The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

  No doubt the band was good; their original songs were really good. Syd and Gus were great musicians. But he was an actor, not a musician. Somewhere between his conscious and subconscious selves, he could transform himself. It was a gift he was only beginning to realize. Acting had his heart. He hadn’t chosen it; it had chosen him. To fight its power was futile. He’d tried.

  He crossed the street after another car passed. It wasn’t snowing, but he thought it could. As he approached the motel, he noticed most of the parking lot was full. He saw Syd’s Corolla. The place was quiet, asleep, like he wanted to be. He climbed the stairs to the second floor balcony and stopped at the number on his key. After unlocking the door, he walked into the partially lit room; they’d left a floor lamp on beside the television. As with most motel rooms he’d stayed in, the TV was the focal point and sat in the middle of the wall opposite two single beds. They’d flipped a coin to see who would sleep on the sofa against the wall at the end of the room. Greg had lost, so he would be in no hurry to get back, not that he ever was. At the beginning of road life, they’d agreed that Syd would have her own room whenever possible. Most of the time, it worked out. Occasionally, Syd wanted to mix things up and have one of the guys take the single; she’d stay with the other two. It was only fair, but one big, happy family they were not.

  Ethan was glad for the warmth of the room. He didn’t realize how tired he was until he pulled off his sneakers. It was painful to stay awake. He wondered what might have happened had he stayed with the blonde and redhead. Curious temptation might have kept him there given different circumstances. He dropped onto the bed.

  The real reason he hadn’t stayed was Christa. She was a phone call away if she wasn’t working. His eyes closed as he thought of her and the meds he hadn’t taken that day.

  He was on the cusp of sleep when the phone beside the bed rang. The ring was like the sound of a fire alarm, startling him from the spongy motel pillow.

  Instant rage made him lunge sideways, and he swiped the phone off the nightstand between the beds. Unbelievable. He turned over.

  The room returned to silence, with an occasional car passing outside in front of the motel. He closed on sleep again.

  But in the quiet, as he was on the borderline of sleep, someone was talking. The person was not close enough for him to make out the words but was loud enough to hear.

  God damn it. He just wanted to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t overrule his trying to hear.

  It was a single voice, not quite out of earshot.

  He rolled onto his back to listen.

  Was he hearing things? He opened his eyes. It was still there, quiet and tinny like a transistor radio. He wasn’t imagining it.

  “Hello,” he heard.

  He rose up on his left elbow to listen closer. He hadn’t turned off the light beside the television. He slid his legs off the bed and sat up.

  The phone had landed on the floor between the two beds. The handset, its cord a lifeline to its base, sat just beneath the adjacent bed.

  His rage at the phone ringing simmered to agitation. He leaned over, hooked his fingers into the base, and returned it to the nightstand, the handset banging against the bottom of the bed.

  “Hello?”

  He heard the voice again, plainly this time. He grabbed the phone. “Hello.”

  “It’s about time.”

  “Christa?” Ethan shouted his surprise into the phone.

  “Were you expecting someone else?” she said.

  “No,” he said, at once feeling guilty about his thoughts of the two women, “but I wasn’t expecting to hear from you either.”

  “Didn’t think so,” she said. He could have listened to her talk all night. “Surprised, huh?”

  “You could say that,” he said, sleep already losing ground to the sweet sound of her voice. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing, really,” she said, but something in her voice told him different. “Want another surprise?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Why don’t you come down to room 212?”

  Ethan sat up. “No way!”

  “See you shortly, my dear.”

  CHAPTER 63

  Thursday, January 17, 1985

  Ethan couldn’t get to room 212 fast enough.

  He slipped his sneakers back on and found a clean T-shirt, the one with the Who’s black-and-white album cover of Quadrophenia on the front. He packed up his duffel bag and locked the door behind him. Christa’s room was eight doors away. He half ran and half walked down the balcony. Small cones of light illuminated the room number beside each door. He could feel the cold, but it didn’t matter. Outside of a car passing, there was no activity in front of the motel. There was no sign of his bandmates.

  He reached number 212.

  The door beside it was slightly open.

  Ethan stopped as if he’d been lined with a two-by-four across the chest. He couldn’t explain what he felt or why; he didn’t understand it, but he knew he’d been there before. Bad things were behind the door.

  His heavy door was back and close. He’d faced the door in front of him before. He knew there were things behind it he couldn’t bear to see—agonizing things that, like a giant claw, would rip open his chest and squeeze the life out of his heart. He was too close. The padlock on the heavy door was open.

  He didn’t move; he couldn’t. The three copper-colored numerals marking the room seemed to shimmer in the dim light. The numbers meant nothing, only that he’d been there before. His heart pounded, pulsing in his ears. He couldn’t catch his breath. It was all he could do to put his hand on the door. The surface was cool and smooth. He pushed it. The door didn’t seem to move, yet the strike plate in the doorjamb was visible; it had to open.

  He could hear his own breathing. He attempted a deep breath to control the pounding in his chest; an aching pulse began behind his eyes. He feared what he was going to find behind the door. There would be blood and carnage, but he had to go in.

  She was inside.

  He pushed harder, forcing the door off the jamb. His vision blurred. He could feel the door moving. He pushed harder. The door faded. He kept moving, continuing to push.

  The room was dark, yet he knew where he was. He remembered. It seemed such a long time since he’d been inside the room yet not long at all. He knew what he would find. He could feel the blood.

  His fingers were sticky. There was a fragrance in the air, her fragrance—Givenchy. Then he saw the destruction. Her apartment—no, their apartment—had been destroyed. Shards of broken glass from their full-length mirror were on the parquet flooring. A lamp was upended, its lampshade crushed. The bookcase was on its side, its books a jumbled heap on the floor. The television screen was smashed. Her green antique vase was in pieces on the floor. Her?

  “Ethan! Ethan!”

  Someone was shouting. It hurt to listen. It hurt to hear.

  He kept moving forward on feet that didn’t seem to be his.

  The upended white plastic deck chair was near the doorway. He didn’t turn his head. He knew what was there. Blood was on the walls. He couldn’t bear the sight again. He could hear her name repeated again and again. It was his voice but coming from someone else.

  “Ethan!”

  The scream was chilling and close. Had it been louder, his head might have exploded.

  “Christa! Christa!” he heard. He was crying out her name.

  His feet stopped moving. There was crimson on the wall, shaped into what looked like a giant red apple.

  “Ethan! Stop!”

  The image on the wall shattered into a thousand fluttering pieces.

  He turned toward the voice, looking in the direction he had avoided only a moment before, sure of what he would see.

  She was in front of him, lying in the vibrant crimson that filled her bed. Brok
en hands with fingers at inhuman angles were clasped behind her head. Her long, beautiful hair was tangled in a mess of blood, bone, and skin. He wanted to turn away. He had to.

  “Ethan!” cried the voice, which seemed to come from inside his head. “Ethan, you’re here! It’s—”

  He couldn’t look away. Christa was in front of him. He saw the blood-smeared chalk-white bone and the skin torn from her skull. Streaks of blood were on her face.

  God, please! his brain screamed.

  “Ethan! Please come back.”

  He dropped to his knees; his whole body trembled. Her fingers were now locked in his.

  “You can’t take her again!” he yelled in a voice that was his and not his.

  “Ethan, I’m here,” Christa sobbed. He could see her brown eyes inches from his own. “It’s okay.”

  Her voice was little more than a whisper.

  The broken glass and the books were gone.

  “Ethan?” Christa whispered, her tenderness melting his heart.

  Could it really be? The destruction he’d seen was no longer there.

  “Ethan?”

  “Yes,” he answered. He was on his knees. Christa was kneeling in front of him in pink pajamas.

  “Are you here?”

  “Yes, I am,” he said, remembering the door and seeing the room number. He continued his stream of thought out loud. “I don’t remember the door opening.” He paused, thinking hard to remember what was already gone. “Or coming in.”

  “You know where you are?” she asked.

  He nodded. He was in her motel room, but he had gone somewhere else. He’d been there, and now he was here; the in-between had become impenetrable space in his memory.

  “Yes, but it’s unbelievable.”

  “It is?” she asked, worry pulling the corners of her mouth down and lining her forehead. She turned her head, her uncertainty apparent. “Why is that?”

  He laughed. “Are you kidding? You? Here in Windsor?” He shook his head and put his hands on her thighs. “You,” he said, squeezing her legs, “right here. Unbelievable.”

  Christa grabbed his hands and pushed them away. She stood up and moved to the bed.

  “Wait a minute,” she said with a strained smile.

  “What?” he replied, knowing something wasn’t right but choosing to ignore it.

  She sat on the beige bedspread that covered the bed. It was identical to the one on the bed he’d been lying on in the other room.

  “Ethan,” she said, “are you really here?”

  “Yes, I’m here, Christa,” he said as if needing to convince himself. “I see the TV, the bed, the night table, and a beautiful woman.”

  As he said the words beautiful woman, Christa seemed to relax and leaned back, her arms behind her on the bed. The hint of a smile curved her lips.

  “I know you don’t understand,” she said, her words seeming to bring her comfort. “You probably think it’s funny, but a minute ago, you weren’t here.”

  It was anything but funny, but he didn’t reply. Tight-lipped, he looked into her eyes, thinking they were the only link to the gap left in his memory.

  “To most, you don’t look any different,” she said, sitting up. Her feet were on the floor. “But I know that look in your eyes. That absent look—your body’s here, but your head isn’t.”

  “How can I make you believe me?” he asked.

  He got up to sit beside her. Despite his calmness, the hole in his memory was troubling. It was like waking from a deep dream and remembering nothing yet feeling different. He remembered coming to her door and touching it and then hearing his name and being on his knees in front of her.

  “Kiss me,” she said, staring into his eyes, not studying him like before but searching for something he knew only she could find. “You are here, aren’t you?”

  Ethan didn’t answer. It wasn’t a question but an affirmation. He nodded. They’d spent little time together—or at least little that he was aware of—but their chemistry was undeniable. He felt no anxious nervousness on what he should or shouldn’t do around her. It was as if she were part of him. He’d found the missing piece of his puzzle that for so long he’d thought was gone forever. An excitement and energy came from just sitting beside her. Things were supposed to be this way. He didn’t need to understand why.

  Christa leaned against him. The smooth, warm skin of her forearm grazed his. It was the best feeling in the world. He turned. His lips touched the softness of hers, at once both new and age-old. They came together as naturally as two people could. The kiss was soft and momentary, over before it seemed to begin, unveiling a hunger he could not imagine ever being satiated. The intensity was instant. Their lips hardly separated before she kissed him again, harder and longer.

  Ethan slid his hand along her thigh, melting between her legs. Her mouth opened with his, as hungry for him as he was for her. Her warm, impossibly soft hand touched his face like a sculptor molding him to her.

  Time hardened.

  His arm encircled her back. His hand touched the velvety smoothness of her arm and moved down her side and under her pink pajama top. He pulled her closer, her lips melding into his, her sensuous tongue searching for his. He was beyond needing her. They were finding each other as only two souls could.

  She pulled his T-shirt over his head; he couldn’t pull his arms through the short sleeves quickly enough. His fingers touched her warm, soft breasts beneath the pink fabric of her top. His palm brushed her nipple, her trembling body matching the exquisite sensations passing through his. His tongue sought more, deeper, anxious for what he had to give and she had to receive.

  He guided her sideways, but she resisted, instead pushing him back. Without speaking, she stood up and slid off her pink bottoms. Ethan remained on the bed as she knelt down in front of him, her brown eyes not leaving his. She undid the top button of his jeans. In love’s choreography, he lifted himself off the bed as she pulled off his ripped Levi’s. With what seemed like frustration, she yanked off his sneakers and crumpled jeans together. Standing, she turned and backed into him, the backs of her long, slender legs smooth atop his bare thighs. She bent, her sculpted curves sliding along his strong legs. To touch her was magnificent; each time felt like the first, again and again. Ethan couldn’t help himself; he traced her heaven-soft thighs from hip to knee and back again with his fingertips. As he caressed her, she pressed against him, harder and harder. His fingers then slipped under her thigh into the hidden softness between her legs.

  Ethan was having difficulty holding back; he wanted her. Still, Christa pushed into him. He kissed her unblemished back and lean shoulders. Her perfume was intoxicating; her skin was hot to his lips as his tongue tasted her salty skin. They turned together, and with Christa lying on her back, he squeezed her thighs and kissed her velvety softness.

  Her slender fingers slid up his back, tracing paths he’d never known existed. She pulled him on top of her, her fingertips and nails pressing their way down his sides as if knowing the pleasure their play gave him. Her fingers were strong. When she touched his erectness, exquisite rapture enveloped him, unbearable to endure yet impossible to refuse.

  He moved to cup her breast. She pushed his hand away and slid out from under him. In front, she took him into her mouth. An unearthly gravity he was incapable of resisting forced him backward onto the bed. Her hands moved along his thighs as her lips massaged him before she plunged him back into her mouth.

  Seeming to sense his imminent climax, she let go and pulled herself on top of him. He slid inside her. It was heaven. He could have died there, held tightly within her femaleness; their love was perfection. Each movement was glorious in its beauty and delight; each moment embodied the innocence of two souls together, the essence of love’s purity.

  Each downward thrust of her hips took him somewhere else. She fed the ravenous an
imal inside him. She cradled his face in her hands, carrying him away with her blissful kisses. He fed on her tongue and lips, unable to relinquish either as he pushed deeper and closer to her soul as she closed on his.

  At the moment, he could climb no higher; the sense of his own mortality bore down on him. He was so close, as if birth and death were converging for a single instant during which he might glimpse the meaning of his own life. In the next instant, he climaxed as she clutched him, ejaculating again and again with all the life he had to give.

  He groaned as he held her tightly chest to chest, knowing the moment was over yet not wanting to let it go. She slid her legs down along his, holding him inside her, not ready to part. He wanted to stay there forever.

  He moved to roll out, only to meet her resistance again.

  “Not yet,” she whispered.

  He opened his eyes to find her staring at him.

  Her brown eyes answered his as she whispered, “It’s okay. I want to be with you.”

  Ethan smiled and closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER 64

  Friday, January 18, 1985

  Morning arrived to pounding on the door.

  “Yeah?” shouted Ethan, groaning before he saw Christa beside him.

  “That you, Eth?” shouted Greg through the door.

  “Yeah,” Ethan called.

  “Who’s that?” Christa mumbled, lying on her side beside him. A bedsheet covered them.

  “We’re fucking done here,” Greg said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Ethan said, speaking barely loud enough for Christa to hear, let alone Greg standing outside the door. Sitting up, he spoke louder. “Just a minute.”

  It had been a long time since he’d awakened beside the woman he loved—a very long time. But that didn’t seem to make any difference to the usual plethora of thoughts that crowded his mind upon waking.

  He’d promised to tell Jonah he was done with acting after the day’s shoot.