Brad pulled the car through the suburb, the curving boulevards a welcome change from the highway driving. The map he’d gotten from the Internet was trying to minimize his distance to Kate’s house, and so he had to keep turning left and right off a street and then back onto it, saving precious feet here, going 5 mph faster there.
“You know, these would be a lot more fun if they gave me the option to display this thing as a treasure map. A big ole blood X markin the spot,” he mused. “Arr, matey,” he rasped.
Callie laughed at the off the cuff remark, which he was doing more of ever since he realized that if he didn’t think about it, she’d be as surprised as he was to hear something funny come out. Of course, she still caught the mental congratulations he gave himself after a particularly good bit, but if she thought it was pompous, she didn’t let on so. He thought she was just humoring him, but whenever that thought crossed his mind, she patted his arm and shook her head “No.” Which really didn’t answer anything. So. Off the cuff. Right.
“Kate’s house should be right there. Can you get me a street number?”
“The pale green house is 2510.”
“K, it must be on the other side of the street. There. The white one. Street numbers are so cool. What a great idea: odd on one side, even on the other. So smart!”
“What will you humans think up next?” Callie asked.
“Some way of being friends without sexual tension? Yeah, that’d be well appreciated.”
“It is fortunate for you that more of the women in your life cannot read your thoughts.”
“And the one that can is leaving my life soon.”
“Maybe you would enjoy your time with me more if you did not keep watching it run out.”
“Yeah, probably.” He beamed. “That wouldn’t be me, though.”
“No,” she laughed. “It would not.”
He pulled into the driveway of 2571 Greenwood. Kate Madding came running out of the front door and down the path to the 4Runner. Brad got out and swept her up in a big hug. It always surprised him hugging Kate how small she was. Her personality was such a presence that she seemed to have more mass, to take up more space in the room. The illusion was partly broken when he had his arms around her. Kate saw over Brad’s shoulder Callie stepping down out of the SUV. She froze a little and Brad could feel it but she quickly recovered.
“Ah, I see the ‘we’” she whispered in his ear. “Want full story later.” Then she let him go and Callie came around the front of the car. “Hi. I’m Kate.”
“Callie.”
“Welcome! I hear you’re hungry. Do you want to drop off your stuff and then get some food?”
“Actually, Kate, um, there’s going to be a bit of a change of plans. We’re in this sort of situation with Callie and her family. So I thought we could just grab an early dinner and then go off and do this thing,” he waved as if the thing in question was too small to make a fuss over. “And then on the way back up I’ll spend a night here.”
“Back up from where?”
“Miami.”
Kate looked at Callie, trying to figure her story out with a surface scan. Callie looked back, getting all the information she wanted. “Miami, huh? I want to hear about all of this.”
Brad used to have this idea that if he put in one room all the women in his life that he was currently crushing on or had crushed on in the past, they would all get along. They would have a party, exchange silly Brad stories, and realize that they all shared some shard of personality. He knew this was a pretty self centered vision, but he liked the idea anyway, not just because it involved lots of beautiful tough women in a room. He had the notion that seeing them all together and watching them interact would let him see the pattern of what he was looking for in a significant other. Maybe let him see his weaknesses as the women all discussed about them in detail. But again, this was a rather vain idea. If such a gathering did take place, they’d probably talk about everything but him, not consciously, but just because they all led such interesting lives in which he only played a very minor part.
Brad used to have this idea, but here were two women in his life meeting, and it wasn’t exactly love at first sight. Callie offered Kate the front seat, but Kate swung herself into the back. “Ooh, breakfast bars,” she said. “Can I have one?”
“You don’t capture prey by just running after it as fast as you can. When you go too fast, you make mistakes. I think we can consider your pursuit up until now to be one protracted blunder, dear Bard,” the dealer instructed.
The Bard knew by now that he should just shut up and listen. He thought of his current arrangement as a mutually beneficial partnership, nothing more. Like an idealistic hippie company selling out to corporate concerns, knowing that it was the only way it could spread love, joy, and hemp Frisbees to the world. Once the dealer showed him how to use the Inspiros without going batshit insane, he promised himself that he’d get the world of popular music back on track. Just him and a guitar.
The dealer went on. “Instead of just tracking her down, we need to consider, where is she going? She has everything she wants. Why is she still here? The answer is, she is still here because there are still others here. Erato. Maybe the others. Find them, and we’ll find Calliope.”
The Bard finally remembered meeting the dealer in Cleveland. He was trying out a solo acoustic gig at a bar. The drunken patrons didn’t care what he played so long as he didn’t try too hard. Trying meant that he cared about something and they didn’t like to be reminded that there were things in life to care about. It was that sort of bar. He didn’t mind. Having a gig meant that he was in some way a musician, and not just another loser in a dead end job. He played covers, Dylan, mostly. From time to time, he’d slip in an original which would suck the atmosphere out of the room as the drunks started to pay attention to the music.
That night was his third time playing and it was the same old thing until the dealer walked in. The Bard faltered a bit. The man stood out. He glowed darkly, brightening up the dark surroundings in comparison. The dealer glanced up on stage, noticing the Bard in the corner, overflowing a bar stool, the crappy spotlight trained too low and illuminating his belly.
At the Bard’s break, the man came over.
“Tough crowd,” he said, without removing his dark glasses (“I Wear My Sunglasses At Night” was on the Bard’s set).
“I’ve seen worse,” the Bard answered. “My name’s Pete,” he said. For it was at the time.
“No, no, my dear boy, you aren’t. You are the Bard.”
And the big man looked into the old man’s suddenly red sunglasses and knew it to be true. He wished that he’d been the Bard for his entire life. He wanted to bottle this feeling of surety and take it every morning in his coffee. Any fears he had about the man were assuaged by the fact that he had come up and named the Bard.
The dealer passed the Bard a pick, which felt heavy in his big hand. “Try this,” he said slyly.
“What is it?”
“Think of it as the antidote for practicing.”
“But I like practicing,” the Bard thought as he headed back to his stool. He picked up the guitar and tried to sling the strap over his head and upper torso. He got the instrument situated and resting on his imposing knees and then he stuck the pick in his right hand and struck a golden chord that hung in the air like a bell ring. This was just the Bard’s crappy acoustic. There’s no way it had sound like that in it. He looked at the small plastic triangle (heavier than plastic could possibly be, his hand told him kinesthetically) and saw it gleam bright green as much as the man it had come from had shone black.
The customers all looked up at the sound of that chord and while he had their attention, he launched into Bridge Over Troubled Water. And they sat spellbound at his playing, which was shocking him even more than the quality coming out of his guitar.
And then he sang, his voice scratchy and unsure compared to the thick round chords. And he lost them. They turned back to their drinks and conversation. He was just mood music once again.
After the set, which he tried to keep as instrumental as possible, he walked over the to old man to give him back the magic pick and perhaps buy him a drink. “What’s your name?” he asked his benefactor.
“You are a natural bard, my boy. Aptly named. A thousand men could take up that pick and do nothing with it. You are gifted. Specifically, you are musically gifted. As for me, my gift is in getting people what they want. I am the dealer, as you are the Bard.”
“Too bad my voice isn’t up to par. I thought I had them. Then I opened my big fat mouth.”
“I don’t have any magic microphones. Perhaps you just need a better instrument, one that would have more of an effect on all of your music.” He leaned over the tiny circular table. “I can get it for you.”
“I guess it’ll cost my soul, huh?”
“You read too many books. You merely need to do a job for me.”
And like that, his life had taken an abrupt left turn into exactly the sort of books he read too much. The dealer explained how the Bard was gifted, that he was sensitive to special people and objects. “No one else sees the glow,” the dealer told him. Not only that, but he could harness some of the power floating around. “With the right tools, my boy, you will be quite a star.” And with that, the dealer had seen right into the Bard’s core and hooked him. Not just with the promise of singular greatness, but also with the recognition that the Bard was special in some way besides just being the biggest man in the room.
“So, Callie, are you in school? Heading off to college?” Kate asked over her burger.
“I have not been in a school in a long time,” Callie smiled. “They are not havens for inspiration anymore. My type, anyway.”
Kate gave Brad an appreciative look, one that said, “What a slacker you picked up!” He was busy trying not to laugh at Callie. Kate continued her line of questions, “So, how’d you and Brad meet up if not through school?”
Brad fielded that one, not wanting to miss out on the fun. “Oh we met ‘cause one of her friends, well, she’s like a friend of a friend. And anyway, I just ran into her we were talking about what we were doing this summer and it was really weird that she was headed down Florida way too, so I offered to drive.”
“And that’s for your family stuff, right?”
“Yes. Dreadfully messy stuff,” Callie began, knowing that Kate would wave her off the subject.
“That’s OK, you don’t have to get into it.” She turned back to Brad. “Have your parents suspected anything about this trip?”
“No, I think I’m pretty clean. And since it’s funeral day tomorrow, I think I’ll be pretty clear. I should call though, tell them I got here safely.”
“You can do that on the way down to Miami,” Kate said.
“Yeah, but then there’s road noise. My dad’s so smart about that stuff. And even if he weren’t, I’d think he was and just give up the whole gig. I’ll do it when we drop you off.”
The rest of dinner conversation was standard Brad and Kate catching up on things (they always talked less during the summer) and talking about future plans (Brad was headed to Yale and Kate was going to Duke). Throughout, she kept shooting Brad meaningful “I know there’s something going on and I’m not in on it and it’s driving me nuts so you’d better tell me soon if you want to live” glances. He answered with what he hoped was an inscrutable Asian beatific grin. Callie smirked at both of them.
Their dessert came, massive brownies under a shuddering mound of whipped cream and cocoa powder. Callie declined the bites offered and Brad and Kate gave up after valiant efforts to subdue the chocolate.
Rand was still in Georgia at the Macon Police Department. His captain had bitched him out for half an hour, infuriated with Rand’s clipped responses. The conversation ended with poorly veiled threats, so Rand was content to stay in Macon for a bit and coordinate arrangements for Masterson. While he dealt with the dead man’s details, he felt like the calm center of the shitstorm around him. Like it was the only acceptable thing for him to be doing there in Macon. But even the center wasn’t free from turmoil.
Masterson had been an organ donor and the Macon people wanted to claim them. They were very curious about the cause of death because of that and they were getting upset with Rand’s ray gun explanation.
“Listen buddy,” a doctor told him over the phone. Rand felt like the receiver was melting to his ear under the massive amounts of vitriol that had come through it in the past three hours. “This man signed up for the program. He knew that in the event of something like this, his parts could save lives. You are not honoring his last wish.”
“I told you, there was a green ray. It hit him and he died. I should have shot earlier.”
“You did all you could then. You gotta do better now, trooper.”
“Why do you need to know?”
“Well, if he had heart failure, we don’t want that organ. But if it was an aneurysm, then we would be fine. But gosh, trooper, I don’t seem to have ‘ray gun’ as a possible cause of death. I have GSW. I have plenty of different wounds. But this man has no wounds.”
“The ray hit him. His back arched. He died.”
The doctor hung up. Rand kept the receiver to his ear.
“Listen, Callie, would it be OK if we stayed a night in Ocala? Hit the road tomorrow?” Brad asked.
“Yeah Callie, stay a night. All this traveling must be hard on you guys,” Kate said. Inside she was thinking, “Do you wear the pants in this car?”
“A few more hours will not matter,” Callie said. “I can wait to see my family.”
They unloaded the car in Kate’s driveway and tromped into her house. Kate’s mother was in the kitchen.
“Brad, is that you?”
“Hi, Mrs. Madding.”
“Call me Mom Madding, dear. And your friend?”
“My name is Callie.”
Mrs. Madding swept her into a warm aproned hug. “So nice to meet you,” she said. Callie was tense for a split second, and then softened into the woman’s arms. The stress of the past few days melted out of her body. This embrace was better for her psyche than the last few swallows of ambrosia in the thermos.
“Gong residence,” Mrs. Gong answered the phone.
“Hi Mom.”
“Brad! Did you arrive safely?”
“No Mom, I’m in a flaming wreck by the side of the road,” crossed his mind but Callie gave him a jab in the ribs. “Yeah, I did.”
“And how are the Donovans?”
“They’re managing. I think having all these things to coordinate is keeping their mind off it.”
“Well, I’m praying for them. Be a good boy.”
“I will. I should get off the phone now.”
“Do you want to talk to your father?”
“He called earlier today, actually. Talked to him then.”
“Alright dear. See you in a few days.”
“See you, Mom.”
There was a flash in the box on the antique store counter. The dealer opened the lid and took out the message. He produced his small wooden seal ball from an inner pocket of his green vest and started rubbing it over the paper, revealing the words.
“Do you know how to salsa, Bard?”
“Not really my style of dancing,” he answered. Of course, nothing really fit him except for the polka, which wasn’t big in Cleveland.
“That’s too bad. Even in Miami, there is a shortage of men who can truly salsa.”
“What is in Miami?”
“Why, more muses. We can snare them all.”
The Bard got up from the overstuffed chair he had been sitting in, playing with a space toy from the 50’s. He set the rocket down and it rose back up into the air. He put it down again. It lifted off. He let it alone.
“What are we waiting for? Let’s go,” the big man said. He strode to the door and opened it into nothingness.
A void, not black. The same deep dark megablack that had surrounded the dealer that night in the bar. There was a pull, drawing him out, into the swirling wrongness of the null. He clutched at the frame. The bells on the door tinkled merrily.
The dealer made an “Oh bother” motion at the door and it swung shut.
The Bard stood shakily, staring at the windows, for the first time noticing that there was nothing behind the glass (he had thought that it was that trick of the light you get at night). “Where are we?”
“In my home, Bard.”
“And where’s that?”
“Why, I forget sometimes. But that’s no matter. Soon I’ll remember everything. Soon I’ll be able to see without these damned glasses. And soon I’ll be able to sing again.”
“Why can’t you sing now?”
“Stop asking so many questions that do not further our mission, Bard! If you weren’t of the blood, I would have done far worse to you by now.”
“If you’d just answer…”
The dealer swung a backhand that nearly leveled the big man.
“Stick with me, Bard, and you’ll get all the answers you can handle. But as of yet, I have none for you. What I know was collected. Over the years. Gleaned from the vast sea of the world, just little bits of flotsam here and there. Most junk. Some, gold. I’ve pieced together my life out of these scraps and in the piecing, I have discovered grave and terrible crimes. Crimes we must avenge. You and I together. For I am a dealer now. But I have on good authority documents proving that I was once a bard. I once had songs. Poems. But they stole them from me. They even stole my name. And so I am the dealer now. ‘Fearson’ is just a fake label. Soon I will regain my true name.”
The dealer headed to the back room and returned with a black chest. He sorted through keys, trying them in order until the lock snapped open.
“To Miami we go, Bard. And we’ll be prepared.”
He removed an old projector from the chest. He cast around for a filmstrip labeled “Miami – Current.” Then he carefully threaded the strip into the mechanism and aimed the lens at the door. It started without him having to plug anything in. The picture was grainy and spotty at first, but then stabilized. It was a street, already dark. The Bard almost thought he could hear the strains of Latin music coming from somewhere.
The dealer calmly walked to the door and opened it. The Bard was braced for another sucking trip towards the void but instead the shop door headed out into the filmstrip street. The big man shrugged, then walked out the door and into the city twilight.
Louie sat back on the bed. He had done nothing since dinner with his folks except lie down and channel surf. After watching the late night syndicated Simpsons that was such a frequent repeat that it was more of a connect the dots puzzle than entertainment to his brain, he did some jumping jacks in the center of the twin beds, just out of sheer boredom.
He checked the alarm on his phone. It was the backup to the wakeup call and the in room alarm clock. He couldn’t imagine being late to the funeral. Scandalous. It was eleven. Since work at Sedill had ended, he had been sleeping later and later. He missed work, in a way. Missed the way it tired him out because that feeling of exhaustion made him feel like he was really earning his keep. Made him feel responsible for his own destiny (as much as you can have that feeling while living at home and waiting to go off to four years of college on the Daddy scholarship).
Louie thought briefly about Tasha, and wondered if she ever missed their phone calls.
He thought of cousin Steve and formulated ways to be polite at the funeral service and later at the cemetery.
He pondered his father, who hadn’t shown any hint of emotion regarding his mother’s passing. Was that the way you were supposed to bolster others? By just being a granite slab of a person? Come to think of it, his dad never showed much emotion, perhaps living up to the family surname.
Memories of being weakly taunted on the playground (there’s not much you can make with “Stern” except “Sterny Burny,” which might even allude to some hidden pyro talent that the other kids would only find cool) ran through his head, spawning more and more until he was asleep.