“He actually texted me earlier and said he’d been trying to reach you. You should really let him know you’re okay,” Grace says. “Let him know you’re a walking miracle.”
Peal of thunder now like a warning. Like a sheet of shaking tin. My shin throbs, and the blooming lightness fades to black. I remember I lost my phone in the sea.
“Must have left my phone in the theater or something,” I tell Grace.
“I’ll let him know we’re at the Canny Man but that you’re heading back soon,” she says, pulling out her phone and typing away before I can tell her to stop, that I’m doomed anyway. The instant she sends the text, her phone buzzes in her hand. She smiles at her screen, then hands the phone to me.
A selfie of Hugo. Sitting on my front steps in the dark. Beside him is what looks like a bottle of champagne, a bouquet of stargazers. He looks tired, worried. He looks beautiful and nothing at all like Paul.
Tell her I’ll be here when she’s ready.
I feel my face break out into a smile in spite of myself. A sharp pang of longing that’s all for him. Back when he was just himself, in his cathedral of wood and light, smiling at me with no tricks.
“I guess he must have missed you backstage,” Grace says. “Where the hell were you anyway? During the show?”
“I thought I heard a noise,” I tell her. “In the black box.”
“What was it?”
Just my worst nightmares come to life. Just three demons trying to win my soul. The coming storm is a vengeful triumvirate howl.
“Just some people fooling around in the dark,” I tell Grace. I smile at her. “You know.”
* * *
After I say goodbye to Grace, I walk over to the bar. A drink while I wait, why not? Might as well wait. Not like I can run, am I right? Not from this, not from them. ’Tis time, as they say. ’Tis time, ’tis time. I feel them coming. In the crackle of the air. In the static around the music. In the wind that keeps blowing the door open, then shut. Grace said I should leave with her, go home, get Hugo to take me to the hospital. She even offered to come along. She said I can’t be too careful. It was quite a fall, after all. She doesn’t know about those doctors who said I hadn’t broken anything. I mean really, how do they know? Well, they are doctors, I told Grace. I told her I feel fine. I told her not to worry. I told her go home, get rest. She shouldn’t push it, what with her recent illness. These things have a way of rebounding, I said. They have a way of coming back around. I hugged her then. Breathed her in one last time. Goodbye, Grace. Hard to let go of her. I held on for a long time.
But what about the storm coming? she said. You should get home before it really hits.
I should, I said. But I sat back down in my seat, eyes fixed on the table, ears tuned to the storm. I could feel her hesitating before she turned away. I looked up, managed a smile. Soon.
* * *
At the bar, there’s almost no one. Just another woman sitting alone. The songs Grace selected are still playing on the speaker. What song is it now? “Me and My Shadow” again, sounds like. Or maybe it never stopped playing. Perhaps it’s a long version. Maybe there’s a long version of this song that I don’t know about. There’s a roar of rain overhead now. A wind blowing all around. The windows flash white with lightning, lighting up the bar as I take a seat. The bartender’s back there. I’ve seen him here before. Middle-aged. Thinning hair. Somber eyes. He was the one who was here the night I first met the three men, and then again the night I learned there was a downstairs to this place. And I went down and down and down.
Tonight, he’s wiping down the bar with that same dirty rag. Shelves of amber bottles gleam dully behind him. Just as I’m about to order, he turns away from me toward the woman sitting a couple of seats over.
She’s around my age probably. Long, dark hair. Some bone-white hairs among the black. Faded red lipstick. Pale face etched with misery lines. Looking at her, I feel a sudden tingle of recognition at the base of my spine. Do I know her? No, of course not, she’s a stranger. And yet she’s familiar to me. Something in her grim gaze. The downward turn of her red lips. I smile at her. She doesn’t see me. She’s staring straight ahead, into the middle distance. Eyes glassy and sad and faraway. Unwell, I think. Definitely. Her eyes are glassy from drugs. I know what kinds.
The bartender smiles at her. I watch her come back to herself. Feign a smile through the pain. She orders her drink quietly. I can’t hear her over the sound of Judy’s singing and the roaring rain and the now shrieking wind. The storm and the singing are like a singular music. The bartender sets a single napkin down before her that reads THE CANNY MAN. He pulls up a bottle from under the counter and pours her a glass. Places it on the napkin with great ceremony, then bows a little at her like she’s a king. The drink is a golden color, I see. It glows with its own light. The golden remedy. She thanks him with a nod of her head, and he bows again.