Loring didn't know if he should approach her. Her eyes were closed, her head was down, and she didn't look like she wanted company. But he had to walk past her to get to the bus. It would be rude not to say hello. And he questioned her safety, sitting alone in the middle of an empty parking lot.
He stepped closer and she looked up. Her dark eyes were tired and watery, and she only pretended to smile.
“Everything all right?” Loring said.
She nodded, using the edge of her sleeve to wipe her cheek.
“I heard about the Drones gig,” he said. “Paul must be ecstatic.”
“Oh, he's ecstatic all right.” Her voice was a double layer of caustic overtones and discordant tumult.
“This probably isn't the safest place for you to be hanging out.” Loring looked at his watch and then pointed to the hotel. “I'm meeting my brother in the coffee shop…”
“I met your brother.”
“I know, he told me.” Loring scratched his temple. “Why don't you come and eat with us?”
She started to shake her head, but then dropped her chin and bit her lip—a gesture that struck Loring as saturnine. “Actually, I am hungry.”
On their way to the hotel, Eliza held onto Loring's arm; he felt a rising tension in his jeans and began trying to recite America's capital cities to himself, listing them in alphabetical order by state, hoping it would help move the blood back up to his brain.
Alabama, Montgomery. Arizona, Phoenix. Arkansas, Little Rock.
They walked through the lobby of the hotel and straight into the almost-empty restaurant, where everything was a different, depressing shade of orange: carotene seat cushions, pumpkin wallpaper, apricot-and-bile menus.
Leith was seated at a table in the farthest corner of the room. He stood up and put on his coat when he saw Eliza.
“Was it something I said?” she joked.
“I already ate. The pizza, remember? I only agreed to come over here so he,” Leith jerked his head at Loring, “didn't have to eat alone. I'll catch you guys later.”
A young waitress dropped off menus and Eliza said, “What are the chances you have anything Chinese? Sweet and sour chicken? Fried rice?”
The waitress, whose hair color came close to matching the walls, seemed to think she was being gibed at. “We have regular rice. Like, the white kind. And I can bring you some soy sauce.” But then she recognized Loring and her attitude did an about-face. “Actually, I could ask the cook and maybe—”
“Forget it,” Eliza said. “What's the soup of the day?”
“Corn chowder.”
She settled on the Roman omelet with rye toast and no butter. Loring ordered a club sandwich and a bowl of the soup, and no sooner did the waitress bring the chowder than a pretty girl and her not-nearly-as-attractive friend appeared. They told Loring they'd driven in from Richmond to see his show and were staying the night in the hotel. They wanted him to sign their shirts.
“Right here,” the pretty girl said, pointing to a spot that was probably her nipple.
Eliza exhaled loudly and with contempt, and Loring tried not to laugh as he reluctantly obliged the girl's request, only he scribbled his signature on her sleeve, hoping she and her friend would then have the decency to go away. He resented the discontinuity brought on by the girls' arrival. The tour ended in a day and who knew when or if he'd see Eliza again. All he wanted was to sit across from her without interruption. They didn't even have to talk. He just wanted to be with her.
The girls lingered at the table, the pretty one doing a lot of chattering. She told Loring that her sister's boyfriend had been a junior at Yale when he was a freshman, as if this somehow formed a bond between them.
“Brady Meltzer. He says he knew you.”
Loring shrugged. The name didn't ring a bell.
The girl slid a small piece of paper under the salt shaker, prompting Eliza to sit up and lean across the table. And then she did exactly what Loring had a feeling she was going to do—she reached down and seized the note.
“Christy and Janis,” Eliza read aloud. “Room 271. Is this a take-your-pick kind of offer or a two-for-one special?”
Loring buried his mouth in his fist; Christy's face went ashen. She grabbed the note out of Eliza's hand and stormed away, her friend following like a puppy behind her.
“Sorry,” Eliza said. “I hope you didn't want that. I'm not in a very patient mood.”
Loring shook his head, wishing he could have attributed her umbrage to a secret crush, rather than what was clearly repulsion with those less reverent than she.
“That happens a lot, doesn't it? Girls offering themselves to you?” She waited for Loring to nod. “I mean really, you could be sitting here trying to have a nice, quiet meal with your girlfriend, and they still have the nerve to proposition you like that. Are they stupid or just downright mean?”
Loring decided that for the remainder of the meal he was going to pretend Eliza was his girlfriend.
“Dover,” he said, although he hadn't meant to say it out loud.
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Delaware.”
She set her elbow on the table, rested her chin on top of her fist, and stared at his bowl of soup while he ate. It was the kind of look that, had he taken the bowl away and asked her to describe what the soup looked like, she never could have done it. He knew she was thinking about Paul and for the first time in his life he experienced a malignant envy that felt like a saber-tooth tiger gnawing on the inside of his torso and was so intense, malice seemed like the only conceivable relief.
Back in the Stone Age, Loring could have instigated some kind of Darwinian, alpha-male showdown with Paul. He was older, taller, stronger, and survival of the fittest might have given him the advantage. But here, in the middle of D.C., he was powerless against his unwitting opponent. That he actually liked Paul only made it worse.
Loring needed to get Eliza Caelum out of his system. He needed to throw in the towel, step out of the ring, and accept defeat. This meal is a farewell dinner, he told himself. A Last Supper in this rotting tangerine of a room. Enjoy it now because after tomorrow it's all over. After tomorrow you will never contact her again.
“Loring?” she said quietly, knocking him out of his internal diatribe. “Have you ever said yes to any of those girls?”
The question seemed to contain a subtext Loring couldn't decipher. He shook his head. “You know what I call that? Herpes on a stick.”
“Did you ever cheat on Justine?”
He set his spoon down and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Do you ask everyone such personal questions, or do you just like to pick on me?”
She gave him a coy smile that disappeared as fast as it came. “Are you going to answer me?”
Of course he was going to answer her. He would have given her his ATM code if she'd asked for it. “No. I never cheated on Justine.”
“Not even a little kiss?”
He put his right hand on his heart. “Swear over my kids.”
“Did you ever want to?”
He thought it over for a moment. “I don't know,” he said in all honesty. “I guess I'd be lying if I said some of the opportunities that presented themselves weren't a little enticing. Sometimes you meet people who are actually interesting, and obviously attractive. But there's a gigantic difference between thinking about it and doing it. You have to cross a line to get to that point, and that line, for me, is not drawn in sand.”
“Justine was out of her mind to let you get away.”
Again, her frankness was too sad and blatant to hold any cryptic messages of love. Had Loring been a braver man, or maybe a duplicitous one, he would have seized the moment and owned up to his infatuation, promising to be everything Paul was and more, if only she'd give him a chance.
“What about you?” he asked. “Ever mess around on Paul?”
“No,” she said, the thought apparently too outlandish to consider.
The
waitress brought Eliza her omelet, along with Loring's humongous, four-decker club, and he pushed his soup aside to make room for the new plate.
Loring adjusted the toothpick in his sandwich, moving it toward the corner so he didn't bite into it. Minutes went by and they ate in silence. Eventually Eliza looked up and said, “Do you think Paul would?”
He watched her take a French fry off his plate. He loved that she took it without asking and that she dipped it in his ketchup and for the life of him he couldn't remember if the capital of Oklahoma was Tulsa or Oklahoma City.
“Do I think Paul would what?”
“He's in a hotel in Seattle two months from now, and some Christy comes by and whispers her room number into his ear. Does he drop by for a visit?”
Loring guessed this is what had been bothering her all night. “Eliza, I can't answer that.”
She bit the fry in half. “He wants me to go on the tour but I can't. I want to. More than anything. But there's no way I can fly all the way to California, then fly from city to city every few days. Especially on a 737. That's why he got mad and stormed off.” She picked a rye seed out of her toast and somehow managed to eat it in three pieces. “I don't know what to do.”
Loring thought she was going to cry. He almost wished for it. Tears would have given him an excuse to put his arms around her and touch her hair.
“I know you can't answer it for certain,” she said, “but come on, you went to Yale. Make an educated guess.”
“Should I remind you that our half-wit, sub-literate president also went to Yale?”
“Just tell me what you think. Please?”
He took a drink of water and debated what to say. He'd known Paul pre-Eliza and back then he would've had a cynical answer. Paul was different now. Still, Loring considered this his great Machiavellian opportunity. He could plant a seed in her head. He could tell her how hard it is for someone who isn't used to all the attention to say no.
He couldn't do it. Not only would it have been unkind, it would have been a lie. Based on his own feelings, Loring believed he understood how much the woman sitting across from him meant to Paul Hudson.
“My opinion?” he said. “I wouldn't worry about it.”
The bus was supposed to leave Boston as soon as Bananafish finished their set. It was the last show of the tour and the drive home would take a little over five hours. As long as it didn't start snowing, we would be back in Manhattan before the sun came up.
Paul was hung-over and choleric, and with the exception of grilling me about where I'd been when I returned from dinner with Loring, he'd barely spoken to me since our argument. He walked into the dressing room, sweat still dripping from his hair, and I watched him make a willful effort to avoid me.
“All right, let's go,” he said, craning around the room. “Where's Angelo?”
Burke said, “He was right behind me a second ago.”
We waited for twenty minutes. Everyone sensed Paul's agitation and tried to stay out of his way. I even offered to go find Angelo, just to get out of the room, but Judo told me to stay put while he tried to locate the missing Michael.
Loring was in the middle of his show by the time Judo returned. “Bus driver saw Angelo wander into the parking lot with that brunette from D.C.”
“Fuck Angelo,” Paul snapped. “The brunette can drive his ass home.”
“Paul,” I sighed. “We can't leave without him.”
“Whatever. I'm going to watch the rest of the set,” Paul said to no one in particular, before leaving the room.
Over the course of the tour, Paul had developed a genuine appreciation for Loring's music. Although Loring's mid-tempo sound and straightforward style was diametrically opposed to Bananafish's intensity, and Paul still categorized Loring's songs as too radio-friendly, Paul had a habit of saying that what Loring lacked in originality, he made up for in sincerity.
As soon as Paul was out of sight, Michael turned to me and said, “Go with him, please. We don't need to misplace two band members.”
Loring was in the middle of the title track from Rusted when I caught up to Paul on the side of the stage. I reached for his hand and was surprised when he let me take it.
I don't have the strength to pick up the pieces.
Or to walk away and say that maybe I was wrong.
Loring didn't have Paul's pipes, he didn't have the range or power Paul had, but there was an understated drawl to his voice that was sexy and pleasing to the ear.
If Paul's music was like flying, Loring's was an afternoon drive along a rural highway—sunny, romantic, but with an undertone of prosaic sadness that pulled on the heartstrings.
I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned to see Leith beside me, and grabbed Paul, yelling, “Loring's brother,” repeating it three times before Paul understood. Leith went on to tell Paul how much he liked Bananafish's show the night before.
“I hope you missed tonight's show,” Paul shouted. “It sucked my ass.”
For the remainder of the song, the two men had a conversation by screaming into each others ears.
“This next one's new,” Loring said a minute later, futzing with the tuning on his black Stratocaster. “No one's heard it yet, so let me know what you think.”
I looked down at the set list. Between “Rusted” and the encore break, it said “A Thousand Ways.”
The phrase struck me as uncomfortably familiar. Like déjà vu had just punched me in the stomach.
Loring counted backward from four and then started strumming a catchy chord progression. Right before he began to sing, I remembered why the title sounded so familiar. The morning in Toronto, I'd walked into Loring's suite and that's what Tab had called me.
It didn't take long for the whole dreadful scene to unfold in front of my eyes in much the same way watching a car drive off a cliff might. For a fleeting moment I was able to convince myself it was my imagination playing a not-so-funny joke, but that hope vanished when I started to feel guilty for things I knew I hadn't done. And Loring's words struck me as so undeniably intimate, had he been whispering them in my ear he couldn't have been speaking more clearly to me.
If I had the guts I'd ask you to be free
I'd ask you to roam the universe in search of me
I'd ask you to love me the way that you love him
And always hold me, always near
I swear I would ask you this
If only you were here
I remember how you wore my sweater like moonlight
and how it smelled like heaven for days
And maybe I'll never get that close to you again
but I've dreamt of it a thousand ways
If I had the guts I'd ask you to dance
I'd get down on my knees, beg you for a chance
I'd shed my blood to touch the pearls that kiss your ears
I'd wipe away your every tear
I'd sell my soul to see you fly
I'd chase away your fear
Paul had seemed only marginally suspicious until the blather about the pearls and the flying, at which point an apocalyptic scowl unfolded across his face.
“I knew it!” he shouted toward the stage as if Loring could hear him. Then he spun to face Leith. “Who does he think he is, Eric fucking Clapton?”
Leith stood with his arms glued to his sides, rigid and helpless, a child taking the rap for something he didn't do.
Next, Paul turned on me. His teeth were clenched and I saw a pulse beating in his jaw as he searched my face for the answer to a question he was too afraid to ask.
He jumped down off the stage and fled, and I chased after him as best I could, but I was still moving like a gimp. Making my way toward the dressing room, I came face-to-face with Loring, who had just exited the stage and was being led down the hall by a bald man with a flashlight.
Paul and I had said our respective goodbyes to Loring earlier that afternoon, explaining that we were leaving right after Bananafish's show. Judging from the look on L
oring's face, it was clear he had no idea we were still there.
He froze when he saw me, our eyes locked, and we remained like that until Loring opened his mouth like he was going to speak, and I, conflictingly in shock, overwhelmed, and ill-equipped to deal with whatever Loring wanted to say, ran.
On my way out I saw Michael. “Where's Paul?” I said, digging my nails into my palm to balance out the pain shooting through my foot.
“He just stormed out to the bus. Eliza, what's going on?”
“Nothing,” I said, hobbling as fast as I could toward the exit.
Angelo was standing in front of the bus. “I wouldn't go in there if I were you.”
“Where have you been?” I screamed, deciding the whole mess was Angelo's fault. “Everyone's looking for you! Go tell Michael you're here! Do not pass Go! Do not collect two hundred dollars! Just find Michael!”
“Jeeze. Take a chill pill.”
Angelo headed in the direction of the arena, and I pounded on the bus's door until Paul swung it open so fast it almost whacked me in the face.
I walked cagily up the steps, sat sideways on the couch, exhaled toward the window and watched my breath turn into a thin circle of moisture on the glass. “I don't think we were supposed to hear that song.”
“Oh, you don't, huh?” Paul crashed down beside me. “You know what I think? I think I wasn't supposed to hear it. You, on the other hand…” The hand went to the pancreas. “You spent a hell of a lot of time with him in the last two weeks, running and piggyback riding and wherever the hell you were last night—”
“Hold it—”
“No, you hold it. I'd like to know when you had the opportunity to wear his clothes. What did you do, play dress-up during all those long runs?”
“What?”
“His goddamn sweater. Don't tell me you didn't hear the lyrics because I saw your face. When did you scent his goddamn sweater? And more importantly, what did you scent it with?”
My head fell forward. “The day I interviewed him. I was cold and I borrowed a sweater. That's all.”
“What about last night?”
“What about last night?”
“Where were you?”
” We went to eat. I already told you.”