by Davis Bunn
Ricardo said something to Carey and pointed to his ears. Buddy assumed he was complaining about the balance. That same gesture was used by front men around the world to raise the level of their voices. In response Carey frowned and swept a hand over the board. Ricardo’s expression darkened further, and he snapped at her. Carey lifted the clipboard, which she used to set the levels for each instrument for each song, and pointed.
Ricardo snarled. It was a feral sound that carried across the club. Buddy saw the change come over the front man. And he saw his sister’s response. The weak liquid expression to her eyes, the fear.
Ricardo gripped the veranda’s metal railing and fit a toe between the bars and lifted himself up. He reached across the mixing board. And slapped Carey.
Afterward, Buddy assumed he had started moving long before Ricardo raised his hand. Either that or he had discovered a way to levitate. Because he arrived at the balcony before Ricardo had time to lower his open palm.
Buddy moved at the level of sinew and bone and raw, coursing fury. There was no thought involved in the process. He was scarcely aware of his movements at all. The only emotion he could truly sense was rage. The anger he never felt. The fury he liked to think he did not even contain.
Ricardo caught a single glimpse of Buddy’s arrival, enough to cringe in a shock of terror. Then Buddy lifted him and propelled him backward. Buddy wasn’t precisely clear on where they were headed. He only knew that the man was done. He would never touch his sister again. Buddy was going to see to that.
Directly in front of Buddy’s gaze was the horror and dread in Ricardo’s eyes. Buddy carried the man by his head. Their faces were only a few inches apart. Buddy wanted the man to see what was coming. He wanted the man to be very clear that Ricardo looked straight into his own doom.
There was a rising din around him, mostly back in the direction they had come from. He was vaguely aware of someone screaming his name. Somehow Buddy managed to catapult the two of them up onto the stage. He plowed Ricardo straight through the amps. He did not even slow down when he stomped on the man’s guitar and snapped the neck. He pushed through the drum set, sending the cymbals careening off like scattered coins.
Buddy stopped when he slammed Ricardo into the rear brick wall. Ricardo was beating on Buddy, kicking him as well, for Buddy held the man a few inches off the floor. Pinning him to the bricks. By his head. Buddy did not raise him high. He wanted to keep the man’s eyes very close in. His fingers dug into the man’s face, compressing the flesh beneath Ricardo’s jaw and over his ears. The man’s pomade turned Buddy’s grip slick. Buddy breathed in tight rasps. Ricardo answered with the high-pitched squeals of a little girl. Buddy tightened his grip further, ready to peel the man’s skull back. Study the brain of a guy who thought he could get away with striking Buddy’s sister.
The only voice that could bring him back sounded to his right. Carey spoke directly into his ear. “Don’t. Buddy. Please. Let. Him. Go.”
Buddy felt an icy rush flood into his awareness. Drawing him back.
Carey spoke slowly. She emphasized each word. “If you hit him, you’ll kill him.”
Ricardo whimpered a frantic spill of words, which were mangled by Buddy’s grip.
“You don’t want to kill him, Buddy. It will destroy everything. Including me. Do you hear me, Buddy?”
Suddenly his limbs were captured by a violent trembling. He did not release Ricardo so much as lose the ability to keep him trapped. Ricardo spilled onto the floor, his boots striking a spasm beat on the stage floor.
“That’s good, Buddy. Really good. Now back away.”
Buddy allowed his sister to turn him around. The two bouncers each carried a hundred pounds more muscle than Buddy. But something in his gaze caused them to take a unified step back.
Carey led him by the hand. Through the demolished drum set, off the stage, through the silent crowd. Out the door. Into the night.
CHAPTER 13
Buddy followed his sister back to her apartment in his Jeep. Carey must have told him that she was going to drive the band’s van home. She must have said that when they got there, they would load up everything of Ricardo’s and then leave the van on the street. She had to have said they would then both take Buddy’s Jeep to his town house, where she intended to stay until this all blew over, and she could be certain the man was well and truly gone. Buddy assumed it had been discussed. But he did not remember anything about it. His mind was filled with a faint buzzing that dismembered every thought before it was even formed.
He drove Carey to his town house and carried her cases inside and insisted she take his bedroom. When she objected, he explained that it was the only bed in the house, and in any case he often slept on the floor, so this was no hardship. Carey kissed his cheek and thanked him. Buddy found it impossible to respond, for up close the flaming imprint of Ricardo’s hand was all he could see. He shut the door as swiftly as he could, hiding away the red tidal wave that swept over him.
He didn’t think he would be able to sleep. But the day had been an exhausting one, and he slipped almost instantly into slumber. And just as swiftly the monstrous dream returned. All night he fought the flaming behemoth with his father’s face. The tremors woke him twice. Both times he rose and paced and drank a glass of water and stared at the moon through the sliding doors. He feared when he returned to his pallet the dream would attack again. And he was right.
When he awoke at dawn, he knew what he had to do. It was as clear as notations on his electronic Day-Timer. Buddy padded into the laundry room, pulled gym clothes from the dryer, slipped out the back door, and set off.
The weather was typical for early spring. The sky was gray and the air very still, as though the day held its breath, waiting to see how Buddy managed his burdens. The temperature was in the upper forties, chilly as he set off, comfortable after the fifth mile. He knotted his windbreaker around his middle without breaking stride. His father ran with him, or, rather, the monster of Buddy’s own making chased at his heels. He thought back to the night before, and accelerated through a wind sprint that lasted the better part of his twelfth mile. He returned home and moved straight into the stretching routine, trying to halt the cramps before they set in. The images flashed more readily now, blinding him to the strengthening daylight. He did not see Ricardo so much as relive the man’s terror. At him. Buddy Helms. The man who never lost his temper. The man who had previously assumed he held no rage at all.
From there he flashed back to the conversation with Shona, and her declaration of the mystery she had carried during their time together, the enigma called Buddy Helms, what had finally caused their breakup. The realization that she had been right to leave locked him up tight; he clenched and folded over his legs, wrapping his arms around his shins, feeling the pain lance through his thighs and rise to his lower back and his shoulders and his neck. He embraced the pain as well. It was all he deserved.
“Buddy?”
He was so constricted he had to lower himself to the exercise mat. He lay there, panting and rubbing his thighs, willing his body to unclench. The lovely neighbor stood over him, offering a splendid view of the body that was almost but not quite hidden by the kimono. “Raven. Hi.”
She liked hearing the name enough to pose for him, one hand on angled hip, the other cocked out like a waitress, a mug dangling from one finger. “I came over for a cup of something. I forget what.”
He rose in very easy steps. “I guess I overdid it.”
“Hey, I always did like a guy who doesn’t know his own limits.” Then she glanced beyond him, and the playful smile vanished, the musical voice flattened into a single “Oh.”
Buddy looked through the sliding doors and saw his sister standing there, cradling a mug, turned slightly so the good cheek was aimed at the pair of them. Buddy stayed like that, straightening slowly, watching the day’s reflection in the glass as Raven slipped down the terrace stairs and danced along the sidewalk and stepped into her home. Only
then did Carey open the doors and say, “I could do a vanishing act.”
“No need.”
“She’s very pretty.”
“She is.” Buddy gathered up his mat and jacket. “I don’t even know her name.”
“Is that how you want it?”
He slipped past her into the house. “I have no idea.”
Buddy carried the phone into his bedroom. He made his call, setting in motion the action that had woken him. When he returned twenty minutes later, showered and dressed, Carey still stood by the doors. “It’s very nice here.”
Buddy pretended not to see the flaming cheek, the pattern of recent tears that stained her face, or the shattered gaze. “I have to go out. The house is yours. For as long as you like.”
She did not nod so much as rock slowly. “Someday I might find a way to tell you just how much that means.”
“Is there anything you need? Something special you’d like for dinner?”
“Whatever.” She looked at him. “Will you call Mom, tell her I don’t feel up to helping her today? If I do it, she’ll know something’s wrong.”
“Sure thing. What about your work?”
“Already done.” She made a process of washing her mug. “Mom warned me this would happen.”
“She told you to break up with Ricardo?”
“In so many words. She said I had found the musical equivalent of what I had left home to escape from.”
The benumbed feeling returned with a vengeance, as though Buddy’s system responded to yet another shock by taking a giant emotional step back. He kissed his sister’s wet cheek, spoke words neither of them heard, and left.
* * *
The church bordered San Lu’s historic section, anchoring one corner of Mitchell Park. The stain of his father’s shadow had often left Buddy wishing he could find a church he could call his own. Now, as he sat in the counseling center’s waiting room, he wondered if he would ever truly belong anywhere.
“Buddy Helms?”
He lifted his gaze. The woman’s smile was open and uncomplicated and totally free of all the constricting pressures Buddy carried. “I’m Preston’s cousin, Kimberly. You met Preston on Sunday, right?”
“He had lunch with us.”
“Sure. He mentioned that.” She motioned toward the side hall. “We’re ready to see you.”
Kimberly Sturgiss carried herself with a model’s grace, her erect carriage suggesting a brisk confidence. She wore gray gabardine slacks that were cut to her hourglass figure and a starched white blouse. She waited by the side bookcase as Preston rose and shook his hand. Then as Buddy slipped into the chair in front of the desk, Kimberly Sturgiss seated herself in a high-backed chair near her cousin. Preston said, “It’s not usual for a new patient to ask to see two therapists at the same time, Mr. Helms. Matter of fact, I’ve never heard of this before.”
“Actually, I was hoping I might have a word with your cousin about . . .” Buddy hesitated. He was here. He had asked for this. And now he had no idea how to go on.
Preston defused the moment with a professional ease. “Kimberly is also a trained psychotherapist, which I’m happy to say I had a hand in making happen.”
“More than a hand.” Kimberly revealed a lovely smile. “It’s all your fault.”
“Don’t forget Mom,” he countered. “She begged me to find something to get you out of the house.”
“She did no such thing.” Kimberly turned to Buddy and explained, “I lost my parents when I was young. Preston’s family raised me.”
“We’re the same age, so while we were growing up, we pretended to be twins,” Preston explained.
“Preston has always been better with people than me,” Kimberly said.
“Wrong again,” Preston said. “And repeating it for another hundred years won’t change facts.”
She waved that aside. “He had decided against the priesthood and was trying to decide what to do with his life. I urged him to get a master’s in counseling.”
“When I applied for this job, they mentioned there was another opening, and I asked them to take Kimberly as well. Otherwise she’d have to find somebody else to finish her sentences.”
She smiled at her cousin. “Something like that.”
Buddy took a long breath. He had no idea how to describe his concerns, but just the same he was driven to confess. “I’m really worried about my sister. She’s been through . . .”
The silence lingered for far too long. Then Kimberly offered quietly, “She’s facing something that troubles you?”
The band of tension that had been wrapped about his chest eased somewhat. “Since last night.”
“But this is not a new problem, is it?”
“No.” He liked enormously how she could speak in synch with him, a stranger. “Only the latest version.”
“Why do you think she might like to speak with me?”
“Because . . .”
“The situation has become critical?”
“I think so. And so does she.”
“Why are you here on her behalf, Buddy?”
“I sort of brought the crisis out in the open. I feel responsible.” He could not meet her gaze. “I don’t know if I could get her to come in. I was hoping maybe you’d be willing to visit with her in my home.”
“Of course . . . Buddy, I find your concern for your sister very moving.” Kimberly rose to her feet. “I have a patient coming in now. Buddy, why don’t we meet in the front lobby in an hour. You can call your sister, and then we’ll take it from there.”
“Carey doesn’t want Mom to know about any of this.”
“That goes without saying.” Her smile seemed genuine, if a bit canted to one side. “See you in a little while.”
When the door shut, Preston gave Buddy a moment, then asked, “Do you want to tell me why you wanted to see me as well?”
The night’s raw acid returned and bathed his throat, making every word a struggle. “I don’t know who I am.”
CHAPTER 14
The day dawned gray and damp, but by midmorning it had warmed up enough for Beth to sit on the apartment house’s veranda. Her secret ailment had robbed her body of its ability to withstand even a slight chill. As a result, she wore layers—wool trousers over tights, two sweaters, a coat and a scarf and a knit wool cap. She knew she looked like a bloated ball of knitting and did not care. The walls of her little apartment were drawing together, compressing her and squeezing her out into the strengthening daylight.
Beth’s neighbor rose and offered the sort of honeyed greeting she had known as a child. Josiah asked if she would care to take his place in the porch’s only rocker. She declined and then waited while he drew a second chair over to the wooden railing with its flaking paint. The veranda chairs were metal and rusting. They were also the same shape as those on her parent’s front porch, fashioned so they bounced gently. She sat by the old black gentleman and talked in the slow cadence of bygone days. She learned he had a daughter in Boston who was a divorced mother of two and had good work providing legal aid. He also had a son in Detroit, and on that point he grew silent, as though to say more might invite shadows into their quiet haven. He did not ask about her family or her situation. It was not done. Either she volunteered or she did not. Beth spoke about her three children with love, though her exasperation with her elder daughter came through so clearly that Josiah limited his questions to Carey and Buddy.
Beth’s most intense dialogue was unspoken. She sat and worried about her husband, and how Jack would take the news that Buddy was leaving the company. She found herself checking each car that passed, hoping against futile hope that Jack would stop by. That he would change. That he would finally take the step she had spent years praying over. Look inside himself. Ask for help. Relearn the lesson of love.
“Sometimes our prayers are just not strong enough.”
It took her a moment to realize the voice was not the one inside her head. She used the pain medication at ni
ght now, she had to. The hours were too long otherwise. Sometimes the voices from her dreams lingered through the morning, as though reluctant to release their claws. Then she realized Josiah had spoken those remarkable words. Beth turned and looked at him. Josiah refused to meet her gaze. He was dressed as usual in a denim shirt and jacket and wrinkled dark trousers. Beth doubted he had used an iron since his wife had died, which she knew had been six years ago. “Excuse me?”
“My boy was arrested two years back for something he most certainly did. I pledged my home to the bail bondsman. Prayed my boy would understand what I was doing, taking him at his word, that he’d change, that this was the last time he ever walked the dark path. Now I’m here.” He rocked for a time. “We were born with the power of choice. Me, you, our loved ones. We got to live with the outcome of our decisions. Sometimes the best we can hope for is we took the right fork in the road, no matter how hard the journey.”
She liked Josiah’s sparse manner of speech. It reminded Beth of her grandfather. “I’m afraid my husband will go after Buddy. Jack has become consumed by a rage he’s carried for nine long years. I fear he won’t see that he is the cause for Buddy leaving the company. He will see this as a desertion.”
There. It was said. And to an old dark man whom she had only known for three days. But she certainly did not want to add to Buddy’s anxieties. Nor could she foist her fears on Kimberly. Not when it might unbalance the romance Beth so desperately and irrationally wanted her and Buddy to begin. Nor could she tell Carey. Beth knew something was wrong there. And she never discussed such matters with Sylvie, who had made a lifetime profession of self-absorption.
Josiah drew her back with, “Your husband has his own choices.”
“My oldest daughter made a habit of peeling away Jack’s veneer. Why, I’m not sure. But I think it was her way of punishing her father for never giving her the wholehearted love and support she so desperately needed. It came at a terrible time for Jack’s business. He saw it as an attack when he was weakest, and drove our daughter away. Ever since then, he’s been changing, and not in a good way.” Beth peeled away a single fleck of paint from the chair arm. “Buddy recently quit working for his father. Finally. It’s a step he should have taken long ago. But it’s done now. The problem is, Jack can’t make it on his own. But he refuses to admit this to his son. Even though it’s a fact. Jack can’t survive without Buddy’s strength and wisdom and . . .”
