“Greetings, Mona!” Worthy hugs me; his broad shoulders remind me too much of Beetle. His eyes stay fixed on my face, seemingly oblivious to my neighborhood.
After a few uneasy throat clearings, he continues, “I am here to apologize for the incident at my home last week. My wife knows I find the subject of Mia Delaney a difficult one. She tends to react overly harshly when people mention that girl’s name around me.”
“She doesn’t care much for musicians, either, does she?”
“No,” he smirks. “Speaking of which, how is your budding music career coming along?”
I notice he stutters on the word “music.”
“I need a partner who can sing. My voice is mediocre.”
He raises his eyebrows cheerfully. “I’m sure you’ll find one, soon. Meanwhile, I want to hear all about this New Hampshire biker whom you suspect of foul play.”
My palms moisten. I wipe them on my jeans, recalling that day at his house when Mia’s electric blue fingernails replaced Beetle’s sweaty hand. Mia’s nowhere in sight, but she could reappear at any minute as long as Will Pyne remains free. I know I am her messenger, standing alone, as her sole hope for justice.
“I told the police everything,” I explain. “The man’s name is Will Pyne. He lives in Indian Stream, New Hampshire. He owns a Harley with green flames. That’s all I know.”
“So I heard—the police just called me. But I think there’s something you overlooked mentioning, something more convincing that would have triggered a search warrant.” His mouth puckers, and his eyes divert. Worthy Dill has a shitty poker face for a rich businessman.
I slouch, fold my arms and wait for him to come clean about whatever it is he is hiding.
He raises a hand in front of his face, “All right, all right. I’ll tell you the whole truth. I owe you that much. I heard from Beetle that you had a special relationship with the suspect’s son. Beetle is afraid you’re keeping information from the police out of loyalty to this young man. He believes you intentionally neglected to mention a mutilated picture of me that you found in an old yearbook at the Pyne house, a picture that suggests Will Pyne has violent tendencies, however misplaced, as we both know Mia had no use for me.”
I’m speechless. I forgot I told Beetle about that yearbook. Mr. Dill is right. I didn’t mention his mutilated picture to the police, perhaps because the duty officer was in such a hurry to get rid of me at the station, or because I knew that disclosing it could get Del in trouble with his dad for invading his secret room. Either way, Beetle and Worthy think I’m withholding evidence to keep Will from being arrested, which isn’t true.
“You’re right,” I swallow. “I didn’t mention the yearbook.”
“I’ve already talked to the police but I’m going to urge them to apprehend Will. He pats my shoulder. “I’m so sorry for the rift between you and my son. It was entirely his parents’ fault. On behalf of Mrs. Dill and myself, I apologize. But when it comes to that Pyne boy, I’m concerned for you. His family is dangerous.”
A blues song brews inside my head. His mama and his papa, they’re from the baddest part of town. His mama and his papa, they come from the baddest part of town. Don’t tell me he’s a good man, baby, when I know he’s just a lowdown clown.
I tap the beat on my guitar case. Mr. Dill’s eyes fall to my tapping hands, as Beetle’s always do, and they linger. You can tell he’s wanted to play guitar since he was a teenager, and I can guess why. From his perspective, the musician always gets the girl, even if the guy is a loser. I mean, look at Worthy compared to Will. There’s definitely some truth to that. Meanwhile, I can’t help picturing Del’s smile, the only true smile I’ve ever known—the one smile I’ll never see again, once the police find out about that yearbook.
Mr. Dill lightly kisses my hand. “Now that we’re done with our official business, someone wishes to speak to you. Good-bye, Mona.”
Worthy steps into the Escalade, and Beetle steps out the other side. His hair is lumpy and the heavy bags under his eyes suggest he hasn’t slept. Yet, the minute he sees me, his face gleams pale like a sun pushing through a blizzard. He’s wearing a torn white tee shirt with stylishly faded Nantucket red shorts. He’s perfect, as always.
Beetle removes Dark Horse from its case, and hangs it in front of his chest in all its blazing fireglo red summer glory. He starts strumming, awkwardly, singing a melancholy song called “My Mona.” The senior citizens living in the renovated funeral parlor next door peek out of their open windows. A few are curious enough about my crooner to step onto their stoops in their bare feet. Several kids mosey our way, emerging from the orphanage-turned-condos. This show is a bonanza for the early birds in my neighborhood. Nobody sings outdoors at this end of Manburn Street, especially nobody who arrives in an Escalade. It reminds me of a scene from a bad music video, where a swank car cruises into a sloppy neighborhood and a well-dressed model steps out—except Beetle doesn’t look like a model today.
This brave song must be what he wanted to sing to me the night I went over his house. He definitely wrote it himself. The melody sounds like background music for a lame reality show and the repetitious lyrics remind me of The Little Engine That Could. The composition has nothing to recommend it except the singer’s amazing vocal range. Don’t ask me why, but every time he hits a high note it feels like hot sauce is running through my veins.
When he finishes, claps erupt from my nosy neighbors, mostly to support his bravery. An old lady in a pink robe that is missing most of its buttons yells, “You got golden pipes, Son.”
He bows, which prompts more clapping and hooting. I surprise myself by rushing forward and brushing a kiss across his cheek. This prompts the loudest cheers from the old folks, remembering when.
He grabs my hand. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“I know just the place.” I wave good-bye to the whistling crowd, and his father drives away. “I’m going to show you the best part of my street.”
Beetle dons an apologetic smile that shows me how sorry he is to have insulted me that day at his house when he dissed my street.
He tugs at my sleeve, “Lead on, Mona.”
I’m ready to forgive him for pre-judging my neighborhood if he is willing to give it a fair chance. Rosalita and Dark Horse bounce against our backs as I lead him toward the thumping car stereos, quarreling couples, squealing children, and otherwise boldly drumming human hearts that always congregate at the other end of Manburn Street. We walk past a woman with no teeth dancing on the sidewalk barefoot beneath a neon sign that flashes the words “Beautiful Dancing Girls!” A fire hydrant catches my eye: it’s painted with lush red lips and a thickly lashed winking eye that reminds me of The Blond Bear’s band tee shirts. I flinch at the memory of Del and Scales singing their growling duo. I hate myself for thinking about him, and him with her—especially right now.
Beetle sniffs the air with interest. “Something smells awesome!”
The scent of burnt-sweet scotch bonnet peppers wafts our way from Jam’s Jerk shop. I’ve experienced Beetle’s mom’s lame cooking, and my mom never cooks anything edible, either. We share excitement over the smell of wonderful food. Beetle and I step under the shop’s flaming red awning and belly up to the busy counter, where he buys himself a jerk chicken stick and me some fried plantains. We nibble them while watching a cluster of chattering tween girls eye the half-price summer dresses in the window of Montego Bay ladies’ apparel store. Waves of crackling laughter flow out of Kingston Beauty Shop as we pass. Steam rolls off the pavement under the cars and trucks. I enjoy watching Beetle lick the last of the jerk goo off his lips. Late summer in the city was never so delicious.
After we finish, I lead him down another block to show him a sign that says “Madame Celine, Astrologer” in glittery gold lettering. The steps leading up to it are also painted gold. “This is the last place I saw Shankdaddy.” I point at the b
lack, green and gold door painted to resemble a Jamaican flag.
I race him to the top of the golden steps. A zodiac mobile hangs in the front window, spinning constellations of celestial rams, crabs, and lions. I pat an old gray stool by the door. “Right here, Shankdaddy picked out a bluesy tune that made the earth rumble beneath my feet.”
“Is he inside?” asks Beetle, cautiously climbing the golden steps.
“Maybe.” I pull the door handle and the shop bell tinkles.
“Guitar Girl!” wails the shopkeeper. “I remember you.”
“Hello, Celine,” I say.
She is radiant with abundant sapphire braids and appears cool despite the lack of air-conditioning. Astrological charts, music posters, and pictures of Jamaica cover walls painted the colors of tropical fruit.
I look around for Shankdaddy but Celine is alone, except for a black cat with one gold eye and a second empty eye socket filled with matted scars. The cat brushes against my leg and I pet him. I wish Millicent Dibble were here to see me showing this kitty kindness.
“Nobody could forget your musical gifts, Mona. Old Damerae remembers you. He liked your style.” She pets the cat.
Damerae limply lifts a paw to my knee in a seeming attempt to shake hands like a dog. I bend down to grasp the frail paw, and he mews weakly but earnestly. I introduce Beetle, and Celine doesn’t acknowledge him. She’s busy watching Damerae scratch the wall, like he’s writing something.
Celine slaps the air in irritation. “Damerae says you have a special connection to the stars, Mona. He wants me to read your horoscope, right now, on the house.” She kisses her cat on the forehead. “I have to obey Damerae’s wishes. He’s never been healthy, so I’m inclined to think his thoughts are directly connected to the other side, if you know what I mean.”
I want to say I’m a Mohegan and Abenaki Indian who talks to her dead grandmother and sees a dead teenager named Mia, so of course I know what she means. But I only nod so as not to make things any weirder for Beetle, who already appears bedazzled by Celine’s place.
She pats one of her astrological star charts, continuing to ignore him. He doesn’t care. His eyes are glued to the posters of twentieth-century Hartford bands, and he’s mumbling bits of trivia about each one. His parents are Hartford natives, so he knows far more about the musical history of our city than me—the girl with the Canuck dad and New Hampshire-born mom.
Celine gathers her braids and knots them atop her head—as if prepping to perform surgery—before reading my star chart. “You’re a typical Leo, Mona, preferring to stand alone.” She clucks her tongue. “No matter. Even loners sometimes get noticed. I see you’re already somewhat famous and about to become a star!”
“Celine, I won one songwriting contest.”
“Child, you’re about to climb higher.” She grabs a pen from the counter, whirls around in her floral dress and taps me on the head, as if it’s a wand. “Celine is your fairy godmother. You’re headed for the big time. You’ve been chosen for great things. The stars don’t lie. They say you have an important future ahead. Prepare for a wild ride in this great big universe. It all belongs to you.” She lets loose a laugh as wide as the Jamaican sky.
Damerae scratches at the wall again and mews.
“No!” Celine wails and lifts him. “It can’t be.” She presses her silky copper cheek against the cat’s ebony face and acknowledges Beetle for the first time. “Young man, come here.” She pulls Beetle in front of a different chart and slaps it. “It would appear Damerae has noticed something I missed. The stars say you’re about to become famous, as well.”
Beetle radiates like a supernova. “Awesome!” he says, flabbergasted.
“Don’t thank me!” She tears the chart off the wall and rips it in half as if to punish it. “It would seem the stars have a mind of their own.”
Beetle points to a framed photo on a shelf that shows a younger Celine with natural mahogany hair, seated beside a man in a scarlet straw hat.
“Is this Shankdaddy, the old blues man who jammed here with Mona?” he asks.
Her rum-colored eyes swell, and she slips into a heavier Jamaican accent. “Lord no, child, Mona never played with him. I buried my poor fadda a dozen years ago.” She touches the picture and closes her eyes prayerfully. “Yes indeed, he is long gone to the other side. But he would have liked Mona.”
I’m thunderstruck by Celine’s revelation. First, she’s saying that Shankdaddy is her father. Worst, she claims I played guitar with him a decade after he died.
Beetle taps a yellowed newspaper clipping tacked on the wall that says, “Dead Girl’s Sister Vows to Solve Case.” A memorial candle in a glass holder flickers beside the clipping.
“Are you Mia Delaney’s sister?” he asks, breathless.
“Yes, I am.” Celine’s speech is clipped. “Her short life shows how our lucky stars can sometimes turn cruel. Mia’s fortunes started out as good ones, just like yours. She, too, was a lovely and talented free spirit. So be careful.”
Beetle’s licorice eyes form a black hole, sucking in everything around him with new urgency. Mia has become real to him.
Celine touches Rosalita. “It’s too bad you didn’t actually play guitar with my father, Mona. You two would have made beautiful music together. She raises a judgmental eyebrow at Beetle. You deserve a good musical partner.”
Celine passes a finger through the flame of the memorial candle and puts a tissue to her eye. “I’m sorry.” She opens the door and waves us out. “I’m afraid that we must speak another time.”
The door tinkles shut behind us.
Beetle bites his sarcastic lips closed, but fails to keep his mouth shut. “I can’t believe we just met Mia Delaney’s sister, and you jammed with her dead father. I didn’t know you were so tight with the dead.” His hands wave like a magician’s.
I turn to him with the eye squint of all eye squints. “You know what, Barrington Dill? I think it’s entirely possible that Shankdaddy jammed with me. Maybe we made music together in a way beyond our knowing. Astrology is outside our realm of understanding. Yet you can’t tell me that you didn’t love hearing you’re about to become a star.”
“Sure Mona, but how is that going to happen?”
I hop down the golden stairs, jubilant. “Perhaps there is a way to honor my late friend, Shankdaddy, and fulfill Celine’s prophecy at the same time.” I almost manage a smirk. “Wanna start a band?”
Beetle trips on the last step, catching himself on the railing. He slaps a hand on his chest. “You want to start a band with me?”
“Actually more like a bluesy duo. Your voice is golden. I play a decent guitar and write good songs. What have we got to lose?”
He pulls my hips toward him and meets my lips in a feathery kiss. Briefly, I taste a world far from the sultry blues, a pop music realm of sun-struck parties beside glittering lakes with first-class jet trips to Stadt. It quickly sours on my tongue, along with his feeble kiss. I discreetly wipe my mouth, underwhelmed. Beetle beams brightly. I guess that kiss wasn’t as bad for him.
The lyrics to “Day Tripper” run through my head. They may be running through Beetle’s head as well, but for a different reason. It’s that kind of song. That’s the beauty of John, Paul, George, and Ringo’s musical magic. Their songs can mean different things to various people. Some say the lyrics to “Day Tripper” represent an ode to acid. Others say they pay homage to light love. I say they’re the postscript to every first kiss that ever was, a reaction to that perilous exploration into the unknown frontier of another human body.
“It took me so long to find out…and I found out.”
Twelve
Forever
Over the last few days, I’ve revised my review of Beetle’s kissing. Good kissing is sometimes a matter of practice. I wouldn’t dare tell Mom that, and not just because she’s my mom. She’s skipp
ing Twain College’s annual Freshman Frolic due to the fact there’s nothing she currently despises more than young lovers. This attitude stems from Dad’s email saying he isn’t leaving Russia until he’s confirmed a connection between ancient bear sacrifices and celestial phenomena. In the words of blues great Curtis Griffin, her man “ain’t never coming back.”
In other news, Saturday, July twenty-seventh, is my eighteenth birthday. This is a day most mothers remember. But given the fact that it’s Friday afternoon and mom’s lying in bed moping, I’m not expecting much of a party.
I make a half-joking suggestion. “Why don’t you visit Celine’s Fortune-telling Parlor for an astrological reading? It might cheer you up.”
“Why not?” She leaps to her feet. “I haven’t seen my old friend Celine in years.”
This is not the response I expected. I had hoped for something like, “No, I need to get ready for your birthday celebration.” But maybe, this is the response I should have expected. Of course Mom knows Celine. She was friends with her sister, Mia.
Ah, Mia.
I decide to give up dreaming about a birthday party and write more blues.
Mom and Celine stumble into our apartment well after midnight, giggling loudly enough to wake me. Clearly, their reunion went well. Saturday morning, I wake to more of Celine’s bold laughter rolling out of the living room. She and Mom lie sprawled across our futon, surrounded by an empty bag of tortilla chips, a paper plate piled with a mountain of cigarette butts, along with bottles of grenadine, crème de menthe, banana liqueur, and rum. Mom must have been making Bob Marley cocktails again. Now I’m wondering if Celine gave her the recipe.
“Men are no better than moldy bologna,” Celine wails. “Toss ’em out! Toss ’em out I say! Before they stink up the house and make you sick from their rotten, garlicky smell!” Celine throws a pillow at Mom, and they start tossing pillows at one another like kids at a slumber party.
I’m steamed. Clearly, Mom has forgotten that today is my birthday. I stand over them, knowing how Zeus feels when he gazes down upon wretched humanity.
Wabanaki Blues Page 17