CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
After I blink away my shock, I take the time to pack my guitar in its case. I don’t need to; I normally prop the thing in a corner, and everyone leaves it alone as long as I get it before the doors open. But this time I lay it in the rich plush interior and take the time to set my pick and other accoutrements into the little side pocket, too. I do it in a daze. I suppose I don’t actually care about carefully stowing my gear as the crowd breaks up and returns to work, just like I don’t care about wiping a smudge off the hinges or carrying the whole case back to one of the dressing rooms. I just need something to do for a few minutes. Anything to shake the strange haze that has descended over my head, making me feel almost dizzy.
When I get to the room, I open up the case again, still not quite sure why. And I see what had caught my eye before, which my conscious mind had decided to ignore: a few scribbled notes from last night, during one of my fugues. When I woke, that music seemed just as shitty as the thousands of pages I must have thrown away in mornings after, but for some reason I didn’t toss it. Instead, it’s in the bottom of my case. I pick it up to waste another half minute, but all I can decide is not to pitch it again. It’s probably still terrible, but I can figure that out and toss it later.
Maybe this particular song isn’t awful. On first glance, it doesn’t strike me as repugnant as my midnight writings always seem at 6 a.m.
But I don’t want to think about that either because the worst thing in the world would be for me to discover that work like this has never been as puerile as I’ve imagined. It would mean I’ve burned endless decent songs these last few years, certain they were crap. And right now, given the strange way I feel after hearing Abigail sing, pondering that destruction makes me think of murder.
I put the case away. I go into the bathroom then splash water on my face, feeling disoriented or drunk. I haven’t had anything to drink, but it sure feels like I’m losing my grip in the exact same way. What happened in the front room cast a spell, sufficient to draw a crowd. We didn’t mean to put on a show. We didn’t even know there was a show to put on. It was one of those things that just happened, like magic. Like something you do because you’re obeying a deeper force. Like something that, afterward, you can only celebrate or regret.
Once I’m more levelheaded, I leave the bathroom and steer away from Danny’s voice, which I can hear a mile away. I’d gone the opposite direction from him earlier, escaping when he was waylaid by one of the cocktail waitresses. Because I know what Danny has in mind right now — exactly what he’ll say to me if I run into him. He’s been pushing me to write and perform new stuff almost as hard as Freddy has been pushing to work with me. He won’t believe that none of that was planned and will think I’m being difficult if I refuse to repeat my performance. I came in today with a song that had been slowly growing, like an infant. But that room just heard something mature, almost adult. And nobody will believe how it was born because even I’m having trouble with the truth.
Did I write lyrics without intending to? Of course not, but the alternative is practically witchcraft. I had no idea what that song was about, but now I do. And its germination within me must mean something. Abigail incubating the rest must mean something else. All I can focus on now is finding the answer.
I make my way through the Overlook’s twisted backstage labyrinth. Freddy follows like a heat-seeking missile. I don’t want to accuse him of stalking me, but really the only way he could be so coincidentally behind me now is if he’d come out of the main room then waited for me to get my shit back in order.
“Gavin.”
I ignore him. Right. Left. Another left.
“Gavin.”
“Not now, Freddy.”
“Gavin, you told me that song was … ”
He stops when I reach the locker room, which I’d almost passed, and see Abigail standing there with Chloe cupping her cheek.
“Can I have a minute?” I ask.
Chloe gives me an enigmatic smile. A smile that seems to say she knows more than I do about whatever’s going on, or whatever’s about to. “See you, Abigail,” she says. And then she slips past Freddy and is gone.
“You too, Freddy.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Give me a minute with Abigail.”
“I want to talk to her, too.” He extends a hand, and there’s a comical introduction. Abigail shakes his hand as if she’s never seen one before, though they must at least know who one another are. Is it possible they’ve never spoken? The past week has gone so fast; it feels like she’s been part of my life forever.
“I want to talk to her first.”
“No way, man. No way. I know how you are. You’ll shit this away. But you can’t. That song needs more instrumentation. It’s quiet, but it’s not one guitar and you know it. I want to help.”
“I told you, that song is off the table. You were going to work up something else.”
“I want that one.”
“Fuck off, Freddy.” I say it casually. I’m not really mad, but I am impatient and he’s butting in.
“No, man, goddammit! I know you by now, Gavin, and I know you’ll shut it down. This isn’t about me horning in. I don’t give a fuck; I don’t want a percentage even if I help you work it up. This is about the song.”
And in that second, I’m reminded of what I thought earlier, about all the music I’ve slaughtered because I thought it deserved a burial. It’s like Freddy’s fighting to save a life; that’s how intense he looks.
Abigail is nearly between us, looking frail. She’s paler than usual, and her body language is all wrong, like she just wants to get away. Something is different about her face, too. She’s fresher, somehow, and the difference makes me want to kiss her again, and hold her tight because whatever I’m feeling, she’s the only one who’d understand.
“Seriously, Freddy.”
Freddy slams a fist against the lockers. The whole thing rattles, and Abigail jumps.
“No, dammit!” He jabs a finger out into the hallway and says, “You know what that was out there? That was real. I walk, and you’ll make it go away because being real scares you. You’ve come close to real here and there, but this is the brightest I’ve seen you light up, ever. Usually, you’re up to your throat with bullshit.”
“Thanks,” I say bitterly.
“It’s true, Gavin! You write safe. Even when you sing a little warming up, you sing safe. You even talk safe. Anyone tries to be real with you, you shut down. But you’re a fucking artist! You can’t run from your pain. You have to face what’s right there begging for your attention then go through it!”
My lips firm, and I give Freddy a stare, but as with what he said before about working together, this frequent argument of his suddenly seems like it might carry a grain of truth. Instead, I turn to Abigail, and she’s practically crumpled between us.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
The timid way she says it breaks my heart all over. “Sorry for what?” I say, pushing the words through my lips in a whisper.
“I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have sung. It just seemed like you wanted me to.”
“Wait … ” Freddy says.
“I was making it up. Like singing along with a song you’ve never heard, just following someone else’s lead. I didn’t mean anything by it. I swear. Chloe just told me about … ” She hesitates then tries again. “I didn’t know, Gavin. It’s your business, not mine. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Hang on,” Freddy says. “Are you saying that you — ”
“I couldn’t even tell you what I said!” An impulse seizes me, and I take her arm for support because it looks like she might fall, but she goes with the momentum and collapses into me, her face half-against my shoulder. I realize she’s started to cry, and I want more than anything to stop it. “Please believe me, I wasn’t saying what … I wasn’t saying that you should … ” She can’t go on and turns to a sobbing mess against me.
Freddy’s hand settles on her back. I’m touched seeing his gesture, and there’s a shift inside me that ratchets my liking of Freddy up a notch. The touch is soft and understanding, not patronizing, definitely not inappropriate.
“Abigail.”
She looks up. Her eyes are a little red, and for some reason this makes me want to crumble, to right whatever’s wrong. And as she gazes at me before shifting to Freddy, I realize what’s different: a spray of beautiful freckles across her cheeks and nose. Not overly obvious at all. They’re adorable. She’s been covering them up, as if ashamed.
She looks at Freddy.
“Gavin didn’t give you those lyrics?” he asks.
Abigail shakes her head. Freddy looks at me with disbelief, seeming to wonder if I’ll contradict her, then again meets her eyes.
“You wrote them?”
She nods. And holy shit, seeing her do it hurts me so much. She looks like a kid in the principal’s office, about to confess. Is she afraid of us? Is she afraid of me? Whatever is bothering her, is it something I did — or worse, something she imagines she did that she thinks made me angry?
I want to hold her and tell her that everything is all right. To whisper in her ear that I’d never be mad, and that everything will be fine.
Again, Freddy looks at me. Then he’s speaking to Abigail, his stare intense, eyes always flicking back in my direction.
“When?” he asks.
“Over the past few days. But only for the main parts. I’d never heard a lot of what … ” She swallows. “Of what Gavin played today.”
“So what about the rest? The verses? When did you write those?”
“As he played.”
Freddy looks at me harder.
“How did you do that?” he asks Abigail.
“I don’t know.”
Finally, Freddy’s glance lights on me and stays there.
“No,” I say, knowing what’s coming.
“We need her,” he says.
“There’s no ‘we,’ Freddy.”
“There’s a we as of a half hour ago. We had a deal.”
“Not for that song.”
“It’s amazing, Gavin. You know it is.”
“It’s just chords and strumming.”
“With her lyrics, it’s something else.”
I look down at Abigail. I find myself remembering the first thing she said. Neither of us addressed it. Freddy took over from the start, and he wasn’t even supposed to be here.
I wanted answers, and now I have them. It’s beautiful in a way, even as much as it hurts.
As if sensing my thoughts, Abigail says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be presumptuous and imply that — ”
This time, I shush her. I run my hand over her hair then wipe a tear from her newly freckled cheek.
“Don’t be sorry,” I tell her. “Don’t you ever be sorry.”