The Shadow Prince

chapter thirty-eight DAPHNE

I wake to the smell of burning.

A shout from Joe sends me running downstairs in my pajamas to investigate. I find him in the kitchen, muttering swearwords, a smoking frying pan in his oven-mitted hands. The counters are littered with eggshells, spilled flour, and various half-empty containers. Batter oozes out the side of a waffle iron, which sits haphazardly on a stack of Us magazines.

“Oi, Daphne,” Joe says when he sees me. “Grab a towel, eh?” He indicates the toppled-over milk container that’s busy glugging out a waterfall of white liquid from the marble island to the hardwood kitchen floor. “Knocked it over while I was trying to save the eggs à la Vince.”

I pull open a drawer and grab Joe’s entire collection of dish towels—all three of them. “Where’s Marta?” I ask, righting the milk carton. I drop the towels on top of the mess. Much to her displeasure, Marta is usually in charge of breakfast. Which usually consists of cinnamon oatmeal for me and a weird concoction of tomato juice, lemon, and Worcestershire sauce for Joe. Basically, a Bloody Mary sans the alcohol.

The dish towels aren’t enough, so I grab an entire roll of paper towels.

“Gave her the day off,” he says, spooning a hefty portion of very crunchy-looking scrambled eggs onto a couple of plates. “Thought we could spend the day just the two of us. I’ve got the whole thing planned out.” Joe opens the waffle iron. The tops of the waffles have stuck to the apparently ungreased upper plate of the appliance. He tries to scrape them out with a fork.

“You planned something for today?” I can’t hide the incredulity in my voice. I’m not sure I want to.

“I thought, after breakfast, we could duck out of Olympus Hills for a few hours. My drummer and his brother are opening up a burger joint that has onion rings to die for, and the planetarium is putting together a light show based on my Saturn’s Ring album. Which means I was able to pull some strings to get us a private tour.” Joe presents me with a plate of food that somewhat resembles breakfast.

“I don’t know, Joe.…”

He pours a healthy portion of maple syrup over the contents of his plate. “You still like stargazing, right? Because they’ve got one of the biggest telescopes in the country.”

The mention of telescopes and stargazing makes my stomach churn. Or maybe that’s from the smell rising up from my plate. I’m pretty sure scrambled eggs aren’t supposed to be made with cream cheese and … mustard? I push the plate away. “I can’t, Joe. I’ve already got plans.”

“But, Daph, I cleared my whole schedule for you.”

“Well, maybe you should have thought to make sure my schedule was clear before making all these plans. Did you just suppose I’d have nothing better going on? I have a life of my own, you know?”

“Oh,” Joe says. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I should have checked with you first.” He sounds so dejected, I almost waver.

“I need to get ready,” I say, before I can be talked into changing my mind.

I leave Joe at the breakfast table. I look back before heading up the stairs. He stabs a forkful of eggs à la Vince, shoves it in his mouth, and then promptly lets it all fall back out onto his plate.

“Bloody hell,” he says, wiping his tongue with the sleeve of his bathrobe.

I stifle a laugh and head for my bedroom. I pick up my phone from my bedside table and dial a number I never thought I’d actually call when he gave it to me.

“Hello?” Haden answers. He sounds surprised.

“Are you busy today? I thought we could fit in another lesson.”

“I’m available,” he says. There’s a touch of eagerness in his voice before he tempers it. “What did you have in mind?”

“A field trip,” I say, wanting to get as far away from Joe and Olympus Hills as possible for the day. “I think it’s time I give you a more advanced musical education. Pick me up in two hours.”

“I don’t even know where to start. I mean, there’s the classics. Like Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, Shostakovich, Debussy, and then some more modern stuff like the Kinks, the Zombies, the Beatles of course, Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, the Velvet Underground, the Who … Ah crap, that’s just the 1960s.”

“This is starting to sound like it’s going to take a year,” Haden says.

“I know. This is even more difficult than I thought it would be.”

I researched online and found a music store a few towns over from Olympus Hills that still has an old-school listening booth in it. I’d already arranged with the manager—thanks to the generous cash allowance Joe had given me—for us to have use of the booth for the entire afternoon. But that isn’t feeling like nearly enough time at the moment.

I take a great big breath and let it out in a puff. “Okay, I’m just going to grab some of my favorites from different decades. This might take a bit.” I look up at Haden and see that he’s watching my hands as I pluck different albums from the bins.

“What should I do?” he asks.

“Hmmm. Go pick something out. Anything you want.”

The strangest look passes over his normally stony face. Hesitancy? Uncertainty? Almost like no one has ever given him the option of picking something out for himself before. It’s the first time I’m seeing him with an unguarded expression.

I smile at him reassuringly. “There’s no wrong choice. Just surprise me.”

He nods and that stony mask of his slips over his face again. I miss the more open look.

I watch him for a moment, his long fingers curling over the edges of the CD cases as he flips through the albums. He glances back at me. I look down at the album in my hands.

After I’ve got a stack of CDs that’s almost as tall as I am, Haden comes back with an album. He holds it up for my inspection. Shadow of a Star by Joe Vince. The frown forms on my face before I can stop it. Of all the thousands of albums in this place, he had to choose that one.

Haden pulls the CD back. “I chose wrong, then?” His voice is gray with disappointment. “It’s your father’s album, yes? I thought it would be good to familiarize myself—”

“Pick something else,” I say abruptly. “Anything else.”

“Why?” he asks.

The personal question interests me, since he’s always trying to deflect mine, but what’s more is that I actually find myself wanting to tell him.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

I sigh. “I’d only ever met Joe four times before I came to live with him back in September. The last of those times was when he made a surprise appearance at my tenth birthday party. He made a big deal about giving me his guitar, the first one he’d ever bought with his own money—and he taught me the words to his favorite song. He cried when I sang and he said I had his voice, and he told me that this time he was going to stay in Ellis.

“I followed him everywhere for the next few days. He taught me to play the guitar, and took me out at night to see the constellations. He told me the stories behind them, and we even wrote a song about the stars together. But five days into what I thought was the best week of my life, he left me standing at my front room window with a telescope, waiting for him until it was almost midnight and I realized he wasn’t coming. One of his handlers sent a note the next day, saying Joe had gone back to California. Without even saying good-bye.

“I spent the next year learning every single one of Joe’s songs until I could sing them even better than him, thinking somehow if I did this, he’d be impressed enough to come back. But he didn’t.” I shrug one shoulder. “I’d call him with the hope of singing to him over the phone, but he never answered. He never sent postcards. Never visited again. And after a while, I moved on from my father’s songs and started writing my own. Joe likes to tell people I have his voice. But he’s wrong. It’s mine.” I point at the album in Haden’s hand. “That song, ‘Shadow of a Star’—that’s the song I helped Joe write when I was ten years old. It’s considered one of his greatest hits—the one that solidified his ‘God of Rock’ status. But I hate it. I turn it off anytime it comes on the radio.”

“I can see why,” Haden says.

“You know he had the audacity to invite me to go stargazing again today? He arranged this whole, grand daddy-daughter day and rented out the planetarium’s telescope. He didn’t even get why I didn’t want to go. I had to tell him I had plans so he’d drop it.”

“So that’s why you called me?” Haden asks.

I nod. “Sorry.”

He shrugs. “I’m happy to be your other plans.” His jade green eyes lock on my mine for a moment. Then he turns away. “I guess I should find something else.” He tucks Joe’s album into a stack of Top 40 rock and then migrates to the indie section. He comes back a minute later with a new CD. Death Cab for Cutie.

“How’s this? I liked the name of the band.”

“Perfect,” I say, and lead him to the booth. It’s a small, glass-enclosed room at the back of the shop. It’s such a tight fit for both of us that I can feel the heat radiating off his body as I sidestep around him to get to the stereo. He smells of citrus and soap.

I linger for a second longer than I need to.

“We’ll start with a couple of classical numbers,” I say. There’s an odd tremor in my voice. “And then we’ll move on to some more modern stuff.”

“Sounds good to me,” he says, but I detect a hint of apprehension in his voice. I remember what he said about music having been forbidden to him, and I realize I’m about to take a virtual musical virgin for the ride of his life.

“So what do you think?”

Haden is quiet for a moment. “Can I use the word beautiful to describe music?”

“Yes, of course.” What an odd question.

“I can’t think of another word for it.”

“That’s okay. Music is hard for just about anyone to describe, let alone for someone who hasn’t developed a musical vocabulary.”

“I’m not used to being at a loss for words.”

I believe him. This is the eleventh song I’ve played for him and he’s stayed mostly silent during all of them—verbally anyway. I noticed that by the fifth song, the sphere of silence that normally surrounds Haden had started to wane. It was like when we sang together for the first time, and I had heard a soft, resonating pulse of sound coming off him. And now with each musical number I played for him since then, his inner tone had grown ever so slightly. It is like no other inner song I’ve ever experienced before.

“It might be easier to describe how it makes you feel.”

That hesitant, uncertain expression crosses his face. Has no one ever asked him to talk about his emotions before?

“Sad,” he says. “It’s a sad song. But optimistic, too.”

“Optimistic?”

I’d played him a song called “I Will Follow You into the Dark” from the Death Cab for Cutie album he’d picked out. It is a simple song, just a singer and a single guitar, but it seems to have had a strong impact on Haden. His inner tone beats twice as strong as before. It almost sounds hopeful.

“I don’t know if optimistic is quite the right word. But it’s about two lovers,” he says. “Yes?”

I nod.

“They’ve been together for a long time. They’ve seen many things and loved deeply. But she’s about to die. And he’s telling her not to cry or worry. Because she won’t be alone. Because he’ll follow her into the dark. He’s telling her to have hope. Yes, that’s the right word for it.”

“I guess so. But who would do that? It’s kind of a ridiculous notion, don’t you think? Can he really promise that he’s going to die right after her so she won’t be alone?”

“I think it’s less about death and more about a willingness to follow someone into the unknown. For love.”

“Maybe.”

“Would you ever do something like that? If you loved someone enough, would you follow him into the dark?” He looks at me with those jade green eyes and, for the slightest of moments, I think I see dark amber fire rings dancing around his pupils.

My impulse is to look away, but I don’t. “No,” I say. “I’m not a follower.”

“Hand in hand, then?”

I do look away now. “I don’t think I’m capable of loving anyone that much.” I turn my back on him and move to the stereo.

“Even if it was your destiny?”

I give a short laugh. “Destiny? I don’t believe in all that fate mumbo jumbo.”

“How can you not believe in fate?” His question sounds like he thinks I’m being blasphemous.

“I believe in goals, and working hard for what you want. And choices. I make my own path; nobody else chooses it for me.”

Haden’s hopeful tone disappears. That sphere of silence returns, surrounding him and stretching to the corners of the booth. I can’t stand it.

I remove the disk from the stereo, and look for a new one to replace it.

“What about to save the person you loved?” he asks.

“Maybe,” I say, thinking of my mom. I’d come here to save her—in a way. Well, to save her from losing her shop and her livelihood. But it had been my choice, in the end. “Depends on the person, I guess.” I find the disk I’m looking for and put the new CD into the player. “Let’s try a modern song without lyrics this time. This is by one of my favorite bands, Stars of the Lid. Just concentrate on the music. Open yourself up to the emotion it evokes.” I press play and let the music fill the silence in the booth. “It’s a beautiful song, one of my favorite pieces of modern music, but it also reminds me of a discordant lullaby. Like something’s broken or missing in the music—but in a very deliberate way.”

My back is to Haden as the song plays, but I can feel his warm presence only inches away in the tight booth. The air grows heavy, hot, electric, and a new strain of notes fills the booth. But they’re not coming from the stereo.

I turn to Haden. His lips are partly open. A red blush paints his pale yet olive cheeks. This new sound is coming off him.

It’s the sound that sorrow makes.

“What … what is the name of this song?” he asks, with a tremor in his voice.

“ ‘Requiem for Dying Mothers.’ ”

He purses his lips. His nostrils flare. A wet sheen fills his eyes. “Turn it off. Please. Just turn it off.”

“Okay.” I turn and hit the stop button. When I look back, Haden is gone. The glass door to the booth swings shut, and I see him heading out the front of the store.

I find Haden outside. He leans against a wood railing that overlooks the beach, his face buried in his arms.

When we drove to this store, it was the first time I’d glimpsed the ocean in my life. The first time I’d heard the song of the sea. It’d been mesmerizing even through the windows of Haden’s car. Hearing it now, so close, mixed with tones of sorrow coming off Haden, it sounds like the ebb and flow of throbbing, raw pain. Like from a wound that can’t be closed.

“Haden?”

“Go away. Please,” he says. “Don’t look at me.”

I ignore his request. “Did something happen to your mother?” It’s the most intrusive question I’ve ever asked him, but I have to ask it. The sound of his sorrow is too overwhelming not to. “Did she die?”

“Yes,” he says softly. “In my arms. She died in my arms. When I was seven.”

“I’m sorry.” Tears prick at the backs of my eyes. I can’t help imagining myself in his place. “I shouldn’t have played that song.…”

“You didn’t know,” he says into his arms, which cover his face. “I try not to allow myself to think about her. But that song … it sounded like … felt like … I don’t know how to describe it. It reminded me of how I felt when she died.” The tone that comes off him changes, warps from sorrow to something else. At first, I think it’s helplessness. No, I’d almost say it sounds like shame. He stands up straight now, wiping the tears from his eyes with his shirtsleeve. “You must think I’m disgusting.”

“For tearing up? No.” I reach toward his face, then stop, not sure what I was going to do. I place my hand on his shoulder instead. “It’s a perfectly human reaction.”

His face reddens slightly. “That’s the problem,” he mumbles, and places his hand over mine. His skin is hot, but it’s a welcome warmth against the breeze, which carries in the salty cool air from the ocean.

My arm tingles and I feel the hairs on my forearm stand on end as if with static electricity. Haden lets go of my hand. I look up at the darkening, cloudy sky. “I think a storm is coming. Should we go?”

“Yes. I think that would be wise.”

I head back to the store to gather my things from the booth, but as I look back at Haden before opening the door, I notice that it sounds like the storm is raging inside of him.

Haden parks behind Joe’s red Porsche in my driveway. His car is so silent, I don’t notice we’ve come to a stop until he clears his throat.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say, picking up my tote bag.

“Thank you for the education.”

“I’ll send you some more songs tomorrow. We need to settle on something for the festival.”

“We?” he asks. “So you’ll do a duet with me?”

“Yes.” I open the door. He looks at me.

“Daphne, do you have plans tonight?”

I blink. Is he asking me out? “Um. No …,” I say tentatively.

“Then if I were you, I’d take your father up on going to see that telescope.”

“I don’t think that’s—”

“I know I don’t really know your father, but it sounds to me like he’s trying to make a connection with you. Hades knows that my father has never even cared to try with me … and my mother …” He trails off heavily. His fingers tap on the steering wheel. “What I am attempting to say is that perhaps you should give your father a chance while you still can. There might come a day when the option is no longer available to you.”