Swansong

SWANSONG





         The Saturday paper is spread across the kitchen table. My wife and I attempt to read it between wiping up gobs of cereal flung from our toddler's high chair. As I reach across to capture a large splatter, an advertisement in the entertainment section catches my eye.

"Looks like Nicki's going to be in town," I say, hurling the filthy cloth towards the sink. The old photograph of my sister and her band is reproduced in grainy black and white. “Tonight only! Fake Eskimo and guests”. The name of the bar is unfamiliar, but the address tells me where it is.

"She's not coming here!" My wife's eyes are cold. "Not after last time." I know not to argue with her. Where Nicki is concerned she has lost what little patience she once possessed.

"I know, Hon," I placate her. "But maybe I'll go down to this place. See how she looks."



         The bar is near the waterfront; a seedy side-street of warehouses and abandoned freight yards. I hear the pulse of music and follow it to a shabby building. I peer in the windows but the glass is filthy, warped, giving me only an impression of light and moving shadows within. Taking a deep breath I push open the door to find myself in a smoke-filled room, echoing with the beat of drums. The band is already playing and it takes me a moment to recognize my sister, slumped over the microphone. Her hair hangs over her face in lank, uneven strands, dyed jet black. She is thinner than ever; legs toothpicks beneath the too-short hem of her skirt. Throwing back her head to sing, I see how pale she is, darkly made-up eyes like holes in her head. Long sleeves conceal her arms, but when she reaches for the bottle at her feet I see her hands are scabbed, knuckles raw. I cringe as she takes a swig of Jack Daniels, turning back to the microphone, lit cigarette hanging from the corner of her lip.

“Thank you,” she slurs. “It’s good to be here, in my hometown.” I don’t recognize the cracked and husky voice. I turn to leave as she starts to sing again, stopping when she forgets the next line. She is starting over as I slip out the door, hopefully unseen.



         The doorbell rings just after 3 am. I am not surprised. Carole rolls over next to me.

“Nicki,” we both say.

“I’ll go.” I am already out of bed, toes curling against the cold wooden floorboards.

“Don’t let her in!” Carole hisses as I reach for my robe. “Don’t give her anything.”

“I know,” I sigh, as the doorbell rings again and again, growing insistent.



         Nicki stands on the doorstep, hand raised to press again. I flick on the light and she blinks in the sudden brightness.

“Hey, Tony.” The slurring is more pronounced than in the bar. “It’s me.”

“I can see that. What do you want? It’s 3 am.”

“Can I stay with you?”

“No, Nicki,” I say patiently. “You know that.”

“Just for tonight, Tony.” She looks up, eyes all black pupil. “I got nowhere to go. And I’m broke.”

“I’m sorry, Nicki.” And I am. I want to be able to say yes to her, want to be able to let her into my home.

“Then can you give me some money?”

“No, Nicki. I’m not giving you any money.”

“Why not?” She is getting angry, the way she did as a little kid when she didn’t get her way. “Huh? Why won’t you give me money? I’m your sister!”

“You know why,” I tell her. I’m beginning to lose patience. Nicki and I go through this whenever she comes home.

“It’ll be different this time,” she begs. “I promise, Tony. I’ll be good. I’ll do anything you want. Please, let me stay.”

“I can’t. Just leave, Nick. I can’t do anything for you.” Very slowly I close the door.

“No! Tony, please!” Nicki sticks her foot out to stop the door closing. “Please, Tony…”

“Nicki, I’ve tried to help you. You know I’ve tried. But I can’t do it anymore.” I shove her foot away and gently close the door.



         I’m trying to choke down a cup of coffee before work. I flick through Monday’s paper as I sip the scalding liquid. I am skimming an article about a local gang when something on the facing page catches my eye. “Singer found dead,” reads the headline. Reluctantly I turn my eyes and force myself to read the brief article. Single words and phrases stand out as if in bold: overdose, gutter, former star, early Sunday morning and then, finally, her name. The newspaper drifts to the floor as I turn, leaving the room, my wife’s eyes following me.



797 words