Hank shakes her head. “It’ll be dawn soon.”

  Clodine puts her cards down and stands up. “Better go fetch an egg, then.”

  “An egg?” I say. “What for?”

  Starletta takes my hand. “This is your first death,” she says, pulling me up. “Come on.”

  The four of us go out into the dark yard. The moon is barely a sliver, so everything is wrapped in shadows. Hank has a flashlight, though, and she uses this to light the way as we go into the backyard and walk to the chicken coop out behind the barn. As we pass the Airstream, Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” comes from the open window, along with the sound of my father’s snoring.

  When we get to the henhouse, Hank opens the door and steps inside. The chickens, still asleep, buk-buk-buk softly, but nobody comes flying out into the yard. Then Hank reappears, holding an egg in her hand. She hands it to me. It’s still warm.

  “It’s from one of the black ones,” Hank says. “There were a bunch under the reds and white, but I had to check three of the blacks before I got one.”

  “Does it matter?” I ask.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” Starletta says as we return to the house.

  Back in the kitchen, Hank takes a bowl out of a cupboard, fills it with water from the tap, and sets it on the table. Starletta takes the egg from me. Using a large sewing needle, she makes a hole in one end of the egg, then another in the opposite end. She hands the egg back to me.

  “Blow it out,” she says. “Into the bowl.”

  I hold one end of the egg to my mouth and blow into it. A tiny drop of yolk appears through the hole in the other end. I blow harder, and the drop gets bigger, almost like I’m blowing up a balloon. Then it slowly falls into the bowl of water, forming a long, glistening string of raw egg.

  I blow again and again until the contents of the egg are floating in the bowl of water. When I’m sure that the last drops are out, I hold the empty eggshell in my palm.

  “Now what?”

  Clodine takes the bowl with the water and egg in it and holds it in her hands, looking into it.

  “Any blood?” Starletta says.

  Clodine shakes her head. She sniffs. “No smell either.”

  Hank comes to the table with a small piece of paper and a pencil. “He was your friend,” she says to me. “You should do this part.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Write his name on the paper,” Hank says. She takes the egg from me and gives me the pencil. “Printing is best. It’s easier to read.”

  I have no idea why we’re doing this, but I do it. I write G-A-R-R-I-S-O-N in neat capital letters. Then I hesitate. “What last name do I use?”

  “Use the name he wanted,” says Clodine. “That’s his real one. Doesn’t matter what it says on his birth certificate.”

  I debate with myself for a few seconds, then add L-O-L-A B-E-A-T-T-Y to the paper. I put the pencil down.

  “Now roll the paper up tight,” Hank says. “It has to fit through one of the holes.”

  I roll the paper into a thin tube. Hank hands me back the egg, and I push one end of the tube into it. It’s a little tight, but the paper slips inside. I shake the egg gently, feeling the paper move around.

  “Now whisper his name into the egg,” says Starletta.

  Again I hold the egg to my mouth. I whisper, “Garrison Lola Beatty” into it, feeling a little silly.

  Clodine nods. “Let’s go put it back.”

  We go outside, me carrying the egg. The sky is a little lighter, but it’s not quite dawn. We troop back to the henhouse. My father is still snoring, and now AC/DC is playing “Back in Black.”

  “Better let Hank take the egg,” Starletta says when we arrive at the coop. “They take better to her.”

  I hand my grandmother the egg, and she goes inside. She comes back out a minute later. “Well, that’s done,” she says. “Didn’t make a bit of fuss.”

  “Now can somebody tell me what this was all about?” I ask.

  Clodine puts her arm around me. “We’re sending Garrison’s spirit on,” she says as we walk.

  “On to where?”

  “To wherever it wants to go next,” says Hank.

  I get it. The egg is a symbol of birth. Or, in this case, rebirth. But do they really think Lola’s spirit is inside the egg now? And that the hen is going to somehow hatch it so that it can move on? The Grands believe a lot of strange things, so I wouldn’t be surprised.

  I almost ask. Then I realize, it doesn’t matter. I actually do feel a little less sad. Maybe it’s being with the Grands. Maybe I’m tired from not sleeping. Or maybe it just hasn’t hit me yet that Lola is really gone. Whatever it is, I feel like we’ve done a little magic together, even if I don’t understand it.

  As we reach the kitchen door, Clodine stops. “Look at that,” she says.

  The screen door is covered with luna moths. A dozen of them. They hang there, their wings very slowly moving up and down. Then the sun breaks over the trees, and a glimmer of light slides across the lawn, gilding the grass. It hits the door, and for a moment the moths are bathed in light. Then, all together, they rise up and flutter away across the yard like scraps of paper.

  Clodine steps onto the porch and takes hold of the door handle. “Well,” she says as she pulls the door open and goes inside. “Now we know it worked.”

  Seventeen

  “I’ve been working on a song.”

  Linda sounds almost happy.

  “What’s it about?”

  “Fairy tales. I’ve been thinking about them a lot lately.”

  “Any one in particular?”

  “All of them, really. You want to hear it?”

  Of course I do. And so she sings it for me.

  When she sings the final lines of the chorus, “ever after, happy ending, true love wins and never dies, am i cursed or are the stories, nothing but a pack of lies?” I say, “So much for happy endings.”

  “That’s the point. Fairy tales promise us all kinds of happy endings, but life doesn’t work like that. You might have some happy moments, but they don’t last. Not forever, anyway. Not happily ever after.”

  “So you’re happy because you wrote a song about how life doesn’t have happy endings the way fairy tales do?”

  She laughs. “I’m happy because I’m telling the truth. So, what’s up with you?”

  “Lola died,” I say, my voice sticking in my throat.

  She gasps. “Oh, shit. No.”

  I take a breath. “Like you said, in real life people don’t get happily ever after endings.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Linda says. “And here I am making you listen to my stupid song.”

  “It’s not stupid,” I say. “It’s good. I’m glad you’re writing. And it’s nice to think about something other than Lola being gone. That’s all I’ve been doing for the past couple of days.”

  It’s Wednesday night. Almost Thursday morning. Lola’s funeral starts in a little more than nine hours, and I can’t sleep. Which is why I picked up the phone and dialed Linda’s number. I don’t even think about it anymore. My fingers automatically find the right holes, as if she’s the only person the phone can call now. I’ve stopped thinking it’s weird.

  “Tell me about him,” Linda says. “Wait. Sorry. You said you were trying not to think about it so much.”

  “That’s okay. I’d like to talk about him.”

  I tell Linda about the first time I saw Lola.

  “I’d heard about the Shangri-La,” I begin. “I mean, everyone here knows about it. You can’t have a gay bar in a place like this without it being a big deal. My dad let me start driving the truck around town to practice when I was fifteen. I couldn’t even get a learner’s permit yet, but I’d been driving it around our house for a couple of years already. Besides, a town this small, nobody pays attention anyway, not even the cops unless you cause an accident. As soon as I could get away with taking the truck, I would drive by and just look at the Shangri-La. I’d never stop. Not at first. Just go by and hope I might see someone coming in or out. Like a real live gay person.” I laugh. “That sounds so weird. But I really had never seen one. Only on TV or online. Anyway, one night I drove by like usual. It was a Saturday. I was supposed to be on my way home from helping my dad at the Eezy-Freezy. I was—” I stop, not sure I want to say what I’m about to.

  “You were what?” Linda says.

  “I was horny,” I admit.

  She giggles, like I’ve just told her a really dirty joke. This makes me laugh too. “Well, I was. It was a super-hot night, and a bunch of guys came by the Eezy-Freezy wearing shorts and no shirts. I was a little worked up. I mean, I was fifteen. I thought about guys all the time. So I was driving home and took a little detour. When I drove past the Shangri-La, I thought I saw one of the guys who had come to the Eezy-Freezy going inside. Before I could even think about it, I pulled into the parking lot. Then I freaked out because I thought someone would recognize my truck, so I drove around back and parked there.”

  “Why didn’t you just leave?”

  “I was going to, but another car was pulling in, so I decided to wait. Also, I wanted to see if that guy would come out. He’d been really nice to me when I made him his cone earlier, and I don’t know, I guess I hoped maybe he was flirting with me. It’s stupid, I know.”

  “No, no. Totally understandable. And then?”

  “Um, well, then I decided to have a cigarette. Because I was nervous. Only I was afraid to have the window open in case anyone saw me, so I rolled it up.”

  “Smoking in an enclosed truck,” Linda says. “Probably not the smartest thing.”

  “Yeah, I know. But my mind was all over the place. So there I am, smoking in the truck and it’s getting stupid hot and I can’t really see anything, and the next thing I know, someone knocks on the window.”

  Linda snorts. “Oh shit.”

  “Right? Then I turn my head, and there’s this woman looking right at me through the window. She taps again and motions for me to roll it down. I’m terrified to do it, but I’m also terrified not to do it, because she looks like if I don’t, she’ll kick my ass. So I roll it down, and she says, ‘Little gay white boy, do your parents know you smoke?’”

  Linda howls, and I start to break up remembering my first encounter with Farrah. I can picture exactly how he looked that night. “He was wearing his Diana-Ross-in-Mahogany dress, although I had no idea then that it was an actual thing. I just saw a pretty woman in a long purple dress with one purple fur sleeve and a turban.”

  “I know that dress!” Linda squeals. “It’s gorgeous. Wait. You just said he.”

  “Sorry. I’m always doing that. Farrah would kill me. But yeah, he’s a guy. A drag queen.”

  “Like Boy George,” Linda says. “I love him.” She starts to hum the Culture Club song “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?”

  “I’m not sure Boy George was really a drag queen,” I tell her. “Farrah’s more like RuPaul.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “From RuPaul’s Drag Race? The TV show?”

  “I don’t think my TV gets that. I mainly watch Scarecrow and Mrs. King and Fame. I wish they would show new episodes, though. They keep playing reruns.”

  “Probably for the summer. I haven’t seen any of those, though. But I don’t watch much TV. Anyway, it took me a minute to realize that Farrah was a guy.”

  “Does he really look like Diana Ross?”

  “He does,” I say. “But I didn’t even know who she was. I didn’t know any of the classic stuff. Farrah and Paloma and Lola taught me everything later.”

  I’m getting way ahead of myself, so I back up. “Okay, so he asks me if my parents know I smoke, and I say, ‘I only do it every so often. And I don’t have a mother.’ And he leans in and says, ‘I’m sorry about your mama.’ Then I started to cry.”

  “Because you were sad about your mother?”

  “No. Not really. More because I could tell he really meant it. Also, because it was the first time I’d talked to another gay person. Like really talked to one. Have you ever seen Close Encounters of the Third Kind?”

  “Sure. It’s really good.”

  “Yeah, it’s one of Paloma’s favorites. He likes sci-fi and fantasy stuff. Well, you know the scene where Richard Dreyfuss finally meets the aliens and he’s so happy because he’s been thinking about them for so long and now he knows for sure that they’re real? That’s how I felt meeting Farrah.”

  “Like she was going to take you away in her spaceship and show you the universe,” Linda says.

  “Pretty much. Only her spaceship was the Shangri-La. She opened the truck door and took me by the hand, and before I knew what was happening, I was inside. Not in the bar, but in the back. Farrah knew I was too young to be there, but she didn’t care. Lola did, though. At first, she told me to get out. She and Farrah had a big argument about it. But Farrah won. I still don’t know what she said to Lola, but whatever it was, it worked. That first night I just sat there watching them put on their makeup and costumes. I was terrified to say anything. I couldn’t believe how beautiful they were, and how funny. In a weird way it was like listening to the Grands talk. It felt like home. Like I was someplace I belonged. And that’s how I started hanging out there.”

  “It must be nice to have friends like that. People who understand you and want you to be happy.”

  “It is. Do you have any like that?”

  “I thought I did,” Linda says. “But it turns out I was wrong.” She stops talking, and I hear her playing on her guitar. A minute later she says, “Do you mind if I hang up? I think I have an idea for a song, and I want to work on it while it’s still in my head.”

  She sounds kind of sad. I hope I haven’t upset her by asking if she has any friends.

  “You can call me later, though,” she says. “If you want to.”

  “Sure,” I say. I’m feeling really tired anyway, and know I should get some sleep before Lola’s funeral. “I can’t wait to hear what you’re writing.”

  “We’ll see if it’s any good,” she says. “You never know with songs until they’re done. Sometimes, not even then.”

  I hang up and lie in the darkness. According to the clock, it’s about to be three. The witching hour. I know everyone thinks that’s midnight, but it’s not. Or, at least, it didn’t used to be. It was always from three to four in the morning, apparently because that’s the one hour the Catholic church didn’t set aside for prayers, and creatures like ghosts and witches and devils were free to do their thing until the priests started up again at four. I don’t know if the Catholics set it up that way on purpose because they figured if they didn’t give the ghosts and whatever a chance to run around every now and then they would cause even more trouble later, or if the ghosts found the loophole and went with it, or what. But that’s how it was.

  When the numbers on the clock read 3:00, I wait to see if Lola’s ghost will make an appearance. I’m still not sure how the Grands’ ritual with the egg is supposed to play out, but I figure nothing will happen until after Lola’s funeral later today. If his ghost is going to do any haunting, now would be the time. Although why he would haunt my house, and not the Shangri-La, or his own house, I don’t know.

  Maybe he should be haunting his mother. I’m still surprised that Mrs. Householder is Lola’s mother. And I’m still sad that they didn’t talk for so long. Forty years is forever. I can’t imagine not talking to my father, or to the Grands, for that long. Especially not just for being gay. I know that happens, and that it happened more when Lola was younger. Still, it’s extreme.

  I wonder if my mother would be upset that I’m gay. My father took a little time to get used to it, but I never worried that he would stop talking to me or anything. But I don’t know about my mother. Based on the music she liked, I think she’d be okay with it. I mean, she loved Bowie and the New York Dolls. Not that they were gay, although I’ve heard Bowie was bisexual. Still, I think she was pretty cool.

  Suddenly, I wish I could tell her. I’ve never thought about it like this before, but I guess Lola was kind of the mother I didn’t get to have. Or maybe Lola, Farrah, and Paloma are another version of the Grands. My fairy godmothers. And now one of them is gone.

  I think about losing one of the Grands, and how awful that would be. Clodine is eighty-five, which is pretty old, but there’s nothing wrong with her. Someday, though, there will be. Or, knowing her, one day she’ll just turn into a pile of dust at the kitchen table. But one way or another, one day, they’ll be gone.

  I can’t think about this. Losing Lola is enough. I wait a little longer for his ghost, in case he has something to say to me. But he doesn’t show up, and when the 3 on the clock turns to a 4, I figure he’s not going to. Still, I can’t sleep. Instead, I watch my window.

  When the first lemony light coats the glass, I think of the phrase Linda’s mother taught her, “Morning is wiser than the evening.” Is it true? I don’t really feel much better. Lola is still dead. But the sun is a reminder that the world keeps turning and life goes on. So is the sound of the chickens clucking in the yard. Then I hear, just barely, the chorus of Ratt’s “Round and Round” coming from the Airstream where my father is probably still asleep.

  My life is still here, even though Lola is no longer in it. Nothing I do will reverse time. The world is going to keep turning, and the days are going to keep going forward. All I can do is move forward with them or be left behind. I don’t want that to happen, so I get ready to say goodbye to my friend.

  Eighteen

  When I walk into the kitchen, the Grands look up.

  “You’re not wearing that,” Clodine says. “Go put on a white shirt.”

  I look down at my black shirt, confused. “White? Why? It’s a funeral.”

  That’s when I realize that they are all wearing white. Then the door bangs open and my father walks in wearing khakis and a white shirt.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. “Why are you all dressed like this?”