Rock On (35 page)

Cynthia laid her thumbnail beneath Wolf’s nose, pinched one nostril shut with her free hand. “Now in fast. Yeah!”

He inhaled convulsively and was flooded with sensations. A crisp, clean taste filled his mouth, and a spray of fine white powder hit the back of his throat. It tingled pleasantly. His head felt spacious. He moved his jaw, suspiciously searching about with his tongue.

Cynthia quickly snorted some of the powder herself, restoppering the vial.

“Now,” she said. “Touch me. Slowly, slowly, we’ve got all night. That’s the way. Ahhhh.” She shivered. “I think you’ve got the idea.”

They worked the bed for hours. The drug, whatever it was, made Wolf feel strangely clearheaded and rational, more playful and more prone to linger. There was no urgency to their lovemaking; they took their time. Three, perhaps four times they halted for more of the powder, which Cynthia doled out with careful ceremony. Each time they returned to their lovemaking with renewed interest and resolution to take it slowly, to postpone each climax to the last possible instant.

The evening grew old. Finally, they lay on the sheets, not touching, weak and exhausted. Wolf’s body was covered with a fine sheen of sweat. He did not care to even think of making love yet another time. He refrained from saying this.

“Not bad,” Cynthia said softly. “I must remember to recommend you to Maggie.”

“Sin, why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“We’ve just—been as intimate as two human beings can be. But as soon as it’s over, you say something cold. Is it that you’re afraid of contact?”

“Christ.” It was an empty syllable, devoid of religious content, and flat. Cynthia fumbled in her bag, found a metal case, pulled a cigarette out, and lit it. Wolf flinched inwardly. “Look, pilgrim, what are you asking for? You planning to marry me and take me away to your big, clean African cities to meet your momma? Hah?

“Didn’t think so. So what do you want from me? Mental souvenirs to take home and tell your friends about? I’ll give you one; I spent years saving up enough to go see a doctor, find out if I could have any brats. Went to one last year, and what do you think he tells me? I’ve got red-cell dyscrasia, too far gone for treatment, there’s nothing to do but wait. Lovely, hah? So one of these days it’ll just stop working and I’ll die. Nothing to be done. So long as I eat right, I won’t start wasting away, so I can keep my looks up to the end. I could buy a little time if I gave up drugs like this”—she waved the cigarette, and an ash fell on Wolf’s chest. He brushed it away quickly— “and the white powder, and anything else that makes life worth living. But it wouldn’t buy me enough time to do anything worth doing.” She fell silent. “Hey. What time is it?”

Wolf climbed out of bed, rummaged through his clothing until he found his timepiece. He held it up to the window, squinted. “Um. Twelve . . . fourteen.”

“Oh, nukes.” Cynthia was up and scrabbling for her clothes. “Come on, get dressed. Don’t just stand there.”

Wolf dressed himself slowly. “What’s the problem?”

“I promised Maggie I’d get some people together to walk her back from that damned reunion. It ended
hours
ago, and I lost track of the time.” She ignored his grin. “Ready? Come on, we’ll check her room first and then the foyer. God, is she going to be mad.”

They found Maggie in the foyer. She stood in the center of the room, haggard and bedraggled, her handbag hanging loosely from one hand. Her face was livid with rage. The sputtering lamp made her face look old and evil.

“Well!” she snarled. “Where have you two been?”

“In my room, balling,” Cynthia said calmly. Wolf stared at her, appalled.

“Well, that’s just beautiful. That’s really beautiful, isn’t it? Do you know where I’ve been while my two best friends were upstairs humping their brains out? Hey? Do you want to know?” Her voice reached hysterical peak. “I was being raped by
two jennie-deafs,
that’s where!”

She stormed past them, half-cocking her arm as if she were going to assault them with her purse, then thinking better of it. They heard her run down the hall. Her door slammed.

Bewildered, Wolf said, “But I—”

“Don’t let her dance on your head,” Cynthia said. “She’s lying.”

“Are you certain?”

“Look, we’ve lived together, bedded the same men—I know her. She’s all hacked off at not having an escort home. And Little Miss Sunshine has to spread the gloom.”

“We should have been there,” Wolf said dubiously. “She could have been killed, walking home alone.”

“Whether Maggie dies a month early or not doesn’t make a bit of difference to me, pilgrim. I’ve got my own problems.”

“A month—? Is Maggie suffering from a disease too?”

“We’re all suffering, we all—Ah, the hell with you too.” Cynthia spat on the floor, spun on her heel, and disappeared down the hallway. It had the rhythm and inevitability of a witch’s curse.

The half-day trip to New York left the troupe with playtime before the first concert, but Maggie stayed in seclusion, drinking. There was talk about her use of drugs, and this alarmed Wolf, for they were all users of drugs themselves.

There was also gossip about the reunion. Some held that Maggie had dazzled her former friends—who had not treated her well in her younger years—had been glamorous and gracious. The predominant view, however, was that she had been soundly snubbed, that she was still a freak and an oddity in the eyes of her former contemporaries. That she had left the reunion alone.

Rumors flew about the liaison between Wolf and Cynthia too. The fact that she avoided him only fed the speculation.

Despite everything the New York City concerts were a roaring success. All four shows were sold out as soon as tickets went on sale. Scalpers made small fortunes that week, and for the first time the concerts were allowed to run into the evening. Power was diverted from a section of the city to allow for the lighting and amplification. And Maggie sang as she had never sung before. Her voice roused the audience to a frenzy, and her blues were enough to break a hermit’s heart.

They left for Hartford on the tenth, Maggie sequestered in her compartment in the last car. Crew members lounged about idly. Some strummed guitars, never quite breaking into a recognizable tune. Others talked quietly. Hawk flipped tarot cards into a heap, one at a time.

“Hey, this place is fucking
dead!
” Maggie was suddenly in the car, her expression an odd combination of defiance and guilt. “Let’s party! Hey? Let’s hear some music.” She fell into Hawk’s lap and nibbled on an ear.

“Welcome back, Maggie,” somebody said.

“Janis!”
she shouted happily. “The lady’s name is Janis!”

Like a rusty machine starting up, the party came to life. Music jelled. Voices became animated. Bottles of alcohol appeared and were passed around. And for the remainder of the two days that the train spent making wide looping detours to avoid the dangerous stretches of Connecticut and New York, the party never died.

There were tense undertones to the party, however, a desperate quality in Maggie’s gaiety. For the first time, Wolf began to feel trapped, to count the days that separated him from Boston and the end of the tour.

The dressing room for the first Hartford concert was cramped, small, badly lit—like every other dressing room they’d encountered. “Get your ass over here, Sin,” Maggie yelled. “You’ve gotta make me up so I look strung out, like Janis did.”

Cynthia held Maggie’s chin, twisted it to the left, to the right. “Maggie, you don’t
need
makeup to look strung out.”

“Goddammit, yes I
do.
Let’s get it on. Come on, come on—I’m a star, I shouldn’t have to put up with this shit.”

Cynthia hesitated, then began dabbing at Maggie’s face, lightly accentuating the lines, the bags under her eyes.

Maggie studied the mirror. “Now
that’s
grim,” she said. “That’s really grotesque.”

“That’s what you look like, Maggie.”

“You cheap bitch! You’d think I was the one who nodded out last night before we could get it on.” There was an awkward silence. “Hey, Wolf!” She spun to face him. “What do you say?”

“Well,” Wolf began, embarrassed, “I’m afraid Cynthia’s . . . ”

“You see? Let’s get this show on the road.” She grabbed her cherished Southern Comfort bottle and upended it.

“That’s not doing you any good either.”

Maggie smiled coldly. “Shows what you know. Janis always gets smashed before a concert. Helps her voice.” She stood, made her way to the curtains. The emcee was winding up his pitch.

“Ladies and gentlemen . . . Janis!”

Screams arose. Maggie sashayed up to the mike, lifted it, laughed into it.

“Heyyy. Good ta see ya.” She swayed and squinted at the crowd, and was off and into her rap. “Ya know, I went ta see a doctor the other week. Told him I was worried about how much drinking I was doing. Told him I’d been drinkin’ heavy since I was twelve. Get up in the morning and have a few Bloody Marys with breakfast. Polish off a fifth before lunch. Have a few drinks at dinner, and really get into it when the partying begins. Told him how much I drank for how many years. So I said, ‘Look, Doc, none of this ever hurt me any, but I’m kinda worried, ya know? Give it to me straight, have I got a problem?’ And he said, ‘Man, I don’t think you’ve got a problem. I think you’re doing just
fine!
’ ”Cheers from the audience. Maggie smiled smugly. “Well, honey,
everybody
’s got problems, and I’m no exception.” The music came up. “But when I got problems, I got an answer, ’cause I can sing dem ole-time blues. Just sing my problems away.” She launched into “Ball and Chain,” and the audience went wild.

Backstage, Wolf was sitting on a stepladder. He had bought a cup of water from a vendor and was nursing it, taking small sips. Cynthia came up and stood beside him. They both watched Maggie strutting on stage, stamping and sweating, writhing and howling.

“I can never get over the contrast,” Wolf said, not looking at Cynthia. “Out there everybody is excited. Back here, it’s calm and peaceful. Sometimes I wonder if we’re seeing the same thing the audience does.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to see what’s right in front of your face.” Cynthia smiled a sad cryptic smile and left. Wolf had grown used to such statements, and gave it no more thought.

The second and final Hartford show went well. However, the first two concerts in Providence were bad. Maggie’s voice and timing were off, and she had to cover with theatrics. At the second show she had to order the audience to dance—something that had never been necessary before. Her onstage raps became bawdier and more graphic. She moved her body as suggestively as a stripper, employing bumps and grinds. The third show was better, but the earthy elements remained.

The cast wound up in a bar in a bad section of town, where guards with guns covered the doorway from fortified booths. Maggie got drunk and ended up crying. “Man, I was so blitzed when I went onstage—you say I was good?”

“Sure, Maggie,” Hawk mumbled. Cynthia snorted.

“You were very good,” Wolf assured her.

“I don’t remember a goddamned thing,” she wailed. “You say I was good? It ain’t fair, man. If I was good, I deserve to be able to remember it. I mean, what’s the point otherwise? Hey?”

Wolf patted her shoulder clumsily. She grabbed the front of his dashiki and buried her face in his chest. “Wolf, Wolf, what’s gonna happen to me?” she sobbed.

“Don’t cry,” he said. Patting her hair.

Finally, Wolf and Hawk had to lead her back to the hostel. No one else was willing to quit the bar.

They skirted an area where all the buildings had been torn down but one. It stood alone, with great gaping holes where plate glass had been, and large nonfunctional arches on one side.

“It was a fast-food building,” Hawk explained when Wolf asked. He sounded embarrassed.

“Why is it still standing?”

“Because there are ignorant and superstitious people everywhere,” Hawk muttered. Wolf dropped the subject.

The streets were dark and empty. They went back into the denser areas of town, and the sound of their footsteps bounced off the buildings. Maggie was leaning half-conscious on Hawk’s shoulder, and he almost had to carry her.

There was a stirring in the shadows. Hawk tensed. “Speed up a bit, if you can,” he whispered.

Something shuffled out of the darkness. It was large and only vaguely human. It moved toward them. “What—?” Wolf whispered.

“Jennie-deaf,” Hawk whispered back. “If you know any clever tricks, this is the time to use ’em.” The thing broke into a shambling run.

Wolf thrust a hand into a pocket and whirled to face Hawk. “Look,” he said in a loud, angry voice. “I’ve taken enough from you! I’ve got a knife, and I don’t care what I do!” The jennie-deaf halted. From the corner of his eye, Wolf saw it slide back into the shadows.

Maggie looked up with sleepy, quizzical expression. “Hey, what . . . ”

“Never mind,” Hawk muttered. He upped his pace, half dragging Maggie after him. “That was arrogant,” he said approvingly.

Wolf forced his hand from his pocket. He found he was shivering from the aftershock. “Nada,” he said. Then: “That is the correct term?”

“Yeah.”

“I wasn’t certain that jennie-deafs really existed.”

“Just some poor mute with gland trouble. Don’t think about it.”

Autumn was just breaking out when the troupe hit Boston. They arrived to find the final touches being put on the stage on Boston Commons. A mammoth concert was planned; dozens of people swarmed about making preparations.

“This must be how America was all the time before the Collapse,” Wolf said, impressed. He was ignored.

The morning of the concert, Wolf was watching canvas being hoisted above the stage, against the chance of rain, when a gripper ran up and said, “You, pilgrim, have you seen Janis?”

“Maggie,” he corrected automatically, “No, not recently.”

“Thanks,” the man gasped, and ran off. Not long after, Hawk hurried by and asked, “Seen Maggie lagging about?”

“No. Wait, Hawk, what’s going on? You’re the second person to ask me that.”