One Night

by Marsha Qualey

  “No, keep going. I still don’t see why playing violin is so dangerous for you.”

  I narrowed my eyes and sharpened my stare. “It’s not like I can draw you a map, Tom. A life is not that simple.”

  “Neither are maps,” he said “So keep going, if you will.”

  “By the time I was fourteen, I was in a whole new world, meeting all sorts of musicians and artists and moving in their different circles. It was a huge change, because as much as I loved what I was doing and the music I was learning, and making, I was no longer Kelly Ray, rising classical star. I’m not sure I knew who I was.”

  “So you tried to be like the people around you.”

  “Some of the people. Yes, you might say that having lost my own identity, I borrowed theirs.”

  “Hip heroin-using jazz musician.”

  Maybe it was simple after all. Like a straight line from one place to the next. I nodded. “By the time I was sixteen, I was using pretty heavily.”

  He leaned forward. “But surely something you love, something you do so well, surely that should be part of…getting healthy.”

  “Successful recovery depends on breaking old patterns.”

  He rolled his eyes and sat back. “Sounds like a therapist’s line.”

  I leaned forward. The teacup tipped, and liquid sloshed and leeched through the paper tablecloth. “Ever been addicted to something, Prince Tom? Ever tried to quit and stay sober? It’s hard. It’s very hard.”

  “But to give up music? Can’t you even play by yourself?”

  “Playing with others, inventing something with other musicians, that was the thrill, Tom. And no audience, ever? What’s the point of that?” I lifted my left hand, curved the fingers around a phantom violin neck. “I can still feel the strings, feel them vibrating. I hear the music, feel what it’s like playing, making those sounds.” I curled the fingers into a tight fist; my nails dug into the skin. “And when I do, I also feel the dope. I miss the music, Tom, but it was part of a life I can’t live, maybe not ever again. So now I’m a delivery girl.”

  Someone’s heart—his or mine—was pounding loud and fast. Boom, boom, boom. He folded his hands on the table and studied them for a while. His eyes glanced up, looking past me, then they returned. “You said all of that as if you were saying it for the very first time.”

  Bingo, Tom, bingo. “I don’t talk about it much.”

  His eyes again scanned the background. I definitely must have been boring him if outside was so much more interesting. He pulled his gaze back. “I’m sorry to ask this, but could you tell me what—”

  Maybe it was his polite interest, or the weight of talking, but for some reason, I snapped. “No. I’m not going to tell you what it’s like to use heroin. People always want to know, people always want the sordid details about using. What does it feel like? What made you do it? What were you thinking? It’s like they want to get close to something that’s out of bounds, something dangerous, but without the risk. And mostly I think they want to be entertained by my…mistakes.”

  I had his attention now. “You interrupted,” he said tersely. “I wasn’t asking about that.” He leaned in. “Believe me, Kelly, I am not the least bit curious about the ‘sordid details.’ You know why? My parents were both drunks and my mother also loved her cocaine. They died together, and it was a lousy death. A pathetic drunk’s death. I assure you: I’m not interested in being entertained by anyone’s ‘mistakes.’”

  There it was again: boom, boom, boom. My heart, definitely mine. “I’m sorry, Tom. Sorry I jumped on you. Talking about it is just so hard.”

  “From the way you reacted, I’d say not talking is hard. Maybe you need more practice.”

  I inhaled deeply. Let it out slowly. “What question did I interrupt?”

  He made a face. “Now I feel awful. This is so dumb—I mean, here you were, pouring it out, we’re having this heart-to-heart thing when a day ago neither of us knew the other existed.”

  Speak for yourself, Prince Tomas Teronovich. “And…?”

  “So you’re telling me all this, and I’m really listening and I’m glad that you’re talking about it and I do want to know all about you, but meanwhile there’s some sort of thing going on outside and I see all these people and I can’t figure it out and you’re talking about this serious stuff and I’m listening, I really am, but meanwhile, I can’t help wondering: Why the hell are these ladies all dressed that way? Oh, that one is a guy; wow, nicely done. What’s happening out there? Look.”

  I licked my lips, which had gone dry as I’d vented and raged, then pushed back my chair, turned, and looked. Outside, mixed in with the usual street scene, were several passersby clothed in period dress, dolled up for a party taking place in some other century. Hair piled high, hats, parasols, long slender dresses loaded with buttons.

  “And now a lion?” he said in disbelief. I craned my neck. Coming toward us on the sidewalk was someone braving the heat in a full lion’s costume. Behind him, two silvery men appeared. Tin men. They turned and entered the Midtown movie theater.

  I laughed. “Oh, my gosh, I’d forgotten. I know what it’s about. We did a show—” I stopped in time and held my tongue.

  Luckily Tom was still staring and hadn’t heard me. “What’s going on?” he asked again.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  He faced me. “Please.”

  “It’s Judy Garland’s birthday.”

  two

  that night

  “Sing-along Meet Me in St. Louis? Sing-along Wizard of Oz? This is how you celebrate a dead actor’s birthday? A little weird, isn’t it?”

  I handed Tom the popcorn and nudged him toward two empty seats. “This is nothing. This is just the party at the end of a film festival that kicked off a couple of weeks ago on her actual birthday. For real weirdness you’d have to go up north, to the town where she was born. There they have a huge blowout: a parade, carnival, Garland impersonators. They even used to fly in Munchkins.”

  “There’s no such thing as Munchkins.”

  It was one of those moments when I seriously doubted his fitness to be king. Maybe the old men were right and he did need to be tucked away out of sight. I spoke slowly and clearly. “Of course, Tom, there is no such thing as a Munchkin. The actors, Tom, the actors. The ones who played the Munchkins. They bring in the actors.”

  He was not amused. “I still don’t get it. A dead star’s birthday? Why play dress-up?”

  “She was born in Minnesota. We can’t claim very many celebrities, so we go nuts over the few we have. Whether or not they’re all that big or even alive.”

  We’d settled into seats, clutching our popcorn and sodas. Two women in the row ahead of us turned. One laid down a scornful look. “Not that big? The greatest entertainer ever?” The woman next to her nodded. They both turned and faced front, simultaneously smoothing down the long skirts of their dresses.

  I leaned forward and tapped the one who’d spoken. “Madame, would you kindly remove your hat?”

  *

  The Midtown is one of those great old theaters with fancy murals, red velvet seats, a balcony, and twinkling star lights. For tonight’s event two huge monitors had been brought in and set up on either side of the screen.

  By quarter of ten every seat was filled. There were plenty of people in costume: lots of long dresses of the style I guessed was from Meet Me in St. Louis, lots of Tin Men, dozens of Wicked Witches. By nine-fifty-five the clapping and stomping had started. When the lights went down, the monitors went on. People whistled and cheered.

  Meet Me in St. Louis has a lot of catchy songs, but the sing-along was tentative at first. Of course, it was hard to watch the action on the screen, listen to the music, and manage to read the lyrics as they scrolled by on the monitors. But people got into other business: booing the stuffed-shirt dad; hissing the stuck-up school friend; ooh-ing and lip-smacking over the pretty boy-next-door.

  And by the time Judy was riding th
e trolley with her crowd, headed to the 1903 World’s Fair for a day of wholesome fun, the Dakota City theater was singing and rocking.

  Prince Tom loved it. So did I.

  When the lights went on and the music stopped, Tom leaned forward and tapped the lady on the shoulder. “That was wonderful,” he said. “You were right.”

  The woman nodded. “‘The Trolley Song’ is simply the best movie musical number ever. Period.”

  A Tin Man sitting next to her companion turned around (stiffly). “Better than ‘Over the Rainbow’? I don’t think so.”

  I whispered to Tom. “It could get rough; want to leave?”

  He looked at me as if I were nuts, then leaned forward to ask the Tin Man a question.

  One of the Meet Me in St. Louis women in the row ahead crooked her finger. I leaned toward her. She whispered, “Your boyfriend is very sweet.”

  I glanced at Tom. He was reacting to something the Tin Man had said, rolling his eyes and laughing. I replied, “Yes, he is.”

  “Be good and be careful,” she said as she turned back around.

  One out of two, I figured. The best I could do for what remained of the night.

  I checked my watch. The Wizard of Oz would start at midnight. I had ten minutes—should I call Kit? Would she be free to take the call? Was she alone? Was she even awake? I decided against calling. Either she was still being watched, or she was in bed. After all, on a normal night, she’d be sound asleep by now.

  I looked around. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my; clearly, this was not a normal night. I wasn’t alone in this conclusion: Just then people in the balcony unfurled and hung a banner that read “You’re Not in Kansas Anymore.”

  Any reserve that had been shown during Meet Me in St. Louis was long gone by the time Oz began. It was no longer a movie; it was one raucous party.

  But not when Garland sang the Rainbow song. Weirdly, for those few minutes, except for a few sniffles and sighs, the theater was dead silent. Then the song was over, wicked Almira Gulch came to call on Dorothy’s family, and the party roared back to life.

  I tugged on Tom’s sleeve. “Anything like this in Lakveria?”

  He shook his head, smiled, then pulled me closer and whispered in my ear, “When I am the king.”

  *

  “I’m hungry.”

  “After all that popcorn?”

  Tom wiped his hands on his jeans. “Buttered popcorn. What do you say, Kelly Ray?” He paused to savor the moronic rhyme. “What do you say we make a night of it? It’s barely after two, and this may be my only chance ever to watch the sunrise in Dakota City. What have we got—three, four more hours until that happens?” He frowned.

  “Of course, you probably have to go to work. What are you delivering tomorrow, any idea?”

  You, Your Highness, you. “The good thing about my job, Tom, is that I never know what the day will bring. I’d be happy to pull an all-nighter with you, but I’d like to ask for one condition.”

  He was on some kind of high. The hour. The freedom. The movies and popcorn. “Ask me anything, Kelly Ray.”

  “After we watch the sunrise and before you go to the hotel, could you pop into my work and meet my boss? After I disappeared yesterday, I’m not sure how things are for me at the office. It would be great if I could introduce you.”

  “Would that help?”

  “I’m sure it would. Promise?”

  “I have a condition, too. Say yes to my condition and then I’ll promise.”

  “What is it?”

  “Would you buy me more food? When I went to the rest room between movies, some men there were talking about an all-night diner with great pie. Leo’s. I heard raspberry is in season. No, wait, that’s not right.”

  “Probably it is right. Leo makes great pie.”

  “No, I meant that it was two scarecrows talking about the pie. What do you say to this plan: raspberry pie at Leo’s, a sunrise, your boss.”

  It should have been easy to agree. While I wasn’t sure we wouldn’t be intercepted by security at the station door, and I had no guarantee Tom would actually talk to Kit, at least he was happy about staying with me. As long as I fed him.

  But not Leo’s. Anywhere but all-night Leo’s.

  Still, this was Dakota City. Where else could you go? The bars closed at one and so everything else shut down, too.

  “You don’t want to go there?” he asked.

  “It’s an old hangout,” I said.

  He understood right away and he gently touched my arm. “Old patterns, right? Well, some other place. It doesn’t matter.”

  Old patterns. It was the closest either of us had come to referring to our after-dinner conversation. Four hours of Judy Garland and her costumed devotees had intervened, and now my prickly outburst seemed silly and distant. I slipped my arm through his and started walking. “There is no other place, not at this hour. If we were in the suburbs, we could go to a Perkins. But I’m not sure we’re that desperate; besides, the buses quit running at two. There’s another thing, though, about Leo’s. The cops keep a close watch on the place. Leo doesn’t allow stuff to go on inside, but…” I shrugged. “You can meet people there, make connections, or maybe hook up with a friend who might know where there’s a party. So when they don’t have real stuff going on, the cops come by and look tough.”

  “Then let’s hope there’s real stuff going on.”

  Luck held. The Dakota City police must have been busy with more serious things than looking for a runaway prince at an all-night diner. There were no patrol cars parked by the hydrant in front of Leo’s.

  No cops, but everything else was as I remembered: Leo was behind the counter, looking bored. Black plastic chairs and shiny stainless-steel tables. Ten red-topped stools at the counter. Black and white tile floor. Glittery jukebox programmed with sixty-three songs, all of them Etta James.

  It had been two years since I’d been to Leo’s. Two years since I sat on a stool and drank the coffee and ate the always-good pie. Two years. Not since that night.

  That night I sat there, stool number three from the left, and chatted and flirted with Dewey Devine, falling (as always) under the spell of his rowdy red hair and icy blue eyes and red trumpeter’s lips.

  Whaddaya mean you can’t come and play with us? Kelly, we need that violin. No one plays it like you. Baby-sitting, you’ve got to be kidding. How boring is that, come on now, Liz Turner’s on bass. Okay, then, be good. Some other time, there might be some dates at the Jitter Joint, I’ll keep you in mind, yeah, I mean it. Too bad you’re too young for the real clubs. Baby-sitting. Oh, oh, oh, Kelly.

  Then he whispered.

  Here, hold out your hand, just so you know there’s no hard feelings and that I’ll love you forever. This, girl, is in case baby-sitting is as boring as it sounds, quick in the pocket, we don’t want Leo to get mad. Tonight at eleven, exactly four hours from now, I’ll do mine, you do yours, and no matter where we are, it will be like we’re together.

  If I remember it right (and who’s to say that I do?), at that moment he kissed me here, touched me there. Exit Mr. Smooth.

  Oh my God. And I liked him?

  My laughter must have been louder than Etta’s singing, because when I caught my breath I saw that everyone in Leo’s was looking at me. “Sorry,” I said.

  “You okay?” Tom asked in the lowest of whispers.

  “I’m fine. Just went off on a little memory riff. Habit of mine.”

  “Are you sure you want to stay? Are you really okay?”

  “I am so fine, Mr. Buckhorn, I can’t tell you. Maybe a little bit sad, but fine. Now let’s get some pie.”

  We grabbed a table for two next to a large group of Tin Men and Dorothys. A waitress took our order and hustled away. She returned in a flash. Tom took one bite and set down his fork. “Oh, Kelly,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m in love.”

  “The pie’s that good?”

  “It’s that good. I’m
in love with whoever made this pie.”

  I pointed to Leo, who was chewing a toothpick and working a crossword. Tom twisted and looked, turned back to his pie. “Maybe not,” he said.

  Not in love, but still hungry. He ordered seconds. While he was waiting, I went to the rest room. By the time I came out—it was a one-toilet bathroom and the two witches ahead of me were having trouble with their costumes—he was done with his pie, and three cops sat at the counter.

  I slid into my seat. “What took so long?” he asked.

  “The witches were having trouble with their skirts. See what’s at the counter? Maybe we should go now.”

  He didn’t look.

  “Cops, Tom.”

  “I know. I saw them come in and I knew you’d be worried and then I realized I’d had enough, this was stupid.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I made a call. Leo’s adding it to the bill; sorry. I didn’t have change for the phone I called my uncle while you were in the bathroom. Actually, I called his valet, Andre, on his cell phone. I thought that maybe at four in the morning it would be the best way to leave a message for my uncle; he is the king, after all. I’m just learning all this, but instinct tells me that you don’t mess with an old king’s sleep.”

  My mouth went dry and my heart slowed to a funeral beat. “What did he tell you?”

  “What do you mean? I told Andre that I was fine, not to worry, I was out on the town, I was being discreet and no one would find out. I said that if they were still looking for me, they could stop because I’d be back. There’s a breakfast meeting I’m supposed to attend, and I said that I’d be there. Why do you look like that? You should be pleased. You can relax, they won’t bother us now.”

  Not on your life, I thought. Not as long as they think you’re with the ex-doper who works for the ruckus-raising one-armed radio host. “And then what did he say?” I asked slowly. Meaning, did he tell you who I was?