“That’s the old-style menu,” says Randy. “They replaced those years ago.”
Caleb slowly opens the menu, and I think we all feel it. Something is going on here, as if we’re barely in control any more.
“Check it out,” Caleb says quietly. He points to the top corner of the inside page. Someone has etched blue lettering into the plastic with a ballpoint pen. Block letters:
A
T
N
No one comments, instead we just start scouring the map from three angles, looking for clues.
When I see one, I can’t help whispering: “There.”
Halfway down the first page, under the egg dishes, the “I” in “Spanish Omelette” is colored over, a blue indent.
“Here’s another one.” Randy points to the opposite page. The “B” in “Blintzes.”
“Here’s a ‘T’,” says Caleb.
“Do you think it’s a message?” says Randy.
Caleb and I don’t answer. We already know it is. Under the table, he squeezes my leg. There is so much energy vibrating around us right now, excitement, fear, potential, the protective cloak of a secret, all of that and then some.
We lean close, combing the menu. I get my phone out of my bag and open a notepad. We start from the “I” and call out letters, our fingers running over the plastic, feeling for indents like ancient runes.
“T.”
“S.”
“It’s . . . ?” I say.
More letters.
“A-l-l . . .”
“About . . .”
“The . . .”
“Vinyl.”
“Of course it is,” says Randy. To the air beside him: “Vinyl always sounds way better than CDs.” To the ceiling: “Not to mention freakin’ mp3s. Might as well flush your—”
“That can’t be it,” says Caleb. “It has to mean more.”
I hear the disappointment in his voice, and feel it too, like an adrenaline wave just broke inside me, and now there’s a mess of foam running this way and that. “Yeah. He wouldn’t send us here, to Vic, to this menu, just to make a vague reference, would he?”
“Unless he was high when he did it,” says Caleb.
That crossed my mind too, but I’m not giving up hope yet. “No, it’s got to be more specific.”
“I don’t get it. What were you guys expecting?” Randy asks.
“I don’t even know.” Caleb leans back and lets his head fall against the back of the booth.
“Eli was into collecting vinyl,” Randy muses. “Maybe he left his records for you? I don’t know what would have happened to them, though.”
I keep scouring the menu, but there’s nothing else there.
“Maybe we’ve been making this whole thing up,” says Caleb.
Vic returns with a large tray by his shoulder and starts laying out our food. He’s mostly just doing his work like normal, but at one point, he looks at Caleb, then over to me.
Something about his expression . . . and I find myself asking: “Is there anything else?” Maybe he knows what this is, what we’re missing.
He glances away from me for a second, almost like he’s looking at something behind me. Then back to the table. “Do you need a refill on the waters?” He asks like he has no idea.
“No.”
As he leaves, I glance over my shoulder but there’s nothing there except the blank tan wall and a black-and-white picture of an old actress.
Randy starts digging in. I lean back and join Caleb, shoulders touching, gazing up into the brilliant autumn leaves.
“This was dumb,” Caleb says quietly. “I didn’t even want him in my life in the first place.” He sounds so defeated.
“I’m sorry.” I’m not sure what else to say. I feel bad for suggesting we come here, for getting our hopes up. Exhaustion weighs me down. My legs are sore from all that trudging through sand, and my whole body feels sticky from the salty beach air. As I turn my head to look at Caleb, my neck sticks to the brown vinyl of the booth.
Vinyl.
I sit up. Start running my hands over the seat around me.
“What are you doing?”
“The booth.” I say. “Vinyl.” It doesn’t seem likely. . . . Thousands of people have sat here in the years since Eli was here, but . . . I examine it anyway. Caleb starts to do the same. Running our hands over the contours of the seat, then spaces between cushions, the underside where the seat meets wood. Then I remember Vic’s gaze. I feel behind the curved top of the booth, in the crevice where the vinyl meets the back wall.
My fingers find a sharp edge, a tear in a seam, and a sliver of exposed padding. I press around it . . . and find something hard. I pinch and pull. . . .
And remove an object.
“I found something.” I spin around and hold my palm beneath the table.
It’s a small rectangular case made of opaque plastic, about the length of a credit card, and a half inch thick.
“That’s an old videotape, right?” says Caleb.
“DV tape,” says Randy. “Late nineties, I’d guess. Wait . . .” He looks at us, understanding making him pale even with the red residue. “Is that from . . . Eli?”
“We think so.” Caleb takes it from my hand. Turns it over.
“What the hell is on it?”
Caleb looks at me. Should we tell him? I nod.
“I think it’s ‘Exile,’” says Caleb.
“EX—” Randy nearly shouts, simultaneously hopping in his seat. He contains himself and leans close. “Exile? You mean the song ‘Exile’? The—”
“Yes, that one. And maybe the other ones, too. ‘Anthem,’ ‘Encore.’”
Randy gazes at the tape again like it’s a sacred artifact.
A message from a dead man.
Vic doesn’t return. We nibble at our food, barely. Caleb holds the tape in a tight fist on the seat between us.
After a few minutes of stunned silence and glances in all directions, wary of our secret being known, we make plans: Randy will search out a DV camcorder in the morning, as soon as vintage stores are open. Caleb and I will meet at his house.
“What about the rest of the band?” I ask him.
“Can you trust the others?” Randy asks. “How long have you known them?”
This is what I am thinking, too, even when I can remove my obvious desire for Val not to be there.
But Caleb shakes his head. “I already blew up one band because of this.” He taps the case. “They probably think tonight was just me being some lead-singer diva. They all should’ve walked offstage when I started that other song, but they stuck it out. They had my back.”
Caleb’s right. “It will be hard to keep this from them,” I say. “It will probably just mess things up further.” When my Val-mistrusting side can keep quiet, it feels like the right move is to tell them. And I don’t mention the other thought on my mind, because I know Caleb isn’t sure what he would do with these lost songs, but I can almost guarantee that the rest of the band will immediately picture what I do: Dangerheart revealing them to the world by playing them live.
Caleb thinks for a second, and then nods. “Let’s tell them.”
13
MoonflowerAM @catherinefornevr 2h
Just another mundane Saturday. #nothingtoseehere
I wake up early Saturday, though it could never be early enough to beat Carlson Squared, professional go-getters. I hear them bustling downstairs, and decide to wait out the fray and check email in bed.
There’s one reply I was hoping for, from Marni Rodgers. She’s in charge of the Harvest Slaughter. People dress like slasher film characters, zombies, or any other ghouls, and the bands dress up, too. We even pick a costume winner, who has the honor of getting Carrie’d onstage (it’s fake blood; one of the PTA dads works for Sony).