World Enough

by Clea Simon

  But Min is speaking again. High on the wall, women are drinking wine and laughing.

  ‘We all fooled around, sure.’ Min bites down on her words, as if to make them shorter. ‘But Neela? She was into it big time. Loved riding the horse, that girl.’

  ‘Min …’ Tara catches herself. Her friend is mourning, too.

  ‘Hey, you know what happened to Chris.’ Min’s on a roll.

  ‘Yeah, but …’ Tara thinks back. Min, Frank, Neela, Chris; it all happened so fast. Changed, almost overnight.

  ‘What do you think they had in common?’ Min’s voice drips acid. It could have been yesterday, Tara sees, as far as her friend is concerned. Above her head, the women have stopped laughing. The wine is gone. ‘Did you think it was love?’

  Tara did, actually. Or something close. The rock star and the dancing girl were the scene’s golden couple, enveloped in an aura of happiness and success. Or so Tara thought back then – has long thought. After she and Min hang up – ‘My advice? Call a cab. You need to hang out there like, well, like I need another man.’ – she finds herself reevaluating. Even discounting Min’s bitterness, she wonders if those days were exactly as she remembered. Chris and Neela inseparable. In love.

  And, she recalls, oblivious to the effect their affair had on others.

  Was it the night the suit from Atlantic showed up, pushing his way past kids half his age to claim a space up by the stage? Or was that particular jerk from Warner? Tara can no longer be sure. She can picture the short, fat man, stubble heavy in the lines of his face. He’d flown up from New York, despite a threatened snowstorm. Late December, the holidays looming, and he’d come in person to check out the hot new talent his local A&R scout had reported. Had stayed up half the night to catch the Aught Nines, who were headlining at that point. The Casbah – the biggest place in town, in terms of capacity, though still a hole compared to the theaters and stadiums the real stars played.

  This suit was only the latest to come courting. Rumor had it he was the biggest, though, with the power to sign an artist on the spot. Scott had pointed him out, over by stage right, arms crossed as if he were accustomed to standing next to a mosh pit after midnight.

  ‘I hear he’s got a signing bonus in his pocket,’ Scott had said, yelling into her ear to make himself heard. ‘A grand and a gram.’

  ‘That almost rhymes,’ she’d shouted back, a little surprised. That local DJs indulged, she had no doubt. When she’d gone up to the local so-called ‘alternative’ station to interview the Slushies, she’d seen the smear marks on the mirror, everyone sniffing and blinking like she had brought a spotlight in with her. They’d invited her to join, too, offering to lay out the rest of what the music director had provided. She’d declined, softening her words with a laugh. The Slushies were a power trio riding high on the NME charts and apparently anything else the industry would provide, and she didn’t want them getting the wrong idea. Thinking that she was another tidbit to be shared around. She could joke about that by then.

  But New York? Somehow, she thought at that level, dealings would be more professional. Maybe the difference was that the suit provided, but he expected something more openly commercial in return.

  He certainly didn’t look high, as he stood there, arms crossed and waiting for the headliners. He was patient, she’d give him that. The Aught Nines were dragging it out, pushing the club up against the old Boston blue laws that would shut them down at two, whether the headliners had performed or not. The room was hot, and he had to have been uncomfortable. The storm had never materialized. The thaw was still on, her boots soaked through from the slush. But it was the crowd that raised the temperature: excited and in constant motion.

  Except for Chris Crack. She can still see him, lounging by the door to the Casbah’s office. From there, he could see the stage. See the fat man in the thousand-dollar suit as he waited, staring at the empty stage. Chris didn’t seem to care. He might as well have been at some Allston house party as a sold-out rock club. The way he leaned against the open door frame, his lace-edged tank hiked up to show some skin. His head lolling back against his upraised arm as if his career wasn’t on the line. And then Neela had appeared, coming out from the room behind him to drape herself over his lanky form. She could see Chris’s lips move, his head bob as he jerked his chin to point out the suit – or maybe the empty stage beyond, the biggest of any club in town. They both laughed. The spectacle must have looked ridiculous to a boy from the suburbs. To a girl who danced on the bar. Tara lost sight of them when they ducked back inside.

  When Chris next appeared, a velvet scarf loose around his neck, it was on that stage. Half past one, almost an hour late, he sauntered up to the mike like he owned it. Like he owned time. And when the band kicked in – Jim’s guitar growling like a feral cat – he alone resisted the beat, the throb. He alone felt a deeper pull, something slower, strong and tidal. Hanging onto the mike stand, his caterwaul outmanning even Jim’s guitar, Chris Crack was in full rock-star mode. Languid and sweating, his bare midriff snake-belly white, he was every woman’s dream and every mother’s nightmare. Tara knew at least one straight man who confessed to confusion over his desires from that night on, and from stage left she could see the bright, febrile desire in the eyes of the women. Even the suit responded, nodding his head to the beat. At some point – ‘Boy in a Bubble?’ that other song? – she saw him reach inside that fancy jacket. Was he making sure he had his checkbook? Had the coke? The glint in his eye was cool, the faint smile as welcoming as a shark’s. It didn’t matter that the club cut them off after five songs. That the house lights went on and the crowd began to boo. Didn’t matter if they wrecked the place, Tara remembered thinking. Didn’t matter what the suit offered, or whether the band even signed. Chris Crack cemented his status as a rock god that night.

  Looking back, Tara tries to remember Neela, where she would have been during that short set. Not on the bar – the Casbah wasn’t Oakie’s, wasn’t the Rat or Jack’s. Brian ran a tight ship – Jonah still showed up most nights. The suit, the looks, and the bouncers quick to act. Besides, Neela was royalty then. Backstage more often than in the room. Waiting for Chris. Waiting. And what else?

  No, Tara shakes her head. If Neela was doing more than drinking. More than the occasional snort of coke or, yeah, maybe something stronger, she didn’t know it. Min is talking out of jealousy. Out of her own store of memories – how the powders changed. How the high evolved. That slouch? That laughter? That could have been anything. Besides, within a month, Neela would be pregnant. Maybe already was, and married soon after. And Chris? As quickly as Chris Crack had appeared on the scene, he was gone.

  ‘Tara!’ The voice calls her back to the present. She turns. Sees the young woman with the familiar smile, only darker. Younger. ‘I can’t believe you’re still here.’

  ‘How is she?’ Tara sees something in the younger woman’s face, but she wants more. ‘Your mother?’

  ‘She’s fine.’ Mika closes her eyes. Breathes. ‘She’s going to be fine. Turns out, she didn’t take that much. She probably would have slept it off. Only …’ Another deep breath, and her body visibly relaxes.

  ‘I’m so glad.’ Tara feels her own rush of relief and blurts, ‘And I’m so, so sorry,’ she says. ‘I mean, maybe if I hadn’t called …’

  ‘No, no.’ Mika raises her hands. She’s laughing. ‘It wasn’t that you called. Honest. It’s Dad.’ Another sigh, this one sad. ‘She misses him, obviously. She’s lost it, a little bit. She seems to feel responsible.’

  ‘But she wasn’t there when he fell.’ Her words cause the younger woman to start back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I have no filter today. I guess – I heard they were doing an autopsy.’

  ‘No, no.’ This time, the demurral is quieter, less upbeat. ‘That’s what she’s said. She was out back. The garden or something. And, yeah, the police.’ Another chuckle, softer this time. ‘The law’s a bitch, isn’t it? If only she’d said she was in the ki
tchen, that would be the end of it. She could have told them what happened. At least, they didn’t hold up the funeral.’

  ‘Yeah, really.’ Tara finds herself wondering. What are they doing? Testing for alcohol? For drugs? ‘Your son!’

  It’s more an exclamation than a question, but Mika gets it. ‘He’s fine. He’s asleep in Mom’s room. I only came out to see if you were still here. And to thank you.’

  ‘Please.’ Tara means it. All she’s done is step in it today. ‘If I helped at all, I’m glad.’

  ‘You really did, and I’m grateful.’ Mika clearly wants to return to her son. To her mother. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t get to talk to Mom. She’ll call you, I’m sure, as soon as she’s – well, as soon as she’s gotten her feet under her again.’

  ‘Please.’ Tara knows she sounds like a broken record. Repeats herself anyway, trying to get through. ‘Please, Mika, tell her not to worry. Tell her I send my best.’ She thinks of Min. Of Scott, even Peter and Nick. ‘Tell her we all do.’

  SIXTEEN

  It hadn’t been that late when she’d gotten home. The whole episode had taken less than two hours. It had left her at loose ends, though. She couldn’t call Peter, not till she was ready to apologize, and that was a pattern she’d promised herself she wouldn’t fall back into. Min was out too, and work – well, work was work. She’d made a few calls for the story, knowing her lunch with Scott loomed. Set up a meet with Jim from the Aught Nines. Left a message for Gina. Didn’t even want to listen to music after that. It all felt so loaded, freighted with memories she could no longer trust. She’d stayed up too late watching an old movie, half wishing that someone would call.

  She’s paying for it today, her head muzzy despite all that coffee. Despite hitting snooze one too many times. And of all the days to get such a summons: Rudy, the VP, wants to talk. She’d gotten the message as soon as she’d settled in, twenty minutes late despite ditching her usual T ride for a frantic cross-town drive. At first, she thinks someone has seen her, mug in hand, tearing into the lot. The interoffice message marked red for its urgency. She’d closed her eyes, wishing it gone. Wishing herself back in bed. But when she opens them, it’s still there, blinking, and although she has no desire to read it, she decides against deleting it. Better not to touch it at all. Better to leave no prints.

  Instead, she reaches for her phone. Calls AV and tells them she’ll be down in five. What was it Peter had said? That the police were looking into Frank’s death? From him, she had learned a bit about investigations, that it was harder to clean something up – harder and more likely to implicate the bad actor. On that theory, she leaves her office. Leaves the blinking message unread and sorts through photos for an hour. The general manager wants a new head shot for his website profile, and he’s old school enough to insist on prints. Bill, the photog, is fun to hang with. He has his own little realm downstairs, electronica playing softly and big prints of his dogs hanging at odd angles.

  He figures out that she’s hiding soon enough. ‘You OK, Tara?’

  ‘Monday.’ She gives him the universal answer, but he has the grace to look worried as she finally takes her leave, five of the best prints in hand. ‘I’ll make him choose one of these,’ she says, attempting to deflect. ‘I’ll tell him they all make him look beautiful as sin.’

  His eyebrows go up at that. She’d been thinking of Chris. It had been Scott who had called him that, but she’d used it. He was good that way.

  And so she doesn’t cancel lunch. Feels grateful for it, actually, when she sees Rebecca, standing by her door as she returns from Bill’s lair. Worry furrows the secretary’s brow despite the bun drawn painfully tight.

  ‘Mr Hughes has been trying to reach you,’ she says. It’s her job, as departmental secretary, to convey such messages. To make sure they are received, and Tara feels bad.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She is. ‘I got caught up in the whole photo thing.’ She raises the folder, as if presenting evidence, but the other woman doesn’t respond. It could have been the hair, freezing her face like that. ‘I’ll give him a call,’ she promises.

  Door closed, she finally reads the message. It is ominous. The quarterly report has problems, it says. Mistakes. He wants her to come by at the earliest available. He’d sent it at eight-oh-three. Without giving herself a moment to think she messages back, explaining that she has a lunch appointment. That she’d be by as soon as she returns, and then she heads out.

  The devil you know, she tells herself again. At least she cares about this story. About her old friend. Only how well does she know Scott anymore? What kind of devil is he?

  ‘A suicide attempt.’ Scott takes a bite of his salad and chews, thoughtfully. Mulling over her news as well as his food. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘I guess.’ Tara is distracted, her appetite gone. She’d been dreading this lunch with Scott anyway. This morning she considered cancelling, even when she got his voicemail about making lunch special, about reservations at Brasserie Zou. Probably should have. She thinks about the situation at work. The report. She’s not ready for Monday, not even her dull as dishwater job.

  ‘I mean, it kind of makes sense.’ Tara talks to fill the space. To distract herself. She can’t read Scott’s reaction at all. ‘Losing Frank and her grandson being sick. It’s a lot.’

  Scott eats and manages to look pensive at the same time. Careful. A far cry from the man she remembers. The old Scott would close his eyes in ecstasy as he inhaled a pizza. ‘I guess the interview is off,’ he says at last. ‘Can you get anyone from his old band – Last Call?’

  ‘I spoke with Onie.’ She feels uneasy. ‘But I don’t know if we should go that way. I mean, maybe the Aught Nines should be the focus. I’ll be talking with Jim tomorrow, and then Gina.’

  ‘Gina!’ His face lights up. ‘That’s right! She was at the funeral. Gina being Gina.’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Tara admits with a grin. ‘Did you two …?’

  ‘No.’ His exaggerated expression says it all. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Me?’ Her voice squeaks. It’s embarrassing. ‘No. Objectivity, remember? We stayed above the fray.’

  ‘Whatever.’ He tilts his head, a twinkle in his eye. ‘But I think you’ve got to keep Frank’s death in the story. Otherwise, it’s old news. Frank gives it pathos, ties it all together. I mean, he married Chris Crack’s old girlfriend. Became a father, then a grandfather, while Chris …’ He stops talking. Takes another bite of salad. ‘I really wish you could talk to her.’

  ‘Maybe I can.’ She hates herself a little, but she can’t resist. ‘Mika – her daughter – said to give her a few days. I’ll talk to Jim and to Gina. Get more background.’

  ‘That’s my girl.’ Scott’s beaming now. ‘I always knew you had it in you.’

  ‘Whatever “it” is.’ She finishes their old refrain. Picks up her burger with renewed appetite. The place may have a French name, but they know their American basics.

  ‘So what’s the deal with this Nick?’ Scott’s question catches her with her mouth full. ‘Are you going to be talking to him again?’

  She swallows hard. Hopes he doesn’t see the tears that spring to her eyes. ‘I don’t know.’ She shrugs and reaches for her water glass. ‘Not sure he’s that central to anything anyway.’

  ‘He ever work at the Casbah?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice is once again under control. ‘Why, did Jonah say something?’

  Scott shakes his head. ‘I don’t think he knew him. Except for his own club, Jonah wasn’t that into the scene. He remembers Chris, of course. But …’ Scott’s face is unreadable. Bosses. Tara waits until he leans forward, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial pitch.

  ‘Jonah’s why I think you need to keep Frank in the picture. He’s been leaning on me. Says the focus is tired, that it’s stale. That he didn’t bring me in to rehash my glory days.’ Scott pauses, shakes his head. Suddenly, Tara realizes there’s a reason for the fancy lunch. For the reservation.

  ‘This
wasn’t a treat,’ she says, putting it together. ‘You didn’t want me coming into the office.’

  ‘It’s not you,’ he says. ‘He’s the one who’s been bringing up objections. I reminded him of our agreement. That if I could get the edit board to agree with me, I could overrule him. And they still love it – as long as it comes up to the present.’

  ‘Hey, I don’t want to be responsible for you losing your gig.’ They both know publishing by now. They both know publishers.

  ‘I don’t want to lose it either.’ He’s still leaning in. Still talking low, but that hint of a smile is back. ‘So you better do a kickass piece for me, Tara. I’m counting on you.’

  In a strange way, hearing about the pressure is a relief. Tara still feels uneasy about the story – about the new Scott, as she’s come to think of him. Knowing that he’s worried about his job, that he’s pushing back against the City publisher, explains why he’s leaning on her. Plus, she’s picking up on his anxiety, she figures. On his desire to make his mark. Set his boundaries, without losing his job. Besides, his faith in her is flattering. She leaves the lunch on a high that even her two iced coffees can’t explain. She’s ready to get back to work.

  On the story, that is. She’s so preoccupied with it – with Scott and City – that she almost forgets her own workplace drama. She’s thinking she’ll call Jerry. See if she can line up an interview with him for after she talks to Jim, as she walks in. See if Onie can put her in touch with anyone else – maybe someone who was at the Casbah that night. Maybe Katie … Only when she sees Rebecca standing in front of her office does she remember Rudy. Rudy and the memo.

  ‘Tara.’ The dark-haired secretary clasps her hands. Wants to wring them, Tara can see. ‘Mr Hughes has been calling for you. He’s—’ her voice drops to a whisper – ‘he’s very upset.’

  ‘Thanks, Rebecca.’ She takes a breath. Steels herself. Opens the door.