1
THEY WERE ARGUING AGAIN.
Stella, her nose stuffed from a cold, her lungs clogged, wrapped her arms about herself, flopped down on the couch, and grabbed for another tissue. She blew a puff of air to get her hair out of her eyes, which were watering and itchy. Her hair felt too long, her body too clammy. She thought she had taken a Sudafed a bit before, and then another later, but if she had, they weren’t working. Simon was leaning against the dining room table, still wearing his lucky traveling clothes—black T-shirt, black jeans, black boots—lucky because he was afraid of flying, and he thought that something as simple as a uniform that once got him through a transcontinental flight filled with turbulence, lightning, and oxygen masks would be a talisman to protect him. Planes terrified him, even though he’d memorized all the precautions. In the event of a crash, you were supposed to sit with your legs firmly planted apart, not in the fetal position the way everyone else was—otherwise you’d break your legs and never be able to walk or even crawl away from the burning fuselage. Bring your own food so you didn’t get food poisoning or sour your stomach. And never, ever take a seat at the front or in first class because that was the part of the plane that broke off first, snapping like a hard pretzel.
Disaster. Everywhere he looked, when he thought of flying, he saw disaster.
His suitcase lay open on the table, a jumble of dark clothing. Hers was on the floor, everything in tight rolls, more than enough for the week she was taking off from her nursing job at the hospital to go with him. He was staring at her the way he would if he didn’t know her, which he’d been doing more and more lately, something that unnerved her so much that she wanted to shake him, point to herself, and say, I’m right here. All you have to do is look.
She took another sip of wine, just to calm herself, maybe to add some heat to her body, to stop the queasiness rolling through her. Outside, it was another freezing February New York City winter, the snow blazing down in sheets against the windows and layering over the sidewalks. There was a blizzard advisory for an accumulation of twelve inches, complete with school closings and warnings for the elderly and the infirm to stay inside. It was the main reason they were here tonight in the apartment. The airports were closed, and their flight to California wouldn’t be rescheduled until tomorrow night at the earliest. The weather was too snowy for them to drive, plus they didn’t have enough time.
Simon’s band was once successful, but that was twenty years ago, when she had first met him and he was just twenty-two himself and his band was riding high with Simon’s megahit song, “Charlatan Eyes.” Simon didn’t even really sing back then; he was just harmony and played bass guitar to the lead singer Rob’s aching wail. Once, Stella had even heard the song as Muzak in an elevator at Macy’s, and while everyone else in the elevator seemed to ignore it, she flushed with pleasure. Over the years, the band still played for decent-sized audiences and recorded a few more albums. A few more songs got some play, and Simon began to sing more of his own songs, but the band didn’t build, the audiences and the stages their manager booked became smaller, and the awards they were all so desperate for never arrived.
The band had reached a crossroads. Their manager was thinking of retiring and Simon was worried that he was about to slide into rock-and-roll obscurity and never escape. He kept reminding himself of all the older musicians he knew who still toured and played and had no intentions of ever quitting, because what else was there but the joy of this? His band had kept on, even in the face of younger and younger bands, younger dreams, too. “Dad rock,” someone had once called the band, which Simon knew meant you didn’t rock at all.
But now, all that could be different.
Just last month, the band had been playing at Lobster’s, a dive on the New Jersey shore, all chipping gray cement walls and scuffed floors, no chairs or tables, so you had to stand. Then this guy strode in, and for a moment Simon hadn’t recognized him. Not until the guy lifted his face and took off his dark glasses and Simon saw those familiar odd green eyes. He saw the gleam of oil that slicked back that famous wild mane of black hair, and there was Rick Mason, twenty-six years old with three Grammy wins to his name, settling against the wall, leaning forward, and listening to the band. Really listening. Afterward, Mason even came backstage and told them how influenced he had been by their early work, how when he heard they were playing this joint he had his driver bring him right over. He talked about how blown away he was by Rob’s voice, how it soared so high that it made him feel like every glass in the place would smash. He talked about Kevin’s drumming, and then he turned to Simon. “‘Charlatan Eyes,’ man,” he said, shaking his head, awed, and Simon froze in wonder that Rick Mason actually knew he was the writer, that the two of them were actually sharing the same space. “So I got this idea,” Mason said. “What would you guys think about being my opening act for a two-night gig in Los Angeles? And if that worked out, well, maybe the rest of the tour, too?”
Simon had been so shocked that he felt his tongue freeze in his mouth, but Kevin grabbed Mason’s hand and pumped it. “We’re in,” Kevin said. “We’re so in.”
And suddenly, there it was right in front of them, shiny as a new dime: hope. They would be noticed, they would get a new manager, one who could break them out to the bigger labels. Maybe Simon could even sing what he wrote.
It happened so fast, with the news traveling like a river breaking through a dam. There was a small mention of them in some of the music publications in print and online, how they were opening Rick Mason’s show. Simon cut out the item and kept it in his wallet, another lucky piece that eventually ended up in tatters because he kept taking it out and rereading it. Simon began coming home at four in the morning after rehearsing, so keyed up that he couldn’t sleep, damp and sweaty and so exhilarated that Stella tried to be happy for him, too, although inside she felt selfish, sad, and guilty.
He saw hope, but she was on the ground. This gig was just a two-night engagement, and even if it became a tour, it didn’t necessarily mean stardom. Mostly she thought of all the things that she herself wanted, and like Simon’s dreams, they had an expiration date she couldn’t ignore.
She loved this apartment they were in and she loved him, but she felt it was time to make some decisions. She had been hoping that the grind of his traveling might finally stop. He could still do what he loved—write songs, do some session work—and he could do it right here with her. Wasn’t it time to move on, to build a bigger life? Finally get married. Have a child.
“I’m glad you’re going to be there for all of it,” he said.
She had told him she’d go to LA because it was so important and it was the first time she’d be traveling with him in a very long time. She agreed only because it had seemed to matter so much to him—he was so anxious that everything turn out different this time. “You’re going to be my lucky star,” he told her. They were going out four days before the actual concert and Simon had convinced her that they could get some vacation out of it, too. But now she wasn’t so sure because she knew he’d be rehearsing all the time. It felt like he was angling for more from her, rushing toward this new life and wanting her to speed there with him when still nothing was for certain.