by Nathan Roden
I followed Skyler to the opposite side of the stage. She stopped a stage hand on the way.
“That marker right there,” she pointed to an adhesive “x” on the floor. “I’m pretty sure that it’s too far forward. Be a doll and check it, okay? Thanks.”
Skyler stopped and turned around. She surveyed the rest of the stage setup. I knew that I was watching a pro in her domain.
“How’s your hand?”
“My hand?”
“Apollo tried to break your fingers, didn’t he?”
“Was it that obvious?”
“He does it all the time. I have to keep an eye on him. He’s a little bit of a loose cannon.”
“I guess he’s not aware that you started firing people when you were nine.”
“I can’t fire Apollo,” she sighed. “In fact, if he could sing at all you probably wouldn’t be here today.”
“Sweet.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. Apollo has been with us for four years. I know you haven’t kept up with my career, but during two of my biggest numbers, the only people under the lights are Apollo and me. You’ve got eyes, don’t you? He’s perfect from head to toe. He’s incredibly strong, and very graceful. He works his butt off and hasn’t missed a show since he’s been with me.”
“He can’t sing?”
Skyler shook her head.
“He spends every spare minute trying to fix that. He pays a vocal coach to work with him, but she says that he’s hopeless. She tries to discourage him, but he won’t stop.”
“It sounds like he might be a little unstable.”
Skyler smiled.
“Everyone in this room is a little unstable. Even you.”
I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I made eye contact with the ghost before he disappeared through the door.
“Unstable. You’ve got that right.”
Chris Chadwick stepped to a microphone and checked his watch.
“All right, all right, all right, people! This will be a short day. Let’s run through the four numbers that are staying the same from the last tour. And then we’ll bring Wylie on for the two duets.”
I pulled on Skyler’s sleeve.
“Uh, I’ve only worked on one.”
She kept looking straight ahead, but I could see that she was grinning.
“He knows that. He wants to see how much you’ve rehearsed on your own.”
“That ain’t funny.”
“Get used to it. We’ve talked about this before. Wylie. This business if brutal. You need to know that you have people that you can trust—people that you can depend on no matter what. You’ll be fine. I think.”
I had rehearsed. I had sung myself hoarse more than once between Thanksgiving and New Year's. I even did scales with Arabella McIntyre a few times, along with some Patsy Cline and Hank Williams duets.
Try that one on for size—APOLLO.
I looked around to make sure no one was watching, and flexed the fingers of my right hand.
We alternated days between stage rehearsals and working in the studio. I was a little disappointed with what was going to become my debut album. I mean, the songs were good—some were really good—especially “Like a Bullet”. But most of the songs were already finished. I wasn’t around for the instrument recordings at all. Other than the songs that Skyler did harmonies for, I felt like a professional karaoke singer. Like a contractor—the guy who comes in and paints the walls after the house is built. I’m not very good at analogies, so I’ll stop now.
Nobody ever mentioned waiting for Nate to arrive before recording the instrument tracks. That didn’t surprise me. I hoped it wouldn’t surprise him. I didn’t think it would.
No, I think when he gets behind that drum set in the stage setup; he’s not going to think about anything else. There’s something about hearing a professionally miked-up drum kit that turns musicians into blubbering children. I think when Nate gets behind that kit, punches that kick drum and smacks the snare, he’s gonna be good.
For the two songs that I was going to do with Skyler at the end of her show, I would enter from stage left. The first song was the one that’s blowing up on radio—I sing the second verse of that one. I couldn’t help but think about the first time that this would happen in front of a real audience. Thankfully, the first two shows would be right here in St. Louis, where it was most unlikely that anything bad would happen. After that—who knows?
What would happen if I crossed the stage to complete silence or even a deafening chorus of boos? What if there were yells of “Loser!” or “Get off the stage, you hack!” I’ve dealt with troublemakers in an audience before, but not an audience of twenty thousand people.
I was completely stoked the day that Nate showed up. Tooie came up with him. She was staying for the weekend.
The morning that Nate arrived was a studio day. Tooie, Nate and I sat in the lounge. We could see into the control room where Chris Chadwick and Grayson Kilmister worked behind the recording console.
“What are they working on today?” Nate asked.
“Skyler’s vocals on two ballads for her new album. They said they might use me for some background vocals.”
“How’s your album coming along?”
I shrugged.
“It might be finished. They haven’t really told me yet.”
Nate leaned forward.
“They haven’t told you if your own album is finished? Man, I’ve never heard anything like that.”
“You and me both,” I said.
Nate blew out a long breath.
“Skyler is going to be, like, right there? In that room? Singing?” Tooie whispered.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s the way it works.”
Tooie looked kind of green. This was a surreal experience for her. It was for Nate and me, too, but we tried to cover it up with “macho”. Both of us are really just suppressed fan-girls.
Skyler was on her way in. I knew that by the forward-arrival of her entourage. She walked through the door from outside, where it was snowing. She wore a bulky sweater, a stocking hat, and had a muffler around her neck. Her cheeks were rosy and surrounded her huge smile. She pulled off her hat and scarf and took a steaming mug of something from an assistant.
Skyler spotted us. She dropped her jaw when she saw Nate. She hurried across the room and hugged him. Nate turned cherry red.
“Hi, Skyler. I would like you to meet—”
“Aimee!” Skyler squealed. She hugged Tooie. I think Tooie was about to fall down.
“I’m so glad you came!” Skyler said. “How long will you be with us?”
“Through the weekend. I have to be—”
Skyler grabbed Tooie’s arm.
“Do you have plans tonight? Please tell me you don’t!”
Tooie didn’t know what to think. She shook her head slowly.
“No—”
“Awesome!” Skyler said. “You do now!”
Skyler swiped her phone and put it to her ear.
“Celeste. Call the girls—I’m declaring Girls-Night-Out tonight! Yes, I’m serious. Nine-thirty. Yak at ya later.”
Skyler grabbed Nate’s shoulder and shook it.
“We’re stealing your girl for one night,” Skyler winked at Tooie. “We’ll bring her back in good condition. Probably. Gotta run. Chris is giving me dirty looks.”
“Knock ‘em dead, Kid,” I said.
“Welcome aboard, Nate,” Skyler said. “It was great meeting you, Aimee. I’ll see you tonight. We’ll have a blast!”
Nat and I stared at Tooie, who was staring after Skyler with her jaw hanging open.
“Did that really just happen?” she finally whispered.
“I believe it did,” Nate said. “What do you say, Wyles. Are we having a Boys Night Out?”
“You’re dang straight we are. There’s a bowling alley only about ten miles from here.”
“Woah,” Nate said, “Dial it down a little, Rock Star. We’re not as young a
s we used to be.”
‘”You’re not going to feel all that young when the trainer gets hold of you. I’m sore in places I didn’t know I had.”
Nate and I showed up at the stage rehearsal space the next morning. We would be rooming together after Tooie went home, but for now, they were staying in another one of the guest rooms.
“Are you ready for this?” I asked.
“You bet,” Nate said. “Yea, though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I will fear no click track.”
“I heard that,” said a voice behind us.
“Hey, good morning, Chris,” I said.
“Good morning. Don’t worry, Nate. We’ll work on the click when we have time—but for right now, we’ll fly without it. We’re not going to torture you with it.”
“Can I kiss you now?” Nate said.
Chris laughed.
“Come on. I’ll introduce you to the guys.”
Nate had been practicing with demo tracks of the songs from my album for the last few weeks. The guys in the band were good, of course, but they were a little rigid. Maybe they had been hired guns for so long that they didn’t even think about being performers or entertainers. I certainly couldn’t say anything to them about it. I’m just the guy who shows up and sings—the guy who doesn’t even know if his own album is finished or not.
I knew that Nate was nervous, even though we wouldn’t be using a click track. If you remember, the electronic metronome that is used almost universally to control a song’s tempo these days is completely foreign to Nate’s sense of timing.
I wasn’t willing to lose the ability to play music without my best friend just because of some electronic stopwatch—and that’s why Nate was there. Because we were a team. It was both of us or none of us. That’s how we roll.
Nate was nervous, and I was nervous for him. He counted us into “Like a Bullet”.
The sound in my in-ear monitor was awesome. As we moved from the first verse into a musical section, the timing of the band started to slip a little. The five other band members were used to precision timing. I almost panicked.
I turned around and faced Nate. I saw the other players watching me.
I spun my index finger a couple of times, sending Nate the universal “pick it up” signal. The players looked at Nate. I saw Nate grin slightly. After a snare hit, he did a little stick-twirl, caught the stick—and sent me a one-finger message.
For whatever reason, this struck me as the funniest thing on earth. I threw my head back and laughed. Right then, in that moment, I didn’t care if they threw us out of the building and sent us packing.
That’s not what happened.
I looked at the other band members. They were all laughing.
The bass player left his spot on the stage and went to stand in front of the kick drum. He locked into it. He looked up and made eye contact with the two guitar players. He motioned them over with a nod.
All of a sudden, my rigid, efficient, professional band members transformed into legitimate funk-masters. What happened next? “Like a Bullet” was hit by a transfusion of excellence.
I had chills running in both directions up and down my body when we hit the last chord. The band was laughing and high-fiving—including Nate. I heard a smattering of applause.
“Yeah! Now that was old-school!” Grayson Kilmister said.
Veronica KwyK stood next to Chris Chadwick.
“What do you think?” Veronica asked Chris.
Chris looked at me. I couldn’t really read his face.
“You’re making my job more difficult.”
I shrugged.
“What did I do?”
He smiled.
“We’re cutting that one again—for the album. Please tell me we can duplicate that performance.”
Bo, the bass player, pulled the band from around his long hair and shook it out. He motioned toward Nate with his thumb.
“That kid’s got soul. Especially for a city boy.”
“Thanks!” Nate beamed. “I think?”
Ten
Tara Jamison
McIntyre Village
Wellmore Village, Scotland
Tara took the train to Edinburgh without incident. She took a bus to McIntyre Village. She walked to a cafe near the bus depot, sat down, and ordered a sandwich.
“Begging your pardon, Ma’am,” Tara said sweetly to the waitress.
“Could you tell me how to find the Castle McIntyre? My parents took me there when I was a child—I hope to visit again.”
The waitress shook her head.
“That’s a bit of a sad story, Missy. That family was struck by hardship, ya see. The McFadden’s disappeared for nigh on half-a-year. And then the flood took out the bridge—it’s being rebuilt right now, as we speak. Anyway, Seth Larrimore up and had himself a heart attack—after he sold the castle. Some American took the castle apart and shipped it to America. Yeah! Can you believe that?”
Tara felt ill.
“They’re…all gone, then? The family?” she asked. “My parents always spoke about what good people they were.”
“I remember hearing that the girl went to work at the Wellmore place,” the waitress said. A man seated at another table waved at her while pointing to his empty tea cup.
“Hold yer horses, Travis,” she said.
“Where is this Wellmore place?”
The waitress pointed out of the window.
“Just the other side of the river. The Wellmore Castle. I hear tell that they’re doin’ a bang-up business there with the young people. I’m glad somebody’s doing well around here. A girl’s gotta make a livin’, ya know.”
The waitress smiled and winked at Tara, and then she turned to fetch more tea for Travis.
Tara found out that there no bus service into Wellmore Village. She called the lone taxi service and overpaid for a ride. The driver told her that he would not be able to wait and bring her back.
Tara walked the short distance to Wellmore Castle. As she got nearer, her pace slowed. She could feel….something. A sense of foreboding. A sense of…she didn’t know what. Maybe it was because her cousin was here. Maybe what she felt was the anxiety of finally making contact with someone who understood her. She might be on the verge of reuniting with the one other person on earth who wouldn’t treat her like she was an alien.
Tara heard the crunch of gravel. She turned and watched a small car come to a stop at the bottom of the hill. She hurried to the front doors of the castle.
The sign on the door listed the schedule for tours of the castle. The next one was the following afternoon.
The doors were locked. Tara knocked, and waited, but there was no answer. Tara sighed and sat down on the front steps. She was very tired. She was hungry. She would have to walk back into the village and rent a room for the night, and her limited amount of money was disappearing quickly.
“Hello.”
Tara looked up. A girl, just a few years older that Tara stood above her. She was carrying a cardboard box.
“May I help you?” the girl asked.
“I was looking for someone,” Tara said. “A girl who used to work here. I think she was a tour guide.”
“Really? That’s what I do now. Well, my friend and I.”
“Do you know her?” Tara asked. “Her name is Holly.”
The girl shook her head.
“I’m sorry. We’ve only worked here a few weeks.” She put out her hand.
“I’m Abigail. Everybody calls me Abby.”
Tara shook her hand.
“I’m T—Emily.”
“Nice to meet you, Timmily!” Abigail giggled.
Tara forced a smile.
“You know how it is. I was stuck with a name I don’t really care for. I’m using my middle name now.”
“I get it,” Abigail said. “My friend Lori’s first name is Carlotta. Her full name is Carlotta Lorraine Despain!”
Both girls laughed.
“Yeah, I w
ould go for Lori, too,” Tara said.
“Listen, Emily. I picked up some things for Mr. Wellmore. I have a class to get to, but I’ll bet Mr. Wellmore is here. I saw his car. Come on in.”
“Thank you,” Tara said.
Tara took the box from Abigail while she unlocked the front door. They walked into the entry.
“Hello?” Abigail said. Her voice echoed.
“He’s likely upstairs in his study,” Abigail said. “He practically lives in that room. I’ll leave this stuff in the kitchen and call him on the intercom.”
Tara followed Abigail into the kitchen.
The powerful wave of energy almost made Tara’s knees buckle. She could almost see the air pulsing—it made her dizzy, and nauseous. The walls seemed to be breathing—breathing a foul, odorous green stench into the air.
Abigail sat the box on the kitchen table.
“So, how do you know this—? Hey. Emily? Are you all right?”
Abigail grabbed Tara’s arm, but almost immediately pulled it away. Tara’s skin was so hot that—
No. That can’t be, Abigail thought. She…she burned me.
Tara stared at the cellar door.
“Where…Where does that lead?”
“It’s okay, Emily,” Abigail said. “That place is closed off. Would you like some…some aspirin or something? I think you have a fever. Maybe you need to go to the hospital.”
“No! No,” Tara said quickly. “I’m fine, really. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Where are you from?” Abigail asked. She eyed Tara suspiciously.
“London.”
“Are you and your parents staying in town?” Abigail asked.
“Yes. Father is interviewing for a position at the University.”
“Really?” Abigail said. “What does he teach?”
“Oh, just about anything, really,” Tara lied. “He’s spent several years in the military—doing lots of things that he can’t speak about.”