by Amber Foxx
“He might not be. But you caught him on a bad night.” That was the same way Mae had tried to defend Jamie to Stamos. They seemed to bring out the worst in each other. “He has his good points.”
“I’m sure he does, but he’s still not right for you. I hope you broke it off for good.”
“I can’t cut him off. I have to drive back to New Mexico with him.”
Hubert looked down at the top of Jen’s head and smoothed her hair with his free hand. “That should be fun. After you made him take a taxi.” His voice held a hint of a laugh. “Maybe you should make him take a plane.”
Mae drove back to Arnie’s place in Cauwetska, imagining Stamos sitting beside her again for two fifteen-hour drives. She hadn’t faced her feelings about him yet, she’d been so preoccupied with Jamie and Sylvie, and then so busy with her family.
Arnie set up the chess game at the kitchen table and brewed herbal tea while Mae called Stamos. He sounded puzzled rather than pleased. “Why did you call me?”
“To talk. That little run-in on the beach didn’t count. We haven’t had a good conversation since the retsina and the ouzo.”
“It takes me time.” The deep, soft voice reminded her of how attractive he was. How easy to be with, until the pain of Diana got stirred up. She hadn’t expected to feel any renewed attraction. “I do a lot of soul searching.”
“If you need more time, I can let you go. But I wanted to make sure we’re still friends. We have to drive back together and be in classes together.”
“You’re a practical woman.” He chuckled softly. “Of course. We must be friends.”
She wasn’t sure if that “must” was his formal speech or if he was suggesting friendship as an obligation, not a pleasure. Jamie always got so insulted when she suggested they should be friends.
“Is that really okay with you?”
“As a matter of fact, it would be perfect. I will be delighted in your friendship. Could you come up Friday? We have electricity now, and my parents are giving a party—to which they will invite at least three fat Greek women they think I should love.”
Women your age? “They trying to fix you up so you’ll stay here?”
“Yes. It inspires me to reconsider that option in the negative.”
“So I’m your what? Your date? Your not-fat, not-Greek deflector shield, or what?”
“I believe you are my friend. Who happens to be beautiful and fit and charmingly unconventional. You will be an asset to this party. And yes, a deflector of my plump countrywomen.”
“I haven’t said I’m coming yet. You gonna drink ouzo and dance?”
“Yes.” He paused. “But not much ouzo. And a great deal of dancing. I believe you like to dance.”
Was that a dig at her dancing with Jamie? If so, it was passive-aggressive, and she didn’t like it. However, she’d also gone dancing with Stamos, so it might be an innocent comment. “I don’t want to take you wrong, but did you mean anything by that?”
“No. Of course not.” His reaction seemed sincere, even surprised. “I said you like to dance. We’ll dance. Mae, relax. No pressure, no stress. Remember? That’s how we are. We should have a pleasant evening. And you can meet Aunt Christina. I told her about you being psychic, and she will be terribly excited to talk with you.”
Somehow, this made the trip more appealing. Mae was unsure about Stamos, but she was genuinely curious about his “spooky” Aunt Christina.
Sufficiently relieved about having a manageable friendship with Stamos, Mae settled down to enjoy learning chess from Arnie, a hobby his new girlfriend had begun to teach him. Arnie, a dollar-store manager, was now dating a librarian he’d met at church and was excited about the intellectual world she was introducing him to.
The absence of Mae’s mother, a difficult and manipulative woman, had finally given Mae and Arnie a chance to enjoy each other’s company without Rhoda-Rae turning the air hot pink with petulance. The trailer looked the same—thrift-shop colonial furniture, loud floral curtains, the Persian cat Gigi sleeping on the ever-humming computer modem—but Arnie, though balder, looked better. He’d lost weight, and his long face with its ever-growing five-o’clock shadow was relaxed and cheerful now.
They caught up on his new interests and relationship while he tried to give Mae enough chess tips to stretch the game out rather than simply defeat her. Toward the end, when Arnie’s inevitable win drew close, Mae’s phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. “Sorry, it’s Hubert. Might be about the young’uns.” She couldn’t imagine what else he would call about at this hour. “Reckon I should stop and say thanks for teaching me, and you won.”
Arnie carried their tea mugs to the kitchen, and Mae put away the game while she talked. “Hey, what’s up? The girls all right?”
“Yeah. They’re fine. It’s Jamie. I called him when I figured his show was over, and he couldn’t talk.”
“What do you mean?”
“He lost his voice.”
Mae clutched the game piece she’d taken from the board. “Oh, no.” Aware of pain, she let go and put the pawn in the box. It left little marks in her palm. “Completely lost it?”
“Yeah. He could only whisper, and he said that hurt. So I texted, asked him if the van’s okay, and what happened to him, and he sent me this bunch of mess. Mae, it was like he was drunk.” Mae knew Hubert had to be thinking about her first husband. “He doesn’t have a problem does he?”
“No, not drinking. He has this disability—I don’t know what it’s called—it’s like dyslexia for writing.”
“Good. I was worried. I think his message said the van’s okay, if I could read it right. But that’s got to be hell on him, losing his voice. That’s his job there. And that dude likes to talk. It’s gotta be driving him crazy.”
Short drive. Jamie made that joke a lot. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll check up on him.”
Arnie squeezed her shoulder as he passed through from the kitchen to his bedroom. She patted his hand goodnight, and texted Jamie.
Hey sugar, Hubert said you lost your voice. Don’t worry about your typos, I’ll figure them out. Are you sick?
n
What happened?
Ylled ta slyvie
Mae’s heart lurched. What did she do to you?
Ltf
She left after you yelled at her?
Y
But sugar, you never yell. Mae had seen Jamie angry. He had little explosions all the time. No matter how much he lost control of his emotions, he never lost control of his voice. Until now. Something about Sylvie or touring or both had been too much for him. Can you tell me what happened?
N
Why not?
Fing stpid. Gnthg. Lv u.
Mae wondered if Jamie had even done his show, but she let him go after responding in kind to what she realized was supposed to be goodnight. The conversation was probably pressuring him too much, making him type when it was so frustrating for him. He needed to rest, both his mind and his voice. She could find out about the show through his web site in the morning. Wendy would add a link to the review—if there was one.
There was. It was a blog post by WECU Number One Radio Dude.
I will say up front that I’m not a fan of the New Age gong bath kind of music that Jangarrai used to record, although I do enjoy his Australian-African collaborations with Zambethalia, and some of his new a cappella ballads. See, I did my homework for an interview, for which he stood me up—politely, with a call from his manager claiming he had strained his voice (right, I thought, su—re, bet he’s got a hangover) so the Number One Radio Dude of WECU was not looking forward to a solo concert, expecting a wasted (pun intended) night. I’m a music reviewer, though, if only an amateur one, so I went.
I was blown away. No drones and tones, thank God, and not too much of the mellow flutes and other escapist sound candy. He started out with some of that, saying he meant to save his voice, but the audience was cool to it, and wild about his singing. Especially me.
We let him know.
The voice. Jangarrai! That is one hell of a voice. I didn’t mind that he had some problems with it. It made him sound like Joe Wayne Brazos. I’d seen the shot on Jangarrai’s blog where he’s dressed as Joe Wayne—very funny, part of my homework—and so I mentioned it after the first song, figuring he was a fellow fan of the man. “Dude, listen to you. First the picture, now the voice. You’re turning into Joe Wayne Brazos.” Really though, the only time Jangarrai was Brazos was when he tossed off a perfect satire of him in response to my joke. See it on You Tube, it’s as good as it gets. I’ll explain why.
Curious, Mae clicked on the video link. Jamie muttered something to the videographer. His voice was so husky it scarcely sounded like Jamie talking. He tugged his fedora down over his eyes the way Brazos wore his cowboy hat, took a slouched and predatory stance with an air guitar, and sang in his lowest range, voice rough and ragged, improvising a hard-driving country blues.
“Got drunk and robbed in Austin, been downhill since that night
Hauling heartache down the highway, being chased by another man’s wife
I must be turning into Joe Wayne Brazos, ’cause this just can’t be my life.”
Jamie took a bow to laughter and applause, but he wasn’t smiling. Gallows humor. Worried, Mae read the rest of the blog post in haste.
Brazos is brilliant at being a bad actor, and I mean that double entendre. He knows exactly how far to screw up his life and in what way without losing his fans, and he’s never crossed that line, staying just bad enough that we can hiss the villain and cheer him on at the same time. Like the best kind of bad actor, Brazos gives us a wink, commenting on his character. Think of his not-fit-for-radio video, Love Handles.
Brazos plays himself as a role in songs like this or Bad Sweetheart. He can sell a heartsick ballad in a way that makes the listener feel moved yet safe, because he always sings it as someone who has survived.
That’s where these two singers couldn’t be more different. A sad song from Jangarrai has no sense that the singer has survived. He’s in it so deep he takes you with him. We didn’t get the drum-along, sing-along, dance-with-me party that I’ve read raves about. Tonight showcased his serious side. His ballads’ melodies are more like ancient folk tunes than pop hits. Some are achingly strange in tone and tempo, perhaps influenced by his classical music background, studies of Asian music and other ethnic influences. Wherever it comes from, this is music that leaves both the singer and the audience emotionally bare. Brazos couldn’t do this. He’s great, don’t get me wrong, but he wouldn’t dare.
Even “unwell,” as he described himself, Jangarrai’s vocal and emotional ranges are extraordinary. He uses few words, and explores them over and over in musical variations that describe the arc of the heart, like a man obsessed with loss and pain, probing its depth the way we do in our private moments when we suffer, digging at our wounds to see if they still hurt. He does it with the power of his operatic training, as well as the unimaginable courage to expose and share this kind of truth.
As the evening passed, I had the feeling I was watching a man being consumed by shadows. He started out in control, if hoarse, but gradually seemed to drift somewhere dark. He lost track of those simple lyrics and apologized. People like to stare at wrecks, I know, and we the audience were no different. We let him go on. Our applause was guilty, I think, as well as deafening. We wanted more from him than he had to give, and he gave it until his voice and his heart gave out.
“He’s not turning into Joe Wayne Brazos. He’s turning into himself. I’d buy Since You’ve Been Gone. If I dare. It’s that powerful. I’m sure it’s safer in the gong bath, mate, but don’t retreat.
Mae opened the video link at the end of the post. Jamie looked above his audience, as if seeing someone in the distance. The melancholy tune soared and fell, exploring the phrase “Since you’ve been gone” in a thousand ways. His fading voice, his face, and the melody said it all, no other words were needed. Mae saw what the blogger meant. Joe Wayne did sad songs as a survivor. Jamie was drowning in this, yet doing it with such beauty, it was riveting.
Mae wondered why Wendy had chosen to share this on Jamie’s web site. It was the worst good review ever written. The videos showed Jamie with his voice damaged. Then she read the announcement that followed it and understood. The blogger had spared Wendy and Jamie the need for an explanation. Charleston, Savannah, and Mobile performances canceled.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jamie slumped in his chair and pitched the plastic deli tub into the trash. He’d eaten tomorrow’s lunch—and tomorrow’s breakfast. The comfort didn’t last. He felt sick. He’d wasted money.
Money. There would never be any money, and he’d still have to spend more to finish the trip. Even now, it was costing money to sleep in this place. He should just sleep in the van, stay anywhere, do his New Orleans show in four days, or go back to Santa Fe and then to New Orleans, or to Austin and then—he couldn’t think. It seemed pointless. The tour was a loss. Why do the last show? Why do bloody fucking anything? Drive the van off a cliff. No one would know. They’d think he’d fallen asleep at the wheel.
Tears that gave no cleansing ran grooves of dull pain deeper and deeper inside him, carving arroyos of darkness. No matter what he did, it would turn out badly. He would lose his earnings, and maybe his reputation, by canceling shows—but he could lose his voice for even longer, damage it permanently, if he tried to perform. And it was his fault. A stronger man could have handled Sylvie. He hardly understood his own collapse, other than that it had been stalking him, too. Probably since the day he quit therapy.
Fuck-up, fuck-up, fuck-up. He rose and flung himself onto the bed, tossing and burrowing. If he’d stayed in therapy, he never would have ended up so crazy he could hardly work, or so poor he couldn’t even fix the latch on the van. He wouldn’t have lost Gasser. If he’d had any sense he would have let Mae give him the GPS, but he had to be a fucking imbecile and act like he didn’t need help. If he’d had his head on straight, he never would have been so stupid as to drink so much in Austin. Why did he do anything? All mistakes, every fucking day of his life. Bloody fucking stupid failure, fucking stupid fool. Jamie stood, placed a pillow against the wall with one hand and punched it as hard as he could with the other, then threw the pillow and paced across the room.
The flash flood came again, ravaging through the ever deepening canyon in his heart. He tried to stifle the tears, but he kept breaking, breaking, breaking, pieces of him flying away, as if his bones were being pulled out through the skin, and the crying hurt his throat, making him sadder still. Lost. Everything he’d hoped for and lived for was lost. The pain dropped him to his knees, and he clutched the pillow he’d thrown, until something broke the cycle.
The mindless nag of an obsession pushed through like the head of a worm through dirt. He managed to breathe almost normally and to walk into the bathroom to brush his teeth. The little scissors for trimming his beard and the razor for the rest of his face sat on the toilet tank. I dare you. Stab and slice. Attack the failure, the worthless fool.
Appalled at the strength of the impulse, he finished his teeth in haste and left the bathroom, closing the door, and pushed a chair in front of it to make himself have to stop and think twice.
No one should have to find a body in a hotel room. The maids—Jesus. They’d never get over it. The van off a mountain or a bridge would be better. End the worry for his parents, stop dragging their lives down with him. No. Yes. No. One more rock-climbing fall, a big one. No one would think it was suicide. Jesus—he was starting to plan.
He sat at the table again and picked up his phone. Tell someone.
Who? He’d passed himself off as normal to Hubert and to Mae. Easy, since no one expected coherence from him texting. He was proud of not letting them know how bad off he was. Hubert and Jen had already done too much for him. Mae, too. He couldn’t ask her for more. His parents? He had to have drained them dry, living with th
em again at his age. Bloody parasite. Could he tell Wendy this urge, then? No. He was a drag on her as well. She’d be better off without him. She’d earned her percentage of nothing for the Memphis show, and nothing for the three they’d canceled, in spite of all her hard work for him. He’d let her down. Let everybody down, even the strangers who wanted to hear him sing.
Please. Not another hour of crying. He always cried easily, but not like this. Normally his weather was like the New Mexico summer monsoons, storms flying through in minutes. Now he was like a tropical depression, endless, stagnant, and swirling in one place. He forced himself to scroll through his contacts. Someone had to help him.
Mae. She never judged him. He typed, hlep. But she never loved him either. He hit delete. Over and over. Hlep, delete, hlep, delete. Hopelessness overcame him. I can’t ask anyone. His breath stopped, his tears stopped, everything frozen in the most paralyzing panic of his life. Darkness embraced him, a fall into something soft, endless, and terrifying.
Morning came like a hangover, a dried-out, nauseous feeling as if he’d dehydrated from weeping. He found himself curled on the floor with the pillow. His phone was ringing.
Disoriented, he took it from his pocket and rasped an agonizing hello before he could stop himself.
“Don’t talk, sugar.” Mae’s sweet little voice. He didn’t know if it cracked his heart with hope or shame. “Just open your door.”
She can’t know. Jamie tried to activate the muscles that would make a smile as he opened the door, only to see not her face but her lovely bum as she reached down to pick up a plate and bowl she’d set in the hall. Somehow she’d juggled all that and two huge paper cups of coffee up the stairs. She must have passed as a hotel guest and gotten breakfast. How did she know his room number or which hotel he was in?
Helping her carry the meal in, he wanted urgently to talk to her. This was a miracle—unless he had accidentally sent one of those pathetic cries for help last night. He hoped he hadn’t. He wanted her brought to him by love, not pity. They set the food and coffee on the table, she opened her arms, and he fell into her embrace. It was like going to bed as a tired child. Weighted, exhausted, yet relieved. Nothing in his life had ever felt more needed than this. Nothing. He pressed his cheek against hers and held on, melded to her strength.
