Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (10 page)

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, standing 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.”