Save Me, Kurt Cobain Read online

“I’ll get you some food,” said Cobain. “Then we can talk. And then you can leave.”

  Stone-faced, he brought me squares of processed cheddar cheese and round Ritz crackers. Processed food. I almost smiled.

  “Do you have any strawberry Quik?” I asked. A test. I grabbed a cracker and cheese, chewing like a rabid squirrel.

  “What? No,” he said, impatient. “Listen, I seem calm, but I am fucking freaking out, so talk. What are you doing here? Did Shelley send you?”

  The cabin was what realtors call open concept, where the living room and bedroom blend together. There was the single bed I sat on, a burgundy leather couch patched with duct tape, a woodstove, a woven rug, and a coffee table. Next to the door was a galley kitchen, cheap green tile on the floor. By the bed sat one brown fake-wood kitchen table and two chairs, the plastic-covered kind you can wipe down with a cloth.

  “Fuck’s sake! Start talking.” That voice. It was still boyish, with a bored overtone despite the surface panic. I could close my eyes and imagine him saying “This was written by the Va-se-lines.”

  “I wanted to meet you,” I said. The food fired up my brain again, a gray cement mixer churning to life.

  “Why?” he asked, his blue eyes fixed on me as if trying to decide whether that made my being a stowaway better or worse.

  “Who’s Shelley?” I asked. I hadn’t even thought about there being another woman involved, a new girlfriend, or even—a wife? Cobain was on the lam, a fugitive from his old life. Surely he was alone, like me. We seemed so much the same. It was clear: Kurt Cobain was alive, and I had found him. I had found my real father.

  “I’ll ask the questions,” he said. “Who do you belong to, and how do I reach them?” He paced around the cabin in sock feet. He wore thick hiking socks, sensible. Cobain used to wear layer upon layer of clothes, including long underwear, because he was so sensitive about his slight build. Layers were wise. The wind screeched through the trees. No one on the planet knew where I was.

  “Does this place have its own generator?” I asked.

  “Cops. Calling,” he said, pointing to a cell phone that we both knew wouldn’t work. We were in the boonies of Vancouver Island during a windstorm. “I’m going to drive you back to the bus station. This is bullshit.”

  “I think you knew my mother. Her name was Annalee Lester back then.”

  “Can I call her right now?”

  “She’s gone. No one knows where she is. She disappeared.”

  “That’s what this is about? You think I know where she is?” He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, keeping a good distance between us. There was a guitar case at his feet under the kitchen table. He’d have more guitars somewhere. I noticed a funny little door by the kitchen, perhaps once a pantry. What did it hold? Not drugs, I hoped. The way he was using when he staged his exit, it was clean up or die. He must have chosen to kick the drugs in private, in peace.

  “No, I don’t think anything,” I said, lying. “Where are we, anyway?”

  “What’s with the blue hair?” he asked, probably trying to catch me off guard. Cobain was no stranger to the Kool-Aid dye job. “You aren’t exactly the cheerleader type, are you.”

  The last line was delivered in a dry sneer. I knew Cobain could be cruel, unless you were a child or an animal. I was neither. I was a major inconvenience.

  “There are no cheerleaders at Vic High,” I said, and then winced at my stupidity.

  “Right. We’re going back to the bus station, and I’ll send you on your way back to Victoria.” He smiled, as if pleased that he had outwitted me so quickly. He rubbed the scruff on his chin. Even as a middle-aged man, he wasn’t interested in a clean shave.

  What I really wanted was for him to sing, just for me, preferably “All Apologies.” Then I wanted him to tell me everything he remembered about that night in 1991, and my mother, and her dancing, and her hair, and her laugh. Granted, it had been almost sixteen years, but Cobain didn’t seem that old. He still looked good, despite the scruff, the messy hair, and the years of hard living. It was a bizarre thing to think about your own father, but it was true. If my real father was so beautiful, perhaps one day I could be, too? I did have his eyes.

  “Nico, or whatever your name is, I’m done playing.” He rose from the chair and grabbed my forearm, hard. “I can’t have anyone find you here, so you’ve got to leave now.”

  “Storm’s too bad,” I gasped, alarmed at his grip. I could feel each finger pressing in. When you played guitar as much as Cobain did, it gave you strong fingers but took a toll. Carrying the instrument made his back worse, which made his stomach pain worse, which contributed to his heroin use, or so he said. I would have to ask him if he really had scoliosis. The various biographies had left me confused.

  We faced each other.

  “There will be power lines down, guaranteed.” I figured we were somewhere near Nanaimo, maybe Cedar or Cassidy, one of those small rural patches. I couldn’t tell how far we’d driven. Cobain relaxed his grip.

  “You cannot be here,” he said, each word as sharp as a karate kick. “I don’t know what you want, but I’m telling you to get up and walk to the door. I’ll drive you to the bus station. Move it, or things could get nasty.”

  “I know who you are.”

  That stopped him. The fury fell from his face like a coat slipping off a hook.

  “Oh, you do. Who am I?”

  “You’re my father,” I said, expecting to feel relief or perhaps terror. I waited, mostly feeling nothing but a vague need to pee.

  “Kid,” Cobain sighed, his adrenaline fading. “You’ve got problems. And a massive imagination.” He took two steps back from me, causing the floorboards to creak. A branch smacked one of the cabin windows, making a thud like a bird.

  “I will carry you out of here if I have to.”

  It seemed he meant it. I was going to need more time. I had waited too long and come too far. Perhaps I had always been that crazy, and Obe and Verne had kept me on an even keel, following the rules.

  “If you carry me out of here, I will report you at the bus station and say you kidnapped me.” My brain spun. “Don’t you think all those people on the Clipper heard the commotion in the bathroom? I’ll say you were trying to grab me.” I thrust my bandaged hand into the air.

  “You must be my punishment,” he said, spitting.

  “Would anyone really believe I crawled into the backseat of your car?” I didn’t ask him why he was being punished. It could be anything. There was no rhyme or reason for punishment. “I just want to talk to you,” I said. “Then I’ll go.”

  Cobain sat back down, still wearing his coat, as if unsure he wanted to stay in his own cabin. He threw off his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. The cabin was freezing. I could probably figure out the woodstove if he left. I had been a latchkey kid for years. I liked to think I had inner resources.

  “I have work to do,” he snapped, sinking his forehead into one hand. “You’re not going to be my problem anymore.”

  That was when I noticed the photographs along the wall. Of bodies, or rather body parts, cut into sections.

  Cobain’s core seemed to be made of something unsubstantial, as if he were a balsa model airplane. His posture was even worse than mine.

  “What’s your name?” I began. A test.

  “Daniel,” he said.

  “Daniel what?” He had possibly taken the name from Daniel Johnston, the artist and singer. Cobain had worn a T-shirt featuring one of Johnston’s cartoons to the 1992 MTV music awards. If Cobain wore your shirt, it could make you. If I walked through Vic High with him, heads would turn. Sure, not everyone my age would recognize him right away, but Cobain gave off an “I don’t give a fuck” vibe that would be irresistible.

  “Daniel Boone,” said Cobain. “Hence the cabin.”

  “If you’re not going to tell me the truth, say ‘pass.’ I’ve had enough people lie to me.”

  “Pass. You can just call me Daniel,”
said Cobain, shoving kindling into the stove. He was awkward at it, fumbling. It was like watching a puppet chef trying to stuff a turkey. “A better question is who do you think I am?”

  I kept sneaking looks at the body parts lined up along the wall. Cobain had always done art, and it was out there; in fact, some biographers said he was obsessed with images of diseased vaginas and bodily functions in general. The man also owned collections of toy monkeys and dolls, which he broke and used in his art. It all made sense.

  Unless I was wrong.

  What if Cobain had gone truly insane? A dime-sized corner of my brain wondered: what if this guy wasn’t Cobain? Some psychopaths acted on opportunity, I had read. And this would be the perfect opportunity. The stove door slammed shut, and I jumped. I would not fare well heading out on foot. My clothes were too thin against the winter storm raging outside. I needed layers: lined boots, fleece, Gore-Tex, and goose down.

  The kitchen had a shiny toaster, an ancient Mr. Coffee with white daisies printed on the pot, and a wood block containing black-handled knives. I backed toward the counter. Could I grab a knife without him noticing? Cobain/Daniel was still crouched by the stove, facing the glass door. Would a knife even do any good? It was getting dark, four-thirty on Christmas Eve, and I had no idea where I was. Those body parts in the pictures had once belonged to real people. Girls, perhaps. What kind of person hid out in the woods? One with something to hide. He could be crazy and Cobain, or crazy and not Cobain. No, no, he had to be Cobain.

  “Well, I can’t have you faint again,” he said, whapping some fireplace ash from his hands. “You want Kraft mac and cheese?”

  I laughed, a bark of relief. Of course he would have a box of macaroni. Cobain existed on it.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m still starving.” I sat down at the kitchen table. The plastic seat was cold. I traced the whorls in the fake wood. “Do you want me to make it?”

  “No. Let me do it,” he said, in a telephone-operator tone. Cobain had a few wrinkles around his eyes, but he still had the voice of a young man. Some said he had one of the best voices in rock ever, not for power or purity, but meaning that he knew how to put a song across, to transmit it. His voice could be harsh, or growling, or soft and sweet, or he could scream like a wounded crow.

  Cobain brought the pot right to the table, along with two forks and two mismatched cereal bowls. Let the record show that Cobain made an exemplary pot of bright orange macaroni, and we ate together in wary silence.

  Afterward, he set the pot in the sink to soak. (Cobain would never be a dish doer.) “How about you tell me why you’re here. There must be people worried about you. And shit, the authorities. It would be a—what is it?”

  “Amber Alert. It’s when kids get kidnapped.” I really needed to pee, but I had a feeling Cobain’s bathroom might be horrifying. “Interesting pictures you have.”

  “Yeah. It’s for my work. I do medical illustrations, freelance.”

  That seemed unlikely. He was lying, but I went along with it. I didn’t want to make him angrier. He had a temper.

  “I’m an artist, too,” I said, and felt a knot tighten in my gut. I had never called myself that, not out loud.

  “Yeah? Who are your influences?”

  Was he making fun of me, the fifteen-year-old who thought she was something? I really thought I was nothing most of the time. I couldn’t tell Cobain all that, although I thought he would understand. When Cobain was thirteen, he and a friend saw a body hanging from a tree, a suicide. I had never seen anything so terrible, except when I closed my eyes and pictured what might have happened to my mother.

  “Modern,” I said. “I guess I like modern. Simple lines, abstract, and sometimes a little crazy.” I did not have the words for all the art terms. Or if I did, they escaped me.

  “Crazy is okay,” he said softly. Then he shook both fists in the air like a preacher. “CRAZY IS O-KAY!” he yelled, his eyes bugging. Then he dropped his hands. “What kind of music do you like?” he asked, as if the outburst hadn’t occurred. Cobain could talk about music—or play it—for hours on end. I swung back to feeling sure, again, that this man was really Cobain. I wondered if he had ever brought his daughter, Frances Bean, to visit the cabin. It appeared not. The place only had the basics, yet still managed to be messy: a den for a lone man to hibernate in.

  “Nirvana,” I said, staring at him. “I love Nirvana.”

  “They were pretty good,” he agreed. “I was once a big fan. They’ve been gone a long time, though.” His right eye twitched.

  “What about you? What do you listen to now?” The cabin was heating up, the wood snapping like Christmas crackers as it burned.

  “Swing music,” he said. “I like a big horn section.”

  “No lying,” I insisted.

  “Yeah, okay, I like the Pixies, you heard that. Listen, I’m getting pissed off. Do you know what they do to men who are caught with young girls? You’re going to tell them the truth, right?”

  Cobain was fish-belly white at the thought of the authorities. He’d come a long way from the guy who had a sticker on his guitar case that read Vandalism: As beautiful as a rock in a cop’s face. As a teen he had once tagged the very YMCA where he worked and later been paid to clean up the graffiti. Cobain couldn’t lose his nerve. It was too much. I leaned over and slapped him in the face. He needed to help me. He needed to tell the truth.

  “What the fuck?” he said, grabbing my wrist.

  “You can’t lie to me,” I said, shaking out my hand. I had never hit anyone before. I was tired of nodding and understanding. Maybe 2007 would be my hitting year.

  “Okay. Fuck. Just out with it.”

  “I think you knew my mother, Annalee. She disappeared when I was four.”

  “I don’t recall ever meeting an Annalee.” Cobain rubbed his jaw where I’d landed my slap, which was far from powerful. It had surprised him, though. “But I’m not from here.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “A little town in Washington State. I travel back and forth. I go to see my daughter, when I’m allowed.”

  I assumed he was talking about Frances Bean, but maybe he’d later had another daughter as well. I badly wanted to tell him that I knew. I pictured him embracing me, awkwardly at first, but then being relieved to have someone know him, really know him. After the shock passed, he would be happy to have another daughter. Perhaps I could even meet Frances Bean, and I would have a half sister.

  Cobain moved to sit on the floor by the couch, his feet stretched out by the fire. I joined him, without asking, sitting a foot away so he wouldn’t freak out. “There’s a song, right? By the Band. ‘The Weight.’ It has a line about young Anna Lee, and keeping her company,” he said, a gesture.

  “Yes, of course.” Anyone who loved music knew that song. It was almost impossible to listen to it and not feel wistful. A body would be easier, I sometimes thought. A body found and a story. Easier than this long collapse. After eleven years, no news was not good news. Other days, I decided Annalee simply didn’t want to be found, and she was on a tropical island sleeping in a hammock and waiting on tables, something she’d done as a teen. I pictured her surrounded by explosions of lush azaleas. She would no longer be a young woman. I thought for a second that I had sobbed out loud, but it was just a gale outside racing through the trees.

  “I have a photo of her,” I said, grabbing my knapsack. It was the Polaroid, the one taken in Victoria at the Forge.

  Cobain took the photo, lifted it up to the firelight. He held it so close that for one awful instant I thought he might throw it in the flames. The cabin had that feeling: anything could happen.

  “She was a beauty,” said Cobain. “She really was, Nico.” He moved to give the photo back to me, then changed his mind and raised it to his face again. “I wish I had known her.”

  He couldn’t get a better look because at that moment the lights went out. There was pure, velvet darkness; then I heard Cobain bumbling around. He
lit a hurricane lamp. Whoever owned the cabin had laid in an array of flashlights and lamps. It was likely not Cobain. He did not seem the type to own land, his Seattle mansion days long gone. His face in the half-light made me think of all those grainy online videos of him playing guitar. Sometimes he wore a dress, or even women’s lingerie. That was Cobain. Still, he was deeply sensitive and prone to nursing hurts, or so I had read. That was Cobain, too. Yes, he was older, but his face was still boyish, with that dimple in his chin.

  “Are you frightened?” he asked. “Because you should be.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re in a cabin, during a storm, with some strange man on Christmas Eve. You should be terrified. What’s wrong with you? If my daughter did this, I would kill her.”

  Cobain’s interrogation was beginning to remind me of all the therapists and guidance counselors pressing me to choose a capital-C Career. They didn’t understand that if I couldn’t have my mother, the only other thing I wanted was to listen to music with Obe and maybe go to art school. If I lasted that long. Sometimes that seemed in doubt. I had thought about ways. None of them seemed satisfactory. Some days I simply could not believe in happy endings, or that good things happen to good people, or that everything happens for a reason.

  “I’m not afraid,” I said, lying. You have nothing to lose, I told myself. Finish this.

  “Your father must be frantic.”

  “No.” The stove crackled. I noticed a hole in the heel of my skate socks, wide, like a gaping mouth. “Can you play me something on the guitar?” I nodded toward the case under the kitchen table. “If you do, I promise I’ll go.”

  Any time the talk turned to music, his mood seemed to improve. He glanced at the guitar, as if it were a parcel he’d forgotten to open.

  “I haven’t played that in ages. I got it in high school to impress the girls. That’s how I got myself a wife. Let that be a lesson,” he said, and left it at that.

  He crawled on his hands and knees and found the guitar. The darkness seemed thick, pressing down like humidity. My hair would smell of woodsmoke. I heard something skitter across the floor and it occurred to me that we were not alone in the cabin. There were creatures with tails.