Page 5 of Finding Silence
“Did your parents hate you?” The comment so startles me, I almost drop the keys. “Phil?” he adds, assuming that explains his previous comment.
“Well…” I start, gathering my wits. “I can’t speak for my daddy, since I haven’t the foggiest idea who he might be, but I can assure you my momma loved me with every fiber of her being, which is why she named me after Grandma Phyllis.”
That seems to knock the wind out of his sails, as his eyes widen at my response. But then he presses his lips together, tips the brim of his hat as if by rote, and without another word, turns on his heel and stalks back to the classic Bronco he drove up in.
I stand beside my school bus, still trying to process what just happened, as I watch him drive off at a good clip, kicking up a cloud of dust behind him. It’s not until he disappears over the next hill that I turn and head inside to wash my hands.
I’m grateful to Rowan, who made sure the water and electricity were turned on. Even though my furniture won’t be here for another four days—courtesy of Grace, my business manager—I’ll be able to use the bathroom and the kitchen, and will make do with what I can haul in from the bus. I’ll probably just sleep in the bus in the driveway, but after months of hitting my elbows on the walls of the teensy shower in my rig, I’m looking forward to a long, leisurely bath in the freestanding soaking tub in my new bathroom. And I can’t wait to prepare meals in the new kitchen, since cooking on a small three burner stove in close quarters gets old fast.
I’m not about to let a leaking gasket or a visit from a crotchety neighbor sour my day.
It’s on my third run, hauling groceries and kitchen items from the bus into the house, my phone starts ringing. Thank goodness there’s a cell phone tower only a few miles outside of town providing full service, because reception can be iffy in the mountains, as I’ve discovered.
Expecting a call from Grace, I’m unfortunately too fast in answering.
“Finally, where the fuck have you been?”
I close my eyes when I hear Dunk’s voice. The person I’ve been trying to avoid.
“Well, hello to you too, Duncan. And how are you?”
My attempt at civility falls flat when he responds with, “What the fuck, Phil?”
I let out a deep sigh before answering.
“I’ve been traveling, Dunk. Exploring this beautiful country of ours.”
“You’ve been ignoring my calls, that’s what you’ve been doing,” he accuses.
Good Lord, I am so tired of ill-tempered men. I swear it’s the reason I never married one; I already spent the better part of twelve years on the road with three of them. If I think back to those first years on a tour bus that stank like a locker room for long months at a time, my skin crawls. The others used to tease me about my time of the month on the rare occasion I was in a bad mood, but those guys were temperamental all the damn time.
“Yes, I have,” I admit freely. “And if I’d looked at my screen before answering, I probably would’ve ignored this call as well. So, consider yourself lucky.”
“God, you can be a bitch,” he decides to share with me.
I do a little deep breathing before I answer.
“You know, Dunk, given that you are calling me—which I presume to mean you need something, since I know you’re not simply checking up on me—you may want to refrain from slinging insults. Now…what is it I can do for you?”
“Come on, Phil. Why are you being so difficult?” He tries for a conciliatory tone, which falls a little flat. “This tour would be a great opportunity. Our big comeback. The other guys are on board.”
I have my doubts about that, but I’m sure Jeff and Ollie tell him that because they know damn well there is no way I’ll go along with this. There’s a reason Listen Phyllis broke up nine or so years ago and, as Duncan’s phone call only underlines, nothing has changed.
When the band was still together, Jeff and Ollie were basically Switzerland, while Dunk and I were on opposite ends of a myriad of arguments. Not even arguments about the music, but mostly about the kind of shit Duncan managed to get himself into. From drugs to underaged girls and everything in between. There wasn’t a line he wouldn’t cross, and then expected me to rescue him on the other side.
I know over the years he hasn’t changed much—Grace has kept tabs for me—and I know one of the reasons he’s been so eager to get us back together, since we did that charity reunion in December last year, is because he’s blown through all his money.
“As I’ve told you before, I have zero interest in any kind of comeback. I’m happy doing exactly what I’m doing.”
“Easy for you to say, you’re still rolling in it.” He sounds like a petulant child.
“Because instead of blowing it all living like the rock star you no longer are, I’ve invested well and continued to work,” I retaliate, losing my cool.
The man is infuriating, and I’m even less tolerant now than I was nine years ago.
When he snarls, “You’re a selfish bitch,” I’ve had enough.
“That’s the second time in two minutes you’ve called me a bitch, and it will be the last. Here’s what I suggest you do; lose my number, because I’m now officially blocking you.”
