by Maddy Wells
The bus crawled into the driveway with groupies hanging onto it, moaned as the driver shut off the engine and lowered its air suspension, and the doors opened to reveal The Griffin.
Chapter 9
The Griffin was in full mufti: eagle head, tan suede chaps and a lion’s tail. He pawed the bus steps, the crowd went berserk, so he did it again. He turned around so we could see the cool lion’s tail, which seemed to have a life of its own, curling around his neck then between his legs then patting his ass, then faced around again, came down a step and allowed people to shove things at him to sign.
“There’s plenty of room, plenty of room, love, don’t shove,” he commanded. He stepped down into the ecstatic horde and the other band members came out after him.
“Raymon!” a girl screamed as if she saw an apparition. There are girls who think Raymond is the coolest—it’s that disdainful French thing—but I am not one of them. He ignores them in any event, going after girls who think he’s a jerk. He saw me and came over. Case in point.
“Cheri, you’ve gotten….” I braced myself. “Taller, much much taller. Can it be vrai?”
“Really? You think so?”
“Non, non, non, I was wrong. It was just the angle. You are still the little shrimp.”
Why I couldn’t stand Raymond.
“Hey, man,” Tim was right behind me sticking out his paw to Raymond. “Love your work.”
“Of course you do.”
Tim slipped his hand around my waist.
“He is your lover?”
“No!” I blushed, “He’s not my lover. I swear.”
“I know,” Raymond said, “You are waiting for a mature man with technique. Ah, but quell dommage, it cannot be. You are your papa’s little bo peep.”
Okay, so I was a virgin.
“We want to show you a couple of things,” Tim said, ignoring that Raymond was putting the moves on the girl he felt comfortable kissing on the lips.
“There will be plenty of time for that later, ami,” Raymond said, patting Tim on the shoulder. “We have to drink to cement our friendship. But first we must pee.”
Raymond wandered into the house.
Tim said, “Did he say we must pee?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Man, that is so cool.”
Bang, the drummer, came up to me en route to the house. “You get prettier every
time I see you,” he said. He kissed the top of my head.
Jane had told me that Bang’s round moon face was a result of prednisone. He had wicked asthma and he used the steroid to control it but because steroids give you a physical bang, Bang upped his dosage until his doctor refused to write him prescriptions. Now, Jane said, he was getting his prednisone on-line from Bangladesh. Captain Kirby intercepted him and put her arm through his and they walked arm in arm into the house.
Which left, of course, The Griffin. The crowd parted as The Griffin made his way toward me. Everyone was looking at me and my heart was ready to burst out of my chest. What could go wrong with The Griffin around? For god’s sake, he was a superhero right out of a legend. When I was eight years old, The Griffin stayed with us for a whole month while he was trying to get sober. He rode his Harley all the way from Detroit, where he had grown up and my grandfather still lived, and every day he would arrive on his Harley to pick me up at school. He didn’t wear his costume, it was just him in jeans and a leather jacket, and he was so handsome, smiling as if something very cool was on his mind, and all the girls would ask me, “Is that your father?” I would put my plaid book bag in the studded leather pouch behind his leg and wrap my arms around my dad and when we rode away, the other kids looking with their jaws down to their knees, I was so happy I thought I would have to pick bugs out of my teeth when we got home.
And now The Griffin strode across our dandelion carpet, and when he spotted me he opened his wings and what could I do but run into them and allow myself to sink into a world where nothing bad could happen to me because The Griffin lived there.
“How’s my favorite girl?” he whispered into my hair and when I looked up smiling, “Is that a tear? Cut it out!” he said, and “Where’s your mum? Why isn’t she out here?”
Those five seconds were the only time I would have alone with The Griffin, of course. As soon as he opened his wings to release me, a gazillion groupies and wannabes descended on him, some pushing CDs on him, which he accepted, handing the overflow to me and promising to listen later.
“It’s so great to be here in Milltown,” he shouted, and at first my heart sang, but then I realized it was what bands shout from whatever stage they’re on. “It’s so great to be here in Detroit! In Dallas! In Dumbledorf! In whatever the name of this freakin’ place is.”
I tugged on his wing. “I have to talk to you soon,” I said. “Before the party starts.”
“Sure, sure,” he said and was immediately waylaid by a pretty Goth girl who didn’t look much older than me.
“I mean this is serious,” I said, which, as soon as I said it I realized it was exactly the wrong thing to say. Nothing would put off The Griffin in his homecoming mode more than a serious discussion. But I needed his signature to drop out of school and a little cash to put my plan in motion and that’s all there was to it.
“Of course! That’s what I’m here for. To take care of business.”
The pretty Goth girl slipped him a piece of paper which he opened, read the message and put his head back and roared. “Don’t go too far,” he told her.
A Papa John’s Delivery truck pulled up, the driver and a helper carrying stacked boxes of pizza into the house, then a House of Han van pulled up and the driver made a couple of round trips carrying shopping bags of take-out in both hands, tiny containers of duck sauce and mustard spilling onto the lawn that I would find all over the house in the morning. The party had officially begun and it was exactly like it always was. I don’t know why I felt disappointed. And I can’t explain why I felt that something really really bad was going to happen.
Chapter 10
Tim was leaning against the kitchen sink, discussing the peculiarities of bass playing with Raymond, an empty pizza box between them and a plastic cup filled with what I assumed was Jim Beam in his hand. Raymond was swigging from the bottle.
“You’re not old enough,” I told Tim.
“He is under my supervision,” Raymond said. They laughed.
Whatever. Last year, for the first time—our neighborhood isn’t exactly upscale—the cops came, sirens wailing, bubble lights twirling, but somehow all the underage kids disappeared into the bus and it turned out that the police chief was a metal head and the only penalty The Griffin had to pay was a bus stop at the chief’s house on his way out of town.
“Have you seen Jane?” I asked.
Raymond jerked a thumb and I followed its direction into the living room where Jane was nose to nose on the sofa with St. Alban’s non-graduate Rob.
“Don’t you have a date tonight?” I asked her, interrupting Rob’s fascinating philosophical monologue about whatever.
Her face got red. “What?”
“The prom? Aren’t they expecting you?”
“Oh,” she said. “I don’t have to be there for another hour. I do have to change those ridiculous decorations on the stage, so I should go now, you’re right. Where’s The Griffin?”
He was, in fact, right behind me and he said, plaintively, “You’re making me come to you, now, love? I’ve always loved your sadism.” They laughed hysterically.
Here’s the thing about my parents: I have no idea what’s going on between them. I mean obviously they did it once to get me, but I haven’t seen any evidence since that they’re in love or anything. The only time The Griffin ever stays here longer than a few days is when he needs to dry out—which has actually been three times that I can remember—but no one acts regular then. I mean, Jane doesn’t invite the neighbors for potluck and The Griffin doesn’t mow the lawn. He spends
a lot of time sitting in the dandelion patch in a yoga position humming. Maybe this is how he composes or something, because, he told me, the regular thing that alcoholics in recovery are supposed do—go to church to talk to Jesus—he just can’t bring himself to do. One time I caught him blowing on the white dandelions heads, laughing as the seeds floated out over the neighborhood like he just didn’t give a damn that me and Jane had to live here the rest of the time and listen to the neighbors bitch about our yard.
“You look good, babe,” The Griffin said.
“You too. Look, I have to go to the prom…” and before she finished saying what she wanted to say, he said, “I’m too old to be your prom date, honey, you should have asked me sooner,” and they started laughing hysterically again.
The Griffin squeezed in next to her on the sofa, carefully rearranging his tail. He didn’t seem a bit phased that Rob was pressed against her other side. “Are you going to tell me again all the things I stopped you from doing?”
“I never said you stopped me from doing anything, I only said….” And then I guess she remembered I was there and what she was going to say, so she shut up. “I promised that I would chaperone. You should have given us notice.”
The pretty Goth girl had come up behind the sofa and was digging her black fingernails into The Griffin’s neck. She’d unzipped her studded jacket to make clear that she had something The Griffin would probably want to see. The Griffin looked back at her and smiled. “Don’t worry about us,” he said. “We know where everything is.”
“I guess you do,” Jane said. She took Rob’s hand and got up from the sofa. “Why don’t you come help me redecorate the gym?”
The Goth girl bent and whispered something in The Griffin’s ear. Rob looked at The Griffin, obviously weighing what the chances were if he left that he would get to show The Griffin how he could make a guitar talk. “Sure, sure,” he said to Jane, running his hand through his hair.
“Do you have a car?” Jane asked.
“I rode my bike.”
Jane laughed and glared at the pretty Goth girl. For a moment Jane looked really sad and I wanted to punch the Goth, but then Jane shook herself and smiled. “This younger generation. And there’s always a younger one, isn’t there, Grif? They ride bikes instead of cars. We’ll take my car. It’s a present from The Griffin,” she said directly to the Goth girl.
Rob kind of bowed to The Griffin. “You’ll be here later, right?”
I was stuffing what was happening into my Figure Out Later box as fast as I could because a lot was going on that needed figuring out when Captain Kirby pounded me on the back. “Oh, my god! Wait till you see the trick Bang showed me on the drums. I’m a thousand per cent better already. Come on! Everyone’s in the Trap. We’re waiting for you.”
And everyone was in the Trap and the place exploded with applause when The Griffin tugging the Goth girl behind him and I came down the stairs. Kids were texting like mad about us and I felt famous and I know fame is shallow and fleeting and everything, but the great thing about fame that people who aren’t famous can’t know is this: you can actually feel adoration pouring all over you from people who don’t even know you and I don’t care who you are, having a crowd of people pour love all over you is the most delicious feeling in the world.
Chapter 11
The Griffin and Bang and Raymond played a couple of songs to ear-splitting applause from the kids packed into the Trap and the late arrivals in the driveway, then Raymond with a big grin introduced us, saying Have Mercy was a group that was going to be big one day peut etre, and Tim jumped up and motioned for me and Captain Kirby to take the stage. Raymond joined The Griffin and Bang at the front of the crowd and we played Hole in the Sky, the song Tim wrote for the occasion and The Griffin actually paid attention in spite of the Goth girl’s pawing because the song was really cool. When it was over, he asked me if I wrote it and it took every bit of integrity I had not to lie and say yes.
“You should talk to my man,” The Griffin said to Tim, by which he meant his manager who was meeting them in Houston in a couple of days. “Send him a demo.”
“Can I call him or what?” Tim asked.
“No, I’ll have him call you,” The Griffin said.
And I watched Tim enter that twilight zone where everything is possible as he wrote down the chords for The Griffin and repeated the lyrics, and I was jealous that it wasn’t me as The Griffin nodded his approval and patted Tim’s shoulder. If only I could be free of school and move to Houston where I just knew songs would pour out of me.
“I have to talk to you,” I told The Griffin. “It’s important. I have a presentation which will explain everything,” which I felt kind of ridiculous saying in a garage full of people high on music and alcohol and pot. Like I was Mr. Dow bullet pointing in the Dark Ages to an audience of irate villagers. Boy, would Mr. Dow have a fit when he found out I was dropping out of school.
“Sure, babe. What’s this about?”
“It’s about school.”
“Sure, let’s see what you got.”
The Griffin always smiled like he was proud of me when I gave him printouts. See, this is the thing about The Griffin. When he’s noticing you with his huge blue eyes and he has this half smile on his face reacting to what you’re saying, he’s with you, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters to him.
“Let me get my laptop,” I said, and by the time I ran up to my room to get my laptop and returned to the basement, the Goth girl, whose name I found out from one of her friends was Evelyn—like who is named Evelyn who hasn’t been dead for a hundred years?—was leading The Griffin to the bus where the bus driver, a skinny old guy who’s been with The Griffin since I was ten and who wasn’t allowed to leave his post, closed the door behind them.
It was two o’clock in the morning. Jane would be home soon from the prom. A couple of people had brought their own guitars and set up with Tim and Raymond and Bang and the music had an air of exhilaration that you get when musicians, previously unknown to one another, discover each other though music. It’s an un-reproducible sound, the music of discovery, trading fours, the language of one soul, two souls, three having a conversation without words.
There must have been seventy people in the garage and the driveway grooving and dancing and spilling across the street and the lights were on in all the houses around us and I was wondering when the cops would arrive when Captain Kirby found me. “This is like the best party ever!” she said. Captain Kirby had never told me where she lived or who she lived with. We had only known each other for two days, true, but all of a sudden it seemed like a giant omission. “Don’t you have to tell your mom or dad or somebody where you are?”
“My mom’s working.”
“Now?”
“Your mom is working, too.”
Somehow I never thought of chaperoning as work.
“See,” Captain Kirby said, “This is what I want when I’m on my own. A house where people can feel they can come and hang out. With music and food.”
“I thought you hated pizza and Chinese take-out. That you thought it wasn’t really food.”
“I do. I mean, I hate it as a regular diet. But it’s great for a party.”
”Maybe you can help Jane with a whole food menu the next time the band comes.”
She grimaced.
I didn’t approve of Captain Kirby backing down on her food ideals. I would have to expand my opinion of Captain Kirby to include this profoundly contradictory information.
“Why don’t we bring your mom some food?” I asked, suddenly wanting to be away from the scene which didn’t seem to involve me now that The Griffin was in the bus with that girl. “Does she eat pizza?” A Papa John’s delivery van had made the third delivery of the night a half hour ago—Jane must have told them to time their drop offs—and the pizza was still warm.
Captain Kirby considered this as she looked around the best party she ever attended. “She wouldn’t mind, I g
uess.”
Her mother had the VW van and Captain Kirby didn’t have a bike. I told her she could take Tim’s who was high as a kite on himself and was jamming with Raymond and Bang and talking to them like he was their freakin equal—which I guess they thought he was because they were tweaking his song so they must have thought it was worth something—and he didn’t even notice we were going. I kept my eyes straight ahead as we pedaled past the bus and into the damp early morning air. The box of pizza was strapped to the carrier on my rear fender. We rode about two miles into town when I shouted to her, “Where are we going?” and she pointed straight ahead to a row of big mansions that used to house the steel magnates in the last century, but were now mostly broken up into doctor offices, a couple were apartment buildings, and one was Kulick’s Funeral Home which is where we turned into the circular driveway.
Chapter 12
“Your mom works here?” I asked.
“My mom isn’t a people person,” Captain Kirby said. She hopped off her bike and put her index finger up to her lips.
“I don’t think anyone in here can hear us,” I said.
“The owners are very light sleepers.”
We walked our bikes around back. The VW van was parked in the lot. Captain Kirby pushed Tim’s bike out of sight behind a rhododendron bush and after unstrapping the pizza box I did the same, then we went down a wrought iron stairway and she tugged on a chain hanging from a bell which rang really loudly with each pull and after what seemed like an hour, a woman in a white lab coat, goggles, face mask, paper hair net and rubber gloves opened the door. She looked at us over her goggles which she had pushed down her nose.
“Oh, Janet, it’s you,” the woman said. “Who’s this?”