Chapter 52
— Chapter 52 —
Jam hasn’t been around much. Sometimes I come home from work and find sheet music piled on the piano bench, empty cereal bowls on the windowsill. But I haven’t seen him in a few weeks. So it’s all the more bizarre when he walks into The Aster on a Thursday night, sits at the end of the bar, and orders a Rusty Nail like he comes here all the time.
“You alright?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, as if he can’t understand what I find strange about this moment. “Am I not allowed to be here?”
“No, it’s fine. Just surprised. You’re usually a drink-alone-in-the dark guy.”
“I missed you,” he says. He’s wearing a weathered black overcoat and I realize it’s the same one he’s had since high school. His dad bought it for him to wear to performances over his tuxedo, but now he’s wearing it with jeans and a flannel. The cashmere is threadbare at the cuffs. Moth holes on the sleeve. It hurts to see time pass this way.
“Where’ve you been?” I ask.
He grins to warn me he’s about to say something cheesy. “In a prison of my own making.”
I laugh.
“Writing a song,” he says, and seems happy about it.
He orders Portuguese bread soup with coddled quail eggs and charred papaya salad sprinkled with crushed tamrun peanuts and finger lime caviar. While he’s eating, he stares into space, tapping his fingers on the bar like he’s still working out a melody.
About an hour later when Eddie comes in, Jam looks up from his third Rusty Nail and says, “Well, if isn’t Eddie Davis. Will ya look at that,” overenunciating like a character in one of the black and white sitcoms that aired on Nick at Nite when were kids. “Freya, buy this man a drink. Buy him ten drinks. I owe him.”
Eddie sits at the bar, looks at Jam like he’s trying to figure him out. “You don’t owe me at all, man. It’s fine.”
“Of course I do. You saved my life. Remember that? Way back when. Tell her.” Jam gestures to me.
Eddie shakes his head, eyes kind. “That’s not mine to tell.”
“What a stand-up guy you are,” Jam says; there’s an uncomfortable bite to his words.
Eddie looks up at the TV, pretends to be super interested in demolition derby. I hand him a beer, our fingers touching on the bottle neck.
Jam sings, “He has Eddie Davis eyes,” like Kim Carnes, in a high, slightly sharp tone.
Eddie takes a sip of his beer, nodding. “Good one.” He tries to go back to watching TV, but Jam keeps singing.
“And I’ll tweeze him. Maybe freeze him. ’Cause who knows if I can sneeze him.”
Eddie tries not to laugh but fails. “That’s great man. Thanks.”
“Blah blah blah blah blah—da da da dum. He’s got… Eddie Davis thighs.”
“Hey, Jam,” I say. “You want some coffee?”
“Oh,” Jam says, highly amused. “Am I—am I embarrassing myself?”
Eddie pats him on the shoulder. “You’re good, man. It’s fine.”
“Don’t worry,” Jam says. “It’s just alcohol and I’m no boozehound. This…,” he holds up his glass, “is a limited engagement. You won’t have to revive me.” He glances in my direction. “Eddie Davis here gave me a shot in the thigh. Right through my pants. Like a pro.”
This interests Eddie. “You remember that?”
Jam shakes his head. “They told me at the hospital.” He rubs his brow. “I don’t think I ever said thanks.”
“It’s just my job,” Eddie says.
“Yeah, well, thanks for doing your job, man.” Jam gestures to me. “Whatever he wants, Frey. My tab.”
Eddie leaves after his first beer, saying he has to check on his mom, but I wonder how much of it is about getting away from Jam.
Later, one of the waitresses breaks a wine bottle. I help her clean it up, and when I go to dump the broken glass in the garbage, Jam follows me outside.
“Why are you fucking him?” he says, watching me empty the dustpan into the recycling bin. His eyes are sharp.
“What do you mean?” I say, hoping I can get away with it. No one knows. Eddie and I haven’t said anything to anyone.
“I could tell. When we were all at your house for the barbecue.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You look at each other like you’re fucking. You did it tonight. And I can’t—I can’t stand it.”
“Jam…”
“Don’t. Don’t fuck him anymore.” Jam grabs my wrist like he’s trying to stop me from touching the red coil on a stove. “Fuck me.”
I laugh. The parking lot lights are shining on the wet gravel, and everything looks a little bit blurry, even Jam.
“I mean it,” he says, leaning close. So close. His face only a gesture from mine. The slightest tilt of his chin and our lips will touch.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes. I do.” He kisses me. Not the bullshit kind of silly, friendly kissing we’ve always done. A real kiss, like he’s not afraid. He tastes like whiskey, grabs my hips with his strong hands, and it’s more exciting than I want it to be.
I push him away out of instinct, panic.
He steps back, stunned.
“Go home, Jam. Really.” I’m stunned too. I was always so sure that if I found the guts to pull the trigger and tell Jam I wanted him, we would float away into happily ever after.
The look on his face makes me think that he also believed we were only ever one brave moment away from being together. Now we know it’s not true.
“I’m gonna call you a cab,” I say, because practicalities are all I can manage right now.
“Yeah.” He kisses me on the forehead. “Good idea. Thanks.”
He hands me a couple twenties for dinner, says he wants to wait outside, mumbles something about fresh air. He looks like he’s going to cry.
I keep tabs on him through the window. He’s pacing the parking lot, one hand raised, moving ever so slightly, like he’s signaling to the orchestra in his head. From this distance, his silhouette in that long black dress coat doesn’t seem so far from what it was.
I have to fill a big drink order for the dining room, and when I look out the window again, he’s gone.
Tommy Tom comes in right before last call, orders a Weihenstephaner, even though everyone else has gone home. When he takes a seat, he rests a pink sweatshirt on the bar. “Is Eddie out back?”
“He left a couple hours ago,” I say, wiping down the space around him.
“Oh, shoot. I was trying to get here earlier.” Tom moves the sweatshirt to the back of his barstool to get it out of my way. “We’re headed up to my cousin’s place in Keene for the weekend.”
“That sounds nice.” I’m on autopilot, trying to get a sticky stain off the bar. I can’t figure out if I should go looking for Jam after I close, or just let him sleep it off.
Tom holds the sweatshirt out to me. “Can you give this to Eddie when he comes by tomorrow?”
I laugh, but when I realize Tom is serious, my heart flips.
“Jen borrowed it from Lexi while we were at their house last night and forgot all about it until we got home.”
I feel the kind of cold lightning in my veins that I always used to imagine as the whoosh of my spirit trying to leave my body.
“It’s campfire season again,” Tom says. “You been over to Ed and Lexi’s house? They got a great fire pit.”
“No.” I take the sweatshirt from him, tucking it under the bar. “I’ve never been to their house.”
“We burned some hickory. Smells so nice. This is my favorite time of year, you know?” He keeps chatting at me while I sop the bar mats and count the drawer. I respond enough, I guess, because he doesn’t seem to notice that my thoughts are far away.
Tom offers to wait and walk me out, but I tell him I have some stuff to do in the back room. Before I leave, I take Lexi’s sweatshirt out from under the bar. It’s soft. So small. Smells like woodsmoke and vanilla.