Apprehended

by Jan Burke

  He was right, of course, but out of loyalty to Buzz, I said, “They just aren’t confined by the need to be melodic.”

  Frank gave an emperor’s new clothes sort of snort and stood up. “I’m going to get another drink. I’ll pay cab fare for all three of us if you want to join me.”

  Figuring it would hurt Buzz’s feelings if we were both drunk by the end of his gig, I said, “No thanks.”

  Q: What do you call someone who hangs out with musicians?

  A: A guitar player.

  By the end of the set, I was seriously considering hurting Buzz’s feelings. “Get outside!” one member of the audience yelled in encouragement to the band, and when the sound man muttered, “And stay there,” I found myself in agreement. The crowd applauded wildly after every piece (I could no longer think of them as songs, nor remember which one was “Jar of Jam” and which was “Hangman’s Slip Knot”), but long before the set ended, I had a headache that could drive nails.

  Buzz grabbed a bottle of beer at the bar and came back to our table, smiling. Frank surprised me by offering the first compliment.

  “You’re one hell of a player, Buzz.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  They proceeded to go through an elaborate handshaking ritual that left me staring at my husband in wonder. I was spared any comment on music or male ceremonial greetings when Gordon grabbed the seat next to Buzz.

  “Excuse us,” Gordon said, turning his shoulders away from us and toward Buzz. “You never told me—did you listen to that tape?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Buzz said, glancing back toward the stage, where Joleen was apparently complaining about something to Mack. He turned back to Gordon. “Yeah, I listened. Your friend’s got great keyboard chops.”

  “Yeah, and you have to admit, Susan’s also got a better voice than Joleen’s. Great bod, too.”

  Buzz glanced back at the stage. “Joleen’s bod isn’t so bad.”

  “No, just her attitude. Think of how much better off our band would be with Susan.”

  “But Joleen started this band—”

  “And she’s about to finish it, man. She rags on all of us all of the time. I’m getting tired of it. This band would be better off without her.”

  “But they’re her songs.”

  “Hers and Mack’s. He has as much right to them as she does.”

  Buzz frowned, toyed with his beer. “What does Mack say?”

  Gordon shrugged. “I’m working on him. I know he was knocked out by Susan’s tape. If you say you’re up for making the change, I know he will be, too.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Look, Buzz, I really love playing with you. Same with Mack. But I can’t take much more of Joleen.”

  “But Europe . . .”

  “Exactly. Think of spending ten weeks traveling with that bitch. You want to be in a car with her for more than ten minutes?”

  I looked up and saw Joleen walking toward us with purpose in every angry stride. “Uh, Buzz—” I tried to warn, but she was already shouting toward our table.

  “I know exactly what you’re up to, asshole!”

  Gordon and Buzz looked up guiltily, but in the next moment it became clear that she was talking to the sound man. He didn’t seem impressed by her fury.

  “You’re screwing around with the monitors, aren’t you?”

  The sound man just laughed.

  Joleen stood between Frank and me and pointed at the sound man. “You won’t be laughing long, mother—”

  “Joleen,” Buzz said, trying to intercede.

  “Shut up, you little twerp! You don’t know shit about music. If you did, you’d understand what this jerk is doing. You try singing while some clown is fooling around with your monitor, making it play back a half-step off.”

  The effect the sound man had created must have been maddening; the notes she heard back through the speaker at her feet on stage would be just slightly off the notes she sang into the mike. Still, I couldn’t help but bristle at her comments to Buzz.

  Instead of being angry with her, though, Buzz turned to the sound man and said, “Dude, that’s a pretty awful thing to do to her. She’s singing some really elaborate stuff, music that takes all kinds of concentration, and you’re messing with her head.”

  The sound man broke eye contact with him, shrugged one shoulder.

  “See?” Buzz said to Joleen. “He’s sorry. I’m sure it won’t happen next set.” Before Joleen could protest, Buzz turned to us and asked, “How’s it sounding out here?”

  Picking up my cue, I said, “Wonderful. He’s doing a great job for you guys.”

  “And what the hell would you know about it?” she asked.

  “Joleen,” Buzz said, “this is my friend from the paper.”

  She stopped mid-tantrum and looked at me with new interest. “A reviewer?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Well, I was right, then. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She eyed Frank and said, “You or this cop.”

  “How did you know he’s a cop?” Buzz asked, but before she could answer, Frank took hold of her wrist and turned it out, so that the inside of her arm was facing Buzz.

  “Oh,” he said, “junkies just seem to have a sixth sense about these things.”

  She pulled her arm away. “They’re old tracks and you know it. I haven’t used in years.”

  Frank shrugged. “If you say so. I really don’t want to check out the places I’d have to look if I wanted to be sure.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, but stomped away without another word.

  “Shit,” Gordon said. “You need anything else to convince you about what I said, Buzz?”

  “She brought me into the band, man. It just doesn’t seem right.”

  “If another guitar player came along, she’d do this to you in a minute,” Gordon said. “You know she would.”

  Buzz sighed. “We’ve got three more nights here. Let’s at least wait until we finish out this gig to make a decision.” Gordon seemed ready to say more, but then excused himself and walked backstage.

  The minute Gordon was out of earshot, Buzz turned to Frank. “Were they old tracks?”

  “Yes.”

  “I feel stupid not noticing. Not that it matters. If they’re old, I mean.” His face turned red. “What I mean is, she can really sing.”

  I watched him for a moment, then said, “You like her.”

  “Yeah,” Buzz said, and forced a laugh. “It’s obviously not mutual.” He looked toward the stage, then rubbed his hand over his chest, as if easing an ache. “Well, I better get ready for the next set.” Frank watched him walk off, then looked over at me. He pushed his drink aside, moved his chair closer to mine.

  Q: What do you call a guitarist without a girlfriend?

  A: Homeless.

  Buzz seemed to recover his good humor by the time he was on stage. There was an air of anticipation in the audience now. It seemed that most of them had heard the band before, and were eagerly awaiting the beginning of this set.

  As the band members took their places, I sat wondering what Buzz saw in Joleen. My question was soon answered, though not in words.

  Buzz and Joleen stood at opposite ends of the stage, facing straight ahead, not so much as glancing at one another. She sang three notes, clear and sweet, and then Buzz began to sing with her, his voice blending perfectly with hers. It was a slow, melodic passage, sung a cappella. The audience was absolutely silent—even Frank sat forward and listened closely.

  They sang with their eyes closed, as if they would brook no interference from other senses. But they were meeting, somewhere out in the smoky haze above the room, above us all, touching one another with nothing more than sound.

  The song’s pace began to quicken and quicken, the voices di
viding and yet echoing one another again and again until at last their voices came together, holding one note, letting it ring out over us, ending only as the instruments joined in.

  The crowd cheered, but the musicians were in a world of their own. Buzz turned to Gordon and Mack, all three of them smiling as they played increasingly difficult variations on a theme. I watched Joleen; she was standing back now, letting the instrumentalists take center stage, her eyes still closed. But as Buzz took a solo, I saw her smile to herself. It was the only time she smiled all evening.

  The song ended and the crowd came to its feet, shouting in acclaim.

  Q: Did you hear about the time the bass player locked his keys in the car?

  A: It took two hours to get the drummer out.

  Mack joined us during the second break between sets. With Buzz’s encouragement, he told us about the years he studied at Berkeley, where he met Joleen, and about some of the odd day jobs and strange gigs he had taken while trying to make headway with his music career—including once being hired by a Washington socialite to play piano for her dog’s birthday party.

  We spent more time talking to Mack than to Buzz, whose attentions were taken by another guitar player, a young man who had stopped by to hear the band and now had questions about Buzz’s “rig”—which Mack explained was not just equipment, but the ways in which the guitar had been modified, the set-up for the synthesizer, and all the other mechanical and electronic aspects of Buzz’s playing.

  “None of which will ever help that poor bastard play like Buzz does,” he said. “Buzz has the gift.”

  “He feels lucky to be in this band,” I said. “He has great respect for the other players.”

  Mack smiled. “He’s a generous guy.” As Joleen walked over to Buzz and handed him a beer, Mack added softly, “He’s a little young yet, and I worry that maybe he has a few hard lessons to learn. Hope it won’t discourage him.”

  “How do you two manage to work together?” I asked.

  He didn’t mistake my meaning. “You mean because of Joleen’s temper? Or because we used to be together?”

  “Both.”

  “As far as the temper goes, I’m used to her. Over the years we’ve played with a lot of different people; I’ve outlasted a lot of guys who just couldn’t take her attitude. Great thing about Buzz is that he’s not just talented, he’s easy to get along with. He’s able to just let her tantrums and insults roll off of him.”

  “And Gordon?” Frank asked.

  “Oh, I don’t think Gordon is going to put up with it much longer. The musician’s lot in life, I guess. Bands are hard to hold together. Talk to anybody who’s played in them for more than a couple of years, he’ll have more than a few stories about band fights and breakups.”

  “But from what Buzz tells us, you’ve worked hard to reach this point—the CD, the tour, the gig in the Netherlands—”

  “Yeah, I’m hoping Joleen and Gordon will come to their senses and see that we can’t let petty differences blow this chance. And I think they will.” He paused, took a sip of beer. “You were also asking about how Joleen and I manage to work together after being in a relationship, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, she and I have always had something special. We write songs together. Musically, we’re a good fit. When we were younger, when we first discovered that we could compose together, there was a sort of passion in the experience, and we just assumed that meant we’d be a good fit in every other way. But we weren’t.”

  “Still,” I said, “I’d think it would be painful to have to work with someone after a breakup.”

  He smiled. “I won’t lie. At first, it was horrible. But what was happening musically was just too good to give up. The hurt was forgotten. Over the years, we each found other people to be with. And like I said, we have something special of our own, and we’ll always have that.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Better get ready for the last set. You two want to come out to dinner with us afterwards?”

  “Thanks for the invitation,” Frank said, “but I’m wearing down. Irene, if you want to stay—”

  I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’ll have to take a raincheck, too, Mack.”

  “Sure, another time. I forget that other people aren’t as wired after a gig as the band is. I’ll check with Buzz—I can give him a lift home if he wants to join us.”

  I toyed with the idea of heading home early if Buzz should decide to go out to dinner with the band. But my mental rehearsal of the excuses I’d make on my way out the door was cut short when Buzz stopped by the table and said, “They asked me if I wanted to go to dinner with them, but they’re just going to argue, so I’d rather go home after this last set. Is that okay?”

  “Of course,” I said, hoping my smile didn’t look as phony as it felt.

  Q: Why did God give drummers 10% more brains than horses?

  A: So they wouldn’t crap during the parade.

  “What was the name of the first song in the second set?” Frank asked Buzz as we drove him home. He was being uncharacteristically quiet, staring out the car window. But at Frank’s question, he smiled.

  “It’s called ‘Draid Bhreá Fiacla.’ That’s Irish for ‘a fine set of teeth.’ ”

  “How romantic,” I said.

  “It is, really. Joleen rarely smiles, but once I said something that made her laugh, and she had this beautiful grin on her face after. When I saw it, I said, ‘Well, look there! You’ve a fine set of teeth. I wonder why you hide them?’

  “Did she have an answer?”

  He laughed. “In a way. She bit me. Not hard, just a playful little bite. So the next time I saw her, I gave her the song, and told her its name, and got to see the smile again.”

  “You wrote that song?” Frank asked.

  “She worked on it some after I gave it to her, made it better. It belongs to both of us now, I suppose.”

  “Of all the ones we heard tonight, that one’s easily my favorite,” I said.

  “Mine, too,” Frank said.

  “Joleen says it’s too melodic,” he said. “But I don’t think she means it. She just doesn’t want me to think too highly of myself.”

  Q: What’s the difference between a viola and an onion?

  A: Nobody cries when you chop up a viola.

  “Well, thanks again for the ride,” he said when we pulled up in front of his apartment.

  “You have a way over to the club tomorrow night?” Frank asked. “I could give you a ride if you need one.”

  “Oh thanks, but the Chevette is supposed to be ready by late afternoon. I’m kind of glad it broke down. It was great to meet you, man.”

  “You, too. Stay in touch.”

  “I will. You take care, too, Irene.”

  After Buzz closed the car door, Frank said, “Let’s wait until he’s inside the building.”

  Having noticed the three young toughs standing not far down the sidewalk, I had already planned to wait. But Buzz waved to them, they waved back, and he made his way to the door without harm.

  • • •

  It was about three in the morning when we got to bed. When Buzz called at ten o’clock, we figured we had managed to have almost a full-night’s sleep. Still, at first I was too drowsy to figure out what he was saying. Then again, fully awake I might not have understood the words that came between hard sobs. There were only a few of them.

  “She’s dead, Irene. My God, she’s dead.”

  “Buzz? Who’s dead?” I asked. Frank sat up in bed. “Joleen.”

  “Joleen? Oh, Buzz . . .”

  “She . . . she killed herself. Can you come over here? You and Frank?”

  “Sure,” I said. “We’ll be right over.”

  • • •

  By the time we got there, he was a little calmer. Not much, but enough
to be able to tell us that Gordon had found her that morning, that she had hanged herself.

  “It’s his fault, the bastard!” He drew a hiccuping breath. “Last night, when they went out to dinner, he told Joleen he was quitting the band. Mack tried to talk him out of it, but I guess Gordon wouldn’t give in.”

  “Gordon called you?”

  “No, Mack. He told me she made some angry remark, said we’d just find a new drummer. Mack was upset, and said he didn’t want to try to break in a new drummer in three weeks’ time, that he was going to cancel the tour. He told her he was tired of her tantrums, tired of working for months with people only to have her run them off. It must have just crushed her—she worked so hard—”

  I held him, let him cry, as Frank went into the kitchen. I could hear him opening cupboards. Finally he asked, “Any coffee, Buzz?”

  Buzz straightened. “Just tea, sorry. I’ll make it.”

  He regained some of his composure as he went through the ritual of making tea. As the water heated, he turned to Frank and asked, “The police will be there, won’t they?”

  “Yes. It’s not my case, but I’ll find out what I can for you. The detectives on the case will want to talk to you—”

  “To me? Why?”

  “Standard procedure. They’ll talk to the people closest to her, try to get a picture of what was going on in her life.”

  “Do you think she—I mean, hanging, is it quick?”

  “Yes, it’s quick,” Frank said firmly. I admired the authority in it, knowing that he was probably lying. Suicide by hanging is seldom an efficient matter—most victims slowly suffocate. But if Joleen’s suffering hadn’t been over quickly, at least some small part of Buzz’s was.

  “Thanks,” Buzz said. “I thought you would know.” He sighed and went back to working at making tea. I straightened the small living room, made it a little more tidy before Buzz brought the tea in and set it on the coffee table. We sat on the floor, although Buzz offered us the mattress-couch.