Chapter 22
22.
Warning Signs
“The eyes of the watcher must be keen. Drink coffee or other noncorrosive stimulants. Carry eyedrops.”
—Disco Witch Manifesto #67
“Injured men always look a little hotter,” Howie joked as he finished retaping the bandage on Joe’s calf.
The wound would heal nicely thanks to the herbal poultice Dory had suggested. Howie had most of the ingredients in his back garden, while Lenny was sent to the Meat Rack to hunt for a necessary medicinal mushroom.
“It took me forever to find that motherfucker,” Lenny groused. “You try foraging for a fungus that looks like a used condom in the Meat Rack.”
Howie gave Lenny the side-eye of disbelief as he secured the last of the white medical tape and patted Joe’s leg. “Dory has always been an absolute miracle worker with some of these old folk remedies. Hopefully this will stay stuck this time. It’s like bandaging a satyr with those hairy legs of yours. And I know that of which I speak.”
“You’ve taped up satyrs?” Joe asked without even a smile, which Howie found curious.
“Well, the back room of the Mineshaft could get a little wild on Wednesdays,” he joked, clutching invisible pearls at his throat.
There! He saw it again, that look on Joe’s face, an emotional cocktail of fear and suspicion. Howie first noticed it just a few hours before when Joe awoke after having passed out at the sight of his own blood. Howie could practically hear the mental gavel of Joe’s judgment pounding the air as he dissected every word that fluttered out of Howie’s or Lenny’s mouths. Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! At the same time, Joe barely seemed to register the outrageousness of Lenny’s Saturday night outfit, which included a full leather harness with metal studs, and a front strap that (Lenny reported) led down to an entire junkyard of cock rings, Prince Alberts, and so many shiny scrotal gewgaws that at least one previous trick had likened it to going down on the Tin Man. About all that, Joe remained mum, yet he kept staring out of the corner of his eye at Howie, as if he were afraid the man was going to pull out an ax.
Howie squinted his eyes. Joe’s post-injury aura had changed to a dark muddled blue and a sickly green, undulating and pushing outward. The boy was definitely lying. How had he really hurt himself—and why was he blaming Howie and Lenny for it?
At least they didn’t need to worry about him being in mortal danger any longer. Saint D’Norman had rushed to the docks to catch Howie and Lenny before they boarded that afternoon’s ferry. While practicing his twirling, he’d experienced a vivid recall of Max, in a bout of mushroom-induced intimacy, having shown him the secret rubric years before. The spinning and Great Goddess Mother had jiggled the memory loose, and Saint D’Norman recited it to Howie in its entirety.
A chosen one would need to meet all five main prerequisites, including having an aura that frequently depicted both transcendence as well as severe blockage (Goddess, yes! Joe had that in spades!); having been born into a family of historical tragedy (check—his Armenian heritage); having experienced a recent, soul-crushing heartbreak (undetermined, but from what Howie’s gut said, probable); being in his first Saturn Returns, aka between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty (no check, thank the Goddess); and most importantly, bearing a winged, heart-shaped mole (and/or freckle) on his back or the back of his neck. (Lenny vaguely remembered Lucho having a mole on his back, but he’d thought it looked more like a sausage sandwich.) So, while bandaging Joe’s leg the first time, just after the accident, Howie feigned a scream worthy of a schlocky Vincent Price horror film.
“What’s wrong?” Joe asked, startled.
“Oh dear!” Howie cried to the others. “I think I saw a tick, climbing down Joe’s neck.”
“We better check it out in case,” Lenny said, playing along.
“I didn’t feel anything,” Joe said.
“We can’t be too careful,” Dory added. “Deer ticks carry just awful diseases. Take your shirt off.” All four then scoured Joe’s head, neck, and back, which showed no sign of any winged-heart-shaped mole—or really any mole whatsoever.
“Clean as a whistle,” Saint D’Norman said, sighing. “Could be a skin cream model.”
“Hallelujah.” Dory clapped her hands.
“Indeed,” Howie said, realizing that Joe, having failed at least two (possibly three) of the sacred rubric’s criteria, couldn’t be one of the chosen ones. So why, two hours later, was Howie’s gut still jack-knifing like there was still some danger afoot?
“Hey, Joe,” Lenny said, adjusting his harness in the living room mirror, “maybe with a wounded leg you’ll be easier to catch.” He sniggered. “I tell ya, you’d have to be a dickless cockroach not to get laid on Memorial Day weekend … unless somebody put a hex on you.”
There it was again! Howie saw it even more clearly. Joe had flinched at Lenny’s little joke about the hex. Is that it? Had some gossipy queen said something to Joe? Max always chastised him about assuming everyone would be so welcoming to their metaphysical-spiritual unconventionality. “Remember, mi cari n o,” Max had once warned, “there are a thousand different ways to burn us at the stake. Don’t make it easy for them.” It was always best to listen to Max. But would Joe be so prejudiced? Howie knew so little about him other than that he couldn’t be the chosen one and that he was lying about something … or several things. Lenny had already deduced the lie about the injury. Joe said he had just arrived home after slipping off the boardwalk when Fergal found him. Yet Lenny, being experienced with BDSM techniques, including flogging, impact play, and some light body mortification, had practically a forensic scientist’s knack for understanding wound patterns. The gash in the leg, Lenny said, had to be made by a metal spike sticking out the side of some immovable structure. Joe would have needed to be rushing in a horizontal trajectory, not vertical as would have happened with a slip off the side of the walkway. But rushing from what or whom? And where had it happened? There had been blood down the ladder, across the living room, at the front door … and in Howie’s room.
Why had the boy gone into a forbidden space? Howie wished he or Lenny had the ability to read minds. Saint D’Norman and Max, of course, dabbled in mentally connecting with the dead, but Joe was very much alive. In time Joe might eventually open up and reveal what he was hiding—or that’s what Howie hoped. He deeply wanted to be a true friend to the boy, but they’d need to fully trust each other. And that meant Howie would need to confess the whole sordid—and magical—truth about their unusual collective, something he was not yet ready to do.
“I better get back to the bar,” Joe said. “Vince shouldn’t be left alone so long.”
“You try and have fun tonight.” Lenny winked. “It’s your first big night out!”
“But do be extra careful,” Howie warned, closing the first aid kit. “The Promethean is insane on opening night, and the dance floor gets slippery from all the sweat. If you need a bandage replacement, just call and I’ll run over and set you up.”
“Just call him Florence Night ’n’ Gay,” Lenny quipped.
“Thanks.” Joe tested the bandage on his leg, as if he didn’t trust it.
“By the way,” Howie asked, “was there anyone special you were planning to meet out dancing tonight?”
Lenny clicked his tongue and winked. “Like that bearded hunk you told us about?”
“No,” Joe said flatly, then got up from the table and deposited his breakfast dish in the sink, never once looking directly at the men. “I’m just going alone.”
Howie shook his head at Lenny and shrugged. Even if Joe wasn’t the chosen one, there were so many other dangers young men like him might still face on Fire Island. It was a disco witch’s obligation to watch out for all the innocents, not just those who had been singled out by the Great Goddess Mother.
“You know, Joseph,” Howie said, “I suspect you must be very overwhelmed. I mean, with the new bartending job and summer exploding, like some adolescent Mormon seeing his first JC Penny underwear ad. What I’m trying to say is, it’s not surprising that you’re acting a little strangely.”
“ Me acting strangely?” Joe scoffed petulantly, his voice rising with anger. “If you ask me, I’m the least strange person in this room right now.” Howie glanced at Lenny with a “what-the-hell-is-going on?” expression. Remorse filled Joe’s face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. It’s just my leg hurts and … and it’s like you think you know things … I mean, when things aren’t what you think they are … that people are hiding things—never mind. I’m just a little tired with all the work, I guess.”
Lenny gave a mild harrumph, while Howie was befuddled by the shear breadth of Joe’s emotional muddle. It was like a swirling spiritual milkshake made of fear, anger, heartbreak, dishonesty, longing, confusion, and the sour milk of regret.
“Joseph …” Howie touched Joe gently on his shoulder. “I want you to know you can always talk to Lenny and me about anything. We have a lot of experience out here. And not everyone is cut out to deal with the strange passions and … um … dynamic personalities that fill this island. If there is anyone or anything that confuses or scares you, please come to us. There was a time when—”
“I’m late.” The chill had returned to Joe’s voice. “I might not be home tonight. Don’t wait up.” A moment later, the screen door slammed.
Howie looked at Lenny’s face, which reflected his own deep concern. “Something’s definitely up. He must have gotten into the crawl space.”
“Thanks a lot, Ophelia Obvious,” Lenny droned. “You got anything more specific?”
Howie sighed. “Nothing. At least we don’t need to worry about any friggin’ egregore anymore—at least for him. But let’s still keep an extra careful watch tonight.”