Page 46 of Goode Vibrations

“Frenchies. Frangers. Jimmy hats.” He laughed. “Y’know. Condoms.”

“Frenchies, though?”

He shrugged, laughing harder. “Yeah, a bit weird, I guess.”

I frowned at him. “You don’t have any?”

He tilted his head, thinking. “Well, I might. In a bag I carry my extra stuff in. The random shit I might need but don’t bring into the hotel with me all the time.” He shrugged. “I’ll go look.”

I glanced at him. “I’m more dressed than you are.”

“You’re in a towel.”

“And you’re naked.”

“You’re all but.”

“What’s the bag look like, and where is it?”

“Back of the caravan, behind the seat. A red backpack. Old one. One strap is almost off.”

“I’ll get it.” He just nodded. “I’m not sure there are any in there. It’s, um, been a while, if you know what I mean. And, ah, the last time I needed one, I didn’t provide it.”

I just smiled. “It’s okay. We’re both adults, no need to be weird about it. I haven’t needed them myself, either, so I’m certainly not carrying any with me.”

I tightened the towel, opened the door and set the latch bar so it wouldn’t lock behind me, headed for the van. It was a hot, sticky, humid night, the air thick and moist and close. Bugs fluttered around the parking lot lighting, and a shred of grayish clouds floated lazily past a quarter moon. The parking lot was empty but for our car and one other near the office—the night clerk. The clerk himself was outside, on a cell phone, a cigarette in his mouth. He eyed me without curiosity, and turned away, walking back inside, tossing his butt aside with a spray of orange sparks.

I opened the rear hatch, where Errol’s other nonessential gear was stowed. A middling-sized black duffel bag, half-open, showing a dirty pair of running shoes and a pair of rubber rain boots. A small bag that contained some kind of headphones, by the look of it. The red backpack, which I shouldered.

And a violin case. Fiddle case, rather. Black.Old. The silver clasps were tarnished with age. Scratches, rends, stains. A tag attached to the handle, newer leather, with a name scrawled inside—B. Sylvain.Under that, in smaller, neater letters—E. Sylvain.

Weird.

I flipped up the latch, feeling like I was prying, digging into secrets. Opened the lid. Within was, well, I’d call it a violin. A fiddle. It was dark cherry, glossy and warm with age, yellower streaks here and there. Soft strings, exquisitely carved head. God, the thing wasold. You knew just by looking at it. I touched a string, the largest one, and the sound that emerged was honey and sunlight.

The bow was nestled in the lid, held in place with a swiveling knob. Aged, fraying horsehair, radiating elegance and art.

“That’s sort of a private thing, there, Poppy.” Errol’s voice behind me. Tight, upset.

I jumped a foot in the air, letting the lid close with a softthump. “I’m sorry. I know, I just…” I turned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It was my dad’s.”

“It has your name on it,” I couldn’t help pointing out.

A pause. “It’s a family heirloom. All I’ve got of him.”

I ducked my head. There was way, way more to the story, I could tell. He was wearing a pair of gym shorts, but tiny ones, almost booty shorts. The kind of shorts track and distance runners wear. Red, with a white stripe.

Nothing under them.

Bare-chested.

“I apologize, Errol. I shouldn’t have opened it.”

He shook his head. Reached past me to fasten the latch, pushed it further back. Took the red bag from me, and made to close the hatch. “No worries, Pop. Just…one of those things, you know?”

The sad bits, he meant, the hard sharp things I saw fleeting in the back of his eyes, buried deep, behind the jovial, easy-going, New Zealander laid-back attitude. The pain, the bitter, tight, shadowy things.