Encore to an Empty Room (21 page)

I hail a cab. Luckily the sight of me weighed down with two guitars must inspire sympathy, because I get one faster than the other corner dwellers outside the club.

In the cab, my head is spinning. Who is this texting me? 424 is an LA area code. How did whoever this is have Eli's guitar case and deliver it to us on Christmas?

We cross a high bridge. The streets are more populated over in the East Village. Groups stumbling here and there or standing around making small weather patterns of smoke and breath.

Ten Below Zero is on a corner, in the basement. The stairs down are steep and covered in ice and beneath that are blots of gum like little jellyfish. The club's sign has scripted neon letters, cool blue and chipped and probably actually old, as opposed to a fashionable eighties revival. A board on the railing lists “Tonight's Lineup” but the acts
have been erased. The only words remaining are: “Open Mic Every Friday 11 p.m. to 2 a.m.”

I trudge down the stairs and nearly slip to my death on a slick patch. Add another scuff to Eli's case. Maybe he got one here before.

The door opens out and I have to lean and hook it with my elbow. Finally I stumble in and find myself in a narrow bar with brick walls. The row of tables is empty. There are two guys at the bar. They look like regulars. The sound of guitar drifts out from somewhere in back.

“Good morning,” says a woman behind the bar. She's middle-aged with a magenta wrap around a thick pile of dreadlocks.

“Hi . . . ,” I say tentatively.

“It's okay, hon. Were you looking for the open mic?”

“I'm meeting someone . . . ,” I say. “I think.”

“Do you want some food? I just closed the kitchen but there's a few things left. Free of charge. I'm throwing it out otherwise.”

It also occurs to me that I'm beyond starving. “Thanks, that would be great.” As I talk, I pinpoint the source of the guitar sound: a doorway at the back of the room.

The bartender waves her hand at the empty tables. “Sit anywhere you want, or go check out the open mic. Play a song if you like,” she says, nodding at my guitars. “There's no list, just whoever's next.”

I take another look at the two guys at the bar. They are talking quietly. They don't seem to care a bit that I'm here. I head for the back room.

“I'll bring your food out in just a minute.”

This room is a bit bigger, with an actual stage, but still with a low cramped ceiling. The stage is narrow with a brick wall along the back. A black curtain runs along the left side, leading to what must be a pretty meager backstage area.

The current performer is sitting on a stool. He has bushy brown hair that sprouts from beneath a cap like what you'd wear hunting ducks or something. He's playing a beat-up acoustic, its pickguard worn away in places. Sunglasses, the aviator style that is one part retro and one part pilot. Black wool sweater. Faded jeans. Work boots. And singing what I think is an Alice in Chains song.

There are three other people back here. One well-dressed and very tipsy-looking couple at the far corner table, murmuring quietly with the occasional bubble of giggling, and an older woman by herself at a central table, reclined in her chair, both hands around a mug. She's staring transfixed at the performer. Is she here for a clandestine meeting? She seems like the only potential candidate.

Except then she feels me looking at her. “What?” she snaps.

“Nothing.” I take a table along the near wall. I've barely sat down when the bartender arrives with soup, a plate of
tempeh squares in brown sauce, a basket of bread, and silverware rolled in a napkin.

I watch her hands for a tape, a note, anything . . .

“Want a drink?” she asks. “I've got soda, a couple kinds of tea . . .”

“Maybe a Coke?” I say.

She leaves and my phone buzzes.

And then I reply to that phone number:

I check my email and find a confirmation for my flight. Delta JFK to LAX 7:05 a.m.

I check the time. Nearly two.

I dig into the food, shoving bites down, barely chewing.

My phone buzzes . . . but it's nothing I want to see.

God, fuck that guy. If I could smack him through the phone I would. Instead, I just put it down. Can't reply to him. And I can't believe he thinks everything's fine. That he has the gall to keep texting me.

I don't reply to this either. The theft of Jon is now complete.

The song ends onstage. The lone woman claps. The couple has started making out and doesn't notice. I manage to get a few claps in once I wipe the tempeh's sesame sauce off my fingers.

“Thanks,” the performer says. His voice is raspy and worn. “Gonna do just one more. Kind of a long-distance dedication. Another oldie . . .”

He starts to strum a quiet but steady rhythm. It sounds like Elliott Smith or maybe he means real oldie, like Nick Drake. Something in that vein.

I watch him hunch over the acoustic. His chin gets so low to his body, I can only see the top of his head. The motion of his hand with the pick threatens to hit him in the face. He bobs, tapping his heavy boot. The song sounds vaguely familiar. I look down to inhale some soup, but his singing pulls me back up.

He's better than you'd expect of a two a.m open mic but it's more than that. Captivating. He has presence. And that melody is so familiar but I can't quite place it. My brain is mush from tonight, from the week on the road, from life. I
keep glancing back at the door, glancing at the couple at the far end of the room. Looking for a sign . . .

Wait a minute.

These words.

This melody.

I look at him, head still down, except now I am seeing the similarities in posture . . .

The cheekbones beneath that beard . . .

The shape of his face so similar oh my god oh my god oh my god—

And suddenly, completely and utterly, I feel time stop and focus and the corners go dark and—

I am hearing the impossible.

But now there are footsteps behind me and a voice says:

“Never pegged you as the open mic type.”

I spin and see Jason standing above me.

And I hear the guitar stop.

My eyes flash back to the stage. There is a little clicking and I see that the pick he was holding has slipped from his fingers. It catches the light as it hits the floor.

And then for the briefest moment I am locked in a stare with a ghost.

It can't be. But it is.

Eli White.

Right there.

“Oh, sorry,” Jason says to the stage.

He doesn't know.

But Eli knows him. I can tell. His gaze seems to flick back to me. It's hard to tell with the sunglasses—

And before I can even think it through I mouth a single word to him:

Run.

“No problem,” Eli says to Jason, just another random coffeehouse performer on a lonely basement stage. I can hear now how he's faking the low voice. “I was done anyway.” He stands quickly.

“No, it's okay,” says Jason, sounding legitimately apologetic. “You can keep playing.”

“Nah.” He checks his wrist. There's no watch there. “It's late anyway. Time to fly.”

He drops the acoustic guitar back on a beat-up stand, checks his hat and sunglasses, and walks quickly to the
black curtain at the side of the stage.

“Look what you did, you idiot!” the drunk old woman yells at Jason.

He scowls at her but turns to me. “So, I can't think of any reason why my people would observe you coming to this strange little spot at this hour that
doesn't
involve theft of tapes that legitimately belong to us.”

My heart is slamming, my breath racing. There he goes. Eli. Pushing aside the curtain. Leaving . . .

“They have great tempeh,” I say, my words barely more than a whisper. It's all I can do to keep my eyes off Eli, to hide my racing pulse.

He reaches the curtain and doesn't look back. It flutters behind him in a ghost breeze. I hear a door groan open, the din of street noise, then it squeals shut.

And he's gone.

The bartender pops in and hits the lights. “Thanks for coming, folks.”

“Should I grab a seat?” says Jason. “It seems like we're waiting for someone.”

“No . . . just eating.”

“Hey.” And Caleb arrives. The sight of Jason stops him in his tracks.

“What a coincidence, right?” I say, faking sarcasm, faking breathing. “He was jealous of our date.”

Jason studies the room again. “I'm not leaving until I figure out what you're up to.”

I stand up. “Well, have a great time, because we're going. Right?” I lock eyes with Caleb.

And it kills me to look at him.

Oh God. He has no idea what's happening. And now that's a bigger understatement than ever before.

“I just want to get a picture of this place,” I say, fighting desperately to stay calm, “before we go. To post.”

“Is this the moment when you pick up whatever you came here for?” Jason asks suspiciously.

“No,” I say, but I take two steps around in front of our table. And when I crouch to take the shot, I glance down and see the pick by my foot. It's navy blue and says Regent Sounds. I snap the photo, then put my hand down as if to steady my balance. It's not hard to fake since I feel like the universe is completely out of balance.

I pinch Eli's pick between my fingers, and curl it into my fist.

It's still warm. As I stand up, I slip it into my pocket along with my phone.

“Well, we're going to go,” I say. “You can stay if you want.”

Jason is still peering around, trying to figure out what he might have missed. “Remember what I said,” he warns. “When you get back: tapes, or no deal. I'm not playing this game.”

“Neither are we,” says Caleb, taking his guitar while I get Val's bass.

I put my arm around him, but I have to wonder what game we are playing now. With what I just saw, what could the rules possibly be?

For the moment, I just focus on putting one foot in front of the other, and on not looking back, even though I want to stare at that stage and tell myself over and over that I wasn't hallucinating.

“How are you?” Caleb says quietly to me as we make our way through the bar.

“Okay,” I say, not,
HOLY SHIT, I JUST SAW YOUR DAD.

Caleb hugs me hard with one arm as we walk. “I got here as fast as I could. What was up with meeting here?”

We navigate the slippery steps, and once we're up on the cold, snowy street, I say, “I got a message from someone to meet here.”

“And Jason was following you?” Caleb asks.

“Yeah.”

“And whoever was supposed to meet us didn't show?”

“Well . . .”

I feel my phone vibrate. There's a new text.

“What's up?” Caleb asks.

“It's . . .” My head is spinning. “It's Randy. Making sure
we're good. I'll let him know our status.”

I type back:

“So, this place,” I say, trying to change the subject. “I don't know. It was an LA number that said to meet here. And since this was the same place as those napkins in Eli's guitar, it seemed promising, but . . .” I check my phone again. Nothing. “I don't know.”

“Maybe Jason showing up scared them off,” says Caleb.

“Maybe.”

We start to walk. I am imploding, shivering, barely breathing and two voices are warring in my head at once.
Tell Caleb. Tell him now!
While the other voice shouts,
It will wreck him! And for what? Are you even 100 percent sure what you saw?

God, was it even real? It's already blurry in my mind, so short and intense.

And still no reply. No new spot to meet, to make it real.

What the hell do I do?

But more than anything: Eli . . . ALIVE. There are so many questions. Millions. Starting with: what happened on the night he died and, even bigger . . .

Where the hell has he been?

I don't just mean for sixteen years. That's one thing. But I mean for his son's whole life? How could he let Caleb grow up without a dad?

“I can't believe you guys went to Val's mom's,” Caleb
says, moving on, as any person who doesn't know their dead father is somewhere nearby might do.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you. Val made me swear not to. I mean, I was going to tell you eventually, but . . .”

Caleb kisses my head. “It's okay.”

I'm going to explode. And I realize I haven't even told him the
other
stuff yet. “I— I'm going home in the morning.” Because, OH HELL, there's that, too, on top of everything else.

“Wait, what?”

“My parents found out about the Stanford interview.” Suddenly the tears are pouring out of my face again, and I don't know if they are because of my parents or Eli or all of it. “They completely lost it,” I say between sobs. “Bought me a plane ticket and everything.”