The Hour of the Innocents Page 12

  We owned that room. Matty inserted a solo that took hot-rod guitar riffs on a space odyssey, making the dancers sweat and wave their arms: Happy, stoned on volume, they gave up the sense of self to be part of the beast. It was the anarchist’s version of Hitler’s Nuremberg rallies.

  We tightened back to a last round of harmonies. Stosh tossed his internal metronome and notched up the beat. The hall had grown physically hot and a girl fainted, startling her fellow dancers. Had we called for that mob to kill, it might have done so.

  The sensation wasn’t frightening. It was thrilling.

  As we wrapped up, the crowd—a great, conglomerate monster—howled and cheered and stamped hundreds of feet. It wanted more.

  The club manager, a pseudohipster with a Skip Spence mustache, rushed onstage to shoo us off. We were spoiling the plan. Humanity, the New York outfit, was supposed to star that evening. But any musician in that room understood that if the headline group fell one inch short of brilliant, they were going to flop.

  Frankie’s face shone, high on the adulation pulsing from the crowd. Stosh was soaked with sweat. Only Matty seemed unmoved, although I knew he would have played all night.

  “Great set, guys, great set,” the manager told us, unsure of what he was witnessing. He couldn’t think beyond the printed program. Yet he sensed the danger in losing the crowd.

  He decided that the size of the type on the advertising posters confirmed the importance the mob would assign to each band. Descending into the audience—to a couple of boos—he waved to the elevated booth that controlled the stage lights.

  Lancelot’s Lair had two facing stages, allowing different bands to follow each other promptly, without shifting equipment. The lights dropped on our side of the room and the spots came up on Humanity’s gleaming equipment. Their drummer was already onstage, but the rest of the band was missing.

  The manager forced his way through the crowd, then climbed up on the main stage. After positioning himself behind the center microphone, he waved his arms for quiet.

  “Got to move on,” he said, “keep on truckin’, cowboys and Indians … because, you know, we have something really phenomenal for you tonight … a Halloween treat, and this is no trick … I’m talking about candy for your ears, people.… Here they are, straight from New York, the stars of tomorrow, with their brand-new album … let’s hear it for Humanity!”

  The crowd gave the still invisible band a decent round of applause. But they clearly felt that their party had been spoiled.

  There are few things more gratifying to a musician than seeing the band that follows his own fall flat. Humanity went facedown in a ditch.

  At first, the group’s members delayed coming out of the dressing room, letting the club manager stand there, stumped, with only the drummer to prove that Humanity existed. We understood what was happening: The other musicians wanted to put some space between the sets, to let the audience forget and relax their loyalties.

  When they did come out, they made mistakes that doomed them. After we had whipped the crowd into a dancing, partying frenzy, they started off their set with a phony cerebral number, limp-dicked Vanilla Fudge, built around sustained organ chords that were meant to signal profundity. It was all architecture and no beat, the kind of number that might work on an album but would leave a fired-up audience unmoved. And their bass player was stoned. He kept missing his entries and exits, flubbing the count in ways a drummer can’t cover. They must have thought the hicks in Quakertown would be thrilled with any tidbits tossed from a hot Manhattan band. They were wrong.

  I didn’t have to find Grace Slick’s kid sister. She found me. Her witch’s hat was gone and she had combed her long hair. She asked me if I wanted to go out in the parking lot and get high.

  I was as high as I needed to be from the fervor of the crowd. But smoking a joint or a few crumbs of hash was the social ritual that had replaced the shared ice-cream sodas of yesteryear. And I had an overload of energy that needed an outlet.

  Perhaps I was miffed that Laura had gone home again—a ritual repeated every second weekend—instead of coming along on a night I’d told her could be important. Maybe it was frustration that the love songs I longed to write refused to be summoned. It could have been that I was scared of what I felt for her, too. My fantasy of a rock musician’s life involved a procession of ruthless conquests amid groupies of starlet beauty—like those who sometimes appeared in Rolling Stone. Instead of feasting on legions of girls and women, I thought about Laura constantly, daydreaming about her while I gave guitar lessons to kids who only wanted to pick their noses. I wanted her all of the time, as if she were a drug that had taken me captive. It made me feel cheated.

  I went to the closet that served as the B-team dressing room and got my suede Ike jacket. I felt furtive, although I faced no danger from wagging tongues. No one in the band was going to report me. We had a code. And Angela was home in bed with a cold. I was free to do as I wished.

  A struck match jeweled the eyes of a pale-faced girl. As she sucked in the first smoke, a seed popped. The sparking joint lit her face. For one can’t-forget moment, she became Mary Magdalene, as painted by an old master. Leaning against an Oldsmobile at the back of a gravel lot.

  She passed me the joint. I went through the motions.

  “That was incredible,” she said.

  “What kind is it?”

  “I meant your band. Man, you were just incredible. Heavy songs. I really got into you, into your music. I guess you could tell.” She shivered. Theatrically. “It’s cold out here.”

  I folded her in my arms. It was a small shock: the different height, the strange scent, a foreign texture of hair against my cheek. I took the joint, squeezed out the fire, and kissed her.

  It was my first encounter with a woman who wore a garter belt without panties.

  * * *

  We were booked into a local motel. Instead, I went back with Joan to her apartment. Frankie had joined the party as a date for her roommate, a big girl startled and pleased by his attention. He had failed to find a better deal for the night. Joey and Pete packed up our gear for us.

  Frankie was glad to be off his leash. The only liquor the girls had in stock was a bottle of crème de menthe. Frankie drank it over ice cubes, glass after glass, as we passed a hash pipe around their living room. He sprawled on a beanbag chair, with the roommate clinging to him. Her sweater had been teased off of her and she sat, heavily, in a white bra. Frankie reached down to unzip her jeans.

  “Let’s go in your bedroom,” I told Joan.

  She took me by the hand.

  Her witch’s costume fell away, but her spell remained unbroken. By the light of candles that spiced the air, her pale flesh and dark hair seemed the stuff of pentagrams. Her nakedness felt aggressive, faintly threatening, and more enchanting for it. Lean and confident, she was not afraid to ask for what she wanted.

  After striving for an hour to impress each other, we lay on her bed, her face upon my chest. I stroked her tumbled hair. Appetite and wonder still trumped guilt. On the other side of the wall, her roommate wailed encouragement to Frankie, who just grunted.

  “I don’t like your singer,” Joan said. Music to my ears.

  “Most women do.”

  “I doubt it. He’s just the kind of guy who convinces them they like him. I know his type.” She mewed a laugh. “You’re something else, though. You look like Mr. Innocent onstage. Your band’s name fits. You, at least. And the big guy, the other guitar player.”

  She touched me with long fingers. When I kissed her, she tasted of the two of us.

  “I don’t want this to be a one-night stand,” she said. “But if it’s going to be, I want my money’s worth.”

  I hoped to feel more of a traitor than I did. The guttering candles cast demons onto the walls. Witchery. I already knew that Joan could not compete with Laura in a single way that mattered. But I didn’t care. I was already calculating how to see her again.

  Joan was
on top of me when Frankie barged into the room, tugging her roommate behind him. They both were naked.

  “Hey … we thought it would be cool to change partners for a while … party time, folks.…”

  Joan made no effort to cover herself or get off of me. She only paused to glare at Frankie and say, “Get the fuck out of here.”

  * * *

  My determination to see Joan again faded less than a mile from her apartment. I was sick, literally nauseated, at what I had done. Our mandatory morning sex had been perfunctory, cold, a trial of weary bodies. I felt as though I had cheated right in front of Laura and made her watch.

  With the smell of another woman still on me, I realized that I loved Laura irrevocably. I told myself it was foolish, that we were kids, that it wouldn’t last, that a world of women waited to be devoured. It made no difference. I felt the love that poets claimed to know.

  Hung over, Frankie stank. I drove, longing to brush my teeth and shower. Headed home, we stopped at a diner for breakfast.

  Over scrapple and eggs, Frankie said, “If you ever screw Angela, I’ll kill you.”

  ELEVEN

  This time, it was Frankie at my door. At four in the morning. Hammering and shouting for Angela.

  I caught a curl of hairs in my zipper as I rushed from the bedroom. Switching on the light above the tiny porch, I opened the door. Frankie stood in the drizzle, wearing a child-molester raincoat and a Phillies cap.

  Before I could speak, he said, “Tell Angela to get out here. Right now.”

  “She’s not here. For fuck’s sake. Why would she be here?”

  “I know she’s here. Tell her I said to get her ass out here.”

  “She’s not here, Frankie. Come in and see for yourself. Just let me make sure Laura’s got the covers up. And stop yelling, for God’s sake.”

  He stepped inside, watering the floor. The wetness on his face was not all rain.

  “Do you know where she is? If you know, tell me.”

  “Why should I know where your wife is?” I turned on a stronger lamp. “Jesus Christ. It’s barely four o’clock.”

  Frankie sat down. Without taking off his raincoat. “She didn’t come home. Angela always comes home. Even when she’s out late, she always comes home. I thought maybe she’d be here.”

  “Why would she be here?”

  He tried to make a joke and become Frankie Star again. “There’s no accounting for tastes.”

  “Well, she’s not here. I haven’t seen her in over a week. And I haven’t heard from her. Did you try Joey’s?”

  He stiffened. “Why would she be at Joey’s?”

  “It was just a thought. Joey’s parties can go all night.”

  “Is he having a party?”

  “I have no idea, man. I told you, it was just a thought. What about Stosh?”

  “He wouldn’t know anything.”

  “Matty?”

  The look in his eyes sharpened. “She knows better.”

  “You must’ve called her girlfriends?”

  “Those sluts. You can’t let them know anything. Unless you want the world to know it.”

  “Look, Frankie … you’re sitting here soaking wet … and she’s probably home now.”

  “She’s not. I just called from the pay phone outside Town and Country.”

  Imagining the band’s disintegration over bullshit, I took things back to the basic proposition, the one that concerned me. “Frankie … come on, man. You’ve got to get any ideas out of your head about me and Angela. There’s nothing between us. And there never was. I’m in love with Laura.”

  I read the skepticism on his face. He was replaying our recent adventures in Quakertown.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I continued. “But I mean it. I really am in love with her. You’re getting snakes in your head over nothing.”

  He pondered the universe. “Yeah … yeah, I know, I know. I just get wound up. She does that to me. Hey, what I said? In the diner last week? That was stupid. I was just pissed, you know? About how things went down that night. I know Angela loves me. But there’s something going on. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the speed. She’s doing too goddamned much of it. I wish I could get her to knock it off. It’s just the worst shit for her. It’s got her jumping out of her skin, the least little thing sets her off.”

  “Can’t you get her to throttle back? Maybe you should get her to start coming to all the gigs again. You could keep an eye on her.”

  “I don’t want her coming to all the gigs. Don’t say nothing to her about that, okay?”

  I nodded. Okay.

  “The other night,” he said, “I tried to talk to her. I really wanted to sit down and talk. I mean, her meth thing is starting to cost real money. She sneaks it, but I know. And I tried to talk to her. She just went screaming nuts, broke every plate in the kitchen. Those dishes were a wedding present from my mother—what am I supposed to tell her when she comes over to the house? Then Angela takes off out the door, snoot in the air and dishes all over the floor. Dragging her ass over to St. Mike’s again. She’s over there all the time now. If she isn’t popping pills or snorting lines, she’s praying to the Virgin Mary. If I didn’t think the priest was a fruit, I’d think he and Angela had something going on.” He shook his wet head. “Maybe your people are right. Maybe we’re all nuts, ain’t? Screwball Matty running to confession every time he breaks a guitar string. Like the baby Jesus gives a shit. And now Angela acting like Bernadette of Lourdes on crank. Next thing, it’ll be Stosh signing up for the seminary.…”

  “I don’t quite see Stosh as a priest.”

  “You don’t know Stosh, either. Anyway, Angela’s not even a real Catholic. I mean, she is, but she isn’t. She’s a Uke, not a Polack. Her maiden name’s Yushenko. Her people think they’re real Catholics, but you should hear Father Wajda go off on that subject, once he’s been at the Four Roses. I mean, if she was Lithuanian, it’d be different.” He looked at me. “What’re you? Besides Protestant?”

  “Episcopalian. But I stopped going.”

  Frankie smirked. “The ones with the money. I should’ve known.”

  “I never pictured Angela as religious.”

  “On Sunday mornings she is. Her and crazy Matty. It’s okay, though. It keeps her from doing anything really stupid.”

  “Doing too much meth is pretty stupid. Couldn’t you talk to her priest? Get him to talk to her?”

  Frankie waved his right hand, dismissing the notion. “Father Kalashko can’t stand me. I told you, it’s a mixed marriage. We’re Polish, her crowd’s Ukrainian. Cossack shits. They’re not even the good Ukrainians.”

  Swimming back to shore, he eyed my new guitar. Music was our life preserver.

  I had not put the guitar back in the case the night before, leaving it on the guitar stand by the stereo. I had bought a Rickenbacker twelve-string, fire-engine red with a white pick guard. I liked the jingle-jangle sound the Byrds had on their early albums and thought the chime effect of the twelve-string might work on harder rock numbers, filling in the texture of songs like “Angeline.” The Rickenbacker wasn’t going to replace my Les Paul, only supplement it and add to the band’s identity.

  “Feel like playing some music?” Frankie asked.

  “Jesus, Frankie. It’s, what, five in the morning? And Laura’s sleeping.”

  “I wasn’t thinking. It’s been a crazy night.”

  “Why don’t you go home? She’s probably there. Use the phone, if you want. She just might not be answering. Maybe she’s pissed that you’re not home, you know?”

  Eventually, I got him back on the road. Bleary, I headed back into the bedroom, stripped off my jeans, and lowered myself into bed beside Laura.

  As my head hit the pillow, she clicked on the bedside lamp and braced herself on an elbow.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “Frankie thought Angela was here.”

  “Why would she be here?”

  “Tha
t’s what I asked Frankie. I don’t know. They’re going through a bad patch.”

  Laura hesitated before she spoke again. I could tell she was choosing her words with particular care. “Don’t get involved. Please, Will.”

  “I have no intention of getting involved.”

  “She’s dangerous.”

  “I thought you were best buddies now?”

  “No. We’re not. I’m civil to her. Because it’s sensible to be civil. For your sake, your band. And I pity her. Married to that ass and stuck in Frackville. It’s the most depressing town I’ve ever seen.”

  “You need to see more of the county. Frackville’s a jewel.”

  “You’re changing the subject. What I meant to say is that people like her are only nice to people like us when they want something. Or when they need something.”

  “‘People like us’?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “She’s still a vampire, then? Despite the knockout job she did on your hair?”

  “Vampires start by trying to gain your confidence. In literature, they’re very seductive.”

  With her hair gently rumpled, Laura looked awfully seductive herself.

  “Turn out the light,” I said. “And come to Daddy.” I held out my arms.

  She shot from the bed, pale as a vampire’s dying victim. With her back pressed against the cold wall, she said, “Don’t ever say that to me.”

  * * *

  Joan, the girl from Quakertown, phoned that afternoon. She must have gotten my number from directory assistance.

  “Hello, Mr. Innocent,” she said.

  Fortunately, Laura was down at the campus.

  “I forget, is it Samantha or Glenda?”

  “Which witch would you prefer?”

  “I really liked the costume.” I was stalling.

  “It’s hanging in the closet. I can put it back on anytime you want. Feel like taking a drive?”

  “Can’t. We have a practice session. I’d never make it back.”

  “Like a visitor, then? I could fly up on my broomstick.”

  “Listen … Joan … I owe you an apology … I should’ve told you…”