I'll Sing for my Dinner

by BR Kingsolver

  We flew out of Denver with all the other holiday travelers two days before Christmas. It was starting to snow as we took off. Landing in San Diego, it was bright and sunny and sixty-five degrees. It wasn’t Hawaii, but there were palm trees.

  Cecily picked a tropically themed hotel on Shelter Island. It had the advantages of a great restaurant, a two-minute walk to the beach, and a king-sized bed. I took her down to the Gaslight district the first night and we listened to a jazz quartet in a small bar.

  On Christmas day, we exchanged presents and spent the day in bed, letting room service feed us our holiday meal. I usually worked six or sometimes seven days a week, so having time to ourselves with nothing to do was a luxury.

  She rented a conference room for the contract negotiations. They were contentious, with the two agents each wanting as much of her as they could get. She set a limit of twenty-five percent of her time as the maximum bookings that she would accept from each, including travel time and recording time. She also wanted assurances that they would coordinate schedules.

  “No,” she said when they objected. “It’s not negotiable. I am not going to perform in Toronto one day and attempt to get on stage in LA the next. The resource you’re arguing over is limited. For one thing, I need at least two days, preferably three, for my voice to rest after an operatic performance. I don’t even talk the day afterward, let alone sing.”

  Every so often, she would turn to me and ask, “What do you think, Jake?”

  I told her that it was her decision. After I gave her that answer a few times, she said, “Let’s take a break, gentlemen.” Then she pulled me out into the hall.

  “Listen,” she said, “I’m not asking your opinion just to hear myself talk. I’m genuinely interested in your input.”

  “But, it’s your life, Cecily, your career. I can’t tell you what to do.”

  “I’m not asking you to tell me what to do. I know what I think. I want to hear your opinion. Maybe you’ll think of something I missed. Besides, it’s not just my life. These decisions affect us, affect you. Or did I miss something? When I woke up this morning, I didn’t think I was single. Has something changed?” She looked at the diamond she still wore, then looked back at me.

  I smiled. “Okay, I get the message. You want my opinion, you’ll get it.”

  “Great,” she said, and kissed me.

  It was finally decided she would do four two-month tours in the first year, two classical and two popular. Plus a three-week country western tour in the southern U.S. with Jared’s band. She would also record an album with them and promoting it was to be a fifty-fifty job for the pop guy and Dave. I thought all of that was pretty ambitious, especially since no one had ever heard of her as a pop artist.

  I underestimated the agents. When I flew back to Colorado, I went alone. Cecily was in the studio in Los Angeles recording her first album of songs she had written. It made for a lonely New Year’s Eve.

  ~~~

  Chapter 14

  Cecily

  It was hard missing New Year’s Eve with Jake. We were on the phone with each other, and being in different time zones, we celebrated the New Year twice.

  The tour. Ten venues in two months, four on the East Coast, and six in Europe. A reintroduction of Cecille Buchanan. I would deliver an hour of Celtic harp, an hour of violin, and an hour of arias at each stop. The agent confirmed the bookings within a day of signing his contract. Smug bastard. I was hoping to talk Jake into going with me, but I also had a fall back plan.

  I flew into Denver at the end of the first week in January. I had finished recording my first record of my own songs, and I was psyched. We also recorded two songs for internet release, a love song and a fun one with a beat you could dance to. There might be some background accompaniment added to some of the songs, but I would have the right to approve them before they were released. If everything stayed on track, the CD would be released the first of April.

  I went down to baggage claim, and the handsomest man in the world was waiting for me. I flew into his arms and gave everyone a show. I had missed him so bad.

  When we got in Jake’s pickup, I slipped a CD with the finished songs in his player, and we listened to them on the way home. I had recorded violin for background to be added by the producer for six songs. But what I had was the final voice and guitar.

  We didn’t even stop at the bar, just drove past it and arrived home about six o’clock.

  The next morning, I was fixing breakfast when he came down to the kitchen. “How did you like it?” I asked.

  He gave me a lopsided grin. “I always like sex with you. Why? ”

  I threw a potholder at him. With my hand on my hip, I gave him an exasperated look. “The CD, Jake. Did you like the CD?”

  He chuckled. “Oh, that. I liked it a lot. Did you bring it in with you?” When I pointed to my purse, he found the CD and plugged it into the stereo. It sounded a lot better than in the truck.

  As I cracked eggs for the omelet, he came up behind me, put his hands on my breasts and pulled me back against him. I craned my neck to try and look up at him, then I turned, threw my arms around his neck and kissed him.

  I shouldn’t do things like that when I’m trying to cook. Men are so easily distracted. Pushing him away, I told him, “Go open up my carry on. I brought you a present.”

  “Computers?” he called from the living room. “Why did you get two?”

  “They’re his and hers,” I answered. “The pink one’s yours.”

  He came back into the kitchen and set them on the table. “Very funny. Seriously, why do you think I need a computer? I hate the damned things.”

  I took a deep breath. “I thought we could use them to talk to each other when I’m on the road.”

  “What’s wrong with the phone?”

  “With the computer, we can see each other. You know, it’s like a video phone. And when I’m in Europe, we can still talk over the internet, and it’s free. We can talk and see each other just like we were sitting in the living room together.”

  He considered that. “Do we have to be dressed?”

  I grinned, stepped over to him and kissed him. “I can be as naked as you want me to be.”

  Returning my grin, he said, “You’re making a good case. What else can we do with these things?”

  “Surf the internet,” I started.

  “I don’t own a surf board.”

  I slapped him on the arm and went back to the stove to check on our breakfast. Bringing our plates to the table, I pleaded, “Jake, come with me. Please? I missed you terribly when I was in LA. Why can’t you come?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t leave the bar for months at a time, Cecily. Besides, I hate big cities. But these things,” he motioned at the computers, “are a good idea. Being able to see you will be a lot better.”

  “Jake, you need to make arrangements to take off work next week,” I said.

  “And why am I doing that?”

  “I need to go to Connecticut, and I want you to go with me.”

  “I thought you told your parents that you weren’t going there,” he said, a bit of a frown furrowing his brow.

  “Yes, but I need to get my instruments. My violin, cello, and especially my harp. Finding another harp for performances would be difficult, and the differences between instruments for them are a lot greater than for a violin or a guitar. I also have an electric guitar, a Gibson hollow body like Jared’s, and I like its sound better than his Fender.”

  He was silent while he chewed, then said, “How nasty is it going to be with your parents?”

  “My dad probably won’t be unpleasant. He may even be friendly. My mother will be a bitch. It’s her normal mode, and if she decides to be pissy ...” I took a deep breath, “at her worst, I’m hoping that with you there she won’t hit me.”

  His eyes narrowed to slits. “No one is ever going to hit you. Not in my presence. When are we leaving?”

  “I made reservations for u
s on Sunday. My agent has arranged to ship the instruments back here, and we fly home on Wednesday. Is that okay? You won’t miss any of the busy days at work.”

  “Yeah, that will work. She hits you?”

  “Occasionally. When she gets really mad, she has slapped me. She scares me, Jake. I always feel like a little girl with her. I have a hard time standing up to her.”

  I could tell that he was deciding what to say, or maybe how to say it. Speaking very slowly, he asked, “If I was there, and you knew I had your back, do you think you could stand up to her? Make her see you as an adult?”

  I thought about it. “Maybe. I don’t know. I think I’ll feel stronger with you there. But she’s my mother, Jake. I’ve been thinking about this ever since I decided I need my instruments.” Shit, longer than that. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about it since she called that day. I’m brave when she’s on the other end of the line. I don’t know how I’ll act when she’s standing in front of me.”

  “Cecily, I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

  ~~~

  Chapter 15

  Jake

  We flew in to New York City and rented an SUV for the short drive to her parents’ home in Connecticut. From what she told me, we would need the large vehicle to hold her harp and cello. Her family home was outside of Greenwich, not in the area full of mansions, but an upper-middle class neighborhood. Large McMansions on small lots too close together. Manicured lawns and expensive cars in the driveways. I may have grown up in cattle country, but my time at university and being stationed outside Washington, D.C., in the Marines had shown me how the other half lived. I didn’t much care for it.

  Cecily had called ahead, and her parents were expecting her. While we drove in from the airport, she was very quiet. That wasn’t unusual for her, but in this case, she was tense and fidgeting. I didn’t like her mother already, and I hadn’t even met her.

  We drove into her street and I stopped the car when I saw her address.

  “Are you ready for this?” I asked.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she answered. “It has to be done.”

  “We could ask them to ship them to you,” I suggested.

  “No,” she said, “I need to do this. I have to face them, and they need to see that I’m in charge of my own life. If I had the instruments shipped, they could continue to lie to themselves that I’m still a little girl.”

  I drove on and turned into the driveway. As we got out of the car, a man came out of the house and walked toward us. Mid-forties, about average height with light brown hair that was starting to recede, dressed in crisply-creased khakis and a polo shirt. When he drew close, he smiled and spread his arms.

  “Daddy!” Cecily cried. She almost skipped into his arms and he hugged her to him. Then he grasped her by her arms and leaned back, looking her over and smiling at her. Her smile told me that her father wasn’t a problem.

  “You look great, Cecille,” he said. “You’ve put on weight, and grown into a beautiful young lady. You look happy. Are you?”

  “Yeah, I am,” she replied.

  He looked past her, and put out a hand. “I’m Franklin Buchanan.”

  “Jacob McGarrity,” I said, shaking his hand.

  Cecily cast a glance toward the house. I could see the apprehension in her eyes, and evidently her father could, too.

  “Your mother isn’t here. She said she needed to pick up some things at the store. She’s been gone about a half an hour, so she should be back soon. Come on in. Your instruments are in your room. No one has touched them since you were here last.”

  We went inside, and Franklin offered us something to drink, but we declined. Cecily headed up the stairs, and I followed her.

  As I walked into her room, I was tempted to shield my eyes. Stunned, I looked around in awe at pink and white lace. Everywhere. There were pictures of composers and musical instruments on the walls, interspersed with large photographs of Cecily performing in various concert halls. Fearful for my eyesight, I concentrated on those. I recognized pictures of the Metropolitan Opera in New York and Albert Hall in London.

  She was very, very young in the pictures, and wearing pink dresses. In all the shopping that she’d done in Colorado, I couldn’t remember her buying anything pink. I wondered if the pink computer really was for me.

  The only other things that didn’t fit with the color scheme were instrument cases. Lots of instrument cases. A large harp case sat along one wall. Next to it was a cello case. I also counted two violins, a viola, a mandolin, a smaller harp case, and two guitars. There was a grand piano downstairs. Pianos technically are classified as a string instrument. I hoped we weren’t planning to take it. As it was, I wondered if the SUV was large enough.

  She immediately went to the large harp case and popped the latches. The case swung open and she anxiously inspected the instrument inside. Curious, I stood behind her and looked it over.

  “How much does that thing weigh?” I asked.

  “Only about thirty pounds,” her father said from behind us. “The case, however, is another thirty. Cecille can’t carry it alone.”

  In answer, she ran her fingers across the strings, and the sound filled the room. Opening the larger violin case, she looked inside and then closed it again.

  “Can we load these in the car?” she asked, closing the harp case and gesturing to it.

  “Sure,” I said. I went over and picked it up by the two handles. It wasn’t that bad.

  I carried it down the stairs. Franklin got ahead of me at the bottom of the stairs and opened the door. He was carrying the two guitars. Cecily followed us with the mandolin and violin. I had a feeling that the instruments carried out first indicated their importance.

  One more trip and they were all loaded. I wasn’t sure what to do at that point, and Cecily seemed torn between going back in the house, or getting in the car. We ended up going back inside to wait for her mother. For two hours. It was a bit awkward, as Cecily wouldn’t answer a lot of the questions her father asked. He looked embarrassed, and became more and more uncomfortable as time went on. It seemed that he glanced out the window every couple of minutes.

  We could see the driveway through the picture window in the living room. Finally, a white BMW came down the street and pulled up in the driveway beside the SUV. A blonde woman wearing a white blouse and pink skirt got out, opened the back door of the car, and called, “I need some help here.”

  Franklin hustled out and she started handing him shopping bags. Bags from fancy department stores. From what I could tell, she was thin, like her daughter, with bleach-blonde hair. I thought she might be shorter than Cecily’s five-foot-three, but it was hard to tell with the four-inch heels she was wearing.

  We had called from the airport, and Cecily spoke briefly with her mother. It took us half an hour to get to their house, so her mother must have left immediately after the phone call. I thought Franklin meant she had gone to the grocery store or something like that. Obviously not.

  Breezing through the house, she and Franklin carried the bags up the stairs. Cecily and I waited. Franklin came down about ten minutes later. Her mother took another twenty. By this time, I was past irritated. In my mind, it was established beyond all doubt that her mother was being deliberately rude.

  Mrs. Buchanan strode into the living room, faced Cicely, and without preamble said in a harsh tone, “It’s about time you deigned to grace us with your presence. Do you know how much worry and suffering you’ve caused me and your father? It’s not enough that you ran off with that drug-dealing pimp, but when he got killed, we had FBI agents show up at our doorstep with a search warrant!”

  I didn’t like the woman before she got home. I liked her a lot less afterward.

  “Where did you go?” she continued. “You just disappeared, and we didn’t know whether you were alive or dead for months. And how did we find out you were still alive? More FBI agents. They come and tell us that you’re singing in some dive ba
r in the middle of nowhere. I mean, really, Cecille. It was bad enough to let that pimp sell you on the streets, but to let this, this, cowboy,” she gestured toward me, “degrade your art and pimp your talent is even more disgusting. I don’t know how we’ll ever recover your reputation. We’ll be lucky to book you in dinner theaters.”

  “I’m not asking you to book me anywhere, Mother,” Cecily said softly. “We just came to get my instruments.”

  “Oh? And are you going to play that harp in a bar? Are you going to sing Mozart to a bunch of ignorant cowboys with manure on their boots? Cecille, for God’s sake. Wake up and realize that none of these men give a damn about you. You’re ruining your life.”

  “I think we’re done here,” Cecily said, getting to her feet. “Jake, let’s go.”

  I rose to my feet, looking around for Cecily’s coat, and was slow to react to what came next.

  “I’m not through speaking to you, Cecille,” her mother said. “Sit down.”

  “I’m through speaking to you, Mother.”

  Mrs. Buchanan slapped her. I took a step forward, way past angry.

  Cecily slapped her back, hard enough that her mother staggered backward. I thought she was going to go down, but her husband put out a hand to steady her. The shocked expression on her face was worth the price of admission.

  “I’m through listening to you, too,” Cecily said. “I’m through with taking your abuse, and if you ever touch me again, I’ll knock you on your ass. I’ll use my fist instead of an open hand. Now, you listen to me for a change.”

  She took a step forward and thrust her face within a few inches of her mother’s. She was almost deadly calm and spoke in a fierce but measured cadence. “I don’t care what you say to me, or what you think about me. But if you say one more word about Jake, I’ll bust you in the mouth. And if I hear one word, one rumor, about me and Eddie, or me and Jake, or anything about my music, I’ll have lawyers on you so fast it will make your head spin. I’ll sue you for slander, and even if I don’t win, the legal fees will drive you to ruin.”