Coda: The Seven Sequels

by Ted Staunton

  Dwayne waves us in. We crowd into the little hallway. It smells of baking and fresh paint. In the little front room on the right I glimpse drop sheets, tins and a stepladder. I can see into a kitchen at the end of the hall. A dark-haired girl is at the counter, working away at something in a mixing bowl the way Jer does—except Jer doesn’t wear a blue gingham dress with a white apron on top. Through the doorway on my left I see a man and woman in paintspattered coveralls, putting down more drop sheets. “Welcome!” they call too. I give a little wave back.

  “This won’t take long,” Scratch says, moving ahead. “Few things around the place we have to check for. Attic, basement, the usual. Wiring and plumbing refits mostly.”

  “Shore,” Dwayne says again. “Hep yourself. Cellar’s through the kitchen. We want everythang to be jes’ right when we go doors open with CNI nex’ week.”

  “CNI?” says Scratch.

  “Church of Norman Intergalactic. This is our first missionary outreach in a foreign land. When our founder Norman Floog discovered the Book of Norman in the Walmart Dumpster in Boise, one of the first things the Throgs told him was that their mission was intergalactic, but we should start with international. Toronto seemed like a real good place to start.” As he talks, I get a better look at his tattoo. It’s a corncob with rocket tail fins at the bottom, blasting off. Houston, we have a problem.

  It doesn’t take long to go through the place. Ten minutes later we’re back on Fifteenth Street. AmberLea has a Book of Norman bound in fake leather, Scratch has a DVD called Alien, Not Alienated, and X-Ray and I each have a stack of pamphlets and some cookies. The top pamphlet says AlphaWays to the Lords. Below is a graphic of the rocket corncob blasting off toward a stack of halos. “Thanks for trying,” I say. “Bun would appreciate it.”

  Looking up from her Book of Norman, AmberLea says, “I just realized it couldn’t have been there anyway. The speed-limit sign is facing the wrong way for anyone to read it from the house.”

  I groan. She’s right.

  “Hey, you win some, you lose some,” Scratch says. “We hear anything about Bunny, we’ll let you know. Good luck. X, if I was you, I wouldn’t eat those cookies.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  We race across town to a part of the city called Leslieville. The big film-industry soundstages are down there. I got a tour of one in September with one of my classes. We park at Industrial Arts Studios between two white SUVs. There must have been a special on this month. “Have you figured out what you’re going to say?” AmberLea asks.

  I groan. Aiden Tween is my only chance to save Bunny, and I’ve been too busy cursing the SPCA to think of what to say. “Well, I thought I’d…tell…uh, no.”

  “Leave it to me.” She slams her door.

  AT and Sumo are in a sleek Airstream trailer parked at one side of the giant soundstage. Other people are leaving, striding off into the dimness. On the practice stage, dancers are running a routine under the lights. A bass line thunders. The trailer door is still open. As we reach the steps, I hear Sumo say, “You’re sure about this? It’s not your—”

  “Mah fans would freak if we cancel,” AT says. “Remember Berlin? They’ll have it covered. Besides, this is the right thing to do. It’s mah risk.”

  “Our risk.”

  AmberLea shoves me up the steps. The talking stops. They’re sitting in a mini-living room. Sumo is still in black. AT is in shimmery cargo pants, a skyblue bomber jacket and a wooly blue-and-yellow hat with earflaps I’ve seen before, plus the gloves AmberLea gave him. Sumo gives us a Transylvanian Death Glare. “Talk to us.”

  AmberLea starts pitching. “So. You know Pianvia is trending. Get in now. They’ve banned music there, right? FREE THE MUSIC is your slogan, and we’ve got the way to do it: a world premiere for your concert tomorrow, a national anthem for a free Pianvia by its most famous composer. Written sixty years ago and never been heard. Banned, then lost, and now we’ve got the only copy. Sing it tomorrow night—new song, new year, new Pianvia. Get a film crew on it, and AT will own Pianvia, which I’ve got to tell you is hot in our age group right now. All you—”

  “Perfect, we’ll do it,” says Sumo.

  “What?” AmberLea is startled. I think she was just warming up.

  “I said, we’ll do it.”

  “Oh. Great!”

  “Where’s the music?”

  I hand over the calendar. “Nice,” says AT.

  “Consider it yours,” says AmberLea. She shows him the music.

  From looking like you or me with two piercings and a five-hundred-dollar haircut under a stupid hat, Aiden Tween somehow sharpens into a different person as he scans the music. Quietly he begins singing, “Ba da be bum, dum dee doo, Ba da be bum boo…” Say what you want about his music, the guy can sing.

  “AT has perfect pitch,” says Sumo. “Sings and plays anything on sight.”

  Aiden Tween stops singing. “I like it. It sounds familiar already, you know? I’ll want to take it up a tone.” He sings a bit in a higher register, then says, “Let’s do it. We’ll definitely do it.” He smiles for the first time.

  “Really?” I feel myself go weak with relief. Bunny’s going to make it.

  “We’ll get Jim to do an arrangement,” says Sumo. “Those the words? How are we going to get them translated?”

  “I’ve got a number right here.” My fingers are trembling as I pull out my phone.

  “No arrangement,” says AT. “I’m gonna do it a capella. Just me, single white spot. Get me one a’ their flags. Do their flags look good? That’s a killer tune. We could have a hit with that tune. Man, I’d do it even if those—”

  “Great, Aiden,” says Sumo. “Okay,” he says to AmberLea. “FREE THE MUSIC, but not free music. This is a business. What’s your angle?”

  AmberLea starts talking again. I stop listening and make my way out of the trailer. Bunny’s going to make it.

  THIRTY

  Out on the stage, another song I don’t know is pounding. The dancers are still bopping under glaring lights. You can see them from different angles on big screens above and behind the stage. Colors and camera angles change. Out in front of the stage, facing it from about fifteen meters away in the dimness, people cluster at a bank of glowing computer screens and tech boards that look as if they could run a space station. The tallest person looks familiar. It’s Toby. I walk over.

  “Spencer! Hey, how’s it going?”

  “Good. Things have changed, but I think Bunny’s going to be okay.”

  “Fantastic.” I’m so relieved about Bunny that when he raises his fist to do props, I match him.

  I ask, “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, just hanging, you know. Turns out they’re using the software already.”

  “Software?” I ask.

  Toby sweeps back some perfect hair and says, “Just some stuff my older brother and I developed back when I was in junior high. Graphics stuff that interacts with sound and light effects. Highly effective for concerts. Apple bought us out, actually, before we could do much with it. I’ve just been making a couple of suggestions.”

  “Oh,” I say, “right. AmberLea told me.” I shrink back to normal in my cowboy boots. “Looks like AT has your hat,” is all I can come up with to say.

  Toby laughs. “Oh. Yeah. He has a way of latching on to things.” In this light, Toby almost looks as if he’s blushing. Somehow it lets me ask, “So like, you and AmberLea, are you, like, how long have you…?” That’s as far as I get before someone jumps on his back. AmberLea.

  “There you are!” she says.

  Toby laughs and shrugs her off. Then he gives her a hug. “I called your mom, Hot Lips. She’s cool. Told her I’d be along in about an hour. Just wrapping up here.”

  “Going good?” AmberLea gives him a private look. I’m thinking, Hot Lips?

  “Going good.”

  I shrink a little more. Since the boots make me an inch taller, maybe no one will notice. Besides, a free Bunny is th
e main thing.

  AmberLea and I head back out into the cold. It’s bright after the shadows of the soundstage. “You should’ve stuck around.” She nudges me. “They were so into it, I got us ten percent of the publishing on AT’s arrangement of the anthem, plus a last visit to the cottage before they tear it down.”

  “Wow. Thanks for persuading them,” I say. “How did you do that?”

  “I dunno.” She shrugs. “My father’s in advertising.” She pauses. “You know, I’m good, but that was almost too easy. Didn’t you think?”

  Now it’s my turn to shrug. “Who cares? You saved Bunny.”

  Her chin has gone in. After a second she lifts it and squints a smile back at me. “Maybe our families are just meant to help each other,” she says.

  The SUVs are gone. As we get into the Cayenne, I clear my throat. “Uh, how come, um, TobycallsyouHotLips?” The last part spills out all in one word.

  AmberLea blushes. The color goes great with her hair. “Ever seen M*A*S*H? The movie? Toby teases me that I look like the nurse character, Hot Lips Houlihan.”

  “Oh. I should check it out.” Dumb, dumb, dumb. It’s also a little late to say, “No, you’re prettier,” isn’t it?

  AmberLea starts the car. “That anthem is the real thing, right?”

  “Hey,” I say, “you found it.”

  “I know, but…did it sound familiar to you when AT hummed it?”

  “Kind of.” I reach for my seat belt. “Yeah, it did.”

  “To me too.” AmberLea digs out her iPhone.

  I laugh and say, “Maybe that proves it’s authentic: Zoltan Blum’s Wikipedia entry said he got accused of plagiarism on some of his songs.”

  “Maybe he should have on this one. Check this out.” AmberLea plugs her phone into the SUV’s sound system and dials something up. Elvis Presley gushes out, Love me tender…

  We stare at each other. It’s the same song. AmberLea says, “So either AT was faking and can’t really read music, or Zoltan Blum was a cheater. Guess which one I’m betting on?”

  “Holy cow,” I say. “The guy ripped off Elvis?”

  “Obviously, he wasn’t big in Pianvia. Anyway, I don’t think Elvis wrote it either, but he sang it. Your grandpa played music, right? Do you think he knew?” She puts the SUV in gear and we pull out.

  I shrug. “I dunno. Why?”

  “Well,” says AmberLea, flicking the turn signal at the exit to the parking lot, “I was just thinking of—”

  “Where we found it,” I join in. Together we say, “Elvis belongs in the outhouse.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  And now there’s nothing to do but wait. We both realize we’re starving, so we stop at an ancient-looking place called the Gale Snack Bar and chow down. AmberLea says she’ll drive me home, but I tell her I’ll just take the streetcar back from the hotel. We agree to go to a movie later at this cool old theater called the Revue, in the west end, not too far from where I live. They’re showing a seventies movie Jer always talks about called O Lucky Man! Before that, all of us will go to some Parkdale restaurant her mom wants to try.

  On the streetcar I try calling Deb. There’s no point in trying to tell her what’s really happened, because she won’t believe me, but I can tell her I heard from Bun. She answers this time. “Spence! How’s it going?”

  “Okay, Mom. I heard from Bunny.”

  “See? I told you he’d call. Did you tell him to call me?”

  “No, there wasn’t time.” In the background I can hear traffic noise and the chirping of a pedestriancrossing signal. “Where are you anyway?” I ask. “I can hear cars.”

  “What? Oh, uh—Hamilton.”

  “Hamilton?” Hamilton is just down the highway.

  “Hamilton, Bermuda, hon. It’s a port of call on the cruise. Listen, did you get the number Bunny called from? Maybe I’ll give him a ring.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Mom.”

  “I’ll weigh that in my deliberations, Spence.”

  “It’s on my phone. Hang on a sec.”

  When I give Deb the number, she says, “Hmm. New York area code.”

  “Oh,” I say. That explains a lot.

  “Leave it with me, Spence. Just quit worrying and enjoy the show tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “I thought you told me you were going to see Aiden Tween tomorrow.”

  “Oh yeah.” Did I tell her that? I can’t remember.

  “What’s tonight?” Deb asks.

  “Movie with AmberLea.”

  “Say hi for me. Be good. Use the debit card. Remember, Dad’s home on the second, so try to have the place in only partial chaos. Love you.”

  As I let myself in at O’Toole Central, I get another call. Maybe it’s Bun. It’s Jade. “Hear you didn’t find him.”

  “I even had the wrong country.” I sigh. Jade tells me to keep her in the loop. I promise to. Then I pull off the cowboy boots, which by now are killing me, check the landline for messages and crash on the couch. It’s dark when I wake to a pounding on the door, which turns out to be AmberLea. Her mom and Toby are in the car.

  We go to a trendoid restaurant called Hopjoints. I know it’s cool because all the servings are about the size of my big toe—and I have small feet. In a way this is okay, because there’s zero on the menu I’d want to eat anyway. Toby orders sweetbreads, just to give you an idea. It doesn’t matter; I’ll get something at the movie.

  I’m only telling you this part because something weird happens at the restaurant. I look around the room and who do I see at a table for two but Roz Inbow and Harv. I don’t know whether they’ve seen me or not until Harv heads for the men’s room. A moment later there’s a tap on my shoulder. It’s Roz. “How’s it going?” she whisper-booms.

  “Hard to say. Thanks for helping with the, uh, stuff.”

  “Sorry about the mix-up. From what Harv said, you have interesting friends. Said the guy was the real deal.”

  “Really? Oh. Yeah, well—”

  “That’s okay. Whoever he was, he gave Harv a good tip that paid off. We’re out celebrating. Stay safe. Bernard too.” As she leaves I think, I do have interesting friends, including Roz Inbow. It makes me feel a little better.

  The movie is long and strange. It stars the actor from Clockwork Orange. He plays this guy who wants to be a success and tries all these different things, but he keeps getting tricked by people, all played by the same actors, who keep popping up in different roles, until…well, I won’t tell the ending in case you ever see it. We all argue about it after, like you’re supposed to do at film school. At least it’s a break from stewing over Bunny. When we reach O’Toole Central, I crawl out of the Cayenne as Toby says something about “aggressive noncontinuity via the French New Wave” and AmberLea shouts, “No, the continuity is ironic picaresque.” My contribution is swearing as I step into a slush puddle and soak my shoes. Before I fall asleep, I promise myself I’ll look up what they were talking about tomorrow. The last thing I remember thinking is, the movie seemed like real life to me.

  THIRTY-TWO

  DECEMBER 31

  I sleep late and wake up with a knot of worry in my stomach. AmberLea’s mom invited me to go skiing with them again today, but I said no thanks. I wanted to be by our landline in case Bunny got a chance to sneak another phone call. He might forget my cell number, but he won’t forget our home one.

  I shower, telling myself that things are good—Bunny will be free soon. We’ve done everything the SPCA wants. They’ll let Bunny go when Aiden Tween sings their anthem tonight. All I have to do is hang in. By the time Jer and Deb get home, Bunny will be back and due at Creekside. They can believe us if they want to. Maybe Deb will when she sees the mess in her office. Speaking of which, I can kill time before tonight’s concert by getting O’Toole Central back in shape. I should text Jer, too, and tell him that the van won’t start, so I can’t meet him at the airport.

  I make oatmeal for breakfast, with lots of brown
sugar, and pour a big glass of orange juice. I’m Healthy Spencer, go-to guy, man with a plan. After breakfast I tidy the kitchen. Then I go upstairs, wipe the bathroom mirror and sink, stuff towels and dirty clothes in the laundry hamper and straighten up things the SPCA guys must have moved when they searched. By now I’m on a roll, so I go all out and take the hamper to the basement and put in a load of laundry. While it’s churning I head back upstairs, haul out the vacuum and attack the living room. I plump pillows, pile magazines and clear away a fresh frosting of snack bags and drink tins. The place looks pretty good, but the worry still coils in my stomach like the vacuum cord at my feet. I tell myself there’s no reason they wouldn’t let Bunny go. Is there? We helped them. All that blotzing stuff was just a threat. They’re freedom fighters: desperate, maybe, but not cold-blooded killers. They’re supposed to be the good guys, for crying out loud.

  I drag the vacuum into the hall and go at the stairs as if lives depended on it. The wall as you go up the stairs is filled with family pictures. It’s the usual stuff, I guess. There are a few ancient people in old-fashioned clothes. There’s Deb and Jer at their wedding, embarrassing baby shots of Bun and me. There are aunts, uncles and cousins, Grandpa Bernie and Granny Carol looking spry on Salt Spring Island, and in makeup doing their mime act on Haight Street in San Francisco in 1964. A two-year-old Jer sits in a stroller beside them, looking bored. Then there’s a studio shot of Deb and her sisters as kids in matching dresses, and a snapshot of their mom, who died when they were young.

  Beside these are two pictures of Grandpa David. One is black and white, from World War II. Grandpa and his crew are posing in front of their bomber, in flight gear, arms over each other’s shoulders, grinning. Grandpa has a white scarf like Scratch’s knotted at his throat. He’s squinting a little, and a cigarette dangles at a smart-aleck angle from one side of his mouth. Above them, on the fuselage, is a stencil of a cartoon mosquito with a cigar and a machine gun, over the words Together We Fly.