Page 49 of And Still Her Voice
“I’m at the bus station on Mission Street.”
“Let me come to you.”
***
As the sun poked its face up over the bay, I sat outside on a bus bench watching a couple of pigeons pecking around my feet and remembered I still had some bread from yesterday. I unwrapped my napkin and tore off some pieces, stale by now, and soon a few more gathered. Little runaways who always made their way back home. I’d lost my connection home and I’d run out of breadcrumbs to help me find my way back.
I looked up thinking I saw River, an oasis shimmering toward me out of a dry desert. Bathed in the morning sun, it warmed my heart when he waved. “Here you are,” he shouted. Even through his little round lilac sunglasses, I could see his eyes crinkle up when he smiled. Dressed in purple and green striped bell bottoms, and a camel-colored leather jacket, his trim Afro glistened like moonlight on a dark sea.
“What’s with the Cleopatra look?” he asked, pointing to his eye.
“I was going for Twiggy.”
The palm of his hand spread over his face, he shook his head, like he was trying not to laugh. He then reached for my bag. “They want us to leave with them tonight.”
“Who wants us?”
“The band. Lazarus Rising.Their keyboardist got popped for drugs, so they want you. Plus, they liked our little performance the other night back at the house. You know, me singing and swinging. You backing me up. We’ll be the opening act. We can call each other Asphalt and Patchouli.”
“Are you serious?”
“First show is Friday night up in Eureka. Are you in?”
“What about my family? What about Moss? What about my father?”
“This is a journey only made heavier when you carry your past on your back. Let them go. This is your time. Someone probably just forgot to pay the phone bill. You can try again at the next stop. As for Moss, remember, it was self-defense.”
He sounded persuasive and yet Grandma shouted, “We need to go home.” But her voice was drowned out by the sound of the church bells chiming in the distance, a streetcar clanging, and then a foghorn. The signs were everywhere.
“Yes! Eureka, here we come,” I shouted, trying to convince myself that this was a sane way to go.
CHAPTER 18
LazarusRising
All but three rows of seats in the front of the bus had been removed. There were a couple of bunk beds on either side in the back and a small lounge area with pillows on the floor. The rest looked like the inside of an empty garage with the equipment, a couple of bikes, some suitcases, and sleeping bags. On the bus was our driver, Abe, a big burly guy who would also fill in as bouncer, the manager Ralphie, River, and me. John would fly out and arrive late Friday around the same time we’d come pulling up to the Eureka Municipal Auditorium.
River sat across the aisle from me wearing an open, purple and green velvety vest, underneath his brown abs so tight I could practically see his ivory ribcage. I wondered what it would be like to run my hand across his chest. I wondered if he’d let me.
“I went to the Tenderloin police station looking for you,” I said, peeling my eyes off his torso.
His eyes sparked up. “Girl, the Loin’s my old stomping ground.” He scooted closer to me from across the aisle.
I recalled how I’d passed all the drag bars along the way to the police station, the glazed looks of hookers like aimless carousel horses hanging out of hotel fronts.
“Seriously, I used to pass through there on my way to church.” River laughed. “The Church for the Fellowship of all Peoples over on Larkin. Tenderloin’s no place for a girl like you,” he added.
“Like me? It’s no place for a human like me. What happened with the police? I mean, why did they come back for you?”
“Someone reported seeing me run out of the Steinway Café the night before Moss was killed.”
“But you were in drag,” I said, remembering him that night adjusting his wig as he scrambled out of the cafe. “How would they know?”
He strummed his cheeks with his fingertips and arched a manicured eyebrow. “I suppose I’ve become a little notorious.” He then smoothed his hair with the back of his palm. “A celebrity of sorts.”
True. I’d heard people referring to him lately as a cross between Little Richard and Liberace, but I was reminded more of that movie with Tony Curtis and Jack Lemon dressing as women to hide from the mob. I peered a little deeper at River; the way his eyes twinkled, definitely Tony Curtis, my childhood heartthrob. We were both in transit, running and hiding from something—a couple of angsty teenage gangsters.
“Did, did they ask about me? I mean, at the police station—did anyone report seeing me at Steinway’s?”
