by Diana Wieler
I caught him by the shoulders, a frustrated tackle that sent us both crashing onto somebody’s lawn. I came down on him harder than I meant to, felt the sickening crunch, but I couldn’t stop the momentum. Before I could move to get up, his elbow came back at me.
Sharp pain between my ribs sucked my breath away and I couldn’t get it back. Daniel shoved me off, then lunged after me, straddled me, pounding with the sides of his clenched fists. It was all I could do to get my arms up over my face.
Blow after solid blow made my head spin. He was stronger than I ever expected, and I still couldn’t breathe. The feeling came up from the pit of my stomach, a gust of adrenaline or raw fear – I thought I was going to suffocate.
I threw him off in a wild thrust, sent him tumbling onto the sidewalk. I managed to roll over onto my hands and knees, crouched like a sick animal. I drew in shallow, creaking breaths, staring hard at the grass to blot out the pain.
“Are you trying to kill me?!” Daniel cried.
I couldn’t speak yet. Breathe, Jens.
Daniel sat back on his haunches, shaken. “I mean, you jump me from behind…scare the shit out of me, I don’t know what…” He seemed to notice my condition for the first time and leaned closer. “Jens, are you okay? Say something.”
“Are…you…deaf?!” I gasped.
I straightened at last, the world still blurred around the edges. When I moved to stand, he held out his arm but I ignored it. I could get up on my own. We started down the street, back the way I’d come. I wasn’t moving fast.
“Where the hell have you been?” I said.
He nodded toward the apartment block. “At Chantel’s. She gave me a key. She asked if I would change the strings on her guitar and tune it.”
“For two hours?! Didn’t you think of me sitting there? Didn’t you think I’d be worried?”
He looked away. I saw a red scrape on his cheekbone, where he’d rubbed the pavement.
“Why? You didn’t think of me sitting there,” he said finally. “All I wanted was twenty minutes, just her and me. But you have to follow me like I’m an idiot you can’t let out of your sight, Daniel, the retard…”
“Oh, come on —”
“Then you shove your way in with some stupid line,” he continued, a quiver in his voice. “Stand there grinning. You can get anybody but you wouldn’t let me have twenty minutes!”
He didn’t understand. “Daniel…how old is she?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.”
“Well, you should care —”
He turned on me, his eyes like dark liquid. “You know what, Jens? Most people bore me. And I bore them. Oh, yeah, I’m the guy with the guitar. That’s good for about two minutes. I sit in school feeling like a goddamn… fencepost. All the crap they’re shoveling at me, I understand it just fine, but I can’t care about it. I think, if I have to live in this, I’m going to die.”
I thought of him calling Kruse four times a day. Jack Lahanni would say Daniel had drive, too.
“Jim Renders’ house. Is that where you go?” I said.
He looked shocked that I knew. But the Renders had two working parents and five rowdy sons. Kids had been going there to drink for a decade.
We were walking again. “So you need a boost to get through the afternoon, too?”
“Not every afternoon…”
“You’re breaking Mom’s heart,” I said.
“Well, what about my heart?” Daniel shot back. Then his voice dropped. “Chantel is the most exciting person I know. She’s interesting. And we care about the same things. Sure, we have different styles, but it’s the same stuff. And I think she likes me,” he finished softly.
Or does she like what you give her? I didn’t say it. I was thinking of the way he’d lunged at me, pounded on me, even after he knew who it was.
We had reached the truck. The sun was still high in the sky but I knew it was late afternoon. A wasted day.
“You know, we’d better find a place to camp,” I started.
“Chantel said we could stay overnight at her place.”
“She lives alone?” I asked cautiously.
“Yeah. She said we could sleep on the floor. Just bring our sleeping bags up.”
The idea tugged me in different directions. I didn’t trust this woman who’d hold hands with a sixteen-year-old in public, who sang like she was pressed up against you, moaning into your ear. I didn’t know what I might say to her before the night was out.
But to sleep inside, even on the floor. To have a shower…I was feeling dirtier by the minute.
“We’ll see,” I said. We drove over to the apartment and I followed Daniel up to the third floor. He pulled out the key almost proudly, but the door swung open before he could get it in the lock. She was already home.
“Men,” she said cheerfully. “I can hear you tromping around a mile away.”
She had changed out of her uniform. Tight black jeans and tank top, cut so low I imagined I could see the pink edge of her tattoo every time she moved. Her hair was undone and it fell just past her shoulders, rippled from the braid, white-blonde strands tangled in with gold and brown. She was smoking a cigarette.
“And you work in a hospital,” I said as I walked in.
“Yeah, but I didn’t take an oath. Hey, what happened?” she said, reaching to touch Daniel’s cheek.
He drew back, a little embarrassed. “We were just —”
“Wrestling,” I said.
She looked me up and down. “Oh, and I bet that was fair.”
I let go a short breath. I’d probably have a bruise the size of a baseball between my ribs – the spot still throbbed. It might have been a lucky shot but Daniel had nailed me worse than I’d hurt him.
He was already on the couch, hoisting Chantel’s acoustic over his knee. “What’d you think? Did you take it for a spin?” He struck a few chords, as pleased as if he’d built the thing.
Chantel laughed. “Well, I don’t come home from work and run to the guitar…”
“Why not?”
She laughed again and dropped onto the couch beside him. “Hey, I was wondering if you’d show me something. I think I’m doing this wrong…”
She took the guitar from him and strummed through a section of a song – his or one of hers, I couldn’t tell. To be honest, it was a shock, the halting gaps as she fumbled over the frets, the sudden jangle of an off note. When Daniel played, the sound seemed to flow out of him, like breathing. His big-knuckled hands and knobby fingers looked awkward holding a pencil or a hammer, but they flew over those strings like he owned them.
Chantel finished and looked up at him, biting her lip. He was smiling at her.
“Okay” my brother said patiently. “That’s pretty good. Let’s start with the bar chords…”
They might as well have been speaking French. I drifted around the living room, touching things.
It was as small as my own had been, or smaller, but bright with strangeness: a quirky orange lawn chair; a cat clock with moving eyes. There was a fully inflated punching clown – Boffo – and big aluminum wind chimes hanging from the ceiling. There were no family pictures, but one of a band she must have been in.
It was a promotional photo. Chantel up front in black leather and bright pink lipstick, four snarky rock and roll clones behind her – skinny, sullen guys you’d mow down like grass on a football field. I stood looking at those pink lips and the ring that glinted through her eyebrow, gold against gold. I wondered how many of the band had made her see stars.
Behind me, the lesson was over and rehearsal had started, sort of. Daniel had a firm grip on the guitar again and he was playing whatever she wanted. Chantel’s smoky voice seemed to take over the small room but it was obvious they’d never played together. There were lots of screw-ups and stumbles that made them laugh like kids.
My hands were clasped behind my back. Today was Sunday and tomorrow was Monday, and I had sixty-one tapes to sell.
“What time does this curling thing get going?” I broke in. “Maybe you should practice, Daniel. Or get cleaned up.”
There was a half-second of silence.
“You want something to do, Jens?” Chantel said. “Make supper, if you can.”
FOURTEEN
“I can cook,” I said. “I’m a great cook. Fantastic. What do you want? I can make anything.”
Chantel had nothing defrosted. “Get creative,” she shrugged. “Look around. That’s the mark of a master anyway.”
“Okay, I will.” I tossed my jacket and pushed up my sleeves. All the dirty dishes on the counter I just cleared into the sink, not minding the noise. She’d see. They weren’t the only artists in the place,
I’d started cooking at home when Dad was in the hospital. So many nights Mom stayed with him late, and I’d make supper for Daniel and me. Once we got tired of grilled cheese sandwiches, I started to experiment. I could get completely absorbed chopping and frying, looking for new things to throw into the pan. It surprised me that it was fun. It surprised everyone else that I was good at it. When Dad came home and Mom went to work, I still cooked a couple of nights a week. I liked the feeling that I was helping.
I rummaged in Chantel’s fridge for eggs – jackpot. You can do a hundred things with eggs. Finding the green pepper, mushrooms and cheese was pure bonus; it made the decision for me. Any chimp can scramble or fry, but a good omelet, that’s a test of skill.
I found a non-stick skillet in the cupboard and twirled it once by the handle before I set it on the element. Daniel and Chantel were back at it, bursts of music and chatter, but it didn’t bother me now. I had a mission.
The secret to my omelets is that I fry the ingredients separately and don’t overcook the eggs. And I don’t just pour the batter into the pan and hope for the best. Every now and then I scrape up through the center with the flipper, lifting the pan at a forty-five degree angle so what’s liquid runs into the gap, spreading the egg thinner, cooking it more evenly. I caught Chantel watching me while I held the pan in the air.
My other secret is Tabasco sauce – just a few squirts – in the egg mixture. You don’t ask whether anybody wants it, you just do it.
The first two omelets were good but the third was perfect. Magazine quality, with extra cheese melted over the top, for effect. I made sure she got that one. There was no table so we ate in the living room, plates on our knees, sharing toast from one platter. I’d run out of clean dishes.
Chantel was impressed, especially when she tasted it.
“I don’t believe it,” she said. “An eighteen-year-old who can cook.”
“Nineteen,” I said. “I’m almost nineteen.”
She didn’t seem to hear, but looked from Daniel to me. “A songwriter and a chef. If you were one man I’d marry you.”
It was getting late. The bonspiel started at eight so I thought we should be set up by seven. I was getting nervous and a little revved, in spite of myself. I hated the whole busking thing but maybe there was an opportunity here that I just didn’t know about.
I sent Daniel in for a shower first. “And hurry up. I want one, too,” I said.
Chantel was leaning back on the couch, smoking a cigarette, her nipples outlined under her T-shirt. I put myself in the kitchen and started to clean up.
“Daniel never told me what you did at the hospital,” I said, scrubbing out the skillet. “Nursing?”
“Blood lab. I’m a technician.”
“You must have been a biology major. Which university?”
“U of M.”
“Medical is pretty tough,” I called over the running water. “Was it a long program? Three, four years…?”
“Twenty-two.” Her voice was suddenly close. I turned to see her leaning in the doorway to the kitchen.
“What?”
“I’m twenty-two,” she said. “That’s what you’re trying to find out, isn’t it?”
I turned off the tap.
“My brother is sixteen,” I said.
“I know. I sent him a card. Did you?”
I hadn’t, and she knew it. She seemed to know a lot about me, the new car and truck guy. I didn’t like it.
“What do you want from him? What are you after?” I asked bluntly.
She took a drag of her cigarette, pink lips around the white filter. “I don’t think I owe you an explanation,” she said.
“No, but you might owe my mom.”
I’d hit a nerve. She turned away and wandered back into the living room, arms folded over her chest. I followed, grabbing a dish towel for my wet hands.
“You can’t play games with him. That’s not fair. He’s a kid,” I said.
“He’s brilliant.” She turned around. “I don’t think you appreciate that. Maybe he’s just your little brother but people are starting to notice him.”
There was a copy of Blue Prairie on the end table and she scooped it up. “Producers don’t foot the bill for demo tapes, Jens, not unless they think they’re going to make a whole lot of money on you later. What Daniel got would cost the average peon like me two, even three grand.”
I felt struck. Kruse said we owed him five.
Chantel continued on. “The world is full of great guitarists, but he’s writing those songs. At sixteen. That’s exciting.”
My mind was trying to move in two gears at once. “You’re saying it’s three grand for a demo and about five hundred tapes?”
She nodded toward the promo picture on the wall. “That’s the top end. We priced out five places. Right before we split up,” she finished quietly.
No wonder Kruse had blown up when I asked what the tapes were worth – he was overcharging Daniel. But I wasn’t about to tell our troubles to Chantel.
“So Daniel’s talented,” I said. “That excites you.”
She met me dead on with her clear green eyes. “I like him. He’s sweet. He doesn’t use people.” She stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray, pressing it down twice, three times. “And he’s lonely. Who couldn’t understand that?”
The soft sound of her voice surprised me. I didn’t think women like Chantel were ever without…company. But then Daniel thought I could get anybody I wanted, too.
He walked in, combing his damp hair.
“I left you a towel,” he said.
“Thanks, here’s one for you,” I said, draping the wet dish towel against his neck as I hurried by. He grabbed it off and snapped it at me, but he hit the closed door. Way too slow.
I stripped off my clothes, my mind running back to Mogen Kruse. That rip-off artist! He’d built the cost of the “free” recording session into the price, and then some. His offer to represent Daniel was so Mom and Dad wouldn’t look anywhere else. But a contract was a contract. Overcharging might be wrong but it wasn’t illegal.
And yet I couldn’t stop the rush of sudden hope. Now that I knew what was fair I might have a lever, a bargaining chip to beat down the amount we owed him. If I showed up with two and a half thousand dollars, he’d probably take it. But I wouldn’t tell Daniel yet; I didn’t want him to slow down.
It felt good to get under the hot water and scrub the last two days away. Maybe it felt too good. The memory of pink lips and hard nipples rubbed against me as I soaped up with care. A lot of care. Daniel wasn’t the only one who knew about lonely.
You have sixty-one tapes to sell, I told myself finally. Stay hungry.
I eased the temperature from warm to cool, then finally cold.
The counter around the sink was crowded with make-up, brushes and perfume. A flowery female scent rose up with the steam. I rubbed a circle on the mirror so I could comb my hair. It was running lighter than usual, from all the sunny days. Brown eyes, blunt jaw. Shoulders that filled up the mirror. You’re not so bad, I told myself.
I walked out into the living room. Daniel and Chantel were leaning against the wall, wrapped up together, deep in each other’s mouths. She had one hand clenched in the back of his hair, the othe
r at his waist, under his shirt.
“We’d better go,” I said. My voice sounded raw. I hit Boffo the clown on my way out.
We arrived at the rec center just before seven. I stopped the truck across the street and got out for a look. It was still daylight, evening sun that gave everything a bronze tint and long shadows. There were already cars in the parking lot and clusters of people standing around socializing. Most surrounded the three or four trucks that had their tailgates open; that’s where the beer flowed from. I was amazed. I’d seen tailgate parties for football, but curling? It must be the biggest sport in town.
There was a long wall between the parking lot and the main entrance, and that’s where the musicians were set up – already two guitar players and one saxophone. I could understand their reasoning: Everyone would have to pass by them to get inside. But no one was making that walk yet. The musicians had their cases open, playing to the open air, one circle of music bleeding into the next.
Daniel was watching them eagerly.
“Do you know anyone?” he asked Chantel.
“That’s Andy Larson at the end,” she said.
“Let’s go talk to him. Jens, let me open the back.”
“Wait.” I put a hand on his shoulder, holding him. If I let Daniel join the wall he’d be lost. I had to do something that would make him stand out, show that he was above the others. We were out here to sell tapes.
A burst of laughter made me look over at the parking lot again. That’s where the party was. I had a brainstorm.
“If only we had an extension cord,” I said.
My brother looked at me. “Of course we do. It’s in that bag with my extra strings and picks and stuff. Why?”
My arm flew around his neck, tugging him into a headlock. “Daniel, you’re brilliant!” I buzzed the top of his head with my knuckles.
He wriggled out of my grip and looked at me suspiciously, dark hair standing up. “Why? What are we going to do?”
But I wouldn’t tell him yet. I drove into the parking lot, past the party people, to the corner of the lot marked “Staff,” and backed into a stall.
