He hands it to me, blows out the smoke and then glances at me. "I ain't trying to kick you out, but...you ever think of getting your own place?"
"Yeah. Funny you mention it, because I've been thinking about it."
"You know you're welcome for as long as you want to be here. But it could be good for you to be on your own."
I've lived with Split and Callie ever since India died. They deserve their own space and it's time for me to give it to them.
Split is right. He didn't say it in so many words, but in a way I'm using them as a crutch: when I'm alone, the temptation to cope with the loneliness via a razor blade is far too strong. But I have to face that demon the same way I faced opponents in the boxing ring--I've gotta man up and commit myself.
I hand him the joint. As the smoke floats above our heads I say, "I'll find somewhere."
"Colt, you know I'm not--"
"I can't live with you guys forever." I slap him on the back. "I'm good. It'll be good."
Which is how I find myself in a crazy scenario: subletting a bedroom from an old woman. I found the place in a classified ad, and called her up on a whim. She wanted to have a face-to-face meeting and, for reasons I still do not understand, agreed to sublet a room to me. It's cheap, and it's close to the garage.
The landlady's name is Tilda. She's white, eighty-seven, spry, sweet, and strict. No women past midnight. No smoking anything in or around the house. No loud music. Shitty rules for most guys my age, but in my situation...it's perfect. And impossible. There is no way now to avoid my demons, no way to avoid having to cope.
More often than not, I go to work, and then come home, and have to face being alone with my thoughts, with my memories. With my demons.
I can't smoke in my room, and too much booze only heightens the loneliness. When I'm drunk, I cut--the temptation is overwhelming. It's too much.
And then something truly odd happens. It is something totally ordinary but it completely changes me, completely alters my outlook on life.
One evening, Tilda puts a record on her old stereo--it's an ancient old thing with a fancy wood cabinet. The music compels me out of my room and into the living room.
It's an actual vinyl record, and the sound is incredible. Soft, slow, old music. A woman singing.
God, what a sight she is, all dressed up in her fanciest dress, hair done in a white perm. She's dancing alone, a big smile on her face as she twists and sways slowly in place, clearly seeing something from decades long past.
"It's Nina Simone, Colt." She stops dancing, and somehow those old eyes see things they shouldn't. She extends a wrinkled, papery hand. "Dance with me."
I listen to the words; the singer is singing about a new dawn...what would a new dawn feel like, I wonder?
I take Tilda's frail hand in mine, put a hand on her waist, and we dance slowly, swaying to Nina Simone. The song ends and another one comes on. We keep dancing.
"Frank and I used to dance like this." She speaks into my shoulder. She's tiny and seems fragile, but her voice is strong. "We both loved Nina. Frank used to sing for me. We'd dance, and he'd sing."
"Well...just don't expect me to sing," I say.
"You ever try?"
I shake my head. "Not really." Except for the little song I still sing sometimes to myself, when I can't sleep, but I'd never tell anyone about that.
She pulls away from me, adjusts the record, puts the needle down, and "Feeling Good" comes on again. "Sing it. I know you know the words. Everybody knows this song."
So I sing--you can't say no to an old woman like Tilda. It's odd at first. Foreign. Awkward. But the music is like a drug, a new kind of drug. I feel it in my veins, burning, coruscating, effervescent and wild. So I sing.
I sing.
When the song is over, I feel something powerful inside. Tilda is staring up at me. "Why, Colt, you have a beautiful voice! Absolutely lovely. My Frank, he couldn't sing for nothing. But he was so earnest about it, so I never told him. He only sang for me, anyway. But you, Colt, you should sing more."
She lets me go after one more dance. But later, alone, I sing that Nina Simone song over and over, under my breath. And it helps me get to sleep.
When I wake the next morning there's a guitar case outside my bedroom door with a note on it in Tilda's looping cursive: This was Frank's. He played about as well as he sang, but he sure loved trying. You should too.
I don't even know where to start. I've never held a guitar, much less played one.
I take the guitar out of the case and just stare at it. It's old. It could be worth a lot, or maybe nothing at all--what do I know? I strum the strings. Eeesh, even I know it is out of tune.
I put it back in the case and forget about it while I am at work that day.
I come home from work that night and there's a teenage girl sitting on the couch next to Tilda, watching TV. When I walk in, the girl's eyes go wide and she cringes into the corner, panicking, even lets out a little scream of fear.
I stop halfway inside the doorway, confused.
"Oh hush, you," Tilda scolds the girl. "It's just Colt. He lives in my spare room."
The girl stares at Tilda like she's grown a second head. "Are you crazy? He's the scariest looking person I've ever seen!"
She's right, though. My other coping mechanism has become exercise. Tilda's basement is empty and unfinished, so she let me bring some exercise equipment down. I work out like a madman every day, now, and I'm beefed up bigger than I've ever been. Add in the tats, the shaggy uncut hair, weeks worth of scruff, the greasy hands...even I know I look like the thug I am.
"I'm sorry to bother you." I avoid their eyes and move toward my bedroom.
"Wait, Colt." Tilda's voice brooks no argument. I stop in the hallway and turn around. "Frankie, I'm ashamed of you. You don't know anything about this young man. You think I would bring him into my home if I was worried about what he might do? You owe him an apology."
"It's fine, Tilda. She's got a point," I say.
"No, Colt. She's judging by appearances, and I know I taught my daughter better than that. I would have hoped she'd passed that lesson along to my granddaughter as well." Tilda looks upset.
And so does Frankie. She's near tears, in fact. "Grandma, I--"
"No, Frankie. Stand up, go over to Colt, and apologize. Or you can go back home right now."
Frankie stands up slowly and shuffles over to me. She sniffs, then risks a glance up at me. I try to look...softer. More approachable. But it doesn't seem to work, the poor girl is shaking like a leaf.
"I'm sorry," she mumbles, almost inaudible.
"It's cool." I should say something else. Something reassuring. "I'd never let anything happen to Tilda. She's a badass."
This earns me a slight smile from both of them.
"Sit down, Colt." Tilda pats the couch. "Watch So You Think You Can Dance with us. You might like it."
Frankie snorts, and I nearly do, too. Sounds dumb. But like I said, you don't say no to Tilda. So I sit down and watch a bunch of skinny shits prance around on a stage.
The whole time Tilda is eyeing her granddaughter, a light of speculation in her eyes. When the show is over, Tilda clicks the TV off. "Frankie, you still do your music, right?"
Frankie shrugs. "Yup. I go to the conservatory for lessons. You know that, Grandma."
"Which instruments do you play?"
Frankie is confused by the sudden questions, and looks at her grandmother like she should know the answers. But she responds anyway. "Guitar, piano, harp. And I sing."
Tilda nods. Stands up. "It's settled then. You're staying the night, and in the morning, you're going to give Colt guitar lessons."
"I what?" Frankie stands up, in a panic all over again. "I can't. I don't--Grandma, come on."
"I have to work, Tilda." I stand up too. This is a bad idea.
Tilda shakes her head. "You owe him more than a paltry 'I'm sorry' for your unkind reaction. And he's interested in learning to play the gui
tar and sing. Aren't you, Colt?"
"Um." I waffle, but deep inside...yeah, shit yeah I want to learn to play. But I'd never admit it. And this chick is fifteen at most. What could she teach me?
Tilda swats at me. "You're too big, bad, and manly to admit it, but you do want to learn. And my Frankie is talented. She could teach you a thing or two. I've heard her play. She's amazing. You can spare an hour or two in the morning."
I just blink. "I--um. Okay, I guess."
"Grandma--"
"Frankie, swallow your pride." Tilda doesn't take any shit.
A shrug. "Fine."
"Very good." Tilda waves her hands, scattering us. "Now. Everyone get to bed."
*
In the morning, Tilda is gone. She left me a note: I've gone to bridge club. Colt, maybe you can pay Frankie for the lesson? Not much, just a little something. And be nice to her. She's sweet.
Frankie is at the kitchen table, eating cereal, ear buds in her ears, cell phone in hand, thumb flying crazily, sending a text message.
She sees me, sends the message, turns off the phone and yanks out the ear buds. "You really want me to teach you guitar?"
I shrug. "Yeah, if you don't mind."
"You know anything about music?"
I shake my head. "Nope."
A sigh. "Super."
"I'll pay you for the lesson. So you'll get something out of it, even if I suck."
"Oh, you're gonna suck. The point of a lesson is learn how to suck less." She stands up, rinses her bowl in the sink, and takes a seat on the couch. "Where's your guitar?"
"Um. In my room."
She waves. "Well? Go get it. Can't learn without it."
This is so weird, taking orders from a teenage girl. But I'm game. I get the guitar case and bring it out, open it up and take out the instrument. But then I notice Frankie is staring at me.
"What?" I ask.
"That's...it's Grandpa's guitar."
I nod. "Yeah. Your grandma gave it to me."
Frankie is still, tense. Eventually she whispers, "Grandpa got me interested in music because of that guitar. I'm named after him. Grandma...she gave it to you?"
Shit. This is awkward. "I mean, she just said I should try to play. I guess."
Frankie shakes her head. "No, she did. She gave it to you. You're a shitty liar."
"No, she didn't expressly give it to me. She left it outside my room. I just assumed. You can take it."
Frankie shakes her head. "You don't go around Grandma. I just...I always thought she'd give it to me someday."
"I'm sorry, Frankie. I didn't know."
A shrug. "It's fine." She takes it from me, strums it. "Oh my god. Way out of tune." She plucks the strings one by one, twisting the pegs until they sound right to her ear. Strums it again. "There. That's better."
She hands it to me.
"Just strum it--that's an open chord."
She follows this with a fast and technical rundown of the various chords, finger positions, rhythms, a breakdown of the use of frets...it's dizzying. She sees I'm not following so she takes the guitar from me.
"Just watch, okay?"
I nod, and watch in fascination as she launches into a shockingly impressive piece of music. It sounds classical, like Mozart played on a guitar. She's bent over the guitar, eyes closed, frowning, concentrating, fingers flying on the fret board, on the strings.
When she's done, she grins at me. She just showed off, I realize. To show me her credentials. And then she plays "Mary Had a Little Lamb" slowly and carefully. Hands it to me. I try to mimic what I saw her do, and she corrects me.
An hour passes, and at the end I can almost play the song correctly.
The next week, Frankie comes over and gives me another lesson.
This becomes a regular thing. She's a sweet girl, talented as hell. We never talk about anything but music, but we develop a rapport through it. She's not afraid of me anymore. In fact, I would say we're kinda friends. Which is weird, but cool.
Within two months, it's clear I have a little bit of natural talent, at least. I'm picking it up faster and faster. Learning more and more complicated songs. Chord work, actual technique.
It's fun. It's another positive coping mechanism. I can express myself. Lose myself in the music as easily as I do at work.
At night, alone, I sit in the backyard and quietly strum the guitar, and sing along. For no one but the crickets and the stars, but it's better than cutting.
Frankie becomes like a little sister. She reminds me of my own brother, Kyle, back in Michigan. I wonder what he's doing? If he's still friends with that one girl...Nell. The neighbor girl. Cute little thing, sweet, smart, just as perfect as Kyle. Those two were always inseparable, the golden boy and golden girl. I left and never looked back. But Frankie, she's young and sweet, and she reminds me of Kyle.
*
The landline rings at three in the morning on a weekend. Tilda's landline never rings. I didn't even know she had one, to be honest. But I wake up from a dead sleep, a ringing noise coming from the kitchen.
Tilda sleeps like the dead; she takes out her hearing aid at night so she won't be disturbed.
I stumble out, answer it. "Hello?"
"Colt?" The voice on the other end is tiny, timid, afraid. Quiet, as if afraid of being overheard.
"Who is it?"
"It's Frankie."
"It's three in the morning, Frankie. Where are you--what's wrong?"
"I--" There's a shout on the other end, cutting her off.
"Frankie? Talk to me."
"I'm at a party. It's getting crazy, and I don't know how to get home, and I don't have any money, and the guy I came with is--he's not right. I'm scared."
"Where are you?"
"I don't know!"
"Can you see outside? Can you see the buildings near you, or the cross streets, an address, anything?"
She fumbles. "Hold on." The line goes silent, and I hear noises in the background. Long minutes pass before she returns. "There's just apartments and condos everywhere. I don't know. I got the address, though." She names an address on a street, way in uptown Manhattan, an expensive part of town.
"Okay. Hide somewhere. Don't drink any more. Stay away from everyone. I'll be there as soon as I can."
"You will?"
"Damn straight. Just sit tight and stay safe."
"I'm scared."
"I'm coming, Frankie. You'll be fine. I promise."
"Okay. Just...hurry."
Tilda has an old Cadillac and she leaves the keys on a hook in the kitchen. She told me if I ever needed to that I could borrow it, as long as I fill up the tank and return it safe. So I borrow it, and haul ass over the bridge into Manhattan, head way, way uptown. I find the address, some swank highrise condo building. The kind with an awning and a revolving door and doormen in fancy uniforms.
I'm visiting a friend, I say. Clearly, the night doorman is used to parties like this, with all sorts of questionable characters coming and going. Not very secure if you ask me; shit, I wouldn't let me in. But he does, so I go up to the fourteenth floor.
Music pounds from behind the door, which is propped open by the lock bar. I push it open and go in. There are bodies everywhere. It's a rich kid rager, bottles of expensive booze all over the place, lines of coke on antique tables. Girls in skimpy designer dresses grinding on punks with the collars of their polos flipped up like the little douche-canoes they are. No one pays me any attention. There's a couple fucking on a couch. Another couple fucking in a corner.
Jesus, what a mess. No one supervises these kids? None of them are over eighteen.
I hear noises from behind a closed door. Not good sounds: grunts, muffled, high-pitched whimpers. A belt buckle jingling. A slap. I don't care who's behind that door, I'm going in.
I kick in the door, one solid crack of my Timberland just under the knob. It splinters open, and I see a skinny, white-ass little punk with his pants around his ankles, about to rape Frankie.
Oh hell no.
I grab him by the hair and haul him off. Hold him. He gets scared when he sees me; he should be, because I'm seeing red. Frankie's wearing a nothing little skirt which has been shoved up past her hips, her shirt pushed up, her bra half off, pale small breasts bared. Her cheek is scarlet where the little shit hit her.
My rage is like an inferno.
"Frankie. Out." My voice is low, a growl that promises blood.
"Colt?"
"Out. Now. Wait outside." I don't want her to see what I'm about to do.
She hurries out, hears the warning in my voice. Straightens her clothes as she goes.
When she's out of sight...blood flies. Without a word, I turn the little fucker into hamburger.
When I'm finished with him, I leave the room and find Frankie huddled against the wall, a crowd around her, shouting questions at her. They saw me, saw what I did.
I shove them aside, grabbing Frankie. "Come on. I got you."
"What...what did you do to Heath?"
"I taught him a lesson." I drag her out of the party to the elevator; ignore her questions until we're in the Caddy.
She's trying to stifle sobs. "I'm--I'm sorry."
I halt at a red light. "Sorry? Fuck, you got nothing to be sorry for. You okay?"
She nods. "Yeah."
I ignore the green light, sit at the intersection, turn to look at her. "Give me the truth, Frankie. Did he rape you?"
She shakes her head. "No. No. You got there before he could. He--he would have, though. He was about to." She shivers. Starts to cry. "He--he told me I was...that I'd asked for it. We've gone to parties together before, and he's been trying to push things with me, physically. I always shut him down, told him I wasn't ready for that yet. He just...he was always so pushy about it. He'd grab me. Touch me. Always acted like it was a joke. But then tonight, he cornered me in that room after I called you. I thought I'd locked the door, but he--I don't know. He got in. Dress like a slut, he said, and you...you get what you ask for."
"Jesus. What a prick."
"I know my skirt is a little short but--"
"Stop." My voice cracks like a whip, and she looks up at me. "No. Just...fucking no. Listen to me, Frankie: that's complete horseshit. It doesn't matter what you wear--consent is all that matters. No one ever gets to touch you without your permission. You dress however you want, it doesn't make you a slut. Doesn't mean you asked for anything. You didn't deserve it. You didn't ask for it."