A Gift for My Sister: A Novel

by Ann Pearlman

  “You’re such a sweet, gentle girl,” I tell her when she crawls back up to her chair.

  “Shanks,” she says.

  “‘Thanks’, she said ‘thanks,’” Levy interprets.

  At first I couldn’t understand a word Rachel said. Levy translated for me. Now I understand her pronunciation, but Levy still enjoys helping. Rachel looks at me and bites her hamburger. She has a delicate compassion that’s a contrast with Levy’s there’s-the-world-let-me-grab-it approach.

  Outside the restaurant, a white dude with a black T-shirt and panama straw hat plays keyboard and sings Billy Joel songs with easy control of the instrument and a voice that teases out sorrow in the lyrics. Even with the breeze and the sound of crashing waves, his voice captures interest. He’s a good-looking man, probably in his forties, and I’d imagine him with a full-time gig in a piano bar or upscale restaurant. He takes off his hat and walks back and forth among the diners asking for money. I give him five dollars and he nods to us.

  Then a woman with gray hair twisting from a low ponytail sits down at a rickety upright piano. She slides the sleeves of her baggy purple shirt to her elbows and plays flawless Chopin. It’s the same piece that I played for my last piano concert for the high school orchestra. She tilts her face to hear her own notes. Her face is lined, her nose prominent. I wait to hear if she accomplishes the tricky spot, the part that I struggled to play smoothly. Her fingers slide through the measures.

  I watch her and shudder.

  A wind comes from nowhere. The palm fronds rattle like snakes.

  On the way back to Sky’s condo, I buy orange eye shadow and, before the concert, cover one side of my face.

  “What’s with the orange?” Special asks.

  “It’s for Troy. Troy and Sky.”

  “I’ve been thinking about him all day.” He frowns at me.

  “Sky and I are the Orange Sisters. I’ll tell you the story later.”

  I shoot him a look and he adds, “This concert. I mean, we’re from Detroit and this is L.A. We could go either way.”

  I slip on a black sequined tank top with spaghetti straps, and jeans. Silver stilettos, too. “The new one will bridge it.” I pull a strand of hair over one eye.

  “Wow, you look hot.” Special nods at me with that unmistakable sexual interest.

  I check on the kids; they’re both asleep on the couch in the dressing room. Levy has his arm over Rachel as though he’s protecting her from what this night might bring.

  Before we start, I peek from behind the curtain. The house lights are on and I see five empty seats in the front row. Five seats for Mom, Sky, Troy, Allie, and Sissy. None of them are here.

  Oh, well. What I expected. I know Mom needs to be with Sky and Troy tonight. That’s most important. I tell myself, You’ve got to get your spirit up. There’s a show to do. Your most important one. This is about you and Special and your life. You have your music. I straighten my shoulders. I have to do what I need to do.

  And then I see Allie. Of all Mom’s friends, she’s the one that I feel closest to, and she was supportive of me and Aaron from the beginning. Her hair is fluffed up, and she wears jeans with rhinestones on the ass pockets and one of her crazy tie-dye tops. She’s trying to look hip, but her shoes throw her cool off. She strides down the aisle by herself like this is where she belongs, plops down in the front row. Straggling behind her are three kids, wearing the requisite sagging jeans, white T-shirt, and baseball caps, who sit next to her. She gave the other three tickets to fans waiting in line. Good for her.

  “Allie’s here,” I tell Special.

  “By herself?”

  “Looks like she made some friends.” I point to her and the three decked-out youngsters.

  “They’re some lucky kids.”

  Allie’s not Mom, but she’s the next best thing. “I’m grateful she came.”

  Aaron huffs air out and says, “You deserve that and more. A lot more.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me toward him. “Babe. You got to put the shit away. Ain’t nothin’ for the rest of the night but us and our sounds. Us,” he says again, “and our music. That and loving them,” he nods toward the audience. “We have to love them for them to love us,” he says.

  And as if on cue, here comes Sissy, sitting on the other side of Allie. She arrived straight from the airport. I watch as Sissy and Allie greet each other. How do they know each other? I guess from the Christmas cookie party, the cookie exchange that Mom has had my entire life. Mom invited Sissy right before Levy was born.

  The first time I met Sissy was in the middle of the night. I was with Aaron in Detroit; we’d spent the day working on lyrics and then went to St. Andrews to do some freestyling. A perfect spring day and evening, until we walked back to his car. Flat tire. And he didn’t have a spare. And it was late, way late. Everything-closed late. He shrugged and said, “I guess you’re coming home with me.”

  Now, home was his mom’s. “Why don’t we, like, rent a hotel room somewhere?”

  “You have extra money? Mom’s is just a mile away.”

  I looked down.

  “What, you afraid to meet my moms? You going to love each other.”

  I’d never met any boy’s mother before. Except Troy’s and he doesn’t count. Of course, I never really had a boyfriend before Aaron, either. So we walked through the quiet night. It was near Easter, and one house had plastic pastel eggs hanging from tree branches.

  And then we came to a red brick house, with a porch in front. Gray trim. Aaron rang the doorbell. “We need to let her know you’re here.”

  Sissy answered, tying a sash across a turquoise chenille bathrobe, her hair in pink rollers. The foam kind.

  There I stood. A white girl with black hair and silver hoops in my nose, eyebrow, and all down each ear.

  “Moms, this is Tara. She’s a surprise.”

  “Well, come in, Surprise.” Sissy smiled and then stepped aside so we could enter.

  “My ride got a flat and I’m already using the spare. I can’t get Tara home.”

  “She can sleep in Shana’s room. We’ll take care of this in the morning.” She turned to me. “Your moms know where you are?”

  I shook my head.

  “Don’t want to worry her to death. Let her know. Better to wake her up.”

  She’ll never believe the flat-tire story, I think.

  “I’ll talk to her, if you want.” Sissy must have read my mind.

  Sissy didn’t blink an eye at a Goth-looking white girl standing on her step in the middle of the night. She put me in her daughter’s room, now the guest bedroom. Embroidered forget-me-nots and daisies graced the pillows’ edges. A crocheted afghan of giant violets was folded at the foot of the bed. The dresser was laden with perfume bottles, some with atomizers. I couldn’t help squeezing the orangey bulb to smell the aroma.

  Aaron’s room was at the other end of the apartment, and Sissy slept in a bedroom between us.

  She just ushered me in and welcomed me. Life was whatever came at her next. And she accepted it with grace.

  The next morning, she fed us shredded wheat, took us to Discount Tires, dropped us off at our car, and drove to work. Aaron drove me home.

  I trust Sissy’s love and friendship as much as anyone’s.

  Now she’s settled in her seat next to Allie, and they’re turned to each other, talking.

  There’s the customary hush, and the DJ takes the stage and starts playing, and the spots come on while the house lights dim. As soon as my soles feel the vibrations, fear and thrill run up the backs of my legs, up my spine, down my arms. I flex my fingers.

  “I love you, babe,” Aaron says to me, and then turns to the crew. “Let’s do it. Let’s scoop up that love. Let’s go.”

  We stride on stage and the house screams. We start with “Prohibitions of Prison” to get the audience revved up. And then Special gets serious. He quiets the crew and takes the mic. “My folks is in the hospital going through it in L.A. tonight.
And so I want just to take a moment to think about Troy.” He bows his head and then says, “To think about all the peoples not doin’ as well as we are.” Amazingly, the throng quiets, as though they’re in church instead of at a concert. The audience is the usual decked-out group, evenly split between black and white kids. They’re our people. Usually they’re screaming for us, pumping fists in the air to our beats, singing the lyrics they know. Their excitement hits my throat, pumps my chest.

  This quiet, Aaron’s mention of Troy, catches me unaware, and my sense of buoyancy switches to grief. I clench my eyes.

  “This his favorite song.” Special turns to the crew and says, “Believe in Me.” He nods at me and I start up the soft music. When he gets to the hook, I’m gonna love you past, Your hurt, Your pain, I think of Sky and how brave she’ll have to be to let someone in. I think how hard it is to let Aaron in, and we haven’t even been tested.

  I refocus on our music, the loving lyrics written when I was pregnant with Levy. I become the keyboardist, watching Special for his clues, keeping an eye on Red because he sometimes gets off on his own and needs me to follow. As usual, T-Bone is bumpin’ and grindin’ for the babes. Now the audience is tall dancing shadows jumping to our beats. Special is drenched in a sweat that turns his skin molten bronze, dancing as he sings since he can’t stop moving. Me either, but I’m tied to my keyboard.

  When we start the new song, “Recession,” I get to play Fauré. I start at the beginning, with that long note that’s as perfect as a lonesome train whistle, and let it blanket the venue, dark and empty and lonely because oh how I need this music, oh how I need its cleansing. T-Bone’s fabulous voice carries it with me. Special starts on the hook, the audience stamping and screaming by the time he gets to how can I change in this game with death call’n my name. He never says that as a question, but a statement.

  During the yelling, he steps to me and whispers, “I wrote something for tonight while you with the babies and we worked it. You just play that bullet track or the car screeching when it seems right.”

  “Aaron, I . . .”

  “You can do this, babe. Just feel me.”

  Special holds the mic and starts,

  I heard it through the grapevine

  Performing in California

  Was like strolling through some land mines.

  I put in the bullets that I’d sampled. Out beyond the blaring lights, I sense the audience wary and waiting. Is he really going to get up on their stage, in the House of Blues, and brag about Detroit?

  And then he raps the verse:

  When the world is ghetto

  We all in the same gang.

  Bangin’ the same thing.

  He’s talking about unity, trying to demolish the invisible walls that split people. This could go either way. And from the great void, the audience starts cheering.

  If this the life you live

  You gonna accept it.

  Because it’s hard as can be when you young and black.

  A barrage of bullets.

  That’s what goes on in the city of Boss Angeles

  And it feels like home because

  Detroit is just as scandalous.

  Now, he has—we have—completely won the audience. Detroit and all. White chick and all. Brother in the hospital putting a blanket of terrifying sorrow covering all. I end with Fauré’s first note and let it play over all of us until it’s just about to die.

  And then a final single gunshot.

  Done.

  I hold my breath in the silence. And the audience starts cheering.

  Perfect.

  Special winks at me. He raises the mic to the ceiling and then reaches it out to the audience so they can hear themselves.

  “Feel your power. Feel your power,” he bellows, and then nods so the entire crew aims their mics for the throng, a tsunami of cheering, stomping, screaming, yelling.

  The word power is exaggerated until it’s a tidal wave. I can’t help myself, I sample it. And then play the notes back loud as the sound system will let me.

  The audience and the speakers both throb Hear our power. Hear it.

  Wow.

  Holy shit!!!!

  It’s our best concert. I’m dripping wet with the thrill, sadness, exhilaration, pride running down me. Dripping with Hear our power. And for a moment, I am one with Aaron and our audience. I feel the love. The particular love and the universal love. I am not simply and only my music.

  And then, sadly, I know it’s time, and I turn down the volume until it whispers. And finally fades away. And we stride off stage, the audience still screaming, hollering for more.

  “We can’t top that,” Aaron says in the wings. “Leave them wanting more.”

  We’re done.

  Slowly the audience gives up, turns its back on the stage, and trickles from the auditorium.

  I’m alone again. Even as close as Aaron and I are on that stage and as powerful as this concert we did together was, when it ends, there’s that feeling that was with me as a child.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Unpredictable

  Tara

  WHEN AARON STEALS a moment to hug me, we quiver with invigoration and pride. Security attempts to limit the post-concert throng backstage to a list we’ve compiled, but people push through to cluster around the crew. Usually no one pays attention to me since most of the swarm is girls wanting to take an artist home for a roll, and security lets the pretty ones through. They’re hoping for leftovers. Occasionally someone arrives from the press. Occasionally the interviewer is looking for some action, too. Our record producer is here, holding forth proudly while a dude in a NY Yankee baseball cap takes notes.

  Sissy hugs us. “I’m so happy,” she says to Aaron. “My son, my baby boy knocked it outta the park, honey. Outta the park.” Her eyes gleam with pride. She squeezes me tight and almost lifts me up with her enthusiasm. “Tara, you were fabulous. Your range! I didn’t know that little body of yours could belt it like Aretha.”

  “Just for a note or two.” I hold onto Sissy, missing my mom. “I’m so glad you got to see us.”

  “Your mom woulda been here if she could.” She squeezes me extra for her, then adds, “You made her proud, too.”

  Allie enfolds me. “It was such a thrill to see you. Ah, Tara, you’re so accomplished, and what charisma! Aaron and you both.” She sweeps her arm, “All of you. I remember you as a toddler and now, look at you . . .” Her voice trails off.

  We’ve never had family backstage after a concert. My two separate selves are brought together. It’s disconcerting, almost embarrassing. The sexy me, the flaunting me, the flirting and representing-for-the-audience me is so at odds with the family member, the daughter. The little girl Allie knew with the knobby knees who plunked away at the piano and was ready to vomit before her first recital. The messy housekeeper Sissy rolls her eyes about. All those other versions of me. But maybe this is what adults take for granted. We’re all complex as we juggle and play out different aspects of ourselves.

  “Your mom wished she were here. She really wanted to come, Tara.” Allie’s hands are on my shoulders, and she stares straight into my eyes as though willing me to feel Mom’s love and pride. “But she couldn’t leave Troy and Sky. Not tonight.” She shakes her head slightly. I don’t want to ask how he is. I don’t want the exhilaration from the concert to vanish, but as soon as I think that, it sinks like a balloon losing air. “How is he?”

  Allie presses her lips together and pulls the corners down. “Otherwise your mom would have been here.”

  “What happened to your friends?”

  Allie frowns. “Oh. You mean those dudes I gave the tickets to? They’re off doing whatever’s next. They loved the concert, though.” And then she adds, as though she almost forgot, “Troy’s parents arrived. They’re at the hospital, too.”

  “I don’t know them well. They, like, moved to Florida right after Troy graduated from high school.”

  Levy and Rachel have
woken up, and they run onto the wings of the stage. I pick up Levy and spin him around, and then do the same for Rachel. “Whheeewwww!” I sing as I turn her and she giggles. The three of us stand off to the side while the crew and Allie and Sissy move to a table laden with food and beverages. Levy sees it, runs toward it, and Rachel squirms out of my arms and runs after him.

  Then I see King standing there, a phalanx of dudes behind him forming a wall between me and the others so I’m cut off and shielded. King walks without making a sound; he doesn’t arrive, he transports himself. He glides. I’ve never seen him in person, let alone close enough to touch. His smooth skin seems formed from brown porcelain. Liquid black eyes. He’s oiled with decades of money and protection. Decades of people fawning over his celebrity, putting a polish on him. Decades of people anticipating his every whim and wish so he concentrates only on his lyrics and music and makes money for his people.

  He stares right at me as he floats toward me. “Li’l Key, you’ve got quite the scope.” He’s taller than I’d imagined. He’s in great shape for a man in his forties.

  For years, I’ve listened to his music. In person, this close, his voice has a vibrato, a depth the best sound equipment is unable to capture. Hot honey. A voice that I’ve tried to mimic with my keyboard.

  “You were, like, in the audience?”

  “I was.” And he tilts his head toward me. “And I appreciate your skill, your training, and your, ah, creativity. How you span worlds.” He flexes a smile and warmth radiates.

  Could I ever take his voice for granted, or would I always be more aware of its sound than his words? Now, I struggle to focus on his meaning. “Thank you. I just do what I do. Who I am.”

  He looks me up and down slowly, and I prevent myself from squirming under his scrutiny. “Hot little shorty, too. Very. With your own swag.” He nods.