38

Billie calls it a surprise. Gus isn’t so sure.

She’s calling from Sky Harbor, says she’s just landed and will limo over to the Desert Charm. “Why don’t I just come pick you up?” he asks.

“The limo will save time. Besides, I thought you might have a client.”

“I did,” he says. “About an hour ago. What brings you back to Phoenix?”

“I told you,” she flirts. “I just wanted to surprise you.”

“I’m surprised. I think.”

“Besides, Miranda is back here and we have more work to do on the tour. She can’t stay with me in LA full-time.”

“Right.”

“Can you come by tonight? I’ll order room service.”

He tells her “sure,” and they’re off the phone. Gus scratches at his scruffy chin. He didn’t get many breakthrough vibes with his client earlier—it was a woman thinking about changing careers, from what to what he can’t remember, maybe sous chef to firefighter; it was something ironic—but he’s getting vibes now. He doesn’t recognize them, doesn’t understand them, but they prick at his skin, faintly at first, and then, like the march of pins to a cushion.

He walks out to the pool. Ivy follows. He dives in and stays under as long as his lungs will allow. This is Zen, here at the bottom, his arms crossed over his chest, his breathing acquiescent. This is Zen, floating but not floating, the silence of water, the absence of a tide, no pull of the moon. So he loiters there in his vessel of solitude until he hears the frenzied barking of Ivy crashing through the depth between them. He opens his eyes. Through the wobbly water he can see her frantic at the edge of the pool, her big golden face leaning over the edge, looking for Gus. He soars to the surface with a straight-line push off the bottom. She’s still barking when he breaks the surface, still barking when he pulls himself from the pool. Still barking when he towels himself off and hugs her close.

He showers, changes, heads to the Desert Charm. Billie opens the door in a white gossamer blouse, untucked, and a flowing pair of linen pants, the color of burlap. A lightning bolt pendant hangs from her neck. She smells musky when he leans in and kisses her. “Gus, come in,” she says.

He follows her to the living room. She stretches out on the couch. He sits at her side, squeezing in. “You tired?” he asks.

“I’m always tired. Exhausted.”

“I guess telling you to slow down is pointless.”

“Pointless.”

“But you are stopping over in Tahiti on the tour.”

“Yeah,” she says, no more soliciting him to come.

Someone has to break the ice. It might as well be him. He’s feeling chilly enough. “How was your visit with Cameron?”

She smiles. “Oh great! That old guy! After all these years he’s still the same old pain in the ass. But I guess you could say he’s mellowed a little. Enough to join the band, that is.”

“What do you mean?”

She pulls herself up a bit. “Just for the Down Under tour,” she says. “He’ll replace Glen ’cause Glen has a conflict.”

Glen is Billie’s bass player.

“So, that’s it. All decided?”

She laughs. “Between Cam and me, yes. But then there’s the agents and managers and lawyers.”

“What about boyfriends and girlfriends?” Gus asks. He’s not laughing. He’s not smiling. He’s not pouting. He’s just looking at her with a thin expression.

“You mean, you, right?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“That’s one of the reasons I came to Phoenix. I thought we should talk about it.”

He nods. “We’re talking about it.”

The pinpricks are back. He’s the cushion.

“It’s not what it looks like, Gus,” she tells him. “We’re not getting back together.”

“But you’re not necessarily staying apart,” he says. “How long is this tour between Australia and New Zealand? A month?”

“Three and a half weeks, so yeah, a month,” she says. “And that’s kind of what Cam’s visit to LA was all about. You know, if we could be in the same house for forty-eight hours and not kill each other, we could probably survive a few weeks overseas.”

“Probably.”

“And you’d still be welcome to come along, the whole time, if you wanted,” she insists. “But I know you have priorities here.” “Responsibilities.”

The earth seems to shift below his feet. There’s a tremor.

“Did you feel that?” he asks her.

“What?”

“The ground move . . .”

She laughs again. “C’mon, we don’t have earthquakes here.”

He tilts his chin and narrows his eyes. “Maybe you brought one with you from LA.”

“Oh my God, I love that! Can I use it in a song? So dramatic!”

He puts his head in his hands and rubs his eyes. “Sure, use it. I don’t think you’ll forget it.”

She grabs his arm. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m getting some strong vibes. The tremor was just the beginning.”

He stands and crosses the room. He leans against a window looking out to the splash pool in the courtyard. He can’t see his reflection in the pool from here, but he imagines his reflection in the pool, and that’s all he needs to see. The rest is crystalline. They’re in separate hemispheres, on either side of the equator. They’re on opposite sides of the international date line. Just finding each other’s longitude and latitude is daunting, and they haven’t even left home. They’re here. In the same room. Something shakes inside him, the rattle of an uninvited epiphany, perhaps, or instant grief, like the sudden news of death.

“I was supposed to be coming to LA this weekend, but you don’t want me there,” he says, still peering through the window. “You want me here. This is the weekend we’re breaking up, right?”

He hears her gasp. “Don’t say it like that.”

“You gasp at what it sounds like? What do you think it’s supposed to sound like, Billie?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think I do. You think it can’t be happening unless it happens in a lyric,” he says, turning to her.

She gets up. She walks to him her arms extended, a helpless waif. A helpless waif has never been so powerful. “You sound hurt, Gus. I’m sorry. I thought we could spend a few days and talk about it. But who am I to compete with your psychic vibes? I should have known you’d pick up on something before we even ordered dinner. Should we?” “Should we what?”

“Order dinner?”

He looks at her, shakes his head. “Whatever, Billie. I don’t care.” She grabs him by the shoulders and rubs him there, then pulls him closer into an embrace. “I’m too old for this,” she whispers in his ear. “I’m too old to go down this road much longer.”

“What road?”

“I’ve never been married. I will never marry. It’s too late for me to learn how to do that. And trust me, I have no clue. There’s a whole line of casualties behind you, Gus . . .”

“But when you love someone,” he hears himself say.

“But this has nothing to do with love . . .”

“Oh, yes it does,” he tells her.

She shakes her head, pushes her hair behind her neck. “I’m not saying I don’t love you. I do. I do love you, Gus. Whatever pain I cause you, I promise I will cause myself double. I just know that life gives you as much freedom as you want. Some want less than others. Some want more. I don’t think it’s possible for me to ever have enough. The universe is too big. I need the freedom to inhabit the universe.”

Ok.

So.

Hmmm.

He looks at her. He stares into her eyes, seeking what, he doesn’t know. There had always been solace there. But now he’s looking for something broken. Like a shattered bulb, a short circuit, a fucking broken mirror, anything. Maybe he hopes to find confirmation of their denouement.

Instead he sees Aaliyah Jones staring back at him.

“Aaliyah . . .” he says.

“What did you call me?” Billie asks him.

“Huh?”

Again, the other woman in her eyes. It has to be Aaliyah Jones.

“You said Aaliyah. Who’s that?” Billie asks. “What does that mean?”

He apologizes, explains he’s in a bit of a trance, asks for her indulgence. Aaliyah, strong but tormented, will not look away. She will not budge. She will not depart Billie’s eyes. Trapped there, like a spirit, like a possession, Aaliyah tells Gus she’s in prison. This does not surprise Gus. This should not surprise anyone. It’s a good thing she’s alive, but she’s obviously being held against her will. Gus can’t see where she is. He tries to ask her. He begs, “Where are you? Do you have any idea?”

“Gus, please . . .” That’s Billie pleading.

Aaliyah shakes her head. “No, I was blindfolded.”

“But you’re in prison? An actual prison?”

“Figuratively and literally,” Aaliyah whispers. “I can’t let them know we’re talking. All I know is I’m in a small room, like a shoebox, and I can’t get out.”

“I’m going to help you,” Gus tells her. He doesn’t know how. Has no clue. But what is he supposed to say?

“C’mon, Gus . . . This is freaking me out.” Again, Billie.

“Any chance you’re in a bunker, Aaliyah?”

“Could be. But I don’t remember going underground . . .”

Billie begins to sing. At first, gently, softly. Then she begins to climb the scales of rock ’n’ roll. Her voice goes from ethereal to mighty, from sweeps of sand to a percussive tsunami. Then Billie twirls around the room as she sings, like she’s performing, like she’s at the center of the stage under the lights, glowing like a phantom angel.

And Aaliyah disappears.

“Aaliyah . . .” Gus calls.

“It’s me. Goddamnit, Gus!”

“I’m sorry, Billie. I was having a visit.”

“A visit or a vision?”

“Both. This vision came in the form of a visit.” He tells her about Aaliyah’s disappearance.

“Oh, God. That’s awful,” Billie says.

“Yes. It is.”

“And you know where she is?”

“No. I don’t. I can’t get there. At least not yet.”

“Dinner?” she asks.

“No,” he says. “I don’t have an appetite. I think I need to leave.” She nods, smiles weakly. Her eyes, fully her own now, not Aaliyah’s, turn sad and almost mournful. She comes forward and grabs both of Gus’s hands in hers, as if she’s asking him to dance. But she’s not. She stands there holding him. Her hair falls forward, tresses of it cascading. “I don’t know what to say,” she says.

“Don’t say anything. There are no words that need to be said.” “OK.”

“OK. I love you.”

“I love you.”

He promises to be in touch, nothing else. She promises the same. Then he leaves. And he leaves most of it all in the room. With her.