by A. Sparrow
They came up to end of the driveway and fanned out across it. The people who had come out of the hell house, stood by their cars, watching. Hot wax dribbled onto the back of John’s hand and solidified.
“John?” said the girl he had given a ride—Aerie. She looked dazed and unsteady. Something looked wrong with her eyes.
Mac gave John a quizzical look. “You know this girl?” he whispered.
“I helped her, when her car broke down.”
“You did this, knowing—?”
“I had no clue who she was.”
“We come to you covered in the Blood of Jesus!” Donnie shouted.
“Eew, ick!” said a young woman, eyebrows raised, nose scrunched. She hugged an instrument case against her chest.
The owner, Aaron, burst out of the house. “What’s going on? Who are you people?”
“We’ve come to save you!” said Tammie.
“Sheesh,” he said. “Listen. We don’t need any saving. Can you kindly get off my property?”
“Mr. Levine, I presume?” said Donnie.
“That’s right”
“Do you have any idea what your music brings? Do you know what fell creatures prowl outside your doors?”
“Matter of fact, I do,” said Aaron. “It’s you all, have no idea what you’re dealing with.”
Donnie stepped forward, his face grim and glistening in the candle glow. He lowered his chin and stared. “Oh, I think we do, Mr. Apollyon, of Abaddon. I think we do.”
Aaron looked perplexed. “Napoleon? What?”
“An angel fallen is nothing more than a demon.”
“Get out! Out of my driveway.” Aaron came forward and shoved Donnie in the chest, making him stagger back. Rand scrambled to brace his mentor, singing his robe with the candle. The others closed ranks behind them.
“Listen,” said Aaron. “Take your bloody candles and robes and get off my driveway. You’re blocking my friends. Alright?”
“They’re definitely possessed,” Mac whispered. “Look at their faces.”
“Number nine!” Donnie shouted. The chanting arose in unison.
“Father, I come before you in Jesus' name, and I thank you for giving me all power and all authority over all demons.”
“Demons?” said a frizzy-haired guy, his locks bound in a bandanna. “They think we’re demons?”
“This is most creepy,” said a young woman with a dark complexion and a subcontinental accent.
“I need to sit down,” said Aerie, collapsing into a lotus position on the pavement.
“We cover ourselves in the blood of Jesus. I thank you for your giant warring angels that are surrounding us, protecting us from all harm of the enemy.”
One of the young men snickered. “Giant angels?” His friend burst out laughing.
“We take our authority and attack from the third Heaven. We bind the strongman and spoil his goods. We command you to leave this house in Jesus' name!”
The Indian girl woman bustled down the driveway, coming face to face with Donnie, invading his personal space. Candles were raised in defense. “That is totally unnecessary. I am not intending to hurt anyone. Please, we are only wanting to go home. If you will please get out of our way….”
This was embarrassing. John wished he had stayed behind. Yes, the music disturbed him. Yes, he’d been freaked by the animals or whatever they were that seemed to be attracted by it. But this deliverance fiasco had been Cindy’s idea. Let her deal with it. He should be the one back home tucking in the boys for nighty-night.
Aaron slipped behind the cars and between the shrubberies of his flower bed. The volunteers continued with prayer number nine in ragged unison.
“We bind up every demon that was sent here. We command you to extract yourselves from their conscious, subconscious, unconscious minds, from all parts of their bodies, wills, emotions, all in Jesus' name.”
A valve creaked. Aaron reappeared, pulling a garden hose.
“Everyone, back!” said Donnie, panicking. “Retreat to the house. Don’t let him quench your flames.”
Chapter 14: Hiatus
Aerie lay on a sun-struck carpet watching a sugar maple sway. She kept her head still to avoid jangling the mesh of pain that stretched cross her brain like a too-tight hair net. She hoped the mug of coffee by her elbow would make her feel better. Otherwise, the purse with her pills beckoned on the counter.
The maple’s leaves were beginning to change—a single branch so far, and only the fringes of each leaf was orange, the veins and cores remaining green, much like that first grey hair she had found in her bangs last spring—grey at the tip, dark at the base.
It had been years since she had experienced an Autumn in Upstate New York. She looked forward to the slow-motion fireworks that would end with the brick and leather of the oaks—her favorite part of the sequence—if only for how she admired the oaks’ stubbornness in clinging to their leaves when the rest of the trees had become mere skeletons.
Aerie had already called in sick to work. Reggie had acted quite alarmed and had even offered to stop over to see if she was okay. She assured her supervisor that she was simply under the weather, nothing more, nothing pill-related. Truth was, she had avoided taking her pills this morning, and was paying the price.
She hoped to get her head clear and pain-free for a change, not because she wanted to be free of those pills, but that she wanted to save them for later when she went to Aaron’s. She would need them to get through this Production thing. She kept telling herself it was only music.
The thousand dollars Aaron had promised everyone was nothing to sneeze at, much more than she had ever been paid for a single gig. Never mind that two hours, at a jazz club, comprised a single set. She wished she knew how someone like Ron could shrug off and even laugh at music that turned her into a quivering wreck.
It might have helped if someone could tell her what Aaron meant by ‘Production’ meant. A show, perhaps? But he gave the impression that a ‘Production’’ was something more industrial than thespian.
She got up from the carpet and put the kettle on for a cup of tea. Something had transformed the neighbor’s Yorkie into a snapping, snarling ball of fur and tooth and claw, probably the mailman. Yorkshire terrorist, indeed.
Her cell phone started playing ‘Killer Joe,’ the MP3 ring tone she had set for generic calls. She plucked it from the cabinet by the front door. The display read: ‘Unlisted.’
“Hello? This is Aerie.”“Aerie! Man, I’m so glad I reached you.” Aaron. As she expected. “No-one else seems to be picking up. Listen. My daughter’s in the hospital. I’m headed to Boston. I need you to—”
“Is she alright?”
“Car accident. I don’t know much yet, but I need you to get a hold of the others. The Production’s cancelled … or, I should say, postponed. I’ll try to get back as soon as I can.”
“She gonna be okay?”
“I think so. I hope so. My ex won’t tell me nothing, except that she’s not critical.”
Trickles of relief washed over Aerie, less for Aaron’s daughter, than for skipping the Production that night. She glanced at her vacant bass stand.
“My bass. I left it … at your house. Could you drop it off on your way through Ithaca? Either that or I can come by your place. I can be there in half an hour. Less than.”
“Um. I’m already driving, Aerie. I’m almost in Cortland.”
“Is there any way I can—”
“I’ll be back soon. Soon as I can.”
“When?”
“I don’t know exactly,” said Aaron. “As soon as I can.”
“I hope … everything’s alright.”
“Listen, Aerie. I’ve got another call coming in. I left a message for Sari, but I couldn’t reach any of the others. If you can help pass the word, I’d appreciate it.”
“But … I don’t know their—”
“Gotta go.” He hung up.
How was she supposed to get in touch wit
h anyone? She didn’t even know their last names.
A weird mix of feelings came over Aerie—relief that she wouldn’t have to play that scary music tonight, pangs of regret that she wouldn’t be seeing any of her new friends any time soon.
She turned off the stove and went to change out of her pajamas. A few swipes of a brush, a hair tie, a quick daub at the bags under her eyes and she was out the door. The air was astringent and spicy with leafy decay. She pulled a utility bill and a post card from the mail box. She stuffed the bill in the purse and excitedly glanced at the post card. It had a picture of a gaudy fountain in Prague. Her heart accelerated. Was this from Hollis? Who had told him where to find her? Koichi?
She flipped the card over. It was from Susan, a cousin she hadn’t spoken to in years.
“Hey Aerie. Europe’s a blast! Hope you’re feeling better. I’m back next week. Let’s talk.”
No doubt this was Aunt Sadie’s doing. Why else would Susan send a postcard? They had butted heads ever since they were toddlers—Susan always ten pounds heavier and ten times more argumentative—a bad combination for a bully. Aerie had no interest in making amends with her. What was Sadie thinking?
She continued down the walk, feeling even more discombobulated. As she approached her car, the sight of it annoyed her, as if her car was scolding her silently about her inability to get it to a mechanic. Maybe she would this afternoon, if she had time.
She left it parked, deciding to spare its balky engine and walk to the Commons. She took the back way via State Street, giving Dewitt Mall a wide berth lest any co-workers spot her roaming town when she was supposed to be out sick. Finding Mal or Ron there was a shot in the dark. She had no reason to expect to find them other than that was where they always asked to be picked up and dropped off. As for Eleni, Aerie had not a clue where to find her. At least Sari had already been contacted.
A small gaggle of teenagers surrounded a knife-scarred and disfigured bench, rough-housing and insulting each other. Aerie recognized a guy with silver studs in the corners of his mouth that he had seen Ron joking around with, and approached him.
“Hey. Do you know a guy named Ron?”
“Ron who?”
“I don’t know his last name.”
“Millions?” said a pudgy girl in leggings and a baggy sweater.
Aerie looked at her blankly.
“That’s his name,” she said. “Ron Millions. Plays guitar? Black beanie?”
“Yeah,” said Aerie.
“Ron lives out behind Napoli’s,” said the guy with the studs. “Next to the creek. You play with him, doncha? You’re in the collective?”
“Behind it? What do you mean?”
“Out back. There’s a busted up building. That’s where his crib is at. His shack.”
“But I thought he lived with his grandmother.”
The other kids started laughing.
“C’mon, I’ll take you,” he said, hopping on his board.
She followed him out through the parking garage, across Green Street and down a set of back alleys she never knew existed, one of those forgotten corners that every town seem to have. A low cinder block building with busted-out, plywood-covered windows hunkered down the end of a drive. The skater led Aerie around the back corner.
“Hey Ron,” he said, yelling into what looked like a trash heap between the print shop’s back wall and the concrete wall hemming in the creek.
“Whassup?” came a groggy voice.
“Ya got company.”
Ron staggered out of a flimsy conglomeration of plywood, cement board and canvas.
“Aerie?” He tucked his shirt and smoothed his fly away locks. “Jeez Vince, did you really have to bring her here? You could have just told me.”
“This isn’t exactly your grandmother’s basement,” said Aerie.
Ron shrugged. “She made me move out last Spring. Mal knows. What are doing here anyway? Isn’t it kinda early?”
“Aaron’s cancelled the—”
“Noooo!” Ron wailed, making a face as woeful as anything Edvard Munch could paint. “Fuck no! I need that money.”
“It’s because of his daughter, she’s in the hospital.”
“So when we gonna play now?”
“He didn’t say,” said Aerie. “Next full moon, I presume?”
“Don’t say that! No fucking way. He doesn’t need the moon. He just likes doing it then. Thinks it makes it better. Don’t tell me he went to Boston.”
“Yeah, I think he did.”
“That little bitch. She couldn’t wait another day?”
“Ron, this was a car accident. It sounded serious.”
“Bullshit,” said Ron. “She’s pulled this crap before. She pretends she’s sick or runs away and her mom has a conniption fit. Aaron goes and tries to help but makes everybody hate him and, oh, it’s just a mess. But … shit. I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I told this guy I’d have the money by tonight.”
“I … can lend you some … if it’s not too much.”
Ron narrowed his eyes at her. “Nah.” He kicked at the gravel. “I just gotta find another place to crash. Christ. I’m sorry you had to see me like this, Aerie. This is only temporary. I’m getting an apartment soon as I get above water.”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”
Something buzzed in Ron’s shirt pocket. He pulled out a battered and bulky clamshell phone. “Text from Sari,” he said. “Telling me the same shit.”
“What’s your number, Ron?” said Aerie.
“Why do you need my number?”
“Well … if Aaron comes back—”
“This ain’t my phone,” said Ron. “I’m probably not gonna have it much longer.”
“It’s hot,” said Vince, the skater, chuckling.
“Believe me, the minute Aaron gets back, we’ll all know about it. He’s gonna want to feed his fucking birdie.”
“Feed it?”
“Make it sing,” said Ron. “And boy is it gonna be hungry.” He knelt down and crawled back into his shed.
“Ron? Before you go. How do I get a hold of Mal and Eleni? Aaron asked me to pass the word.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Ron. “Sari’s got that covered.”
***
Aerie went home and baked some oatmeal cookies, attempting to recreate one of Lucrezia’s secret recipes. In lieu of molasses she substituted brown sugar. She used raisins instead of the dates and goji berries that Lucrezia preferred.
They came out of the oven dense and brittle, edible but risky to teeth, better suited for plugging bathtub drains. She sighed, and dumped them all into the trash.
She wondered if she just showed up unannounced at work, if Reggie could let her finish her shift. She just wanted to be around people, but if she went in there would be curiosity and questions about her health.
She went into the living room and collapsed onto the couch, staring at her empty bass stand. Why did she have to go and leave the Juzek at Aaron’s? If she had broken her addiction to playing over the summer, the jones was back with a vengeance. Having her axe with her right now would have gone a long way towards salving her loneliness.
She used to own an Ergo electric upright bass, a cheap and portable slab of mahogany, but had pawned it just before the move to Tokyo. Now she wished she hadn’t. She didn’t even have the sack of Prescott parts around to fondle, the way some cultures polished their ancestors’ bones.
She would have to pick up another electric when she had a little more money saved up. Something fretless, preferably. At least it would keep her fingers from getting too itchy at times like this when she didn’t have her Juzek.
She grabbed her little netbook off the end table and logged on, going straight to Koichi’s page on Facebook. Aerie never posted anything on her own page, but Koichi was a tagging, liking, posting fiend. His page was a vicarious one-stop shop for catching up on all her Tokyo friends and acquaintances.
Koichi had a new gig at
the Kokubunji Music School in Western Tokyo. His wife had had a baby girl they had named Arrietty. Nothing about Hollis.
To find Hollis, the Luddite, Aerie did a Google News search, finding an old promo for a jazz festival in Germany, a mention of a CD he had played on. And then there it was—a review of a gig in Pittsburgh performed only last week.
On a hunch, she checked a listing of jazz events in the New York Metro area, and there he was—Hollis Brooks—playing tomorrow night at the Baggot Inn in the West Village, not with his own group but with some obscure combo called the Arthur Davis Quartet.
Hollis. In Manhattan. Five hours away by car.
Aerie fought the urge to hop in her car, crippled as it was. But even if she got her car fixed, why should she go see him? He would probably just diss her in front of his latest gang of cronies. He was always that way when he was with the boys, and plenty of his boys still hung around The City.
Boys! They were septuagenarians, some of them.
Aerie wasn’t even clear on how she felt about Hollis. She only knew that he still haunted her heart and mind.
She had met Hollis in Cheyenne, Wyoming, of all places. How she got there from Boston was a bit of a long story.
She had dropped out of the Berklee School of Music and transferred to CU Boulder to major in biology. Her time at Berklee had been a blast. As a bassist, she was always in demand for umpteen different pickup bands. The problem was, her sight reading skills had never caught up with the other students, despite several tutors and remedial classes. Her counselor advised her to consider another career. She had always loved animals. Biology seemed like a logical alternative.
Traveling cross-country by bus was insane, but she didn’t have a car back then and to fly her Prescott from Baltimore would have cost more than the price of another round-trip ticket. Leaving it behind was out of the question. She was in love with that hunk of White Mountain spruce, rock maple and persimmon.
The bus ride took two days, with connections in Chicago, Omaha, and Des Moines. She had left a week early to get away from her warring parents, who were on the verge of the divorce proceedings that would be consummated by Christmas. It had been a horrible summer, the worst of her life, working for a custodial service by day, coming home to squabbles and skirmishes.
Jazz was the only thing that had kept her sane that summer. From Philadelphia to Arlington, she attended every open jam she could find. She developed a grip that could crush walnuts, calluses that could fend off knife attacks, the forearms of an orangutan. Four hours sleep and then off she went downtown to clean toilets in government office buildings.
