Louder Than Love

by Topper, Jessica

  “I’m Katrina Lewis, thanks for coming.”

  “Lew?”

  “No, Lewis.”

  “No, I mean . . . do you ’ave a loo?” His watery blue eyes widened to stress the urgency of the situation. “I’m afraid I’ll burst if I don’t go for a slash.”

  “Oh . . . yeah, down that hall.” It took me a moment to register his accent and his slang, yet my embarrassment over the situation was fairly immediate. I stood rooted to the spot after he thrust his guitar into my hands and rushed off. Leanna was still standing there, a witness to the whole encounter. “He’s . . . um . . .” I searched for the right words.

  “Old? British? Drunk? Or D) all of the above?”

  “He’s older . . . but he’s kinda cute,” I admitted, surprising myself. “Come on, drunk? It’s four in the afternoon at the public library! Please. Go get a seat. I’ll be in there in a minute.”

  I waited at the end of the hall for my charge. After a moment, he came out of the bathroom, swaying slightly into the wall as he pulled a tin of mints out of his pocket. “Altoid?” he offered. The smell of Jack Daniel’s and his peppery cologne, which was somehow subtle and intense all at once, were noticeably foreign to the hallowed halls of my local library. I got the feeling this was not the sort of creature who normally frequented places with drop ceilings and fluorescent lighting; perhaps not even the sort who functioned much before sundown.

  “You are drunk.”

  “And you”—he popped two of the curiously strong mints into his mouth—“are beautiful.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “I’ll sober up soon . . . and hopefully, you will still be beautiful.” He grabbed back his guitar with a smile. “Are the throngs of screaming adoring masses here yet?”

  “Yes, they’ve been waiting patiently for fifteen minutes. You were supposed to call before you got to the station.”

  “Well, I took a little kip on the train and overshot by one stop. So I grabbed a cab back. I’m here now, and I am ready. Let’s have at it, shall we?” He raised his eyebrows, amused at the fact that I clearly was not. In fact, I was downright pissed off and wishing I had never contacted him. I hated the thought of Abbey or the others being disappointed. I led the way, secretly wishing he had taken a long “kip” and not woken up until Schenectady.

  Just before we entered the program room, I remembered the CDs. “I hope it’s okay, I brought some copies of your CD to hand out to the kids after.”

  “Oh? And which CD would that be?” he asked, again with that slightly amused, self-deprecating tone. It was as if he was making fun of himself and me all at the same time.

  “Songs for Natalie—it was the only one I could find, and it wasn’t easy.”

  The guy was taken aback; he paused and, for a moment, looked ready to bolt for the exit door. “Okay then” was all he replied, and proceeded in.

  The room was happily buzzing with kids’ chatter and moms’ murmuring. Slowly, the noise died down and they all turned their attention to us. Adrian Graves nonchalantly began to tune what looked like a well-used twelve-string acoustic guitar, and I made a brief introduction before joining my friends in the back of the room. Abbey, her friends, and a few other curious kids were sitting cross-legged within spitting distance of the main attraction. There were six children who had been bussed over from the Rainbow School, and most were in chairs with their parents and teachers sitting next to them. Some were quite verbal, others not very responsive. It would be interesting to see how they reacted to the music.

  Adrian cleared his throat. “Well, thanks for having me here at your library today, and thanks to Ms. Lew-is for arranging this.” He flashed a smart-ass grin in my general direction. “I don’t expect you have ever heard of me, but some of you probably know this little guy called Maxwell . . . Maxwell MacGillikitty, Feline Private Eye.” He sang the name exactly like the chorus, and his voice came through the mike, gravelly yet smooth and instantly familiar. He played a riff I recognized from the song, and Abbey’s hand shot up.

  “Yes . . . pigtails in the front?”

  “Do you talk for Maxwell in the show? Your voice sounds like him.”

  “No . . . I just wrote the opening song.”

  “Do you know if Maxwell escapes from the Wild Bird Hospital today?” Abbey persisted. My child obviously inherited her maternal grandmother’s interrogation skills.

  “Honestly, I don’t,” Adrian admitted, thoughtfully strumming his guitar. He looked desperate to begin playing and stop talking. “But I bet he finds a way out; he always does.” With a wink, he rolled right into the Maxwell theme song. “Feel free to get up . . . dance about,” he murmured.

  Marissa leaned close. “Sexy man, entertaining our children.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Many of the kids were up and dancing in their spots . . . so far, so good. I found my eyes gravitating toward his fingers as he formed various bar chords with ease. He wore no wedding ring, only a thick silver band around his left pinky. I instantly chastised myself with the reminder that this was a cultural opportunity for the local children, not a vehicle for jump-starting my own sad social life.

  “Awright, I was saving that for my encore,” he joked as he wrapped up that first song, “but it made a good icebreaker.” He took a sip from the bottle of water I had supplied for him. “Now . . . how about a request from the audience, a sing-along, perhaps?”

  The kids suddenly all went shy, peeking out from behind their hands. Karen, sitting on the floor next to her toddler, got the ball rolling by raising her hand and suggesting Jasper’s favorite song, “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider.”

  “Erm, yes but . . . that one’s a bit naff, isn’t it? How about a song about another spider? One named . . . Boris?” He began to pluck at the lower strings of his guitar, and pretty soon he had all the kids calling out the creepy crawly chorus of the Who’s obscure song. Even Karen, shocked at first by his rebuff, was singing along. I couldn’t believe he was really pulling it off. More kids and parents, lured by the sounds emanating from the programming room, came in and sat. Dylan had abandoned his Game Boy and was staring, fascinated, as Adrian did a few Pete Townshend–esque pinwheels on his guitar for effect.

  In keeping with the animals theme, he launched into a song I remembered from my own childhood, “At the Zoo” by Simon and Garfunkel. Another interesting choice, especially considering the line about the zookeeper’s fondness for rum. Leanna leaned over and whispered, “Yeah, the zookeeper’s not the only one.” I gave her a raised eyebrow and a smirk but said nothing.

  The man of the hour was beginning to look less drunk and more relaxed as he sailed through one song after another. He handed out the egg shakers, and the kids formed a conga line for “Day-O (The Banana Boat Song).” He even had the kids from Rainbow moving and shaking eggs and singing. I loved how he began to change the words on the fly. “Stand on one foot and stick out your tongue . . .” The kids were happy to oblige. “Dance like a monkey, and talk on the phone . . .” Gwen was in the doorway with a wide smile of approval on her face.

  For his final song of the hour, Adrian had the kids play a guessing game, asking them what number he was thinking of between one and twenty. “Right then, Dylan. Your prize is accompanying me on tambourine for my final song. I was thinking of the number three. And why three, you may ask? Well, because three . . . is a magic number.”

  I found myself having to step out of the room for a moment to compose myself. Pete and I, both children of the seventies, had grown up with fond memories of Saturday morning cartoons and Schoolhouse Rock! This was a song we had sung to Abbey from the time she was in utero. A song I hadn’t actually thought of in years but, from the moment he began the first verse, sent the memories and visions flooding back. After several deep breaths, I was able to slip back in and catch him singing the final line. “A man and a woman had a little baby, yes they did . . .”

  He was singi
ng barely above a whisper, but his lips were communing with the microphone in a way that made it almost like an extension of his body. His eyes were turned down as he warbled: “They had three in a family . . . and that’s a magic . . . number.” I listened to him hold that last note as if he were trying to prolong some sort of magic himself, perhaps an enchantment he alone experienced while he was up there performing. Then I happened to notice all of the audience members over the age of twelve were, like me, holding their breath. And all of those under twelve were staring, completely enraptured, until someone started applauding, and then, simultaneously, the spell was broken for both the entertainer and the entertained.

  The kids began swarming around Adrian. I watched him shaking hands, grinning, and slapping high fives. One mother walked up and hugged him, much to his amazement. “My son hasn’t spoken or smiled in five months.” Her voice choked with emotion. “Now he is singing. Thank you.” She looked fondly at her son, a heavyset boy of about ten, who was still waving an egg shaker and singing, “Day-O! Da-a-a-y-o.”

  “That was truly awesome,” I told Adrian when I was able to get within earshot. “Thank you.”

  “It was fun, my pleasure.” Parents and kids began filing past us like a demented wedding receiving line, thanking both of us and shaking our hands.

  “So you wouldn’t mind signing some CDs for the kids, then?”

  “Sure, sure.” He hastily zipped his guitar case and joined the group of kids crowding around the table as I passed out copies of his music. Gwen brought him a Sharpie marker, and he went to work.

  “Thank you thank you, Mommy, that was the best!” Abbey trilled, dancing around me and grabbing my hands. She was one of the last to finally fall into line and have her CD signed. “It’s spelled A-B-B-E-Y, with an E, like the Beatles album,” she informed Adrian. She had heard me recite this same line of explanation to people many a time.

  “Ah yes, Abbey Road. I know the album—and the road—well.” I stationed myself near the door to see people out but kept one ear listening to their exchange.

  “My dad liked the Beatles, but then he passed out.”

  “She means passed on,” Joey supplied. “Passed on, Abb, not passed out.”

  “Hey.” Marissa placed her hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got to get Brina to her T-ball game. How about I take Abbey with us so you can finish up here? You can swing by later to get her.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” I glanced over at Abbey. She was quoting Maxwell lines to Adrian and doing her best cat impression.

  “Have you ever been to Mousehole?” she was asking him.

  “Yes, indeed I have. It’s a real fishing village on the south coast of Cornwall, very lovely.” I liked the way he considered each of her questions, no matter how far out of left field they seemed, and gave her legitimate answers.

  “Do I mind? Come on!” my best friend scoffed. “I love your daughter. She nicknamed me after salty soy soup and I still love her! Go on. Take him to dinner or something.”

  “Or something,” Leanna chided, much more wickedly than Marissa had intended it. Leanna had an uncanny way of pulling naughty thoughts out of your head you didn’t know were there. I always thought she had missed her calling as the next Dr. Ruth. Or a dominatrix. He was entering earshot range, so I gave them both the stink-eye.

  “Adrian, this is Marissa and Leanna. Oh, and Karen.” She had just come over with a wiped out–looking Jasper in her arms to say good-bye.

  “Nice to meet you . . . that was fabulous!” Marissa enthused. “Truly the best thing I have ever witnessed at this library. Not that I come here a lot. Only when Tree drags me here. But seriously, so great.” I rolled my eyes at her, and she took the hint. “Okay, off to the T-ball fields. Abbey, you’re coming with us, honey.” Abbey came running over to give me a kiss.

  “Good-bye, Adrian Graves,” she said solemnly.

  “Cheers, Abbey-with-an-E Lewis.” They shook hands.

  “Bye, Tree. I’ll talk to you soon. Nice to meet you, Adrian.” Leanna waved. She and Karen walked out together with their kids, leaving me and Adrian and a bunch of chairs pushed all willy-nilly.

  “I’ll give you a ride back down to the train,” I offered as I busied myself straightening the room back to its original order. Without fail, every time I found myself within five feet of a man in close quarters, my mind would race to the point of virtual incoherence. Like with Grant in his car last week, and now with Adrian. After living exclusively with a four-year-old for so long, my small talk was limited and my flirting mechanism had rusted up beyond belief.

  He began to help me push the tables back to their original spots, apparently not too keen on much conversation either. “You don’t have to do that,” I assured him, but he didn’t pay me much mind. “Listen, you were really great with the kids today. Sorry I doubted you.”

  “I’m sorry I gave you a reason to. In all honesty, I was nervous as hell playing and needed a couple of drinks to steady my nerves. I haven’t played in front of anyone in a long time.” He rubbed his temple. “A really long time.”

  Gwen breezed in, gushing with compliments and waving a check cut from the programming budget for Adrian. I watched as he slipped it into his back pocket without so much as a glance at it and nodded his thanks. Then I hustled him out before Gwen could begin her usual tirade about how my talents could really be of use around the branch full-time. I quoted the train timetable as an excuse, and we escaped onto Main Street as the late afternoon sun began to dip behind the buildings.

  Fight or Flight

  There is something inherently cool about a guy walking down the street with a guitar case in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Especially on our sleepy little Main Street. He had lit up immediately upon leaving the library, which didn’t surprise me since his singing voice had that nicotine-laced tone.

  I was secretly glad my car was not parked right out back, as it was pretty thrilling to walk with him. There was a feeling of innocent camaraderie as we fell into an equal pace. As we passed the antique shop, I caught sight of Grant standing inside, broom in hand, watching us. Jake had not been present at the program, and I wondered if Grant had even bothered to mention it to his son’s mom.

  “Here we are.” I touched Adrian’s arm to indicate where my car was, enjoying the contrast between his soft cotton shirt under my fingers and his solid biceps.

  “Smashing color,” Adrian complimented as he stashed his guitar behind the seats and climbed into my Mini Cooper. When it had come time to buy the little bulldog of a car, I had gone with the electric blue/white top combination, figuring I would never lose it in the mall parking lot.

  “Thanks . . . Marissa’s husband, Rob, calls it my Smurf.” I laughed.

  “My first car was a 1975 Mini 850 in British racing green. Loved that little gem.” We both reached for the automatic window buttons that resided in the middle of the dash and our fingers collided. The electric zing of physical contact reverberated through my hand and made a beeline right for my pleasure points. As Leanna would say . . . holy crow. If pheromones actually existed, mine were out of Rip Van Winkle mode and ready to make up for lost time. It took all of my faculties to remember how to put the car in drive.

  “I like the feel of your town, how it isn’t too posh,” he commented as I waited at the light to hang a U-turn. “So many small towns in the States seem homogenized by the influx of yuppies and Starbucks opening on every corner.”

  “We’ve managed to keep a lot of the charm. Although it has definitely changed since I was a kid. I love that it’s far enough from the city to not have the trash and overcrowding, but close enough to have many of its perks: a diverse ethnic population, cultural outlets . . .” I cringed, fearing I sounded too much like a tour guide. “Oh . . . and the best Thai food in the tri-state area.”

  “Oh, nothing beats this little Thai place I know on 48th,” Adrian insist
ed. I knew exactly which place he was referring to, as it had been my favorite in Manhattan as well. “How about we grab dinner,” he suggested when I respectfully disagreed with his opinion, “so I can judge for myself? The trains are plentiful, despite what you told your boss.”

  “Ugh, bite your tongue . . . that woman is not the boss of me! I volunteer at the library, so technically, I don’t really work there. I lied about you having to catch your train because she has the tendency to talk and talk and not shut up.” Realizing I must’ve sounded like the pot calling the kettle black, I cut myself off by simply nodding and throwing the car into park in front of Saigon Spice.

  The restaurant was cozy and inviting, with dark walls and a plethora of bamboo accents. Adrian escorted me to a corner table and went so far as to pull the chair out for me. His display of chivalry was certainly making up for the crude potty talk he had begun our acquaintance with. In fact, the dim and sophisticated atmosphere, coupled with his soft-spoken demeanor, made him seem like a different person altogether.

  I ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio, relishing the opportunity to be out at a restaurant that did not have crayons and butcher paper on the table. Adrian pulled a pair of reading glasses seemingly out of nowhere and began to study the extensive menu. He decided on the panang curry chicken and a Singha beer. I debated but ended up with my usual favorite, pad Thai.

  Our drinks were delivered and we were left on our own, no menus to hide behind. “So, um . . . what part of England are you from?”

  He took a swig of his beer. The thick silver ring encircling his pinky gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight. It had some lettering etched on it that I couldn’t decipher from across the table. “Hampshire . . . about two hours from Londontown, southeast. Until seventeen . . . then I moved to London with my two best mates.”