THE CONCERT
End of the Contamination
The day of the concert, the governor holds a press conference to let the people of Coopersville and the surrounding counties know their water is safe. He stands behind an impromptu podium someone packed out onto the steps of the capitol building, looking slick in a pinstripe three-piece suit, his red politician’s tie woven into a fat knot. Under the camera’s scrutiny, he congratulates the people of West Virginia for their perseverance.
I watch the entire conference. The reporters ask safe questions, supplicate themselves in appreciation for being granted an audience with the man and an event that will push slack ratings a bit higher. I wait to see if the governor will take a big drink from the nearest tap. Better yet, I want to see the man remove his suit jacket, roll up his pant legs and wade deep into the river like he’s being baptized. After that, I’ll be convinced.
Loneliness is making me bitter. Rosita left two days ago. I tried to talk her into staying, but she wanted to go back to the hotel and take some more photos downtown before the concert. I was concerned about Victor, but Rosita seemed certain she’d be safe on her own. Maybe she’s right, or maybe she just didn’t want to stay with me. When the solitude gets the best of me, I’m sure it’s the latter.
Since she departed, I’m agitated by nearly anything. A broken guitar string is apocalyptic, the sound of squirrels cutting acorns in the trees deafening until I can’t enjoy a midday nap. The only solace comes from playing. Even then, I fight the urge to think about Angela and Felix practicing one of my wasteland lullabies.
Sheriff Saunders showed yesterday with some supplies and a letter from Angela. Nothing personal, just a Hallmark thank-you card stuffed with two VIP tickets. She also brought Angela’s signed guitar back from the office. I set it in the bedroom without opening the case. I didn’t want to see the handwriting. The sheriff asked if she and Rosita could come fetch me Sunday evening for the concert. I told her I appreciated the generosity, but that wouldn’t be necessary. After I thanked her for the note, Sheriff Saunders revealed one last surprise. A parcel wrapped in green and red Christmas paper, a few reindeer with glitter encrusted hoofs prancing across the snowy rooftops on the package. The glitter flaked off as I tore the wrapping and found a gray chambray shirt inside. The buttons were white pearl snaps that shone as Sheriff Saunders held it up to my body. She proclaimed it a good fit without forcing me to try it on.
The shirt hangs from my bedroom doorknob. I’ve paired it with some jeans Sheriff Saunders insisted on ironing before she left. All these strangers fussing over me seems like the final reason needed to tear up the tickets, but I’m afraid to even crease the paper. Before our reunion, I would have preferred crucifixion to seeing Angela again. Now, I need to be sitting in that first row, a reminder of whose songs she’s been playing.
I dress in front of the dirty bathroom mirror and slick my hair back with bottled water. The greasy layers are too long. Several unruly strands drape down onto my collar in curls that refuse to be tamed by a comb. Outside, tires roll over the gravel in the driveway. I swallow a pill for fortification. When I step out, Rosita is waiting on the porch. She’s wearing her uniform of dark jeans and a band T-shirt, her tan leather jacket clinging tight around her. A camera bag is slung over her shoulder. The weathered strap dangles down to her thigh.
“Looking sharp,” she says.
Compliments, even if they are honestly intended, only make me feel like a shy child who requires the praise. Rosita slips a hand into her coat pocket.
“I got you a gift,” she says, revealing a bolo tie with a turquoise centerpiece. “I know it’s a tacky sort of thing.” She dangles it from the string, the turquoise swinging back and forth as if trying to hypnotize me. “But I thought it was very cool in an outlaw country way. I can’t help that I’ve got bad taste.”
“It’s lovely,” I say and mean it. I can’t recall the last time I received so many gifts.
“Bend,” she says.
I lean forward while she slides the tie over my head and pulls it tight.
“There,” she says, giving my collar a final smoothing. “You look very dapper.”
“Never been accused of that,” I say.
“It’s okay to be afraid,” Rosita tells me. “That’s only natural.” She takes my hand and helps me into the back of the sheriff’s SUV.
* * *
• • •
The Coalfield Cinema was the last of the grand Fifties movie palaces. In its prime, gold scrollwork adorned the vaulted ceilings in the two-hundred-seat auditorium, and balconies were positioned around a chandelier dangling like a uvula in the room’s center. Wood carvings of Greek myths flanked the staircases: Poseidon rising from the depths and Zeus standing behind two heavenly ascending columns. The architect decided that all carpeting should be scarlet to match the velvet curtain on the stage and the upholstery on the seats.
After it closed in 1972, the structure fell into disrepair. A small fire in one of the balconies and the destruction of some of the statuary in the lobby prompted a campaign to declare it a historical landmark. Everyone from Chuck Berry to Merle Haggard played it in the Sixties after its stage was converted into a concert hall. So, after years of sitting vacant, a wealthy benefactor had the place refurbished right down to the brass doorknobs. If I had to guess, I’d bet Angela slowly rebuilt it for a return home.
Concertgoers trail through the venue’s main doors. Wives hold the arms of husbands who’ve donned their only suit. Groups of single women huddle in tight clusters, looking at the couples with either relief or envy depending on their current tolerance for loneliness. As the crowd slips inside, ushers in red blazers rip tickets and guide patrons to their seats. Sheriff Saunders’s work-release boys have polished every fixture inside until it glows, shampooed and spot-cleaned the plush carpet until it looks dyed with their own blood. Even new wallpaper, a similar golden shade as before, has been hung.
Rosita squeezes my hand. She offers a tight-lipped smile that keeps the hot taste of bile from creeping farther up my throat. I’m just about to thank her again when a man in a black suit steps toward us through the crowd. His hair is reminiscent of a samurai topknot, his goatee trimmed down to neat stubble. The man extends a hand, and I can’t help but notice the ostentatious gold watch around his wrist.
“Mr. Bragg,” he says. “Ms. Carver has asked me to take your party to your seats.”
The man leads us through the sea of people. If all the eyes weren’t on me before, they are now. I’m afraid we’ll become separated in this swarm, but our escort is patient with my slow stride. He makes his long legs take baby steps while I follow. Our seats are in the front row. I sit down expecting questions about the premium accommodations, but Rosita just gives my arm a pat. She folds her leather jacket in her lap.