Billy awoke to Carrie peering down at him—an expression of immense apprehension scrawled upon her marble countenance.
—Carrie. Where am I? What happened? I had the weirdest dream...I…
—You’re in the emergency ward, sweetheart. Adventist. You passed out. Your blood pressure was only fifty-five over forty. We were afraid you were dying.
In confused discomfort, his face twisted into a coil.
—Well. I’m okay now. Let’s get outta here.
He started to sit up, before he realized IV’s were stuck in either arm and an oxygen tube was jammed into his nostrils.
—What is this shit?
—I’m serious, Billy. You’re very sick. You’re not going anywhere. Once you’re stable, they’re going to take you over to Providence. They’re going to want you to stay there, at least overnight
She smoothed his slimy forehead and wiped his dry-caked mouth with a moistened paper towel.
—I just got a toucha the flu. I’m okay.
—Billy! Look at your skin! That’s not the flu. You’re pale and yellow. You look terrible. You’re not going anywhere. You better get used to it. You’re going to be in the hospital for a while, I’m afraid.
He tried to protest, but fell back asleep.
When he awoke again, he was in a private room in Intensive Care at Providence. The television was on and Carrie was sitting next to his bed watching the screen nervously.
—What’s on?
—Billy! Sweetheart. You’re awake.
—Yeah. I guess...Man, I feel shitty.
—You’re very sick, Billy. Doctor Todd has been in several times yesterday and today, and he’s very concerned about you.
—What is that? One Life to Live?
—Yes. It’s One Life to Live.
He gazed up at the clock across from his bed.
—Two-thirty? Man, I slept all day.
—It’s Friday, Billy. You’ve been out longer than you think.
—Friday? Holy shit. That’s like two days! So what’d Doctor Todd say?
—He said your spleen is liable to rupture at any time. So you’re going to have to have surgery first thing tomorrow morning to have it removed. He said he’s going to remove your tumor, too, and several infected lymph glands. He said he’ll know more once he gets inside.
—Jesus. Sounds fucked up. How longa ya’ been with me?
—Since Wednesday night.
—You mean you’ve been with me the whole time?
—Of course, sweetheart. I couldn’t leave you.
—Where’d ya’ sleep?
—In the bed, next to you. I wanted to hear your heartbeat.
—Well look, Carrie, you’ve gotta get some rest too ya’ know. I don’t want you to get sick. Just one of us at a time.
—I’m okay. I’m fine.
She leaned over and kissed him softly as he extended his arm to pull her close.
—Nah. You’re a total mess. I think you need to go home and take a break for a while.
—Maybe you’re right. Maybe just for a few hours. I should call Leena. I haven’t talked to her since Wednesday. I probably have messages on my machine. And I could change clothes…
—There ya’ go.
—Well, if I go now, I can probably be back by nine.
—Baby, they’ve got me so pumped full of drugs, I’m not gonna know when ya’ come back.
—Oh, you’ll know. I’ll make sure of that.
Her pretty smile bathed him in careful concern. She kissed him again, on the forehead, then firmly on the lips.
—I’ll be back in a few hours, then.
—Okay, baby. I’ll be right here.
A hint of dread creased the corners of that smile. Her eyes glistened with the blear of fearful tears as she moved toward the door. Haltingly, she half-turned.
—I love you, Billy.
—I love you, too. You’re my world, Carrie.
And she believed him. Just as she was out the door, he called after her.
—Hey. Have you seen my book around anywhere?
Her brows pinched bewildered together.
—I’m sorry, sweetheart, I don’t know what you’re talking about.
He commenced to explain, then thought better of it. Waving at her vaguely, he whispered.
—Never mind, baby. Just a dream. Just a dream.
The next thing he knew, it was Saturday afternoon. Carrie was sitting in a chair next to the bed blankly staring at the barely audible television.
—In other news, the nation’s jobless rate fell to a four-year low in June, dropping four-tenths of a percentage point from May, to 7 percent, the labor department said. The report, the first broad measure of June economic activity, suggested that growth continued at a stronger pace than the administration had expected. The jobless rate for black teenagers fell sharply, but government analysts said that may have been a statistical fluke.
Billy stirred briefly.
—‘Law Enforcement and Crime’ was the subject of the president’s weekly radio address to the nation:
‘Believe me, we in the administration have been trying to speak up for you, the millions of Americans who are fed up with crime, fed up with fear in our streets and neighborhoods, fed up with lenient judges, fed up with a criminal justice system that too often treats criminals better than it does their victims. Too many Americans have had to suffer the effects of crime while too many of our leaders have stuck to the old, discredited, liberal illusions about crime —illusions that refuse to hold criminals responsible for their actions’.
He started to come around.
—Famous personalities born on this day: Beatle Ringo Starr turns forty-four today. And renowned baseball pitcher and philosopher Satchel Paige was born on July seventh 1906. Second only to Yogi Berra, Paige had many adages that became part of baseball vernacular, such as ‘If your stomach disputes you, lie down and pacify it with cool thoughts’. And, most famously, ‘Don’t look back—something might be gaining on you.’
Ringo Beatle Satchel Starr disputes cool thoughts something might be gaining.
—That’s it for Saturday, July seventh, folks. I’m Dan Rather and that’s part of our world tonight.
Billy put his hands to his face and attempted to assemble himself in some rational fashion.
—Jesus fuck. I feel terrible.
From the chair by the window, Carrie flicked off the television and hastened to his side. Closing his eyes, he sighed loudly, then looked down at his bandaged abdomen
—Shit, he cut me every which way.
—Yes, dear. Doctor Todd had you in the operating room for almost six hours this morning. He said things went well. Or as well as could be expected—whatever that means.
—I think I need some more painkillers. What’re they givin’ me? Morphine?
Then he was out again.
He felt slightly better when he regained consciousness the next morning. Carrie was sitting in her chair, reading the Sunday Oregonian. At the sound of Billy rustling in his bed, she sprung to her feet.
—There you are. Hello, sweetheart. How are you feeling?
Eyeing the complex of tubes and devices that surrounded him he replied weakly.
—Trapped. What day is it?
—It’s Sunday. Do you want some water?
—No, but I’d love some bacon and eggs.
—Oh, Billy. I don’t think Doctor Todd is going to let you eat solid food for at least a few more days.
He frowned unhappily.
—Okay. I guess I’ll have some water then.
The nurse within her flooded forth, and she gingerly retrieved a plastic water bottle from the sliding table tray next his the bed. Like an angel hovering over him, she held the straw to his lips. And he sipped cautiously, as if the water might leak from all the holes in him. But everything held. He drifted back into a light sleep.
When he came to again, crotchety Andy Rooney was babbling on about something that was pissing him off. Then the clock ticked toward eight p.m., and Mike Wallace signed off.
—What the fuck have they got in my dick?
Carrie snapped to attention and rose to her feet.
—It’s a catheter, darling.
He started to reach down to pull it out, but she grabbed his hand.
—I don’t think they’re ready to have you sitting up to pee just yet, Billy. I’m sure it’s uncomfortable.
—It’s like…
Even in his confused state, his better judgment prevented him from completing the simile.
—Let’s just say it sucks.
Snorting, she muffled a grin with her hand. He caught the gist of his own wordplay and smirked half-heartedly. An officious looking woman, in her forties, with sandy blond hair walked in.
—Oh, he’s up!
She began to check the levels of the various IV bags that encircled him, replacing a few. Then she cleared his PICC lines and lifted his bandages to have a look at his many incisions. Finally, she walked over to a blackboard with various signs and placards taped on either side. She printed her name like a schoolteacher. Molly Miller. Billy liked the name. It worked both ways: Milly Moller. Molly Miller.
—My name’s Molly? I’m your nurse for the night shift? I’ll check in on you from time to time. Is there anything you need?
—I’d like a steak and I’d like to get this thing yanked out of my, uh, whatzit. You know?
She laughed at both requests.
—Well, Doctor Todd will be in to see you in the morning? And you can talk to him about those things. That’s all his decision. Roberta will be in a little later to draw some blood? If you need anything, just push that red button right there and I’ll be in.
With that, she exited the room.
—I must be doin’ a little better. She didn’t hang around very long.
—Well, you’re not out cold. That’s an improvement, I guess.
—Are you bein’ sarcastic? I don’t think I’m sharp enough to catch it right now.
—No, sweetheart. I’m just tired. I’m worried and tired.
—You don’t have to worry, Carrie. I’ll be fine.
In wordless disbelief, she hummed a doubting moan.
—We’ll see, dear. I hope you’re right. But you’re very sick right now and you need to get rest.
—I think I’ve been restin’ pretty good.
—You know what I mean. You just have to stay down this time. Give yourself a chance to heal.
He stared at the blackboard and said nothing.
—I’m going to leave now. I need to go into the office early tomorrow morning and make arrangements for Leena to reschedule some of my appointments and to have Kenneth take the ones that need immediate attention.
Carrie kissed him on the forehead, smoothing his hair.
—I’ll be here before Doctor Todd comes in to see you. He supposed to be in around ten-thirty, he said.
—Okay, baby. You get some rest, too.
He cradled her neck with his hand, kissing her softly and gently caressing her ears.
She kissed him again, gathered up her jacket and purse, and started to click off the television with the remote.
—No. It’s okay. Leave it on. Maybe I’ll stay awake.
She placed the remote on his swaddled chest
—And can you hand me the sports section? I wanna see how the Dodgers are doin’. I don’t think they‘re gonna catch the Padres.
She had no idea what he was talking about. Picking through the unopened portion of the newspaper and fishing out the sports section, she handed it to him.
—Thanks, baby. I’ll see ya’ tomorrow.
He opened up his arms, expectantly, and she laid her head on the pillow next to his.
—Okay. I’ll see you in the morning. I love you.
—I love you, too, Carrie.
As she was leaving, he began to scan the television channels. F.I.S.T. was on Channel 2, but he’d already seen it, and he really did not much care for Sylvester Stallone. Then he landed on Channel 8. The Executioners Song. It was that guy from Coal Miner’s Daughter. He played her husband. Some guy from Portland wrote that. His brother or cousin or something.
He began to peruse the box scores and promptly fell asleep. When he next began to stir, cloud-dappled sunlight crept through the window. Carrie was talking quietly with Doctor Todd, who was wearing light blue scrubs and scrub cap, and a white lab coat
—He seems to be responding fairly well to the surgery. No infections. Though his white blood cell count is not good at all.
Billy mumbled dreamily.
—Whybloocount? Smatter?
Doctor Todd turned in his direction.
—I was telling Miss Deeds that the surgery was reasonably successful. But I was about to say that I’m very concerned about some other things I might have seen. I’ll know more when the tests and biopsies come back this afternoon. Yes. Your WBC count is very low. But we need to get a handle on your cancer and see if we are able to slow it down.
Billy wasn’t entirely aware what Doctor Todd was telling him, but Carrie was.
—Is it spreading?
—I don’t want to cause alarm, but I have reason to believe it is. We may want to go back in to do a little exploratory surgery. That wouldn’t be until next week. Then we’ll decide how we want to proceed.
More important things weighed upon Billy’s mind.
—Say, Doctor Todd?
The Doctor engaged his focus directly upon Billy.
—When can I eat some real food and get this thing pulled out of my Johnson? It’s drivin’ me up the wall.
Without reaction whatsoever to Billy’s impertinence, slightly distracted by the condition of Billy’s stitches, he answered absently.
—Let’s see how things look tomorrow. Once we have all the tests back, we’ll have a better idea where we’ll be going next.
Billy was as disappointed as he was uncomfortable.
—I want a steak in the worst way.
—I wouldn’t get your heart set on a steak. It will take several days just to get you back on solid food. We’ll have to see how you respond to that.
—You mean gettin’ nauseated and everything?
—Exactly. We’ll just have to take it slow. You’ll get a steak soon enough.
But the prognosis wasn’t good. Billy’s cancer had advanced to Stage Four. Tests revealed that the disease had moved beyond his lymph system. Hundreds of malignant tumors were spread all over both sides of his abdomen. Some had been attached to his spleen. Others were beginning to develop on his stomach and lungs. Doctor Todd concluded that surgery would be neither prudent nor particularly efficacious. Instead, he prescribed an intense program of radiation therapy, coupled with a new round of chemo.
Soon after, Billy was moved out of ICU, but he remained at Providence throughout the month of July. The combination of radiation and chemotherapies weakened him significantly. His joints ached as if he were eighty years old, and his balance was so severely affected that he could not walk without support.
His hair and eyebrows fell out and his pallor had the tint of yellow snow. He was paper thin and unable to keep food down, which caused him to lose another twenty-five pounds. He complained that his meals tasted like poison. The bones in his arms and shoulders protruded in grotesque, like a bizarrely folded piece of human origami.
Finally, on the first Friday in August, despite the horrific side effects, Billy was given permission to leave the hospital. But even that presented a problem. Because Billy was out of immediate danger, it was imperative that Carrie return to the veterinary practice, in order to revive it. So it was not advisable that he stay at her apartment. The only other alternative was for him to convalesce at the house in which he had grown up, where his mother could look after him and transport him to Providence for his daily radiation treatments.
Elegant and tall, Ingrid Granger had aged quite gracefully. In her mid-fifties, she was still very attractive, with striking blue eyes and curly blond hair piled on top of her head. She had not remarried after Pierce had died, and she occupied her time doing volunteer work with the Rose City schools, helping disadvantaged children.
She derived great satisfaction in tending to her son, though she was sorry that the circumstances were so dire. She made it her aim to help him to recover and become strong again. Billy spent the first few weeks lying on the couch, watching the Olympics, which were fabulously uninteresting without the Eastern Bloc countries participating.
Every free moment she had, Carrie was at Billy’s side. She was able to spell Ingrid as his nurse. And also, without complaint, she loyally acted as his secretary, chauffeur, and all around gofer. If Billy wanted anything, needed anything, required anything, or wished for anything, she was committed to satisfying him. He kept flashing on Alex: if he were to ask, Billy was pretty sure Carrie would maneuver his jaw for him, to help him chew his food. Despite feeling enormously crummy, Billy still relished being pampered and nurtured.
It was Carrie who had no time for herself—no sort of emotional support, not a moment for rest or reflection. She pushed herself to her limits and didn’t complain. Complaining wasn’t really a part of her character. Nor self-pity. But she had fears. And it was her fears for Billy that drove her so intensely. She believed that between the two of them, they could will him to life, ordain him back to good health. She would not see the situation any other way.
In the afternoon on Labor Day, for no particular reason, Denny showed up. It appeared that he was drunk, high, or both. He and Billy had not seen each other since Christmas. Denny came rolling through the front door of the house, and, without announcing his arrival, strode directly to Billy, who was lying on the couch watching the end of One Life to Live.
Looming over his sick brother, he leaned down and knocked on the top of Billy’s head.
—Hey! Fuckin’ Rock Star! How’s the cancer hangin’, Rock Star?
Denny plopped down in the rocking chair next to the sofa and began to teeter methodically. Billy said nothing, but stared blankly at the television screen.
—So whatcha been up to lately, Rock Star? Been playin’ lotsa cool gigs with the Gods? Yeah? Fuck yeah! I got a new band, ya’ know. Call ‘em the Popsquawks. Got Pete drummin’. You remember Pete? He was the drummer in that band...oh, what the fuck was their name? Shit. Oh yeah. He was the drummer in the Malchicks. Remember them?
Continuing to ignore his brother, Billy’s fixed his attention on the first scene of General Hospital. All summer he had been following the whole story arc of Luke and Robert’s pursuit of the Aztec treasure.
—Anyway, so Pete’s our drummer. And Notcho Durock is on bass. Pete’s been playing with him since...Gee, I think since the Malchicks broke up. You remember them, of course.
No response.
—Yeah, we’ve played a couple of gigs at Last Hurrah, and over at Tommy’s new spot at Key Largo. Fat Rooster. I like that club. It’s like a miniature version of Starry Night. That little balcony and everything. We go over real good over there. That eastside crowd likes us. You know, I grew up on the east side of town. In fact, around here somewhere.
Billy tilted his head back, frowning upside down at his frantically rocking brother. Then he closed his eyes in sincere misery, in the warm, warm house; the golden afternoon sun glinting through the dining room window.
—Hey, Rock Star. I gotta tell ya’. Ya’ look like fuckin’ shit, man. Ya’ know, you’ve really let yourself go lately. Maybe ya’ oughta get your ass off the couch and get a little fuckin’ exercise or somethin’. Know whut I mean, Vern? I mean, just because you’re a big fuckin’ rock star now doesn’t mean ya’ gotta go all fuckin’ Elvis on us, man. Next thing you know we’ll find ya’ dead on the can with a fuckin’ fried peanut butter banana sandwich clutched in yer yellow little hand.
—Denny, man.
—Ah! He fuckin’ speaks! What’s that, Rock Star?
—Denny. What’s eatin’ you? Are ya’ jealous of me or somethin’?
—Jealous? Of what? You don’t look like you’re havin’ such a fuckin’ great time.
—I’m not havin’ a good time, Denny. It sucks. It really sucks.
—Well, now ya’ finally know what life’s been like for me all these years. Fuckin’ sucks. Yeah. You got it.
—Look, Denny, whatever I’ve done to you, I’m sorry. Can’t ya’ just let all that shit go? Start over or somethin’?
—Oh yeah, sure. Now you’re ready to start over. You bet. You fuckin’ bet.
—Jesus, man, I can’t change what’s already happened.
Laughing sardonically, Denny patted Billy on the head
—You can’t fuckin’ change anything, man.”
Billy swatted his hand away, entreating his brother.
—Denny, I need your help if I’m gonna get well. Help me, Denny, please.
—Hey Bro’, I’ll hold your wallet for ya’ and you can cry on my shoulder any time. I mean, look how much you’ve helped me. After all, what’s a brother for? Right? But man, I can’t help ya’ get well. I don’t know if anybody can do that.
At that moment, Ingrid entered from the kitchen, a vexed expression on her face.
—Billy. I just spoke to my insurance agent. Oh, Dennis, you’re here.
—Yeah, I hope that’s okay. It’s good to see you too, mom.
—I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just...I spoke to Allen Schmidt, my agent at Mutual Life. They aren’t going to cover all of Billy’s hospital bills. They’re not even going to come close.
Billy wondered aloud.
—Well, what are we going to do, mom?
—I don’t know, Billy. I really don’t. Bankruptcy? I haven’t the slightest idea. I guess we need to speak to an attorney.
Denny chuckled
—Like I was sayin’, Billy.
Sighing, Billy sank into a deep, dark funk and resumed his study of Luke and Robert as they traipsed through the jungles of Mexico. Denny maintained his neurotic pitch in the chair, back and forth and back. Ingrid looked as though she were going to cry.
—I don’t...we can’t lose the house. Not after everything your father went through to get it for us. The two of you...and Elaine, this is your home. It’s been our home. You kids learned to swim in the pool. We’ve been here over twenty-five years. We can’t…
She broke into tears. Billy refocused. Denny stopped rocking and sat in shame like a little boy who just accidentally killed the family cat. Lips pursed, Billy hiked himself up on his left elbow.
—Don’t worry, mom. You’re not gonna to lose the house. I’ll figure out something.
—Billy, Allen thought our part of the bills could be over a hundred thousand dollars. And you’re not nearly finished with your treatments. Who knows how much this will cost?
—Jeez. Sometimes I think everybody’d be better off if I just wasn’t around anymore.
Ingrid began to cry more deeply.
—Aw, mom. I didn’t mean it like that. You know that. It’s just that everybody, you, Carrie, are puttin’ all your time and energy...and money, into me and there’s nothin’ I can do to pay ya’ back. Two years ago things looked great. I was plannin’ on buyin’ ya’ a new place. Now…
He was overwhelmed at the reality of the situation. Denny stood up from the rocking chair.
—Well, I gotta go. Good to see you guys, as always. Get well soon, Billy.
Bye, mom.
He kissed his mother perfunctorily and got the hell out of there, not even bothering to hit her up for fifty bucks, which had been his intent when he came over.
Around six, Carrie sauntered through the front door, into a leaden atmospheric pall. She had just endured four hours with Jack and Jean—and poor Val. It seemed to her that she was walking into an even more complicated family issue.
—Is something wrong?
Billy said nothing, but Ingrid told her. Responding with a curious sense of optimism, Carrie walked across the room and kissed Billy as he lay on the sofa. She sat down next to him on the floor.
—We’ll find a way to get through this, too. Billy has taught me that. And I know it’s true. We can overcome this obstacle, too. Don’t worry, Ingrid.
Somewhat relieved, Ingrid wandered out of the den and back into the kitchen.
—I’m going to make a grilled cheese sandwich. Anyone care for a grilled cheese sandwich.
—Yeah, mom. I’ll have a couple please. How about you, Carrie?
—No thanks. I ate over at my parents’ house.
—Oh, that’s right. Today’s Labor Day. So how’d that go?
—As expected, I guess. Mom spent the whole afternoon picking on Valerie and comparing her to me. So it was the usual battle. Nothing out of the ordinary. How’re you feeling?
—I was starting to feel a little better, actually, until Denny showed up and then mom dropped the bomb. Now I feel like shit. No. I feel like I might be able to keep the grilled cheesers down. But my head’s pretty fucked up after all that.
—What did Denny do?
—He unloaded on me for bein’ his older brother. Maybe you know what that’s like. Has Val ever unloaded on you?
—No. We’re always too busy defending ourselves against Jean to ever pick on each other. What did he say, sweetheart?
—He...Nah, I don’t want to get into it. Somethin’s buggin’ that guy and I don’t know how much of it’s really about me.
—You’d think he would be trying to help you.
—You’d think. But he’s got it in for me. He’s real bitter about the Malchicks.
—Bitter about what? From the sounds of it, that band had pretty much runits course.
Billy placed both palms upon his eyes and took a deep breath.
—It had. I think he’s just jealous that I was in the successful band. That I’m the one with the cool girlfriend.
Lovingly, he massaged the back of her neck.
—I think he’s even jealous of my cancer.
—How could that be possible?
—Oh, you know, for all the attention I’m gettin’. I think he’s pissed. The way it looks to him, I’m always beatin’ him to the spot when it comes to gettin’ the attention.
Carrie shrugged her shoulders as she pondered the reasonability of Billy’s conclusion.
—Tomorrow is chemo?
—Yeah. Then the radiation blast. Mom’s been a real trooper about all of this. Takin’ me to all the appointments…
He polished the top of his head.
—I don’t know if my hair’s ever gonna grow back. And my eyebrows...I’m tired of baseball hats and eyebrow pencil.
—But you’re getting better. That’s what’s important.
—Yeah. At least I’ve stopped gettin’ worse.
Carrie kissed him on the cheek.
—That’s what’s important, Billy. You have to stop getting worse before you can get better.
As roughly as his strength would allow, which was not very much. He pulled her close and kissed her hard.
—You’re one in a million, baby. One in a million. I don’t know how or why, but I’m the luckiest guy in the world to have you. I don’t deserve you.
—Well of course you do, sweetheart. And I deserve you. We deserve each other.
—I hope you don’t regret sayin’ that.
Resting her head on his shoulder, she wiped her moistening eyes on the sleeve of his t-shirt.
—Oh, Billy. I’ll never regret anything. How could I?
—Well, I regret some things.
He sensed her tensing.
—Not about you! But I made some choices along the way that I regret.
—Like what?
—I regret the way I treated you. Sort of selfish, maybe. And abusin’ my health.
—What do you mean?
—I think it was all the goodies that gave me the cancer. I loved partyin’ just a little too much, ya’ know? If I could do that over…
—You never know, Billy. Maybe the cancer has made you who you are.
He gave that thought consideration.
—Maybe so. But one thing I can say is party love just doesn’t love you back.
—But real love always loves you back, sweetheart. Always.
They made out as passionately as conditions would allow, just as Ingrid was coming in with Billy’s grilled cheese sandwiches.
—Oh! I just…
—Nah. It’s okay, mom. Ya’ got my dinner there?
—Yes. I hope you can keep it down.
He sat upright as his mom handed him a small plate.
—I’ve been having pretty good luck lately. I’d say about fifty-fifty. So, I’m confident.
—Well good. I’ll leave you two alone. Can I get you anything, Carrie?
—No thanks, Ingrid. I’ve got everything I need.
Affectionately, she rubbed the top of Billy’s shiny yellow head.
As the weeks unfolded, Billy’s health improved incrementally, day by day. He was able to sit up for longer periods of time, sometimes for an hour or two. As soon as his strength allowed, Billy was playing his guitar and singing, writing new songs. Though he was but a shadow of his former self, he still relished the opportunity to express his feelings within the framework of a song—as it was his only real emotional outlet.
And the new songs he was writing came from a completely different perspective than any he had written or performed with the Gods. He had been through a great deal in the course of six months, and he was anxious to figure out how he felt about it.
By the end of September, he had responded well to the aggressive treatment. Most of the cancerous tumors were either eradicated or diminished significantly. Doctor Todd declared that Billy’s cancer was in remission. He was willing to give consideration to Billy’s request to stop the radiation treatments, but he was unwilling to do so immediately. Billy’s condition had improved, but it remained an iffy situation.
It was a warm fall afternoon—what would have been John Lennon’s forty-fourth birthday—and Billy was sitting on the sofa, working out the changes to the bridge of a new song. It was sort of in the style of John Lennon, called “My Life.” The television was tuned to General Hospital, but the sound was turned down.
The front door snapped shut and Billy could hear his mother moving from the living room, down the hall to the den. She had the mail in her hand, with a fretful downward curve to her mouth.
—There’s a letter here for you from the Internal Revenue.
He abruptly stopped strumming.
—The wha?
—The Internal Revenue. The IRS?
—How the hell did they know I was here?
—I don’t think they did, it looks like it’s been forwarded from the Arthur Street house.
She handed the envelope to Billy and he opened it with great unease, as though it might contain an explosive. What the fuck do they want? That’s all he needed. Shaking, he nervously scanned the contents of the letter.
—Shit.
—What is it, Billy?
—They wanna know how come I haven’t paid any taxes for the past five years. It says, according to their information, I might owe them some money and they want to know about the band’s income. They want to see our books. That shit again. Jesus Christ. Like I don’t have enough to worry about already.
—You mean you haven’t ever paid any taxes, Billy?
—Mom, it’s not like we’ve really made any money. We took out so many loans to get our projects done, we pretty much owed more than we ever made.
—What about that Vetter fellow? I thought you signed a big contract with him.
—He wants his money back, because I got sick.
—And you owe other people money? Who?
Billy didn’t want to discuss Nez Candy with his mother.
—A couple others.
—Well, I’m sure if you show them the band’s books…
—Aw, mom, we don’t have any books. We were just a rock band, not Nike or somethin’.
—I was just trying to help, Billy.
—I’m sorry, mom. I know ya’ mean well. It’s just that this is another huge problem. Seems like that’s all we get these days. But the IRS can send all the letters they want. They can’t get blood out of a turnip. What’re they gonna do? Send me to jail? They need to get in line with everybody else.
Ingrid laughed as she began to cry. It seemed like it had been one thing after another since Pierce died. She had nowhere to turn.
—You’re right, Billy. We can only give them what we can give them. We can only worry about so much at one time.
—Don’t you worry about anything, Mom. You’re doin’ everything you can. And I love you for it.
Putting the guitar down, he stood up and hugged his mother.
—Thank you for everything, mom. Everything you’ve ever done for me. Elaine and Denny too. You’re the one who kept the family together when Dad died. And that was hard on all of us, but most of all you.
Afforded the rare opportunity to let down her mask of invincibility, she wept into Billy’s chest as he held her—helpless to give her anything more than useless words.
After a well-received hour-long set of bluesy rock, with hints of reggae and ska, the Popsquawks finished their Key Largo show in a flurry. The band mixed in a few familiar covers: vintage Stones and Animals hits culled from the Malchicks days. But the majority of the material was comprised of Denny’s imaginative songs—which typically sounded sort of familiar, like something else. But they were intelligent and original, just the same. They expressed Denny’s thoughts and feelings.
In some ways, Key Largo was similar in construction to Sacks—another of those original Portland buildings built in the eighteen hundreds—rumored to have access to one of the old underground shanghai tunnels. The establishment was built from brick: typical brick archways. As much a warehouse as anything else. A checkered history.
The Popsquawks had worked their way up to headlining Thursday nights at Key Largo, as well as securing prime opening slots on a couple of weekend nights. Since the days of Long Goodbye, Tommy Demeola had held a brotherly place in his heart for Denny. Denny was the troubled Granger and Tommy wanted to help the kid, if he could.
Set concluded at Key Largo on their first Saturday night as headliners, Denny stashed his effects boxes in a small tweed briefcase, winding up his cords and placing them in a matching tweed make-up case. As he was wrapping the last cable around his elbow, Denny noticed a cute blond approaching the stage, looking straight at him. Okay by him. He preferred blonds and she was prime, with the precise posture of a dancer. She stood at the bottom of the stage and hesitantly asked.
—Hi. You’re Denny Granger, aren’t you?
—Yeah, I sure am. What can I do for ya’?
He squatted down to speak with her more directly.
—My name’s Stephanie O’Keefe? But my friends call me Babe?
—I’d say that description fits.
Denny was not particularly gifted at the art of flirt, but he certainly wasn’t going to let an opportunity, such as the one that stood before him, get away without making some attempt at it.
—What can I do for ya’, Babe? Sounds like we’re friends already, doesn’t it? You can call me Honey.
She smiled angelically.
—Well I wanted to tell you that I really like your band? I was a big Malchicks fan and you seem to be carrying on the tradition. A lot of good energy? Fun.
—That’s real nice of ya’ to say, Babe. We’re tryin’, ya’ know? Just gettin’ it goin’. We’ve only been together since, like, August. But we’re comin’ along.
—You sound really good.
—Thanks. Ya’ know, Pete, our drummer, he was the Malchicks’ drummer, too.
—Really? I don’t remember that well. That was a while ago. But I believe you.
It seemed to Denny that she glowed slightly.
—Say, I wanted to ask about your brother.
Balloon suddenly deflated, he diametrically turned cynical in an instant.
—Billy? Yeah? What about him?
—I heard his cancer came back? I hope he’s okay.
—Yeah. He’s real sick, but he’s doin’ better.
Denny desperately wanted to move the topic back to the Popsquawks. But for an instant, he realized that he finally had something that his brother might not ever have again. Life. Time. A future. Imperceptibly, his demeanor changed. Softened slightly.
—I only saw the Unreal Gods a couple of times, back when they first started? Then I left town for a couple of years.
Still, seeing an opening, Denny went with that turn in the conversation.
—Oh yeah? Where’d ya’ go?
—LA?
—What took ya’ down there?
—Well, I wanted to get into acting? I took some classes and did a little community theater. I got bit parts in a couple of commercials.
—Bit parts in commercials. I never thought of that.
—Neither had I, but it was the only work I could get, besides waitressing. And if I was going be a waitress, I could do that up here.
—So, was it waitressin’ that brought ya’ back to Portland?
—No. I thought I’d gotten a part in a film? Low budget, independently produced. But I thought it would be a start anyway. I hadn’t seen a script, but the director told me I’d have a speaking role.
—So what happened?
—Well I got to the location and it turns out they were filming a porn flick.
Denny’s mind immediately wandered. He’d probably lay down forty bucks to see that one.
—I should have known by the title. It was called Deep Penetration? But that director asshole told me it was a spy movie. I guess that was the theme anyway, espionage. I felt so stupid.
Just then, a couple of other girls came up. The tall, gawky one, with drab brown hair sounded somewhat perturbed when she snitted.
—Come on, Babe. We’ve ben ruddy to go for twunty menutts!
In Denny’s general direction, she crinkled her face into something that remotely resembled nothing so much as a phony smile.
—Okay. Okay! Well, it was nice to meet you, Denny. Nice to talk to you.
—Same here, Babe. I hope I see ya’ again.
—Oh, you probably will...Honey. I’ll come and see you guys again some time. Soon.
—Great. That’d be great.
He beamed as she and her friends headed for the door. She looked back at him as she stepped through the threshold to the sidewalk outside.
It was in the Monday Oregonian that Denny read Stephanie O’Keefe and Amelia Rodriguez were killed and Ann Winkler was seriously injured, Saturday night, when the car driven by Winkler was sideswiped by a drunken-driver who had run a red light.
Denny was despondent at the news. Bewildered. He had liked Babe immediately and was looking forward to seeing her again. She was special. He wished that he would have asked her to stay to have a drink with him. He could have taken her home. He was shocked and distraught, and overcome with anguish. Those poor girls.
So, with a newly acquired sense of regret and spirit of reconciliation, Denny returned to his mom’s house and met again with Billy. Billy was sitting up on the couch in the den, strumming his guitar and watching Perry Mason on Channel 12, when Denny came in. He winced slightly at the sight of his younger brother, steeling himself for the next installment of ill will.
Sighing deeply, Billy looked up, his face wrenched in anticipation of the probable onslaught that was to come.
—Look, hey, Denny. I don’t wanna go around and around about this shit anymore. Maybe I’ve made mistakes in my life and I wish I could take them all back, but I can’t…
—No, it’s okay, Bro’. Actually, I came over to apologize. I’m sorry I’ve been so rough on ya’.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop, Billy was suspicious.
—And…?
—No and. I’m sorry, Bro’. I’ve been an asshole to you for a long time. I probably will be again—coz face it—I am a fuckin’ asshole sometimes. But, I know you’re sick and I shouldn’t be, like, kickin’ ya’ when you’re down.
—I’m gettin’ a little better, a little stronger every day, Denny. One of these days, maybe I’ll be able to kick your ass again.
—Well don’t get fuckin’ carried away there, Rock Star. You got a long way to go to be kickin’ anybody’s ass.
Billy chuckled, because he knew Denny spoke the truth.
—So anyway, I came over to make you an offer.
Which got Billy’s attention.
—Yeah? What kind of offer?
—I was thinkin’ if ya’ wanted to, you could maybe, like, sit in with us at some of our gigs—when ya’ felt up to it and all.
Caught completely off guard, Billy was momentarily speechless.
—Uh...Gee Denny, that’s real nice of you. I’d really love to do that, especially if I keep feelin’ better. It’d be great to sit in with you guys. Sounds like fun.
—Well, you know what they say: ‘fun’s where the fair’s at’.
Billy’s face shrank into a fist of fuddle.
—It’ll come to ya’, Bozo. So what’ya say?
—Sure. I mean, there’s gonna be times when I feel too shitty to show up, I’m sure.
—It’s okay, no pressure. We can handle it. We’ve got enough material to carry off a night on our own. And we’re just a trio, so everybody pulls his weight, ya’ know?
—Yeah, sure. I’m lookin’ forward to hearin’ you guys and seein’ Pete again, and, what was the bass player’s name again?
—Notcho. Notcho Durock.
—Nacho der, rock?
—Yeah, Natcho Durock.
—Where the hell did he get that fuckin’ name?
—Beat’s me. You’d have to ask his mom and dad.
—Gotcha. Nacho. Is he any good?
—Yeah. He’s no Geddy Lee, or anything, but we’re not about bein’...uh...rock stars. He and Pete play good together. They’re pretty locked in.
—That’s cool.
—So, we’re practicin’ over in Pete’s garage tomorrow at four. We’ve got a gig on Friday at Fat Rooster. But I was thinkin’ you could, like, make your debut on Halloween at Last Hurrah. That’d give you a couple weeks to get in sync with us.
—Sounds good to me. I’m in. Pete still live in the same place?
—Aw, he’ll never move.
—Okay, I’ll be there. Uh, do you think you could pick me up?
—Yeah, I’ll come and pick you up. Sure. Three-thirty.
—Great. I’ll be ready.
The Thursday rehearsal and subsequent get-togethers went well. Billy fit right in as most of the cover songs he had performed with Denny and Pete in the Malchicks. A couple of Denny’s originals were familiar enough in construction that Billy had no problem picking them up. He sang lead on a few songs, harmony on several others, and simply played guitar on a couple of others.
Neither Carrie nor Ingrid were thrilled with Billy’s decision to play with Denny’s band. Carrie worried that he would suffer a setback if he pushed himself too hard. And she knew full well that he would do just that. Observing her obligation as a dutiful mother, Ingrid simply worried. However, both knew he was far too stubborn to listen to either of them anyway, so they kept their mouths closed.
Doctor Todd had no opinion on the matter, because Billy didn’t tell him about it. He figured, why bother the doctor with unnecessary details. However, the doctor was pleased enough with Billy’s progress that he decided to change radiation therapies from a five-day a week regimen, to a single weekly treatment, utilizing a different technique. Billy was happy with the Doctor Todd’s prognosis, and hopeful that he could beat the cancer yet again.
Though the treatments were far less frequent, the new radiation routine was more intense. He felt especially bad the following day, as Todd had predicted. With that in mind, Billy scheduled the radiation therapy sessions for Mondays, the idea being that he would have all week to recuperate in time to perform with the Popsquawks the following weekend, should they have a show. He was sick for several days after his first session on the twenty-second, but he remained hopeful that he might respond better the next week and shorten the duration of the negative effects.
Except that Doctor Todd’s decision to move to yet another chemo cocktail also had unanticipated negative results. So Billy’s general state of wellbeing suffered a substantial setback. He felt worse than he had for many weeks—though not bad enough to discourage him from playing the Halloween show. He wouldn’t miss that for the world.
—All right now. Hey, hey. We’re the Popsquawks and we hope you’ll stick around. We’ve got a big surprise for you in the second set.
It was a crowd full of Blade Runners and Tootsies, Super Men and Wonder Women, Flashdancers and Spicolis, drinking heavily and being particularly rowdy for a chilly Wednesday night. A thick shroud of gray smoke hung from the low ceilings of the main room. Rumors had spread that Billy might make an appearance, but no one could confirm or refute the reports.
As the Popsquawks trio left the stage and headed back to the dressing room kitchen, they were startled to find Billy sitting on a folding-chair, his head hung over a white plastic five-gallon bucket, puking a golden syrup of sickly bile. Horrified, the band stood motionless at the door until Billy spotted them, waving them to come in. Sure Billy, come in and watch you barf your guts out.
With his foot, he gently glided the bucket behind a counter and placed a ridiculous cartoon-yellow, Goldilocks wig on his gleaming, bald head. He had applied ghost-white makeup to his face, china doll rouge on his cheeks. With a pencil in his hand he caught the eye of his brother and held it in his direction.
—Hey, Denny, c’mere, will ya’? Can you give me some eyebrows?
—Yeah, okay.
Denny slid over Billy’s way and applied the eyebrow pencil with a cosmetologist’s panache, his enthusiasm making up for what he lacked in skill.
—So, are you gonna be okay with all this? I don’t want ya’ goin’ out there if ya’ don’t feel like it. Ya’ know?
—Nah, I’m fine. Todd’s, like, got me on some new chemo program and it’s fuckin’ me up pretty good. But otherwise I’m fine.
Crooking a brow, Denny said.
—Uh…Okay, if you say so. There you go.
He stepped back a couple of paces to admire his work. Billy stood and checked himself out in a small rectangular mirror on the door to the storage room.
—Jeezus Kee-reist, Denny! What the fuck did you do? I look like I’m seriously surprised, like, fuckin’ Spy versus Spy or somethin’.
—It was the best I could do, man! I’m no fuckin’ makeup artist.
There was an air of expectation, mixed with body odor and cigarette smoke, rising from the crowd as the Popsquawks took the stage, with their special guest in tow. But even ardent longtime fans didn’t recognize Billy.
Of course the whiteface and rouge, the wig and the light-blue blouse he wore threw some people off. But most wouldn’t have been able to identify him in a police line-up. He looked like rickety sticks of spaghetti stacked beneath a mound of melted candy-yellow crayons.
Once everyone figured out that the mystery person on stage was Billy, they drew near to better inspect the ravages that the cancer had wrought. Their curiosity was satisfied by the gaunt, haunted figure, draped upon a stool, with his Strat resting on his leg.
A burst of adrenaline hit him, but that only made Billy feel slightly more energetic. His singing was hoarse and feeble, almost unrecognizable to even his most loyal fans. The Popsquawks were in fine form, providing workman-like support for Billy’s cover songs. Denny’s harmony vocals helped to fill out Billy’s thin vocals on “Gloria,” “Time Is On My Side,” and “You Really Got Me”. Billy’s attempt at harmonies on Denny’s songs were less successful, and his guitar contributions were negligible.
Still, the audience responded well enough to the performance that Billy was encouraged that he might be able to stage a comeback at some point in the future. He knew he was too weak and out of singing shape to pull off a set of his own material. And he knew he would have to recover enough strength to be able to stand up and move around a little. No more sitting on a stool.
But he sat on a stool for the next gig he played with the band at Key Largo, on a Friday in the middle of November. On the up side, he felt better and his voice was stronger, and he and the band seemed better integrated with each other.
At rehearsals, Billy began leading the band through a few of his new original songs, with the intention of possibly cutting a record, an EP most likely, by New Year’s. There were occasions when Denny felt pushed aside in his own band by Billy’s domineering drive and obstinate ego. He vowed not to say anything and to let his brother carry on. Life. Time. A future.
It was also the middle of November when Billy moved out of his mom’s house and into Carrie’s apartment. He no longer required round-the-clock care. He was able to cook breakfast or lunch for himself, and even the occasional dinner for the two of them—though his expertise did not extend much beyond the preparation of stew or grilled cheese sandwiches. And he faithfully took the bus to Providence for his weekly radiation and chemo sessions.
Cutting her days at the veterinary office a little short on Mondays and Tuedays, Carrie would devotedly pick him up at the hospital, after his treatments were finished, in the late afternoons. Usually, on those occasions, Billy did not feel like eating dinner. Often, even the smell of Carrie cooking her own meal would make him sick to his stomach. For that reason, on those nights, Carrie would typically eat a salad at the table in the kitchen.
Carrie’s veterinary practice was not exactly thriving, but she and Ken were holding on. They were slowly acquiring new patients and they had lost very few since they had taken over the business from Doctor Dahl in May. She was frazzled, far more at ends than she let on to Billy. But she was holding up under the circumstances. And she was strangely optimistic about the future, though there was little reason for her to feel that way.
Suffering a perilous Thanksgiving meal at Jack and Jean’s, with Valerie bearing the usual brunt of the scrutiny—via Jean’s unceasing comparisons to her sister’s successes—Carrie made it through relatively unscathed. She and Billy made plans to again attend the dawn Christmas service at Saint Stephen’s church, as they had a couple of years before. Carrie was hoping to make of it a tradition that they could celebrate at Christmas every year. A family tradition. Their family.
At rehearsal the day after Thanksgiving, Billy began to pursue in earnest his objective of recording an EP of his more recent material during the week between Christmas and New Years. He quickly put into place seven or eight songs he wanted to record. He thought the Popsquawks would work fine as a back up band. As a rhythm section, Notcho and Pete weren’t quite up to the high musical standards Gib and Daw had established. But Denny was a superior guitarist to Col. Denny sounded like Mick Taylor, while Col sounded like Chuck Berry in comparison.
To flesh out the production, Billy enlisted the services of a few sideplayers. He sought out the brothers Mejilla, who were an integral part of Gnu Dooz’s horn section—Diego on trumpet and Tomas on sax. He also brought Atilla Tancredi on board to play keys. Atilla was a veteran keyboardist, having played in several bands around town. He even looked a little bit like Gilly.
The addition of those three created an ensemble with a layered sound that was more musically diverse, more muscular and sophisticated, than anything Gilly might produce by himself on his keyboards. Atilla’s synth parts were precise and creative. He was invaluable in fashioning the arrangements for Billy’s songs.
Finally, in order to thicken up the vocals, Billy recruited Merry Renaud, a well-known local back-up singer. She had worked in the studio with Gnu Dooz and Dollarshine and countless other acts, and she was renowned to be a quick study and deadly accurate on pitch and tone.
Through the month of December, Billy mercilessly rehearsed the group—flickering the tyrant of old—alienating Denny, who was more or less a session player in his own band. Except it wasn’t his band anymore but something different, some new mutation over which he had no control whatsoever.
In keeping with the reality Denny was confronting, Billy decided to name the new aggregation Skin and Bones. Denny was right. It wasn’t even the Popsquawks anymore. In just a couple of months, Billy managed to take over everything and work it in his own image.
Though he was deeply frustrated, Denny could only marvel at his brother’s drive and focus. He was in awe of it and wished that he had similar motivation, which he didn’t. Still, he was no longer jealous of Billy. In fact he almost admired him. But that would be his secret. He felt sorry for Billy, but not that much.
So he relinquished leadership of what had been, only recently, his band without ever saying a word. Instead, he acquiescently contributed sterling guitar parts that greatly helped to enhance every song. And in those moments where he shone, Denny steadily gained confidence that, whatever talents and skills Billy possessed, he was the superior guitarist. And he found great satisfaction in that.