by Ash Parsons
The parallels are obvious, and BlackAndBlueBird isn’t the first person to make them. Orpheus is Joshua, the lost love is Angel (they insert pictures from their last meeting), the wild women are the hungry fans, specifically Mira.
They post her picture and the leaked photos of Joshua’s stab wound. The ambulance and long-lens shots of him going into court.
But where the myth required Orpheus to die, BlackAndBlueBird says for Joshua it meant giving up his music. That the “death” was symbolic, a death of the way of life he had before that moment.
A huff of disgust presses out of my mouth. Feels half-baked. I keep looking.
A few clicks later, I find JOSHUA BLACKBIRD FAKED HIS DEATH. Roundly ridiculed by commenter after commenter, the post by NotYourDog has photos, and it’s these that grab my attention.
The text talks about the boat accident. About the fact that even though no other craft were recorded in the deep water off the island, that doesn’t mean no one else was there. It includes links to the next closest harbors, beaches, boat launches. Includes nautical miles to buoys, piers, land, and island.
What? They think Joshua could swim that far? Or that someone could meet him with a boat? Who? We were all there on the boat, already with him.
And even if Joshua did hire someone to help him, there’s no way they would keep that secret. Not with so much money to be made from the exposé.
Of course, NotYourDog doesn’t explain away any of these questions. Just throws the possibility of how Joshua might have done it out there like so many cluster bombs—how it could have happened, if you don’t look at it too closely or think about it too long. The theory like fairy-tale magic, with no evidence underneath.
What NotYourDog does instead is insert pictures from Joshua’s memorial service, spinning from one big question to another. The photos are sun drenched, all the more jarringly wrong, the perfection of that day.
The remembered pain of then and the actual pain of now collide in my chest. It’s like looking through a magic mirror at a place that I barely remember. That caused so much heart-erupting destruction.
I don’t remember standing there talking. I don’t remember sitting there listening. It’s like it happened to someone else.
But there I am in the picture, in the garden of stone monuments. A telephoto lens capturing my shock-numbed face. On one side of me sits Ty with Livie next to him. On the other side of me is Speed. Next to him, the rest of the band.
A second picture captures a different angle—must have been a different paparazzo. Someone standing at the gates, or perched along the wall, taking pictures to sell as we bled.
In the second photo you can see Artie and the label execs. Joshua’s legal team, second-string agents, the tour dancers, video directors, stage managers, roadies, security guys, costume designers, pyrotechnic employees, the whole cavalcade from the tour, from his career beyond it.
Behind them, in a mass of people, I spot Rick and Dan.
Who isn’t here? the caption reads.
No one. No one is missing. Just asking the question doesn’t make it so. There’s nothing else. It’s clickbait, a teaser post—meant to make a Birdie subscribe to the feed. Follow NotYourDog.
I scroll through the more recent posts. There’s another shot from the funeral with a screaming caption.
WHO IS IN THE SHADOWS?
I scan the funeral picture. This one is from a higher angle, like the photographer climbed a ladder or a tree to get a better shot of the crowd of mourners.
But the resolution of the shot isn’t as high. Almost as if it was an amateur camera or camera phone.
A Birdie in a tree.
I laugh, and it’s the unhinged one again.
I close my eyes and force slow breaths through my nose. Pick up the printed college application and reread the essay.
It’s him. Joshua wrote this.
I have to keep digging.
I lean toward the computer screen and study the high-angle picture. What figure in the shadows?
Who isn’t here?
Who’s in the shadows?
I have to laugh at the drama. At the questions without answers.
There’s no one in the shadows. I’ve searched the shaded periphery twice. It’s a question without an answer, without substance, without—
I see two blurry lines in the shade beside a mausoleum on the edge of the shot. It could almost be legs? Two legs, propped out, like someone is standing there, on the edge of everything, leaning against the mausoleum.
Hiding. Leaning around the small stone building to see and not be seen.
My eyes burn from staring.
I blink and rub them and look again.
It’s definitely there. Two long shadows, a pair of legs. I see it now.
Unless it’s something else.
I rush back in my grief-hazed memory. Try to remember that particular mausoleum. Did it have anything on that side that could cast that shape? That could look like . . .
I scroll up through more posts. Then it’s blown up, the same picture I’ve been looking at, or think I have.
WHO ISN’T HERE? The headline blares again.
The picture is not of the mausoleum, but of a shaded weeping willow on the opposite, farther side of the shot.
Someone stands underneath the hanging branches. You can vaguely see a dark black coat, and two black-clad legs, planted far apart.
This is it? This is the proof?
It could be anyone. It could be a groundskeeper. Or someone who wandered away from the press of people.
NotYourDog’s caption reads The HOLLYWOOD FOREVER CEMETERY.
The text goes on to give all the theoretical reasons why the figure means something. How it’s important that the person was partially obscured behind the hanging branches of the tree. How the long coat and black pants, as well as the position of the feet, indicate that this person was attending the funeral, watching it, albeit from a distance and from the shadows.
Someone was watching the service like it was a matinee. What was the performance? Being Joshua Blackbird, that was the theater. The only way out was to give one final show. Cue the curtain. But to pull that off? There had to be someone, one person Joshua trusted with his life. Or in this case, his death.
I click back to the original WHO’S IN THE SHADOWS? post.
Underneath it is the usual flotsam and jetsam of Internet commenters. Fellow Birdies crying or congratulating NotYourDog. Trolls ridiculing the whole idea, but more than that, ridiculing the legions of Birdie fans. And there’re few hopeful fellow believers, making a feast of crumbs.
I can no longer avoid the underlying pain, beneath the bounding hope that Joshua is alive. And while I am still holding that against-all-odds hope in my chest like a spark of sacred flame—
It can’t be true. Could it? How could he do something like that?
In my mind the black-and-white security camera footage plays: Joshua on the deck of the boat. The smile that changed into sorrow.
Saying good-bye.
Did he do that to me? Did he want me to believe he was dead?
It whiplashes through me, a high-tension wire snapped and slicing. The pain is too much, like another death, holding both possibilities in my mind.
A hope that hurts as much as acceptance of loss.
My hand shakes as I pick up the printed application and reread the essay.
This time I see it as something else. Not just a message from him, but a message for me. He knew I’d read this.
It’s like a dare.
21
HOLLYWOOD FOREVER CEMETERY
It won’t take me long to pack. It won’t take long to explain to Grandma that I want to visit my friends in LA. This actually makes her happy.
The more I think about it, the more I think that someone has to be k
eeping something from me. They have to know. Either they know who paid my tuition or they know that Joshua is alive.
Just thinking it makes me feel like my brain is spinning, twisting, on a trapeze.
Someone knows what’s going on.
Even though I’ve talked to Ty, and Artie, and Speed. Even though they’ve all denied it. It’s not the same when you’re not standing in front of someone.
Over the phone, it’s easier to lie. They need to see my face.
And I need to do something, need to try to find him.
If he’s alive, he’s waiting for me.
He sent me the application like a message. Like a hidden Easter egg or scavenger hunt.
I think of Ty.
I remember holding him as he we cried after the memorial service. Or was it only me crying? When I thought we were both falling apart, was it just one-sided and I was too blinded by tears to see?
He was always so certain that Joshua hadn’t committed suicide. Was it because he really knew that Joshua was alive?
How Joshua intended his death to look? Like an accident?
My certainty and anger twist. This wasn’t some criminal mastermind waiting to deceive us all. It was the boy next door, the boy I loved, always loved, struggling to keep himself together. He either thought we all would be better without him or that he’d be better off without us. Maybe I am the bridge connecting the two, preventing either from being a certainty?
Someone has to know.
I have to see Ty.
I have to see him. Have to look into his eyes when I ask.
Does Artie know as well? In her rush to capitalize on Joshua’s death—what she called “cementing his legacy”—was she instead just making a last, desperate cash grab before the crap hit the fans?
Because how would everyone respond if they learned he faked it?
No secret keeps forever.
The Birdies won’t respond with love, no matter what they think now. No matter I’d give anything to have him back! protestations. They’d respond with rage and shunning. Cutting him up for the affront, for using them. Not even Artie could spin such a story. The media and the bloggers would overwhelm her with a virtuous rage, even as they milked the story themselves. Artie’s career would be ruined.
I don’t hate the idea.
I throw in clothes and makeup, toothbrush, power cords, notebooks.
A derisive voice narrates my every move.
You realize this is insane. You realize you’re cracking up. You’ll end up at Haven View with Mira. Joshua’s alive? Listen to yourself! This is a delusion. What will you do when you see the truth? What will you do when it is in your face?
When you finally accept that he chose death over life with you?
I acknowledge the voice. I might be chasing a dream. Or a dangerous delusion.
But someone filled out this application. Someone paid my tuition.
The zipper growls low as I close the duffel bag. I pull on cropped fatigues and desert combat boots, loop canvas BDU belts over my hips, and tug on a tank top and ripped T-shirt.
I glance in the mirror and regret it.
My eyes are wide and staring, sparking with fanaticism and the pressure of napalm hope.
In the reflection I see the printed application sitting on the bed. I turn and pick it up.
The page is my talisman, my magical object. I have a quest. I have a purpose.
And a dare.
* * *
• • •
A few hours later, a cab comes to take me to the airport. I kiss Grandma and promise to call when I get there.
On the plane I sleep. We land in LA in the afternoon. I get in line for a cab.
Ty doesn’t know I’m coming. I don’t text or call. I don’t care if it feels cloak-and-dagger. What I’m thinking is cloak-and-dagger.
If they commit me, maybe I need it.
Or maybe I’m right.
While I wait, I call Grandma and tell her I’m here safe. Remind her to lock the doors after she airs out the house.
She tells me she loves me, tells me to “have fun out there.”
It feels so on point it hurts. “Out there”—like I may as well be on the moon.
My brain is tired of holding possibilities and meanings. Tired of holding a possibility that hurts as much as the previous certainty, that hurts just to imagine the absence of. Tired of guilt, sidestepping grief for this desperation. A conspiracy of hopes.
I get in the cab and give the driver the address of what used to be Joshua’s, and is now Ty’s, ocean-side mansion.
I sit back, watching the afternoon sun light the city—it’s ready for its close-up now—as we drive away from LAX, past industrial tourism developments, convention halls, liquor stores, and gas stations, into the satellite-to-wealthier neighborhoods, then to the edges of wealthy ones. Then come the wealthy neighborhoods. Giant palm trees and ornate gates, security cameras and massive houses.
Then suddenly we’re there. The cab pulls up to the wrought-iron gates at the top of the driveway.
There’s a speaker on the driver’s side.
“Press the button,” I tell the driver. I put down my window so I can speak to whoever answers.
“Yes?”
“It’s Roxy. Roxanne Stewart. I’m Ty’s friend,” I say. “I’m here to visit.”
“One moment.”
A pause, presumably while the approved visitors list or superiors are consulted.
The gate swings open, and the voice comes back though the speaker. “Park in front, please.”
At the front of the house, I pay the driver and get out my suitcase. The taxi follows the swooping curve of the driveway back around and out.
I carry my suitcase up the steps. The door opens before I can knock. An unfamiliar security guard stands there, chewing on a toothpick and squinting at me.
“Is Ty here?” I ask inanely.
“No, he’s not.” The guard doesn’t move out of the way or invite me in.
“When will he come back?”
“I can’t say.”
I shift the suitcase to my other hand. “Well, he invited me to come.”
“I haven’t received instructions.”
He sounds like a careful robot, attempting to handle a bomb.
“Listen, is Artie around? Do you have her number? Call or text and then get out of my way, please.”
The meat-robot’s eyes go flat. “Wait here.”
The door closes in my face. I get out my phone and text Ty. Surprise, I’m here! Can’t get into the house—will you take care of it? Where are you?
I hit Send. Look at the clipped message after it goes through. Send a puking smiley face to soften it up and to remind him of back home.
The door opens.
“I am instructed to hold your bag here. Ms. Malfa says she will send a car to take you to the restaurant where they will be having dinner.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I hand over my suitcase.
It feels ridiculous, waiting on the front step like a door-to-door salesman, but I don’t want to go inside without Ty. It feels too much like a time warp, and I know looking around that room will remind me too much of the night Joshua died.
My phone dings.
Wow, great! Artie says she sent a car. Can’t wait to see you! After Ty’s message is a GIF of a happy cat flailing and falling off a treadmill.
It makes me smile, in spite of my anxiety about accusing him. In spite of my anxiety about what I will learn, or have to face.
* * *
• • •
A black luxury sedan eventually pulls up to the gate. It drives up to where I’m waiting, and a driver gets out.
“Ms. Stewart?” she says, as she walks around the front of the car to open my door.
“Hi
, yes,” I say.
“I’m Sasha.” The driver flashes an incandescent smile at me. Her teeth are perfect. Her pale skin is perfect, poreless; her green eyes are ringed by gorgeous, thick, curled lashes. Her lips are lush to the point of looking unreal. Her beauty is shocking.
“Sorry,” I stammer, realizing I’m staring. “I forgot how beautiful people are out here.”
“Thanks,” she says. “You fit right in.”
It’s a lie, but I can’t help the stupid, momentary glow it gives me.
She closes the door and walks back to her side and gets behind the wheel. We coast down the driveway and out the gate.
“I’m to take you to Mephisto’s. Mr. Blackbird and his party will meet you there. They’re finishing a recording session. I’m afraid you’ll be a little early for dinner, but you’re to feel free to order appetizers and a beverage while you wait. The charges will go to Ms. Malfa’s account.”
“They’re at Aepolis Studios? I thought the album was done,” I say, more to make conversation than any real interest.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” she says flatly. Then, as though to make up for her loyalty to the person who pays her salary, offers a smile in the rearview mirror.
I return the smile and offer an understanding “Of course.”
I lean back against the plush leather seat. A small vase attached to the armrest holds a single white rose. A chilled water bottle and cocktail napkins sit in the cup holder nearest me.
Outside my window, gate after gate goes by. A few dogs are walked, by professional dog walkers, probably. Landscape crews go to work perfecting perfection.
Security gates, security boxes, security cameras.
Thinking of the Birdie blogs, I suddenly have a much better idea than sitting at an empty table waiting for Ty to arrive.
The Hollywood Forever Cemetery can’t be that far away. It’s prime real estate as much as any of this. Houses of the dead are just as valuable as houses of the living.