Gargoyles Read Online Free Page A

going to tell anybody,” Tyler said.
    â€œLook,” said Bab, folding the piece of paper and putting it in his shirt pocket, “we’re being
nice
to you, right?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œI mean we’re just all good humans here so just don’t tell anyone, ’cause we’ll get hurt, okay?”
    â€œI really won’t.”
    â€œGood. Thanks.” Bab looked at him closely. “How old are you anyway? Fourteen?”
    â€œSixteen.”
    â€œYou want a ride back to the lake?”
    â€œNo, not yet. I can’t. Quite yet.” Tyler hesitated then told them why, and they laughed, but not unsympathetically. Lawrence gave him a little squeeze on the shoulder, and then Frisbeed the tin of balm onto his lap as he walked past.
    When Tyler asked if they lived here all the time, he was told it was their “summer residence,” and that they farm — their word — here in the summer and tour in the winter. Lawrence then explained that “toured” sounded grandiose, that actually it was more travelling than touring, meaning playing music and getting paid for it. They always went to warm places. They’d recorded an early independent album and in the last decade two CDs but, no, there’s no way Tyler would have heard of them. But Bab passed him a CD case and there they were on the cover. They were “Jones.” No, they weren’t brothers. It was a name, said Bab, “that seemed cool eighty years ago.” All this led to Tyler saying he’d love to hear their music, but with the generator down a CD was impossible, which led to them rooting around in back for what instruments they had there and, after apologizing that this wasn’t their good gear, they began to play. First they gave him a CD to keep, he has it here under his hand and he keeps picking it up and studying it. Bab and Lawrence are younger on the cover, but it’s them.
    Tyler figures he’s been gone a few hours now. Bab and Lawrence are into their second song when Tyler decides that these two are the kindest men he has ever met. They seem genuinely to like that he’s here. Bab plays guitar and Lawrence a mandolin, the sound of which Tyler describes to himself as rows of tiny angel bells. First they played “Turn, Turn, Turn,” harmonizing beautifully, softer and gentler than in the old Byrds’ song, and Bab’s guitar — he explains — is tuned to sound like a twelve-string. This second song is their own composition and it also forefronts their harmonies, which they love to perform and which are truly sweet. One of the lines in the sad chorus is, “Just another waya prayin’.”
    Tyler finishes the gigantic bowl of tortilla chips in front of him. A hand-carved, clover-shaped bowl holds three kinds of dip. The bean dip is the best he’s ever had. Lawrence insisted on heating it up a little first, saying it’s three times as good warm, something about “luring out the earth in it.” Tyler also has a glass of homemade blackberry wine in front of him. It sounded good but it isn’t and he’s had only a sip. It sits beside the full beer. Lawrence and Bab have been puffing marijuana from a small pipe, Bab offering it once with raised eyebrows but not asking again. It doesn’t seem to affect them other than they’ve stopped talking much at all and sometimes they chuckle at jokes Tyler doesn’t catch. They seem to talk with their music. Once during the last song they were staring at each other quizzically, then Bab dipped his head and did a little something with a bass string, and Lawrence laughed and said, “
That?
” and this was the only word in the conversation.
    His mother, he knows, would love them. She would. There is no doubt in Tyler’s mind that she would love these two guys. His mother would love everything in this cabin.
    They are into their fifth or sixth song when Tyler sees what