The fog clamped down around him, and he felt colder now than he ever had in this beastly town. It had never occurred to him that she would run from him, or worse yet, refuse him. In all his plans, he always believed that once he had found her, everything was going to be brilliant.
“Where is she? How am I going to find her?” he muttered to himself. “How?”
Suddenly he was startled by a sound from a few yards in front of him. A homeless man stood picking through the contents of his grocery cart. His hair and mustache were matted and plastered onto his head in patches of brown and gold. Fingerless gloves covered his hands, and it appeared as though he wore two or three threadbare coats. His sneakers were tied onto his feet with twine.
Moved by the sight, Andrew reached into his pocket and tucked a few dollars in the paper cup by his cart. The man grunted something in response and continued rummaging through old newspapers and layers of orange tarp.
Just as Andrew was about to turn away, a hand reached out to grab his arm but missed. The eyes that had been shielded by the brim of his cap peered at Andrew from behind grimy spectacles. They were white, entirely white, and made the hair on the back of Andrew’s neck stand straight on end. The blind man leaned forward and whispered, “You’re making it way harder than it has to be, kid. Dames ain’t that hard to understand. Every one of them wants to be pursued, to be wooed. Don’t matter what they say, they want you to work for it. All romance requires a level of suffering, just don’t step on your crank too much while you’re going about it ’cause you’ll end up looking like a schmuck and make me look bad. And trust me, you don’t have time for that.”
Andrew stared at him, not knowing what to say, but then spoke somberly, guessing the man was either completely mental or a mind reader. Still, his eyes were so unsettling, but it could be a trick of the light. “Do I know you?”
“No, you don’t, but you will eventually.” He chuckled dryly. “You’re so damn young—still believe all your choices are up to you, don’t you? Well, keep believing that as long as you can, kid, that’s my advice to you.”
“I don’t need advice, thank you.”
“Oh, I think you do. But don’t worry, I won’t let you screw up too badly.”
The honk of a passing car caught his attention, and when Andrew looked back the homeless man, his grocery cart, the orange tarp—everything was gone. A wave of shocked dizziness overtook him, and he spun around in a vain attempt to locate the panhandler. Hands to knees, he took several deep breaths, willing his clouded vision to clear. A panic attack. He knew the symptoms. That, or someone had slipped something in his water bottle at the show. Was he tripping out after all? He pinched his arm hard until it hurt. No, he was here, now.
Before he could worry any further, other images began to flash into his mind: an abandoned room full of paying customers who were probably demanding their money back, not to mention the what the fuck? glares of Simon and Christian. Those were real—nothing eerie or supernatural about them unless a vision of his own imminent murder classified as one. He took one last look around the street for a sign of the homeless man and began his return to the Skellar.
Think, he told himself, he had to think rationally. Whatever delusions he might be suffering, he knew someone at the club must know her. Maybe she had come with friends? After the show he would ask, ask anyone he could get his hands on. The bartender, the bouncer, someone had to have talked with her. The whole way back he plotted. Because she was here. Here.
Despite the lead guitarist’s aberrant behavior, The Lost Boys still managed two encores. When the cheering eventually died down, Andrew, as planned, immersed himself in the crowd and began to interrogate the fans who remained. Unfortunately, no one knew her, this woman who had knocked over the chair and ran. The girl in the black coat and the high-heeled shoes may as well have been a ghost.
“Oh, that chick who pissed you off? No idea,” the bartender told Andrew. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, man. There’s gotta be an easier way to deal with hecklers, is all I’m saying.”
Christ, Andrew thought, now on top of finding her, he had the extra bonus of convincing her he wasn’t deranged. Back on stage, Simon, Christian, and some weary looking staff from the Skellar were busy packing up the rest of the equipment. Simon, his face drawn as tight as a wire, shook his head in silent disgust and took great pains to avoid even glancing in Andrew’s direction, but Andrew could feel the heap of curses being psychically hurled in his direction. Christian, on the other hand, ignored everyone completely and stared at his phone as though it had just bit him. Apparently Zoey had texted him immediately after the show and called off drinks. Andrew couldn’t blame her; he had tried to attack a patron. Who’d want to party with that?
Given the emotional rollercoaster of the night, Andrew couldn’t envision how things could get much worse, but they did. As the exhausted trio were finally ready to leave, having issued their last apologies to the still fuming club manager, Neil St. John stepped up to the empty stage causing Andrew to nearly drop his guitar case on his foot.
“Shit,” muttered Simon, reaching into his Mao jacket for a cigarette despite the fact that smoking was verboten in the club.
Andrew wished he would offer him one, but Simon didn’t seem in any mood to share. Neil’s face was, as always, unreadable, but the tone of his voice was both biting and truthful. “Great show.”
“About what happened—” Andrew began.
“I don’t want to know. All I want to hear is that you plan to play those shows in Sacramento next week, minus the theatrics.”
“Sacramento?” Andrew had entirely forgotten about the dates Neil had arranged for them. No, no they couldn’t possibly go now—it was out of the question.
Neil crossed his arms over his leather jacket, and every inch of him, from the distress of his jeans to the appropriate black T-shirt, seemed controlled. Only a slight twitch at the side of his mouth gave any indication of his mounting frustration.
“But—we can’t, you don’t understand, I just saw…” But Andrew couldn’t finish the sentence. How could he? Between the glares being leveled at him from all sides and his own guilt, there was no way he could explain without coming across as even more unbalanced than he already appeared. Neil waited for him to finish.
“Fair enough,” Andrew surrendered as he bit his lip and shook his head. “And no, no theatrics.”
Whether Neil was surprised by Andrew’s response, he didn’t say. What he did do surprised all present. He placed his hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “Tonight was the best you’ve done. I keep thinking it can’t get any better. I’m still trying to figure out how you put such age into it. It shouldn’t work, but it does. It’s poetic, as much as I loathe that word. It’s poetic without trying—there’s no trying, in fact. It’s effortless.”
The words descended over them, better than any applause. Simon cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
Neil stepped back and nodded, heading for the door with a final wave goodnight.
“If I set me drums on fire maybe he’ll take us on, you think?” Simon mused when they later loaded their equipment into the truck.
“Maybe,” Andrew replied, but only gave it half his mind as he stared down the vacant street.
On Tuesday morning as The Lost Boys were driving to Sacramento, Emily parked her aged Citroën under the boughs of a magnolia tree on a secluded corner of Asbury Heights. The contents of her life were crammed behind her, tied to her roof, or shoved in Margot’s car, which was parked across the street.
The days leading up to moving were filled with the grunt labor of packing and managed to keep her spirits from sinking any lower. There was a saving grace in moving forward fast enough to leave your emotions behind, but when she stepped out and breathed in the perfume of the flowers, she felt her heart yearn again, and she hated it. She turned her face from the sun and took a deep breath. Life would go on, yes. She imagined herself as Ilsa in Casablanca, wearing a to-die-for hat, s
tanding on that foggy runway. She would go to graduate school like her parents wanted, become a professor, and meet her own Victor Laszlow, a man she could admire. They would grow to love each other and one day live in a fine house like the ones on this block. She would teach, and if she were lucky, she would become a dean. It would be so very respectable. So very dependable. So very miserable.
Shaking herself out of her future, she walked up the cracked walkway to her new home. It was a testament to her mental state that she had allowed Zoey to talk her into renting this house sight unseen. She could only imagine what the house looked like in the dark with its turrets and wrought iron. Yet there was a grand desolation to the place that she instantly loved—a great Miss Havisham of a house. All it needed was some “speckle-legged spiders with blotchy bodies” around a wedding cake.
Knowing that their unit was the one on the top floor, Emily wearily hoisted her bag over her shoulder, entered the house, and made the first of what she guessed to be many slogs up the steep staircase. Zoey had explained the house in such painstaking detail that Emily felt she knew what lay on the other side of the door. Her fingers twitched while handling the keys, and she imagined the dining room’s original wainscoting, the large, sunny kitchen, the back garden, and the much raved about conservatory on the third floor.
When she entered the apartment, she knew Zoey had been right. A large window seat would be perfect in the front room—because it would block the gutted holes in the wall. The sunlight was indeed lovely and swirled in through the trees, all the better to bathe the exposed joist planks on the floor in rainbows of light. And the ceilings were high, but she was sure she was probably looking at the underside of the floor above her.
Zoey and Margot shouted to her from what turned out to be the kitchen that she eventually reached after running the gauntlet of ladders, toolboxes, PVC pipe, and several men in white overalls who sat on the floor drinking coffee. There she found her roommates unloading boxes that rested on the top of a newly-installed island in the middle of the room. Its presence was a blessing given that Emily could see no other visible horizontal surface to eat upon in the place.
Zoey beamed, white dust covering her UC Banana Slug sweatshirt, her hair held back like an old Russian woman’s in a patchwork kerchief. “So you like it? Was I right about the light? And no more art in the bathroom, although there isn’t much of a bathroom yet. But Sid—he’s around here somewhere—said he’d have the toilet working by this afternoon, and the shower works if you force the hot water on all the way first.”
“Or say a novena to St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes,” added Margot, whose black leggings and sweater were approaching mottled from all the dust. “Speaking of which, in ten minutes I’ll be laying out my shrine over the fireplace. You presence is requested. New apartment, new shrine. I’m adding my Joan of Arc action figure to this one—she comes with her own matches.” She waggled her eyebrows in anticipatory delight.
Emily smiled, left her friends behind, and wandered down the hall. Old gas sconces lined the walls; she let her fingers trail along the rough plaster as she passed several rooms which already housed her friends’ moving boxes. A door at the far end was closed. Her bedroom, she supposed. If not, she was going to claim it. The room was set off from the others, and the thought of such privacy made her lightheaded.
The door opened softly. A blush of light fell over the hardwood floor from a large sun-spattered arched window. One wall was nothing but floor-to-ceiling bookcases while the other held an old desk with wrought iron legs and a flip top of some dark wood. She stepped toward it and ran her fingers along the top, finding the old-fashioned inkwell. She peeked into the closet and nearly sighed. It was huge. No more plastic bins filled with Myra’s treasures, no more rope tied up between windows to hang clothes on.
In spite of the sun, the air in the room was chilly, and she approached the radiator in hopes that it was one of the things in the apartment still functioning. Funny, it felt warm. After she turned the nozzle all the way, she pulled her cardigan across her tank top and, in hushed silence, took one last loving look at the room before shutting the door behind her.
“Zoey!” she yelled. She found her on a ladder measuring a beam between the kitchen and the dining room.
Margot looked up from sorting her holy cards.
“There’s furniture in my bedroom,” Emily said, helping Zoey down. “Do we need to return it?”
“Don’t worry about that. It’s probably Neil’s, the guy who owns the house. He said he’d leave a few things to make us comfortable. Texted me last night and said he’d drop by to say hello. Really nice guy, you’ll love him. A little old for me, but Christian says he’s cool.”
“Christian? Christian knows him?”
“They’re both in the music business.”
Emily wanted to inquire further but knew it would bring up a conversation she had avoided up to this point. But apparently Zoey was still talking with Christian. Christian lived with Andrew. The dots were easy to connect.
“Are you two going to stand there,” Margot asked, “or are you going to help me sort out the Fourteen Holy Helpers for my shrine? I think I’m missing St. Margaret of Antioch, virgin and martyr. Must have left her at work.”
By midweek, the women had settled in as much as possible, given the chaotic nature of the place. Do-it-yourself tables were created so Margot could grade papers, the small fourth bedroom had been transformed into Zoey’s studio, and Emily attempted to study, unpack, and convince herself she couldn’t possibly have a broken heart.
And even more, she tried to tell herself that she had gratefully escaped the clutches of a lunatic who had, according to her roommates, bounded off the stage after her as if he hadn’t shouted at her enough. But Emily could tell that while they bought the story that her allergic reaction to peanuts forced her to flee the club, they weren’t sold on his reaction. They might believe that his aberrant behavior had hastened her departure, but they questioned her protests that she knew nothing about him. Thankfully, though, they didn’t pry further.
On Thursday morning coffee was successfully brewed, a minor miracle given the bleak prospect of finding a working outlet and a plumbed faucet in the house. Emily wandered into the kitchen in her pajamas and grunted her thanks to Margot, who was still in a robe at the kitchen island hunkered over the Times’ crossword puzzle. Zoey was chatting up someone in the dining room, from the sounds of it.
“No one should be that happy before the day is warm,” Margot mumbled. “I need a three letter word for lecher.”
On cue, a stout man in white overalls appeared in the entrance to the kitchen.
“Ah, Sid,” murmured Margot, filling in her puzzle. “Sid, say hello to Emily.”
“Hello, Sid.” Emily was greeted with an electric leer. “You’re the foreman here, right?”
“Yep, and me and the men were just helping Zoey move some things. Gotta say, it’s the first time I’ve ever lugged a six-foot paper-mache penis up a flight of stairs.”
“Really? Well, thank you.” Emily shot her roommate a look as if to say, where the hell is it now? but Margot just scratched in another entry and yawned.
“Don’t mention it. Anything you need help with, just give a holler. If we’re not here, we’ll be downstairs most days, working on that place. You three beautiful girls shouldn’t be lifting this heavy stuff. You’ll pull a muscle somewhere.” By the tone of his voice, Emily didn’t know whether Sid wanted to be her father or her boyfriend, but she didn’t care for either. And she wasn’t thrilled with the fact that his gaze had drifted down to her breasts. “Just stop on down anytime. Especially if you get spooked. Not that I’m saying that you’re gonna, but it’s bound to happen sooner or later. Things seem to be getting worse lately.”
“Spooked about what?” Emily asked, confused by his odd choice of words.
“It’s just that, you know, things here get kind of creepy sometimes. Weird sounds and all, like from the attic. They
say it gets worse at night, not that I can keep anybody here past five, anyways, but don’t let it bother you. It’s not like anybody’s seen anything.”
“What do you mean ‘seen anything’?”
“Aw, nothing. The crew hears stuff, voices, sometimes crying. But I told ’em it’s probably just Nick and Nora. It ain’t like we need to call a priest or something. But the stuff on your mantle couldn’t hurt.”
“Nick and Nora. Is that who lives downstairs?” Margot asked, her crossword puzzle discarded by her coffee cup. “Are they sane?”
“Sane? Well, I’d say that’s kind of up for grabs. It’s not good to speak ill of those that have, you know—”
A knock at the door interrupted them. By the time they arrived in the living room they only found Zoey, vivid in her chartreuse yoga pants and Zombie Survival Squad T-shirt. She was greeting a handsome man who stood in the entrance way. He held a basket of what appeared to be muffins and scones and proceeded to hand it to her with a smile.
“Welcome.” His accent caught hold of Emily’s heart.
“Oh, wow, Neil, thank you. Come on in! Hey guys!” Zoey turned. “Oh, there you are,” she said, surprised by their close proximity. “Neil’s here!” She announced this like he stopped in every morning for tea.
He smiled back at her exuberance. Introductions were made all around, with Sid bowing out, clearly uncomfortable around the house’s owner for some reason. Emily noticed that Neil’s gaze returned to her repeatedly as he explained to them about walls in the dining room that needed to be opened up and the planned alterations to the bathroom and kitchen.
Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story Page 7
