Chapter 6 #2
“I don’t like it when you’re not here.” I hear her frown.
“I know,” I say. “But I’ll be back before you know it.”
She’s quiet for a second before she says, “What do you do all day?”
I move junk around with my worst enemy. It’s been days doing practically everything together. We haven’t fought at all. It seems almost unnatural. Maybe we’re both just trying to get it over with.
“It’s boring. Nothing really exciting.”
“Then why did you go if it’s boring?”
I sigh. “I told you, Sunny. To fix a mistake I made.”
I hear her sigh on the other end. “What time is it there?”
“It’s after nine. It would be your bedtime here.”
Just then I hear some rustling, Sunny saying “hey!” and Pete’s voice comes over the line. “Who is this?”
I roll my eyes. “Jack Tripper. Put Sunny back on. I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I’m not paying for you to yip-yap.”
My fists clench. “We can make personal calls. I told Sunny I would call her. Put her back on.”
“Don’t fuck this up and waste time yapping. Get your shit together and don’t call here anymore.”
He hangs up the line.
I slowly return the phone to the receiver and close my eyes, taking a deep breath, like we do in morning meditation.
I haven’t met the therapist here yet, and I’m hoping they forget about me.
I don’t want to talk to anyone about anything.
It’s exactly why I avoid it. It won’t do any good.
Pete is Pete, and he’s never going to change.
Pete’s words buzz around me like a hornet all the way back to the cabin. My theory behind why he’s so angry all the time is that he really wanted one of us to take after him. And by one of us, I mean me or Seth.
He’s hung out with Nancy Wilson and Joan Jett, so I don’t know why he would assume Laura or Sunny couldn’t. Who knows. But for him, it’s more about seeing himself—some kind of paternal pride and talent being passed down father to son.
When Peach was pregnant with Seth, this lady came to the house and dangled crystals over her belly.
If the crystal moved a certain way, it supposedly determined if it were a boy or a girl.
The crystal lady told Peach it was a girl.
So Peach bought little hair bows and picked out names—Ruby, Caroline, Dedra—but three months later she found out she wouldn’t need them.
I think she just picked Seth from a book.
He has the personality of a potato and sprawls on the couch like one. He’s not interested in music and used to hide under his bed during cocktail parties. He’s muted and reserved and only seems interested in whatever’s on the boob tube and maybe a snack. He might need a shrink more than me.
He’s a disappointment.
But me? I’m the biggest one of all.
I was too little to see Hot Night when they played gigs in Fresno.
My mom was always home with me when Pete stayed out late, coming back tipsy.
He worked for a delivery service during the day, so he’d come home in the wee hours, shower, and head straight to work.
I hardly saw him at all. Around that time, he started using uppers to get through the day.
Then Hot Night opened for bands like The Kinks, Manfred Mann, and The Guess Who.
I didn’t understand what a big deal that was.
Mom took me backstage, and Dan gave me his drumsticks and let me bang around on his kit.
My foot didn’t even reach the kick drum pedal.
I remember Dan say to Pete once “Well, maybe the guitar isn’t his thing. Maybe he’ll be a drummer.”
Turns out, that wasn’t my thing either.
When I was fourteen, Pete suddenly got concerned about me being idle.
I had school but kept getting suspended for back-talking the teachers.
So Pete pulled some strings and got me a small part on an episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show.
I only had two lines, but it was enough for Teen Street to get me down to their office and take some pictures of me for their magazine.
They wanted to get me representation, and since Pete was recording or touring, Tamar signed off on all of it.
My managers thought it would be cool if I recorded an album.
They thought having another Laden out there would mean big bucks.
But they figured out quickly that I wasn’t a singer or a guitar player, so they had me sing over another voice track and act like I was playing the guitar.
They handed me a Les Paul, orange and red, to hold on stage.
It was exactly like Pete’s, except Pete’s is a ’59.
I was taught where to put my fingers on the frets so it would look like I was playing, then put in front of a microphone.
Lip syncing to the songs while pretending to play the guitar wasn’t easy.
The guitar was plugged in, but the amp was off.
I just played the same three chords over and over.
As long as my hands moved up and down the neck and my mouth moved, no one ever knew the difference.
Except for Pete. He knew I was a fraud; a talentless hack. He was disgusted with the whole thing, and most of all with me for going along with it. But he happily took some of the money I made as a minor and put the rest of it into a bank account I couldn’t access until I was eighteen.
Pete’s words are still stinging when I step into the cabin. Austin’s on his bed, reading what looks like a script. I walk to the far wall and kick it hard.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“What do you care?” I snap at him.
“I don’t,” he snaps back.
“Good.”
“Okay.”
“Fine.”
I sit on my bed, my knee bouncing with adrenaline. I hate that Pete can get me like this. He’s going to tell Sunny not to answer the phone and tell Tamar she can’t talk to me.
A plastic bag sails through the air and lands next to me. I hold it up. “What’s this?”
“Cloud gave it to me. It’s supposed to calm you down.”
I toss the bag back and it hits him in the face. “I don’t need to calm down.”
“You just came in here and had a hissy fit, kicking the walls.”
He still wears Jovan Musk. He keeps a bottle of it on the sink in the bathroom.
He’s kind of a neat freak. He keeps everything orderly and lined up on the sink.
If I move anything even an inch, he’ll fix it right back.
But every time I see or smell that cologne, I can’t help but think about New Year’s Eve or him.
I like to think of it as a warning; the scent a big ugly animal gives off when they’re nearby.
I shake my head at him. “Why did I think you’d be different?”
“What?”
“But you still wanted to fight me.” I look at him curiously. “I think I know why.”
The bruise around his nose is faded enough to see the freckles and the flush underneath them.
“You know.” I stand up. “I didn’t go out of my way to pick your keys out of a bowl.”
His face reddens. I check the time and leave the cabin.
I’ve said it now. The thing that needed to be said out loud. He did it on purpose and had Margie help him. He wanted me to stay.
And I did.
I could’ve left, but I stayed. I have to acknowledge that too.
I walk over to the smoking area, where Carl’s lounging on a picnic table. I grab the cigarette from his fingers and take a drag.
“Hey,” he says, taking it back.
“Do you have another one then?”
He sticks his finger into his cast and pulls one out. “I always keep a spare.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“How?”
I take the cigarette and he lights it. “You know they let you keep a pack in there,” he says. “Mine are the Pall Malls.”
“I don’t smoke.” I sit on the picnic table and feel the nicotine settle in, making me heavy.
“So, how’s it going with Little Orphan Annie?”
“Wonderful.”
“Figured.” Carl takes a drag. “So, why did he kick your ass?”
“He didn’t kick my ass.”
Carl shrugs.
“Like I said. It’s complicated.”
But really, it’s simple. Austin wanted us to fuck on New Year’s Eve.
Now he can’t stand the sight of me. I saw something he didn’t want me to see, but that wasn’t the only time.
I saw it at 54 too. I vaguely wonder when that shithead last got laid.
It wouldn’t be difficult for him. Linda was ready to hop on his dick at his party.
For some reason, even though I’ve never seen him with a man, I just know that’s what he prefers.
I glance at Carl. “You ever gone down on a guy before?”
He jerks his head to look at me. “What? Where did that come from?”
“Yes or no.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“So, yes then.”
He huffs and turns away from me. “I told you I used to black out a lot.” He turns back to me. “Have you?”
“Hypothetically,” I say. “What would it take for you suck dick sober?”
“Huh? You want me to suck your dick?”
“No, not me.”
Carl stares at me for a few moments. “You a queer?”
I take a drag. “I like everybody. I’m whatever that is.”
“Sounds pretty gay to me.”
“Fellas.” Canyon appears out of the darkness like a tie-dyed bear. “It’s curfew. Let’s go.”
We put out our cigarettes, say goodnight, and head in opposite directions to our cabins. When I go inside, I see Austin shirtless under the covers, looking over his script.
I sit down to remove my shoes. “You gonna be in another movie?”
It’s a delayed response. “TV show.” He turns his head toward me. “You could have left, you know. Nobody had a gun to your head.”
I look around for a towel. “That’s true.”
He has light eyelashes. Red, like his hair. I remember how they fluttered that night like wings. Like Good Angel wings.
But I have to go get in the shower now because I’m the Bad Angel.
And Bad Angels are dirty.
“We finally meet.”
Jack the therapist sticks out a hand for me to shake.
“Hi.” I return the handshake.
Jack looks like a lawyer who decided one day to give it all up to be wild and free. His hair is short and neatly trimmed with a little bit of gray at the temples, but he’s wearing a Grateful Dead shirt, bellbottom jeans, and Earth shoes.