Her expression changed from tolerance to sympathy. She had my best interest at heart and I didn’t always like what she had to say, but usually she was right. Sometimes things were as black and white as she saw them and even though she wanted to help me, she knew when to step back—she knew when she couldn’t help. “I’m sorry too, Mia. I believe this has been a very tough year and half for you, and I feel really bad, but Will said he doesn’t want to talk to you or see you under any circumstances.”
I tried to mask my frustration by drinking more and changing the subject. “Do you want to go to the club around the corner and dance?”
Clubbing wasn’t really our scene, but I think Jenny knew I needed to burn off some steam.
“Sure.”
Once outside I started heading toward the end of the block. Jenny stopped dead in her tracks. “Let’s go this way.”
“It’s twice as far that way—it’s right around this corner.”
She huffed and then caught up to me. She talked fast the entire way, I think trying to distract me, but it didn’t work. When I got to the end of the block, I heard the glorious sound of Will’s music in the bar across the street. The haunting drumbeat and a long bluesy guitar riff were floating through the air with Will’s smooth, soulful voice. My heart was pounding in my chest. The sign outside said Will Ryan every Sunday night. I shot a scorching look at Jenny and then darted across the street as she yelled at me to wait. When I got to the bouncer, he said the bar was full. I stood outside and peered through the crack in the doorway while Jenny stood behind me. I watched Will onstage along with three band members I had never seen. He was so composed behind his guitar—he wasn’t the type to run around or even interact much with the crowd. He just focused on singing well and playing perfectly. It was always just about the music for him. He told me once that he loved playing live to small crowds that didn’t know him because he liked to change the songs up. “Songs are always evolving, Mia, like us. That’s what it’s all about. That’s why we play so well together… because playing and singing is more about listening and feeling than anything else.” Funny how he wouldn’t listen to me now.
There were a handful of girls vying for his attention at the front of the stage, but he remained centered in the song. Until it ended, anyway, and then I watched him take his guitar off, walk up to a girl in the front row, bend down and kiss the back of her hand; all the groupies went crazy. He was wearing black jeans and bright pink T-shirt that said I’m A Virgin in big bold letters; underneath in small writing it said but this is an old shirt. Rolling my eyes, I turned around and took off toward the club without saying a word to Jenny.
She stood next to me at the bar as I ordered us both two shots of tequila.
“So he still plays?” I yelled over the loud, uncing house beat. She nodded impassively and remained silent.
When the bartender pushed four shots toward us, Jenny narrowed her eyes. “Just one for me tonight. I had too much sake!” she yelled, but I knew it wasn’t true because I downed pretty much the whole bottle.
“Suit yourself!” I smiled as I threw back one shot after another. We danced for at least an hour; I had a couple more drinks and my mind was severely clouded. Jenny stepped out to call Tyler, so I took the opportunity to get one more shot.
A blond, blue-eyed muscle head in a tight shirt approached me. “I’ve been watching you,” he said, arching his eyebrows.
“Oh yeah? And?” He looked exactly like Dolph Lundgren, except this guy had a Jersey accent.
“You can drink.” He grinned like he was impressed. Really he was mistaken, though, because my brain had become nothing but a tequila whirlpool at that point. “You wanna dance?”
“Sure,” I yelled, pulling him onto the dance floor.
Once on the floor, he started groping me and trying to get me to grind on him—yuck. I tried pushing him away but he persisted. Finally I stopped moving and pushed him back. “Quit it!” I yelled, but it fueled his attempts more. His giant arms reached around and grabbed my ass, pulling me onto him. I squirmed, trying to get out of his grip.
Just as I was ready to sock him, I heard a familiar, smooth voice behind me. “I think this dance is over, buddy!” I turned around to Will who had a beyond calm look on his face. He never met my gaze, but just the sight of him did weird things to my heart. In my drunkenness, I moaned from the memory of what he could do to me. I stared, transfixed, my mouth gaping. Thankfully, the unintentional moan was drowned out by the pounding music.
Dolph Two yelled back, “Get your own piece of ass, dawg!” Will shrugged like he was conceding. He turned on his heel to walk away and then a split second later he turned back and clocked Dolph Two right in the temple, laying him out cold on the floor. He grabbed my hand and began pulling me off the dance floor.
“Whoa, Rocky, what was that?” He ignored me and continued yanking on my arm until we were outside of the club. I shimmied my hand out of his grip. “I didn’t ask for your help,” I spat. “Where’s Jenny?”
His voice was low and husky. “She’s inside with Tyler. You’re wasted, Mia. Let me get you home.”
My eyes began to well up as I studied the handsome man in front of me. My vision blurred, but he was still perfectly sexy, his hair a little longer, a light stubble growing along his defined jawline. The pink T-shirt was covered up by a black hoody that came up over his head and shadowed his eyes. Taking a cautious step toward me, he moved into the light of the street lamp. His eyes were sullen and distant, but his hands were outstretched to me, palms up like Jesus Christ himself.
“Please, let me help you get home?” He moved toward me.
“What do you think, you can just disappear for months and then show up here to save me? What? You think I need you?” I could hear belligerent words leaving my mouth, but I couldn’t stop. He shook his head slightly; eyes narrowed and pained.
Suddenly my world was spinning; I walked two feet and began heaving into a planter box. I felt his hands on me, holding my hair and rubbing my back. I did need him. Collapsing into his side, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and tilted my head back to look into his eyes. He was searching my face. “Baby, are you okay?”
That’s when I lost it. Tears poured from my eyes, I sobbed loudly. “Don’t call me baby!”
“Settle down,” he said in all seriousness and then in one swift move, he reached down and scooped me up. That was last thing I remember until I woke the next morning with my head in his lap, and not in the way either one of us would have liked. We were on my bathroom floor, his back was propped against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the feet. He was sound asleep, sitting almost perfectly upright. I surveyed the room and myself. My head was throbbing, my shirt was stained and smelled awful, but I didn’t want to move because I didn’t know how long I had… with him. I had clearly been throwing up, probably all night, and Will must have stayed to watch over me. I put my head back down in his lap and dozed off again.
I woke later that morning to the sound of his muffled voice in the kitchen. I was lying on top of my bed where he must have put me. I was always amazed at how gentle he was; moving a grown woman without waking her was a gift. I scurried down the hall, hoping I would catch him preparing breakfast in a way that would say everything was back to normal, but he wasn’t. He was dressed with his backpack on and a glass of water in hand as he finished up a quiet phone call.
“I’ve gotta go, I’ll see you in a bit,” he whispered into the phone and then reached out to hand me the glass of water. He put his phone in his back pocket, looked over at me, expressionless, and said, “Take care of yourself,” before turning to leave.
“Wait, Will. Can I talk to you?”
“I have nothing to say.” He continued walking away.
When his hand reached the knob, I protested. “Wait, please! I have something for you.”
He paused and turned, leaning his back against the door. I went to my room, grabbed the Sinead O’Connor t
ape and ran back toward him. As I handed it to him, I gazed into his eyes. He looked away, like my stare caused him pain.
“I’m sorry.”
When he glanced at the tape, I caught a tiny smile playing on his lips, but it was fleeting. “Me too.” He spoke so quietly, his words didn’t seem meant for me.
“Listen to it, please—it’s not what you think.”
“Okay.”
“Do you still love me, Will?”
He looked right into my eyes and whispered, “More than you know.” Then he was out the door and down the stairs before I could find my voice to beg him to stay.
I went into the café and muscled through a hundred lattes even though I thought my head was going to explode. By the end of that day, I was back to my wallowing, pitiful self. I closed up Kell’s at nine, went home, took a shower, and then walked to the corner market in a pair of pink flannel pajamas covered by my light-blue terry robe. I had really lost all self-respect at that point. I spread my groceries out on the counter; Benton reviewed my choices. There was a pack of cigarettes, a bottle of peppermint schnapps, hot cocoa mix, vodka, a box of tissue, and one of those rolled-up horoscopes.
“I didn’t know you smoked, Miss Mia?”
“I’m starting today,” I said.
Benton looked up at me with sympathy. “How about some food, I buy you a sandwich?”
I shrugged. He motioned to the guy working behind the deli counter, pointed to the top of my head, and yelled with his thick accent, “Make her something to eat, she starving.”
Later that night after smoking ten cigarettes in the comfort of my living room, I still couldn’t understand the act; it’s disgusting and it causes cancer, but I’m not one to judge. My horoscope said that I was in an optimistic phase of my life, I handled pressure well, and I gravitated toward social situations that would help me achieve my goals. What a crock of shit. There was also some other mumbo jumbo in it about relationships; that’s when I decided to burn it in the sink. I went back to my concave spot on the couch to stare at the TV while I drank a combination of vodka, peppermint schnapps, and hot cocoa. Around eleven p.m. the buzzer rang—it was Jenny. I pressed the button, opened the door, plopped back down on the couch, and lit a cigarette.
When she walked in her mouth fell open at the sight of me. She looked around the smoke-filled room. Chasing Amy was playing on the TV, there was an ashtray full of butts, a half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table where I’d haphazardly set it after spilling little slices of lettuce all over the floor, and a coffee mug shaped like a Rubik’s Cube holding my concoction.
She picked up the mug and sniffed it. “Good god, Mia, it’s like the fucking 90s in here. What’s going on with you, Winona Ryder?”
“I think I’m gonna be a lesbian now,” I said.
“Okay.” She walked over and sat next to me on the couch, observing me from the corner of her eye.
Gazing at the TV, I blew a puff of smoke out and mumbled, “Why the long face, Ben?”
Jenny started cracking up. “At least you still have a sense of humor.” She joined me in a mixture of laughing and crying throughout that night. She told me funny stories and tried to get my mind off Will as she continually plucked cigarettes out of my hand. When I asked her why he was still playing at bars around town, she said that’s what he liked to do and left it at that. She told me he was living alone in Brooklyn and getting on with his life. The pain of losing someone is always worse when you know you could have prevented it.
The next morning I woke up to Sheil, Martha, Tyler, and Jenny all hovering over me on the couch. Before I opened my eyes, I decided to listen for a few minutes to the hushed conversation.
Sheil whispered to Martha. “She looks like a sick little baby.”
Tyler’s voice sounded unusually concerned. “I can see her hip bone through her sweats.”
Jenny said, “She’s fine. She’ll snap out of it, but I think we should still stage the intervention.”
That’s when I shot my eyes open at the three of them inspecting me. “Come on, you guys—an intervention? I’m fine. Everybody scram, I have to get ready for work.”
Martha blocked me from moving past her. She motioned to the piano. “I’m having that thing moved to the café. Someone should get some use out of it.”
“You can’t do that; that’s my piano.”
“Well, you don’t play it, and I’m sure your father is turning over in his grave right now with you going about like this,” she said, motioning with her hand up and down my body.
“Going about like what?”
“All mopey and glued to the television.” I looked past Martha to Sheil, who raised her eyebrows in agreement. I glanced at Jenny, who just shrugged and turned toward Tyler, who was staring at the ceiling.
“Fine, move it. I don’t care,” I said and I really didn’t.
Track 20: The Sound of Her Soul
Martha stuck to her word and had my piano moved to the café where practically all the customers pounded a key as they walked by, reminding me why the damn thing was there in the first place. I forced myself to resume some semblance of a normal life and after a while I actually started to feel normal. I thought about Will every day, but I stopped beating myself up over what happened. More than anything, I was just curious, but no one would utter a word to me about him.
At some point the old piano called to me again and I began playing it in the evenings, drawing a little crowd to the café, which was good for business. Every night I would play the same long piece of music I wrote. It included the movements I shared with Will on both the CD and the Sinead O’Connor tape earlier that year. I added and changed parts as the healing took place inside of me. I mourned my father and Jackson and my relationship through that piece of music. It eventually evolved into a familiar score that the regular customers recognized. It was the soundtrack from the year and half I had spent in New York figuring out who I was and who I didn’t want to be. It was pure catharsis until I realized I had a fairly decent finished product. Jenny and Tyler encouraged me to pursue writing music and for the first time I felt like I had a real purpose. I had a piece of the puzzle and it was something that resembled faith in myself.
One warm spring day I made the decision that it was time for closure. Jackson’s ashes were housed in a small redwood box that I’d had engraved with the words Jackson: My Friend. The Best. I took the box along with a small garden shovel to Tompkins Square Park, where I discreetly buried it under his favorite tree overlooking the children’s playground. I fell asleep under that tree, thinking back to the way Will treated Jackson, so loving and affectionate, the same way he was toward me. I had so carelessly rejected that warmth and love and I was learning the hard way what happens when you take the people who love you for granted.
After my nap, I was ready for the next step. I went to Kell’s and asked Martha if she could cover the café for the next couple of days.
“I’m taking Pops to Memphis,” I said, struggling to hold it together.
“He’ll love that.” When she began to cry, I wrapped my arms around her.
“I know. Thank you for helping me do this,” I whispered.
“Helping you do what?” she said, dumbfounded.
“Thank you for helping me mourn… live… find myself, and thank you for loving me.”
“Oh, sweetie, like your father, you’re easy to love.” I smiled at the idea of being like him.
“Thank you. I love you.”
Back at my apartment, I opened my father’s metal urn, relieved to find his ashes packed nicely in a velvet bag. It was going to make flying with Pops a lot easier. I packed light, bringing only a few necessities inside the hemp backpack Martha had given me.
I arrived in Memphis in the late afternoon. It started getting dark, so I took a cab straight to Beale Street. I walked to the end and stared out at the Mississippi until the sky darkened and I could no longer see the ripples in the water. It became a black void. The only light came fro
m a tugboat slowly disappearing in the distance. I wondered what sort of magic that dark river had swallowed in its day.
Okay, Pops, time to find the music.
I turned and followed the poignant sound of a Southern blues guitar floating through the thick, spring air. The music lured me to a dive bar right off Beale. The poster read:
Tonight: The Legendary Tommy Ray Booker
When I got inside I looked up to the stage to find a man dressed in a bright red suit, complete with a red fedora and red harmony guitar. He was playing fast blues; everyone in the place was moving to the beat. When he lifted the guitar to his mouth and began plucking the strings with his teeth, the bar went crazy with applause. The saxist got on his knees, belting out the riffs while Tommy Ray continued shredding his vintage guitar. I felt alive, letting the pulse of the town, the patrons of that bar, and Tommy Ray Booker course through my veins.
My father would love it… Will would love it.
“We’re gonna take a little break. Be back in five,” Tommy said to the crowd.
I slowly made my way toward the stage. When it looked like the musicians were getting ready to go back on, I approached the drummer. He was a John-Goodman-looking character, an overweight and disheveled middle-aged man wearing faded jeans and a Hawaiian shirt.
“Excuse me.” I caught his attention right as he was about to climb the first step up to the stage.
“What can I do you for, poppet?”
I giggled at the nickname and then pointed to a very old upright piano sitting to one side of the drum kit. “Is she tuned?”
He appraised me for a long beat. Tommy came into my view at the top of the stairs. Without taking his eyes off me, the drummer said, “Hey Tommy, I think Poppet here wants to play.”
I looked up at Tommy and he smiled and then adjusted the feather in his bright red fedora before speaking. “You got the blues, baby?”
“Just the good kind,” I yelled up to him.
“Well let’s hear it, little girl.”
I climbed the steps and then looked out at the eager crowd. It was the first time I stood on a stage without feeling even slightly nervous. I had Pops with me and I didn’t know a single soul in that bar; it was freeing. That was what Will had talked about so much, playing music for the sake of the music. I turned the piano bench perpendicular and then set my backpack on the space behind me. Tommy started right away with a typical one, four, five blues chord progression; the rest of the musicians joined in, so I followed suit. I kept the tune going while Tommy and the sax player soloed. On the next round I looked back at the drummer and he winked; that was my cue. I played my heart out, fingers swirling and fluttering. I even played with my elbows. When I kicked my foot up on the high keys and played like Will had at the wedding, the bassist yelled out, “Get it, girl!” I knew it wasn’t the most ladylike thing to do, but man, the audience loved it.
Sweet Thing Page 24