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〃I like you okay。〃
They had both known they weren't just locking themselves back here to smoke a joint； but the rest of their agenda had to be obliquely tested； so that no one would lose face。 Zach knew the game and approved。 He smiled and raised an eyebrow； waited for more。
〃Oh； just e over here and let's fuck。〃
Now that was Zach's idea of an excellent pickup line。 He slid across to the case of toilet paper and suddenly Leaf was upon him； face pressed up against his； one hand slipping under his T…shirt； the other squeezing his leg beneath his loose cutoffs。 Leafs mouth found his and closed over it； hot little tongue probing and searching； piney flavor of the weed still on his lips。 His spidery hands flew over Zach's skin as if trying to memorize its warmth and texture。 His touch was starving； frantic。 The poor kid probably hadn't been laid all summer。
Zach pushed him gently back against the wall； unbuttoned the tacky polyester uniform； stroked the boy's smooth chest and the hollow of his rib cage； managed to calm him down a little。 He kissed the side of Leafs throat； the pulse that beat there was as agitated as his own。 The skin smelled of soap and salt； tasted of clean sweat。
Leaf slid to the concrete floor and sprawled between Zach's knees； pressed his face into Zach's stomach and mumbled something unintelligible。 Zach cupped the boy's chin； tilted the sharp feral face up to his own。 〃What did you say？〃
〃I want to make you e。〃
〃How？〃
Those exotic honey…colored eyes tried to meet his； then wavered。 Leaf wasn't used to talking dirty。 〃How？〃 he asked again。
〃I want to suck your dick。〃
The words increased his desire； made him ache and burn。 〃Go on；〃 Zach said through clenched teeth。 〃Just do it。〃
The boy's hands fumbled with the button fly of Zach's pants； friction driving his hard…on nearly to the point of pain。 Then all at once Leafs hot mouth slid onto him； then pulled all the way back to a teasing； flickering tongue…tip； then swallowed him deeper yet。 Zach felt the pot and pleasure swirling in his skull； deliciously mingling。 God love the kid； it turned out he knew what he was doing after all。
Zach always appreciated it when people surprised him。
Twenty minutes later； stocked up with a handful of lighters； a sixpack of mineral； water； and two bags of jalapeno potato chips； Zach renewed his acquaintance with Highway 90。 It would take him through Biloxi； through the tag…end of Alabama； and all the way to Pensacola in another hour or two。 After that； he thought； he would get off 90 but keep heading east； all the way to the coast of the Atlantic Ocean。 Somewhere； he knew； there was a beach that was clean。
Leaf hadn't asked him to stay overnight； hadn't seemed put out in the slightest by the encounter。 After getting each other off they had rested together for a few minutes； embracing loosely； catching their breaths。 Zach had spent the moments appreciating the spare； elegant lines of the boy's face and body； admiring the sheen of his silky hair in the half…light of the storeroom。 Then by some silent mutual consent they rose and pulled their clothes together and went blinking back out into the unmerciful brightness of the store。
At the door they clasped hands briefly。 〃By the way；〃 Leaf told him； 〃I like your shirt。〃
Zach glanced down at himself。 He was still wearing the exploding Kennedy head。 He wondered idly if some buried sixth sense had made him put it on this morning as a twisted metaphor for what was to follow。
〃Thanks；〃 he said； and gave Leaf's talented fingers one final squeeze。 In its way it was quite a tender farewell。
The day had followed a steep curve down to hell； but now it seemed to be inching back up。 The interlude with Leaf had relaxed him； left him feeling sharp and awake； as if Leaf had imbued him with some vital essence 。。。 as indeed he had。 Surely there was some energy in e； some electrifying charge。
And Zach had given as good as he got。 He always deserted in the end； like the bastard Eddy thought he was； but he always tried to make his lovers feel good in the brief spans of time he spent with them。 He had even left Leaf with another tightly rolled； sticky joint to stave off tomorrow night's ennui。
All in all； Zach mused as he reconnected with the silent ribbon of highway； it had pretty much been the perfect relationship。
Chapter Six
Trevor awoke from a dream of blank paper laughing up at him； his mind a monochrome wash of panic； his heart clenching around a core of emptiness。 If he couldn't draw 。。。 if he couldn't draw 。 。 。
The sheets Kinsey had given him were twined around his legs； sodden with nightmare sweat。 Trevor kicked them away and shoved himself upright。 His bag lay on the floor next to the sofa。 He pulled out his sketchbook； opened it to a clean page； and sketched furiously for several minutes。 He had no idea what he was drawing； he was only reassuring himself that he could。
When his heart stopped pounding and his panic began to fade； Trevor found himself staring at a rough sketch of his brother lying on a stained mattress； small hands curled in death； head crushed into the pillow。 He remembered that today was the day his family had died。
Trevor felt like throwing the book across the room。 Instead he closed it and slid it back into his bag； found his toothbrush in the zipper pocket； then stood up and stretched。 He heard his shoulders crack； his spine make a noise like a muffled burst of gunfire。
Despite the flattened cushions and the occasional sharp end of a spring； Kinsey's sofa had been a wele place to sleep。 Trevor was surprised to find it forting to be invited into someone's home； to have a known human presence in the next room。 He had grown used to cheap hotels and run…down boardinghouses。 On the other side of the wall might be drunken sobs or curses； the moist tempo of sex； the silence of an empty room…but never anything familiar； never anyone who cared that Trevor Black was there。
Kinsey's living room was sparsely furnished with more thrift…shop relics： an easy chair； a reading lamp； a wooden bookcase listing under the weight of too many volumes。 Paperbacks； mostly。 Trevor read some titles as he passed。 One Hundred Years of Solitude； The Stand； Short Stories of Franz Kafka； whole shelves of Hesse and Kerouac； even Lo！ by Charles Fort。 Eclectic tastes； that Kinsey。
There were some crates of ics too； but Trevor did not look through them。 He had his own copies of Birdland。 ing upon other copies in a ic shop or someone's collection was always unnerving； like seeing someone he had thought dead。
There was no TV； Trevor noted approvingly。 He hated TV。 It brought back memories of a crowded dayroom at the Home； the sweaty smell of boys； voices raised in fury over what channel to watch。 The stupidest ones had always screamed for a cartoon show out of Raleigh called Barney's Army。 Barney was a cartoon character himself； squat and ugly； announcing kids' birthdays and cracking lame jokes between Looney Toons shorts。 He was so badly animated that no part of him moved but his pitifully stubby； flipperlike arms； his prognathous jaw； and his big googly eyes。 Trevor figured he had probably hated Barney as much as any real person he had ever known。
The bathroom tiles were spotless； deliriously cold against his bare feet。 He used the Tom's of Maine cinnamon…flavored toothpaste on the edge of the sink； then splashed cold water on his face。 For a long moment he stood staring into the mirror。 His father's eyes looked back at him； ice rimmed in black； faintly challenging。 Do you dare？
You bet I do。
The door of Kinsey's bedroom was ajar。 Trevor peeked into the shady room。 Kinsey's tall form lay sprawled across the bed； skinny legs half…covered by a vivid patch…work quilt。 He was the only person Trevor had ever seen who actually wore pajamas…bright blue ones； the same color as his eyes； patterned with little gold moons and stars。 Trevor hadn't even known they made pajamas in Kinsey's size。
For a few minutes he watched the gentle rise and fall of Kinsey's chest； the draft from the open window that stirred Kinsey's scraggly hair； and he wondered if he had ever slept so peacefully。 Even when Trevor wasn't having bad dreams his sleep was uneasy； sporadic； full of flickering pictures and half…remembered faces。
But the luminous face of the clock on Kinsey's nightstand （no cheap digital job； but a molded…plastic relic done in early sixties aqua； its corners rounded and streamlined） told him it was nearly noon。 He had to go。 Not to the house yet； no； but he had to take the first step toward the house。
Trevor slung his backpack over his shoulder； stepped out into the tranquil Sunday morning； and locked Kinsey's door behind him。
The road that led out to Missing Mile's small graveyard was hot and flat and muddy。 Trevor was accustomed to walking city streets； where the languid haze of summer was shot through with blasts of air…conditioning from doors constantly opening onto the sidewalk； where you could always duck under an awning or the overhang of a building； into a little pocket of shade。
But this road； Burnt Church Road according to the crooked signpost where it ran into Firehouse Street； offered no shade except the occasional leafy canopy of a tree。 The houses out here were few and far apart。 Most had been built on farmland； and the road was bordered by fields of leathery tobacco and bristling corn。 This was a nicer area than Violin Road； the dirt here had not yet been farmed to death。 The houses were not new or fancy； but their yards were large grassy expanses unmarred by scrap heaps or the rusting hulks of autos。
The sun beat mercilessly on the road and on the coarse gravel that paved it； broken granite like the crushed leavings of a cemetery； mired in wet red clay； catching the light and shattering it into a million razored fragments。 Trevor was glad when clouds began to blow in； a slowbrewing summer thunderstorm on the way。 His brain felt baked in his skull； and his skin already tingled with fresh sunburn。 His backpack was waterproof； to keep his sketchbook dry。 If the storm held long enough； he would start a new drawing at the graveyard。 If not； he would sit on the ground and let the rain soak him。
Trevor could feel the nearly silent presence of death up ahead； not precisely watchful； not even really aware； but somehow detectable。 It was like a frequency on a radio； or rather the empty space on the band between frequencies： there were no signals to pick up； but still you heard a faint electric hum； not quite silence； not quite sound。 It was like being in a room someone had just left； a room that still bore the faint scent of breath and skin； the subtle displacement of air。 An epileptic kid had died on his hall at the Boys' Home once； pitched a grand mal fit in the hours before dawn； when no one was awake to help him。 Trevor had woken in the cool； still morning and known that death was close by； though he hadn't known who it had e to； or how。
But the graveyard gave off only a quiet buzz like crickets in the sun； like the cogs of a watch beginning to wind down。 Set back at the shady dead end of Burnt Church Road； surrounded by woods on three sides； it was a place that felt like surcease from pain。 Trevor had never seen the burial place of his family。 As soon as it came into view； he knew that this was a fitting prelude to going home。
Of course they hadn't let him attend the funeral。 As far as Trevor knew； there had been no proper funeral。 Bobby McGee had burned most of his bridges when they left Austin； and they had no family but each other。 The town； he supposed； had paid for the interment of three cheap pine coffins。
Later； a group of ics artists and publishers had taken up money for a stone。 Someone had sent Trevor a Polaroid snapshot of it years ago。 He remembered turning the picture over and over in his hands until the oil from his fingers marred the slick paper； wondering who had cared enough to visit and photograph the grave of his family but not enough to rescue him from the hell that was the Boys' Home。
He also remembered a drawing he had done soon afterward； a cutaway view of the grave。 He