Homecoming

He's gonna have a herd of polka-dotted cows, I thought as I stood on the front porch of the partially restored Victorian house. Half of the house's gingerbread and siding was newly painted in a traditional purple and orange Vitorian color theme that I thought was awful. The other half of the house's exterior stood neglected as if waiting for a lover's caress. I wondered if I would be welcome; it had been almost ten years.

I thought of how radically I had changed my looks in that time and wondered if he would even recognize me. My once waist-length hair, the color of a penny, now stood in long purple and pink spikes that made me look like a female Rod Stewart. I had eight earring in both ears with a chain attached to both sides of my nose.

Preparing for battle, I knocked on the front door.

The door opened to reveal a set of green eyes, the exact shade of mine, staring at me trying to decide who I was. His biscuit-colored hair stood at attention in a military buzz. A gold cross hung from his left earlobe. His faded jeans had a large hole in the right knee, and his black T-shirt advertised Van Halen's last world tour. At least his taste in music hadn't changed.

"Hello, Sinje," I said, smiling.

His eyes lit in recognition at his childhood nickname. "Marnie?" he asked. "What the hell are you doing here?"

My smile dimmed. "I thought seeing you."

"You look . . . different."

"Can I come in?"

"Why?"

I looked at him, surprised. "I thought we could talk. Maybe I was wrong."

"She's not your daughter!" she shouted at him. The silence reverberated through the house like the echoes of a machine gun.

Sinjin and I stated at each other, sure that we couldn't have heard those words from our mother's mouth. We sat side by side with our feet dangling through the banister edging the second floor hallway. I was nine years old; my brother twelve.

Most people's parents talk at the end of the day; ours just saw who could make the most noise and blame the other for all of their problems. But they were still miserably married after eleven years.

Our mother's words changed the course of their private war

"What?" asked my father.

"You threatened to take the children," she said. "But she's not yours. How could she be? I haven't slept with you in almost ten years."

"Then who the hell is Marnie's father, if not me?"

"Max."

"My brother," he said, disbelieving.

She nodded.

"Get out, and take your garbage with you." The war was over.

Our family spent most of the next year in a courtroom as our parents battled over every crumb that had accumulated during their thirteen years together. The only thing they didn't fight over was us. My father took Sinjin and my mother took me. We never saw each other again. Until now, when I wondered if it was possible to become friends again.

Sinjin moved aside and allowed me to enter the living room of his home. With a long visual stroll around the room, I decided that he had a sense of style that went perfectly with the old Victorian house. Ther walls were covered in a traditional Victorian wallpaper in periwinkle blue. A fireplace dominated one wall. The large white marble mantel hosted a bust of Beethoven and two antique vases. Ancient paintings of landscapes were hung in elaborate gold frames on the fireplace wall. A baby grand piano, covered in a layer of sheet music, dominated one corner of the room. At odds with the decor, strains of Poison's Talk Dirty to Me emanaged fro the stereo on the opposite side of the room.

"Have a seat," he said, gesturing to a blue velvet couch.

"You look great, Sinje. I've missed you."

"You said you wanted to talk. So talk."

"You still play the piano?"

"I'm a choir teacher at one of the local high schools. And you?"

"I'm the lead singer in a metal band: Wild Roses."

"Well, that would explain the look."

"I looked like this before I joined the band."

"Oh," he said, frowning.

An awkward silence fell as I searched for something to say. "How's Dad?"

"Remarried five years ago, living in Atlanta. And Mom?"

"She died in a car wreck six months ago."

"Enough of this small talk. Is there a point to this sudden visit? I have a piano lesson to give in 20 minutes."

"My band is playing at Jack's tonight. There's supposed to be a record exec there tonight to listen to us. Just for once, I would really like to have someone in the audience that knows me. Beyond the way I look."

He laughed shortly, not a pretty sound. "I don't think so. It's been ten years, Marnie. Our lives are completely different now. We don't have anything in common."

"Yes, we do. We have music, even if it is different genres."

"I still don't think it's a good idea."

"Ten years ago, you were my best friend and my brother. I still miss my brother," I said. I stood to leave. "If you change your mind, I'll leave a ticket for you at the door. We start playing at nine o'clock. All you have to do is show up."

"Don't bother."

I stopped in the doorway and spoke with my back to him. "We can't erase ten years ago, Sinjin. And I don't expect you to forget. But friendship can be fixed. I've tried to make a start. The ball's in your court now."

Jack's. It was the hot place in the town for people to be seen: both the serious musician and the wanna-bes.

On Friday nights, it offered new bands the chance to play without having to beg people to buy tickets. The bands weren't paid much, but most snatched it like an alcoholic without a drink. The exposure was enough for most of the starving bands who were dying to break into the world of rock 'n roll.

With an explosion of sound, Wild Roses took the stage. Our music was a mixture of gothic rock and heavy metal, with a funk baeline meant to rattle the windows. As Mary, the guitarist, launched into her first riveting licks that brought the house to its feet, I slid onto the stage like Tom Cruise in Risky Business and began to sing the lyrics about the search for a white knight.

I scanned the bar as the opening chords of the next tune about a wild child started. A pool game went on in the far corner under a heavy cloud of smoke. Tough-looking men of every shape and size, dressed in leather and torn denim, hung around the hazy game area, watching and placing bets on the pool games.

Through the hustle of tightly-packed bodies, I saw the green neon bar standing against the back wall. I noticed a man standing by himself at the far end of the bar. He wore faded black jeans rucked into biker boots. An aged leather bomber jacket completed his ensemble. As he turned, saluting me with his mug of beer, a gold cross reflected the neon light off his left earlobe. His biscuit-colored hair stood at attention. It was a start.