by Lisa Sorbe
She nods, her eyes lighting up. “Yep. And guess who’s opening?”
He squints, pretends to think. “Taylor Swift?”
Shauna laughs, shaking her head.
“Pink? Brittany Spears?”
“Miles!”
He rubs his chin, furrows his brow. “Hmm... Who else around here has enough musical talent to open for a legend?” Then his eyes go wide, as if a though just hit him. He cocks a finger in her direction. “You?”
She nods, blushes.
Miles throws up a hand, and she slaps it. “Way to go, kid.”
A man in a leather jacket and black slacks steps in front of us to drop a few bills into the donation jar. When he leaves, Shauna bites her lip. “I’m so nervous, though,” she confesses.
Miles’s smile is warm, almost big brotherly. “You,” he says, raising his brows for emphasis, “will do great. You got that?”
She nods, tucking her hands in the sleeves of her frumpy brown sweater and pulling the material taut, stretching the arms out even more. Then someone calls her name and, after a quick glance over her shoulder, she waves a sweater clad hand and bounces away. A tall blonde kid with an unfortunate complexion takes her place at the table. He’s quiet, just holds a fist out for Miles to bump before we head inside the auditorium.
“I have absolutely no idea what’s going on,” I say as we work our way down the slanted aisle and shimmy into a pair of rickety fold down seats, “but you seem pretty popular around here.”
Miles shrugs it off. “Shauna’s been taking voice and guitar lessons from my mom for, shit, what has it been? Three years now? And Henry back there was in the last auto repair class I taught.”
I turn to him, raising a brow. “You teach?”
“I do weekend workshops for high school kids who want to learn about cars. Well, I did. I haven’t exactly had the time since taking over the shop from Bob. But I plan to start back up when things slow down. The workshops and classes are a service The Rothchester House provides for kids who wouldn’t otherwise get a chance to learn about certain things. You know, all those programs the public schools cut. My mom teaches music – voice, guitar, piano. George puts on a yoga and meditation class twice a week in the gymnasium. Things like that. They offer adult continuing educational classes, too – like resume building, cooking, crocheting, gardening. All the time is donated, of course. Makes education possible for people who don’t have the opportunity or, more specifically, the funds to pursue it. And most of the people who take classes actually end up back here a few years later, teaching. It’s sort of a give and take, if you will.”
“That sounds… Awesome.”
Before we can talk anymore, the lights dim and the surrounding chattering diminishes, fading little by little before stopping entirely. The auditorium is suddenly cloaked in a quiet that seems bottomless.
I turn my attention to the stage to see Shauna practically tip-toe to where a chair and a microphone have been set up, a scarred guitar clutched in her hand. Her plaid skirt hangs on her like a sack, and even from six rows back I can see the scuff marks on her cheap ankle boots.
She bites her lip as she takes her seat and throws the guitar strap over her head. Her fingers visibly tremble as she adjusts the microphone stand and scoots her chair closer to it. The pent-up breath she releases is audible through the mic, and she gives a nervous chuckle that’s followed by one from the audience. Her eyes shift to the left of the stage for a moment, and she gives a slight nod before turning to address the room.
“Hi. I’m Shauna. Tonight, I’ll be playing Creep, originally by Radiohead. I… I hope you all enjoy it.” Her voice is so soft, so wobbly that I feel sorry for her before she even opens her mouth to sing – because, I mean, she sounds scared to death. She looks so small, so fragile up there that I find myself crossing my fingers and sitting forward in my seat, breath held as she strums the first few notes of the song.
Miles sees my crossed fingers and reaches down, covering my hand with his.
Shauna stops strumming, and then it’s just her voice, her voice that’s crisp and clear, weightless and breathy, like the words are coming from somewhere deeper than her core. Like the song originated somewhere else, on another plane of existence, and Shauna’s merely the conduit for it to be heard. “You were here before…”
I know this song, of course. And it’s always seemed haunting, wistful. But when Shauna sings it, I feel an ache in my chest that blooms larger with each breath I take. So I let my breath catch, and after a moment I forget to breathe entirely because I’m too busy getting lost in the words, the ethereal sound of her voice. The longing she wrings from the lyrics bring tears to my eyes, which I discreetly wipe away before they can brim over.
When the song is finished and the last string is plucked, a hush falls over the room. No one breathes, no one moves. It’s as if everyone’s in a trance. Like, for one brief moment, we all joined her on that higher plane and now that the song has ended, we’re forced back into reality, our bodies thick and drowsy.
Shauna’s eyes are closed, as they’ve been throughout the entire song, and when she opens them and squeaks a quick, “Thank you!” into to the microphone, the audience suddenly shakes from their stupor and roars. There’s whistling and hooting, and Shauna beams red through it all. Hopping up, she gives a little curtsey and scurries off the stage.
I’m clapping so hard my hands hurt.
I look at Miles, and I’m sure my eyes are red from all the emotions swirling around inside me. But for once I don’t care. “Holy butterflies,” I say. “Holy mutha fucking butterflies.”
He just laughs and nods toward the stage. “If you think that was amazing, just wait.” He grabs my hand again, squeezes. “You’re about to be blown away.”
And just when I think nothing else could possibly overtake my feeling of shock and astonishment, Merv steps out onto the stage.
Merv the bum.
Merv with the overgrown beard and snot stains on his mustache.
Merv who, the last time I saw him, smelled like a big fleshy armpit.
My jaw drops.
Miles just smiles and leans back in his seat.
The audience suddenly seems at attention. You could hear a pin drop. And suddenly it’s clear. This – this – is what they came to see.
Just when I’m starting to wonder if Merv is about to put on a comedy act or, worse, all these people are here to make fun of a simple-minded bum, he brings a violin up and tucks it under his chin. And then he closes his eyes and begins.
And I’m blown away.
I don’t know much about classical music – or, rather, I don’t know anything about classical music – but the sounds Merv is making by simply drawing a bow across the taut strings of his violin are enough to make me want to weep. The swelling sensation in my chest that threatened to overcome me during Shauna’s performance overtakes me completely now. I have no idea what it’s called, but the piece makes my heart twist with despair, then want, then longing, then hope, before flinging me right back into the arm of despair again. The notes invade my mind, a roller coaster of emotion and color. Color? Because, yes, when Merv plays I see color. It’s like an aura borealis is going bonkers inside my head. The tone is velvety and dark, deep, like there’s texture to the music, and how can there be texture to sound? But there is, layer upon layer upon layer, and yet there’s only one instrument on stage.
When the song ends, I realize my cheeks are wet, although I don’t remember crying. I swipe the wetness away with my hand before applauding along with the rest of the crowd.
Merv doesn’t look any different from the first time I saw him all those months ago, yet he looks entirely different.
Seems to be the theme of my life lately.
The show continues, and Merv plays five more pieces that move me just as much as the first. Although thankfully – for my mascara’s sake – the rest increase in buoyancy until the last piece has me wanting to laugh a big fat belly laugh that I hav
e to hold in by pressing my lips together.
The audience goes wild when he finishes; their rowdiness reminds me more of groupies cheering at a rock and roll concert than the more subdued crowd who came to watch a classical music show. Whistles, feet stomping, and calls of “Encore, encore!” fill the small space. People are rising to their feet, and Miles pulls me up with him. Soon we’re clapping and shouting along with everyone else.
It seems to be expected, however, because Merv comes back on stage – this time followed by Marilyn. He bows, and Marilyn waves both hands at the crowd. She’s wearing a long flowy skirt embroidered with flowers and a long black tunic. Her white hair has been clipped back in a bun, and she’s all smiles as she sits down at a piano and flexes her fingers. Then she cranes her neck and motions to someone backstage.
Shauna – back to looking like a frightened little mouse – steps out from behind the curtains, carrying an extra microphone and stand which she sets up a few feet away from Merv.
Merv, who hasn’t spoken one word all night, bows before tucking his instrument back beneath his chin. His foot taps out a beat of three and then the trio launch into a completely badass rendition of, believe it or not, Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance.
The crowd is going nuts, Miles’s mom is getting her whole body into the gig, Shauna is wailing away, and Merv is grinning a smile that completely transforms his face.
My hand is over my mouth and I’m on the edge of my seat, nodding my head and beaming along with the rest of the crowd. When I glance over at Miles, he’s watching me, a proud smiled splitting his face. He shakes his head and then leans in close. “Holy butterflies, am I right?
All I can do is nod.
Holy fucking butterflies.
“Not even close, huh?”
I spear a piece of chicken and lettuce with my fork and trail it through the last of the ranch dressing in my Applebee’s plastic takeout container.
Miles laughs. “Well, I had to keep the mystery going. And we’re not actually eating in the restaurant, so that has to count for something.”
I pop the bite in my mouth and chew, looking around. He does have a point. I swallow, drop the plastic fork in to the container, and shove it back in the paper take out bag it came in. “I’ll give you that. The ambience out here really can’t be beat. It gives dinner-by-candlelight a whole new meaning.”
We’re sitting on the black and red checkered blanket that Miles keeps in the trunk of his Charger, sprawled out in front of a roaring campfire with our bellies full from dinner. The old ghetto blaster from the shop made the trip with us, and it’s turned to an alt rock station. The volume is on low, the music accompanied by the soothing snap-crackle from the fire. I clink my beer can to his and take a sip. “I still can’t believe you own all this.”
Miles looks around, taking in the lake to the left and the run-down farm house a few yards behind us. “Yeah,” he says, taking a swig from his own can. “For now, at least. I’m not really sure what I’m going to do with it. Figured I might as well enjoy it while I can.”
I twist around and study the house. I can’t see much of it in the dark, but from what I can tell it’s a large two story with a wrap-around porch and a pitched gable roof. The paint is chipping away but the bones look good, and when I close my eyes I picture it completely renovated, painted a light yellow with a white porch swing swaying back and forth in a lazy summer breeze.
I turn back to the fire, flex my fingers out toward the flames. With the unseasonably warm weather and the heat in front of me, I’m almost too hot, so I shrug out of from under the blanket Miles wrapped around me and stretch. “It’s so beautiful out here, though,” I say, my voice wistful. Then, without thinking, “I used to have land like this. Not lakeside, but still.”
Miles tosses his empty in the takeout bag and leans back on his hands. “Used to?”
I groan, falling back on my own hands and tipping my head back to look at the sky. “I inherited it from my grandfather. Well, my brother and I, that is. He had the land split between us when he died. But,” I say, drawing the word out, “I was at college in Chicago when he passed, and twenty-seven acres of Iowa farmland wasn’t exactly on my wish list. And never, in a million years, did I think I’d end up back here. So, knowing all that, I made an offer to my brother and he eventually bought me out.” I fold the blanket and flop down on my back, bunching it behind my head.
Miles follows suit, rolling onto his side and propping his head up on his elbow. “And now,” he says, looking down at me, “here you are.”
I chuckle, my voice dry. “Yep. Here I am.”
We’re quite for a moment, though it’s not uncomfortable. The summer night song is gone for the season, and aside from the manmade sounds of the radio and the fire, the night is silent. In fact, I have a feeling if I walked away from this very spot, out into the woods behind the house and closed my eyes, the silence would swallow me whole.
“You were right about silence,” I blurt.
Miles, who has since shifted over onto his back, hands behind his head, looks over at me. “Huh?”
I study the stars. “That day in your kitchen. You know, back when I first started working for you and…” I pause, take a breath and release it. “We didn’t like each other very much. You said silence was underrated. Remember?”
His laugh is deep, throaty. “Yeah, I do.”
He reaches down and grabs my hand, pulls me closer. And when I roll to my side and lean my head against his chest, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
“Silence makes sense of the chaos, doesn’t it? All the shit that’s happening around us that we can’t make sense of unless we step away from it for a bit. If we can just manage to let the quiet in, it’s like we’re able to see the bigger picture. Or,” I say, “At least a bigger portion of the picture than we could before. It’s like life is constantly screaming at you to listen – disaster, disease, rude people, financial crap, divorce. But all it’s really trying to do is get your attention, and when you get still and shut up for a few seconds, you can finally understand what it’s been trying to say all along. And it reveals itself. You know, the actual meaning of life. Or, at least, something close to it.” I run my hand across his chest, over his shoulder, and then to his neck before reaching up and sliding my fingers through his hair, rubbing light circles over his temple with my thumb. “Am I making any sense?”
A sigh whispers through him, so soft and full of – not longing, exactly – but relief. Like he’s been waiting for this moment for so long and now that it’s finally here, a huge weight has been lifted from his shoulders.
I know this, because that’s how I feel. That’s what pressing myself up against Miles feels like.
Sweet relief.
Relief from a weight I didn’t even know I was carrying.
Miles wraps his arms around me, one hand resting around my waist and the other cupping my head. His fingers trail through my hair, tickling my scalp and making me melt into him even more.
“You make total sense. And I’m not just saying that because the thing you’re doing with your thumb is totally turning me on right now.”
I smile into his chest. “You’re a dork.”
“What?” He asks, feigning shock. “I’m being totally serious. Look. I have goosebumps. You, Jenny Malone, are giving me actual fucking goosebumps.”
He moves his hand from my waist and, as he holds it up, the sleeve of his flannel slides down. “Wow,” I say, noting said goosebumps and laughing. I scoot up so we’re eye to eye, nose to nose.
Mouth to mouth.
He meets me halfway, turning onto his side and pulling me tighter.
“Looks like it doesn’t take much to trip your trigger,” I joke.
“Apparently not.” His words tickle my cheek.
“Well,” I say back, the simple word causing my lips to brush against his. “That’s certainly not a bad thing.”
“Nope.” His lower lip flutters over mine. “Pretty co
nvenient, actually. I’m always ready to go.”
“Classy,” I say, my breath mingling with his. “But also a very good thing.”
All this talking, this kissing but not kissing, is driving me crazy.
So fucking crazy that I throw all caution to the wind. Every single goddamn thing I know and thought I knew and all that I’ve ever believed – I chuck it all.
Because at this moment – this very moment – life is screaming at me. Screaming at me to stop and pay attention.
So I’m going to shut up and listen.
And when I press my mouth to his, lick past his lips, the universe explodes.
We start out slow, sweet, our hands and fingers exploring the other’s curves and planes. We’re still cautious, still attached to the strings that have defined our relationship up until now. I slip my palm under his shirt, tracing the lines of his six pack and grinning when I hear his breath hitch. His lips trail a line of fire down my neck, one as hot as the flames at our feet, and I gasp when his teeth graze my collar bone.
It’s too much and yet not enough, all these sensations whirling through me right now, begging to be set loose. To run free. I want more, more, the desperation building to a point where all logic and reason, all etiquette and first-time jitters give way to a wild, animalistic need where my mind shuts down entirely and my body takes over.
It seems we’re on the same frequency, because Miles suddenly growls and pushes me over onto my back. A sharp intake of breath travels all the way down past my chest and coils just below my abdomen as he grabs my hands and pins them over my head. His lips meet mine in a feverish tangle of tongue and breath, and as my hips thrust up to meet his, he moans into my mouth.
I eat it up. I eat every bit of it up, because I want to eat him up.
And I want him to devour me.
So, I tell him. I use my words, my mouth, my hands, my body; I beg and plead, opening myself wide to show him that I’m ready. That I give myself over to him completely, right here and now. Outside and under this magnificent canopy of stars.
He owns me. He owns me, and I’m not even going to pretend that he doesn’t.
