Chasing Kane

by Andrea Randall

  “For when?” she demanded. “Texting later? A late-night phone call?”

  I leaned forward, rubbing my hands over my face. If she pushed much more, I wouldn’t be able to hold it in.

  “And,” she interrupted my screaming thoughts, “I figured a baby was kind of for both of us.” She misinterpreted my angry silence.

  “It is,” I said, exhaling in defeat. “I’m just … I can’t force myself to be in the mood every time the calendar says I should be. I’m tired and upset. What do you want me to do?”

  She turned her head slowly to me, sucking in her top lip. “Nothing. I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do—like sleeping with your wife.”

  I pressed my lips together. “Georgia, don’t start. This isn’t about not desiring you.” I threw the covers off me and slid out of bed. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  “Yeah, you go do that,” she snapped back.

  Grabbing the large coffee off the table, I took it with me into the bathroom. “Thanks for the coffee,” I mumbled before shutting the door behind me.

  Georgia wasn’t able to stay for a show, since our first one wasn’t until tomorrow night, and I didn’t have enough room on my watch to bring her to the airport this time, so we had to say our goodbyes in front of the hotel.

  “I love you, so much,” I said, breathing in her scent before she entered the cab. “I do.”

  Her response was a cold silence.

  “Georgia, I don’t want to leave things like this.”

  She shrugged, looking up at me sympathetically. “We might have to.”

  I frowned, gripping the tip of her chin between my thumb and index finger as she slipped into the white taxicab and rolled away.

  For now, Georgia and I were treading through normal, post-storm waters, but I couldn’t fully shake the feeling of uneasiness. The familiarity of the uncertainty. Absolutely an oxymoron, but one that matched the complexity of my wife.

  I knew she loved me the way I loved her, but I was sometimes holding myself back from shouting, show me! Maybe I needed to call my therapist for a little Skype session. We’d been over this, my therapist and I, that couples don’t always show each other love the way the other needs, but rather the way they need to be loved. It’s like a malfunctioning closed-loop circuit. Not manipulative, because it lacked intent, but destructive in its own right if left unchecked. Dr. Weeber assured me that the only way to make progress in that area was to bring all of this up with Georgia in our couple’s counseling session.

  I was nervous. I knew Georgia well enough to know that she’d emotionally self-harm, beating up on herself if she felt she was failing with me. But, Weeber was quick to remind me whenever I argued this point with her, wasn’t that self-inflicting emotional harm on myself? Putting on the martyr’s cloak? Or, as I countered back, was this really what marriage and love was about down at the core? Love and sacrifice? Linda Weeber liked to toss back that self-sacrifice only serves the greater good until the one doing the sacrificing starts to whither inside.

  Taking a deep breath as the taxi drifted out of sight, I wondered if my reaction last night was a sign of the dry soil inside me. I’d been running for a long time on loving her enough for the both of us. Preaching to myself that the fact that she let me in was all the love she needed to show me. That her trust in me was love enough.

  The problem was, I didn’t think it was anymore.

  Nineteen

  Regan

  Within an hour of Georgia’s departure, I was at River Junction Studios with CJ and members of The Brewers, and Moniker, too, to make things extra cozy. Our performances in Minneapolis were at two different venues over several days, but they were both outdoor spaces. Since a lot of the groups were working on new material, we all needed a little extra practice time than would typically fit in the hour or so warm-up time we were afforded before shows.

  Luckily, Yardley had amicable business ties with River Junction, and they afforded us full use of their studio for a couple hours each day we were in town. Most large, national labels have several studios scattered across the country. In our section of the industry, it was far more common for the label and studio to be one entity, making their offerings as unique as they were grand. River Junction had a lot of artists under them, and sacrificed a significant chunk of space for us. Three whole studio spaces. I was baffled by the graciousness of the deal until I saw the way their president and Yardley looked at each other.

  As soon as she blushed in his presence, that was the only answer I needed.

  “Yo,” CJ whispered into my ear as Yardley and RJ’s president, Norio Vincent, decided where we’d each practice. “Do you think they … you know?”

  Impressed by his seemingly accurate social assessment of Yardley and Norio’s apparent flirtation, I wanted to tease him a little. “You know? No … can’t say as I do.”

  He didn’t let me have fun for long. CJ got a wicked grin on his face and arched his eyebrow, slowly gyrating his hips in his seat. “Oh,” he said, “you know.”

  I laughed despite myself. “Who knows. Or cares.”

  Still, I took a second look at their interaction unfolding ten feet away from us. Norio was Japanese-American, about as young as Yardley—early thirties, if that. He was tall and lean with shaggy, jet-black hair. He looked tired, but a lot of the managers looked as such for most of the year.

  Large record companies have many more layers of bureaucracy than smaller, independent labels do. There’s typically a president and executive vice president, with legal departments and business affairs at the top. Just below them is a host of jobs like promotion, artist development, marketing (with sales and art departments beneath them), publicity, new media, and A&R (artists and repertoire). Each of these jobs is a full time plus job in their own right, but with Grounded Sound, for example, there are far fewer people than that to fill the roles.

  GSE did have legal and business departments, though Yardley was heavily involved on the business side of things, given her MBA education. But Yardley was the president, acting manager of most groups under the small, but growing label, publicity, and A&R. A&R is a tough job, but it was Yardley’s passion. She loved seeking out new talent, developing set lists for albums, and all that goes along with it. Still, if the label was going to continue growing the way she’d designed it to and gunned for, she’d have to give up some of her hats at some point.

  River Junction was run very similarly, from what I understood, and Norio had acted as a mentor to Yardley when she first took over GSE. Norio’s talents, according to Google, centered around A&R, of course, but also in new media. He coached Yardley on how to maximize artist exposure and brand recognition through social media. Truly independent labels aren’t as numerous as many people think. In the US, anyway, a shitload of them are actually funded by Sony. So, social media was the best chance indie outfits had to combat the thick wallets of the major labels—to get our music into the hands of those who loved it, and coax them out on tour. Most labels couldn’t afford a tour like this, but Yardley seemed to know what she was doing. Kicking ass and taking names, as CJ might say.

  I’d never seen, or heard discussed, Yardley dating anyone, but who would have the time with a schedule like hers? Maybe Norio was up her alley. Maybe I needed to stop thinking like a girl.

  “Okay, guys …” Yardley was bright as she returned from her pow-wow with Norio. “Brewers, you guys are in the large studio. Run through some of your instrumental stuff with no lyrics first. Moniker, the same goes for you in Studio B. Nessa and Regan, I want you two in Studio C, running through those numbers for Moniker forward and back. I’d like to push those out to the listeners by the end of the week.”

  CJ moved into Studio B with Moniker, and The Brewers walked down the long hall to A. Meanwhile, Nessa’s chest and neck turned red as she stood to address Yardley.

  “This week?” she questioned, her voice sounding dry. “Chicago. Not Minneapolis. Chicago.”

  Yar
dley’s eyes didn’t move from her iPad, where she was scrolling through lists and schedules. “Yes, but things have changed. There are some high-profile music bloggers who are coming to the shows all week. They’ve kept their eye on Moniker, it seems, since we took them over. For the label’s sake, and the bands, we need to put their best face forward.” Yardley took a deep breath and eyed Nessa carefully. “I don’t think I need to explain to you how big of a deal this could be for Moniker if they get a good write-up from any one of those bloggers. And, of course, that will help the label and those signed to it, but that’s just icing on the cake.”

  Nessa swallowed, placing her hands on her hips and taking in a heaping serving of humility with her breath.

  “Understood,” was all Nessa said before gathering her things and heading into Studio C.

  I lifted my eyebrows, nodding once to Yardley in reverential appreciation of her skill, before following Nessa into the tiny studio.

  Well played, Yardley.

  It was a San Diego music blogger who had followed The Brewers on the California music circuit for years and opened doors for Nessa and The Brewers they’d have almost certainly missed otherwise. The independent music scene is a real bear.

  This blogger, though, was ruthless. Tough Critic Band Blogger struck curiosity and fear into the hearts of many small bands if the bands knew the blogger was in the house for the night. Which they never did because Tough Critic—TC—was an expert at keeping their identity hidden for just that reason. So, it was all rumors whether or not TC was in the audience during any given show.

  Anyway, this blogger had taken on bigger and bigger shows over the years, and criticized and praised acts big and small. What caught the attention of those who ran labels was the no-holds barred attitude the blogger took to their reviewing. They didn’t seem interested in blowing smoke up anyone’s ass or giving credit anywhere other than where it was due. Tough Critic took on indie bands that had already made household names of themselves. Their purpose wasn’t to get or prevent bands from getting record deals. The purpose of the blog seemed to give true, honest reviews and critiques of the songs, music, and ensemble make-ups.

  A three-note rating on a five-note rating system became equated with success and cheers around the bar. Four and five-note ratings gave bands hope that a call from a record company might be around the corner. If not, at least a visit by one at their next show.

  Such was the case with The Brewers. Yardley approached me with a TC post published solely about them two years ago, while Celtic Summer was still on tour. I read it, liked what I saw, then scrolled through the archives where it was revealed that Tough Critic had followed The Brewers for at least three years before that. There were small mentions of them in the scheme of larger articles, even if it was just including them in the line-up list of a festival. Further on there were profiles of each of their musicians as Tough Critic took a keen interest in them. When Nessa joined the band that year, TC went nuts in the best possible way.

  TC admitted that the band had started to fall flat, needing something new and refreshing in their lineup. Even TC was shocked when the all-male ensemble—as they had been for years—chose this shocking beauty as their new lead singer. The blogger vowed to keep a close eye on the group and held up their end of the deal. The Brewers received mentions every few days, it seemed. The blogger was impressed with Nessa’s vocal range, command of the stage, and instrumental knowledge. Nessa played the keyboard and sometimes guitar—though there didn’t seem to be mention of a violin in any of those articles now that I think about it.

  That aside, Yardley was unsure about pulling the trigger on signing them, as they were a much larger band than she felt equipped to handle at the time, so she called up Toni, her friend at Wound Sound, and asked her to take a listen. Toni liked what she heard and made quick work of putting together an offer.

  An offer that at this moment in River Junction’s studio, was thrown graciously in front of Nessa as a reminder of her responsibilities as a contracted musician. Yardley didn’t use the word contract. She didn’t have to. All she needed to do was remind Nessa that despite the flexibility and creative authority afforded by indie labels to their artists, Nessa was still under someone. Wound Sound at home, and GSE on this tour.

  “Well, that was tense,” I attempted humor as I pulled out my violin and shuffled through some sheet music.

  “Fuck her,” Nessa spit out.

  My jaw dropped. “Um … okay. So … uh … what?”

  I tried not to ask her what, but it was nearly unheard of for any of the musicians working with Yardley to speak poorly of her in any context. She treated her charges like family, not because she had to, but because she wanted to.

  Nessa sighed, her shoulders dropping in what seemed like defeat, but I hadn’t a clue what she was fighting. “Nothing. Let’s just play?”

  I fought my curiosity. Hard. I picked up my violin, nodding to Nessa that I’d honor her request that we get down to business. I even struck my bow against the instrument and spewed out a few notes on a scale, but I couldn’t follow through.

  “Nope,” I said, setting the violin down, and closing the case. “Nope …”

  Nessa, halfway through a chromatic scale, held her hands out, still holding the violin and bow. “What the fuck? What are you doing?”

  I extended my hands, taking her instrument from her, and locked it away in its case before setting my hands on my hips. “I’m taking you to dinner. And drinks. Let’s go. Yardley?” I shouted, causing Nessa to jump and swear under her breath. “Someone lock down this studio. Nessa and I have a non-instrument practice thing to do.”

  Yardley poked her head inside the studio, her south Georgia accent like syrup. “What’s that now?” she asked with a nervous smile.

  I put my hand up. “No one steals the violins. We’ll be back. Trust me?” I asked with a firm pat on her shoulder.

  “Do … I have a choice?” she responded, sounding confused, but conservatively trusting.

  I shook my head, grinning. “Nope. Come on, Ness,” I extended my hand, which she accepted easily, “let’s go.”

  ***

  “So … gonna tell me why we’re here?” Nessa handed the waitress her menu after placing her order, keeping her eyes on me.

  I quickly ordered my sushi dish and another one—ramen—before looking back at Nessa. “Dinner.”

  “Cute,” she mused. “By the way, where do you put all the food you eat? Honestly …”

  I laughed, raising my glass of water to her, since our ordered drinks hadn’t arrived yet. “A toast. To relaxation.”

  She crinkled her nose, an adorable look of disgust and confusion before saying, “Cheers … I guess.”

  I took a sip of the ice cold water and leaned back in my seat.

  “What?” Nessa asked, after a long minute of my silence. “You’re freaking me out.”

  Sitting forward, I offered a non-committal shrug. “It’s just been a hell of a month. We’ve been playing and practicing a new set for a whole month without a break.”

  She winked. “You got a break last night. By the way, please, please tell Georgia I’m so sorry for that.”

  I waved my hand, forcing a grin. “It was nothing. We made up for it this morning,” I lied. “Anyway. It’s been a lot. And, you had an … interesting reaction to what Yardley said back there.”

  “Are you saying I overreacted?”

  “I’d never dream of telling a woman how she acted.”

  Nessa laughed, relaxing a little. “I know Yardley’s not a bitch. But that was a nasty move, wasn’t it?”

  “Reminding you of how you started? Hardly. Look, whatever stall tactics you’re employing to avoid getting up on that stage with the violin … fine. But, even if you use them all up, you’ll never be able to play the way I’ve heard you play if you carry around that nasty attitude.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Do you presume to know what emotions I can play through on stage?”

  I
arched an eyebrow. “Well done. But, I have no proof, since you refuse, for whatever reason, to do it. Play your violin in front of anyone but me.”

  “Consider yourself lucky,” she mumbled.

  Reaching my hand across the table, I made contact with her arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I do,” I said, my voice near a whisper. “I do consider myself lucky. And, I can’t keep what I’ve heard from you all to myself. You’ve gotta share it.”

  Nessa rolled her head back and let out a groan. Facing me, she looked rather indignant as I sat back. “Let me ask you this, Regan. Have you ever lost someone that you love so deeply that you walk around with a gaping hole in your chest? Certain that it’s visible to the outside world? That you’re just see-through.”

  Rae.

  Closing my eyes, I thought of my former girlfriend and the horseback ride we took that day.

  “Yes,” was all I could say.

  I didn’t know if she remembered me mouthing off about Rae a month ago at that truck-stop diner when CJ and I almost got into it, but she didn’t seem to.

  Why didn’t we choose a different activity?

  Nessa leaned close to the center of the table, and I did, too, while she whispered. “Then let me ask you this. Has that ever happened while the other person was still alive?”

  Her eyes misted over and the tip of her nose turned red. It became clear in seconds that she was holding back more than just tears, but something too heavy to discuss over dinner, or maybe ever.

  “No,” I finally answered. “Not while they were still alive.”

  She cleared her throat, her eyes drying almost instantly. “Well, then. It seems like we have a lot of ground to cover.”

  Our drinks arrived just then, and I unabashedly took a large swig of the beer.

  “Guess so,” I said. “Guess. So.”

  ***

  “So, who died? The girlfriend?” The music around us was blaring, a driving bass thumping through my chest, but her question silenced almost all background noise.