When he put her down, he whispered something in her ear; she shook her head and touched the side of his face. Then he took her hand and they walked backstage together.
“There you are,” Rae said, suddenly beside me.
She had a small red box of raisins in her hand and big tortoiseshell sunglasses on, even though it was overcast and drizzly.
For the past month, Rae and I had maintained a copasetic, if not affable, relationship. I’d won points with her for the birdcage, and we’d bonded over the fact that we were both fans of the experimental post-rock band Godspeed You! Black Emperor. Meanwhile, I made sure to leave October’s house earlier than necessary every morning so that Rae didn’t catch me there and go back to considering me the enemy.
“You’re coming backstage, yeah? October’s looking for you.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Rae gave me a suit-yourself shrug and walked away.
I wasn’t ready to be in the same room with Cal and October, and I went back to my truck to kill some time. A sharp rage was scratching at my insides. Usually my rage was silent, heavy and immobile, but that afternoon it was a panther pacing around a cage.
I took the friendship contract out of my pocket and read it again.
Forever in truth and music.
The way I saw it, I was going to break a promise that night, and I had a choice. I could break the one I’d made to Cal or the one I’d made to October. When I finally got out of my truck and headed back into the theater, I honestly didn’t know which way it was going to go.
The doors had opened by then, and people were everywhere. At the north entrance I heard someone call my name and was relieved when I turned to see Thomas and Mr. P behind me. They looked out of place in their fancy suits and slick overcoats. I told them to follow me, and I escorted them backstage. I felt safer walking in with them.
When we entered the room, Cal was pouring whiskey into little Dixie cups and passing them out. “There you are!” he said cheerily, handing me one.
The room had filled up with people clamoring for face time with Cal, and he was gregarious and hospitable to all of them. As I walked by, he whispered, “Bear with me while I shake some hands and kiss some babies,” as if this was all part of his job.
October was alone on the couch, and she looked as uncomfortable as I felt. But when she saw me she smiled with hopeful eyes, like she still believed everything was going to be all right. She gestured for me to sit beside her, but I went to the corner and kept to myself.
The opening band was onstage by then, and before their set was over Wyatt came in and told everyone to follow him to the section of seats he’d reserved for Cal’s guests. I got in the line behind Thomas, but Wyatt put his arm out to stop me and said, “You can stay.”
Wyatt shut the door on his way out, and then it was the three of us, and I was so anxious my skin itched from the inside. Fortunately, Cal was too preoccupied to pick up on the energy in the room. He concentrated on his vocal warm-ups, singing them just like Mr. Collins had taught us, while I sat on the arm of the couch, as far away from October as I could get, and scrolled through the Redwood National Park Instagram page, because I thought looking at trees might calm me down.
When Wyatt came back, he told me and October that he’d cleared a space on the left side of the stage for us to watch the show away from any other people, and then he told Cal it was time to go.
Cal took October’s head in his hands and kissed her forehead. Then he grabbed me by the shoulders, caught me with his pointy eyes, and said, “This one’s for you, brother.”
Most of the music Cal and I listened to when we were kids was what Bob Harper used to call the music of whiners and wallowers. But Cal doesn’t whine or wallow—neither in life nor in music. His voice is like smoke at a campfire, but his presence on stage is energetic, affable, and charming. Watching him perform is like watching someone palpably releasing tension. The sonic counterpart to cracking