Chapter 10 #2
Annabelle stayed quiet beside me. I could feel the wheels turning in her barely visible head. The silence between us was as companionable as it ever had been, but it made me wonder what was supposed to come next. I didn’t have a template for a relationship with a ghost.
“I’m going to get my new guitar restrung.”
I left Annabelle in the garden, a frowning statue among overgrown weeds and decaying vegetables.
***
According to the poorly spelled advice from anonymous people on guitar forums, the island had one guy who sold and repaired musical instruments.
He went by the name Big Mike. The forum posters assured me that if I could find his shop, he could work wonders on my new-to-me guitar.
However, all my searches led me downtown to a place called Big Mike’s Mackinac Livery and Riding Stable.
I dodged pedestrians carrying ice cream cones and cyclists weaving through them, making my way between the crush of hotels, restaurants, and gift shops that made up the island’s downtown business district.
When I pushed open the door, an obnoxious bell rang.
The teen at the counter seemed as annoyed by it as I was.
Half their head was shaved, and the other half was dyed green.
The kid was wearing an AC/DC T-shirt under a denim jacket in what I assumed was an ironic manner given their young age.
On the jacket, they wore a little yellow, purple, and white enamel pin with they/them pronouns and a name tag that said Sage.
“How can I help you?” They made a valiant effort to not sound like they hated my guts for walking in the door.
“Yeah, I’m looking for Big Mike?”
The kid blew a bubble with their gum.
“To restring a guitar?” I held up the case, then added, “Please.”
Luckily, a large man in a tight T-shirt entered from the backroom, saving me from further interactions with the surly teen.
“Hello!” He had a friendly voice and an instantly forgettable face. Despite his name, Big Mike was of average build, with only the slightest paunch that came as a matter of course in middle age.
I introduced myself and explained my situation, leaving out the ghosts, witches, and the fact that my own family was on the verge of suing me.
Showing him the guitar, I asked if he could restring it.
I’d already done what I could to clean the instrument but hadn’t brought extra strings with me.
Who knew if Amazon did free delivery all the way to this car-free island, strapping packages the saddles and tossing them into cottage gardens.
“It’s a beauty!” He handled the guitar carefully but naturally, making me believe that he really might know what he was doing. “You play?”
Keeping my expression neutral, I said, “Uh, yeah. I’ve subbed in for a few big acts.”
Mike grinned. “Nice! Anyone I know?”
“I doubt it.” But I pulled up my Instagram anyway and showed him a quick video of me onstage with The Ent Wives Club.
Only female members of that crossover thrash band were allowed to do solos.
These were the only moments that slowed the pace of their set and they could go on for ages, but the band observed a hard cutoff rule—any solo ended when another member of the band yelled “Jerry.”
Then I showed Mike a YouTube clip of me onstage with Call Me Kate Kane.
We were at a shitty bar in Bushwick. The show had been raucous, with us in the middle of a long lineup of mostly women-led punk bands.
At the end of the night, someone had been arrested for smuggling a baby goat into the venue.
I couldn’t help but smile at the memory of being onstage, drenched in sweat, watching Brooke writhe while she screamed the lyrics of songs she’d written on a napkin.
Moments like that almost convinced me I was a part of the family. But the most recent photos of the group included a rotating selection of random dudes on guitar instead of me.
“Oh shit, that’s Call Me Kate,” the teen named Sage said, grabbing my phone. I had a moment of panic, even though I didn’t have anything lewd open.
“Kane,” I said. “Call Me Kate Kane . Batwoman? Lesbian? Hot chick with red hair?”
“Right, whatever.” Sage couldn’t quite cover their embarrassment, and my cheeks warmed with shame for acting like an asshole to a teenager. I didn’t know anything about this kid’s life, and I had no right to make it harder.
Big Mike raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Well, if Sage knows your stuff, then I certainly won’t.” He chuckled, then looked down at the guitar. “It’s even a Gibson. That’s perfect!”
I frowned. “It’s, like, forty years old, and Gibsons were crap in the ’70s and ’80s.” There was an awkward silence, then I got it. “Oh, because of my name.”
“Yeah.” Mike scratched his forehead. “Well, we better get this one taken care of! Sage, you take the helm. The last tour won’t be coming back till four.”
Sage rolled their eyes, but it seemed like a fond, practiced maneuver. Then Big Mike waved me behind the counter and gestured for me to follow him out the back door.
***
Behind the office building where Sage was greeting a customer and answering questions about carriage rides, there was a series of small stables.
As I approached slowly, Mike threw a saddle over the back of a patient brown horse.
Next to it was a gigantic black one. The horse stamped, shaking its head.
Although I’d grown up near a ranch, I knew very little about horses and intended to keep it that way.
As a kid, they scared the shit out of me, and as an adult, they also scared the shit out of me.
“I don’t think I can do this ...” I raised my hands and backed away slowly.
“Well, it’s a ten-minute ride to my place, or a forty-minute walk,” Mike said. “Or I could find a bike, and you could split the difference.” He looked at me expectantly but not unkindly.
“It’s just ... horses and I haven’t gotten along.” I gulped. “Historically speaking.”
The black beast flared its nostrils and snorted, stamping the ground again. It was a beautiful animal, all sleek lines and power. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end just looking at it.
“That one isn’t ready for a rider, anyway.” Mike pointed to a much shorter horse that came trotting up next to his placid brown one. Compared to the black beast, this one looked like a toy. “How about we put you on Medium Sebastian here?”
“I have the feeling you’re making fun of me, but ... okay.” I let Mike show me how to take the reins and give the little horse commands with my feet and the position of my body. It felt a little like a dream.
Ghosts, now horses. Instead of a quick trip to see a house and sell it, this trip had turned into a gauntlet of fears I had to face. Gee thanks, Aunt Agatha.
A terrifying ten minutes later, my entire body shook as I dismounted in front of Mike’s house.
It wasn’t far from Abaddon, meaning I probably could’ve walked here directly and saved myself another near-death experience.
Mike took the reins of Medium Sebastian from me, leading both his horse and mine.
Indifferent to the entire experience, Sebastian accepted a baby carrot from Mike’s pocket and trotted along happily, as if all of this was a perfectly normal afternoon. To him, it probably was.
Mike’s house was tucked away from a private drive, hidden in a pocket of forest just like Abaddon.
The peeling paint and old flowerboxes made it look lived-in and homey.
We tied the horses to a post by the side of the garage.
If this were a normal place instead of a carless island obsessed with charm, Mike’s driveway probably would have been paved and filled with cars.
As we walked back toward the garage, a gang of kids emerged from the front door and picked up their bicycles from their resting places in the yard.
One of them was the curly-haired kid who’d apologized for almost running me over my first night on the island.
I raised my hand in a wave and he returned it, then rode off toward whatever summertime adventures awaited.
“Be good!” Mike yelled after them.
“Always!” the kid yelled back. His companions yelled variations on “Bye, Big Mike,” and they were off.
“Your kids?”
Mike entered the combination to open the garage door and nodded. “Yep, but luckily only two of them. Adam there is eleven. And you met Sage earlier. Sage will be sixteen soon, though how that happened I have no idea.”
I smiled politely and followed him inside.
“Welcome to my escape from Mackinac,” Mike said.
“Granted, it’s ... still on Mackinac. But this is my little slice of anywhere but here.
” He gestured proudly at the garage, which had been turned into a tiny music studio and hangout space.
At the far end was a workbench. Concert posters competed for space on the walls with mounted instruments, along with tools and shelves.
He had not only guitars, but keyboards, a drum kit, some basic recording and DJ equipment, and a crap ton of accessories.
His power cords were neatly wound, with cable ties holding them in perfect loops, in contrast to the nest of snakes that made up the cords in my apartment back home.
I toured the space, checking out the guitars he had. A lot were bass, but he had a decent selection of electric and acoustic guitars. “Holy shit, you’ve got some great stuff.”
“Thanks.” He looked around proudly at his eclectic collection. “I had grand ambitions and even did some gigs in Traverse City, but, well, life.”
I nodded. “Life.”
He chuckled. “Got divorced, moved back to the island I thought I left forever, took over Dad’s business when he got cancer. You know, life.”
“And now you run a stable slash music store on Mackinac.”
“Indeed.” He smiled ruefully, and I found myself smiling back.
Mike’s life wasn’t similar to mine, but he was easy to talk to.
Any minute now he’d ask me about the cottage, and I’d have to say “I’m going to sell it” for the millionth time.
Instead, he set Agatha’s guitar on the counter and opened the case.
While he looked over Agatha’s guitar, I put my hands in my back pockets. Surprising myself, I said, “You’re actually pretty close to my house. My great-aunt’s house, I mean. I’m over at Abaddon.”
“We’re neighbors, then! My lot backs up to you.
I would say sorry about the horse smell, but I mean, it comes with the territory.
” He chuckled again, an easy smile on his face.
“Then Mrs. Montclair was on the other side. She just sold her property, though.” His smile turned down.
“I used to make Adam mow her lawn as punishment for getting in trouble and just to wear him out. Guess I’ll have to find something else for him to do. ”
“I’m sure you’ll find something.”
He could paint the porch, I thought. Or pull weeds. I wondered if an eleven-year-old could replace a fence, then realized I was nuts. I wasn’t keeping the house, so why did I care if there were weeds? All the horse manure had affected my brain.
Eager for something to do with my hands, I pointed at the Cherry Sunburst on the wall. “Can I?”
He hesitated for a second, but then said, “Sure.”
I slung the strap around my neck, plugged it into a nearby amp, and played a few notes.
“My first real guitar wasn’t a Gibson,” I said.
“My name wasn’t even Gibson back then. I didn’t know shit, but I saved up for ages to get a used Les Paul, then didn’t have any idea how to play it.
All I could get out of it was noise for the longest time, but I fucking loved that noise. ”
“And then you got a Gibson and became Gibson?” Mike asked.
I nodded. “Then I got a Gibson and learned to play it. It was a long time before I figured out who I was, but, eventually, I became Gibson.”
I played a scale, picking up speed as I went. Seeing the Red Hot Chili Peppers poster on the wall, I launched into “Under the Bridge.” I played the first verse and the chorus, then stopped, remembering where I was with a jolt.
Mike whistled. “Damn,” he said, “you really do know your stuff!”
I smiled. “Yeah, I’m actually pretty good.”
“You should join us at Helga’s sometime!
” He started rifling through tool cubbies mounted on the wall.
They held all kinds of objects—instrument parts, garden tools, things I couldn’t identify.
At least they weren’t likely to contain eye of newt or some other magic spell ingredient like the shelves in my shed.
“A few of us jam every week. We draw a decent crowd, too.” Mike turned to face me, hands on his hips.
“I’m ... not going to be here long,” I said.
I was grateful to him for fixing up my guitar, but that didn’t mean we were going to be best friends.
And I certainly wasn’t going to join his sad dad jam band.
They probably played a lot of Journey. “As soon as I sell the house, I’m going back to New York. ”
“Makes sense.” He turned back to the guitar. “I think I have strings that’ll make this sound decent, but they’re in the house. I’ll go grab ’em and get you on your way. Feel free to hang out and play whatever you want. This won’t take long.”
I nodded, then wandered through his studio, picking up instruments and playing them for a few minutes before setting them back down.
The Sunburst beckoned me back, so I picked it back up, marveling at the fact that this treasure trove of potential music was here, on this weird island, if only you knew where to find it.
The strings felt right under my hands. Though it wasn’t my guitar, it felt close enough to home to send a powerful wave of longing through me.
What was I even doing here? Repairing an old acoustic when I could be taking care of my shit and leaving? Unlike Agatha, I was not a fucking hippy folk singer.
Blowing out an angry breath, I played a few chords of “Black Me Out,” then put the guitar aside. I turned to go outside and check my phone when a book of sheet music in the corner caught my eye: Billboard Hits of the 1960s and 70s .
When Mike returned with Agatha’s guitar, I paid him as much as he would let me, then asked if I could buy the songbook, too. He shrugged and said, “Take it. And if you change your mind about jamming, you know where to find me.”