8
LUKE
If this was a date, I’d have Eleanor hold my hand as I lead her through the crowds, past the stage, and through the “Performers Only” door. That way I couldn’t lose her, and she wouldn’t be lost in the crowd.
But despite the observations of well-meaning older folks, this isn’t a date, and we aren’t cute together. We’re friends. Colleagues maybe. On a mission. She's made that abundantly clear.
“Are you sure we’re allowed back here?” she asks.
I glance back at her with a smirk. “We would have been thrown out already if we weren’t.”
Like the rest of Franklin’s, the backstage area hasn’t been updated since the place opened. Which means that instead of any sort of fancy greenroom, all that’s back here is a lounge area with rickety old couches, most likely salvaged from a back alley somewhere, and a few private areas cordoned off with curtains.
The air is laced with the smell of ancient cigarette smoke and dank carpets that needed to be replaced years ago. However, it’s a good smell, like gasoline, one you can’t get enough of even though it should be unpleasant.
I go straight to the back where Bobby’s room is. Bobby is a stalwart favorite here at Franklin’s, all across Austin even, and as such, gets the star treatment. At least when it comes to being a local musician.
Stopping in front of the curtain, I let Eleanor catch up to my side.
She looks up at me through the lenses of her wire framed glasses, brown eyes wide and nervous. No wonder she looks at the world through a camera or sticks herself into the depths of the Reeder Music Library. Her default seems to be skittish. Until she gets comfortable or has one of those bursts of wit.
That’s why she needs me around for this project. We complement each other. Charisma paired with diligence.
Not to mention I have my own reasons for being interested.
“Ready?” I ask.
Eleanor runs her fingers through her curls, pushing them out of her face. One of them sprigs onto her forehead, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “Do I look okay?” she asks.
“You trying to be a groupie or something?” I ask.
Her lips and nose squinch together. “I’m trying to make a good impression,” she hisses.
I touch her shoulder, her bare shoulder. The blood running through my palm pulses. “It’ll be great. I’ll do the talking, alright? All you need to do is show him the picture and . . .” Look pretty . “Be yourself.”
Eleanor smiles gratefully and I take that as my permission to rap my hand against the curtain. “Bobby!” I call out. “You’ve got some fans out here!”
“Is that Wyatt?” Bobby cries back in response. “Come on in!”
I pull the curtain back and usher Eleanor through before stepping in after her and letting the curtain flutter shut behind us.
Bobby is sitting up against the wall in a folding chair, running a polishing cloth across his tenor saxophone. Though he’s getting up there in years, he has the smile of a hopeful teenager and the brightness in his eyes to match. And when his fingers bounce across the keys so spry and agile, you’d think the man was meant to be immortal. “Well, well, well, you didn’t tell me that I had such pretty fans, Luke.”
Eleanor laughs, unable to quell her flush. I’m glad she takes it as a compliment rather than an affront to her intelligence.
“Bobby, this is my friend Eleanor,” I say with a gesture in her direction.
Bobby’s eyes flick to me for just a moment. “Friend, huh?”
“Colleague better for you?” I offer.
The older man laughs, hard enough for his head to fall back and his chest to wheeze. He rubs his free hand against his thigh and then extends his hand to Eleanor. “Name’s Bobby. You from around here, Eleanor?”
“Chicago,” she says as they shake.
“Oh, Chicago. I can hear it in your voice,” he says. “How’d we measure up to what you got up there?”
Eleanor shakes her head. “Oh, wonderful. Better than.”
“Better!” He points one of his fingers at her. “I won’t tell Mayor Daley you said that.”
She laughs. “Good thing he hasn’t been mayor in over a decade, then.”
“Ah, I’ll have to brush up on those Windy City politics,” he says with a grimace, returning to polishing his sax. “ Surprised to see you out there, Wyatt. Been a while since you’ve been able to pop in.”
I slide my hands into the pockets of my pants. “Been busy with work.”
“Sure, sure,” Bobby says. He pauses in his work for a moment. “How’s your ma doin’?”
I gulp. I should have predicted he’d be wanting to check in about life stuff. I wouldn’t mind answering his questions if Eleanor wasn’t here. But we’re still relative strangers. “She’s good.”
“You’re visiting her, I hope?”
“As much as I can,” I reply.
Bobby tsks and puts some elbow grease into buffing his instrument. “You know, your old man was gone way too soon. Way too soon.”
Eleanor looks over at me, but I ignore her gaze. I don’t want to see the question in her eyes, or worse, the pity.
“Yeah, we miss him,” I say with a finality I hope gets the point across I don’t want to talk about it. “Listen, Bobby, Eleanor and I are on a bit of a mission, and we were hoping we could get your help with it.”
He pauses again and places the saxophone between his legs, leaning on it. “A mission? Well, I would never come between a man and woman on a mission. Shoot.”
I give Eleanor a look and though her expression is still resonating with the information she’s just learned, she catches on fast. She reaches into her bag and produces the photograph. “I work at the Reeder Music Library as a photo archivist, and I came across this photo a couple weeks ago. Trying to get more information on it for our database.”
“And Wyatt couldn’t help you? He’s basically an encyclopedia when it comes to this sort of thing.”
I chuckle and lean on the wall, crossing my arms over my chest. “For once, I’ve fallen short.”
“For once,” Bobby mutters and laughs to himself as he takes the photo and appraises it, looking down his nose and narrowing his eyes. “’93, huh? That’s when I was taking care of The Lone Star for—”
“That’s what Kenny told us when I asked him about it,” Luke says.
“We’d like to figure out who the woman in the picture is. You know, what’s her legacy? Maybe even get into contact with her,” Eleanor says, excitement growing. “I don’t know. There’s just something about it that makes me want to know more.”
Bobby is quiet as he scans the photo. Then, his dark brown eyes rise to meet mine. His expression is . . . confounding. Eyes focused in on me as if he’s studying a painting, lips parted just enough to make me wonder if he’s about to say something that will ruin everything.
My stomach twists. I’m terrified he’s about to blow this whole thing for me. Cut the mystery short and, consequently, my time with Eleanor.
“Do you know who she is?” Eleanor asks, breaking the silence.
Bobby snaps away from me, his friendly smile replacing that gut-churning expression. “I’ve been around a long while, Eleanor. She looks familiar, sure, but do I know who she is?” He shrugs. “Would take a miracle to unlock that part of my memory. Hell, that was almost thirty years ago.”
He hands the photo back to her. Though it’s a minute change, I can tell the disappointment is causing her to collapse in on herself. “Oh.”
“You think she might have performed at The Lone Star back then, though? She’s got a guitar,” I say, hopping to attention again.
Bobby nods. “It’s possible. But you know how many people walk down 6th Street carrying guitars that have no business carrying them?”
“True,” I say. I’ve been handed more demos than I know what to do with while working a job.
“There must be a schedule somewhere, right?” Eleanor offers. “A ledger that lists who might have performed there? I mean, it’s not a small venue by any means. There must have been a way to record things.”
Bobby’s lips dip down in consideration. “You’re not wrong. I still have all the paperwork from that time.”
Both Eleanor and I leap with excitement.
“You do?” Eleanor says with a hopeful gasp.
“Hold your horses, missy,” Bobby says, holding up his hand. “Like I said, thirty years is a long time. I’ve got thirty years of shit up in the attic. Much to my wife’s chagrin. I never throw anything away, that’s a fact. But I never . . .” He slides his fingers across some of the keys on his saxophone. “Never really organize it either.”
“Oh, come on, Bobby,” I say. “You know how important it is to keep traditions alive around here, right?”
“I do, I do,” he says.
“Then, who knows what kind of story could be missing here,” I say with a gesture toward the picture in Eleanor’s hand.
Again, Bobby looks at me. This time, his gaze is hardened. “Have you ever thought that sometimes the only reason we love stories is because we lose some of them?”
I’ve never dealt with an unaffable Bobby. This is the first time I feel myself teetering into a territory I don’t want to travel with him.
“You’re right. Stories matter because our histories are too rich to catalogue everything,” Eleanor swoops in. “But perhaps some stories deserve to be discovered too. Don’t they?”
Bobby looks at Eleanor with a lot more softness than he does me. Which I appreciate. I’d hate for her to be pushed away from the edge in his eyes. “They do. You’re not wrong there. I can appreciate that.”
Eleanor looks to me, almost for permission to continue. I tick my chin in her direction. Go on .
“The history of music here in Austin is vast and incredible. I mean, I’ve been here a little over two weeks and I already feel overwhelmed by its richness. I understand it’s difficult to conceptualize sorting through your history in order to provide me with more context. But I’m just a baby when it comes to all of this, you know?”
I watch her as she speaks, her conviction elegant and poised, yet not at all forceful. She’s earnest. Moreso than me.
“I know it’s a big ask for a picture that might mean nothing. I mean, for all we know, this could just be a tourist or a relative nobody. But she has a story too, right? We all do.”
Bobby’s nodding along with what she’s saying.
“I’d even offer to organize your attic for you if it would give me an opportunity to at least see if we can figure out who this woman is,” she says.
Bobby’s head droops forward as he shakes it. “Now, that’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”
Eleanor’s face falls.
I hold my tongue, unsure what to say.
“No, no, not going to have a young woman organize my attic just to find . . .” He sighs heavily. “I’ll take a look tomorrow and you two can come by for dinner. Mandy will cook. We can see what we come up with, alright?”
The relief is so great that Eleanor smiles into a gasp. “Really?”
Bobby’s eyes flutter shut, and he smiles. “You have my word.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much,” she says, clutching the picture to her chest.
“Don’t thank me yet. Who knows what I’ll find up there? Might get bit by a spider and wind up dead before dinnertime,” Bobby says.
We say some quick goodbyes before Eleanor and I step out of Bobby’s domain. There is a buzz between us that keeps us silent until we’ve weaved back through the club, up the stairs, and into the Austin night air.
Eleanor takes a few steps toward the car, then stops, whipping around and letting out a hefty sigh. “Woah.”
“Yeah, woah,” I say.
“That was—that’s something, isn’t it?”
“Definitely something,” I say. I can’t shake the weird look Bobby gave me when he saw the photo. Almost like he saw right through me.
Eleanor pulls her bag further onto her shoulder. “Um, I’m sorry about your dad, by the way.”
I wince, gritting my teeth. “S’fine.”
“That must be hard.”
I don’t want to talk about it. My dad’s sudden death a little over a year ago. Heart attack. It's not unusual for men in my family, especially when they give up the ghost of paying attention to their cholesterol. Still . . . one day you’re talking to your dad about spring training over the phone, and the next you’re trying to console your mother in the emergency room.
It’s a mindfuck, to say the least.
“Yeah . . . it’s fine,” I say. Change the subject . “You’re really passionate about this picture, huh?” I ask.
Eleanor takes a step back as if my words had that much force. “We’ve had this conversation, haven’t we?”
“Well, yeah, but you haven’t put it in the words for me like you did for Bobby. Unless that was just a very well-crafted argument, in which case you should consider becoming a lawyer.”
“Oh, god, no, I’d be terrible at that,” she says. Then, she lifts her face to the night sky and smiles. “I don’t know, I think I’m just in so far at this point I need to know about her. I can’t explain it, but it feels sort of like my purpose. Cosmic, maybe.”
I don’t have words to respond. Her beauty is ethereal and timeless. I’ve never been captivated by someone quite like she’s captivated me.
Eleanor looks at me, a sheepish smile on her face. “I think I’ve had a little too much gin.”
I laugh, stripping away both the uneasiness of the club and the questions I have if I’m doing what’s right.
I don’t say it aloud. Can’t. But if Eleanor’s cosmic purpose is to find the story behind this photograph, then my purpose is to get her there with the information and connections I have. To let the story unwind for her.
All in due time.