by Cat Bruno
“What did you study?”
He had declined coffee when I asked, yet now Mickey stood and prepared himself a cup. On his way back to the bed, he answered, “Philosophy. So you can understand why I had little choice but to become a musician.”
“Your parents must be wealthy,” I mused.
With a nod, he said, “You must know the type.”
“I was the orphaned kid getting by on loans and scholarships at a liberal arts school teeming with rich suburban kids in luxury sedans. Yeah, I know the type. But they were cool, and I enjoyed my years in college.”
Mickey and I talked of our pasts, our memories of childhood and beyond. However, neither of us dared ask about the future. His quiet acceptance that I could not talk about what would come made me love him a second time. The closest he came was when he inquired about the photography feature.
“My editor hopes to have it in print next month. Technically, my deadline is in six weeks, but it’s a soft number. I have thousands of images to go through and a few more weeks to shoot, but I believe I have done some of my best work on this series.”
His chin hung low and his hair shaded his gray-blue eyes as he asked, “Do you think we were supposed to meet?”
The question had been unexpected and softly spoken, as if he knew it to be trite, and I hesitated.
“I feel as if I know you, Dandelion,” he admitted.
Again, I could say nothing, but watched as he ran his hand through his hair with a nervous twitch.
“Shit, man, I must sound like some sort of flake.”
The coffee had woken me up and countered some of the effects of the bourbon, and I watched him with amusement. Of all the pieces on the board, he reminded me of the bishop, gentle and forgotten. A warden so to speak.
“Would it help if I told you that I didn’t want you to leave the bar?” I gently asked.
That smile again. I crumbled, but not enough for him to notice.
“Hell yeah that would help! You’ve got me over here blabbering about kismet while you sip at some cheap, hotel-room coffee!”
After I set the empty mug onto the desk, I stepped toward him and sat across his lap, facing him with unmoving eyes.
“What is fate to the gods?” I asked.
Had I had sex with him that night, too much would have changed. Oh, I wanted to. The longing I felt in that hotel room was more than physical. My hands hung at my sides, halfway off the bed and clenching the white-feathered comforter. My lips swelled as he kissed them, and my eyes blazed with the heat of hell’s punishing fires.
Nemesis watched me, hovering just behind Mickey as he reached to unbutton my shirt.
“Not yet,” I begged.
She flittered there, cast in the shadows of the lamp’s rays, with her stone parchment in hand, waiting to see if she must add me to her list.
I have done no wrong! I silently screamed across the room as I climbed from Mickey’s lap. Only when I lay at his side, clothed and chaste, did the goddess depart.
“In this lifetime, the wheels of time have been misaligned,” I whispered as he curled next to me. “We must wait, my love.”
He did not speak, not the rest of the night. With the sunrise, we woke. I promised to attend his show in Columbus, but his haunted smile remained.
“If you’d rather I not, just send word,” I offered weakly.
“Can I walk you to your car?” he asked.
I had overheard his conversation with one of his bandmates and knew that they had come to pick him up, which forced me to decline his offer. As Mickey slowly walked through the automatic doors, I dropped into a geometrically-designed chair positioned near an oversized fireplace in the lobby. From there, I observed him climb into the van, but dropped my gaze before they pulled away. It was the second time that I could not bare to watch as he left me.
On my way back to the car, I stopped outside a café with fading paint and a half-lit sign that hung unevenly from a metallic chain. It wasn’t even nine yet, but I ordered a whiskey with my breakfast and ignored the waitress’s questioning glance. As I waited, I motioned a busboy to my table and asked him in a hushed tone if he knew where I could get some heroin. For once, I looked the part, in my slept-in, rocker clothing and smeared make-up.
Before answering, he looked around to make sure no one listened.
“Over in Avondale. I’ve heard some people hang out there around Woodward Park.”
“Woodward Park,” I mumbled as I handed him a twenty.
Later, after I had photographed several drug deals taking place openly underneath lush trees, I made my way back to the car. I scrolled through the images, no longer amazed that I had been able to find what I needed within two hours. In several of the images, the small bags of heroin could be seen. In others, they were hidden in envelopes or brown paper, although any with a discerning eye or interest in local news would be keen to what occurred here. During my time at the park, I had spied no uniformed police officers. To be honest, I cared little that day. I did my job with the same increasing edge of discontent that I had always despised. The photographs reflected my apathy, but they would complement the feature. Faceless, nameless, and brightly lit by a high, morning sun.
More than anything, though, the images had given me a reason to visit Cincinnati and provide a clear paper trail of my actions.
On the way home, I turned on my cell phone and remembered that I was to be married soon. For the next few hours, I pretended that it was not William who I was marrying.
The Moon Kings
Todd Scott, the Gazette’s entertainment editor, was better at his job than most people who worked at the paper, and I was not surprised when I saw Mickey’s silhouette shadowed across Todd’s weekend feature. Todd and I would get lunch a few times a month, and I approached his desk with as much neutrality as I could manage.
“You going to the show tonight?” I asked.
“Jess and I are going. I have some extra tickets if you’d like to come.”
Despite being part of an industry that flourished on flattery and false promises, Todd always spoke without artifice. His writing, however, have garnered him awards across categories and locations, almost as if he had another persona when his pen was in his hand. Some found him to be too gruff, yet I quite liked his dry humor and irreverent nature. None questioned his authority or opinion, and if he praised a band or film, their management would breathe a sigh of relief. Which of course made me ask what he thought of the Moon Kings.
Setting his glasses on his laptop, Todd moaned.
“That bad?” I laughed.
“Oh not really. They have acquired a pretty big following among the college crowd; you know, the ones who have no job and no responsibilities. And think if they make it to class after a night of partying that they have been successful. Musically, the band is pretty decent, and their drummer is one of the best. The lead singer has a strange charm, but rarely gives interviews. In fact, I’ve never spoken to him.”
“His name came up when I started the heroin story,” I admitted with some truth. “But he has not publicly addressed his addiction, so I had to leave it alone.”
“That surprises me,” Todd quipped. “I imagined him to be more straight edge. His lyrics, most of which he writes himself, make no mention of it. He was some sort of genius, but dropped out of college.”
Sarcasm mixed with contempt in Todd’s words, but I took no offense and laughed, “Another tortured mind with a microphone.”
“Newport is pretty open to the press. You won’t need a ticket if you decide to go, but, here, take a few. Give them out if you’d like.”
As Todd searched through a pile of tickets, I told him that I wasn’t certain of my plans. I had checked the burner phone several times, yet had not heard from Mickey, not since Cincinnati.
“Damn,” Todd sighed as his fingers tapped quickly across his laptop. “Jess decided to leave early for her trip. She was supposed to shoot the show tonight.”
“I’ll cov
er it,” I interjected with uncontrolled enthusiasm.
Todd’s wrinkled brow framed skeptical eyes as he glanced over the top of his screen to look at me.
“I have been following heroin addicts around for two weeks. I’d welcome the break before I head to Cleveland tomorrow.”
My explanation was believable enough, and we made plans to meet later that evening. William had a dinner to attend, one that I should accompany him to, but a work assignment would be a credible excuse to skip it. In truth, I doubted that he would miss my presence much, as he’d be occupied trying to impress whatever politician they were honoring. He had told me the name, but my thoughts were elsewhere since my return, enough so that he had mentioned it twice. The feature was to blame, or so I said. To be honest, the timing was so that I could have gone to the dinner with him and still made it to the concert, yet I did not voice the option. Even when I knew that he would visit Elizabeth that evening. It mattered little.
Each time he slept with her, the scales slanted lower, and his death came swifter.
As I drove home from the office, Toby called.
“Did you forget we have that meeting with the bakery at 3:30?”
“I’m on my way there now,” I lied, intentionally unconvincing.
“You are the most disinterested bride I’ve ever worked with Dani,” he scolded me with as much malice as he could fake.
Again I blamed my job.
“Look, Dandelion, I know how it is. My cousin died of an overdose last year, and he was someone I had grown up with. For my own sanity, I had to stop hanging out with him simply because I didn’t want to be the one who found his dead body.”
Toby cut me off when I began to apologize and told me he’d see me at the bakery. My life had begun to feel like a pendulum, swinging back and forth between wedding plans and heroin. The last images recorded on my camera had been of a thin man, his arms heavily tattooed with black outlines, reaching for a small bag clutched underneath another man’s bony fingers. Both had appeared underfed and sickly, and, now, I was parking outside an upscale bakery where perfectly round cakes and specialty cookies lined the windows in a shimmery display of spring’s bounty. From hell to heaven and back again, I bounced. The sensation was dizzying, and I entered the bakery in an unearthly daze.
A yellow-capped teen greeted me in a voice that sounded of canaries. After muttering that I had an appointment to sample wedding cakes, she hopped off to find her boss. Before either could return, Toby arrived.
“I sort of remembered,” I shrugged as he fluttered in.
“You’re here, which is good enough.”
As I mentioned before, I quite liked Toby. He was dramatic in the ways that one should be if your profession is party planning. His clothing was never anything but fitted and fine, accentuating his narrow hips and his naturally defined arms. He had the shape of an athlete, which I had noticed the first time we met, comparing him to a bronze statue of a Greek man I had photographed at a California museum. The Victorious Youth – it had been called – bears a remarkable similarity to Toby, despite the centuries between them. Toby spoke to nearly everyone in a tone that combined boredom with expectation, an odd mixture that often ended with him getting whatever he wanted. Charm and wit smelled sweet against his skin, as if he had bathed in the scents each morning. Aside from William, who neither liked nor disliked him, I had not once noticed any who did not smile in Toby’s presence.
Like Hermes, I suddenly thought as I watched him tease the young bakery staff. A divine, lovable luck-bringer, and, as I recalled, the messenger of the gods. With his staff in hand, Hermes was said to have separated two serpents locked in battle, forcing them apart and into peace. I smiled as I pictured Toby with a draping robe, cut short to reveal his sculpted legs and winged boots. Around him, an undamaged temple stood, centuries removed from the ruins it would become. He poured wine from a long-necked jug onto an altar, in tribute to the gods above. Or perhaps he sent them word of how the mortals under his watch behaved.
Did he watch me just the same, I wondered?
But Toby carried no such wand; instead he waved his cell phone at me, ushering me to follow behind the cotton-haired bakery owner.
“I hear your raspberry crème is to die for!” Toby exclaimed.
“But wait until you taste the lemon custard-filled cake. The recipe is nearly 200 years old!”
While the two chatted, I swayed behind them, hovering somewhere between the Greek temple and the Columbus bakery, only coming forth on the other side when Toby called out to me.
“You wanted something two-toned, Dandelion?”
“Something white and gold,” I murmured, remembering the gold-winged helm that the gods wore shining against their whitened gowns.
Toby’s face showed his surprise.
“I like it!” he declared. “Five layers, with alternating shades of gold and white. And perhaps some blush flowers at the top. In delicate calligraphy, I’d like to see their initials intertwined somewhere in the middle.”
“Or the groom’s last name,” the woman suggested.
“Hamilton,” I piped in. “His last name is Hamilton.” Then, to Toby, I said, “Instead of the orange bridesmaid dresses, what about gold? Ancient and modern. Let’s just go all in.”
Again, he paused to stare at me as if I shocked him again.
“Oh, I can see it, yes. White and gold with accents of dusty rose. Finally you have come around.”
His approval was clear, and I let him believe my interest and excitement were genuine.
Over the next hour, we sampled more cakes than I can remember before deciding on a traditional vanilla-almond filling. The sections of gold would be mixed with luster, an expensive addition but more striking than a simple gold leaf design. Edible sequins would add an extra effect, polishing the cake until it shone, the owner promised. Once the final details were completed, I hurried home, unaware that selecting a cake would have taken so much of the day. Toby called again, and I assured him that I would meet with him the next morning to pick out new bridesmaid options.
By the time I had showered and dressed, William had arrived home.
“Oh, hey,” I yelled from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around my hair. “The concert I need to cover doesn’t start until late, so I can attend the dinner for a few hours.”
I had decided while at the bakery to make a better effort at improving my relationship with William. Maybe it was wedding fever or some sense of reason returning. But the fires of hope began to slowly smolder. He was not a terrible man; he was just in love with another woman. Meeting Mickey allotted me sympathy for how uncontrollable our passions can be. Love might come and go a hundred times throughout the span of a lifetime. At times, it might be fleeting and temporary, just a short glance at someone who catches our eyes. Or maybe it will last a lifetime, unrequited and unfulfilled. We love and lose, live and die, and still we will be forgotten moments in the billions of years of existence.
Let me try to make this marriage work, I thought to myself with some truth; uncertain how much existed and how my attempts might be reciprocated.
“There will be hundreds of guests in attendance. You won’t be missed,” he called back as he made himself a drink in the kitchen. “Enjoy your night, honey, and I’ll see you after midnight.”
I wanted to go with him, which had come as a surprise after the last few days, but I did not argue. Wrapping a towel around me, I shuffled to the kitchen to kiss his cheek before hurrying to the bedroom. There, I sifted through clothing as I searched for something that would not arouse suspicion from anyone. Twenty minutes later, I wore black jeans and a sleeveless, flowing top that hung past the back pockets. The shirt’s shade was dark gray and uneven, reminiscent of a rising storm across a scattered sky. After pulling my damp hair back into a knot at my neck, I applied a bit of foundation to my cheeks and neck. Mascara and a stroke of bronzer finished my look for now. Later, once I was parked outside Newport Music Hall, I would line my eyes and lip
s in the way that William hated. Secretly, I have always loved the dramatic look of thickened eyes and red lips. However, with my lightened hair, even I must admit the contrast is too unbalanced and exaggerated.
As I slipped on a pair of simple flats, I called out, “Toby and I went to the bakery today. The cake will be spectacular, William. I can’t wait for you to see it.”
“He called me yesterday to set up a time to go look at tuxedos. Must I have him there, Dani?”
“You are paying him quite a lot. Just meet him wherever he suggests and let him handle the small things. He knows your style, William, and would never try to get you to wear something that you did not like.”
“Have the invitations come in? There are a few more people who I would like to add.”
“We can finalize that next week,” I told him as I neared the door.
“I’ll let you know what time I think I’ll be home. Tom wants to get drinks after the dinner at Ed’s hotel.”
Tom was William’s assistant, although the title seemed inadequate. The man neared fifty, but had a youthful appearance and a classic handsomeness that allowed him to remain a bachelor. For the last four years, he had groomed and readied William for his future political career. On paper, Tom was employed by the county to be William’s executive assistant, but they both laughed at that assigned role, one that Tom, as a licensed attorney, had been overqualified for. However, the job granted Tom unlimited access to William and consolidated their time. Neither lost sight of the final goal: to get William elected to a national office.
In silence, I drove across town. It was not until I had turned my car off that I looked at the burner phone.
Parked a block from the hall, I stared at the message with a slight smile and full understanding.
I knew you’d come.
Grabbing my camera, I jogged to the door. After a quick flash of my press pass, an usher nodded and directed me through. A long guitar sequence strummed loud through the lobby as I searched for Todd. Over and over I thought about what to reply to Mickey, but each answer seemed too coy or too forceful, too flirty or too vague.
