Page 84 of String Boys

Xavier Cruz had been a good man. The best.Fuck.

“Kelly didn’t come with you?” his dad asked, his voice pitched low enough for Seth to figure out the girls were asleep already.

Seth just shook his head. Later he would brief his father on the whole thing. On Matty’s monstrous decline, on the things he’d say if he saw Seth again, of how Seth couldn’t be seen with the Cruz children for their own good.

Of how the future he’d envisioned, of him and Kelly being grown-ups together, having a life, being lovers—all of it—had suffered a terrible blow tonight, when it had been so very fragile in the first place.

Later he’d tell his father these things.

Later.

At that moment, all he could do was look at his father mutely, inexpressibly glad that he was there.

He fell into his father’s arms and cried.

SETH DIDa lot of work behind the scenes over the next few days. He took a car and went grocery shopping for the Cruzes while his father watched the girls. He helped keep their house clean and cooked, when only Kelly was home, exhausted and needing to spend time with his sisters in grief. He looked through closets and found funeral clothes for everybody—including Linda, whose outfit had needed dry-cleaning and mending, but she was too busy getting Matty enrolled in rehab to even mourn her own husband.

Vacuuming the rug, dry-cleaning, casseroles—Seth made sure all of that was done.

And then he disappeared down the stairs to his apartment when the whole family was there, or when the social worker visited.

Fortunately he wasn’t able to make it downstairs when Isela’s father came to try to pray with the family and get them to admit that the children picked up drugs from Linda and Xavier.

He was the one who held Kelly back as Kelly launched himself at Mr. Cortez’s throat, screaming about how his stupid church fucked up his brother and now it was like he was dead too.

Mr. Cortez took off right quick after that, and Seth just stood there, his arms wrapped around Kelly’s shoulders, until the fight went out of him and he sagged against Seth helplessly.

Linda looked at him then, as though seeing Seth and her son for the first time.

“Seth?”

“Mrs. Cruz?”

“You’ve been wonderful. Could you take my son the hell out of here for an hour or two? The funeral is tomorrow and… and you’ve done so much. God. Go downstairs. Practice. You must be itching for it. Play us something beautiful, okay? Javi—he used to wait by the heater to see when your music would seep out. Just… both of you, go pretend to be boys for a little while. It will make me happy.”

It was such a kind thing to say.

He’d never tell her, or Kelly, but one of the hardest things he ever had to do with his music was play something beautiful that didn’t sound like mourning.

He found Irish sea shanties. Sometimes they were remarkably complex, and playful, and dancing, like waves. And sometimes they were plaintive laments. The arrangement he had veered from one to another, just like his own emotions, and he found he could share that from his heart.

It was all he could do.

He played each one fast, then slow, adagio, adante, forte, pianissimo, playing with interpretation, with mood. Kelly sat on the couch, his arms wrapped around his knees, eyes feasting thirstily on Seth’s face.

Drinking him in like he was preparing for a drought.

Seth finally put the violin down, arms aching a little from the weight, and realized that Kelly had moved next to him, sitting on the back of the couch. His face was tight and wet, like he’d gone swimming and not wiped it off.

“Where’s your dad,mijo?” Kelly asked into the heavy quiet.

“Work. He’ll be home at—”

“Seven thirty.” Kelly’s mouth twisted. “We have two hours. Set your alarm, Seth.”

Seth did, his skin prickling with knowledge of what this meant.

“Now come.”