Louder Than Love (29 page)

Parental Controls

Adrian’s calls weren’t daily, as promised. He was having trouble with his phone and putting in long hours at the hospital, but his news regarding Natalie was heartening. The doctors had placed shunts and were expecting a full recovery, pending physical therapy. One silver lining, he relayed via e-mail, was the postponement of her wedding.

My parents arrived in their usual fashion, fussing over Abbey and hijacking my bedroom for a week. Secretly, I didn’t mind moving into the boogeymen room. I slept under Digger’s watchful eye, his secrets safe with me. On occasion, I would scan the various metal forums and news sites online for reactions to his brief Hammerstein appearance. It had already become the stuff of legend among the die-hard fans and had piqued the curiosity of the newer, younger Corroded Corpse fans who had missed seeing the band play live in their heyday. Rumors raced through the threads, and speculation as to an eventual reunion racked up the post counts and started many a heated discussion. New York fans had the bragging rights, and several claimed to have seen their elusive hero on the streets of the East Village or drinking in local haunts. Blurry photos, captured with phone cameras during the brief window of opportunity Adrian’s cameo had allowed, began popping up one by one on blogs and social networking sites. Unseen by the public for nearly two decades, he had become the metal world’s bigfoot, their Loch Ness monster. And here was proof. He still existed.

I reasoned it was conveniently best for him to be out of the country now, of all times, although there was no way to convince my mother of the same. She took it as a personal affront upon arrival, and subsequently made daily barbs, bringing into question his actual existence.

“Abbey darling,” I overheard her ask, “tell me what you like about mommy’s new friend Adrian.”

“I like that he lives in the park.”

“He lives in a
park
?” Great. Now she’d have him pegged for a homeless man. Or a woodland sprite.

“Not
a
park, Grandma.
The
park. Central Park! He lives above it.” She paused to pull Adrian’s quip from the stores of her young mind. “Twenty-six hundred square feet of the Manhattan sky. But not quite in the stars. That’s where Daddy is.”

Grandma was very interested now, but remained cautiously skeptical.

“I can’t believe we’re missing him by mere days,” she moaned. “Phil, should we change our flights? We
can
change our flights.”

“Mom, no . . . there’s no sense. He’ll be jetlagged, and you need to get to Kev’s for the big showdown.”

My parents took great pride in watching their son’s restaurant go head-to-head against several of Portland’s finest every July Fourth. Although to this day, my dad just shakes his head at the commercial success my brother has eked out for himself with BITE ME. “I don’t get it,” my dad would say of the restaurant, which specializes exclusively in hors d’oeuvre–sized portions. Thimble-size flights of soups, dollhouse hamburgers. He was once served a miniature replica of fish and chips. “It was a flake of fish on top of a French fry. Jesus Christ, for five dollars?”

“Do you at least have a picture of him to show me?”

I rolled my eyes, thinking ironically of the entire top floor of her house and its decades-old shrine devoted to him.

“I’ve got one!” Abbey galloped a loop from kitchen to bedroom and back, clutching a picture Miss Carly had snapped at the pancake brunch.

“Handsome,” my mother allowed. “He’s quite gray, isn’t he?”

“And purple. And red and black and blue and green!” Abbey crowed. She was fascinated with Adrian’s indelible ink and loved to add to his landscape with her own washable marker doodles; he patiently allowed her to use the available bare spots on his arms like a live-action coloring book.

I stared at the photo. Debonair in his suit, with his hands on Abbey’s shoulders and his cheek pressed close to hers, Adrian grinned as if he knew the picture would eventually fall into my hands. Abbey’s eyes sparkled up at me, tiny pearls of teeth displayed in a sweet smile. Nothing about the photo indicated the mug-breaking incident that had preceded it, nor the single-round sparring match that was next to come. Just another beautiful blip of time, caught frozen on film.

***

The attic room was like a sauna, but it was the one place guaranteed to give me privacy. A week in my parents’ company had me crawling the walls, but the knowledge they were departing within the next twenty-four hours kept me sane. As the over-sixty and under-thirty crowd were taking afternoon siestas downstairs before dinner, I relished the opportunity to laze around, daydreaming of their departure and Adrian’s eventual return.

A portable fan spread relief across my bare skin as I lay on the bed in just my bra and panties. Its oscillating current breathed life into the flat photos of Adrian and his bandmates, and I watched, entranced, as some billowed and others rattled against their sticky restraints. A small, poorly taped poster fluttered down and plastered itself to my stomach, having lost its battle against the wrath of the fan. Peeling it off, I saw it was my lover, captured in grainy black-and-white. Shirtless. Sweating. I held the cool damp scrap to my chest and felt the tears, hot and humbling, roll down my cheeks and back behind my ears. I missed him so goddamned much.

I reached for the phone and dialed, if only to make some connection. His recorded voice was at least preferable to silence.

“Mobile of the in
de
fatigable Digger Graves!”

“Uh . . . um . . .” I scrambled to sit up at the sound of a real live human voice. Female voice. British. “Is he . . . um, there?” I could hear raucous pub din, laughter, and the scraps of jukebox melodies.

“Sure, ’ang on. He’s up buying the next round.”

I waited, suddenly feeling exposed. As if this disembodied Englishwoman could see me in my underwear, right through the phone.

“Shite phone is working, then?” I faintly heard, then a more audible, “Hello?”

“I guess it only works when girls answer it.” I swallowed hard.

“Kat! Gawblimy, it’s good to hear your voice. Blasted phone’s been useless. Especially in hospital.”

“The hospital sounds strangely like a bar.”

A static-filled laugh met my ear. “Left there ’round an hour ago. Ran into Sam’s sister Tess and ’er lot passing through Earls Court.”

“Snogging-behind-the-garage Tess?” I had heard stories of how Sam had freely offered up his sister for Adrian’s first kiss. “That’s who answered the phone?”

“Very same. I wouldn’t snog Tess now, mind you. ’Er bloke’s as immense as said garage!” His accent seemed thicker, competing over the clinking of ale bottles. “And ’ow’s my Abbey?”

“Your Abbey is fine,” I stated. “Your
Kat
, on the other hand, is losing her mind.”

“Oh, that’s right . . . your parents!” he rasped. “I plum forgot their visit.”

I snapped the fan off. Its breeze, once a relief, was now stinging. The conversation also stung, as did the notion of another woman answering his phone on his behalf. I shouldn’t have called.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m gonna go, okay?”

“Ach, Kat. No. Don’t.” His voice lowered. “Please, I miss you, luv.”

“Then come home,” I found myself saying. I winced. It sounded weak and whiny. “I have to go. Love you.” I hung up. Weaker than weak. Under the rafters of rock stars, I felt puny and petty. Not even strong enough to sustain the shortest absence.

Sparkle and Fade

Pete’s birthday, without fail, arrived in a jarring fashion, as the neighborhood kids set off squealing bottle rockets and M80s down at the lake. Abbey had never had the opportunity to help her dad blow out his birthday candles, but each year at 9:55 a.m. on July Fourth, we lit a sparkler to honor his arrival into the world. It was crackling and exciting, and sometimes a bit out of control—not unlike life. And like Pete, it was ours to hold for much too brief a time. Abbey carefully conducted a silent “Happy Birthday” chorus, smiling as this year’s sparks flew in different directions before sizzling to a stop.

Pete’s brother and I had a tradition as well. Starting with the Carousel Prints that first year, Luke and I made sure to visit and gift items of Pete’s to each other, as if husband and brother would live on if we swapped tokens like the Rubik’s Cube from his childhood bedroom or, like this year, his coveted MTV shirt. The unspoken rule was to pick a destination in the city to take Abbey, a place Pete and I hadn’t been able to show her together, and make a day of it.

And it remained an unspoken rule when Adrian surprised me with a phone call the evening before.

“How about a date at Coney Island tomorrow? I hear they’re serving hot dogs.”

“Adrian—oh my God! Are you home?” He wasn’t due in for two more days.

“Yeah, chanced an earlier flight.” He sounded exhausted. “Natalie was released from hospital yesterday, so Robyn and Leopold whisked her off to my . . . to
their
country house in Essex to convalesce. I saw no point in hanging about London.” He paused. “Time to come home and detox.”

I tried not to think about the various pubs and girls of his past he needed to detoxify from. Girls who knew him as Digger . . . and described him as “indefatigable.”

“I need to see you. Pack up Abbey and come into town.”

“She’s already in bed,” I said lamely.

“Wake her up, she won’t care.” His flippant tone was foreign to me, and not exactly welcome.

“She’ll be cranky, and
I’ll
care. I’m not some groupie who can drop everything and follow the tour bus, Adrian.” The words stomped out of my mouth before I could halt them, and I could sense they had trampled over all of Adrian’s most sensitive places.

“And I,” he said slowly, “am going to pretend not to be highly offended by that comment. Christ, Kat. I thought you’d be happy I came back early.”

“I’m glad you’re home,” I backpedaled. “It’s . . . I . . . We really need to have a talk, Adrian.”

“I agree. As opposed to whatever it is we are having now,” he finished flatly.

I sighed, feeling a pileup of words as they hit the brick wall of my heart. He needed to know, and he deserved to know.

“So meet me,” he pressed. “I’ve got somewhere fantastic I want to take you two tomorrow. I promise it’s not Coney Island.”

“We can’t during the day. I’m sorry.” I paced the floor, hating his silence, hating my inability to just spill the beans.

“You can’t change your plans? I haven’t seen you for two bloody long weeks.”

I paced the length of the hallway and paused, gazing at the Carousel Prints. “I’m sorry,” I repeated softly. Pete smiled out at me. “I can’t break these plans.”

Luke was meeting Abbey and me at the Cloisters for a tour of the museum and a picnic on the grounds.

“We can meet you later,” I offered. We had had an open invitation to Luke and Kimon’s for the evening, but I knew it would be okay to beg off. “Dinner and fireworks . . . and we’ll take it from there?” The guys would be more than willing to take Abbey overnight if I asked them, giving me time alone with Adrian.

“Your call, Kat. I’m knackered,” he said wearily.

I wanted to climb through the phone and curl into his lap. I wanted to rewind the clock and start the conversation over. I wanted to change the date on the calendar and put us in a more neutral spot. I wanted to get through tomorrow with my sanity intact.

I needed him to understand.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” I managed, “and we’ll make a plan.”

Mythical Beasts

Abbey and I carpooled with Leanna and her family, who were making their annual July Fourth trek of misery to Jones Beach. The museum was on the way, and Leanna was grateful for the buffer in the car. She and Ed seemed more civil toward each other, I observed, since starting joint therapy. Their only disagreement in the car involved whether to take the Throgs Neck or the Whitestone bridges after dropping us off. Leanna spent most of the ride craning her neck over the front seat to talk to me, with Dylan’s blipping video game and Abbey’s singsong observations providing lively background noise. I chatted distractedly, my thumb and my brain rolling through the texted conversation Adrian and I had had earlier.

K: How about dinner @ Ollie’s—can you meet us at 5?

A: I might be drunk by 5.

K: Where’s your patience and fortitude now?

A: They’ve turned to stone and crumbled to dust. Just like your resolve.

K: ???

A: I’m tired of waiting Kat.

K: Please. I promise. Tonight.

A: Not soon enough. I’ll be where the myth surrenders to the maiden. 4 p.m. Venture out of your comfort zone and meet me there. Abbey too . . . this place has her name written all over it.

K: I can’t handle a riddle today!!!

K: Please . . . let’s just start at Ollie’s. Or @ your apt. But I can’t before 5. I’ll explain later.

K: xoxo

His texts had stopped an hour ago, but I continued the conversation one-sided, first in text and then in my head. What did he mean,
where the myth surrenders
? What comfort zone? A place with Abbey’s name . . . none of it was ringing a bell. And I told him I couldn’t meet earlier. My brain and my nerves felt pushed to the limits. Of all days . . .

***

Ed was hunched unhappily behind the wheel of the family Volvo rather than his precious truck, and barely grunted as we said our thanks and hopped out at Fort Washington Avenue and 190th. “Call me and let me know where you end up.” Leanna waved. “We’ll figure out a time to meet back up tomorrow.”

“Will do. Try to have fun.”

“You too.”
Take me with you?
she mouthed. I laughed in response, and she threw a defeated laugh back. I touched her outstretched hand as Ed slowly nudged the Volvo back into the flow of traffic.

“Unkie Luke!” Abbey was off and running to our appointed meeting spot, the main pedestrian entrance of the Cloisters. My brother-in-law caught her in his well-built arms, hurtling her up into the air and swinging her a full three-sixty before hugging her to him.

It hurt to look at Luke. I still saw Pete in him, yet I knew he and Pete looked less and less alike with each passing day. I thought of that old tale of the mountain climber who had died in an avalanche and the son who had followed years later in his father’s footsteps, climbing the same summit only to find his father staring out at him from a block of ice, frozen at an age younger than the son himself. I wondered who Luke saw when he looked in the mirror.

He propped Abbey on one hip and reached to envelop me with his free arm.

“Hey, girlfriend. Happy Pete’s Birthday.”

“Happy Pete’s Birthday to you, too,” I whispered against his cheek as I kissed him hello. “Is this where the tour starts?”

Luke grinned. As a professional photographer, he had shot countless weddings in the park surrounding the museum. “You bet! Welcome to Margaret Corbin Circle.”

“Who’s she?” Abbey wanted to know.

“A really brave lady. When the British attacked, she took control of her fallen husband’s cannon.”

Abbey’s little mouth formed an impressive little ring.

“Now . . . on to your lawn, Miss Abbey.” He took her hand and we headed along the promenade.

“For real?”

“Yep, for reals. There’s even a sign to prove it. Abby with no
E
, though.”

Luke pointed out various flowers in the Heather Garden as we passed. I looked on with a smile as he snapped photos of Abbey sniffing the fragrant little purple bells, her tiny fingers fondling them as if to ring them.

“Mommy, look! A bride! Unkie Luke, take her picture!”

A wedding party was moving toward a part of the park where trees formed a natural canopy. Two photographers and a videographer trailed in their wake, documenting madly.

“Looks like she’s got it covered, Abb. That’s Linden Terrace. Amazing spot for a wedding.” I detected a blush creep across his cheeks, similar to the one that never failed to betray Pete when he tried to keep a secret. I bumped my hip against him, hoping to break his resolve, but he stayed on course.

“Here we are. Abby’s Lawn.” A wide green expanse met us, boasting majestic views of the Palisades across the river. Luke handed me his camera bag in order to unhook his backpack. “Lunch from Cowgirl Hall of Fame.”

Abbey squealed. She loved the kitschy restaurant around the corner from her uncle’s apartment, with its campy wagon-wheel décor. “Frito pie?” she asked hopefully.

“And mac and cheese.” He spread a blanket and began unpacking the unlikely picnic lunch. “Stealth margaritas, too.” He handed me a sports bottle.

“Yum, happy drink!” I guzzled a gulp. Cowgirl served theirs up in glass mason jars, but this way tasted even better.

***

“Go on. Open it.”

After lunch, Abbey stalked squirrels while Luke and I lingered on the last of the margaritas. The MTV shirt I had presented to him moments ago was already on display.

“Excellent!” he had complimented, pulling off his own T-shirt and giving the park a gander at his gloriously smooth shoulders. The shirt was tight on his pecs; his long-term partner, Kimon, was built like a Greek god, and Luke certainly got his money’s worth out of his own gym membership keeping up with his lover’s buffness.

I turned over the white letter-size envelope he had handed me. It was wrinkled and felt old. On the front, in their mother’s slanted small script, was written the words
Peter’s teeth
.

“Teeth? Was your mother a witch doctor?”

Luke laughed. “She gave it to me last time I visited. Let’s open it.”

I carefully slid my finger under the aged gummed flap, and it gave way. “There’s . . . there’s nothing here.” My fingers explored the empty cavity.

“Holy . . . do you think they disintegrated?” Luke wondered, leaning his chin on my shoulder as he peered into the envelope.

“Hey, wait . . . I feel something!” My pinky hit something sharp inside the envelope, and I carefully dug it out with my fingernail. Sure enough, one tiny baby tooth of Pete’s. I held it between my thumb and index finger and was about to call Abbey over to show her when it made a tiny pop and literally crumbled to dust and disappeared.

Luke and I stared. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

My hand slowly dropped open, and I let whatever was left get taken by the wind. He squeezed my shoulder, then ambled over to get Abbey. I pocketed the envelope and busied myself with the packing up. It was time to move on.

Luke hoisted Abbey onto his shoulders and we began to make our way toward the vaulted passageways of the museum. While many New Yorkers and tourists alike were migrating toward Lady Liberty and sticking to the shores outdoors, I was so glad our trio stayed north to the hushed confines of the Cloisters. Only a handful of visitors dotted the landscape around the medieval-looking structure, and an occasional cyclist whizzed by on the larger outer paths.

Abbey rested her chin on the top of her uncle’s hair, which he had always kept groomed shorter than Pete’s, with a bit more product. I walked in reverse ahead of them so I could snap a picture of them with Luke’s camera.

“You and Abbey are coming to my exhibit, right? It’s the last weekend in August.”

“Of course! We wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“I’ve got your buddy Liz catering it.”

“Really.” I gave a wry smile. “Did she tell you we aren’t speaking?”

“What? Get out! What happened?”

“Long story . . . and little ears.” I motioned toward Abbey. “Another time.”

“Well, this is a good enough time for me to share something with you guys . . .” Luke looked about to burst. “It’s going to be a combination art opening–engagement party. Kimon and I are getting married.”

“Oh my God!” It had been what I expected and wanted to hear. “That’s so awesome!” I stepped sideways to throw my arms around him. Abbey used the opportunity as a group hug and reached down to pull me close. Luke’s one arm went around me and the other reached up behind Abbey’s back to steady her. “I am so happy for you, Luke.”

“Have the wedding here!” Abbey begged.

Luke laughed. “We don’t want to wait. New York is taking too long to get its act together. It will be up on the Cape, most likely. Next summer.”

An elderly couple smiled at us along the stone walled path. “I must say,” the woman remarked, “your daughter is a spitting image of the two of you.”

“Thanks,” Luke said with a laugh as they passed, and I elbowed him in the ribs. “Same DNA, I guess. If you ever get the urge to give Abbey a sibling, I would willingly make that minimal contribution, Tree. In a cup, of course.”

“Duly noted.”

We entered the museum, Abbey still a monkey on Luke’s strong back. “How old are you now?” he teased, extracting her. “Ten?”

“Unkie Luke.” She laughed. “You know I’m only four. And a half.”

“Okay. Here are four postcards. See the pictures on the front? Each of those four items is in this castle. Let’s go find them.”

“Brilliant!” I praised as Abbey trotted importantly ahead of us, past ancient and imposing stone portals. “That will keep her busy for a while.”

Abbey found the roundel with the scene of the attack on the Castle of Love from her first postcard. Next came the only known complete deck of illuminated fifteenth-century playing cards. “Mommy, is that a jester?” Abbey asked, pointing at the knave card.

“Wow, yeah, I think so.”

“Adrian would like him.”

The third item was a pretty stained glass window, and finally, the fourth card revealed the Unicorn Tapestries. “Oh,” breathed Abbey as we entered the room. “I love him.”

The tapestries told the story of the unicorn being found, chased, attacked, killed, and then miraculously coming to life again. “Poor unicorn,” Abbey moaned at the sight of the unicorn surrounded.

“Look at this piece,” Luke pointed out. The fifth tapestry was just fragments. “See the look on the woman’s face? She’s taming him.” I thought she looked shrewd and bewitching. The poor creature stared lovingly at her. “They call this one
The Mystic Capture of the Unicorn
.”

For some reason, this tattered piece saddened me the most. It had been a tough two weeks without Adrian, and now a very emotional day with my brother-in-law. The tears I brushed away did not go unnoticed by him.

“You okay?”

I nodded. “Can we get back outside for a while? It’s so dark in here. And cold.”