Chapter Ten Very Chalant
Chapter Ten
Very Chalant
Griffin
I wake up to Ava crying on my chest. Blinking my eyes open feels like breaking through dried concrete. My palm rests in her hair mid-stroke, as if I’d fallen asleep brushing it.
“Shh, shh,” I coo, pulling her closer. Her cries cut through my arms like knives.
I adjust us on the couch, but a plastic toy apple bumps into my thigh. My butt cheek dents a fake banana. I move Ava arm to arm and toss both fruits into my guitar case across the room with the rest of the plastic orchard.
The flat-screen TV on the wall streams a classic sitcom. It’s the same episode I fell asleep to. We must have been out for only ten minutes at best.
I bounce Ava in my arms, cradling her head in my palm and stroking with continued shushes.
It quiets her down but only enough to leave sad little sobs and sniffles.
I have no clue what time it is, and part of me doesn’t want to know.
But the sun is starting to rise, which means we went a full night with barely any sleep. Again.
I sigh and kiss her forehead.
My phone vibrates on the side table. A group text flashes the names of my bandmates. I unlock my phone to see a slew of drunk messages from the night before. I huff out a laughing breath through my nose, but then my face falls.
Poe: bets on how many more books I can read by the end of the week?
Royce: You can read?
I set down my phone. My hands feel tight.
My jaw tense. The guys make jokes about their increased free time, but I can tell it weighs on them.
They could get gig work with other artists, but not anything long term since they’re waiting for our tour in March.
I’ve put their schedules on hold, along with their income, and I can’t even guarantee a new album.
I swivel my gaze to my guitar, perched in the corner, its case currently filled with plastic fruit and ratty notebooks crowded with abandoned lyrics. The guitar is still. Silent. Waiting.
My finger twitches. It wants to play. To create.
Suddenly I’m standing. I set Ava on the couch as she drifts off to sleep.
I pick up the guitar. It’s heavy, but it feels right, resting on my knee as I crouch to a chair.
I strum, and notes form, flowing, easy…On the couch, Robin cradles Ava to her chest. She gives me that pointed look—the look she always did over video calls with Ava.
I guess it sounds good, but don’t get too cocky.
I smile. I need to text the guys. I need to let them know that—
My body jolts. My eyes fly open. Ava coughs out another small sob.
I fell asleep. The guitar still sits in the corner. Robin is still gone.
I try to picture those same notes, but they float away just as easily as they arrived. A distant dream. A memory.
I hum a small tune to Ava—a song we created about washing our hands. She coos. Her cries calm, but I know it won’t put her to sleep.
My phone vibrates, and another text pops up.
Royce: I think I finally mastered expert-level Sudoku.
Poe: how old are you again?
Poe: that’s baby stuff.
Royce: Something tells me you don’t know what Sudoku is
Poe: tic tac toe but a cooler name
Royce: Wrong.
Poe: well with all this time i can finally learn
I lock my phone.
If the clock above the TV is correct, I should trek up the mountain again soon. I should go write children’s songs for Beverly. But my eyelids won’t fully lift, and the thought of the winding roads makes me feel sick.
I stare at my stagnant guitar. The other day, for one single moment, I wondered if maybe I’m just done. Maybe my music talent has dried up. But that made my stomach ache, so I wrote yet another song about colors.
At least I’ve got that skill in me.
My phone lights up again.
Dom: Griffin, you know we’re only joking
I pull in a breath and let it go. I’ve played with Dom for years. He has a family. I’m responsible for my bandmates, and I’ve already strung them along enough. Now I’m responsible for Beverly too.
Ava shifts in my arms. Christ, the idea of driving Ava up those winding roads again…she hates that path. It can’t possibly help with her sleep issues either.
What would Robin do?
The side table next to me holds my leather wallet and rental-car keys. Beside them, the key to the Lark guesthouse shines back.
I close my eyes and attempt another nap, and when I wake up an hour later with at least a little more energy, I pack our bags.
As I roll our suitcases into Beverly’s apartment, rays of morning light peek through off-white curtains. The filter of tangerine sun beams across a room already coated in warmth.
It reminds me of my granny’s house, where I spent my nights while my parents were out doing whatever made them happy that didn’t include me.
She barely wanted me in the house, either, pushing me out the snapping screen door first thing in the morning to go play and not allowing me back in until the sun disappeared.
This place seems like it might have kinder memories.
Ava makes a beeline to a pile of toys in the corner—blocks, cars, plastic horses, Barbies…
they’re gathered beside a toddler-bed pallet covered with pink movie princess sheets.
The corner of my mouth hooks into a smile, and any cold I felt from being outside is overwhelmed by the heat in my chest. None of this was here last night.
There’s no doubt in my mind that that corner was made specifically for Ava.
She doesn’t hesitate to grab a small red car and zoom it over a cityscape rug.
There are a couple of boxes of diapers on the couch. Beside it, a small end table with a lamp holds a gift bag. And finally, behind the door, is a walnut upright piano.
It’s funny how quick I step closer, like the instrument is calling my name. I lean the guitar strapped over my back against the couch and take a seat at the bench. I plunk down one piano key. It resonates through the room and deep into my chest. It feels a little like home.
“Daddy!” Ava calls to me. I look up. Her tiny hand waves. I return the gesture, and then she turns back to her car. All she wanted was to say hi. I smile, staring for a few moments more at the way she concentrates, how that little dot in the corner of her mouth is so similar to Robin’s.
Why aren’t you writing, Harv?
Robin was always insistent like that. If you want to do it, just do it. She’d normally say that before going on her motorcycle, or hopping on a roller coaster, or skydiving. She just did things.
Why aren’t you writing?
A distant door snapping shut brings my attention back. I pull aside the faded curtains and glance out the window. Down the gravel path, coming from the main house, is Beverly with a mug in one hand, laptop and notebooks in the other, and a small plate covered in tinfoil balanced on top.
I take in her outfit: Orange corduroy pants. A faded T-shirt with a sock puppet illustration that reads Puppet Jam 2018. And a massive purple faux fur coat that makes Beverly look like a puppet herself.
I bite back my tired smile.
She crunches up to our door and knocks before cracking it open. Beverly beams. “Good morning, Harveys!” Leave it to her to be all peppy this early in the morning. But when I glance closer, I see dark circles under her eyes as well.
Huh.
Beverly crosses the threshold, and Ava instantly stops pushing her car, instead watching our new guest.
Beverly waves. “Hello again, Miss Ava.”
Ava blinks, then says, “Hi, B.”
“Hi, A,” Beverly echoes.
Ava’s smile twitches. “Hi, B.”
“Hey, A.”
“Hi, B.”
“She’ll do that forever if you let her,” I chime in.
Beverly grins. “So will I.” She gestures to my position at the piano. “I forgot you said you played.”
“Oh,” I say, turning back. I was distracted by Beverly and their banter. This feels more daunting. “Yeah, I do.”
I stand, but she shakes her head. “Don’t stop because of me.”
“No, I’m done for now. I play more than I should.”
“Why shouldn’t you be playing piano?” she asks, pulling her coffee up to her lips.
“Piano doesn’t win awards.”
“I could think of ten people off the top of my head that won awards because they played piano.”
“Yeah, well, I’m the guitar guy.”
She squints. “Says who?”
“It’s just a known fact.”
She hmphs. “You could win awards with piano. You win awards all the time.”
I huff out a breath of air through my nose. “You say it like it’s easy.”
“Aren’t you up for awards this year?”
“Sure, but it’s just some single for some movie.”
“Which movie?”
I shrug. “Some thriller or drama. I’m not sure.”
“See? You win so many, you don’t even know what it’s from.”
She’s teasing. Even with the marks of staying up late, she’s still sharp. I wish I could pull it together like she can.
“I guess so,” I agree.
“And it doesn’t involve a piano?”
“Have you ever listened to my music?” The moment I say it, the words sound so pretentious that I break eye contact. I’m exhausted, which only makes me more blunt than usual. I attempt a correction with “Even a little?”
I didn’t know it could come out worse.
“A little,” she says. “It’s…singer-songwriter…guitar…right?” Beverly guesses.
Jimmy would be appalled by this conversation. He’s of the mindset that you should always be selling your music. Call me a masochist, but I almost like that she’s oblivious to it all.
She crosses her arms. “I’m assuming your music isn’t normally kids’ songs either?”
“Do you always ask this many questions?”
She laughs, then her expression shifts as she snaps her fingers. “Oh! I have something for you.” Beverly reaches over to her haphazard stack and hands me the plate covered in tinfoil. “Morning pancakes, courtesy of my mom. They’re at the diner now, but she whipped these up before they left.”
I take them, lifting the tinfoil. The insulation has kept the pancakes warm and smelling like fresh syrup. Like a bloodhound, Ava sniffs the air.
“Want some pancakes, munchkin?” I call over.
“Cakes!” she says, wobbling to a stand. Ava stumbles over, her arms waving wildly in excitement. She’s acting like she didn’t get scarcely more than an hour of sleep. I set the plate down on the floor and rip the pancakes into tinier pieces. She plops down and starts to eat right away.
“Tell your parents thank you.”
“Of course.” Beverly then licks her lips before saying, “So…I actually came over to talk shop, if you don’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
She falls onto the couch, grabs her laptop, and pops it open. Her fingers with their chipped polish—now green—clack over the keys, almost as if she were mid-thought in the document before walking over. Her knees bounce. She takes a sip from her steaming coffee and sets it down.
“I have a script written,” she announces.
“That’s great.” It comes out unenthusiastic. I’m doing a terrible job here.
“It’s a bit iffy, but I think it’s ready to go for music, if you are.”
“Go!” Ava calls over.
Beverly smiles. “That’s right, A. Go.”
But suddenly I’m distracted by how precious Beverly’s wrist looks holding the coffee-mug handle when she picks it up again. The small protruding bone leading to delicate tendons over the back of her hand. A simple ring over her middle finger. A small array of barely there freckles.
On the side table is a spiral notebook, already folded back to a busy page.
The paper is a mess of notes in various colors, sketched on with colored pencils and highlighters.
In one section is a small set of paragraphs.
Fragments of one-liner jokes. And throughout the margins are little sketches of bird puppets.
It feels like peeking into a different, more colorful world. Nothing like my own.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
She shrugs, but it feels like she’s feigning nonchalance. Her quick answer says she’s very chalant. “Just brainstorming episode two.” Beverly takes another sip from her mug. “I’m honestly not sure how I feel about it yet. I need to play with it more.”
Her laptop screen displays a formatted script. There are what seem to be millions of tabs open on her browser. I would love to pick through her mind.
“Want me to read it?” I offer.
Her fingers freeze over the keyboard. “Oh, no…it’s…well, it’s not ready to be seen yet. Still kinda needs work.”
“Maybe a second set of eyes would help?”
“No, it’s silly.”
“Probably,” I say on a tired laugh. Her face falls.
My damn mouth.
“I meant…it’s supposed to be, isn’t it?” I clarify.
“Yeah. It is.” But her smile is forced.
Shit shit shit.
“I didn’t mean that.”
She laughs. “No, I get it. I do.”
“Let me read it.”
“No.” We both stop at the sharp word.
There’s tension now. I’m tired. She’s tired too. But whereas Beverly’s trying to overcome it, I’m failing miserably.
“I’m sorry,” I say, hoping to shore up some form of goodwill. “Things are…not coming out right this morning.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. And you know what? You just moved in. I shouldn’t have busted in and asked for music help so soon. I actually should get going.”
My shoulders stiffen. “You should?”
She throws a thumb over her shoulder. “I need to go take Rob to band practice anyway.”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
She tilts her head to the side. “Why?”
“Because…” But I don’t come up with a word, and I think my brain idles.
This grants me a weak laugh. “You don’t have to always follow me places,” she says.
I refuse to leave the conversation like this.
“I promised I’d help,” I say by way of excuse. “And I will.”
“By coming with me and my brother to a high school?”
“I can’t write even if I wanted to right now,” I confess. “Let’s go, Ava.” Ava’s head pops up, cheeks stuffed with pancakes. “We’re going on a trip with B.”
Through a mouthful of pancake, Ava lets out a muffled “B! Go!”
Even though Beverly’s arms are crossed, I see a hint of a smile. Pretty pink lips. A small line in a corner. Eyes that shimmer. The tension in my arms melts down to my fingertips, making my hands feel tingly. I stretch them out and close them into fists.
I’ll work hard to get as many of those smiles as I can.