Ten Thousand Saints Page 0,87

order of things. Johnny had led Army of One, and he sang, and he was the superior guitarist, and he was the oldest, and the straightest; he was Johnny. So Jude had been unprepared for Johnny to hand the mike over to him one afternoon while they practiced in the basement. “You try this one.” It was as though Johnny were testing him, seeing what he could do. And before long it seemed right, Jude’s voice the band’s voice, Jude’s basement, Jude’s equipment, let’s ask Jude. And even though Johnny was the band’s spiritual taskmaster, the straight edge grandfather, he seemed to prefer the anonymity of second string. Teddy had been the same way, Jude thought. He was always willing to go along for the ride.

Teddy was not here tonight; he missed the rapturous woof of the crowd; the plea for an encore; the drunk, breathless step down from the stage. But here was his brother, finding Jude again in the humid press of the crowd, holding a plastic cup of water up to the lip of Jude’s mask, easing his head back and helping him drink.

Toward the end of Phrog’s set, Jude spotted Hippie. He was standing at the back of the gymnasium, performing a slow, swimmy dance that required closing the eyes. Jude felt his heartbeat slowly accelerate. He put a hand to his face to make sure the mask was still there, though he could smell its oily film, see the blurry flesh-colored sockets around his eyes. When Hippie headed for the door, Jude followed him outside and watched him cross the street, safely out of range of city property, to the chain-link fence in front of the high school. Hippie’s bike was not in sight, but he was wearing his fag bag, as well as a suede jacket with tassels down the arms. Jude didn’t want to get too close yet. He stood up against the building, watching the cluster of smokers gathered out front.

“Nice set, Mr. President,” one of them called.

“Thanks,” Jude called back. His voice sounded rubbery inside his mask.

“You guys going to have more shows here?”

“I don’t know,” Jude said. “I hope so.”

Someone else joined him from the shadows, leaning an elbow on the wall. “Hey, man, can I get an autograph?”

Jude flinched.

“Fuck off, Rooster.”

Rooster nodded toward the smokers. “What do you think those posers thought of your song ‘Blowing Smoke’?”

“They’re probably going to buy the seven-inch.”

“Oh, yeah? When’s it comin’ out?”

“Soon as we record it.”

Rooster smiled again. “Fuckin’ Vermont.” Vahmont. Jude had never heard so much New York in his state’s name before. “Never thought I’d be playin’ here.”

Across the street, Hippie was joined by one of the fat girls, and she took out a cigarette for Hippie to light.

“Thanks for coming up, man.”

“Thanks for lettin’ us crash.” Rooster shrugged. “I didn’t think we’d see you again after Johnny left.”

Jude said, “Your new singer sounds good, though.”

“Yeah, but he can’t tattoo worth a shit.” In the wan light of the lamppost, Jude could see the dark contours of the tattoos on Rooster’s arms, as thickly woven as Johnny’s. He looked thinner than Jude remembered, his shoulders bony through his T-shirt. “So, where’s the child bride?”

Normally Jude tried not to wonder what people must have thought of the whole arrangement: husband and wife and Jude, living under Jude’s mom’s roof. He tried not to think about what he thought about it. At first Eliza had included herself in the activities of the boys in the basement. She presented them with a tofu cheesecake she’d baked. She clapped encouragingly from her seat at the top of the stairs. But the louder and more crowded their practices became, the less she was around.

“We sent her home early,” he said, even though she’d left on her own after the Green Mountain Boys had wrapped up, turning the cash box over to Johnny. “She needs her rest.”

“’Course,” Rooster said. Someone else exited the building; the noodley strains of Phrog swelled out into the night air, then hushed again when the door swung closed. The last of the day’s light had been drained from the sky—it, too, was bruised tattoo blue—and now it was shot through with the faintest stars. At the bottom of the hill, the Adirondacks floated on the blade of the lake. “That picture is so pretty,” Rooster said, “I just want to fuck it up.”

It wasn’t a cigarette Hippie was smoking, but a joint. Jude could smell it from across the street. Hippie’s apartment