Roomies Page 4

  Calvin’s smile turns a little sympathetic, like he gets it, and waves to the bartender, who immediately approaches. “Whatever she wants,” he tells the older man.

  I hesitate. I didn’t come over here to have a drink with him. I came here to scratch that tickle of curiosity in my head that’s been plaguing me for the past few days . . . and maybe tell him off a little. But his inherent easiness is disorienting. I expected him to be shy, or stiff. Instead he’s nothing but relaxed, smiling charisma.

  The bartender taps an impatient finger against the bar.

  I apologize under my breath before ordering, “Club soda with lime, please.”

  “A real wild child you are,” Calvin teases.

  I meet his eyes, giving him a forced grin. “I’m on painkillers.” I nod to the cast. “Broken arm.”

  He grimaces playfully. “Right.”

  The question is so much easier to ask than I’d expected: “So why didn’t you tell them what you saw? They told my family I jumped.”

  He nods a few times, swallowing his sip of beer before speaking. “I’m sorry. I am. But I didn’t think the police would believe my version.”

  Pre-subway-platform-dive Holland would be losing her mind right now at the way his accent moves every word to the front of his mouth, and think comes out as tink—a tiny coin dropped into a cup.

  Okay, Holland of today is losing her mind a little, too, but she’s at least trying to keep her cool.

  “Well,” I say, “they didn’t believe my version, either. They handed me a couple of self-help pamphlets and probably aren’t even looking for the guy who did it.”

  Calvin turns, meeting my eyes. “Look. Being in the station, I see . . .” He shakes his head. “I see people do terrible shite all the time and then report it themselves. Crime fetish, or somethin’. That’s all I could think about in that moment. Your bum ran off, and I was more concerned with getting you safe than stopping him.”

  As he talks, he reaches into the front pocket of his jeans for a tube of ChapStick, absently pulling off the cap and running the balm quickly over his lips. The move is so distracting that I don’t realize I’m staring at his mouth until the bartender loudly deposits a tumbler of sparkling water and limes on a napkin in front of me. Calvin slips the tube back into his pocket as he nods in thanks.

  My brain shuffles through memories of Monday night, and I have to admit that what he’s said makes sense—even if it doesn’t explain why he lied to the EMTs. But does that matter? It was embarrassing to be handed the suicide prevention card, yeah, but in reality, Calvin called 911, and stayed to make sure I was okay. Now what feels remarkable isn’t that he fled after I was safely awake in the ambulance, it’s that he stayed that long to begin with.

  Calvin holds out his hand. “Apology accepted?”

  I take it, and grow a little breathless knowing that he plays his guitar with the fingers he currently has wrapped around mine. A hot pulse works its way down my spine. “Yeah. Apology accepted.”

  Releasing me, he stares at the cast for a few seconds. “I see you’ve got no names written on there.”

  I follow his attention down. “Names?”

  “It’s required when you choose a little-girl color, love. You beg your mates to mark it all up.”

  Oh. Something turns over inside me at his playful smile, exposing my vulnerable underbelly. I realize now that a significant fraction of my brain was hoping he wouldn’t be so amiable when he saw me, that he would be defensive and sharp, so I’d have a good reason to tuck my crush away.

  “I’m still traumatized by the gore of my friend’s sweaty, smelly, graffitied cast in fourth grade.” I grin over at him. “I’m trying to keep this one pristine.”

  The band begins to reconvene on the stage, and Calvin glances over his shoulder before draining his beer.

  He stands, and then grins down at me. I’m overcome by his exultant smile. “Well, if you change your mind and want it dirtied up, you know where to find me.”

  five

  Luis Genova is a magical human, and I don’t say that lightly. When I read reviews of him as Theo in my uncle’s show that say he was “born for the stage,” I feel sorry for whatever uncreative journalist wrote it because it’s not a profound statement; it’s akin to declaring that a bird is born to fly.

  One night, very early after the production launched and received its first standing ovation, the cast and crew went out to celebrate at the Palm. I was, as I am now, not even an official stagehand and barely worth anyone’s notice, and at the time Luis didn’t yet know my relation to Robert. That night, Luis made the rounds of the entire private room, shaking hands and giving thanks. When he was several people away from me, the air shifted, became charged somehow. There were four of us minions standing together, snacking, trying to stave off self-consciousness, and we all turned and watched him approach as if we were being compelled.

  I explained it to Lulu later, describing it almost like if a UFO had landed and deployed some magical brain magnets. We all had to turn and watch him. None of us could continue babbling about how good the calamari was or whether we’d have a Dark and Stormy or a gin and tonic next when Luis Genova was walking toward us. When he reached for my hand and thanked me for all my hard work, he looked me right in the eye and my inane brain lost all capacity for language.

  Blinking, I shook his hand, giving him a numb “Okay” before he moved on to thank the person beside me.

  Well played, Holland.

  It’s not that he’s tall, or particularly good-looking or muscular. He’s just . . . present. The light prays at the altar of his cheekbones. His hair hits his jaw in a smooth black sheet and he tucks it behind his ear, revealing eyes that crinkle into that smile. Lord, his smile.

  His smile, which is right here, not ten feet from me.

  “Holland, for the love of God, stop gawking.”

  I startle, turning at the sound of Brian’s voice. Unfortunately, Luis and Robert—who had been having what appeared to be a lovely conversation and which I would have been happy to witness for a good ten minutes longer—also turn to see what’s happening. Everyone nearby looks at me, their smiles tilting from confused to sympathetic.

  Poor fangirl, busted for ogling.

  Story of my life, I guess.

  My neck heats and I push through the assembled cast and deeper backstage, apologizing under my breath. Admittedly, I get to see Luis a lot, but never standing still like that, so close, and my opportunities are dwindling. He has created a nation of adoring followers, and in only a month, he’s leaving us.

  I’m not even a Broadway junkie, and I’m heartbroken. No wonder Twitter is flipping out. No wonder Robert is a stress monster about making sure Ramón nails it when he takes over.

  I find a quiet place to sit in the shadows and watch Luis and Robert walk onstage, hugging briefly before Robert waves Lisa up from the pit. She joins them, lifting her violin to her chin and following Robert’s lead before she begins playing. Again and again they practice, blending their two “voices”; Luis has only a handful of performances remaining, but I can see he wants to make them impactful. His final show will be a star-studded event and covered by press that’s already profiled the show a hundred times.

  Unfortunately, even to my ear it’s clear that Lisa is no match for Luis in sound or presence, and I have no idea what’s going to come next. Seth is already gone. Luis is leaving soon. Ramón Martín is coming in with a blockbuster voice, and Lisa’s hand is too soft to accompany him.

  For the first time, I’m truly worried about my uncle.

  Robert finds me in his office later, absently punching holes in a blank sheet of paper. He looks a little dangerous: his dark eyes are bloodshot, his normally smiling mouth is a grim, pale line.

  “Are you making a mess in here?” he asks. He takes his glasses off, folding them carefully on the desk.

  Sheepishly, I sweep the small pile of punched-out circles into the recycling bin. “I can’t believe anyone us
es a single-hole punch anymore.”

  “No one does.” He sits in the chair opposite me and bends, putting his head in his hands.

  “You okay, Bobert?”

  He says pretty much what I expect: “I don’t know how I’m going to pair Ramón. He’ll drown Lisa.”

  Robert’s pianist, a man named Luther, is pretty wonderful. “Can Luther carry the solos?”

  “On piano?”

  I shrug. “Just spitballing here.”

  He appears to consider it, and then shakes his head. “The songs don’t lend themselves to keys. The strings have a richness, a vibrancy that the piano can’t mimic. It needs to stir something inside you. Luther is amazing, but we need a musician who demands your attention. Who makes you feel.”

  The idea seems to heat my blood, and I straighten. “Wait. Wait.”

  Robert looks up, confused.

  I hold up my hand. “An idea is forming in my brain.”

  His expression clears in understanding. “No, Buttercup.”

  “He’s exactly what you’re describing,” I insist. “You’ve never heard him, but trust me—he is.”

  “He plays guitar. Honey, I know you’re enamored, but—”

  “It’s not that, I swear. And he’s not just some busker hanging out on the street. He’s gifted, Robert. Listening to him play is like watching Luis onstage. I feel the notes. I know I’m not . . .” I search for words, flushing. Trying to tell Robert how to do his job is dangerous; he may be my uncle, but he’s been a brilliant musician for much longer.

  “I’m not a trained musician like you are,” I say carefully, “but I feel like classical guitar might work here. It’s gentle, and soft, yes, but has the passion and—the vibrancy you mention? It has that. If we’re changing the sound entirely by bringing in Ramón, why not change it this way, too? Have a guitar sing with Ramón, instead of a violin?”

  Robert stares at me, speechless.

  “Just come with me once.” I grow dizzy from the awareness that I might be convincing him. “Once. That’s all it will take. I know it.”

  There’s something almost comical about seeing the impeccable Robert Okai walk into a subway station the following Monday. As he descends into the shadows of the stairs, it occurs to me that since I’ve lived in New York, I’ve never ridden with him in anything other than a town car or a cab. He grew up in the dusty streets of western Africa, playing on the world’s most battered violin and wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and sandals, but it’s impossible to imagine him in any other state than he is today: wrapped in a long wool coat, blue cashmere scarf, black tailored pants, and polished shoes. It’s safe to say I look slightly less polished in my purple cast and fuzzy pink cardigan.

  But he isn’t snobby; he dives right into the crowd. He isn’t squeamish about the grime on the handrail or the puddle of filthy water at the bottom of the first flight of stairs. It’s more that Robert gives off the sense that his humble beginnings could never deny who he was meant to become: an exceptionally talented maestro.

  As for me, my heart is hammering wildly beneath my breastbone, and I have both fists wrapped around the strap of my bag to keep them from trembling. Not only is Robert coming with me to listen to Calvin play, but it will be obvious to Calvin that I’ve brought someone here specifically to watch him play, thereby making it apparent that I have watched him in the past, maybe many times in the past, and thought about how someone else should join me.

  Also, I really don’t want to be wrong about this. Robert’s esteem means everything to me. If he doesn’t agree about Calvin’s talent, I know deep down it will tarnish something within me about Calvin in particular, and my own creative compass in general.

  But my nerves may be wasted: other than the screech of the train or the occasional burst of an announcement audible on the stairs, the station is mostly silent. In the past several months, Calvin has been here every Monday night. Has he abruptly changed his routine in one week?

  My stomach drops. Sometime, weeks ago, it stopped occurring to me that Calvin might eventually move on from the busking gig. It’s one of those unintentionally selfish assumptions I’m always shocked to find myself making: I just imagined he would be here forever—or at least until I stopped wanting to see him every day. The prospect of never seeing him again sends a cold shiver of panic down my arms.

  But as we turn the corner to go down the last flight, the iconic, seductive opening notes of “El Porompompero” drift up, and Robert pauses, his foot caught midair.

  As always, the song begins slowly, flirtatiously, and Robert’s pace picks up. Calvin’s feet come into view—then legs, hips, and guitar, then torso and chest and neck and head—and the rhythm increases, the music taking off in an addicting swirl; Calvin alternately strums his guitar and gently slaps it like a drum.

  I watch Robert as he listens. In any audience, Robert is a fascinating mix of wildly effusive praise and stern critique, and the only sign I have that he’s mesmerized—for he’s looking down at the floor, as if working out some complicated mental logic problem—is the tiny tap of his index finger in time with the music.

  Moving my eyes up just the smallest bit, I catch the quickened rise and fall of his breath in his chest. For my part, I can barely breathe. We’re here, watching Calvin together, and the enormity of the proposition—Consider him for your production—and the fact that he is indeed considering him hit me in a dizzy haze.

  Desperate to contribute something, my emotional brain immediately sprints to shelter: I could be saving Robert!

  My logical brain holds up a hand: Don’t get ahead of yourself, Holland.

  Calvin’s eyes are closed, his head bent chin-to-chest. I watch him sway, lost to the music he’s making. Would his posture change if he had any awareness that the composer of It Possessed Him was standing only four feet away?

  Calvin usually takes a small break between pieces, tuning his guitar under the apparent impression that he’s in a bubble. With a final flourish of fingers over strings, he stops, pauses, and then inhales, wearing an expression of bliss as he looks up.

  But he’s never in a bubble, and we’re standing right there. His breath catches, and his eyes widen. He’s not looking at me.

  He knows exactly who Robert is.

  six

  Calvin sits up, jerking his guitar to stand on one thigh. “Mr. Okai.” He swallows. “I didn’t realize you were standing there.”

  “My niece tells me your name is Calvin.”

  Calvin looks between the two of us, working this out. Robert, with his smooth dark skin and meticulously short hair. Me: pale and freckled with a chaotic, weedy bun on top of my head.

  Robert reaches out a hand, and Calvin immediately takes it, standing. “Yes. Calvin McLoughlin.”

  This makes my uncle laugh, and the boom of it eases the line of Calvin’s shoulders. “That’s a pretty Irish name for someone with such a good tan.”

  “My mam is Greek,” he explains, and then looks back and forth between me and Robert again, as if asking a question of his own.

  Robert tilts his head to me, releasing Calvin’s hand and saying in turn, “I married her uncle.”

  Calvin smiles, quietly saying, “Ah.”

  I sense Robert straighten beside me, and Calvin mimics the posture. My heart turns into a snare drum: it is time to get down to it.

  “I am the musical director down at the—”

  “The Levin-Gladstone,” Calvin interrupts. “I know. I’ve seen It Possessed Him seven times.”

  “Seven?” It’s the first time I’ve spoken, and Calvin turns to me.

  He lifts his chin in a nod. “I think you sold me a T-shirt.”

  I tink ye sold me a t-shairt.

  I pull my surprised mouth closed to speak. “You didn’t think to mention this before? On Wednesday night?”

  “You saw each other Wednesday?” Robert asks.

  We both ignore him. “I didn’t put it together until now,” Calvin says, in that easy way of his.
“I knew I’d seen you before, I just figured it was at the station.”

  Robert redirects us. “So you know the production, then.”

  Calvin pales. “Of course I do.”

  “And, if you’ve seen it seven times,” Robert continues, “I’m inclined to think you’ve heard that Luis Genova is leaving, soon to be replaced by Ramón Martín.”

  “I have.” Calvin scratches his jaw. “And I’ve also heard that Seth Astorio hasn’t played in four days. How’s the search goin’?”

  Robert pulls back, studying him. “It sounds like you’re skeptical I can replace him.”

  “Of course I think you can replace him.” He laughs. “Seth doesn’t.”

  “You know Seth?” Robert asks slowly.

  “We studied together.”

  My uncle pauses, and I watch as his eyes narrow. “Seth attended Juilliard.”

  Calvin lifts his chin with a cocky smile. “Aye. He did, in fact.”

  I move past Calvin and sit heavily down on his stool.

  Juilliard.

  Holy shit. Calvin attended Juilliard.

  Robert doesn’t beat around the bush any longer. “Would you like to come down to play for us tomorrow?”

  A hysterical urge inside wants me to pipe up that Calvin is busy on Tuesdays. At least, he must be, because he doesn’t ever do his regular gig of Juilliard-man-playing-for-change at the Fiftieth Street station then. I press my palm against my mouth to hold the words in.

  “To play for you?” Calvin repeats, awestruck. “Ah, go on.”

  “I’m serious,” Robert says with a tiny grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.”

  I’m still awake at four in the morning, sitting on my couch, leg jiggling.

  Nothing helped me sleep.

  Not chamomile, not whiskey, not my favorite pink vibrator, not PBS.

  I stand, absently shoving the vibrator beneath a couch cushion, turning off the television, and taking my array of glassware one-handed to the kitchen sink.

  If I’m nervous like this, then Calvin must be losing his mind. Unless he thinks he’s only playing for the orchestra, which would be no big deal for someone from Juilliard. Of course Calvin would have no idea who else is coming today: At noon, he will play not only for Robert Okai—former conductor of the Des Moines Symphony and current musical director at the Levin-Gladstone Theater—but for two renowned Broadway producer brothers, Don and Richard Law, and the production director, Michael Asteroff, all of whom had planned to come meet with Robert anyway.