Kindred (11 page)

His gaze is steady on me, and before long I drop my eyes.

“It’s your turn now,” he says with a small smile. “What do you regret about your young life so far?”

Immediately an image of Tabitha comes to mind.

“That bad?” he asks softly.

“Pretty much,” I say. The flirty mood is gone, completely killed by the reminder that all is not well. That I’ve failed spectacularly and that quite likely there’s more to do, just on the horizon. I think of my future and Mo’s with something close to despair.

He considers me for a moment.

“There’s a great band in town tonight called Blank Pages,” he says. “I’ve heard them play before, and they’re freaking awesome. You want to come?”

“Yeah,” I say. Anything, anything, to keep from brooding about my personal disasters. “That sounds fun.”

We agree to meet at nine, and of course I try on everything in my closet and find nothing that’s both cool and casual. Nothing that says I’m awesome but I don’t try too hard. Maybe because such an outfit doesn’t exist in this mortal world.

I settle for an old pair of jeans and a black velvet-and-satin
top. I think it’s a good idea to send mixed messages in an outfit. I’m also under the delusion that the top makes me look older than twelve. I never wear anything with ruffles or bows, or in bright primary colors, because then I really look like an eighth grader.

I half expect Emmett to show up on a Harley; instead, he drives an old but very clean Honda Accord. The day has been warm, but with nightfall the temperature is dropping quickly. The drive is barely ten minutes long and I can’t think of anything interesting to say. He parks, and I shiver as I get out of his car.

Since Hamilton is so close to Nashville, it has more music clubs than one would expect in a town of its size, though they mostly cater to the country music crowd. I can’t picture Emmett getting down to fiddles and harmonicas.

We step in and I’m deluged by a battery of sensations. The floor is sticky; the air reeks of clove cigarettes and cheap beer. It’s dim after the bright lights of the parking lot, and all I see is the indistinct press of bodies.

I don’t notice the bouncer at first, and so miss the exchange when he tells Emmett there’s a cover charge. By the time I realize who Emmett’s stopped to talk to, he’s already pulled out some bills from his pocket and paid for both of us.

“Let me pay you back,” I say, reaching for my purse.

“My treat,” he says firmly.

I wonder if we’re on a date.

“What kind of music did you say they play?” I ask. He has to bend down low to hear me. He smells like soap and
aftershave and something else, something spicy I can’t name. The band must be taking a break, since there’s a song I recognize from the radio blasting from the speakers.

“You’ll love it,” he says. Which doesn’t answer my question, but it’s really hard to talk. Someone bumps into me and I fly forward, crashing into Emmett. Maybe there’s a real upside to going to a crowded club. He steadies me and I put my hands against his chest, pretending to get my bearings.

“Let’s go up front,” I say, and he nods in agreement.

We squeeze our way toward the stage, and by the time we get there, the band’s back.

There’s only three of them: a female lead singer with a guitar, a guy on drums, and another one standing by a small collection of instruments—two guitars, a bass, a trumpet and a few others I can’t make out.

“Hey, everyone!” the female calls out. She has a smoky, velvety voice. Her face looks young, but her voice is old.

“We’re from Seattle, Washington,” she says, and someone in the back whoops. She tilts her head in acknowledgment. Someone else shouts out, “I like your shoes!”

“Thanks,” she says. She’s wearing bright purple boots over black tights and a black sleeveless dress. “Our van was broken into. We had a lot of serious equipment in there, and the only thing the thieves took was the bag with all my shoes. But they left this pair behind.”

The crowd cheers and claps and laughs.

She gives a funny little bow and, with a nod of her head, the three of them begin to play. I can’t help but move to the
beat. Emmett was right, I love them. Playing a mix of edgy blues, folk and rock, they crank out song after song. The music has me moving and clapping and trying to remember the words.

After a long set, the whole room is pumped and full of energy.

“This place was built to sound good,” she says, speaking into the mike once the crowd has settled down. “Do you mind if we try without this …?” She waves to indicate the cords, the amps, the mike. The club has grown remarkably quiet as people listen to her. She steps away from the microphone. “Can you hear me in the back?” she asks without the amps. Her voice is quiet but clear.

“YEAH!” they roar back.

The other two guys, who must be brothers, unplug their instruments and step forward on either side of her, like an honor guard.

They both pick up guitars and begin to strum as she sings. The song is much quieter than anything else has been. The room grows still and silent; no one moves. It feels like the crowd is holding its breath, focusing on her. Her voice without the mike is clean and rich, soft as cashmere, pure as springwater. Everyone is watching her, but the thing is, the whole time she sings, she’s looking straight at me.

“
May Michael be at my right hand, Gabriel at my left; before me, Uriel; behind me, Raphael. And above my head, the Divine Presence.
”

I glance behind me, to my right and left, but there’s no doubt it’s me she’s singing to. I tell myself she can’t possibly
know. She can’t see through the bright stage lights; she’s just focusing on a spot that happens to be where I’m standing. I try to keep from letting her song or her clear, lovely voice sneak into my soul.

Not you, I whisper in my heart. Don’t be another angel, another messenger. I can’t stand another one.

“It’s okay,” Emmett says to me. I hear his voice rumble and I turn in surprise. I hadn’t realized I’d said anything out loud. He puts an arm around me and pulls me into him. “She’s singing my favorite lullaby.” That’s when I realize that maybe she isn’t singing to me. Maybe she’s singing to Emmett.

I lean into his solid form, my stomach fluttering pleasantly at his warm chest, the hard knots of muscles. He smells spicy and earthy, like he’d walked through a cloud of incense.

The singer uses her voice like a velvet scalpel, softly cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

She finishes her lullaby, holding on to the last perfect note, and the room goes nuts. Wolf whistles, stomping, tribal whoops—after all that still, concentrated listening, the sudden release of energy is explosive.

“Glad you liked it,” she says, smiling while the crowd worships her.

After another couple of sets and a wicked cover of “Sea of Love,” the concert’s over. It’s past two, but I’m wired. We make it to the parking lot, among the last people out.

“It’s late,” Emmett says.

My ears are ringing in the aftermath of the concert. Except for the one acoustic song, the rest were played at top volume. I don’t want to go home.

“Did you ever notice that you have two of each letter in your name?” I ask. I want to avoid the part where he says he should go, that this night is over. “You have two
e
’s, two
m
’s, two
t
’s. That’s very balanced.”

“If not for that pesky
a
, Miriam would be a perfect palindrome.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not.”

He laughs. “You sound bitter.”

“I’ve never liked my name.”

“ ‘Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron,’ ” he intones. “ ‘ Took her drum in her hand and all the women went forth after her with drums and with dances.’ Exodus 15:20.”

It’s late and we’re standing under a cone of light from the streetlamp, the only ones out. To hear a biblical phrase here sounds almost sacred.

“You’ve memorized the Bible?” I’m trying to lighten the sudden tension, but I’m frightened. I’d forgotten my namesake was considered a prophetess. Is that what I am? Is that why the angels are coming to me?

“I remember bits and pieces,” he says, answering my question. “I had a pretty traditional childhood.”

He waits for the snarky comment, which he’s left himself wide open for. With his shaved head and extensive tattoos, he’s anything but traditional. But I don’t feel like teasing him.

“My grandparents raised my sister and me after our mom died,” he says after I don’t jump in with a smart retort. “Dad left when I was five.” He pauses, and I wonder if he doesn’t tell many people that. I like to think that I’m special to him.
As special as he is to me. “My grandparents were good people,” he says, as if remembering something. “Very religious and traditional. They would have liked you.”

I’m beyond pleased by that compliment. I can’t stop a shy smile.

I am hungry for these details. I want to know more about him, to know everything.

“Is your sister older or younger?”

“She’s two years younger. She’s a naval officer. Toughest person I know.” His tone is both rueful and admiring. I wonder about their relationship: is it anything like mine and Mo’s? As happens more and more when I think about Mo, I feel an aching twist in the pit of my stomach.

When I remain silent, he touches my shoulder.

“You okay?”

The night has fallen into that deep darkness that comes after midnight. It’s cool outside, with a dampness that’s settling on my skin.

“It’s been a rough couple of days,” I say. I try to think what else I can say to explain, but there aren’t any words that would make sense. Not to anyone but me. Mo would understand, but I worry that he’s slipping away from me. I worry that one day I’ll call him and someone I don’t know will answer. I push that thought away.

“You look …” He searches for the right word. “You look drained.”

I exhale. Why do I think he was going to say “haunted”?

“You want a cup of tea or something?”

“I do,” I say in great relief, so happy not to have to go home quite yet. “A cup of tea sounds perfect.”

We drive off in his car, leaving the moment behind us like a bubble that will float up and away, without us.

He lives in a room above the tattoo parlor. When I finally see it, I’m disappointed. It isn’t painted black with skulls, nor does his bed have rumpled red satin sheets or a studded leather comforter. There are bare wood floors swept clean, the old kind with wide honey-colored planks. The walls are a neutral off-white, and a ceiling fan turns slowly, barely stirring the air. His bed is made with tight hospital corners. The bedspread is the color of unbleached cotton. There’s not much to the room. A table and chair, a lamp.

Emmett is downstairs fixing the tea, so I have time to take in the room. He’s said I am free to look around, but there’s nothing upstairs but this stark room and a bathroom down the short hall.

It could be anyone’s room. A monk’s, a soldier’s, a student’s. There isn’t anything that marks his personality. Except that in a strange way, there is. Maybe it’s the faint smell of his soap. Maybe it’s the heavy black motorcycle boots standing so neatly near the closet. They weren’t tossed there, they were placed there. There’s an artist’s pad of thick paper and several types of pencils in a jar. The desk faces a window to catch the light. I’m drawn to that closed notepad; I want to see what sorts of things he sketches when it’s just for himself and not for a client with a story.

But I hear him coming up the stairs, so I pivot around with my back to the notepad. Other than the chair and the bed, there is no place to sit. Feeling awkward, I decide to lean against one of the walls.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, only slightly ironic. He’s holding two handle-less mugs that look like oversized Japanese teacups. He gives me one and I sip.

The hot tea slides down my throat, warming my stomach, soothing the roiling mess down there. It’s fruity and minty and delicate, like a soft perfume.

“This is really good; what is it?”

“It’s called A Thousand Winks. A friend of mine runs a tea shop in Florida. She sends me some.”

“I like it.”

It’s quiet up here, though I can hear muted music coming from Mac’s Irish Pub one street away. Just a bit of that fast, sharp beat, the occasional frantic melody of the fiddles. They’ll be closing soon, it’s that late. My mind is flitting around, trying to think about the concert, the singer. Trying not to think about Mo, about Tabitha, about God and angels, demons and the devil.

And then Emmett sets down his cup and stretches and I catch a glimpse of his stomach—tight, taut abs, seriously toned. Something simultaneously tightens in my chest and low down in my belly. The room feels warm. His neatly made bed with its pale cotton spread and dark wooden headboard suddenly seems to take up all the space in the room. My breath grows shallow and my heart rate kicks up.

Maybe I make a sound, because Emmett raises his head and turns to look at me. His black eyes are fierce, and I swallow.

“Miriam,” he says, his voice deep and full. He sounds both amused and cautious. “What are you doing?”

That is a very good question. A better question would be, what am I thinking? But I’m not really thinking.

I step toward him. He takes a step back. His pants are snug, hugging his thighs and hips. I have to force myself to keep looking at his face. He’s staring at me like I’ve pulled a grenade out of my purse.

“What, are you scared of me now?” I ask. The situation is almost funny, and strangely, it makes me feel better about my sudden desires. The room is thick with them.

He straightens at the barb and gives me a look. I stifle a laugh.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t bite.” I set down my cup carefully. It’s the pale lavender of early dawn, and the undulations of the cup suggest it’s handmade. I wonder if this was a gift from his tea shop “friend.” I wonder at the stab of jealousy I feel.

“Miriam,” he answers with his usual bluntness. “You’re young, and unless I’m mistaken, you’re a virgin. I don’t think either one of us is ready for a casual night.”

His words do a lot to cool me down, but I can’t stop myself. I’m not really thinking that far ahead. I’m not thinking about sex or commitments. I just want to touch him, very badly. To hold him and be held.