Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (6 page)

“That you were banging some girl, or that you got stuck in traffic—something normal. You sounded shitfaced on the phone. At least tell me you were drinking.”

“I wasn’t drinking. Too early.”

“Then what?”

Honestly? You honestly want to know what I did today? I wandered San Francisco, that’s what I did today, like I’ve done nearly every day since we got here. I wandered San Francisco searching for a woman I’ve never seen and I’m not sure exists anymore. And you know what else? She wasn’t there. She’s never there—in all the godforsaken cities we’ve toured, she’s never, ever there. And I thought this town would be different, this bloody damp city with fucking palm trees and no sun, because it felt different. Everywhere I turned, something felt different. The shops, the streets, even that disgusting piss-soaked corner of the park up there where I’ve been playing, hoping that one of the faces that passes by might be hers. My muse. The woman you despise. Remember her?

This was what Andrew wanted to say, he wanted to scream it actually, but instead he dragged himself up from the seat and threw his bottle in the trash.

He had eventually fallen asleep on a bench—that part of the story was true. And he had spent the afternoon walking the park, anxious and on edge for no reason, repeatedly opening and closing the same pack of cigarettes that he never smoked, then tired and sick of himself, he collapsed in front of the bandshell to hear some lame student orchestra or some such shit. And when the first strains of Brahms squealed from those wretched violins, he could do nothing but sit uselessly, knees to chin, on that stone bench. Only when he awoke several hours later, frozen to the bone like some pissed sot, was he shocked to realize he was late for the show. For the first time in his life, he was late for a goddamn show—all because he couldn’t find her.

“Please tell me you’re pulling my chain and it was actually some girl’s fault,” Simon begged as he started up the truck.

“It’s always a girl’s fault with me, isn’t it?” Andrew muttered in reply.

“That’s what I’m afraid of, but how about a real one this time, the kind that leaves marks.”

“Trust me. She leaves marks.”

They drove home in silence. All the while Andrew fell further and further into a black mood. He was trapped here like Odysseus in some lotus land, and every day he waited was too long. No matter what Simon called it, a madman’s dream or a doomed quest, they had to leave San Francisco and get back on the road. Nothing was going to happen with Neil. They couldn’t stay here; they needed to tour. The man was wasting their time.

The light on Franklin flashed to red, and the truck hummed to a stop, waiting. Simon’s fingers drummed the steering wheel, and he stared straight ahead wearing that same inscrutable expression, not quite smiling, not quite frowning, a look that always drove Andrew mad. They had bought the truck their first day in San Francisco, fully loaded because Simon was sure of their soon-to-be fame, and its cost had depleted their coffers substantially. The cab was large enough to hold their equipment, and they could sleep in it if need be, which Andrew supposed they might end up doing after tonight’s show.

“Do you really trust Neil?” Andrew asked.

The light changed, and the truck accelerated up a narrow slip of a street, past manicured homes hidden by equally manicured shrubs glistening blue-black from the fog in the light of the streetlamps.

“He fakes sincerity well, if that’s what you mean. But he’s better than Lou—you’ve still got your guitar.”

“Can you be serious for a moment? Then why has he offered the house and these gigs and made no move to rep us? He’s had time enough to know if he likes what he’s heard. Or was it all some sort of test to see if we’re worthy enough of his time? And what is it with all this dropping in and out whenever he wants and staying as long as he likes? Like he’s really managing that clusterfuck of a remodel as a hobby? He could pay a boatload of general contractors and architects to do it for him. It’s mad.”

“He lived there when his wife was sick,” Simon replied quietly. “It was near the hospital where she was getting treatment before she died. He just didn’t want to sell it. Memories, I reckon.”

“When did he tell you that?” Andrew asked, surprised by the frustration he felt.

“The other day when you were playing for tourists in the park.”

“Shit…how did you know?”

“You ought to think about that—giving it away for free—we’re too well known now. Your voice is recognizable no matter how you try to disguise that mug of yours—and that’s becoming even more recognizable by the day. You need to be careful. That’s what Neil says.”

“Neil knows?”

“When are you gonna realize that man knows everything?”

Simon cut the engine; they had reached the house. “Home sweet home,” he announced with a distinct air of finality.

Barely visible in the darkness, the Victorian loomed large across the street. It sat at the forgotten edge of a city playground, its wrought iron fence standing between the gnarled, construction-stricken front garden and the sidewalk. Omnipresent fog hung around the monstrosity like a moat. A weed-rioted path led to a grand door that would do Jacob Marley’s disembodied head proud.

Lights glowed through the mullioned windows on the lower floor where they lived. Evidently Christian’s plans had not been successful. The windows of the vacant upper floor remained dark, and those of the glass attic conservatory that topped the mansion like a wrought iron tiara were darker still. The truck creaked and settled into gear. Simon made no move to exit.

“It’d be a shame to pack up since we’ve done so much work to the thing, don’t you think?” Simon responded dryly. “Although I would have liked to have run into Nick at least once before you dragged us back on the road again. I feel somehow denied.”

“The crew swears they’ve seen him.”

“Yeah, ‘Shit, martini, ghost,’ all sound about the same in Spanish, as does the screaming,” he said with a laugh. After a long moment, he turned to face Andrew, all good humor gone. “You’re not seriously thinking of packing up. We just got here, and things are really starting to come together. Look at tonight—three encores, and we’ve got the show tomorrow night and two the following week. It’s brilliant.”

“But what about Neil?”

“What about him? He’s crackers, absolutely. God bless ’em for it. He’s testing out the wares is what he’s doing, and it makes sense. Would you really want him to fuck on the first date? Come on, he’s a conservative wanker, you have to respect that in the man, but look at all he’s done for us. I mean, where else can you live in such high style outside of Calcutta? No heat, little electricity, hoards of people underfoot. It’s like being back at home with me mum. I’m serious, Paulie, I don’t want to pull out yet. We’re so close. You’ve got to have a little more faith.”

“Spoken like a true atheist.”

“Hey, I’d kneel down in front of the altar of Neil St. John any day if he can keep doing what he’s doing. You want things too fast. It’s always been that way with you. You never wanted for anything. Your da was loaded, but mine sure as hell wasn’t. You’ve still got a trust fund to fall back on and a mum who’ll wipe your arse if asked.”

“Fuck you.”

“But that’s not it, is it? Aw, you’re not going there are you? Tell me it’s not about her again.”

“No.”

“No, you won’t tell me, or no, it’s not about her? Because I’m telling you, if this is about her—you’re touring by yourself, is what you’re doing. I’m sick of having this argument with you. First it was bloody eccentric, but then after what happened in New Orleans—you have got to get help. Don’t you see it? There’s no shame in it. You need help.”

Simon’s glasses reflected the streetlamp as he stared straight at him. Andrew had known Simon long enough to understand when he was being serious. Like when he punched him in the face the first time, or when he wrote his first legit song, or when he’d sat curled up in the corner of a hotel room, knowing he had to stop using. And he had, for himself and for the band. Suddenly the truck felt claustrophobic.

“You don’t understand, all right? Leave it at that.”

“Then make me understand.”

Andrew threw open the door and headed to the house, Simon not far behind.

“Are you going to answer me, or are you going to run away again?”

“I’m not running.”

“You’re not living, is what you’re not doing. When is it going to be enough? We’re finally getting some serious traction, you heard that crowd tonight? This is what you want. This is the real world. Get help, Andrew, talk to someone, get them to give you something at least. This thing is going to kill you. And you can’t let it, you understand? You can’t.”

The shock of seeing the preternaturally cool Simon so shaken stopped Andrew in his tracks. “Can we talk about this another time? I’m exhausted, and I don’t want to fight.”

A swath of red had risen up Simon’s throat, and he was breathing like he did after a show when he would throw his sticks to the floor and fall forward over his drums. “Fine.” He wiped the back of his wrist across his mouth. “I’d whip your boney arse anyway.”

Andrew knew Simon wanted him to be strong. To him, Andrew would always be the one who saw him through detox, the one who didn’t flinch a muscle when he vomited and convulsed in cold sweats. The one that was always there. Period. But right now he felt like his head might explode at any moment—he couldn’t think—he needed to sleep. He trudged up to the house, intending to disappear into his room and collapse.

A dusty chandelier hung from the high ceiling of the foyer, the light of which reflected off the brass number one on their door. Simon wrestled with the key as Andrew glanced up the stairs at the dark landing. “Hullo,” he said. Simon paused and peered up at the stack of boxes there. It wasn’t the first time that Andrew had sworn he had seen someone standing behind them, waiting. It set the hairs on his arms on end. “Hullo,” he said again.

“What is it?” Simon asked.

“Forget it,” he replied in frustration. There was nothing there.

Whatever unearthly feeling Andrew may have experienced disappeared when he stepped over the threshold into their flat. Bedlam reigned inside, complete anarchy for sale. Blueprints and buckets of tools filled the front parlor, and a new set of wires dangled from the ceiling. Its walls (what little remained of them) stood in various stages of being re-plastered, and the floors were covered in tarps, which in turn were covered in sawdust and paint.

The air continually reeked with the odor of turpentine and something that smelled remarkably like burned pizza. The sight made Andrew want to smash a hole in the wall, not that anyone would notice.

“This old fucking house,” Simon muttered.

Suddenly they heard laughter come from the kitchen, the only room in the house that remained untouched, although it didn’t matter since most of the appliances rarely worked. Andrew pulled apart the pocket doors that led to the dining room and onto the kitchen when he ran straight into Neil St. John, who was busy barking orders into a cell phone. Simon merely whistled and walked past, leaving Andrew to his mercy.

“This is the third one this week,” Neil yelled. “How the hell are we ever going to get the bathroom completed if every goddamn worker runs screaming from the place? I don’t care how you do it, Sid, find a plumber—hire a blind one if that’s what is necessary. And remind me why I signed on for this debacle. A man in my position shouldn’t be subjected to this incompetence.”

Andrew could picture the man cowering on the other end of the line: Sid, the short, crew-cutted, and beleaguered foreman on the job, whose main goal in life was to try to explain to his ashen-faced crew why the temperature in the house could drop ten degrees while the radiator banged away. Why plaster buckets were turned over and tarps went missing. Why a tin-pan piano sounded from the empty attic early in the morning and at dusk.

Neil ended the call and stared straight at Andrew. “I received a call from a rather irate promoter who wanted to know where the lost Lost Boy was.”

“Apologies. It won’t happen again.”

Neil, clad in a well-pressed oxford shirt and trousers, looked over Andrew in his threadbare T-shirt and jeans, the red scarf hanging limp around his neck. “Please understand, I’ve pulled a lot of strings to get you these gigs, and I don’t want to be made to look like an idiot. It isn’t much to ask for you to show up on time. Either you’re going to act professionally or you’re not. It’s your decision.”

The tone in Neil’s voice only served to drive the point home. Andrew had had it; he had to get the band out of here. He was done being on probation like a schoolboy.

“Have we let you down in any particular way? If I’m not mistaken, we’ve sold out every one of our shows, with multiple encores each night. It was my fault I was late tonight, for which I’m sorry. Like I said, it won’t happen again.” He took a deep breath. “We have to think about getting back on the road, anyway. We have a list of places in Boston and New York that are interested, and I’m sure you’d like us out from underfoot.”

Neil stopped short. “What? You have the shows in Sacramento next week, I’ve already confirmed them.”

Just then Christian emerged from the kitchen, accompanied by a zaftig woman dressed in overalls. She was coiled around him in a fervent embrace, her fright of shoulder-length tortoiseshell hair caught up with his dreads as he hugged her in earnest, babbling something in French. Her handsome face widened in laughter as she stepped back to examine him, her wrists jangling with silver jewelry as she did so.