Wabanaki Blues (17 page)

Her rum-colored eyes swell, and she slips into a heavier Jamaican accent. “Lord no, child, Mona never played with him. I buried my poor fadda a dozen years ago.” She touches the picture and closes her eyes prayerfully. “Yes indeed, he is long gone to the other side. But he would have liked Mona.”

I'm thunderstruck by Celine's revelation. First, she's saying that Shankdaddy is her father. Worst, she claims I played guitar with him a decade after he died.

Beetle taps a yellowed newspaper clipping tacked on the wall that says, “Dead Girl's Sister Vows to Solve Case.” A memorial candle in a glass holder flickers beside the clipping.

“Are you Mia Delaney's sister?” he asks, breathless.

“Yes, I am.” Celine's speech is clipped. “Her short life shows how our lucky stars can sometimes turn cruel. Mia's fortunes started out as good ones, just like yours. She, too, was a lovely and talented free spirit. So be careful.”

Beetle's licorice eyes form a black hole, sucking in everything around him with new urgency. Mia has become real to him.

Celine touches Rosalita. “It's too bad you didn't actually play guitar with my father, Mona. You two would have made beautiful music together. She raises a judgmental eyebrow at Beetle. You deserve a good musical partner.”

Celine passes a finger through the flame of the memorial candle and puts a tissue to her eye. “I'm sorry.” She opens the door and waves us out. “I'm afraid that we must speak another time.”

The door tinkles shut behind us.

Beetle bites his sarcastic lips closed, but fails to keep his mouth shut. “I can't believe we just met Mia Delaney's sister, and you jammed with her dead father. I didn't know you were so tight with the dead.” His hands wave like a magician's.

I turn to him with the eye squint of all eye squints. “You know what, Barrington Dill? I think it's entirely possible that Shankdaddy jammed with me. Maybe we made music together in a way beyond our knowing. Astrology is outside our realm of understanding. Yet you can't tell me that you didn't love hearing you're about to become a star.”

“Sure Mona, but how is that going to happen?”

I hop down the golden stairs, jubilant. “Perhaps there is a way to honor my late friend, Shankdaddy, and fulfill Celine's prophecy at the same time.” I almost manage a smirk. “Wanna start a band?”

Beetle trips on the last step, catching himself on the railing. He slaps a hand on his chest. “You want to start a band with me?”

“Actually more like a bluesy duo. Your voice is golden. I play a decent guitar and write good songs. What have we got to lose?”

He pulls my hips toward him and meets my lips in a feathery kiss. Briefly, I taste a world far from the sultry blues, a pop music realm of sun-struck parties beside glittering lakes with first-class jet trips to Stadt. It quickly sours on my tongue, along with his feeble kiss. I discreetly wipe my mouth, underwhelmed. Beetle beams brightly. I guess that kiss wasn't as bad for him.

The lyrics to “Day Tripper” run through my head. They may be running through Beetle's head as well, but for a different reason. It's that kind of song. That's the beauty of John, Paul, George, and Ringo's musical magic. Their songs can mean different things to various people. Some say the lyrics to “Day Tripper” represent an ode to acid. Others say they pay homage to light love. I say they're the postscript to every first kiss that ever was, a reaction to that perilous exploration into the unknown frontier of another human body.

“It took me so long to find out…and I found out.”

Twelve

Forever

Over the last few days, I've revised my review of Beetle's kissing. Good kissing is sometimes a matter of practice. I wouldn't dare tell Mom that, and not just because she's my mom. She's skipping Twain College's annual Freshman Frolic due to the fact there's nothing she currently despises more than young lovers. This attitude stems from Dad's email saying he isn't leaving Russia until he's confirmed a connection between ancient bear sacrifices and celestial phenomena. In the words of blues great Curtis Griffin, her man “ain't never coming back.”

In other news, Saturday, July twenty-seventh, is my eighteenth birthday. This is a day most mothers remember. But given the fact that it's Friday afternoon and mom's lying in bed moping, I'm not expecting much of a party.

I make a half-joking suggestion. “Why don't you visit Celine's Fortune-telling Parlor for an astrological reading? It might cheer you up.”

“Why not?” She leaps to her feet. “I haven't seen my old friend Celine in years.”

This is not the response I expected. I had hoped for something like, “No, I need to get ready for your birthday celebration.” But maybe, this is the response I should have expected. Of course Mom knows Celine. She was friends with her sister, Mia.

Ah, Mia.

I decide to give up dreaming about a birthday party and write more blues.

Mom and Celine stumble into our apartment well after midnight, giggling loudly enough to wake me. Clearly, their reunion went well. Saturday morning, I wake to more of Celine's bold laughter rolling out of the living room. She and Mom lie sprawled across our futon, surrounded by an empty bag of tortilla chips, a paper plate piled with a mountain of cigarette butts, along with bottles of grenadine, crème de menthe, banana liqueur, and rum. Mom must have been making Bob Marley cocktails again. Now I'm wondering if Celine gave her the recipe.

“Men are no better than moldy bologna,” Celine wails. “Toss 'em out! Toss 'em out I say! Before they stink up the house and make you sick from their rotten, garlicky smell!” Celine throws a pillow at Mom, and they start tossing pillows at one another like kids at a slumber party.

I'm steamed. Clearly, Mom has forgotten that today is my birthday. I stand over them, knowing how Zeus feels when he gazes down upon wretched humanity.

Celine kicks Mom when she sees me. “Happy birthday, Guitar Girl,” she says, warmly. “In case you are wondering why I am still here, I have chosen to save you from your mom's cooking on your special day.”

I think of the fragrant jerk chicken and plantain smell from her end of Manburn Street and decide to take her at her word. By dinnertime, balloons fill the house along with the head-spinning smell of a homemade Jamaican meal. She cooks lipsmacking Jamaican patties, both beef and soy, and a gooey rum cake that packs a punch.

I hear a knock at the apartment door and open it to find Beetle staring up at the rusty hooks, heavy chains, and bone saws dangling from the ceiling. He may not appreciate the fact the local historical society dubs these pieces industrial art. This is the first time he's visited my slaughterhouse apartment. I wonder what he thought of the crying marble angel in front of the ash gray Victorian funeral parlor-turned-senior housing next door. At least he didn't see the “historic” iron rings used to restrain troublesome children hanging inside Lizzy's place—the former orphanage.

Beetle seems delighted to get out of the hallway and enter our living area, such as it is, with the cheap navy futon, yard sale dining room set, and outdated big box television. We sit down to eat and he raves about the meal. After we finish,, Mom hands me a card from Dad with twenty bucks inside. The handwriting on it looks suspiciously like hers. Mom's other gift is an IOU for six months' rent in a St. Louis apartment. This is her way of hinting that it's time for me to move out and move on with my musical career.

Beetle pushes an expensive-looking red velvet box my way—which can't be good. I take my time opening it, remembering that his parents got married at our age. The box contains a gold heart locket with his picture in it, which is somewhat of a relief. But it's still an absurdly expensive piece of jewelry, not to mention that I hate it. Why would he think a heart-shaped necklace would go with my butchered baby-dolls Beatles tee shirt, or any of my other band tee shirts?

I turn the heart over and read the inscription. “Beetle and Mona Forever.”

He kisses my cheek because Mom is watching, and says, “Forever, Mona, like the sun, the moon, and the stars.”

I imagine Black Racer Woman's boa constrictor braid wrapping around my neck, strangling me. I can't speak. I jangle my wrist in a call for help. I hear Bilki say, “Don't worry. Even the sun and the moon don't last forever. The web of the universe is always changing.”

Celine grumbles some folksy Jamaican saying. “If yu wan somebody lov you, yu mus lov dem fus.”

She doesn't normally speak with such a heavy accent. I know what she's up to. I've heard this type of sneaky ethnic commentary before. It happened one Christmas, years ago. Bilki made beans with doughboys (which all Indians outside of New England call frybread), and everybody chowed down—except Dad, who barely touched his food.

Grumps shook a fist at Dad and shouted in Mohegan, “K'kunôk sawáyuw!”

He and Bilki had both studied their Native languages, as a form of semi-secret communication. I had to know what he said in Mohegan so I whipped out my language phrasebook and intuitively opened it to the “Insults” section. I translated aloud: “There is no brain in his head!” My words ended all discussion at the table. But I don't need a translation of what Celine just said. It's straightforward: she thinks Beetle and I are more in love with our music than each other.

I re-read the inscription on the locket, “Beetle and Mona Forever
.
”

I whisper to Celine, “Forever seems like a long time when your band is going nowhere.”

Celine whispers back, “Picture something that makes you happy. It will get you through this awkward moment.”

I picture my amazing thirteenth birthday with Bilki. It was the last time I saw her. She cut her long silver hair to her chin, claiming it was wearing her down. Illness had already reduced her strawberry smile to ashes. After Mom served her sorry-lump-of-a-homemade-sponge-cake, Lizzy gave me that neon yellow George Harrison “Here Comes the Sun” tee shirt. Mom and Dad handed me a cheap new cell phone, Ma-mère and Pa-père sent me fifty Canadian dollars, and Grumps unveiled a headboard with my full name wood-burned into it. None of these presents was exactly what I desired. Fortunately, Bilki wanted her present to be private. She shooed everybody else away and handed me a heavy box containing a bright red Pendleton blanket with an eagle on it—the Indian symbol of virtue and high ideals. She wrapped it around my shoulders, grabbed a BIC lighter, tucked a roll of paper towels under her arm, and led me into the back courtyard behind our apartment building—formerly known as the livestock corral.

She dumped out the water in the stone birdbath and filled it with sticks and shreds of paper towel. After she lit it, we sat together on an iron bench and watched the rising flames. She pulled that eagle blanket tightly around my shoulders and told me to look hard into the fire. Shaking a gourd rattle from her purse, she sang an old Abenaki song. I recognized the word
Wliwni,
for “thanks.” I watched those flames and saw fluttering autumn leaves, an entire sky raining crimson and gold. This didn't seem like a very earth-shattering image for my coming-of-age. I'd expected a spirit animal or some white-haired ancestor to appear and deliver wise words about my future path in life. But my vision revealed colorful fall leaves, pure and simple. When Bilki finished her song, she told me that I was officially a woman. I didn't feel any taller or sexier. But I did feel more peaceful, like I'd joined a great circle of people who wrapped their arms around me. That's the only birthday memory I treasure. My grandmother gave me a real gift that took more trouble than picking up some junk at the mall or tossing a gift card in the mail.

Just like Bilki, Celine saves her present for last. She hands me an old Robert Johnson record album tied with a blue raffia ribbon.

“This is amazing,” I say. “Too bad I have no way to play it.”

“Foolish Leo,” she says, smug. “You always think you're the center of the universe, that everything relates to you and your creative endeavors. You follow the sun because it is the nearest star. And a star you shall become yourself. But you miss the obvious, much of the time. This record is not for playing; it's a spirit offering for Shankdaddy. If you leave it by your bed tonight and think of him, he will visit your dreams and give you a new hit song.”

Beetle and I shrug at one another, as if to say, “What have we got to lose?”

I go to bed early, pulling my Beatles comforter over my head, concentrating on the buttery sound of Shankdaddy's voice. The speckled shadows of near-sleep eventually give way to clear images. An old gray wooden stool appears. Blue smoke swirls around it like a tornado. When it clears, I see myself sitting on the stool with Rosalita. A man with high and mighty cheekbones carved of granite and big white mocking teeth strides my way. He tips his straw hat rakishly to one side. Following him is a girl wearing LOVE hoop earrings and a cropped Rush band tee shirt. She points to Rosalita with her electric blue fingernails, indicating that I should play something. I perform one of my songs while she and the man play an eerie game of patty-cake. After I finish the song, they halt their game and turn their thumbs down. I try another song, and they resume their game. When I finish, they indicate I've failed, again. And so it goes. I play every song I've ever written. Nothing pleases them.

Blue smoke envelops the girl. A giant blue tear forms in the man's eye. He reaches into the smoke but can't grasp her. As he reaches, the blue smoke surges through him. His lips turn teal, his eyes turn turquoise. Indigos ripple through his veins and into his fingertips, until all the blue smoke is inside him. He wraps his bluesy arms around me from behind and places his long-suffering hands onto mine. Our hands blend, playing serious blues on blues. We rage through the chords of a song about a father who mourns the loss of his dead daughter. The song is throaty, gut-busting, downstreet Manburn blues, with an added sweet note that scrapes the bottom of your soul.

My mind wakes bursting with Shankdaddy's tune. I call Beetle and tell him to get to my place, fast. He arrives, self-assured in the misconception that his gift rocked my world because I'm exuberant and still wearing his locket. I play my dream song and he scribbles down the music and lyrics.

I walked into her room, wasn't nobody there

The place it smelled real empty, the shelves they were all bare

Because she's gone, way down to the deep red clay

Hope you know I love you, darlin, why'd you ever go away?

Her car was at the junkyard; the gas light was on E

I pushed the rusted shifter, but I couldn't set it free

‘Cause she's long gone, taken oh so far away

Hope you know I love you, baby, and that devil he will pay!

I set you in the ground
, ‘
neath a pile of rolling stones

I want to hold your hand, but it's a heap o' skinny bones

I know you're gone. Gone to where the blues don't play

Where you'll never get no older. Just a child all your days.

On the second go-through, Beetle sings along with me. His earthy pipes take right to this tune, transforming it from a dreamy blues melody into a mourner's anthem that grabs your heart and shakes the blood from it till your spirit screams. Who knew Beetle had soul?

We perform the dream song for Mom and Celine. By the time we hit the turnaround, Mom is crying as if I've made the honor roll.

Celine folds her arms and says, “Anybody who can produce music this divine needs to be in touch with Orpheus Gray. He was Shankdaddy's manager.”

Beetle and I tell her to contact him. In fifteen minutes, we hear a bold knock at the door, made by the rapping of a hard object. A rigid pencil of a man with a snowy Afro and silver dollar eyes appears. He's carrying a wooden cane with an ivory skull handle and wearing an outdated tuxedo with a Jamaican green bow tie. He reminds me of a medicine man. Beetle whispers that he looks like a math professor. Celine introduces him as our new talent manager. I'm surprised when he pulls out his phone to record us on video.

“You may begin,” he says, formally.

While listening to us perform “Skinny Bones,” his stiffness softens. Orpheus does not clap. He rises, lean and long like his cane, and thumps the cane three times, “Well done! You are on the verge of glory. But like great marathon runners nearing the finish line, you must take great care in making your last steps count. My job is to make sure you don't trip before you reach your goal. To do this, I need to pick a good name for your band. A band's name is everything.”

I think about The Beatles' lousy name and have to wonder if he's right. Sure, there have been other successful bug band names—the Locusts, Atom and the Ants, the Crickets—but I don't think their names were key to their success. He raises his cane heavenward and squeezes it, concentrating with his eyes closed, as if casting off
haints
. I straighten up, respectfully. But Celine signals me to relax.

“This is not a religious ceremony,” she claims, “just Orpheus' way of doing things.”

Not seconds, but minutes pass, dozens of minutes. I fidget. I don't care what she says about this not being a ceremony; it feels like one to me.

Orpheus' silver dollar eyes pop open. “Bonepile!” He spits out the word, swiping gushing perspiration from his forehead with a jade satin handkerchief.