The Silent Sister(97)

I imagined Grady’s record store had been something like this one, cramped and hot. I pictured Lisa working in that tight little space. She’d only been seventeen when she arrived in San Diego and I could only imagine how alone and frightened she must have felt. My own stomach was cramping from nerves right now, and I was twenty-five and not on the run from anyone or anything. How had she survived the fear? How had she survived the guilt of having killed someone?

I tried to get my bearings in the store, but was overwhelmed by the press of bodies and the eardrum-piercing music. I clutched Violet to my chest as I maneuvered my way through the narrow aisles toward the door. Outside once more, I walked a block to an empty bench on a patch of green lawn, and sat there, Violet on my lap, pulling my phone from my purse every few minutes to watch the time tick closer to seven.

* * *

By five after seven, I was inside Dulcimer, where rows of folding chairs faced the raised platform that served as a stage. The room was smaller than I remembered, and high redbrick walls made it feel even tinier. The occupancy sign on the wall read 150. Both of the concerts I’d seen at the club had been general admission, and Bryan and I had stood shoulder to shoulder with other members of the audience, so I was surprised—and relieved—to see the chairs. I didn’t think my legs would hold me up for the length of a concert tonight.

Standing near the concession booth, I looked toward the stage. The platform was elevated only a foot or so off the worn wooden floor of the club. A drum set and keyboard had been pushed against the back wall as if unneeded for this particular concert, but a couple of stools and a few microphones were near the front, along with a guitar on a stand. Seeing those props made everything real to me. In less than an hour, Lisa would be up there, only a few yards away from me. Finally.

I bought a beer and a paper container of nachos I’d have to force myself to eat, but I thought I’d better have something in my stomach to sop up the alcohol. People around me laughed and talked as they greeted one another. It was clearly a crowd of regulars and I was aware of being the odd man out. I looked toward the seats, which were starting to fill. Should I sit in the front row where I’d be way too visible or in the back where I could watch Lisa unnoticed? I compromised, picking a seat smack in the middle of the room, and I sat there feeling very alone as I chewed a tortilla chip that tasted like cardboard.

The building grew noisier as it filled up, voices bouncing off the brick walls. I noticed that many people wore T-shirts with the letters JT emblazoned on the back, and it took me a good ten minutes to realize that JT stood for Jasha Trace.

I felt conspicuous, alone in my center row clutching Violet between my knees, but as more and more people filed into the seats, it looked like there would be a decent crowd. The young guy sitting to my right read the back of a Jasha Trace CD, pointing to something on the case as he spoke to the woman he was with. The seat to my left was empty, and I was glad for that little bit of breathing room.

To the right of the platform was a door that appeared to be the only way to get backstage. I focused on it, picturing myself walking through it. I was still staring at the door when a burly young guy dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt took his post in front of it. A yellow plastic badge hung around his neck. Security, I guessed. I would have to get past him to get to Lisa.

I’d finished my beer and half the nachos by the time the houselights dimmed, and I put the bottle and paper basket beneath my chair, knowing I’d never remember to toss them when it was time to leave. I had the feeling they would be the last thing on my mind.

A middle-aged woman with a sleeve tattoo and short, bright purple hair took the stage. She talked about the exits we should use in an emergency, told us to silence our cell phones, and then spoke endlessly about the upcoming concerts, and the audience grew restless. Or maybe it was just me. The beer and chips sloshed around in my stomach and I wondered how I’d get out of this row if I needed to be sick.

Jasha Trace came onstage with zero fanfare—the men with their banjo and guitar, Celia with her mandolin and Lisa with her fiddle—and started right in on a fast-paced song I recognized from one of their CDs. My heart raced along with the music. I couldn’t take my eyes off Lisa. Her hair—a natural-looking blond-streaked brown—hung a few inches past her shoulders, and it was loose and swingy as she played. Her features were sharper than I remembered from the pictures I’d seen of her, and under the harsh lights above the stage, I could see fine lines across her forehead even from where I sat. All four musicians wore jeans and T-shirts. I was pretty sure Shane was the guy with the beard and Travis the one with the shorter cropped blondish hair and glasses.

Celia no longer wore that short edgy hairstyle that was on their Web site and CD covers. Now her dark hair was in a sort of bob, the razor-cut ends radically layered and choppy. It was a very cool cut that made her look younger and hipper than Lisa, and my heart cracked a little. Lisa’s life hadn’t been easy. Not as a child under pressure to perform, or as a fifteen-year-old giving birth away from her family and friends, or as a seventeen-year-old on the run. Yet when the song was over and she lowered her fiddle, her smile softened her face and I saw the light inside her. The joy over what she was doing. Over the life she’d created for herself. She started playing again, the bounce of her hair like a symbol of the freedom she’d stolen for herself. I looked away from the stage, lowering my gaze to the back of the chair in front of me, suddenly wounded. She had a healthy family and I didn’t. I wanted to be happy for her, but I couldn’t help it. That hurt.