The road to Bangor was long and winding, and their conversation had drifted into an unkind silence. Each of them tried to make sense of what had happened, but their thoughts were gnarled, twisting away in too many directions at once.
Freya kept trying to think of something to say, but the darkness had settled around them too thickly. The roads were empty. Ten minutes might pass before they saw headlights coming their way, and no one was behind them.
She thought of asking Dan to turn on the radio, but they were so far out it might only be static.
It seemed like anything she could say was the wrong thing, so she said nothing. Who were they to each other? Who were they to themselves? Freya was lost in thought, feeling more alone for the closeness she’d lost.
When the city lights appeared on the horizon, she had a sense they were being delivered from the darkness. There were streetlamps now, and she searched Dan’s face for answers as the car slipped through pools of pale light.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, just feels heavy, you know? I don’t want this to stop, but I’m afraid of where it’s going. I feel like I’m caught in the tide.”
Freya worried at Dan’s choice of words. If they kept sharing their memories, would she see him caught in the sea? Would he see her drowning in the river? They would both have to re-live it all, to suffer everything again.
She had a sudden desire to roll down the window and hurl the Starball out into the woods. She waited for it to work on her, the cooling, doped-up feeling, but it never came. It knew it had her.
People weren’t made for this, especially not the two of them. The Starball had selected them because they were broken, easier to control. Lassa would have never surrendered. The thought of her mother reminded Freya she didn’t know where Lassa was, or if she was okay.
Freya had been so wound up in herself she’d barely spared a thought for anyone else. Radomir was still in the hospital. Jane had sent her an apology six texts long, and she had just ignored it. Everyone she knew had gotten hurt, everything she touched stained.
They arrived at the venue, and Dan took her hand again.
“This is all my fault,” she whispered. “I should have told someone right away. Now, it’s too late.”
Dan’s eyes were locked on hers, his mouth moving as he searched for the right thing to say.
“If we want to, tomorrow we can go to Dr. Garbuglio together,” Dan offered. She stared at him. They both knew they wouldn’t do that.
“I mean, we have that option. If things get worse.”
It still felt impossible, but she didn’t want to make him feel bad.
“Okay,” she said, trying to smile.
“Hey, wait there,” he said, and he cut the ignition and walked around the car to open her door for her. When she took his hand and stepped out of the car, he kissed her, and she buried her face against his neck.
“Thank you,” she whispered in his ear. Hand in hand, they walked to Sparrow Hall.
* * *
Everyone looked at Freya and Dan. They were the youngest people in the lobby by decades. Freya was much more comfortable in this crowd. People smiled when they caught Freya’s eye. Everyone was dressed up and here to have a good time. For the hundredth time, she checked the inside pocket of her jacket. The pale blue tickets were there, with the Starball.
The ticket taker had a maroon fez with a golden tassel and a matching vest. He asked Freya for ID, and then shook his head when she tried to explain she was a guest of the opening act. He apologized and said he absolutely couldn’t admit anyone under eighteen. Freya blinked in astonishment.
Out of all the ways she’d imagined this going wrong, she hadn’t expected to be stopped for being underage. An old man in a pinstriped suit on the sidelines groaned, “C’mon now,” in protest, and a murmur ruffled through his cluster of people.
“Get the manager, please.” The words were said politely, but it was a demand. Freya had to fight to keep the Lassa out of her voice. There was a sense it was all going off the rails after they’d come so far.
The ticket taker held up the line and called out to one of the ushers. The manager was summoned. He was a tall black man with dark raised freckles on his cheeks. He was irate walking over, but he smiled when he approached them and asked how he could help. He looked familiar to Freya. She tried to figure out where she’d seen him before.
“We’re guests of Mr. Mathis. He gave us these tickets. I’m his student.” Freya produced the tickets.
At once, the manager’s mouth became a flat line of discontent, and Freya was afraid she’d screwed up. But then the manager swiveled to the ticket taker, held up the tickets, and tapped a long, callused finger onto the ticket where it said COMP at the top. He tilted his head forward at the younger man. The ticket taker winced, took off his fez, and apologized to them.
“He’s new. My apologies, miss. Please, come right in.”
“It’s no trouble, thank you both,” Freya said, nodding to the ticket taker diplomatically. She didn’t want to give a worker a hard time in front of Dan again.
The old man in the pinstripe suit smiled at them. He said, “All right now,” and Freya smiled back.
The manager insisted on showing them to their table. As he led them into the ballroom, he introduced himself as Guy Wright. When Freya heard his name, she remembered where she’d seen him before.
“You play bass with Moon’s Blues Band, right?” she asked, and he lit up and grinned ear to ear.
“I do! Where did you see us?”
“Lobsterfest, two years ago. I remember you opened with a cover of “The Killing Moon.” I love that song!”
Guy leaned back, and then shook his head in surprise. He gave Dan a look.
“Watch out for this one. She’s as sharp as a knife. Anyone who can remember a bass player is dangerous.”
“It was a good set,” Freya said a bit lamely. She was afraid she seemed like a freak for remembering a minor detail from two years ago. Right away, Guy saw he’d pushed a touch too far, and he held up both hands, drawing their attention back to himself.
“The world’s most famous blues bassist and the world’s most famous jazz bassist meet for dinner. Who picks up the tab?”
Freya and Dan shrugged.
“Neither. They don’t charge at the soup kitchen.” Guy grinned.
Dan snorted, and Freya covered her mouth and said, “Oh, God.” It was a deft way to disarm them.
As he led them through a forest of circular tables, Guy chatted easily with Freya about her lessons with Mr. Mathis. She told him how long she’d been studying and what she could play. As soon as they arrived at their spot someone called out for him across the hall, and he held up a hand in greeting. Excusing himself, Guy shook their hands and wished them an enchanted evening.
“That was so cool of him. I thought we were about to get tossed out.”
“We’re VIPs.” Freya smiled, though she’d thought the same thing.
Dan pulled her chair out for her, and she took off her coat. Suddenly, he looked like he’d been hit in the back of the head. She’d been in her coat when he picked her up. He’d never seen her in a dress before. Freya felt color coming to her cheeks, and she suppressed an urge to hide her face in her hands.
“Wow,” he breathed, and she smiled back at him, feeling warmth that was more than just the room filling up.
Just as Mr. Mathis had promised, they were amazing seats. The table was right beside the stage with a vase of white flowers and a votive burning in a cobalt-blue glass. It felt more like a gala than a concert. The hall was filled with closely packed tables, waiters were swarming around bringing trays of cocktails.
Swallow Hall had vaulted ceilings with intricate plaster that had been painted gold once, long ago. Everything had a slightly decrepit feel to it, the burgundy curtains on the stage frayed at the hems, the crystal chandeliers missing beads, and the shine worn off the wood floors by countless dancing feet. But no one seemed to care. Everyone was excited, talking loudly, laughing for everyone to hear.
The band tuned up behind the curtain. Somewhere back there, Mr. Mathis was probably at work with the Korg Chromatic Tuner. After a bit, a stagehand walked out to the center of the stage with a microphone stand, trailing a coil of XLR cable behind him. He held his palm flat and adjusted the microphone so its base was at the top of his head.
“That’s a Unidyne 55,” Freya remarked at the microphone, and Dan nodded, even though he probably had no idea what she was talking about. The waiters came around, taking final orders before the set and blowing out all the little candles. The buzz of anticipation grew until the lights dimmed.
With a spotlight following him, Guy Wright strolled onto the stage, all smiles for the sold-out show. He spent a while smiling hello and pointing in recognition to people in the crowd. Then he turned to the microphone. It was exactly level with his mouth.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Swallow Hall!” Guy waited expertly for the applause to die down.
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“It’s my utmost pleasure to introduce my good friend, the most marvelous, most magnificent, most miraculous, Mr. Ezekial Mathis!”
The applause grew ever louder. There was a wonderful energy in the room. Guy Wright strolled off stage and the stagehand rushed in the opposite direction and spirited the microphone away. A click sounded above them as the spotlight was killed.
The burgundy curtains parted. The stage was bathed in blue light from above, and it sparkled on the chrome of the drum kit and the golden frets of Mr. Mathis’ New Yorker. Beside it, Freya recognized his all-black Stratocaster. All the instruments were laid out in readiness on the stage.
One by one, the musicians marched out to take their places while everyone applauded. Butter Bill Samson was on drums, Leopold Harris on bass. Reginald Daley was the backup guitarist; Freya hadn’t heard him play before. There was a Weber Fern Mandolin on a stand next to his silver Jazzmaster, and she was dying to know what they were going to play on it.
Mr. Mathis walked out last, slower than the others as he took his place. The spotlight went up on him, and she saw him peering out at the audience, that familiar stern look on his face. He’d seen this ten thousand times before. There was a pain in his stride, and Freya knew his arthritis had to be bothering him. Every set of eyes in the room was locked on him, every detail of his face standing out in the brilliant light.
“Jolene,” he said, and that was all. Mr. Mathis picked up his guitar, and the band shifted into readiness and began to play the song. They let the music do the talking for them, and if he was suffering, she couldn’t hear it, not a note out of place.
Freya had never heard him sing on stage before, and his voice was surprising to her. There was something ragged and haunting about it live that wasn’t there on his albums. The audience was rapt until he finished, and then there was an explosion of applause. Just like that, with his very first song, he had them.
Next, Mr. Mathis played R.L. Burnside’s “It’s Bad You Know,” stepping on an effects pedal as he played the harmonica parts so his lines rolled with echo. Then they played “Goodbye Pork Pie Hat,” one of Freya’s favorites. As Mr. Mathis played, she saw his eyes narrowing from time to time with hurt.
The next song was “Stormy Monday,” and he let Reginald handle almost all the guitar work as he sang. Freya wondered if Mr. Mathis’ song list was set up that way to give him time to rest his hands.
Freya kept checking in on Dan, afraid he might be bored but, whenever she glanced over at him, his eyes were on the stage, bright and shining. She saw Mr. Mathis set down the New Yorker and pick up his Stratocaster. When he took a slide out of his suit pocket, she knew what was coming next.
She watched Dan’s mouth become an O of surprise when he played “Turn the Page.” Dan mouthed “Metallica?” at her, and she smiled. It was originally a Bob Seger song, but Mathis played it much more like the cover. He kicked up the reverb and played the saxophone part with his slide.
As Mr. Mathis played, Freya thought of all the stickers on his battered guitar case, the long stare as he’d faced out at the crowd. The whole time, he seemed like he was just a few steps ahead of the song and, afterward, he drained half of a bottle of water and introduced his band. She was surprised. They didn’t do the ubiquitous mini-solo as they were introduced, each man only tilting up his head or raising a hand. They’d made a conscious choice to strip out all the theatrics from their set.
All the while, Freya waited for some sign her teacher had seen her, a little nod or a glance, but he was wholly focused on playing. He played two of his own songs, “The Desolator,” which began bright and jangling but shifted subtly to a minor key midway through the song. At the end the bass line was a one-two heartbeat that slowly petered out.
The applause that followed was somber and hollow sounding. Then he reeled them back with “Maltwaltz,” an up-tempo march with a swinging, inebriated rhythm that had toes tapping all over the hall.
Since the band had taken the stage, Freya had eyed the mandolin standing beside the backup guitarist, and it came out for the next song. The stagehand brought out a pair of chairs, and Mr. Mathis and Reginald sat facing each other and played “The Battle of Evermore.”
Freya clapped softly with delight as soon as she heard the first bar. Reginald sang the Sandy Denny parts in a soft and serviceable tenor, but the mandolin was the real star. Freya was entranced. She wanted to buy one the moment the song was over.
Afterward, Mr. Mathis and Reginald stood, and the stagehands took the chairs away. Mr. Mathis straightened his tie, stiffened his posture, and swept his eyes across the crowd. His gazed lingered for a second on Freya, and he winked at her. She smiled so hard her cheeks hurt.
“All right y’all. You ready to get down to business?” he asked, and a few people in the crowd applauded. There was a sense of anticipation in the air from people who had seen his act before.
They played “Waiting for the Miracle” by Leonard Cohen. It was like the first part of the show was just a warmup. There was an intensity among the band, as if they were in an operating room, beads of sweat forming on their temples, their faces drawn with focus.
As they played, something was happening to Mr. Mathis. His hands danced on the frets, the pain gone from his face. A weight had lifted off him. The music flowed into the room, and everyone was spellbound.
This was the moment he’d told her all their practice was for, but now it was shared with the entire hall. The feeling was so uncanny she reached into her coat pocket, but the Starball was cool. It was just the music.
They rolled the end of the song into a medley with “Jesus Gonna Be Here” by Tom Waits, which disintegrated into “Dark Was the Night,” then into one of Mr. Mathis’ own songs, “Eraser.” They finished with Gary Moore’s “Parisienne Walkways.”
Mr. Mathis turned the melancholy ballad into something ominous and inescapable. As the last notes drowned in reverb, he stared out at the hall, every eye was on him. It was almost totally silent. The hair on Freya’s arms stood up, and there was something raw and demanding in his stare. No one dared to blink.
When he bowed, a shudder of relief passed through the crowd. They were released. With no thought to rise, somehow, Freya found herself on her feet with Dan and everyone else in the crowd as the hall erupted with applause. She clapped until her hands stung.
Mr. Mathis held his hands out to each of the members of his band, and there was a new roar for each. They all took a final bow, and the curtains closed to prepare for the main act. Freya glanced around the audience. In face after face, she saw a blinking uncertainty. They all wondered what had just happened to them.
The conversations began rapidly, everyone seeming to want to compare notes at once. She turned to Dan, who looked to her for an explanation, but she couldn’t even begin.
“Wow. Is the other guy supposed to follow that?” Dan asked, and Freya could only shake her head.
* * *
It was indeed a tough act to follow. Joe Bonamassa even joked about it when he took the stage and called for another round of applause for the opening act. Joe was a skilled showman with a good sense of the crowd. Perhaps sensing the lingering disquiet in the room, he started lighthearted with “King Bee Shakedown.” “Evil Mama” was next up, followed by a cover of Albert King’s “Breaking Up Somebody’s Home.”
Bonamassa’s playing was extraordinary. During the solo on “Blues Deluxe,” Freya looked around the audience and could almost pick out the guitar players. All had the same heavy look in their eyes. Each thought they could never do that, not if they practiced eight hours a day for the rest of their lives.
But for all his virtuosity, there was no miracle. The music never reached her the way Mr. Mathis had. By the time the encore concluded with an overblown rendition of “I’d Rather Go Blind,” Freya was a little relieved it was all over.
Dan’s eyes slid onto her more and more, and she was tempted to try and sneak out with him, but she felt obligated to stick around and see it through. As the room cleared out, Guy Wright made his way over and invited them backstage. She was thrilled to accept.
Freya expected backstage to be cramped like the theater at Grayson, but Sparrow Hall had actual dressing rooms and a loading dock where techs were already breaking down Joe Bonamassa’s stuff. Even without his full band, there were still mountains of equipment.
“Look who I got here!” Guy announced, and they found Mr. Mathis and his band holed up in a smoky dressing room, Leopold’s voice rose into a high laugh about something. Bill and Leopold’s wives Jill and Sara sat together on the makeup counter, and everyone seemed happy to see Freya.
Mr. Mathis was sunken into an armchair, but before Freya could tell him not to get up, he was on his feet, walking over to greet them with his jaw clenched against the ache.
“Freya, this is Reggie. Reggie, this is my student Freya. She’s gonna be something special. Rest of y’all already acquainted. Who’s your friend, what’s he play?”
“Just the fool. Hi, I’m Dan.” He shook hands with everyone with a friendly grin, not knowing he’d faded from their interest the moment they found he wasn’t a musician.
“Your set was incredible!” Freya gushed, and Dan enthusiastically agreed. The musicians all nodded, pretending it was nothing, but there a hint of pride in the air. They all knew different.
“Well, we don’t have no tractor trailer full of amplifiers, but we do what we can,” Mr. Mathis said with a wry nod at the elaborate deconstruction taking place outside. “Hell of a player, though. I’ve never seen better.”
Freya found herself sharing the solemn nod with the rest of the musicians. There was no denying that skill, the bit of envy they all felt. Everyone chatted. Guy had everyone laughing as he told them how Freya had refused to be hucked out, grossly exaggerating the exchange.
Dan wanted to know whose idea it was to play “Battle of Evermore,” and Sara Harris told them it was her favorite song, and she’d insisted when she found out Reggie played mandolin. Freya burst with questions for Reggie, and he was eager to tell her what he thought about several luthiers. Mr. Mathis had a stern look. He didn’t need to say it for her to hear the words.
Don’t get ahead of yourself.
She nodded and saw his eyes slide to the bouquet of flowers she’d sent. She expected him to tell her she shouldn’t have but, instead, he thanked her, seeming touched. All the stiffness, the tension that usually kept him upright, was gone.
Everyone else was talking, but he seemed slightly removed from it all. Freya wondered if he’d had a few drinks after his set. Everyone in the room seemed loose. It felt like the right time to go, and she thanked everyone again for an amazing show.
“You get her home safe now,” Mr. Mathis instructed Dan seriously, setting a hand on his shoulder. Dan had a solemn look like he’d been given a quest. Mr. Mathis turned to Freya to say something to her, but she hugged him impulsively. He looked a little off-guard, but the rest of the room was all smiles, and Bill and Reginald’s wives cooed “Awwws” of delight. It was a good note to part on.
As they made their way out of the building, Freya was struck there had been no smell of liquor on Mr. Mathis. He wasn’t drunk at all. He’d spent everything on the stage. The man they saw was just a drifting ghost.
They were quiet as they made their way out to Dan’s car, and all the nervousness Freya had been putting off until the end of the night was there waiting for her in the parking lot. She was suddenly aware everything tonight had been about her. It wasn’t the kind of music Dan listened to.
She’d barely paid attention to him, and she was almost wholly focused on the show. He’d been mostly quiet in the dressing room, too. Had he been bored this whole time? Did he feel neglected?
She searched his face for some sign, and he had his own worries. He crossed his fingers as he turned the ignition, and it didn’t catch. He frowned, took a deep breath, and then it caught on the second try.
“Whew,” he exhaled, grinning with relief. He turned to her.
“That was so cool. Thank you for inviting me,” Dan said, and then he hesitated, seeing something in her face. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, willing it to be true. She tried to say something, but she was overtaken by a huge yawn. When her eyes opened, Dan had a gentle smile for her. His hand patted her shoulder. She smiled back, hoping they didn’t need words. He took the wheel and drove.
The stars were hidden by a veil of clouds and the moon had yet to rise, the world was just a crescent of the Toyota’s high beams, reaching out into the dark forest before them. Freya tried to stay awake, but she was losing the fight against the insistent heat from the vents and the lulling rumble of the engine.
She tried to prepare herself, to imagine what she wanted to do and say when they got home. Instead, she found herself remembering the look in Mr. Mathis’ eyes as he glared out at the audience. How many crowds had he looked at like that? How many faces had searched, looking for something he would never find?
She tried to reconcile the grand and terrible look of the giant dripping with sweat in the spotlight and the hollow shell that remained in the dressing room. Was that what she wanted? Would she ever be strong enough to make that pact with an audience, night after night?
She’s gonna be something special, Mr. Mathis had said, and she’d smiled, thinking it was just an offhand compliment. But now, she saw it was a geas. There was a price to be something special.
The words hummed in her as the car slid through the night. She looked at Dan’s face outlined in the faint light from the dashboard and shut her eyes.