4. Brian
I was right. This town doesn’t respect anyone’s privacy.
Jessica has some nerve knocking on my door and demanding that I stop drumming in my own house. In another universe, a neighbor shows up at your doorstep with a pan of cupcakes in hand or, better yet, some cookies. But not South Brook. Not that I care for cupcakes, either.
What matters now is finding peace from the silence in my head. I had it all sorted out for a moment, drumming away and immersing myself in the vibration of the beats. My drumsticks had become an extension of myself, echoing in my ears in catchy thumped sounds.
A framed photo emerges among the pile of unopened boxes. I’d recognize that golden-brown frame anywhere. I walk over and carefully take it out. It’s a picture of Sonya.
I return to where I was, seated at the drum set.
Her adorable face stares back at me, her eyes beaming brightly in the picture like they used to get whenever she saw me. I’d rather remember her this way—the cheerful kid who ran around the house, following me everywhere.
The dark mass of black hair cascaded down her back. Even at her age, she had stunning hair, and she knew it. She’d pack it in a ponytail, wear it in braids, or drape it over her shoulders.
It’s easier picturing her this way than on a hospital bed wearing a gown, battling cancer.
‘You’re the best big brother there is.’
That’s the last thing she said to me. I left the hospital convinced that she’d make it through the night. The doctors said the procedure was experimental, but she should survive the night. I took their word for it.
That was dumb of me.
I only wanted clarity, so I bought it at the bottom of a whiskey glass that night. As the night wore on, it became clear that a one-night stand wouldn’t be that bad of an idea either.
Clarity, huh? More like selfish and reckless.
‘She kept calling for you last night,’ Mom sobbed, when I showed up at the hospital the next morning, bathed in alcohol and some strange woman’s perfume. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
Mom never got over it. After losing Dad right after Sonya was born, Sonya was the only thing keeping Mom together. Her only other child was a clubbing womanizer. A scoundrel. Me.
I reach for the drumsticks next to me. There’s only one way to get past all this guilt. The strokes of these sticks help me express and cope with my emotions.
Maybe I should start getting more of my things out of these boxes. I should, but my mind still drifts away from this room and all of South Brook. I recall the tunes that night, the night I stepped out of the bar tipsy, as it had become my behavior for months after Sonya’s passing. That’s when I heard them play. I don’t remember the band’s name or if they’re still around, but their music caught my attention.
Their drummer, a bearded young man, had his eyes shut tight. His hands moved freely like the drum set was a part of his body. He sang – they all sang. That night, for the first time in months, I smiled.
Bringing Sonya’s photo to my lips, I kiss her forehead, the ache in my heart intensifying with each passing minute I can’t see her, hug her, or pick up the phone to call her.
I should play some beats right now. Maybe not. Maybe I should take a walk around this town. I did see a bar when I drove around with Greg. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to see if I can get us a gig there.
I return the picture to the box and head outside. I’d rather drum when I get back home. I’ll need it if I’m going to find any sleep.
Sunset in South Brook is a sight to witness. The sun dips beautifully over the horizon, kissing the tips of the buildings overhead. Then there are flowers everywhere. Why is everyone obsessed with flowers? They’re on the front lawn, lined up on porches, draped over fences, along sidewalks, and on storefronts.
All the homes here have similar styles. They’re built like cottages with many windows and short picket fences, which is really like having no fence at all—ugh.
There’s a neon sign in front of the first bar I see. The name alone is enough to make me flash a smile. A bar named North in South Brook. Nicely done, champ.
The bar is busy for a mid-weekday early evening. All the men are dressed in the same fashion, a plaid shirt over faded blue denim. I walk past the clusters of chairs around every table until I’m standing by the bartender. I grab a seat at one of the few open stools by his counter.
The bartender is a bald man with a mustache longer than his beard. He looks to be in his early fifties. His eyes are sunken, too sunken for someone who should stay sharper than everyone else.
“What can I get you?” he asks in a brassy tone.
“Surprise me,” I say.
“You look like a Bourbon would do you good.” He pours me a shot and places it in front of me. “It’s on the house.”
I take a sip. He does have a good eye.
“New around here?”
“Yeah. Moved in today.”
“Came in with the band, huh?”
I look at him. He’s wiping a glass with a grin on his face.
“Word travels fast around here, doesn’t it?” I ask.
“Welcome to South Brook, bud.”
I take another sip. It travels slowly down my throat, burning just as I want it to.
“Any idea where I can get a new pair of drumsticks?”
“Bennie has everything you’ll ever need. You should check him out. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I doubt if there’s anyone to attend to you right now.” He nods to one end of the bar. “That’s him over there.”
I follow his head to a redhead with denim coveralls over at the end of the bar. There are about half a dozen beer bottles on his table.
“Yeah, I don’t think he’s selling anything else tonight.”
I take another sip of the bourbon. My glass is empty. I push it toward the bartender again.
“You’ll be careful with how much you drink over here. You don’t wanna get home drunk.”
“I won’t.”
I look around the bar. Several heads turn in my direction. Several people tip their beer bottles in my direction. Maybe this town isn’t so bad after all.
“You seem quite popular around here already.”
“I’m as surprised as you are.”
“I’m not. It’s no longer news that Brian Shepherd of EBB is in town.”
“You know my name.”
It should feel great, but I’d rather have them know nothing about the band until they hear us play.
“Everyone knows your name.”
Jessica Walsh next door didn’t. All that mattered to her was making sure I didn’t drum anymore. But there’s something about her feistiness that captured my attention…a little. I shake my head and squash the thought from my mind. Anyway, she doesn’t matter.
“You have me at a disadvantage there.”
“My name is North.”
“North.” I tip my glass toward him. “You let any bands play in here, North?”
“Not since NeXT left here about a year ago.”
“That means you have space for a band then.”
“You kidding me?”
“I kid you not.”
“Well, that’ll be quite a feat. They’re lining up at the door by the dozens around here,” he teases. “Hmm. I’ll see about next weekend.”
I chuckle. “Sounds good.”
A chubby-cheeked man waltzes into the bar. He takes a seat near me and reluctantly spares me a glance.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
His scruffy appearance stands out amidst the crowd at the bar. Maybe it’s the peculiar, flimsy cap perched awkwardly on his head that you can tell has some miles on it, or the impassive expression etched into his features. I’m betting he hasn’t smiled in a long time.
“What can I get you, Jim?” North asks.
“Water.”
North smiles. “Sure you don’t want something stronger?”
“Nah. I need to stay sharp for tomorrow, eh.” He drops the glass of water and shakes his head. “Can I get a teeny bit of rum?”
“Whiskey,” North replies.
Jim pauses. “Fine. I’ll have that.”
I down the contents of my cup and watch. Jim doesn’t empty his glass. He merely takes a sip and then leaves a few dollars on the counter.
“See you around, Jim,” North hails.
The one called Jim responds with a gruff tone. I step away from the counter. I’ve seen enough of South Brook for one night.
“I guess I’ll see you around, North.”
He nods curtly. “See you around.”
The silence returns as soon as I step out of the bar. The sounds and vibrations of a hi-hat accent will be the perfect remedy. I’ll have to drum as soon as I get home. It’s either that or I’ll be up all night.