World Enough

by Clea Simon

  Tara caught up to her by the edge of the stage. ‘What’s his name?’ She had to shout, even between songs. The crowd was sparked up. ‘Guitar man?’

  ‘Frank.’ Min turned to her with eyes wide, and Tara felt like she’d earned something. Earned her trust. ‘His name’s Frank.’

  Tara nodded, finally connecting the musician on stage to the hulking presence she’d seen around. There was more to know, clearly. But then the next song started and Min started to dance, arms above her head and head down, all hennaed hair and pale hands. As she turned, the light bounced off the pink of her jacket and softened her face. Warmed it, and Tara had danced too, happy to be in her friend’s confidence. Happy to see her cool buddy shed some of her perpetual reserve for a guy.

  With Min preoccupied with her own moves, Tara had snuck a glance up at the stage, checking out the man who had broken through to her friend. He wasn’t looking down at them. That wasn’t unusual. He was on stage. A star for the next forty minutes. But then Tara saw that he was focused on something – on some point off to her right. She turned, and that’s when she first saw her. A skinny redhead in a cut-off T-shirt, black rubber bangles bouncing on her arm as she shimmied on the bar. And Tara’s heart fell.

  She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t, but she knew. All Min’s preening would be for naught that night, not that she and Frank wouldn’t hook up again. Whenever Neela pissed him off. When she went off, as she did periodically through their long and tumultuous courtship. But it was never the same after that. Not after Neela Johnson, wild woman, and the love of Frank Turcotte’s life.

  Maybe it was just as well Min hadn’t come. Neela looks like she’s at the breaking point. Tara watches her from across the room, a plate of pasta salad in her hand.

  ‘Let’s get something to eat,’ she’d said to Gina, once the other woman had settled down. ‘I don’t know about you, but I didn’t have breakfast.’

  Gina had sniffed and nodded. The short crying jag that had followed her outburst had left her calmer and only marginally more disheveled than before, and Tara led her back inside with only the slightest shiver of trepidation. This was a funeral, she reminded herself. People were supposed to be sad, and the pudgy little rocker wouldn’t be the only one whose mascara had been smudged by tears.

  She needn’t have worried. Despite the setting – the overcrowded living room done up like somebody’s maiden aunt’s – this was also still clubland.

  ‘Hey, Gina, girl.’ Richie had appeared out of nowhere, putting an arm around Tara’s charge. ‘How’re we doing here?’

  He didn’t even look up at Tara as he led Gina away, so it was a shock when she heard her own thoughts voiced aloud.

  ‘Gina being Gina.’ The male voice startled her into turning. A voice she knew, although for a moment she didn’t recognize the speaker. ‘Some things never change.’

  ‘Scott?’ She had laughed in relief. The shared sentiment, the appearance of her old friend – all serving to lighten the day.

  ‘In the flesh.’ He smiled and leaned closer, and she was sure. ‘A bit less of it these days.’

  ‘You look great.’ He did. The fat that had once seemed an integral part of his outsized personality had melted away. ‘God, it’s been – ages.’

  ‘Seventeen years since I had a drink, so close to that long since I’ve been in the clubs.’ He looked past her. ‘Some people never change, I should’ve said.’

  Tara turned. Gina was whimpering again, even as she shoveled pasta into her mouth.

  ‘No, they don’t,’ she agreed. ‘But I wouldn’t mind grabbing a bite. Want something?’

  ‘I’m good.’ He hoisted his red plastic cup. ‘Diet coke and lime. My cocktail of choice. Get something and come back, though. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Aye, aye, boss.’ They both grinned. That had always been her response, whatever Scott had asked of her – driving up to New Hampshire to cover some all-ages hardcore show. Tracking down the one English speaker of that Brazilian funk band. Distributing an extra three hundred papers the morning Tom quit in disgust after the ’zine had panned the Exiles single.

  ‘Some turnout, huh?’ Tom is there now, reaching past her for the rye bread.

  ‘Frank had a lot of friends.’ Tara had been considering the cold cuts but opts for the pasta salad. ‘A lot of the old faces are here today.’

  The bassist – former bassist? Tara doesn’t know – nods, his mouth full. ‘Kind of surprised,’ he manages at last. ‘Frank hadn’t been around much.’

  ‘Because of the program?’ Tara takes a bite of her salad. She remembers Tom tending bar. Drinking, too. She can see Scott over by the corner, waiting, but she’s curious.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Tom reaches for a pickle. ‘You want one?’

  ‘Sure.’ She’s missed this, the camaraderie. ‘Thanks.’

  She takes the pickle. Looks around. Scott has crossed over to Neela. The widow looks like she’ll disappear into the flocked recliner. Was that Frank’s chair, Tara wonders, as he kneels beside her. It looks too big for the pale wreck of a woman, the burnt orange all wrong for the faded pink of her hair. Grief has leached out whatever color she had left.

  ‘You think he was drinking again?’ Despite what Tara told Peter, she’s not sure.

  Tom sounds like he is. ‘Frank? No, no way.’ He shakes his shaggy head. The furrows around his mouth grow deeper. ‘He was all caught up with the kid. He wouldn’t.’

  ‘Then what do you think happened?’ Scott has stood up. ‘Hang on,’ she says, but Tom has moved over to where the chips are.

  ‘There you are.’ Scott turns down the fork Tara offers. ‘No thanks, but I’ve got an offer for you.’

  She raises her eyebrows, aware suddenly of her own full mouth. Of her old friend’s newly muscular body. She swallows, hard. ‘Oh?’

  ‘You know I’m at City now.’ He looks at her, waiting for recognition.

  She nods as she takes another, smaller bite. She doesn’t read the glossy monthly, but she’s certainly aware of it. Ad driven and silly as hell. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she recalls someone saying that her old boss had joined its staff. Was he in charge of features now? Was he the editor? She remembers an inane cover – a model in a parka eating ice cream – and hopes he wasn’t involved.

  ‘I’ve been given a mandate to make the mag more edgy,’ he says, as if he can read her mind. He’s keeping his voice low, and she realizes that he’s not as comfortable here as she is. He hasn’t slipped back into the old ways like she has. ‘More street.’ He laughs, embarrassed by the term. ‘Anyway, management says I can bring in some more writers, and I was wondering if you’d be interested.’

  ‘Me?’ Her voice squeaks. It’s the macaroni. She looks around for a napkin.

  ‘You were always my best writer,’ he says.

  ‘Most reliable.’ She can remember, even if he doesn’t. ‘The only one you could count on not to black out or go off with the band.’

  ‘More than that.’ His smile. Tara wonders if he’s had his teeth capped. No, she remembers, he always had a nice smile.

  ‘Scott? Scott Hasseldeck.’ A manicured hand on his arm turns him around. Lily Clark. Tara closes her eyes. Lily always was a beauty. Unlike Neela, she’s kept her looks. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’

  ‘Lily.’ Clearly Scott remembers her too. But he turns back. ‘Let’s talk,’ he says. Tara nods and goes back for more of the pasta.

  ‘I’m looking to see who doesn’t show up.’ Two women, over by the food, are surveying the room. Tara listens, even as she refills her plate. ‘It’s not lovely Lily. She wouldn’t dare show her face if it was her.’

  Tara stands. ‘Connie?’ It’s the voice that brings her back. The short black helmet of hair is cut into a softer shape, the color lightened with some auburn highlights.

  ‘Tara Winton.’ The speaker turns to take her in. ‘You remember Robin. I’m afraid we’re getting all gossipy. But if you can’t gossip at a funeral
…’

  ‘Yeah, really.’ Tara forces a chuckle. Nods at the third woman, who makes her own wan smile back. ‘So …’ Her voice drops in what she hopes is a conspiratorial whisper. ‘You think Frank had someone on the side?’

  A shrug. ‘Don’t know. But I do know he was preoccupied. Neela was complaining to me about how he had gotten all secretive. Making calls and not telling her who he was talking to.’

  ‘Poor Neela.’ Robin’s voice as weak as her smile.

  ‘Anyway, we’re trying to figure out who isn’t here.’ Robin gives Tara a sidelong look. ‘Guilty conscience and all.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ says Tara. She takes a bite of the pasta. Thinks of Min and hopes they’re wrong.

  ‘Hey, Joey.’ She finds the drummer in the mudroom off the kitchen poking through a cooler filled with ice. ‘Great set the other night.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Two-liter bottles of store-brand cola protrude from the ice, and someone has rested a six of Kaliber on top.

  Tara reaches for the soda. ‘May I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure.’ He breaks one of the non-beers from its plastic ring. ‘’Bout the gig?’

  ‘No.’

  He pops the can’s top and takes a long pull, waiting.

  ‘About Frank.’ She’s not sure how to ask. Not sure if the drummer – always taciturn, always the hardest to get a quote from back in the day – was the right person to approach. But he’s here. She’s here. ‘Do you think Frank might have been stepping out? You know, on Neela?’

  He turns with a muttered expletive and pushes past her, into the kitchen and beyond. She turns to watch him go and sees Tom, his face grown pale.

  ‘I can’t believe you asked him that. You asked anybody.’ Tom is more adamant about this than he was about the drinking. ‘Frank lived for Neela, for his family. He always said that anything else – you know, back in the day – was because of the drinking. It’s always been Neela since day one. Ask anyone. Hey—’

  He starts to call, to gesture, but she stops him. ‘No, please,’ she says, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry I even asked. It’s just … well, it’s such an odd way to go, you know? And if he wasn’t drinking, then you have to wonder if there was a fight or some other problem.’

  ‘You always were a snoop, weren’t you?’ Tom looks at her without blinking. His eyes are hard. ‘Asking questions. Writing your stories. You probably started the rumors about Chris, too. Look, the man died. It was an accident, OK? It wasn’t like he was a part of your life, but some of us here? We’ll miss him until our own dying days.’

  FOUR

  Wine isn’t the answer, but it helps. Tara has just topped off her glass when she gets Min on the phone.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to come over, would you?’ She takes care to enunciate her words.

  Min laughs. ‘You need a drinking buddy? Was it that bad?’ A thud and a sigh. Tara can picture her taking her shoes off. Collapsing onto the couch.

  ‘Yeah.’ Tara admits. There’s no hiding anything from Min, not after all these years. ‘I’ll get pizza?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m wiped. But hang on.’ Silence as Min gets her own beverage. It’s a routine they’ve developed, over the years: Tara, feet up on her sofa. Min with hers on the coffee table. Even when Peter lived with her, they kept it up, those nights when he was on a story, filing for third. Tara knows Min can visualize her as easily as she can her friend. It’s comforting.

  ‘So, what happened?’ Min slurps at something. Tara wants to ask, to make sure her friend is also having something with a kick, but after the conversations at the reception, she feels shy.

  ‘Well, Gina was there. Late, of course, and she had a bit of a meltdown at the house after.’ Better to start with the known. Gina was safe.

  ‘You went to the house?’ A sigh and a grunt. Tara visualizes the pillows being rearranged. ‘Did Peter go with?’

  ‘Just to the funeral.’ She kind of wishes she hadn’t told Min about Peter. About how he offered to drive her. ‘He didn’t want to take the whole day off.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ She can sense Min nodding. ‘He didn’t want to deal with that freak show, that’s what,’ she says. ‘Let me guess. Gina began bawling and Neela played the ice queen, accepting condolences from that throne of hers.’

  ‘Kind of.’ Tara wonders how Min knows about the chair. ‘You’ve been over there?’

  ‘Once or twice.’ Tara is processing, but the wine has slowed her down, and Min erupts in laughter. ‘Jeez, Tara. I mean, just to talk. Say hi. It’s been years, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, but.’ Tara thinks back to the women at the wake. What they were saying. ‘You were close once.’

  ‘And I said goodbye to that, long ago.’ Min’s tone is definitive. Clear. Then again, Tara has heard that before. Which Min knows, too. ‘Besides, I didn’t like the man he was.’ She talks as if she owes Tara an explanation. ‘You know, toward the end.’

  ‘So you spoke to him recently?’ Tara sits up. Puts her glass on the floor.

  ‘A few times.’ Min always downplayed their contact. ‘On the phone, basically. He was, I don’t know, preoccupied. Wanting to go over the old days.’

  ‘Oh?’ That could mean a lot of things.

  ‘The scene.’ Min answers the unspoken question. ‘Not us. But he was being weird about it. Just – not himself. Made me wonder if he was drinking again.’

  ‘Tom says he wasn’t. Swears it.’ Tara thinks back to their last exchange. The anger in his eyes. The comment about Chris. It’s been a long time since she heard that name.

  ‘Well, yeah, Tommy would say that.’ For someone who doesn’t hang out anymore, Min stays current. ‘He worshipped Frank.’

  In the silence that follows, Tara reaches for her glass again.

  ‘So, what’s up with Peter?’ Min is done with Frank, with that conversation. Tara can hear it.

  ‘He’s OK. On me to buy a condo near him.’

  ‘I bet.’ There’s a lilt to Min’s voice. ‘I bet he’d like to show you some real estate.’ Tara starts to object when Min gets serious. ‘He’s still into you, Tara. He’s just been waiting for you to, you know, catch up.’

  To grow up, Tara knows she means. ‘Well, he should have come with me after then.’ She means to deflect, but she also has more questions about the party. About Frank. ‘Scott Hasseldeck was there,’ she says. He didn’t attack her. Didn’t question her motives.

  ‘Scott?’ Another laugh. The wine is kicking in. Min is sounding loose. ‘He’s just looking for the gossip. For that rag of his, what’s it called – Shitty?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Tara’s feeling it too. ‘But I’ll tell you, he’s looking good.’

  ‘You’re making me sorry I wasn’t there,’ says her friend.

  ‘Me too,’ says Tara, and they both drink some more.

  Tara has a head the next morning, almost like in the old days. At least she has a private office, now, and once she closes the door she can sink into her seat. Downing two aspirin with her latte, she leans back, eyes closed. The good thing about the corporate world: she was dressed and on time. Nothing else seems to matter.

  The clang of her office phone wakes her with a start. She jumps, eyes wide. No, the door remains closed. Nobody saw her napping.

  ‘Communications.’ She picks up the receiver. ‘Tara Winton.’ It’s almost reflex, though the urge to say ‘news desk’ or even ‘Underground Sound’ is never far away.

  ‘Wow, you sound so official.’ The laughing response is so close to her own thoughts that it stymies her.

  ‘Scott?’ she says at last.

  ‘You sound surprised.’ The laughter has left a lilt in his voice. ‘I said I was going to be in touch.’

  ‘So you did.’ At the thought of her old colleague – of how he looked the day before – she starts to smile.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about a story,’ he says, and she feels suddenly, unexpectedly let down.

  ‘I’m not … I have a real job now, Scott.’ Pride bucks her up. ‘Th
is isn’t just a day job, you know.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ He ignores her protest. He always did, she remembers now. ‘But I was hoping – well … I started to tell you. I’ve been given a mandate to bring City into this century. Make it edgier.’ He pauses, and she can imagine him making air quotes. ‘Urban.’

  ‘Street?’ She remembers, and she’s chuckling now, too. It was always us against them with Scott.

  ‘Exactly.’ He knows he’s got her. ‘Anyway, I was thinking about Frank, about the whole scene, and I came up with the perfect cover story: “The Last Days of Punk Rock”. It would be fun, sad. Our whole misspent youth.’

  ‘I’d read it.’ She can humor him. ‘If you could get someone to do a halfway decent piece.’

  ‘You could.’ His conviction comes through the line. ‘You always were my best writer. My best gal. Always.’ Tara pictures him standing. Waiting for her to respond. Remembers what he looks like now. The pause threatens to become awkward. ‘So what do you say?’

  ‘I do have responsibilities here.’ She’s evading the question.

  He knows it. ‘We’ll give you a pseudonym,’ he says.

  ‘Like hell you will.’ She falls for it. Like she always did. ‘I want the byline.’

  ‘That’s my gal.’ He’s laughing again. ‘And seriously, you have all the contacts, and all the research will be after hours anyway. It’ll be fine.’

  ‘Easy for you to say.’ She’s not sure if she’s been played – or how she feels about it. She did have questions. About the scene. About Frank. ‘OK, I’m interested, at least.’

  ‘Why don’t we get together to talk tactics,’ he says. ‘I’ve got some ideas. What do you say to dinner?’

  By the time they hang up, Tara is more confused than before. But her headache has gone, and she’s wide awake.

  She heads back to the pub that evening, back to where it all began. There’s no music tonight, and the place looks different. The tables are set for dinner service, the curtains behind the stage open to the street. The late sun slants in, burnishing the wooden tabletops, the wide, polished bar.