Sorrow

by Tiffanie DeBartolo

  Cal was peering at me, rapt. “Jesus.”

  “I guess he felt bad after that. A couple days later he sent me an e-mail apologizing and asking me to come back, but I never responded to it.” I shrugged, stared down into my glass. “He sold the company a few months later, retired to Vail, and no doubt wrote me off as another dead son. We haven’t spoken since.”

  “Damn, Harp. I’m sorry to hear that. Really. What about Ingrid? How’s she doing?”

  “Happily remarried and living in Texas. She’s going to flip when she hears we’ve reconnected.”

  We finished eating, ordered more beer, and Cal fixed me with his eyes. “Do you ever think about it?” he said. “Playing music, I mean? Do you ever wish you’d come to Brooklyn?”

  I bit the inside of my cheek and ran my thumb along the metal edge of the table, pressing it into the pointy, ninety-degree angle of the corner until it hurt.

  “Every day,” I mumbled.

  Cal looked crushed when I told him that, and right away I wished I’d lied.

  “What about now?” he said, his brow furrowed, concerned. “You’re happy, right?”

  “Happy?” It was like I didn’t even understand the question. Then a vision of October making breakfast in my T-shirt flashed before my eyes and I smiled, but the magnitude of that insight racked me with guilt and dread.

  “Marriage? Kids?” Cal asked.

  “Not even close.”

  “You seeing anybody?”

  I shook my head. “Broke up with someone a couple months ago. Haven’t really had time since I got this job.”

  Cal and I closed the pub down that night, and even though Casa Diez was less than two miles away, I didn’t think I could drive up the dark, winding road to get there as shit-faced as I was. I suggested we walk home, but Cal didn’t think he’d make it. He called October and asked her if she would come and get us.

  We sat on the curb laughing at everything funny and not funny, the way only intolerably drunk people do, finding it uproarious that we’d never ended up shit-faced and stranded in high school but were doing it as adults.

  October arrived to find us on the sidewalk, FaceTiming with Ingrid. Cal had grabbed my phone and called her, and despite the fact that he’d woken her up, she started to laugh and cry as soon as she recognized him.

  October ordered us into the car.

  “I’m talking to Harp’s mom!” Cal shouted.

  October seemed irritated, and I took my phone from Cal and told Ingrid we had to go.

  “You boys be careful,” Ingrid said, just like she used to when we were teenagers. “And have fun.”

  Cal got in the front seat and I hopped in the back. I could see October’s mouth, straight and livid in the rearview mirror.

  “Baby, you saved us,” Cal slurred. He leaned in and kissed her neck as she drove, and I closed my eyes to avoid seeing Cal’s sloshy displays of affection, until I heard October say, “Stop it, Chris. You smell like a frat house.”

  Cal turned around and whispered, “I think we’re in trouble.” Then he leaned toward October. “Don’t be mad. I love you so much.”

  October met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “How much did he have to drink?”

  “Maybe four beers,” I said. It had actually been six or seven, but I decided to round down for Cal’s benefit.

  “Four? Jesus, Joe. He doesn’t normally drink that much, you know.”

  I wanted to tell her I knew that about him long before she did, but instead I slumped down into my seat and stopped meeting her eyes in the mirror.

  Cal was still chuckling under his breath, mumbling about being in trouble. Then he started going on about how beautiful and amazing his girlfriend was, pressing me to agree with him. “Isn’t she beautiful, Harp? Isn’t she amazing? Even when she’s pissed.”

  I didn’t know if it was all the beer, Cal’s questions, or October’s serpentine driveway, but I felt like I was going to throw up.

  Back at the house, October asked me to help her get Cal inside. As we walked him to the bedroom, Diego followed behind us while Cal continued droning on. “I’m so happy to see you, Harp,” and “You’re still my best friend, Harp,” and “I missed you, Harp.”

  October got Cal to lie down, I took off his shoes, and by then he was out cold.

  I stepped out of the room and the dog shadowed me. October turned off the lights, followed us into the hallway, and shut the bedroom door behind her.

  In the kitchen she sat down at the table, rubbed her temples with the meaty parts of her little palms, and let out a long, mystified sigh. Diego dropped to the floor beside her, clattering like a bag of bones.

  “So, you’re the illustrious Harp,” October said.

  I didn’t know why I was still standing there. I didn’t want to be in that kitchen with her, but I didn’t want to be alone either. I felt a quiet rage building up inside of my chest, and the longer I stood there, the angrier I got, though I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what I was angry about. Too many possibilities.

  “Joe . . .” Her eyes welled up with tears. “I didn’t know. Obviously.” She paused. “He cares about you so much. We can’t—”

  I pounded on the counter to stop her from talking. She and Diego both jumped.

  “I know we can’t, OK?” The volume and tone of my voice surprised me. “You don’t need to say it, because I know.”

  We looked at each other, and my regret was as dense and as dark as the forest behind the house. Then something dawned on me, something that flipped my anger over to the other side. The other side of anger, I have discovered over the course of my life, is a deep, dark sadness.

  “That was his sweatshirt, wasn’t it?”

  October looked at me, puzzled.

  “The day we met, you were wearing this old, ratty sweatshirt, and I remember thinking, That looks like the sweatshirt Cal used to wear. It was his, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t even know who you’re talking about when you call him Cal.”

  “Well, that’s what I call him, so get used to it.”

  “Hey.” She raised her eyes but lowered her voice. “Don’t speak to me like that. This is hard for me too.”

  I shook my head and turned to leave, but when I got to the door I stopped, spun back around. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me who your boyfriend was?”

  Her brow rose sharply. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you grew up in Mill Valley?” I had no good answer to that question, but it didn’t matter, because she didn’t wait for one. “Besides,” she went on, “I figured you knew. Everybody knows. All you have to do is search Chris’s name on the internet and you’d find out in two seconds.”

  “I haven’t been able to search his name on the internet in ten years.”

  I saw recognition on her face then. And pity. Cal had told her too much. All the things I’d tried to hide, she already knew. I could see them coming to her in flashes like a slide show blinking inside her mind.

  She tilted her head to the side, and in the warmest voice she whispered, “Wait . . . you play guitar. . . .” There was a pause. Then, “And your brother. Something happened to your brother. . . .”

  She stood up and started to come toward me, but I backed away and walked out the door without saying goodbye.

  Back in my apartment, I opened my laptop and, against my better judgment, typed “Chris Callahan” into my web browser and pressed “Return.”

  October was right. One of the first images that came up was a picture of the two of them walking hand and hand down some charming street in Brooklyn. It must have been winter, because they had on scarves and hats and heavy coats. The caption read: Musician Chris Callahan and his girlfriend-of-the-moment, performance artist October Danko, out and about in Williamsburg.

  In another shot they were walking through SFO. October was holding a book and l
ooking up at Cal—he towered over her—and she was smiley and bright. She loved him; I could see it. Or at least she had loved him. Of course she had. Surely she still did. Why wouldn’t she?

  I spent hours scrolling through photos, watching videos, and reading interviews and articles that had been written about Cal. I found pictures of him rubbing elbows with just about every musical hero he and I ever had, and he didn’t look out of place in any of them.

  I also discovered that not long after they started dating, he and October had collaborated on an exhibit for a gallery in Brooklyn. Something about painting to music. All the songs were original; Cal was writing them on the spot, stream of consciousness, while October interpreted them on canvas. The paintings were then auctioned off, along with a vinyl pressing of the music Cal had created, and some of them sold for more than I’d made in the last three years combined.

  I read about Cal’s ex-wife too, a fashion designer, Anna Holland. According to a few gossip blogs, Cal and Anna had married impulsively in Las Vegas after knowing each other for only a few weeks. The marriage ended on account of Cal having an affair with the daughter of an old British rock star. From my research, it was clear that Cal had a weakness for beautiful women, and I had to admit it made me feel a little better knowing that even Cal could fall prey to human foible.

  But getting lost in the internet life of Chris Callahan only sunk me deeper. Drunk, exhausted, and woozy, I got in the shower and turned it on as hot as I could stand it, hoping it would sober me up and burn away the weight of the day.

  As the water ran down my face, I thought about how funny Cal had been sitting on the curb talking to Ingrid, and it made me laugh all over again. But then a switch flipped and I started to cry. Hard tears. I hadn’t even cried like that when Sam died, and I guess I’d built up quite a reserve, because I couldn’t stop; after a while I couldn’t tell if it was the scalding water or the tears that were burning my skin.

  When I finally got into bed, I had a dream that Cal was a centaur. His top half looked like him only younger, the age he was when I’d last seen him; the bottom half was a shiny, buckskin-colored horse. In the dream I was chasing Cal through Muir Woods. He was dodging trees, weaving in and out of the brush; as he galloped up the Dipsea Trail, I cut him off and we came face to face at the top of a hill. I had a hat on like Robin Hood and a bow and arrow in my hands; I yelled for Cal to stop, to freeze, but he kept running, and without blinking I pulled back the bow and let the arrow fly.

  I shot him clean through the chest, but then, in a weird twist, I woke up clutching my own heart, trying to catch my breath.

  TWELVE.

  It was almost noon and I was still in bed when I heard footsteps on the stairs up to my apartment. I had a headache the size of El Capitan, my eyes burned like someone had poured gasoline in them, and the only reason I got up and went to the door was because Cal wouldn’t stop pounding on it.

  “I know you’re in there, Harpo! Get your ass up!”

  I opened the door and he smiled and said, “We’re neighbors! How awesome is this?”

  It was the best and worst thing imaginable.

  “You look as bad as I felt this morning, my friend.” He handed me a mug, and for one second I anticipated the rich, soothing salvation of coffee. But the mug was cold and contained a thick green sludge. “Avocado and spinach smoothie. Really good for a hangover.”

  It smelled like the compost bin in the backyard. I carried it to the kitchen, set it in the sink, and went about making coffee while Cal poked around my room. He had come over to tell me he was having a dinner party that evening and insisted I come.

  “Does October know you’re inviting me?” As soon as the words fell from my mouth, I worried the question might seem suspicious. I added, “I mean, I’m just an employee.”

  He was inspecting a book on my nightstand called The Forest Unseen. “Fuck off,” he said, skimming the back cover. “You’re family, you nerd.”

  I told Cal I didn’t think I would feel comfortable around a bunch of people I didn’t know, but he said it was going to be a small group and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  “I’m only in town for a week and a half, then back on tour for a couple more months. I want us to hang out as much as possible. Plus, it’s Sunday. What else do you have to do?”

  After Cal left, I drank some coffee and played guitar for a couple hours. It felt good to make sounds that communicated all the feelings I had inside me, feelings I didn’t know how to express any other way. That was the reason I’d picked up the guitar in the first place. Because there were chords and notes that, when I played them, made me feel as though I was expressing emotions for which I had no other language.

  When my fingers got too tired to keep moving, I walked into town to get my truck. I stopped at Equator for more coffee, sat and read a while, and then went into a clothing store down the street and bought a new shirt to wear to dinner. It was black with thin white stripes, and I thought it would make me feel better around Cal and his friends. Cal’s clothes were a lot nicer than they used to be. He still wore jeans and T-shirts, but they were the expensive kind now.

  Before I headed home, I ducked into Mill Valley Market and picked up a bottle of tequila that I spent way too much on, but I didn’t think it was right to show up to a dinner party empty-handed and figured I was going to need it to get through the night.

  By the time I got back to the house, a long dining table had been set up in the yard. I was sure October had been the one to decorate it, because it looked like the dinner table of a gypsy princess. Gardenias floated in long rectangular boxes all the way down the middle of the table, and the scent they gave off mingled with the scent of redwood, eucalyptus, and jasmine so that the air smelled like some sort of sexy heaven. Candles and leaves and more flowers were strewn around colorful, mismatched plates and glasses, and strands of lights illuminated the trees. The yard could have doubled as the set of a hip A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  More candles lined the path to the front door, and I worried about Diego knocking them over and catching the place on fire, but I looked closer and saw they were the same candles the brewpub had on the table the night before. Of course, battery-powered candles made perfect sense in the middle of a forest, but they made my heart clench up like a fist. I felt as if they somehow represented me. The safe kind of fire. Or, rather, no real fire at all. October was all sparkles and warmth. Cal was combustion. I was that fake flame. And trust me when I say it hurts to be a spirit inside a body that yearns to burn far hotter and brighter than it actually does.

  I went back to my apartment, took a shower, shaved, and then headed across the yard. I could see October through the kitchen window. She was ripping up lettuce with her hands, tossing it into a big wooden salad bowl.

  I hesitated to approach, nervous to talk to her after how I’d left the previous night. But she looked up and, with a weary expression, gestured for me to come in.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey yourself.”

  I set the tequila on the counter and she thanked me, but she didn’t say anything else. She was slicing a tomato with a knife that had a white blade.

  “I was a shithead last night, wasn’t I?”

  She put the knife down and sighed. “Can we not talk about last night? I just want to get through this dinner in one piece.”

  She was obviously still sad or mad, and completely on edge. But despite all of that she looked so stunning it was hard for me to be in the same room with her. She was wearing a long, pale-colored dress that had wooden beads embroidered around the neckline. Her feet were bare, and the dress dragged on the floor behind her, making it seem as though she were floating around the kitchen when she walked. She had on shimmery earrings that hung down to her shoulders, and stacks of bracelets on her wrists jingled like tambourines as she sliced.

  “You look pretty,” I mumbled, h
oping to allay her a bit.

  She turned toward me, her eyes fierce, and said, “Pretty is the lazy way to describe a woman.”

  I laughed hard. I couldn’t help it. Every woman I’ve ever dated has all but begged me to tell her how pretty she was, and here was this one chastising me for it.

  October laughed then too, and the mood softened.

  “I’m glad you came, Joe.”

  She chopped up a handful of mint, turned to the stove, lifted a hefty, cone-shaped lid off of a big clay pot, and stirred whatever was inside. It smelled like garlic, cinnamon, and rich, stewed meat.

  “Moroccan lamb curry,” she said when she saw me eyeing it. She scooped up a small bite with a wooden spoon, sprinkled a pinch of the mint on top, and held it out to me with her tiny palm cupped under the spoon. “Here. Be my taste tester.”

  She didn’t hold the spoon out very far, and I had to get way too close to her to reach it—so close we were almost-but-not-quite touching—the kind of closeness where you might as well be touching because your energies or whatever you call them are overlapping like some spiritual Venn diagram. I could feel her body as if she were pressing it against mine, even though I was still a few inches away.

  I tasted the curry and took two steps back.

  “It’s good,” I said.

  She offered me a sad smile. “I like your shirt.”

  As soon as she said it, I realized it wasn’t Cal’s friends for whom I’d made an effort. It was for October. I wanted her to notice me above the others at the party. But then I felt guilty for thinking that and wanting that; to distract myself from those feelings, I asked after Cal’s whereabouts, only for the first time in my life I called him Chris so as not to annoy her.

  “He took Diego for a walk. He’ll be right back. There’s beer in the fridge. Oh, and an antipasto plate up there if you’re hungry.” She pointed to the top of the refrigerator. “Do me a favor and grab it down.”