Torch Song - 3. Chapter 3: Secrets Revealed

I stumbled out of bed and to the bathroom, where I was violently ill. Images from the dream kept flashing before my eyes. Fire. It was my secret fear, the one thing I dreaded most. Since my parents died—I shuddered at the memory. It had been a beautiful summer day. I was out of town on a rare vacation, a fishing trip up north. No one was able to reach me until I got off the bus in Boston and was met by a friend of the family. He took me aside and told me as gently as he could that the old heater in my parents' house had shorted out in the middle of the night. They were likely both asleep, he said.

Against my good judgment, I got to their house as fast as I could. There was nothing left but ashes and memories, and that awful, lingering smell of smoke.

I forced myself back to the present and cleaned my face with a damp rag. No sense in reliving what couldn't be undone. Still, the guilt remained. If only I hadn't been away. If only I'd been able to buy them a decent heater. If only…

Stop it, Mack. Right. May as well tell the earth to stop spinning.

I trudged back to the bedroom and sat down heavily on the bed. My head and stomach both hurt. I thought about staying away from the club, and then my eye fell on the wall calendar. It was Thanksgiving Day, which meant they'd need extra help. Damn.

But my head was so heavy I couldn't hold it up. I sank onto the pillow and let sleep claim me.

My first thought on waking was gratitude that I had slept without dreams. My second was for food. The body has a way of going on, even when the mind doesn't want to. I pulled myself out of bed and padded into the kitchen. It was just after noon, and I still had a few hours before my shift began.

I took my bologna and cheese into the living room, where I had to move a couple of my library books off the chair. One of them landed on the floor. It was the mythology book. I picked it up, and felt a twinge in my hand…

Oh, no, I thought. The ache didn't get worse, but I could feel it there, waiting. It finally subsided, leaving me depressed again. How could I have really believed a feather would cure me? I sighed deeply, took a bite of my sandwich and opened the book.

The pages opened naturally to a chapter midway through the volume. I turned the book over and frowned. How had the spine gotten bent like that? Now I'd have to pay a fine. I flipped the book again and tried to read from the first chapter, but the pages kept opening stubbornly in the middle.

All right, I thought, I'll start at that chapter and read the rest later. I began to read, and became absorbed. After a few minutes, I set the book aside and just sat there, staring at nothing.

I still didn't know everything about who Rusty Brogan was. But I had just had a disturbing revelation of what he was.

It was time to get ready for work. Would Rusty be there? I honestly wasn't sure of his schedule, and this was a holiday for some. Never mind; I had bills to pay, and sitting here wouldn't accomplish anything. I took a quick shower, got dressed, and headed downtown.

A few hours later, I begged off for the night. My hands were aching, so was my back.

Rusty never showed.

Well, he'd certainly have to be there tomorrow night. It was Friday, and one of our busiest. Trouble was, at this point I wasn't sure if I was disappointed…or relieved.

A good night's sleep—uninterrupted by bad dreams—had me feeling better about the world in general the next day. I spent the morning cleaning the apartment. My hands were a little sore, but that deep pain stayed away. That afternoon I went to the new Hope-Crosby film. It was good for some much needed laughs, and kept me smiling as I got ready for work.

The club was already crowded by the time I arrived. I greeted Frank, the headwaiter, and smiled at the cashier. She was at least fifty, but she giggled like a schoolgirl as I passed. Oh, well…it didn't hurt to cultivate a heterosexual image.

This dissolved in an instant when I saw Rusty take the stage. He worked the crowd with his songs, making the girls blush and one bartender's heart beat a whole lot faster. Rusty turned those dark blue eyes my way and I was lost. Had I really considered avoiding him?

Rusty set the microphone aside and moved between the tables. At first I thought he was coming my way. Then he stopped to say something to a couple of servicemen. Although I couldn't hear the conversation, I guessed the men were complimenting his performance, because Rusty smiled a lot in response. Finally, he leaned across the table to shake each man's hand in turn.

One of the servicemen had a cigarette in his hand. As Rusty turned to go, the burning ash dropped onto his sleeve. Flames jumped up his arm. I gasped, but there was no way to yell over the noise or get to him from here. I grabbed a pitcher, filled it with water, and turned back…to see Rusty standing there calmly watching the fire.

Which nobody else in the club saw.

I must have looked like a crazy man, standing there, mouth open, eyes wide. The servicemen at the table went on with their conversation. Rusty was practically right over them. He could have set either one of them ablaze if he'd moved a few inches. But the men just talked and laughed as if nothing was wrong.

Rusty raised his head. Our eyes met. He nodded, then raised his hand to his sleeve and patted the fire out. Then he moved on across the floor to talk to another group who had waved for his attention.

"Hey, Mack. You all right?"

Bill, the other bartender on that night, was looking at me quizzically. I set the pitcher down.

"Yeah, sure. Thought I saw somebody I knew. They, um, don't drink liquor."

Bill's large form shook as he laughed. "Not too many teetotalers in here."

He turned away again, and I did my best to get back to work. I glanced around a couple of times, looking for Rusty, but he had vanished in the crowd. Then more people came to the bar, and I got too busy to worry about what I'd seen. Or thought I saw.

Rusty didn't return to the stage. I really needed to see him, and was afraid he'd left the club altogether. When my shift ended, I cleaned up and threw on my coat for the walk home. I went through the newer section of the club and exited on Broadway.

A dark shadow detached itself from one of the cars parked outside.

"Mack," said Rusty softly. "Let me walk with you."

I nodded at him. "We need to talk."

"Yes. Just not here."

Rusty headed down the street and I fell into step beside him. We walked in silence for several blocks. When we got to the street where I lived, Rusty turned the opposite direction. I paused, shrugged, followed.

We wound up in an unfamiliar neighborhood. The cold was getting to me, and I was about to complain when Rusty paused. We were standing in front of a large stone building. A plaque out front proclaimed it to be the Unitarian Church.

I didn't consider myself particularly religious, and Rusty surprised me when he gestured towards a side door. Apparently the church stayed open late to those familiar with the alternate entrance. I shrugged again and pushed inside, with Rusty close behind me.

The church's interior was dimly lit but warm, a haven from the crisp Boston air. I glanced around curiously. It was like most churches I'd known, rows of pews leading up to an altar at the front, a small pump organ at the ready. There was something different about the altar though. After studying it a couple of minutes, I realized there was no crucifix visible anywhere. Instead, a stylized chalice sculpture graced the wall behind the altar. From the chalice rose a twisting shape…

A flame.

"How are your hands, Mack?" asked Rusty softly, from behind me.

I turned, startled. I'd been rubbing my hands together unconsciously, feeling the pain again.

"I saw the medicine in your bathroom," said Rusty to my unasked question. He moved away a few feet to rest against one of the pews. "Severe arthritis is sometimes an indication of—" He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "—a certain underlying condition."

I frowned. "What do you mean, Rusty?"

"It's only a possibility," he responded obliquely. "Even when circumstances seem to be right, it doesn't always work."

My impatience at this vague speech must have shown. Rusty sighed and moved over to a pew.

"I'm sorry, Mack," he went on. "This isn't easy for me, you know. I've been lonely a very long time now."

"How long, exactly?" I heard myself ask, thinking of the mythology book.

"Have you ever seen the pyramids of Egypt?" he responded.

"Only in pictures."

"I've seen them in person." He gazed directly at me, and added softly: "I've watched them being built."

I swallowed hard. Heaven help me…I believed him.

"Rusty…you said something about a possibility? What did you mean?"

He looked back at me with such raw hopefulness I was startled. He's afraid, I thought. As much as I am.

"The legends say there are no more like me." Rusty shook his head. "Not true. It's very rare, but I'm not the only one. I've met others, over the years. Not very often, though."

"What exactly are you telling me?"

"There are signs, Mack. Things to look for." Rusty swallowed visibly. "Such as arthritis at an unusually young age."

I gaped at him. "Me? You're saying that I'm--?"

"Like I am," finished Rusty. "I'm saying it's possible."

He moved away from the pew he'd been leaning against, and abruptly a wall lamp illuminated his hair. It was distinctly redder. What's more, the color kept shifting, almost flickering, as he walked.

Rusty noticed my expression. "I'm running out of time, Mack. You can see my hair, can't you? That's another sign. If you were—merely human—you wouldn't notice anything."

"Like just now, in the club. The man with the cigarette." Rusty nodded solemnly, and I forged ahead. "What do you mean, you're running out of time? You are leaving me, aren't you?"

"That's just it. I don't want to leave you, but I may have no choice. The cycle isn't exact, but it's usually only fifty to sixty years in between transformations. Another way the myths are wrong." He laughed forlornly. "When my hair goes from black to red, I know my time is near."

"Rusty, you know I'd wait for you if I had to."

"Oh, Mack." Rusty's response was anguished. "Is that what you really want? To grow old with me? It won't work like that, you know. You'd have to watch yourself age while I stayed exactly the same. And then you'd die, and I'd lose you anyway."

I swallowed again, hearing the dry click in my throat. We had been skirting the subject all this time, and I dreaded hearing him say what I already suspected. Still, I had to know.

"What would I have to do, to be yours forever?"

"Are you absolutely certain? There'd be no turning back. And…" He paused. "There's a real chance it might not work for you."

"Might not work? What, Rusty? Please, just come out and tell me!"

"Death and rebirth. By fire."