Louder Than Love (5 page)

Man of the Hour

“Abbster, pick up the pace! We
gotta
go.”

“I don’t want to go to the liberry today, Mommy.”

Normally, I would gently and patiently remind her that, while there were many fruits in the world, “liberry” was not one of them. But there was no time for a grammar lesson today. “Well, you don’t have a choice. Mommy has to be there today, so come on.” I did the hop-shuffle dance into my sandals as I began the search for my keys.

It was the day of the program, and of course we were beyond late. I pictured poor Adrian Graves (which wasn’t easy to do—again, having never seen him) waiting at the train station for his ride to the library. He was supposed to call before his stop, but hadn’t yet, so perhaps we would still have time to drop the CDs and instruments for the kids at the library before running to fetch him.

“But
Mom
.” Abbey stretched the latter word out to three syllables. “
Maxwell MacGillikitty
is on! I wanna stay here!” I threw her sandals down beside her just as I spied my keys on top of the TV. I must’ve tossed them there when I turned it on to occupy Abbey while I dressed.

I hadn’t anticipated the closet crisis until I pulled open the door that morning. What to wear? It was worse than I had feared. My B.C. (Before Child) working-girl wardrobe looked dated and sad. There was a ball gown, a barn jacket, and barely anything suitable in between. I had finally pulled on a dark denim pencil skirt and a cute wrap-blouse in plum I had picked up at Barneys on sale at the end of last summer. Sort of hmmm . . . sexy secretary, I now observed, tilting my head to inspect my reflection in the mirror and smoothing back my curls. As I raced to grab Abbey a clean dress from her room, I sent up thanks to the gods above that I had bothered to shave my legs that morning.

“Here. Put this on.
Now.
The TV is going off.” Abbey shot me the juvenile version of a murderous look, eyes squinting and her head quivering. “It can go back into the closet, you know,” I offered. She quickly hopped up and pulled the sundress over her head.

On September 10, 2001, I was still in a solitary state of mourning. By the next morning, the entire country had joined me. My world became that much more shocked and saddened. Like everyone else, I sat glued to the TV as it all came crashing down, over and over on a continuous film loop. I cried for all humanity, for Abbey’s future, and, as ever, for Pete. I wondered what he would have thought had he lived to see what was happening in our former backyard: as a father, as a New Yorker, as a reporter, as an American, as a human being. On September 12, I unplugged the TV and pushed it into the closet, where it stayed for several months. I didn’t need a twenty-four-hour network enabler to feed my sorrow. I canceled the cable and paid my respects by reading the Portraits of Grief via the
New York Times
website every morning until the last piece ran on New Year’s Eve. Later that day, we bundled up and headed to Marissa’s for a sleepover to ring in 2002. It was there, over monkey bread and morning cartoons, that my daughter’s love for
Maxwell MacGillikitty, Feline Private Eye
was born.

Maxwell was a plucky little Maine coon cat who consistently found himself tiptoeing around one mystery or another in his tiny English fishing village of Mousehole. Luckily, with the aid of an unlikely sidekick in the form of a duck named Mr. Quackson, he was always able to wrap up the muddles within a thirty-minute, commercial-free time period. The show hadn’t exactly exploded in popularity here in the States, but it had developed a small cult following. And my daughter seemed to be leading the campaign.

I found myself wheeling out our old telly soon after her first taste, like any indulgent mother would. After banging on the top for several minutes to beat some good reception out of it, I allowed her one show a day, which turned into one hour, followed by a full-blown addiction to PBS. She began to walk around the house giving props for whatever good things came into her life in the form of a public service announcement: “This donut was made possible by the generous support of viewers like you. Thank you.”

Every episode ends with Maxwell humbly pulling down the brim of the tiny deerstalker’s detective hat perpetually perched between his tuft-tipped ears and quipping the line, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” I was certain Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was rolling in his grave, but my daughter gobbled it up with a spoon, quoting his lines and relaying his adventures to any hapless child who stood within shouting distance at the playground, grocery store, or random parking lot.

Abbey was still grumbling from her booster seat as we cruised down Main in search of a parking space. The rear lot the library shared with Starbucks was full, forcing us to park down near Underwood and Overhill Antiques. Luckily, the Mini could wedge into spots the lion’s share of Lauder Lake vehicles—SUVs and minivans—could not. I grabbed my box of program material with one hand and Abbey’s shoulder with the other and maneuvered us across the street.

“What if I never find out what happens to Maxwell after he gets trapped in the Wild Bird Hospital while trying to rescue Mr. Quackson from the clutches of the evil Dr. Loveydovey?”

“Well, maybe you can ask Adrian Graves about it, since he makes part of the show.”

“I thought
Maxwell MacGillikitty
was made possible by funding from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting,” Abbey said, scooting under my arm as I propped open one of the library’s double doors.

“Yes, love . . . but someone still has to write the story and sing the song, right?” I hustled her into the large programming room located off the wing of the children’s library. It was a great space, with tons of windows and lots of kid-size tables and chairs for crafts and summer reading club programs. Today, the library staff had pushed the tables to the back of the room and set up two curved rows with a dozen chairs each. There were already a few early birds eagerly awaiting the event, including Karen with Jasper and Marissa with Joey and Brina. I was relieved to have the friendly and familiar support. Abbey immediately fell in with her friends, which allowed me to hustle to the front of the room and set up the props I had brought. The dollar store had had small tambourines and egg shakers that fit into the program’s supply budget, so I figured the kids could use them to join in with the music. I stashed the extra CDs I had purchased from the Bruised Apple in the corner, hoping if all went well, perhaps I could hand them out to the kids at the end of the program and Adrian Graves could autograph them.

“So are you nervous?” Marissa asked, trying out an egg shaker. “And where’s our rock star? It’s almost four now.”

“Shit,” I grumbled, low enough for the other parents and kids not to hear. “I instructed him to call me just before he got to the station.” I checked my cell and peered out the window down Main Street. “He’d better show. I’m not about to stand up here for an hour and pretend I can play music.” There was a small PA system, consisting of a microphone on a stand and an amplifier, which I tested to make sure it was in good working condition.

“Need any help in here?” Gwen poked her head in. Instead of her usual cement-colored library director suit, she actually looked festive in a sack dress of a salmon hue.

“Nope, we are all good,” I assured her.

“I can’t wait to meet your singing sensation!” She smiled and greeted some more parents and kids, who settled themselves on the chairs and cross-legged on the carpet.

“Well . . . I wouldn’t exactly call him a sensation. But I think he’s fun and talented and the kids will like him,” I replied, hoping he didn’t show up with a swastika tattooed on his forehead. I didn’t exactly explain to Gwen the limited knowledge I myself had of the man I had hired to perform.

“I’ll keep an eye on the kids.” Marissa nudged me. “Maybe you should go outside and call him.”

I slipped into the main area of the lobby. It had the usual Friday afternoon pace of patrons returning and borrowing, studying and socializing. Amelda and Judy, two clerks who were probably working in the library before the birth of Dewey, were stationed at the circulation desk. I wandered over to the front door, debating whether to just run to the station or to stay put and pray for the best.

Leanna and her son, Dylan, were just coming in. Dylan, a quiet and broody nine-year-old, was out of the age bracket I was aiming for with the program, but I was thankful they came to show their support anyway.

“Hey, are we late?” Leanna gave Dylan a gentle shove. “In with you, no complaining. You’ve got your Game Boy, you can deal for an hour.” He skulked toward the programming room. “What’s up? You look freaked out.”

We moved away from the front door and into the Fiction section as the van from the Rainbow School pulled up to the curb. “He’s not here yet.”

“Holy crow. What are you going to do?”

“I dunno. Maybe he missed his train or something. I’m so . . .” I stopped midsentence, noticing a man had breezed in moments ahead of the Rainbow kids. He had a softshell guitar case slung over his shoulder and was inquiring at the circulation desk.

“I bet he thinks one of those old biddies at the desk is you!” Leanna giggled. I took a moment to size him up. Not particularly tall, but of slim stature. His dark blondish hair, at least from my view, was somewhat raggedy, but perfectly respectable for a musician. He was wearing a black button down styled after an old-school tux shirt, with thin ruffles running down the front. His jeans were dark wash and looked expensive. I suddenly felt small-town and shoddy. I wished I had thought to pluck my eyebrows and give my chipped toenails a fresh coat of polish.

The clerks were gesturing and pointing toward the programming room. “Oh, but wait, here she comes now,” Amelda announced as I hastily approached. He turned, displaying a face much more weathered than I had initially noticed from afar. Tiny wrinkles fanned from the outer corners of his eyes, and his hair had quite a bit of gray streaking through the blond, especially at his sideburns. For some reason, I had anticipated him being younger than me. I recovered quickly, sticking out my hand.

“I’m Katrina Lewis, thanks for coming.”

“Lew?”

“No,
Lewis
.”

“No, I mean . . . do you ’ave a loo?” His watery blue eyes widened to stress the urgency of the situation. “I’m afraid I’ll burst if I don’t go for a slash.”

“Oh . . . yeah, down that hall.” It took me a moment to register his accent and his slang, yet my embarrassment over the situation was fairly immediate. I stood rooted to the spot after he thrust his guitar into my hands and rushed off. Leanna was still standing there, a witness to the whole encounter. “He’s . . . um . . .” I searched for the right words.

“Old? British? Drunk? Or D) all of the above?”

“He’s older . . . but he’s kinda cute,” I admitted, surprising myself. “Come on, drunk? It’s four in the afternoon at the public library! Please. Go get a seat. I’ll be in there in a minute.”

I waited at the end of the hall for my charge. After a moment, he came out of the bathroom, swaying slightly into the wall as he pulled a tin of mints out of his pocket. “Altoid?” he offered. The smell of Jack Daniel’s and his peppery cologne, which was somehow subtle and intense all at once, were noticeably foreign to the hallowed halls of my local library. I got the feeling this was not the sort of creature who normally frequented places with drop ceilings and fluorescent lighting; perhaps not even the sort who functioned much before sundown.

“You
are
drunk.”

“And you”—he popped two of the curiously strong mints into his mouth—“are beautiful.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’ll sober up soon . . . and hopefully, you will still be beautiful.” He grabbed back his guitar with a smile. “Are the throngs of screaming adoring masses here yet?”

“Yes, they’ve been waiting patiently for fifteen minutes. You were supposed to call before you got to the station.”

“Well, I took a little kip on the train and overshot by one stop. So I grabbed a cab back. I’m here now, and I am ready. Let’s have at it, shall we?” He raised his eyebrows, amused at the fact that I clearly was not. In fact, I was downright pissed off and wishing I had never contacted him. I hated the thought of Abbey or the others being disappointed. I led the way, secretly wishing he had taken a long “kip” and not woken up until Schenectady.

Just before we entered the program room, I remembered the CDs. “I hope it’s okay, I brought some copies of your CD to hand out to the kids after.”

“Oh? And which CD would that be?” he asked, again with that slightly amused, self-deprecating tone. It was as if he was making fun of himself and me all at the same time.

“
Songs for Natalie
—it was the only one I could find, and it wasn’t easy.”

The guy was taken aback; he paused and, for a moment, looked ready to bolt for the exit door. “Okay then” was all he replied, and proceeded in.

The room was happily buzzing with kids’ chatter and moms’ murmuring. Slowly, the noise died down and they all turned their attention to us. Adrian Graves nonchalantly began to tune what looked like a well-used twelve-string acoustic guitar, and I made a brief introduction before joining my friends in the back of the room. Abbey, her friends, and a few other curious kids were sitting cross-legged within spitting distance of the main attraction. There were six children who had been bussed over from the Rainbow School, and most were in chairs with their parents and teachers sitting next to them. Some were quite verbal, others not very responsive. It would be interesting to see how they reacted to the music.

Adrian cleared his throat. “Well, thanks for having me here at your library today, and thanks to Ms. Lew-
is
for arranging this.” He flashed a smart-ass grin in my general direction. “I don’t expect you have ever heard of me, but some of you probably know this little guy called Maxwell . . . Maxwell MacGillikitty, Feline Private Eye.” He sang the name exactly like the chorus, and his voice came through the mike, gravelly yet smooth and instantly familiar. He played a riff I recognized from the song, and Abbey’s hand shot up.