No Names, page 14
“Good luck with that,” Terri said with a snort. “Even after sentencing, he still won’t see anyone. Mom included.”
“Oh,” was all I could say. I had to retreat or else I’d explode. I went down to my lair to collect my thoughts and to see if there was anything I might want. There wasn’t much I cared about or needed, just the cassettes of Pete and me rehearsing. I gathered them up in old paper bags from Vinyl Heart that were lying under the bed. There was, I suddenly realized, one other thing I did want. In the pantry under the stairs, among the remaining jars of homemade sauerkraut, rested a few dusty bottles of Dad’s nocino. I wanted one to take to the Lacs. I’m not that crazy about the taste, but still, the nocino means a lot to me. One of the best memories I have of Dad is him and me and John driving out to Bethel Grove each June to visit the cemetery at St. Caspar del Bufalo to pay our respects to his family. While there, we’d also collect green walnuts to make the nocino. Every holiday he’d let us kids have a sip of the sweet dark liquor. It was a recipe from his mom’s mom—the Italian side. We did this every year until John died. Even though it was a cemetery, still, it was one of my favorite places—the rolling, manicured lawns, the giant walnut trees full of light and shadow, the peace and quiet. We’d bring the wooden extension ladder from home, and John and I would climb up and on into the branches, fast as squirrels. We’d let the walnuts fall onto a canvas tarp spread below. Dad would pick from the top of the ladder, dropping his into a galvanized pail, the first ones making hollow pings until the bottom was covered. The liquid from green walnuts is clear, yet weirdly it blackens your hands, which explains the color of nocino. The stain lasts for weeks. I liked that—the stain—because it would remind me of a day I loved so much. Those were among the few times a year we did something with Dad, and it was always sunny and breezy when we went, or at least that’s how I remember it. The whole world appeared animated, vivid. Underneath it all, I’m a sentimental bastard. The opposite of a punker, I suppose.
I took a bottle of nocino from the gritty shelf.
Next morning, I caught the crowded visitors’ bus to the prison. When we got there, I waited patiently with all the other families in a long line at the iron gate separating the two worlds. When it was finally my turn, I did, as Terri had predicted, get turned away. I didn’t understand. After all, he’s my father. The flat-topped corrections officer explained, like he was reading from a script, the visitation program is not mandatory, that any prisoner has the right to refuse visitors. I had pictured one of those moments, like on TV, where Dad and I would be seated facing each other, wire grating or safety glass between us, him telling me everything—not about the murder, no, but about himself—and I would come to some understanding, and it would be cathartic the way Pete’s Greeks meant it. I definitely hadn’t imagined this, the story just ending. Just ending with nothing.
Mrs. Lac treated us like soldiers returning from war. Over the few days we were home she made all our favorite foods, both Japanese and American—sushi, tempura, green tea ice cream, T-bone steak, meatloaf, walnut brownies. And lots more. There was nothing too good for us, even though she wasn’t thrilled when Pete announced we were off again, and to Europe at that. But she’s not the type to dwell on disappointment. After taking the news in, she told us, “You boys will have experiences you have never dreamed of, and those experiences will make new dreams for you, bigger ones, bolder ones.”
Our first morning back I was up before dawn. Couldn’t sleep. The meeting with Dad that didn’t happen, and would never happen, had overloaded my dreams. The scenes were so intense they scared me awake more than once. In some, Dad remained silent, staring blank as a mugshot at me. In others, this man who I’d never seen lose his temper, went wild with anger, cursing me for never having been there for him. But in one—just one—he was sitting in the shade of the towering walnut trees at Bethel Grove, mild as Jesus, assuring me that everything would be alright. All the versions, even the ones that seemed a little nicer, hammered me with guilt.
I wanted to write down some of the dreams in order to, hopefully, clear my head a little. Pete was still sound asleep, so I grabbed my notebook and headed downstairs. I was going to write outside at the picnic table. As I was heading through the kitchen to the backdoor, out the window I saw Mrs. Lac at the far end of the backyard, on her hands and knees, weeding. Here it was, still practically night, and she was out there creating beauty. I was about to open the door, when it hit me: Why not make Mrs. Lac a cup of coffee? It’s something that shouldn’t have had to hit me, it’s something most decent people would simply do for someone, a common courtesy. But the truth of the matter was, I’d never made a cup of coffee, peanut butter sandwich, or even poured a bowl of cereal for anyone, let alone a full breakfast of bacon and eggs, or a sushi dinner. How many times had Mrs. Lac made me a cup of coffee or tea? I was ashamed to think how many. With that, I filled the percolator with water, scooped ten scoops from the steel canister into the basket, as I’d seen her do so often, and plugged it in. I felt probably a little too satisfied when the coffee began to percolate into the glass bubble and the aroma filled the air. I brought the red lacquer tray down from on top of the refrigerator and set two cups and saucers and the pot on it. Carrying the tray as carefully as possible (because I wasn’t used to it), I kneed the door open and managed to step outside without dropping everything. The moon was growing pale and the sun appeared a gilded strip that had barely edged above the horizon. A bird called, long and liquid, and another answered. A pair of chipmunks tumbled out of the small rock garden and darted across the lawn.
As the door clicked shut, Mrs. Lac looked over her shoulder and waved. I set the tray on the picnic table and called to her, “Ready for a coffee break?”
She smiled, stood up, took off her gardening gloves, and walked the short distance across the grass to the table. She nodded. “Why, thank you, Mike.”
I motioned for her to take a seat. We sat facing each other. As if I’d done it a million times before, I set a cup and saucer in front of each of us and poured. We both take it black.
She lifted the cup and took a sip. “Delicious.” She set the cup down. “You’re up early!”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh?”
That one syllable from her launched me into talking about my visit to the prison and all the thoughts and feelings I had about it. Only with her would this possibly happen. As I began, she put both hands around her coffee cup and looked at me intently. I told her everything. Especially about guilt. Guilt for not having shown my father the love that might have made him feel better about himself and about the world. The love any son ought to show his father. I even told her about the dreams in as much detail as I could without faking how much I actually recalled. By the time I was finally done, the sun appeared whole, a bronze disk.
We sat in silence for some time before she told me she had read in the paper about the sentencing and had been thinking about me and my family all the time. She reached over, placing her palms on the back of my hands. “Guilt is only natural, Mike, but don’t be so hard on yourself.” She told me she still felt guilt over having survived the firebombing of her hometown, when her father and brother, in trying to save the house, had not. She took another sip of coffee, and I took another one too. Then, as if the sharing of coffee had sealed an agreement between us, she continued, “But it really isn’t so much a matter of guilt or innocence.” I looked at her, confused. She met my eyes. “It’s about love. Maybe you didn’t always express it or express it exactly how you wanted to—nobody does—but you feel it, that much is clear.”
“How does that matter? It’s too late.”
“It’s never too late. Maybe he won’t see you, but you can send him letters. Even if he never responds, he will know how you feel.” She then took hold of both my hands and squeezed them.
I thanked her. I thanked her, but my thanks sounded way too simple. How do you thank someone for their giant love when yours is so puny? How do you thank someone for caring enough to give you advice when no one else has ever really bothered?
Several times during our time back home Mr. Lac made it known that he still really wanted Pete to go to college and study engineering. Even so, he was glad we’re making a name for ourselves. Never mind that he had to take our word for it. The local papers don’t review or even mention us, and it’s not like any radio station Mr. Lac might tune in to would play us, or that Johnny Carson was lining us up for a slot on The Tonight Show.
Our last night home, Mrs. Lac made Pete’s and my agreed upon very favorite dinner, tonkatsu, a deep-fried pork cutlet served with this dark sauce that’s kind of like Worcestershire, only thicker, tastier. She also broke out special sake, the kind where the rice is polished some crazy amount, which makes the wine silkier. After a lemon bar for dessert, she opened the bottle of nocino that I’d brought. When she put the tiny glass to her lips, she sighed, “So delicious, Mike.” And the four of us, we got a little drunk. Mrs. Lac’s face flushed a beautiful shade of pink, almost lavender.
After the festivities, we all headed upstairs to get some sleep. I was sitting on the bed playing on my unplugged guitar one of the new dream songs I’d been working on, while Pete was showering, when Mrs. Lac stepped quietly into the room.
“Thank you, Mike,” she said, “for being with Peter.” She made it sound like I was doing her a favor. Then it was as if a shadow fell over her. Her voice lowered, “You must promise to look after him. He is sometimes too … too—what should I say?—too naive.” I looked in her eyes. They glittered, even in the dim light of the bedside lamp, they glittered. “Promise?”
“Promise,” I answered after hesitating, though I did have to wonder who needed to look after who. I mean, a jerk getting practically mutilated by the crowd and starting fights with strangers likely needs someone to not just look after him but to control him.
The promoters have booked us at the Roxy, maybe the hippest punk place in the world, according to Ryder. Hippest punk? Those two words just don’t seem right together. In any case, we’re not really even punks here in London. Everyone else at the club is either straight-up skinhead or punked out in all the best regalia. A whole rainbow of mohawks, some over two feet high. Halloweenish makeup, leather duds, choke chains, dog collars—the works. The crowd is punk, for sure, though the place has a swanky Rat Pack feel: low lights, plush booths, Vegas-y stage.
We’re just a bunch of Americans in sneaks and jeans, but that’s probably part of our charm. To them, I suppose, we’re exotic. The audience went nuts all through our show. Two newspapers used honest to describe our music. I liked that, though Bobby wasn’t so sure it was meant as a compliment. Another said, “The No Names are tough in that very American way, without the requisite nastiness of our native punk artistes.”
The four of us are lying on the floor backstage, exhausted after our second night’s performance, when the Roxy people show up. They’re enthusiastic. They’ve seen just about everyone coming through, so their words mean a lot. The three of them are going to take us to a pub to get something to eat and discuss maybe doing a couple of shows at the end of our tour. As we’re heading out the stage door, a girl approaches, all perky and efficient, like Mary Poppins if Mary Poppins went hippie, wearing braids, peasant blouse, hip-huggers. She asks if she might have a word. The way she looks at the others, then quickly focuses on me, I think means she wants to speak with me alone. She’s not my type. Sure, she’s gorgeous, but for one thing she’s too tall, and for another she’s too perky. I look to my pals to rescue me, but she insists it will only take a moment. The house manager suggests I catch up with them, they’re just nipping into the pub ’round the corner.
As soon as the group takes off, the hippie chick introduces herself, Miss Gwen Chambers. Miss Gwen Chambers? Can’t recall the last time a female around my age introduced herself as Miss. She offers a cigarette, lighting it before handing it to me. Way too intimate. “What’s your name?” she asks, adding, “It’s not on the fliers, or for that matter the record jacket!”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She smiles weakly in British, meaning, how quaint or how trifling, maybe both.
We walk a little ways down the street. It’s called Rathbone Place. The pavement’s greasy with mist. The city’s alive the way no American city is. People everywhere.
“You are an e-nor-mous talent,” she says, making the word sound like a whole sentence. “Upon the recommendation of a friend at The Village Voice, I attended one of your shows in New York while there on business. I was very impressed. My friend had to give me her copy of the record because it was—and how grand for you!—sold out at all the record shops. You have the sound, the look, for today.”
I don’t respond.
“Why don’t you pop by the offices tomorrow and have a chat with one of our producers? Say eleven?” She hands me her card.
The card says she’s a talent scout. For a major label. With a list of artists that’s a who’s who of the music business. This is un-be-lieve-a-ble. I stay cool. Suppose there’s no harm in talking with them. I mumble, “We’ll be there.”
She responds with a sinister little snicker, “Oh, I mean you, darling. We’re not really looking for another punk band right now, but you, you’ll make a terrific solo act.”
I don’t hesitate for a second. “No deal.”
This Miss Gwen Chambers isn’t fazed in the least. She stares at me all starry-eyed. “Think about it, darling. I’ll pop backstage after tomorrow’s show.”
I don’t meet her eyes. They’re way too sexy. Plus, she’s posh, as they say over here, way too posh for the likes of me.
With that, she turns to go.
The crowd flowing along the sidewalk swallows Miss Gwen Chambers up and I move on past the pub where the others have gone, wanting to clear my head. Miss Gwen Chambers is not interested in punk bands, but she’s interested in me? But I am a punk band. I’m nothing without the guys. After wandering aimlessly around this neighborhood they call Fitzrovia, I head to the room I’m sharing with Pete in the vacant flat the Roxy people got for the band. I try to write a few lines of a song about wandering the streets but wind up staring at the wallpaper instead. The pattern’s hypnotic. Elaborate black vines with deep-purple flowers that seem to pop right out of the surface. Maybe two hours later Pete finally comes in. I say finally because I really want to tell him how crazy this business is, and that I’m so glad I have him and Matt and Bobby to anchor me. And I do tell him, but only the second part—about them being my anchor.
He laughs, all beery, “You’re nuts!”
I still don’t tell him about the offer. I’m afraid he’d wonder how I could possibly think of not taking it. I can just hear him—at his most manic—that deep voice jumping a few octaves up at the end of every sentence. I know Pete wants what’s best for me, but I also feel like he’d see me going solo as an out for him. If I were to do it, and it worked out—and that’s a humongous if—the band would disperse, he’d go home, join the Navy, go to college, find love, whatever.
“What happened with the bird?” He gives me a wink.
After our third London show, Gwen Chambers comes backstage, just as she said she would. This time she’s a swirl of gauzy material—a Brit Stevie Nicks—and gives me a dramatic hug and kiss right smack on the mouth, declaring, “You were simply in-cred-i-ble!” It’s clear that this you is once again not plural, as she doesn’t so much as glance at Pete, Bobby, or Matt. One arm still resting on my shoulder, she asks, “Have you given some thought about coming ’round our offices?”
This sets off alarms. All three bandmates turn to me, staring. They’re obviously wondering what’s up. I can’t help but act sheepish, like I’m deceiving them, though I’m 100 percent not. I tell her, “I’m tired,” nothing more, and walk away.
Gwen Chambers follows me along the corridor and out onto the sidewalk. She skips in front of me then turns to face me. She’s walking backwards. She looks hot and giddy, probably because I’m so sullen and surly. A real turn-on. All manic, she’s full-on nagging me in front of passersby. “There’s no obligation, simply pop by.”
Pop by? To put a halt to this little spectacle, I agree to show up the next day at the record company offices. She’s ab-so-lut-e-ly thrilled. I go all delusional and start thinking I might be able to turn the tables and convince someone there to sign the band.
I meander my way back to the flat. It’s past two in the morning when I slip in. Pete’s still up, still dressed. He’s sitting on the floor, trying out some new chords. He gives me the evil eye. For the first time ever, I can tell he’s truly pissed off at me. Light from the fixture hanging in the middle of the room reflects off the purple wallpaper, making him look like a vampire. Probably does the same to me.
Turns out, he’s learned from the club guys who Gwen Chambers is and what she likely wants from me. Instead of being glad at the possibility of me going solo, as I thought he would, he’s crazy jealous. He’s not only jealous, but he feels betrayed. He goes dramatic on me, full-on Shakespeare, shouting, “Et tu, Brute,” from our favorite play. He’s obviously forgotten he’s the one who wanted out back in Frisco. He reminds me about the promises we’ve made to each other. It’s a how-could-you? kind of situation like in Julius Caesar, for sure, but also like when your girlfriend’s found out you’re cheating on her only you’re not.
I tell him what’s up, I tell him the truth: “I was scared, man. Scared you’d encourage me to go out on my own. No way I’d do that. We’re a team. When I see those record people in the morning, I’m pitching us, the No Names.” I go down on my knees in front of him, like a guy proposing to a girl. I reach up, placing my hands on his shoulders, and vow, “Nothing’s going to split us up, not ever.”
