Swoon 02 - Swear Read online

  Yeah. Well. What did he used to call me? Right. “My drowsy thrush.”

  I loved the feeling. Singing, yeah. The musical bond band members share, sure. But the Sin-ness, the undeniable communion with the boy who wasn’t there, that’s what seduced me, ensnared me, made me go, More . . . more . . . more! So when Duck clapped his hands and cried, “Dice, sing another!” I did. Damn skippy, I did.

  “Dice?”

  Huh? Oh, Tosh! Here and now, beside my struggling plants, a hungry cat winding between my shins.

  “You in?”

  Committing to Bruise Blue—and continuing to channel Sin—can’t possibly help me in my quest for normalcy. Unless it can. Cushy distractions like a veggie garden and comfort food may muffle the situation but won’t abolish it. If I’m ever to heal from this blue bruise, maybe I need to vent, vociferate, howl my head off. Maybe. Maybe not. But “maybe” isn’t one of the two answers I can give Tosh.

  So I pick one. An answer, that is. “Yes.” I say it. What the hell, it’s just for the summer—possibly my final summer in Swoon. “I’m in. Sure.”

  “No shit? For real? Killer! Then we should practice ASAP.

  Like tomorrow. I already talked to Duck, and he’s down.

  Although I have to work, so it’d be late, like around midnight.

  I could pick you up. If you want.”

  Again, the Y word. I want. I want very much.

  “Hey, you know what I’m thinking? We should do some real blues. Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson, or—what am I saying?—Big Mama Thornton, Bessie Smith . . . you being a female and alll. . .”

  The dude is getting way ahead of himself, but the truth is, I was raised on the blues—Daddy’s revered vinyl, the sleeves in plastic sheeting. I grin at him, shrug in acquiescence, and he takes off, elated.

  Later, at the stove, idly stirring mac into cheese, I think of that golden glint in Tosh’s eyes. There because he’s stoked about the band, how we might “go somewhere.” Unless, of course, I put it there.

  VI

  The Kustard Kup—Swoon’s kwaint alternative to Dairy Queen—opens for the season Friday. Marsh has been a fixture since age fourteen, and once again she dons the hairnet. What with school, the stables, her overall emotional state, and her first night on the job, you’d assume she’d be exhausted when she’s done around eleven. Instead, she’s a lightning bolt of jit-tery blond energy. And she’s not alone. Her tumbledown Toy-ota pulls up the driveway, followed by a far fancier SUV I know full well.

  “Hi-yee!” Pen strolls in behind Marsh, spooning from a sundae bigger than her head. “Want some?” I take her up on two creamy, gooey bites.

  “What are you all dressed up for?” my cousin wants to know.

  “What are you talking about?” I counter. “I’m not dressed up.”

  Pen squints, scrutinizes. “Well, you’re dressed.” As opposed to being in PJs—what every self-respecting homebody wears on Friday nights. Ever the label whore, Pen’s anarchist ensemble is nonetheless high-end, making me a tad self-conscious of my thrift-shop special: a man’s patterned polyester button-down, circa 1973, cinched at the waist over leggings.

  “Pen, come on,” says Marsh, who hasn’t even sat down yet.

  Pen hands over her purse. “Help yourself.” Removing a Baggie of excellent herb, Marsh repairs to the kitchen table to roll a fatty. Pen, meanwhile, flops onto the couch and continues her appraisal. “And is that mascara?” I make a face. “I’m going to Duck’s; we’re going to play.”

  “And how are you getting there? Astral projection?” It’s a fact: A year in Swoon and I still can’t operate a motor vehicle—some sort of NYC mental block. “If this is your way of offering me a lift,” I say, “no thank you. Tosh is picking me up.”

  Pen burps. “He is so in love with himself, that one.” Ice cream radar in full effect, RubyCat pounces my cousin, sniffing.

  “Marsh, don’t you think?”

  “Huh?” Marsh looks up, ponytail swinging. “What?” Damn, she needs to mellow out.

  “That guy Tosh,” Pen says.

  “Hey, don’t let her have hot fudge!” I snap. “Chocolate can kill a cat. And so what if he has an ego? It’s justified.” Tosh is one of those irritatingly gifted people who can wing it on any instrument.

  “I’m so sure.”

  I’m so flippant. “Come, then. Hear for yourself. Marsh, you too.” Having her there will be a buffer against Duck; he won’t bug me with his mwa-ha-ha haunted house obsession if his brother’s beloved is around. Plus, Marsh and Duck seem to find comfort in each other—them being practically in-laws already.

  So Tosh arrives, and he’s all “the more the merrier” (read: he’d love an audience). We pile into Pen’s car (I’m carbon footprint fussy—it’d be unconscionable to caravan) and head for the handsome house off the green. Which is in considerable disarray—newspapers, empty bottles, items of Lillian’s eccentric wardrobe strewn about the great hall. And here’s Duck, splayed on a sofa, his hair in tufts and his eyes puffy.

  “Don’t mind the mess,” he says, heaving himself erect. “Or mind it, I don’t care!” Then, “Oh, I’m sorry, don’t mind me.” He and Marsh cling in greeting, and I begin to doubt this was such a great idea.

  Tosh puts a hand on the big guy’s shoulder. “You hanging in there, man?”

  Duck shakes his head, a woebegone teddy bear, and my heart goes out to him. “It’s hard,” he admits. “It’s been nearly a week.

  Mum’s a wreck, subsisting entirely on white wine and toffee; Father’s furious; and the sheriff’s department is truly worthless.”

  His shoulders rise and fall like twin anvils. “The worst part is, I’ve taken Crane for granted all my life. Our family wafts about like vagabonds, wherever the wind and Mummy’s whims might take us, but Crane was the constant. Crane was always there.” His gaze is on me during this last part, which makes me squirmy. Duck wants something from me—he’s not sure what, and neither am I—yet I just can’t bring myself to merge into the paranormal lane. We hold each other’s eyes, and then he forces brightness. “Let’s rock out, shall we?” The studio is spacious, wood-paneled, and comfy, hosting a slew of instruments, sheet music, and tablature, plus a computer and various racks of recording gear. The girls sink into plush suede seats side by side while we Bruise Bluers proceed to ignore them. Tosh adjusts the stool at the drum kit, and Duck, who usually plays bass, hovers over his brother’s Les Paul, then picks up the SG instead.

  “I just want you to know, I’m a crap guitarist,” he warns.

  “No worries, dude—you’re a crap bassist too,” Tosh joshes, with a ba-dum-bum-tish on tom-tom and cymbal.

  I approach the microphone like a curious animal. “Is this on?” Yikes—feedback! “Oops—guess so.”

  There’s a bit of tuning up as we decide not to work on Crane’s songs—too weird without him. We toss tune titles around awhile, and then Tosh, a little impatiently, says, “Come on, come on, singer’s choice.”

  “All right, boss man!” Riffling through a stack of lyric sheets, I pull one out at random—the Ramones’ “Teenage Lobotomy”—and we’re off. We do this, we do that, mostly upbeat three-chord punk and pop, me purposely avoiding the blues and its typically lovesick verses. I can’t tell if we’re any good, but Marsh and Pen seem into it—they applaud, anyway.

  Then Pen pulls Marsh out of her chair and they mosh with abandon. Is that a bona fide smile getting whipped by Marsh’s ponytail? It is. For the first time in a long time, I could kiss my cousin.

  After a while Tosh quits the kit, flexing his chops with one thing after another: guitar, sax, even that whacky pipe of didgeridoo. I’ll cop to it—I’m a little jealous. Much as I love music, I’ve always been all thumbs when it comes to any instrument other than my voice. I get over this the second Tosh attends the piano and rehearsal devolves into a cornball sing-along.

  “Oh, I love this stuff!” he says, thumbing through a thick tome of Elton John ballads. We harmonize (horribly
) on “Candle in the Wind,” then Duck takes a hilarious turn on lead vocals for “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” (changing the lyrics to “Do let your son . . .”). By the time we get to “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” Marsh and Pen have crowded around, all of us yowling more or less in unison.

  “Stop! Stop!” Duck demands at the coda, his face pink and his smile a beacon. “Stop or I’ll pee!”

  Tosh throws up his hands. “Please, man! Pee elsewhere!” So Duck dashes off to the loo and Pen decides to find one too.

  “That was so fun, Tosh, really,” Marsh says, blowing at her limp bangs. She looks tired, spent—in a good way, for a change.

  “Yeah, who knew schmaltz was your forte.” I give him a gentle shoulder shove. “I’m impressed.”

  “You ain’t heard nothing till I’ve butchered Barry Manilow.” Marsh hits up the bar, the mini-fridge tucked beneath, and while I hear her ask, “Water, anyone?” for some reason I don’t answer. Neither does Tosh. We just share the bench for a few endless seconds. Then, out of nowhere, a sharp, acute shock of the pain that’s more pleasure. For the first time ever in public, in that very private place, my blue bruise starts to throb. Damn right, I flinch!

  Does Tosh notice? He must, since he pops up with a “Water! Yes! Water!” and shakes his limbs in their sockets.

  In an instant it’s gone, no throb, no echo, no trace. Just me wondering what the hell that was. I steal a glance at Tosh, who guzzles as he strides around the room, cutting me a way-wide berth. Great. Only now, alone with the baby grand, I can appreciate how cool it is, all curvy construction and satiny polish. Almost like a mythical creature—sturdy legs, a single wing, eighty-eight teeth in its stunning smile. I run my fingers across the keys, warmer than I thought they’d be. Inviting, in fact. And so, out of nowhere—the proverbial clear blue—I begin to play.

  Eerily lovely, the melody must draw Tosh and Marsh close again. Only I’m not aware they’re standing there. Nor do I know when Pen and Duck come back into the room. What I do know is A-minor—not the saddest key, more bittersweet, melancholy but not without hope—and three-quarter time. A waltz. Elegant and enduring, the sort of piece a couple might have danced to, out there in the grand hall, back when the house was new. It sweeps and swirls, builds and then ebbs, pouring out of me. And when it’s done, my fingers lift from the ivories to my lips.

  I look up into the faces of my friends.

  Marsh and Tosh radiate clueless glee—pleasantly surprised.

  Pen’s expression is confusion mixed with annoyance—she knows full well I’m as proficient at piano as I am behind the wheel. But Duck, poor Duck, wears a grimace of unadulterated dread.

  “Whoa, Dice, where’d that come from?” Tosh asks.

  “I have no idea,” I softly, slowly admit.

  “I do,” asserts the stricken Duck. “I recognized it immediately.

  Crane hummed the damn thing compulsively—every time he came from the east wing!”

  VI

  It’s difficult if not impossible to write Duck off as a drama queen. Especially as I notice the stink—that’s right, stink, stench, malodorous aura—of roses in the room.

  “Wow,” I concede, purposefully closing the cover on the piano keys. “That’s weird.”

  “Yes, Dice,” Duck says. “It is. Perhaps now you’ll take me seriously.”

  Pen leans a knee on the bench. “What’s he talking about?” My eyes are all over the place—on Pen, Marsh, the third eye of the wall. “Duck has this theory . . .”

  “What?” Marsh demands, features converging, voice tightening.

  “About Crane?”

  “Yes, Marsh, it is about Crane,” Duck says. “And, really, it ought squash any fears you might have that he’s been struck by a car or something awful like that.”

  Right, Duck’s got a whole other kind of awful in mind.

  “I believe,” he says, “that he’s still in the house. I believe the house . . . has him.”

  A reflexive puff of disbelief and Tosh breaks the tension; too bad the pieces are so sharp. “Dude, sorry, I know you’re upset,” he says, palm up. “But come on.”

  “No, you come on.” Pen wags a digit. “You don’t know anything.

  You live in Norris.” The next town over, it might as well be another planet. “This is Swoon.”

  Not one to step off a confrontation, Tosh spews syllables:

  “Huh? So? What?”

  I get up, come between them. “What she’s trying to say is . . .” My fingers stray toward Tosh’s sleeve, then fall to my side.

  Is it my priority to make him understand that Swoon is special, and so am I? Or is it time to bring Marsh up to speed on Duck’s suspicions—suspicions I can no longer deny? I turn to her.

  “Look, Marsh, Duck thinks something haunty is happening.

  And he thinks I can help.”

  Marsh grips my arm, but Tosh can’t get with this—at all

  “Help, then,” he says, his eyes gone the gray of everyday reality. “Tell him—no offense—that he’s nuts.”

  “I can’t, Tosh. Look, I tried to go along with you guys when you blew off the rose garden episode the other night, but I’ve had . . . similar experiences—”

  “That’s right, all her life.” Pen offers commentary I so don’t need.

  “And just now, with the piano?” I go on. “I mean, yeah, it would be remarkable but not necessarily magical if I spontaneously composed a piece of music. And maybe you could argue I’ve heard it before, caught Crane humming it and then forgot. Only, Tosh, the thing is, I can’t play piano. Not

  ‘Frère Jacques,’ not ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,’ not even

  ‘Chopsticks,’ okay?”

  His lips flatten and I hope I’m just imagining that flinch.

  Turning again to Marsh and Duck, I say. “So now I’m like, fine, freaky is afoot. And, okay, I’m . . . sensitive. But I still don’t get what you expect me to do about it.”

  Stumped, the lot of us. Me, well, I’m distracted—thinking about what Tosh is thinking about, and thinking it can’t be good, and mad at myself for thinking about that when I have far more important things to think about.

  Then Pen says, “I know: You can do the cards.” The cards. My cards. A present from my oldest, bestest, deadest friend when I hit sixteen. The deck I used to turn to for a clue on what fate was stirring up for me and mine. You know, can’t decide how to spend your weekend? Consult the cards.

  Develop a crush and wonder if it’s mildly mutual? Consult the cards. Get the insane notion that your cousin is possessed by the ghost of a boy whose execution you witnessed back in 1769? Consult the cards! Except the cards, my cards, have been put away. Shrouded in a silk scarf, laid to rest in a cigar box, entombed in a suitcase under the bed with other stuff I don’t want or need but can’t bring myself to toss.

  “The cards?” Marsh is mystified. She was babysitting the night last fall when I brought my deck to Caroline Chadwick’s slumber party in the hope of outfoxing Sin.

  “Tarot,” Pen expounds.

  Thanks, Pen. But Tosh doesn’t make a mad streak for the exit, which I find encouraging.

  “Brilliant!” Duck says, then, “Please, Dice, won’t you?” Marsh implores only with her eyes, those big, wet foal eyes that have seen too much tragedy.Suckered!

  A shrug, a sigh—the best I can manage to express acquiescence. Except Duck’s looking at me like he’s ready for a reading on the spot. “What do you think, I tote tarot cards around in my purse, just in case? They’re not tampons, you know,” I say. “Look, you guys, it’s late, I’m fried; I need to be on top of my game to connect with the cosmos.” The weekend won’t work either—Marsh will be shuttling between the Kustard Kup and visiting her sisters in Torrington, plus my mother’s driving up.

  “Well, then, Sunday evening?” Duck says. “Sevenish?”

  “I can do that,” I say.

  “Me too,” Marsh agrees.

  “I’m good.” When Pen signs
on, I get a twinge of this-has-nothing-to-do-with-you, but I let it slide. This was, after all, her idea.

  “Fine,” says Tosh. “I work Sunday brunch.” I flick his way. This has even less to do with him, plus skeptical vibes I don’t need. But I can’t deny that on a certain level I’m glad that, whatever he’s thinking, it’s not that my gift is just shy of leprosy.

  And so, on Sunday, it’s under the bed and into the box and over to the Williams place. Lillian and Paul pause their ongoing argument to wave us girls toward the conservatory. That’s where we find Duck—on a cushion, legs crossed, fingers kissing.

  “Umm . . . Duck?” Marsh calls to him. “We’re here.”

  “Ah!” Lashes fluttering open, he extends his arms to exhibit the position of his fingers, tips of thumbs meeting tips of his rings and pinkies. “The prana mudra,” he explains. “Pumps the life force.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “Pumping the life force is good.” He rises with fluid agility, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to check my giggle. Clearly the boy raided his mother’s jewelry box—there must be thirty pounds of beads, crystals, charms, and amulets around his neck. Tosh arrives in a minute, his usual upbeat vibe subdued for the occasion, and Duck requests that we transit to the east wing without a sound; he’d prefer if his parents didn’t know what we’re up to.

  While previous owners had modernized much of the house over the generations, this portion had gone untouched except for maintenance, necessary repairs. Once we’ve stolen up the staircase and are free to explore, Duck tells us it had been shut down until the renovation began. “Which, personally, I think was just Father’s expensive way to punish Crane.” He grants access to the room where his brother had been learning the not-so-finer points of construction grunt work.