“How charmingly bourgeoisie of you! Can you imagine me sitting around all day on a pile of money with nothing to do?”
“Ha! I guess not. But—”
“Listen.” She glanced at the navigation panel. “We’ve got a couple hours to kill before there’s any action. Why don’t we start at the beginning?”
“Story time!”
“Damn right.” She took her seat once more and kicked her boot heels up on the console. “Once upon a time, in 1965, I had this idea to throw a party.”
“Okay wait. 1965? That was like—Mags, just how old are you anyway?”
“You are never going to get a girlfriend if you keep asking questions like that!”
“Sorry.” He rolled his eyes.
“The fact is, my darling nephew, I am a hell of a lot older than you think! Now shush and listen.” She brushed her bangs back from her face. “Auntie Mags is going to tell you a story about how I got the idea for the GravGens. And it starts in France in 1965, when me and my best friend Celina decided to throw a party at Gramma’s house. Once upon a time…”
★ ○•♥•○ ★
July 1965.
“Hey, guys!” Meteor Mags skidded to a stop a meter from the four musicians. She turned the tip of her roller skate to the ground and stretched out her arms. “Welcome to France!”
The musicians looked up from their bags and gear on the landing strip. Mags stood before them in her custom leather skates which reached up to her knees. Above their polished black shine, her thigh-high socks alternated thick black bands with sets of smaller bands made from all the colors of the rainbow.
Her black skirt shimmered lazily in the breeze. A rainbow-striped shirt exposed her mid-riff. It did little to hide the cascade of black stars tattooed over her arms and chest. The sun shone behind her.
Who is this girl, they wondered, and—does she have a tail?
She shook her mane of black curls, smiling her biggest smile and happily chomping on bubblegum. To the cab driver on the other side of the band, she said, “Hey, hang on a minute. I gotta talk to these guys.” The driver took one look at her and continued loading the bags into his car.
“Hey, I said cool it, cabbie!”
Just then, Celina rolled up beside her. She planted her skates firmly and elbowed Mags in the ribs. “Be nice!”
“Cut it out, convict!” Mags slapped at Celina’s arm.
“Tell them about the party!”
“Oh, yeah! Monsieur Coltrane. Messieurs Jones, Tyner, and Garrison. Welcome to France! Will you come and play at our party?”
“Trane, who is this chick?” Tyner asked.
Coltrane set a bag back onto the concrete and slowly stood up. “Let’s find out. Hi. My name is John. Comment ça va?”
“Bien, merci,” beamed Mags. “It really is an honor to meet all of you. My name is Mags, and this is my best friend, Celina.”
Celina smiled and waved. “We’re huge fans.”
“A pleasure,” said Coltrane. The members of the band nodded and smiled, still not sure what to think of this rainbow roller girl and her friend.
“Listen,” said Mags. “We know you have a couple free nights before the Antibes show. And I know you’d love to take the night off, but if you come and play for us tonight, you can all stay on my gramma’s estate. You get your own rooms, we have a kitchen staff on call twenty-four hours a day, and, not to brag or anything, but it’s a pretty awesome pad!”
Coltrane rubbed his chin with his fingers, considering. He looked back at his band mates.
“Trane,” said Garrison. “We already have our rooms booked at the hotel.”
“Got a lot of shows to play already, too,” said Jones.
“Don’t worry about the rooms, guys. Gramma owns that hotel. We will get them sorted. Believe me, the rooms at Gramma’s—”
“Your gramma owns our hotel?”
Mags smiled.
Celina added, “Did Mags mention we were offering to pay you for playing for us? In addition to putting you up for a couple days.”
“How much?” Tyner asked.
“The girls and I pooled our money, and we came up with ten thousand dollars. Would that be enough?”
Trane squinted his eyes and appraised Mags for a moment, quietly.
“Guys, I got the nicest estate in France, and it’s filled with jazz-crazed young ladies that are dying to throw a party for ya. You don’t gotta do anything you don’t want to do, and no one is going to hassle you.” She blew a bubble and popped it. “What do you say?”
The cabbie had grown impatient with this garish hippie who appeared to be stealing his passengers from him. Still loading bags into the car, he sternly told her, “Cesser d’importuner mes clients! J’étais ici en premier!”
Mags waved her hand in the air angrily. “Arrêtez de crier après moi, chauffeur!”
The cabbie dropped the bags. He placed one hand on his hip and shook his finger at her. “Fermez votre bouche, hippie putain!”
“What did you just call me?” Mags asked furiously. “Aller avaler une bite! Vous abusez des chèvres!”
“Mags!” Celina interrupted. “We are making first impressions on visitors!”
“Oh, yeah,” she chuckled. “Can you get this guy sorted, Celina? I am so flying right now.”
“Me too! Holy shit, I can hear the sun shining. Is it always like that?”
Mags drew a star in the air with the tip of her finger. “If it isn’t, it should be. It’s beautiful.”
Celina skated over to the cabbie. She talked to him softly. The four musicians talked in quiet voices, with Coltrane listening and nodding.
Jones asked, “You’re talking about Margareta’s estate, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” She swayed in her roller skates and watched the sky. “It’s only a short drive from here. Come check it out! If you hate it, we can send you back to the hotel. But you won’t hate it.”
The musicians briefly discussed.
“Would you be able to get fresh reeds for my horn before the festival dates?”
She laughed softly. “Mr. Coltrane, we’ll chop down a bloody tree and build a new piano for Mr. Tyner if you want.”
Coltrane smiled. “Alright, then. You just hired yourself a quartet.” He held out his hand to Mags, who shook it.
★ ○•♥•○ ★
If she seemed short-tempered with the cabbie, she was in an absolute rage earlier that morning. “Fuck,” she yelled, sweeping her notes and books and pencils off her desk and onto the floor in one angry motion. “Why can’t I get this?” She kicked her desk. Her steel-toed boot lifted it off the floor and sent it crashing into the wall.
“Mags!” Celina threw open the door to her room. “Take it easy, willie wagtail!”
She unclenched her fists at the sight of her friend. “This is driving me crazy, Celina! Why can’t I get it?”
“Alright, now. Take it easy.” Celina hugged her. “What’s bothering you?”
“Gravity.” Mags hugged back, resting her face on Celina’s shoulder.
“Oh, is that all?”
“Yeah. Just the weight of the universe is all.”
Celina looked over at the notes scattered across the floor. She was no slouch at math, but the equations in Mags’ handwriting meant nothing to her. “Is that calculus?”
“Ricci calculus, some of it. Lorentz equations and tensors. They aren’t getting me anywhere. Dad probably could have done them in his head. Then again, he wasn’t the best mathematician ever.” Mags sighed, gathering up her papers and the scattered mess. “Whatever the answer is, it isn’t here.”
“You’re trying to suss out how much the universe weighs?”
Mags laughed and shook her curls. “Ha! No. That would be too easy.” Her tail flicked this way and that, impatiently. “I’m trying to make it weigh anything I want.”
Celina looked at her and considered. “The hotel called. The band is supposed to arrive at the airport this afternoon. Remember
?”
Mags perked up. Her eyes sparkled. “Oh, yes! We gotta get ready to meet them!” She took Celina’s hand. “Help me pick out something to wear!”
“Let’s roller skate there!”
“Idea! Wow, the girls are going to be so excited if they come play here.” Mags threw open her wardrobe and started flipping through tops and skirts.
“Can you believe how big they’ve gotten? Cheri turns thirty this year, and little Mercedes is already twelve.”
Mags looked over her shoulder. “Twelve? Celina, I remember when we brought her in as a baby! Now she’s almost as old as I was when you and I met.”
“Yes, but not nearly as much trouble! Then again, who is?”
“Look who’s talking!” Mags threw everything with rainbows onto the bed. “Have you tried the new batch yet?”
“Oh, I haven’t. But the girls assure me it’s a ripper!”
“In that case,” Mags said with a wry smile, “we should go test some before the party. Let’s go!”
★ ○•♥•○ ★
Celina made friends with the cabbie and enlisted him, for a sizeable bonus, to drive the band to the estate. She and Mags skated home on their own, laughing at everything they saw. It was a good day to be alive.
The musicians of the Coltrane Quartet, tired from their flight, talked quietly on the brief drive. They had heard of Margareta, of course, but nothing prepared them for the beauty of her estate. Flowering trees rose above the iron grates surrounding the garden. A breeze blew their petals over the car and across the street.
“Magnolias.” Coltrane took a deep breath.
“Can you believe this place?” Garrison caught only glimpses through the sections of iron grating in the brick wall surrounding the estate: flashes of the mansion, barns, and sprawling complex of living quarters on the grounds.
“They say she’s got more money than god himself,” said Jones.
Having checked in with the guard at the gate, the cabbie came to a stop in a circular driveway at the main entrance to the mansion.
Tyner chuckled. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’ll take this over a hotel any—oh, wow. Will you look at that?”
Across the circle from the mansion’s doors, a marble statue stood in a small alcove of trees. It portrayed a female pirate standing proudly with her saber drawn. Two marble pumas stood to either side of her, one surveying the landscape and one with its head lowered in a growl. A black granite fountain bubbled beside her. Magpies sang in the magnolia trees whose branches arched gracefully around the display.
Getting out of the car, Coltrane walked over to the statue. He admired the sculpture and the regal bearing of the woman it portrayed. Coltrane leaned forward to read the inscription on the statue’s base. He laughed to himself, shaking his head.
“Who is it, Trane?” Tyner stretched his legs.
“I don’t know, McCoy. All it says on the base is pumas toujours.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Jones scratched his head.
Just then, the doors to the mansion opened. Two girls came down the stairs to help gather the bags. A third girl, not even a teenager yet, greeted the musicians. She dressed all in black from neck to toe.
“Welcome to our home,” she said with a slight bow. “My name is Mercedes.” She offered her hand in a business-like gesture to Coltrane and then to each member of the band. “Let us get your bags, sirs, and I will show you to your rooms. You must be famished.”
The serious young lady spoke with the cabbie. She paid him, and he placed the cash in his pocket next to the bonus Celina gave him at the airport. Despite his unhappiness earlier, he left quite pleased with the situation. He drove to the nearest bar, parked the car for the rest of the day, and proceeded to get more drunk than ever before.
Mercedes led the quartet into the mansion. Two ramps flanked the sides of the spacious foyer. “We had the stairs covered with ramps so Mags could skate up and down them,” she explained. “She hasn’t quite mastered getting up them yet, though I’m sure she will eventually.”
Up they went, into a long hallway. The musicians peered into rooms which each seemed larger and more lavish than the last. Windows let sunlight into every room, and skylights brightened the hallways.
Here and there, pairs of girls busied themselves with cleaning, moving things from room to room. They laughed and chatted as they worked. But, as the musicians walked past them, the voices turned to whispers. The girls watched the entourage pass in silence, some smiling, some looking away shyly. They ranged in age from pre-teens to women in their thirties.
Coltrane cleared his throat nervously. The silent stares made the quartet a little uncomfortable. “Mercedes, how long have you—how long have you worked here at the estate?”
Mercedes continued her brisk walk but laughed. “Work here? Mr. Coltrane, I live here! We all do. I’ve lived here since I was a baby. But yes, working hard comes with the territory. We have quite a lot of work to do!”
“It’s a beautiful home,” offered Jones.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Jones. I am lucky to call it home. We all are. Ah, here we are.” Mercedes stopped and opened a door. “This and the next three rooms are all yours. Mags asked me to see that you were comfortable until she can give you the full tour in a little bit.”
She left the door ajar. “You can come and go as you please. The gardens are lovely if you want to step outside or walk around. If you need anything, just ask any one of us, please.” She excused herself to help with the party preparations.
The four musicians studied the room. Garrison plopped down on the chaise lounge and kicked off his shoes. “What a place! Did you see the Gauguin in the hallway?”
“No,” said Tyner, “but I saw the Steinway. What I didn’t see was a single boy or man! What is this place, anyway?”
Coltrane sat on the bed. He picked up a pack of cigarettes from the night stand. He hadn’t smoked regularly in years, but it had been a long flight and he was tired. “It is a home,” he said, “full of industrious young women. They started it after the war, from what I heard, taking in orphaned girls. Refugees.” Trane sparked a match and lit a stolen cigarette.
Jones took the pack Coltrane offered him. “And they have their own school here, and a farm. It’s a small city, really. Now, does someone want to tell me how high that Mags girl is right now?”
Garrison said, “That girl—ha! Is she for real? She was flyin’, man!”
Just then, a string of Spanish curses reached their ears, followed by a series of thumps. “That must be her,” said Coltrane, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Hide the breakables!”
PART TWO: THE CONCERT AT LA PLAZA MARGARETA
August 1944.
Meteor Mags stood with her gramma Margareta, surveying the piles of rubble.
“It used to be so beautiful. Now look at it.” The estate Margareta and her mother built with their fortune lay in ruins. The war had not been kind to Europe. Mags had only recently reunited with her gramma for the first time since she was a child, after living in the United States since 1938.
When she got word Margareta might be involved in the French Resistance, Mags travelled back to Europe to find her. The two of them spent the summer leading up to the invasion of Normandy getting to know each other. Together, they destroyed railways, power stations, and telephone lines. The invasion had succeeded—but at what cost?
“What are we going to do, Gramma? We have maybe ten francs between us. And just look!” Mags swept her arm across the decimated landscape. Bombs had carved great holes in the ground. Charred trees haunted crumbling buildings.
In one skeletal grove of trees, a pile of broken marble surrounded a pedestal. A pair of boots, shattered at the shins, stood where a statue used to be.
“My mother,” said Margareta firmly, “never taught me to surrender.”
“Neither did mine.”
“No, Mollie never was one to back down from a fight. Even if it was with me.”
Just then, Mags heard sobbing. She ran to one of the crumbling buildings. Inside, a girl not more than five years old huddled in the shade of some broken boards. She looked at Mags with fear-filled eyes.
“Oh, you poor thing!” She crouched beside the girl and held out her hand, palm up. “Are you okay, dear?”
The girl reached out wordlessly for Mags’ hand. She trembled as she touched it. She flung herself into the young woman’s arms.
Mags held the girl tightly and stood up. She faced Margareta, who now stood in the shattered doorway.
“Gramma,” she began. Mags remembered all too clearly the day her mother Mollie died in Spain. All the feelings of helplessness and hopelessness came back to her at once. She remembered escaping Spain in a horrified daze, all alone. A tear gathered in the corner of her eye and ran down her cheek.
“Gramma. There are so many of them. All over Europe! We can’t just abandon them.”
“What do you suggest we do?”
“We have to rebuild the estate! We can bring them here and—” The little girl squeezed her arms tightly around Mags.
“And make a home for them,” said Margareta.
“Yes!” Mags smiled through her tears. “A home,” she whispered. “Celina will help! I know she would.”
“It will be a lot of work, Maggie. And we don’t have anything to start with. Do you know what that means?”
“What?”
“It means that, first, we find this young lady something to eat. And then—” Margareta cracked her knuckles and smiled. “We find us a game of billiards.”
★ ○•♥•○ ★
“Hey, you guys! Like your rooms? Oh, can I have one of those?” Mags stood in the doorway. Her eyes sparkled at the pack of smokes in Jones’ hand.
“Help yourself.” Jones offered it to her. She skated into the room and took a cigarette from the pack. Jones obligingly struck a match and lit it for her.
“Such a gentleman!” She puffed and blew little smoke rings. “So, do we have to take you back to the hotel? Or would you like to have some sandwiches in the kitchen?”
Meteor Mags: Omnibus Edition Page 13
