Beneath the Stain - Part 3 (14 page)

I don’t think she has my number.
He pushed Send and then thought to ask,
Maybe if you give it to me I can call and check. Wouldn’t she ask you?

I haven’t called her in a year
, Mackey confessed.
I begged Gerry to schedule us a concert last year during Christmas so she didn’t have to see me be a waste of skin.

What’s Cambridge say about that?
Because Jesus—a year?

He says to wait to see what she says about the letter, dumbass! Why do you think I’m freaking out?

Trav looked away from the phone and up at Mackey’s brothers for a minute. “Hey, guys, anyone hear from—”

Kell reached into his pocket at that exact time. “Hey, look, it’s my mom!”

“God bless the USPS,” Trav muttered.

A confused moment of Kell talking to his mom and Trav calming Mackey down via text followed. Finally, after Trav’s impassioned all caps-message of
LET ME TALK TO HER AND CALM THE FUCK DOWN
, he turned to Kell, who was holding the phone and backing up like he could somehow get away from the voice on the other end.

“Mom, I swear, it wasn’t like that. We didn’t set out to fuck him, I mean get him hooked—it was just everywhere. I was—Mom, I was looking out—no, I swear, I never called him that to his face.
He just told me
, Mom! I swear! I had no id—”

Trav grabbed the phone from him and spoke crisply.

“Ms. Sanders? Yeah. I’m Trav Ford, the band’s manager. I’m the one who dragged your son to rehab.”
Three goddamned times.
But he kept that part to himself.

“Oh,” she said. His first thought was that she seemed sort of soft-spoken to have raised four boys. “You’re not the guy they signed on with.”

“I work for the same company, ma’am. Their first manager passed away a couple of months ago.” Trav looked around the room—at Kell, who was having his late-adolescent epiphany without his other guitar player, and at Stevie, Jefferson, and Shelia, who gathered together in their own private tribe. “It was rough on everybody, but Mackey especially.”

She sighed sadly, but her words were surprisingly perceptive. “Mackey’s sensitive,” she said, “but he’s also his own worst enemy. I imagine this whole last year has been something of an adjustment.”

Trav wanted to laugh bitterly, but he didn’t. He was just so relieved not to hear any judgment, just so happy that Mackey’s hopes for his mother’s love were founded in truth. “Ma’am, I think you have that about right. Did you want to come up and see him? I could get you a plane and have you here in time for Sunday’s visiting hours.”

He heard the quiet catch of breath. “Could you?” she asked. “When the older boys were in school, it was all about keeping them fed, you know? And I wasn’t there—because, you know—”

“Food, clothes, rent,” Trav said. When he’d been a kid, those things were words. When Mackey was a kid, that stuff was not guaranteed. Ever.

“Yeah,” she said, conceding. “But this last year, Cheever’s been in special school, and I visit for dinner and volunteer, and it hits me, how much I’ve missed. How much I wanted to see but couldn’t.” Her voice wobbled a little, broke, but came back swinging. “I should at least be there for this, you think?”

God. These people were going to undo him. “I think Mackey would really like that,” he said. “Do you have an e-mail, ma’am? I can send you—”

“Not really,” she interrupted, and he blinked. “I mean, I didn’t have one before the boys bought the house, and I just didn’t seem to need one now. The phone was enough, you know? But the boys never call anyway.”

Trav glared at Kell, who shrugged uncomfortably and said, “Yeah, I know that look. Kell fucked up again.”

Trav hit Mute. “Damned straight. I’ve got some chores for
you
guys in the next few days.” Then he hit it again. “Ms. Sanders, if you can text me your name and birthday and that of your youngest son, I can have two plane tickets waiting for you at the kiosk of Sac Metro. All you’ll have to do is put in your ATM card and the kiosk will walk you through.”

“Okay,” she said, sounding a little overwhelmed. “But you don’t need to get one for Cheever. He’s had me to himself for a year. He can stay at the boarding school over the weekend—I can come down and see my boys.”

Oh Lord. Trav closed his eyes and thought of how desperately these kids had needed parenting over the past year. And how badly he did
not
want to be Mackey Sanders’s daddy. “I think that would be an
awesome
idea. Would you like me to send a car?”

“I can drive myself,” she said proudly. “The boys got me a real nice SUV for Christmas. Grant Adams delivered it last year on Christmas day.”

Trav took a deep breath. Of course he had. Jesus, this town sounded like a speck of wormshit on a soiled map, but it sure did seem to be eating up
Trav’s
life, and he hadn’t even visited. “Well, good, ma’am.” He grimaced. During the conversation, the shrill, staccato “brrring!” of text messages received on his own phone had punctuated his every sentence. “You text me that information and I’ll arrange your travel. Kell’s going to give you my number if you need it, okay?”

“Yes, sir—thank you so much.”

Trav’s voice softened. “Any time, ma’am. You call me
any
time. I’m their manager, and my job is to make the things happen in their life that make it easier for them to do their jobs. Making sure you get to visit is part of that.”

“I didn’t know,” she murmured, her voice wobbling.

Trav let a lot of rage out on his next breath. “Neither did they. Your kids had a lot to learn, Ms. Sanders. I think they’re finally getting the hang of things.”

He handed the phone back to Kell and picked up his own. He ignored all of the freaking-out crap Mackey had sent—stuff like
Talk to me, asshole!
and
Rot in hell if you’re not going to text me back!
—
and punched in his own beef with the world.

You didn’t call your mother for a year?

Silence. Then, when Trav was about to text again:
She was always so busy
.
We never wanted to bother her when shit got real. She knew when I got into fights, but if I could keep a lid on it, she didn’t know about the assholes and the way Kell and Grant stepped in. She didn’t know about Stevie’s dad. We just didn’t tell her shit, so she could keep functioning. Got to be a habit.

Trav groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands.
Should I worry about Stevie and Jefferson?
he asked.

Mackey’s next text reassured him.
Man, you’re asking the junkie fuckup in rehab. Ask them—Jefferson will tell you the truth. Might make you work for it, but he’ll tell you. So what about my mom?

She’s coming on Sunday. She really loves you.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Thanks, Trav. I’m grateful.

That wasn’t good enough. Trav wandered out of the living room and up the stairs, hitting Mackey’s phone number on the way.

“You’re calling again? Really? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of the whole texting thing?” The words sounded sharp, but Trav heard Mackey’s voice, choked and full, and he sighed.

“I needed to hear how you sounded.”

“I sound like a big oozy hole. People pour in ‘how you doing’ and I pour out tears and bullshit. Am I putting a cap on the whole rehab experience for you?”

“You know, the worse it hurts, the less likely you are to need to go back.”

“That’s really fucking profound, Trav. Can I quote you when they build me my own goddamned suite?”

“Well, when they do, they’d better make sure I have a room in it, because I’m telling you right now, if we have to do this again,
I’m
going to need some fucking Valium.”

Mackey laughed, and it stuttered out after a moment. “Would you really?”

“Take a Valium? Probably not. Why?”

“I mean, do this with me again?”

Trav froze. “Are you going to need it again?” he hedged, and then waited through another silence on the line.

“God, I hope not. But if I did…? Never mind.” Mackey started to backpedal, and Trav couldn’t let him.

“Yes.” He took a deep breath and made sure he meant it. “I mean, I can’t promise unlimited get-out-of-jail-free cards, Mackey. No one can. But right now? I’d do this again, because I’ve got hope.”

Mackey’s voice thickened up again, and the next noise over the phone was not subtle and it was not hidden. “I am such a weenie,” Mackey apologized, but even Trav could hear that something in him had broken again but that maybe Mackey was learning how to fix these things.

“Baby,” Trav said, hating himself, “don’t cry. Man, I know you need to, I know it’s healthy, but… but your mom is coming. We’ll be here. Your brother still loves you. And hell, I think you made Jefferson and Stevie’s
year
.”

He heard the weak chuffle on the other end that indicated he’d made Mackey laugh through his tears, and he felt better.

“See? It’ll be okay. You keep thinking you’ll get out of rehab and you’ll have to do it all again, and do it alone. But I’m here this time, and it’ll be better. I mean, it’ll be
hard,
but it won’t be like the last time you had to run the band and be a rock star and have all this shit inside you that hurt. You’ll have less shit, for one thing. But we’re here to help for the other. Okay?”

The sobbing on the other end of the line got worse. “Trav, man, I’m losing it here for a minute,” Mackey managed. “I’ll get back on the line when I’m not a fucking pussy.”

He hung up then, and Trav let him.

M
ACKEY
HATED
crying. He hated crying and he hated rehab and he hated crying in rehab.

But he had to admit, every time he cried, it got easier to stop.

He was lying on his back, wiping his face with his umpteenth tissue, when someone knocked on his doorframe. Shit. That was Blake—they’d been going to practice today.

“Come in,” he said, proud that he sounded mostly normal.

Blake sauntered in, guitar in hand, and Mackey nodded in approval. “Here, let me get mine. Sorry—got a phone call—”

“Are you okay?” Blake asked bluntly. One of the side effects of the place, Mackey guessed. Everybody felt entitled to ask that and expect an honest answer. Well, fuck. It wasn’t like Mackey didn’t need to talk about this anyway.

“Sit down,” he muttered.

Blake did—on the bed, because that was where they played—and Mackey looked at him carefully. He’d known the guy for a year, but until he’d heard him talk in group, he hadn’t really known anything about him. Dad in another state, a mom who expected him to haul his weight or move out, and a guitar. Not a pretty story—and Blake wasn’t really a pretty guy. His face was sort of thin and weaselly, and his teeth buckled in the front. He still had acne scars. But he’d been shoved into rehab, same as Mackey, and he was working with the same sort of sincerity.

And whether he got along with Mackey or not, he still showed up to practice when they had time, and he tried harder and harder every session.

And he obviously loved music. He could talk about Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin longer than Mackey, actually, and he seriously worshipped AC/DC.

They could bond, Mackey thought, his heart hurting a little. Mackey just had to give him a chance.

“See,” Mackey said before clearing his throat a couple of times, “the thing is, I had to send my family letters, so they’re all going to know, and there might be a press conference and shit—”

“You’re leaving the band?” Blake asked, sounding panicked and hurt.

“No, genius, I’m
gay
!”

Blake actually laughed, and then, realizing Mackey was serious, he stopped. “Wait. I mean, you thought we didn’t know that?”

Mackey rolled his eyes. “Well, it was a real goddamned surprise to Kell, I can tell you that!”

“Oh.” Blake sobered and sucked air through his teeth. “He… he kept saying ‘Only bi when high,’ you know? It was… I mean, it sounded funny, and we figured it was….” Blake sort of sought Mackey’s gaze, like he’d done something wrong and couldn’t apologize for it.

Mackey took pity on him. “Yeah, well, if I’m only bi when I’m high, I’m never getting laid after rehab, so I think I maybe want to cut that bullshit out.”

Blake looked away. “Well, it’s not like I never glazed a donut when I was trying to make rent. Not that I want
that
spread around—it’s not usually my thing unless, you know, food and shelter’s on the line. You told your brother?”

Mackey nodded, feeling a pang of sympathy. Well hello and hallelujah—let the bonding shit happen. “Yeah, I told my brother—and no, I won’t spread that around. That’s between you and me. But I sent Kell a letter. Made the words small. But I think he got it. And I’m telling
you
so you can talk to him about it like it’s a thing and not a joke, but there’s something else I’m telling you that’s not a joke, so you need to listen.”

Oh God. Was he really going to say this? He closed his eyes and thought about all the times he’d ripped Blake a new one because he just wasn’t fucking enough.

Wasn’t fucking Grant.

Mackey looked down at his fingers as they played with the guitar strings, and he kept his vision there, mesmerized by his own fingers, which knew what he was playing when he had no idea. The notes from an old Gordon Lightfoot tune materialized, light and melancholy and tragic.

“See, the thing is, before we came down to LA, I’d had one guy. One boyfriend. My whole life. And he was the guy who had your job.”

Blake made that teeth-sucking sound again, and Mackey couldn’t make himself look up. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Kell didn’t know—still doesn’t, if you want to keep that to yourself. And I still think you fuckin’ slack when you shouldn’t. But you gotta know… some of that shit wasn’t you. Some of that was that you weren’t who I needed, and that’s not your fault.”

Mackey swallowed into the silence. He had to look up. He owed Blake that much.