What Happened to Lani Garver

by Carol Plum-Ucci

  When I hit my first chord and heard drums, synth, piano, bass, rhythm, myself ... the rush of being surrounded by flesh-and-blood sound was like going over the straight-down part of a roller coaster. I almost lost my knees. These guys were passing through me—like we had become floating ghosts, or one giant ghost, one power.

  Complete happiness can feel so much like complete terror that it's hard to tell them apart. I fought my shaking knees by jamming against the rhythm player in the parts where he had lead runs, and we made a fun game of it, like a Ping-Pong match. There's a part in the chorus that requires three-part harmony. Jason poked at me, pointed at his throat, then made a thumbs-up sign. I moved to share his mike. The music was already gel. Then this Jason and I had our lips so close to his mike I could smell toothpaste. Add to the sound three more voices, which, by some luck, nailed these harmonies. The ceiling buzzed octaves we weren't even singing.

  We wandered into "Tiny Dancer," then "Levon," the only other two Elton Johns I knew. I was afraid if I made eye contact, one of these guys would eventually say, "You look young! How old are you?" Rather than risk getting kicked out, I was being way shy with my eyes. I did catch on through stray glances in the dimness of the room that these guys were old; I mean old. Dr. Erdman had said University of the Arts, but four of them looked like they had to be closing in on twenty-five. I probably would have noticed more things sooner if I had been staring like Macy stares.

  They started talking after we ran out of Elton John tunes, and I could not believe this thing was getting better than it already was. They were arguing about putting "Rocket Man" on their album, now that they had a decent acoustic guitar player, and would Elton John's people make them pay a fortune for that? They had an actual recording contract with Millennium, a Philly-based recording studio.

  I kept staring at the carpet for fear of drilling a happy hole in the ceiling if I opened my mouth. We got into practicing these three original songs over and over again, which were for their album.

  I started to relax a little and look at these guys in that Macy way. I realized they were about the strangest conglomeration of types I would have ever put together.

  The sax player and bass player were African American but were nothing like each other. The sax player had sounded way educated, and the bass player looked and talked like a street person. Jason looked like something off the cover of Gentleman's Quarterly. The guy who doubled on piano and synth was painfully thin, like a sixth-grade girl, and he had on a T-shirt that read: I GRADUATED HARVARD: THIS ISN'T JUST THE FUCKING SHIRT. The drummer and the rhythm guitar player both looked like they could have been big-time druggies. They had buzzed hair, which was thin, and you could see their scalps, which you would have put more with a diet of free-basing than milk and eggs. The rhythm player had two badly chipped teeth in the front.

  Four of these guys had definitely seen better days. Jason French seemed the most normal and grounded, and I was glad he did most of the talking with me. But their talent was so hot, it made me think of Lani and Ellen: "Got to pay your dues to sing the blues." The stuff had a fire to it that I'm not sure would have lit up under a bunch of middle-class garage-band lesson takers.

  One song we practiced, called "Irma," was written by Jason French about some girl he had known who had gotten sick and died. It was kind of bluesy, and I provided some Jonny Lang–type runs on electric that turned out pretty good. I could not figure out an exact style for these guys, though all three original songs had something to do with AIDs. And it came out plainly near the end of the rehearsal that this recording contract involved not just Calcutta but also four other Philly-based groups who were putting together an anthology album as a fund-raiser for the local AIDs alliance.

  I wasn't even disappointed to hear that, though a tour would have been nice.

  "Don't talk much, do you?" the drummer said, as we were folding up rehearsal. His name was Mike. Mike went ba-da-boom at the end, and they all laughed.

  Of course, a dumb-stupid-Claire remark followed: "I talk a lot when I'm with my friends."

  "Oh! We don't rank!" Jason beat his heart like it was breaking.

  Aaron, Mr. HARVARD, boinked out a one-hander on the piano. "Don't worry, Claire. They don't have any friends. They're obnoxious."

  His finger circled around, meaning all of Calcutta, and they were all laughing and making donkey noises. I wanted to dive out the door, but I hung around long enough for one more dumb-stupid remark. Mike came toward me, drummed on my head, and I pointed at his wristband. He, the bass player, and the rhythm guitar player all wore the same type of bright orange wristband. It had handwriting on it.

  "You guys trying to be twins?"

  "We're all part of a certain hospice."

  I couldn't remember what a hospice was. He said that on the wristband was a "buddy's" phone number. He said that many people knew that if they saw the bright orange wristband on a person in medical distress, to call that number right away.

  The truth struck me finally as I remembered Lani's strange comment on the phone. "Don't be afraid to reach out and touch those guys." Thin-haired, buzz cuts, nicks on the scalp, not an ounce of fat in the place...

  Jesus. Every one of these guys is HIV positive.

  That was not exactly confirmed for me—not at that time. After my wristband comment, Jason said, "Calcutta is not just us six; it's about two dozen people that come and go ... depending on who's sane, who's healthy." He laughed, and the other guys joined in, like that was some sort of funny. "Every one of us has a life-threatening illness. And since you were sent by Erdman, we're assuming you can keep our politics pure."

  A small part of me wanted to throttle Erdman for setting me up with a dose of reality I'd always tried to avoid. Yet they were looking at me like this was some sort of interview question. You're in, or you're out ... Do not mess up your answer, little girl. I felt dizzy, like my insides were on the outside, and my skin was squashed somewhere near where my stomach used to be.

  "I ... am in remission from leukemia. I just had a blood test that came back good, but, uhm. You just don't know, you know?"

  They cheered about my blood test. They clapped me on my back. Jason kicked the drummer in the ankle and said, "see? something just told me. This Erdman girl is gonna be really sweet..."

  They weren't kicking me out. I'd never spent much time feeling proud of being a cancer survivor. All of a sudden I was never so proud in my life.

  23

  Sunday afternoon I stepped off the bus and set foot on Hackett feeling great, despite all the crap I was returning to. For one thing, my mom had chewed out my dad three times over the weekend—for letting me come on a bus, for sending me to a shrink, and for letting me walk the streets of Philadelphia by myself. She didn't know about playing in a band with a bunch of older, HIV-positive guys. She had told me to call her from the bus station and she would pick me up. But I got the thought, I have about ten more minutes to enjoy my weekend by walking home alone and reliving it one more time. Am I entitled to a few simple pleasures before I get nagged and guilted?

  Why I would want to walk home looking like I did, I had no clue. The ungodly heat for that time of year had kept up, so I had my cheerleading jacket shoved down in a shopping bag. I had on a torn T-shirt I mooched off my dad that said BLOODY MARY on it. I don't know why I had liked the thing—it was old and faded and torn, leaving my one shoulder bare to the sun—I guess maybe I thought it fit my stage of life. Over top of it was this ratty old guitar case that worked like a backpack, sporting an electric Fender my dad had loaned me. I had been used to hiding my guitars—like, sneaking them over to Sydney's before Vince picked us up—so I would not give Macy any visual reminders that I was screwing up our Saturday nights. But now I looked like I had been nailed to a sideways cross, and it gets better.

  Suhar and I had met Ellen for breakfast in the Liberty Mall, and between Suhar's artistic tastes and Ellen constantly egging me on, we went on the shopping spree from hell. I now had on my black
leather pants, which I decided looked very cool with a tattered T-shirt. Ellen had planted a hat on my head called a fedora, which she said gang members wore. But it's brown and velvety, with a brim and a feather! It looked very cool on me, and I didn't think I looked like gang bait. It just kind of fit with Claire-black-leather. Suhar not only bought it, but she bought me a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots that I had fallen in love with, god knows why. Like I wasn't tall enough already. I thought Ellen was going to fall onto her side, laughing "with me."

  I was wearing the boots and had both my jackets shoved into a huge shopping bag. The streets were pretty deserted, which is not unusual this time of year. But as I got near the corner of Hackett and Tenth, I saw a group of girls hanging there. Eighth graders, I thought hazily, because I recognized one as Eli's younger sister, Jule. She was a sweet kid. I just gave a small wave as I started past them, but Jule piped up.

  "Tough hat. Where'd you get those pants?"

  "Philadelphia."

  Her three friends came up a little closer behind her, and their eyes crawled all over me, trying to decide if these pants were really tough. I don't think anyone from Hackett had seen a pair of black leather pants on anything but a mannequin.

  I let them get their stares in, and Jule finally pointed to my Liberty Mall shopping bag and said, "You went shopping in Philadelphia?"

  To them, anywhere west of the mainland mall was a big deal. "Yeah, my dad lives there. He's a session musician in Philly."

  "Yeah, we know about your dad." Jule's eyebrows raised up, and I snorted out a laugh. My dad had a false reputation on the island of being a "famous musician," because after he left my mom, he got in this Philly band and they had cut an album. People around here didn't know the difference between an album you pay to have produced and a Columbia Records contract.

  "My dad is not famous," I corrected them, used to their thought. "But some of the stores near him are way cool, and I've got some really generous friends, so..."

  I started to move past them, locking eyes with a girl I knew as Jule's best friend, Kaitlin. She could get a Macy-type of judgmental glare going sometimes. She had her arms folded across herself, and after I passed by, her mouth went off.

  "But aren't you the girl hanging out with that faggot?"

  It hit me in the back of the head like a boomerang. The bag with my jacket in it left my hand, and I turned with both hands free. Don't lose your mind again, Claire. Don't start... My sensible thoughts rang through, but my expression must have looked like something to be reckoned with. Kaitlin jumped behind her three friends. I stopped coming, but they still took three steps back.

  "If I so much as dream that word comes out of your trash mouth again, I will come find you," I said. Shouldn't threaten people, Claire. You might have to back it up. I didn't know if I could back up a threat, but the three sweet girls looked so scared I figured I wouldn't have to. I turned my back again, then figured I had gotten Kaitlin in the pride button. She pretended she was talking to her three friends, loud enough for me to hear.

  "Oh! Okay! I guess she doesn't care that this ... Lani Garver dressed up in nightgowns. He dressed up in nightgowns, and Macy Matlock caught him in them. She's been away in Philadelphia. I guess she missed that part."

  I did another one eighty, and my sensible voice pizzled to nothing. I reached past the three friends, grabbed Kaitlin by the collar, and pulled her through them. They all froze dead, including Kaitlin, which is a good thing, because I might have hit her. I shook her once, some version of sanity coming through in my voice.

  "I know about that story. And this is important. If you have never thought of anything before in your life, you damn well better think fast and clear right now. Repeat to me exactly what Macy told you."

  "Nothing! My big brother told me..." She rattled off the name of some kid I barely knew who was on the tennis team.

  "Jesus Christ...," I breathed. "Then tell me what he said."

  "Let me go!"

  I just shook her out again and pulled her up closer.

  She pealed off automatically, "He said Macy Matlock told him that she caught that gay kid in ladies' nightgowns!"

  A box gets stolen from a porch and it mushrooms into a fashion show in less than twenty-four hours.

  "So, you said, he said, she said." I shoved her into her three friends, frustrated by the idea of probably never knowing who added what.

  I could hear her let out a cry of relief. I just grabbed my bag and started off before my conscience could set me on fire. She sniffed, blabbering, "She's your best friend! Why don't you ask her what happened? She's got the nightgowns! They're hanging up in her front yard! Everyone knows that story! And they're all driving by to see what that new kid was dressed in!"

  I turned slowly to look, being sure I heard them right. They took off.

  "Claire ... there's this wonderful thing called middle ground." I tried to remember what Lani meant by "middle ground," but as I walked down my own street, my blood was on fire. I imagined my fingers wrapping around Macy's throat and her eyeballs bugging out if I found those nightgowns hanging there.

  I stormed into my house, and my mom was wigging out with a million questions, from "Why in hell did you take a bus?" to "What the hell do you have on your legs?" to "Why don't you talk to me anymore?"

  I kept saying, "Calm down ... I'll talk to you later ... later, Mom!" I finally shoved her out of my room and locked the door. At that point I realized my whole motive for being in my house was to change out of my pants, so they wouldn't get ruined if I had to kill Macy. I was shaking, scared of killing someone. I called Ellen, got her voice mail, and so I called Erdman's office and got his voice mail. I left the same message each time. "It's Claire. I think I'm going to hit someone ... else. I really don't want to hit anybody else. Please call me back. I'm scared ... being this mad. Call me back. Please?"

  I didn't want to tell Lani this new development until I saw what was going on with my own eyes. By the time I had changed into jeans and sneakers, neither Ellen nor Erdman had called back. My mother was shouting stuff up from the living room that sounded like "Fine, go live with your airhead father if you don't care about me anymore."

  I passed her again. "I care, Mom ... just don't fucking guilt me! I'll be back."

  As I walked the four blocks to Macy's, I took deep breaths and got calm enough that I decided Kaitlin had probably passed along an untrue rumor. It just was not Macy's breed of meanness Kaitlin had described—which was over in a flash, meant as an observation more than an attack, and forgotten by us ten seconds later.

  I was surprised when I first caught sight of Macy's front yard, because the situation was not better than Kaitlin's gossip—it was worse. Three nightgowns were suspended by strings on hangers from the metal bar where the awning hangs in the summertime. There were three signs over the top: LANI GARVER JR. PROM, LANI GARVER SR. PROM, LANI GARVER HONEYMOON. The signs were not done in Macy's pretty straight up and down writing, but some choppy printing. I smelled the influence of Phil, even though I did not see him. I saw Macy and Myra lounging on the porch furniture, trying for a last-minute tan in the absence of the summer awning.

  I had frozen when I first saw all this, but a car came down the street, honking at the nightgowns, and I jumped out of my skin. Macy and Myra were sitting there to get attention, not a tan, I realized. My sanity went down the drain again.

  Macy sat straight up, her psychic instinct probably sensing me coming across the grass, and she had the good sense not to say anything, for once.

  "Definitely not your style, Macy." I yanked two of the nightgowns, and the hangers flew across the lawn.

  "Phil did it ... I just left it to let you know how mad we are."

  "To let me know? Looks to me like you're letting everybody in town know. Do you have to create a drama? There's this lovely thing called the phone. The doorbell. The e-mail, the mailbox—"

  I pulled one nightgown over the top of the other. It was easy to figure out ... so easy
I could not believe Miss Hawk Eye had missed it—considering the third nightgown had the sleeves ripped out and an opening cut down the front. I pulled the last one over the other two like a vest.

  "What does that look like? Ever see a costume before? As in ... a play?"

  For once her eyes failed her. She would not even look. Would. Not. Look. She spun her back to me and said into the garage door, "We're just trying to shock some sense into you! You're my best friend! I'm not letting you turn loon without a fight."

  "How am I turning loon?" I should not have tried to reason with her. To let something get this dramatic, she would have had it all thought out.

  "You hit Vince Clementi! Hit him!"

  "I was supposed to let him half kill somebody?"

  "You hit a guy!" She went on, deaf. "Over someone who tries to shove off his porn magazines on people—"

  "Oh! Is that what happened!" I made Lani's singsongy voice.

  "I was standing right there!"

  "And I suppose by now that's how Phil saw it, too, right?"

  She was backing away from me, looking me up and down like she expected me to jump her. Maybe that's why I grabbed her by the hair.

  "Where's that magazine, Macy?"

  "None of your damn business, and let me go, you maniac—"

  "It is my business ... and I'm not letting go until you tell me where it is."

  "What the hell do you want with it!"

  "We're going to take it to the cops. We're going to see whose fingerprints are all over it. I'm gonna prove something to you—"

  "We threw it out! Vince did, or something—"

  "Hey, that's convenient. Lani said you would do that." I shoved her and held up the costume. "Tell me what this looks like!"

  She looked for a half a second before screaming, "Why should I care if it's a costume? Try and tell me he doesn't like wearing that shit!"