“I know. I watched it online.” Alex cocked her head. “Seriously? You were there?” He was certainly old enough—at least her father’s age, maybe older. He dressed older.
“What’s the matter? Don’t I look like a Phib?” Camo Man pulled at his navy shirt. “I know it’s not tie-dye.”
“It’s not that . . .” she started.
“What, then? Everyone’s stoned out of their mind the entire time? Can’t see me with all those twirlers?”
Her mouth dropped open. She had been captivated by their whirling and wheeling, song after song without a break, powered by some magical fuel. They even had their own section at the shows. She and Cass had tried twirling the length of a single song at home one night, only to flop dizzy and winded onto Alex’s bed. Phibs’ songs were long.
“Whatever the scene, those guys are superb musicians. Classically trained, actually. I appreciate their performances just fine these days without all the . . .” He paused to clear his throat. “‘Enhancements,’ shall we say?”
Was her chauffeur admitting he’d put away a few bowls in his day? Maybe Camo Man was human after all. She’d heard the band took care of Phibs who’d had problems with drugs or alcohol, but still wanted to go to their shows. Even held special meetings for them on the road, in tents. Supposedly Adam, the crazy drummer, had had his own issues. He left the band for a while. Exhaustion, they said. How cool would it be to peek in that tent, to see Adam up close?
Alex chewed the inside of her mouth. There was no way Camo Man had been coached on her current obsession—he knew way too much. “So, that frog thingy in your car?”
“You mean Rainmaker? That’s my traveling buddy. A little memento. You know the place?”
Duh. What self-respecting Phib didn’t know the birthplace of Rainmaker, the group’s first album? Recorded in a college-dorm room, the record catapulted the group to celebrity status in the jam-band realm. Thanks to her dad, Alex could spout Phibs lore like other kids recited nursery rhymes. He even owned a Rainmaker original vinyl pressing. She was eight when he showed her the album cover, the tree frog’s hypnotic gaze scaring the crap out of her. But then her father picked up his bass and strummed the raw opening chords of the title track, sweeping them both away:
We opened our mouths to the manna from above
Sure in our purpose, uncertain in our love
The double jolt of her father’s passion and the music transported Alex, converting her on the spot—the day Alex drank the Kool-Aid, as her mother liked to say. And because they shared everything, it wasn’t long before Cass took a sip, too, falling under the band’s spell, Amphibian becoming their shared religion. They were practically babies compared to the Phibs’ fan demographic, which fit perfectly with Cass’s anti-cool take on everything. Who needed one-dimensional boy bands and country singers when there was Amphibian? (“I mean, do those guys sleep in those cowboy hats?” Cass used to wonder. She had a teeny snarky streak in her.)
Alex’s dad took them to their first Phibs concert after eighth-grade graduation. With his blessing, they wormed their way to the stage, navigating the sea of fans, most old enough to be their grandparents.
Because Amphibian obsessed over its set lists, Alex didn’t get to hear Rainmaker live until last summer—with Cass, not her father. By that time, he had stopped coming with them. The wait was worth it: the dazzling twenty-three-minute extravaganza of a jam was lush with imagery of desert storms, mushroom clouds (wink, wink), mirages . . .
That was the beauty of the band. Though they’d been around for more than thirty years, if you counted the time they were broken up, they still kept it fresh, every show unfolding like a perfectly choreographed dance. The place had been packed, considering it was Father’s Day. Some band members brought their children onstage. The musicians were such gods to Alex it was really funny to think of them as parents, with kids and dogs and houses like normal people.
She felt guilty her father missed that show. It wasn’t like she’d completely ignored Father’s Day. She left a card—had gotten Jack to sign it, too. Her mother said something about a family barbecue, but Alex just waved her concert tickets on her way out. What were they going to do? Sit at the picnic table and watch her parents stare at each other?
Instead, the friends swayed and sweated in communion with thousands of Phibs at the Long Island amphitheater. Alex was so suffused with bliss she didn’t mind that Cass took off without her to celebrate the day with her own dad. Nor did she regret blowing all her cash on a skull-covered cape her mother would freak over.
Nothing mattered because Ace, arms wrapped around his bass like a protective father, sang to her, and only her:
Parched and burning, it soothed our souls
Quenched our thirst though it took a toll
And then, because Amphibian always delivered a big finish, a set of giant sprinklers rose from either side of the stage and sprayed the audience, refreshing and reviving the crowd like a summer rainstorm, a final communal baptism before they all processed to tents and cars in a single undulating, glistening mass.
Rainmaker.
Her dad waited up for her that night, jumping out of the living room shadows, asking how many encores Amphibian played.
“Um, four, I think?”
“That’s about right.” He pulled a cardboard tube from behind his back and offered it to her. “Open it.”
This was his day. Why was he giving her a present? Beyond remorseful now, she pried open the tube. Inside was the celebrated Phibs tour poster commemorating Rainmaker’s first pressing. She gasped; the posters were like gold—sold out everywhere, even on eBay.
“How did you get this?” she said, breathless.
“I have my connections. Night, Al.” He shut the basement door behind him before she could thank him.
She’d stared into the red eyes of the frog on the poster. It was soooo frustrating to figure out her dad these days. He was eons away from the guy who had sat between Alex and Cass on the basement couch on the twenty-fifth anniversary of Amphibian’s Rainmaker recording to watch the live stream of festivities from some far-flung corner of New Hampshire. The three had cheered along with the live crowd as the band unveiled its giant tree frog statue—a twenty-foot version of the amphibian blinking at her from the poster.
So yeah, Camo Man. She did know about Rainmaker. She pushed her half-eaten bagel toward him. He could keep his pint-size version of the real thing. Happy Corner. Alex would never see it now. That would be the ultimate betrayal. She couldn’t hurt Cass again.
Across from her, Carl stood and piled his trash on a tray. “So, my fellow Phib: You know what they say, right? ‘One show at a time.’”
Alex didn’t like his saying my like they were friends. And it was a stupid saying, anyway. Of course you couldn’t do more than one show at a time.
He was still talking. “I just follow the green balloons now.”
Alex cocked her head. She’d seen bunches of green balloons at shows but wasn’t sure what they meant. Maybe they marked a special place for Phibs who’d attended a certain number of shows or were doing something for the environment. Not wanting to act dumb in front of Camo Man, she nodded as if she knew what he meant. Next time they went, she and Shana would get to the bottom of the balloons thing.
In front of her, Camo Man and Murphy did their little shuffle and attached themselves to her again. Making their way out of the food court, they passed the table of bathroom girls. By craning her neck, Alex caught the eye of the tall girl, her heart dropping when the girl stuck out her tongue. Then another girl noticed Alex looking their way and curved her hands into a heart, pressing the shape to her chest, smiling.
Alex smiled back. Maybe the day wouldn’t be a complete fail, she thought, letting Camo Man guide her toward the exit.
CARL
What was it about a little rain that turned normal drivers into morons? Carl wondered as he negotiated I-93 in the light drizzle, staying left to head toward Concord. All i
t took was a little common sense. He tried to pass a tractor-trailer loaded with new cars, including a cherry Mercedes dangling perilously from the rear. The guy wouldn’t cut him a break, keeping his cab nose to nose with Carl’s sedan. Carl stepped on it, passing him and, for good measure, another charter coach. Headed to Canada maybe? He didn’t know how the driver could see through the steamed-up windshield.
“That guy would do better with his defrost,” he said of the bus, navigating back to the middle lane. “That’s better. Nice open road now. Just another eighty miles or so.”
“Did you feel that? That jiggle?” Murphy asked from the backseat. “The temperature’s dropping a little. Maybe there’s black ice.”
Carl slowed. “Sorry. This car doesn’t handle the same as my Suburban.” As he spoke, the trailer sailed by him again on his left and slid in front of them. Resigned, he inserted a CD into the player.
“Cool,” Alex said at the opening riff. “‘Lifeboat.’” Her eyes widened in the rearview mirror.
“Another Rainmaker track. Self-produced in ’76. In their college dorm.” As long as the girl liked the music, he might as well play it. It would put her in a better frame of mind for her arrival at The Birches, he thought. Behind him, however, the teenager was yawning. “But you know all that, don’t you?”
“Kinda. My dad’s into them.”
Carl flicked at the tree frog, sending it spinning. “He ever been, your father?”
“Nope.”
“Been where?” Murphy piped up from the back.
“To Amphibian’s Rainmaker shrine. Picture a twenty-foot version of this in brass.” Carl flicked the frog again.
“Why on earth did they choose a frog?” Murphy asked.
“Their mystical properties. Wanted the album cover to stick in people’s minds. They say touching the statue brings you luck, money, fertility. And rain. Lots of rain. Real tree frogs lay eggs close to water. In a foam nest that hardens over time. When it rains really hard, the nests melt, and their eggs drop into the water. That’s where the fertility part comes in.”
“And where exactly is this monster frog?”
Carl chuckled. “Tucked away in a forgotten little corner of New Hampshire, a place called Happy Corner. About as close to Canada as you can get. The band played a festival there once and loved it. Decided that’s where Rainmaker should live. Now it’s kind of a pilgrimage for hard-core fans. Something to see.” He sought Alex’s gaze again. “You know, it’s not all that far from your new school.”
Alex crossed her arms and stared out her window. Murphy’s questioning stare now filled the rearview mirror: You’re not thinking about stopping there, are you?
He shook his head. Happy Corner was not part of this itinerary. Perhaps once the girl got settled, she’d find a way to visit.
The chorus of “Lifeboat” came around again, and Carl rapped the steering wheel:
Horizon before us, nothing but sea
You lookin’ all fine sitting right across from me.
The vision changes quickly, from tranquillity to war
Who are these people, the enemy, crashing through the door?
Arrivederci, freedom. Will I feel the pain?
Let me be your lifeboat, so I can see you again.
The Rainmaker album provided the soundtrack for the next hundred miles, Carl dissecting every track. Alex came out of her funk a little, warming to his narration, even contributing a bit of band trivia here and there. His charge had been well schooled; her father, Alex said again, when Carl complimented her encyclopedic knowledge of the band.
The guy sounded cool, Carl thought. Under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed meeting Jacob Carmody, the music providing common ground.
When they got to “Rose Volcano,” the second-to-last track, the two clashed. Alex swore it was on the band’s set list last year; Carl claimed Amphibian retired the song in Santa Fe in 1978.
“I was there, Alex. They made a big deal about hanging up that song. Even erupted a fake volcano on stage.”
“But on YouTube . . .” Alex protested.
“YouTube’s not the Bible.” He ought to remember; Santa Fe was part of his summer with Diana—the best one of his life, until he blew it.
Silent, Alex spun her braid and stared out her window.
“You really got around in those days, Carl,” Murphy commented.
“We had a pretty good gig,” he chuckled. Life was simple that summer, Diana’s dad loading their van with cases of soda they could sell, stacking the cases so high they could barely see out the back window.
“He probably wanted to make sure his daughter would eat over the next few weeks,” Murphy observed.
“You’re probably right.” They had picked up the tour in Albuquerque, Carl recalled. “Every night, I filled a cooler with soda and ice and rigged it to my skateboard. Just before the encores, Diana and I rolled it out to the exit. People came out so hot and thirsty they’d pay two dollars, three dollars apiece for a drink.” He lifted his hat to run a hand over his head. “Profits kept us going the entire tour.”
Alex sat up, her eyes admiring. “You’re so lucky.”
“Only thing was, we never got to hear the encores because we had to run outside to get ready.”
“Bummer. Encores are sick,” Alex yawned and turned her head again.
“What happened to Diana?” Murphy asked.
Diana, the elegant honor student so far out of his league, the serious sculptress he fell hard and fast for in high school. For her, he’d even cracked the books a little, just to sit beside her and feel the spark when his arm grazed hers. They crisscrossed the country that summer in the borrowed van, chasing music, their eighteen-year-old selves convinced they would spend the rest of their lives together.
Then, the morning Diana found him; the hundreds of miles of a silent ride home once they located their van keys. She told him she never wanted to see him again. By the time he had his act together a few years later and looked her up, it was too late.
“You know. Your old girlfriend?” Murphy prompted.
Carl shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Didn’t work out.”
In the hour or so since they’d crossed into New Hampshire, the rain had intensified, the traffic a sea of brake lights stretching to the horizon. Carl ejected the CD and searched for a news channel. “Might have a little situation up there.” They plugged along at twenty miles an hour for a good fifteen minutes, two lanes of traffic squeezed down to one, a single fluorescent-wrapped emergency worker waving everyone to the shoulder.
Carl spotted the wreck first. “Well, what do you know? Our buddy from before.” Up ahead, the trailer that had passed them awhile back lay on its side, splayed across both northbound lanes, its shiny vehicles clinging precariously to the tractor frame. Carl cringed at the damage the cargo had likely suffered. The driver stood in the grassy island, gesturing wildly to a state trooper. Southbound drivers rubbernecked, paralyzing the traffic on that side as well.
“Could have predicted that one. He’s lucky he’s standing.” Carl slowed and rolled down his window.
“Mandatory exit for everyone,” the red-faced worker said, rain pouring off his bright orange vest. He pointed to the exit ramp up ahead. “You gotta get off there. Shutting down northbound 93 till we get this cleared.” Sirens whined in the distance.
“That could take hours.” Carl merged into the stream of cars bumping along the grassy roadside. “We’ll need a detour.” He tapped furiously into the GPS screen. “Problem is, the exits are further apart up here. There’s not another one for twelve miles or so. And we’re right up against solid forest here”—he pointed to a thick green mass on the GPS grid—“which pushes us much further east than I’d like.” They’d have to go way east, then double back again, he said.
They were off the highway now, in Lincoln, an area thick with shops and hotels and other tourist spots anchoring ski resorts. At the slower speed, the rain plinked off the windshield. He pulled
into the next gas station and stopped.
“Probably better to figure this out the old-fashioned way.” He pulled a map of Vermont and New Hampshire from the glove compartment and snapped it open, studying it a moment before folding it down and offering it to Murphy. “This right here is 112, the Kancamagus Highway.” He traced a route that sliced through the White Mountain Forest. They’d take the Kanc into Conway, then hop onto 302 north up to Silver Mountain. The detour would take them out of their way a little, setting them back maybe half an hour, well within their timetable, he said.
“We could just wait here until they clear the accident and hop back on 93,” Murphy suggested.
Not necessary; he’d driven the Kanc many times before. The White Mountains were filled with camps and wilderness programs extremely popular with his clients. Carl knew to avoid the winding highway in winter when the access roads on either side weren’t maintained. But it was spring now. Leaving Murphy to hold the map, he smiled at his passengers.
“We’ll be fine,” he said. “We’re just lucky the whole Kanc is open now. A couple weeks ago, and we’d have been in big trouble.”
ALEX
Could it hurt to ask? Beneath the mirror, the frog’s omnipotent gaze challenged Alex to fire at Camo Man all the burning questions she and Cass had debated endlessly. Would the Phibs embrace them? Were there sacred dances around the statue? And most important: How often did the band visit Happy Corner?
With the driver’s off-the-cuff mention of the place, everything had roared back to the surface: the expectancy humming under Alex’s skin, the anticipation and curiosity she’d pushed so far down she’d convinced herself they had disappeared.
But asking would be a betrayal. That pilgrimage to the site of Amphibian’s first festival, to Rainmaker’s home, was to have been their journey, hers and Cass’s—their raison d’etre, as Cass described it when she was feeling super-dramatic, which was pretty often. Spellbound by a public radio account of the colony that sprang up from the band’s hallowed ground, this was what Cass had proposed the day Alex’s parents announced their split: that they visit Happy Corner the summer after high school. Their pact kept Alex going even as her parents’ relationship imploded.
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