Encore to an Empty Room (7 page)

“What.” Val stares at the package like it might be lethal.

Caleb and I lock eyes. Val told us her mom knew about Caleb. But Melanie didn't sound like the kind of person to randomly send anyone a present. Unless of course she knows that her daughter is here.

“You want me to open it?” Randy asks.

“I want you to burn it,” says Val.

“We should see what's inside,” says Charity.

“You do it,” Val says to Caleb.

“Okay.” Caleb takes a deep breath and puts the smaller box in his lap. He tears at the packing tape and pulls open the flaps. He rustles through packing peanuts and removes a small package. The wrapping paper is red with cartoon Rudolphs and Santas. Seeing this makes Val wince, like she recognizes it. I don't know if she's breathing. I'm not sure any of us are.

Caleb holds up the little present. “You want to?”

Val waves her hand. “You.”

Caleb rips open the paper and finds a wad of tissues. Not the kind of tissue paper you'd normally find in a present, but actual tissues.

“That's classic,” says Val. Tears have started leaking from her eyes.

Caleb unwraps the tissues and exposes a small stack of photos. He pulls a pink Post-it note off the top and reads: “
Hope you guys like seeing these. —MF.
”

You guys.
She must mean Val, too.

The look on Val's face says she's thinking the same thing.

Caleb scoots closer so I can see as he flips through the photos.

The first few are black-and-whites from an Allegiance to North show. They seem like professional shots. There's Eli, in midair as he hits a guitar chord, Parker the drummer slamming his cymbals, Miles and Eli with their bass and guitar aimed at each other. Curiously, Kellen doesn't appear in any of these photos. I guess Melanie didn't feel like saving any pictures of her ex and Eli's nemesis.

The next couple are in color and have a thick white border. They're blurry and washed out. Polaroids. Even back in '98 that would have been retro. The first is Eli, in a suede and sheep's wool coat leaning against a brick wall; the next, looking up from a bowl of soup in a Chinese restaurant;
then a selfie with Melanie, both in giant sunglasses, on some roof deck somewhere. She looks a lot cuter than in the current, bleary Facebook profile photo that I've seen. They're huddled close and behind them the city glows in twilight. The next photo shows Eli at the beach, shirtless, jeans rolled up, ankle deep in the water. Based on the attractions in the background, I'd guess it's Coney Island.

These are scenes from the lost summer, I realize, after Allegiance broke up and before Eli reappeared in Los Angeles, only to die shortly thereafter.

The last picture makes Caleb pause.

“What?” I ask. He hands it over. I see a small boy with a bowl cut of brown hair. He's sitting on the floor, wearing one-piece pajamas, looking up at the camera with a yellow binky in his mouth.

“I think that's you, man,” says Randy, leaning over my shoulder.

Caleb nods silently. “And there's this.” The last thing in the stack is photo-sized but made of wood. It's white with a small scene painted on it: an impressionistic depiction of a skinny brick building, like three stories high. It looks like a brownstone you'd see in New York City.

“Is that maybe where they lived?” I wonder. “That summer?”

I check with Randy but he just shrugs. “I don't think any of us were in touch with Eli during that time.” He looks at Charity but she also shakes her head.

Caleb hands the stack to me and digs back into the box. “There's something else.” He produces a small stuffed animal. A little duck. One blue eye is missing.

Val huffs. Her eyes are murderous, and yet she holds out her hands.

Caleb tosses it over.

“Say hello to Bubbles,” she says, sounding bitter. “Can't believe she sent that . . .” And yet she rubs the matted, faded yellow creature across her cheek. Bubbles erases any sliver of doubt about who the package was intended for.

We all sit there for a second, no one knowing what to do.

Finally, Randy asks, “What about the big box?”

Caleb stands the package on its long end and starts to pull off the paper.

“Are we sure this one isn't from your grandparents?” Charity asks.

“Did you tell them to buy me a . . .” Caleb peels away layers of paper. “Yup.”

He reveals a beat-up guitar case, black with frayed corners. The metal clasps and reinforcements are tarnished. The case is covered in stickers.

“That's . . . that was Eli's,” says Randy quietly.

“No way,” says Caleb, running his palms up and down the sides.

“The case for his '62 Jazzmaster.” Randy sounds reverent. “Man, I remember when he bought that thing. Sea
foam green . . . He used an entire summer of money working at In-N-Out. That was on the first tour he and I ever did together, when we were in Poison Pen. Before Allegiance to North.”

“Where's the actual guitar?” Caleb asks, shaking the case.

“He sold it,” says Randy. “I couldn't believe it when he did. That thing was his favorite, but . . .”

“What?” Caleb asks.

“Well . . . he told me about selling it the last time I saw him,” says Randy. “Which was also the day he died. Almost like he knew.”

Caleb lays the case down on the couch and pops open the latches.

A strong musty odor wafts out of it, that weird smell of basements and glue. You can see the guitar's outline in the matted red fur lining.

Caleb opens the tiny compartment in the center. “There's something in here.” He holds up an object that fits in his palm: it's skinny, a couple inches long, and wrapped in yellow paper held in place by a rubber band. He peels off the band and unrolls a handwritten receipt. Inside is what looks like a piece of circuitry, white with silver dots on one side.

“It's a guitar pickup,” says Caleb.

“Let me see,” says Randy.

Caleb passes it over, then reads the receipt. “Dylan's
Vintage Guitars. In Denver. This is . . . it's a receipt for the Jazzmaster.”

“Dylan's . . . ,” says Randy. “Yeah, that's where he bought it on our first tour.”

I notice something on the receipt. “Is there something written on the back?”

Caleb turns it over. “Eli's writing.”

He reads:

We all look at each other.

Lyrics to the second lost song.

Even just those three little lines make me think of the Eli that Vic described, thinking about what-ifs in music . . . and in his own life.

“Back where I started from . . . ,” Randy mutters to himself, then he bolts up. “Whoa! I'm an idiot!” He starts counting on his fingers. “LA. San Francisco. Denver . . . I can't believe I never . . . duh!”

“Randy, what?” Val snaps.

“Those are the three cities that Eli and I played on the Poison Pen tour. Well, but we played them in the opposite order.”

“One of the things Vic told us,” I say to Randy, “was that Eli actually hid that tape at Canter's on the day he died. Same day he gave you that gig bag.”

Randy sinks back into the couch, absorbing this. “You mean, like, he was leaving all this for us to find, right at the end?”

“I think so.”

Randy rubs his face. “But that makes it sound like . . . him drowning . . .” He doesn't need to finish. “Is that . . . possible?”

Caleb bites his lip.

“I don't know,” says Charity. She's crying quietly now, too.

“It was bad enough thinking that it was an accident,” says Randy, “to blame it on the drugs, but if he did it on purpose, that makes it . . .”

“Different,” Caleb finishes.

“The more we find out,” says Charity quietly, “the more I wish I never even told you about him.”

“It's okay,” says Caleb.

“I wish he'd told me,” says Randy. “But I guess if suicide really was his plan, he knew I'd try to stop him.” His brow is furrowed, and he stares into space. I know Randy took Eli's death pretty hard. It must be seriously messing with him to consider that Eli planned it.

“Either way,” Caleb says to Randy, “I think this
definitely means is that he wanted you to be part of the search. He probably meant for you to find that letter in his gig bag in the first place.”

“Some detective I've been,” Randy groans.

“Still . . . ,” says Val, eyeing the guitar case. “We don't know who sent us the case.”

“You don't think it was your mom?” says Randy. “I mean, there was only the one shipping label. Do you think she knew about the receipt in there? Like she's . . . in on helping us find these songs?”

Val actually busts out laughing. “What, you mean like, Eli told my mom sixteen years ago to remember to send this guitar case here for Christmas
this year
? My mom can't even remember to make dinner, or take a shower . . .” She looks down at the little duck and throws it on the floor.

“Maybe your mom sent it because she knew you and Caleb were together and it's a coincidence,” I suggest, though as I say it I don't really believe it.

“I never saw that case around our house,” says Val.

“Can we call UPS?” Caleb asks. “I mean, they should have a record of our address and the delivery, and should be able to tell us something.”

“Their offices would be closed today,” says Charity.

“So . . . ,” says Caleb, “do we think it's possible this guy Dylan, in Denver, really has the next tape? Should we try to call him?”

I do a search. “His shop still exists, so that's something.”

Randy rubs his beard. “I mean, I guess . . . if the tapes retrace our tour, LA, then San Fran, then Denver would be next. Man, this is still blowing my mind. The idea that Eli thought this all through . . .”

“I don't think we should call that guy in Denver,” says Val. She's staring hard at the case. “I mean, we already have enough people watching us with Candy Shell and Kellen McHugh. What if we call this Dylan guy out of the blue, and he has some time to think about it and realizes he has something valuable? He might decide that he could make a pile of money selling the tape to Candy Shell, or on his own or something.”

“He hasn't said anything before now,” I point out.

“He might not even know he has it,” says Caleb.

Randy flips the pickup between his fingers. “It could be hidden somewhere. Pickups usually come in pairs. I bet if we find the matching one, we're going to find the next tape. It's got to be Denver.”

“So how are we going to get there?” Caleb wonders aloud.

Everybody's eyes turn to me.

“What do you think?” Caleb asks. “A show in Denver?”

It's the first thing that makes me feel like smiling. “Nothing would make me happier than to set that up.”

Val makes a little noise, like wind through a crack. She's staring at the pile of photos. The one on top shows her mom, smiling.

She finds my gaze. “I can't let her find me.”

“I think she already has,” I say carefully.

“Well, then I need to leave. Go somewhere else.”

“You're not leaving here,” says Charity, wiping her eyes. “I'd say it's more likely that this package is meant to be an olive branch. I mean, that's what I would mean it to be.”

Val shrugs. “You two couldn't be more different.” She gets up. “I'm going to take a walk.”

We are silent for a minute. I find myself reading the stickers on the case. It's like a list of the best clubs you'd want to play at around the country. The Make Out Room, the Paradise Rock Club, the House of Blues, Antone's, the Wax Shop. There's a familiar sticker for Ten Below Zero. Eli had one like that on his gig bag, mostly worn away.

“What are we going to do?” Caleb asks. He's looking at Charity.

“Maybe I should try to get in touch with Melanie,” says Charity. “Val is essentially living with us. We're harboring her, I mean not like she's a fugitive, but . . .”

“She's a runaway,” says Randy. “Though Melanie doesn't sound like the type to take legal action.”

I rub the top of Caleb's hand as he sits there. He's a world away, deep in these dark and familiar waters. It's the essential trap we're in: whenever we do find out anything about Eli, Caleb has to reckon with who his father was, and that's only getting harder the more we learn.

He shakes his head, returning from afar. “We should go find Val,” he says. “You think?”

“You go,” I say. “I'll help clean up here.”

I watch him leave and feel for him, for Val too. No matter how much either of them run, the ghosts keep following them.

But at least now we have a lead.

It's time to stop running and get back to the hunt.

We're on edge for the rest of Christmas Day. But the phone never rings. The doorbell never chimes. It takes Caleb some time to talk Val down, and after they finally return from a walk, Val is determined to kill the rest of the day playing video games. When I leave the basement, she and Randy are infiltrating some sort of frat house full of naked coed zombies who have laser eyes. The puddles of vomit are lethal, too? Or something. Randy's sharing a growler of beer with her, which Charity has decided to ignore for tonight.

Before I go, Caleb tries putting his Telecaster into Eli's old guitar case.

“Check out the metaphor,” he says when the guitar fits.

“Well played.” It crosses my mind that the guitar case,
with its soft padded lining, resembles a coffin. I know better than to try to make a joke about that. But I also know that seeing Caleb's guitar in there gives me a chill.

He closes the lid and runs his fingers over the chipped stickers. “It's the closest I have to hearing his stories, you know? To hanging out with him. I think the thing that's most annoying sometimes is that I actually do want to get to know him. To have him in my life, well, as much as he can be. I just wish there wasn't all the noise around it.”

I give him the biggest hug I can, and we kiss until Charity coincidentally bumps something downstairs as if to say,
Okay, that's enough.

I wake up and send three emails for possible Denver gigs. Then I spend the morning working on my application. And by that I mean I spend the morning re-listening to all of the recent practice sessions that Dangerheart has recorded, taking notes on particularly great moments that we can't forget in the studio, or in Denver. Like the way Matt drove the second half of the second verse of “Catch Me” with that quarter note kick drum pattern. Or that cool rhythm that Val gave to the second chorus of “On My Sleeve” that one time back in October, the one that Jon said would go good with a motorik beat. Except then Matt didn't really know what that was and you know how drummers get when they don't know a reference. I'd been
thinking the other night that “Sleeve” needed one more thing. I think this is it.

There's also the way Caleb sang “Chem Lab” one time where it was just the right blend of his smile and his fret. Another time where Val gave a hopeful turn to her delivery on “The Spinelessness of Water” . . .

I've listened to these songs so many times at this point that they feel like rooms, no, not even rooms: scenes that I inhabit. This drum fill is a staircase, that guitar line the blur of traffic lights out the window, this vocal sound the feel of the carpet as I approach the handsome gentleman in the corner (who's Caleb, of course!). The bass line that is a murmur of conversation . . . There are so many times when I want to comment and share all of these tiny nuances, the late beat here, the overtone there, the second or two when the guitar sounds like the color cobalt . . . but how annoying would all those tweets and posts be? And no one would quite get it. Any listener who loves these songs as much as me has their own scenes that the music whisks them off to. That's part of the awesome.

Notes finished, I check my email again, looking for Denver replies. What I find instead makes me forget to breathe:

From: Tessa Cruz ([email protected])

To: Dangerheart's Mailbox ([email protected])

---------------------------------------------------------

Greetings from Jet City Records!

December 26 at 9:25am

---------------------------------------------------------

Hello, Dangerheart!

We just read the feature about you in Toast & Jam. We've checked out your songs and we'd love to speak with you about working together. We dig what you have going on and would love to help you take it to the next level. We realize you may have had other offers but we hope you'll consider getting in touch!

Tessa Cruz

Senior Talent Scout

Jet City Records

Seattle, WA

I stare at it for a minute, screaming silently, breathing hard, and basically just thinking whoa whoa whoa!

Of course I've heard of Jet City. They're small, but focused. Not a shark. But not a minnow either. And I love their album designs.

I text Caleb immediately, but he doesn't reply. After a
few minutes I'm too excited to sit still so I head down for breakfast.

“Somebody's got their nose in the phone this morning,” says Dad from the table, where he's eating a grapefruit and reading his tablet.

“Sorry.”

“I'm glad we're going to see Caleb again today,” says Mom, across from Dad, doing sudoku.

Of course I can taste the side of guilt with Mom's comment. They've only met Caleb one time: when he came over on Thanksgiving evening. Bradley and Sonya were in town and we played Apples to Apples. It was fun and easy: even the part where my brother casually belittled Caleb's (and unspoken: mine) music aspirations by referring to how
he was in a band once, too, back in the day. . . . That was a good time, man.

I toast a bagel and busy myself with sending a text about Jet City to the rest of the band. Everybody else replies immediately.

I join in the excitement, and try to keep my small worry about how I'll fit into such record label plans at bay. Labels have their own managers, as I've learned all too well in the past. But there's a world of difference, at least in terms of
reputation, between a cool indie label like JCR and something like Candy Shell. A record deal with someone like this is way more of a partnership, and usually much better for the band. And for me. I'm sure I could be involved.

Oh, and another huge difference between this time and last time, with Postcards, is that unlike Ethan, Caleb would actually fight for me.

My phone buzzes again. I'm hoping for Caleb—

I've just put my phone down when it buzzes again.

I tell him . . .

And he doesn't reply. I'm about to text and ask if my message went through, when finally:

Another pause, longer than I expected. And long enough to tell me that he's hesitant.

I probably knew that was coming.

I can't resist poking him a little.

Long pause.

I can't help wondering if he's lying. And just typing xo to appease me. Like I'm the one being managed.

My first reaction after we're done chatting is frustration. Is it fair to feel that way? I know these moments are tough for Caleb. And they keep happening before we expect them to. But to any other band this would so obviously be a great thing.

Also, I don't want to feel annoyed with this pattern: where good things that happen to the band lead to bad vibes with Caleb. Still, it takes me a little while to get over it.

I spend the rest of the afternoon poring over the Jet City website. There will definitely be no application writing now. I imagine Dangerheart among these bands, us on tour next year, playing indie festivals. College would have to wait. But today that sounds fine, as long as I don't think about how Carlson Squared might react. And what about Stacia's advice?

But a record label, a chance for the band to be real . . .
I'm pretty sure you can't expect this kind of opportunity to come more than once.

By four o'clock my excitement for whatever Caleb has planned has edged out my frustration with him, so I spend some time cleaning up and getting into a date outfit. The rare skirt comes out of my closet recesses, and a sleeveless shirt Aunt Jeanine got me that shimmers a little. I'd never wear it to school. Earrings? Sure.

Caleb arrives right on time. My dad gets to the door before I do, and when I come down the stairs, he's in the middle of asking Caleb: “How's senior year going for you?”

“Ah, fine,” says Caleb, his voice stiff and polite. He sees me over Dad's shoulder and smiles. I notice that he's dressed up, too. A blue collared shirt and this cool charcoal blazer. His hair is combed just one more notch than usual and still wet from the shower and all of it is adorable.

“Catherine says you're taking the year off next year.”

“Well, I'll be working,” says Caleb, “and working on the band.”

“Yeah,” my dad says with a sigh, “college is so expensive these days. It's almost criminal really.”

“Hey,” I say, racing down the last few steps.

“Hi,” says Caleb, sounding relieved to be free of that conversation, but then he also says, “You look amazing.”

“Oh, thanks.” I roll my eyes to play it down, but my cheeks are burning.

I give him a hug, avoiding a kiss in front of my parents.
As we walk out into the evening, I think we must look like we're headed to a country club or out to a fancy dinner and it feels like it's so not us. I can almost hear my neighborhood, the Fronds, nodding in unison. Finally, Catherine has emerged.

And yet I have to admit there is something sort of exciting about being dressed up, going on a proper date. It makes me wonder: What if Caleb and I were grown-ups together? What if we lived in an apartment in whatever the cool part of town is in five years, and went out in the evenings, to spend time, or to
functions
? What if we had money and dressing like this was something we did? What if we were fancy? That wouldn't be terrible. In fact, I think part of me kind of
wants
that. We'd still be doing music, of course, and we'd have kept our integrity and been true to our art and not succumbed to a commercial for watches or detergent or anything, but . . . we'd be adults.

There is something weirdly romantic about that and also Caleb smells like spring-clean deodorant and soap and I think it would also be fun if we got a chance to remove these complicated clothing layers from one another at some point.

“Have fun,” says Dad, snapping me out of the trance, and also causing me to boil over for a second once we get in the car.

“I'm so sorry about that,” I groan.

“About what?”

“Ugh, about my dad referring to next year as you
taking
the year off.
As if working full-time and doing the band isn't real work. Like all that really matters is how you
won't
be going to college. It drives me crazy how he just assumes everyone thinks the same way he does.”

“Oh, well, I didn't really mind. I mean, that's just how he is, right?”

“Unfortunately.”

Caleb rubs my leg. “Forget about him.” He turns on one of our favorite bands, Cold Hearts Play with Fire, and for a while we just drive and listen and don't talk.

“Still not going to tell me where we're going?” I ask as we get on the freeway.

“Nope.”

We drive, and don't talk, and I love this feeling of just being with him, knowing that we are hearing the same thing at the same time, wondering if the words are making the same picture for him that they are for me. I run my fingers over his as he grips the wheel, but then move them back to my lap so they don't do anything rash.

I want this vibe to last our entire drive but soon my annoyingly busy brain can't help getting back to business.

“Have you talked with everyone about Jet City?” I ask.

“Yeah, they're psyched,” Caleb says without a hint of emotion.

“And . . . you?”

“I am . . .”

“Liar.”

A half smile breaks out. “I almost am.”

“They're a good label,” I say. “I don't think they'll just make it all about Eli.”

“You're probably right.”

“Probably?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

He smiles. “I thought of something else, though. The label thing makes finding Eli's songs an issue. Like, what if we find the rest of them, and we're signed to Jet City? We'd be getting them in trouble, too. And then they might drop us and all of that would look pretty bad.”

“Well,” I say, play-punching his shoulder. “That is a really super good point that I did not consider.”

“Sorry.”

“Duh, don't be. Hmm . . . well, maybe we should try and stall them, then. Actually, I know: we'll tell them that because we have to do the EP at school for our grade, we have to wait until we're done with that before we could sign anything.”

“Does that give us time to get to Denver?”

“I think there's only one chance to get there, and that's February vacation. And that's right after our EP is due anyway. So . . . yes?”

It's also before I'd hear back from any schools. Before I'd have to make any choices about the future.

“Okay, that has to be the plan, then,” says Caleb. He hits the turn signal emphatically and we start to exit from the 5. “Now, no more talk about business for tonight.”