Louder Than Love

by Topper, Jessica

  “I don’t understand. Why would Wren encourage . . . no, sabotage the band?”

  Adrian pulled on his jeans and sat up to light a cigarette. “The best way to conquer is to divide,” he answered quietly. “What little soul was left in us, he began to steal one by one.”

  He took a deep drag, and we both watched his exhale of smoke. It danced and dissipated toward the water, as if it were the very essence of the souls he spoke of.

  Lyrics from “Habit”—a song he had written for the Hell Hath No Fury album—rolled into my memory and out of my mouth.

  “home

  creates an addiction

  opens a vein

  to boredom

  the infinite evil

  get it

  before

  it gets

  you

  let me explode

  let me corrode . . .”

  “I swore it would only be a tour thing.” He slowly shook his head. “Off the road, I attempted—fruitlessly—to fall into the swing of home life, the roles expected of me as husband . . . as father. I forgot what it was like to live off the road. I was at a loss without the load-ins, the sound checks, the bus callbacks. I had a purpose when I was taking the stage, playing the encores. At home, I felt useless . . . bored. Robyn and Natalie had all these routines; the schedules they conformed to were foreign to me. Man, how I envied and resented them! I was miserable.”

  “How did Robyn react to . . . your usage?”

  “The Jekyll and Hyde act got old fast. She was a road widow seven months out of the year, so when I came home, she expected action and glamour and all the perks. Instead, I was turning into a depressed and cranky mess who only left the house to score. I won’t lie, my habits soured the marriage and most likely led her to seek companionship outside of it.”

  As the band embarked on its most ambitious tour to date, 163 shows in seventeen countries that would last an entire year, he found himself single and seeking. “Seeking companionship, as I no longer had a wife or a best friend anymore. Rick was increasingly cut off from the rest of us, spending more and more time with Wren and becoming obsessed with the organizational and commercial aspects rather than the creative process it took to get there. As for female companionship . . . I craved drugs far more than I craved sex. When I did, I chose to turn to the paid professionals, escorts with an elite clientele who flawlessly fabricated whatever I wanted.” He insisted the names Digger and Corroded Corpse or the label of rock star never enter those bedrooms. “Anonymity was an escape for me. While girls were screaming ‘I love you!’ and ‘I want you, Digger!’ from the crowds, I was paying hand over fist for girls who had no interest in knowing me. Pathetic, no?”

  “No. It’s understandable, given the situation.”

  “You’re not disgusted by that?”

  “Adrian. No.” I paused. “A little . . . intimidated, maybe.” I thought back to our discussion on the Plaza’s golden bed. He had been tested . . . and I trusted him. Still. It was quite a history to look past.

  “Please don’t be.”

  “Pleasured by women from all corners of the world . . .” I pointed out.

  “Give me my East Coast mama any day.” His lips pressed the words against the curve of my throat, making me smile. “Anyway, those moments of need were few and far between, as I was seeking a much more important and rapid release. Music had always been my primary escape, but with the label demands, Rick’s single-minded perfection, and Wren’s slave-driving, it began causing me anxiety to the point where I could barely function. I was trying to chase away the self-hatred and self-doubt my past had left me to wrestle with. My parents and my peers never believing in me, my wife telling me she had never really loved me, my child never really knowing me . . . tales as old as dirt.”

  “What did your bandmates think?”

  “Oh, they dealt with it like anything else; accepted it as a character flaw and moved on. So long as tickets were moving, the band was a success. Adam was the drunk, Sam was pussy-whipped, Rick was the control freak . . . I was the junkie. Together, we created Corroded Corpse.” I must have looked skeptical, or horrified. “What I am trying to say is . . . we continued to function as a dysfunctional unit. We were still the same guys. We were making gold records and money hand over fist . . . and we didn’t care. Wren wouldn’t let us slow down enough to care.”

  ***

  Although we left the conversation behind at the beach, the proverbial dragon chased us into the afternoon. I had so many more questions as we pulled up to Abbey’s school. But when surrounded by the cheery walls, the chattery din of dismissal, and the telltale smell of tempera paint, it hardly seemed proper. I watched as Abbey balanced her little feet on top of Adrian’s, he hooked his arms under hers, and they Frankenstein-walked out to the car. It was hard to reconcile the man before me with the monstrous description he had earlier conveyed.

  Siren’s Song

  We decided to revisit the beach after dinner. “Bring your guitar, Adrian. Please!” Abbey pleaded. He may not have kept a toothbrush at our house, but there were guitars in almost every corner now.

  “Any requests?” Adrian hopped on the lopsided bench by the pines with his Guild, the acoustic he had used at the library that first day. It was one of his favorites, I’d learned, given to him by the late guitar great Randy Rhoads.

  “‘Siren’s Song’!” I called. Abbey fist-pumped the air in agreement. We loved being his audience of two.

  Adrian grimaced good-naturedly. Although I had just discovered and claimed the song as my favorite, he had written it eighteen years ago and had essentially written it off. “Like you’ve never heard it before,” he said.

  It was a mellow yet heavy selection from the Corpse body of work, but played on a twelve-string acoustic it became as pretty and haunting as any classical piece. An evening breeze shivered off the water and through our hair as Adrian’s fingers vibrated off the frets. The ragged hem of his jeans caught under the sole of his black All Stars as he tapped sneaker to bench.

  He harnessed his sexy, raspy voice and playfully smiled as he sang the slowest, most soulful version the song had ever known. It was a tale of being sucked sweetly down to the ocean floor, resplendent with ripped limbs, eyes gouged from the head and swollen tongues yanked out. Amazing how a lyric, gruesome on paper, could transform gorgeously given the right treatment.

  The Cippola boys arrived and began busily digging to China near the water’s edge. They quickly enlisted Abbey’s help.

  “So who was she?” I teased, once we were alone.

  “The Siren?” With the guitar pick between his teeth, he grinned. “She was New York. My love affair. Remember I told you the first time you brought me down here?” He slowly removed the pick and began playing again, creating a new lyric in reference to earlier memories of us. “Raising red down at the lake’s shallow shore, she spurs me on and lures me to her like a matador . . .”

  He stopped playing abruptly, muting the strings with a closed fist around the neck. “Maybe New York was merely the vehicle to lead me to you.”

  My fingers loosened his grip; he let me take the guitar from his hand. Abbey ran by, a streak of pink plaid and denim, singing, “Maxwell MacGillikitty . . . feline private eye!” as Ryan Cippola chased her with seaweed on a stick.

  Maybe she was the vehicle. Without Abbey’s love of that fantastical cat, could any of this exist?

  Without Abbey.

  Without Pete’s love, there would be no Abbey.

  Without Pete.

  I plucked down all twelve strings. How could a hollow body release such clarity? I wished my thoughts were as in tune. But they were conflicted, murky like the water at shore’s edge.

  Do things really happen for a reason? Had my previous theories been blown out of the water?

  The sun bathed the condos on the west side of the beach in sca
rlet as it set. I remembered Liz up on her balcony, waving those red and white flags years ago. Adrian’s last lyrics echoed; I saw myself raising red during his first beach visit. Luring him, and he had come charging.

  Was I ready to wave the white flag, to surrender fully to him?

  Ghosts of Columbus Avenue

  “Abb, can you unpeel yourself from the glass, please?” We had been inside Adrian’s apartment for the better part of an hour, and Abbey had stayed hinged to the eastern quadrant for most of it, playing I Spy and huffing little clouds of condensation onto Adrian’s spotless living room window. Adrian sat amused, watching her from his long gray couch, but I was appalled by her manners.

  “But Mommy, I can see the Lennon bushes!”

  “Yes, Strawberry Fields.”

  “And I see a giant girl poodle!”

  “How can you tell it’s a girl?” Adrian asked her, pulling me down next to him.

  “She’s making me nervous,” I told him.

  “She’s fine.”

  “Because she’s got pink bows on her ears.” She pressed her fingertips above her head. “Mommy, look, I’m flying!”

  Enough. I pried her body away from the smudged pane and suggested lunch.

  “There’s great sushi on Columbus,” Adrian suggested.

  Abbey made a face. “Hot dog,” she countered.

  “She’s not a big fan of sushi. Um, how about Mexican?”

  “Hot DOG!” It had been a somewhat challenging day. Abbey hadn’t been in the best mood upon pick-up at school, but I had hoped a nap on the way into the city would rectify that. The minute we hit the highway, however, she became too excited to sleep. It was Fleet Week and her first visit to Adrian’s—Manhattan didn’t get much better than that.

  “There’s a Gray’s Papaya on Broadway.” Adrian was being a good sport. I was sure the last thing he wanted was a cheap dog on a dirty street corner. “We could grab her a dog and a smoothie, then sushi takeaway and eat in the park.”

  “Smoothie!” Abbey roared.

  “IF there’s good behavior. Starting now.”

  “Brilliant. Shall we?”

  We made our way out of the building, Abbey wowing the doorman with a low bow and impeccable manners. Hands on her hips and her little butt jutted out, she craned her neck to scope all nineteen stories. “Adrian,” she hollered, “do you own this whole building?”

  “No, Abbey,” he called back. “Just twenty-six hundred square feet of the Manhattan sky.”

  She smiled and trotted along beside us, the prospect of that smoothie looming just two avenues away.

  We wound through a temporary wooden maze erected to provide safe pedestrian flow while some sort of major construction was going on above our heads. Despite the stark stencils warning POST NO BILLS, someone had brazenly plastered the entire length of the walkway with posters advertising the album by the newest flavor-of-the-month pop diva. “Ach. She’s on Wren’s client roster,” Adrian muttered.

  “Really?” It hadn’t occurred to me that Wren was still out there, passing himself off as a legitimate businessman. I couldn’t decide which was more alarming, that he was apparently succeeding or that Adrian was still keeping track.

  “Oh yeah. He’s not loyal to any genre when it comes to the almighty buck.” I loved how he automatically reached for Abbey’s hand as we raced to cross against the light.

  Abbey was beginning to drag her heels. I noticed her staring longingly at children of various ages being whipped past us in pimped-out, shock-absorbing jogging strollers and titanium Maclarens. A method of transportation my daughter firmly eschewed in the suburbs and dismissed as babyish suddenly looked appealing as the city blocks stretched out endlessly in front of her.

  “So had Corroded Corpse been a country band . . .” I giggled at the notion.

  “Wren was a chameleon who changed his spots so long as there was green involved. “His favorite buzzwords were ‘universal accessibility’—he was the mastermind behind what was to become Corpse’s biggest success, and our downfall: ‘Simone.’ The song.”

  “The dreaded eighties power ballad?”

  Adrian gave me a wry smile. “Not only had Wren the audacity to suggest it, but the bollocks to pit his once-harmonious songwriting duo against each other to see who could come up with the better song. At the time, we didn’t realize it, of course.”

  “You so lucky, my man. Surrounded by your two angels. Spare fifty cent, my lucky man?”

  Abbey had slowed down to covet a dirty stroller saddled with the paper bags and bottle collection of a homeless man, who was looking imploringly at Adrian. In one deft move, Adrian gave his head a negative jerk in one direction like most New Yorkers were conditioned to and swung Abbey up onto his shoulders. She rode like a conquering hero down Broadway right into Gray’s Papaya and ordered her hot dog and drink from high above.

  “Make it the two dog special,” Adrian said, reaching for his wallet even with his arms hooked around Abbey’s legs to aid her balance.

  “Changed your mind about the sushi?”

  Adrian leaned so I could extricate Abbey. “No . . . be right back.” Handing Abbey one of the crispy dogs, he jogged across the street and offered the other to Dirty Stroller Man. I watched the man hold up his free hand in praise.

  “Back up you go, luv,” he said to Abbey. “Mind the ketchup!”

  Abbey munched on her dog from her perch and saluted every Navy sailor who passed in his crisp crackerjack whites.

  ***

  “Cripes, Kat. Is everything okay?” We had rounded Columbus to pick up our takeout and I literally felt my color drain.

  “Mommy looks scared,” Abbey observed from on high. “And she’s sweaty.”

  “Mom’s all right,” I assured them. “We used to . . .” I vaguely gestured up Columbus toward the eighties blocks. “We lived. Up there. 88th and Columbus.”

  “Me and you and Daddy?” Abbey asked, incredulous. I nodded.

  Adrian caressed my arm with one hand, his other rubbing Abbey’s ankle. Now he looked as if he was seeing a ghost; perhaps mine as I crossed his path in that other life. I caught my reflection in a dark shop window, and various ghosts looked back at me: newly wed and carrying home flowers, Pete’s paper under my arm, and a pound of his favorite coffee from the Sensuous Bean to celebrate his first major byline. Eight months pregnant and staring wistfully into Betsey Johnson’s storefront, fondly thinking of the days when that wardrobe fit. Waiting out a downpour under an awning with the stroller as Pete ran to meet us with an umbrella and a smile.

  “Come on, guys. Sushi’s getting cold,” I joked softly.

  We picked up our order and walked silently west, entering the leafy wilderness of Central Park. Abbey connected her smoothie straw to her lips and cloud-watched nearby as Adrian and I broke apart wooden chopsticks and dug in. I had regained my composure and my appetite.

  “I had no idea you’d lived so close,” Adrian began. A warm wind kicked up from somewhere south, sliding through the trees and buildings before rushing up to ruffle leaves and rake our hair across each other’s faces. A wayward balloon on a stick bounced past Abbey, and she gave chase around the meadow, laughing.

  “Another lifetime ago.”

  “This will sound selfish.” He clicked his chopsticks. “But I wish I’d known you then.”

  “You wouldn’t have known me.” Adrian looked stricken. “Meaning, I would have been just another face in the crowd.” His world had been so much bigger than mine. “And I was different then.” With Pete.

  “And I was already inner tubing down the River Styx while you were still splashing in the paddling pool.”

  “You make me sound so . . . goody-two-shoes. I wasn’t sheltered.” I rolled closer to him. “I was orderly.”

  My life had followed the grid of good grades, decent colleges, and impressive résumé
s, which landed me professional nine-to-five employment with solid benefits. I had lined up and shelved those accomplishments as deftly as books on a library shelf and stood back with the calm and cool satisfaction of a job well done. Next came Pete and love . . . then Abbey. I watched her streak past after the balloon, shrieking with uncontrolled delight. And then nature’s cruel curveball: the un-navigated fork stabbed in the middle of the road. The sun kink. Whatever you wanted to call it.

  Despite all my organizing and arranging, I had never noticed the logical order to it all. The Dewey Decimal System placed Marriage and Family at 306.8. And Death and Dying at 306.9. How very tidy. Grief and love, hand in hand. Yet beside me sat Adrian, and what I felt for him defied classification.

  “You look troubled, luv.” Adrian’s brow wrinkled in sympathy.

  “I’m trying to figure out where you fit into the order.” Was there a place for reclusive rock stars? For a heavy metal hero with a heart of gold? “You,” I kissed each temple, then nose tip and chin. “You are glorious chaos.”

  Truth or Dare

  It was Memorial Day weekend, and Marissa and Rob were having a party. The invitation read Bring your ass, your sass, and your ability to raise a glass and had arrived addressed to me, Abbey, and “Shrimpy McLobster.”

  “He’s coming, right?” Marissa demanded in the days leading up to it.

  “So long as you don’t call him that to his face. Best behavior, right?”

  She gave me an exaggerated Who, me? bat of her lashes. “We just want to get to know him, Tree. And make sure he’s treating you right. No inquisitions, I promise. Bring Abbey’s suit; Rob’s got the pool open. Oh, and there’s a sitter coming, too, for the kids. It’s gonna be a blast.”