by Clea Simon
“It’s too easy for you.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew they were the wrong ones. “You don’t love it like I do.”
“You’re saying I haven’t paid my dues? Like that band?” He was referring to Swann’s Way, a group of pretenders I’d caught trying to buy their way to headliner status only a few months before. Bill had been proud of me, then, even as he’d lectured me about taking risks. I could see the beginning of a smile at the corner of his mouth. I could have salvaged the evening then, only that smile meant something more to me.
“You think I’m just being sentimental. That I romanticize the scene.” He did, I knew, and maybe he was a little bit right. But that was also his convenient way of dismissing me. “But you don’t know the history. You don’t know where everybody’s coming from.” I was gathering steam. “You have instant access because you’ve got money to spend and a stage where people can play, so you think you are a part of everything. Which is great. Good for you!” I’d dropped my silverware by this point, and threw my hands up in the air. “But that doesn’t give you the right to be so damned patronizing!”
That had been it. He’d gone off to the club and I, for once, had stayed home. We’d spoken a few times since, but each time it had been tense. And each time, we’d both made a point of how busy we were—and where we were going, alone. But I guess we hadn’t spoken yesterday, or—I did some quick calculations—since last Friday. Had we really missed an entire weekend together?
As if she knew, Musetta chose that moment to grab my ankle. “You got me!” I reached for her and she scooted away, stopping halfway down the hall to see if I'd come in pursuit. I found one of her favorite cat toys, a crumpled ball of aluminum foil, and tossed it. She intercepted it easily and sent it skittering back to me. “Goal!” I threw it again and watched her chase it several more times, before her attention flagged and my stomach began growling in earnest. She was purring; a good healthy purr, I was sure. My pizza had gone cold again by then, but it helped my appetite to know that at least some living creature cared about my well being.
Chapter Three
Writing up my column carried me into the early afternoon. The band had been fun, and chatting with them after their set had given me insight into their music and motivation. The small club show had been their first Boston appearance, but the five musicians weren’t kids, far from it. Instead, they shared histories with some of the biggest near-misses of the last ten years. NME picks that never crossed the Atlantic, pub bands without a hit, and one one-hit wonder had all contributed members to the Infallible Mystics. Unapologetic throwbacks all.
“We’ve chased every trend,” Sean, the drummer, had told me. “We’ve never caught one yet.”
“So this time, we’ll let them double back to us.” Guitarist Liam had finished the thought. Looking at my transcription, I wondered how to use it in my preview for next week’s big radio concert. The show would be free and a mad house, the Infallible Mystics just one band of seven. And every band claims to be playing for the fun of it, just as each of them deny following the fads and fashions of the pop world. The quotes, by themselves, were useless. I closed my eyes.
Music, that’s what I needed. Not only to wake me up, but to make my case. If I have any talent, it is for describing the sounds I love, translating the aural experience to the page. I’d enjoyed last night’s set considerably, and not just because Liam had been sweetly flirtatious, with the kind of lean, dark Celtic look I adore. Whether or not Bill remained in my life, I liked to think that I was experienced enough not to swoon over touring musicians. No, there was something in the songs themselves that had gotten me going: a bit of ‘80s New Wave edge, a little ‘70s swagger. A solid blues foundation. If I could give that to my readers, they’d believe the band members when they made their declarations of faith. I’d believed them, hadn’t I? My job then, was to explain what I’d heard, and that would suffice.
I put on the CD and started dancing around the room. Musetta took refuge under the sofa and watched me with caution. But I’d gotten my blood flowing and soon I was singing along. “Man got the blues, the blu-u-ues.” Okay, it wasn’t great poetry, but I didn’t have much of a voice either. I cranked the volume to drown myself out, and Musetta fled to the bedroom. At least I didn’t have to worry about my neighbors. Midday Tuesday, they were all at work.
Or so I thought, until in the lull between tracks, I heard the pounding. I hit mute and danced over to the door to see Reed, my upstairs neighbor. As was usual, he was holding the sax from which he derived his nickname.
“Oh, sorry.” The Mystics were a far cry from Reed’s jazz roots. “Were you trying to practice?”
He smiled and my concern melted. “You’d hear it if I were, darling. No, I’m on my way into town. Thought I’d stop by, though, and see how you’re doing, if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Reed.” This was nice, but unexpected. Except that Reed worked with Bill, handling the business end of the bookings. “Is this because I missed that show last night?”
“I admit I was wondering where you’d gotten yourself off to. Thought maybe you were out of town until I heard your stereo.” So it did carry. “Then I thought, maybe you’ve got that cold that’s going around.”
“No, not exactly.” I hung on the door, my newfound energy suddenly gone. He must have seen something in my face.
“Everything all right between you two?”
“I don’t know, Reed.” At one point, I’d considered the gallant New Orleans transplant as a romantic possibility. Tall and lean, with a Duke Ellinton fashion sense and the kind of creamy chocolate skin and cheekbones most male models would kill for. Now, he was a neighbor—and a link to Bill. “I’m not sure what’s going on.”
He looked at me, his dark eyes homing in until I felt a flush creep up my own pale cheeks. “You might consider coming down to the club tonight, Theda.” That look was trying to tell me something. “Some things are worth fighting for.”
“Really?” What did he mean? “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think too long.” He looked past me, and I turned, too, to see my answering machine blinking red. “And start picking up your phone calls.”
“Thanks, boss.” I smiled to take the edge off and he rewarded me with one of his elegant half bows before heading back down the stairs. Now usually, I confess, I’d watch him. Reed’s easy on the eyes. But the blinking machine was beckoning me. It was Bill, it had to be, and as I crossed the room I kicked myself for not calling him sooner. Our squabble had been so silly.
“Hi, Theda. It’s Patti.” Ah well. I’d give her thirty seconds. “I wanted to tell you that my pussums lapped up those leftovers and everything seems fine. But call me anyway. I really have to tell you about this new man—” I hit the button for the next message and was rewarded by a male voice clearing his throat.
“Krakow? Call me.” Not Bill. I sank onto the sofa with a sigh. And not only was the caller not Bill, it was Tim, my editor at the Morning Mail. What did he want? Deadline wasn’t for hours yet, and for a variety of reasons I was very tempted to ignore his terse demand. How dare he not be Bill?
But he was my boss, or at least as much of a boss as I had these days. As a freelancer, I get paid by the piece, and I can write for anyone I chose. Still, my old paper and I had come to an agreement; each Tuesday I turned in 800 words on the local club scene. Every Thursday, “Clubland” ran in the arts pages. And one week later, on Saturday, I got a check in the mail. It was an arrangement I could live with, even if it was informal. These days, with buyouts and threatened layoffs, my gig was as secure as just about any in the news room. As long as I held up my end. So while I could put off Patti, I should call Tim. On the off chance that my column was being killed this week—or discontinued for some reason—it would be good to know before I worked on it any longer.
“Mrup?” Musetta came up and bumped my shin. She always could figure out my moods.
“You’re right, kitty. I�
�m being overdramatic. It’s probably nothing.” I reached down to rub behind her ears and was rewarded with a purr. “Maybe there’s a new way to submit photos or something.” She started to knead and I reached for the phone. I’d call Tim, and then I’d call Bill. I needed to break this absurd silence.
“Tim? Theda here.” Much to my amazement, the phone hadn’t gone direct to voice mail. But the silence that followed made me wonder if some circuit had gone astray. “You called me?”
A thud and a rustle told me the line was still live. “Tim? You okay?” For anyone else, this might be more overreacting, but I’d had a couple of run ins with violent crime in the past year. If my editor was being held hostage, but had somehow managed to get to a phone…“Tim?”
“Budget meeting.” I looked up at the clock. It was coming on two o’clock. “Call you back.”
“Wait!” If there was bad news, I wanted to know it now, or at least before I put more time into this week’s column. Maybe the buyouts hadn’t been enough. Maybe the freelance budget was getting slashed, too. “Give me the thumbnail, Tim? Please?”
“We may have a position open. You’d have to talk to people, and it might not be music. More after budget, Krakow. But, Krakow?” I nodded, but he didn’t wait for a response. “Wow me this week. A lot of people will be reading.”
***
My heart was pounding in my ears, and not just because Tim had hung up with his customary vigor. A position? On the staff? I’d tried to get off the copy desk and into a writing job for years, when I’d worked at the Mail. At that point, it seemed impossible; nobody wanted to hear that a copy editor could write. It was, I realized as my stout pet leaped into my lap and began to knead, as if Musetta had tried to bark. When I’d quit last spring, I’d hoped that I could prove myself independent of the paper, redefine myself as a writer. I didn’t think I’d end up back at the Mail. It seemed particularly unlikely now, when so many senior writers were being forced out, told in essence to take the buyout or be sent back to the bureaus, the suburban wastelands where school board and zoning meetings were the daily fare. But then again, maybe that was part of the deal. If Tim brought me in now, I’d be both a proven commodity and a newbie. Cheap and yet reliable.
I winced, and not just because of Musetta’s claws. Did I really want to be replacing old timers? Did I have a choice? And what did Tim mean when he said I should “wow” him? Didn’t I always?
Much as I wanted to talk to Bill, right now I needed more information. My friend Bunny still worked in the newspaper’s library, although her advancing pregnancy had made her nocturnal outings with me a thing of the past. At least I knew she was less likely to be wandering the grimy hallways of the downtown plant. But luck was running against me today.
“You’ve reached the desk of Barbara Milligan…” I left a message at the beep, and sat there, holding the phone. Musetta jumped down, leaving me to think. Tim had said to wow him. My column was lacking a lead. I needed something more substantial to eat than cold pizza. And, if I really thought about it, the one-bedroom apartment I shared with Musetta needed a thorough cleaning. So many things to do.
I looked over at my cat. Using her particular feline talent, she’d managed to find and completely fill the one place on the sofa that caught the sun, and the long guardhairs in her coat glistened. She was the picture of contentment, while I was its polar opposite. It was time. I dialed.
“You’ve reached Bill Sherman’s private line. If you are calling about Bill’s Last Stand, please call the club during business hours. If you are calling about booking—” I hung up. I knew he wouldn’t show at the bar until five or so. Could he have not come home last night?
That way madness lay. I’d been up and out early, and Bill was more of a daytime type than I was. He was probably at the gym. Following the knee injury that ended his police career, he’d embarked on a rigorous discipline of weight lifting and swimming, with the goal of being able to run again, at least slowly, by summer.
A small murmur caught my attention. Musetta was yawning, one white paw extended in a leisurely stretch, her head and body turned to expose that white fluffy belly. I reached for it and her eyes opened, round, green, and accusing.
“Sorry, kitty.” The eyes blinked. “And yes, you’re right.” I hit redial.
“Bill, it’s Theda.” What could I say? I wasn’t sorry. “I’d love to talk with you. Call me?” My own eyes were smarting as I hung up, and I blinked away the tears. This was ridiculous. We were adults; we cared about each other. We’d either work it out or we wouldn’t. And now I had a piece to finish.
Fifty minutes later, I had something cobbled together with the requisite quotes and me weighing in as a critic. It wasn’t what I’d hoped for, and I doubted it would “wow” anyone, even Tim. I was distracted, and even some more high-volume therapy hadn’t gotten me back into the mood. I hit print and grabbed the pages. Sometimes reading things through in hard copy lets me see a piece in a different way, and I didn’t feel quite comfortable sending in a column I felt so ambivalent about. But as I collapsed back on the sofa, waking Musetta, I couldn’t seem to focus on the papers in my hand. What was going on with my life? And had somebody really tried to poison Violet’s cats?
***
With a beat recycled from the ragged funk-punk ’80s and a strong blues spirit, the Infallible Mystics conjured up a vintage dance groove…Was the contamination specific to that one bag of cat food or would we be hearing of other poisonings soon? Would Bill call me back?“The Jam, Gang of Four, the usual,” said guitarist Liam, admitting to those 30-year-old influences. Acknowledging, not admitting; I made the change before the copy desk, my former colleagues, would. There was no shame or blame here. But before you can say “new wave,” keep in mind…No shame or blame except that which I felt reading my own hackneyed prose. Could this get any worse? I had a story here, but not the one I’d written. I needed air, a dose of adrenaline. A glance at the window showed me Musetta had found a new perch, stretched out on the sill and soaking up the sun that streamed in. I needed a run.
“In the heat of the night…” I found myself singing as I laced up my sneakers. It had been too long. “She’s gonna push, push…” I finished the other shoe with a flourish of air guitar. Poison. Well, we were talking ‘80s bands here. But the song—too late, I recognized “Love on the Rocks”—was a sour reminder. On any other day, with the sun baking the morning’s mud, I’d have sprinted to Bill’s place first, just to see if he’d power walk a block or two with me. I pulled a sweatshirt over my head and silenced my iPod. Just in time to hear the phone.
“Bill?” How could I be breathless already?
“Sorry, Theda.” It was Bunny. “Just me.”
My heart sank, and for a moment I mistook my own mood drop for concern. “Everything all right? When you didn’t answer—”
“I’m fine, Theda. The baby’s fine.” A few months earlier, we’d had a scare. These days, I felt more concerned about her pregnancy than she was, even though it was her first. “It’s just that this last month I have to pee like every twenty minutes. And going up and down those stairs, oy.”
I remembered the circular stairs that led into the Mail ’s morgue, or library. At some point, an elevator had been added for ADA compliance, but it was so slow that even folks on crutches tended to hobble by it. Still, last time I’d seen Bunny, she hadn’t been able to see her feet. In all fairness, some of that was the baby, but my zaftig buddy had also taken full advantage of her state to indulge.
“Well, you take care of yourself.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I heard her crunching on something. Maybe it was a carrot stick. “But what’s up? You had a question?”
“Yeah.” I flopped back on the sofa. Musetta came over to sniff my sneakers, and I realized I had a more pressing concern than Mail gossip. “Do you remember the cat food problems a year or two ago? Some kind of contamination?”
“Do I!” She made a noise that made me picture her ample flesh all a
quiver. “That was awful.”
“Mmm.” I agreed, but my mind was on the present. “Well, I don’t want to scare anyone, but have you heard anything about a new problem? About dry cat food making people’s pets sick?”
“Theda? Tell?” I could hear her leaning in.
“Remember your blood pressure, Bunny! Don’t worry! It’s probably nothing, but some of Violet’s cats got sick last night. Nothing serious, they’re all fine.” Even as I filled her in, I decided against sharing Violet’s theory; it still seemed far-fetched and a little paranoid. “It might have been a complete accident.” I wanted to keep an open mind. “A case of something going bad.”
“But it might not.” Either Bunny heard my unspoken thought or she and Violet worked along the same lines. “You know, sometimes I feel like if I were a good mother, I’d make the cats’ food myself. There are all those recipes out there now.”
“Bunny, I really don’t think that’s necessary.” At least she couldn’t see me roll my eyes. “Half those recipes are nutty, anyway. I mean, they’re not healthy, not any healthier than store-bought food.”
She sniffed. “They can’t be worse.”
“Actually, they can be.” I cut her off. “When you’re dealing with raw meat, you’ve got bacteria to worry about, not to mention getting the nutritional balance right. Please, Bunny, don’t get all extreme on me.” Silence. “I mean, you’re going to have your hands even fuller soon. But, if you could check for me?”
“I’ll get right on it. Globally.” With Bunny’s computer expertise and the Mail ’s access, she meant that. If kitties in Kathmandu were getting sick, my friend would find out. Which left me with my own good intentions. Giving Musetta a quick squeeze—“meh!”—I headed for the door and down to the street.
Vintage soul made a good choice for a running soundtrack, the wah-wah guitar and intricate bass lines providing a compromise between the rock I’d been writing about and the mood of my muscles. Thirty-three, almost thirty-four, and feeling it, as I started off at a slow lope, I pondered age. The sun was out, its bright light mirrored off every puddle on the street. But this last winter had seemed longer to me than those past. Was the freelance life wearing me down? Did I want to “come in from the cold,” so to speak? Or was I just fretting over the situation with Bill?