by L. B. Dunbar
My eyes scanned the crowd, but I remained focused. I couldn’t miss Izzy in the front row, with a few of her girlfriends, as they screamed and jumped with their hands in the air. At one point, I gave in and bent to my knees to play the refrain. Izzy’s face beamed at me. I refused to feel guilty, as I had warned her I wasn’t interested in anyone else. With my fingers flicking violently on the guitar, I leaned forward enough to be face to face with her. Before I could pull back, Izzy’s lips crushed mine.
It was brief and wet. I stood instantly, righting myself, without missing a beat in our song. I strummed on as I scanned the crowd and caught the image of a different blonde. She stood in a corner near the door to the DeGrance’s private residence. My breath caught. I turned to Lansing, motioning with my head in the general direction, only to have Lansing return my gaze with a questioning look. When I returned my glance to the door, she was gone. I was positive it had been Ireland. There was no mistaking that blonde hair or that thin body. I’d know it anywhere, but I’d lost her in the crowd.
My eyes searched frantically and Lansing finished out the song. Mine was next. The crowd was so loud, I wasn’t sure they heard my introduction.
“I love a girl,” my voice pleaded with the crowd, still scanning for her. “And I need her to know that she changed my world. I’m hoping if she hears my song, she’ll know I’m sorry I didn’t tell her earlier how I felt. And I’m hoping once she knows that I love her, she’ll come to me.”
I ignored the ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’, and the not-so-subtle screams of Izzy’s friends as they engulfed her in hugs. It wasn’t her; she knew the truth. I cleared my thoughts of Izzy to sing for Ireland.
If I wrote you a love song
Filled with apology,
Would you know that I want you
To come back to me?
If I sang you a rock song
Filled with love and proof,
Would you know that I need you
To come back to me?
If I strummed on the sand
And gave you the truth,
Would you know that I love you?
Come back to me.
My hands wrapped the mic as I let Lansing play the song. Perk softly beat his drums. The crowd had the place lit with cell phones, and it sparkled like a night sky filled with stars. I’d closed my eyes with images of Ireland and me together. I remembered another night or two under starlight. I hoped each time I opened them that she wasn’t just a figment of my imagination. I focused on the words and my heart beat the meaning behind each one of them. Yet, I couldn’t see her in the crowd.
When the set ended, I hit the side stage immediately and removed my guitar. I was down the stairs, pushing through the well-meaning crowd to get to the door of the DeGrance residence. There was a coded entrance, but I was ready to destroy the alarm box if I didn’t gain admittance. My fist was rising to punch the security apparatus when my elbow was caught from behind.
“Whoa, dude. Chill.” Perkins held my elbow tight.
“She was here. Did you see her?”
“See who?”
“Ireland.” At the same time I said her name; Izzy appeared at my chest. She bulldozed me with a hug, and I stumbled back banging my other elbow into the edge of the bar as I caught her.
Izzy pulled back and attempted to take my mouth again. I didn’t move away from her fast enough. She still had her arms locked around me, and I still had a hand braced on her lower back. The security door opened and there Ireland stood. It was a mirage. The door opened and swung closed almost at immediately. I was still holding Izzy against me. I reached for the closed metal door, hidden by a fake façade of brick. I was too late.
Izzy’s deep dark eyes scanned mine for a moment before she finally released me.
“You were looking for her tonight, weren’t you?” she asked slightly bitter.
“Of course,” I responded, without regard for her feelings. The hurt crossed her face immediately.
“Izzy. I’m sorry, but you know how I feel. I just sang to the crowd. I love her.”
I wasn’t even facing Izzy at this point. I was banging on the door. Yelling, I love her.
“I love you, Ireland.”
“I love you,” I yelled at the cold metal that echoed my words back at me.
Izzy’s eyes softened as she leaned on the wall next to me. She bit her lower lip in a way that might have been endearing to another man. Her shoulders slumped and she crossed her hands in front of her as if repentant.
“She left,” she sighed, looking away from me.
“What? You saw her too?” I was relieved it wasn’t my imagination that saw Ireland standing on the other side of this door.
Izzy shrugged her shoulder in a way that was almost like Ireland. Almost. If she wrinkled her nose next at me, I would lose the last of my control. I’d tear The Round Table down to get to her.
“Relax,” Perk growled, knowing I was at the end of my resolve. “We’ll find her,” his voice was confident. I sensed Perk believed his words. He’d done it himself, after all, for the girl of his dreams.
I looked around me as the crowd still pulsed with energy and the bar couldn’t serve drinks fast enough to fill the thirst of a screaming, rock-n-roll crowd. I loved this scene. The buzz. The high. But I loved Ireland more. I was crushed that she had not come to me when I sang to her, or rather that I’d lost her.
Chapter 38
[Tristan]
A past appears to make things right
I returned to the stage. Lansing had convinced me that Ireland was most likely still in the building. He assured me that she could see me from Leo DeGrance’s office, three stories up. My focus remained on the obscure glass, well above the heads of the crowd. I couldn’t see the slightest movement from within that office. I only prayed that Lansing was correct. I couldn’t let down the band and walk away. I couldn’t be Arturo. I remained on stage and played out a few more songs. Perkins girl, Hollister, and I shared our duet, and the crowd was practically mush at our feet. It told a love story of longing. Of regret. Of love found.
I knew the song held value to Perkins and Hollister, but it suddenly seemed strangely appropriate for me.
It also seemed appropriate for a man I never expected to see standing in the wings off the small stage. Wavy dark hair, cut to his normal length. A scruff of a beard, lightly covering his jaw. Dark eyes met mine. He searched for forgiveness.
Arturo King was watching The Nights.
I finished out the last chords of the song, fighting my distraction of Arturo’s presence. Lansing sensed my lack of focus and glanced briefly over his right shoulder. He did a double take. He looked at me to confirm that I saw the same thing. I nodded. The song finished.
It was Perkins who couldn’t contain the words that were on the tip of my tongue.
“Holy shit. It’s Arturo.”
Perkins didn’t have a mic close to his mouth, but the sound still traveled to the crowd closest to us. Those girls in the front started the murmur, which began low and rose to a full crescendo.
“Arturo?”
“Arturo King.”
“Arturo, where?”
Heads were twisting. Eyes were scanning. Girls leaned toward the stage. The first one to see him began the chant.
Arturo.
Arturo.
Arturo. Arturo. Ar-tur-o. Ar-tur-o
Ar-tur-o.
The rhythm took off, and Perkins added a slow drumbeat. Arturo slowly smiled from the edge of the stage. Still out of sight enough, but some had seen him. The sides of his lip quirked up as the noise continued. I couldn’t help myself. I was so happy to see him; I smiled in return. My voice boomed into the microphone as I joined the plea.
“Ar-tur-o.”
After a few more minutes, I added.
“Come join us, man.”
Arturo laughed in the wings, a good hearty laugh. A laugh I hadn’t seen or heard for over nine months. I knew what he felt. You couldn’t deny the pull of the ene
rgy. The cries for him. The need for him.
When he took that first step out onto the stage, the eruption of noise was indescribable. If I thought it possible, it broke sound barriers. The shouts were deafening. Arturo walked with a slight limp, and his right hand was tucked into his pocket. He approached Lansing first, as Lansing was closest to him. He stood before our youngest member then reached out for him. Arturo slapped him several times on the back, then pulled back and lightly patted Lansing’s face. Arturo’s face still beamed with excitement.
Perkins didn’t even wait for Arturo. He was already around his kit and embracing him. He lifted Arturo awkwardly in the air with his six-four stature. Arturo’s hand was still trapped in his pocket, his other arm trying to wrap around the waist of the bigger man. Perkins smacked Arturo’s back hard, and when he released Arturo, there was another belly shaking laugh from our leader. He approached me last. I had already removed my guitar, ready to embrace him.
We man-hugged with eager pounding on each other’s back. When he pulled back, he stared at me.
“One song, and then you go after her,” he said, as he held my chin with one hand.
Arturo was acting strange. The whole thing was surreal. He turned to the crowd.
“Here,” I said holding out my guitar. Arturo stared at it a moment too long. His eyes met mine with fear. Then it passed.
“You play,” he smiled slowly. “I’d like to sing, if that’s okay.”
I nodded and returned my guitar over my shoulder. I stepped aside. Arturo stared at the microphone. His left hand reached slowly toward it. When his eyes flicked upward, the crowd was still cheering, but felt the hesitation. They were waiting on bated breath for his first words.
“Hello,” he said, sheepishly. That was all they wanted. The Round Table exploded again in shouts of his name. I laughed as I scanned the crowd again, my thoughts returning briefly to Ireland. My eyes drifted upward to that window near the ceiling. I willed her to come down to me, if she were there.
The door opened to the left of the bar, swinging inward in such haste, it had to have hit the interior wall. Like a crazed woman, there stood Guinevere. It was impossible to miss the deep breath she took, the way she raised her shoulders, then relaxed and stood tall. She waited.
“I’d like to sing a song, if that’s okay with you,” Arturo spoke. The insanity continued. Girls nearest the stage were crying. Several had their arms outstretched to try and touch him. They wanted to believe he was real, just like the band.
“I love you, Arturo,” came one shout above the rest.
“We’ve missed you,” came another.
“I’ve missed all of you, too,” he replied. “But I’ve missed a few people in particular.” He smiled around at us and then his eyes returned to focus across The Round Table. Like the steady goddess she could be, Guinevere waited.
“If you guys would humor me, I’d like to sing a song that’s plagued me for months. It’s not one of The Nights. I’d like to sing it anyway. It’s a classic.”
Arturo nodded at Lansing, who tipped his chin in response. He walked back to Perkins, who shrugged his shoulders. He crossed his arms and sat back. I pinched my eyebrows in question as Arturo approached me.
“Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town. Pearl Jam,” he said. I stared at our leader as he returned confidently to take to the mic. We didn’t do cover songs like this. We sang that at parties or amongst ourselves, but not at concerts. Not like this. I couldn’t figure out why he wanted that song.
Then he sang the first line and my heart sank.
“I seem to recognize your face…”
He couldn’t do this. My head swung to Guinevere’s across the room. She glared at him as she slowly moved through the crowd. It swayed and swerved, allowing her a wide berth as she maneuvered through the people. It was like a living being that separated to provide space for her, then swallowed her whole once she had passed a certain number.
Arturo’s voice was mesmerizing. The crowd was hypnotic. The pull of Guinevere to Arturo was magnet.
Eventually, she stopped. I sensed her hesitation. She had gone far enough. She was only going to meet Arturo half way.
He continued to sing. His eyes closed, lost in the music, as we played on. He was clenching the mic in his left hand, when I slowly saw his right hand remove from his jeans. It lifted reluctantly to brace the side of the mic. A slow collective gasp filled The Round Table.
Arturo continued to sing.
A steady murmur was filling the pit. Guinevere’s hand rose to cover her mouth. Her eyes didn’t move.
Arturo continued to sing.
I watched as a strange aura covered the crowd: the hushed muttering, the quieting of the people, the fumble in Lansing’s beat.
Arturo continued to sing.
Then I noticed what everyone saw. Arturo King was missing his right hand.
Chapter 39
[Tristan]
And lovers will be joined as man and wife.
I wasn’t part of the drama that took place immediately after that song. Something about Arturo. Guinevere. I was in my own world as I raced for that open door in the wall. I was on a mission that fell flat again. The elevator up to the DeGrance residence, three flights up, had a code as well. Within minutes, Guinevere stood beside me.
“I’m not letting you see her,” she breathed heavily. So heavily it was as if she ran a marathon.
“Let me up there,” I demanded.
“No,” Guinevere said, reaching around me to type in a code. “Don’t you dare follow me.”
When the doors opened, I sensed her urgency. Guinevere turned quickly within the lift box and glared at me.
“Leave us alone,” she hissed as the doors slowly closed, cutting her off from me. I twisted, my head hung, to find Arturo King standing in the doorway to the pit. He shook his hand as his stubbed wrist rested against his cheek. The red mark on his face proved only one thing.
Guinevere slapped him. Slapped him hard.
Two more weeks passed. It was almost the middle of July and the band was on our way to having another solid album. We’d rushed to the studio to finalize our songs. Arturo wanted to leave everything as it was. He felt the album with the three additional songs; one from Lansing, one from me, and the duet with Hollister, were good additions. It would be a reminder of what we went through. He was determined we would survive, but I had a feeling our recovery road was going to be very bumpy as it was unpaved.
We were due for a little reprieve, and it was decided to head to the lake country. Lake Avalon had been home to Perkins, Lansing and Arturo for years. The birth of the band was conceived in the woods surrounding the lake. I always felt like I had missed out on something by not being a part of the others’ history around Avalon. I was happy to be included in their stories as a Night, though. We planned to reunite at Arturo’s historical home, Camlann.
I was making a stop at Ingrid Tintagel’s home first, before I went to Arturo’s. When I was older, and Arturo allowed me to join the band, I was welcomed into the home of Arturo’s mother. Her hospitality and her motherly ways made me feel like part of the family. I never wanted to do anything that would betray the trust of that family. I even fought the urge to sleep with Ingrid, despite us flirting with it on many occasions. Ingrid was always pleased to see the boys and me. She was proud of our accomplishments. She was one of the few parents we had amongst ourselves collectively.
I was free to come and go from her condo in New York City, and her larger family home on the lake. It was classic in appearance as it balanced precariously on the water’s edge. Being an older home, her property rights to be so near the lake were grandfathered in, somehow. The home rested dangerously close to the water’s edge. At times it seemed the house should have toppled into the lake so close beside it, but it hadn’t yet. It still stood strong after all this time.
I was nervous to see Ingrid. As a band, we were slowly trying to get back to a point before everything. Before
Arturo disappeared. Those first two weeks had been all business. Cut the album. There were awkward silences, uncomfortable pats, and stares at Arturo’s missing hand. The tension grew between Lansing and Arturo. With the plan to return upstate, we recognized we’d have to face other obstacles as they came up. For me, the first would be trying to figure out what Ingrid knew, how she could hide it from us, and then try to forgive her, if it was possible.
I entered her house without fanfare, but I heard commotion coming from somewhere in the back rooms. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find Guinevere present. She had grown closer to Ingrid after the initial loss of Arturo, despite Ingrid’s hasty retreat from the city to Paris. I was still convinced that Ingrid knew more than she shared. I was resentful, at times, that she felt the need to keep us all in the dark, especially Guinie. At the moment, it appeared Guinevere was forgiving of Ingrid.
I should have been surprised to see Ana, and Arturo’s son, Morte. It was no secret that Ana creeped me out. She might have been the only other girl I wasn’t attracted to, next to Izzy White. Ana LaFaye was Ingrid’s stepdaughter, and she had a dark look to her. Jet-black hair, eerie green eyes, and pale skin; she had legs long enough to be a runway model. In a tale that seemed quite unbelievable, she and Arturo gave birth to Morte, who was nine years old. Ana knew I didn’t care for her. I cared less for Morte, jokingly calling him, “Spawn.” His frail frame and cold pale skin gave him a ghostly look. They both freaked me out. Guinevere felt sorry for the boy, and I tried to make more of an effort in Arturo’s memory. I still couldn’t shake that sinister feeling when I was in the presence of Ana and Morte together.
“Tristan, how wonderful to see you,” Ana spoke, as if a snake were about to hiss out of her mouth. My spine shivered when she approached me and air kissed my cheek. I tried not to shudder as the hairs on the back of my neck stood out and a ghostly touch slithered down my back. I did not return the false attempt to be polite. Without responding other than stating her name, I waited for her to recoil from me.
