He understood that kind of bond.
He’d almost gone through his second shotglass when he said, “I used to be in a band.” It had come out of him so abruptly he hadn’t heard it coming, even in his own head.
The easy and relaxed talk silenced.
“Look at all those eyes,” True said, and when he smiled he thought his mouth felt heavy. “It’s true. I mean, I’m True. But it is true. Really.”
“What’d you play?” Nomad asked, with a semi-smirk. “Bone fiddle for the Cavemen?”
“No, honest to God.” He was aware of Chappie refilling his shotglass, and that was okay, they weren’t leaving until eleven. He would sleep until eight, he never needed much sleep anyway, this was a nice night and it was okay. “I played acoustic guitar in a band called the Honest Johns. Three guys. And me. I mean, three guys in all. When I was a junior in high school.” He took another drink, and boy was he going to sleep well tonight. This morning. Whenever. Time got weird when you were in a band. “Well, we never actually played anywhere. We just rehearsed in my friend’s rumpus room.”
“Say what?” Nomad asked.
“Downstairs room,” True explained. Jeez, these kids acted like adults but they knew as little about the world as children did. “My friend had an eight-track reel-to-reel. Tape recorder.”
“Cool,” said Terry.
“We played…let’s see… Buffalo Springfield’s ‘For What It’s Worth’. We did ‘One Toke Over The Line’, by Brewer and Shipley—”
“My man,” said Terry with admiration.
“We did ‘Blackbird’, by the Beatles. And I guess the nearest we came to perfection was ‘Suite: Judy Blue Eyes’ by—”
“Crosby, Stills and Nash!” Ariel was nursing a glass of orange juice. Her smile was sunny. “Oh, wow! I used to play that song all the time!”
“Really? I remember it had a strange tuning.”
“Oh yeah, the E modal tuning.”
Nomad just had to ask the next question: “Who sang the lyrics?”
“We all did,” True said, not realizing what kind of trap he was stepping into. “We did the three-part harmony.” He took another drink, and thought of himself as a young man in a rumpus room, two friends on either side, singing into a microphone while the reels of a huge tape recorder caught the moment, to be forever lost except for the imprint in his mind.
“Sing the first few lines for us,” Nomad said.
“Huh? Oh, no. I haven’t sung that song for years.”
“Don’t you remember the words? You’re not that old.”
“John!” Ariel caught his gaze and shook her head.
“You’ve got to remember the tune,” Nomad went on. And why he was pushing like this, why he was showing a little streak of mean he didn’t know, except for the fact that the gig tonight had been a big success, the media thought they were a big success, the People magazine article would say they were going to be a big success, the future for this dead band said Big Success in huge flashing neon with dollar signs twenty feet tall, and he felt like a creepy-crawly piece of shit because it wasn’t about the music, it wasn’t about their talent and dedication to their craft, it was about death and sniper’s bullets, and how could a person with any ounce of self-respect call that a big success? He thought that the others, for all their smiles tonight and their afterglow of accomplishment, had to be feeling the same, or they just weren’t letting themselves think about it.
“If you remember the tune,” Nomad said, unyielding, “the words may come back.”
True nodded. “I do remember the tune.” His shotglass was empty once again, and Chappie moved to refill it because it was fun having a new drinking buddy, even if it was an FBI agent, but she stopped when she looked into her daughter’s face and those steady black eyes said No more.
“I’d like to hear some singing.” Nomad drew his knees up to his chin. “Man, you might be like…a lost talent or something.”
“Come on, John,” Terry said, and Nomad looked at him fiercely and asked, “Where are we going?”
Without warning, without an intake of breath or an explanation that his voice was rusty or that he couldn’t do this in public and he was sorry he’d even brought any of this to light, True began to sing.
His pitch was perfect. His voice was softer and higher than they would’ve expected. It had an element of a junior high schooler in it, singing for his friends in a downstairs room.
“It’s getting to the point,
Where I’m no fun anymore.
I am sorry.
Sometimes it hurts so badly
I must cry out loud.
I am lonely.
I am yours, you are mine, you are what you—”
True’s voice faltered. He stopped and looked at his audience, who were all staring at him. He started to take a drink and realized the shotglass in his hand had nothing in it. Now I’ve gone and made a damn fool out of myself, he thought. Damn old man, he thought.
Damn old man.
Maybe someone should have clapped, to break the silence. Ariel thought about it, and came close to doing it, but she did not.
It was Berke who stepped into the breech. “I bet John hopes he can sing like that when he gets your age,” she said to True.
“Well,” True said, and shrugged, and looked at his polished black wingtips.
“Not bad,” Nomad had to admit, after a few more seconds had drifted past. “You want to sign up for vocal lessons sometime, I’ll only charge you a hundred dollars an hour.”
True turned the shotglass between his palms. He had forgotten himself, he realized. He had forgotten why he was here, and what he was about. It was time, maybe, to let them know so he wouldn’t be allowed to forget again.
“In the van,” he said. “On the way to Stone Church.” He was still staring at his shoes, but he was speaking to John Charles. “You asked if you were supposed to feel sorry for Jeremy Pett.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
True nodded. He felt a pulse beating at his temple. “Have you ever fought in a war?”
“No.”
“Ever been in the military? Ever served your country?”
“Served my country?” Nomad’s voice had taken on a defensive edge. “Like how? Getting killed so a contractor can make big bucks and the flag-maker’s stock goes up on Wall Street?”
True lifted his gaze to Nomad’s. The agent’s eyes were sad. “Don’t you believe in anything?” He directed the question again, to all of them. “Don’t any of you believe in a higher calling than…what you’re doing?”
“A higher calling?” Terry asked. “I believe in God, if that’s what you’re—”
“I’m talking about service to your country,” True emphasized. “To the fight for freedom. Not just here, but around the world.” His gaze fixed again on Nomad. Maybe he was still feeling a little light-headed and stupid from the Jack, but he had to get this out. “You can say whatever you want to about Jeremy Pett, and I’m not going to defend him for what’s he done, but that young man…that young Marine has served his country to the best of his ability, and no matter what he’s done or what he’s planning to do, no man who refuses to be a Blue Falcon can be all bad.”