Ten Thousand Saints Page 0,109

bed out of Roo’s grandmother’s Depression glass bowls while they watched The Wonder Years on the rabbit-eared TV. For a while there, in the sanctuary of Rooster’s studio, they had been the householders, one husband taking care of the other.

Then the buzzer had buzzed. “Don’t come up,” he’d said. “I’ll come down”—as startled and ashamed as if he’d been caught midfuck. Downstairs, his friends’ bright, eager cars were double-parked at the curb. There was his pregnant, radiant wife, carrying his dead brother’s child, and who gave a shit that the guys had gotten into a little trouble with Tory Ventura while Johnny was gone. The prospect of returning to these simple, juvenile crusades, of breaking out of the contaminated apartment for the open road, was suddenly too sweet to resist.

And on the road, Johnny could track down Ravi. A man in a house in Miami—it was a treasure hunt he could win, a tangible destination in the intangible summer that lay before him. His brother’s father—didn’t he owe it to Teddy to find him?

He’d broken it down for Rooster over breakfast at a diner on Second Avenue, where they could be alone.

“Teddy’s dad could be helpful with the baby,” Johnny said. He didn’t say, He could have money.

“So take me with you,” Rooster said. “I never been to Florida.” A road trip; palm trees; Army of One and the Green Mountain Boys, reunited for a summer tour. Johnny could play with both bands. This time he really would need to fill in for Army’s new singer, who was doing a study-abroad summer semester in “fucking Paraguay.”

But Johnny was tired of doing double duty. He was tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop. In a year, maybe less, maybe more, Rooster would be dead. And Teddy’s baby would be alive.

“You got to understand,” Johnny had said, mashing his toast under his fist, “you’re not the only person who needs looking after.”

Rooster skated his thumb over the bread crumbs on the table. His own toast was untouched. He didn’t have much of an appetite these days. “I’m not sayin’ you need to look after me,” he said quietly. “I’m sayin’ you need to look after you.” He squinted at Johnny, his eyes as black and wet as a lamb’s. The skin beneath them was shadowed with gray.

But Johnny had paid the bill and said good-bye and climbed into Jude’s van, and now he was steering it over the bridge, heading for the New Jersey Turnpike and points south. Their van. Their baby. Their punk rock child.

“I still like Annabel,” said Eliza. She passed the peanuts to Jude. Later, each of them would remember these sun-dappled minutes in the van, the last stretch of peace they’d have together before pulling into the dense, slippery traffic of the highway. Not far past the bridge, the cars slowed for the toll. The lanes separated, rivers into rivers, and along the booths ahead, the green and red lights blinked a distant message. In the lane to the left, two cars up, the Kramaro was idling. It was the music that caught their attention—No for an Answer. Out of the open window, Delph’s arm was dangling a cigarette.

Johnny saw it, and Eliza saw it, and Jude saw it. Never mind that dangling cigarettes were the least of their own transgressions. They were past that now. They were going to do better, for their baby.

Johnny pressed his palm to the horn.

Seventeen

When they got to the motel outside Philly, Jude said, “You might as well tell us everything,” and they did. Delph and Kram were both smoking again. Delph had quit for a while, he had, but it was the road, he said, being in a car. It was like drinking a beer; it just went with smoking. At which point Kram cleared his throat. He’d had a few beers with the boys. The boys? Well, Delph. And Matthew. They’d gone to a girlie bar near Times Square. Kram and Delph had introduced Matthew to his first beer and his first naked girl. They were in New York, man. When else were they going to live it up?

Little Ben remained pure, perhaps only because he was so radically underage.

Also, Kram had eaten three Whoppers and the beef-flavored fries.

No meat for the rest of them, but come on, some Doritos every now and then? A little bit of mayo?

“We’ve met these straight edge guys,” Kram said, draped across one of the double beds. They’d gotten two rooms adjoined