by Amber Foxx
It was after midnight when she dropped Stamos at his family’s dark house in Norfolk’s Ocean View neighborhood. He declined any help with his luggage, but asked her to roll down the window for a chaste, gentlemanly kiss. With renewed fondness for him, she felt bad about leaving him with his dramatic family in the dark and cold, and yet at the same time relieved to let him go. After seven and a half months of being single, she was no longer accustomed to the constant presence of another person. Even during her four days in Santa Fe under romantic and neurotic siege from Jamie, she had not had so much prolonged companionship as she’d had in these two long days in the car with Stamos. He needed less attention and care than Jamie, but he still required her energy in some way just by being there.
Suitcase in hand, Stamos gave Mae a glance of mock horror as a stout elderly woman with dyed black hair came rushing out in her bathrobe, arms open, crying his name as if he’d been lost at sea. “Hurry,” he whispered. “Escape.”
Charmed and grateful, Mae waved and drove off. She didn’t need to meet his mother in the middle of the night in a power outage. Some other time, if the relationship got that far.
The detours around the drowned intersections, complicated by the network of one-way streets in Ghent, made the trip take twice as long as it normally would, and Mae arrived at Pamela’s enormous old Victorian house almost forty minutes later. According to the note Pamela had put in the porch mailbox with the key, Andy was away being “hero and martyr” at his hotels. The note also told Mae to “Pick a room upstairs, there are three, and take your shoes off. Our room is downstairs in the back, and I don’t want to hear you. Workout at 5:30 a.m. Kidding.”
Mae had formerly had four sessions a week at that hour of the morning with Pamela. She might not mean to work out that early tomorrow, but Mae knew her hostess would be up and about, and judgmental of sleeping in as some kind of weakness. The sooner Mae could unwind and get to bed the better.
The tail end of the storm weakened to drizzle as Mae unloaded her suitcases and carried them as soundlessly as possible up the broad stairs. Falling back on the king-sized bed, she felt as if she were still in a moving car, and couldn’t quite relax. She wished she was in Arnie’s trailer house in Cauwetska. He was so easy to be with. Her stepfather’s company was almost as peaceful as being alone. This house would be nothing like that.
Stamos had taken it well that she preferred electricity and Jamie to being immersed in the colorful Tsitouris family in the dark. No jealousy. A good sign. Now that she was in this warm, well-lit house, she wondered what she had let herself in for.
She rose, unpacked enough for two or three nights, and tiptoed down the hall for a shower. Jamie’s long list of fears included sharing bathrooms. She could predict far too much about him, and had an uninvited image of him coming out the door, waving her off, shouting, “Fuck, don’t go in there, you’ll die.” He’d be terrified of anything embarrassing, and then call attention to it. He’d probably sing opera in the shower. Mae noticed an expensive digital scale as she hung up her robe. No doubt Jamie would weigh himself and make some noise and drama about the inch. That would all be okay, even kind of funny, as long as the scenes he made weren’t love scenes.
Mae had thawed a little toward Stamos again. She had a date with him—to see Jamie—and not, she hoped, to put another gold star on Stamos’s martyr card.
After her shower, she got into bed and checked her messages. Two from Jamie. His Richmond audience had been small—fifteen people who came out in the aftermath of the storm—but he said he loved every one of them. A picture of his entire audience, arms around each other’s shoulders, grinning and raising toasts, was the second message.
He must have made it worth their while, giving as much as he would give to a hundred people, even though he’d probably lost money. She hoped Wendy could find a way to publicize this; it would help sell Jamie’s music. He couldn’t profit from such a small audience other than emotionally. A group so small he could be sure there was no Sylvie.
She must have followed the van, but she’d be back, probably in Norfolk. Mae would have to keep an eye out for her. No, that was ridiculous. Constantly watching the door, confronting every short little woman who came in. It would ruin the concert as well as the date. She didn’t know what Sylvie looked like other than Jamie’s insisting his stalker resembled a weasel.
Mae texted a reply to his call, in case he was actually asleep. Glad you had fun in Richmond. See you in Norfolk. This would excite him too much. Going to your show with Stamos. This would make him mutter about the bloody perfect Greek, but it would keep his hopes down. No power in Cauwetska. Pamela is former training client. Real coincidence, staying with her. Not stalking you. This would make him laugh. Unfortunately, it could also get his hopes back up again.
Chapter Sixteen
Spirit Body: Art, Music, and Wearable Art from Around the World. Under the flowing script with the store’s name on the glass door, Jamie saw the poster for his concert. His music would fit beautifully in this place. The display window on one side showed Northwest Coast masks—the anthropologist’s son recognized Haida and Tlingit—and a huge jade Buddha atop an antique chest with Peruvian weavings spilling out of its drawers. The other window displayed drums and cedar flutes on a bed of deerskin. Upstairs the lights glowed, while the downstairs was dimly lit. He’d barely made it on time, with only an hour to get ready.
While he’d been lost he’d called Pamela. She’d given him directions he couldn’t follow and told him sales were good in spite of the storm, or maybe even because of it since Spirit Body had power. It gave him hope. After the small show in Richmond, the missed night in Memphis, the petty expenses caused by the thief, and even the gas wasted on getting lost, he needed this show to sell out. And Mae was coming. He wanted her to see him at his best, playing to a full house.
A small person waiting inside startled him as she moved in the shadows to unlock the door. Got to stop thinking all short people are Sylvie. This short person had carrot-sized dreadlocks bouncing around her head.
“Hi, I’m Cynthia. Pamela is setting up upstairs.” A petite young black woman in a bright striped African-looking dress stepped aside, let him in, and then relocked the door. She looked quizzically at what he carried—his backpack and his thrift shop bag. “How are you?
“Buggered.”
“That was a long drive. So many roads out, and all those detours.”
“Yeah—got lost about fifty times, even right in Norfolk.” It had rattled him badly, making him long for Gasser’s comforting presence, but he didn’t want this cheerful young woman to know that. He put on his best smile. “But I made it.”
“Pamela said you called. You haven’t been to her house yet?”
“Nah. Ran out of time. I need to get into clean clothes. Spilled half my lunch on these and they stink.”
With a twitch of her lips that suggested she agreed, Cynthia led the way through the store, past a display of Jangarrai CDs on the main counter near some Native American jewelry. In a hallway beyond racks of East Indian clothing she unlocked an office. “You can get changed in here. Try to keep it neat, though, I’m a little fussy about my space.”
“Yeah—neat. Of course. I’m not a slob, really, y’know, just spilled lunch.” Aboriginal dot art on the office walls grabbed his attention. Paintings on bark, the real thing. Dreamtime landscapes. “Jesus. Do you sell those?”
“We haven’t had any for sale lately. I bought those two when we first opened the shop. The gallery is all India right now. We might do Australia again, though. Once you get dressed you can have free run of the music room and try things out, borrow the best. Help yourself to anything you want in my fridge, too—I’ve got fruit, iced tea ... Not much, but don’t be shy.”
“Thanks.”
She left, closing the door. Jamie stripped off his feeling of grubbiness and confinement from the drive along with his clothes and gazed at the dot art. The abstract aerial views of rivers and mount
ains filled with hidden stories triggered something in him, but it wasn’t homesickness. He felt that for Santa Fe. The art made him want to feel more longing for his roots, but he was rootless. He had lived so many places for the first half of his life he was from nowhere. He didn’t have tribal initiation scars, but life scars. Death-wish scars.
With a glance of dismay at his body, he dumped out the last clean set of thrift shop clothes from the bag. A long-sleeved black T-shirt and faded black jeans. What had he been thinking when he bought this crap? All black? That wasn’t his style. He not only hadn’t tried it on, he’d hardly even looked at it. So much for Mae seeing him at his best. Unfolded, the shirt bore a skull and crossbones Pirate Rum logo. What an ugly shirt.
Worse, it was snug, the sleeves so tight he couldn’t move his arms properly. And the pants barely fastened. Either the thrift shop size racks were a mess, or his body was. One more irritant after being lost, cooped up in the car for nine hours that should have been three. He felt bound and restricted, his body a stiff, aching, bloated misery from the whole bloody tour as well as this day—and now these clothes. Irrational anger surged and he took it out on his discarded shirt and pants, flinging them across the room. Unsatisfying, throwing soft stuff. No impact, nothing hit.
In a frustrated funk and semi-rage, Jamie strode from the office barefoot, and found the music room. Rough brown stucco formed cave-like walls decorated with reproductions of Kokopelli flute-player petroglyphs, white handprints and spirals, and Wandjina figures, the ghostly Aboriginal spirit images. Rocks the size of end tables served as display surfaces. On one lay American Indian cedar flutes; and on another, several small didgeridoos. A tall didg like the one he’d lost, but narrower, leaned against the wall. Drums sat on the floor and on other rocks, and on the cave-wall stucco shelves were rain sticks, rattles, padded drum beaters, and African thumb pianos, filling out the attempt at indigenous atmosphere.
He tested a few drums, playing them in sequence, listening to how their tones worked with each other, and set aside two he could use. The didgeridoos were all disappointing. Tourist trade crap. The small ones sounded like the annoying vibration in the van’s speakers when it rained. With some work, he could coax a tolerable sound from the one big one. It almost felt good to play didg again. The circular breathing and the rhythm would calm him if only the clothes didn’t get in the way, binding and cutting in on his breath.
He set the didg down. It was all so maddening, he wanted to shout, but he couldn’t. If there was one thing he didn’t do, no matter how out of control he felt, it was abuse his voice. Kneeling and beating a pounding rhythm on the smaller drum, he let out a long, loud, but perfectly pitched “Aaaaaaahhh!” Better. Another wail, another drumming explosion. The wail took on a chanting semi-tune. “Ahh—ahh-ehh-ehh-ahehaheh.” The mood he was in, he wanted to do the whole bloody show like this. Howl. Like a well-trained tenor, but howl.
Cynthia’s voice drifted from upstairs. “Is that your warm-up?”
Jamie sat on the wooden stool in the space designated as the stage while Cynthia experimented with lighting. He’d see people, even when she dimmed the lights. The seats, crowding close to him, were cushions on the floor except for a ring of folding chairs along the wall near the sculptures of Hindu gods and of extraordinary godlike animals. He could try to look past everyone to the art, but he’d be drawn to Mae’s face. He’d see her with that perfect Greek and see their reactions to the bad didg and the awful clothes.
The pants felt worse sitting. Jamie stood. “Fuck. Put me in the dark and light them.”
“You look a little tense,” Cynthia said. “What’s going on?”
Tearing his hat off, trying to drag his fingers through his knotted hair, he paced across the room to a sculpture of writhing squiggles. No, snakes. Some kind of reptilian cluster-fuck. He stared, revolted but compelled. “Bloody fucking everything. Jesus.” How could this show win Mae?
“You need to check the acoust—”
“Jesus. I know.” The granite snake-fest looked like it was falling into a hole behind it in the wall, but there was no hole. It was his vision narrowing. Panic attack warning sign. “I need to check the bloody acoustics so I can play that bloody tourist crap didg.”
“Is it that bad?”
His head felt full of bats’ wings, a whole swarm of them rising from inside. He slowed and deepened his breath but it made the ill-fitting clothes more aggravating. “Nah. Sorry I snapped. It’s me. My fucking clothes.”
The click of high heels approached up the stairs. A platinum blonde woman came up, carrying a huge yellow gift bag three times the size of the previous ones. “Somebody left you a present.” She had a Southern accent like candy-coated steel. He recognized the voice from their phone calls. Pamela. “It was on the door when I got here.”
That could hold a lot of chocolate. “Bloody hell—I don’t need whatever’s in there.”
She approached with a hip-swinging walk, the way Sylvie tried to walk but failed. Pamela had hips worth swinging. She was built like Mae, strikingly tall and strong and curvy. “You need the hat. Goes with your outfit better than that brown thing.”
Jamie touched his fedora. He felt strangely threatened by the idea of anyone taking his hat. “This one stays on well. I like it. Keeps my hair from exploding.”
“So will this, if it fits.”
He took the bag. Inside it sat a black Western hat, a single yellow rose in a little test-tube-like water-holder, and below that a nest of individually wrapped brownies with a note. No doubt it assured him they were vegan.
“Try it on.”
Jamie picked up the hat as if it could bite. Sylvie called him cowboy. “Not my style, y’know? And I don’t need to match these clothes. I need some that fit.”
“So why aren’t you wearing them?”
He explained about the theft and the thrift shop, and not trying things on.
“That was silly. Things in a thrift shop have shrunk.” Pamela looked him over critically. “You do look a little crammed there. We’re out of time to bring you something else. I’d loan you my husband’s clothes, but he’s six foot four and built like a beanpole. And Cynthia’s boyfriend is the other way around.” Pamela stepped in close and inspected Jamie. “Cynthia, bring me some scissors and that Navajo belt.”
“And could you get rid of this crap?” Holding the hat, Jamie handed the assistant the bag of brownies as she passed. “Thanks. In case it’s me and not the clothes, y’know?”
Cynthia took the bag and looked inside. “Wow. That’s a load of brownies. With the Yellow Rose of Texas and a cowboy hat. What’s that all about?”
“Jeezus. Wish I knew. Just throw it out.”
She returned with scissors and a fancy tooled leather belt studded all around with silver conchos with turquoise centers. Pamela yanked its price tag off and stuck it in her bra. “One thousand one hundred and fifty dollars. Handcrafted. Maybe someone will want to buy it after the show. Good way to advertise it.” She waggled it at Jamie. “Well, go on.”
He unbuttoned the tight jeans and put the belt on to hold them in place a little looser and lower. It felt good to breathe, but bad to wear the belt below the beginning of a gut. “Thanks.” Pamela startled him by taking scissors to a sleeve of the shirt and slicing. “Bloody hell, what are you doing?”
She stopped. “Take it off. I can do this better without you in it.” He hesitated. She gestured impatient circles with the scissors. “Go on—take it off, what are you waiting for? It’s binding, shows all the sweat in your armpits. That’s not attractive.”
He turned his back and handed her the shirt without looking. “Neither is this.”
“Fishing for compliments? Because I could give you some.” Snip. Scissors attacked the last clean shirt. “Mind you, that’s one heck of an ugly scar, but it makes you interesting. How’d you do that?”
“Rock climbing. Tore it up, broke my humerus. Shattered it, really.”
“Ow. But I was right,
it makes you interesting.” Snip. “I’m not flirting, by the way, I’m marketing. You’re gonna look sharp when I’m done with you. Show you off.”
Look sharp? He looked down at the inch. Funny, all he saw was that flaw. Heading for an inch and a half. Maybe more like three. No, it couldn’t be that much in that short a time.
“Here.” Pamela walked up behind him and placed the trimmed shirt on his shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re that shy.”
She intimidated him in a way the clerk at the Raleigh hotel hadn’t. Relieved to cover up, he pulled the Pirate Rum shirt back on and tucked it in. She’d cut out the sleeves completely, and widened the armholes with a long slit that made the fit looser through the torso. He turned to face her, moving his arms around. “Jesus, thanks. That’s great.”
Pamela picked up both hats from the floor and offered him the black cowboy hat. “Put it on.” She made a face at his soft, mouse-brown fedora. “It’s a lot sexier than this silly thing. And it matches your outfit.”
He snatched his favorite winter hat back. “I’m not trying to look sexy.”
“You are tonight.” She placed the black hat on his head, adjusted its angle, studied him, and smiled. “That is hot. The man in black. The pirate cowboy.”
Cynthia got on her knees and held up her cell phone aimed as a camera. “Turn your head a little. Step back. I’m trying to get you without the feet. Barefoot doesn’t quite work.” Annoyed, Jamie obeyed. He wanted to get this over with and get back to the sound check and warming up. She snapped a picture, and then another. “We should send this to Wendy for your web site. Got that New Mexico look.”
Pamela frowned. “Where the heck are your shoes? I hope you don’t wear white sneakers.”
“I wear socks with sandals,” Jamie snapped. “Is that better?”
“Well, go put them on, without the socks—”
“I need to warm up and see what I can do without a fucking sound system here. You care that much how I look, get my fucking shoes for me.”