Sweeter Life (35 page)

“Then we’ll get roadies to do it,” Cyrus said and laughed again. He felt wide open. There was nothing so big it couldn’t pass through him.

PEOPLE IN GROUPS
are a force to be reckoned with—teenagers on a street corner, soldiers on furlough—but to Ronnie’s mind there were few things quite so formidable as a rock band in full party mode. He loved to watch a
group of musicians strut into a family restaurant or a bar and completely change the mood of the place. He loved to watch the little interactions within a band and knew from experience how tight a group was just by watching them destroy a hotel or sweet-talk a waitress or boggle the mind of some local promoter or DJ. Some would call this behaviour a lack of respect for others, but when Ronnie saw a group get out of line, it spoke to him of brotherhood, all for one and one for all.

With the Jimmy Waters Revival, Ronnie saw precious little of that kind of action. He had enlisted loners into the band—Sonny and Cal, Cyrus and Eura. Their emotional bonds were tenuous, quiet agreements reached during tea parties and jam sessions. But this new project with Cyrus was different. Even without their instruments, the musicians were always jamming, riffing, feeding off one another. They were a group.

To celebrate their achievement, Ronnie took them to dinner at a snooty-looking place called Gaston’s. Of the five band members, only Cyrus had seen anything like it, and at first, the heavy silver and fine crystal kept everyone subdued. But that didn’t last long. As the wine began to flow, they threw off their inhibitions and lapsed into loud physical comedy. When the maître d’ threatened to call the police, Ronnie scooted the lads outside while he settled the bill. Then he suggested they move to a place more suited to their mood—the Pink Pussycat, within rumbling distance of the airport.

A smoke-filled room, lit exclusively with red bulbs, the Pink Pussycat was similar to a thousand other places in a thousand other cities. To some it might have seemed the very image of hell; but to Ronnie it appeared cozy and womblike. Take away the women, the obligatory “champagne” and the deafening music, and you would have a place to meditate. Of course, the purpose of such a place was to meditate on one thing only; and, judging by the immediate reaction of the band, the club seemed to work rather well on that level, too. Within a few moments they were installed in a large semicircular booth, each man with a woman beside him. Bottles were placed on the table. Glasses were filled. Everyone was soon acquainted.

Though Ronnie seldom took part in such sport, he found nothing shameful about it and was surprised others did—those same people who bought music to elevate their souls without ever bothering to make music of
their own, who purchased books and works of art for the joy to be savoured but never set themselves the task of creating joy in return. Sex, he believed, was a low form of entertainment, and partners little more than props and staging for a show. He was clear about this in his mind and, whenever possible, encouraged his fellow travellers to think likewise. From what he had seen, groupies were not a reliable option. Too often they misunderstood the basic equation. They wanted a deep connection, while in most cases the lads on tour wanted a brief distraction. With a professional, everyone got what they were after. It was nothing personal.

Before his boys got too enraptured, Ronnie turned to his companion, Ginger, a bosomy young lady with long red hair, and said, “I would appreciate a word with the manager. I was hoping we might be afforded a bit more elbow room, the better to appreciate the view.”

A moment later he was standing with a no-neck bruiser by the name of Sal, who counted on his fingers the options available. “You got your basic table service—” he looked over Ronnie’s shoulder to Cyrus and the rest—“which your friends seem to be enjoying all right. Or you can go for premier service, which if you want my opinion, ain’t such a bargain. If you need a little privacy, you’d wanna pay a couple bucks more and get the exclusive service.”

Ronnie raised his eyebrows. “Tell me more.”

“Well, you get a real bed for one thing, not a folding cot. You get mood lighting, you get mirrors on the ceiling, the whole deal.”

“Yes, indeed, my good man. Now tell me this: do you have—how shall I say this—conference facilities, a banquet room, so to speak?”

Sal’s eyes brightened with understanding. “I get your drift there, Jack. We also got a thing called the Rumpus Room. Could be just what you’re looking for.”

“Yes,” he said, “a most excellent idea. I would like, if it’s available, to transfer our little party to the Rumpus Room.”

“Oh, it’s available, but it’s gonna cost ya.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that.”

“I’ll still need the cash up front. Five hundred for the room, plus your incidentals, your drinks, the girls, any extras you might be looking at.”

“Yes, yes, my friend, lead us to the Rumpus Room.”

Ronnie was playing a big hunch and hoped he wouldn’t regret it. But he had a feeling this group of young men was the real thing. His chief concern was Cyrus. On the road with Jim, he had been laid-back, standoffish. Yet so far, on this night of revels, he had been right in the thick of things. Ronnie would have to keep his fingers crossed.

The Rumpus Room was a small apartment devoid of all but a few sticks of furniture. The living area was covered, wall to wall, with mattresses and pillows. The walls were covered with music posters, the windows, too. For mood lighting there was a choice of black light, strobe, or the eerie glow of the appliances from the kitchenette.

Out of the dull red glare of the club itself, the girls looked to Ronnie’s eye rather pale and bedraggled, but no one else seemed to notice. It took them no time at all to shed their clothing and tumble together in the middle of the floor. Ronnie pulled the single kitchen chair to the side and sat with Ginger on his lap, observing his boys at play.

“You want to do it sitting?” she purred.

He was scarcely listening to her, his attention focused on the ten glistening bodies on the living room floor like so many sardines in a can. He couldn’t be sure who thought of it—he hoped to God it was Cyrus—but someone started barking, which brought a similar cry from all the others, even the women.

Ronnie turned to Ginger. “My dear,” he said, “I am afraid I am rather boring company tonight.”

She shrugged carelessly. “For you it is better to watch.”

“Well, no, not exactly. But, I confess, there are some things I do truly love to see, and this spectacle before us is one of them.”

ASIDE FROM RONNIE
, who throughout the night had been a model of restraint, the whole crew was physically and emotionally drained when they left the club. Ronnie knew better than to attempt conversation. He hummed quietly to himself as he drove them home, Cyrus last of all. As he pulled the Mercedes to the curb outside the apartment, the sun was beginning to rise.

At each stop along the way, Cyrus had felt his spirits sink lower. He hadn’t phoned Eura to tell her he was going out to dinner. When he thought back
to the whole dismal unravelling of the evening, he felt sick to his stomach. He had played so well, given it his all and felt the familiar emptiness that followed a high. Then he had simply lost control.

Ronnie got out of the car to open the trunk. As Cyrus lifted out his guitar, Ronnie gripped his shoulder and said, “Do not feel too bad for Eura. This had nothing to do with love. I would even suggest it had not much to do with sex but was an innocent discharge of energy, like a crack of thunder or a flash of lightning across the sky. It may frighten us sometimes with the power it unleashes, but it is meaningless.”

“I feel dirty.”

“For that I would suggest a long hot shower.”

Cyrus tiptoed into the apartment and set his guitar in the living room. He had a scalding shower as Ronnie had suggested. Then he crept to the bedroom door, wondering if he had the nerve to crawl in beside Eura. But the sight of her, hugging his pillow, made him ache with regret. She had spent the night looking at photographs. Some were scattered on the bed; some had fallen to the floor. Those that he could see were from their days with Jimmy Waters—a visit to Mount Rushmore, a tour of the nickel mine in Sudbury; a truck stop in the middle of the night during one of the innumerable breakdowns of the bus.

He knew then that he was losing her, or more accurately, abandoning her. She needed so much, not just love but patience and understanding. She needed a partner who wasn’t needy or demanding but rather a healer. For a long time he had been happy to play that role, to tend to her and see her through her many crises. But now there was a spirit moving inside him, and it was big and mysterious. It crackled with electricity. Even if he had wanted to turn away from it, he wasn’t sure he had the strength. It was the bright jangled chaos of the future calling.

He fell asleep on the couch, a pillow clamped over his head to keep out the morning light. When he opened his eyes, it was a little after noon, and Eura was kneeling on the floor and watching him, her face a few inches from his. To see her this way, still puffy with sleep and wearing one of his T-shirts, gave him hope that nothing had changed between them. But her first words shattered that illusion.

“You do not love me anymore.”

“Eura,” he said, his voice clogged and craggy from his night’s debauch, “how can you say that?”

“You go out all night with Mr. Ronnie Conger—I do not even want to think of the places he can take you—and you do not give me a telephone call to say you won’t be home for dinner, or home for tea, or home to sleep in the same bed …”

He reached out to her but she reared back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have phoned.”

“I am sorry, too,” she replied softly, staring down at her bare legs. “I am sorry I was not strong enough to say no to you. Saying no was all I had left. Holding on to the way it was—” she touched her breastbone “—here, keeping it safe forever.”

“Eura …”

“It was better then, saying no, because even when I was so unhappy, I could know I was at least living in faith. As long as I said no. But you wanted only to hear me say yes.”

He sat up now, his head throbbing, his stomach sour. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“Of course not,” she snapped. “If you understood, we would not be having this stupid discussion. If you understood, I would not feel—” She stopped abruptly, hugging herself.

“Feel what?” he said. “Maybe you would not feel what?”

She rubbed tears from her cheek and said, “I gave up everything when I said yes to you. And now I am losing you and will have nothing.”

Cyrus felt a stillness come over him, a righteous calm. “Wait,” he said. “You think I haven’t made sacrifices? You think it didn’t kill me to play those Holiday Inns when I could have been touring England and Europe and making records? You don’t think I gave up everything to be with you?”

“The Jimmy Waters Revival. This is nothing. You were better off away from those people.”

“Oh, yeah, I was living the good life with you, all right, at the Laredo. Don’t you understand? Music is the only thing I’ve ever cared about my whole fucking life.”

That sentence hung before them like a crystal, clear and hard and mesmerizing, its refracted meanings shining every which way. To Eura, it was the confirmation of everything she had suspected. To Cyrus it was the sudden transformation of a hundred nameless feelings into a statement of principle. Then Eura covered her mouth with her fist and walked slowly back to the bedroom. She closed and locked the door.

At five Ronnie phoned to invite them to dinner. Cyrus accepted half-heartedly and relayed the information to Eura. After a few moments of silence, she snuffled indelicately and said, “You go.”

He leaned his forehead against the door. In a careful tone, he said, “He’d like you to come. And I would, too.”

RONNIE WAS SENSITIVE
to the fact that there might be tensions in the air and was prepared to assume any persona—master of ceremonies, confidant, friend, adviser, referee—whatever was required to keep Cyrus functioning at full power. The boy still had a lot of work to do, and Ronnie’s sole focus for the next while was to keep everything on track. If pushed to it, he would not hesitate to sacrifice Eura to the greater good.

As it turned out, the mood in the apartment was more encouraging than expected. He had pictured Cyrus fawning over Eura, punishing himself for whatever unspeakable acts he had committed or imagined. Instead, there was a chill in the air, which Ronnie found bracing. Eura drifted about the rooms with a weak and hollow expression, like someone who had lost all hope; Cyrus’s movements were tight and jerky and full of steam.

They drove downtown with the windows open, Cyrus sitting in the back. It was a beautiful evening, full of sultry promise. You could see it in the way people strolled down the street. Gone was the hunched and hurried gait of Canadian midwinter. In its place was a lazy sashay, all hips and shoulders and no particular place to go. With a note of false cheer, Ronnie said, “I was thinking Chinese. Something a bit lighter than the feast we had last night. Did he tell you about it, Eura? My God, we made pigs of ourselves.”

She stared blindly ahead. “I am glad to hear. Lately he forgets to eat. He will make himself sick if he is not careful. This is something you should watch, Ronnie. He is not so good at taking care of himself.”

Cyrus nudged her shoulder. “Like you’re any better.”

“I will always survive. I had more than one life before I met you.”

“But you weren’t always happy.”

“Who is always happy? Besides, happiness, I think, is overrated.”

They ate at Chungking, and Ronnie kept the conversation as light as possible, which wasn’t easy. Cyrus and Eura seemed unwilling to say much to each other. As a result, Ronnie spent most of the meal telling them about Jim’s latest antics. He now had his own radio show, which was broadcast from New Mexico. It was becoming a hit, syndicated in every major U.S. city, including New York. There was talk of cable TV.

“I would be happy for him,” he said, “if only I didn’t feel that every time he opened his mouth, he was tarnishing his legacy. That woman is not helping matters any. The son, too. They are taking advantage of him.”