Twanged (13 page)

Louisa was there in a pastel jogging suit. Herbert had driven her over and gone for a walk on the beach, promising to be back in an hour.

Regan was sitting cross-legged on the floor between Brigid and Kit. They’d spent the last couple of hours on the beach. When it was time for the spiritual nourishment, they’d all three thrown shorts and T-shirts over their bathing suits and come hurrying over.

Angela was sitting behind them. She’d paraded around the beach in her bikini and then decided to come along to the session. I bet she’s hoping to see Duke, Regan thought. She seemed to stick close to him at the party last night. But the only guy in the room besides Peace Man was Garrett.

Today Peace Man had on a pair of short shorts and a sleeveless shirt. With his wardrobe, Regan thought, his dry-cleaning bills must be pretty low. And with his shaved head, he doesn’t have to worry about getting an expensive haircut. Talk about a low-maintenance lifestyle. Where will he go come September? Regan wondered. Will he get in his RV and head west? She couldn’t picture him parking it outside of Chappy and Bettina’s apartment on Park Avenue in New York City.

Garrett, whom Regan had at first judged to be your typical preppy Wall Street broker, was seated on the floor next to Bettina. Regan was surprised that he would be interested in a session like this. But he seemed to be trying to get into it. His eyes were closed and his hands were on his knees. Maybe it’s an attempt to pick up stock-tip vibrations, Regan thought.

She looked up at Peace Man. He probably doesn’t even know what a stock is, Regan thought. Garrett and Peace Man were two completely different types, yet there was something about both of them she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“Peace Man is ready for your souls,” Peace Man announced. “First we must release all the tension from our bodies. We are constructed by negative tension caused by bad food, bad thoughts, stress. . .”

Cursed fiddles, Regan thought. People who push others into the pool when they’re drunk. Threatening letters.

“. . . So now we must get up and yell
AAAAGH!”

The members of the group who had participated in these sessions previously jumped up with alacrity.

Regan, Kit, and Brigid eyed each other and stood cautiously.

“AAAAAAGH!”
the group began.

“AAAAGHHHHHHHH!”
Peace Man yelled fiercely.

I thought he called himself
Peace
Man, Regan mused.

“AAAAAAAGGGGHHH!”
went the crowd.

“HNNNNNN!”
went Louisa.

Peace Man started to flap his arms and motioned them to follow him. Soon they were all going around in a circle looking like a bunch of chickens gone berserk.

“AAAGHHHHH! AAAAGGHHHHH! AAAGHHH!”

Why isn’t this making me feel better? Regan wondered.

Fortunately the howling didn’t last too long. Peace Man had them sit back down and do stretches while he talked to them about the universe and the importance of mind over matter.

“Matter doesn’t matter,” he said solemnly as he twisted himself up into a pretzel shape, with one foot dangling over his ear.

Is he auditioning for Gumby? Regan asked herself.

He then came around and made them stick out their tongues at him. “Peace Man judges personality by tongues and hands,” he said. “There are many different kinds of tongues, many different kinds of hands. Next week Peace Man will discuss. Right now lie down.”

They all lay silently on their mats, listening to the sounds of the surf outside. It reminded Regan of naptime in kindergarten. The same feeling of restlessness came over her now as it had way back when. Ten minutes later, Peace Man announced: “Peace Man will see you next week, but as of this moment Peace Man is going into a special seven-day period of fasting and silence. Peace Man will drink lots of fresh squeezed fruit juice.”

Over the Fourth of July? Regan thought. No corn on the cob on the Fourth of July? This guy is not exactly a Yankee Doodle Dandy. So what is he?

Peace Man turned to unplug his lava lamp.

“But Peace Man,” Louisa called to him, “I wanted to interview you for my article.”

Peace Man shook his head and walked out of the room.

Louisa came over to Regan, an expression of frustration on her face. “Seven days of silence. I’d go mad. Maybe I can do a phone interview with him when he gets his vocal cords back.”

Brigid and Kit got to their feet. Smoothing out her T-shirt, Brigid laughed and said, “I guess he won’t need a ticket to the concert.”

“That might be a good thing,” Regan replied. “He might want to relieve tension in the middle of one of your songs.”

“You know something?” Louisa said. “I’ve even more fascinated by him now than I was before. What’s his real name and where is he from?”

Bettina walked toward them. “I hope you enjoyed it,” she offered anxiously.

“Oh yes,” they all managed to mutter.

“Where did you ever find Peace Man?” Louisa asked.

Bettina smiled. “Chappy and I have a big Christmas party in New York. Last year I told Duke to invite his acting class. Peace Man had just signed up for it.”

“Peace Man was in an acting class?” Regan asked with disbelief.

“He said he wanted to take it for a brief period so he could explore what it was like to be other characters. That way he could understand all of us better,” Bettina said with another big smile. “Wasn’t that a good idea?”

Now I’ve heard everything, Regan thought.

21

MONDAY, JUNE 30

A
t 7:45
A.M.,
in Kit’s car, which they’d borrowed, Regan and Brigid drove out of Chappy Compound onto the streets of Southampton. They were headed for the radio station. The air was fresh and clear with a lingering dewy feel, the birds were chirping, and not too many cars were on the road.

“What a day!” Brigid exclaimed. “I should get up early more often.”

“Whenever I happen to find myself out and about in the early morning, and that’s not often, I love it,” Regan agreed.

Ten minutes later they pulled into the tiny dirt-and-gravel parking lot of the home of Country 113.

Inside the somewhat shabby entrance, a receptionist with an obvious fondness for large quantities of black eyeliner was busy removing her breakfast from a brown paper bag. “Can I help you?” she asked as she surveyed her blueberry muffin.

“Brigid O’Neill is here for her interview,” Regan said crisply.

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. It’s Monday, ya know.” She looked at Brigid, who was holding her fiddle case. “I like your song.”

“Thanks.”

“Go through the door and make a left. They’re at the end of the hall.”

An ad for a local restaurant could be heard over the speakers in the station as Brigid and Regan were escorted into the studio by an employee who had encountered them in the hallway. Chuck and Brad were sitting in a room with microphones positioned around what looked like a command station with four seats. Both were wearing cowboy hats and seemed to be absorbed in reading material. A big picture window looked onto a control room, where the engineer was seated.

“Hey, guys,” Brigid called out energetically.

They both looked up quickly. “Heyyyyyyy,” they said unison.

Enthusiastic greetings were exchanged, and Regan could tell that Brigid was getting in the “time to entertain” mode, something she knew from her mother can look easy but actually takes a lot of energy.

After Brigid was seated, Regan went in and sat on a couch in the control room. A burly, bearded engineer, preoccupied with his panel of knobs and buttons, nodded a quick hello as Regan settled herself in.

Suddenly the door opened and Louisa appeared. “I was just in the ladies’ room,” she whispered, her eyes twinkling. “I’ve been here for over an hour. I gave them all the research I had done, and I brought my laptop in case there was anything I should look up when they’re on the show. There are some interesting curses to talk about. Have you seen the paper?”

“No,” Regan said. “Why?”

“Hnnn.”
Louisa reached into her carryall and pulled out the
Hamptons News.
She placed it on the coffee table in front of Regan.

Regan looked down. The newspaper had blown up two pictures taken at the party Saturday night and printed them side by side on the front page. One was of Brigid playing her fiddle in Chappy’s drawing room. Kieran was standing right behind her smiling, and his guitar in hand. Next to it was a snap of Louisa sprawled out next to the pool, with Pammy performing her lifesaving maneuvers. Above it was the caption “Is this fiddle really cursed?”

“Oh my God,” Regan murmured. The article began, “As Brigid O’Neill played the legendary fiddle bequeathed to her by one of Ireland’s most famous storyteller/fiddle-players, a fellow dinner guest nearly drowned in the swimming pool at the home of Chappy and Bettina Tinka in Southampton. . . .”

Louisa leaned over her shoulder. “I’ve never gotten my picture in the paper before,” she said excitedly.

“Well, you did it with a bang, Louisa,” Regan replied as she studied the pictures. “Two reporters were at the party. What about the other paper?”

Louisa plopped down next to Regan. “It’s a weekly. It doesn’t come out until Friday.”

To Regan, Louisa looked as fit as a, well, fiddle. She was dressed in a pair of white pants with a coral-colored, short-sleeved shirt. She had on gold necklace, bracelet, and earrings and looked very much on the job. To think . . . “How did you get here today, Louisa?” Regan asked.

“I insisted on driving myself. I feel fine.”

Regan smiled at her. “Good.”

“Okay, we’re back!” Chuck announced as the music from the last commercial faded out. “And we’ve got with us, Brigid O’Neill, who is
sooooo
hot on the country music scene these days. Her hit single, “If I’da Known You Were in Jail (I Wouldn’ta Felt So Bad about You Not Callin’),” has been in the top five of the country music charts these last couple of months, even reaching the number one spot. I love the title of that song.”

“Thanks,” Brigid said.

“That’s what I love about country music—the greatest lyrics. . . . Anyway, Brigid’s debut album, entitled
Brigid,
which I have right here, is hitting the stores right now, available in CD and cassette. Brigid O’Neill is in the Hamptons to play at the Melting Pot Music Festival on Friday night. Are you excited, Brigid?”

“You bet,” Brigid replied. “I’m looking forward to being in front of a New York audience.”

“They’re the best,” Brad assured her.

“I should know, I’m from New York,” Brigid said.

“Us too,” Chuck said. “And we want more people in these parts to listen to country music. You like Country 113?”

Brigid laughed. “I love it.”

“We do, too,” Brad interjected. “Now, Brigid, did you see the
Hamptons News
today?”

“No. I just got up an hour ago.”

“Well, ladies and gentlemen out there,” Brad began, “we were at a dinner party on Saturday night in the Hamptons, and Brigid played her famous fiddle, which you may have heard about . . . . By the way you can call our switchboard and give your guesses for what the initials CT carved into the side of the fiddle stand for. . . . We’ll tell you more about that again later. . . .” He handed Brigid the newspaper as he described how Brigid got the fiddle in the first place, the curse of the fairies for removing the fiddle from Ireland, and Louisa Washburn’s tumble into the pool. “So what do you think about the fiddle’s magic powers, Brigid?”

“I think the fiddle is blessed, not cursed. A good friend gave it to me, I won the Fan Fair fiddling contest with it, and I will always treasure it. I think our friend Louisa simply fell into the pool when she was leaning over to look at the musical note on the bottom. It has nothing to do with any silly superstition.”

“Okay, folks, we’ll be back in a few minutes to talk about the fiddle, which Brigid has with her and promised she’d play for us. And we’ll be taking your calls to see what you have to say about the fiddle. Don’t go away.”

Next to Regan, Louisa seemed to be basking in the glow of her near disaster.

A
cross town, Chappy and Duke had gotten up early so they could listen. “Wouldn’t you think they’d mention where the party was?” Chappy cried. “I fed them, for God’s sake.”

Duke shrugged.

“Go outside and start up the car. I want to buy that paper!”

I
n his little shack of a house, he sat in his bedroom listening, ready to pick up the phone and call the station. Sometimes he loved Brigid and sometimes he got so mad at her that it made his head ache and his stomach churn. He’d felt fine until they mentioned that song. Why was she letting them talk about it? It was his and Brigid’s song!

At least she couldn’t sing it on the air. It didn’t sound like that guy who sings a little bit of it with her was there. That was good.

He lay back on his messy bed and waited for the commercials to end.

W
e’re back, folks,” Chuck announced. “Now Brigid, do you believe in curses and superstitions.”

“Well, they say we Irish are a superstitious lot. But I’ve never really taken it too seriously.”

Brad picked up the pages of Louisa’s research. “Those fairies from hundreds of years ago in Ireland were a tough bunch. We already know that they were mad as hell about the tree being cut down that was used to make your fiddle there, but did you know that these fairies used to carry off accomplished musicians to entertain at their feasts? If the human guest partook of any of their sumptuous food, then he wouldn’t be able to return to his worldly existence. So you know what that means, don’tcha? You’ve got to eat before you leave home for a gig.”

Brigid laughed.

“I’ve got a few more here,” Brad said. “Horses sneezed to protect themselves from the fairies. . . . Hmmmm . . . Why do you sneeze, partner?”

Chuck scratched his nose. “Dust.”

“Good answer. And Fridays are a day for storms, so people are loath to go to sea on that day. But get this, Brigid. If you encounter a red-haired woman before going to sea, that is definitely bad luck. Fishermen turn back if they see one on their way to the boat.”