by Amber Foxx
“Nice wheels,” she said. “No wonder you like your car.”
“Thank you. 1955 Dodge Coronet.”
“You wouldn’t drive this all the way to Norfolk, would you?”
“I really do drive it. It’s not just for show. I had the interior updated a little so I could have a CD player for my bad country songs and my Greek music. My ‘old country’ songs. But you’re right, I wouldn’t take it across the country. I would pay for gas, in your—I presume—more suitable car, and take turns driving.”
She had a reliable, efficient little Ford Focus. Hubert had used to take care of it. She pushed him out of her thoughts again. “That would work—if we decide to do it.”
Stamos unlocked the Coronet, opened Mae’s door for her, waited until she was in and closed it for her. A gentleman. As he drove out of the campus toward the highway, he asked for her preferences in places to eat and put in some music. Country—and it wasn’t bad. A promising sign if they were going to share a long trip. No arguments about what to listen to.
“You know where we’re going,” she said, “so you decide. I haven’t been out to dinner forever, so I’d be happy with any place, fancy or plain.”
“I’m surprised. What do you do on your Saturday nights? Study?”
“I do. Or read, or hang out with my neighbors or with Daddy and his partner. I haven’t had a date.”
“At all?”
“Well, there was this guy in Santa Fe, son of some friends of Daddy’s, that took an interest, but I wouldn’t call what we did dating. He wanted it to be, but it wasn’t.” Jamie Ellerbee had been a strange phenomenon, how he’d latched onto her in that innocent, crazy way of his. “I was only up there for a few days in August, cleaning up Daddy’s rental place for a new tenant, and this guy ... kinda stuck to me. We haven’t kept in touch.”
“Just as well, it sounds. It’s very uncomfortable when the attraction isn’t mutual.”
“It sure is.” It had been especially hard because she liked Jamie so much. She’d had to reject a friend. “I’m not ready for anyone falling in love at first sight.”
Stamos turned down the music. “Only at first sight?”
She wasn’t sure how to answer that. Was she ready for something to develop? “Yeah. I reckon I might be ready for love at tenth or fifteenth sight—” No. It was the fourteenth week of the semester. She’d seen Stamos a lot more than fifteen times already. “Or hundredth.”
Her answer sounded awkward to her ears, but Stamos looked pleased with it, as if she’d said exactly the right thing.
After an elegant dinner at a restaurant on the Mesilla plaza, Mae and Stamos admired the cathedral and strolled through side streets, exploring without any aim other than to enjoy each other’s company and the architecture of the old Spanish town. They were comfortable enough not to talk constantly, and Mae found it refreshing and peaceful, an ideal first date.
Jamie had never shut up. He’d been funny, or distressing, depending which way his random mind bounced, but even when he was entertaining he’d been exhausting. Stamos was relaxing to be around and yet sexy enough to give a little edge to his presence.
As they walked, Mae felt a puzzling urge to slip her arm around Stamos, as if she knew him well enough to do that. She didn’t, and her conscious mind didn’t even want to do it. Where did the urge come from? She looked at him, and the cause clicked into place. He was a type, stamped from a certain mold: solid, strong, stable, soft-spoken, smart and fond of cars. An older and Greeker Hubert. No wonder she felt so at ease.
At the bottom of a hill, they came to a long, low adobe building with a hot pink door. The brightly painted logo above the door displayed the odd name of Snake Face in dizzying dotted letters. A sign advertising Live Music Tonight stood on the sidewalk by the door. No music could be heard at the moment. Either it was very quiet, or the band was on a break.
“Shall we see what they have?” Stamos asked. “It looks like an interesting little place.”
“I’m game.”
Stamos pushed open the heavy wooden door, and as soon as they entered, Mae froze. At any other time this surprise might have made her happy, but not on her first date with Stamos. The timing couldn’t have been worse. She wished they could turn around and go back out, but it was too late. Jamie had seen her.
Chapter Two
Onstage, the tall black man with a cloud of incongruously blond hair broke off his ice-breaking warm-up chatter to his audience, slammed his hand to his heart, and staggered back a step as if the sight of Mae had dealt him a blow so hard it could knock him over. “Sorry.” He spoke to his listeners without looking away from Mae. “Redhead.” An exhalation that tried to be a laugh. “They do that to me.”
The sound of that bright tenor voice and Australian accent opened up a burst of feelings in her. If only we could have been friends. Jamie gazed at Mae. His huge dark eyes looked so stunned and overwhelmed she wondered if he would ever move. Then he smiled, that face-splitting sunburst of a smile, gold tooth just left of center. “F—” he cut off the word just in time. “Where was I?”
A man at front table prompted, “A string walks into a bar.”
“Yeah. Right. A string—well, no, it crawls into a bar.”
At least if Jamie had to make a scene, so far he’d chosen comedy. If he’d been in the middle of a song rather than a joke, what would he have done? Forgotten the words? Made up a line about her? The bar should have put his name on the sign. Live music tonight. Jangarrai. Mae could have explained to Stamos, That’s Jamie Ellerbee, the man I told you about. This could be uncomfortable. She would have struggled with the decision to avoid Jamie, but she’d have made it, and spared them both this moment.
The small place was packed, and Stamos pulled out chairs at the only empty table, near the back. He kept his voice low. “Does he know you?”
“Yeah.” They sat, and a waitress approached. “That guy I told you about in Santa Fe? This is him.”
Jamie rippled his spine in an inch-worm-like movement and took long, liquid steps, portraying the string weakly slithering onto the stool onstage. The audience laughed. Even when his jokes weren’t funny, he was.
Stamos asked the waitress to hold on a moment, and said to Mae, “Should we leave, then?”
“No, that’d be rude. Anyway, he’s a great singer, and he has to see I’m with you. We’ll be all right.”
She hoped this was true. They ordered drinks and turned their attention to Jamie.
“And the bartender says, ‘We don’t serve strings here.’ So the string slinks back out into the street.” Jamie slunk with a slouching, sliding walk as if he had no bones. A trained dancer, actor, and opera singer, he could have been a lot more than this small-time act, and it showed in his larger-than-life performance even while telling a joke. “And it comes back, and props up on the bar.” He resumed his place on the stool and leaned on an imaginary bar, as limp as a piece of string. “And it says, ‘Give me some grog, mate.’ And the bartender says, ‘I told you, we don’t serve strings here.’ ”
He looked good, his square-jawed face filled out, not so hollow, no longer the starved-skinny man she’d left in August. Probably recovered his “perfect-one-seventy-five,” or a little past it. His was not an intentionally sculpted body like Stamos’s, but still attractive—broad shouldered, long-limbed, and graceful.
“So the string slinks back out.” Off the stool, shuffling, head drooping, Jamie acted the dejected string. “And then it gets an idea.” He lit up with a burst of energy, increasing the speed of his speech and his movements. “It ties itself up.” He wrapped his arms across each other at the elbows and wrists and entangled his legs. “Unravels a bit—” He mussed his already unruly collar-length hair while keeping his arms in a twist. “And it slips right up and ...” Still tangled, he perched on the stool again, this time energetically. “And looks the bartender in the eye,” which he did, fluttering his long lashes and making the bartender across the room crack a smile, “a
nd orders a drink. And the bartender says, aren’t you that string? It says, ‘No, I’m a frayed knot.’ ”
Groans and laughter met the punch line. A lone voice slow on the uptake muttered, “I’m afraid not,” followed by a guffaw. Jamie bowed. “Thanks. Hope you’ve enjoyed the show.” He started to leave the stage. “Sorry, that was the beginning, wasn’t it?” He let out a loud laugh with a snort in it, and then went though some multi-step internal process, expressions shifting with passing thoughts while he looked over his instruments—several flutes on a small table, an enormous didgeridoo in a carved wooden stand, and a variety of hand drums. He selected a drum and slung its strap across his body. “All right. Ready. Sorry. Had to think.”
Stamos glanced at Mae with a quizzical expression. “Your friend is ...” He seemed to search for words. “Somewhat unusual. Is that all part of his act?”
Mae’s first impression of Jamie had been similar. She’d thought he must look strange on purpose, an expression of some sort of conceit. “Not really. Aboriginal people start out blond as little kids and their hair turns dark when they grow up. Except his didn’t. He’s kind of embarrassed about it— he didn’t dye it or anything. He doesn’t have the gold tooth on purpose either. He broke his tooth in India as a kid—his Dad traveled a lot, he’s an anthropologist—and Jamie had to get a gold tooth, ’cause that was all they did in that village.”
“You know him well. I meant how he acts rather than how he looks, though that is also unusual.”
Stamos wasn’t jealous, was he? Mae hoped not. It would spoil her idea of him as a secure, confident man. Jamie was no cause for jealousy. It would be harder to explain his personality than his appearance, but in both cases, he was simply being himself.
Jamie began singing before she could say any more.
“I feel ... so good, I feel so—o good.”
He tossed his head back, eyes closed with a look of ecstasy, letting the words fly out loud and strong.
“I feel so good that I ... can’t stand it.”
Words stretched out as his voice soared through multiple octaves, resonant and passionate. He played with the same simple lyric through melodic and rhythmic variations, the pauses between the words filled with elaborate drumming patterns. Mae had heard him before, yet he still swept her away. She glanced at Stamos and was happy to see that he looked impressed. The whole audience, she suspected, might feel as if their hair had been blown back and their hearts let out of a cage.
Through the set that followed, Jamie alternated fiery songs accompanied by the drums with sweet and sad flute solos, drones and rhythmic explorations on didgeridoo, and a cappella love songs. He built to a climax with a long, wild improvisation where he gave the dancing members of the audience patterns to clap and stomp and steps to dance, and taught those willing to sing a line to chant. While the audience kept up the beat, he switched between singing, dancing, and drumming, transforming the bar into a cross between a frenetic shamanic ceremony and a party.
Taking a breathless bow at the end, Jamie applauded his audience and announced, “Taking a break. CDs for sale at the bar. Buy up, drink up. Catcha.” He jumped down from the stage, snagged a server to order something, and hurried toward Mae’s table.
Stamos said, “I am happy to meet him, but will he be a problem for you?”
“I hope not. I’m gonna try and see if he can handle being friends.”
Jamie swept in on them, arms open for a hug, and then stood by their table, suddenly awkward. Had he just now registered the fact that Mae was on a date? His hands moved, as if he hoped to find words in the air, and then he shoved them into the pockets of his jeans. Not a sound came out of him. Those baby seal eyes and that anxious smile sucked Mae in. She couldn’t help it. She had to rescue him.
“Hey, Jamie. I had no idea we’d see you. This is a surprise.”
His smile changed to a frown. “So you didn’t plan—fuck—you didn’t mean to—” He stepped back, the frown going all the way to a scowl. “Sorry to bother you. Thought you might have come here on purpose. Wanted to see me.”
Before Mae could say anything, Jamie stalked off, and the waitress bringing him a beer had to change directions and follow him.
“The sensitive singer-songwriter.” Stamos shook his head slowly. “Did that answer your question about being friends?”
“I’d better talk to him. He is kind of sensitive.”
Stamos’s voice and expression softened. “There you go, taking care of someone.” He laid his hand lightly on hers. “You’re being kinder than he deserves. He was rude to you.”
“Sorry. I reckon he was. But he can be nice, too. I won’t be long.”
Mae joined Jamie at the end of the bar near a collection of wildly colored wood carvings displayed in niches along the walls, creatures such as a turquoise-and-yellow two-headed winged deer that breathed fire, and a lizard with starbursts of rainbow dots on its flame-red body. Among them she discovered the source of the Snake Face name, a crudely carved wild-eyed little man with an old-fashioned frock coat and disorderly straw hair, a thin stick in his upraised hand. One side of his face was hot pink, the other livid green. His snaggle-toothed mouth gaped and his eyes crossed in horror at a spotted yellow snake crawling down his nose.
“Great Mexican nightmare art,” Jamie said, avoiding Mae’s eyes as she sat beside him. “I like the snake face bloke, y’know? Fighting ’em off as best he can.” He raised a toast to the little madman, drank, and looked down at his hands. “Bloody awful, isn’t it?” He fidgeted with his bottle, tapping it and turning it. “You’re on a date and you meet me. Sorry. Bloke seems decent.”
“He is.” Mae felt a need to introduce him, even if absent. “Stamos has a Pilates studio here in Las Cruces. We’re in some classes together at Rio Grande.”
“College. Jeezus, what’s the matter with me? Should have asked.” Jamie leaned toward her, intense and curious, his embarrassed withdrawal vanishing. “School—that’s exciting for you. How’s it going?”
“It’s good. I like it.” The conversation felt stiff and trivial on the surface, but underneath the words Mae sensed currents of reconnection. “How are you?”
“Fighting ’em off as best I can.” He grinned, and imitated the snake face man, holding up an invisible stick and staring cross-eyed at his unseen snake. “Not bad.” He dropped the act and toyed with the bottle again. “I’m on tour.”
The idea of him traveling alone startled and worried her. He’d never toured before and had seemed to fear it. “By yourself?”
“Nah. Got a cat.” A sudden burst of enthusiasm. “Want to meet him?”
“Not right now. Wait, you’re taking a cat on your tour?”
“Yeah. He’s in the van.” As usual, Jamie didn’t seem to realize how eccentric he was. “Good company. Don’t worry, I’m fine. Wendy says it’s the only way to make a living, gotta tour, get a national following.” Mae recognized the name of Wendy Huang, the inexperienced novice manager he’d signed with last time she saw him. “Wants me to do bigger venues next time, go up north in the summer. This is like—practice, y’know? Small places in big cities, some sort of marketing strategy. She understands it, I don’t. Agh—I’m yabbering. Sorry.” Jamie looked into Mae’s eyes and sighed. “It’s so good to see you. Jeezus. Dunno what to say. Are you happy to see me? Even if it was an accident and fucked up your date?”
“It didn’t—” She stopped short of repeating the F-word. “It didn’t mess up my date. We’re enjoying your music a lot. And of course I’m happy to see you, sugar. I’d like us to be friends.”
He mimed a knife into his heart and twisted it. “Friends.”
“Jamie—” She’d seen the scars from the harm he’d once done himself. “That’s not funny.”
“Joke, love, come on. It’s a joke.”
“The string was better.” A long silence fell between them. Jamie drank, and Mae studied the brave little snake face man, fighting off his demons with his feeble stick. �
�I want you to be well and happy. Is being friends with me too hard for you?”
“Dunno.” He gazed across the room a long time. “Do I look all right?”
The non sequitur baffled Mae. Did he think she thought he looked unhappy? He was so up-and-down she couldn’t judge. “What do you mean?
“Your friend over there is bloody perfect. Jesus. Am I—better than I was? Worse? What?”
She realized he meant his physical self, not his mental health. “You look great. I noticed. I should have said something.”
“I get this fucking inch, though, y’know?” He grabbed anxiously at his waist. The moment was so typically Jamie it struck her as funny, but knowing that he was perfectly serious, Mae managed not to laugh. She could tell he saw her amusement anyway. “It bothers me.”
“It’s normal.”
“Bloody hell, something about me’s normal. About time.” He grinned and rose, picked up his beer and chugged the rest of it down, resulting in a deafening belch. “Sorry. Shoot me.” Jamie made an erasing gesture across his face and his belly. “Come on, meet the cat. Gotta check on him.”
“Okay, but I can’t take too long.”
Mae waved at Stamos, and held up her hand, fingers spread, mouthing the words, “Five minutes.” His patient smile and nod reassured her. Not jealous.
Jamie still hadn’t said if he could handle being friends, or if he even intended to try—as good at evasion as ever. Mae wanted to make sure of how he felt, and depending on the answer, she might say goodnight to him now. She wouldn’t want to stay for the whole show if she and Jamie made each other too uncomfortable.
Leading Mae through the bar and down a short hallway to an exit marked Employees Only, Jamie said with confidential seriousness, “I’m better, y’know. I really am. Oh—fuck—Jeeezus!” He bolted against the opposite wall, staring in terror at the ceiling above Mae’s head. She looked up. A small, slim-bodied spider clung to an old, dusty web, apparently dead. “Except for that.”