* * *
The next morning I catch myself singing the Blood River Boys song in the shower. And later as I’m boiling eggs for breakfast. And again when I’m prepping Mom’s medications for the day, laying them out in their little individual bowls so she doesn’t have to guess the dosage.
And I know I’ve got to face a hard fact. Neveah may not believe in the Blood River Boys, but I do. I believe in them with my whole heart. A heart that feels like it’s slowly crumbling to dust in my chest, a heart so damaged that I sometimes feel like it’s a wonder it pumps at all.
Back last year I figure my heart was normal enough for someone my age. But then my cousin Wallace died of a drug overdose, and my friend Rocky moved away, back to his dad’s place in the city, and then, just as the school year started, Mom got sick. At first no one believed Mom’s illness was serious, least of all me, but by October she was in and out of the hospital and the doctors were giving her less and less time and then Mom sat me down one night after she had been especially bad, wheezing and coughing through dinner, and told me the truth. She wasn’t getting better. In fact, she was getting worse. “This will be our last Christmas together,” she said, point-blank, just like that. “You’ll be eighteen soon enough. Better get used to being on your own.”
But the thing is, I don’t want to be on my own. Some kids would, I know. They’d see it as independence. Freedom. And it’s not like I don’t want that one day, maybe? Just not this year. I mean, I already lost Wallace and Rocky and now it’s going to be Mom. And I think that if I’m not careful, I’m going to lose myself next.
* * *
“Hey, Landry,” I ask, as I lay bacon on the flat grill. “When’d you put that Blood River Boys song on the juke?”
Landry’s doing the books in her office, but she’s got the door open so she can keep an eye on things, namely me. The cook called in sick, so I’m stuck covering the dinner shift in the kitchen. The diner is so small that I do a bit of everything. Janitor, cook, server. I don’t mind. It means more money in my pocket come payday and more meds for my mom, and most people’s tastes are simple around here. As long as I can break eggs and dress a burger, I’m good.
“What song?” Landry says, decades of cigarette smoke turning her voice to a grumble. “I ain’t changed a song on that box since before Ronald Reagan was president.”
“No?” I shrug and grab the next waiting ticket. “Maybe I just never saw it. So that means something’s wrong with the juke. Neveah was trying to play her song last night and the wires got crossed. Played the wrong song.”
Landry gave a noncommittal grunt. I busy myself with the order and, once it’s done, slide the plate through the window for the server to pick up. I ring the bell, and Fiona appears, all smiles. She takes the plate and disappears.
I turn to retrieve the next order and Landry’s right there, inches from my face. I yelp in surprise, jumping back a half mile. “Jesus, Landry, don’t sneak up on me like that!”
She peers in close. I can see the wrinkles on her face, the rheum that covers her left eye. “That song’s only appeared once on that jukebox, and that was before the Finley boy went missing. They say he called it up, and so it came.” She narrows her eyes. “You got a hankering to listen to that song?” she asks, voice hard. “Bad things happen to boys who sing that song.”
“No,” I say automatically. “I was just telling you what happened. I-I don’t want to…” I brush my hands together, nervous. “I didn’t sing that song.”
She peers at me some more. “Okay.” And then she shuffles back to her office.
“Why do you have it on the juke if you don’t want anyone singing it,” I mutter, and if she hears me, she ignores me.
* * *
I’m closing again, and this time Brandon’s on time to pick up Neveah.
“She’s in the bathroom,” I say, as I unlock the door to let him in to wait.
He answers with a grunt that could mean anything. He was okay the other night when he was talking about the Boys, but now he barely acknowledges me. Like I said, nobody wants to spend too much time with a loser. But what Landry said is on my mind, so I ask.
“You ever hear of somebody named Finley?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.
He’s got a wad of tobacco in his mouth, and he eyes me, jaw working like a cow chewing cud. “Dru Finley?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Everybody knows about Dru Finley. He used to live here, back in the eighties. Big baseball star. Everyone thought he was going to make it to the major leagues. Then supposedly he snaps one night and kills his mother, father, two sisters, and a little brother, but they never find him or a body. Just his family, exsanguinated. Do you know what that means?”
I shake my head.
“Bloodless,” he whispers. “Someone drained all their blood.”
“How’d that happen?” I say, my voice breathy.
“Who knows? But the bigger question is what happened to Dru? Maybe he ran when the killers came and never looked back. Maybe he got kidnapped. Nobody knows.” He widens his eyes theatrically. “Why do you want to know?”
“No reason. Someone mentioned him today.”
“Yeah, well, whatever happened, at least he got out of this shit town, right?” He chuckles at his own tasteless joke.
Neveah hustles out from the bathroom. “Ready?” she asks Brandon without even looking my way. I guess she hasn’t forgiven me for being rude the night before. Brandon kind of gives me a nod and then he’s following his sister out the door.
Once their car is gone, I lock the door again.
The jukebox glows in the corner.
I walk over and stare at the song selections. My heart is thumping, loud in my ears like a warning bell, but I’ve been thinking about it all day. I have to know.
My guess is that it doesn’t matter what button I push, that they’ll all do the same thing. So I close my eyes and reach out a hand. Press a random button and wait.
Fiddle, drums, and banjo. And then that voice. “As I walked by the river, the moon my companion, I spied a young fellow, an amiable lad…”
And this time, I listen. The whole way through. And when it’s done, I play it again, and this time I mouth the words, remember the phrases, the rhyme and rhythm of it. And on the third time, I sing.
I let the words come bubbling from my throat, trickling across my tongue and past my lips, and once I’ve started, they feel like a flood, like the Blood River itself, a force unstoppable and powerful and ancient. And I put everything into it. All the stuff I’ve been feeling about being alone, the injustice of Jason and his friends bullying me, my mom dying, every scared part of me. My crumbling, dusty heart. And I let it all go.
When it’s over I feel wrung out. I hobble over and collapse in the nearest booth, panting. Wishing for a cold glass of water, but I’m too tired to walk over and get one.
And I wait.
And … nothing.
I wait thirty minutes, and then thirty minutes more, and there’s no movement in the parking lot, no dimming lights, no chill. Just me and some scary stories and my wretchedness. I press my cheek against the cool Formica and let the tears leak from my eyes. After a while, I sit up and use my cleaning rag to wipe the tears away.