Girl in Pieces

In the morning, someone shouts Riley’s name and I roll over, looking at him, his face slack and pale. I touch his shoulder lightly, listening to the sound of footsteps coming around the side of the house and then the knuckles that tap the half-opened window. Riley startles, his eyes flying open. I notice the grayish pallor of his face, the pink cast to his eyes. He was facedown in the bathroom when I came in last night. At first I was scared, and then I realized he was just passed out. It took me a while to drag him down the hall to the bedroom, and even longer to hoist him onto the bed.

He presses a finger to his lips, pulls the sheet over me. The mattress squeals as he crawls across the bed to the window, pushing it open. “Oh, hey. It’s you.” His voice is flat, wary.

The voice that answers is amused. “Well, well. Up to the old tricks, I guess. Who’s beneath the sheet?”

Riley answers, “None of your business.”

“Come on, let me see. I liked that last one you threw away. Liked her so much I married her, too.” Muffled laughter.

My heart jumps. Riley was married? My breath catches in my throat.

“What do you want?” Riley coughs. He’s angry; I can hear it. Sunlight filters through the faded sheet. It’s getting hard to breathe with it draped over me. I’m starting to wonder if Riley’s embarrassed by me, if he doesn’t want his friend to see me.

“Luis Alvarez has pancreatic cancer.”

Riley’s body stiffens. “Are you fucking with me?” He sucks in his breath. “He let me borrow his car a few weeks ago. He just said he wasn’t feeling well that day. That he wasn’t going to work.”

“Nope, no joke.” The speaker’s words come out a little softer. “It’s too late, man. There’s just too much of it.

“But listen, I’m putting together a concert at Congress for his wife and kids. They’re gonna need some money. Thought about the Rialto, but I think Congress is better. Won’t happen until sometime in the fall, though. All day, all ages, booze with ID, maybe a couple of outdoor stages, too. Probably have to get some local distributors to pony up, but most everyone knows Luis, so it shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Fuck, that sucks.” Riley is silent for a moment. “He’s a really good guy.”

“Yeah.” Pause. “Just give me a little peek, huh?” The sheet wiggles slightly.

“Fuck off. What do you want, anyway?”

“Word of mouth is you’re giving nightly concerts for the neighborhood and that the musicianship’s not half bad. So I got to thinking: Riley West back in the game? That might sell some tickets. Especially for the inevitable onstage implosion.”

“Fuck you.”

“Now, now. This is for Luis. He helped us out a lot, back in the day.” The other voice is quiet, almost pleading. “You can do this, Riley. I know you can do this.”

“Tiger.” Riley sighs. “I haven’t played out in almost two years.”

I make myself as still as possible, careful not to miss a word.

“This is for Luis. He’s fucking sick, man. Tons of other people have already lined up. I’ve got the Hold-Outs, Slow Thump, Cat Foley, California Widows, Hitler’s Niece, Swing Train, Eight-Men-On, and I’ll get more, I promise.”

There is a silence. Finally, Riley says yes.

“Good man. Now, have you recorded any of the new shit yet? I’ve absolutely got to hear what Riley West has been up to.”

Riley slides off the bed. I hear him cross the room and pull on a pair of jeans and mumble that he’ll be right back.

Slowly, the sheet starts to peel away. Tiger Dean still has black hair, just like on the album covers, but it’s no longer whirled elaborately over his forehead. It’s short, well combed, and thinning. When I was looking up Riley, and Long Home, on the computer at the library, I found Tiger Dean’s website. It said Tiger Dean still makes music with local bands, performs for private parties, and is also available for your graphic design needs. There was a photograph of him behind a desk, one hand on the computer keyboard, the other holding the neck of a cherry-red Stratocaster.

“Hello there.” A smile flickers on Tiger Dean’s face. I don’t trust it. It reminds me of those too-cool guys in high school who always sauntered down the hall nonchalantly slapping the heads of geeks as they passed by. Tiger Dean angles himself a little farther into the window. He’s wearing a red corduroy blazer.

I sit up and kick the sheet down my body. I’m dressed in a dirty jersey shirt, still grimy from my shift yesterday, and an old pair of Riley’s striped pajama bottoms, rolled way over at the waist. My mouth tastes like cigarette butts. After I lugged Riley into the bed last night, I went back to the bathroom and smoked one of his cigarettes, ashing it in the sink. I finished the fresh beer that he must have just opened before he passed out, too. He’d set it carefully on the side of the tub.

“What are you doing with this little punk girl?” Tiger calls to Riley, leaning in against the window frame. “What are you wasting your time for?”

Last night I sat on the toilet, drinking and smoking, thinking about how I’d just had to drag my boyfriend, who may or may not consider me his girlfriend, into bed, and how I did runs for his drugs, and how I did those things for nothing—for his hand on my cheek when he was sober. And then I finished the beer and went back into the bedroom and walked right up to the side of the bed, testing the floorboards for the creak I’d noticed, and then brought my heel down smack on the floor. A piece of the board popped up, and there it was: Riley’s kit, a small square cherrywood box that contained everything he needed. Everything he needed instead of me.

But I’m not going to let Tiger Dean know that.

I look hard at Tiger Dean and slowly, slowly, raise my middle finger.

Surprised, he frowns. “For God’s sake.” His eyes move to the scars on my arms; I don’t try to hide them. “Two peas in a pod,” he murmurs. “Playing little fuckery games.”

Riley comes through the doorway with a beer, which makes me wince. If he starts this early, it will be a long, uneven day. He tosses the CD through the window to Tiger Dean, who catches it smoothly and tucks it inside his blazer. Riley climbs back onto the bed, nestling the bottle between his knees. He looks from Tiger to me.

“Couldn’t resist, huh?”

Tiger casually touches the sunglasses on top of his head; they fall easily over his eyes. “You always had such interesting taste. I just wanted to make sure your work had remained consistent.”

“Adios.”

“This one seems a little young, though. Little uncouth for my taste.”

“Vete a la chingada.”

“Oof.” Tiger raises his chin to me. “I bet if you knew his real name, you’d be out of here in a goddamn minute. It’s—”

Riley starts to close the window on Tiger’s fingers. Tiger laughs.

“I’ll be in touch. And Riley,” he says through the glass, lifting up his sunglasses. “Please, try to delay the inevitable Riley West breakdown until the actual concert. That’s what’s going to get people in the seats, like the old days.”

Riley closes the window. Before he even settles back in the bed, I blurt, “Married?” I wonder if he’s going to lie to me. “You were married ?”

He gazes at me steadily, not blinking. “Yep.”

“Like, till death do us part and all that? Ring-on-finger church thing?”

“Happens all the time. Guy finds a girl, they kiss, he buys a ring, they get married by Elvis in Las Vegas on a tour stop. And then, boom. Shit happens, girl leaves guy for lead singer in guy’s band. The end.” He takes a long pull on his beer.

“What kind of shit happened?”

Riley traces the neck of his beer with a finger. His nails are dirty. “Me. I’m the shit. All my shit.”

“Do you…ever see her?” My heart’s thudding. I feel kind of sick. “What was her name?” I don’t even know why I want to know, but I do. It’s like the puzzle I had assembled for Riley has been kicked apart, and new pieces have been dropped into my hands.

A grin spreads across his face. “Are you jealous, Strange Girl? Because you don’t need to be. No, I never see her. They live in a nice house up in the foothills. Got a baby and everything.”

“What was her name?”

“Charlie.”

“Tell me.”

“Her name was Marisa.”

Marisa. My mind whirs. Ma-ri-sa. A pretty girl’s name. Delicate features, I bet. I can see that. I can see Riley falling for someone whose whole body sang delicate.

I shut my eyes so he can’t see the pricks of tears.

“Aw, no, don’t start that.” He nudges me with his elbow playfully. “I had a life, Charlie, before I knew you. I’m older than you, girl. I’ve done all sorts of shit. Even fallen in love and got married. No need to worry about that now.”

I push his elbow away, hiccup. “Like change your name?”

He laughs. “Yep. Didn’t you know that, though? We all had the same last name for the band: West. Tiger thought it would be cooler that way. He uses his real last name now.”

“What about the Riley part?”

“Oh, I’ve had that forever. Since I was little. I was always fucking shit up in one way or another. My dad used to say, ‘Who do you think you are, living the life of Riley or something?’ Stupid. But it stuck.”

“Well,” I say slowly. “What’s your real name, then?”

“My real name is Riley West because that’s who I am now.” He closes his eyes and yawns. “No more questions, okay? Test’s over. Put down your pencil and leave your blue book on the table, please.”

Frustrated, I say, “I can ask Julie.” It’s one more puzzle piece.

He finishes his beer, puts the bottle on the floor by the bed. He wraps his arms around me, burying his face under my shirt. “She won’t tell. She’ll never tell.”

He licks my belly button. “The thing I like about you, Strange Girl, is you don’t ask for much. You don’t ask for more than you need. You know what a tremendous relief that is, that you just let me be?”

And then he distracts me so much, I forget all about asking Julie his real name, or more about his ex-wife, or even about the box under the floorboards, or about how little I need.