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IV.

The Sandbar Won't Form Unless the Moon Returns

The Sun was in the last throes of setting, throwing ancient, sacred fire onto the horizon in vermillion exquisiteness – Andrew and Bligh stood watch outside the gas station to see it, the same place where Andrew had met Cody.

Bligh was by the pickup, leaning against it with his arms folded, cigarette sharing a flame with the setting Sun, as he watched it in amazement – Andrew was by the store entrance, crumpling the receipt for the gas in his hand before tossing it away.

"Beautiful, huh?" Andrew said to Bligh as he moved closer to the pickup.

"Right nice," Bligh said, nodding at his own remark.

"And it's like this every evening on a good clear day." He smiled at Bligh. "You don't want anything else? No candy bar or—?"

"Naw man." He flung his cigarette away, letting his hands fall into his pockets. "I ain't do chocolate."

"Dude, what? You used to love chocolate!"

Bligh shook his head briskly, finishing the cigarette in a grand plume of smoke, flicking it away. "Naw, ain't – ain't fer me n'more. Reckon I developed an allergy or sumthin."

"That can happen when you get older – least that's what I heard." He paused, leaning against the pickup with his shoulder. "So – where did you wanna go?"

"Ya said the beach, right? Might could go there."

"Alright, yeah. Just to chill, right?" He chuckled. "I didn't bring my trunks—"

"Yeah man," Bligh answered, something on his face Andrew couldn't read but which disappeared as soon he saw it. "Jest ta chill."

They got back in the truck and set off.

The Ranger's radio was off because, Andrew reasoned, Bligh didn't know the stations around here – he thought it wise not to turn it on, letting the comfort of the engine's drone be the music between them as he drove, letting Bligh stare intently out the window, taking in new things he had never seen before.

Andrew remembered when he saw Tampa in person for the first time, outside of brochures and the welcome package USF had sent him, he was overcome with a sense that he was visiting another planet – he had seen the jagged peaks of Aspen, watched whales off the Maine coast, and experienced the raging grandeur of Niagara Falls itself, but his father, who could never abide being hot and kept their house close to freezing all year round, had never taken Andrew, or his family, anywhere warm: twenty years of life in the Northern Hemisphere Andrew had only once, down in Myrtle Beach, seen palms, or a Sun-baked shoreline where pelicans flew above the seabreeze…his mother used to own a little shack in Barbados an aunt had willed to her, but she sold it when Andrew was born, kindling for the bonfire of her husband's political ambitions.

And so it was, that even the wide expanse of the South Carolinian beaches could not have prepared him for Florida, for there is nowhere else in the contiguous American landmass that gives one the sense of the exotically equatorial, the humid subtropical.

As though Bligh could read his mind, he spoke at last: "So you really like all this, huh? All this Florida stuff?"

Andrew chose to answer carefully. "Well – do you?"

"S'pretty nice, I s'pose. Lotta green." He sighed, turning back around to. "Hotter n'Tempest, that's fer damn sure."

"Well I ain't the one wearing jeans – you do know it gets right warm down here?"

"Aight, don't judge, now…" Bligh murmured gamely, grinning – the smile stiffened and then vanished into something else, like he had remembered something unpleasant, and he thrust his hand into his Ravens cap, scratching underneath.

"You okay there?"

The question was rhetorical: he sensed at once that something was off and he meant to broach it.

They came to a red light as Bligh jerked his hand away, looking as though he was trying to feign a smile. "Y-yeah. Sorry, jest kinda out of it. Been drivin since the crack o'dawn, n'like I say – ain't used ta no traffic like—"

"Hold on," Andrew cut in. "Something – something ain't right."

"I told ya—"

"And you've never lied to me, neither. Long as we've known each other, pretty sure I can tell when something's off."

"Ya do know me that well, don't ya?" The fake smile faded into a frown, and Bligh looked down at the floorboard beneath him. "But – naw, man – not – not here."

Andrew's heart sank "Why the Hell not? Ain't nobody but—"

"Light's green, Drew."

Andrew sighed irritably, foot on the gas. "Dammit, Bligh, I ain't heard from you in a week, and now—"

Bligh cut him off with a sudden and unexpectedly sincere gesture – a hand on Andrew's shoulder. Their eyes met, and in the earnestness that radiated from Bligh's diamond-dust gaze, Andrew knew he had hit a wall.

"I jest – ain't – ready."

The feeling of Bligh's hand on his shoulder give him a shock of excitement, but Andrew's stomach had become a mass of tangles – whatever Bligh had to tell him, it had to be dire.

"Alright, Bligh," he said with a nod and his bravest face, his eyes set on the road so he wouldn't have to look at him. "I – uh, I'm sorry."

Bligh withdrew his hand, staring out the window, hesitating. "It ain't – dun – dun say yer sorry."

"Well I am."

Now minute of silence passed before Bligh spoke again:

"So – how's she run?"

Andrew looked back at Bligh in something like surprise. "Umm – well, like the last time I drove her, senior year."

Bligh smirked back, pleased. "Damn straight. Boys down at the mine told me I could fix anythin."

Andrew chuckled. "If this truck runs as good now as she did back then—" His mouth remained open, awkward, struggling to keep the moment: "You – you probably can."

Down Tampa roads they sped, passing, sporadically, that eternal symbol of Florida, celestial land of American vacations, the palm tree – first one, then a pair, at last a cluster, until the road turned into a causeway that was verdant with tropical vegetation on either side, cutting through the spectral mirror of Tampa Bay, which with the nighttime was colored a marmoraceous black.

They parked amongst a pleasant grove of royal palms off an exit from the causeway, and, hopping out of the pickup, Andrew gave in to the instinctual Floridian geomancer-love of sand and grass beneath bare feet that had long overtaken the novelty that the sight of a beach gives the mountaineer, and kicked off his shoes. Bligh kept his on.

The beach was largely empty – here and there was a lone stranger still packing up their belongings, but not a soul was in the water, which roiled, inky and oily, illumed only by a waning moon which shone, broken, in the waves.

They sat down together, Andrew and Bligh, a foot of space and an oppressive emotional distance between them – though hard to tell in the dark, Andrew, tanned and relaxed and barefoot, was every inch the Florida native he emphatically he was not, while his companion still out of place amongst these raw elements of shore, beach, and palm, transplanted from the severe and unforgiving majesty of the mountains.

The sound of the Tampa Bay waves breaking on the shore – gentler from their pelagic birthplace of the Gulf of Mexico, which swallowed the Sun every dusk – reminded Andrew of the last time the two of them had been to the ocean, when they were ten, and Pappy had taken them to Myrtle Beach. Stephen was sick with the chicken pox that week, so he had to stay home.

The silence between the two was left unbroken from the time he had shut the door on the pickup to the time they had both sat on the beach. The night was finally cooling, made even cooler by the zephyr that blew gently, fluttering the edges of Bligh's long black locks that blended in with the liquescent dark.

Bligh took out a cigarette from his shirt pocket – Andrew turned away to sigh heavily, braving to break the silence:

"Do you remember that time Pappy took us to Myrtle?"

There was a long pause as Bligh fumbled for the Zippo in his pocket and – the light of the flame fleetingly framing his face perfectly in the darkness – he lit his cigarette. As Andrew watched, he inhaled, eyes closed – when he opened them a glaze had overtaken them, glinting faintly by the moonlight. He exhaled, a long plume of smoke escaping into the salty ocean air.

"Thinkin bout that, too?"

"Every time I come here," Andrew affirmed.

Bligh nodded slowly. "Ye still smoke?" he said, holding up the pack in offering.

"No, I don't."

"Oh…" Bligh withdrew. "Listen, I, uh – I'm sorry I ain't talked to ya in a – what, a week but—"

"It's fine, dude. Really."

"I, uh, heard about yer Pa—"

"He'll be fine," Andrew cut him off, suddenly uncomfortable. "Just years and year of him being – who he was – caught up with him." It was a flippant, a callow thing to say, but Andrew did not want to be reminded of his father. "Bligh – I've just been worried, and—"

But Bligh hung his head, his expression souring. "No, n-no, listen, Drew, I gotta – I gotta say this, man, n'I wudn't ready in the car but – but I—" He coughed, the words pouring brokenly from his mouth: "Drew, P-Pappy's – Pappy's – he's dead, aight?"

Andrew's mouth hung open in frank shock, a shattering spear of immediate grief tearing through his heart.

"N-no—" He shook his head, his lips trembling. "No – no, that—"

"He – passed—" Bligh tried to persist. "Back, last day o'July – n'the service was three days ago…"

"Christ Almighty – Bligh, I—"

Andrew stopped as he watched Bligh hold the cigarette in his fingers, staring listlessly into him.

His urge to hug his best friend died with the lifelessness behind the blue eyes – Bligh spat and took another drag. His eyes glimmered, and Andrew held his breath as he expected Bligh to break down…for a moment, for a terrible and wrenching moment, Bligh was not Bligh, his face was his grandfather's, as though the ghost of Pappy – Gustavus – had appeared at his very mention.

Andrew looked away, his throat full, trying to find words, watching the faint stars twinkle above him as he felt his connection to essentially his second father sputter and fade with each passing moment.

The waves continued to crash before them, the tide pulling back further and further, the passage of time marked by the ocean and the great immemorial flood that takes all it makes wet from birth.

"Why—" Andrew's voice faltered as the full tragedy swelled within him, and he saw his best friend shut his eyes again, this time in obvious emotional pain. "I can't – I can't fucking believe this."

"They buried em next to Grandmamma Iris, just like he wanted—"

"Why," Andrew repeated, angrier this time. "Why – why – why the fuck didn't you tell me, Bligh? Jesus – Jesus Christ, don't you think I had a right to know—?"

Bligh's eyes opened again slowly, fixing their frosty gaze on Andrew – on him, and into him, stabbing him accusingly as they narrowed slightly, forming a subtle malevolence that made Andrew instantly regret asking it.

"Reckon I had a right to have my best friend not fuckin abandon me." His tone was quiet poison. "I mean yer brother showed up – guess he wudn't too good fer me at least."

"Oh, for—" Andrew, gobsmacked, had to stop, and turn away, plunged into an abyss of guilt and regret.

He cursed himself for inviting Bligh down, for thinking that this was anything but a terrible idea – to bring West Virginia to Tampa. It had been barely an hour and already this whole thing had been such a laughably colossal mistake.

"Sorry," he heard Bligh mumble, bringing in his legs to hug them against his chest, burrowing his chin between his knees.

"Stop."

"Ye n'Stevie, y'all are—"

"I said stop." It was Andrew's turn to cut him off, he didn't even know what Bligh was about to say, but he didn't want to hear it.

Bligh blew a cloud of smoke through his nose. "Dun get smart with me, boy—"

"No. You shoulda told me," Andrew said, turning back to him. "Or Stephen – one of the two – fuck I think I'm just as mad at him right now – but you especially."

"Ya wudn't've come."

"I would too have!" Andrew cried. "I grew up in that house, me and Stevie both, almost the same as you!"

"Well now that house is mine – and—"

He said nothing after, and Andrew held up his hand to goad him into finishing:

"And? And? What the fuck about it?"

"It's mine," Bligh repeated, but this time looking to the sea…and then, in a lower voice, near a whisper: "Might could – might could be I ain't want ye in it. S'in my name now. I can do whatever I want with it."

Andrew gasped, wounded at Bligh's remark.

He inched back, he looked up at the palm trees overhead, breaking up the moonlight in dappled shadows, searching for words, trying to salvage what was left of this awful night.

"How – how – th-that man raised us—"

Bligh flung his cigarette away, sneering at him. "Well it ain't seemed like it took fer ya! Throwin my ass out like yesterday's trash. Takin off fer Florida!" He flung his arms out to hold the entire Eastern Seaboard between his hands. "Never lookin back! Anythin Pappy tried ta teach yer stupid ass about loyalty, n'bein true ta yer word wudn't never take fer no Lightfoot boy!"

His arms dropped back to his sides, and a long pause followed.

"You're an asshole for saying that," Andrew said at last, his voice calm inside breaking out into a cold sweat. "I don't care who you are, Bligh – you are – an asshole for saying that."

"I dun—"

"Shut up!" Andrew interrupted. "Why the fuck are you acting like this?! I invited you here as my best friend, not to get my balls busted!" He shook his head furiously. "Still – can't believe you didn't tell me—"

"Well believe it, asshole. Pappy's gone. Duke's gone. Stevie's gone. Yer gone." He stopped, a breath faltering in his throat, as though he was going to lose control of emotions at last. "I ain't got nuthin—" he growled, and for an instant, just an instant, Andrew caught sight of his teeth, which seemed…sharper, than he remembered.

He had no time to think about it: Bligh leapt off the sand and stood, his back toward Andrew, who smoldered beneath him in a cesspool of emotions that he barely had time to process. For the second time that week he was faced with his feelings unruled, his logic thrown into disarray.

"I can't fuckin act like this n'more," he heard Bligh say. "I ain't happy. I ain't been – since ye left."

Now it was Andrew's turn to lift himself off the beach – sighing, steadying himself for what he knew he had to do:

"You really don't think it hurt not having you around?"

Bligh whipped around. "Name one time. Name one goddam time that y'ain't jest say ya missed me."

Andrew took a step forward. "I never lied to you about that, okay? And I could name a lot more than one but – okay – fine. I had a dream about you last night."

Bligh tilted his head back askance. "Bout me?"

"Yeah. I kept hearing your voice when—" The image of the dream came back to him, vivid, clear. "It was near where you and me got lost that one time – Blue Sulphur Springs, I think? Down that way, trying to get to L-Burg – and – it was Fall and all the leaves were changing and it was really, really pretty like – like I remembered – I kept – hearing your voice echo, looking for me, but I couldn't find you…"

He had to stop as he saw Bligh, his lips parted, suck in a breath – two large tears fell out of either eye, which seemed now in the half-darkness to have acquired a strange luminescence, a glow, that Andrew never remembered seeing…an illusion, he thought, the tears crystalline in the moonbeams above them, tricks of the crepuscular light.

It was a perfect, even artistic image: of all the injuries Bligh had given them this could crown it all, the final betrayal. He made no sound – his expression was defiant – but there were tears, there were shining, mournful tears.

Andrew should have been moved by it, deeper, more abashed, he wanted Bligh not to hurt like this, and because he hurt like this there were parts of him that were actually dying inside to watch Bligh cry, but…he couldn't let that stop him, the line had to be drawn, the declaration made.

Maybe – pressing his molars together to suppress the growing lump in his throat – there really was more of his father in him than he liked.

"But – Bligh – listen – listen. I can't go back to that town – not to Tempest. Not to West Virginia. My life is here." Just as Bligh had done with all of the East Coast, so now did Andrew, in conscious imitation, raise his own arms to span the Gulf of Mexico. "Here! Right here! Not that town, not anymore." And then after a respectful pause: "I'm so, so sorry. I really am."

Bligh looked as though he was going to fumble for another cigarette – nervous habit, Andrew latently remembered – before stopping, arms slack, his head hung low.

First Andrew had seen Bligh cry – now he saw him defeated.

And now – now, his heart was broken.

Bligh lifted his head some, just enough so that Andrew could see the fresh emotional wounds, and the still older ones with them, the scars left unhealed.

"Ya hated it there, didn't ya?" He sniffed. "Y'always did. And ya got what ya wanted and ya never looked back…" He paused, searching Andrew's face. "Welp, good on ya, man. Good – good on ya. But here's – here's the…" His eyes drifted back to the sea before he shut them, like he was trying to will away more tears. "Ya weren't there when Dan killed himself. Or – when Duke – when Duke died. And when Pappy died – ya weren't there, neither. When I needed ya, Drew."

"I couldn't—" Andrew was again silenced, backed into a corner where anything else he had to say would be wrong – so he said the first thing that came to him: "I couldn't have stayed there forever."

"That town is yer home," Bligh answered, turning away.

It was, at last, what robbed Andrew of his patience – there was something about the way Bligh said it, some inflection or tone or some insistence to it that Andrew hated.

He snapped.

"No – no, Bligh, don't you fucking get it?!" Andrew shouted. "I tried being patient, but fuck it. That town is nothing! It's nowhere, it was always nowhere! That's why Dan Dorsey blew himself sky-fucking-high, because he couldn't stand the fucking mess those people up there wallow in!"

A horrified look came on Bligh's face. "Drew that ain't at all—"

"I don't care!" Andrew burst back. "This is – that's why you came here! To torture me! Make a fool outta me, wanna bring me back?! For what!" He threw out his arm, and thrust out his head in a sarcastic display. "For dead coal towns and oxy?" He scoffed at his own remark. "Or how bout those lovely little All-American pill mills we got!"

"Tempest ain't no fuckin pill mill, Drew. It ain't much but have mercy, man, it ain't near as bad as—"

"Well then what about Rupert or Rainelle or Quinwood for fuck's sake?!"

"I ain't heard Tempest in that list," answered Bligh with a sneer. "And them other places ain't bad neither!"

"Does it matter Bligh? Does it really, really matter?"

Andrew was getting beside himself, at last losing his grip, everything bursting forth, no control, at once – he kept trying and kept failing, second by second, to rein himself in, but Bligh's presence, the empty void of the sea with the Moon glittering in the water, they made him desperate, isolating him in his half-world of fake images.

"It's dying! Everything's dying! There's no economy and no tax base! You know this – I know you know this! There's no fucking hope for those people, Bligh! There never was! They're all poor, paint-huffing, racist —"

He saw Bligh's face darken, the sorrow gone – twisted by an outraged grimace.

"Are ye callin my Pappy poor – n'racist – ye li'l cocksucker?!"

Andrew tried to backpedal – literally, taking several steps back as he saw how angry Bligh was getting.

"No—" Andrew cleared his throat. "Wait. Bligh, listen—"

Bligh jumped at him, grabbing him by the shirt collar, putting their faces together so that Andrew could see –his teeth were much too sharp.

"Yer the one gonna listen now, Drew!" He was seething, his voice a rising crescendo, his eyes now a pair of corpse-fires that froze Andrew's blood. "How the fuck ya gonna say shit like that?! How?! Y'ain't remember how he get treated up North? Y'ain't remember him tellin us how people laughed at em whenever he opened his mouth – ta preach the Word o'Gawd ta them fuckin people!"

Andrew hesitated, his jaw moving in an angry, futile action as he tried to formulate a response – taking advantage of his inability to defend himself, Bligh pressed on:

"They ain't even believe he was white!" Bligh roared. "Same damn thing when he was with his platoon in Korea! Cuz he came from the hills, ain't had no money n'talked weird, they called em a Hillbilly! Then when he went up ta Pennsylvania they told em ta fuckin leave where he was preachin up yonder cuz o'where he was from – Lightfoot!" He released Andrew from the grip on his collar, letting him collapse to the ground in shock. "I – I fuckin tell ya man, ye got balls made o'some kind o'steel ta call where we's from racist – ta call my Pappy racist!"

Andrew was utterly mortified – he found himself scooting away, slowly, sand building up on his shorts, a fear clenching him at having never seen his best friend so angry.

"Bligh – w-wait—"

"Were y'any other man, Drew Lightfoot, I'd kill ya where ya fuckin stood – insultin my Pappy."

At this, Andrew caught his breath, feeling choked by the moment – he knew that Bligh was serious, and he knew too, his defenses failing him, that he really had fucked up this time.

"So what's gonna happen—" Bligh persisted, hissing, pointing an accusing finger. "What's gonna happen when all them friends o'yers find out where ya really from?" He spat on the sand. "They gonna call ye the same. Hillbilly. They gonna say ye fuck yer brother n'y'ain't wear shoes n'ain't got no workin toilet – cuz that's what they fuckin do, Drew – so they ain't hafta ta feel bad bout all my people dyin in their fuckin coal mines!" He shook his head, slow, contemptuous. "Ye call where we from racist? Well they gonna be racist ta ye, boy. Dun matter how rich Mister Richie Rich be – ye n'me n'Stephen, man." He cackled, mirthless. "Him, me, n'Pappy – all the fuck we ever gonna be ta them and everybody else is a bunch o'damn Hillbillies!"

A series of uncomfortable memories flashed inside Andrew's head – jokes at his expense, the cutting things people he worked with said to his face on the Obama campaign – but he was frankly scared at his best friend's behavior, and he tried to start reasoning with him:

"Bligh – h-hold – hold—"

"That's what I am ta ye, I fuckin bet. All this – pill mills – motherfucker y'ain't been up there in four years, how'd the shit ye'd ever know?" Another mirthless cackle, softer this time. "Ya wudn't! Cuz ye been hidin where ya come from – hidin who ya really are!"

Andrew found himself sputtering, trying to reason with his friend, each accusation damning and exacting and impossible to counter. It was as though Bligh was some hideous avenging angel, coming to reap the deadly guilt of his own conscience.

"Matter o'fact…" Bligh continued, his words now a fury that was terrifying in its quiet. "I bet s'always been that way." He smirked with a malicious, hurtful twist. "I'll bet – I'll fuckin bet – ya never wanted em ta know—" He grimaced. "So ya dressed up like Florida!" He threw out his finger, a damning accusation. "Ya lost yer damn accent – ya lost yer damn mind!"

Bligh kept his arm up, finger pointed.

Only after he lowered it did Andrew try to stand up, unsteady on his feet.

Inside his head was too much – of everything. There was too much trauma, too much emotional wreckage, he could not deal with it all, he could not handle anything else – all the fears that Cody had essentially dismissed as irrational were very fucking rational, all the doubts he had about inviting Bligh down were proven right so completely it would have been hilarious had it happened to someone else.

He had no defense – and so, like his father, with no defense, he would retreat.

"Bligh," he began at last. "You said – you didn't want me in your house – Pappy's house, the house that's yours now—" He sighed, still feeling the pain from the memory of Bligh's words. "Well I – don't want you in mine." He rose from the sand once more, dusting himself off, letting the debris of the evening fall back where they came. "I—" He cleared his throat. "I'm calling a cab – you can drive yourself back and get a hotel."

From behind him he heard Bligh's roar: "Y'ain't goin anywhere without me, Lightfoot!"

Bligh charged at him, forcing him about-face – with a loud growl, he punched him, hard, in the jaw.

Andrew yelped in surprise and, losing his footing, fell backward onto the sand. Bligh followed him, pinning him down – Andrew tried to fight him off, but couldn't, losing against Bligh's surprising upper body strength.

"Lemme tell ya sumthin Drew – ya know what? Yer right. That house – Pappy's house? It shoulda been ours—"

Andrew thought he heard him, he thought he misunderstood as he struggled under him, but then Bligh removed all doubt, of this and every other action that night, every swear and every curse and every teardrop.

He forced their heads together from behind.

They kissed.

And not yesterday, not years ago, not tomorrow and the days after, had nothing else changed would Andrew have expected it – he lingered in it, he didn't know what to do, he felt a catastrophic uprush of things that should have been, misshapen in his horror: lust, sympathy, joy.

Bligh withdrew – his tongue had been so deep in Andrew's mouth that strands of saliva broke in the air, shining in the moonlight.

Andrew was too jolted by the pain in his jawbone from the punch, from the totality of the cataclysmic shock of the situation, to react – but when Bligh gritted his teeth he could see just how sharp his canines really were, honed to points, like fangs.

"It wudn't s'posed ta be like this, Drew," Bligh hissed, his voice barely above the sound of the waves. "It was s'posed ta be ye – n'me – in that house, jest us two…"

Andrew, breathing heavy, had only spare seconds for his mind to race before Bligh, digging into his pocket, procured an old-looking knife which Andrew recognized as Pappy's, but now coated in a greenish film – Andrew feeling a surge of panic that Bligh might now stab him, murder him, there on the beach.

Instead, in a swift and solitary motion, Bligh sliced the skin on Andrew's forearm – he leaned back to look down at Andrew.

Andrew, freed, sat back up, still speechless.

As his eyes moved to the cut on his forearm, which had produced only a slight upwelling of blood, a crushing, debilitating lassitude overtook him – he blinked, and saw the world grow distorted, as though some great unseen hand had cranked up the contrast filter on his eyes.

Everything grew blurry – to no avail, he shook his head, trying to clear it.

"Wha – ahh – wha…?"

"Why'd ya have ta do this, Drew? Why cudn't ya jest stayed with me? We coulda had it – we coulda had forever…"

Andrew heard Bligh say it, but his voice seemed distant, as though echoing from a vast, unseen mountainside.

"Wha…?"

"Ya gonna see, Drew – ya gonna see…"

And this was the last thing Andrew heard, before the world went black.