Days Like This (7 page)

Besides, something about Danny
Fiore had provoked him, had brought out a perverse side of his nature he hadn’t
known was there.  He’d liked seeing the guy sweat.  Now the ball was in Fiore’s
court.  It would be interesting to see how long it would take him to volley it
back.

Thirteen-and-a-half hours later,
he got his answer when his mother yelled up the stairs, “Robbie!  Somebody here
to see you!”  He came loping down the staircase and found Danny Fiore standing
in his mother’s kitchen.  Rob glanced at the wall clock, silently counted the
hours, and nodded.  Not bad.  Not bad at all. 

“MacKenzie,” Fiore said, by way
of greeting.

“Fiore,” he said.

Without another word, Fiore
tilted his head in the direction of the rusty and dented ‘64 Bel Air parked at
the curb, and Rob followed him outside.

Inside the car, Danny Fiore
handed him a twelve-ounce Bud from the six-pack on the floor, took one for
himself, and lit a cigarette.  He drew the smoke in deeply, exhaled it in a
blue cloud, and flicked an ash out the window.  They popped open their bottles and
sat in a comfortable silence, sipping beer and scoping out each other’s vibes. 

“Okay, kid,” Fiore finally said, “here’s
the deal.  Because I’m the front man, my name goes on the band.  I bring my
bass player, and you find us a drummer that knows his ass from his elbow.  We
split the money four ways, except that I get an extra ten percent, because it’s
my name and my band.”

Rob took a long, slow pull on his
beer, slithered down onto his tailbone and propped his size-eleven sneakers on
the dashboard of Fiore’s beat-up Chevy.  And said, “Your name goes on the band,
because we’d be fools to do it any other way.  You can bring your bass player,
and I already found us a drummer.  We split the money four ways, and you don’t
get any extra, because I’m as good at playing guitar as you are at singing, and
you don’t intimidate me one iota.  You and I will be equal partners in
everything, because it’s
our
band.  We play the covers the audience
wants to hear, but we also play some of my original stuff, because covers won’t
break us out of the bar band ghetto.  And if you call me kid, or junior, one
more time, I’ll put my foot up your ass so far you’ll need dental work.”

“Anybody ever tell you that you
have brass balls, MacKenzie?”

“Right back atcha, Fiore.”

Danny Fiore exhaled a cloud of
smoke and said, “You must be some kind of wizard to play like that.  I think I’ll
call you Wiz.  How long you been playing?”

“Ten years.  Five on the
electric.”

“Christ, how frigging old are
you?  You look like you’re still in high school.  You’re a long drink of water,
but you’re scrawny as a wharf rat.”

“Nineteen.  Just finished my
second year at Berklee.”

“Berklee,” Fiore said.  “That
explains a little.  Tell me, can you sing?”

“Not like you, that’s for sure. 
But, yeah, I can sing.”

“Nobody sings like me,
MacKenzie.  But you can do harmonies?”

“A real humble guy, I see.  And
yes, I can do harmonies.”

“If you’re looking for humble,
you’re barking up the wrong tree.  What else can you do?”

“A little piano.  A little
composition, a little arranging, a little transcription.”

“God bless Berklee!  I think this
just might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“What about you, Fiore?  What
else can you do?”

“Piano.  Years and years of
lessons.  A little guitar.  Self-taught.  Nothing like what you can do—Jesus
Christ, I’ve never met anybody who could do what you can do—but I can pinch-hit
on rhythm if I have to.  What are you playing?”

“A third-hand Fender Strat with
an ancient Marshall amp that I picked up cheap a couple of years back. 
Temperamental bitch.  Sometimes she works, sometimes she doesn’t.”

Fiore took a sip of beer and
ruminated for a while before saying,  “We’ll have to get you some better
equipment.  And maybe some decent clothes.  Because, my friend, we are serious
musicians, and we are going to go far together.”

Rob raised his beer bottle and
said, “I’ll drink to that.”  They clinked bottles together, sealing a
partnership that would, indeed, take them far.  It would take them to places
neither of them could have ever anticipated, and it would cement their standing
in the pantheon of rock-and-roll history.

“What you did last night,” Fiore
said, and took a drag on his cigarette, “that was really ballsy.”

He crossed his ankles up there on
the dash and said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Fiore, but as soon as that
first note left your throat, I saw my future in your eyes.”

“That’s okay, MacKenzie, because
I’m pretty sure I saw God when you played that first guitar riff.”  Fiore
snickered.  “You should have seen the look on Dave’s face when you picked up
his guitar and started wailing on it.  I thought he’d cry.  It was a beautiful
moment.”  He drew on his cigarette, exhaled.  “So who’s this drummer?”

“Guy named Jake Edwards.  Used to
go to Berklee with me.”

“So you called him, and he said
yes, just like that?”

“I called him at six-thirty this
morning and dragged him out of bed.  His wife was royally pissed.  He didn’t
say yes until I told him who I’d lined up to be the lead singer in my new band.”

Fiore raised both eyebrows and
said, “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you, MacKenzie?”

“Nope.  Pretty sure of you,
though.”

Fiore studied him at length, then
said, “You really are nervy for a wharf rat.”

“Thank you.”

“And now, my audacious friend, we
have to find a place to rehearse.  I strongly suspect that Dave won’t let me
use his garage any more.”  Fiore tossed his cigarette out the window, into the
street.  “Especially since I fired him and Eddie five minutes after I found out
your name.”

“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t
you, Fiore?”

Fiore grinned and said,  “Nope. 
Pretty sure of you, though.”

“We can rehearse here.  My folks
will be cool with it.  They’ve been putting up with my music for years.  They
figure it keeps me off the streets and out of jail.  We have a big family room
downstairs.  With a piano.”

“I think this is a marriage made
in heaven, MacKenzie.  You suppose we should at least ask first?”

He grinned, said, “Details,
details.”  Set down his empty beer bottle, opened the car door, swung his long
legs down off the dash, and said, “Come on in.  Let’s get this party started.”

She would have gotten hopelessly
lost trying to find the address, but Rob navigated the streets of South Boston
with the familiarity of a native.  While he drove, she read house numbers.  “Right
here,” she said when they reached number 36.  “The blue one.”  He slowed,
craned his neck to get a better look, then found a parking space two houses
down and wheeled the Explorer into it as though he’d been parallel-parking
behemoth four-wheel-drive vehicles all his life.  He turned off the ignition,
and they looked at each other in silence before opening doors, exiting the car,
and meeting on the sidewalk.  She stepped into his arms, and they held each
other, warmth to warmth, giving and receiving strength to deal with whatever
lay ahead.

He let out a ragged breath.  “Looks
like this is it.”

She touched her palm to his
cheek.  “Are you ready?”

“I don’t think that’s possible. 
We just move straight ahead, ready or not.”

“This is a good thing,
MacKenzie.  A moment of great significance.”

He kissed her palm.  “Just be
there to catch me in case I pass out.”

She heard a car door slam, then
footsteps approached, and they stepped apart and turned to look at the man who
had just crossed the street.  He was about their age, dressed in a gray suit,
and he carried a briefcase.  “Mr. MacKenzie?” he said.  “Greg Atkinson.”

Rob shook his hand, then said, “My
wife, Casey.”

“Mrs. MacKenzie.”  Atkinson shook
her hand.  “I hope your trip was pleasant.”

“It was.  It’s a lovely day for a
drive.”

“Before we go up,” he said,
getting right down to business, “I want to make sure you’re both fully on board
with this.  It’s not something you can undo, and you’re both looking a little
shell-shocked right now.  She is your responsibility, Mr. MacKenzie, but nobody’s
forcing you to take physical custody of the girl.”

“We are absolutely both on board
with this,” Casey said.  She took Rob’s hand, threaded fingers with him.  His
hand was damp, and overly warm.  And a little shaky.  “One hundred percent.  Of
course we’re taking custody of her.”

Atkinson studied her face,
nodded, and turned to Rob.  “She’s my daughter,” Rob said, and squeezed Casey’s
hand.  “She’ll be going home with us.”

“Good!”  Atkinson turned and they
began walking toward the blue house.  “Paige seems to be a pretty resilient kid. 
She’s been through a tough time, but she appears to be weathering it as well as
any kid could.  This all happened very quickly.  Sandy was only sick for a
couple of months.  In hindsight, that was probably a blessing for both of
them.  It could have been so much worse if she’d lingered for months, but her
illness was mercifully brief.  On the other hand, it happened so quickly I’m
not sure Paige has had time to absorb the significance of it. You may want to
handle her with kid gloves for a while.”  They reached the house, and he turned
to Rob.  “You talked to her last night?”

“I did.  It was a pretty brief
conversation.  And a little awkward.  I didn’t know what to say, and neither did
she.”

“Just guessing, I’d say you
should expect that awkwardness to continue, at least for a while.  Yes, you’re
her father, but she doesn’t know you, and you’re taking her away from
everything and everyone she’s ever known.”

They stood for a moment, staring
up at the faded triple-decker, with its peeling paint and sagging porches.  “Second
floor,” Atkinson said, and they began to climb the worn wooden stairs.

“Do you have any idea,” Rob said,
“what Sandy told her about me?  How long she’s known I’m her father?”

“I don’t.  But considering that
she has your last name, I have to assume they addressed the issue at some point. 
I don’t know too many kids who’d reach the age of fifteen without asking why
their last name is different from their mother’s.  Or, for that matter, without
asking who their father is.  But I have no idea how forthcoming Sandy may have
been.” 

They reached the second-floor
porch and stopped at a battered wooden door.  A half-dozen banana boxes were
stacked next to it, beside two large suitcases.  The boxes were neatly labeled
in thick black marker.  BOOKS/VIDEOS.  STEREO EQUIPMENT.  MISCELLANEOUS. 
PRIVATE!  RECORDS.  LEROY. 

Leroy?
  Casey exchanged
glances with Rob, raised her eyebrows, and he shrugged.  A purple ten-speed
bicycle leaned up against the peeling paint, next to a battered guitar case. 
Atkinson knocked on the door, and a small dog began yapping.

The door was opened by a fortyish
woman with a tired face and worried eyes.  “Good morning!” the attorney said,
stepping into the entryway.  “Lorraine Harriman, this is Casey and Rob
MacKenzie.”  The woman nodded but didn’t offer her hand. 

Rob said, “Hey,” and moved past
her into the house.  Casey gave the woman a brief smile and followed him
inside.  The dog, some kind of miniature mixed breed, danced and darted and
sniffed around their feet in an enthusiastic attempt to determine whether they
were friend or foe.

The entryway opened directly into
the living room.  To her left, through an open doorway, Casey caught a glimpse
of an avocado-green refrigerator.  In the living room, a boy of about eight and
a teenage girl were sitting together on the couch, watching MTV.  The girl
glanced up at them, whispered something to the boy, and stood, unfolding her
body until she reached her full height.  She had to be at least five-six,
because she towered over Casey’s five-foot frame like Gulliver in the land of
the Lilliputians.  Lost in the voluminous folds of a man’s button-down shirt
worn with slender jeans and high-top sneakers with lime green laces, the girl sported
multiple earrings that dangled in a noisy cluster.  She’d gone a little
heavy-handed with the make-up:  bright red lipstick, rosy cheeks, too much eye
liner.

Casey stared at her, stunned by her
resemblance to Rob.  Paige was built just like her father, tall and lanky, with
long arms and legs and big feet.  Whippet-thin, just like he’d been at twenty. 
She had his eyes, his strong jaw line, his thick, curly blond hair, except that
his stopped at his shoulders, and hers tumbled in a wild cascade down the
center of her back.

Atkinson took the girl by the
hand and drew her forward.  “Paige,” he said, “I’d like you to meet your father
and your stepmother, Rob and Casey MacKenzie.”

The girl squared her jaw. 
Glanced at Casey, then at Rob.  “Hi,” she said.

Casey returned her greeting, but
Rob remained silent.  She glanced over at him, concerned for an instant, until
he reached out a hand toward his daughter.  The girl hesitated, then shrugged
and reached out her own hand.  He took it in his and held it while they studied
each other.

A tear rolled down his cheek.  He
cleared his throat.  “Is there some place we can talk in private?”

“The kitchen,” Lorraine Harriman
said.  “Right through that doorway.”

He shepherded his daughter into
the kitchen, leaving the rest of them standing awkwardly in the living room. 
Over the sound of the television, Casey could hear the soft murmur of his
voice, but couldn’t tell what he was saying to the girl.  “Sandy and I were
friends,” Lorraine Harriman said.  “I’ve watched Paige grow up.  I’d figure out
a way to keep her if I could.  But Sandy was determined that Paige would go to
her father.”  Lorraine’s mouth thinned.  “I’m still not sure it was the right
decision.”