Broken Crown

by Susan Ward

  I knock once, loudly, and wait. Then I remember Chrissie’s short list of people she trusts and that the Rowans had been in the tally and not even Len had given me a heads-up. Linda I can’t fault. She is loyal and a woman, so of course Chrissie would win in the friends’ war. But Len?

  The door opens. I don’t think. I slam Len into the marble-tiled entryway.

  Len groans from the physical exertion required to keep his head from slamming back against the flooring. “OK. OK. Enough, already! I don’t know what’s pissed you off, but you better fucking let it go now! What the hell’s the matter with you, Manny?”

  “When did you decide you can’t be honest with me? What kind of fucking friends are you?”

  “Aha. He’s been to Chrissie’s,” says Linda with the smugness of a cat from the sunken living room.

  That only amplifies my anger, Linda’s matter-of-factness over this anything-but-matter-of-fact state of my life.

  Len pushes me off. “I’ve been a good friend, you asshole! Don’t take your anger out on me because you didn’t put a cap on it and now there is something you have to deal with whether you want to or not.”

  “Oh great, Len. That was a big help.” Linda comes up the stairs and grabs me by the collar. “Jesus Christ, Manny, let Len go. I mean it. Let Len up now. It was amusing to watch the two of you fight in your twenties, but it’s just plain creepy to watch it now.” Linda is jerking at my shirt. “I thought the band revoked your LA privileges!”

  I release Len and struggle to a sitting position. “And I thought, Linda, that you were going to give up parroting trite lines from movies,” I mock.

  Linda suddenly holds up the palms of her hands and freezes. “Don’t anyone move!” She stares at the floor, then with a toe she hits a square. “Damn it, you cracked the floor. You ruined my floor. Hear that? Tap. Tap. Scrunch. Scrunch. I told you you were getting fat, Len. You cracked the floor.”

  Len gives her a heavily exasperated face. “Thanks for your concern over me, Linda. We’ll replace the floor.”

  Linda rolls her eyes. “I don’t want another one. I want you to put him someplace to sober up so I can go to sleep.”

  The one thing I’ve always admired about Linda is how unflappable she is. She may have the language of a sailor and the temper to match, but nothing ever rattles her.

  She holds out her hand. “Give me your keys, Manny. You’re not driving any more tonight. You can thank me in the morning. Keys. Now.”

  When I don’t offer the keys she rummages through my pocket and takes them.

  “I should have stolen you from Len a long time ago.”

  She ignores that comment and looks at her husband. “Take Madison back to bed, Len. I’ll be in soon.”

  I shift my gaze to the hallway. Oh fuck. Their eight-year-old daughter, messy haired and wearing pink PJs, stands frozen and staring at us. I sink my teeth into my lower lip, carefully avoiding her watching eyes.

  “You’ve got to stop this shit, Manny,” Linda says once we’re alone.

  I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t know what to think about anything. I’m sorry about the floor, but I’m not sorry about hitting Len. Everyone I trust has lied to me. Even you, Linda.”

  She plants her hands on her hips and shakes her head at me. “Who could tell you anything these days, Manny? I don’t know what set it off this time, but you’ve been this close—” She holds up her thumb and index finger with only a hair between them. “—from going over the edge. You do realize that, don’t you? You really need to stop this shit.”

  I jump to my feet and go to the kitchen. I’m rummaging through the fridge for a beer when Linda catches up.

  “You don’t need another drink,” she says.

  I continue to poke around. She makes a frustrated growl, then pushes me aside, lowering so she can open a drawer. She pulls out a bottle and holds it up to me.

  “Here, if you think it will help, drink it. Personally I think it’s fifty percent of what’s wrong with you these days.”

  I twist it open and toss the cap at the trash. “What’s the other fifty percent?”

  “You looking at the future and being scared shitless. I call it traumatic divorce syndrome. Kenny went through the same thing. Unfortunately, he remarried too quickly and didn’t choose well. For what it’s worth, I didn’t like your first two wives. But you’ve still got it. Midlife divorce syndrome.”

  That comment makes me laugh. “No syndrome, Linda. Divorcing Shyla was the first sane thing I’ve done in years. I got out of that relatively pain free. All men should be that lucky. It’s not that at all.”

  She arches one dark brow and gives me a critical once-over. “Aha. So what we’ve watched this past year is you lucky and pain free. Aha.”

  I set the empty beer on the counter. “Have I missed something? Is this an intervention? Shouldn’t we wait until Len and the others show up? It’s going to be a dull intervention if it’s just you, Linda.”

  Linda’s face tenses. “No, the biography was the intervention, you ass.”

  What?

  I stare at her.

  Her mouth tightens. She shakes her head. “It was Chrissie’s idea, but we all thought it a good one so we all went along. It was working, too. You were almost your old self again before Jesse died.”

  My thoughts stop spinning enough finally to speak. “What the fuck do you mean the biography was Chrissie’s idea?”

  Linda’s eyes are intense. “She was worried about you. She didn’t know what to do since you never listen to anyone. Jesse writing the book gave them a reason to have you at the house. It was doing you good, too. So before you march out of here to bite off Chrissie’s head about this, why don’t you ask her why she maneuvered it?”

  She stares at me in that smug female way that screams I know more than I’m going to tell you but I’m not breaking the pact of friendship to do it.

  I let out a ragged breath.

  There can’t be more to know.

  There’s already too much to take in.

  “I don’t know how you could go along with this, Linda. It doesn’t matter why she did it. And I have definitely had my limit of being managed by both of you.”

  Furious, she leans into me. “How wonderful it must be to have so many people love you that you can tell them all to fuck off and not have it matter.”

  “Linda.”

  “Bitterness is ruining your charm, sweetie!”

  She stomps out of the room and slams her bedroom door. I go to the fridge for another beer and settle on a couch in front of a big-screen TV. I consider turning it on, but I’ve already woken Madison once.

  Instead, I reach for the Gibson sitting by a chair and admire the scribbling near the bridge. Big, bold black letters: Madison inside a heart. I know Len well enough to know he just smiled when he found her name there.

  I remember the first time I pulled out of the case Jack’s Lily, that famous CF Martin he’d taken to Woodstock, and found Chrissie’s name carved into it. According to Jack, she’d used a nail to make sure it would never go away.

  I hear a rattle, shake it once, and turn it over. A Barbie shoe falls from the sound hole to the floor. It reminds me why I am here.

  I’m just finishing my beer when Len returns, sinks into the chair beside me and turns on the TV. Nice touch, Len, making me wait out here.

  We watch in silence.

  “You’re a real dickhead,” Len says. “Do you know that?”

  “What can I say?”

  “How about, ‘I’m sorry for busting into your house at night, breaking your tile, pissing off your wife and putting us all through hell for over a year’? You might want to start with that.”

  “Well, regrettably, I was thinking more along the lines of ‘fuck you.’”

  “I love you like a brother, Manny, but I’ve had enough.”

  I let out a long, aggravated breath. “So that’s what we’re going to do. Have another grievance session. I’ve got problems here. Go
grab me another beer.”

  “I already did that, you asshole. That’s your third. And no grievance session. Just a statement. I’m through.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You quitting the band?”

  “No. The band is quitting you. Listen, we all love you, but we’re all through. April is going to be the last leg of the last tour. We’ve had enough. We are all too old for this shit.”

  “If you want time off the road, we’ll do that.”

  “Fuck, Manny. Don’t you ever listen? I want off the road for good. I’m tired. I’m ready to spend some time playing golf, watching my daughter grow up, hopefully figuring out how to make my son not hate me and trying to make up the years to Linda. We all feel this way. We all have other things we want to do.”

  “So now you’re going behind my back and having meetings with the band without me. Exactly when did you all decide this?”

  “A year ago.”

  The TV changes channels all on its own and goes from twenty-four-hour news to some late-night cartoon.

  “We made the decision a year ago. We were going to tell you at the end of the tour,” Len informs me gravely.

  “That was fucking generous of you or do you just get off lying to me?”

  “I omitted. There’s a difference.”

  “Try using that one on Linda.”

  “Never. It’s different with your wife. Omission is a divorce offense.”

  Len mutes the TV and leans forward with elbows on knees. “You know, from where I’m sitting, somehow you’ve managed to get a pretty remarkable life do-over. Not that you deserve it. But that’s what you have here. A do-over. The last exit door before you are locked on the ride you need to stop riding. Get off the booze and whatever else you’ve been doing this last year. Then go to Chrissie and don’t fuck it up this time. A woman will forgive a lot from a man she has a child with.”

  “That’s great fucking advice, Len. You should think about writing an advice column.”

  “We’ve had a long run. And we’re all still here. It’s time to slow things down. It’s the fucking truth what they say: British rockers never die. We just become fathers and fade away. I’m ready to fade away. You have to figure out what you want to do.”

  It’s a moot point, but I’m saying it anyway. “I didn’t fuck it up last time with Chrissie. She walked out on me.”

  “Yeah. Right. Keep telling yourself that and you’ll fuck it up again.”

  The flashing images on the TV draw my attention away.

  “What the hell are we watching?” I ask.

  Len laughs. “Some Asian cartoon that Bobby likes.”

  “Your eighteen-year-old son watches fucking cartoons?”

  “It’s a fucking nasty cartoon. Was worried about the boy for a long time. Linda thought he might be gay. But he’s definitely not gay. He and Kaley, I still can’t get my head around that. For some reason Linda finds it creepy. I don’t know why. When was the last time you saw the girl? She’s drop-dead gorgeous. Tall, built and beautiful, but a real ball-breaker. Not at all like Chrissie. Definitely the one in control. Bobby’s definitely not gay.”

  Kaley has changed, but Len’s description doesn’t match my image of her.

  “I saw her today. At Chrissie’s.”

  “What a pair.”

  “Pair?” I repeat in revulsion. Jesus Christ, Len, did you check the girl out?

  Len frowns at me, and then sharply rebukes me with his eyes.

  “Bobby and Kaley. They are an interesting pair,” Len explains pointedly. “I’d tell my boy to run if he wasn’t loving every minute of her leading him around like a bitch. So I save my breath and beg him to keep a cap on it so I don’t have Chrissie pounding down my door here. They definitely went for a record in our pool house. Woke up to Linda screaming, ‘Christ, couldn’t you at least open a window so the room doesn’t smell like sex when your mother goes to pick up your dirty laundry in here?’”

  Fuck, why he’s telling me this shit? “I don’t want to hear this.”

  Len flushes. “Oh, sorry. I’m sure you don’t.”

  There it is again, that fucking whisper of innuendo. I turn my head to stare at Len. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? After eighteen fucking years spit it out finally.”

  Len shrugs. “It doesn’t mean anything, Manny.”

  “No, what the fuck did you mean by that?”

  “Let it go, Manny.”

  The channel changes this time to a late 1950s black and white western. I’m relieved that the channel changed. As humiliating as it is to admit it, watching the cartoon caused a slight erection. No wonder the boy watches the damn thing.

  “Christ, Len, what am I supposed to do now?”

  “Fix things with Chrissie. Start there.”

  “I was talking about the band.”

  “Has it even registered that you have a daughter?”

  “It registered.”

  “I hope you weren’t a prick to Chrissie.”

  “I’m an asshole. It’s made us wealthy. How do you think it went?”

  Len shakes his head, aggravated. “Don’t you think it’s time to stop being an asshole?”

  “Why? So I can sit around in Pacific Palisades watching late-night dirty Asian cartoons, and shoot a couple of rounds of golf a week?”

  “It beats what the fuck you’re doing with your life.”

  “You and Linda have everything all worked out, don’t you, Len?”

  “If you screw up with Chrissie this time you’ll lose her for good. Over. Permanently. A mother is a sacred and dangerous thing. I haven’t won a round with Linda since Bobby. Why do you think I live in Pacific Palisades when California is the worst possible state for taxes? Fuck over a mother and she’ll cut off your balls. I remember telling you that fifteen years ago. Maybe you’ll listen today.”

  I must have fallen asleep. The next thing I know I’m sprawled on the sofa in an empty room, shortly before dawn, and my keys are on Linda’s counter. Someone propped my feet on a stool and put a blanket over me.

  I go to a bathroom, rinse out my mouth, grab a cigarette from my pocket and then remember I’m not allowed to smoke here either.

  I go to the kitchen. The clock says 4:41 a.m. I need a blast of caffeine. I look for a coffeemaker. Nothing. Fuck, who doesn’t have coffee?

  I down a glass of orange juice, and then grab my keys and head to the front door. Fuck, I did crack the tile. There is a long, angry line through two squares. I spot a washable marker on the living room carpet and write “sorry” on the broken tile. It won’t help. Linda has every right to be pissed off at me, but the apology seems appropriate.

  Thick coastal fog greets me as I step out the front door and climb into my car. I’m not really certain where I want to go. The world around me is silent, no birds or planes in the early morning air, hardly any cars on the road, and even my tinnitus seems pleasantly muted as I drive the nearly deserted streets.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the morning hush. It’s pleasant to be able to drive in LA without interference, but it feels lonely, the emptiness of the streets. A week off the road and I still haven’t landed.

  I’m surprised when I find myself parked in front of Chrissie’s lightless house. I must have steered the car here, but I didn’t do it consciously. I drove and I ended up here.

  It’s too early for her to be awake. Definitely too early to knock on her door. I climb out of the car anyway.

  I go to the front and try the knob and then realize I left last night without locking the door. I left them both in an unlocked house in LA. Fuck! What’s wrong with me?

  I make a quick stop in Chrissie’s room to check on her. I stand beside the bed staring down at her. Sometimes just looking at her is a gift. She is in a square of light, her golden hair streaming across the pillow, falling over her cheek to frame both her face and the baby’s. They are both curled into each other.

  In the kitchen I set a pot of coffee to bre
w and then go back to collect the newspapers I stepped over on her front stoop. Los Angeles Times. San Francisco Chronicle. USA Today. Being married to Jesse didn’t improve Chrissie’s reading material. There is still no Wall Street Journal or a New York Times in the collection. But then, those are the papers I prefer.

  I pour a mug of coffee and settle in Chrissie’s family room to watch the morning stock programs. I’m halfway through Varney when I hear sounds from the back of the house.

  I hit the remote to check the time. Barely after 7 a.m. After last night’s confrontation, I decide it is better to wait for Chrissie here.

  I can hear her talking in soft tones, probably to the baby. The baby. That is something I have to work on, but not today. I’m already vulnerable enough. To be the person waiting for Chrissie is to be too vulnerable. That I’m back will tell her everything.

  The speakers in her kitchen are suddenly switched on and the sound of Yo Yo Ma drowns out the low volume of Stuart Varney. She is in transit to the kitchen if she’s turned on music in here. I shut off the TV.

  The music changes in an abrupt transition from Bach to Mumford & Sons. I’m rising from the chair when Chrissie enters the room. My motion causes her to jump. The expression on her face tells me she didn’t expect to find me here.

  Her respiration comes quick and she swallows. “You scared me to death. First Krystal’s Mumford sandwiched like a predator drone into my Yo Yo Ma, and now you before noon.”

  “It’s nearly noon in New York so you can set aside the shock of me.”

  I go to the coffeemaker to pour her a cup as she places the baby into the bouncer on the counter. Chrissie takes a sip and follows me with her eyes as I settle a neutral distance away from her back on the other side of the island counter.

  “It’s good.” She makes a tiny lift of the cup. “It’s better than mine.”

  Make-do talk; not what I want but better than I deserve.

  “I thought I should prepare a peace offering that could double as something you could throw at me since I deserve it. I would have cooked you breakfast, Chrissie, a more appropriate amount of items to throw given what an ass I was last night, but your kitchen is a disaster.”