“About what?”
“About me.”
Chapter Eleven
I went to see Bridget’s sister’s apartment the next morning.
The address was in a part of the city I hadn’t been to yet, southwest of the Mission. There was a Muni stop nearby, so I took the train and walked the rest of the way. It was hilly, and I was breathing hard by the time I’d gone more than a block. I ended up in front of the kind of house you see in magazines.
The front porch was covered in mosaic tiles, and every inch of the façade was decorated with intricate millwork: curling carved embellishments on the porch columns, gingerbread trim, wooden decals below the windows. The color scheme was all shades of green with deep gold accents. It should have been gaudy, but it wasn’t. It was beautiful. There was even a turret, a round little tower with a steeply pitched roof and windows all around. I stared up at it for a moment, sure I’d gotten the wrong address.
A curtain in the tower twitched aside, and Bridget waved down as if I were coming over for a birthday party. I waved back. A few minutes later, she opened the front door.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” she said, smiling.
“Yes,” I said, and meant it. “It really is.”
Inside, the walls were plaster. A chair rail ran up the staircase, and minutely detailed patterns were stamped into the plaster wall above it. At the top of the stairs was an old chandelier made of stained glass and lead piping.
“Yours is on the top floor,” Bridget said, leading me up. She took out an old-fashioned key and unlocked a heavy wooden door painted dark brown. It opened into a narrow hallway with a skylight, and I followed her through as she gave me a tour. There were wood floors throughout the apartment, and the same beautiful plasterwork on the walls. The unit included the turret room, which had windows on all sides and a view of the downtown skyline.
“Wow,” I said.
“I know.” Bridget joined me at the window. “Pretty awesome, right?”
The bathroom was tiny—it looked as though it had been added much later, crammed into a spare corner of the single bedroom. No bath, just a stand-up shower, a toilet and a sink so small it wouldn’t have held a teacup poodle. Not ideal, but it would do. The bedroom itself was large, and it connected to the turret room through a pair of glass-paned pocket doors.
The formal dining room had a wall of built-in cabinets with glass doors, probably all a hundred years old or more. The kitchen, on the other hand, looked as though it was from the seventies. The appliances were mustard orange, and the countertops were cheap yellow laminate. But the light was good, and there was plenty of cabinet space.
I’d been looking at apartment listings long enough to know what a place like this went for. Even with the outdated kitchen, it was underpriced.
“What’s the catch?” I said.
Bridget looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“She could get more than she’s asking in rent.”
Bridget shrugged. “She’s had some bad renters in the past. People who didn’t take care of her old place. I told her she could trust you.”
I was struck speechless for a moment, wondering when we’d arrived at this point. The point where she could trust me enough to tell her family they could do the same. A year in San Francisco, and I hadn’t gotten this far with anyone else except Avery.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Sure. So...will you take it?”
I had to laugh. “How could I not?”
* * *
That night, I brought the red silk dress and my heels on the Muni. I didn’t want to wear them and risk sitting in spilled coffee, or worse. I’d put on more makeup than usual, and I felt conspicuous and out of place on the train full of tourists and San Francisco office types. Simon was manning the bar alone tonight, and he’d grumbled good-naturedly about it. I hoped he wasn’t too slammed.
Malik and his girlfriend Sheree lived in a basement apartment underneath a Victorian duplex in one of the quiet, dead-end streets dotting the Castro. There was a truck parked out front, and Erica and Paulie were loading up the back. Paulie settled the amp he was carrying and sidled over to me.
“Mina, I was hoping—”
Malik came by and smacked him on the back of his head. “Leave her alone. She’s not your personal power vacuum. Besides, you can barely keep up as you are.”
Paulie mumbled something that might have been a threat or an apology as Malik disappeared into the house. I’d suspected he hadn’t told his bandmates about our arrangement, and I didn’t want to embarrass him now. I let it go.
“I gotta go change.” I didn’t like the way he was looking at me, as though he might make a grab for me.
The door to Malik’s place was open, leading right into the cramped living room. It was wall-to-wall books, and I couldn’t help stopping to look at the titles. The Physician’s Desk Reference must have been Sheree’s, but there was a whole wall of slim paperbacks with titles like Green for Green: The Economics of Environmentally Sustainable Practices Among California Family Farms. Malik’s public policy degree, I assumed. The opposite wall was taken up by his collection of guitars. He had an acoustic twelve string and a second electric bass, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a vintage Epiphone Casino. My ex would’ve salivated on it. There was a keyboard and, to my total surprise, a cello. I’d known he was into music, but not how much.
The bathroom was cramped and littered with shaving accessories, hair products, ponytail holders and clips. Two people crammed into a space meant for one. I changed, doing my best not to knock anything over, and tried to recreate what Bridget had done with the ties on my dress. It came out pretty well.
Malik wolf-whistled at me when I walked out.
“Damn, girl. That’s some dress.”
I cocked a hip and spread my hands, posing. “You like?”
“Dee-licious. Turn around.”
I spun.
“Love it.”
“Bridget found it for me.”
“I bet she did.”
Paulie and Erica had gone ahead in Erica’s truck, so Malik gave me a ride in his Toyota hatchback. “You sure you won’t need a ride back after?” he asked as we drove downtown.
I shook my head. “Jackson said he’d meet me there. He’ll take me home.”
“Mmm,” Malik said.
“Not like that,” I said.
“Mmm,” he said again.
“Oh, shut up.”
Malik grinned. He parked next to a Dumpster behind the bar in a cramped excuse for a parking lot that reminded me of the Quarter. In the opposite corner, Paulie was pulling the amps out of the back of the truck.
“What can I carry?” I asked.
“Dressed like that? Nothing.” Malik smiled at me. “I’ll get your keyboard.”
I flinched at his use of “your.” It wasn’t my keyboard. Would never be my keyboard. It is for tonight.
We warmed up in the empty club, lights still on and the waitstaff still trickling in. I was way more nervous than I should have been. I’d played clubs three times bigger, but I kept screwing up chords and missing my cues. Nobody said anything. After a few minutes, I relaxed, letting Erica’s flawless voice lead me, and my fingers slipped over the keys the way they were supposed to. Memory and instinct. She looked over her shoulder at me as she sang the last verse of “September Sun,” one of her sad, unrequited love songs, and it all came together, everything in harmony.
People started showing up not long after. The crowd in the bar was tiny, barely enough people to fill up the tables along the sides, much less pack the floor out front, but my palms were sweating as if it was my first gig. Malik squeezed my shoulder as I checked the keyboard one last time.
“All right, beautiful?”
“All right.”
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Paulie counted us in with the sticks and I took a breath and dove into the first song.
It was incredible.
We were starting off with one of their up-tempo pieces, something to get the audience fired up and listening, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that I felt more like crying than clapping. I poured all the anger and uncertainty I’d been feeling for the past six months onto the keys.
By the second set, people had left their tables to press against the stage. I breathed in the sweaty, beer-laden smell of it like cologne. It woke up something deep in my gut, that visceral, with-the-crowd connection I’d thought I’d lost forever. Malik flashed me a grin, and I knew he’d been listening, but I didn’t care. I grinned back, ecstatic and thrilled, riding the last chords down as the little crowd yelled and surged and clapped.
I played in a haze, almost as if I were drunk. It wasn’t the same as before—couldn’t be—but my heart pounded with the realization that it wasn’t gone. The owner of the club had this weird thing for “Hallelujah,” so that’s how we ended the night. As the last notes died, I caught Malik’s eye, and instead of grinning, he gave me a slow smile and nodded toward the back of the room. I looked out over the crowd and saw Jackson.
He was leaning against a wooden post in the middle of the room, his beer dangling by the neck between two long fingers. He lifted it and sipped as he watched me, angling the bottle up and never taking his eyes off my face. He let the bottle back down, and then he knew my eyes were on him. Our gazes were locked, and I heard, through a din of cheers and buzzing conversations and drunken shouts, Malik announce that we were playing a gig at The Star and Feathers next month, and everybody please come. Malik cut the mic and everybody started packing up. The crowd shifted their attention back to their beers while the next act scrambled to set up behind us, and I helped Erica cover up the keyboard and store the drums. Jackson stayed in his spot by the post. When we were done, I went to him.
“Well? Whatd’ya think?” I couldn’t help grinning.
“Let me buy you a drink.”
“Sure.” I was still riding the crowd vibe, smiling back at the people who said “Good job,” or “Right on.” It had been so long.
We got to the bar, and Jackson ordered a scotch on the rocks and looked at me expectantly.
“Same,” I said, feeling adventurous. I realized I was sweating through the fabric of the dress, and I hoped I wasn’t ruining it. “Did you get a picture?”
He showed me his phone.
He’d caught me leaning into the mic over the keyboard, fingers down on the keys. I was singing backup harmony with Malik while Erica sang “Hallelujah.” My head was tilted a little and my eyes were closed. I barely recognized myself.
“Nice shot,” I said, and my voice was like gravel. Our drinks came, and Jackson raised his toward me.
“To your first gig in the city,” he said.
“Thanks.” We clinked glasses, a little too hard, and I took a too-big sip. The scotch burned its way down my throat.
“You were great up there,” he said.
“It felt good.”
“I bet it did.”
“I wasn’t sure it would.” I took another sip of the scotch, and it didn’t burn quite so much this time.
“Was that your first gig on keyboard too?”
“Nah. I started out on piano. It was my first instrument.”
“Really? Well, I guess a lot of kids take piano lessons young.” He finished his drink and asked for another, giving me a questioning look.
I shrugged. “Why not?” I said, and we both grinned. The bartender refilled our glasses in place, and for the first time in weeks, I didn’t care what was going to happen the next day. All I needed was to sit in this place and drink this drink.
“So how old were you?” Jackson asked. “When you started?”
It took me a moment to remember what we’d been talking about. “Six.”
“I bet you outshone them all,” Jackson said, and I snorted.
“Yeah—you should have been there the first time my mom brought me. It was this woman’s house in the Garden District—that’s kind of the fancy part of town. Anyway, she brought me there, and there were all these white girls with their mothers checking in, and everybody looked up when we walked in. There was this old lady taking everybody’s checks, and she looked at my mother—she was white—and looked at me and she thought my mom was doing some kind of charity work for a poor black kid. I could hear what she was thinking, you know? She noticed everybody looking, and she looks at my Mom and she’s thinking she doesn’t want this little black girl to make all of her nice white clients uncomfortable, but what can she do? So she says, ‘Ma’am, I’m sure you understand I can’t accept any students unless their real parents are present to sign the waivers,’ and my mom said, ‘I just did. Something wrong with my signature?’ The woman sat there with her mouth open for a second and then took the check and went to the next person. She never could look me in the eye after that.”
“You mean your mom let you keep going there? After that?”
“She knew I was going to have to learn how to handle it eventually.”
“Still. That’s terrible.”
I almost laughed. “It’s definitely not the worst thing I’ve ever heard in someone’s head.”
“I’m sorry,” Jackson said. “It’s a fucked-up world sometimes.”
“Yeah. Well, I can’t hear anything anymore.” I looked down at my drink. “It’s all one big silent room.” I looked at the people pressed up to the bar, sipping their drinks, listening or not listening to the music, thinking or not thinking about the person they’d come in with, about the person they’d left behind. I had no way of knowing. And it wasn’t even that. It wasn’t the handful of times I’d eavesdropped on a stranger’s thoughts. It was the silence of it all, the feeling of being cut off.
“I miss it.” The words just slipped out. I’d meant to turn the conversation completely, to talk about Malik or the foggy weather, but the alcohol had made the careful fences I put around my words grow weak.
Jackson nodded.
“I know you think it’s not a good idea, me working at Simon’s and helping out your dad—”
“Not my business,” Jackson said. “As you’ve repeatedly reminded me.”
“It helps. Feeling like I can be useful again. And it makes it easier to keep this...” I opened my hands, “...whatever it is, under control.”
Jackson set his drink down and covered his hand with mine. It was cold, chilled by the ice in the glass.
“Careful,” I said.
Jackson gave me a small smile, then lifted his hand. “Five seconds.” He looked at his glass and it rose half an inch off the bar. “In the clear.”
I should have told him about the apartment. That he wouldn’t have to worry much longer about accidentally grounding himself if he brushed against me, that I was getting out of his hair. But something about the way he smiled, all crooked and wistful, stopped the words in my throat. The next act was up, playing something bluesy, a slow-paced rendition of “Salt of My Tears.” Jackson downed the rest of his whiskey like a shot and put his hand on my shoulder.
“Dance with me,” he said.
“What—now?”
He laughed. “Yes, now. Come on, Mina.” He slid a bill onto the bar and put his hand on my elbow, tugging me toward him. “Dance with me.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling like a fifteen-year old and letting him guide me to the floor. A few couples were already dancing, swaying with varying degrees of skill. I wasn’t much of a dancer myself, but Jackson clearly was. He settled one hand on my waist, then dragged the sleeve of his sweater over his other hand so he could grip mine. His eyes twinkled.
“Gotta have protection,” he said, and I laughed. He had dr
awn my body close to his, and I let the pressure of his hand on my back guide me around the dance floor. His hip was pressed to mine, and I felt warm as the notes came up slow and mournful around us. I could see Malik leaning against a far wall, talking to Paulie and watching me with a small smile. Paulie was looking at us wide-eyed. I didn’t care. Jackson’s breath spilled over my cheek, and the hard length of his leg pressed between mine, guiding me, daring me to move closer. Our eyes met, and something blazed between us—understanding, maybe just a shared moment of buzzed euphoria, I didn’t know. But suddenly we were both walking off the dance floor, our hands still linked through the wool of Jackson’s sweater.
We didn’t speak as we walked to the subway station. The scotch had worn off, but I still felt giddy, swaying with the train, facing him. When we got into the lobby of his building, the night watchman spared us a stoic, quietly disapproving glance, and we both dissolved into laughter as soon as we got into the elevator. I leaned into one of the corners, panting, while Jackson hit the button for the twenty-seventh floor.
“Thought the hall monitor was going to give us detention,” I said, giggling.
“He’s just jealous.” Jackson leaned against the mirrored wall right in front of me.
“Of what?” I said, not getting it.
“He wishes he were coming home at 2 a.m. with a beautiful woman.”
That kind of thing usually doesn’t do it for me. Too cheesy. But Jackson was grinning when he said it, and I laughed, and he laughed with me, and as the elevator came to a stop on his floor, he leaned in and kissed me, still smiling, and I laughed again against his warm, wet mouth.
It was so simple, like walking through an open door. He kissed me as if it were the only thing he had planned for the rest of his life, as though day and night and day again could come and he would still be here, in the elevator, with me. The door slid open with a ding, and Jackson shot his hand out to hold it there, the muscles of his forearms hardening under the light touch of my fingers. I tilted my head against his, and he went deeper, fitting his lips against mine and testing a bare, teasing, electrifying bit with his tongue.
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