Revenant Rising (40 page)
Laurel laughs. “Yes indeed. I can’t begin to count the times I was called upon to be both lenient sister and stern standin mom in the span of one afternoon. Speaking of your mother, did she agree that your responding to Anthony’s naughtiness by coming home would send the wrong message?”
“Yeh, she’d basically reached that conclusion when I gave her your recommendation, so it’s like the two of you are already in league. And why wouldn’t you be? You have quite a bit more than me in common.”
“Hold on there.
Wait
a minute. About your son, Anthony, I only raised a suggestion, posed a possibility. I definitely did not make a recommendation and I most definitely did not expect you to relay it as such to your mother.”
“Why not? She knows all about you, respects your opinion same as I do.”
“And what’s this about my having you in common with your mother? What do you mean by that?”
“Um . . . well . . . when we’re done here you’ll know as much about me as my mum, won’t you then?”
“Based on what I’ve learned so far I’d say that day’s a long way off.”
“That another way of saying I’d better get on with it?”
“It is, and if you ever do get on with it, I’d prefer not to be quoted to your mother as a personal advisor. Okay?”
“Sorry, I can’t promise that, but I can promise I’m gonna open up as much as I can on the return trip. We’re gettin’ too close to New Haven to start anathing now.”
“Very well.” She appears somewhat placated when she begins calling out the turns that lead to a neighborhood of student housing near the Yale campus. She shows him where to drop her off and he assures her he can find his way back after he pays a nostalgic visit to the site of his first American gig. He does not tell her he’ll be doing only a brief reconnoiter of Newt’s Place, and from the car park at that; there’s no reason for her to know he won’t chance going inside after all these years, even if the joint does happen to be open at this unlikely time of day.
His memory of greater New Haven is murky and he makes several wrong turns before arriving in Windsor Street with goal in sight. At approach it’s obvious the scene is one best viewed after dark, as is true of most venues of this sort. Broad daylight projects an air of seediness that might not otherwise be so apparent—rather like encountering an aging stripper under naked fluorescents. He nevertheless parks off to one side of the building, releases himself to recall the few other times he was in these precincts and it suddenly occurs to him that this is where the story owed Laurel should begin—at the American beginning.
He can regale her with many a tale about life lived out of a rattletrap old Chevy van with a band of mates who smelled like goats eight days out of seven and hungered for success in ways that seem unimaginable at this distance. No sacrifice was too great and no opportunity too outrageous to be endured for however long it took to make the one connection that embedded them in the minds of the listening and buying public. There are more than enough stories about this period to fill the distance back to New Jersey and cover his inability to tell Laurel what she deserves to know, what she was engaged to know.
Untouched by the nostalgia he thought he’d feel, he’s rather glad Newt’s is shut at this hour of the day, relieved to leave the scene behind without having had to test himself further.
On the street where Laurel’s brothers live, he finds a parking space where she’ll be sure to spot him once she’s done with her business. She must have been looking out the window as he drove up because he’s no more than wedged the Jaguar in between a couple of battered student cars when she’s out on the pavement beckoning him to join her. He does, and she guides him into the vestibule of the apartment block, where he’s met by two young men Laurel smilingly introduces as her brothers.
“This is Colin Elliot.” She gives them a mock-disdainful look and they give each other looks of total what-the-fuck astonishment.
“Jeez, Laurel, you coulda warned us or something.” Ben, the older one, has Laurel’s dignity and reserved look about him when his jaw’s not dropped.
“Yeah, Laur, I mean—holy crap—
you
of all people hangin’ out with a heavy-duty rock star . . . What is
that
?” The other brother, Michael, bears the family resemblance with none of the reserve.
“I did warn you, Ben. And you, Michael. Didn’t I tell you less than five minutes ago that I came here today with Colin Elliot, with whom I have a working relationship and—”
“Yeah, but we thought you were goofin’ on us, makin’ one of your infamous lame jokes and we’d come down to the foyer and find you’d hooked a ride with Elmer Fudd or somethin’,” Ben says.
“I’ve been called a lot of things, but never Elmer Fudd.” Colin offers his hand to each brother in turn, if only to humorously remind them he’s still in the room. With that reminder the atmosphere is only a bit less strained because, by attracting their attention, he’s subjecting himself to their scrutiny. Like their big sister, neither of these blokes is faintly overawed by his celebrity. What he mistook earlier for a touch of idolatry was only surprise that Laurel agreed to be seen in his company. With surprise out of the way, they now have no compunctions about interrogating him right on the spot. Their polite questions are brief, to the point and mainly fielded by Laurel, who’s the better one to define a working relationship. Nevertheless, when goodbyes are done with, he retreats with the unnerving sensation he’s just been raked over the coals.
“Is it fair to say your brothers have you pegged as an archconservative career spinster and intend to keep you that way?” He grins as they drive away.
“Oh, you noticed.” Laurel laughs. “Not much I can do about that. They’ve been defending my so-called honor since they were little guys and I don’t see them ever changing. I’m sorry if they made you uncomfortable.”
“Don’t be. I’m delighted they made me uncomfortable, actually. Shows they’re tuned in to what I’m about and mindful that you should be looked after.”
“Oh
please.
You’re taking them way too seriously and they’re no better than the tabloids for assuming you and I are an . . . an item.” She breaks the conversational thread to give directions to their next destination.
Emily Chandler lives on campus at New Haven University. He leaves Laurel near the entrance to her sister’s residence hall and sets out to find a parking spot. When he does discover one, it’s quite a ways from the residence—a distance sparsely populated this time of day, so he figures to take his chances. Whatever happens will be his doing; there’s no one else to blame if his independent streak culminates in a mob scene, and no one to summon who wouldn’t call him a fuckwit and say I told you so. He wishes he were camouflaged in the coat he had on yesterday, the one that still smells like Laurel and was left behind for that very reason—to preserve her scent. Then again, he more closely resembles a student, albeit an older one, dressed as he is in jeans and leather jacket.
Head down, shoulders hunched, he’s just another campus bloke unworthy of a second glance till he’s up the steps and into the residence where a shriek immediately rings out.
“Omigod-omigod-omigod you
weren’t
shitting me!” The girl blocking his way is doing a spot-on impression of a famous painting that calls for widened eyes, hands clapped either side of head, and mouth stretched into an exaggerated oval.
Laurel is just behind the impressionist, the picture of smug amusement. “This is my sister, Emily, another nonbeliever.” Laurel leads the way into an adjoining reception area that’s blessedly unoccupied.
They sit at a round table in one corner of the room where no one person is at advantage or compelled to maintain eye contact with another. This is just as well because little sister is not the iconoclast her brothers and Laurel are; she’s definitely having a time of it adjusting to his presence, and if she looks at him at all, it’s with the glazed-over expression of worshipfulness he last saw on the giddy girls at the museum.
When not wide-eyed and openmouthed, Emily is the unfinished image of Laurel. She is softly pretty, but lacking the sculptured definition and intrigue of her older sister. Right now, Emily resembles the sort the roadies would try to keep for themselves, therefore the sort that doesn’t interest him anymore. Oddly enough, the maturity that’s absent from her face reveals itself in her demeanor once Laurel starts in about the trust fund. At a moment when it would be most understandable for the girl to slip back into dazed and amazed mode, she displays only the self-possession that apparently infects all the Chandler siblings to some degree.
With episode three of his self-imposed indoctrination into Laurel’s family winding down, he has nothing but admiration for the way they complement each other’s strengths. He could even envy them, if not for knowing the circumstances that brought those strengths into being. He muses on all this as Laurel concludes with a review of the restrictions attached to Emily’s trust fund. He wouldn’t have to pay close attention to know they don’t faintly resemble any of the conditions imposed on Laurel when she was a young girl. They are stated as requests instead of requirements, and Emily doesn’t wince or blink at any of them.
When Laurel finishes, she excuses herself to go to the loo and he’s left alone with Emily, who appears to have relapsed into tongue-tied state. But not for long.
“Do you love her?” she blurts, her forthrightness near toppling him from his chair. “I’ve been watching you watch her and you better not just be playing around.” Little sister says what the brothers only implied.
“Bleedin’ Jesus . . . Emily, it is . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, do you? You sure as hell look like you do.”
“Yeh, I do. I
do
love her. At first sight it was, and I don’t know what to do about it because first sight was less than a week ago.”
“You’re afraid she won’t take you seriously.”
“Yeh, and then I’ve got the problem of her insisting ours is strictly a working arrangement that can’t be compromised by her seeing me socially. But every now and then I get these little hints that maybe she wishes that didn’t have to be.”
“How much do you know about her? About our family?”
“She’s told me the whole story.”
“Wow, she did? That’s something right there.”
“I’ve been hoping it was.”
“Then you know she had to deny herself certain things for a very long time. She still denies herself, only now it’s in another form. She flat-out won’t let herself see stuff that could turn into a problem. Good example is her pretending she’s not going through the empty-nest syndrome thing. And if she knew I told you that she’d kill me ’cause it makes her sound like some fat old matron with hot flashes.”
“I caught on to that this morning, actually. When I saw the way she keeps your house, as though you’ll all be coming home any minute.”
“You were in our house?”
“Yeh, she invited me there for breakfast and made that apple pancake extravaganza she says you all enjoy. Then we went to see your dad, and after that I drove her here to see you and your brothers.”
“Holy . . . But she won’t see you socially.” Emily breaks into a fit of giggles and only stops when Laurel reappears and shoots them both quizzical looks that ask what sort of mischief they’ve been up to.
When it occurs, the leave-taking is more drawn out than with the brothers. Laurel looks like she could well up a bit when she hugs and kisses Emily goodbye. Emily, on the other hand, has no problem about spilling over, except she’s doing it at his expense; those are tears of merriment he sees leaking out the corners of her eyes, and that’s a great teasing grin playing at the corners of her pretty mouth.
In the interest of preserving image and reputation, he grabs hold of Emily and plants one on her none of them will ever forget. Something else for the lore, along with his having fallen asleep on yesterday’s boat ride. He leaves Emily the way he found her, wide-eyed, openmouthed, hands clapped either side of her head.
