The Uninvited (3 page)

J
ACKSON PAGE PICKED UP
the Gibson ES-175 gingerly, as if it might be trip-wired to some explosive device. He examined the pickups, the toggle switch, the controls. It wasn’t even plugged in, but you couldn’t be too careful. No, it was okay. Still in tune—well, close enough for rock ’n’ roll. Right. And that was the problem.

“I am regressing,” he said to no one. And then he listened to see if no one had any suggestions.

He closed his eyes to try to hear the music in his head.
Simple.
He had already laid down a bunch of tracks, knew the overall shape of the thing, the musical through line, but there was something missing in the final movement. Ha! Movement—as if it were a symphony. Maybe he should say there was something missing in the final stages, as if it were a disease.

The big old guitar was still new to him. He’d found it in a secondhand store in Toronto. The ES-175 was a workhorse in the jazz world, the kind of guitar someone like Pat Metheny played, not some twenty-two-year-old with concert-hall pretensions. Then again, what was he doing playing around with electric guitars at all?

He swiveled his chair westward and tilted the top of the Gibson toward the window of the loft. He watched the daylight glint off the sunburst finish. The light also picked up the dust. He grabbed some polish and a rag from his worktable and set to cleaning the guitar, lovingly, until the lacquer finish gleamed. Just because he was screwing up didn’t mean the instruments should suffer.

Simple
had started out spare and clean. And serious. He’d been listening to Arvo Pärt and Toru Takemitsu. To Hildegard von Bingen, for Christ’s sake! He wanted an unadorned, almost mystical sound, off the top, with lots of space around every note. He’d always known that the piece was going to get weird and dissonant, that “simple” was not easy—that was the point. He just hadn’t known
how
weird or dissonant
everything
was going to get. Then yesterday he’d lost it—strapped on the guitar, plugged it into the stomp box, and pretended he was Travis Stever of Coheed and Cambria. As if. He was no rock star. His garage-band days with Snye were far behind him.

Snye had packed the coffeehouse at Ladybank Collegiate, rocked the legion hall, warmed up for Hammerhead in the city. Their musical influences were ancient: King Crimson; Yes; Procul Harum; Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Big gaudy stuff. Jay had written all the band’s tunes and was the only one who had stayed with music. Got himself a degree and now was taking a year off, courtesy of Mom, to consolidate, to write. Next year—graduate school. Next fall.

So what was
Simple
?

It was
supposed
to be a tone poem, not some emo-punk piece of shit. But right now, emo-punk shit seemed about all he could channel. He had to get serious back. He closed his eyes again. Listened. It was in there somewhere.

He let the quiet build up around him. He started playing the riff he’d recorded yesterday but at half the tempo. He played it sweet. It was an inversion of the first motif, and when you didn’t distort the crap out of it, you could hear that.

He plugged the guitar into the amp. Switched it on. There were chorus dials on the Roland: he kept the rate low, cranked the depth up to six. There was that nice flangey sound. He added some reverb. Nice and wet. Pressed the distortion pedal for some crunch.

Right. Rock on, dude. What was he doing?

He dumped it all. Dumped the crunch, dumped the reverb. Everything. He closed his eyes and played the riff over and over, pure and simple, letting it worm into his ear and down into his bones. It was comforting and sad. A teen ballad. He was Linus, and the ES-175 was his electric blanket. A year out of the University of British Columbia and he was backsliding, big-time.

He clamped his hand over the strings, damping the sound. He cocked his head and listened: nothing but the amplifier’s throaty hum. He leaned forward, turned the Roland off, and placed the Gibson on its stand beside the baby-blue Stratocaster and the old yellow Martin acoustic. Then he groaned a great long emo-punk-shit groan.

“I am losing my mind,” he said.

But what he was really afraid of was that he was losing his sense of what it was he did. They’d crucify him at Indiana. The Jacobs School of Music was right up there with Juilliard and Eastman, for Christ’s sake. He had gotten in on great marks and a crazy-good letter of recommendation from Gabriel Zouave, the composer in residence his last year at UBC. Zouave was the one who had recommended Indiana and advised Jay to include the composition
Gunk
in his application, scored for bass clarinet, button accordion, tabla, and street sounds. The people at Indiana had called the piece “cheeky and brave.” His lighter side, now missing and presumed dead. Because serious didn’t have to be dead serious, right? But it had to be more than jacking off. And here he was playing three-chord riffs on the guitar.

He crossed the loft to the dormer window that looked out over the ragged garden sloping gently down to the snye. He leaned on the sill, and his flash drive, on a string around his neck, tapped against the glass. His kayak was down there in the undergrowth by the stream. You couldn’t see it from any approach, as far as he could tell.

There was a row of fist-size stones along the windowsill. He picked one up and rolled it around in his hands. It was blue-green, shot through with cream, and smoothed almost perfectly round by the sea. It was warm from sitting in the sun all day. He held it up to his cheek. Closed his eyes again. Which was when he heard the car.

CHAPTER THREE

I
T
WAS
MAGICAL.

The driveway meandered through a meadow alive with slender trees, their bright green leaves trembling. And so was Mimi—trembling with anticipation.

There were wildflowers, all kinds of them. She would get a book. Was there a bookstore in Ladybank? A library? But even without a book, she knew a black-eyed Susan when she met one, and there were hundreds of them, hundreds of Susans waving at her.

And there were buttercups, and pink things.

At a weeping willow, the driveway veered right and passed into a copse of slender who knows what and some other kind of tree, still in showy bloom, though it was already July. Dogwood? The name came to her, but her knowledge of flora and fauna came mostly from fiction. So all she could say with any authority was that it was beautiful. Something from a fairy tale.

“There’s this tulloch—that’s what they call it,” Marc had told her. “In the meadow out back of the house. Back in Scotland, a tulloch is
usually
a fairy mound. Keep your eyes peeled!”

But it wasn’t fairies Mimi was thinking of as she glided along the overgrown driveway. This was
Wind in the Willows
territory. And around the next turn, she would surely meet the Piper at the Gates of Dawn. Or Dusk, more likely, since it was getting on in the day.

She came at last to what she knew there would have to be, a tiny bridge to cross the snye. She pulled the car to a stop in a dappled grove and turned off the ignition.

“Snye,” Marc had said, as if it were something sexy, a sly new four-letter word. “A side channel that bypasses a falls or rapids and rejoins the river downstream, creating an island. A narrow, meandering thing that sometimes comes to a dead end.”

The quiet flooded into her, but it was a busy kind of quiet full of insect sounds and birdsong and the wind in the … well, the willows! She climbed out of the car, stretched and yawned, and looked around. It was half fairy tale, half impressionist painting, and half golden-age Disney. “Yeah, so I suck at math,” she muttered to Ms. Cooper. Ms. Cooper wasn’t listening anymore. “Good baby,” said Mimi, patting the hot and dusty side of her car. She shook her head in wonder and went to examine the bridge.

She was lucky she had stopped.

The bridge only covered a span of about twelve feet but was built over two stone arches, the second of which had crumbled into the stream. Mimi rested her hands on her hips and considered the problem. The narrow drive curved again up ahead, but she could see glimpses of the house between the foliage. It looked as if she would have to complete her journey on foot.

She headed back to the car and was just about to lock the doors when a squirrel chattered at her from a branch not far above her head. Mimi laughed.

“Thanks for reminding me,” she said. And she deliberately did
not
lock her doors. This was why she was here, wasn’t it? To stop locking things up…

The grass beside the driveway was damp. She slipped out of her black-and-red flip-flops and, oh, how cool the earth was under her tired feet. She made her way down the bank to the stream—the snye—a totally magical name. And because of it—this tiny gurgling stream—the other side was an island. Not a very adventurous island, hanging so close to home like this, but an island all the same.

There were water lilies. Of course.

“Snye,” she said, “you are too picturesque for your own good. Do you realize that?”

The stream was clear and not very deep, no more than a foot or so, she guessed. The bed was sandy. Minnows glinted. Jesus bugs flitted across the surface, an everyday miracle. All of it was a miracle. She didn’t see anything down there that might nibble on her: no crawfish, suckers, crocodiles. She breathed in deeply and closed her eyes and let the sound of the stream enter her and calm her city brain. The sound of the stream also reminded her of how badly she needed to pee.

She could do it here, surely, she thought, looking around at a grove that was about as treacherous as a postcard. But, for all the traveling she had done in her nineteen years, she was a girl from the Upper East Side, and outside was outside wherever you were.

She needed to ford the snye, but her capris were too snug to roll up. So she headed back to the car and opened the back door. She looked around at the pretty vale—360 degrees—and then, satisfied that she was alone, she shimmied out of her pants and stuffed them in the suitcase that was open on the backseat. She was wearing a thong, and the air felt silky on her naked backside. She found a pair of cutoffs and slipped her shirt back on, though she didn’t bother to button it up.

The water came to just above her knees, deeper than she’d thought. Looks were deceptive, even in pretty vales. She climbed the other bank and slipped her wet feet into her flip-flops before taking to the road again.

And next thing she knew, she was standing in a beautiful wild garden, before a house that was truly something from a fantasy. Not that it was made from gingerbread. Not that it was grand. It wasn’t the slightest bit grand. In fact, it was small in scale, like a toy house that had grown up but never really made it into full-blown adulthood. A Munchkin house. There was one gable above a tiny porch with a shed roof held up by pillars to either side of a door that had once been blue. The green roof was dappled with moss and patched here and there, the porch tilted drunkenly forward, and one of the three steps had rotted away. The clapboard was in serious need of paint. It was a dingy white, but it glowed in the west-leaning sun and the windows to either side of the front door gleamed like mirrors reflecting trees and sky. Despite its grungy hide, the house looked far from deserted. It looked loved and welcoming.

For maybe the first time in her life, she blessed her father. He’d finally come through. He had abandoned her when she was scarcely two, and she had hated him for years before bothering to get to know him. And, yes, she was hungry and road weary and she needed desperately to find a bathroom, but for one moment she forgave her father everything.

The plinth under the left-hand column contained a secret drawer in which she found a little tin key box. Yes! Her father had not been here in over twenty years, and the key was just where he said it would be.

She carefully climbed the steps—what was left of them—to the front porch, which was slippery with rot. The flooring bent under her weight.

“All those potato chips,” she muttered. She’d work it all off. She imagined herself in a sky-blue do-rag and yellow Oshkosh overalls, with little Disney bluebirds circling her head as if she was some kind of Snow White, returning the cottage to its pristine comic-book self. She would whistle while she worked. Or not. She had never really gotten the hang of whistling.