“Grout.” Zoey gagged. “The Andersens’ bathroom on Waller. My plastic gloves broke.”
The metal-enhanced girl exited the stage and nodded at two men as they strode past her. One stopped to pick up his bass off of a stand, and the other slung his guitar across his chest. The sight of it tightened Emily’s throat.
It isn’t him. Her breathing returned to normal. It isn’t him, she repeated to herself. Stop this now. This is bordering on delusional. First, he is probably sleeping in the park right now; second, you will probably never see him again. Learn to live with it. Move on.
But it could have been him. From the back, the height wasn’t far off, although when the man turned around his hair was shaggy. He wore tiny, round, tinted glasses, and his arms weren’t the arms she remembered. He mumbled a greeting in an Irish accent, which jump-started her heart. A handsome, dreadlocked man joined him a few feet away on stage.
“That’s him, that’s Christian!” Zoey cried and whistled again wildly, although there wasn’t a chance in hell he could hear her with the shouting around them.
“Excuse us, folks,” Christian announced to the audience. “We’re fairly new in town, this being our first time in San Francisco, so we felt that we couldn’t go wrong with a little grass.”
The crowd erupted in hoots and cheers. The shaggy, bespectacled man cracked up as he turned to Christian. “Or bluegrass, man. Though whatever makes you happy out there is completely fine with me.” He shot a shy grin to the crowd. “I’m Simon, by the way. And we are”—he pointed his finger like a gun between himself and the still grinning Christian—“anything you desire us to be. Though seriously,” Simon added, his accent more pronounced, “we’re The Lost Boys, and thanks much for coming out on this fine evening.”
Seconds later the club erupted in wild, blistering music, so raucous that even the most cynical urbanite students were lost in the clear elation of the duo on stage. Despite the music, despite their obvious rapport, despite the insane brilliance of their lyrics, something was missing. Midway through the third song, she noticed Christian glance over at the bar, his smile even more radioactive than before. He nodded his head to the side as if to say, come on up, which Emily thought was odd, but maybe they were into audience participation. If so, wild horses wouldn’t keep Zoey in her seat tonight, she thought.
The music toned down to background strumming, and Christian spoke into the microphone. “I love San Francisco.” The crowd cheered in return and he laughed. “But your public transportation sucks and so do your taxis.” More cheers erupted, as well as a few good natured boos. “Sorry, don’t mean to piss anybody off, but how the hell do you people get anywhere?”
Simon rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath, like, move on, laddie, to which Christian chuckled.
“I don’t know if any of you have noticed, but we’ve been one short all night. And I can tell you ladies out there that I’m not used to faking it.”
More hysterical yelling and clapping ensued. Just then a bra shot onto the stage and hit Simon on the shoulder. He was caught off guard for a split second before he recognized what he was holding in his hands. He made a show of draping it around the microphone stand. Christian was nearly bent over in laughter and hooted, “Oh God, not again.”
“Hey, it’s red lace.” Simon smirked at Christian. “Last time it was black.” He returned his attention to the crowd. “I confess, I don’t like faking it either.” He fingered the lace affectionately. “Truthfully, we’ve been one short. But I don’t think we’ve been that poor. And what do you know—he’s finally here. Get your boney ass up here, Paulie boy.”
Emily swung around to the direction of the bar that Simon had been addressing, but she couldn’t see anyone. The whole audience was going crazy, shouting and clapping louder and louder. The lights dimmed a little bit more, and a man climbed up the stage, his head slightly ducked down, a tight smile on his face.
Everything disappeared at that moment: the crowded tables, the smoke, the music. Only one thing remained. His face. All of his face. His intense blue eyes, buzzing and alive. The sharp cheekbones. The determined mouth. He sidled up to the microphone as he slipped on his guitar, plugged it in, and tossed his red scarf over his shoulder. He spoke in a clipped accent—a voice she would remember anywhere.
“Hello, all. I’m Andrew. Andrew Hayes. Terribly sorry for being late.”
3
* * *
AFTER THE SHOW, ANDREW sat on the running board of their truck, a beer in his hands and his head on fire. They were parked in a lot near the Skellar, Golden Gate Park a block away. Andrew could almost see the wall where he had busked for the past week, but he was too tired to turn his head. Late for a show—for the first time in his life he was late for a goddamn show. How had he let that happen?
“Where’s Christian?” Andrew asked Simon.
“He got lucky, the bastard. Texted, said not to wait up. I told you we should have stayed behind and signed autographs, but nooo, you were hell bent to get out of there so we could—oh, sit in some car park and get pissed,” Simon muttered from the driver’s side. He was wrapped in his army surplus jacket, his hair pulled back in the standard post-show ponytail. He had tilted the seat back and was nursing the remains of a beer. “So, are you going to share with the class as to where the hell you were, oh, for the first three bleeding songs?”
“You don’t want to know, mate, trust me.”
“Oh, trust me, I do. I can’t play guitar for shit, and you left me up there defenseless with bras being thrown at me head. You’ve never been late for a show in your pathetic excuse of a life, so I reckon this better be good. I had you dead and bleeding, or kidnapped by one of those psychotic fans of yours and stuffed in some boot with that stupid red scarf strangling your neck. All I’m saying is it’s a damn good thing Neil wasn’t there tonight, or he’d have your balls for bacon.”
“But he wasn’t there.”
They had been in San Francisco for one month and nothing had happened at all on that front. Yes, Simon and Christian were content to bask in the adulation of their newfound popularity, but they were equally content to believe the pipe dream that Neil St. John would swoop down and take them under his wing. In actuality, all he had done was arrange a handful of gigs and provide the nightmare of a house where they now lived. But Andrew didn’t want to think about Neil; he’d deal with that headache later. Now he had to figure out how to explain his whereabouts to Simon, whose sly eyes saw through the most suave serving of bullshit. He opted for the truth.
“I fell asleep in the park. On a bench…listening to a concert.”
“Are you high?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“That you were banging some girl, or that you got stuck in traffic—something normal. You sounded shitfaced on the phone. At least tell me you were drinking.”
“I wasn’t drinking. Too early.”
“Then what?”
Honestly? You honestly want to know what I did today? I wandered San Francisco, that’s what I did today, like I’ve done nearly every day since we got here. I wandered San Francisco searching for a woman I’ve never seen and I’m not sure exists anymore. And you know what else? She wasn’t there. She’s never there—in all the godforsaken cities we’ve toured, she’s never, ever there. And I thought this town would be different, this bloody damp city with fucking palm trees and no sun, because it felt different. Everywhere I turned, something felt different. The shops, the streets, even that disgusting piss-soaked corner of the park up there where I’ve been playing, hoping that one of the faces that passes by might be hers. My muse. The woman you despise. Remember her?
This was what Andrew wanted to say, he wanted to scream it actually, but instead he dragged himself up from the seat and threw his bottle in the trash.
He had eventually fallen asleep on a bench—that part of the story was true. And he had spent the afternoon walking the park, anxious and on edge for no reason, repeatedl
y opening and closing the same pack of cigarettes that he never smoked, then tired and sick of himself, he collapsed in front of the bandshell to hear some lame student orchestra or some such shit. And when the first strains of Brahms squealed from those wretched violins, he could do nothing but sit uselessly, knees to chin, on that stone bench. Only when he awoke several hours later, frozen to the bone like some pissed sot, was he shocked to realize he was late for the show. For the first time in his life, he was late for a goddamn show—all because he couldn’t find her.
“Please tell me you’re pulling my chain and it was actually some girl’s fault,” Simon begged as he started up the truck.
“It’s always a girl’s fault with me, isn’t it?” Andrew muttered in reply.
“That’s what I’m afraid of, but how about a real one this time, the kind that leaves marks.”
“Trust me. She leaves marks.”
They drove home in silence. All the while Andrew fell further and further into a black mood. He was trapped here like Odysseus in some lotus land, and every day he waited was too long. No matter what Simon called it, a madman’s dream or a doomed quest, they had to leave San Francisco and get back on the road. Nothing was going to happen with Neil. They couldn’t stay here; they needed to tour. The man was wasting their time.
The light on Franklin flashed to red, and the truck hummed to a stop, waiting. Simon’s fingers drummed the steering wheel, and he stared straight ahead wearing that same inscrutable expression, not quite smiling, not quite frowning, a look that always drove Andrew mad. They had bought the truck their first day in San Francisco, fully loaded because Simon was sure of their soon-to-be fame, and its cost had depleted their coffers substantially. The cab was large enough to hold their equipment, and they could sleep in it if need be, which Andrew supposed they might end up doing after tonight’s show.
“Do you really trust Neil?” Andrew asked.
The light changed, and the truck accelerated up a narrow slip of a street, past manicured homes hidden by equally manicured shrubs glistening blue-black from the fog in the light of the streetlamps.
“He fakes sincerity well, if that’s what you mean. But he’s better than Lou—you’ve still got your guitar.”
“Can you be serious for a moment? Then why has he offered the house and these gigs and made no move to rep us? He’s had time enough to know if he likes what he’s heard. Or was it all some sort of test to see if we’re worthy enough of his time? And what is it with all this dropping in and out whenever he wants and staying as long as he likes? Like he’s really managing that clusterfuck of a remodel as a hobby? He could pay a boatload of general contractors and architects to do it for him. It’s mad.”
“He lived there when his wife was sick,” Simon replied quietly. “It was near the hospital where she was getting treatment before she died. He just didn’t want to sell it. Memories, I reckon.”
“When did he tell you that?” Andrew asked, surprised by the frustration he felt.
“The other day when you were playing for tourists in the park.”
“Shit…how did you know?”
“You ought to think about that—giving it away for free—we’re too well known now. Your voice is recognizable no matter how you try to disguise that mug of yours—and that’s becoming even more recognizable by the day. You need to be careful. That’s what Neil says.”
“Neil knows?”
“When are you gonna realize that man knows everything?”
Simon cut the engine; they had reached the house. “Home sweet home,” he announced with a distinct air of finality.
Barely visible in the darkness, the Victorian loomed large across the street. It sat at the forgotten edge of a city playground, its wrought iron fence standing between the gnarled, construction-stricken front garden and the sidewalk. Omnipresent fog hung around the monstrosity like a moat. A weed-rioted path led to a grand door that would do Jacob Marley’s disembodied head proud.
Lights glowed through the mullioned windows on the lower floor where they lived. Evidently Christian’s plans had not been successful. The windows of the vacant upper floor remained dark, and those of the glass attic conservatory that topped the mansion like a wrought iron tiara were darker still. The truck creaked and settled into gear. Simon made no move to exit.
“It’d be a shame to pack up since we’ve done so much work to the thing, don’t you think?” Simon responded dryly. “Although I would have liked to have run into Nick at least once before you dragged us back on the road again. I feel somehow denied.”
“The crew swears they’ve seen him.”
“Yeah, ‘Shit, martini, ghost,’ all sound about the same in Spanish, as does the screaming,” he said with a laugh. After a long moment, he turned to face Andrew, all good humor gone. “You’re not seriously thinking of packing up. We just got here, and things are really starting to come together. Look at tonight—three encores, and we’ve got the show tomorrow night and two the following week. It’s brilliant.”
“But what about Neil?”
“What about him? He’s crackers, absolutely. God bless ’em for it. He’s testing out the wares is what he’s doing, and it makes sense. Would you really want him to fuck on the first date? Come on, he’s a conservative wanker, you have to respect that in the man, but look at all he’s done for us. I mean, where else can you live in such high style outside of Calcutta? No heat, little electricity, hoards of people underfoot. It’s like being back at home with me mum. I’m serious, Paulie, I don’t want to pull out yet. We’re so close. You’ve got to have a little more faith.”
“Spoken like a true atheist.”
“Hey, I’d kneel down in front of the altar of Neil St. John any day if he can keep doing what he’s doing. You want things too fast. It’s always been that way with you. You never wanted for anything. Your da was loaded, but mine sure as hell wasn’t. You’ve still got a trust fund to fall back on and a mum who’ll wipe your arse if asked.”
“Fuck you.”
“But that’s not it, is it? Aw, you’re not going there are you? Tell me it’s not about her again.”
“No.”
“No, you won’t tell me, or no, it’s not about her? Because I’m telling you, if this is about her—you’re touring by yourself, is what you’re doing. I’m sick of having this argument with you. First it was bloody eccentric, but then after what happened in New Orleans—you have got to get help. Don’t you see it? There’s no shame in it. You need help.”
Simon’s glasses reflected the streetlamp as he stared straight at him. Andrew had known Simon long enough to understand when he was being serious. Like when he punched him in the face the first time, or when he wrote his first legit song, or when he’d sat curled up in the corner of a hotel room, knowing he had to stop using. And he had, for himself and for the band. Suddenly the truck felt claustrophobic.
“You don’t understand, all right? Leave it at that.”
“Then make me understand.”
Andrew threw open the door and headed to the house, Simon not far behind.
“Are you going to answer me, or are you going to run away again?”
“I’m not running.”
“You’re not living, is what you’re not doing. When is it going to be enough? We’re finally getting some serious traction, you heard that crowd tonight? This is what you want. This is the real world. Get help, Andrew, talk to someone, get them to give you something at least. This thing is going to kill you. And you can’t let it, you understand? You can’t.”
The shock of seeing the preternaturally cool Simon so shaken stopped Andrew in his tracks. “Can we talk about this another time? I’m exhausted, and I don’t want to fight.”
A swath of red had risen up Simon’s throat, and he was breathing like he did after a show when he would throw his sticks to the floor and fall forward over his drums. “Fine.” He wiped the back of his wrist across his mouth. “I’d whip your boney arse anyway.”
Andr
ew knew Simon wanted him to be strong. To him, Andrew would always be the one who saw him through detox, the one who didn’t flinch a muscle when he vomited and convulsed in cold sweats. The one that was always there. Period. But right now he felt like his head might explode at any moment—he couldn’t think—he needed to sleep. He trudged up to the house, intending to disappear into his room and collapse.
A dusty chandelier hung from the high ceiling of the foyer, the light of which reflected off the brass number one on their door. Simon wrestled with the key as Andrew glanced up the stairs at the dark landing. “Hullo,” he said. Simon paused and peered up at the stack of boxes there. It wasn’t the first time that Andrew had sworn he had seen someone standing behind them, waiting. It set the hairs on his arms on end. “Hullo,” he said again.
“What is it?” Simon asked.
“Forget it,” he replied in frustration. There was nothing there.
Whatever unearthly feeling Andrew may have experienced disappeared when he stepped over the threshold into their flat. Bedlam reigned inside, complete anarchy for sale. Blueprints and buckets of tools filled the front parlor, and a new set of wires dangled from the ceiling. Its walls (what little remained of them) stood in various stages of being re-plastered, and the floors were covered in tarps, which in turn were covered in sawdust and paint.
The air continually reeked with the odor of turpentine and something that smelled remarkably like burned pizza. The sight made Andrew want to smash a hole in the wall, not that anyone would notice.
“This old fucking house,” Simon muttered.
Suddenly they heard laughter come from the kitchen, the only room in the house that remained untouched, although it didn’t matter since most of the appliances rarely worked. Andrew pulled apart the pocket doors that led to the dining room and onto the kitchen when he ran straight into Neil St. John, who was busy barking orders into a cell phone. Simon merely whistled and walked past, leaving Andrew to his mercy.
Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story Page 4
