All the Lonely People

by Jen Marie Hawkins

  I take the flyers and smile. “I’m Jo. And I’ll certainly ask George about these.”

  “Lovely.” He grins and I try not to stare at his teeth. “Have you decided yet if you’re a singer? That is why you were poking around the other day, yes?”

  “Well, sort of,” I begin, but don’t really know how to tell him why I want to play at his pub without betraying weirdo vibes. “My father used to play there, a long time ago.”

  He raises his bushy eyebrows and chuckles. “Is that right? Back when folks wanted to play there, I guess.”

  “Nigel!” George’s voice echoes through the empty store. Nigel and I both turn. George and Henry file out of the office. He makes a beeline for us as Henry goes to the cash register to pull out the till.

  “Well hello, my friend!” Nigel says, as they clasp hands and firmly shake. George looks down at the flyers and asks, “May I?” and then takes them from me.

  “I was just asking the young lady here if you could perhaps display these.”

  “Oh, I think we can handle that. Help me decide the best spot for them.” George slaps Nigel’s back and leads him to the door.

  I open my mouth to say the words. My father is Nate Bryant. Was. Nate Bryant. But the moment slips by.

  Nigel pauses at the door and looks back at me. He points a finger in my direction. “And I’ll see you later, isn’t that right?”

  This has to be a sign. Has to be.

  “Yes.” I give him a sincere smile. “I’ll see you later.”

  Chapter 15

  : Doctor Robert :

  ABOUT A YEAR after Pop’s death, I had the dream that made me desperate for England.

  In the two years since, I’ve dreamed the same one dozens of times, without a single variation. It begins with me sitting on the damp earth in a cool, shady graveyard. It’s sunset, and I’m staring at a headstone. Trees reach toward the ground with knobby, arthritic hands. Moss grows over the tombs.

  I’m alone but not afraid.

  Written on the headstone in front of me:

  Eleanor Rigby, beloved wife of Thomas Woods and granddaughter of the above, died October 10, 1939, aged 44 years, asleep.

  There are other names listed above hers, relatives that I could never quite see clearly in the dream. But when I looked up the actual photo of the grave (thank you, famousgraves.com), I was able to fill in the blanks. Though I’d never laid eyes on that headstone until I had the dream, it exists in real life in the church cemetery of St. Peter’s in Liverpool—the church where Paul McCartney met John Lennon.

  There are a string of coincidences, but here are the most significant: Eleanor Rigby shares a death date with Pop; he also died October 10, exactly seventy-nine years after her. Also in his sleep.

  In the dream, as I’m trying to make out the blurry words, Pop steps out from behind the headstone and smiles. Not in my periphery like in the other dreams, but head on. Face-to-face. He’s wearing his black button-up shirt, ripped jeans, and boots. His beard is neat, his hair is combed back like a windblown flame, and his eyes glisten with some fantastic secret he can’t wait to tell me. He kneels in front of me. We are finally together, he says, and then squeezes my shoulders.

  Every single time, no matter how hard I try to resist in the dream, I get so frightened by how real it feels that I shut my eyes. When I get the guts to open them again, he’s gone.

  There’s something about Eleanor Rigby—the woman or the song—that I’m supposed to know or understand. It leads the way to Pop. Now that I’m in London, things are slowly falling into place. The missing shoe at the airport. The dream about singing the song.

  If he isn’t in an urn at the bottom of the Thames, maybe he’s here. Tonight. And all of these clues were just leading me to this moment.

  A toilet flushes behind me and interrupts my epiphany.

  With Patrick’s guitar slung across my back, I lean in toward one of the tiny, dirty pub mirrors and apply a thick coat of the kohl eyeliner I bought at the drugstore on the way over. It isn’t really my style, but neither is singing in front of a crowd of strangers. I’m going for older, bolder me. I finish off the look with bright red lipstick.

  Sgt. Pepper’s Jo.

  A latch clicks and a girl exits the stall. She’s tall and dark-skinned, with natural hair and shimmery eye shadow. Her lips are glossed nude. It’s effortless beauty, like her makeup came standard with her face. She turns on the faucet and washes her hands.

  “Nice shade,” she says, eyeing the lipstick tube, and then the guitar. “Are you playing?”

  I smile and nod. She’s so pretty and put together that it has apparently rendered me mute. I try not to compare myself, but my reflection next to hers is inadequate. I look like I always do: like someone who is pretending.

  “See you out there.” She exits through the swinging door.

  Nobody has to know I’m pretending but me. I straighten my back and wade into the roaring cheer of the bar room. People fill the tables and barstools, but the open mic sign-up sheet fluttering on the end of the bar is empty. My hand shakes as I scrawl my name on the first line.

  The last time I did something this unhinged, there was no public humiliation involved. But humiliation just the same. I didn’t tell Lexie or Maddie I’d lost my virginity. I only told my psychiatrist, Dr. Robert Aufderheide. I think half the reason I ever trusted him in the first place was because he told me to call him Dr. Robert. (You know, like the song.) At the time, I thought this was a sign from Pop that I could trust the guy.

  When I confessed to Dr. Robert that I felt like I was riding a soaring wind—that lights were brighter and smells were stronger and everything that touched my skin felt like electricity so I finally let Dylan undress me—he diagnosed me with mania. He said it was brought on by my new medication. Then he changed my dosage, which made things a lot worse for a while. Go ahead and try to tell your boyfriend that sex was a one-time thing while your brain was on the fritz. Does not stop him from reminding you what’s done is done and hey, remember how good it feels, and you can’t bring yourself to tell him it stopped feeling good the moment you crossed the line. After that, I learned distance and damage control is the way to go. Also: don’t tell Dr. Robert everything.

  I wonder what Dr. Robert would think if he could see me now, waiting to sing in a bar I’m too young to be in. He’d tell me to practice mindfulness. To reconcile my ideals with reality, or some other bullshit that sounds good but doesn’t make any real sense. Good thing I don’t care what he thinks anymore.

  Chapter 16

  : You Won’t See Me :

  “THERE YOU ARE!” Nigel steps up to the bartop. “You’ve come after all!”

  His enthusiasm draws unwanted attention from the old guys perched on their stools. They turn to look at me, and then the Gibson. Do I look older than myself, with the black eyes and red lips? Or is it painfully obvious that I’m seventeen? I always feel so grown until I encounter actual grown people.

  I straighten the collar of my white thrift store dress. It has bell-shaped sleeves and stops halfway down my thigh. It’s more baptism than bar, now that I think about it. The scrutiny will only feel worse when I’m up on the stage.

  Nigel glances at the sign-up sheet, then at me again. “Bryant?” Recognition flickers in his tired eyes, like he’s just remembered our unfinished conversation from earlier. “As in Nate Bryant of Walrus Gumboot?”

  My heart grows wings and flies away. Nigel pulls me into a hug with no warning.

  “My darling girl, of course! I knew you looked familiar! I was so devastated to hear of your father’s passing.”

  I nod into his shoulder. His shirt smells like whiskey and old man cologne. When he releases me, I step back. His eyes glisten. “Nate was a dear friend.” He sniffles, composing himself. “Tell me, are the old Walrus Gumboot boys still playing together?”

  I shake my head. “Ronnie moved back to New York. We haven’t heard from Jim in a long time. Luka plays in a church band now. I gu
ess it wasn’t the same without Pop.”

  “No, no. Surely not.”

  We stand there for a minute in loaded silence until someone hollers his name from the kitchen door. “Ethan,” Nigel says to the bartender with a finger in the air, “this is Jo. Get her whatever she likes this evening. On the house.”

  Ethan nods as he mixes someone else’s drink.

  “Oh,” I reach for his sleeve. “No, you don’t have to—” I’m interrupted by more yells from the kitchen.

  “Nonsense!” He looks back at Ethan and nods. “Anything!” He turns to me then, “We’ll catch up more in a bit. Duty calls.”

  I wonder if I should tell the bartender I’m underage, even if it’s only by half a year. Legal drinking age here is eighteen. Ethan dries a glass with a towel and steps up to my spot at the bar.

  “What’ll it be, dear?”

  “Uhhh…” I glance up at the menu, shifting back and forth on my feet. Mixing alcohol with meds could land me in the emergency room, but I’ve been off them for over a week now, and I’ve just signed up to sing in front of a pub full of people. “I’ll have the Jameson.”

  Ethan gives me a funny look.

  “On the rocks,” I say. There. That sounds more official.

  I exhale and scan the room when he turns to make the drink. My soon-to-be audience is definitely older than me. Like a lot older. Mid-thirties, at least. But then I spot the girl from the bathroom at a table near the stage. Three guys sit next to her. My eyes stop on the third one.

  Henry lounges, his peacoat slung over the back of his chair. He’s dressed nicer than he does for work: dark jeans and an Oxford, untucked. He smiles as he talks animatedly with his friends. He must feel me staring at him because he looks up. I whirl around, positive he’s going to come over before he ever scoots his chair backwards.

  A quick estimate: twenty, thirty steps at most, and I could be out the door. Forget about this whole thing. Singing in front of a bar full of strangers is one thing; singing in front of the one person in London who doesn’t like me and repeatedly chastises my subpar guitar skills is quite another. Ethan sets my drink in front of me before I can remember how to move my legs. He sticks a skinny straw in the low, curvy glass and grins. “Enjoy.”

  The smell of it is enough to singe the cells inside my nose.

  “Bold choice,” Henry says, squeezing in next to me. I shrug but don’t look up at him. I study the perfect square ice cubes in my glass instead. He props his elbows on the bar and orders a pint of beer. Beer! Damn, I forgot about beer. I should’ve ordered that.

  “You come here a lot?” I cringe as soon as I say it because ugh, that sounded like a pick-up line from Lexie’s cowboy book. I wrap my lips around the straw and try to swallow it back down with a swig of the golden liquid.

  Scratch that. Fire. It’s actually liquid fire and my throat is on fire and my belly is on fire and the whole building is on fire. Since I’m a girl of southern graces, I flinch only on the inside.

  “Not really.” Henry’s smirk is audible. “But we didn’t want to miss your performance. I heard you tell Nigel. You’re singing, right?”

  “We?” I finally get the nerve to make eye contact. For once, he seems lighter. His eyes are glassy and bright, and his aura isn’t dark like it wants to smother me. “Is George here?” I briefly panic that he’ll see me drinking and tell my mother.

  “No. A few mates and me.” Then I notice the barely perceptible slur.

  Oh. He isn’t happy to see me. He’s buzzed.

  I glance past him at the table with his empty chair. His friends look away and pretend they weren’t watching us. One guy has round glasses and neat, gelled-to-his-scalp black hair. The other is short and stout with bleached curls. The beautiful girl from the bathroom seems out of place there, like she’s only settled for their company. But she smiles like she is unaware of it.

  Henry picks up his beer and takes a swig. “You ready for this?”

  I nod as if my brain isn’t screaming protests.

  “Let’s hope you sound better than you did the other night.” He nudges me and grins as he walks away. Effervescent nerves bubble up in my chest. I try to drown it with my drink as I watch him walk back to his table. Nigel’s voice on the microphone jars me out of my panic. Or pushes me further into it, I’m not sure.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, it’s the season’s inaugural open mic night tonight, and we have a few performers lined up to sing for you this evening.”

  Everyone claps and cheers. I glance over at the sheet. My name is still the only one on it. With one last gulp, I finish my drink.

  “Our first guest is a very special one. Some of you may remember a band that used to play here years ago, Walrus Gumboot.” A few cheers and whistles sound from the back. I scan the crowd, searching for these holdover fans of Pop’s. “Sadly, their founding member went to be with the saints too early in his life, and the band split up.” Nigel pauses for dramatic effect. “But tonight, I have here for you the daughter of that founding member. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Jo Bryant.”

  My body must’ve switched to autopilot, because I’m closing in on the stage, but I don’t feel like I’m the one working the gears. The current of cheers pushes me forward.

  My limbs hang at my sides, useless. Blue and purple track lights shine on me as I step onstage. Suddenly I’m aware of my silly white dress. My neck prickles with sweat. Why did I wear my hair up? I’m too exposed.

  The cheers and applause stop as the lights dim. All sound evaporates. I can’t see faces in the crowd because of the haze of the lights. Déjà vu clicks me into my place at the microphone stand. I close my eyes, find my center. Though my fingers feel like cold and clammy extensions of my body, they somehow find the frets and the guitar pick.

  I wait in vain for his voice to tell me to Play away.

  A million eternities stretch on, and then the chords bleed warm over the cold silence of the room. My lip touches the microphone. Slowly, I smile around the opening line.

  It goes well for one perfect moment.

  My fingers stumble and play the wrong chord. Panic rises like the smoke from my dream. That’s another difference: there’s no smoke in this bar. I push away the nagging feeling and sing through it. My lips stay on task, but my fingers search, search, search for the tempo. I could look up at the crowd, but it doesn’t feel right. Not yet.

  I finish the first verse, but the guitar is too far off to recover. I slide my right hand down the neck of the guitar, place my left hand over the strings and press until they sting silent against my palm. Then I sing without the music. The lights above me change and shift.

  Cheers and whistles filter through the bubble I’ve created. It sounds better without the guitar. But it also sounds worse, because the déjà vu becomes water in my hands.

  I look up, past the haze.

  As my pupils constrict and adjust to the captive crowd, I’m drawn to one spot. Condensation slides down a beer glass. A hand reaches for it, but there’s no tattoo. There’s only a purple aura. I search behind him. Beside him. Around the bar. To the back corners of the room. There’s no overlay of images, dream to reality. It’s gone.

  Nigel told the entire room he was dead; why would he suddenly appear? A stabbing sensation pierces the skin between my shoulder blades. I understand the sensation, but it’s like it’s happening to somebody else. Somehow I finish the song. Everyone cheers. Henry and his friends, especially.

  I take a mental snapshot. Caption: pity party, table of 4

  They’re only applauding because I’m Nate Bryant’s daughter. Because of that intro by Nigel. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I wasn’t here for them. I was here for Pop.

  I step past the microphone to exit the stage. Nigel says something like Beautiful, darling, into the microphone and thanks me, but I barely hear him. The path of least resistance to the door is just past Henry’s table, but...

  An empty chair slides out in front of me, blocking my way and nearly
tripping me.

  The rubber toe of a green Chuck Taylor props on the chair edge. I follow the line of his leg all the way up the body attached to it, stopping when I get to his face. The corner of his mouth twitches.

  “You trying to trip me?” The lump in my throat spreads. Henry’s friends watch me carefully, maybe with a tiny bit of suspicion. Henry, though? The look on his face doesn’t contain even a hint of malice. He isn’t closed off like usual. Open body language, smirky smile, dimples on display. Aura brightest lavender. Sincere.

  “Maybe.” He shrugs. “Join us?”

  Chapter 17

  : If I Needed Someone :

  EVEN SITTING, I’M dizzy.

  “Zara,” the girl says, as she reaches across the table and shakes my hand. Very formally. I wonder if Henry told her that’s the way I greet people after the airport disaster. “We met in the bathroom.”

  The guy with the bleached curls lets out a wolf whistle. “Bathroom, eh?”

  “That’s Mons.” Henry slurs a little, pointing at the whistler.

  “Calvin Edward Monson the third, as a matter of fact.” Mons reaches across the table and yanks my hand to his mouth. He plants a sloppy kiss on my knuckle before I can retract my arm.

  “Sanjay.” The one in glasses grins and gives me a little salute. “Henry sings your praises.”

  My praises? I give him a questioning look.

  “You’re a rotten guitarist, though,” Henry adds.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Sanjay says. “Can’t bother with him when he’s imbibing.”

  “Or any time, really,” I mumble.

  They all laugh, even Henry.

  “You were right, she’s feisty,” Mons says to Henry. I shift in my seat, wondering what else he said. Hypothetically. If I cared.

  “I’ve got the next round,” Sanjay says as the next guy on stage bumbles about his original song and prepares to sing. “What’ll you have?”