This Story Might Save Your Life(45)
I crossed the threshold into the dim, empty space, observing the warped wood-paneled walls and parquet floors, the acoustic ceiling tiles. Beneath the musty odor of what was almost certainly mold, I could just barely make out the lingering smell of cigars.
Joy squeezed my elbow. “It was a recording studio. You could fix it up. We could do the podcast here.”
“But we record at your house.”
She bit her lip. “Maybe if there’s another studio within walking distance, we could change that.”
If she’d dangled any other carrot, I would have thanked the real estate agent for her time and driven away without another thought. I wasn’t ready to buy a house. My divorce was too fresh. I didn’t have any furniture, nor did I think I could muster the enthusiasm necessary to furnish a whole-ass home. I was miserable, plain and simple, and I wanted to wallow in it.
Only then, without taking another step, my imagination ignited. A recording studio. Even though Xander could no longer stand to be in the same room with me, he was still always there, always watching. Micromanaging. Microaggressing. A proper sound studio in my backyard might be the fix Joy and I needed to record in peace. Even if it was only on occasion. The more I thought about it, the more I realized this Zen Den could be a way to rewind the clock, back to the last time Joy and I lived within walking distance of each other, before everything and everyone else got in our way.
I bought the house.
The shed needed a lot of work, but I was down for the challenge, determined to make it a timeless extension of my mid-century ranch. I hired the best contractor I could find on short notice, and together we updated the electricity, installed a new roof, ran new air-conditioning, and sprayed foam insulation. We put in energy-efficient skylights, and herringbone oak flooring. On the south wall, we cut out a giant window to capture the sprawling LA skyline. For the north wall, I found an ultra-plush navy sofa, long enough for Joy to nap on whenever the need struck. I bought a soft rug, a large desk, and all the recording equipment two comedy survival podcasters could ever need. The exterior was outfitted with new siding and an updated porch, and I hand-planted a perimeter of Spanish lavender. The Zen Den was not just improved; it was a goddamn masterpiece.
And we never once used it. Just as renovations were wrapping up, all hell broke loose, and Joy stopped leaving her house. And now …
I’m resurfacing from this memory when I spot Paparazzo Ted a few feet from the fence. “Any news?” he shouts before I have a chance to turn around.
I shake my head.
“Hey, so…” He steps closer. “I ran into Joy at the grocery store a few months ago.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “She was in the produce section, and I was at the bakery.”
“Listen,” I say through clenched teeth, “I don’t know what your deal is, but you are literally the last person I want to talk to right now.”
“Jesus, man, let me finish.” Ted flaps his white undershirt a few times to cool off. “I’m trying to tell you something. I was only there to buy a cake for my daughter’s birthday, but—well, you may have seen the picture of Joy that showed up online later that day.”
I regret giving him a single second of my time. After everything he’s done. Joy is actively missing, and he’s trying to absolve himself for some paparazzi photo he sold two months ago.
“Go to hell.” I call the dogs, and this time they follow.
I’m shutting us inside when Ted shouts, “You have reporters in your front yard!”
* * *
HE’S RIGHT. THERE are three, one of whom, a young woman, is actively addressing a camera. Watching them through the blinds sends prickly goose bumps up my arms.
While the woman speaks, a compact blue Kia slows in front of my house. The driver idles for a moment and then turns into my driveway.
“Oh no you didn’t,” I growl. I’m about to run out there to give them a piece of my mind when the driver steps out.
It’s not a reporter. When I see who it is, I burst into tears.
Joy Moore
EXCERPT FROM UNTITLED JOINT MEMOIR WITH BENNY ABBOTT
Sixteen Months Ago
The backstage of Detroit’s Fox Theatre is a labyrinth of corridors and stairwells covered in autographs from everyone who’s graced its stage in the last thirty years. At the insistence of an excited production assistant, we’d added to the stairwell collection in black Sharpie beside the cast of Sesame Street Live! There were ten minutes left to “relax” before curtain call.
We’d performed in a number of cool places, but the Fox was tops. One hundred years old, decked out in an opulent blend of Eastern motifs, this movie palace had seen the likes of Aretha Franklin, Elvis Presley, Stevie Wonder, Diana Ross, Prince. We were not worthy, and yet we’d sold all 5,174 seats. This was the grand finale to our tour.
“Ooh.” I pointed to a signature halfway up the stairs. “Alice Cooper.”
Benny made an unexcited sniff from the upper landing.
“You didn’t look.”
He glanced over. “Cool.”
He didn’t sound right. “You okay?”
“Yeah, of course.”
He was definitely not okay.
The production assistant, a fresh-faced Gen Zer, waited for us in the doorway. I glanced around the dimly lit stairwell, realizing we were otherwise alone.