. “I don’t want to look at you right
now.”

Bode turned and walked stiffly through the
entryway. Stumbled out the front door. He stood on the small porch
for a long moment, shaking and sobbing openly. He tried to take a
breath, but it broke in his throat and stuck there like shards of
glass.

He blinked around at the serene world. The
sky was blanketed in cloud. Trees riffled, their leaves facing
dark-side up, waiting for rain.

Let him go, then. Let him make false
promises to someone else. Let him waste that fire inside him trying
to ignite a pile of wet leaves. I don’t care.

He started down the sidewalk.

I didn’t mean it. I don’t want Driscoll to
be sick. Don’t want him to die. But I don’t want him to be
yours.

Memories—his mother’s arms,
the sound of his dad’s lawnmower, and
here
comes the train
. Learning little games.
Listening to gentle words and cowering at loud ones. His parents
hadn’t been indifferent. They had loved him. They were the reason
Bode was able to love Kilroy.

Being sick would be lonely. What if Kilroy
gave Driscoll comfort?

Bode closed his eyes and stopped walking for
a few seconds. He didn’t want to imagine Kilroy loving anyone else.
He wanted to believe Driscoll was empty-souled and unworthy of
magic like Kilroy’s.

Not magic.

Cruelty.

Maybe.

“
Is he
kind?”
His mother had
asked.

I don’t know. Kindness
isn’t what keeps the world in business.

He rested briefly against a
tree, forcing himself to breathe.

He thought of the way he
and Kilroy had fucked a couple of weeks ago, like animals, and his
throat tightened

Sometimes I want things to be easy.

I want to be guileless. Charming.

Sometimes…

He closed his eyes. Pressed against the tree
until he could feel the bark dig into him through his shirt.

Let me go back.

Go back and be safe.

Let me be loved and beautiful. Let me be
yours again, if I ever was.

Beauty is simple and so is ugliness. I know
either one when I see it. This is something I don’t even
recognize.

5.

THORNS

“
Tell me why,” Bode said to
Valen. “Why were you going to let them kill you?”

Valen leaned his head against the wall of
the equipment car. His bleached hair fluttered as a breeze drifted
through the open door. He laughed softly. “I guess because it
didn’t matter one way or the other.”

It was their fifth evening in Moat &
Rankle, and everyone was restless. They’d planned to head out that
morning, but a mechanical issue with the train’s engine had
prevented it. A local mechanic was working on it, and once that was
taken care of, they’d be on their way to Ravelstown. Bode had never
been this far west. He’d even stolen a few moments this afternoon
to admire Moat & Rankle’s landscape—the scrubby prairie, the
mountains rising far in the distance. With each day that passed,
Bode’s mind got sharper, and the group of protestors at each
performance grew.

“
But once you were down
there…” Bode pressed. “Once you were underwater, didn’t you change
your mind?”

Valen stared at him. He looked more alert
than Bode had seen him so far. “No.”

The straw pricked Bode through his clothing.
He shifted slightly. “Weren’t you afraid?”

“
I don’t remember much
about it,” Valen said finally.

“
I saw you. You
were.”

Valen’s gaze sharpened. “And why would you
care?”

“
I was just…trying to do
something good, for once.”

Valen jerked his head slightly, as though
beckoning Bode closer. The lamp on the wall closest to them
flickered, casting gold pools of light on Valen’s skin. Valen’s
spine cracked as he changed positions, his chain rustling through
the straw. Bode was near enough to hear him breathe, feel the heat
from his skin. “You don’t know.”

“
You think I don’t
understand?” Bode demanded. “Look at me.
Look
at me! I used to think there was
nothing left for me. So many times, I wished it would happen. Even
through the fucking drug, I wished there’d be an accident or
something, and I’d just be gone. Even when I was down there in the
water with you, I thought about how easy it would be to just stop
swimming.”

“
It wasn’t like that! I
didn’t want to die because I was miserable.”

“
Then why?” Bode
demanded.

Valen laughed again—a low, staccato sound
that climbed gradually.

Bode’s temper flared. “Asshole. Don’t laugh
at me.”

Valen tilted his head. “Are you a prisoner
too?” he asked quietly.

Bode glanced at his own unchained body,
embarrassed.

How to explain that
he’d
chosen
this?

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“
I think it
does.”

Bode met his gaze again. “It matters why you
wanted to die.”

Valen shifted back. Spread
his hands and shook his head. It was a while before he spoke. “They
said we couldn’t trust any feeling. That nothing was all good or
all bad. They tried to get us so damn confused we stopped caring
altogether. But it didn’t work. I still
feel
.” The word seemed to stand
between them bristling once it was out.