by Clea Simon
‘Poor Phil,’ says Tara, remembering the aftermath. The Whirled Shakers had had their shot. A month earlier. A different bill, maybe they’d have made it – a contract with Elektra or CBS. Money to record and to tour. As it was, the single they’d made here, the one getting all the radio play, ended up being it. Instead of the first of many, ‘World Enough’ became their only hit.
‘Poor Frank,’ says Katie. And Tara looks up. Everyone knew Neela left with Chris that night. Their absence at the loft later a glaring breach of clubland decorum. Frank had been there and gotten royally drunk. Tara left before the fights began, but she heard about how he’d threatened Greg, tackled Jim and been pulled off by Jerry. And then he’d started on his own band.
‘That was the beginning of the end in a way,’ says Katie. Her thoughts clearly on the same track. ‘I think that’s when Frank’s drinking really started. I mean, when it became bad. But who can blame him?’
Tara looks at the woman sitting opposite her. Knows she’s since married – and remarried. Moved on. Still, she understands about heartbreak. About carrying a torch.
‘Phil got over it,’ says Tara, as gently as she can.
Another smile, this one sad. ‘Did he?’ The smile grows. ‘Yeah, he has, I think. He’s got a good life, with Sue and the boys. And the band still plays out, sometimes.’
‘And it worked out with Frank and Neela,’ says Tara. She feels like she’s asking. Like she wants Katie to confirm the happy ending.
‘Yeah, really.’ Katie stares out the window again. What she sees, Tara can’t tell. ‘Neela got lucky, didn’t she?’
EIGHT
Her office phone is blinking when she returns, and Tara feels her stomach clench. She stayed out too long. The quarterly report is on everyone’s mind.
‘Hey, Tara.’ Peter’s message begins. She feels the tension slide away. ‘Call me?’
‘What’s up?’ Tara gets him right away. Like her, he’s got an office job now, which makes him easy to reach. Still, she grabs her pad. Peter’s instincts have always been good. If he has an idea for her story, she’ll listen. It’s easier these days, now that they’re apart.
‘I was thinking.’ He laughs, which gives her pause. ‘Would you want to go out for dinner this weekend?’
It’s her turn to chuckle. ‘I thought the point of dinner was to get the girl into bed,’ she says. ‘Let me guess, you want the Santarpio’s special only you need someone to justify the extra cheese?’
The moment of silence that follows throws her. She puts her pencil down. ‘Peter?’
‘No,’ he says at last. ‘I meant, someplace nice – like Chez Louis. I was thinking, maybe Saturday?’ He can’t see that her mouth is open. That she’s speechless. She’s saved by a soft knock, as the bald head of Rudy from Development peeks around her door.
‘One second.’ She mouths the words, holding up a finger. ‘Peter, I’ve got someone in my office. May I call you back?’
‘You could just say yes.’ He doesn’t sound happy.
‘Yeah, sure.’ Rudy is waiting. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That sounds fine.’
When her phone rings again, she ignores it. Rudy shouldn’t have had to come to her, she knows that. And even though he says he’s glad to get away from his desk, she understands that his time is more valuable than hers in the Zeron scheme of things. Besides, she really doesn’t want to think about Peter. About whether she wants to go out with him – a date, it sounds like. Yes, pretty unmistakably a date. Or whether she should duck out.
She could avoid the issue. Come up with an excuse. She hadn’t checked her calendar. She had other plans. But Peter knows her, and to do that would be to make a statement, a decision of another sort. Would end the easy camaraderie that has grown over the last few months. The uncomplicated sex.
No, she doesn’t like being pressured like this, and so she lets the phone ring. Lets Rudy drone on about goals and incentives for the coming quarter. Her own goals are vague enough, and she needs time to digest. To think about what she really wants.
‘So you can do your magic?’ He’s standing, and so she stands too. ‘You have enough?’
‘I believe so.’ She nods and smiles in what she hopes is a confident manner. She’s been at the job long enough to fake it. The language never really changes. ‘If I need anything, I’ll leave word with Sally.’ Sally being the secretary for the executive wing. ‘But I really appreciate you coming in,’ she says. A little oil on the waters. ‘I should have a draft for you by Thursday.’
‘Great, great.’ He’s nodding. Order restored. ‘Back to the salt mines.’
She laughs softly as he makes his exit, waiting until he’s disappeared before hitting voicemail once more.
‘Tara, it’s Nick.’ She stares at the phone in astonishment. ‘I’m sorry to call you at work, but I thought I might have a better chance of reaching you there.’
She grabs her cell. Sure enough, it’s off. She powers it back on as Nick’s message continues. ‘Anyway, I was wondering if you’d want to have dinner this weekend. I mean, I’m working on Saturday, but the boys are with their mom this weekend, so I’m at loose ends otherwise. Would you want to do something on Friday?’
To Min, there’s no question.
‘Have you lost it?’ Her friend’s tone conveys her urgency, despite its on-duty hush. ‘Have you gone completely mad?’
‘Min, I wouldn’t have called you at work if this was simple.’ Tara is standing, facing the corner, her voice low but urgent. She doesn’t dare close the door, but this is personal. ‘I mean, I don’t really know Nick and—’
‘That’s the point.’ Min’s voice rises almost to her natural speaking volume. Behind her, something beeps. ‘He’s new blood. He’s a nice guy, right?’
‘I guess, but Peter …’ She glances over her shoulder.
‘Is your ex.’ Min bites down on the word. ‘Your comfort fuck, right?’
‘Yeah, but …’ Tara pauses. She feels missish about what she’s about to say. ‘I mean, if I end up sleeping with both of them—’
‘Then you’ll be getting more action than I am.’ Her friend breaks in. ‘Go for it, girl.’
Still, she avoids calling Nick back for the rest of the afternoon. Tells herself she needs to get some work done – the work she’s being paid to do – and ignores the phone when it rings two more times. Anyone in the building can just drop in. Anyone in the building knows she’s on deadline for the quarterly report.
Only Peter knows how little of her brain this corporate crap actually requires. And so when she drafts the thing – so much of it boilerplate she thinks of it as typing rather than writing – she’s tempted to call him. To laugh with him over the ease of it: three hours for what was supposed to take all week. Only she can’t call him. Not now. Tara stares at the phone, its message light blinking. This is almost as bad as those first few months after he moved out. When it finally became real that they were splitting up. Her first response for so long had been to talk to Peter. Not being able to do that, she felt like a stranger to herself.
‘Welcome to adulthood, kid.’ Min had gotten her through the bad days. Not only the divorce, but the move. Neither had wanted to stay in their old apartment, the walkup they’d found right near the paper’s old offices. Peter had been checking out condos for months before the end.
‘I feel so rootless.’ Tara had tried to explain. She was in her new place – her current place – by then. Boxes unpacked and lying on the sofa that Peter hadn’t wanted. It must have been her third or fourth night there, and she was trying to stay. Trying not to spend another night on Min’s sofa. ‘Homeless, almost.’
‘Not with your salary.’ Min had grown a bit terse by that point. Tara had been leaning on her a lot, and really, Min had been a doll. ‘Hell, maybe you should have checked out some of those places, like the one Peter’s buying.’
It was an old argument. Min pushing her to keep after Peter, to spend more time with him. Tara trying to explain that,
no, she was glad when he went out alone. She knew what Min thought, that Peter was having an affair. But they weren’t like that, not like Min’s on-again, off-again with Frank. Peter really did just get more pleasure from high-end furnishings, from thoughts of equity, at least at first.
‘No, it’s not about the apartment …’ Tara got tangled up, trying to explain. She’d started the Zeron job by then, largely as a result of Peter’s pushing. The Dot was going under anyway. ‘It’s just …’
‘Rock and roll never forgives?’
‘That’s not how it goes.’ Tara had laughed. Min’s singing. The misquote. ‘But, yeah, I miss … I don’t know. The scene.’
‘Start going to meetings.’ Min was joking, happier now that she’d jollied Tara into a chuckle. ‘You’ll see all the old, familiar faces.’ When Tara hadn’t responded, Min softened her tone.
‘You’re not missing anything, kiddo,’ she’d said. ‘You know that. It’s not the same as it was. It hasn’t been since Chris died.’
She needed to speak to Jim. To Jim or Jerry, or even Greg. Someone who had been close to Chris Crack. Someone who’d been there. She’d been a journalist long enough to know where the story was headed: Frank might be the news hook, but Chris Crack – the rise and fall of the Aught Nines – was the meat of it. The body. Yes, she could use Frank’s story – Last Call had pretty much collapsed after that night. The Whirled Shakers limped on – hell, they were playing out still – but between Frank’s drinking and his general belligerence, his band had burned out pretty quickly. Nobody wanted to book a group whose guitarist might or might not show up, and pretty soon his band mates grew sick of covering for him.
Still, Tara realizes, Last Call have a place in the article. Sitting back down at her desk, she starts a search. Tony K – she can’t remember his last name – was the drummer. Ralph on rhythm … no, she can’t recall his last name either. But Onie Dee, she finds him quickly enough. Onie Dee, Plumbing and HVAC, with a smart website and an in-town phone number. She thinks of the bassist, a muscular man with hands like catcher’s mitts. One of the few African Americans in the rock world in those days, he’d been the calm, sane counterpoint to Frank’s self-destructive storm.
He’d have had to be, Tara realizes. Clubland was more open than much of the city – hell, everyone knew the two women in Let’s Kiss were a couple – but Boston was still Boston, and alcohol brought out the racism of the chowderheads who would pack the clubs after a Sox game on a Saturday night. Well, good for him, she thinks, picking up the phone. Onie Dee made out all right.
‘Tara? Tara Winton?’ He picks up, and laughs when she begins to explain. ‘Sure, I remember you. How could I forget? My mother loved that story you did on us. Kept it on her fridge until she went to assisted living.’
Tara smiles, unsure how to respond. She’d never thought of the families of the people she wrote about. That the black bassist might have a proud mom.
‘So, how are you doing? You’ve got your own firm now?’ She could kick herself. Of course he is, but he’s happy enough to explain. To tell her about his business and his family, about the crews he employs.
‘Once I hit forty, I realized I didn’t want to be fumbling around in basements for much longer,’ he says, sounding proud. The years have been good to him. ‘But if you need any work done, let me know. Melanie’s gone home for the day – that’s why I picked up – but I’ll tell her you’re a priority. That you made the boss a star!’
‘Hardly.’ She shakes her head, as if she could clear it. She’d forgotten that piece. That Last Call had had some good days, at least by Boston standards. ‘But actually, that’s kind of why I called.’
He’s quiet while she explains about the assignment. About the points that interest her. Only when she gets up to Frank, to his funeral, does he begin to speak again.
‘I heard about Frank,’ he says, the levity gone from his voice. ‘About the troubles he was having. His grandson.’ His sigh carries over the line. ‘I thought about going to the funeral, but work’s been so busy and it’s been so long since I even talked to him. I don’t know, maybe I should have.’
‘Would you want to talk about him? About the band?’ Tara winces, glad he can’t see her face. This is the part of journalism she always hated: the ask.
‘Maybe,’ he says, as if the question holds no offense. ‘I don’t know how much I remember really. We were all drinking too much back then, and it’s been a lifetime ago.’
He pauses, as his words hit home. ‘You know, Frank called me a few weeks before he died.’ Onie sounds wistful, or maybe simply sad. ‘He wanted to talk about the old days, too, but I was busy. I never called him back.’
Silence on the line, and Tara waits.
‘Yeah, sure,’ the onetime bassist says at last. The voice from the past, sparked once again. ‘Why not?’
He agrees to meet her at a Starbucks in Cambridge. ‘Unless you want to trek out to the ’burbs.’
‘No, that will be great,’ Tara responds. ‘My ex lives right near there. I can probably park in his guest space.’
‘Sounds like you’ve figured things out.’ He’s laughing, and Tara realizes how odd that probably sounds. ‘Anyway, I’m about out of here.’
Tara closes down her computer for the night, and takes one last look at the phone. She ought to call Nick back, she knows that. She ought to listen to those two new messages, too. Telling herself that maybe she’ll be off the hook, that maybe one of her suitors has dropped out, she hits the play button.
The first message is from Scott: ‘Hey, Tara,’ he says, ‘I’m wondering if you’ve had any more thoughts on the story? I’d love to hear how it’s going, maybe talk deadline. Art. Whatever. Call me?’
Whatever, she thinks, and catches herself. Maybe Min has a point. Maybe she’s been out of circulation for too long. She lets the other message play. Nick.
‘Hi, Tara?’ He sounds tense, she thinks and catches herself. She doesn’t know him that well. She doesn’t know him at all. ‘Something’s come up, and I’m going to have the boys this weekend. I don’t know if you got my last message or anything, but if you did – could I have a rain check?’
Somewhat to her surprise, she realizes she’s disappointed.
‘Hey, girl, don’t you ever answer your phone?’ Scott’s in transit. She can hear crowd noise. A truck. ‘I didn’t want to bother you at your job, but you weren’t picking up.’
‘Sorry.’ She brightens. ‘I turned it off because I had lunch with a source.’
‘Excellent!’ An ambulance in the distance. ‘So this story is happening?’
‘It’s happening.’ She tries to sound confident.
‘Good, good. We should talk. Not now.’ A voice – male – calls Scott’s name. ‘Let’s touch base tomorrow?’
‘Sounds like a plan.’ She’s not faking the cheer now. By tomorrow, she’ll have one more interview done. A few more hours to think this through. And, yeah, Scott’s out with another man. ‘Go Sox!’
He’s still laughing as he hangs up, and Tara heads out to her car.
Despite what she’d said, Tara doesn’t take Peter’s guest space. Bad enough that they’re sleeping together, that he’s taking her out on Saturday. Instead, she circles until she finds a quasi-legal spot and notes the time. Cambridge roulette, although she’s too close to a corner rather than taking one of the coveted resident spaces, and she’ll play the odds that the meter maids won’t be quite so stringent on a Monday.
She doesn’t recognize Onie, not right away. Not until she realizes that the only person looking up toward the door is also one of the only people of color in the coffeehouse does she put two and two together.
‘Onie.’ She holds her hand out as he rises to greet her. ‘It’s Tara.’
‘Good to see you.’ His grip is firm. Up close, she sees that he’s grown big – solid, but not fat. His close-cropped hair is grey, receding a bit at the temples. He looks like what he is, the realization hits her: a prosperous
middle-aged man. And since he already has a beverage, steaming on the low table in front of him, she nods toward the counter. When she returns, a decaf latté in hand, he’s the one to get things started.
‘Now, tell me about this article of yours.’ He drinks. Chai, she thinks, as the aroma reaches her. Something spicy and warm.
She does, playing up the nostalgia a bit as he sips his tea. A pensive smile creases his face.
‘Yeah, they were good,’ he says, when she’s done speaking of the Aught Nines. ‘“Hot Shot” got the airplay, but it was just a teaser, something to lure the labels. If they’d had access to a real studio, not some basement in Roxbury …’
‘You helped them record, didn’t you?’ The memory tickles the back of her mind.
Onie’s smile broadens. ‘Yeah, that was my real dream. Well, besides being a rock star. I thought I could be a producer.’
‘“Hot Shot” got a lot of airplay.’ She can hear it still.
He chuckles, shaking his head. ‘On the college stations. We had four tracks and a decent board, but what I didn’t know about mixing …’ He waves away the past and all its possibilities with one large hand.
‘What were they like?’ She’s taking notes, but it’s more than that. She really wants to know.
‘The Aughts? Well, they weren’t like any other band on the scene. Not like Last Call, anyway.’ He sees her puzzlement and continues. ‘Most of us were groups of friends. I mean, I knew Frank from high school. That’s how the Aught Nines started, but by the time we all went into the studio, they were a different animal.’
‘More professional?’
He tilts his head. ‘You could say that. I mean, Jim and Jerry were never much for discipline. Greg, neither, though he had a good sense of time. No, it was Chris. He was running that band like a drill sergeant. He made sure they were on time, they were rehearsed. I mean, it was a cheap little studio – the owner made his nut recording commercials for the local AM station – but Chris was as serious as death in there. There was no fucking around for the Aught Nines when the band was on the clock.’