Bygones by LaVyrle Spencer
He stared at her, torn by ambivalence about his father, one facet of him leavened by the possibility of her getting back together with him permanently; the other facet curdled by the idea of having to make peace with Michael at last.
“You know what, Mom?” Randy said, just before leaving the room, “You were never this touchy about Keith.”
She studied the empty doorway when he was gone, realizing he was right. She dropped down and sat on the edge of the bed with her inner wrists together between her knees, trying to make sense of things. In time she flopped to her back, arms outflung, wondering what the outcome of tonight would be. She was being protective of herself because she was scared. That's why she had walked out on Michael, and why she had snapped at Randy. The risk of becoming involved was so great—hell, what was she saying? She was already involved again with Michael; to think anything else was self-delusion. They were involved, and more than likely falling in love again, and what was the logical conclusion of falling in love if not marriage?
Bess rolled to her side, drew up her knees, crossed her bare feet and closed her eyes.
I, Bess, take thee, Michael, for better or for worse, till death do us part.
They had believed it once and look what their gullibility had cost. All the anguish of breaking up a family, a home, joint finances, two hearts. The idea of risking it again seemed immensely foolhardly.
* * *
The audition was scheduled for Monday afternoon at two, at a club called Stonewings. The band had their equipment set up for their evening gig and were working on balancing sound when Randy walked in with a pair of drumsticks in his hand. The place was dark but for the stage, lit by canister lights from a ceiling strip. One guitarist was repeating into a mike, “Check, one, two,” while another squatted at the rear of the stage, peering at the orange screen of an electronic guitar tuner.
Randy approached out of the darkness. “Hullo,” he said, reaching the rim of light.
All sound ceased. The lead guitarist looked over, an emaciated man who resembled Jesus Christ as depicted on Catholic holy cards. He held a royal blue Fender Stratocaster with a burning cigarette stuck behind the strings near the tuning pegs. “Hey, guys,” he said, “our man is here. You Curran?”
“That's right.” Randy reached up, extending his hand. “Randy.”
The man pushed his guitar against his belly and leaned over it to shake hands. “Pike Watson,” he said, then turned to introduce the bassist. “Danny Scarfelli.”
The keyboard man came over and shook hands, too. “Tom Little.”
The rhythm guitarist followed suit. “Mitch Yost.”
There was a sound-and-light man, too, moving around in the shadows, adjusting canisters from a stepladder.
Watson told Randy, “That's Lee out there, doing lights.” He shaded his eyes and called, “Yo, Lee!”
Out of the darkness came a voice like a bastard file on babbitt. “Hey!”
“This is Randy Curran.”
“Let's hear his stuff!” came the reply.
While the others drifted back to tuning and balancing, Watson asked Randy, “So what do you know?”
Randy's gesture flipped his drumsticks once, like windshield washers. “Anything. You name it—something with a shuffle beat or straight rock—doesn't matter.”
“Okay, how about a little of ‘Blue Suede Shoes'?”
“Great.”
He had expected the simplest of songs, something everybody knew as well as they knew every nick and scratch on their own instruments. Simple songs were the best gauge of true talent.
The trap set was simple, five pieces—bass, snare, a floor tom, two ride toms and assorted cymbals, one, of course, a high hat. Randy settled himself behind them, found the foot pedals of the bass and a ride, rattled a quick riff across the skins and adjusted the height of a cymbal. He put both sticks in his left hand, drew the stool an inch forward, tested the distance again, looked up and said, “All set. I'll count it out, give you three for nothing and then we'll go into it on four.”
Pike Watson blew smoke toward the ceiling, replaced the cigarette next to a tuning peg and replied, “Beat me, Sticks.”
Randy tapped out the pickup beat on the rim of the snare and the band struck into the song with Watson singing lead.
For Randy, playing was therapy. Playing was forgetting anyone else existed. Playing was living in total harmony with two sticks of wood and a set of percussion instruments over which he seemed to have some sort of mystic control. It felt to Randy as if they put out sound at the command of his mere thought waves rather than his hands and feet. When the song ended, Randy was surprised, having little recall of playing it, measure-for-measure. It seemed, instead, to have played him.
He pinched the cymbals quiet, rested his hands on his thighs and looked up.
Pike Watson appeared pleased. “You got your chops down, man.”
Randy smiled.
“How about another one?”
They played a little twelve-bar blues, then three more, typical musicians who, like the alcoholic, can never stop with just one.
“Nice licks,” Scarfelli offered when they broke.
“Thanks.”
Watson asked, “Do you sing?”
“A little.”
“Harmony?”
“Yeah.”
“Lead?”
“If you want.”
“Well, shit, man, let's hear you.”
Randy asked for the new Elton John hit, “The Club at the End of the Street,” and although the band hadn't worked it up they ad-libbed expertly.
When the song ended, Watson asked, “Who have you played with?”
“Nobody. This is my first audition.”
Watson raised one eyebrow, rubbed his beard and glanced at the others.
“What have you got for drums?”
“A full set of Pearls, rototoms and all.”
“You must be into heavy metal.”
“Some.”
“We don't do much of that.”
“I'm versatile.”
“A lot of the club stages are smaller than this. Any objection to leaving a few of your Pearls at home?”
“No.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Planning on it?”
“No.”
“Got any kids?” Randy grinned and Watson added, “Well, hell, you never know anymore.”
“No kids.”
“So you can travel?”
“Yes.”
“No other jobs?”
Randy chuckled and scratched the back of his head. “If you can call it that. I pack nuts in a warehouse.” The whole band laughed. “If you guys take me on I'll be kissing that job good-bye.”
“What have you got for wheels?”
“That's no problem.” It was, but he'd face it if and when.
“You union?”
“No, but I will be if you say so.”
“Whoever we hire will have to sit in on about six solid days of practices 'cause our drummer's leaving at the end of the week.”
“No problem. I can blow off that pistachio palace in one phone call.”
Pike Watson consulted the others with a glance, returned his gaze to Randy and said, “Okay, listen . . . we'll let you know, okay?”
“Okay.” Randy lifted his hands, let them fall to his thighs, backed off the stool and shook hands all around. “Thanks for letting me sit in. You guys are great. I'd sell my left nut to play with you.”
He left them laughing and stepped out into the midafternoon sun, longing for a hit of something to relax the tension. He tipped back at the waist, closed his eyes and sucked in half the blue sky; he jived toward his car, rapping out a rhythm against his thighs with one palm and the paired sticks. Sweet, the very sweetest—playing with real musicians. Hope pressed up against his throat and made his head buzz. He thought about spending the rest of his life playing music instead of weighing and packing nuts. The comparis
He unlocked his car, slid in and rolled down the windows. No air-conditioning, so the interior was like a sauna, the vinyl seatcovers radiant, even through his jeans. Somewhere under the seat he'd left a fast-food container with part of an uneaten bun, and it smelled as yeasty as working beer.
He started the engine, turned the fan on, then off again when the blast of engine heat proved hotter than the motionless air had been. He put in a tape of Mike and the Mechanics and began pulling out of the parking lot.
Something hit the car like a falling rock.
Jesus, what was that?
He braked and craned around to find Pike Watson had thumped on the trunk to stop him. His bearded face appeared at the open window.
“Hey, Curran, not so fast.”
“Was that you? I thought I ran over a kid or something.” Randy turned down the stereo.
“It was me. Listen, we want you to be our rimshot.”
Shock suffused Randy. It went through his body faster than a hit of marijuana. Felt better, too.
“You serious?”
“We knew before you went out the door. We just have this policy, we all talk it over, no one person decides. Wanna come back inside and get in a couple hours of practice?”
Randy stared, dumbfounded. He whispered, “Jesus . . .” and after a pause, “I don't believe this.”
Watson wagged his head. “You're good, man. Believe it. But we've got only six days to work you into four hours' worth of music, so what do you say?”
Randy smiled. “Let me park this thing.”
He parked the car and stepped onto the blacktop, wondering how he'd operate the foot pedals with his knees this weak, how he could do licks with his body trembling so. Pike Watson shook his hand as they headed back inside the club.
“You get that union card as quick as you can.”
“Anything you say,” Randy replied, matching him pace for pace as he headed toward paradise.
* * *
It had been three days since Michael's evening with Bess. At work, he had been withdrawn. In his car, he had ridden with the radio off. At home, he'd spent a lot of time sitting on the deck with his feet on the railing, staring at the sails on the water.
That's where he was on Tuesday evening when his phone rang.
He answered and heard Lisa's voice.
“Hi, Dad. I'm down in the lobby. Let me in.”
He was waiting in his open door when she stepped off the elevator, looking quite ballooned, in blue shorts and a white maternity blouse.
“Well, look at you,” he said, opening his arms as she hove up against him. “Getting rounder every day.”
She rested a hand on her stomach. “Yup. Not unlike the St. Paul Cathedral.” The church had a dome that could be seen for miles.
“This is a nice surprise. Come on in.”
They sat on deck chairs, sipping root beer, watching evening slant in behind them and tint the tips of the trees golden. The water was jeweled and the smell of wild sweet clover drifted from nearby roadsides.
“How've you been, Daddy?”
“Okay.”
“I haven't heard from you in a while.”
“Been busy.” He told her about the Victoria and Grand plans and the attendant hassle with the locals. He told her he'd been sailing some and had seen the new movie Dick Tracy, and asked if she and Mark had seen it. He mentioned his cooking classes and how he was enjoying his new skills.
“I hear you made dinner for Mother Saturday night.”
“How did you hear that?”
“Randy called, about something else, actually, but he mentioned it.”
“I suppose Randy wasn't too pleased.”
“Randy's got other things on his mind right now. He auditioned for a band called The Edge, and they hired him.”
Michael's face brightened. “Great!”
“He's blown away, rehearsing all morning with tapes and all afternoon with the band.”
“When did all this happen?”
“Yesterday. Didn't Mother call you and tell you?”
“No, she didn't.”
“But if the two of you were together on Saturday night . . .” Lisa let the suggestion hang.
“Things didn't go too well between us.”
Lisa got up and went to the railing. “Damn.”
Michael studied her back, her hair knotted in a loose French braid and tied off with a puckered circle of blue cloth.
“Honey, you've got to stop dreaming that Mom and I will get back together. I don't think that's ever going to happen.”
Lisa flounced around to face him and rested her backside on the railing. “But why? You're divorced, she's free, you're both lonely. Why?”
He rose and caught her around the neck with one arm, turning her to face the lake. “It's not that simple. There's history between us that's got to be considered.”
“What? Your affair? Mother can't honestly be hung up on that anymore, can she?”
Lisa had never used the word before. Hearing her speak it now, forthrightly, throwing it out for honest examination, Michael discovered the two of them crossing some new plateau as a father and a daughter.
“We've never talked about it before, you and I.”
She shrugged. “I knew about it all along.”
“But you never held it against me the way the others did.”
“I figured you had your reasons.” He wasn't going to delineate them at this late date. Lisa added, “All I ever heard was Mom's side of the story but I remember things weren't so super around our house at that time, and part of it was her fault.”
“Well, thanks for the benefit of the doubt.”
“Dad?” Lisa looked up at him. “Will you tell me something?”
“Depends on what the question is.” She bore so much resemblance to Bess as she looked straight into Michael's eyes.
“Do you still love Mom—I mean, even a little bit?” she finished hopefully.
He dropped his arm from around her and sighed. “Oh, Lisa . . .”
“Do you? Because the way you were acting at my wedding, it seemed like both of you had some feelings for each other.”
“Maybe we do, but—”
“Then, please don't give up.”
“You didn't let me finish. Maybe we do but we're both a lot more cautious now, especially your mother.”
“I think she loves you. A lot. But I can understand why she'd be scared to let you know. Heck, who wouldn't be when a guy has left you for another woman? Now, don't get upset that I said that. I didn't take sides when you left Mom but now I am. I'm taking both of your sides, because I want you back together again so badly, I just . . . I just don't even know how to say it.” She turned to him with tears magnifying her eyes. “Give me your hand, Daddy.”
He knew what she would do even as he complied. She placed his palm against her stomach and said, “This is your grandchild in here, some little thing who's probably going to come out looking like you and Mom in some way, right? I want him to have all the best advantages a child can have, and that includes a grandpa and grandma's house to go to at Christmastime, and the two of you together picking him up sometime and taking him to the circus, or to Valley Fair, or going to his school programs, or . . . or . . . oh, you know what I mean. Please, Daddy, don't give up on Mother. You're the one who left her; you've got to be the one to go back and convince her it was a mistake in the first place. Will you try?”
Michael took Lisa in his arms and held her loosely.
“It's dangerous to idealize things so.”
“Will you?”
He didn't answer.
“I'm not idealizing. I saw you two together. I know there was something between you the night of my wedding, I just know it. Please, Daddy??
It had been far easier to promise her he'd have her piano moved forever.
“Lisa, I can't promise such a thing. If things had gone better between us the other night . . .”
The note upon which the night had ended had made mockery of his and Bess's sexual encounter. Since then Michael had viewed his actions as foolish and willful. Lisa's remarks only ripened his disillusionment into confusion. If Bess loved him as Lisa suspected, she had a strange way of showing it. If she didn't, her way was stranger yet.
Lisa drew herself out of his arms, looking forlorn.
“Well, I thought I'd try,” she said. “Guess I better go.”
He walked her to the door and rode the elevator with her down to the lobby, where she stopped and turned to him.
“There's something else I'd like to ask you, Dad.”
“Ask away.”
“It's about when the baby's born. I wondered if you'd like to be there during the delivery. We're inviting Mark's folks, too.”
“And your mother, too, no doubt.”
“Of course.”
“Another attempt to work us back together, Lisa?”
Lisa shrugged. “Sure. Why not? But it might be the only chance you get to witness the awesome spectacle. I know you weren't there when Randy and I were born, so I thought . . .” She shrugged again.
“Thanks for asking. I'll think about it.”
When Lisa was gone, Michael's thoughts returned to Bess, plunging him into a limbo of indecisiveness.
Ever since Saturday night he'd passed telephones the way sinners pass confessionals, wanting to reach out and dial Bess's number and say he was sorry, he needed absolution. But to call her was to place himself in a position of even greater vulnerability, so he resisted the urge once again.
* * *
The following day, however, he dialed the house at eleven o'clock in the morning, expecting Randy to answer.
To his surprise, Bess did.
“Bess!” he exclaimed, lunging forward in his desk chair and feeling his face ignite. “What are you doing home!”
“Grabbing a sandwich and picking up some catalogs I forgot before I head out for a noon appointment.”