Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. The fictional band Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, the songs "Antares Red," "Interplanetary Dust," and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).

CHAPTER 47
ANTARES RED

March 17, 1995

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Hyde and Ro's House
…

Stale cigarette smoke had stuffed up Jackie's nose. The smell was embedded in Steven's house, though it was faint in the guest room. Her taste buds registered only half of the cheddar-and-chive scrambled eggs he'd made for breakfast, but her memory filled in the rest. She remembered his cooking well, and her clogged nose was a small price to pay for the exclusive time she had with him.

"Let's get some fresh air," he said after they'd eaten. With their thick coats on, he led her through the back door of his house, where a security guard was stationed. Steven wished the guard a happy St. Paddy's, and the guard wished him the same back. Steven's respectful manner was clearly appreciated. Money hadn't given him delusions of superiority, unlike her mom.

Next, he brought her across an unkempt garden, comprised mostly of feather reed grass and a juneberry tree, and they ended up at his detached garage. It was much like the Formans', only Steven's had a keypad on the side. "Welcome to Hotel Paranoia," he said and punched in a code.

The metal garage door slid open, and she said, "That would be good title for a song."

"For 'Weird Al' maybe."

The garage was expansive inside, at least twice the size of the Formans'. A black Camaro convertible was parked next to a black Eagle Talon. Beside these was a deep-red motorcycle.

"I see you eyeing the Camaro—" he patted the motorcycle seat—"but this is what we're taking. Goes with our agreement."

He passed her a motorcycle helmet. It was smooth and black and matched the cars. Fifteen years ago, she'd never have worn it, afraid of ruining her hair. But she despised her hair as it was now, blond and not her. "Our agreement includes me dying with you on a motorcycle?"

"Been riding this thing for ten years. No accidents."

"Famous last words."

He was holding a helmet similar to hers, and he put it on the motorcycle seat. "You know the song 'Antares Red'?"

She did. It was on Degenerate Matter's second album, a song about trying to outride one's past. Her forehead grew icy from the inside-out as her mind ran through the lyrics: "Forced to leave 'cause I didn't stay. Forced to stay because I left." They were about her; specifically, the consequences Steven experienced because he'd abandoned her in 1979. He'd become suicidal because of that choice, one he still wouldn't explain the reason behind. He seemed to be talking to different people in the song, but the refrain was always, "Wish I had no one to stick around for."

Every year she received the Point Place High Chronicle, she used to fear his name would be on the In Memoriam list. The fact he very well could have ended up on it was too terrifying to think about. Leaving her hadn't been easy on him at all, as she once believed. It had been the hardest, most difficult decision he'd ever made.

"All right," she said, understanding his reference to the song. She'd agreed to embrace her present today, letting him be her tour guide. "But if you get us killed, I'll be really pissed."

His face brightened with laughter. He was adorable when he laughed, especially when the source was joy. He put on his helmet, which hid his face from view, but happiness rolled off him in waves. She flipped up his visor and said, "What is going on?"

"Your dedication to staying alive, man," he said. "First time I've heard it since..."

"The past," she said and put on her helmet.

Jackie's arms tightened around Steven's stomach for warmth, for security. They were driving on the interstate, and being on a motorcycle meant exposure to Minnesota's cold temperatures. The air felt even colder at the speed they were going, and she hugged herself to his back as closely as possible.

He was a steady driver. She was supposed to lean her weight into the curves, but he didn't swerve unnecessarily. And despite her nervousness, despite her mandatory close-contact with him—or, perhaps, because of it—exhilaration bubbled in her stomach. She loosened her grip on him enough to look at their surroundings. Trees and houses passed by in a blur, as did cars with Irish flags. But Steven was driving slower than he had to, for her.

They were in Saint Paul ten minutes later. She questioned why at stoplight, and his muffled voice answered, "St. Paddy's Day parade starts downtown. We'll get a good spot."

She grinned behind the visor of her helmet. Her love of parades hadn't slipped through the crevices of his memory. The last one she'd been to was three years ago, when she'd spent Thanksgiving with Brooke and Betsy.

He drove them to a quiet neighborhood on Magnolia Avenue. They parked by a copse of trees, and he walked the motorcycle into it. She followed and watched as he took care securing his bike to a magnolia tree, locking it with heavy-duty locks and chains. He concealed the bike, too, once the helmets were attached, with a cover that blended into the copse.

"Sorry it's taking me so long." He was in the midst of locking the cover and bike together. "Wouldn't care if this were a bike I'd bought, but it can't be replaced."

Jackie had gloves on, but she slid her hands into her coat pockets. Her breath puffed white as she spoke. "'Antares Red'. That's more than a song title. It's the color of your bike."

"Bingo."

She mentally went through the lyrics of the song again, and she recited the bridge: "'I'm more like you than I should be. Less like you than I wanted. Our insides exploded through the barrier, and the world suffered for it. You couldn't outride the cosmos. Cancer ate your body but not your spirit.' Who's that about?"

"My uncle."

"Chet?"

"That's the one." He backed up from the motorcycle and scrutinized his handiwork. He appeared satisfied and gave Jackie his full attention. "Bike was his. After he got out of prison, he looked me up, and he didn't give a toss we weren't blood-related. Still considered me his nephew—" His eyes flicked sideways, and his shoulders hunched. "You don't need me talking about this crap."

"It's not crap, Steven. It's your life." Her hands remained in her pockets, but the urge to touch him tightened them into fists. "If you've got more to say, I'd like to hear it."

He scratched the back of his neck with gloved fingers and looked down at his boots. Seeing him so uncomfortable pained her. When they were teens, his confidence and tranquility had partly been a put-on. But he'd grown into someone who was truly self-assured and easygoing. She wouldn't be the person who took that away from him.

"Only tell me what you want," she said. "If it's nothing, then it's nothing."

He cleared his throat. "I'd tell you everything..." He pulled a pack of gum from his pocket and popped a piece into his mouth. He was looking at her again, really looking, and she dug her heels into the ground to keep from stepping back. "But that'd make me a lousy tour guide, so here's the condensed version: Chet died of pancreatic cancer. I'd been sober almost a year, and I fell off. He left me the bike, which I didn't touch 'til I sobered up again and got my license reinstated."

"After your DUI."

"Yup."

She longed to hear more, to be let into the years she'd missed, but she kept her questions to herself as they made their way to Rice Park. It was filling with spectators but not packed. Children chased each other around the park fountain. The St. Paul Hotel rose behind it, and enthusiastic mothers snapped pictures of their kids, the fountain, and the hotel.

Each camera click tensed Jackie's stomach, and she tugged Steven's coat sleeve. "Can we stand as far away from the fountain as possible?"

"Sure." They walked west on Fifth Street, and a barrier of trees blocked both the fountain and the cameras from view. She and Steven stood between two couples, and neither had a camera. "If this ever feels claustrophobic," Steven said, "tell me. We'll find another spot or leave."

The parade wouldn't start for an hour, but the time passed quickly. She and Steven discussed seemingly inconsequential subjects, like the people going to and from the Saint Paul Hotel. Down the street, a well-dressed older white man shouted to his equally well-dressed while female companion. He sped ahead of her, the clacks of his shoes echoing on the pavement. He entered the hotel without her, and she had to open the door herself.

"I know what that was about," Jackie said.

"You do, huh?" The breeze blew Steven's hair into his face. "Let's hear it."

"They're late for an appointment or a meeting, and it's his wife's fault. She probably took too long getting ready, and he's angry at her. That would explain his rudeness."

"And—" he began to say, but the breeze became a gusty. He pulled on the back of his coat collar and stuffed his thick hair into it, but a few rebel wisps kissed his chin and cheeks. "And," he said again, "he has a younger mistress, and his wife finally agreed to have a three-way with her. But the wife didn't wan to be out-classed. That's why she took extra time gettin' ready."

She tried to respond, but the wind was wreaking havoc with her own hair. She followed his lead and stuck her too-dry and too-blond hair into the back of her coat. "Please," she said. "There is no way that woman would agree to a ménage à trois."

"They're goin' to a hotel."

"So what?"

"So what kind of meetings do people have at hotels?"

"It's not even noon!" She meant to sound exasperated, but she was giggling, and when he chuckled with her, she lost it. She laughed harder than she had in over a decade. The muscles beneath her collar bone hurt, and she pressed her forehead into his shoulder for support. Her laughter must've been contagious because his had grown exponentially, too.

When they both calmed down enough to see each other, his face was flushed, and tears dampened the corners of his eyes. Her own lashes felt wet. She wiped them with her gloved fingers and said, "We're ridiculous."

"Laughing over nothin' without a circle. We're freakin' certifiable."

She gripped his hand. "The people around us probably think we did have a circle." Her head was buzzing from lack of oxygen yet gave her a clarifying thought: the insubstantial became substantial when she was with Steven. The purposeless, purposeful. They could be giving joint commentary on a leaf dancing in the wind, and it would have significance. Maybe not for the world but for her. Her connection to him wasn't monochromatic but a prism of color, and it painted all in their path.

This had to be what embracing the present felt like, but she had no idea if she could sustain it. Or do it alone.

The first parade float finally rolled down the street. It consisted of a giant rainbow plunging into a pot of gold. A leprechaun float followed, then one with a mock-up of an Irish castle. Steven whispered sarcastic comments to her, making her giddy. She didn't have to pretend with him. She could state what she truly thought without consequence, and she defended the floats but not the outfits of people who rode on them.

An Irish pipe band soon marched past, and Steven grew silent. He nodded with the beat of the drums, as if absorbing it into his bones. He repeated the rhythm to himself, tapping it out on his chest with his fingers. "For Nate," he said after the song ended. "He'd dig that beat. Sherry and Ro would appreciate it, too. Gonna have to get a CD of an Irish pipe band."

"Am I witnessing the genesis of a new Degenerate Matter song?"she whispered. He hadn't been recognized so far, and she wouldn't change that by shouting his band's name.

"Could be."

More floats rolled by, and more people assembled on Fifth Street to watch. Someone had painted his face green. Worse, a woman had dyed her sheepdog green. The dog barked as a vendor pushed his wares through the crowd, including balloons, plastic hats, and T-shirts that said, "Kiss Me. I'm Irish."

"Ro's got a cooler version of that shirt," Steven said. "Says, 'Fuck me. I'm Scottish.'"

"I think I've had enough parade for one day," Jackie said. A troupe of Irish dancers was performing, drawing more people to the street. "It's getting too crowded."

He offered her his arm. She looped hers around it, and he led her toward freedom. "Pizza good for lunch?"

It was, and they went to a local pizzeria a few blocks away. She sat at a table close to the back while he waited for their slices to come out of the oven. She spent the time staring at her reflection in the napkin dispenser. The metal warped her face, but her hair was a mess on its own. The cold, dry air had imbued her strands with static.

"Two plain slices," Steven said when he set the food tray on the table. "You still take the cheese off?"

"Yes," she said distractedly. She'd wound a lock of her hair around her finger.

"Got you a knife and fork so you can pile it onto my plate."

"Thanks." The greasy smell of meat sharpened her focus. He'd ordered two slices of pepperoni for himself. "And you apparently still enjoy clogging your arteries."

"My cholesterol's fine." He tapped his temple. "Where did you go?"

"I hate my hair," she said and grasped her first pizza slice. It was hot, so she used a couple of napkins as a heat shield. "I keep having dreams where I cut all of it off or dye it purple. Doing something that isn't—" she shook the ends of her static-frizzed strands—"this."

He folded his slice of pizza in half and ate a bite. "So do it."

"I'd get kicked out of the Blonde Brigade."

"Or you'll set a trend, man. Get a mohawk. Wintry'll be pissed she didn't think of it first."

"Ann-Marie would call it retro, dah-ling." She scraped the cheese off her pizza onto his paper plate. "But maybe it would give her ancient husband a thrill—or a flashback to his thirties."

Steven's approving laughter calmed her turbulent mind. Burning Ann-Marie also helped, even if she weren't around to hear it. Atom-by-atom, Jackie had begun to feel more like herself, that she was safe being herself. Absent was her usual sense of pointlessness. Instead, inspiration tickled at her consciousness, an inkling that she pushed aside for now.

Jackie and Steven journeyed back to Magnolia Avenue after eating. His motorcycle was exactly as he'd left it, hidden within the copse of trees. Parade music vibrated through the air, accompanied by crowd noise, but the neighborhood was devoid of people.

"What's next?" she said once his bike was free and out in the open.

He put the chains, locks, and cover into the bike's saddle bags. "A tour of the riverfront."

Their ride back to Minneapolis was longer than their ride to Saint Paul. He had to take a few detours to avoid the parade. But the more she rode with him, the more confident she grew in his driving, and her grip on him relaxed.

The Mississippi River was a constant companion during their tour. They passed by parks and crisscrossed over bridges, but they got off the motorcycle at the Stone Arch Bridge. He pushed the bike manually and stopped at the midpoint, where they had a perfect view of the Saint Anthony Falls.

"I come here to quit thinking," he said.

She leaned against the railing and looked down. The flowing river gave her the sensation that she was the one moving. "I'm glad you have a place to go where you can. Sometimes thoughts lead nowhere."

"Or to hell."

"You don't believe in hell ... unless that's changed, too."

"It hasn't, but a guy can carry hell inside him."

Her head jerked up, and she stared at him. "Do you?

He was gazing at the falls. A barge was on its way through the upper lock, and he didn't answer until the barge disappeared. "Dante's hell had nine circles. Mine has less."

"Do you carry any heaven?" Because if all he had inside him was hell, then she had no hope whatsoever.

"Plenty." He turned toward her. "Time I'm spending here with you qualifies."

"Don't say that."

"I'm not bullshitting you, man. The right company changes everything."

Rusty gears tumbled from her heart. It was beating too fast, and she said, "I need a salon."

"What?"

She clutched the ends of her hair with both hands. "I have to do something about this."

"There's a place ten minutes from where I live. It's where me and Ro get our hair cut. Don't know if you'll like it, though."

"Why not?"

"It's punk rock."

"Do they accept walk-ins?"

"Far as I know."

"Then take me there."

He did—almost. He parked his motorcycle two blocks from the salon. "Got to drop you off and pick you up here," he said and pointed her in the right direction. "I'll stick around for a few minutes in case you can't find the place. But I can't risk bein' spotted. Like I said, they know me there."

She didn't question his caution. All the hair stylists she knew were gossips.

"Call me up when you're almost done, and I'll get my ass out the door." He secured her helmet onto the back of the bike. "What're you having done anyway? So I have some kind of time-frame."

"Not much. It's needs a trim. I'm overdue. If we're going to that club tonight, I have to look somewhat presentable." A blast of wind stung her cheeks, even as they heated up. "You probably think I'm insane. Of course, I've given you plenty of other reasons to think that already..."

"Not insane. Nice. Reminds me of old times."

"When I was insane?"

A silent laugh escaped him, but he fidgeted with the visor of the helmet she'd worn. "When you took care of yourself."

She shivered. The cold Minneapolis air had sneaked in through the collar of her coat, and she couldn't respond properly to him. Her past was clambering up her spine, threatening to ruin the day, and she rushed off to the salon.

Hyde had his Martin acoustic-electric guitar on his lap. He was at home, working on a song in the jam room, and waiting for Jackie's call. He'd dropped her off two hours ago. Unless she'd had to wait for a stylist, she should've been done by now.

He considered calling the salon, but his phone rang before he could. He picked it up, and Donna's voice greeted him.

She was in Melbourne, Australia with Degenerate Matter. With Ro. He listened while she told him about the band's latest gig, and she said, "My first feature for Bad Radio is coming out on Tuesday. This Tuesday. I can't believe it!"

"That's great, man. Hope it kills Come On and its ilk."

"Oh, it will. The fans are gonna love it, too, learning about you and Ro through the music you make."

"Speakin' of Ro," he said and pushed his guitar pick into his thumb, "how's she doing?"

"Not talkative. Since you left, she's … well, she's reminding me of how you used to be."

He intended to ask a follow-up question, but the phone beeped. Jackie had to be on the other line. "Donna, I've got to take that. Tell Ro—hell, tell her nothin'. She won't listen anyway."

"Will do."

He clicked to the other line. "Hello?"

"It's Jackie. I'm just about ready to be picked up."

"From what?" he said. "You took so long I thought you'd been abducted by a punk-rock cult."

"Just come get me."

She sounded tense, but she'd left him for the salon without even a wave. "Be there in a few," he said, "and sorry for what I said earlier."

"What are you talking about?"

"Sayin' how you used to take care of yourself. It came off like a crack. It wasn't. I—"

"It's fine," she said, whispering. "We react to what we know about each other. That's all we can do until the blanks are filled in. I'll see you soon."

She hung up, and he tossed his pick across the room. His answers were too fucked-up for her to have. Keeping her safe meant some of the gaps between them would never close, and he hoped she could live with that.

Hyde drove his Camaro, rather than his motorcycle, to the rendezvous point. Jackie wouldn't appreciate mashing her freshly-styled hair into a helmet. Then again, maybe she wouldn't care. The Jackie he'd dated would've thrown a fit. But this Jackie, his friend, might acquiesce to the situation in silence. Or react in a way he couldn't predict.

Down the block, a woman he didn't recognize strode toward the Camaro. Her brunette hair fanned out behind her in the wind, and she had on a pair of shades.

His shades, the aviators from the seventies, and she was wearing Jackie's coat.

"Holy shit," he said and opened the passenger-side door for her. She slipped inside and faced him, and his pulse tightened as she removed the shades. She appeared so damn different—and not just because of her hair. The difference went deeper. It was in her eyes, her fundamental self.

"You're staring," she said and poked his cheek, "and grinning."

His skin tingled where she'd touched him, so did the corner of his mouth. "Just takin' in the change."

She exhaled a heavy breath. "I don't know what'll happen when I go back home. Maybe this is a step backward, but I can't be blond anymore. I just can't."

"Man, it's not a step backward. It's a step forward, to yourself. Even if you came out of the salon with an antares-red mohawk, it would be the same. 'Cause it's what you wanted to do."

She looked at herself in the rearview mirror. Her hair was slightly curled, and she combed her fingers through it, but her gaze seemed to shift to his reflection. "Ro's lucky to have found you," she said. "To have someone who loves people as they are."

"I'm lucky she found me." He'd been a stellar remnant when he met Ro, floating aimlessly through space.

"You can start the car," Jackie said with almost no affect, but she should've been celebrating.

"Don't disappear on me," he said.

Her face turned toward the passenger-side window. "I don't want to."

"What touched you off?"

"I don't know."

"Want me to help you come back?"

"If you can."

He could've used a glass of water, but he hummed the opening riff to "Interplanetary Dust" and sang the first lyrics softly: "You gave me a home when all I had was dust. Your gravity grounded me when I was used to drifting."

He skipped to the chorus, singing, "This dust I carry ain't nothin'. It came from death. But it reforms into new life, stars and planets I call home, a solar system of my own."

Jackie leaned her head on his shoulder, and his arm slid around her. She sang the bridge herself, practically whispering: "Have no clue what to do. Have no clue. No one will show me. Have no clue what to do! Need someone to show me. If I gave you the truth, would I be giving you up? Because honesty could make you give up. Oh, please, let me be true. I want to be true ... without losing you."

His arm tightened around her, and his cheek pressed against the top of her head. She wouldn't lose him, not unless she asked him to go, because he couldn't lose her either. Not again.