War for the Oaks

by Emma Bull

  “And musicians have an ego problem.”

  “Me?” He grinned, and paid the tab with a couple of crisp bills.

  Out on Hennepin, the evening had begun. Cars cruised—little im­ports, shiny pickup trucks, and big American cars with lots of rear suspension and very little muffler. Dance music beckoned from the open door of Duff’s. A boy with an enormous mohawk and a girl in a torn jean jacket and engineer boots were arguing with an earnest young man in front of the Church of Scientology. Three black kids in front of the Skyway Theater had a boom box with something funky over­driving the speakers.

  “I love this street,” said Eddi.

  Willy shot her a quick look. “You mean that?”

  “Too grungy for you?”

  “Not quite, no. But love?”

  Eddi stuffed her hands in her pockets. “At night,” she said at last, “this is the heart of Minneapolis. Uptown, where we were last night, is maybe its feet, where it dances. Hennepin Avenue is like an artery between them.”

  They’d reached the corner of Seventh and Hennepin. Eddi pointed at two high school girls in trendy haircuts and jeweled denim. “When the suburban kids come in for Friday night, or the outstate kids come to the city, Hennepin is where they go. When the college kids want to play pinball, when the guys on the north side want to hang around and check out the women and when the women want to hang around and show off their new clothes, this is it, this is the place to do it.” She grinned and pulled her jacket a little closer. “With all those people, all that energy and emotion and—well, living, this place ought to have a life of its own by now.” She looked at Willy. “Too much armchair mysticism?”

  “No,” Willy replied. He gave his head a little shake, as if to throw off a mood, and smiled. “Or at least, I don’t think so. How much is too much armchair mysticism?”

  “Good question. For all I know, it’s like chocolate.”

  “You never have enough chocolate.”

  “Exactly.”

  City Center rose up before them, determinedly bland and blank-featured, hiding three floors of shopping mall under its pink ceramic-like hide. Across the street, Shinder’s newsstand was a lively, noisy challenge to the impassive mall.

  First Avenue and the street that gave it its name were just a block from Shinder’s on Seventh Street. Eddi and Willy shuffled in the outer doors at the end of a short line.

  “Isn’t this pretty quiet?” asked Willy, with a nod at the people ahead of them.

  “It’s early. I wouldn’t want to be showing up at eleven.”

  Eddi showed her driver’s license to the man at the head of the line, and he waved her through. There was something regal, but not haughty, about the gesture, as if it was backed up by an ungrudging noblesse oblige.

  The building was cinderblock painted high-gloss black in an effort to disguise its bus station origins. The double glass doors that faced the street were cloudy with the dust that even a few hours’ traffic produced, and smudged with fingerprints. Inside the doors were more cinderblock and black paint, a middle-aged cash register on the counter of a bare, bleak-lit cashier’s stall, and a long black wall studded with photocopied posters advertising next week’s bands. A little video mon­itor hung from the long wall, showing rock videos, special color effects, and scraps of old monster movies without the sound.

  “Ahem,” said Willy behind her.

  “Oh, so they let you in, did they?”

  His mouth quirked at the corners. “I’m old enough to drink.”

  “What about dancing?”

  “Too old. I’d better just watch.”

  Eddi laughed and tucked her arm through his. “Come along, Gramps. Check your coat and we’ll test that.”

  Once around the end of the long wall, First Avenue appeared to have unfolded, or possibly transformed entirely, while the visitor’s back was turned. The main room played improbable games with one’s eyes; its black walls made the darkened room seem infinitely large. Three projection screens rolled down from the ceiling to curtain the front of the stage with enormous versions of what the monitor by the door had shown. A second-floor balcony wrapped around three sides of the room. The center portion, facing the stage, was fronted with a glass wall that reflected the light from the screen and blended it with the light from the balcony bar. Neon on the invisible walls seemed to float in midair everywhere. Over the dance floor was a tangle of colored lights, neon sculpture that ignited in quick rhythmic bursts, and flash pots like little short-lived stars. The sound system made the whole unmeasurable space quake.

  “Are we going to play the main room?” Willy asked next to her ear, and Eddi jumped.

  “We . . .”

  “The band.” The screen light reflected in his eyes, too, a velvety green-black.”

  “Damn straight,” she said, and it sounded like the truth.

  They went downstairs to 7th Street Entry. It was smaller, and had less to do with illusion than with function. On the black, unadorned stage, Summer of Love had finished setting up.

  “Want a beer?” Willy asked her.

  “You buying?”

  “Yeah,” he said cautiously.

  “A Dos Equis.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “And if you were buying?”

  “Grain Belt.”

  “You buy the next round, opportunist,” he told her, and headed for the bar.

  They sat on the gray-carpeted platforms around the dance floor and drank from the bottles. “So,” Eddi said. “Do you write music?”

  “Not really. At least, not well. I’m good at arranging, but—no, not original things.”

  Eddi studied his face, looking for the bitterness that she heard in his voice. “It’s all right. Not everyone does.”

  “But you do.”

  Eddi shrugged. “Carla and I make a decent team at it. And Dan Rochelle does great music, but he never does lyrics. So don’t worry about it.”

  Summer of Love kicked off their first set then, with a heraldic blaze of guitar and keyboards. “Come on,” she said, and took his hand.

  “Umm?”

  “They close the bars at one o’clock in this town, son. We’ve got a lot of dancing to do.”

  Willy danced the way he made love, or played the guitar—with his whole attention, and that glorious leashed energy. He had the perfect, unconscious grace of one of his own lead breaks. They danced three songs in succession, and fell laughing into each other’s arms when the third ended. Willy pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. Then he kissed her. The quick brush of their lips jolted her. From Willy’s startled face, she guessed it did something like that to him as well.

  “Sit this one out?” he said, his voice a little shaky.

  Eddi nodded, and they found a spot on one of the carpeted risers. It was harder to do now; the room was starting to fill up. Eddi sat without speaking, watching the band. She felt a surprising and delec­table shyness that tied her tongue and kept her from looking at Willy. The brush of his fingertip along her jawline finally made her turn. He was studying her, his expression thoughtful. After a moment he turned his attention to the stage. Eddi did likewise, and wondered what had gone through his head.

  Willy’s presence seemed to wrap her in a mist in which every light had sparkling highlights, every sound made music, and music had an effect on all of her senses. In such a haze of wonder, it was hard to discern much detail. They danced, and drank beer, and talked, and all of it was equally absorbing and hard to remember.

  At the end of the second set, they went back to the main room, more out of nervous energy than for any change of scene. They stood leaning on the balcony railing, ignoring the current of people that passed behind them. “This always makes me feel as if I’m in a movie,” Eddi said, looking down at the spangled darkness of the dancers below, the glittering bottles behind the bar, and the empty VIP seats in the opposite balcony.

  “As the star?” Willy smiled.

  “Oh, always the star.” She felt a moment’s foolish m
elancholy, and voiced it: “We’re only cast as extras in real life.”

  Willy slipped an arm around her waist, and she decided perhaps melancholy had its place. His breath stirred the hair around her ear.

  Then Eddi heard a familiar voice behind her.

  “That was fast.”

  She turned to find Stuart Kline at the top of the stairs. He had the rumpled look he got when drunk. His left hand clenched on the bal­cony railing; his right was in his coat pocket.

  “Hello, Stuart,” she said. She wasn’t sure what tone to use, and ended up using none at all.

  “Who’s your new friend?” he asked, with a drawing of the lips that ought to have been a smile.

  “No one you know.”

  She felt Willy move out from behind her. “We’ll introduce our­selves,” Willy said, and there was a warning in his voice. “I’m Willy Silver. And you’re . . .”

  “Stuart Kline.” Again the stretching of the lips. “Are you Eddi’s latest screw?”

  The phouka would have snarled at that. “You’re a slow learner, Stu,” Eddi said as softly as she could and still be heard.

  His jaw clenched visibly. “So, is he more fun than the swish black guy?”

  “Go away, Stuart.” She kept her voice low, hoping Stuart would, too. But he was too drunk to care. The sharp edge of his words made heads turn their way.

  “How ‘bout you?” he said to Willy. “You like dicking an out of work second-rate chick vocalist?”

  Willy said, his voice very even, “Actually, I’m the guitar player for her new band.”

  Stuart turned white and took three steps forward. Willy met him on the last step and blocked Eddi’s view. Someone at the front of the crowd shouted and pressed backward. She saw Willy’s shoulders twist. Stuart dropped something, and Willy kicked it away before she could tell what it was. People began to scramble out of range. Stuart threw a punch at Willy’s jaw; Willy ducked neatly under it and hooked one foot around Stuart’s ankle with the same motion. Stuart hit the floor on his back, hard.

  Willy returned to her side, and she saw a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. His face was alive in a way she’d never seen.

  “You’d think you were having fun,” Eddi said, shaken. She realized suddenly how fast it had all been.

  His expression softened only slightly. “I had to do something.”

  Stuart got slowly to his feet. The look in his eyes could have melted the wall behind her. “You’ll be sorry,” he hissed at Eddi. “You’ll be goddamn sorry.” And he turned and dived through the crowd gathered around them.

  “What a sweetheart,” Willy said.

  Eddi wrapped her hands around the balcony railing, squeezed it until her bones ached and the knot in her windpipe went away. “He used to be,” she managed to say at last.

  Willy leaned forward and looked at her curiously. “I hope so. Or I’d worry about your taste in men, and that would hit a little close to home.”

  “Oh, we couldn’t have that, could we?”

  “Just a joke.”

  Eddi shook her head. “I guess I don’t feel much like joking.”

  His right arm went around her, hard-muscled and warm. “Want to make an early night of it?”

  She leaned against him, suddenly very tired. “Yeah.”

  “Come on, then.” They went downstairs with their arms around each other, though there wasn’t really room for it in the crowd, and claimed their jackets.

  They walked back on LaSalle, and the street was nearly deserted. The streetlights took the color out of Willy’s pale skin and sharpened the contrast between the black and the white in his hair, until the only color about him seemed to be his eyes. The chill glitter she’d seen in them was not entirely gone, and his beautiful face was grim and dis­tracted.

  When they reached Eddi’s front steps, she realized they hadn’t spo­ken since they’d left First Avenue. Willy put his hands on her shoul­ders and broke the silence.

  “I’d ask if I can come up, but you might say no. And I think I should.”

  Eddi almost told him no anyway. But she was only vaguely, wearily annoyed at his taking charge. She turned away from him, fumbled for her keys, and unlocked the door. They went upstairs without touching.

  She half expected to find the phouka in the apartment, and was surprised to find herself disappointed when she didn’t. She sat down on the couch and let Willy close and lock the door behind himself. He slipped his right arm out of his jacket, then, gingerly and with a little indrawn breath, his left.

  “What’s the matter?” Eddi asked.

  “Nothing.”

  His left shirtsleeve seemed fuller, seemed to flutter a little. She got up and caught his left hand. He tried to pull away; then his hand was still in hers.

  There was a long tear, a slash, in the cloth over Willy’s forearm. It matched the long wound on the skin beneath, shallow, but swollen and angry red.

  “He had a knife?” Eddi said finally, not believing what she saw. Stuart had dropped something, and Willy had kicked it away. But Stuart had never been the sort to carry a weapon . . .

  “I’m sorry,” Willy said very softly, and she looked up.

  “For what?”

  “I wasn’t going to tell you. I thought at first he’d missed, you see.”

  Eddi shook her head. “It ought to be cleaned.”

  “Mmm.” Willy looked around the dim-lit room, then went to the table and picked up the salt shaker. He took it with him into the bedroom, where he took off his vest and shirt. He could have been alone; he showed no constraint at undressing in front of her, in her apartment. Suddenly she remembered the shy clasp of the phouka’s arms around her waist, on the motorcycle. It embarrassed her, and she looked down at her feet.

  Willy went into the bathroom, and she heard the sink filling up with water. She followed slowly after him, and found him with his forearm half-submerged in the sink bowl. With his other hand he splashed water over the uncovered part of the wound. The salt shaker stood uncapped on the ledge above the sink.

  “Do you wear a hair shirt when you’re at home?” Eddi asked him.

  Willy looked up at her in the mirror, his face blank and cool. “The salt cleans it out.” Then he added ruefully, “But it’s true, I wouldn’t mind using something that stung less. Except you don’t have any of them.” He shot her one of his brilliant smiles.

  The sight of him, bending shirtless over her bathroom sink, made her feel quite fuzzy-headed. She sat on the end of the bed, staring out into the living room. After a minute she heard Willy drain the sink; a little after that she felt him kiss the top of her head.

  “He wouldn’t have used it on you,” he said.

  “I didn’t think he would use one on anybody.” She folded her hands, and refolded them. “Is this my fault? Because I left him?”

  “I don’t know enough about him.”

  Eddi looked up at him. “He wasn’t like this,” she whispered. “He was a good person. He just. . . wasn’t strong.”

  He worked his left hand, wincing when his forearm muscles flexed. “I’m a little biased right now.”

  Eddi nodded.

  Willy dropped another kiss on her hair and said, “Get into bed, and I’ll sing you to sleep.” The words were paired with a little teasing smile, and she had to smile back.

  Eddi found she couldn’t match his nonchalance in undressing—she did it in the bathroom. When she came out in her kimono he was sitting on the bed wrapped around her acoustic guitar, playing scales with a quick, light touch. She dropped her robe and slid quickly under the covers.

  “Nice axe,” he said.

  “Charlie Hoffman made it.” She felt silly, lying naked in bed and talking to Willy about guitars.

  But Willy just smiled a little and said, “I know his work.”

  “Doesn’t that bother your arm?” she asked, meaning the guitar play­ing.

  “Only the barre chords.”

  He startled her when he slipped int
o a soft-voiced rendition of Joni Mitchell’s “A Case of You”; she hadn’t been expecting references to love lost from him. Even leashed as it was, his voice was rich and subtle and full of meaning. The guitar notes hung in the dark room like spray from a fountain.

  She could feel relaxation filling her up. Willy’s voice went on, so softly that he might have been singing only to himself:

  True Thomas sat on Huntleigh bank

  And he beheld a lady gay,

  A lady that was brisk and bold

  Come riding o ‘er the ferny brae.

  True Thomas he pulled off his cap

  And bowed him low down to his knee

  “All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven,

  Your like on earth I ne’er did see. “

  “Oh no, oh no, True Thomas, “ she said,

  “That name does not belong to me.

  For I am the queen of fair Elfland,

  Where you must go along with me. “

  Eddi came to the sleepy realization that she did know a few fairy tales after all, in English ballads. Was there one with a phouka in it?

  She didn’t realize Willy had stopped until she felt his lips brush hers. “Do you know ‘Jack O’Rion?’ ” she asked him.

  “Yeah, but I’m not gonna do it,” he replied, a quiver of laughter in his voice. “Too close to home. Do you want to go to sleep?”

  Eddi opened her eyes and saw him, naked to the waist, perfect, his eyes full of banked fire. She shook her head.

  “I’m glad of that,” he murmured with self-mockery that she didn’t understand. He set the guitar down gently, and just as gently began to kiss his way down her body.

  She did not fall asleep after Willy left, though she tried. It was the fault of too much thinking—about Willy, about Stuart, about the phouka and his fairy war. . . .

  From the darkened living room, she heard a clink, like glass against glass. She slipped silently out of bed, wrapped her kimono around her, and tiptoed to the open bedroom door.

  He had the blinds wide open, and was sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, his feet propped on the windowsill, looking out at the night. She knew him by the silhouette of the loose curls over his forehead, the stubborn chin, the ridiculous froth of lace that spilled over the hand that held one of her wineglasses.