Dawn was seeping into West Hollywood, illuminating the tops of the buildings in the city below, and Emma closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, she noticed that the streetlights had been extinguished. She and Stick had ridden silently from the studio to their borrowed home on Blue Jay Way. She stood shivering slightly at the open French doors off the bedroom; he lay in bed, and although she couldn’t see his face, she was sure he was awake.
“Did you tell him about me?” Emma posed the question in an almost-whisper without turning around.
“No. I wanted to,” Stick answered quietly. “I was kind of freaked by the whole thing. It’s not every day you write a song with your girlfriend’s dead father. Sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“But Richard, you were in there for over three hours.” She tried unsuccessfully to keep the protest out of her voice.
“I know. I thought about it a lot, but I didn’t know where to start. He just came in and asked about my song idea, and we went from there, and then boom, it was over.”
“So, does he live there?” Emma turned and walked back to the bed, looking imploringly at her boyfriend. He pulled her to him and pressed his nose into her neck.
“I guess. We didn’t talk about anything but the song. How bizarre is this? I was trying to imagine what was going on in your mind when you realized it was your dad jamming in the studio with me. Fuck! I wrote a song with Roc Molotov tonight, and I can’t tell anyone.”
Emma’s shoulders were shaking, and Stick pulled her close. He pushed her hair away from her face to see she was crying and smiling. “I knew he was still alive. I was sure, even without that thing I spotted on the computer. Oh god, Rich, I’m totally confused. I think I need to talk to my mom.”
“Really?” He watched the early morning light catching the shine of her moist blue eyes. “But he’s in hiding, right? I mean I don’t know why, but he must have a reason. What would your mom do?”
“Oh, probably call the bloody National Guard. Call my aunt who would call a close personal friend at the Globe. Then she’d call her lawyer. Okay, that would be a bad idea.” She jumped out of the bed and pulled on a sweatshirt, almost twitching with energy,
“My dad’s alive, Richard.… I can’t believe it…. I mean I do, but … and you wrote a song with him. I’m totally happy, but what does this all mean?”
Stick watched the reflection of headlights on the ceiling as he lay back on the bed. A theory was forming in his head, but he didn’t want to give voice to it yet. He knew whom to call, but his dad reacted badly to being woken up at dawn.
“Listen, speaking of lawyers, this is probably a coincidence, but my allowance check bounced today. I called my mom’s lawyer, Mr. Bucyk, and he told me not to worry, but he sounded kind of weird. He’s always weird, he’s like a hundred and six and probably showers in his brogues, but it was different weird. Said he had to email my mom about some irregularities in the account.”
Stick’s mind was whirling, but he spoke reassuringly. “Don’t worry about it, baby, we’ve got a freezer full of Amy’s pesto pizzas. I better get some sleep; I’ve got band practice today, and I’ll hit my dad up for some cash. He wants me to do some errands for him.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll let you sleep. I’m going to sit on the deck, watch the city wake up.” She picked up her laptop and leaned over to kiss him. “I’m too jazzed to sleep right now. Richard, I’ve got to meet him. I’ve waited eighteen years and travelled three thousand miles and been told it was too late. This is my father, after all.”
“Well, he asked me to come back tonight to jam.”
Emma stood in the doorway, incredulous. “And when were you planning to mention this, little drummer boy?”