by Daniel Braum
In the shadowy, cave-like corner, something floated. A two foot distended blur emerged from the darkness: the big spike-finned lionfish. It was the first fiasco; how could I forget? I paid four hundred bucks for it and when I brought it home it wouldn’t eat. Kendra was furious (“The money doesn’t matter Joe it’s the thought of the energy of a dying, starving fish in this house”) and she sent me back to the store. The guy had told me that’s what happens with the more exotic ones taken from the sea, but gave me a refund anyway ’cause he thought the first half of Mystic Tryst was the perfect album side.
The spindly apparition hovered above my cymbal bag, silent, ominous, and hungry as it had been in life. I never believed in Kendra’s mumbo-jumbo, but unless someone was pulling an amazing trick on me, this changed everything. I picked up the phone and dialed her. I had to apologize. I had to tell her.
“You see them now,” she said without me saying a word. “Don’t bother, I forgive you.”
I said what I had said to her so many times before, in the fragile, quiet moments after our many storms. “So, what do we do now?”
“Meet me at the diner by the park.”
I quickly dressed. On the way out I looked at my cymbal bag. Morty was going to kill me, but he would have to wait.
****
The diner patrons looked lost and lonely, right out of the lyrics of Eleanor Rigby. I could hear the steady cello strokes driving the song forward despite the lack of percussion. I felt like one of those lost people, hoping for a second chance at a dream that had already failed. The papers had come. It was official. This would be our first encounter since. I bumped past some cops and a drunken group of men in old suits at the door and then I saw her, radiant and angelic, sitting in one of the big booths along the front wall.
She waved me over and I sat down. She smelled of neroli and vanilla. I missed that smell. Her hair had grown out and she hadn’t re-dyed it. Streaks of silvery gray mingled with her natural straw-brown. Her facial features seemed stronger and more defined, even the tiny spider web lines at the edges of her eyes looked good.
“How’ve you been?” she asked.
“Not bad,” I lied. I didn’t know what I was doing. Hanging around with Morty again, listening to the tracks of the unfinished album over and over, running around with a girl half my age. I said none of this, she hated when I was negative.
The waitress came over with coffee and I dramatically encouraged her. We laughed, long and easily.
“I saw them,” I said and took her hands in mine. “I can’t believe I saw them.”
She smiled knowingly.
“Why? Why are they here now?”
“There has to be a reason,” she said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to see them. And if you didn’t see them, you wouldn’t believe me. Then it would be much harder to get them back.”
I hated how her explanations were always circular. But maybe it was something I just didn’t understand. I always thought all our disagreements and fights were all her fault, just another symptom of her incomprehensible ideas, until today.
“They’re yours,” I said. “But why is it so important?”
“It’s my burden. My responsibility. I let them die.”
If they died under her watch, they died under my watch too. It was just as much my responsibility.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it,” she said. “Don’t change your mind on me.”
“So what do I do? Scoop them up in a coffee can?”
“Let’s go. I’ll figure something out.”
Suddenly it didn’t seem like such a good idea to have her back in the apartment.
“No. Wait,” I said.
“Why? Is the flavor of the month waiting there for you, naked?”
“No it’s just…”
I didn’t want it to end up the way it had after the Zildjian party. I wanted so badly to hear her breathing in my ear—to feel her against me slick with sweat. But, the pull was so strong I was afraid I’d break down and beg her to reconsider.
“Just what?” she asked, her deep green eyes accusing me.
“Just nothing,” I said. “Let’s go.”
****
I swiped the fish with the little green aquarium net I found in a box of junk in the back of the closet, but it passed right through them.
Kendra watched disapprovingly. She took the net from me and sat down cross-legged on the floor. She closed her eyes and muttered what sounded like a yoga mantra.
“There,” she said.
She stepped into the corner and swiped around. The net passed through the glowing shapes just like before.
“Damn,” she said, and scooted up on my speaker cabinet. It looked so natural, so right to have her sitting there, kicking her legs in frustration. “What does a fish want anyway?”
“Bait,” I said and scooped her up and lifted her over my shoulder.
“Not now,” she yelped. “We have to figure this out.”
I carried her toward the bedroom.
“Stop. Stop. Stop,” she yelled. “Look!”
The fish had moved from the corner, trailing us in a glowing line across the living room. Nicholas swatted at them.
I gently put her down.
“Turn out the lights so you can see them better,” she said.
I walked to the wall and flicked the switch.
“They didn’t follow you,” she said focusing on the glowing line. “How about me?”
She walked the few steps over to the couch. The fish stayed in place.
“Pick me up and carry me again.”
I did. The fish followed us all the way to the bedroom.
We flopped down on my bed, clouds of fish hovering above us and we laid side-by-side staring up at them like they were constellations of stars.
“I should have known,” she said. “They want to go home.”
“Okay. To your place it is.” I put my hand on her leg. “But I’m so comfortable right now.”
“No. To the ocean. The Caribbean. That’s where they’re from.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
I groaned.
“Think about it,” she said. “The fact we couldn’t make it work hurt only us, mostly. But we failed them. They were our responsibility. They couldn’t go to the store and buy food or get water from the toilet like Sasha if we were gone for days.”
“Couldn’t they float over to a map to make it clear?”
“Stop it. We have to make this right or it’s always going to be hanging over us, no matter what the divorce papers say.”
She sprung out of bed and went into the room off the living room we once had used as an office. I heard her clicking away at the computer.
“They’re just fish,” I called.
The lionfish hovered in the corner away from the rest. I wished it didn’t look like it was waiting for food. I was so late. Morty was going to kill me.
Kendra emerged in the doorway. She held the frame with her strong thin arms and looked at me the way I always wanted—a mix of contentment, respect, and lust.
“We’re on the next flight to Grand Cayman,” she said. “Four thirty, tomorrow afternoon out of Newark. If we’re lucky, we can get a couple of hours’ sleep in.” She turned out the light and crawled into bed next to me.
I wanted to stay. I wanted to wriggle out of my clothes, tell her we were going, and lose myself under the covers. But I rolled away. In my head I heard Jack singing the haunting, lush refrain of Mystic Tryst (…one more mystic tryst, one more earthy tide and yet you’re still here with me…) He always knew the right thing to do, the right thing to say, and he made it look easy. He was a rock star walking on water until his early end. I felt dizzy as I picked up my cymbal bag. Everyone was waiting on me and I had to go.
****
Morty met me at the door with his client, the wispy haired, high cheek-boned lead singer of the latest big budget, teen-angst band.
We embraced in an over exaggerated, back-clapping hug.
The corporate rock boy beamed. Just the look of him reminded me why after every session I swore no more favors. Somehow Morty always found a way to remind me that he landed the first Lotus record deal back in ’69. I just wanted the session to be over fast so I could go back and deal with Kendra.
“I really love your work,” corporate rock boy said as he clasped my hand. I’d seen his face somewhere but didn’t remember his name.
One of the bulbs flickered and a spindly shape lowered from the ceiling. The lionfish had followed me. I awkwardly shuffled up the hall to get away from it. Mort and the kid followed.
“If you asked me if I’d ever get to meet the Casey James I would have said you’re crazy,” the kid blathered. “And now, to have you play on my disc, it’s more than I ever dreamed of. It’s gonna rock.”
Mort had played me the demos. It was going to take a lot more than me to make this rock. As for his ass kissing, I knew he had asked Steve Smith and Terry Bozzio before me and they had both turned him down.
A cute brunette in a busy patterned top and too much eyeliner entered the hall and demanded Rock boy follow her to hair and make-up. I had to fight to keep from laughing. Mort stole a glance at her as they left then ushered me to the lounge behind the control room. He poured me some coffee.
“So, what happened to the drummer this time?” I asked.
“Rehab. Heroin, I think. He’ll be back for the tour,” Morty said in that callous, chipper way of his.
Being here reminded me my album I’d been “working on” forever, or at least since things went bad with Kendra, was horribly stalled. Perfectly recorded rhythm tracks filled the reels, but the spark was missing. I wasn’t looking for a comeback or anything stupid, I just wanted—I needed to hit it square on and nail it. Like Jack would do if he were here. I struggled to remember the syncopated rhythms of the motion of the fishes in my dream.
Thin spikes emerged from the wall above the coffee machine and the lionfish drifted through the wall. Stupid fish found me. Maybe if I ignored it, it would go away.
“Kendra called,” I said, to take my attention from it.
“So much for your clean break,” Morty said in an I-told-you-so singsong.
The lionfish had moved to the center of the room. Light passed through it disconcertingly and I couldn’t keep my eyes off it. I kept thinking if I turned away it would become corporeal and sting me in the back of the head with those sharp spines.
Morty slurped his coffee. “Ready for hair and make-up?”
I stood up. “I told you I don’t want to be attached to this. No photos.”
“Calm down,” he said. “It’s just a segment for that ‘Making of the Song’ show.”
If I said no, he was going to remind me again of the good old days and all. I just couldn’t stand it. I’d give him this. Maybe use it to throw in his face if I actually took off with Kendra. Maybe I could use a couple of days.
Two minutes later I was in a chair with the cute brunette spraying my hair. I noticed her small diamond ring as she powdered my face. I thought of Kendra’s two-carat platinum-set rock on the day we split. It was the quietest moment of my life, looking at it sitting on the kitchen counter top.
“All done,” the cute brunette said, and ushered me into the big sound room. The techs had set my cymbals up correctly, at least Morty was good for that.
Tripod-mounted cameras loomed in the corners. I sat behind the kit and slung the headphones on.
“Sorry, Casey, over there with the rest of the band,” Morty said. I looked at the control room window. Morty was pointing to the side of the studio where the rest of the band leaned against the wall.
“What the hell,” I mouthed to him.
“We’re gonna do some takes of the vocals along with a click while he’s still fresh,” Morty said.
I pushed off the headphones and stomped over to the corporate rock peanut gallery.
Morty’s client entered, followed by a procession of cameramen and producers.
Were we just going to stand here for B reel? It was all ass-backward.
I stood around for a half hour while they took a million different angles of the kid singing the opening lines of a song that didn’t even exist yet. He was just going to have to do it over anyway once the music got laid down. Morty was a lot of things, but he knew how to make a record. If this was what he wanted, then fine. I just wasn’t going to stand around waiting. I walked over to the drum mike to tell him.
I bent down to test if the mike was on. The lionfish appeared out of nowhere, its beady black eyes and splotchy spikes right up against my face. I swatted at it, lost my balance, and fell forward onto the kit. Cymbals crashed and the toms toppled as I tried to stand. Morty burst through the doors.
“What the hell,” corporate rock boy said.
“Get the cameras off,” Morty yelled to the laughing cameramen.
I picked myself up and headed for the door.
“Casey, wait,” Morty said. But I kept walking. Screw it. I was going to the Caribbean.
****
Mercifully I didn’t see the fish on the plane but Kendra assured me they were there. We checked into the Blue Heaven resort in the middle of the night. Kendra sat down in one of the lobby’s rattan chairs while I went to the front and deposited her ring in the hotel safe with the manager. When we returned he escorted us to our low-rise suite on the beach.
After a few hours of sleep, we ordered breakfast and watched the ocean from our patio while we waited. Endless shades of blue stretched to the clear sky. A young couple held hands and leisurely picked shells at the rolling surf while a team from the hotel spread out a bright red chute for parasailing. Soon, the staff arrived with a lush spread of exotic fruit, caviar, fresh breads and juices.
Kendra held a crumb up. “Not long now,” she said.
I couldn’t see the fish well in the light like her, but I could feel them watching.
Kendra slid out of her chair and kissed my forehead. “I’m going to make the boat arrangements.”
While she was gone, I picked at the pineapple and thought of Nicholas. My assistant would be feeding him, but cats were creatures of habit; he’d miss me and his ghostly playthings. Morty however, was just a creature; he was going to kill me.
A half hour later, we were riding the wind away from the hotel dock in a catamaran. I sat on the net in the front and Kendra sat under the sail, covered in big sunglasses and a batik wrap. She flipped through a book on fish from the hotel gift shop.
I breathed deeply, taking in the salt spray on the wind. Breakfast had been exceptional and Kendra looked like a dream. I was sorry that back home I had forgotten how to truly live.
The driver, an old weathered guy with kinky gray hair and a quiet authority about him, stopped the boat over a shallow spot. I could see the sandy bottom and the coral heads below.
“No,” Kendra said. “Not here.”
“Ma’am. This is the best place,” he said. “My personal spot. No one snorkels here.”
“It’s not right. Over there…” she said, and seemed to arbitrarily point out to the water.
“Dangerous out in the open,” he said. “Currents are bad today.”
“I don’t care,” she said.
The driver made a face and tacked the boat a hundred yards away. I thought I could make out the long spikes and black eyes of the lionfish among the rigging.
“What the hell does he know?” she whispered angrily.
I felt that things were about to get out of control like so many times before. New Years nineteen eighty popped to mind. Morty had scored us front row seats to the Zen Squires show at the Fillmore, and Kendra had insisted they were better than my back stage access. She danced away, her usual wild self, much to the delight of a rowdy bunch of bikers who wouldn’t leave her alone.
“Got a boyfriend,” Kendra said.
“So why ain’t he dancing with you?”
“Fuck off! He’s Casey James.”
The current had taken me and I was up in that biker’s whiskey-stinking, bearded face. The rest was pure chaos. We came out of it bruised and battered, but okay. I felt that same nervous electricity now, except the lionfish hovering over me made me think things weren’t going to end so well this time.
Before I could say anything, Kendra was at the edge of the boat unpeeling her wrap, revealing a bright orange bikini. She rolled off the side with a sploosh.
“It’s so warm,” she said. “Come on.”
I grabbed our masks and snorkels and followed her in.
The coral teemed with fish. Kendra was right, again. This spot was just like my dream.
“Hold your breath and dive with me,” she said.
Pressure built in my ears as we descended the fifteen feet to the coral head. I could faintly make out our fish among their flesh-and-blood counterparts.
After a few seconds we went to the surface for air then dove again.
The butterfly, the clown, and the little green one were picking at the coral when we returned. I could barely see them. They were fading away and I had to go up for air.
We surfaced farther from the boat. The current had either taken us, or the boat.
“Come back,” the driver called but Kendra didn’t listen. Her feet disappeared beneath the waves. I held my breath and followed.
Looking down I could see I was already being pulled away from the coral head. I spun and saw Kendra kicking—struggling for the bottom. The water darkened, as if the sun were blocked out. I kicked harder, hoping to catch up, but I lost sight of her in the increasingly turbulent water.
In the sandy murk the specter of the little green fish appeared at my mask for an instant, then was gone. Out of breath, I broke for the surface. Clouds had moved in obscuring the sun. The tropical rain I’d heard so much about poured down. I bobbed at the surface. It would have been almost pleasant if I didn’t feel myself being pulled farther out into the ocean.
I looked around and saw the catamaran a hundred yards away. The driver was fishing Kendra out of the water. Good, I thought. She was safe. I waved and yelled, then remembered the catamaran had no engine and would have to tack out to reach me.
