August and Everything After

by Jennifer Salvato Doktorski

  Malcolm’s set gets better as he segues from one song to the next without stopping to banter with the audience or even make eye contact. It can’t be easy for him, standing alone up there with the specter of his bandmates backing every song.

  When his set’s over, the crowd chants “one more song,” and Malcolm finally looks out into the audience and blinks, like he’s only now realized we’re here.

  “You guys want to hear a new one?”

  The crowd responds with whoops and hollers, and Malcolm breaks into a grin so warm and genuine, I can almost see the little boy behind the beard and sad eyes.

  “This one’s called ‘That Last Night,’” he says, and then fingerpicks the opening notes. When he strums the first chord and begins to sing, the lyrics could easily be mistaken for a breakup song, but I can tell it’s an elegy.

  That last night, that last time, that last look I can’t erase/I should have said more, should have done more, found a way to take your place.

  He’s finally hit his stride and there’s something about the combination of his voice—raspy and vulnerable—and the lyrics that trips a wire in my brain. Not now, not now, not now, I tell myself. But the flashes come so fast, I can’t tamp them down. I see Lynn’s face. A dark SUV. A helmet rolling toward the curb. My hands fumbling to dial 911. My skull tingles and my breath gets shallow. The mantras and phrases that usually help me keep these memories at bay aren’t working. I’ve got to get out of here.

  I plop my tray on the nearest table, twist my leather cuff bracelet, and scan the bar for the quickest escape route. I plunge into the crush of people. The next thing I know, I’m slamming open the front door and tumbling into the balmy July night.

  Gasping, I reach into my pocket for the small, white pill wrapped in foil that I keep with me for emergencies and wait for the urge to swallow it to subside. I try not to take the Xanax unless I absolutely need it. Usually I can talk myself down. But tonight, the heavy air envelops me, making it hard to take deep breaths. Traffic swishes by; the warm breeze delivers the bay’s briny scent. I press my back against the building, slide to the ground, count backward from one hundred, and wait.

  “Hold your shit together, Quinn,” I admonish myself, even though every nerve ending in my body is poised for a release. I don’t have time for this. I need to get back inside. I unwrap the pill, snap it in half, and swallow it. I pinch the bridge of my nose, wait for it to work, and will myself not to cry. Because even though it doesn’t happen often, once I start crying, I can’t stop.

  THREE

  The door bangs open, jolting me back.

  Malcolm steps outside, looking up at the sky, and lights a cigarette. He takes a deep inhale and does a double take when he sees me sitting there.

  “Had to escape, huh? Was I that bad?”

  I push myself to standing and dust off my butt.

  “I wasn’t escaping. You were great. That last song especially. The lyrics…the mood…it affected me.”

  He squints.

  “Let me guess. Because you just broke up with your boyfriend?”

  His slight condescension ignites anger inside me.

  “Because my best friend died and it was my fault.”

  The force of my words causes him to flinch and me to take a step back. My heart beats so hard, the skin around my sternum pulses. I’ve never said that out loud to anyone. I’m not sure why I did now, except that I am Quinn Gallo, queen of the inappropriate and destroyer of casual conversation. If the cat-eye glasses didn’t send him running, this will.

  We lock eyes and I can’t quite read his expression. My temple pulses, ticking off the seconds until I implode. And when I think I actually might shatter here in front of him, he drops his cigarette to the ground and crushes it with his heel. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  I lean back against the building, close my eyes, and let the calming effects of the Xanax wash over me. My breath slows and the tingling sensation abates.

  “Quinn?” Malcolm’s voice rouses me. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m good.”

  I breathe in through my nose and open my eyes. Malcolm’s holding a CD and a Sharpie. He pulls off the cap with his teeth and scrawls the word “Demos” and a phone number on the face of the disc.

  “My new songs.” The disc captures passing headlights on its mirrored surface as he holds it up and waves it so the marker dries. “Let me know what you think.”

  I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this.

  “I…thank you.”

  He opens the door and gestures for me to go in front of him.

  “Don’t thank me now. You haven’t listened to them yet.”

  Back inside, he heads to the stage to pack up, and I hustle over to the bar to put the disc with my stuff before checking on my tables.

  “Where the hell were you?” Liam asks when he sees me. “I was—”

  He’s about to get all whiny about how busy he was, but he spots the disc in my hand and makes that expression cats get when they see a shiny object.

  “What’s that?”

  “Malcolm’s new songs.”

  “Holy crap! I knew it. He likes you. You’ve got to get us an audition for his band.”

  “Stop it, Liam. He doesn’t even know me. We barely spoke.”

  “Well, whatever you said, it left an impression.”

  Yeah, dead best friends will do that. But there’s no way in hell I’m telling Liam what I said to Malcolm. That’s kind of the whole point of me living here. To make my history history.

  I shrug like it’s no big deal.

  “I told him I dug his new song. I’m sure everyone else will too.”

  I see Malcolm in my periphery, packing up his gear to make way for the next band. His progress is slowed by congratulatory handshakes and bro hugs.

  Liam nods.

  “He was good. He didn’t kill it though. Malcolm’s more of rhythm guitarist than a lead.”

  “Which is why he needs you?”

  “Exactly,” Liam grins.

  I shake my head. “I gotta check my tables.”

  My customers are craning their necks to look for me as I walk across the bar—a clear signal I’ve been gone too long. Crap. I hope Caleb didn’t notice. He’s a friend of my aunt’s and the reason I got a job here. I don’t want to let him or my aunt down. Plus, I like it here in the land of misfit toys.

  By the time I deliver fresh rounds to half my tables and clear glasses from the rest, Malcolm’s by the door, looking ready to leave. I’m about to walk over there when I’m intercepted by Arnie, one of the regulars. He slips a five into my apron pocket.

  I try to give back his money.

  “Arnie, I didn’t even serve you tonight.”

  Arnie shows up here stoned most nights and doesn’t leave until he’s also drunk. I figure something happened to Arnie—something he can’t talk about and can’t forget. Why else would he keep turning up here alone? Everyone calls him Elmo, on account of his striking red hair. But I always call him Arnie, and I think he appreciates it. That’s why he tips me even when he doesn’t have to.

  His fingers curl around my hand and crumple the five-dollar bill.

  “Keep it. Save it for your future.”

  Ha! My future.

  “Thank you, but I’m more of a short-term kind of girl.”

  Right now, I can’t see past August. What comes after that, who knows?

  “Listen to me. You’re a nice girl and the future will be here before you know it. One minute you’re a kid with all these opportunities, and the next thing you know, you’re forty-five like me and out of choices.”

  Holy crap—Arnie’s only forty-five? I thought he was the same age as the Spoon Man. That’s our other regular who’s got to be at least sixty. He drinks boilermakers, talks about his Army days, and onc
e he’s had a few in him, plays the spoons.

  “Okay then. Thanks, Arnie,” I say, peering over his shoulder.

  Normally I’d stay and chat with him longer, but we’re busier than usual and I’m anxious to say goodbye to Malcolm. But by the time I sidestep Arnie, drop off my tray of empty glasses, and make my way toward the front door, Malcolm’s already gone.

  FOUR

  For the rest of the night, I go through the motions of being a good waitress in a subpar bar, while counting down the minutes until I can listen to Malcolm’s new songs.

  When my shift finally ends at 1:00 a.m., I’m thankful my piece-of-crap car is old enough to have a CD player. I turn the key in the ignition and pop the disc in, smiling to myself as I roll down the windows and let Malcolm’s voice and guitar spill out into the night. The first two songs are dark and confessional, and work well with just vocals and guitar. On the third track, I hear a drum and bass part in my head. This is a song in need of a band.

  As I drive over the bridge that spans Barnegat Bay, the wind whips my hair and makes a loud wah, wah, wah in my ears. I turn up the music, breathe in the familiar mix of salt and fresh water, and take in the view. I love how the island looks from the bridge at night, a straight line of soft twinkling lights with one neon spike in the center, like a heartbeat on a monitor, marking the boardwalk and free fall tower.

  I get through all five songs by the time I pull into my aunt’s driveway of pebbles and crushed shells. When I walk in the door, my aunt’s asleep on the couch with an unfinished glass of Pinot on the coffee table and CNN on the flat screen. She wakes up when I turn off the TV.

  “Hey, Auntsie,” I whisper. It’s what I’ve always called her, a toddler’s blend of aunt and Annie.

  “How were the bands?” she mumbles.

  “Good.”

  She always asks. Auntsie’s a librarian, but she used to write music reviews for the local papers and even published her own zine. Her vinyl collection’s as impressive as her personal library. There are floor-to-ceiling bookcases running the length of the bungalow’s living room.

  “You should come next Friday,” I say.

  She groans as she pushes herself up to a sitting position.

  “Hear that? I’m making geriatric noises. I’m too old to rock.”

  Auntsie’s forty-one, but like Caleb, and unlike Arnie, she can easily pass for much younger. Her round face is wrinkleless, and her arms and back are adorned with a good amount of ink. Her long brown hair is currently in pigtails, making her look twelve, not middle-aged.

  “You’re not too old to rock. Caleb always asks for you.” I give her a conspiratorial look.

  She chuckles and shakes her head.

  “Caleb. Nice guy. Too bad he’s living in Neverland. We all can’t survive on pixie dust.”

  Liam told me that before Caleb became a permanent fixture in the Jersey shore music scene, he toured with a band that opened for some big acts in the ’90s. I know he and Auntsie have history, but she only ever talks about Caleb as a friend. I wave Malcolm’s demo at her.

  “Got some new tunes for you. I’ll pass them along after I download them.”

  “Cool. I’m going to bed.” She grabs her unfinished glass of wine then shuffles toward her bedroom in the back of the house. She stops short by the kitchen door and turns around.

  “Remember, I have a summer reading thing all day at the library tomorrow and book club with the girls at night. You’re on your own for dinner, unless you want to come along to book club.”

  “Nah, I’m good.” I don’t like to crash Auntsie’s lifestyle any more than I already have. “I’ll grab a slice on the boardwalk after work.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod.

  “Okay. Text me when you’re in for the night, and don’t forget we’ve got the shelter on Sunday.”

  “I won’t.” I tag along with Auntsie once a week to walk dogs at a no-kill shelter up the coast. She loves animals and I’m learning to.

  Tomorrow I’m working the day shift at the Ben Franklin Five & Ten, a fixture in Lavallette for sixty-five years. With its red-and-white-striped awning, row of Adirondack chairs outside, and Yankee Candle smell inside, the store evokes happy memories of summers past and those yet to come.

  The Ben Franklin is a sharp contrast to Keegan’s, which smells like beer and decades-old cigarettes, but that’s what I like about my jobs—the differences. The only complaint I have about my life at the shore, and it’s more of a worry than complaint, is that the Ben Franklin is seasonal work. In the fall, if I can convince Auntsie and Mom to let me stay, I’ll need to find another job to supplement my hours at Keegan’s. That’s in addition to coming up with the “solid life plan” Mom keeps going on about.

  As opposed to an amorphous plan? I think to myself as I climb the narrow staircase to my second-floor bedroom. A solid life plan would be a lot easier if I had a solid life goal. I don’t. I have no idea what I want. Never did. Even before losing Lynn, I was the kid who put her hand in the bag of Dum Dums lollipops and winged it. You get what you get and you don’t get upset.

  Of course, the exception may be this room. I wanted this room with its double bed, white eyelet curtains, and wicker furniture. It faces the water and smells like bay breeze, more so than the rest of the house. I’ve always loved it. But Mom took it whenever we visited, leaving Evie and I to share the room across the hall with bunk beds and a twin. I like that this room is mine now, even if it’s only for a while.

  I transfer Malcolm’s demos to my laptop and phone. When I’m done, I change into the shorts I always sleep in and slip my bra out from under the tank top I was wearing under Auntsie’s grunge shirt. I glance at my laptop and for, like, half a second, I consider taking one of those online career tests, but the thought sends me straight to bed. I slide between the cool sheets and lie there for a few seconds, listening to bay waves lap against the shore. Then I pop in my earbuds and listen to Malcolm’s songs again.

  When I get to the last track, the last song Malcolm played at Keegan’s, I almost skip it, fearing it might trigger dreams of Lynn and the accident. But the safety of my bed and the lingering effects of the Xanax wrap me in the warm confidence and security I need to listen more closely. I imagine a keyboard and gospel choir backing Malcolm’s raw vocals. I hear strings. A cello or maybe upright bass. I reach for the disc with his number. It’s sitting on my nightstand.

  Does he really want to know what I think?

  I have more experience with tubas and trumpets than electric guitars. I tap Malcolm’s number into my contacts, then allow my finger to hover over the message key, searching my mental catalog for musical lexicon that’s hip and insightful. I pick honesty over pithy.

  Love your songs

  I hit send before considering whether or not this is a mistake. Seconds later I hear back.

  Love? That’s a strong word

  They’re strong songs

  Hmm. I’d like to hear more. Meet at the beach tomorrow?

  His question makes me sit up in bed.

  Can’t, gotta work

  After?

  Now I’m out of bed, pacing the hardwood floors. There’s a thrumming inside my head jumbling my thoughts. What should I say? I guess I could say yes. He probably just wants to talk about his songs, no biggie. It’s not me making something between us this time, right? He’s the one who put himself out there. He gave me his songs. He asked me what I thought. And yeah, that part’s a mystery because he probably knows a zillion musicians and who gives a monkey’s ass what I think, but still. It would be rude to blow him off.

  Six o’clock at the pizza place under the free fall tower?

  Ack! What have I done? I flop back on my bed and wait for his reply. Was I too specific? Does specific equal desperate? Should I have played it more like, “yeah, sure, whatev.” I need to find girlfriends w
ho can answer these types of questions for me. I wish I had Kiki’s number. If she can handle Liam, she could handle this. But before I can have a mental breakdown over specificity vs. desperation, Malcolm texts back.

  C u then

  I turn my face into my pillow and smile, suddenly feeling too warm and wired to sleep. I pop back up and grab my laptop.

  This is how it always begins with me, the weaver of fake, one-sided, obsessive relationships. I suffer heartbreak without ever actually having a boyfriend. And this time? This time I have too much damned material to work with. One internet search of Malcolm Trent and all the threads are there—the articles, the blog posts, the website, the music—enough to spin myself into a cocoon. If my sister were here, she’d organize an intervention. But she’s not and I’ve got to stop. Or do I? He asked me to listen to his songs. He wants to meet me on the boardwalk tomorrow. Why would he go to all that trouble and then blow me off? I get up and turn on the window fan.

  He wouldn’t, I conclude.

  I snap my laptop shut, lie back down, and let the fan’s whirring lull me to sleep.

  FIVE

  I can’t believe that motherfucker blew me off!

  That’s what’s on replay in my head as I walk along the boardwalk the next evening with a giant pizza slice in one hand and an iced tea in the other.

  Really? You can’t believe some guy in a band blew you off?

  The second voice clearly belongs to my sister.

  She’d be right. I’m so stupid. I spent my entire eight-hour shift at the Ben Franklin allowing myself to believe something good was about to happen. I caught the anticipatory vibe that always emanates from the customers on the other side of the counter. They’re all smiley and buoyant, stocking up on everything from beach umbrellas to those long kabob sticks for the grill. For them, the outside world with its long commutes and windowless cubicles fades away as soon as they drive over the bay bridge. By the time they hit the Ben Franklin, they’re already wearing sunscreen, flip-flops, and happy faces.