by W E DeVore
She turned onto her stomach and Derek’s cool hands moved over the bare skin on her back.
“Your hands are so cold. My grandma has hands like yours,” she sighed. “Cold hands, warm heart.”
“Did she raise you?” he asked.
“Daddy wasn’t the same after Mama died. Bubbe picked up the slack. You?” she asked, having long ago assumed that Derek had also lost his mother as a young child.
“Something like that,” he said. “You need to get some sleep. It’ll make coming down easier if you’re asleep. Think about something happy.”
“Like what?”
“I like to think about my grandma. She makes these oatmeal cookies with raisins and so much cinnamon, they’re almost spicy, well, spicy for Ohio.” He continued to trace a light pattern over her skin.
“Sounds good. Feels good, too.” Q yawned. “I know I give you a hard time, Derek, but I love you. Thank you for being my friend.”
“Go to sleep, angel. If you wake up in the middle of the night and you still feel like making a bad decision. I’m game. Deal?”
“Deal.” She felt herself slipping into unconsciousness. “Derek?”
“What, angel?”
“Don’t leave yet.”
He kissed her shoulder. “Get some sleep.”
◆◆◆
Q opened her eyes and found herself in a large canopied bed. An intricately woven gold silk bedspread covered her. She stared up at the red velvet curtain overhead.
Where the fuck am I?
Someone sighed beside her and she turned to see Derek’s assistant lying naked a few inches away. Q quickly looked down at herself, relieved to discover that she was mostly still clothed. She heard music coming from the next room and she gingerly climbed out of bed. Finding her discarded In Flames t-shirt on the floor, she pulled it on and picked up her Converse before tiptoeing out of the room and down the hall to the living room.
The apartment was empty and the grey light of pre-dawn drifted in through the windows. Derek sat at the piano, wearing his normal uniform of black fabric from head to toe. She sat next to him on the piano bench and rested her head against his shoulder.
“Thank you for not taking advantage last night, Cincinnati.”
“I’m into a lot of things, angel. Necrophilia is not one of them. You were out cold.” He nudged her with his shoulder. “Jesse was a little disappointed. She’s going through a divorce, she needed a little confidence boost. Having sex with both of us would have done the trick. I did my best in your absence.”
“You fucked your assistant while I was passed out in your bed next to you?” she asked in distaste.
“You were supposed to be helping. I figured you might want to join in if you woke up. There were plenty of orgasms to go around.”
“That’s gross, Derek.”
“It’s just sex, angel. Nothing gross about it.”
“What happened last night?” she asked, trying to sort out the details.
“What do you remember?”
“Kissing. Lots of kissing. Who did I kiss?”
“Fiona first. But that wasn’t your idea, that was hers. Then Spot tried to help you out and she kissed him. Then you and Spot kissed for a while. I thought the three of you were going to turn our little party into an orgy, but you left them and came over to me.”
“Ok. That I remember. Then what?”
“You pulled me back to my bedroom. You took off your shirt and just when things were getting fun, you started hallucinating. You passed out. I went back to the party. Jesse was still here…”
“You do this a lot? Sleep with the women you work with?” Q asked.
“Sure. Why not? Jesse and I have sex every now and again. Mostly before she got married. A couple of times after her husband cheated on her while we were on tour. And a few times since the divorce.”
“How does that work? I mean, you’re crossing a line, aren’t you?”
“Not a line, angel. A door. If I knock on it and she answers, great. If I knock on it and she doesn’t, that’s fine, too. Same for her.”
“But isn’t that weird? You working together, being friends…”
“No, it makes it easier. Lets the pressure out every now and again.” He looked at her. “You should try it.”
“With you, I suppose?”
“With me. With Spot. With Charlie. With JJ. With someone. When was the last time you slept?”
“Last night.”
“When was the last time you slept without falling into a bottle of something?”
“I don’t remember.” She let out an exhausted sigh and he squeezed her knee.
“You’re spun up too tight, angel. If you ask me, very little can’t be fixed by a well-placed orgasm.”
Q smiled wistfully. “I used to tell Sanger that all the time.”
“Well, you were right.”
Derek reached for his phone to turn on a voice recording app before he started playing again, humming to himself and bobbing his head to a drum beat that only he could hear. Q rested back against him and started to sing:
I rise up to the surface
I breathe into the sky
In the distance, I hear your cries
I hear your grief wails
Can’t remember why
I sailed away from you
I sailed away from all I knew
I sailed away from view
I sailed away….
But freedom is a drowning sailor
And I’m drifting on the seas again
I swore my enemy had become my savior
But it was only me again
I’m fighting a losing battle
I’ve broken my stolen shield
I cut out my eyes to make my visions real
I walk in nightmares
I’ll challenge all the gods
But for all my rage
These wounds, they will not heal
I wander through the wilderness
Searching for a home
Become a weary traveler
Who kills to be alone
I eat a lotus flower
To forget your face
My memories aren’t all gone
But my past is all erased
If freedom is a drowning sailor
Then I’m drifting on the seas again
I swore my enemy had become my savior
But it was only me again
I wake up on a shore
My cloak has torn away
Stand stripped before the world
My pride buried in the waves
I hear the passing bell
Mourning for some lost soul
Is this strange land
The home I lost so long ago?
But freedom is a drowning sailor
And I’m drifting on the seas again
I swore my enemy had become my savior
But it was only me again
Derek stopped playing. “Who are you? The drowning sailor or the savior?”
“I haven’t decided yet, Derek.” She brought her foot up onto the bench and slipped on her Converse. “We shouldn’t keep any of it. It’s just nonsense.”
“No, angel. I don’t think it is. Are you sure you’re ok?”
She finished tying her shoes and stood up. “I’m about the furthest from ok I think I’ve ever been. Thanks for the party, though.”
She moved behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. He covered them with his fingers, holding her in place. “Stay with me, Q. I’ll get Jesse to go home. We can talk, not talk. Fuck, not fuck. Dance, stay still. Whatever you need. But stay with me. I don’t think you should be alone anymore. You can stay as long as you like. You told me last night that you loved me. For the record, it’s mutual.”
Q kissed the top of his head. “Don’t worry, Derek, I’m not ready to pull a Sylvia Plath just yet.”
“No? But you’re doing a pretty good impression.” He patted her hands and let her go.
◆◆�
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It was late afternoon when the doorbell rang, forcing Q to drag herself up off the couch. Sanger stood on her porch with a six pack of beer and a paper bag.
“If that’s a roast beef po’boy, I might marry you,” she said, squinting against the afternoon light.
“I figured you might be hurting,” he said. “If you feel half as bad as me, it’s a wonder you’re still standing.”
“That good, huh?”
They went into the living room and sat on the sofa. He reached into the sack and tossed her a paper-wrapped sandwich. She tore into it and took a bite, sighing out loud around her mouthful of roast beef. Sanger opened them both a beer and set hers on the coffee table.
“At least, I finally figured out how to get you to eat,” he said, sitting back to sip his beer. He pulled out a bag of Doritos from the paper sack and opened it. “How much trouble did you get yourself into last night?”
“Not as much as you, I’m guessing. I passed out right after I made out with Derek. You?”
“I did not pass out, not for quite a while. I wish I had.”
“No, you don’t. Fiona is gorgeous. You have fun?”
“I got laid, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“So, that’s a yes, then.” Q took another bite of her sandwich, relieved that her hangover was abating.
“That’s a ‘I don’t remember much of what happened and woke up in a strange woman’s bed this morning.’”
“So, no round two?” she asked, raising her eyebrows at him.
“We’re not talking about this anymore.”
“Round two and round three?”
Sanger blushed. “I had an unusual wakeup call this morning, let’s put it that way.”
Q squinted against her hangover’s sudden resurgence and drank a sip of beer. “Yeah, you can stop talking. I don’t even want to know what that means.”
“Shut up, Clementine.” He looked at her seriously. “Did I get out of line last night? I keep having these weird flashes and I can’t put my finger on it. I’m not sure what’s real and what’s a dream.”
“Apparently, you and Fi and I almost had a three-way in front of everybody until Fiona decided to take you to her bed and I decided to fuck Derek.”
“You want to talk about this?”
“I do not.” She took a long swig of beer and let her stomach settle. “We’re spending too much time together, Aaron. Call Fiona. Take her out a few times while she’s still in town. She’s not going back to Miami for at least another week. I’m fine. Really. It’s time for me to be on my own.”
He leaned towards her and took her beer out of her hand, cupping her face. “What if I don’t want to leave you on your own? What if I thought I was with you last night, not Fiona?”
She pushed him away and stood up. “It’s no good, Aaron. I love my husband. I don’t want to be with anyone else. I was drunk and high and lonely. We weren’t the only people making out. I kissed Fi. I almost had sex with Derek, for fuck’s sake. It was the alcohol and the Ecstasy talking last night, not me.”
“What about yesterday afternoon?”
Q shivered at the memory. “That’s what I mean. If we keep hanging out, we’re going to have sex and it will ruin our friendship. And that’s the only thing I have going for me right now. I’d rather take a break from you for a few weeks than lose you for good.”
He started to argue and she held up her hand. Raising her voice, she continued, “I need some space. I need to be sad and angry and eat or starve without everyone worrying about me. We’re both in mourning. Let’s not confuse anything that’s happened for anything else.”
Sanger leaned his elbows on his knees. He stared straight ahead for several minutes and finally said, “I need to tell you something, Clementine.”
Q folded her arms and rested against the piano, waiting for him to speak.
He glanced up at her before looking at his feet. “I don’t know how to be without you, anymore…”
She walked back to him and sat on the edge of the coffee table, taking his hands in hers. “Stop. You’re getting all confused and it’s getting me confused. It’s no good. I’ll ruin it. I don’t want to be with anyone else. Ever. I’m Ben’s wife. I will always be Ben’s wife. You have to find someone else. You’re too focused on me and it’s fucking everything up for you. I'm ruining your life.”
He looked at her, his face inches from hers. “No, Clementine, you’re not. Please let me stay.”
“I want to be alone. If I can’t be with Ben, then I want to be alone. It’s the only way I’ll get through this.” She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “I love you, cowboy, and I’m so grateful for everything you’ve been doing for me all these months, but you can’t help me. Not with this.”
Sanger studied her eyes, concern tracking over his face. “Don’t you leave me. You have to hold on.”
Her hands started to shake and she stood up, brushing away a tear at the corner of her eye. She drained half her beer, swallowing the grief wail that was applying pressure to force its way through her larynx.
“Do I have the word ‘suicidal’ tattooed on my forehead? Derek thought I was about to do a Donny Hathaway, too.”
“Maybe you should listen to your friends when they say they’re worried about you.” Sanger stood up and walked behind her.
He wrapped his arms around her waist before resting his forehead on her shoulder. As Q involuntarily reclined into him, her body sighed in contentment and a torrent of tears welled behind her closed eyes.
“Let me stay,” he whispered.
He brushed her hair away from her neck and brushed his lips against her skin making her tremble.
“Tell me what will help you. I’ll do whatever you want,” he whispered, kissing the back of her neck, softening her resolve. “Let me stay. Please don’t make me leave you. Tell me what you need.”
She moved away from him and cleared her throat, refusing to give into it. “I need to talk to Stanley.”
When he looked panicked, she pointed to the baby grand that had once stood in the music room of her late mentor, Stanley Gerard. “I’m going to play, Sanger. All day. Every day. Until the world starts making sense. It worked after Arabi, maybe it will work now. I need some peace.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “After Arabi, you had Stanley, feeding you lunch, feeding you dinner, taking you to church on Sunday, taking your mind off things every afternoon. It wasn’t the piano that saved you after you were raped at that gig. It was having a friend to help you come back.”
He reached over and knocked lightly on her head. “If Stanley were here, he’d tell you that you’re thinking too much.”
When Q didn’t say anything, Sanger picked up his jacket and moved towards the door. “Please don’t leave me, Clementine. You’re the only person in the world that make this place make sense. Without you, I won’t make it. You need to find a way back.”
Q sat down at the piano and started to play. When she looked up, it was dark and Sanger was gone.
November: Loneliness
November 16.
Worst. Wedding Anniversary. Ever.
The fifth anniversary was supposed to be wood, not premature widowhood. Q glanced around at the dust and desolation and decided she hated her house.
Ben’s house.
The house creaked, challenging her to do something about it. She laid back down on the couch and scowled at the ceiling. “Shut up.”
Turning her head to regard the painting over the mantel, she gazed at the negative space between the splotches of brilliant yellow, orange, and green. Ben had bought it for fifty dollars from an artist on the street because it reminded him of a sunset over False River. A reminder of a faded memory from his childhood. The minute he’d brought it home, all Q could see was the screaming face hidden between the joyous explosions of color.