Chapter 8
Afew hours later, I’m debating between my sneakers or snow boots when there’s a knock on my door.
The sneakers would match my long-sleeved black dress better, but I’m determined not to get wet feet, or even cold feet, literally, before the concert.
There’s a second knock, and I rush to the door to open it.
“Sorry,” I say to Dean, who is standing there patiently, his eyes looking particularly dark and charming. His coat, hat and scarf are in his arms, and he’s dressed in black jeans and a black shirt. I bet girls would describe him as scrumptious—and I don’t disagree.
“The van was ready. I went and picked it up,” His nose is tinged cherry red, like he was just out in the cold, and he stands in the doorway.
“Thanks.” I say. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” He replies.
“Oh, you sure?” I ask.
“Yes. I’ve got the van. It’s rented under my name anyhow.”
“Do you want to come in?” I open the door wider for him, and he steps inside my room. “Should we book the rooms for another night?” I ask. The next concert isn’t until Thursday. “The options in Caribou are limited.”
Dean clears his throat. “That’s fine.”
“I’ll pay.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He looks around at my belongings strewn about the room, from my shoes to sweaters and tote bag. Dean’s eyes finally make their way back to me, watching me.
“Should I wear sneakers or boots?” I ask.
“Does it matter?” He replies.
“How much do you want to hear me complain about my feet hurting?” I ask.
“Is there a right answer?”
“No.”
“I’m sure I’ll regret this later. Sneakers.”
His eyes don’t leave me as I tie my sneakers on while I sit on the edge of the bed.
“You look really nice,” He compliments me, his voice a little strained, like he’s not saying the whole sentence.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. I just said you look really nice. Take the compliment, McKinney,” He sounds defensive now, like I caught him with his pants down. He looks nice too, but I don’t dare tell him that.
“Thanks.” I reply, picking up my own coat. “What’s for dinner?” I change the subject.
“Diner of your choice.” Dean pulls his phone out of his coat pocket.
“There’s only one in town.” I state, checking my phone for reviews.
“Must be your choice then.”
After dinner, the wind is picking up, and the sun is just beginning to set.
There are a few stray clouds in the sky, a radiant orange at the horizon.
The sun peeks through the alleyways of the short buildings, shining bright light onto those passing by.
The theater is just down the road from the shops we visited earlier.
There’s a small queue out front, although the event is free, you still need a ticket to get in—I purchased ours online earlier. Dean and I walk right in.
Thank goodness there’s a coat check because the theater is bustling and packed and it’s standing room only.
After checking our coats, Dean guides me through the crowd, towards the left hand side where he spots an opening between groups of people.
We’re fairly close to the stage, so everyone is packed in quite densely.
He stands closely behind me, but not touching me.
Although there’s people in front of me, they’re not so tall that I can’t see the stage.
The crowd makes me nervous, and not in the claustrophobic way, but knowing Dean is just a few inches behind me helps. I’m antsy waiting for the music to start, and so are the people surrounding us. It has to be almost 8 o’clock by now.
There are several musicians on stage tuning their instruments and warming up—at least two violinists, two cellos, two standing bassists, two guitarists, if not more—not quite a chamber orchestra, but close.
“This is quite the production.” Dean remarks in my ear, and the fact his lips are so close to my face sends tingles down my mine.
I nod, even though he can’t see. This is much more organized than the first show we barely listened to.
I was well aware of the following Andy had, but I didn’t quite realize the lengths people would go for a tribute performance.
A man and woman walk onto the stage. The man, a dark, curly-haired fellow takes his place at the piano stationed to the right, and the woman, a blonde little thing, picks up a guitar and stands in front of her microphone.
She waves her hands and greets the crowd. She strums her guitar and goes right into the first song. She plays with skill and she seems at ease as the violins and other string instruments come in. And to my shock it’s not a song of Andy’s.
The singer, who I guess must be Lily of Lily and The Symphony, has a strong but tender voice that pierces me straight through my heart.
It feels like an ice cold butcher knife slicing through my skin.
The crowd is totally enthralled with her, nearly silent.
She sounds wise beyond her young years, and she sings with the voice control needed to nail a song like this.
The guitars are booming behind her, nearly overpowering her, but she doesn’t seem to mind and holds steady. She holds the notes, and her voice doesn’t break even for a second.
“What song is this?” Dean whispers again.
“Tower of Song,” I whisper back. “Leonard Cohen.”
“Why is she singing a Leonard Cohen song? Isn’t this a tribute to Andy?”
“Andy used to sing songs by him often on tour. They’re just as much a part of him as his own songs.
” The crowd cheers, albeit respectfully, as she wraps up.
I’m feeling like I’ve swallowed a rock. If Tower of Song was pulling a knife out of my heart, hearing the next song is a gunshot wound to the head.
It’s one of Andy’s songs, and hearing it live for the first time since Andy died has awakened something in me that I didn’t expect.
Lily whisper-speaks the first lines, just like Andy did, her mouth close to the microphone, the lights closing in on her. “She never did learn to program her computer. She wasn't any handier with the TV remote.”
I bring my hands close to my body, one to my heart and one to my throat as she says the next line.
“She was sure she'd been an alien in another life,” Lily starts singing slowly, drawing out the next words just like Andy would. “And she had been waiting for her calling for years!”
I feel Dean’s hands come up onto my shoulders to hold me steady, I was swaying without even realizing it. “This song is about me,” I tell him.
“I know.”
“There was no time to waste, the future was short,” Lily sings, the band swelling behind her into the next verse. “She had a flair for endorsements and appearances. She excused herself and demanded cash and car keys!”
I hadn’t heard this song in years, and to me, it was like Andy was up there singing with her. The guitars and piano are deafening, and I can’t hear anything Dean says to me anymore. All I can hear is Lily, who channels Andy fiercely.
“Some stupid things and obscure ideas were important public commissions, but with time they couldn't go on TV shows for which they were paid or go anywhere without feeling it could have been better.” Lily sings tirelessly, her voice lilting and tilting with the words, and before I can stop myself, I’m crying real, salty tears hearing Andy’s song sung like this, with such authority, such power.
“With time, I thought I could do something. I know it’s bound to happen, but I never take chances.
Any man who isn't afraid of love sometimes is a fool.” She draws out the word fool just like Andy would, and she sounds so much like him I can’t help but keep on crying. This makes me miss Andy so much.
“Oh, I've been here a few times before, I’ve been here a few times before, I've been here a few times before,” She drags out the words, building up to the last verse in the wrong order the same way Andy would.
“You can't recognize me. And I can't recognize you.
“Oh, I've been here a few times before. Any man who isn't afraid of love sometimes is a fool.”
It was almost like Andy was in the room with us. I wipe my eyes, and Dean’s grip on my shoulders is nerve-splitting. My mind is being pulled in a million different directions, and I can’t focus on one thing, and I swear the only thing tethering me to this earth is Dean right now.
In between this song and the next, there’s a short lull where Lily banters with the crowd.
“Are you okay?” Dean asks me, whispering in my ear.
“I’m okay.” Even though I was crying because of the rush of emotions, I can’t help but smile now.
I’ve waited so long to smile while listening to Andy’s music, and now I feel like I finally can.
Something in Lily’s voice set me free from the prison I made myself.
It was more than just cathartic to hear this song sung again.
The crowd is bustling now, uplifted by Andy’s song.
Lily and the Symphony break into a song I don’t recognize—it must be one of their own.
The crowd cheers when Lily starts to sing again, and I cheer with them.
Something about live music is so healing, and I feel the tiny rips in my soul being sutured up.
For the next half hour, I’m lost in the haze of the crowd and the wall of music, and somewhere between the sixth and seventh song, or maybe the eighth, Dean pulls me close to his chest, his arms draped over my shoulders and neck.
His arms are a heavy weight across my body and we fit together almost perfectly, like two gears made for one another, as we move with the rhythm of the crowd.
He does it so naturally, I don’t even notice at first, but once I’ve noticed, it’s all I can think about.
I’m not even sure he’s even given a second thought because of the fact he’s contently humming along to Lily and the Symphony.