Still Life with Strings

by Cosway, L. H.

  I only realise that Shane’s still with me when suddenly he’s folding me into his arms in a hug. I exhale against the smooth fabric of his shirt, and the tension in my body falls away. It’s amazing the things a hug from another human being can do.

  “You’ll sort him out, don’t worry,” he says, his chin resting on my hair.

  “Yeah, but how?” I ask, not really expecting any kind of answer.

  A minute of silence passes before Shane suggests, “I could talk to him, teach him some stuff about music, if you like?”

  I pull away slightly and eye him. “I’m not sure how much you could teach a kid who creates dance songs on a smart phone app, Shane. You’re a world away from that.”

  “All music is music, Jade. I’ve been classically trained. I can teach him some important basics, and if he has something to focus on, then maybe everything else in his life will fall in line.”

  “He has been hanging out with a bad crowd. Perhaps some music lessons will keep him occupied and off the streets,” I say, coming around to the idea.

  Shane smiles. “Exactly.”

  I smile back. “Okay, we’ll give it a try.”

  He pulls my hand up between our touching chests and squeezes, something meaningful in his expression. Letting out a long breath, he pulls away, and we walk out of the school back to my place. It’s late when we get there, given that there were queues outside some of the classrooms with parents all waiting to see the same teachers. Mostly Shane and I sat and chatted while he would intermittently give me these heated stares and I’d try to ignore the way it made me feel all hot and bothered.

  As I look at Shane now, he seems tired, so without thinking I reach over and run my hand affectionately over his cheek. He practically melts under my touch, and I pull away immediately, asking myself what the fuck I think I’m doing. He’s such a wonderful person, and I have no right to lead him on.

  “I’m just going to put the kettle on for a brew,” I say, clearing my throat and handing Shane the key for my bedroom. “You can go get your things upstairs if you like.”

  Silently he goes, and I’m left alone with my guilty thoughts and the whistling of the kettle as it boils. The steam rises up into the air in the small kitchen, shaping itself into disappointed faces. I swipe my hand through them, annoyed at their presence. Leaning one hand against the counter, I rub the creases from my brow with the other.

  “I called for a cab,” says Shane, entering the room from behind me. “It should be here any minute.”

  “Oh, good. Well, thanks again for offering to spend some time with Pete. I’ll talk to him about it tomorrow, see what he thinks.”

  Shane dips his head and looks around the room like he can’t bring himself to keep staring at me, and I don’t even have to ask myself why. My stupid body language can be a bitch, and just now she offered Shane something I can’t give him and then a second later snatched it away.

  “I’m sorry if…” I trail off, the fire burning in my chest preventing me from continuing.

  “You’re sorry?” Shane asks.

  I scratch my head and practically whisper, “Yeah, I’m sorry if I’ve been giving you mixed signals.”

  His mouth flattens out as he reaches up and runs a hand through his hair. “Jade, I don’t see why we can’t just explore where things go between us. I understand you’ve had a bad experience in the past, but so have I. I think that’s a good thing — it means we both know what it’s like to be hurt, and we’ll do whatever we can not to make another person feel that way.”

  He’s talking a lot of sense, but still, I’m scared. “Friends” is comfortable; “lovers” is an unknown hole in the sky where anything could happen.

  I can’t start drinking again.

  With that thought in my head, my perseverance returns. “I’m sorry, Shane, but a friendship is all I have to offer you.”

  His optimistic expression falls, and his hands drops to his sides. “Then I guess I’ll take what you have to offer, Bluebird.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper as I watch him pick up his violin case and walk out the door.

  Eleven

  At seven the next morning I get up, dress, have some breakfast, and then go to Pete’s room, where he’s still fast asleep. I sit on the edge of his bed and study him, his child’s face that’s slowly transforming into an adult. I’ve been a mother to him since our own one died, since he was just eleven years old.

  I can’t help but wonder if I’ve somehow fucked up the job.

  He wakes up then and startles when he sees me sitting at the foot of his bed.

  Rubbing at his eyes, he rasps, “Uh, what the hell, Jade?”

  “Why did you even bother to tell me about the parent teacher evening?” I reply abruptly, folding my arms across my chest. So much for the softly, softly approach.

  He speculates over what to say for a minute as he eyes me. Finally he says, “If you didn’t go, they would have contacted you, so you would have found out about everything anyway.”

  “I don’t get it, Pete. You’re a clever kid, yet you’re just barely passing by the skin of your teeth, and if you don’t start attending again soon you’re going to be failing.”

  “School is pointless,” he sighs. “There are so many better ways for me to spend my time.”

  “School isn’t pointless. If you keep at it, you’ll get to go to college.”

  “How many people from around here do you know who went to college, Jade? Yeah, that’s right, a big fat zero.”

  “Well, somebody always has to be the first. And what do you mean, there are much better ways for you to spend your time?”

  He just shrugs.

  “Does it have something to do with the fact that you have those brand-new Nikes under your bed, not to mention a new iPod? Where did you get the money for those?”

  He just looks at me now. “Where do you think?”

  “I swear to God, Pete, this better not be drugs.”

  Storming out of the bed, he answers, “So what if it is?”

  “‘So what’? Are you fucking joking me? Are you telling me you’re dealing?”

  His face transforms with anger, and it actually surprises me. I’ve never seen him so enraged. “Yes, I am dealing, Jade, and you’d better get used to it because it isn’t going to stop any time soon.”

  Oh, he’s so not getting away with this. “Yes, it is going to stop, even if I have to chain you up in this bedroom until you see sense. And just you wait until Alec hears about this.”

  “Ha! As if he wasn’t doing the exact same thing at my age.”

  “Alec did it for a very short time before he realised how stupid he was being, and he got out before he was in too deep. And that’s exactly what you need to do.”

  “I’m not quitting,” he seethes.

  “Yes, you are. Now get dressed for school. I’m walking you.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Swear one more time, Pete. Go on, see what happens,” I warn him, and I must have a scary look in my eye because he backs down.

  When I leave the room, I find both April and Alec standing outside with identical looks of horror on their faces.

  “Did I hear all that right?” Alec asks, working his jaw.

  I sigh and slump back against the wall. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” he replies in a soothing voice, and comes to rub my shoulders. “You go and have a lie-down. You’re all worked up.”

  “Could you take him to school, too?”

  “Sure, I’ll even wait to make sure he doesn’t try to sneak back out.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, and April looks at me sympathetically.

  I didn’t even get the chance to ask Pete if he’ll take music lessons from Shane.

  Mustering my strength, I pull my sister into my room and ask how she’s getting along with Mia. We talk for a little while, and then she has to go and get ready for work. At least one of my siblings is doing okay. My shift doesn’t start unti
l the afternoon, so I decide to don my costume and go busking for a while.

  Standing in front of my mirror, I hold my tub of white face paint in my hand, using a sponge to rub it over my skin until it erases all of my features. When I’m done I feel like a blank canvas waiting for an artist to come and paint on some lips, a nose, and a pair of green eyes.

  It used to take me forever to become “The Blue Lady.” Now it takes me a grand total of ten minutes. I have it down to a fine art. I step outside my house in my full costume, blue wig, wings, and all, locking up before I set off. My neighbour Linda who lives across the street is standing at her door in her pyjamas, a cigarette in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other.

  She sucks in a long drag of her smoke, watching me like I’m a flying pig that just sailed into her mundane little world. Most of the people in my area are well used to my antics by now, but still, I doubt they like what I do. I’m the local freak. If it weren’t for what they all know happened to my family eleven years ago, then I’m sure they wouldn’t be so accepting of my eccentricities.

  Normally, in a place like this you can’t be different. Everyone has to be the same. I once read about an experiment where they put an albino turkey in with a bunch of regular turkeys, and because the regular turkeys couldn’t understand why the albino was different, they killed it.

  In this particular case, I’m the albino turkey.

  But because of the tragedy that befell me, nobody is going to kill me. It’s sort of the same way nobody wants to be seen to be cruel to a blind girl or a girl in a wheelchair. So I get a free pass to be as different as I like.

  Ten minutes later I’ve reached my usual busking spot on Grafton Street. I wave hello to Marcus, who’s setting up a couple of shops down. He’s a flamenco guitarist who plays mostly on weekday mornings. You make more money on the weekend, but I think he’s a bit frightened of the bigger crowds. They can become rowdy sometimes.

  One Saturday lunchtime about a year ago, I had a guy grab my money hat and run off with it. Of course I got down from my box and chased after him, but he’d easily disappeared into the crowd, and all the cash I’d made that day was gone.

  I like to imagine it made for a good visual, though, even if I did get robbed. Imagine it, a woman with wings all dressed in blue chasing a thug through the street like her life depended on it. Yeah. Perhaps I entertained a few people.

  Hat on the ground. Box situated. I step up onto my little stage, which is probably about two square feet at most, and I become something else. I’m a statue in a museum full of priceless art. A mythical creature turned to stone in the White Witch’s courtyard in Narnia. A marble angel wrought by the hands of Michelangelo in a church somewhere in Italy.

  Or just a girl on a box who finds comfort in the anonymity of white paint and fake hair.

  A group stops to look at me, and I’m as still as a feather in a world with no air. One of the women smiles and steps forward, dropping a two-euro coin into my hat. Ah, for this she gets a present.

  Some living statues give lollipops to kids. Some give pretty flowers. I, on the other hand, slowly reach up and tug a blue feather from my wings. Graceful as a dancer in the Bolshoi Ballet, my arm comes down as I bow to her and present the feather. Smiling whimsically, she takes it from my hand and says thank you. I allow the faintest of smiles to touch my lips in return as I rise back to my upright position.

  After another minute or two, the group moves on.

  I don’t give feathers to all the people who leave money in my hat. It always depends on the person. It’s like I have this internal radar that tells me who will throw the feather away at the nearest dustbin, and who will bring it home, put it somewhere safe, and cherish it like it’s a precious diamond they found buried deep in the earth.

  When I go home, I replace the feathers by sewing in new ones. I have a big bag of them stuffed in my bottom drawer. One time when I was babysitting Mia for Lara, I left her in my room playing with her dolls, and when I returned I found her sitting on the floor surrounded by blue feathers.

  I didn’t stop laughing for at least half an hour.

  The sneaky little thing had discovered my secret stash. For weeks afterward I was finding blue feathers in random places around the house, and every time I found one it would make me smile to think of Mia’s face full of delight as she threw them up into the air and giggled.

  A couple of hours of standing still pass before I call it a day. On the way home I count my money, which amounts to fifty-two euros and thirty-four cents, one brown button, a five-cent coin from Singapore, a piece of paper with the words “Art Slut” scrawled onto it, another piece of paper that says “I love you,” and a Trebor Extra Strong Mint.

  Nobody can say this work isn’t colourful.

  Also, I think “Art Slut” would be a great name for an all-female punk band.

  Reaching my house, I take a shower to scrub the paint from my hands and face, have a quick bite to eat, and then head off for my shift. An American travelling orchestra are playing tonight. I don’t like the disappointment of knowing I’m not going to see Shane, but I soldier on.

  I hate the way we left things last night, and I haven’t heard a peep from him since. Not a single call, text, voicemail, or Facebook message. And believe me, I’ve been checking. Perhaps he’s waiting for me to make the first move?

  Ugh, I hate thinking about this stuff.

  Deciding to be brave, I shoot him a quick text telling him the address to meet me at on Sunday if he’s still up for coming. Then I shove my phone in my pocket and go to take my place at the bar. Hopefully I’ll lose myself in work, and I won’t be fidgeting to check my messages every five seconds.

  As it turns out, the bar is packed even though it’s an hour before the event. We have a nice spacious place here, so often people like to come and socialise before the show. Also, since you’re not allowed to bring any alcohol into the actual concert hall, people like to get their drink on in advance.

  Now that I’m sober, even the smell of alcohol turns my stomach slightly, but I’ve learned to tolerate it — kind of the same way you get used to the cloying smell of petrol when you work in a gas station. And I used to work in a gas station, as it happens.

  I’ve worked in a lot of places.

  “Hey, could we get a Heineken and a white wine spritzer?” comes an unsettlingly familiar voice from behind me.

  It’s almost time for the concert to start, so the bar has emptied out a good deal. I pause, as I’m crouched low, slotting bottles into the fridge. I haven’t yet turned around, and I’m not sure if I’m physically able to. Just as I regain the ability to move and slot the final bottle in, it slips from my fingers and crashes to the floor, liquid and broken glass going everywhere.

  My hands are shaking.

  The bar is loud because of the music streaming through the sound system, so I don’t think he heard me drop the bottle. It’s times like these that I wish they’d put two people working on this bar instead of one. That way I might be able to avoid seeing my ex-boyfriend, Jason, a man I haven’t set eyes on in years.

  Unfortunately, there’s no one else around to serve him but me.

  I don’t get what he’s doing here. He never listened to classical music when we were together. Turning around, I find him standing by the bar in a dark shirt, with a red-haired woman beside him. She’s a little older than he is, and there’s an air of class about her that enlightens me as to why Jason is here. The concert was obviously her idea.

  His eyes widen when he recognises me, and within the next three seconds a whole barrage of memories hits me fast. Him going out and having sex with other women. Me drinking a bottle of vodka and spending the rest of the night in the bathroom puking my guts up. Fights. Break-ups. Make-ups. Sex. Sex. Sex. Parties. Drinking. More drinking. More fighting.

  I blame him for the fighting. I can’t blame him for all of the drinking though. That started long before he came on the scene.

  My heart is going ninety
as I swallow down what feels like a rough stone jammed in my throat.

  “Jade, wow, it’s been awhile,” he says, eyes flicking between me and the woman he’s with.

  “Hi, Jason. Yeah, it has. I thought you moved to London,” I say, trying to appear casual and busying myself making the drinks he just ordered. Better to get this over and done with quickly rather than drag it out.

  A Heineken and a white wine spritzer.

  Heineken. White wine spritzer.

  He scratches his head and smiles. “I did. That’s where I met Beth. She’s my fiancée.”

  The redhead, Beth, smiles at me, probably thinking I’m just some old acquaintance, and flashes me her ring. Well, now, it’s some rock, and it surprises me because Jason was never the type to fork out for flashy items.

  “Oh, gorgeous,” I say to her, putting the pint of Heineken on the counter and going to fetch the wine.

  “I moved back to Dublin six months ago. My company set up new offices over here.”

  Perhaps he finally got his act together and scored a high-paying job. It would definitely explain the several-thousand-euro ring. It’s kind of annoying to realise you were the shit part of a person’s life before they moved on to the good part. And here I am, still working for just over minimum wage, still living in the same house where I grew up.

  “Cool, well, here are your drinks. That’ll be eleven euros, please.”

  Jason hands over the money and stares at me weirdly. Maybe he’s annoyed I’ve abruptly cut off any chance of a conversation. He has no right to be if he is. My life with him is the past, a past I’d much rather forget.

  Beth takes her wine and walks over to a table where a group of men and woman are sitting. They must have all come together. Jason stays at the bar, and I don’t get why he isn’t going with her.

  “You look good, Jade. How’s your family?”

  Looking up, I raise an eyebrow and fold my arms. “Are we seriously doing this right now? Go and have fun with your fiancée, Jason. And please, if you could make it so that you don’t come here again, that would be great. I’d rather not see you at my place of work, if it’s all the same to you.”