Encore to an Empty Room (19 page)

He makes it sound so easy. I remember Maya's text, the one that I barely processed in our rush to get here in time . . .

I'm a little bit sorry. But not too much. Just so you know.

Jason holds out his hand to shake Caleb's. Caleb leaves him hanging but Jason doesn't care. “Seriously, outstanding
performance. You are a one of a kind for about five different reasons. But on top of all that, these moments just seem to find you.”

I feel like pointing out that it was the other way around. That
we
found this moment, but I'm still too stunned to speak.

Jason introduces himself to Lara. “So . . .” He looks hungrily at the Jazzmaster. “Shall we get all Indiana Jones with this guitar?”

“We'll open it up in the back room,” says Lara, holding the guitar and leading the way like a tour guide.

As we follow her through the restaurant, I sense the air deflating from all of us. Can see the disappointment on everyone's faces. I can't believe we got this close, only to have everything fall apart.

We push through double doors and immediately our surroundings change from kitschy rock and roll to slick corporate. We pass offices and meeting rooms and enter a small workshop. There are half-finished display cases on a large wooden table, tools everywhere.

One of the techs clears a space and lays down a piece of black felt. Lara gently lays down the guitar. “We need to open the pickguard,” she says to the tech, pointing to the large white panel.

“This is so exciting!” says Jason grinning. “Was it like this finding the other tapes, too? Were they all this expertly hidden?”

I just look away. No one else answers, either. I feel dead, standing there watching. And my heart is pounding and suddenly I'm thinking about the lies to my parents, the interview missed, all of that . . . for this. I take Caleb's hand, still damp from the sweat and nerves of the impromptu performance. He squeezes back but doesn't look at me. He's drained, too, defeated. His chance to know his father slipping away.

“All right . . .” The tech takes an electric screwdriver to the panel, zipping off the screws. He carefully removes the knobs, then the plate, sliding it under the strings.

I don't know what I expect to see inside, maybe wiring and electronics, but instead a thick ball of white puffs out. Balled-up paper suddenly released.

Lara gingerly pinches it and lifts, and a mass of small cocktail napkins flutters down over the guitar. They all seem to have the same oval-shaped logo on them. I pick one up. Ten Below Zero. It's the same club name I've seen on Eli's guitar case and on his gig bag. A place he played, long ago? These napkins have an address below the name: 10 Avenue A, New York NY.

“What else is in there?” Jason says, brushing at the napkins and peering over the space in the guitar.

“Some of the wiring is disconnected,” says the tech, “but that's it.”

Lara looks up at us all. “Unless your gift was these napkins, I'd say there's nothing else in here. Sorry.”

Everyone is silent. We all take turns peering into the guitar, and then the tech reattaches the cover.

“Maybe there's something on these napkins,” says Jason. He flips over each one while we all just stand there dumbly, but aside from their time-yellowed edges, the napkins are clean.

“So, um . . . is that it?” Lara asks. “Anything else we can do? This was going to be a great story.”

“It sure was,” says Jason. “Could you just give us a sec to talk among ourselves?”

“We actually need to get to our gig—” I start.

“You can talk here,” says Lara. “Can I take this back?” She indicates the guitar.

“I think we're done with that,” says Jason.

Lara leaves with the guitar, and it's just us and Jason around the workshop table.

“I'll make this brief,” says Jason. His smiling, cocky exterior dies away, and just like these back rooms, what's behind it is pure-grade business. “We went out of our way to make you an offer that, quite frankly, you barely even deserved. I don't know what you found in Denver, but I do know this: you have until you get back to LA to turn over the tapes or songs, anything you've found, or we're pulling our deal. And it's an offer we won't be making again. Everybody clear?”

“But we didn't find anything,” I lie. “We don't have any tapes.”

Jason gives me a pitying look. “Well, then, you'd better make some between now and then.” He checks his watch. “My car's waiting outside. See you guys over at the show tonight!”

He walks out, leaving us standing there, still stunned.

We sit silent on the subway nearly all the way to Williamsburg.

“Maya?” Matt asks at one point.

“Yes, dumb ass,” I say. “Does that surprise you?”

“I guess not.”

Caleb and I are slouched against each other, our heads back against the rattling subway window. I don't know what to say. Don't even want to move.

“What are we going to do?” he asks.

“I don't know. What do you want to do?”

He shrugs. “Why wasn't the tape there? Not that I'd have wanted Jason to get it. But still . . . It should have been there.”

I don't know what to think about the tape
not
being there. For the last two days this whole crazy search has felt so certain. Like we were really going to find it. If Eli went through all the trouble to be so specific, why not deliver in the end?

I stare out the far window, at the dark blur of tunnel slipping by. I wonder if there was something we missed in the letter from Eli, but that's back in Caleb's stuff at the
place they're staying. I'd do some searches online, or, now that the secret's out, send some tweets about tonight's show, but I can't even do that because I have to save battery life. Val and I already realized we don't have time to go back to our place, which means no charged phone, not to mention no cool black shirt and boots and actually brushed hair for the show.

“Can we copy the other tapes before we turn them in?” Matt wonders.

“Who says we're turning them in?” I reply.

Val huffs. “We don't have another choice now.”

“We have Jet City Records,” I say, but even I think it sounds so lame compared to what Candy Shell is offering us.

“No,” Val says stiffly. “We don't.” I wonder where this new certainty is coming from, but don't ask.

“Let's just focus on the show,” says Caleb, and this tugs a grunt of agreement out of everyone. “All we have for sure right now is the band. If none of this tape or label stuff works out, we can just keep being ourselves, Pluto strong.”

He's right. At least we have each other.

The thought seems to buoy us all . . . that is, until we get to the club. We walk in while Postcards is soundchecking . . .

And see Jon is onstage with them.

Postcards slams to the end of a song.

“Fantastic!” Jason is standing alone on the floor in front of the stage, clapping dramatically and grinning back at us. “Not bad, right?”

None of us respond.

Jon glances up and notices us, but turns back to the members of . . .
his
new band?
I see him share a smile with Mark, hear Pete say, “Nice, man,” and I wonder.

Ethan hasn't seen us yet. He always was very insular onstage. Like he assumed all eyes were on him, and he couldn't play favorites. “Do we have time for one more?” he says into the mic.

“Yeah,” the sound man replies.

“What's left in your charts?” Ethan asks Jon.

Jon reaches to a music stand, flipping through pages.

“Charts?” Caleb murmurs beside me.

Charts sounds like a plan.

Was Jon really upset at the Hard Rock or did he just leave early to get to this? Or both? And I find myself glaring at Ethan. I wonder about everything these past few weeks. I mean, when did they make this arrangement? Was it a conversation in Denver? But now I remember Ethan's comment way back at school:
From what I've read, Dangerheart already has Mount Hope's best guitarist.
Was this Ethan's motivation for joining us at these shows all along?

“Did you know Jon was playing with them?” Caleb asks me as we head to the side of the stage and down a narrow hall to the greenroom.

“No idea,” I say.

“Did anyone?” Caleb asks Matt and Val, but they didn't either.

The more I think about it, the further back it goes. Even when I just so happened to run into him over bath salts . . . Was that the start of this long con? If it was, then I am some kind of idiot.

The greenroom is spare with cracked concrete walls and a sloping concrete floor. Every inch of the walls is covered with stickers or scrawled band names. There are three sagging couches, a mini-refrigerator full of cheap beer and sodas, and it smells vaguely like the toilets down the hall.

We all collapse on the couches with not much to say.
Nobody wants to talk about Jon onstage, about there being no tape.

“This sucks,” I say to Caleb. I feel like I want to melt away to some alternate reality.

He shakes his head. “One minute, we're grinding the Hard Rock to a halt, the next we've got nothing . . . I seriously can barely take it anymore.”

“It's a lot,” I say, and Caleb doesn't even know about Val's day. . . .

There is very little that is not a total mess.

Jon walks in a few minutes later. Nobody speaks as he leans his guitar case in the corner and visits the fridge for a soda. Ethan, Mark, and Pete come in as he's sitting down.

“Hey, Summer,” says Mark. He was always my second favorite in that band, and the one who was most apologetic when I was left behind. I kind of avoided them in Denver with everything else going on, but now I get up and give Mark and Pete hugs.

“Good to see you again,” Pete adds.

“You too,” I admit, swallowing a moment of hurt for these old friends, who I used to think of as my band of pirates. But rather than strike up a conversation, I sit back on the couch beside Caleb. It's a move meant to keep the past and present in their places.

And also so that Ethan doesn't get the impression that there will be a hug for him, ever.

“Sounded good,” Caleb says diplomatically.

“Aww, thanks,” says Ethan. “Really glad Jon was willing to sit in with us.”

“What a lucky break,” I mutter because I can't resist.

Ethan salutes me with a soda. “Worked out pretty great, I have to say.”

I hate him for his bullshit, and I want to accuse him of playing me right here in front of everyone, and yet I hesitate because part of that play involved our snowy gyro walk in Denver . . . an event I never actually mentioned to Caleb. Man, I should have! There was nothing to hide, but we were so far from Denver by the time Caleb was awake, and there was so much else to talk about, and I didn't want it to be weird with everything else that was weird . . . but suddenly now it has become another secret, one that binds me to Ethan right when I want to burn all connection to him. The feeling makes me want to barf.

The sound man appears in the doorway. “Dangerheart?” he reads off a clipboard. “You guys are on for soundcheck.”

While the band sets up, I take the merch out and claim a space on the table by the main doors. I arrange the postcards and EPs, the mailing list and the buttons. At least it's always satisfying to set up the merch. To look at the little stack of CDs and feel that irrational hope that you might sell them all. It almost takes my mind off our current theater of suck. It reminds me that we still have a chance tonight: all this backstage bullshit will sting a little less if the band
can just play one good drama-free set.

They start with “Knew You Before.” I'm playing with arrangements: CDs in front, in a fan shape, straight up stack, buttons in line or in a mess, best spot for the list, when I hear “Catch Me” grind to a halt. Now that I'm paying attention, something had sounded off.

“Sorry,” Jon says, kneeling down and tweaking knobs on Mission Control. “Delay's all different.”

As he fiddles, Caleb huffs. “Come on, man, we only get ten minutes.”

Jon offers him a quick glare. “I know.”

I hope Caleb just leaves it alone . . . “Maybe you should have fixed that after your set with your new band.”

Or not.

“Wow . . . ,” says Jon, standing up. “Hey, maybe we'd have longer than ten minutes to check if you hadn't been busy playing rock star at the Hard Rock.”

“You know what, fuck you, Jon!” Caleb explodes. “I'm sick of your shit.”

I'm moving toward the stage as fast as I can.

“Calm down,” says Val, getting there first and grabbing Caleb's arm.

“I'm sorry I happen to have a famous, dead dad,” Caleb says anyway, nearly shouting. “It's
so
much cooler than having a living parent like you have.”

“It doesn't mean you have to act the way you do,” says Jon.

“I— Wait, that's right, I forgot how terrible it is being in a band that's getting tons of notoriety! What a burden!”

“Caleb—” Val urges.

“Guys!” I reach the front of the stage.

“You know what?” Jon is nearly shouting. “Maybe you could just once look at things from somebody else's point of view besides your own!”

“What do you care? It looks like you've found a new band anyway!”

“Hey!” Val screams. “Can you both please act like professionals for five more minutes so I can check my vocals?”

Jon and Caleb glare at each other, but then both nod to Val. I half expect Jon to walk off, but he stays and they finish “Catch Me.” Utter silence between songs . . . They wrap up soundcheck with a sterile version of “Starlight.”

After, we eat at the Mexican joint around the corner, all of us together but silent: everybody taking shelter in their phones. It's terrible sitting there, stuck in the Red Zone, feeling like if we open our mouths at all, the whole thing might explode. And that, on top of the failure at the Hard Rock . . . The tension is suffocating.

We head back to the club and it's nice to see a line out the door. It lifts everyone's spirits a touch, out of the gloom we've been in.

Caleb and I linger outside while everyone else goes in. We stand in the dark and cold on the corner, by a glacier of trash-strewn snow. I put my arms around him. He doesn't
react at first, but slowly thaws. His hand starts to rub up and down my back.

“How are you holding up?” I ask him. As I say this I have to stifle a yawn. The lack of sleep this week is catching up to me hard. I want to crawl into bed for a month.

“Fine, I guess.” He looks up past the streetlights. Apartment windows glow in yellow and blue. The sky is a featureless wash of orange. It's supposed to snow again, later. “I'm bummed about Jon,” he says. “About the tape. This trip is starting to feel like a huge waste.”

“I know . . . I can't believe there are no points for crossing the country, rocking a party in Denver, or playing an impromptu show in a Hard Rock.”

“Excuse me, are you Caleb?”

We turn to see a young woman and a guy standing behind us. They are both wearing black coats and scarves that are so similar they could be part of the same military unit.

“Yeah,” says Caleb.

“I'm Tessa from Jet City. This is Sam.”

We shake hands. I introduce myself.

“How was your trip out?” Tessa asks.

“It's been an adventure,” says Caleb diplomatically.

“We had a great show in Denver,” I add, “packed. Good buzz.” As soon as the words are out I feel like kind of a rookie. Like I'm bragging.

But Tessa beams. “Awesome. Can you guys hang out
after the show? One of our bands is on first, so we want to get in there, but we'd love to chat later.”

“Definitely,” says Caleb.

“Great. We'll find you backstage after.” Tessa smiles and they head inside. Man, I like her already.
Do you have a half million bucks?
I feel like asking her.

“They seem nice,” says Caleb sadly, and I know he's thinking the same thing.

The show starts almost an hour late, as so many shows do for reasons I can never quite figure out. Tonight, it's something to do with the wristbands that attendees get, and also an issue with the house speakers. The bands are supposed to have thirty-minute sets but the very first one goes forty and that seems to set the tone for the night. We are on fifth out of nine and somehow a set that was supposed to start at ten is instead pushed back to nearly midnight.

Caleb and I watch the earlier bands from out in the crowd, saying little. As a band called Slip into the Void plays, Matt wanders out to us.

“How's it going back there?” I ask.

“You should probably come talk to Val.”

We find her draped on the side of the couch, chatting up the keyboard duo called Dalliance that just played. And passing a slim glass bottle of red-colored liquor back and forth between them.

“Val,” says Caleb.

“Hey, bro,” she toasts and takes a swig.

“That's enough. We're on next.”

“I'm already on,” she says, laughs, but then she passes the bottle back to the Dalliance boys without drinking more. “Relax, I'm fine.”

“It's been a big, crazy day,” I say, trying to empathize with her without blowing the secret of our day trip.

“What would you know about it?” she shoots back at me. Maybe she's doing that to keep our cover. Maybe it's the drink. Either way, I'm worried that we're losing her again.

“Come watch the set with us,” Caleb says, tugging gently on Val's arm. “Please. For me.”

She looks like she might fight, but then she smiles at Dalliance. “Sorry, gents, duty calls.”

As we are leaving the greenroom, Ethan, Mark, and Pete walk by.

“Oh, hey there,” Ethan says, like we're buddies. “We were just going to get some food. You guys want to join?”

“Dangerheart is on in fifteen minutes,” I say coldly. He probably knew that. And yet, here's that hierarchy among bands again, only this time, we're the band getting skipped for dinner.

“Oh, right,” says Ethan. “We'll be back for it.”

No, you won't, you sooooo won't
, I think, but I let it go. He gets nothing.

Out in the crowd, Val nurses a soda and sways a little between us.

“It's okay,” she says when she notices Caleb and I glancing
at each other. “I'll be fine. Just keeping the demons at bay.”

I want so badly to tell Caleb about our day, but I can't risk setting Val off. Who knows what she'd do at this point, half drunk with her nerves already frayed from being here.

The Void plays their last song.

“Showtime,” says Val.

“You sure you're okay?” Caleb asks.

“I got this, bro, I got this.”

“Good luck,” I say, kissing Caleb.

“Thanks. We're gonna need it.”

Dangerheart takes the stage. There is the moment where I wonder if Jon will even join but then he does. And while I can tell that they are all feeling off and cold and distant in their own orbits from one another, the crazy thing about music is that this translates completely differently out in the crowd. Out here, they end up coming across as relaxed and almost a bit indifferent, like they're going to do their thing and they don't particularly care if you like it. And that of course makes you want to find out more about it. It's one of the great mysteries of bands: the internal tension can look like strength from the outside. Which is funny because they will be lucky to survive the night.

That said, the set is kind of amazing. Caleb is solid. Val digs in and brings it. She's sloppy, but as the set goes on you can see her sweat her way out of it, the alcohol wearing off. Now if we can just keep her away from it afterward. Matt has a particularly good night. Head down, playing louder
than ever, his arms a blur. As if he's pouring the mess of the last two days into the drums. And Jon is great as always, but definitely keeps a shoulder turned toward Caleb the entire set. He's the only one whose affect crosses the line from disinterest to boredom. Though maybe I'm the only one who notices that. Otherwise, the band is channeling their rubbed-raw emotion and turning it into stage fire.

The crowd is into it. I've sold five CDs before the set is over. The applause grows for each song. “On My Sleeve” actually generates more quiet listening than disinterested talking, which is rare for any room with a bar in it.

They are about to play their last song, the applause dying down while Caleb tunes, when I hear a shout that catches my attention:

“Cassie!”

Before I'm even sure of what word I've heard, alarms are ringing inside. The timbre of that voice is too familiar.