August and Everything After

by Jennifer Salvato Doktorski

  “To be honest, it started off as a song about addiction and wound up being about a girl.”

  “Anyone I know?” I ask.

  Malcolm just smiles. I open the slit along the side of the album and pull out the paper sleeve that holds and protects the record. One side is covered with writing.

  “You’re listed as the cowriter for ‘That Last Night,’ and I may have said some nice stuff about you in the liner notes.”

  Liner notes are like the acknowledgments in a book, the artist’s chance to thank people. Malcolm mentions everyone involved in the six-song project—even Auntsie gets a nod for feeding us. He includes a dedication to his two bandmates who died in the accident, and the last line is about me.

  And finally, to Quinn, the real “Cat’s Eye.” Thank you for making everything better.

  “What do you think?” Malcolm asks.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “I was inspired.” His smile and clean-shaven face make him look so much younger than the last time I saw him. It raises my hopes about the two of us getting a fresh start.

  “Want to hear the rest of the songs?”

  I nod.

  He punches them up on his phone and then puts the van in drive.

  I turn around and look into the back of the van. It’s cavernous compared to a normal SUV.

  “So, I guess you’re getting ready for the road.”

  “It’s been hectic, but in a good way. I traded in my pickup for this. It’s not fancy, but it’s only three years old and most importantly, it’s safe. I had a few dates fall through and had to find other clubs to replace those gigs, but I made it happen. Plus, I’ve been getting the songs mastered in time to get CDs and albums pressed.”

  I wish we had talked about these decisions, but maybe I was never meant to be part of them.

  The music plays as we drive along the coast to some unknown destination, or perhaps no destination at all, I don’t know. He doesn’t say and I don’t ask; I’m simply relieved to have this time alone with him. I reach over and place my hand on his, which rests on his thigh. He hesitates, then flips his palm upward and intertwines his fingers with mine. Friends can hold hands, right?

  When the music ends, I tell him the final mix sounds amazing.

  He smiles big. “My old label thought so too. They’re definitely sending an A&R person to the gig.”

  “Malcolm, that’s fantastic! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I only found out yesterday. You were the first person I wanted to call.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because I was afraid. You said you wanted to be alone, and I’d already screwed up. I needed to get my life more in order before I saw you again. It killed me not to share the news with you immediately.”

  I squeeze his hand tighter. “Lynn’s mom called me.”

  “What? When?” he said, shocked.

  “Two days ago. It still seems so surreal.”

  I tell him the whole story about the letter and the cemetery and playing the song again. I fill him in about Ricky and my ideas about community college and studying audio engineering. My words tumble out like I’m afraid that after this ride is over, so are we, and I’ll never get the chance to share these things with him again.

  “Oh, and I got real drums!”

  “Your aunt showed me. Nice.”

  “Yeah, Sam Ash had to order them. They arrived this morning.”

  “You sound excited, Cat’s Eye. I’m happy for you.”

  When we approach the inland waterway leading out to the ocean, Malcolm pulls into the parking lot and finds a spot. We stand by the rocks, watching the fishing boats go out for the night. I can tell something’s on his mind.

  “What is it?” I ask. “You can tell me.”

  He turns toward me and I expect him to hug me or at least hold my hand. I’m hoping this is all leading toward him saying we belong together. Instead, he folds his arms across his chest and tucks his hands against his elbows. It’s like he put himself in a straitjacket.

  I move toward him and he takes a step back. I’m trying hard not to be insulted.

  “I don’t bite. Not anymore anyway.” My attempt to lighten the heaviness between us and stave off whatever’s coming next fails.

  “There’s something I need to explain,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  “The whole time we were in the studio, I was feeling too much.”

  I scrunch my brow. “For me?”

  “For everything. I’m out of practice with sitting with all that intense emotion, and my first instinct was to run from it. I needed a mental break from the memories of friends I’ve lost, the logistics of this new project and tour…us. I needed to be by myself for a while to deal with all of that. But we were on a strict deadline with Ricky and I couldn’t. I felt trapped, and because of that, I stumbled…”

  “It was one Vicodin though, right?”

  “Yes. I haven’t used since, but I felt like shit afterward. I never should have taken that beer from Travis. It loosened my resolve. I’m not as strong as I thought I was, and I’m ashamed of how I acted.”

  “Don’t be. I’m sorry about what happened that night. I was too hard on you. I got scared too.”

  He unfolds his arms and closes the space between us. “Quinn, wait. Hear me out. Since then, I’ve been going to two meetings a day and have been in constant contact with my sponsor. The urges I’m having to use scare me. And one pill, one beer is too much for me. I cannot afford to slide.”

  “Maybe the tour should wait. Why does it have to happen now? See what the A&R person says. They might sign you and pay for a tour. That would give you more time.”

  It will give us more time, I want to say, but know better than to scare him a second time. He doesn’t need the pressure of “us” with everything else.

  Malcolm shakes his head. “On the road I’ll be busy, I’ll have a purpose. This tour has always been about something bigger than me. I owe it to those guys. It’s part of me making amends. It’s my penance.”

  I get that. I so get that. “What about meetings?”

  “I’ll go as often as I can. I’ve already looked up the NA chapters between here and Florida, and I’ll check in with my sponsor every day.”

  “Have you thought this through?”

  “I have. Plus, all signs point to this being the right time to tour. Travis is available, my parents sold the house, Liam’s signed on.”

  I knew about Travis and Liam, but the news about the house brings an unexpected lump to my throat. Even though it wasn’t ours, for a little while at least, it felt like home.

  I’m afraid to ask.

  “What about a drummer?”

  He lets out a long sigh.

  “I offered the spot to a guy we auditioned today. He’s a total pro, and he digs the songs.” Malcolm reaches out and touches my fingertips. “But I made it very clear to him, to everyone, if you’re in, we’ll find a spot for you. Maybe you can play percussion or do sound?”

  So now I’m Tambourine Girl?

  “What about the gig next weekend?” I ask.

  “That’s up to you.”

  He gets points for not wanting to hurt my feelings, but he’s not exactly telling me he wants me beside him or professing his undying love, is he?

  “It’s probably best if the new guy plays the showcase. You’ve got a lot riding on it, and you guys need to gel before you hit the road.” My voice cracks, betraying how hard this is for me.

  “Are you sure, Cat’s Eye? This is your record too. You should at least play on a couple of songs.”

  Is he disappointed? I can’t tell. Anyway, it’s hard to feel sorry for him because, newsflash, I’m holding on by a few gossamer-thin threads here.

  “I’m sure. Anyway, with Liam playing guitar, someone will
have to do sound at Keegan’s. I’ll let Caleb know I can work.”

  Caleb can handle the soundboard better than I can, but I’m trying to make lemonade here.

  “Well, if you change your mind, about any of it, let me know. We’re friends—I want you there.”

  I want to be there. For all of it. I want to be at each one of those twenty-three gigs from here to Gainesville, making sure he stays on track and doesn’t slide on the road. I want to see this tour through the end. I couldn’t bear it if anything bad happened to him. So why don’t I say all that? Why am I holding back? Probably because he’s making me feel like how Reggie must have felt every time I got his hopes up during a walk and then returned him to his cage. I’m sorry for hurting that sweet, furry guy with my lack of commitment.

  “Okay. If I change my mind, I’ll let you know.”

  Malcolm reaches for my glasses, but instead of pushing them up like he usually does, he takes them off and looks at me. Then he cups my cheek with one hand and traces my chin with his thumb. My cheeks flush with a mixture of anger and excitement. I think he’s going to kiss me, but he takes my hand and pulls me into a hug. I resist at first, but soon give in. I’ve missed the weight of his arms around me. I rest my head on his shoulder and press my lips against his neck.

  “Friends are allowed to do this?” I whisper.

  “We’ll make sure our new contract includes a clause.”

  I pull away and take back my glasses.

  I don’t want a new contract.

  I don’t want the old contract.

  I want him to tell me to never let go.

  FORTY

  Auntsie’s still awake when Malcolm drops me off. Reggie, however, is passed out cold. I’m beginning to realize the secret life of dogs is not so secret after all. They sleep, a lot. But when they’re awake, they treat people the way people should treat people—with unabashed love and devotion.

  “Whatcha got?” Auntsie nods toward the album.

  I hold it up and show her the picture.

  “Should I pack your bags?” she asks when she recognizes my glasses and sees the album title.

  My lips curl into a half-hearted smile. Which is exactly how my conversation with Malcolm has made me feel.

  “He wrote a song called ‘Cat’s Eye.’”

  She slaps her knees and stands up.

  “I’m gonna get started. You’ll send me postcards from the road, right?”

  I hate to squash her enthusiasm. “Not so fast. I haven’t heard the song yet.”

  She puts out her hand. “Give it here. The curiosity is killing me.”

  “It’s the last track.”

  She cues up the record and we both stand, watching it turn like it’s a YouTube video and there’ll be something to see.

  It’s a simple song, a beautiful song, with Malcolm singing and playing alone on acoustic guitar. I like it this way, without a band. It’s easier to imagine he’s talking to me. He sings about longing and desire, love that makes the pain goes away, a euphoria that never lasts. He uses the pronoun she, but I recognize the lyrics’ ambiguity. This could easily be a song about drugs, and I wonder if maybe it is after all, except that it’s called “Cat’s Eye.”

  When the song’s over, she tries to hide it, but I can see Auntsie has tears in her eyes. But me? I’m too filled with doubt. Auntsie keeps her head down and pretends to read the lyrics and liner notes.

  “I’m so glad he took the time to make vinyl copies. Downloading a three-minute single to your phone is convenient, but one song doesn’t tell the whole story. It’s like reading a chapter instead of the entire book,” she says.

  She’s right. She’s holding our whole story, except I don’t know how it ends.

  “Goodnight, Auntsie,” I say. “You can keep that copy for your shelf.”

  Upstairs, I text Malcolm before I fall asleep.

  Loved the song

  I hoped you would

  Thank you

  Any time, Cat’s Eye

  More like out of time, not anytime, because that’s what we are. Unless I decide to be his groupie this fall. The more I think about it, when he dropped me off, after a night of him laying out the very specific parameters for how I can be part of his life, he never mentioned wanting to see me this week. Sounds like Malcolm is taking care of Malcolm, I hear my aunt say. Yeah, well. I’ve got parameters too.

  See you at the Keegan’s gig

  Not before?

  Can’t. Sorry. Mom and sister here all week

  You can come over and watch movies

  “Friends” probably shouldn’t do that

  I’ll leave the door open if you change your mind.

  Thx. I won’t

  That’s a lie. I will. But I won’t act on it. Not anymore. It’s time I start putting myself first.

  On Monday evening, I’m walking home from my shift at the Ben Franklin, my melancholy amplified by the hint of fall in the bay breeze, when my phone rings. It’s a Nashville cell phone number I don’t recognize. I figure it’s a telemarketer and almost hit Ignore, but I answer it.

  “Hey, girl!” Ricky croons when I pick up.

  It’s only been a little more than a week since we recorded together, but oh, how I’ve missed that Southern charm.

  “Ricky! I’ve been meaning to call you, but I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Never a bother, Quinn Gallo. Never a bother. You got a sec?”

  “Sure.”

  “I wanna run something by you.”

  I figure he wants to talk about Malcolm, or his music, or both. But what he says leaves me feeling like it’s the universe, not Ricky Keyes, who’s calling and maybe, just maybe, we’re finally square.

  I hang up and round the corner with an uncontrollable smile on my face as Mom’s minivan, Old Bessie, pulls into the driveway. We’ve logged a lot of memories and miles in Old Bessie, and it’s a comfort to see she’s still running.

  “Mom!” I wave to her from up the block as she gets out of the van. She’s already in beach mode with a brown spaghetti strap sundress and flip-flops. Evie, Ashley, and Kate pile out of the passenger side. For some reason I can’t fully explain, I start running and don’t stop until Mom and I are hugging. I nearly knock her over with my beagle-like enthusiasm. I breathe in her familiar perfume, and think about how badly I missed this when we were keeping each other at arm’s length. It makes me sad to think that the last time we hugged like this, I was shorter than her.

  “Let me help you load in,” I say, using band-speak.

  She clicks her key fob and opens the hatch. The van is packed top to bottom with suitcases, beach chairs, boogie boards, a Wonder Wheeler, an umbrella, and bags and bags of groceries.

  “Holy shit! Are we preparing for the apocalypse?”

  Evie hefts her duffel bag over her shoulder. “You know Mom. She always buys way too much food.”

  Auntsie reaches into the van and grabs four ShopRite bags, two in each hand.

  “Don’t knock it. This annual visit keeps me stocked with food until Columbus Day.”

  “Let us help with that,” Ashley says, coming to the back of the van with Kate.

  When the trunk is unloaded, there’s barely an inch of hardwood floor left uncovered. My drums make the living room feel extra tight. Reggie runs around, peeking into each grocery bag and sniffing everyone’s luggage. When Mom pulls out a brand-new squeaky toy for him, he nearly hyperventilates.

  “Girls, why don’t you take your bags upstairs? Gemma, your room’s all ready for you. Quinn cleared her stuff out yesterday,” Auntsie says to Mom.

  “Don’t be silly. I can stay here on the couch. It’s Quinn’s room now.” Mom smiles at me.

  Who is this woman?

  “Mom, it’s okay. This is your vacation.”

  “I insist.” She
plops herself on the couch, and Reggie takes the opportunity to launch himself onto the cushion beside her with his stuffed chipmunk, and then resumes his attempts to extract the source of its squeak. “This is very comfortable. Plus, I’m an early riser. I don’t want to wake you girls when I go out for my walks or make coffee.”

  “Are you sure? Your quarters come with a dog, you know,” I tell Mom. “He didn’t take to his crate or our beds the way we thought he would. He’s claimed the couch as his domain.”

  Mom laughs and puts her hand on Reggie’s back. He drops his toy and jumps up to kiss her face. Grateful guy.

  “I don’t mind sharing if he doesn’t. He won’t take up much space.”

  “No, but he snores,” Auntsie says.

  “What time do you take your walks?” I ask Mom.

  “Around sunrise, why?”

  “Okay if I go with you one morning?”

  “You can go with me every morning.”

  For the next few days, I feel like I’m vacationing at the Jersey shore. I’m out walking on the boardwalk every morning with Mom and logging more beach time and eating more funnel cake than I have all summer.

  Evie, Ashley, and Kate like to head up to the beach early every day to stake out a good spot near the water, then promptly fall back to sleep in the sun. When I’m not at the Ben Franklin, I join them and sit under the umbrella with a book. I’m way behind on Auntsie’s reading list, and Virginia Woolf is proving to be more challenging than I expected. I love the stream-of-consciousness style, but it’s not exactly beach read material. Plus, it’s taking for freaking ever for the Ramsay family to get to that damn Scottish lighthouse already. By Friday, I abandon the Woolf novel and decide to go to a lighthouse myself.

  “Where?” Evie asks through a mouthful of pancakes. She heard me. I can tell she’s not into it.

  “To a lighthouse. I think we should go visit a lighthouse,” I say.

  “Uh, why?” Kate’s about as enthusiastic as Evie, but tries to be nice.

  “Because I have the whole day off, and I don’t want to spend it sitting on the beach.”

  Ashley gasps at my Jersey shore blasphemy.

  Mom takes a sip of her coffee.