Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel) (5 page)

Good. Riddance.
Two strikes of the hammer punctuated her thought and impaled the thin rubber to the wall above her bed. At least Charlie would be out of her hair—and nowhere near her zip code—this summer.

But Seamus, too? She hated the thought of exporting one of the good guys along with the bad.

She hoped the borough would make up for it somehow. Manhattan owed her one.

Goddess of Nighttime

Sleep wasn’t coming easily. Sidra rolled her body to face the ceiling, listening for any evidence that her father was still awake upstairs. She had heard uneven footfalls and the squeaky protest of bedsprings about an hour earlier.

It was the anniversary of a much noisier evening.

Sidra sighed, kicking the sheet down before bringing the bottoms of her feet to touch each other. She kissed her shoulder blades together and let her arms fall away to a forty-five-degree angle. Inhaling deeply and exhaling fully, she felt her knees slowly sink to the bed. This was the pose she recommended to her students when they complained of insomnia. It went by many names:
Supta Baddha Konasana
, which was fun to say, or Reclining Bound Angle pose, which sounded technical. Sidra’s favorite choice of words was Nighttime Goddess Stretch. Her mother taught her this, her first pose, when Sidra was just five. Nervous to start kindergarten the next day, she had climbed into her parents’ bed, wriggling down like a worm between her mother and her father to inhale both their comforting scents. Her father was Old Spice, plain as that. Her mother was more complicated, a delicate balance of vanilla and cardamom-infused honey.

“Oh, honey,” her mother had whispered when Sidra complained she couldn’t sleep. “It’s time you learned about the Goddess.” Although she had just barely opened them, her mother’s eyes were shining. “Jack . . . Jack. Out you go. Girls only!”

Sidra had giggled as her father smacked sleepy kisses onto both their cheeks and stumbled to Sidra’s bedroom for alternate sleeping quarters. The bed was so big now, with a large warm indent. “This is now our island,” her mother had said. Sidra felt her dad’s absence and missed him, but was excited to be marooned with just her mother. “Do you feel the moonlight on your face, on your belly?” Sidra did. “Do you hear the gentle waves lapping near your feet, your hands?” She did. Following instructions, she pressed her tiny feet together, splayed her little arms, and let all nervous thoughts drift away in the water. All that was left was a big goddess and a little goddess, relaxing on the sand. “We are the Goddesses of Nighttime.”

She opened her eyes. Her dad was definitely sleeping now, as she heard the distant snores through the plaster and drywall. It wasn’t an irritating noise to Sidra at all, and wouldn’t keep her from sleeping. Her thoughts, on the other hand . . .

A pale green light surrounded the doorjamb. There was either an alien abduction on East 5th Street or Seamus had fired up the Mac in the living room. Come summer and its humid nights, the door would swell enough to block the glow of his nighttime Internet trawling. Then again, come summer, Seamus would be gone.

Sidra pushed her feet into slippers and padded down the hall. “Hey,” she said softly.

Her brother greeted her with a distracted grunt. His broad shoulders concealed the screen, but she had no doubt he was checking the online dating sites. He belonged to all the popular ones, but spent most of his time and energy on the Indian-specific ones: Shaadi, Indian Cupid, and the one that made Sidra laugh the most: Simply Marry. As if there were anything simple about deciding who, when, where, and why to marry in the first place.

Poor Seamus. He sounded so promising on paper—or, rather, on screen as bindaasboy76.
Indian-Irish male, 31, vegetarian, Harvard-educated.
But many of the Indian girls—or rather, their more traditional parents—were often shocked to find Seamus Sullivan, the blond-haired, light-skinned, hunky man-boy, at their door. He had stayed at Harvard long enough to pick up the Boston Irish accent, but not long enough to get a diploma or a high-powered career. In person, Seamus was often dismissed as quickly as
pardesi
, a foreigner no doubt out to snare a
desi
girl to cook and clean and cater to him without complaint.

It made Sidra’s blood boil to think the majority couldn’t see beyond all that to notice the warm, dark eyes he’d inherited from their mother, herself a one-and-a-half-generation Indian-American. His steady, slim, artistic hands, also so like hers. And the dazzling smile she’d passed down to both her children. Sidra’s brother was loyal, sweet, crazy-smart, and interesting, with a heart of gold. And according to most of Sidra’s girlfriends, totally freakin’ hot. Pity none of them were Indian.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” he finally thought to ask, tearing his eyes away from the screen.

“Nah.” Plopping into the winged chair beside him, she added, “Hadn’t gotten that far yet. So, anyone new out there? What are your intentions?”

Seamus let out a belly laugh. “Oh auntie, please!” It was their usual give-and-take banter, poking fun at and twisting the endless needling Sidra had received from various female relatives and family friends over the years. The questions had dwindled to the occasional hypothetical during her years with Charlie. Sidra had expected them to resume with a vengeance once they split, but it seemed most of the aunties had since given up hope; Sidra had, after all, hit the magic age considered the unmarriageable marker that year: thirty. And there were a bevy of younger cousins to benefit from such attentions, much to Sidra’s relief.

Seamus’s finger tapped the wireless mouse as if he were sending out Morse code to the masses with the hope that just one sensational someone was out there to understand him. “I was just taking a look at some profiles out west. You know. It might be nice to chat with someone for a while and have someone new to meet up with when we hit Vancouver.”

Sidra nodded, bit at a hangnail that was too short.

“Spit it out, Sid. What’s up?” She knew he wasn’t talking about her finger maintenance; they were just ten months apart and closer than most siblings ever cared to be.

“Did you remember what today is?”

His eyes flicked to the clock above her head. There were just five minutes left to figure out today before it became yesterday. “May . . . ?”

“It’s the day Mom told us she was pregnant.”

Both of them immediately glanced where they always did when the topic came up: to the mother dove sculpture sitting on the console table behind the couch.

The dove sculpture was one of the only remaining pieces left of their mother’s. And it was both of their favorite. There had been a heartbreaking tug-of-war over who should take it when the siblings had lived in separate quarters. But once Charlie moved out and Seamus moved back in, it became a moot point. Like the Blessed Mother statue that sat on Uncle Sully’s lawn (or Mary on the half-shell, as their cousin Mikey called her), the mother dove was a revered household fixture. Something silently considered, but rarely talked about.

“Damn, remember the racket? You grabbed my hand and we ran, hid down here.”

Sidra nodded. Mr. Rosenthal, their parents’ longtime tenant and friend, had recently vacated the furnished ground-floor apartment. When their dad got to shouting, it became a good place to seek refuge. They had hidden behind the nubby brown-and-gold plaid couch after the first piece of pottery smashed on the hardwood floor above. They had cowered as more burst against the walls and their mother begged him to stop. He wasn’t happy at all with her news, but the Irish Catholic in him felt powerless to do anything about it.

“How the hell did you remember it was today?” Seamus demanded, running his hand through his thick locks. It was a nervous habit going on almost three decades. There were times Sidra had to take the shears to his head just to release his fingers; his hair was
that
thick, and tensions were often
that
high.

“I always remember it was Akshaya Tritiya,” Sidra murmured. She remembered her mother’s excitement upon discovering her happy news coincided with one of the luckiest days on the Hindu calendar, her eyes shining like black-gold star sapphires.
It’s a day for a new journey, my love. Both the moon and the sun are at their brightest on Akshaya Tritiya.

At ten years old, Sidra solemnly absorbed what her mother told her about the auspicious day and made promises to her mother about it.
Promise me when you find the man who makes you happiest in your heart, you will choose Akshaya Tritiya as the day to marry him. You will love him, like I love your father, forever and always.

Akshaya
meant
endless
.

It had been the wrong journey for their mother.

Sidra stared hard at the mother dove. She had been fired in a beautiful white, almost translucent glaze, and in the dim computer light appeared luminescent. Her breast was puffed full and proud, and at her wings, although not completely under them, sat two smaller doves, gazing up lovingly at her. Sidra loved the way her head wasn’t bowed in one particular direction or the other, as if she didn’t want to play favorites, and loved them equally.

Why hadn’t two been enough for her?

“Whoa, wait . . . wait. That means today—it’s also your anniversary with Charlie, right? Shit, I’m sorry, Sid. I never would’ve had him over today if—”

“It’s okay. I broke up with him, remember?”

“Yeah, but still. Jeez, I can’t even remember Akshaya Tritiya. And I call myself desi?”

Sidra smiled. “It follows the lunar calendar. So it doesn’t always fall on the same day.” But this year it did. Just like it did the year she met Charlie.
Omens and opportunities,
as their mother would say.

Seeing Charlie in the rain that day, of all days. Normally the city-bred chick in her would’ve blown right past some stranger trying to pick her up under an umbrella. But it was Akshaya Tritiya.

Omens and opportunities.

People clamored to marry on Akshaya Tritiya, to start a new venture. It was a day to buy gold and wear gold. And a day to do charitable acts. Sidra usually spent it with her aunts, volunteering in soup kitchens on the Bowery or raising money for AWB Food Bank, a project in India similar to Meals on Wheels. But the holiday was always a bittersweet one for her.

After meeting Charlie, she had been happy to shift some positive connotation to the day. And she always remembered her promise to her mother. When Charlie proposed a year ago, she reached for a Hindu calendar to plan their happy day. So much for planning . . .

“Dang, I should’ve been on these sites earlier then!” Seamus bemoaned. “Tons of action on Akshaya Tritiya.”

“No doubt.” Sidra laughed. “Well, there’s always next year. We’ll don some gold bling and take you out on the town. Till then, you always have the west.”

His whole demeanor changed. “Oh, Sid. I am itching for the west! A change of scenery will do me some good. I feel bad leaving you and Jack, though.”

Both children had begun referring to their father by his first name several years ago. Never to his face, mind you. But in mixed company, saying “Jack threw up on the rug again” or “Jack didn’t sleep in his bed last night” sounded more harmless, as if scolding the family dog. “You’ll never believe what Jack did yesterday.” In unspoken agreement, they just left any mention of a father figure out of it. They loved him, but he wasn’t much of one once summer rolled around. He was fine during school semesters, when he took his role as distinguished NYU professor seriously, but come the heat of the summer, he fell apart. He refused to take on summer classes, to go on sabbatical, nothing doing. It was his time to mourn. And remember. It had been like that every year since their mother passed, and they knew to expect it.

“Jack will be fine. Besides, you and Charlie handled him for a month last summer while I was away at my yoga retreat, so it’s my turn. My camp day ends at two o’clock, and I’ll be back in the city by four. I’ll make sure there’s food in him each night after yoga. And on weekends, too.” She didn’t need to waste her free time at the beach anyway. She’d fit in more yoga classes this way, maybe even a kids’ yoga workshop. There was money to be had in the prenatal baby yoga craze right now.

“Molly’s called. The credit card for his tab expired and he won’t give them a new one.”

“It’s probably sitting upstairs in a pile of mail,” Sidra suspected. “I’ll go check tomorrow.” She yawned, stretched. “You going to bed soon?”

“In a few more minutes. Just wanted to check . . . her.” He nodded to the screen. “Wouldn’t that be great? The tour bus pulls up in Vancouver, and we all roll out, decked out like rockers. Chicks standing outside yelling for autographs. And there
she
is,” he enthused, rubbing his hand in the air between them, as if conjuring up the girl of his dreams. “And she’s been waiting for me to arrive. She flirts with me all night from the crowd. And when the show ends, she’s boarding the bus to the next town with
me
.”

Sidra admired his optimism. She just wished he didn’t have to hitch himself to Charlie to make things happen. And she hoped, for his sake, life on the road in a tour bus really had all the romance and excitement he longed for.

Jumping Ship

“Bring out yer dead . . .”

Rick stretched the full length of his bunk as the voice drew closer.

“Bring out yer dead . . .” Martin had a love for Monty Python, a droll sense of humor, and the command to run a very tight ship. “Gentleman, it’s half seven. We are approximately five minutes away from the Guilderland Travel Plaza.” Their tour manager’s Scottish burr trilled again. “If you’re in need of a real loo, ’tis your last one till Boston.
Bring out yer dead
!” His big hands brushed life into the nubby gray bunk curtains as he passed.

Rick rubbed each gritty eye, then the bridge of his nose and yawned. He hated the bunks on the bus, roughly the size of your average coffin. But he didn’t mind waking up miles from where he had fallen asleep.

“Riff Rotten! Shift your arse, man!”

Two fingers hooked around the curtain. Rick peeked through the gap and was greeted nose to the button-fly jeans of Digger Graves. Not his ideal wake-up call.

“We’re almost there.” Adrian’s fingers moved to fasten his trousers’ top button before pulling Rick’s entire curtain asunder, leaving him blinking in the canned light of the Prevost coach. “Look alive, mate.” He popped a toothbrush into his mouth and grinned before making his way down the aisle.

At least you have a reason for being so bright-eyed and minty-fresh at this hour,
Rick thought dully.

If I were this close to home and to my ladylove, I would go AWOL from tour, too
.

Home. Love.

Yeah. There were reasons why Rick kept the show itinerary full.

The last two weeks had passed in a blur. California, Chicago, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Buffalo, now a two-night stand coming up in Boston . . .

He yanked the curtain half-mast once more, closing his eyes.
Ah, Simone.
Sometimes on the road, I find myself looking at the clock and wondering what time it is back home in Hawaii. Not that it matters. You’re not there to answer the phone. Or open my letters. Still. If you cannot be my confessional . . .

Across the aisle, Sam swung massive feet clad in cheap flip-flops out of the top bunk. “Ah, finally a real flusher, thank Christ!” Anyone who harbored illusions that the rock and roll road life was twenty-four-hour glamour had obviously never encountered a musician wandering the streets of some small town early in the morning, waiting for the local McDonald’s to open so he could empty his bowels. The tour bus toilet accommodated bladder relief only.

“There’re my girls!” Adrian exclaimed as the bus careened up the exit ramp. “I can see the Smurf from here—over there, see? The blue-and-white Mini Cooper.”

The door gave a hiss and burped open.

“Morning, Kat!” Sam boomed, as if it were perfectly natural for them to run into each other here in the middle of the New York State Thruway. No one beat Sam off the bus when he was in need of a bog.

One by one, the awake and the barely awake filtered off and greeted Adrian’s instant American family in a hard rock receiving line. Rick lingered, enjoying the obscurity of the tinted bus windows for a few moments longer. He watched his best friend fall into Kat’s embrace. Her lips spoke silent words over Adrian’s shoulder, ones that only he could hear. Little Abbey wormed her way into the hug, too, as Adrian hiked a thumb backward and Kat turned her eyes up toward the darkened glass.

No doubt telling her about the barmy git on the bus,
Rick mused.
How the poor sod had discovered his late wife had saved every postcard he’d ever written her, preserved in a hatbox, before he left on tour. And now he can’t stop talking about her.

Correction: Now he can’t stop talking
to
her.

The hollows of his own dark eyes reflected back, startling Rick into real-time.

“Riff, stop fannying about up there!” Adrian’s voice drifted back onto the coach. Small footfalls followed; Abbey loved any excuse to explore the interior of the band’s home on wheels, nosing behind the curtains of the bunks and snacking on whatever chips and goodies the crew left lying about.

“Hiya, Bee.”

“You’re coming with us to the lake.”

Rick dropped a pair of sunglasses on. “Says who?”

“Adrian,” Abbey stated, her nasally American vowels slightly grating. In the four years Rick had known her and her mother, he had never once heard either refer to his bandmate as Digger. Evidently, stage personas never made it past their front door. “And he said to stop fannying about.”

“Is that so?” Rick enjoyed the eight-year-old’s mastery of British lingo, even if she flattened it with her accent. He also admired her quest for anything chocolate-flavored. It reminded him of his twin boys at that age, always nipping Cadbury Buttons from the secret stash Simone had kept in the butler’s pantry back home.

“Yes. Is this your bunk?”

“The middle one. On the right.” Rick watched as she inspected the row.

“Underwear!” she squealed.

“That’s what you get for peeking in Sam’s bunk,” Rick said with a laugh. “I bet Adrian has a treat for you in his. Third one down, take a look.”

Her legs, long and stork-like, stretched as she stood on tiptoe. “Ooh, Cadbury!” She held up a Flake bar as her pilfered bounty.

“The real kind, too.” Rick informed her. “Imported.” He reached into his bunk, quickly glancing the length of it. Like a man about to jump from a sinking ship, he grabbed what mattered most: his rucksack and his notebook.

“We’re busting you out of this rock and roll circus!” Kat shaded her eyes with her hand, smiling at Rick as he emerged with Abbey in tow. She turned to the others. “I hope you guys don’t mind; I’m stealing your guitarists for a couple of days.” Digger—
No, make that Adrian,
Rick mentally corrected himself—slid his arm around her waist as she added, “Two days off in a row, and so close to the lake house. I couldn’t resist.”

“Nor could I refuse,” Adrian murmured, rubbing his neat goatee of gray and gold against her cheek, eyes closed.

Jim lit a cigarette and mashed his free hand into his jeans pocket. “Cool.” The drummer exhaled. “Wish Maryland was a bit closer for me. Soon enough, I guess.”

Sam had returned from his lavatory excursion and sputtered in mock outrage. “Riff? At least choose someone worth his salt, Kat!”

“Sam, sometimes the freak show needs a break from the clowns,” Rick stated, as slow and dramatic as his descent down the bus stairs.

“Meaning . . . meaning?” Sam echoed like an empty canyon. Everyone else just grinned and looked elsewhere.

“Ah, Kat.” Rick leaned to kiss her cheek. “You are the only reason I’d get up at”—he lifted his shades to examine his watch—“stupid o’clock in the morning.”

He wasn’t sure whether she would consider his compliment a backhanded one. But the way she lobbed a kiss back onto his scruffy cheek told him she didn’t—or she didn’t care.

“Wait until you see our lake. You may just have one more reason.”

* * *

“Now this,” Adrian remarked as the screen door slammed behind them, “this I missed.” He inhaled deeply, and Rick did, too. A mix of odd odors hit him: acrid metallic rust from the old porch screens, earthy clay from the jumble of discarded shoes by the door, and the sharp dewy scent of fresh mowed grass filtering down from a neighboring lawn. Not unpleasant, just different from the last time he had visited the couple. Their summer place by the lake felt light-years away from the Upper West Side apartment they called home, even though the aging chalet bungalow was just under an hour’s drive from Manhattan.

“Those are our lake shoes,” Kat explained, prodding at a sneaker, caked gray and stiff, with her freshly pedicured toes. “The pile seems to grow larger every summer.”

“So this is your old homestead, then?” Rick bent to run his hand down the cat’s back as she weaved between his shoes. Even Chelsea, who probably lived a charmed life walking along the huge windows above Central Park most of the year, seemed to welcome the change of scenery. Her tail vibrated with happiness from his attention.

“Born and raised! We try to spend every summer and holiday here now. Just wait until you see your room. The Corroded Corpse time capsule.” Kat laughed. “If my brother, Kevin, finds out you’re staying here, he’ll want to hang an engraved plaque.”

“Riff Rotten slept here,” Adrian joked.

“Oh, bollocks. Please.” Rick scoffed. He had heard all about the attic bedroom, a shrine circa 1984, plastered with posters of Kat’s brother’s favorite bands.

“Come on in and sit. Coffee? Lemonade?” Kat gestured.

“I’ll have a beer, if you’ve got a proper English one.” A myriad of clocks in the living room began their slightly unsynchronized peal, as if to admonish Rick for wanting a beer at eleven o’clock in the morning. “Do I hear the Winchester chimes?”

“Oh, yes. Kat’s dad collected clocks in his antique business. Next you’ll hear Westminster, and the Whittington. Maddening, isn’t it?” Adrian winked at Kat as he uncapped a Newcastle with a vaporous pop and handed it to his friend. “I’ll take a glass of your lemonade, my dear.”

Kat brought two frosty glasses to the dining room table before settling into a chair with a canary-eating smile. Rick noticed Adrian’s pinky immediately curled around hers. Tattooed on his knuckle was a bold, black exclamation point: the punctuation to Kat’s very eager response when he proposed to her four years ago. Some people immediately get on the phone to share such happy news, Rick supposed. Others, like Adrian, go to the tattoo parlor so they can fist-pump
Y E S !

They both smiled expectantly at him. Suddenly it was clear to Rick just why they had brought him here. Detouring him off the road, away from the rest of the band, forcing rest and relaxation down his throat.

They wanted his blessing.

“So. The wedding.” A fluid haul off the beer steeled Rick enough to broach the subject. “You’ve picked a date, I assume?”

“Look, he’s already got his ‘side project’ face on,” Adrian sputtered in disbelief.

“I do not,” Rick said indignantly, but he could feel his top lip curling in disgust while his thick dark brow receded in exasperation. It was the same face he pulled any time Adrian decided to take a break from all the sold-their-soul-for-rock-and-roll stuff and play for the under-ten crowd. When they had first reconciled their friendship, Rick had been amused by Digger Graves’s new alter ego: the kid-friendly musician Kat had mistakenly hired for a local library program, all because he wrote a stupid-catchy TV theme song about a cartoon cat. But now that their Corroded Corpse legacy had been resurrected as the Rotten Graves Project, Rick no longer regarded Adrian’s other pursuits as harmless fancy. Anything that took away from Corpse time was a threat.

“It’s my wedding, mate.
Our
wedding.” Adrian clutched Kat’s hand. “It’s not some pesky one-off gig that would be better left unplayed! Oh, but you’d rather walk away from the gigs without big guarantees, right?”

Rick had drained the last of his Newcastle and was picking at the bottle label. “All right,” he said, setting it aside and looking at them straight on. “Who am I to deny your happiness? Tell me when and I’ll be there.”

“As my best man?” Adrian pressed.

“Of course. I always have your back.”

“We’ve got it pretty much planned; small and simple. Ceremony in the park near the Cloisters, reception at New Leaf Café right on the grounds.”

“Tell me when,” Rick repeated.

“Halloween.”

Rick was gripping the bottle once again, so tight he feared it would pop to shards in his hand. “Do you not look at the itineraries I send you? Halloween, mate. We’ve got second hold on Madison Square Garden, and I just had our agent challenge the date. For fuck’s sake!”

Kat turned to Adrian. “In English, please.”

“Another band is thinking about playing the Garden for Halloween and put in for it first. If we come along and challenge them, they have twenty-four hours to decide if they really want it.” Adrian frowned. “Otherwise, it’s ours.”

Rick was already up and pacing, dialing the band’s booking agent on his mobile. “Ach, West Coast. Oliver’s not going to answer.”

“Look, Rick. Even if it wasn’t the wedding date . . . I haven’t once trick-or-treated with Abbey, not once in these four years. I just missed her fourth grade play. I don’t want to watch her grow up through a video lens.”

“Madison Square Garden,” Rick repeated, those three words the only bargaining chip he had at the moment.

“Enough,” Kat broke in. “You have two days off, then two shows left on this tour.”

Adrian’s goatee jutted stubbornly as he set his jaw and managed through gritted teeth, “I’ll show you your room.”

They both clomped up the steep attic stairs in silence. The scene was set most ironically for their comically tragic little play, Rick observed: Two men in their midlife, arguing under a scrapbook ceiling lined with tattered pictures of their much-younger selves.

“I’m on your side, Dig. Just trying to stay one step ahead. You remember the last time the music industry machine left us behind.”

“I don’t care. I
will
take a sledgehammer to that machine.”

Rick listened to the heavy tread of his bandmate’s motorcycle boots on the stairs, followed by Kat’s murmur, “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“And Rick?”

“Rick needs to get laid,” came Adrian’s gruff reply, and the angry roar of the shower could be heard moments later.