Shaman's Blues Page 31

  He shook his head. “No one ...” Another shiver. “No. No one.”

  “Well, someone’s gonna have to.”

  Again he shook his head and pushed off the wall. “Feel like crap.” Swaying. “E-mail ...”

  If it would make him feel better, she could turn on her laptop and help him type a message. It would be a chance to encourage him to be honest with his parents.

  She escorted him to a kitchen chair, opened the laptop on the table, and went to the sink to fill the kettle to make tea. Jamie seemed cold, even though he was hot to touch. He leaned his head in his hands, grabbing at his hair, and mumbled, “Mentally ill homeless person.”

  “I wish you’d stop saying that, sugar. You like Red Zinger tea?”

  “Yeah.”

  She glanced at him, making sure he was neither panicking nor vomiting, and then looked away long enough to get teabags and put them in mugs, and turn on the burner under the kettle.

  Sitting beside Jamie, Mae logged on and asked what e-mail service he used. Once she had brought it up, she turned the computer to him so he could log in to his account. He took three tries to type correctly, going so slowly she wanted to type it for him, and she noticed he had a strange e-mail address with no resemblance to his name, ctdmoddw.

  “What’s that stand for?

  “It’s Welsh. Joke. Nah—each time I fell, new nickname. Climbing group ...” He watched his messages appear. “Crash test dummy.” A sick hiccup. “Master of Disaster. Last one, they showed up in my hospital room and said they christened me Death Wish.”

  “I wouldn’t want to climb with a guy I called Death Wish.”

  “Neither do they. Not anymore.” He lurched slightly. “Jesus. I can’t read.” He closed his eyes. “Is there something from my parents? My sister?”

  Mae scanned his messages. “Something from Stan Ellerbee.”

  “Bloody hell.” Jamie bolted from the room, hand to his mouth, and she hoped he made it to the bathroom. At least this might put an end to the feel like crap mantra.

  She rose and followed him partway, making sure he’d reached his destination. “Jamie?”

  A loud groan from behind the half-closed door. “I’m puking. Leave me alone.”

  “I’m gonna check on you if you don’t come out soon, though.”

  “No-o-o.” More groans, and the unmistakable sound of his sickness.

  Mae returned to the kitchen and sat in front of the computer. He’d wanted her to read him his message from his father, so she opened it. Maybe it would bring good news or some kind of help.

  We’re still trying to call you. I know you said you have a new number, but it’s been over a month. You have to let us know what it is. You don’t like it when we have people check up on you, but we’re worried. I contacted the people at Soul to see if they had your new number and they said you haven’t played there since June. Are you working? Do you need anything? If you’re keeping something from us, you don’t have to. Please don’t ever be afraid to ask for help. Don’t wait ’til we get back. We love you. You’re not a problem, you’re our son.

  Saddened, Mae almost wished she hadn’t read it. She felt an urge to type back an answer, to tell the truth, to ask for help on Jamie’s behalf. If his parents were coming back for the fall semester, which seemed likely, he was bound to see them in two weeks and have to tell them something anyway. Maybe he’d allow her to type something for him.

  Noticing that another of his messages was from Wendy, Mae thought Jamie would want her to read that to him, too, and started to open it, but was interrupted by crashing noises, as if something had fallen over. Nothing heavy, but she had to check, and walked to the bathroom. Jamie, on his hands and knees amidst the bottles of lotion, sunscreen, and mouthwash Mae had left on the back of the toilet tank, looked around at her.

  “Mouthwash.”

  She picked up the bottles and put the toilet lid down, grateful he hadn't knocked things into the bowl, and then helped him up, unscrewed the top of the mouthwash, and handed it to him.

  “Sorry.” He tossed a swig into his mouth, and after a prolonged swish spat into the sink and rinsed it. “I’m disgusting.”

  Somehow he managed to set the bottle back without knocking it over again, and Mae put its cap on. “Borderline. But for being drunk, not for being homeless.” Hearing the kettle whistle, she returned to the kitchen and poured water onto the teabags, trusting Jamie would follow at his stumbling pace. When he arrived, falling into his chair again, she sat with him and read his father’s e-mail to him.

  “Want me to answer him?”

  “Tell him I’m fine.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Tell him I’m fucking fine. Jesus. I’m sick to fucking death of making them worry. I’m twenty-fucking-eight years old, I can’t be fucking rescued by my fucking parents.”

  “They love you—”

  “And I’m not putting them through any more bloody rescue crap. I’m getting by.”

  “His sabbatical has to be over soon. They’re gonna get back and see you all skinny and anxious and figure something’s wrong. When does their tenant move out?”

  “Dunno. Still there.”

  Mae typed the reply. It wouldn’t meet Jamie’s approval, but his parents were already worried, and they needed to be able to reach him and help. I’m a friend typing for Jamie because he’s drunk. He says to tell you that he’s fine. You need a second opinion on that. I’ll try to make him call you when he’s sober, and I’ll make sure he’s okay tonight. She gave them her e-mail address and phone number. “I have no idea what time it is in Australia, but we can call them tomorrow on my phone. All right?”

  “It’s already tomorrow.” He folded his arms on the table and lay his head down. “In Australia.”

  “You have a message from Wendy.”

  “Who?”

  “Wendy Huang. Your future manager. The person who’s gonna help you out of this mess.”

  “Don’t tell her.”

  “What?”

  “That I’m a mentally ill homeless person.”

  It was both funnier and sadder, the way he said it this time. “Of course I won’t tell her that, sugar.” Mae rubbed his hot, thin back, rose to get the tea, and brought the mugs back to the table. “I’m gonna read her message to you.”

  No response from the slouched form.

  “Here’s what she says. I’ll tell you again tomorrow when you’re sober, but listen. ‘I want to see you tomorrow afternoon. Give me a phone number so we can set up a meeting. I still only have this e-mail address. We need to go over a lot of plans and make sure you’re ready to sign a contract. I’m excited about what I can do for you. Your new music blew me away.’ ”

  “Tomorrow?” Jamie sat up. “Bloody hell. I’m ... I’ll be ... Fuck. I’ll be hung over.”

  Mae nudged the mug of tea toward him. “You’ll get better.” As the ex-wife of an alcoholic, she knew more than she wanted to about hangovers. “Drink this. Dehydration makes it worse.”

  He picked up the tea, slurped, apologized. “Move your laptop. Might spill on it.”

  “Good idea.” She turned it off and moved it to the counter. “How’d you end up with nowhere to sleep?”

  “I’m a fuck-up.”

  “No. Come on, what happened?”

  “Started with my hip. No—fuck—I dunno. Started when I quit teaching. Lisa was managing my stuff ... I can’t do that crap.” He slurped the tea again, looked into the mug. Mae sat beside him. “Anyway, it was going all right, I had this gig every Thursday at Soul, and I had the CDs out, played in Albuquerque sometimes. I don’t do normal bar music, hard to line up good places, and Lisa ... shit. Quit. I mean, we’d split, but—fuck, that rhymed. I asked her to help ... a little longer.” He took a breath, looked at Mae. “I’m not good at anything.”

  “That’s not true. Now what happened?”

  His eyes went down to the tea again. “Money. Trying to pay on the fucking medical. And I bought stuff. I�
��m stupid. I bought—” he gestured a kind of dome, walked his fingers into it and stared at it, as if this object were now in front of him, haunting him with his wasted money.

  “Is that a tent? You bought camping gear?”

  He nodded. “Bike ... voice lessons ... Thought I’d earn more, but I didn’t, y’know? And then Lisa quit. I didn’t think she would.” Slurping at his tea and spilling a slop of it, he tried to wipe up the mess with his sleeve and sloshed more from the mug. “Jeezus.” He looked at the red tea soaking his pink sleeve. “Fuck.”

  Mae handed him a cloth napkin. “I can make you more tea. And your shirt’s fine. You said you didn’t think Lisa would quit managing for you.”

  “Yeah. But she did. No one could order stuff or book me. It was stupid. I’d left it all up to her. And ... fuck, I hate this part ...”

  Mae sipped her tea, waited while Jamie fidgeted. He didn’t seem ready to speak, close to anxiety in spite of his intoxication. “I don’t judge you. My friend Kenny was homeless once.”

  “He told you that?”

  Mae thought of Kenny’s complete lack of embarrassment about his past. He talked about being a homeless addict with the same accepting frankness with which Mae might talk about getting divorced. “Yeah. Bad stuff happens. He’s really open about it.”

  “Stronger than I am, then. I feel like a failure.” Jamie sighed. “My rent check bounced. I got my parents’ tenant to let me store stuff—said it was because my new place was small ...” He turned to Mae, and his voice took on a new urgency. “See, I had it figured. I could manage. Get back on my feet. Paid up for the year at the Geneveva back in the winter. I could shower there, y’know? And if I ate less I could eat ... decent.”

  “So you ate only once a day?”

  He nodded. “Still had the gig at Soul, and Lisa had jumped all those hoops with the city for me to do the street stuff. But I had to give up ... give up on the bills. I was in a fucking hole.”

  “What happened to your work? This place you used to play—Soul?”

  “Late. Moving stuff out to Tesuque ... fucking van ...” He laid his head down again for a minute, and then lifted it to finish. “They hired someone else for the summer. See, the phone ...” He rearranged his arms to put his elbows on the table, head in his hands. “Fuck, I had a plan. But William, he was getting all thin and tired. I thought he just missed Lisa and our old place, but ...” Jamie glanced at Mae. “I might cry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I took him to the vet.” Jamie squeezed his eyes shut. “William had cancer. I’d been letting my fucking cat die.”

  “You didn’t mean to. Was that while you were homeless?”

  “Nah. In the apartment. My first home as a fucking bachelor.” He opened his eyes, drank his tea. “I was depressed. All that crap had happened. I thought William was depressed. Fucking stupid. Finally took him in. Too late. Terminal. I missed my phone bill, because I had to ... Fuck. First night out of the place, I’m sitting in the van in the parking lot at DeVargas Mall, that was all I could think to do ... and I’m sitting there holding William, and I know he’s sick, and I don’t want him to die. Just sitting there in the middle of the night, and the poor cat, he starts bleeding out his arse, all over my clothes. Dying on me. But he didn’t die. Jesus. I held him all night, and he—fuck—he still loved me, and I’d let him down. Took him to the vet in the morning, had him ... y’know. Held him while he died. Fuck. I did wrong by him. Then—Jeezus, the fucking money to eth—euthzan—to kill my dying cat—I couldn’t pay for the phone.”

  “That’s awful.” Mae wondered if he’d seen the cat’s soul go. “When was this?”

  “June. Lisa dropped me in May. I fell off fast.”

  Mae tried to picture his life. The sequence was scrambled by his drunken storytelling, but she had a sense of what had happened. He’d been depressed but functional at the end of the relationship, and then traumatized and blown back into the spirit world by finding Dusty dying. Barely hanging on financially through his limited income from his music, swamped with medical bills for himself and then for a sick pet, not knowing how to master his marketing or to manage his own career, distracted and confused by a spiritual disturbance, he lost control of everything—his mental health as well as his money. The loss of one led to the loss of the other in a vicious circle. Ironically, he’d not even tried to access the same help he’d tried to get for Dusty.

  “How do you get by without any help?”

  “Hide. The night hat, y’know, so I don’t look like me. Swag out late, pack up early. Fuck. Tried to be useful for a while, used to ... used to take the train to Albuquerque, play music in the hospital still, be some use ... It’s part of who I am, y’know? But then I couldn’t pay for the train.”

  He’d misunderstood. Told her how he avoided looking like he needed help. “I meant, how do you live? What do you do?”

  “Jesus. You want to know?” With a surge of self-outrage, he straightened himself, arms braced against the table, and glared at the space in front of him, forcing a surprising level of clarity into his speech. “Here’s my bloody useless day. Sleep about four hours. Check e-mail at the library. Go the Geneveva and swim and shower, maybe dance. Safe place. Like to stay a long time. Bike if I have to, can’t buy gas much, can’t fix the bloody van. Play on the street if I think I can handle it, get some cash ... Get a meal at Whole Foods so I don’t look homeless, stay sort of healthy, eat while I’m there so I can brush my teeth ... Write some music ... Do laundry at a laundromat ... That’s all I can manage. I see too much. I can’t think. My head’s not clear.”

  At least she’d freed him of seeing too much, but it wasn’t the only reason his head wasn’t clear. “It’s because you’re starving, sugar. And you’re tired. Where do you sleep?”

  “Gully behind Fort Marcy Park mostly. Up on the hill, those big stairs off Paseo. Top of the city. Nice piece of desert. Smells good. Pinon, juniper.” He drank more tea, set the empty mug down with a clatter. “I’m busy. Takes the whole fucking day just to mind your own business when you don’t live anywhere. Find water, find bathrooms, go here to bathe, here to eat, here to use a computer ... Get stuff in and out of the van, move the van so it doesn’t get towed ... Busy. I’m bloody fucking busy, and I don’t have a fucking thing to do.” He let out a short laugh. “At least I’m not depressed.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Nah. I’m outdoors. I’m active. Better off than most homeless people, really. Got a place to get clean, got a little income. Can’t lie around and brood, can I? Like a fucking wild animal. Survive.”

  As if the effort to order his story had worn him out, he lay his head on his arms again.

  Only one thing still didn’t make sense. “How did you make that picnic?”

  “Mwizenge’s house. He knows I—he saw me crack onto you, y’know?” Without sitting up, Jamie flashed a shy smile like the first time he’d approached her. “I fixed the same lunch for them, made them a cake. As thanks, y’know? For help with the sound files. Said my oven didn’t work.”

  It had taken a surprising amount of planning to bring a cookbook and to figure a way to use his friend’s kitchen. It had to have looked odd to Mwizenge and his family. Or had it? Jamie was eccentric enough that peculiar behavior might not raise questions. “If you told a friend, someone like Mwizenge or Alan, I bet they’d give you a place to stay ’til your parents get back.”

  Jamie propped halfway up on his elbows. “No. I’d rather die. Rather drag my balls through broken glass. It’s my bloody fuck-up and I’ll fucking un-fuck it.”

  Finishing her tea, Mae gave up on reasoning with a drunk. She offered a kind untruth instead. “I’m sure you can.”

  “I can. Work my way out of it, y’know? Bloody hell, Dusty was twice as crazy as I am and—Jeezus, I almost said ‘and he lived.’ Fuck.” Jamie slid lower in the chair. “Fucking Ruth. Did she do it?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Mae rested her hand on Jamie�
��s arm. “I couldn’t ask her about that. I was trying to get her to take care of her restaurant, not just close it and fire people.”

  The whole idea that Ruth had owned a business in the role of Muffie seemed to have already dropped from Jamie’s mind, he looked so confused. “What?”

  “I’ll explain it later. It was so Kenny could keep his job. So he wouldn’t be homeless again.”

  “But you got her ... stuff, her ... something. Right? So we can know.”

  “I have something.”

  “So you know? Fuck, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I haven’t done that yet. I’m not going into a trance with you drunk.”

  “Yeah, you can. I won’t bother you. I’ll just lie here and be useless.” He slumped onto the table and gave her a dazed, pleading look. “Or run off and puke. Y’know. No trouble.”

  She actually could do the psychic journey now. When it was intentional and not a half-dream journey, she could snap out of it and back to the present if needed. There was an appeal to closure with Ruth. Mae would be leaving in the morning. If she was going to risk upsetting Jamie with whatever she learned, it might as well be now, while she had time to see him through it. Tomorrow, he’d need to focus on getting ready to meet Wendy. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

  She quickly got a couple of crystals—amethyst and turquoise, for visions and protection—and the Sanchez and Smyth catalog from the living room, and returned to sit by Jamie. “You need to do anything? Puke? Pee?”

  He made a negative sound.

  She laid a hand on his back. “I’m gonna take the journey now. It may go fast, or I may be quiet for twenty minutes or so. Hang in there. Interrupt me if you need to, though.”

  Seeing that Jamie seemed, for him, reasonably stable, she placed one hand on the Sanchez and Smyth catalog, and held the crystals in the other, seeking Ruth’s energy and asking if she had seen Dusty jump—and done nothing. Mae’s concentration felt suctioned by Jamie’s proximity and the tunnel came slowly, but she finally moved through it and into the nighttime garden.