Chapter 4

When Cheryl and Joe got home to their Upper Westside townhouse, he knew where he needed to go immediately. Top floor. The floor for their offices. To Moe.

Who stewed in her anger. Probably had been for a while. “He’s fucking here, Joe,” she said.

He opened his arms. She filled them. “What’s he doing here?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll find out.”

“He wants another chance to fuck all your women.”

“I hope not. But I don’t think so.”

“Then why?”

“Maybe he needs a friend.”

“But he hates you.”

“Sometimes,” he chuckled. “Maybe he’s regressing. Wants to get back to what it was with us.”

“But ... what about Shawn?”

“She has her own problems. I think he’s a little too fucked up for her to handle. But what did he say when you got home?”

“He was still passed out on the coach.”

“Probably getting fucked up all night.”

“Probably.”

“Mommy?” they heard behind them. Their littlest.

Joe’s wives had two kids each. Each about a year apart. Weirdly each had a boy and a girl, just like Cheryl hoped. Cheryl’s followed Joanne’s pattern of angels. Moe’s was in reverse order.

Melissa, perhaps the most adorable. Luckily she got most of her mother’s looks. Darker blonde hair though, almost brunette like his. And his blue/gray eyes.

Moe had finally let her true color hair come out. No more Goth black. Her hair ended up being almost a white blonde. Very pale. Startlingly so. Joe hadn’t decided which he preferred. He’d liked the contrast of black with her pale skin. But blonde gave her more of a classic beauty. Like Grace Kelly. But tougher, with more character.

“I’m okay, Mal,” her mom said. Moe wanted to call her Malicious. Something about being pregnant and giving birth. They settled on Melissa instead, but Mal still ended up her nickname at Moe’s insistence.

“Oh. Okay. Hi Daddy.”

“I thought you hadn’t noticed me.”

She raised her arms, instantly forgiven. He broke the long embrace with Moe and lifted her into his arms, kissing her forehead.

“Hey,” he said when Cheryl appeared. “I wondered how Mal got up here.”

“She needed to check on her mother.”

“Eddie?”

“Eating. Waffles, strawberries and sausage.”

“Good. Essie fixed them?”

“Yep. She’s having it too. You guys coming down?”

“Did he say anything?” asked Moe.

“Yeah. He couldn’t look at me. But his apology sounded heartfelt. It’s like he shook with it.”

“Alright,” Moe sighed. “It’s not like he’d have done it.”

“You know that’s not the problem?” Joe said.

“Of course I know,” she muttered.

When they got downstairs he greeted his kids. A hug and a kiss. And his sort of kid. Essie. At least she wore regular clothes that covered her body instead of enhancing what was naked and what wasn’t. She hugged longer. He reacted to her. She looked at him, hopeful. The cheek kiss disappointed. “We’ll talk later,” he whispered into her nearby ear, then broke the embrace.

She studied him and sighed. “I’ll go change for bed.”

“What about your food?” he asked.

“You and Cheryl can finish it. I actually made it for you, but it looked too good,” she giggled. Then walked away, ass swinging. He wanted to swat that naughty ass. That rather firm round perfect ass. She of course caught his focus and winked.

“I guess the rest is for us,” he said to Cheryl.

“Great. I’m starved,” said Cheryl. They sat close and shared the delicious late breakfast.

Eddie looked up at them, and at Moe glaring at him from across the table.

He gulped before saying, “I’m so completely sorry Moe. I didn’t even know what I did until Essie told me. Which is no excuse. I don’t even know how I got here.”

“Do you remember what Joanne told you about Trevor?” he asked.

“I do remember that,” he muttered. “Fucking cunt.”

“Children!” Cheryl growled.

Eddie cringed.

“I’ll put them to bed,” said Moe.

“Have you eaten?” Joe asked her.

“Yeah. I got take out for me and Essie. Managed to get it down.”

He nodded. She kissed him and Cheryl and became a mother to her and Cheryl’s kids. She was tougher than Cheryl and Joe with them, but more compassionate at the same time. Joe tended towards trying to communicate with their much younger minds. Cheryl played. They loved them completely but showed it in different ways.

“You don’t remember coming here,” Joe said to Eddie. “But do you remember why you’re here?”

“Yeah. You still got your bass?”

“Uhm, yeah?” Joe actually had a little studio in the basement. He bought a really nice electric piano for Charlie when he visited. And Moe’s oldest, Nathan (she wanted to call him Nasty) took after his mom playing drums, but had more talent, even at 7 years old. It was a very small set. In Joe’s biased view, his kids were exceptionally smart, grades and teachers confirming it. Their oldest, Rhonda (Cheryl wanted an unpronounceable Irish name, at least for most Americans, Siobhan, but Joe nixed it, reminding her about the problems she might have with a weird name. And Rhonda is a very rock and roll name.) took after dad, writing poetry. Not very good, but getting better. But he’d have to admit only Nate as they called him showed any prodigious talent. The kid could keep a beat.

“I haven’t worked since Nige’s death,” Eddie explained. “I need it. And we can talk.”

Joe looked at Cheryl, who shrugged.

“Okay,” he said.

Eddie stood and went to his pile of stuff near the front door and grabbed a guitar case. The twelve string.

“Follow me,” Joe said and went to the elevator.

When it opened, Essie stood in the car, wearing her usual tank top that emphasized her smallish breasts. Nipples pressed the cloth. Small but there. At least she wore something besides panties, though the silk pajamas seemed to have their own provocation.

“I thought we were going to talk,” she pouted, seeing Eddie behind Joe.

“Not tonight,” Joe said. “I have to deal with our unexpected visitor.”

“Oh. You plan to play, Eddie?”

“Helps me think,” he said.

“Cool. Can I come?”

“Don’t you need your beauty sleep?” Joe asked her.

“Aren’t I beautiful enough?” she teased, arching to show off her breasts and ass.

“You know you are, Esther,” he sighed.

“I’m really not sleepy. Please?”

“Come on,” said Eddie, gruffly.

“Cool,” Essie grinned.

Joe sighed. Again.

“Cute set,” said Eddie when they entered the padded room. The other padded room.

“That’s Nate’s,” Joe told him. “He’s a talented little drummer.”

“Another Cowsills?” he smirked.

“Cowsills?” asked Essie.

“Like the Partridge family, but real,” Joe explained, pulling out his bass.

“You’re going to play, Uncle Joe?” she asked, excited.

“I guess I am.”

“Cool. But no, Uncle Eddie. Just Charlie and Nate have any talent. And Joe apparently.”

“She doesn’t know?” asked Eddie, settling down in a chair and beginning to tune his twelve string.

“I thought she did,” Joe said, plugging in and tuning.

“Know what?” asked Essie, leaning against a wall, her arms folded below her cute breasts.

“Joe and I started the Monsters,” Eddie said.

“Wow. And I didn’t think Joe could be even cooler.”

“Joe cool?” Eddie laughed.

“Asshole,” Joe muttered.

“Dickhead,” he returned.

“You going to play?” Joe asked.

“Give me a basic blues with a walking line.”

These Boots Are Made for Walking.

A B C A.

He began strumming and picking.

“More Rumble,” he said.

Link Wray.

They jammed for a bit. Eddie diddling around. Sounding great. He couldn’t help sounding great.

“I’m firing Jo,” he finally said.

“Maybe one mistake,” Joe said.

“Maybe?”

“You liked Trevor.”

“I thought I loved him.”

“You did love him.”

“It was all pretend.”

“Was it?”

Eddie played harder. “Of course it was. He’s a fucking porn star.”

“Are you that gullible?”

“Fuck you.”

“No really. You think any actor, especially some half assed one, could be that convincing?”

“Maybe he’s Oscar caliber but never got his chance.”

“Even so. You think De Niro could work you like that?”

“You think he actually liked me?”

“Of course he liked you. You should call him. Joanne will have his number.”

“I fell in love with a guy who looks like you. How fucked up is that?”

“He’s a lot prettier than me.”

“Who isn’t?” Eddie smirked.

“Did he act like me?”

“He was much cooler, and he didn’t steal my girls.”

“Eddie.”

“Whatever.”

“Get over it.”

“Why should I?”

“Because it’s been ten years since what you think happened happened.”

“But they’re all still around. Jo. Cheryl. Shawn. And Rache still has a thing for you.”

“She still on that? She’s still pushing your buttons.”

“I know. Rache the Bache.”

“You think I’m with those women to spite you? And not that I happened to bump into these incredible women at eighteen, and for some reason, they stuck around? Are you that much of a paranoid narcissist?”

“Fuck you.”

“No fuck you, Eddie.”

“Shawn.”

“What about her?”

“You love her?”

“Of course I love her.”

“I love her too.”

“I know.”

“Why couldn’t you have let at least her be mine.”

“Jesus Eddie. You don’t think these women have their own minds?”

“It would just be you getting out of my way.”

“She didn’t marry me, Eddie. She didn’t marry you. She married a fucking future Nobel Prize winner.”

“So why when I called her she told me to talk to you?”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“No. Just tell me why she would say that?”

“Besides you attempting to rape Moira?”

“I didn’t remember. But even if I did, she would still have talked through it. She knows how fucked up I am.”

“Maybe she didn’t know you were that fucked up.”

“She would have called me on my shit. And we would have gotten through it.”

“Okay. Maybe it’s not that, but it’s still on you.”

“Why?”

“Because, at Nigella’s funeral, she really needed to talk to you. But instead you got so fucked up, you couldn’t talk.”

“It was Nige’s funeral.”

“So? Did she ask you to stay sober?”

“I said I’d need a couple, but yeah.”

“And when a couple became a dozen? And with lines of coke on top?”

“She got pissed with every shot. Wanted to pull me out of there. Told me she needed to talk to me.”

“She told you she needed you.”

“It was Nige’s fucking wake.”

“And you blame Nige for ignoring your best friend when she needed you. How many times has it been her needing you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe never?”

“There were times. Decisions she needed to talk through.”

“But not something that deeply upset her.”

“No.”

“And you couldn’t tell?”

“I could.”

“Shit Eddie.”

“Nige fucking died on me.”

“Nigella died to spite you? She was a fucking junkie with AIDS! She loved you, Eddie. She was your collaborator. You let her do her thing and supported her. Even played on her solo shit, making it better, but also getting a lot more sales. You think she wanted to leave that? To leave you? She was the strongest woman I know. And yet she let her demon defeat her. I know she should have fought her demon harder. But I guess she liked her demon too much, or for some fucking reason, needed it. She didn’t want to leave you, Eddie, any more than she wanted to leave Joanne in despair. She fucking couldn’t help herself! And none of us could do anything to help her! So fucking get the fuck over yourself! Shit happens! Fucking terrible shit! But Shawna needed you! She fucking needed you, Eddie!”