Snake Face Page 19

  “Whoa. Can a man be a prima donna?” Pamela turned her voice syrupy and extra Southern. “You’re welcome for the make-over, Jangarrai.”

  His anger collapsed into embarrassment that clumped in his chest. Jamie walked to the performance space and fingered the dubious didgeridoo. “Sorry. Been on edge.” He inhaled, exhaled slowly, and took another moment with his breath. “You’ve been great. Much appreciated. Think I need some time alone up here.”

  Pamela smiled, tossed the amputated sleeves in her hand, and the women left him on his own to warm up.

  He took the hat off, ran through some scales, and then tested the acoustics for his voice with drum accompaniment. Manageable. The didg sounded worse than it had in the cave-like music room. He’d have to get a few people from the audience playing the drums to cover up its quality. The flutes sounded good, but of course, they were his flutes. Still a mystery why Sylvie had brought those, except as an excuse to stalk him. To prove she was trustworthy when she’d just stolen his spare room key and his toothbrush. What new trick would she do if she came tonight? Don’t think about her.

  Warming up and testing the security of the belt and the pants, he tried easy dance moves. The zipper stayed put, but his hair got in his face on a turn. It would stick if he was sweaty. Pamela had walked off with his fedora. Picking up the black hat again, he noticed that it looked used. This was someone else’s hat.

  He put it on gingerly. He’d figured out the game with the food, but not this. Sylvie was doing something to him with this hat, some strange manipulation he didn’t understand. Howdy, cowboy. Hope you got your britches on. You’re in for one hell of a ride. That is one sorry kangaroo, cowboy.

  Song after song, it took all his will to avoid Mae and look at his ideal fan, Jen, instead, or at strangers. Sometimes he slipped. Mae was on Hubert’s other side, and the bloody perfect Greek sat next to her. Pawing her. As Jamie belted out the first line of a driving blues, he closed his eyes and let his voice take over, holding nothing back in a big wild heartbreak song.

  He alternated vocals with instrumentals, invited audience members to play the drums and learn some chants while he played didg, and somehow got through the first set without letting Mae capture his eyes again, although he sang her love song at the end. She would have to notice he’d changed the last lines.

  Until the day that you’ll be mine

  I’ll cherish this heartbeat of time.

  It silenced the room, and he knew he’d reached them. All of them. Maybe her. Emerging from the emotional depths of the music was like coming out of a dream. The applause awoke him in a way, and he felt strangely renewed, as if he had rested and come back into himself.

  “Before I take a break, I should let you know on behalf of Spirit Body Gallery that I’m modeling.” He struck a pose, one hand to the belt, the other holding the long didg like an explorer planting a national flag, and cracked himself up. Either his snort-laugh or his joke made a few other people chuckle. “They sell this stuff. Belt’s for sale, straight off my pants. Didg, flutes, drums, downstairs in the cave. And my music. So spend up. Pamela’s got the price for the belt somewhere about her person.”

  She reached into her bra, pulled out the tag and waved it, and then headed downstairs ahead of the rest of the audience, turning the lights up on her way.

  Jamie started down the center aisle, heart pounding. He had to talk to Mae. Even though she was talking with the Greek.

  Hubert gave Jen a quick squeeze. “Gotta show him a few things. I’ll be right back.” He stood as soon as Jamie approached. “Let’s look at the van.”

  Stumped, wanting to speak to Mae while he still had a glow from his performance, but unable to say no to his automotive savior, Jamie nodded mutely. The bubble burst, and he was his clumsy, nervous offstage self again. The only words he finally came up with were to thank Jen for the Fiesta.

  Mae glanced at Jamie as if she wanted to speak, but her sculpted, cool-faced boyfriend slipped an arm around her and whispered in her ear. As Jamie started out with Hubert, he looked back and glimpsed the Greek’s wicked little smile, then his kiss on her neck. Like he was claiming Mae. He must have noticed Jamie had changed the words, and was fighting back.

  Jamie fell into a sulk as he and Hubert descended the stairs and stepped out into the chilly night.

  “So you loved the Fiesta,” Hubert said. “Jen does, too. You should get one. They get great mileage. The van’s fixed, but it’ll cost you an arm and a leg to keep it alive much longer.”

  “Fuck. You sound like a doctor saying it’s got cancer.”

  “You got some miles on that thing. Might cost half as much as that van is worth if you need to change the timing belt. When’d you last change it?”

  “Dunno. Bloke that sold it to me said he had.”

  They walked in silence, then Hubert asked, “Lotta miles since then?”

  “Hundred thousand.”

  “Need to change it again. Sorry—I should have called and asked you. It was crazy, trying to work on it with the power off and the kids being out of school—too much going on. I forgot.”

  “No worries. The van’s immortal. What do I owe you?”

  As if embarrassed to answer, Hubert handed him a handwritten bill from Buddy’s Garage, Tylerton, North Carolina. “Just parts.”

  Jamie’s mind split into several directions, one part grateful, another part imagining Mae and Hubert’s life together and wondering what Tylerton looked like, while another fragment worried that Sylvie was out here, her little weasel feet silent behind them. Forcing himself to focus, he took out his wallet and paid in cash. Down to the dregs now. “Thanks, mate. No one followed you home?”

  “Seemed to for a while, but not all the way. Kinda hoped she would. I would’ve talked to her. Gotta wonder about someone like that. So, here’s your van.”

  It was parked on the street, its curbside wheels in several inches of gritty water, its normal coat of New Mexico red dirt replaced by East Coast urban sludge. Hubert unlocked it and started to pop the hood. “Let me show you what I did.”

  “Spare the effort. I won’t understand.”

  “Don’t want to learn?”

  “Special needs.” Jamie tapped his head “Not a chance.”

  “Check out the inside, though.” Hubert walked around and opened the back door with the key. No wire, no crawling through the cargo space. He’d fixed the latch. It could be locked. Guilt slapped Jamie hard. If I’d done that before I left, I’d still have Gasser. “You’ll love it.”

  Jamie followed Hubert to the open gate and looked inside. The blankets lay folded on top of the bike frame near Gasser’s litter box and the empty suitcase. The rest of the space was empty. No pipe, no buckets, no boxes and bottles. “Fuck me dead.”

  “Never heard that expression before. Is that good or bad?”

  “It’s—dunno. Both. Jesus. It’s all gone, you—”

  “Recycled it. The county has a place that takes everything, open twenty-four-seven. I figured you didn’t have time to do something like that, and Jen wanted to make the van pretty for you. My girls played zoo in it when it was in our driveway Sunday and they couldn’t play outside, but it’s still clean.”

  “Thanks. It’s nice.” Jamie pictured little girls bringing their stuffed animals in, pretending the cargo compartment was part of their zoo. It was sweet and would undo some of the bad energy in there. Jamie closed the clean van, pocketed the key Hubert handed him and gave him Jen’s Fiesta’s key. “Glad they played in it. It’s just that—the crap ... Mae was ... she was going to do, y’know, what she does, check out the thief. The thief left this stuff.”

  “I wondered why you had that shit. Those old restaurant food containers, giant tubs for pasta sauce ...”

  “From the hotel dumpster. It was such a bizarre theft. Those things were under the blankets, pretending ...” Jamie gave up. He didn’t want to think about it. They started walking back to Spirit Body. “I wanted to know who did it. I’ve gue
ssed, but Mae can see—fuck, you know that.”

  “I do. Don’t like it much, but I do.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring it up. But—why not? What’s wrong with it?”

  “Used to think it was all a lot of bull. I’m not too spiritual. When I found out it was real, it seemed kinda like stalking to me, to be able to look in on folks like that any old time, see what they’re up to. Mae and I fought about other stuff. City versus country was the big thing, but that psychic business was hard for me to take.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up something bad. You and Mae seem like you get along so well now.”

  “We do, so long as we don’t live together. And I’ve moved on.”

  “Yeah. Jen’s nice. I like her.”

  “Thanks. Yeah, we’re doing well. Everything Mae and I fought about, Jen and I agree on. It’s a better fit. You gotta fit, as well as feel.” Hubert slowed down both his walk and his words. “Mae and Stamos don’t fit. They haven’t got a damn thing in common except they work in the fitness business.”

  “There must be more than that, if she’s with him.”

  “You haven’t spent a whole evening with him. He strikes me as the kind of dude that’s a perfect gentleman so he can get laid. Trophy collector. Slick as eel shit.”

  They arrived at the door of Spirit Body. Jamie felt a surge of worry for Mae. “I don’t want her to get hurt. D’you think she’s into him?”

  “Might be.” Hubert pushed the door open. “But it won’t last. You can see to that.”

  Jamie stopped, ignoring Pamela beckoning at the head of the stairs. A light went on inside him. “Me?”

  “Yeah.” Hubert’s eyes were sad above his smile. “It’s weird seeing her with anyone, but go for it, man. You’re a better fit. I’d vote for you over Stamos any day.”

  Overcome with joy and hope, every weight that had dragged on his soul falling off like the sandbags out of a hot air balloon, Jamie grabbed Hubert and bear-hugged him, and then ran up the stairs to look for Mae. He found her being groped and nuzzled by the slick-as-eel-shit Greek.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The lights flicked off and on, reminding the audience that the show would resume. The break was over, and Mae hadn’t had a chance to talk to Jamie. Jen returned from buying music and Hubert from his trip to the van. He sighed as he sat down. “I didn’t know y’all wanted that junk in the back. I recycled it.”

  Before Mae could say anything, Jamie danced his way between the people on cushions and landed on his knees in front of her, posed like the finale of a ballroom dance competition, a wild fire in his eyes. What had gotten into him? This was nothing like his nervous approach back in Mesilla.

  Stamos drew her a little closer. All night, from seat selection down to each gracious and affectionate touch, he’d been doing as he’d said he would, letting Hubert see she was worshipped like a goddess. She hoped it wasn’t all an act to have an effect on Hubert. Or on Jamie, whose outfit was weirdly reminiscent of Joe Wayne Brazos.

  “So,” Jamie said, as if picking up in the middle of a conversation, maybe one he’d been having with Mae in his head, “we’ll all go out after the show, then? You pick the place.”

  To Mae’s surprise, Hubert agreed to it immediately and enthusiastically. Hubert. He didn’t like bars and nightlife. What had gotten into him? He and Jamie fist-bumped, and Jamie stood, giving Stamos a thumbs-up. “Pick the taverna, mate. Catcha.”

  Jamie danced his way through the audience to the front of the room, signaled someone to lower the lights, and exploded into song.

  After how fractured and off-balance he had sounded in their phone calls, Mae was glad to see him so happy. Could it be that good to see his crummy old van back? He couldn’t be excited about going out with her and Stamos. Though he could be excited about staying with her at Pamela’s.

  Jamie punctuated the a cappella song with danced rhythms. He landed a triple spin with a crisp, sharp stop while he held a note longer than seemed humanly possible. Without saying a word to the audience, he brought them into the song, teaching them the melody and clapping patterns, and then grabbed up a drum to add more complex beats while harmonizing over the crowd. He’d had a power surge over the break.

  “We don’t have to go out with him,” Stamos whispered. “We can say no.”

  “I can’t turn him down. If he’ll go out with you and me together, I hope it means he finally wants to be friends.” A thin hope, but she held onto it nonetheless.

  “Fine. Then we’ll leave early. Very early.”

  The departing audience dispersed in couples and clusters, leaving the unlikely fivesome at the front of Spirit Body as Cynthia locked up from inside and said goodnight. Through the glass, Mae saw Pamela walking through the store with a drum Jamie had borrowed, tapping on it with one hand and dancing a little as she returned it to the music room.

  Stamos placed an arm around Mae’s waist. “The taverna,” he looked at Jamie with a hint of contempt, “is the Cellar. A fine old corner pub a few blocks from here.”

  Jamie nodded and smiled, bouncing on his heels, one thumb hooked in the strap of his backpack. He’d put his usual hat back on, and tapped the cowboy hat against his thigh in the same rhythm as his bouncing. He had no coat or sweater. The damp night air was warm for winter, but still cool for the way he was dressed, which again struck Mae as strange. He’d previously hidden his scarred arm with long sleeves even in summer, and here he was in winter in just a sleeveless T-shirt.

  “The owners are Greek,” Stamos continued. “And when it gets late they put on Greek music and dance.”

  “I love Greek music,” Jen bubbled. “Did you know I’m part Greek? My grandmother is Greek, from Newport News.”

  “But I will out-Greek you,” said Stamos playfully. “Unless you drink retsina.”

  She made a face, her little lipsticked bow mouth exaggerating her distaste. “No.”

  Jamie grinned. “Lead the way, mate.”

  Stamos and Mae led, and the other couple trailed behind. Jamie drifted into the street, walking backwards so he could see all of them, juggling his two hats. “I should add my head to this.” He mimed a third invisible object in the cycle, laughed, and tossed a hat under his leg, catching it without losing his rhythm.

  Stamos squeezed Mae closer and whispered, “We’ll lose him soon. Don’t worry.”

  At least he was being honest, and not a martyr, but she didn’t like the sound of lose him, as if Stamos planned to leave Jamie behind like a pesky kid brother.

  At the Cellar, Stamos insisted that everyone share a bottle of retsina, the resinous Greek wine, and also ordered shots of ouzo for all. The middle-aged waitress with bleached hair and makeup as thick as her accent beamed and giggled when Stamos spoke to her in Greek. She argued with him a little, briefly switching to English for the others, telling them they should have food with ouzo and that Stamos should know better. She planted a menu in front of him, but he didn’t open it or pass it along. Jen took it, scanned it, and set it down with no apparent interest. “It’s all so heavy.”

  Across the room, the bartender, a stout, bald, mustachioed Greek man, waved at Stamos as if they were old friends and called out a greeting in their language.

  When the waitress delivered the drinks, Stamos poured retsina for everyone. Mae recoiled at the taste, grateful that she had a good excuse as designated driver not to drink any more of it. She had picked him up at his parents’ house and left her car at Spirit Body.

  While Stamos chatted with the waitress in Greek again, Jamie got up and investigated the old-fashioned jukebox not far from their table. Mae felt excluded. Stamos should have been teaching her a word or two of Greek, introducing her to his friends who ran the bar. Instead he seemed to be showing off, or intentionally cutting people out. Cutting Jamie out, probably.

  She found herself stuck conversing with Hubert and Jen as a couple. It had been one thing to sit next to them during the concert, but now the small talk stumbled to a
n awkward halt.

  When Jamie returned to the table, Stamos interrogated him about his music and why he had such a random repertoire. “You’re very good, of course, but I can’t tell what you’re trying to do with the mood of the show. It’s all over the place. Do you see what I mean?”

  Jamie answered politely, but Mae could see the tension around his jaw. She wondered if his temper would hold.

  While Stamos critiqued and questioned Jamie, she tried to make conversation with Jen about their fitness work. It fell flat within a few minutes, and Mae caught a soft, understanding look from Hubert that dropped her heart. She looked away from him and tried a tiny taste of the ouzo, barely a drop on her tongue. It tasted like licorice on fire and made her eyes water.

  The conversation beside her stopped with Jamie’s “I’ll drink to that.” Jamie and Stamos downed their shots simultaneously, and Stamos called for more. He looked to Hubert, raising his empty shot glass, but Hubert shook his head and put his hand over his untouched drink. Mae pushed her near-full shot away, and Jen did the same.

  Stamos took Mae’s shot, and slid Jen’s to Jamie. The men locked eyes, raised the glasses, and drank. What had they gotten into? Was this how they’d made peace, or was it a new kind of argument?

  “I hope I don’t see some sort of manly-man duel coming,” Jen whispered to Hubert.

  “If there is,” Hubert answered, “I’m putting my bet on the Aussie. I heard they can drink.”

  As the waitress delivered more ouzo to Stamos and Jamie, Hubert ordered coffee, Mae seconded that choice, and Jen ordered white wine. Hubert gave Mae that compassionate look again and said to her, while he cupped his hand around Jen’s, “Not much fun for you.”

  In more ways than one.

  Jamie and Stamos tossed down the shots, and Stamos ordered two more. While the Greek was talking to the waitress, Jamie caught Mae’s eye and raised a glass of retsina in a toast to her.

  Stamos never should have agreed to this whole evening, not even the concert. Mae should have realized it was another act of martyrdom when he was flexible and let her have her way. Now it was backfiring into some kind of aggression, the anti-martyr coming out.