Cool Shade (10 page)

She's Electric

In love.

Maddie had been working at the radio station four days and she was in love.

With somebody she'd never even seen. With a voice that came to her out of the darkness, out of the night.

Her midnight caller.

It could be argued that she'd thought she was in love before, with Eddie Berlin, but now experience and time told her that had been mere infatuation. This was the real thing. This was mature, adult love.

The first time her mystery man had called he’d insisted on talking to her off-air. "I don't want to talk to middle America," he'd told her. "I want to talk to you."

That had been all the persuasion she needed to keep him on the private line. Since then, he’d called every night. And every night they’d talked. Just talked. About books and movies and music. About places they would like to see, other countries they would like to visit. She’d put him on hold while she introduced new songs, then she’d get back on the line as quickly as possible.

Now, her fourth night in front of the radio station control panel, Maddie slipped in a CD. "Here's something kinda slow, kinda sad." She pushed the play button.

Being a nighttime deejay was weird. Most of the time, it didn't seem real. It didn't seem much different than when she was eight, playing radio with a bunch of transistors she'd found in the trash. It was hard enough trying to visualize an invisible audience in the daytime, but when you were broadcasting at three a.m., it was almost impossible to imagine that there was anybody out there listening. And the people who were out there…well, you had to wonder about them.

Actually, when she thought about it, she decided you couldn't get much more real than that. Just muddling through, wondering if anybody was receiving.

The phone light blinked. She checked the wall clock. Midnight.

You're setting yourself up for a fall
, she warned herself. He probably had three wives, twenty kids, was on welfare, and wore a toupee that didn't match the rest of his hair.

She jumped on the phone. "Midnight Mary," she said huskily. "Voice of the night." After all, falling was another one of the things she was good at. That and leaving.

It was him. She could tell by the static on the line. He used one of those old portable phones, the kind that distorted your voice, that made it sound like you were talking through a tin can. But then it wasn't his voice that turned her on, it was what he said. His words. For maybe the first time in her life, she'd found somebody she could actually talk to.

"Are you lonely?"

The question caught her off guard. But that's how it was with him. He seemed to be able to read her mind.

"Mary? You there?"

"Yeah." She adjusted her headset, double-checking to make sure they were off-air. "Are you outside?" she asked. "I hear something that sounds like crickets. And maybe cicadas."

"I like it outside. In the open. I can breathe better when I can see the sky, see the stars. But you didn't answer my question."

Lonely. Was she lonely? She thought about it. Thought about her days, and her nights. She had Hemingway, sure, but as much as she loved him, he wasn't a great conversationalist. They didn't sit around hashing out their feelings. "Yes," she admitted softly, fearing she would regret her admission.
But I'm not as lonely as I used to be. Now that I know you're out there somewhere.

She would have gagged if she'd overheard someone saying such a thing. She didn't care. Didn't care! "What about you? Are you lonely?" This was the time he would tell her about his three wives.

"Aren't we all."

So simple. So honest. "You sound sad tonight. Are you sad?" She didn't want him to be sad.

He let out a sigh she felt all the way to her toes.

"Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night—" He stopped, as if embarrassed to go on. "Forget it."

"No. Tell me."

She had to know. Everything. All of his secrets, no matter how dark, how painful. That's what love was about. Knowing someone. Inside and out.

A hesitation. Then, "Do you ever wake up with this black feeling inside you? This emptiness, deep in your gut?"

The Big Empty. He was talking about The Big Empty. "Like you suddenly realize you've taken a wrong turn in life," she said. "A major wrong turn, but there's nothing you can do about it? No way you can fix it?"

"Exactly. You have a feeling there's another dimension where you could be living, if only you'd done things differently."

"Yes." How could he know so exactly what she felt?

"You know what makes me sad?" he said.

She'd wanted to know everything about him, but could she take more of his sorrow now?

"Music."

"Music? But music is… life." He was going to burst her bubble.

"It isn't real."

"How can you say that? Of course it's real." They were arguing. Disagreeing. Her heart was breaking, but she had to speak her mind. You couldn't have a mature relationship if you kept your true feelings to yourself.

"That song you're playing right now—it's not real."

Blasphemy! She had tried to warn herself that this was too good to be true, he was too good to be true. "You mean because music is something we hear? Because it can't be seen, can't be held?" Please tell me that's what you mean.

"There are no mistakes anymore. There should be mistakes."

He'd lost her. "Are we talking about the same thing?"

"Do you know that when a song's being recorded and the vocalist makes a mistake, it's corrected by computer? A damn computer. That sucks, don't you think? If the singer hits a wrong note, it's fixed."

"No, that can't be."

"It's true. Music should be perfections and imperfections. Take Harold Rollins doing that song, 'Back from the Edge.' He hits the wrong note more than once. That's what makes it so great. After a while, you find yourself waiting for that wrong note, you want to hear that wrong note, that subtle variance in pitch. People aren't machines. They make mistakes. They hit wrong notes."

"Are you okay? Has something happened?"

He let out a hollow laugh. "Life. Life happened."

He needed somebody. And she didn't even know his name, know where to find him. "Tell me where you are."

At first he didn't answer. She was afraid he was going to hang up, but then he said, "Mary, what would I do without you?"

The phone crackled. She wished she could make out the tone of his voice, wished she could read him better. Something was wrong.

"Mary, I love you."

She had a suspicious thought. "Have you been drinking?"

"A little." He quickly sidestepped the topic. "Mary, what are you wearing?"

She wasn't going to fall for his attempt at a distraction. "How much is a little?"

"How about some phone sex?"

Phone sex?

Tell me what you're wearing."

"A mumu."

"What the hell's that?"

"A dress. A kind of tentlike, baggy dress."

"I don't believe you."

"Were you looking for something in black leather? Or how about a fast food uniform?"

"Depends on what color."

"Orange. Orange and brown."

"Now you're getting me horny."

He sounded more like his old self.

“What are
you
wearing?"

"Nothing." Cicadas. Crickets. Static.

She swallowed. "You're outside, without a stitch on?"

"It could happen."

"Mosquitoes happen, too."

He laughed.

"Mary?"

"Mmm?"

"The song's over."
Click.

The World I Know

Eddie had been thinking too much lately. Way too much. About something he tried for years to forget.

Music.

His old life.

It was weird to think that Rick had been shot because of the lyrics in a song. Because of words, written in solitude, but sent out on the airwaves to millions of people.

A song that some nut case had said spoke to him, told him to kill Rick Beck. On the night of Rick's last performance, the music had been so loud that nobody even heard the shot. Eddie had seen Rick falter, then go down.

Rick was always goofing around, and at first Eddie thought that's all that was going on. But then he saw the blood.

Eddie was the one who'd ended up cradling his friend, holding him while he bled.

Later, someone had come forward and confessed. Somebody who'd wanted to be a star, wanted attention, like Hinckley killing Lennon.

"Cool Shade."

Rick was to have performed it that day for the first time.

After the funeral, Eddie had taken the notebook containing the lyrics and burned it. At the time, he’d forgotten about the demo tape they'd made.

He wanted to hear it.

After all these years, he was ready.

But when he opened the cabinet where he'd stashed it in another life, all he found was a bunch of dust and a few dead bugs.

The tape was gone.

Maddie.

Maddie Smith, of the big eyes and white skin.

She'd ripped him off.

~0~

Holding the tweezers between her fingers, Maddie pulled out the last stitch from her arm. Good as new. Why pay somebody with money she didn't have when she could do it herself?

She was putting away the alcohol when someone knocked on the front door.

Maddie answered it to find Evelyn standing on the porch, cigarette in hand, eyes squinted against the smoke.

"This is the third time I've been here," she said in that disapproving landlady tone of voice that Maddie had become so familiar with over the years.

"Sorry."

Maddie rubbed her head. Was she going to be forever running from these people? When she was eighty years old, was she still going to be playing dodge the landlord?

"You're going to have to get out or start paying rent."

"I won't get a paycheck for two weeks."

Evelyn thought that over. "I need some help around my place. If you're willing to work, I'll take it off your rent."

Maddie wasn't actually willing. She'd been up all night and had been looking forward to a long day in bed. But she guessed she could sleep tonight. She didn't have anything else planned for her first night off.

She helped Evelyn. And in the process, she learned a new trade. Carpeting sidewalks. Yessir. It turned out, Evelyn wanted all of her sidewalks carpeted with red indoor-outdoor carpeting. Maddie admitted that it would be a lovely addition to the woman's lawn decor.

And so Maddie spent the day gluing and cutting, cutting and gluing, just another bent-over butt among many. And when she was finished, her back aching, her lungs raw from ingesting toxic fumes, she stood and surveyed her work.

It was undoubtedly the tackiest damn mess she'd ever seen.

Back at the homestead, she poured some dry cat food for Hemingway, fixed herself a peanut-butter sandwich, took a shower, and fell into bed

Eddie eyed the dirt bike.

It was in pretty decent shape, considering that it hadn't seen daylight, or even moonlight, for several years.

It wasn't a road bike. Nothing street-legal about it. No taillights. No fenders. No plates.

What difference did it make? He didn't even have a license anymore, anyway.

In his high-school days, he'd ridden the back roads, following the dirt levees all the way to town. Now he regarded the bike with a combination of satisfaction and fear, the fear outweighing the satisfaction. The tank had been bone dry, so he'd siphoned gas from his abandoned Chevy. Years ago, he'd been fairly adept at siphoning gas.

Another lost skill. He could still taste gasoline when he inhaled.

Under the glow cast by the barn light, he grabbed the handgrips and straddled the bike, giving it a couple of test bounces. Then he pushed down on the starter, following through with his heel.

The 350 engine made a couple of loud, deep pops, then was silent. He tried again. By the fourth kick, it turned over. He revved the engine, waiting for it to smooth out, remembering how he used to love the bike's rumble, love the smell of burning oil and exhaust.

Eddie followed the creek, then cut through the two-mile-long cornfield that bordered his land. When he reached the end of the levee that ran along the field, he flicked his wrist and gunned the engine.

The bike surged forward, climbing the dirt wall. For a fraction of a second, he was airborne. He shifted his weight, at the same time disengaging the clutch and squeezing the brake levers. He landed on top of the levee, both wheels making contact with jarring force. Dust swirled as he stood, booted feet on the ground on either side of the hot, rumbling bike.

Cicadas sang. The dew was heavy, dampening his forearms. He heard something splash in the nearby water—a muskrat or fish. In the single headlight beam, a moth did aeronautics. In the distance, he could see cornfields that went on for miles.

Then he realized how fast his heart was beating. His palms, against the cracked rubber grips, were sweating.

He wasn't ready for this.

He'd never be ready for this.

Fields on either side. Water in the middle. A narrow dirt road that led all the way to town.

Turn around.

Go back.

He toed the gearshift lever down to first, opened up the throttle, and let out the clutch. The back tire spun, then grabbed.

~0~

Dreaming.

Maddie couldn't even escape in her sleep.

Cut the strip of carpet with the X-Acto knife, then go for the glue.

The smell. It was embedded in her sinuses. Except for now it was beginning to smell more like gasoline than glue. More like a hot engine than mildewed carpet.

But then, that's the way it was in a dream. Things could change.

One minute Evelyn was yakking about another yard ornament she wanted to buy, then her voice became deep, as deep as a man's.

What a deep voice you have, Evelyn.

"Maddie."

Eddie. What was Eddie Berlin doing in her dream? Was he lost?

Aren't we all?

Maybe he would help her finish the carpet. She had a lot more to do. Evelyn had decided she wanted to cover every street in town. That way the cars could roll along on a soft cushion.

Why hadn't anybody thought of that before? What a great idea. Evelyn was a genius. A genius in polyester pants.

"Maddie."

There was that smell again. Of gasoline, and hot engine, and outdoors.

"Maddie, wake up."

Maybe this wasn't a dream.

She opened her eyes. She blinked into the darkness. Just inches from her face, she made out a shape.

She let out a gasp, and a hand clamped over her mouth.

"Don't scream," he whispered, looming over her. "You aren't going to scream, are you?"

She shook her head. Slowly, Eddie took his hand away.

"Something tells me you aren't here to help lay carpet," Maddie said.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

She thought about how logical carpeting the streets had seemed just a moment ago. "Never mind." And then she realized how illogical it was for Eddie to be in her house. "What are you doing here? How did you know where I lived?"

"A mutual acquaintance."

She didn't have all that many acquaintances in Chester. "Al?"

"Yep."

He still hadn't told her what he was doing there. Sex? Had he come for sex? Had he been thinking of her constantly? Dreaming about her, unable to get her out of his mind?

"You have something of mine."

So much for her pipedream. Not that she would have slept with him. She was never, never doing that again. She'd learned her lesson. She knew how easily she could fall under his spell. That knowledge was enough to prepare her in case he tried any more of his voodoo.

"I want it back."

"What back?" She tried to remember if she'd worn any of his clothes home after the fiasco last week.

"The tape, Maddie. I want the tape."

"Tape?" What was he talking about?

"I went to get the tape and it was gone. Of course you'd know all about that."

"You're accusing me of stealing?" She was wide awake now.

"I want it, Maddie. Where is it?"

Nobody accused Maddie Smith of theft. Unlike her sister Enid, Maddie had never lifted as much as a penny in her life. With both hands, she shoved at his chest. "Get out of here!"

He didn't budge. "Not until you give me the tape."

"I don't have any tape."

"Did you sell it already?"

He was mad. There was no mystery as to where the gasoline smell was coming from. "Have you been drinking unleaded?" she asked, trying to distract him.

He cursed under his breath. "Tell me you didn't sell the tape." He moved away. Where's a damn light in this place?" He knocked against the bedside lamp, fumbled, then clicked it on.

They both blinked against the brightness.

Dark hair fell across a pale forehead. His eyes were intense, his lips outlined by the roughness of a day-old beard. A week ago, she would have gone all mushy over him. But now, because of her midnight caller, she had resolve.

He sat beside her on the bed and grabbed her by both arms. "Where’s my tape? I know you took it."

His eyes bore into hers, dark, haunted, needing to know the truth.

"I don't have your tape," she said clearly, truthfully, hoping he would see that she meant it. "I didn't take it."

He stared at her a long moment, let her go, and got to his feet.

She rubbed her arms, where his hands had been. "I don't like being accused of theft."

He stood there, staring into the distance, as if lost in thought.

"Did you hear me? I don't like to be accused of theft."

Her words pulled him back to the present, to the bedroom, gaudily decorated in black and pink satin.

"Yeah, well. We've all got our badge of shit to wear."

Whatever those words of wisdom meant.

He left.

Just like that.

She watched him go, watched him leave the room. Listened to his footfalls on the steps. Heard the front door open.

Waited for it to close.

Didn't happen.

The clock by the bed read almost twelve. Would her midnight caller be phoning the station? Would he be disappointed to know she wasn't there?

She got out of bed and went downstairs to find Eddie standing in the open doorway, his back to her.

"I thought you were leaving."

"You know, I'd really like to do that. Making a good exit has always been a priority of mine."

"So do it."

"Can't."

She couldn't see his face, but his voice sounded odd, kind of strained.

"Just walk away. You guys are good at that."

He let out an odd laugh, as if distracted, as if he couldn't fully concentrate on what she was saying. And now she noticed his hands, locked to the doorframe in a death grip, his knuckles white, his arms trembling.

"Eddie?"

"Don't look at me."

But she couldn't look away.

She watched as he tried to take a step, as he tried to make himself move. It seemed as if an invisible force held him frozen in place. Like someone poised in the open door of a skydiving plane trying to come up with the courage to jump, he finally acknowledged defeat and collapsed on the floor, back to the wall, face in his hands.

His breathing was labored, his white T-shirt soaked with perspiration. She put a hand to his trembling arm.

"Now you know," he mumbled into his hands.

"Know what?"

"I'm afraid."

"Afraid? Of what?"

"Things."

She slowly closed the door. "What kind of things?"

"Out there kind of things."

No wonder he hadn't left his home in four years.

He couldn't.

"You're agoraphobic?"

She tried to put everything together, knowing that it made sense, yet she found herself unable to absorb it completely. It was too new. Too sudden.

He straightened, leaning his head against the wall, eyes closed. Light from upstairs cast shadows on his face, his chest. "It started out as fear of crowds," he said, not opening his eyes. "But then it grew into more. I never know what will trigger it."