4
Lingering silence
[Hank]
The quiet on the other end of the phone lingers in my ear. Her birthday. Thoughts of entertaining her fill my mind, but I shake my head. My gut twists with the knowledge I crossed so many lines by calling out her name. I want to call her back, but the anonymous phone line provides no callback number. Dammit. How can I help her if I can’t reach her? I could always call Tommy, but do I want to breach the silence of our long lost friendship? I still can’t believe I received an invitation to his wife’s party.
I don’t know why I went.
Curiosity, maybe. I’ve often wondered what Tommy has been up to. Hell, I’ve been thinking more and more about all of them lately, for some reason. Denton Chance. Tucker Ashe. Friends from a lifetime ago. A history I don’t wish to repeat or reenter.
Maybe self-inflicted torture made me do it. An unfulfilled hope remains that Tommy might offer some answers about Kit. I chuckle at the false anticipation. His sister had been special to me. She was a star in the music industry when girl rock bands were all the rage. Vibrant. Larger than life. A wild child. She grew into a woman with passion and a dream. But life was cruel, and I was a fool. The lyrics scroll like a classic song, one of many I try to forget from her. My personal recollections are told to regress because I don’t need those demons again.
More likely, I went to prove I could handle a party. The drinking. The atmosphere. The memories. But I quickly realized I wasn’t ready, and I left shortly after the disappearance of Midge. Sweet, innocent, wanting to play, Midge. It was in her eyes. She hadn’t done anything like this before, she said. A stranger. An encounter. It would have been a new experience. One I gladly wanted to give her. I’m ready for the next steps in my recovery, but with the party invitation, old hurts resurface.
Damn Tommy Carrigan.
It’s best for me if we don’t reconnect. So, no, I won’t be contacting Tommy for Midge’s number.
+ + +
It’s been a month since I met Midge, two weeks since I heard her frazzled voice on the phone, and three seconds since I last thought of her. The intake of her breath. The way she looked at me. The ripeness of her breasts. The curve of her hips. The wrench slips from my hand, and I curse again.
“What’s gotten into you, boss?” My nephew, Chopper, is a good kid, wanting to do the right thing and showing me respect by calling me boss, but today, I’m out of sorts. I stand and nearly knock my head on the hood of the 1969 Boss 429 Mustang I’m working on. She’ll be a black beauty of machinery once I get her restored, and she’s all mine. She’s a project I’ve had for six years, along with rebuilding my life. I’m working on her today, not trusting myself to handle one of the other neglected potentials in our shop. The faded red Stingray Corvette needs my attention, but I passed the baton to my nephew today. He and Brut can handle her.
Scrubbing at my hair, I swing my head to my older brother, Brut, and find him watching me. I owe him—I owe him too much—and today, I’m reflective of the fact. At forty-five, he hardly looks a day over thirty while I look aged from the wear and tear of a lost lifestyle at forty-three. My skin’s wrinkled. My hair feels thinner. My jaw wears a shadow of salt-and-pepper. Brut got the good genes in the pool with his early white hair and clean face. He also got this shop—Restored Dreams. The name isn’t lost on us. Our momma picked it, along with our literary names, before she decided we weren’t for her. Who names their kid Bronte Austen? Poor Brut. On the other hand, I’m Henry James. My mother left the life she never wanted. Eventually, Brut inherited this life, this garage, although he secretly didn’t want it either, just like me. Yet here we both stand.
He nods in my direction. “What’s your problem today?”
I shake my head. How can I tell him I can’t get a woman off my mind? Not the distant memory of one, but a new one. There was something about her. She didn’t seem to recognize me. No judgment in those eyes—gold flecks streaming among a dark forest. She looked at me like she wanted me to take her worries, take her even. Always playing the damn knight in shining armor, I live for that shit. But living that way nearly wrecked me once upon a time, and my armor remains rusty.
I bend for the engine of the only solid girl for me when Brut’s voice interrupts. “You’ve got other things to concentrate on today. That Stingray needs the transmission replaced. It’s due for paint on Thursday.” I whistle low. Not an easy task. “And that Charger needs an inspection. Owner says something’s happening with the brakes.” Brut rolls his eyes at the ignorance of some classic car owners. “And this one just arrived for an overhaul.”
I spin to see the baby blue 1969 Mustang convertible I’d recognize anywhere. Kit? I vigorously give my head a shake. It would be impossible. I remind myself there’s more than one car out in the world like this, but what are the chances of one being here today.
“Someone you might recognize brought this one in.” Brut spins his tablet to show me the name on the docket. His tone hints at his displeasure. “He says he knows you’ll take care of her.” Tommy Carrigan. Goddamn him. What’s he playing at? I don’t need these ghosts haunting me. Something in my expression must frighten Brut, and he exhales.
“I can take it,” he offers.
“No, I got it.” My eyes haven’t moved from the car. A gift. My heart and soul poured into the vehicle, into the girl who once owned it. I lost her, I remember, but like a tiny hammer knocking on my head, I’m reminded I couldn’t lose what I didn’t have. Kit Carrigan was never exclusively mine. She belonged to the rock ’n’ roll industry.
“You feeling okay?” Brut asks, concern in his question. He worries about me even though it has been six years. Six years sober. It wasn’t an easy feat. I tip my chin to assure him I’m good. I don’t need a drink. I need to get working.
“Give it to me,” I demand, barking harsher than I mean. I tug the tablet from him and peruse the ticket. My head shakes as I’m certain the car needs nothing but a routine checkup. Again, I wonder what Tommy’s playing at. He’s never brought it here before, so why now?
+ + +
“Your car’s ready,” I snap into the phone, frustrated by my day spent working on Kit’s old vehicle.
“That was fast.” Tommy chuckles. Hearing his easy voice again brings back wave after wave of memories—late nights drinking, days singing, too many bad things in between.
“There wasn’t anything special needed.” I exhale. “You know, there were probably other places to go.” Tommy lives in Los Angeles while our location is a good twenty minutes outside of the city if you subtract traffic.
“I’m happy to support.” The words aren’t lost on me, nor is the implication I need the financial assistance. Tommy has long since given up on me in other ways. He knows my history better than anyone, and while he tried to help me financially at one time, I was beyond saving mentally. I had to dig myself out of both holes on my own. The heavy silence between us forces him to clear his throat. “I didn’t mean anything…”
“Forget it, man.” The awkwardness lingers. I feel like a fucking teenager, and I’m ready to end the call when Tommy speaks again.
“Look, Hank, I’ve got a favor to ask.” His hesitation gives me pause. Tommy hardly asks for anything, other than when he asked me to walk away from all of them. “Ivy owns a music therapy school. You remember Ivy?”
How could I forget Ivy Carrigan—now Everly? She was her mother in a younger form—just as beautiful—but thankfully untainted by the music industry. I loved that little girl when she was little. A woman in her own right now, and she owns a school?
“What do you need from me?” Tommy knows I don’t have money for a grand donation, but I’ll give what I can.
“Ivy’s hosting a fundraiser for her school. Some kind of walk-a-thon.” He clicks his tongue. “A 5K. We’re trying to support her. The band and me. Show of solidarity and all.” Sounds like there’s a backstory here, but I don’t want to pry. Collision, the band he manages, isn’t my business. “Anyway, we’d love for you to come.”
“Why?” It’s been years since I’ve seen Tommy, even longer since everything fell apart, so I don’t understand.
“I want to have as many people who love Ivy around her for this big day. She had a grand opening back in August, but this is her first real event, so getting the name of the therapy school out there and trying to promote it are important to her.”
“Yeah, but why me?”
“I’m trying to get the old band there—the older set, so to speak—to show her we’re proud of her.” There’s more he isn’t saying. I hear it in his voice.
“Is Denton coming?” The last of Kit’s posse stopped speaking to either of us long before we officially separated. When Tommy doesn’t answer, I have my answer. “Does this have to do with Kit?” When Ivy’s mother passed, Tommy tried to rally the others around her, but she was lost. At first, Ivy even found herself on a path similar to her mother.
“No,” he snaps, then takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. I just thought it would be nice if people who were once important to her were around.” Once important. The word is not lost on me. The problem is, I wish I was still important to somebody. Thoughts of Midge creep back into my mind. Dragging a hand over my head, I sigh.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll be there. When is it?”