12 Drummers Thumbing Read online

  “Christmas is my favorite time of year. Well, Christmas and fall. I like spring, too. Summer’s nice. I got a pool just this past year. I never learned how to swim until I was a teenager. I used to be afraid of the water. Hmm.”

  All that came before leaving the rest stop. Once they did, as their trek toward Vermont continued, so did Yoshi’s soliloquy. His voice was high pitched, and the words came rapid fire. The only break he took came as a hum followed by a deep breath after every three or four sentences.

  “I always wanted to go to New York City for Christmas. Last year, we almost went, but the stupid bus broke down. I’ve been in this group five years now, and the bus breaks down at least once every season. Usually, we can get it fixed. Guess it’s a goner this time. Hmm. Murphy said it’s a 2008. That’s only ten years old. I guess it had a lot of miles on it. It’s an old school bus. Hmm.”

  The sound was like an old computer doing a quick reboot.

  “Thank goodness for you. We hate to miss a show. Six. We got to do six this year. That’s better than my first year. My first year, we did two. Hmm. Maybe someday, we’ll be famous. We have tens of thousands of hits on YouTube. That hasn’t translated to bigger sales. Well, I guess it has. It hasn’t translated to fame. Hmm.”

  It was an odd speech pattern, but who was AC to judge.

  “Fame is a double-edged sword, though. It’s not really something I seek. Often fame means money. Money I’d like.”

  “Aren’t you a n-neur-neurologist?” AC figured neurologists were rolling in it.

  “That I am. Hmm. Got plenty to live on, but as long as there’s someone who doesn’t, I don’t feel like I’m doing enough. Hospitals are way more expensive than they need to be. My kids…” Yoshie shook his head.

  “Y-y-you have k-k-kids?”

  “Dozens over the years, at University Hospital. I hate when they have to be admitted over Christmas. I have one in this year, a patient. Hmm.”

  “Oh.”

  “I told Krissy I would stay and spend Christmas with her. There’s no one else. Parents don’t approve of her lifestyle. Fucking morons who don’t believe in science. Fucking morons who’d ignore their own kid when she has a brain tumor, just because she likes girls. Hmm. Krissy told me to get my ass on the bus.” Yoshie smiled. “Sixteen. They tend not to mince words at that age. I was going to surprise her with a trip to our last show, bring her up from Chicago by air ambulance. Everything fell through. Hard to find medical personnel willing to take on travel with a patient this time of year. She’d be fine, but there are rules. Hmm. Oh well. I’ll make sure she doesn’t spend New Year’s Eve alone. Who needs a sixteen-year-old girl on their arm and Time’s Square, when they got a middle-aged dork in scrubs? We’ll hook her up via livestream for the Vermont concert.”

  All of that might not have come at once, but it seemed like it to AC. There wasn’t much quiet time. Between Yoshi talking and Emery talking and sneezing, AC could only imagine what it sounded like in the back of the van with both of them there.

  Just about the time it came to turn on the headlights, Yoshi got into the neurology of stuttering. “Stuttering is a speech disorder that causes the flow of speech to be broken up. About five percent of children ages two to five will develop some stuttering during childhood, lasting several weeks to several years. Hmm. Many recover by seven or eight, but one percent will be left with long-term stuttering. Hmm. It’s more common in boys than girls and persists into adulthood more often in boys as well. More than seventy million people worldwide are stutterers. That’s one in every hundred. In the US, more than three million. Hmm. It’s a biological and neurological condition caused by one or more of four triggers.” Yoshi counted off on his fingers. “Genetics. Stuttering tends to run in families, and genes that cause it have been identified. You have siblings?”

  “Y-yes. F-five b-bro-brothers.”

  “Any of them stutter?”

  Second youngest, Montgomery, had for a short while, but stopped. AC’s parents claimed he had simply been imitating his baby brother. Montgomery had also insisted on going back to the baby bottle, even though he’d been three and off it when Atticus was born. Rather than say all that, AC went with, “No.”

  “Ah.” Yoshie barely reacted. “Two: Children with other speech/language problems or developmental delays are more likely to stutter. Hmm. Three: Neurophysiology may also be a trigger for stuttering, with ongoing research showing that people who stutter seem to process speech and language differently than those who don’t. Strokes and traumatic brain injuries can also contribute to stuttering, but that doesn’t apply to you, right?”

  “No.”

  “Family dynamics may cause stuttering, too, like with lots of other trouble we carry into adulthood. High expectations, fast-paced lifestyles, and emotional trauma have an impact. Hmm.”

  AC had heard the statistics a thousand times. Maybe a million, maybe three million, one for every person in the US who sounded like him.

  “But you know all that, huh, AC?”

  “Yes.”

  * * * *

  Atticus’s last experience with a neurologist had not gone so well. At age ten, he and his parents had headed down to New York City, to the best of the best, supposedly. After an hour and a half in the waiting room and just as long with the doctor, and then another twenty-minute wait in the fancy office for the final report, Atticus’s father was not happy with the results.

  “That’s it? After all the money, all the time, all the stupid tests, you’re saying there’s nothing you can do?”

  “I didn’t say that, Mr. Maughan. Keep trying what you’ve been trying, and—”

  “And the kid will still sound like an engine that won’t start.”

  “Cornelius!” Atticus’s mother stood and glared at his dad.

  “There will be new advances, and techniques that do work,” Dr. Spinell claimed. “When he whispers—”

  “So, my kid should just go through life whispering? That will work out well giving oral reports, on the debate team, in court.”

  Atticus’s father assumed he was going to be a lawyer, like him. Of course.

  After leaving the neurologist’s office, Atticus’s mother promised him a trip to Rockefeller Center to see the tree and a stroll through Manhattan to all the big stores, so they could look at the windows and visit Santa. The tree had been cool, but Atticus wasn’t much interested in Santa or windows at that age. He was drawn to the carolers, however, just inside the main entrance to Macy’s.

  “The-e fir-irst No-o-el…”

  Their harmonies gave him a chill. A round, robust man with a voice as deep and resonant as a large church bell drew his ear. Atticus wanted to stand there and listen all day. He wanted to join them.

  “Come on. This day has been shit. To hell with Christmas. Let’s just go home.” Atticus’s father jerked him away.

  * * * *

  “Tell me this, Atticus,” Yoshi said, back in the present.

  AC looked over. “Yeah?”

  “What kind of new therapies have you tried lately?”

  AC scowled.

  “Any?”

  “Why b-b-b-bother?”

  Yoshi shrugged. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Hmm. If you do want to, there are advances now that weren’t around when you were a kid, even a teenager, not so long ago.”

  AC rolled his eyes. Was the guy flirting now?

  “Some of the things that didn’t work then, could now. For many people, singing lessens their—”

  “N-n-not f-f-for m-m-me.”

  “Shh.” Yoshi touched AC’s shoulder, then started to massage it. “You’re angry. Stress makes it worse. Relaxation exercises could help.”

  AC was close to saying f-f-f-fuck you, with as many missteps as he could force out.

  “The phone apps fascinated me when I first heard of them,” Yoshi said. “Do you have an anti-stuttering app?”

  “No.”

  “Have you looked into any?”


  “No.”

  “I’m not sure they’d be much help, now that I have.” Yoshi started slapping his hip on beat. Unlike what Rohan had done earlier, this was a slow rhythm, like the tick of clock’s second hand, only double speed. Tick. Tick. Tick. He did it about six times, and then spoke, one word after each beat.

  “I’ve. Found. The. Met. Ro. Nome. Tech. Nique. The. Most. E. Ffec. Tive.” He took a pause. “If. One. Speaks. A. Sin. Gle. Syl. La. Ble. At. A. Time. The. Words. Come. Out. Quite. Per. Fect. Ly.”

  Holly Golightly and the rain in Spain came to mind. AC also noticed Yoshi’s hum went away when he spoke like that. “No. One. Wants. To. Wait. That. Long. For. One. Sen. Tence, Doc,” he said.

  Yoshie smiled and nodded.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  AC wanted to stay pissed. It was difficult, though. Yoshi’s smile was as intoxicating as his hair was stupid. Eyes that sparkled like the white or colored lights on all the decorated trees they passed now that dusk was falling, the dimples on either side of his mouth, the elation on his whole face, a combination of victory and pleasure, it was frustratingly contagious.

  “What about whispering?” Yoshi asked, doing it himself.

  “It works s-s-somet-t-times. Sometimes.” It worked that time, to an extent, with the second try at the two-syllable word.

  “Sorry. Couldn’t hear you.” Yoshi leaned in, flashing his adorable grin once again. “Let’s get a little more intimate, if you don’t mind.” He smelled nice. Obsession, if AC wasn’t mistaken, that and dryer sheets. Yoshi’s pink 12 Drummers Drumming T-shirt was Downy fresh.

  “I don’t mind at all,” AC whispered.

  “See? Quite effective, huh? And a great excuse for getting up close to a good-looking guy. Now, tell me more about you, nice and slow, nice and quiet.”

  Chapter 7

  Carlton: Four stars. Yellow shirt. Balding, glasses, older. Looks like someone’s butler from a British drama, only without the debonair accent. GFILF-Grandfather I’d like to fuck? Yeah, I’d do him.

  AC stretched heartily before getting back behind the wheel. He and Spud would be happy for another two hours.

  Happy…Now there was a word AC never would have imagined using at the start of his journey with the drummers. It wasn’t an emotion he could have even perceived, back when he callously and stupidly scored them one to five.

  “Uncle Bart says hi,” AC whispered, as Spud kneaded his lap. Bartholomew, the oldest Maughan sibling, had asked about his “feline nephew” right away, when he and AC had texted.

  Bartholomew: Atticus! How’s Spud?

  Atticus: Fine. You and Marilyn still flying in for Christmas?

  Bartholomew: We are. Wish you were.

  Atticus: Well, as it turns out, I will be there. And I need a favor.

  Bartholomew: You finally pick up the phone after all this time and it’s to ask me for a favor? :)

  Bartholomew had added a smiley face, but Atticus still felt bad. Phone calls were nonexistent, texts only slightly more frequent, in person conversation pretty rare. Thanksgiving had been hell.

  * * * *

  “Nothing brings the flow of conversation to a screeching halt like Atticus asking for the peas,” Bartholomew had said at the huge dining room table, all set with the good china, glassware, and a ton of food.

  “If he asks for sweet potatoes, we’re in big trouble.” That was Emmanuel.

  “Spit it out, bro. The game’s almost over,” Sullivan groused, when Atticus tried to ask if the Lions were beating the Patriots.

  When dessert time rolled around, Atticus went without.

  “P-p-p-pumpkin or m-m-m-mincemeat?” Montgomery cackled as he held both up out of reach anyway, teasing Atticus two ways for the price of one. He was the tallest and the jerkiest.

  Atticus walked away.

  And when their dad complained about Gabriel putting on Christmas carols Thanksgiving evening, Gabriel shot back with, “Atticus has to start ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’ forty-two days before, in order to make it to the twelve drummers drumming by The Epiphany.”

  Granted, that was all from several different Thanksgivings over the past thirty years. Even if no one said anything during the most recent one, they had to be feeling it. Therefore, AC kept his speaking to a bare minimum. He’d gotten through many a family function without uttering a single word.

  Atticus: It hasn’t been all that long, and the favor’s not for me, so…

  Bartholomew: Just tell me what it is.

  By the time Carlton slipped into the passenger seat, the plan was ironed out. All that remained was Bartholomew’s doubt as to whether or not he could pull it off.

  Carlton put his head back and closed his eyes right from the start. AC had been planning on blaring the radio to stay awake. He’d guzzled the last of his coffee, after filling a thermos back at a Dunkin’ Donuts across from one of the rest stops, but those last couple of hours before stopping for the night were always tough. On the way down, he’d kept the cab up front cold, with the AC blasting and the window partway down, not far enough to tempt Spud, but far enough for sound and cold air to slap him in the face. Now, how to explain all that to Carlton? The easiest way, AC decided, was to offer up a blanket, one his sister-in-law had knitted for him a couple of Christmases back. Like the hat from Gabriel, the afghan had Atticus’s name embroidered into it, or knitted into it, or something. It was on there, that was all AC knew. Luanne hadn’t been there when he’d unwrapped it to reveal the technique.

  “Thanks, man.” Carlton put the soft throw to his cheek. “What service. Cute and courteous. I was a little chilly.”

  Carlton wasn’t wearing much. He was out of uniform, his yellow 12 Drummers Drumming shirt left behind somewhere for a white sleeveless one, the underwear kind you could see through, paired with what looked like boxers. He had a nice body, sinewy and thin, with salt and pepper hair showing in all sorts of places.

  “I’m a lousy sleeper,” Carlton explained. “I just grab as many Zs as I can on these road trips. I’m out twenty minutes here, ten there, five more when I can get it.” He pulled the blanket up to his chin and snuggled in. “My conversation skills are lacking, anyway. My life’s a bore.” He yawned just to prove it. “You won’t be missing much if I conk out.”

  And, so he did. Carlton, the alleged spy with a boring life, was snoring in no time and continued to saw logs well past five, ten, fifteen, and twenty minutes. The noise would definitely be enough to keep AC awake. Even when Spud wandered over and kneaded Carlton’s lap for the longest time, 0040 Winks didn’t stir.

  Traffic was light. They were making good time, until suddenly, AC had to stop behind two other cars. They sat, and sat, and sat, with nothing but the red glow of taillights in front and tall black tree shadows on either side. There were no stars. No moon. The night didn’t care it was almost Christmas, the season for sparkle and light.

  “C-c-come on,” AC muttered.

  Spud must have thought he was being called. After a good forty minutes on Carlton’s lap, he moved back over to rest at AC’s hip. “C-c-comfy o-o-ver there?”

  Carlton stirred.

  “Shh.” Even though things were going better than expected with the 12 Drummers Drumming, the stress brought on by trying to converse was still ripe. There was also guilt now, concerning the stupid ratings book in the glove box. AC wished he could toss the frigging thing in the trash. They were good guys, all of them, so far.

  Getting to move again would be the best thing of all, though. Whether three cars or twenty, coming to a standstill for an unknown reason anywhere on the highway raises one’s annoyance level to ten. “F-fuck.”

  “Hey.”

  AC glanced over. “Hi.”

  “We’re stopped.” Carlton stretched. His erection partway down the blanket was obvious.

  “Yeah.” AC tried not to stare.

  “I’d like to kiss you.”

  “H-huh?”

  Carlton leaned over. �
��I was dreaming we kissed. Could we?”

  AC wondered if he had coffee breath. “I g-g-guess s-s-so.”

  “You’re cute.” Carlton moved in. He smelled like cigarettes. AC didn’t hate it.

  The kiss took a while. Carlton wasn’t at all shy or reserved as his lips tasted AC’s lips and his hard cock ground into AC’s hip.

  “That was nice,” Carlton said, once his tongue was back in his own mouth. “You’re cute.”

  “I kn-know.”

  “You do, do you?” Carlton smirked.

  “N-no. I m-meant you s-s-said that a-a-alrea-already.”

  “Young. I’m probably old enough to be your grandfather. At least an uncle. Want to jerk off?”

  AC was…What was the feeling, he wondered, when the blanket went flying back and Carlton’s thick hard-on was on display. Surprised was fitting, but definitely not in a bad way, not angry or repulsed, not even slightly.

  “Want to touch it?”

  AC did. He wanted to swallow it.

  “You’re cute. Come on, jerk me off.” Carlton held out his hand for AC to take.

  AC hesitated. He wanted to, man did he want to. “C-c-c-Carl-t-ton? D-d-do you kn-know who I am?”

  “AC. You’re driving us to a show.” Carlton started stroking himself. He was stroking fast and hard, already onto the offramp toward the final destination. That was the driving metaphor AC used in his mind.

  “D-d-did you t-t-take a s-s-sleeping p-pill?” AC had a feeling.

  “I did. Why? Hurry up. I’m going to come.”

  “G-g-go ahead.” AC couldn’t help but listen. He decided against participating and wasn’t really sure about watching. In the end, however, he couldn’t help but do that, too.

  “Fuck!” The finish came quickly and loud. Anyone awake in the back likely heard it. AC was hard. He had his hands down his shorts, but that was as far as he went, before the car ahead moved forward about a foot, and he had to follow suit.

  Carlton looked down at his undershirt, once he stopped pumping and twitching. He was covered in cum, the shirt, his fist, all up one arm and in the hair on his chest and belly. He’d shot quite far.