Stay Until We Break (21 page)

I sit outside alone, out in the pasture on top of a large rock, holding on to Cole’s bass. I’m trying to smooth out the change from the chorus to bridge in “Short Shrift,” playing it over and over and over until I get it right. This is where I need to take the reverb off and hit the distortion, a tricky move, so I don’t want to be thinking about hand position. I need to get this song down by Maxwell’s. But fuck, this is frustrating.

I look up at the sky, cursing the stars for not arranging themselves so Cole could be right here, where he belongs. Right here, playing bass in the band, where I know he wants to be. Here, holding my hand and saying, “Look at all those stars, Sunshine,” like the stars are brand-new and he’s the first one to have ever seen them.

All alone out here, I look up at the sky. Those stars aren’t very good company, though. All they do is remind me that Cole isn’t here, and he’s never going to be here looking up at the late-night sky with me again.

“Hey,” says a familiar voice behind me. I’m surprised and grateful to see Joey there.

“I thought you’d be busy by now,” I say, giving him an eyebrow waggle. “You know . . .”

“Nah,” he says. “Meg is great, but with her in Virginia Beach it’s not going anywhere. We had a great night and she’s a cool girl but I think I’m done with road casualties.”

“Being a road casualty myself, I appreciate that,” I say.

“Come on now,” Joey says. “You were never tour fodder for Cole.”

I’m in no mood to argue with Joey about this. I look down at Cole’s bass and start fingerpicking a random bass line, but I still can’t hide my scowl.

“You know he’s in love with you, Sonia,” Joey says, and it takes all my strength not to laugh outright at that. “He must have told you that.”

“He didn’t, actually,” I say and feel cold and hollow. Now I just want Joey to go away.

“Know how I know that?” he asks. He points to the bass in my lap and says, “Cole never lets anybody touch his bass. And he left it with you.”

I look down at it, the chrome knobs glinting under the stars. I remember how he didn’t want to hand it to me when I was drunk, begging me not to drop it. The way he always looked when I was holding it or playing it, like I was holding his first born.

“It’s just a guitar,” I say.

“Not to Cole,” Joey says. “He bought that guitar in a pawn shop down in Weehawken when he was fifteen. Sonia, he had nothing back then—all his pants were short on him, he had no winter coat. Half the time he and Claire didn’t even have food on the table because his fucking father . . .” Joey stops, collects himself because I can see he looks upset, like he’s remembering something awful.

“What?”

“His dad was a nasty drunk—bad fucking news. His mom was no prize back then, either. He used to turn up at school with black eyes, cuts, bruises everywhere, when he turned up at all. Who knows where he and Claire would have ended up if Cole hadn’t done all the shit he did, some of it stupid, yeah, but his paper route didn’t quite cut it.”

“You mean selling weed?”

“Yeah, that,” Joey says. “But then, Emmy got this idea that we’d start a band and we’d hit the road one day, and he saw that as his ticket out, you know? We were all obsessed with Sonic Youth, and Emmy could already play guitar like she was born with one in her hands. I got a drum kit for Christmas that year, and we tried to figure out how to get Cole a bass. He mowed lawns, painted fences, shined shoes, and I think he probably even ran a few ounces to squirrel away every cent he could find to buy that damn guitar. And when he finally bought it, that was the proudest day of his life. But oh shit, the beating he took.” Joey mimics Cole’s mother and says,
“Where did you get the money for this? Did you steal it? Your ass is going to jail, just like your father!”

I’m staring out into the field as I listen, imagining fifteen-year-old Cole without a winter coat, holding on to this same P Bass like it was everything to him. Like it was bread and shelter and a future. I think about him taking a beating for it and feel my hand tighten around the neck.

“She doesn’t deserve him,” I say quietly. “How does someone like that deserve a son who’d drop everything and come running when she’s in trouble? Why would he even do that?”

“Because of Claire,” Joey says. “Katelyn stopped drinking after Cole got locked up, and I guess she tried to do better. She never hit him again, that’s for sure. They don’t get along great, but you know, they put up with each other for Claire’s sake.”

I almost ask him—does he know Cole is already gone? That he’s not ever coming back to Soft? Does he realize all of what he’s giving up for Claire’s sake? But I can’t bring myself to bring it up. And now, I think I understand why it was so hard for Cole to bring it up, too. Even with me. It feels hopeless and it threatens everything we’ve worked so hard for. It undoes everything that feels important to us.

In the silence, I notice all those sounds of a deep country night. The cows, the rustle of a slow breeze in the leaves. There are no airplanes overhead, no highway noise here. No soundtrack for anger, for sure. That’s when I realize I’m not angry anymore.

I gently pick that chorus-to-bridge change in “Short Shrift,” and this time I nail it. I exhale with relief.

“This bass is pretty magical,” I admit. “I’m getting attached to it.”

Joey smiles and puts his arm around me. “You know, Cole once told me this bass was the only thing in his life that ever gave him any hope. And I’m sure it was, until you came along.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, Sunshine,” he says. “You.”

***

On Wednesday, we have the day off. It’s a day where I do some hard thinking about things, and I realize maybe I was a bit more of an asshole than I should have been. Hey, it happens.

When Cole told me he was quitting the band, I flipped out that he wasn’t who he appeared to be. It was like my world and everything I thought I knew crumbled beneath my Doc Martens. I felt like such a fool. But when I look back, maybe I was more into the idea of dating a rock star than I let on. And I have to ask myself if I was more angry that he didn’t tell me his plans, or just more disappointed that he’s a plumber from Jersey, and not some up-and-coming hot musician touring the country, chasing dreams. I was so mad that Cole was caving to pressure from his family, that he let himself be trapped by those obligations when I’d fought so hard to be rid of my own. I saw that as weakness. But after hearing his story from Joey, I see things differently. I don’t see him as weak at all now. In fact, I see him as remarkably strong. The kind of guy who would set his own dream aside to take care of the people he loves.

And when I think of him like that, my heart aches so much it nearly brings me to my knees. I feel even more in love with him now, for better or worse, and I can’t pretend anymore that us falling apart was all his fault—like I was totally blameless here.

Not sure what the hell I’m going to do about that from Charlottesville, though. Or when we get back to Jersey. The best I can really do right now is focus on being the best bass player I can for Soft. That’s what he asked me to do, isn’t it?
Play so well they forget I was ever in the band,
he said.

Don’t know about that, but I can play well enough to get signed to Matador. All I need now is a little attitude to go with it.

So when Shen and Jeremy announce this is the right day for Manic Panic, the punk rock hair dye, I decide I’m going to dye my hair bright blue. Not all of it, but right around my face and part of my bangs.

“Kind of like war paint,” I say.

“Yeah, whore paint!” Shen says.

I guess that works.

It turns out even better than I’d imagined. Bright blue streaks against my black hair make me feel like a badass. Like I could join Lush. Emmylou squeals with delight when she sees it. When I think of just how much my mother would hate it, I smile.

I wonder if Cole would like it. No, actually, I don’t wonder. I know he’ll love it.

Feeling way bolder now, I ask Joey for the number for Cole’s house in Lodi, even if I’m not sure what I’m going to say to him. “I’m sorry,” for starters, but I need to say a lot more than that. All I’m sure of now is that I need to hear his voice. But when I do call, it’s not his voice I get to hear.

“Cole isn’t here right now,” a woman says, rough and tired sounding, so it’s a pretty safe bet it’s not Claire. “He’s working.”

What was I thinking? It’s three in the afternoon on Wednesday—of course he’s working. He could even be at Joey’s parents’ house, fixing his mother’s washing machine.

“Is this Mrs. McCormack?” I ask.

“Yes, is there a message?” she asks.

“Would you please tell him Sonia called?”

“Is this his girlfriend?”

I almost drop the phone when she says that, because for a second I think maybe he’s got another girlfriend. But then the part of my brain that’s not broken realizes that he must have mentioned me. He’s actually mentioned me to his mother.

“Um . . . yes,” I say. “It is.”

“I’ll tell him you called,” she says.

I should just hang up, I know. I should mind my own business. But I can’t seem to do that. Ever. So before she can hang up, I say, “You know he’s a phenomenal musician, right?”

I definitely catch her off her guard with that, because she doesn’t say anything for what feels like ten minutes.

“I know he’s a good plumber,” she answers. “That’s enough for me.”

“Do you want to come see him play his last show at Maxwell’s this Saturday night? I’ll put you on the guest list.”

“He said he’s not playing any more shows.”

My stomach clenches like I’m going to vomit again and I’m back in my conversation with Joey last night, feeling enraged at this person I don’t even know, Cole’s mother, who just doesn’t get it. Who’s hit him and hurt him and is allowing him to give up his own dreams to send his sister—her daughter—to college. I should definitely hang up now before I say something I’ll regret. Ha, right.

“Well, this show is very important,” I insist. “He wants to play it, trust me. He lives to play bass, and Maxwell’s is his last chance to play for a packed club. Mrs. McCormack, he’s so good that a major-label band offered him a spot, so I’m just saying, you might want to see him play once before he quits. He’s giving up everything he cares about for his family, so maybe you could, you know, appreciate that.”

If I thought the silence was awkward before, I’m surprised the ice coming through the phone line doesn’t put me into a permanent deep freeze. Fuck it, though. It needed to be said.

“Is that all?” she finally answers.

“Yeah,” I say, angry as hell. “That’s all.”

I slam the phone down.

If Cole ever does speak to me again, he’s going to kill me.

Cole

Wednesday evening, I walk into the kitchen of my mother’s house after a long-ass day of fixing leaky toilets and snaking out clogged drains while my uncle Patrick played with his brand-new cell phone in the truck.

“Check this baby out—a Motorola 7500! Now that’s fancy shit, huh, Cole? You wish you had one, I know. Maybe I’ll get you one to use for work. Damn handy, I’m tellin’ ya.”

“Sure,” I said. But fuck if I need a way for Patrick to call me all day long to tell me about this broad he met at Bennigan’s or that singles cruise he’s planning to take this winter, now that he’s got some help around here and a big contract on the hook. No thanks.

I lean against the doorframe, watching Mom wash the dishes. She refuses to let me put a dishwasher in, insists she gets them cleaner by hand. My face and hair are all sweaty. My skin feels like I’ve been dipped in a vat of lard and all I want to do is shower and then face-plant into my bed until I have the joy of waking up at five a.m. and doing it all over again tomorrow and the next day and the next fucking day forever.

“Long day?” she asks when she notices me standing there.

I shrug. I’m sure my face is all the answer she needs.

“You shouldn’t be on your feet,” I say, eyeing the brand-new inhaler on the counter that she’s obviously keeping within arm’s reach.

“I can’t sit on my ass all day any more than you can,” she says. “I’m fine.”

Ah, some things never change. Not even after a trip to the ER. Then I notice the huge box on the floor in the kitchen that says
Gateway
on it.

“Where did the computer come from?” I ask.

“Patrick,” she says. “He’s going to teach me to use it so I can start doing the books for him. I can’t clean houses anymore and I have to work somewhere.” Then she turns and dries her hands off on a towel. “You hungry?”

“Yeah,” I say. “It smells good in here.”

“I made brisket.”

“Wow, somebody’s feeling better,” I say.

“It’s Claire’s last night home,” she says. “Thought we could have dinner together.”

“Sounds good.”

I start to walk down the hall to my room when she says, “Oh, by the way, your girlfriend called.”

Feels like my damn heart stops. I never planned to tell her about Sonia, but last night Patrick was here for dinner, leaning on me to take out some chick who’s the daughter of this strip mall developer up in Tenafly. So I said fuck no, I’ve got a girlfriend. And yeah, I was thinking about Sunny. Of course I was.

“You talked to Sonia?” My heart goes from stopped to racing. “Is she all right?”

“Sounded fine to me,” she says. “What’s this about a show on Saturday? Thought you said you quit.”

I grit my teeth. That’s why Sunny called? To hound me about Maxwell’s?

“I didn’t quit yet,” I say. “As soon as they’re off tour, I’ll tell them.”

Mom rinses a plate, looks out the window. I’m about to walk off down the hall when she asks, “So, are you playing it?”

“No,” I say. “Sonia can play it. She’s been filling in for me this week.”

“Sounded like it was important, though,” Mom says, and I laugh.

“Oh yeah, an extremely important rock show,” I say. “World peace is riding on it.”

She shrugs and turns back to the dishes. “Go on and get cleaned up,” she says. “Dinner’s on the table in half an hour.”

***

In my old room, I fall onto my bed and stop moving for the first time in over ten hours. I’m weary from the top of my head to the bottoms of my feet, but nothing really feels as worn out as my heart. Can’t believe Sunny called here just to bug me one more time about Maxwell’s. Not to see how I am, or what’s been going on. Just to see if I was going to play that damn show.

I guess that says it all, doesn’t it?

Every day I wonder what might have been with that one. The time I spent with Sunny on the road, brief as it was, made me feel unstoppable. I actually thought we might hang in there after we got back and I did finally tell her the truth. I always expected she’d be mad, but I thought maybe we’d get past it. Wrong. Dead wrong. So then, why do I
still
think about us going from town to town, pushing that dream of the road until we finally do break?

Because I’m a fool, that’s why.

I force my feet back down to the ground. I think of Crown the Robin and how they struggle. Vincent drinks too much and Anton hasn’t been right in the head since his girlfriend broke up with him. Miles is convinced Maria has been cheating on him. Elliot is stressed out because Jeanie wants to have a baby and he’s twenty-eight and still trying to shake a handful of change in his pocket and pull out a mortgage payment. But they stay out on the road because they believe that big break is coming. One more town, one more mile, one more sold-out show, and maybe Matador or 4AD or spinART will show up and hand them a contract. We all hold on to hope like that—it’s why we’re out here. Or why they are.

But the sad truth is, that break, if it ever does come, doesn’t answer your prayers. It’s not your mortgage payment. It’s not college tuition for your future kids. It’s more time on the road hustling your set until you sell enough records to maybe make a down payment on a house. Maybe. And then staying on the road so you can make the mortgage payments for a house that you never see. For most bands who do make it, it’s still a fucking job, not a lottery ticket. But it’s the kind of job you love, you know?

So I was probably going to end up a plumber, regardless. Just wish it had been later. Like, much later.

And whatever I thought might happen between me and Sunny, I can’t imagine she’d ever say “I do” to a plumber. A girl like that has options. Even if Soft doesn’t turn out to be her main gig, she’ll probably end up in the city or LA or on the road with the likes of No Doubt or some other big band. What do I have to offer a girl like that?

I can’t help smiling when I remember being with Sunny at the lake in Tennessee. In the bathroom at Rafters. Under the unicorn in Tinglewood. So there’s at least one thing I know I gave her.

But I guess the best thing I can give her now is the freedom to go follow her dreams.

***

Now it’s Saturday and I don’t actually have to work, but we’ve got a row of new houses in Clifton that need fixtures installed, and what the hell else have I got to do today? I don’t want to sit home avoiding phone calls from Sonia about the show tonight. I’m not going to Maxwell’s because there’s no point. All that show will accomplish is giving me an ulcer, and I’m in the business of avoiding ulcers and any other problem I can avoid.

I’m all alone, my head under a sink as I try to knock a bolt loose, listening to
Car Talk
on the radio. Soft is probably back in Hub City by now, getting ready to head up to Hoboken for soundcheck. I imagine Sonia at Maxwell’s in a few hours, pacing like a caged tiger as she waits for me to walk through the door. She’s going to be so pissed when I don’t show up, but hey. She’s used to me pissing her off by now. The anger will probably just make her play better, anyway.

Focus on the job, McCormack.
I hear Patrick in my head.
Pay attention or you’ll fuck it up, and I’m not paying you if I have to clean up behind you.

“Here’s to the future,” I mutter as I finally wrench the bolt loose.

I hear the front door of the house creak open and quiet footsteps on the tile in the entryway. Nobody should be here—it’s a model house in a new development and it’s not ready for show yet. Probably some punk-ass teenagers here to vandalize or lift what they can. I wield my wrench like a billy club as I peer around the corner.

“Coco?” Claire stands in the foyer in a Bauhaus T-shirt, hoop earrings, and fifteen or twenty necklaces on like she’s about to go out for the evening. She’s been at college all of about fourteen hours and she’s already dyed her hair flaming red like Shirley Manson and chopped it off just below her chin, looks like with a chainsaw. Her eyes look like a raccoon’s and her lips are—is that purple? Brown? Black? Her nails are painted black. When she sees me in my Butler Plumbing and Heating coveralls and knee pads and baseball cap, she gives me a smile. “Nice duds.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “Is Mom okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says. “I need you to help me move a futon down to my dorm room. Patrick told me you were here and he said he’s not paying you overtime, so you may as well help me and finish the job on Monday.”

“That was swell of him,” I say, rolling my eyes.

I pack up my tools, lock the house up, and follow Claire home to Lodi to change. She says to dress sharp because she’s taking me out to Stuff Yer Face after as payment.

“You’re paying me in stromboli?” I say. “Seriously?”

“I’m a little short on cash,” she says.

“Then I’ll buy.”

“Even better,” she says and grins.

We take her little Mazda pickup truck to get this futon from her roommate’s house in Jersey City. God, I hate her driving. She drives like she cut her teeth doing seventy-five miles per hour on the Garden State Parkway in rush hour—because she did. I made her when I taught her to drive, because if you want to drive in north Jersey and keep your life, you have to be able to survive the GSP rush hour gauntlet. As we cruise through Rutherford and weave our way through Secaucus, Claire chatters on about the kids in Demarest dorm and her schedule and whatever, I’m not exactly hanging on every word. It’s not until she misses the exit for Route 9 that I start to suspect what’s happening.

“Claire,” I say, dread filling my stomach. “Where, exactly, are we going?”

“Did you quit the band so you could put me through school?” She confronts me, and shit, I am not expecting that to come out of her mouth.

“Who the hell told you that?” I ask.

“Is it true?” she demands.

“I’m quitting because it’s time to grow up,” I say. “That’s all there is to it.”

“If growing up means giving up on your dreams, count me out,” she says.

“Your dream is to be a doctor, Claire,” I say. “You should be able to pay rent on a dream like that, no trouble.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Actually, that
is
the point. If you can’t eat and take care of the people you love, what good is any dream?”

It’s all I can do to keep myself from flipping out on her when we park right in front of Maxwell’s. She turns the car off and I sit there with my arms crossed like a defiant child, but what the fuck ever.

“Did Sonia put you up to this?” I ask.

“No,” she says.

“Joey?” I guess. She glances off to the side and doesn’t answer, which is answer enough for me. “Does he know I’m quitting?”

“He knows you’re stubborn,” she says.

“Who told you I’m quitting?” I say. “I’m not getting out of this truck until I get some answers.”

“Mom told me you quit,” she admits. “And I know she put pressure on you to help with my tuition, so I just put two and two together.”

“And came up with twelve,” I say.

“Don’t quit for me, Cole. Please,” she says. “I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “It’s nice you think I’m that generous and all, but I’m not quitting because of you. Patrick said he’ll get me in the union, and in five years, he’ll make me his partner. That’s why I’m quitting.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m a great liar,” I say. “Ask anybody. I just happen to be telling the truth.”

My stomach feels as hollow as it ever has. Sonia is so right about some shit, I have to admit. The worst thing I may have ever felt is my sister feeling like a jerk because of me and my stupid life.

“I never even got to see you play in a real club,” she says. “And I’ve been listening to your single all summer, too.”

“You have?”

“Of course I have, dummy,” she says. “Everybody’s been listening to it. It’s all over WRSU!” Then she starts singing, very, very badly:

Loud is how I love you!

Loud is how I know you’re there!

Stay loud so I don’t lose you!

“Okay, okay,” I say, cutting off the dying whale noises that she thinks pass for human singing. “Please, that’s enough. I’m glad you like the song.”

“Maybe I can take your place on the backing vocals if you’re not going to play. I’ll bet if I ask Joey—”

“Oh God, no,” I say. “Don’t do that, because knowing him, he’ll say yes. He can never say no to you.”

“So you’ll do it, then?” she says. “You’ll play the show?”

Well, fuck. When she looks at me like that, it’s pretty damned hard to say no. I can’t even look back at her and keep my resolve.

“Come on, Coco,” she says. “Just play this last show, so for one night I get to be the cool sister of the guy in the hot band.”

I glare at her.

“Please?”

“You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?” I say.

“It’s my job to be a pain in your ass sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” I say, and she cracks a smile.