The Cleanup
Page 38
A hard-core band called The Stanleys made its smash debut at CBGB's, bloodied fans in tow.
Mona de Vanguardia declined to be interviewed. Repeatedly.
And the Vigilante . . .
Nowhere to be found, and everywhere at once. Reports of incidents mushroomed, in every borough. On every street. In every garbage-strewn alley and early morning subway platform. Walking in the shadows. Lurking.
Stalking.
For no sooner had Billy disappeared than a dozen others took his place. The public perception was seamless; the one became a multitude.
And it wasn't long before the spark became a flame became a roaring furnace of raging indignation, as people started looking out for themselves.
And for each other . . .
. . . and a subway mugger named Royce Buchanan found his escape route seriously altered when a demure young bystander whopped him upside the head with her Italian leather attaché case and pitched him headlong onto the number 6 uptown tracks, only to be held at bay by a bristling armada of umbrellas and feet until the transit police could arrive . . .
. . . and the robbery of a BP self-serve in Brooklyn was foiled when another customer suddenly doused the getaway car with premium no-lead and threatened to flick his Bic . . .
And more. And more. Dozens of tales. Some imagined, most of them not. Some fought well, some fought badly. Many were hurt. Many more were arrested.
It didn't stop.
The mayor cautioned against "copycats" and tooted the perils of "frontier justice"; weapons violations were vigorously enforced.
It still didn't stop.
Public sentiment ran high, and was highly charged. People bickered endlessly in bars and taverns, editorials raged both pro and con. Pop psychologists came off more like TV evangelists: direly warning of burgeoning "Death-wish cults" and lamenting the "rising tide of fear."
Dennis had to laugh, when he thought about it. The climate of fear wasn't really rising, he knew.
It was just spreading out a little more evenly.
Mona lay alone on the bed, very much awake: eyes wide and staring into the darkness, sweat sticking her back and sides to the sheets despite the air conditioner's diligent hum. She lay like that for some time, just as she had last night.
And the night before that.
And the night before that . . .
Downstairs, she could hear Dave working: diddling with the drum machines and the synthesizers as he laid out a pre-production sketch on the four-track. Another Billy-song, she realized. He hasn't let up on those tapes since . . .
The thought trailed off.
The blanks, at last, filled in.
It had started out, she was certain, as an appeal to her grief: Dave, coming around to the hospital in the aftermath; Dave, listening to her tapes of his music, the sole surviving legacy of Billy Rowe; Dave, telling her how surprised he was at its depth and quality.
Sure, she'd thought bitterly. Humor the cripple. Grease me up. She didn't buy a word of it.
That is, until he'd borrowed the tapes. And come back saying that he wanted to use the material, on his next album.
And Mona realized two things in short order. One: Dave Hart was not kidding. Two: Dave Hart could probably do with Billy Rowe's music what Billy Rowe could never quite pull off.
And he did. With a bullet.
Two songs on the latest album. Two more slated for the next. The heart and soul of Billy Rowe, finally getting out where it could be heard. And seen.
And remembered.
"Oh, baby," she whispered. There was a quaver in her voice. "They love it. They really do."
A solitary tear tracked down her cheek. Many more were impending. She fought back a sob, lest Dave hear: the last thing she could handle right then was his concerned, compassionate presence hovering overhead. It was becoming increasingly clear that their falling together was doomed thing. At first, once she'd gotten over the initial shock and distrust, it had helped: a warm shoulder to cry on, a warm body to keep the ghosts at bay. It was understandable.
But it could never last. That was plain. Dave loved her, she knew; and he did so knowing that she'd never be able to return it in kind.
She didn't want to hurt him. She just couldn't help it. Despite his feelings—or perhaps because of them—she wanted, more than anything, to be alone now. It was important. Too much of her had died back on Stanton Street. She'd lost her love, her livelihood, and very nearly her sanity.
The latter were earned back, in time. Forever and irrevocably altered, but back.
Her love never quite made it. It lay, cold and broken, inside her. And she knew that before the old Mona might ever hope to live and love and dance again . . .
. . . the new one must learn to crawl.
Downstairs, the music stopped. She heard him stand and stretch and sigh. Then came the familiar furry stampede as he quietly called, "Bubba! It's walk time! Whaddaya say?"
There followed a shuffle, a scuffle, and the chink of pocketed keys. Six feet padded down the hall. The front door opened and closed.
And Mona was alone.
She curled fitfully around the pillow and cried, very softly, for a little while. Then, as she had last night, and the night before that, and the night before
Mona dreamed.
(it's not so bad)
The words, over and over like a mantra. Billy's voice, saying
(it's not so bad)
that there was no fear, there was no pain, only the sensation of drifting for a long long stretch of time outside of Time: of floating in a boundless healing void, dark as the womb
(it's not so bad)
and then came the Light. And with it, the longing: to let go, to surrender and fly forever into the all-consuming, all-forgiving Source. But the Light spoke, in a Voice that was timeless and ageless and infinitely loving
(TIME TO GO)
and she felt the pull between what lay before and what lay behind as the Voice spoke again
(TIME TO GO)
and she heard another voice: much smaller, much closer.
Billy's voice, affirming
(it's not so bad at all)
that it was good, it was the way it was meant to be, even as the Light receded until it was little more than a pinprick on an infinitely black horizon, like the tiny spark that is the human soul . . .
. . . and Mona lay alone on the bed, very much awake, softly crying Billy's name. As she had, so many nights before.
With one small difference. One small saving grace.
Tonight, Mona knew where he went.
Somewhere outside the city of Leon, in the foothills of Nicaragua, a young man sat pensively outside of a hut. Listening. Waiting. He was thankful that tonight the fighting was far away.
Inside the hut, his child was being born.
A battered radio lay at his feet, quietly tuned to a Miami-based radio station that broadcast mostly yanqui rock 'n' roll. The quality of the reception was not so good, and the radio even less so; but he could hear well enough to hum along to a song sung in a language he but barely understood.
"Don't give up!
We need you.
Don't give up!
We need you."
The midwife appeared in the doorway. The look on her face said that everything was fine. It was over. The man grinned foolishly, hugely, overwhelmed with the joy and the power of the moment.
The first thing he saw, when he walked through the door, was the face of the woman he loved. It was sweat-slick, superhumanly weary, and the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
And then he saw the baby.
The universe opened wide for him, at that moment. His heart reached out and touched Creation, ran its loving fingers along every God-given fold and curve.
He was in the presence of a miracle.
He would never be the same.
And all the heavens be praised.
She was a fine baby girl. Even as they wiped the blood from her, she was the most beau
tiful thing that he'd ever seen. His wife would understand. He knew that she felt the same way, too.
The baby's eyes were open. She hadn't even cried.
And the music played on, outside.