Celine kicks Mom when she sees me. “Happy birthday, Guitar Girl,” she says, warmly. “In case you are wondering why I am still here, I have chosen to save you from your mom’s cooking on your special day.”
I think of the fragrant jerk chicken and plantain smell from her end of Manburn Street and decide to take her at her word. By dinnertime, balloons fill the house along with the head-spinning smell of a homemade Jamaican meal. She cooks lipsmacking Jamaican patties, both beef and soy, and a gooey rum cake that packs a punch.
I hear a knock at the apartment door and open it to find Beetle staring up at the rusty hooks, heavy chains, and bone saws dangling from the ceiling. He may not appreciate the fact the local historical society dubs these pieces industrial art. This is the first time he’s visited my slaughterhouse apartment. I wonder what he thought of the crying marble angel in front of the ash gray Victorian funeral parlor-turned-senior housing next door. At least he didn’t see the “historic” iron rings used to restrain troublesome children hanging inside Lizzy’s place—the former orphanage.
Beetle seems delighted to get out of the hallway and enter our living area, such as it is, with the cheap navy futon, yard sale dining room set, and outdated big box television. We sit down to eat and he raves about the meal. After we finish,, Mom hands me a card from Dad with twenty bucks inside. The handwriting on it looks suspiciously like hers. Mom’s other gift is an IOU for six months’ rent in a St. Louis apartment. This is her way of hinting that it’s time for me to move out and move on with my musical career.
Beetle pushes an expensive-looking red velvet box my way—which can’t be good. I take my time opening it, remembering that his parents got married at our age. The box contains a gold heart locket with his picture in it, which is somewhat of a relief. But it’s still an absurdly expensive piece of jewelry, not to mention that I hate it. Why would he think a heart-shaped necklace would go with my butchered baby-dolls Beatles tee shirt, or any of my other band tee shirts?
I turn the heart over and read the inscription. “Beetle and Mona Forever.”
He kisses my cheek because Mom is watching, and says, “Forever, Mona, like the sun, the moon, and the stars.”
I imagine Black Racer Woman’s boa constrictor braid wrapping around my neck, strangling me. I can’t speak. I jangle my wrist in a call for help. I hear Bilki say, “Don’t worry. Even the sun and the moon don’t last forever. The web of the universe is always changing.”
Celine grumbles some folksy Jamaican saying. “If yu wan somebody lov you, yu mus lov dem fus.”
She doesn’t normally speak with such a heavy accent. I know what she’s up to. I’ve heard this type of sneaky ethnic commentary before. It happened one Christmas, years ago. Bilki made beans with doughboys (which all Indians outside of New England call frybread), and everybody chowed down—except Dad, who barely touched his food.
Grumps shook a fist at Dad and shouted in Mohegan, “K’kunôk sawáyuw!”
He and Bilki had both studied their Native languages, as a form of semi-secret communication. I had to know what he said in Mohegan so I whipped out my language phrasebook and intuitively opened it to the “Insults” section. I translated aloud: “There is no brain in his head!” My words ended all discussion at the table. But I don’t need a translation of what Celine just said. It’s straightforward: she thinks Beetle and I are more in love with our music than each other.
I re-read the inscription on the locket, “Beetle and Mona Forever.”
I whisper to Celine, “Forever seems like a long time when your band is going nowhere.”
Celine whispers back, “Picture something that makes you happy. It will get you through this awkward moment.”
I picture my amazing thirteenth birthday with Bilki. It was the last time I saw her. She cut her long silver hair to her chin, claiming it was wearing her down. Illness had already reduced her strawberry smile to ashes. After Mom served her sorry-lump-of-a-homemade-sponge-cake, Lizzy gave me that neon yellow George Harrison “Here Comes the Sun” tee shirt. Mom and Dad handed me a cheap new cell phone, Ma-mère and Pa-père sent me fifty Canadian dollars, and Grumps unveiled a headboard with my full name wood-burned into it. None of these presents was exactly what I desired. Fortunately, Bilki wanted her present to be private. She shooed everybody else away and handed me a heavy box containing a bright red Pendleton blanket with an eagle on it—the Indian symbol of virtue and high ideals. She wrapped it around my shoulders, grabbed a BIC lighter, tucked a roll of paper towels under her arm, and led me into the back courtyard behind our apartment building—formerly known as the livestock corral.
She dumped out the water in the stone birdbath and filled it with sticks and shreds of paper towel. After she lit it, we sat together on an iron bench and watched the rising flames. She pulled that eagle blanket tightly around my shoulders and told me to look hard into the fire. Shaking a gourd rattle from her purse, she sang an old Abenaki song. I recognized the word Wliwni, for “thanks.” I watched those flames and saw fluttering autumn leaves, an entire sky raining crimson and gold. This didn’t seem like a very earth-shattering image for my coming-of-age. I’d expected a spirit animal or some white-haired ancestor to appear and deliver wise words about my future path in life. But my vision revealed colorful fall leaves, pure and simple. When Bilki finished her song, she told me that I was officially a woman. I didn’t feel any taller or sexier. But I did feel more peaceful, like I’d joined a great circle of people who wrapped their arms around me. That’s the only birthday memory I treasure. My grandmother gave me a real gift that took more trouble than picking up some junk at the mall or tossing a gift card in the mail.
Just like Bilki, Celine saves her present for last. She hands me an old Robert Johnson record album tied with a blue raffia ribbon.
“This is amazing,” I say. “Too bad I have no way to play it.”
“Foolish Leo,” she says, smug. “You always think you’re the center of the universe, that everything relates to you and your creative endeavors. You follow the sun because it is the nearest star. And a star you shall become yourself. But you miss the obvious, much of the time. This record is not for playing; it’s a spirit offering for Shankdaddy. If you leave it by your bed tonight and think of him, he will visit your dreams and give you a new hit song.”
Beetle and I shrug at one another, as if to say, “What have we got to lose?”
I go to bed early, pulling my Beatles comforter over my head, concentrating on the buttery sound of Shankdaddy’s voice. The speckled shadows of near-sleep eventually give way to clear images. An old gray wooden stool appears. Blue smoke swirls around it like a tornado. When it clears, I see myself sitting on the stool with Rosalita. A man with high and mighty cheekbones carved of granite and big white mocking teeth strides my way. He tips his straw hat rakishly to one side. Following him is a girl wearing LOVE hoop earrings and a cropped Rush band tee shirt. She points to Rosalita with her electric blue fingernails, indicating that I should play something. I perform one of my songs while she and the man play an eerie game of patty-cake. After I finish the song, they halt their game and turn their thumbs down. I try another song, and they resume their game. When I finish, they indicate I’ve failed, again. And so it goes. I play every song I’ve ever written. Nothing pleases them.
Blue smoke envelops the girl. A giant blue tear forms in the man’s eye. He reaches into the smoke but can’t grasp her. As he reaches, the blue smoke surges through him. His lips turn teal, his eyes turn turquoise. Indigos ripple through his veins and into his fingertips, until all the blue smoke is inside him. He wraps his bluesy arms around me from behind and places his long-suffering hands onto mine. Our hands blend, playing serious blues on blues. We rage through the chords of a song about a father who mourns the loss of his dead daughter. The song is throaty, gut-busting, downstreet Manburn blues, with an added sweet note that scrapes the bottom of your soul.
> My mind wakes bursting with Shankdaddy’s tune. I call Beetle and tell him to get to my place, fast. He arrives, self-assured in the misconception that his gift rocked my world because I’m exuberant and still wearing his locket. I play my dream song and he scribbles down the music and lyrics.
I walked into her room, wasn’t nobody there
The place it smelled real empty, the shelves they were all bare
Because she’s gone, way down to the deep red clay
Hope you know I love you, darlin, why’d you ever go away?
Her car was at the junkyard; the gas light was on E
I pushed the rusted shifter, but I couldn’t set it free
‘Cause she’s long gone, taken oh so far away
Hope you know I love you, baby, and that devil he will pay!
I set you in the ground, ‘neath a pile of rolling stones
I want to hold your hand, but it’s a heap o’ skinny bones
I know you’re gone. Gone to where the blues don’t play
Where you’ll never get no older. Just a child all your days.
On the second go-through, Beetle sings along with me. His earthy pipes take right to this tune, transforming it from a dreamy blues melody into a mourner’s anthem that grabs your heart and shakes the blood from it till your spirit screams. Who knew Beetle had soul?
We perform the dream song for Mom and Celine. By the time we hit the turnaround, Mom is crying as if I’ve made the honor roll.
Celine folds her arms and says, “Anybody who can produce music this divine needs to be in touch with Orpheus Gray. He was Shankdaddy’s manager.”
Beetle and I tell her to contact him. In fifteen minutes, we hear a bold knock at the door, made by the rapping of a hard object. A rigid pencil of a man with a snowy Afro and silver dollar eyes appears. He’s carrying a wooden cane with an ivory skull handle and wearing an outdated tuxedo with a Jamaican green bow tie. He reminds me of a medicine man. Beetle whispers that he looks like a math professor. Celine introduces him as our new talent manager. I’m surprised when he pulls out his phone to record us on video.
“You may begin,” he says, formally.
While listening to us perform “Skinny Bones,” his stiffness softens. Orpheus does not clap. He rises, lean and long like his cane, and thumps the cane three times, “Well done! You are on the verge of glory. But like great marathon runners nearing the finish line, you must take great care in making your last steps count. My job is to make sure you don’t trip before you reach your goal. To do this, I need to pick a good name for your band. A band’s name is everything.”
I think about The Beatles’ lousy name and have to wonder if he’s right. Sure, there have been other successful bug band names—the Locusts, Atom and the Ants, the Crickets—but I don’t think their names were key to their success. He raises his cane heavenward and squeezes it, concentrating with his eyes closed, as if casting off haints. I straighten up, respectfully. But Celine signals me to relax.
“This is not a religious ceremony,” she claims, “just Orpheus’ way of doing things.”
Not seconds, but minutes pass, dozens of minutes. I fidget. I don’t care what she says about this not being a ceremony; it feels like one to me.
Orpheus’ silver dollar eyes pop open. “Bonepile!” He spits out the word, swiping gushing perspiration from his forehead with a jade satin handkerchief.
Bonepile. Beetle and I exchange comfortable glances.
I speak first. “It makes me think of T-Bone Burnett, so I’m good with it.”
“It’s dark and edgy, like you, Mona.” Beetle smirks with delight.
***
Orpheus sends some of his music business buddies our video and everything begins to swirl like I’ve step into one of Bilki’s vortexes. He hooks us up with a studio to record “Skinny Bones,” “Thunder and Lightning,” “Too Sweet to Die,” “Lost in the Woods, “Big Bad No-good Daddy,” and “Great Bear Blues,” along with a few standards to fill out an album. I enter an unknown world of synchronization licenses, statutory rates, derivative works, split ownership, and endless starbursts of lights, lights, lights.
Thirteen
Farewell Dance
The theme of the Colt High Alumni Farewell Dance is “Stars of 1980s Rock.” This is the first school event for which I haven’t faked allergies or the flu. I text Lizzy the photos of our themed outfits. She insists I’ve Photoshopped them because they’re too ridiculous to be true. Beetle sports a vest and cane à la Lindsey Buckingham on Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours” album. I don Stevie Nicks’ signature top hat and a flouncy black halter dress. Beetle’s heart locket hangs from my neck. Nobody made me wear it tonight. I don’t need Black racer Woman’s pouch anymore. Recording an album together has been a dream; hearing our music playing on the radio is as surreal as seeing that Great Bear in Grumps’ woods. We’re supposed to go on tour in a week, after spending Labor Day weekend with the Dills at Lake Winnipesaukee. The idea of me staying there with the Dills make me feel the need to perform a reality check.
The Dills went all-out in their sponsorship of this event. Cricket booked a celebrity caterer, and Worthy hired Orpheus as the disc jockey. From behind the turntable, our manager waves a Michael Jackson rhinestone glove at my former principal. Smitten Millicent Dibble giggles grotesquely. She is sporting a one-piece pantsuit and faded yellow shag, which she claims is her costume homage to Cherrie Curry of the Runaways. To me, she looks more like a hoary Blanche Dubois, not to mention that her B.B. is wearing a punk rock metal-studded cat collar.
Orpheus calls Millicent and B.B. over to him. “Your cat is divine,” he says to her. “I’d like to feature him on Bonepile’s new album cover and tee shirts. His King Cat image screams the blues. So whad’ya say, honey? Can we make your cat famous?”
She bats her thickly made-up bottomless eyes at him. Beetle and I exchange barfing expressions and escape to greet his parents. The Dills have come dressed as The Carpenters. Mrs. Dill wears a flippy brown Karen Carpenter wig, and Mr. Dill’s hair is ready-made for his Richard Carpenter part. Mr. Dill compliments us on our costumes, and we compliment him on what his people have done with this gym. It’s unrecognizable. Worthy splurged for a great dance floor, blacklights, and rock star banners, including special ones for dead 1980s music icons—Bob Marley, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Jerry Garcia, Karen Carpenter, Michael Jackson, and Whitney Houston—surrounded by white carnations that say RIP.
Like we need any more dead people at Colt High.
Posters for period record albums cover the walls, featuring Rush, Guns and Roses, AC/DC, and Metallica. The Rush poster draws my eye. It shows a rabbit coming out of a hat. The sound of Brick Rodman yelling breaks my fixation. He’s muscling his way through this ridiculous crowd of ’80s rock star replicas, ages seventeen to seventy, holding Rasima with one arm and pushing away old guys gawking at his date’s blacklit white Madonna cone bra with the other. He tries to get Beetle’s attention, but too many people are pressing my band partner for autographs. Half of our musical duo is already a star. Brick pops a colorful pill and Rasima shrinks when he offers her one. I help Beetle break away so he can rejoin us.
“When are you guys going on tour?” Brick asks.
“Talk to Orpheus,” we both say, simultaneously. Beetle kisses my top hat, his eyes dancing. I know he’s imagining a music legends’ dance like this one, thirty years from now, when people come dressed as him.
Rasima won’t lift her head. She presses her arms tight to her sides, as if she’s barely holding herself together.
“What are you doing this fall, Rasima?” I ask, trying not to stare at the blacklit illumination of her white cone bra.
“Some of us need to get real jobs. My parents are making me join the army.”
“You’ll be a great soldier,” I say, in a disingenuous way that makes me realize I’ve been spending too much ti
me with publicists.
The only thing stupider than Rasima in this cone bra is the prospect of Rasima in fatigues. After hearing that her parents forced her into joining the army, mine don’t seem so bad. Sure Mom ignores me, and Dad only emails when he has newly discovered bear bones to show off. But the only thing they ever made me do was spend time in Indian Stream with Grumps, and that I don’t regret.
Rasima’s hive of ex-bumblebee cheerleaders swarms our way. They’re dressed in a matching group outfit of white tutus and tiaras, like the waterskiing girls on the cover of the Go Go’s 1980s “Vacation” album.
“One of your fans is looking for you, Mona,” says the tallest tutu girl. “I think he wants an autograph. Should I have the security guard tell him to get lost?”
“No, Mona loves her fans,” says Rasima. “She said so on Twitter. She’ll be happy to give him whatever he wants while I dance with her boyfriend.” She pulls Beetle away.
Brick pops another colorful pill, after his girlfriend deserts him. I follow the tutus, determined to be as kind to my lone fan as Beetle is to his many worshipful minions.
Before I can get a good look at him, I notice the guy’s white tee shirt, glowing in the blacklight. Then I catch the jeans and clodhopper black boots. Those boots. It’s Del, and he’s wearing Bruce Springsteen’s killer classic 1980s look. Nobody besides Lizzy knows Springsteen’s song, “Rosalita,” inspired the name for my guitar. Fire ants once again cover me from head to toe.
Someone slips their arms around my shoulders from behind, startling me. I turn and see it’s Beetle.
“Rasima can’t dance,” he says, pulling me away from Del, who turns his back to remain incognito.
“Besides, I never liked Madonna, Mona.” He offers Del his best smirk. “Sorry fan boy.” Del won’t look up; he won’t let Beetle recognize him.
Beetle and I dance to “Emotional Rescue” by the Rolling Stones. The lyrics seem surreal. You’re in too deep, You can’t get out, You’re just a poor girl in a rich man’s house. I worry Del might leave. But every time I look his way I see he hasn’t taken his eyes off me.
Wabanaki Blues Page 18