by L. B. Dunbar
“And you think I would not have listened if you suggested a world tour? Let’s capitalize on the cripple?”
“Are you listening to yourself? You’re the only one calling yourself that. No one else is…”
“Have you seen Guinie? She can’t stand to look at me. Have you seen Morte? He flinched when I touched him last night. It’s you who is not paying attention. Even you seem to be ignoring it. I can’t play a guitar one handed. How am I even part of the band any longer?”
“You still have your voice,” Leo commented as if it was the most obvious answer. “You might have wielded wonders with the guitar, but it’s your voice that drew the crowd. Your guitar was background noise to that spirited sound coming out your mouth.”
I stared at Leo.
“You could play a mean guitar, Arturo, don’t get me wrong, but your strength is in your throat not your hand. It’s the words that flowed out of you, not the flutter of fingers over some strings.”
I blinked as Leo hypnotized me with his gaze. My voice? I had always considered the guitar to be my strongest contribution to the band, that, and songwriting.
“How is a world tour the answer, though? Who will play my riffs?”
“Lansing or Tristan,” Kaye said.
“Or you could learn to play again,” Leo added.
“What?” I laughed bitterly.
“There’s an attachment that could allow you to play…with…one…hand,” his voice was fading as he spoke. Something in my expression must have shown I was horrified at the idea.
“An attachment? Like I’m a vacuum or something? This attachment is for better suction because this idea sucks,” I bit.
“Not listening,” Kaye muttered to the table.
“No, you’re the one not listening. That was my family you humiliated last night.”
“Oh right, family. Strange sense you have of it. What about me? Or Guinie? The boys over the last nine months. Family?” Kaye spit. “You have a warped sense of family.”
“Fuck you, Kaye. You have no idea what I’ve been through, or what Mure, Ingrid and Ana did for me.”
With that, Kaye stood and several sheets of paper slid to the floor.
“You’re right, I don’t, because as a real member of your family, I was left in the dark. I searched for you with every means I had and found nothing. Not one trace of my brother, except the constant images of blood smattered across rough pavement and a missing body. I took every lead I got, no matter how ridiculous. Sent Guinie up here to search for you, despite her condition. Perkins came here, too, but nothing. No hints. No nothing.”
“What condition?” My thoughts shifted to Guinevere, but Kaye would not allow it.
“Then we learned you were alive, through the goddamn press, and we still heard nothing. Lila had a conversation with you. Perkins, too. The guys admitted you came to see them, but no one told me. No one told Guinie. You have no idea what that girl went through without you here, and you want to talk about family? You have a son, Arturo, and you’re the worst…”
“Okay,” Leo said, standing up himself and putting out a hand as if to physically restrain Kaye. “Okay, I think we need to slow down here.” Leo’s voice remained calm, soothing as if pouring warm water over tea. His hand moved in the air as if he were stroking Kaye, but from a distance.
“Calm down.”
Kaye sat with a thud and gripped his hair with his hands. His face was shadowed, his shoulders tense.
“A lot is happening in a little bit of time, and I think we all need to slow down,” Leo said, lowering himself into his chair opposite Kaye. “There’s a lot of unknowns still, and we need some time to clear all that air, okay?”
“What unknowns?” I asked. “I told everyone, if you have a question, just ask.”
Kaye turned again and looked at me. His eyes slightly red-rimmed and liquid filled.
“As if it’s all about you, Arturo? Always only about you? You think you’re the only one hurt? The only one that needs to heal?” He waved his hand at my stumped wrist. “The unknowns aren’t all about you, Arturo.”
I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. I had been mainly focused on me. My hand. My depression. My recovery. I had not thought of the band in that way. Sure, the concert had been cancelled, and there was the part of me being out of communication with them. I had assumed from the start that they would carry on and wait for me. In fact, they had proof that they had done that. They wrote their own songs or added their own contributions to make this album an amazing sure-to-be hit. It was unique with Tristan or Lansing taking the lead, and the gorgeous duet with Hollister and Tristan, was unreal. The album was going to reach into people’s souls.
Kaye was seeing that we made good on the world tour with his surprise announcement last night. The buzz would start with the crowd last night from the party. They were people who knew people, and that little hum of excitement, at the possibility of a world tour, would escalate to a frenzy when the public release was sent forth. It was a marketing scheme only Kaye could devise. As for the public display of our affections, announcing couples and children, I didn’t quite see the point of that yet.
I noticed Kaye hadn’t answered my question but I had another inquiry.
“So you think I’m a terrible father?”
It was almost rhetorical. The answer was evident and correct. I was a bad father. I always thought I’d be a good one, as I lacked a solid father figure as a child. I had Hector, Kaye’s father, who rather unknowingly made it clear that I was not his son. I had Mure Linn, who was so old and odd, but mysteriously smart as a mentor, but he was not a father. I had Leo as a guide when I was almost an adult. He liked me, I knew that, but that didn’t make him my father. However, at one point, he was about to be my father-in-law. I had no model for what a father was supposed to be. I honestly believed Guinie was going to change that about me. I knew that we would have children one day, and she would be able to help me be the man, the father, I wanted to be. Now that wasn’t going to happen.
“I didn’t say that,” Kaye sighed.
“You were about to,” I replied then added, “and you’d be right. But why does it matter to you?”
Kaye looked up at me. His mouth opened and then closed. His eyes shifted to the floor and then he turned away. He shook his head slowly. He wasn’t going to answer.
The Barn was a structure with an original fieldstone foundation and dull red wooden panels, which had been converted into our working studio on the Camlann grounds. I had gone there hoping to seek solitude. Seething with anger at Kaye, I hoped to find peace amongst the many instruments stored there for our practices. My mind spun in several directions. Why was Kaye trying to dictate my life? Why did Leo play along? How I was a bad father toward Morte? How I was losing Guinie more each day? Ironically, I found Guinie there, too.
She was sitting in a chair, holding her arms wrapped around her stomach. I’d seen her clutching herself like this recently, but had never noticed her do it in the past. She was staring at nothing in particular, but my eyes wandered to the several guitars lining the wall. Standing guard like medieval knights, they spectacularly showcased a collective display of talent. The mess of our talent was the river of wires traveling in twists and tangles across the hardwood floor. A rug spotlighted as a makeshift stage. Speakers stood sentry over the area. I stood in admiration at all that the space entailed. Years of music making. Months of collaboration. Hours of songwriting. Minutes upon minutes of loving the feel of a guitar under my hand.
My hand twitched and I looked down.
There was nothing there. Phantom Limb Syndrome, the experts called it. A sensation of believing the limb was still present, when it was not. I considered Guinie an extension of me. I guess I had Phantom Love Syndrome, because I had the sensation of her presence, but her love was clearly gone. As if sensing me, she turned slowly to look over her shoulder. She didn’t seem surprised to see me there. She twisted and looked away.
“I didn’t me
an to disturb you,” I said, lifting my left hand to scratch at my hair. I sighed when she didn’t respond, just continued to stare blankly at nothing.
“Why did you come back, Arturo?” she asked without glancing at me.
“Excuse me?” I couldn’t have heard her correctly.
“After months away, you obviously didn’t want to have contact with me, or the band. Why would you come back? It’s clear you don’t want me. I’m not sure you even want to be part of the band.”
I blinked as if that would help me comprehend her question any better.
“You think I don’t want you?” I asked, the words stumbling out of my mouth, like I was still drunk.
“Clearly, you don’t Arturo. If you loved me, you would have wanted me to be the one to comfort you: the one to support you through the tough times. But it wasn’t me, was it? It wasn’t me who helped you?” She had twisted in the chair only slightly to address me over her shoulder. She still wasn’t looking at me. Her voice travelled to me. Her eyes focused on something near my feet.
“You were my first love, Arturo. My only love. I never thought it would be the way it was with you; so rough, fierce, and demanding, but at the same time, so gentle. I felt like you worshipped me, and it was the most incredible feeling ever.” Her voice shook with a sigh. She wiped at her face and I realized she was crying. Her hand returned to her opposite elbow and she folded into the shield that covered her abdomen.
“I never expected it to be you. I mean, I’d always had a crush on you. You’re Arturo King. But that was the point. How many millions of girls fantasize that they love a rock star, and then get the chance to really love him? Not the star. Not the mystery, but the man himself. I was fortunate to have that happen, Arturo.” She sobbed and wiped at her cheek briskly. Her hand returned with a slap at her elbow. I was ready to speak. To tell her I felt the same, that I did worship her; I still wanted to. She continued on, though.
“Chivalrous Lover: that stupid nickname, and yet so appropriate. You were kind and patient with me as I learned how to please you, and learned how to have you please me. I thought you’d be the only one ever who could do those things to me. Make me feel so special, inside and out.”
I did feel that way about her. She was special to me, inside and out. I was attracted to her beauty; that chestnut hair, those piercing eyes, that sassy mouth, but I loved who she was inside, caring and considerate. She loved unconditionally. Morte immediately flashed into my mind. She hardly knew him, and yet she loved him for his innocence as a child.
“But I was a fool to think I was ever going to be enough for you. You were made for the stage, the spotlight, and I’ve always been in the shadow. I’ve been behind my father and behind you. I support like a pillar when I’m crumbling inside. I can’t be Ana.”
“Ana? What does Ana have to do with anything?”
“She’s the mother of your child, and obviously your new lover.”
“My what?” I screeched. She didn’t respond.
“You think I had sex with Ana?” I clarified. My voice still high pitched, incredulous.
“Well, I slept with Lansing.”
The words hung in the air. They floated and I swear I could see them. At first it was the words, and then I could see them, bodies tangled and twisted. Legs spread, arms wrapped and parts attached. I saw mouths roving, heard moans and sighs, and then the cry of her pleasure. The sensory overload popped like a bubble. Shaking with rage, I addressed her in a calm voice that was in complete opposition to my emotions.
“You what?”
At first, I didn’t think she heard me. I asked the question quiet enough; her silence confirming she hadn’t heard me. I was about to repeat the question, when she stood slowly. Her hand braced the arms of the chair that had its side to me. She stood like a queen, regal and deliberate. Her eyes focused forward, then she turned to face me.
“I guess what we had wasn’t love, after all,” she spoke quietly, ignoring my question, then continued.
“If you were with Ana and I was with Lansing, what does that say about us?” she questioned, a lilt to her voice. If she laughed it would only be from hysteria. She looked ready to come unhinged. Tears flowed down her face, but she ignored them as they curved over her jaw and dripped down her neck. I had no answer to her question. I had loved her. I still did.
“It says nothing about me,” I shouted. My voice was so loud she flinched. “I didn’t sleep with Ana.”
Her eyes shot up to stare at me. Opened wide, I could see she was clearly confused. After this morning, there was no way she would believe me. That was embarrassing to admit, but I needed to defend myself.
“Fine, I slept with Ana, but I didn’t have sex with her. She was…a…a comfort,” I said, hesitantly. I dropped my eyes from the piercing blue then returned them to her. This wasn’t about me.
“And I wasn’t?” she asked, twisting her head like an owl who is curious.
“Of course, you were. You were my everything. My…” I stopped. I wasn’t about to soil the words.
“What about you?” I bit. “Was he a comfort to you?”
I would have thought she’d cower, but she didn’t. She stood even taller, closed her eyes, clenched her fists and replied.
“He was a mistake, but yes, he was a comfort.”
“Why?” I hissed.
Her eyes immediately opened and death rays of hate beamed at me.
“Because you weren’t here. You left me alone…and you found comfort in Ana.”
“Leave Ana out of this,” I defended. My tone caught her full attention. Her facial expression went from shock to pain. The hurt was so deep. She wrapped her arms around herself and twisted at the waist. Her eyes averted mine as she looked over at the makeshift stage area.
“Ana meant nothing to me. Not like us. She was there for me. I was at a low point and she was there for me.”
“I would have been there for you, if you had let me,” she bit, returning to face me. Her hair whipped wild as she turned her head.
“I…” I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t let Guinie be there because I didn’t want her to see my ugly: the loss of my hand, the loss of my spirit. Ana could handle it; Guinie could not.
As if she read my mind, she spoke. “You didn’t give me the chance. I loved you.”
There it was – past tense. She had loved me, but she no longer did. She loved someone else.
“Do you love Lansing?” I choked on the words. How could she? He was engaged to another woman.
“I did not. Not like you’re thinking. Not like us. He was a friend. We were confused, and we made a mistake.”
“So you slept with him, but you didn’t love him.” My voice rose. “You had sex with him, but you didn’t love him. You fu…”
Guinie’s head turned in the direction of the speakers. I couldn’t believe she was looking away from me. She hadn’t looked away like she didn’t want to hear my rant. She looked as if she noticed something in the corner.
“Guinevere,” I yelled, “I’m talking to you.”
Her face turned back to me, her expression one of fear. Her eyes looked down at the stage carpet and then followed a line of wires that trailed across the floor between us. Her blue eyes looked up at me and then I heard the crack.
Two rocks hitting each other. I turned in the direction as the explosion of a firework went off inside the barn. The powerful sound resonated off the old wooden boards. The colorful balls of fire hit the ceiling and exploded into flame. Spheres of flames floated to the ground and instantly caught on the dry carpet. A trail of fiery orange skittered across the floor. Within seconds the carpet was fully ignited. Brittle and old, it went up like a bonfire. Something scrambled out from behind a speaker. Green eyes glared up at me, filled with horror, and then anger.
“You,” I snarled. “I warned you about this.”
Morte glared at me. Panic first, then hatred so deep it swirled around my neck and tightened its hold. I was a hung man in his
eyes.
“Help me put this out,” I blurted, but Morte remained adhered to the wall. His hands splayed flat, the guilty flint sticks at his feet. His head tilted back in a way that made it look like his hair was being pulled backward.
I turned back to face Guinie. The fire extinguisher was on her side of the fire, which was rapidly rising. I could see the blurred red canister and I pointed as I shouted for her to get it. Guinie remained still. The hands that gripped her stomach slowly released her and her arms hung loose at her side. Her eyes focused intently on the fire that danced between us. I was gradually losing her to a wall of orange flames.
“Morte, please,” I turned to him. “Go get help.”
He didn’t move at first and then his head slowly came forward from the wall.
“Why are you always fighting with them?” he asked, his voice sounding strangely similar to his mother’s. “You’re always fighting with them.”
“Morte, please, can we talk about this later?”
“It’s always later with you; always some other time, some other day. You always want to put it off. You always want to put me off.”
“Morte, that’s not true, but now isn’t the time for this. Look at Guinie.”
He rolled his head as I turned to look. She was hardly distinguishable, melting into the flames before me.
“Isn’t this what you want? You want her to pay for something you did.”
“What are you taking about?”
“She was in bed with another man, but you were in bed with Mother.”
“Morte,” I tried to keep my voice soothing, but it choked on the rising smoke. “Morte, there are things you don’t understand. Adult things.”
“I understand,” he said, wiping at his dusty face. “Mother loves you. Mother says sharing a bed is a sign that two people love each other. Being together means you love each other. I thought you loved Guinie. I know she loved you. She looked at you different than Mother does.”
His face contorted and his head tilted.
“But Mother doesn’t mean anything to you. What does she mean to you? Why are we nothing? Why don’t you love me?” he asked, almost dreamily. His head rolled against the wall, and he looked over at Guinie behind the flames. They were crawling up the sides of the barn, attacking the wooden slates above the low stone foundation.
