All Our Pretty Songs (10 page)

“The happy songs are never the good ones,” Jack says.

“Fine then,” she says. “Play something that will devastate us all.”

Jack winks at her. When he starts to sing his voice is a surprise: low and rough with the raspy longing of a much older man, weighted with decades of hard living and cruel twists of fate. A bourbon-thick smoker’s voice, a voice of old sorrows and older wants. “
I went to the crossroads, fell down on my knees,
” he sings, the chords under his fingers sinuous and sorrowful. I tilt my head back, let the impossible yearning fill me with a hunger I never knew I had. “
Standin’ at the crossroad, baby, risin’ sun goin’ down
.” It’s as though the pain in his voice strips him naked in front of us, lets us see into the life he had led before we met him. Lonely nights and cold beds, hungry enough to eat your own shoes, sleeping in ditches and hitching rides to a place you know won’t be better. A despair so deep it’s like an animal living inside you, a thing you can call by name. Note after shimmering note, suffering spun into a net of music. All around us, people fall silent, turn toward him. Even the birds in the trees still their trilling calls, crickets hushing where they chirp in the grass. Barking dogs sink to their haunches, lay their heads across their paws, fetches forgotten. Aurora takes my hand. When he finishes there is no sound other than the movement of the wind in the trees all around us. Jack bows his head, his braids obscuring his face.

“Jesus,” Aurora says. I’ve never seen her so close to speechless. “You really are the real deal.”

He smiles at us from behind the tangle of his braids. “I know.”

Jack plays for us until the shadows are long in the grass. Nothing like that first song: lighter things, melodies that move hopping around us like bumblebees, lazy silly songs that make me think of cats in patches of sun, or pedaling downhill with the wind in my face and the world singing all around me. People come forward and drop dollar bills in his guitar case, sheepish, as though they know what they should be offering is something far more precious. A little boy brings him flowers, and Jack lets him put them in the frets of his guitar. Aurora smokes, stretches out in the sun, runs her fingers through her long hair.

At last Jack sets the guitar aside. His case is full of bills, not all of them singles. Other things, too: glass beads, a cheap ring, a packet of incense, a playing card. When I look over at Aurora she is watching me watch Jack, her face serious, her eyes far away.

“We should go get something to eat,” I say. Jack tugs idly at the fraying hem of my jeans.

“No,” Aurora says. “I mean, you go ahead. I’m not hungry.”

Aurora is never not hungry. Aurora would eat veal while watching calves go to slaughter, demanding more condiments. “I’ll drop you off somewhere,” she adds.

“Can I come over?” Jack asks. I can’t stop the stupid smile that spreads across my face.

“Okay,” I say. Aurora chews on her hair.

“Fine, then,” she says. “Come on.” Without waiting for us she hops to her feet, scampers toward her car. Jack puts his guitar back in its case, tucks away his booty.

“That was really fun,” I say in the car. Aurora is uncharacteristically quiet. Jack’s staring out the window, not paying attention. My words drop into the silence and hang there. When Aurora stops in front of my building, she clears her throat.

“I’m going to a show later,” she says. “If you want to come.”

“I’m okay,” Jack says. “Thanks.”

“I guess not,” I say.

“Sure,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Cass is out, and the apartment is dark. Jack paces each room as I turn the lights on. I’m anxious, now that he’s in my house for the first time. Now that he can see our shabby rugs and derelict furniture. My room isn’t clean. I try to remember the last time I washed my sheets. He looks for a long time at Aurora’s and my kingdom. I stand in the middle of the floor, watching him, wanting to turn around in embarrassed circles. Something. Anything. I am way too young. He is realizing I am way too young. I am an idiot. Idiot idiot idiot. Id. I. Ot.

“This is really good,” he says.

“What?”

“This.” He points to some of the more recent additions: Raoul in his vampire clothes, offering up a handful of apricots. A house I drew one sleepless night, with a neat garden and a hobbity round door. A mountain range.

“Oh. Aurora drew some of it, too.” I point out where we started. “When we were kids we thought if we got good enough we could climb in.”

“You wanted to?”

“It wasn’t always so great at home.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I know all about that one. Do you have anything else?”

“My sketchbook. But you can’t see that. Some other stuff that’s stupid. Do you want to see Aurora’s birthday present?”

Aurora’s birthday is next month, and for weeks I’ve been painting her a banner. I put her at the center, in one of her white dresses with her long hair streaming in elaborate curlicues that turn into twisting, sinuous vines. I surrounded her with jewel-feathered tropical birds that gleam through the foliage. The feathers are taking me forever. So many tiny lines. Roses explode at the corners, giving way to a border of orchids and lilies. Behind her, a sunset colors the sky pink. The whole thing is like Maxfield Parrish on ecstasy. I had to restrain myself from adding a unicorn.

“Wow,” Jack says, but I can’t tell if he’s impressed or horrified.

“It’s supposed to be campy,” I say quickly.

“It’s not at all. It’s beautiful. There’s so much love in every line.” He outlines the curl of a vine with one finger without touching the canvas.

“She’s my whole life.”

“That can be dangerous,” he says.

“Not if you really love someone.”

“Especially if you really love someone.” He turns back to the banner. I don’t know whether to touch him. Don’t even know what game we’re playing. Like when I was a kid on the playground, every day the other kids knowing by some secret code what clothes to wear, what things to say, me always getting it wrong, not even realizing there were rules.

“I don’t know how to talk to you,” I blurt. He looks at me in surprise. “You’re a lot cooler than I am,” I say. “You’re beautiful. You’re the most amazing musician I’ve ever seen. You’re like a—a—I don’t know, you’re like a real person. I’m—”

“You’re a very real person. You’re one of the realest people I’ve ever met.”

“I don’t know what that means. Are you telling me I’m stupid? Because I’m not stupid.”

He laughs so hard he has to put his hands on his knees. I have no idea what I just said that was so funny. “I haven’t known you that long, but I can definitely tell you aren’t stupid.”

“Does that mean I can kiss you?”

“Yes,” he says. “That is exactly what it means.”

Late that night, after Jack’s gone home, Aurora calls me from the club. “Babycakes,” she says, her voice slurring. “I’m too fucked up. Come get me.”

Cass is asleep and I take her keys without asking. Maybe I’ll get lucky and she won’t notice. The night is lovely and smells of salt, and I roll my window down all the way. If I weren’t driving I’d hang my head out like a dog. I want to enjoy the moment. I don’t know what I’ll find when I get there.

I’m expecting ambulances, sirens, cops, something. But from the outside the club is still. Inside it’s noisy and hot and dark. A metal band screeches from the stage. I peer around the room, check the bar, shove my way through the pit. I can’t see Aurora anywhere. If she was still walking she could have gone home with someone in the time it took me to drive here. I try not to think about that. There’s a line for the women’s bathroom, sullen girls with teased hair and too much eyeliner. “I’m looking for my friend,” I say to one of them. “Blond hair. Really pretty. Skinny.” I have to shout over the noise. She stares at me.

“Some crackhead bitch has been in the bathroom for a long-ass time,” she says. I cut past the line and pound on the door.

“Aurora.
Aurora
.” I hear something shatter. “Ah, shit,” I mutter, and throw my shoulder against the door.

I’m strong and the latch is cheap and I only have to hit the door twice before I’m through. The mirror over the sink is in splinters, the bathroom floor scattered with broken glass. Aurora’s sitting on the toilet, her white dress stained red. “I cut myself,” she says. “You came for me.”

The metal girls are trying to push past me into the bathroom. I haul Aurora to her feet and shove them out of the way. One of them cocks her fists at me but falters when she sees my face. I drape Aurora’s arm over my shoulders and half-drag, half-carry her outside. She’s as light as a bird.

In the empty street in front of the club she puts her bloody hands against the wall and vomits. I check for damage. Her knuckles are a mess, but the cuts look worse than they are. No one’s watching us. I take off my sweatshirt, yank my shirt over my head, put my sweatshirt back on. When she’s done throwing up I wrap the shirt around her hands to stop the bleeding. “I’ll get your shirt dirty,” she mumbles.

“Good thing I always wear black.” I steer her to the car. It’s better than it could have been. She can almost walk on her own. I roll down the window on her side. “Puke outside the car,” I tell her, getting into the driver’s seat.

“Outside the car,” she repeats. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.”

“I’m such a fuckup.”

“I know.”

“No more speed.”

“No more speed.”

“I promise.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Are you mad?”

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re mad.”

“Aurora. I’m not mad.”

“You think I’m going to take him.”

“I don’t think that.”

“You do. I would never do that.”

“It’s not always up to you.”

“You are the first thing to me. Always. You.”

“You, too.”

“You love him more than you love me,” she says.

“Aurora. Never.”

“You do.”

“I don’t love anyone more than I love you. I promise.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Promise again.”

“I promise.”

“One more time.”

“I promise.”

“I love you,” she says again. I reach over and put my hand over the wadded-up shirt.

“I’ll always come get you,” I say. “No matter what.”

Jack is teaching me how to play guitar, and it’s not going well. We’re sitting on his porch, his long legs folded around me, his hands over my hands, the guitar in my lap. The sun’s heavy and low in the sky. The smell of his skin is driving me to distraction. “Here,” he says, shaping my fingers over the strings. “That’s G major. No, no, you have to keep your middle two fingers—” I knock his hand away in a fit of temper. The
whuff
of his breath ruffles my hair.

“I don’t like it,” I tell him.

“How can you not like it? I showed you two chords.”

“I don’t like either of them.”

He rests his chin on the top of my head. “I should’ve known the guitar would be too hard for you. You need to pick a beginner’s instrument.”

“You fucker! It is not too hard!” Immediately I put my hands back on the strings, bite my bottom lip, try to remember where my fingers go. Behind me Jack chuckles.

“Let no one ever tell you that you are anything other than predictable,” he says.

“I am not predictable!” But he only laughs harder and kisses the place behind my ear that sends me straight into a desperate swoon. “I am not,” I mumble.

“You are.”

“Maybe a little.”

“A lot.”

“You’re a dick.”

“Mmmm.” He takes the guitar away from me and I scoot over. He strums an aimless melody, a carefree traveler strolling by a river, water singing over stones. Leaves turning in the summer air. I can see the flash of a fish jumping, the mercury buzz of a dragonfly moving across the water. The river’s so real I can dip my feet in the cool clear water. The breeze he’s conjured plays across my skin. Jack’s arms are alight with butterflies, their wings moving softly. Caught, as I am, in his spell. He stops, and I can feel the loss of it like a sob rising in my throat. Wherever he took me, I want to go back. He smiles at me, gentle now, puts his arms around me. He takes the tip of my earlobe in his teeth, and I shiver.

“I can’t play like you,” I whisper. “No one can play like you.”

“Play like yourself, then. Want to learn another chord?”

“No. Maybe. Fine.”

“You can’t wear pants when you play this one,” he says, and undoes the top button of my jeans.

Later, he makes me beans and rice and we eat cross-legged on his floor. The sun’s set, but it’s still warm. Neither of us is wearing much. Jack peels a mango, and I lie back with my head in his lap as he feeds it to me piece by piece. I’m full in a way that’s unfathomable, alive in my animal skin. I want to tear off all my clothes and go running through the forest, catch something and rip it to pieces while it’s still warm, grow fur and climb trees and howl at the moon. My skin feels as translucent and bruisable as rose petals, my whole body brand new. “Tell me a story about your family,” he says.

“I never knew my dad. I don’t think my mom did, either. She’s a witch.” He raises an eyebrow. “Really.” I touch the amulet around my neck. I’d stopped Jack earlier when he tried to take it off. “She reads tarot cards for people and makes them amulets and spells. She can do star charts. Horoscopes.”

“Are you a witch, too?”

“Not a very good one.”

“Can you read tarot?”

“Sure.”

“Will you read mine?” I sit up, steal the last piece of mango, and see that he’s serious.

“Okay,” I say. “Do you have a candle?”

He gets up from the bed and looks through drawers while I flip through his records, pick out a Jeff Buckley album, and put it on. I get my cards out of my bag. I still use the same deck Cass bought me all those years ago. It’s so well-used the card edges are bent and peeling, but the images have lost none of their color or sharpness. I keep the deck wrapped in a piece of silk, which I spread out on the floor in front of him. He sits, cross-legged, solemn, and hands me a candle. I light it and set it between us. “Now, shuffle,” I say, handing him the deck. “Think about your question.”