Red House Blues

by sallie tierney

  Claire sawed away at the strapping tape. With a pop the last strip of tape parted and the box was open, a neatly folded plaid shirt the first item on top.

  “You were right. Just clothes.” said Claire as she rummaged through the contents of the box.

  “Claire, did you know it has a name?” said Suzan, opening the case.

  “What, the shirt?”

  “No, the guitar. Sean called it Persephone. I’ve no clue why but that’s what he called it. All underworldly, I suppose. His quirky sense of drama.”

  “That’s sort of odd. I would have thought Eurydice was more appropriate for a singer to name his instrument. Could have been worse, though. It could have been Old Betsy or Rover.”

  Suzan gazed down at the blue Gibson, her pinched face reflected in its gleaming surface.

  “Strange no one stole it or pawned it when Sean died. It’s like the thing has a charmed life and only its owners are cursed.”

  “Suze, let’s leave this till some other time. It’s clearly upsetting you,” said Claire. “None of this stuff is going anywhere.”

  “It’s been too long already,” said Suzan.

  She put the blue guitar back into its case and snapped the case shut.

  Claire pawed through the other box.

  “Probably nothing you’ll want to keep in here. Didn’t Sean know Grunge was dead?” She held up a torn pair of jeans. “Though, whoever sent this stuff washed it first and folded it. Nice touch. They must have liked him. That’s good to know, don’t you think?”

  Hearing Suzan reopen the guitar case, she looked up. Suzan was feeling around in the elastic pocket in the lid. Then she lifted the guitar out and felt under the padding in the bottom.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Something is wrong here, Claire,” she said.

  Suzan moved to the box beside Claire and dug through the shirts, underwear, and pants with her good hand, scattering clothes over the floor.

  “What are you looking for?” said Claire.

  “Sean’s notebooks.”

  The look on her face told Suzan that Claire had made the connection.

  “Shit,” said Claire. “He never went anywhere without a little notebook tucked in his shirt pocket.”

  “No, he didn’t. and he can’t have changed so much that he quit scribbling. Once, I actually saw him stop in the middle of the street to jot down a lyric. He filled a dozen of those little notebooks a year.”

  “Yeah, Tony always said he was going to get himself killed someday doing that,” said Claire. “So where are they?”

  “They could have shipped them separately.”

  They both knew it was a hollow hope. Nothing more was coming from Seattle.

  “You could write to the return address and see if the person who packed up the clothes has seen the notebooks.”

  “Sure. And while I’m at it I could ask them if they know what my dead husband was doing for the last two years that he didn’t want me to know about. Damn him, Claire! How could he have done this to me? What did I ever do that I deserved this and what am I supposed to do now, carry on as if none of it happened? My whole life from here on is going to tainted by his death.”

  “I kind of doubt he planned it that way, sweetie.”

  “Of course not, but you see what I mean. If only he had stayed here so that we could . . . I don’t know, fix whatever was wrong. I feel as if I’m marked, that it’s just one nightmare after another I can’t wake up from. I can hardly wait to see what’s coming at me next.”

  “It might not be so bad as all that if we take some positive action. Here’s an idea. I get some time off and we go to Seattle. Talk to Sean’s fellow band members, hit some of the clubs. Doctor Phil would probably call it finding closure,” said Claire. “Okay, don’t cringe, you know what I mean. Girls taking control of their destiny.”

  Suzan levered herself from the floor and threw the green plaid shirt she had been holding back into the box.

  “I don’t want to think about it any more. It won’t do any good.” She tore the return address label from the box. “What I’m going to do is write to this address and thank them very kindly for Sean’s junk. That’s all I’m going to do. As far as I’m concerned Sean can rot in peace. He chose his road and he had no room for me on it.”

  She closed the box.

  “That’s it, Claire. I am sick to death of taking the blame for Sean’s death. You can tell that to Tony. Tell him I’m putting it behind me and moving on. It might even be true eventually.”

  “You can tell me to mind my own business but you need to find the notebooks, Suze. What if they explain everything? You’d want to know, right?” said Claire. “There’s another concern you probably haven’t considered, a purely practical matter. What if someone else is performing songs that Sean wrote? What if Sean’s being ripped off? Ripping you off too since you’re his widow. He worked hard on those lyrics and they were good. You said so yourself. He deserves credit. Even if the lyrics are just stuck in a drawer someplace, you still need to find them and maybe get them published or something.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Even given the remote chance some freakishly wealthy Punk band would want to buy them from me, how can you seriously think I’d agree to profit from Sean’s lyrics? You see me as Courtney Love all of a sudden? That’s pretty low, Claire. I thought you knew me better than that.”

  Claire strode out of the room toward the kitchen.

  “But.” Suzan shouted at her retreating back. “I’m waiting for the but. But if the notes are valuable Sean should get credit. But I owe it to myself. But, but, but. Damn it, what I say is everyone else needs to butt out. So, can’t we just put these boxes away, clean up the place and put on a pot of coffee?”

  Suzan gave the box guitar case a kick and headed for the kitchen.

  “I’m already putting on the coffee,” said Claire. “It’s something to do while you think.”

  “And what is it I’m supposed to be thinking about?”

  “About when we’re leaving for Seattle.”

  “We’re not going to Seattle,” said Suzan. “Even if I agreed with you that there’s unfinished business in Seattle, which I don’t, it would be something I’d be doing for myself. I couldn’t drag you into it.”

  “I can accept that, though you know you can count on me if you need me. It wouldn’t be that hard for me to take some time off. I doubt the Ford would make the trip but we could borrow or rent a car . . .”

  “Just drop it. It’s not going to happen, Claire. I can think of at least two reasons I can’t run off like a maniac to Seattle even if I wanted to, which I don’t,” she said. “In case you have forgotten I just shishkababed my hand and have a zillion stitches that won’t come out 'til next week. Second, I still have two weeks until the end of the quarter and haven’t even started the term paper for Metcalf. Which, as it turns out I’ll have to type one-handed.”

  “Okay. I see your point. But . . . here’s the ‘but’ you wanted . . . if you don’t go down there, if you run away from this, how are you going to live with yourself?”

  “I’ll cope in the same way everyone else does. I’ll take each day as it comes. And Claire, even if I wanted to go down there on some fool’s errand I can’t afford it. The funeral took every last dime I had saved for grad school.”

  “You could catch the Amtrak out of Fairhaven. That’s cheap. Then when you get there you can rent a bed in a hostel.”

  “You can’t be serious. A hostel? Bunked in with sweaty teenage backpackers? That alone would keep any sane person in Bellingham.”

  “You only need a bed, Suze, not a spa experience. And from there you can e-mail me every day so I won’t go out of my mind with worry while you are in the big nasty city.”

  “No, the answer is no. I realize you think I’m making a mistake and I’ll regret it. You’ll have to deal with that. I don’t need anything in Seattle. The Sean part of my life is over and done. All I need now is that cup of coffe
e. Then maybe you could help me clean up a little around here. This place is a dump.”

  “You noticed. That’s a good sign, anyway. Got any cookies around here?”

  “No. I had to throw them out a while back.”

  ***

  It took longer to put the apartment into an approximation of civilized order than Claire would have liked. By the time the last crusty plate had been scrubbed and put away, Suzan was gray in the face. Claire sent her off to bed with two more Vicodin, let herself out locking the door behind her.

  The temperature had dropped like a rock as the clouds dwindled East toward the mountains, and would continue to plummet during the night. Slush on the path out to the street was already icing over. The drive home was a white-knuckle thrill ride.

  She found the house empty. Tony hadn’t come home from work. He was finding excuses to stay late on campus. How long before he decides not to come home at all? Might as well be a widow without having been married, she thought. There would be no abrupt and tidy ending for her and Tony. She almost envied Suzan. At least Suzan’s long wait was over.

  Claire turned the furnace thermostat up to seventy-two and hung her coat on the hall tree. Such quiet. So still. The house seemed abandoned to vandals and mold. She could have been a ghost standing ephemeral, unseen in the cold space of her own home.

  Chapter 5

  Seattle - 1901

  Thomas Morgan helped Miss Tess Jones off the train to the platform, tipped his hat, and wished her well. She watched him walk away in a cloud of rank cigar smoke, glad to see the last of him. He had been a hopeless bore, dogging her every step, clear across country from Chicago but as her late father’s old friend she was duty-bound to be polite. Her mother asked Mr. Morgan to “keep an eye” on her daughter who was setting off for Seattle to sing in a new theater there. Much to her mother’s great disapproval and trepidation. East Coast people imagined Seattle still a place of wild Indians and free-roaming bears.

  Tess tried unsuccessfully to brush the wrinkles from her skirt as she searched the crowd for Mr. Broadrick. She had no doubt he would meet her train. He had been so kind to her in Chicago at her conservatory recital, praising her voice and stage presence to the skies. When he asked her to perform at the opening of his lavish new theater in Seattle she quickly agreed, thrilled to be starting her professional singing career. Her mother had wanted Tess to marry respectable Wilfred Boyd who owned Boyd’s Dry Goods store in the neighborhood. At twenty years old, and never having been out of Chicago, Tess wanted more. She wanted to be a famous vocalist, traveling the world. She wanted to sing in Europe. Broadrick’s chain of music halls would be an excellent start. Though, truth be told, Tess was also a bit afraid. It had been a harrowing, seemingly endless, trip across country over perilous mountain ranges and featureless prairies. The train stopped at every junction that boasted more than one house and a general store. The rail car was cold and hot in turn, and continuously filthy. She had tried to sleep but the jolting, bone bruising motion of the car wore her down and made her feel ill to her stomach the whole length of the continent. More than once she wondered if fame could be worth such discomfort. And there was the added misery of having to make polite conversation with Mr. Morgan, who smoked one nasty cigar after another, and had nothing pleasant to say about any of the scenery they traveled through. By the time the train finally pulled into Union Station in Seattle, Tess was half inclined to turn around and go home if she thought she could have survived the return trip.

  And she would have, if she hadn’t been so in love with Jamison Broadrick. From the first time she saw him there at her recital she had adored him. Tess would have followed him to the ends of the earth. And Seattle certainly felt like the ends of the earth. Thank God her mother hadn’t known the real reason she had decided to take the job. She would never have allowed Tess to get on the westbound train. Tess was confident that once Jamison he knew her better he would return her regard.

  But where was he? The boardwalk outside the stationed was crowded with travelers and baggage and boxes. Porters were loading wagons pulled up at the side of the brick street. At the edge of the crowd stood a squat, ugly man in dusty black suit holding a sign. At first Tess didn’t notice him but as she searched for the one person she thought to see, the letters on the sign finally registered in her mind. Miss T. Jones. The ugly little man was waiting for her. Reluctantly she approached him.

  “Excuse me. I am Miss Tessa Jones. I assume you are here to meet me.”

  “I’m Howard Ash. Doctor by profession, but people call me Doc. Mr. Broadrick asked me to get you settled in lodgings he arranged for you up the hill. I’ve got a wagon right over there.”

  Tess wondered if he was a horse doctor. He certainly didn’t look like any physician she’d ever seen. “Doc” indicated a two-horse buckboard wagon, more appropriate for hauling sacks of feed than young ladies.

  “I expected Mr. Broadrick to meet me.” She wasn’t sure she wanted to trust this strange man.

  “He’s in Portland on business," he said as he picked up her suitcase and started toward the wagon. What could she do but follow? It took a few minutes for him to heft her suitcase and steamer trunk into the back of the wagon. Tess scrambled up to the driver’s bench without help. Not that any was offered. Doc Ash reined the team into a brisk walk, almost jolting her off the box.

  The boarding house turned out to be a short six blocks up the hill from the station. The first thing Tess noticed about the house on Fir Street was it garish deep red color. There must be a mistake, she thought. It looked like a house of ill repute. Surely not!

  But her misgivings proved to be unfounded. The landlady was a pleasant, motherly woman named Mrs. Jacobs. She welcomed Tess with a tour of her boarding house, then settled her in a bright cheery room at the top of the stairs.

  “I serve supper at six but if you’re hungry there’s soup left over from lunch still hot on the stove.” said Mrs. Jacobs.

  Suddenly Tess was famished. As well as exhausted and disappointed.

  “Mrs. Jacobs, did Mr. Broadrick leave any message for me? I had expected he would want to be here for my opening at his theater. Frankly, I’m rather confused.”

  “Don’t know anything about a message. Doc will be by tomorrow to take you to the theater. Mr. Broadrick asked him to show you around.”

  Mrs. Jacobs went downstairs, leaving Tess to unpack her clothing and get settled into her room. It was a nice enough room and she saw that the window overlooked a pretty garden. Far beyond the garden Tess could see a crescent of harbor. Jamison Broadrick had found her comfortable lodgings. Perhaps, she thought, that thoughtfulness reflected his feelings for her. At least if he couldn’t be there when she arrived, he had provided for her.

  Broadrick’s Madison Street Theater was magnificent on opening night, a palace dripping with gilt embellishments, crystal chandeliers, and lavish velvet draperies. The packed theater greeted Tess with wild enthusiasm and bouquets of beautiful flowers. She sang as she had never sung before, determined to live up to Mr. Broadrick’s faith in her. But as much as she was excited and gratified by her reception, it was a bittersweet experience. She kept glancing to the wings, praying he would be there watching her. But he did not come to the opening. After the performance, champagne flowed in the lobby as the cream of Seattle society congratulated Tess Jones on her performance.

  It was dawn before Tess returned to the boarding house on Fir. And in spite of a triumphal opening night she shivered with loneliness, and if she could be honest, a feeling of defeat.

  Still, she was determined not to let him down so each night as the weeks sped by she sang her best songs and smiled graciously as the audience gave her standing ovations and showered her with more flowers than she imagined obtainable in Seattle.

  Three weeks after opening, as she was beginning to despair of him ever coming to see her perform, there he was standing in the wings, more handsome than she remembered. Tall and elegant, dressed impeccably in evening wear, h
is silver hair and beard shining like moonlight. Oh, his noble face, his presence! She felt she would faint seeing him there watching her. As she came off stage toward him he offered her a slight bow.

  “Brilliant performance, Miss Jones. If anything, more accomplished than Chicago," he said as he grasped her hand and kissed her fingertips.

  She could barely breathe for wanting to throw herself into his arms, yet horrified at the impulse overtaking her.

  “Thank you, Mr. Broadrick. Your kindness embarrasses me.”

  “Surely not. You merit better treatment from me. I apologize for not being here to welcome you to Seattle. Business frequently calls me away. Have my people treated you well in my absence?” he asked.

  “Everyone has been kind and helpful, thank you. It is such a pretty city and the people have been friendly. I am so pleased you invited me to sing here.” I can’t believe I’m babbling on like a brainless fool. He must think I’m an utter idiot. Her face flamed. To her relief, he didn’t seem to notice.

  “I am glad to hear you approve of our little town. But it occurs to me you can’t have seen many of its better amenities. Please, Miss Jones, say you will join me for a light supper this evening. I know of a place that rivals the finest restaurants in Chicago and has the advantage of a splendid view of the bay.”

  “I would be honored, Mr. Broadrick.” she managed to say without stammering.

  “And I would be honored if you would call me Jamison. Believe me, I am the honored party, my dear,” he said.

  The next weeks exceeded her most fevered and fervent dreams. Jamison Broadrick met her every night after her performance. He took her to the best supper clubs the city offered. And finally he took her to his penthouse in the Second and Terry Building, where he toasted her with champagne and told her he loved her. After that night they went to the penthouse every evening, where they let passion sweep them away from all care. And each night he either drove her back to her rooms on Fir Street or called a cab for her, careful of her reputation. How she adored him for his consideration, his devotion. Soon, she was sure, he would propose to her. Soon. And she would accept of course. She envisioned their wedding. He would build her a fine house in Chicago. There was no need for them to remain in Seattle. She would return home to her family as a beloved and wealthy bride.