“Thanks,” she says. She’s wearing bright purple boots over black tights and a black sleeveless dress. “Our van was broken into. We had a lot of serious equipment in there, and the only thing the thieves took was the bag with all my shoes. But they left this pair behind.”
The crowd cheers and claps and laughs.
She gives a funny little bow and, with a nod of her head, the three of them begin to play. I can’t help but move to the beat. Emmett was right, I love them. Playing a mix of edgy blues, folk and rock, they crank out song after song. The music has me moving and clapping and trying to remember the words.
After a long set, the whole room is pumped and full of energy.
“This place was built to sound good,” she says, speaking into the mike once the crowd has settled down. “Do you mind if we try without this …?” She waves to indicate the cords, the amps, the mike. The club has grown remarkably quiet as people listen to her. She steps away from the microphone. “Can you hear me in the back?” she asks without the amps. Her voice is quiet but clear.
“YEAH!” they roar back.
The other two guys, who must be brothers, unplug their instruments and step forward on either side of her, like an honor guard.
They both pick up guitars and begin to strum as she sings. The song is much quieter than anything else has been. The room grows still and silent; no one moves. It feels like the crowd is holding its breath, focusing on her. Her voice without the mike is clean and rich, soft as cashmere, pure as springwater. Everyone is watching her, but the thing is, the whole time she sings, she’s looking straight at me.
“May Michael be at my right hand, Gabriel at my left; before me, Uriel; behind me, Raphael. And above my head, the Divine Presence.”
I glance behind me, to my right and left, but there’s no doubt it’s me she’s singing to. I tell myself she can’t possibly know. She can’t see through the bright stage lights; she’s just focusing on a spot that happens to be where I’m standing. I try to keep from letting her song or her clear, lovely voice sneak into my soul.
Not you, I whisper in my heart. Don’t be another angel, another messenger. I can’t stand another one.
“It’s okay,” Emmett says to me. I hear his voice rumble and I turn in surprise. I hadn’t realized I’d said anything out loud. He puts an arm around me and pulls me into him. “She’s singing my favorite lullaby.” That’s when I realize that maybe she isn’t singing to me. Maybe she’s singing to Emmett.
I lean into his solid form, my stomach fluttering pleasantly at his warm chest, the hard knots of muscles. He smells spicy and earthy, like he’d walked through a cloud of incense.
The singer uses her voice like a velvet scalpel, softly cutting straight to the heart of the matter.
She finishes her lullaby, holding on to the last perfect note, and the room goes nuts. Wolf whistles, stomping, tribal whoops—after all that still, concentrated listening, the sudden release of energy is explosive.
“Glad you liked it,” she says, smiling while the crowd worships her.
After another couple of sets and a wicked cover of “Sea of Love,” the concert’s over. It’s past two, but I’m wired. We make it to the parking lot, among the last people out.
“It’s late,” Emmett says.
My ears are ringing in the aftermath of the concert. Except for the one acoustic song, the rest were played at top volume. I don’t want to go home.
“Did you ever notice that you have two of each letter in your name?” I ask. I want to avoid the part where he says he should go, that this night is over. “You have two e’s, two m’s, two t’s. That’s very balanced.”
“If not for that pesky a, Miriam would be a perfect palindrome.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not.”
He laughs. “You sound bitter.”
“I’ve never liked my name.”
“ ‘Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron,’ ” he intones. “ ‘ Took her drum in her hand and all the women went forth after her with drums and with dances.’ Exodus 15:20.”
It’s late and we’re standing under a cone of light from the streetlamp, the only ones out. To hear a biblical phrase here sounds almost sacred.
“You’ve memorized the Bible?” I’m trying to lighten the sudden tension, but I’m frightened. I’d forgotten my namesake was considered a prophetess. Is that what I am? Is that why the angels are coming to me?
“I remember bits and pieces,” he says, answering my question. “I had a pretty traditional childhood.”
He waits for the snarky comment, which he’s left himself wide open for. With his shaved head and extensive tattoos, he’s anything but traditional. But I don’t feel like teasing him.
“My grandparents raised my sister and me after our mom died,” he says after I don’t jump in with a smart retort. “Dad left when I was five.” He pauses, and I wonder if he doesn’t tell many people that. I like to think that I’m special to him. As special as he is to me. “My grandparents were good people,” he says, as if remembering something. “Very religious and traditional. They would have liked you.”
I’m beyond pleased by that compliment. I can’t stop a shy smile.
I am hungry for these details. I want to know more about him, to know everything.
“Is your sister older or younger?”
“She’s two years younger. She’s a naval officer. Toughest person I know.” His tone is both rueful and admiring. I wonder about their relationship: is it anything like mine and Mo’s? As happens more and more when I think about Mo, I feel an aching twist in the pit of my stomach.
When I remain silent, he touches my shoulder.
“You okay?”
The night has fallen into that deep darkness that comes after midnight. It’s cool outside, with a dampness that’s settling on my skin.
“It’s been a rough couple of days,” I say. I try to think what else I can say to explain, but there aren’t any words that would make sense. Not to anyone but me. Mo would understand, but I worry that he’s slipping away from me. I worry that one day I’ll call him and someone I don’t know will answer. I push that thought away.
“You look …” He searches for the right word. “You look drained.”
I exhale. Why do I think he was going to say “haunted”?
“You want a cup of tea or something?”
“I do,” I say in great relief, so happy not to have to go home quite yet. “A cup of tea sounds perfect.”
We drive off in his car, leaving the moment behind us like a bubble that will float up and away, without us.
He lives in a room above the tattoo parlor. When I finally see it, I’m disappointed. It isn’t painted black with skulls, nor does his bed have rumpled red satin sheets or a studded leather comforter. There are bare wood floors swept clean, the old kind with wide honey-colored planks. The walls are a neutral off-white, and a ceiling fan turns slowly, barely stirring the air. His bed is made with tight hospital corners. The bedspread is the color of unbleached cotton. There’s not much to the room. A table and chair, a lamp.
Emmett is downstairs fixing the tea, so I have time to take in the room. He’s said I am free to look around, but there’s nothing upstairs but this stark room and a bathroom down the short hall.
It could be anyone’s room. A monk’s, a soldier’s, a student’s. There isn’t anything that marks his personality. Except that in a strange way, there is. Maybe it’s the faint smell of his soap. Maybe it’s the heavy black motorcycle boots standing so neatly near the closet. They weren’t tossed there, they were placed there. There’s an artist’s pad of thick paper and several types of pencils in a jar. The desk faces a window to catch the light. I’m drawn to that closed notepad; I want to see what sorts of things he sketches when it’s just for himself and not for a client with a story.
But I hear him coming up the stairs, so I pivot around with my back to the notepad. Other than the chair and the bed, there is no place to sit. Feeling awkward, I
decide to lean against one of the walls.
“Make yourself at home,” he says, only slightly ironic. He’s holding two handle-less mugs that look like oversized Japanese teacups. He gives me one and I sip.
The hot tea slides down my throat, warming my stomach, soothing the roiling mess down there. It’s fruity and minty and delicate, like a soft perfume.
“This is really good; what is it?”
“It’s called A Thousand Winks. A friend of mine runs a tea shop in Florida. She sends me some.”
“I like it.”
It’s quiet up here, though I can hear muted music coming from Mac’s Irish Pub one street away. Just a bit of that fast, sharp beat, the occasional frantic melody of the fiddles. They’ll be closing soon, it’s that late. My mind is flitting around, trying to think about the concert, the singer. Trying not to think about Mo, about Tabitha, about God and angels, demons and the devil.
And then Emmett sets down his cup and stretches and I catch a glimpse of his stomach—tight, taut abs, seriously toned. Something simultaneously tightens in my chest and low down in my belly. The room feels warm. His neatly made bed with its pale cotton spread and dark wooden headboard suddenly seems to take up all the space in the room. My breath grows shallow and my heart rate kicks up.
Maybe I make a sound, because Emmett raises his head and turns to look at me. His black eyes are fierce, and I swallow.
“Miriam,” he says, his voice deep and full. He sounds both amused and cautious. “What are you doing?”
That is a very good question. A better question would be, what am I thinking? But I’m not really thinking.
I step toward him. He takes a step back. His pants are snug, hugging his thighs and hips. I have to force myself to keep looking at his face. He’s staring at me like I’ve pulled a grenade out of my purse.
“What, are you scared of me now?” I ask. The situation is almost funny, and strangely, it makes me feel better about my sudden desires. The room is thick with them.
He straightens at the barb and gives me a look. I stifle a laugh.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t bite.” I set down my cup carefully. It’s the pale lavender of early dawn, and the undulations of the cup suggest it’s handmade. I wonder if this was a gift from his tea shop “friend.” I wonder at the stab of jealousy I feel.
“Miriam,” he answers with his usual bluntness. “You’re young, and unless I’m mistaken, you’re a virgin. I don’t think either one of us is ready for a casual night.”
His words do a lot to cool me down, but I can’t stop myself. I’m not really thinking that far ahead. I’m not thinking about sex or commitments. I just want to touch him, very badly. To hold him and be held.
“Is that what this would be?” I ask him quietly.
“Miriam,” he says, rubbing his shaved head. “Why are you doing this?” The movement flexes his biceps and makes the tattoos roil.
I can’t take my eyes off his arms. A dragon with green scales and a tail that curves around to the crook of his elbow. A palm tree (I think of the tea shop friend in Florida again). A snowcapped mountain, Fuji maybe. It’s so sharp and clear I feel I should recognize it. Maori designs wrap around his wrists like shackles.
“What’s the tattoo on your neck?” I ask him. I can only see a curving black shadow. The rest of it lies under his shirt. I have wondered about that tattoo.
“You’re a beautiful girl,” he says, and this time he reaches to touch my hair. “You should find a boy good enough for you.”
“I just want to kiss you,” I say softly, my heart hammering in my chest. “Just one kiss.”
His hand plays with my hair as if he can’t help himself, and I step a bit closer, though not so much as to spook him.
“Yesterday was my birthday. I’m nineteen, old enough to know what I’m doing.” His sigh touches my face. “You don’t have to do this,” I say, feeling a fierce blush, a terrible humiliation, take hold.
His hands, large and sure, cup my face, the air heavy between us. He tilts my head and leans forward, and with our lips an inch apart, he stops. I can feel the heat from his face on mine. I want to surge forward, to close the distance, to attack his mouth and vent my frustration, my fear, my lust, my rabid fascination. Instead, I open my eyes, and as if that’s the signal he was waiting for, Emmett closes the distance and we kiss.
He’s soft at first. We touch lips, bumping together. He slowly opens his mouth, his tongue slipping against mine. He’s gentle, but I want more. I lean into him harder.
“All right, Miriam,” he says against my ear. His breath and his words send shivers down my neck. “Okay.”
His hands tighten, and he’s kissing me as hard as I am him. His hands are in my hair, tilting my head for a better, deeper fit. He’s holding on so tightly it skirts the edge of pain, almost scaring me. But I’m not scared, not really.
He steps back until he hits the bed and he sits down hard, as if he has lost his balance. But he doesn’t let go of my face, so I’m pulled forward. To keep from falling, I drop my right knee on the bed, next to his hip. With one foot on the ground and one knee on the bed, I’m almost straddling him. The temperature in the room shoots up ten degrees.
His hands grasp my hips, thumbs right along my waistband.
He stops for a moment, as if to end it.
“No,” I say, “not yet.” And pull my other knee up on the bed, straddling him completely.
He adjusts his hands on my waist for a better grip as I sink down. He breaks contact long enough for me to haul his shirt up over his head. I feast my eyes on the designs revealed, natural and inked. I twist him around so I can see his back.
There, stretched out along the breadth of his back, spilling over his shoulder blades and curling up around his neck, is a giant angel, dark and fierce.
I freeze abruptly, my breath catching in my throat. Emmett’s hands grow still as he senses something’s wrong.
“Miriam?”
“Your angel,” I say, reaching out to touch the sharply detailed feathers, then stopping myself a quarter inch from his skin. That’s what’s been peeking out of his shirt, curling around his neck—a feather from an angel’s wings. It’s been there this whole time. I shake myself, like a dog coming out of water. Oddly, a quote from Milton’s Paradise Lost pops into my head, the last thing I read at college before I dropped out: The mind is its own place, and in itself / Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n. The two have flipped so quickly, I can’t tell where I am from one second to the next.
“Why did you get that done?” I ask. I feel like crying.
“I needed someone to watch my back,” he says.
“Then you should have gotten a dog,” I say. The words come out harshly. The mood is broken. I push back my hair, which is soft and tousled and probably a mess. I tug at my shirt. Nothing else has been disturbed. I tell myself that a great disaster has been avoided as I step away from the bed.
Emmett starts to say something, then stops.
“I should go,” I say before this situation grows any worse. It is almost unbearably awkward. “I’m sorry.” I wave a hand in his general direction. “I don’t mean to be a tease.”
Emmett takes my sudden change of heart with remarkable grace. There are no scowls, glares or insults. Instead, he looks worried. About me. He takes my hand in his large, warm palm and squeezes it gently, silently saying what words can’t. Then he raises my hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss in the moist center of my palm. I hug my hand to my chest, feeling my face flame red. He pulls on his shirt, and I’m sorry because I haven’t had a chance to see all his tattoos and because, damn it, I was close to having sex tonight. With Emmett. The thought still excites me.
“I—” How do I explain this? “I can’t explain.”
“Okay,” he says.
My stomach is starting to cramp, and bitterly I realize I’ll be spending much of tonight in the bathroom. Could this really be fixed with antibiotics? Suddenly I’m n
ot at all certain the diagnosis is correct. I take a deep breath and focus on the current situation. On impulse, I lean forward and kiss a smooth-shaven cheek. Slowly, giving me a chance to bolt, he wraps his arms around me. With a quiet sigh, I lean a cheek against a hard, round shoulder, and we stay like that for a few minutes. Long enough for me to feel his heart beating steadily under the spot where our chests touch.
“Thank you for tonight,” I say as I pull out of the world’s best hug. “The concert, the tea … the kiss.” What a euphemism. The most sensual, erotic ten minutes of my life is more like it. “You’re a good friend.”
“Anytime,” he deadpans.
“Let me just use the bathroom before I go? Then I’ll be out of your hair.”
“I don’t have any.”
I smile at the weak joke. He points the way to the bathroom and I pray he’ll be a gentleman and not stand too close to hear what’s going on in there. Heading out, I catch a glimpse of our reflections in the window, the two of us looking thin and translucent against the black, dark night.
When I come out, he’s downstairs, wearing a leather jacket and holding an extra one for me.
“What’s this?”
“It’s cold out,” he says. “The car heater is broken.”
I should say no. But I don’t.
I climb in the passenger seat, slouching down, huddling in the cool warmth of his overlarge jacket. We fly through the quiet, sleeping streets. The ride barely lasts two minutes. He parks in front of my building. When I start to shrug out of the jacket, he stops me.
“Just bring it back to the shop,” he says. “It’s cold out tonight.” We both realize he’s created a reason for us to see each other again, and I’m grateful for it.
I nod my assent and then, with a last wave, head into my building, drained from the combined weight of disappointment, dull aching cramps and the now nearly familiar ache of feeling inadequate to the tasks ahead.
A line from the haftorah portion that I memorized for my bat mitzvah comes to me out of nowhere. A line I had forgotten about until now. Heal me, O God, then shall I be healed; help me, then I shall be helped. The prophet Jeremiah, using the old carrot and stick to inspire deeper devotion from the backsliding ancient Israelites. Guess I’m not the only slacker.
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