by Roscoe James
Jessie was fed up, and it had nothing to do with who had the bigger tits. The question was a career killer. You acknowledge with the obvious answer, yes, and you're pounding nails into your own coffin. You say no and you sound like some arrogant asshole.
“I've already been in touch with my agent, and another opportunity is—”
“Yeah.” The guy had dead expressionless eyes that Jessie couldn't read. “Would that be Bernard Goldman? I spoke with him yesterday. He didn't know a thing about the Cotton Mouth Lee deal or what your plans were. In fact… Let me find it here. He said—”
“That's just some kind of misunderstanding. I'll have to give ol' Bernie a call.” Jessie's hands were starting to sweat, and she looked around for the waitress.
“Looks like you're ready to leave. Maybe I can ask you just one more question?”
Jessie smiled and said nothing. The waitress was on her way with the check, and Jessie really wanted to get back out of the spotlight. Her plan was to track down Marci and try to make a phone call. Two months ago she would have loved being under the NMT spotlight, but under the circumstances the guy was just taking up her time.
She held her hand out for the check and watched the guy flip through his notepad. Pushing up from the table, she thought she was home safe until he finally found his notes.
“Right. Here it is. Is it true that you and Marcella Dionysius, one of the most renowned cello players in the world, are having an affair?”
There it was. The pink elephant had stumbled back into her life and was about to take a high dive into a kiddie pool from fifty feet up beneath the festive canopy of the main tent. Jessie could have just shoved past the man. The words no comment even popped into her head. Silence would have gotten her out of the situation, but big pink elephants can be hard to ignore.
Things would have been so much easier if Marci had been there. Or if they'd spoken since that night at the restaurant. But she wasn't and they hadn't, and Jessie could see the man's hand poised over his notepad to get the scoop.
For the first time in her life, Jessie recognized the moment for what it was. She'd missed most of the turning points in her life. This one had a big sign up at the intersection, and the words were about ten feet tall.
FIGHT OR FLIGHT.
She settled back into her chair and waved the waitress back over.
“Who did you say you were?”
“Nashville Music Trade magazine.”
“Ya got a name?”
“Ted. Ted Willows.”
“You want some coffee, Ted?”
The guy seemed genuinely surprised. Jessie ordered two cups and invited Mr. Willows to pull his chair closer.
“Tell ya what I'm gonna do, Ted.” She leaned across the table conspiratorially and went on. “You and me, we're gonna make a deal. You up for a deal, Ted?”
“Well…” The guy was trying to figure Jessie's angle.
“Come on, Teddy. Live a little. Take a chance.”
“Sure. I reckon. What's the deal?”
Fifteen minutes and a cup of coffee later, Jessie left and headed back to her room at the boardinghouse. She couldn't say how she felt. She clutched the scrap of paper from Ted's notepad between her fingers and turned to make sure the pink elephant was keeping up.
Chapter Eleven
Jessie pulled the ratty old curtain back and watched a cold gray October rain pelt the window. It was only four in the afternoon in Nashville, but if the guy had told her right, it was eleven in the evening in Stuttgart, Germany, where Marci was staying at some posh hotel.
She'd anguished all day with her decision. She thought talking to the reporter would make everything irrevocable. No take-backs. She'd expected relief, finality, but she'd found neither. She'd been counting the minutes until she thought Marci's evening concert would be over and she'd be back in her hotel room. The concert had ended two hours earlier at nine, and Jessie could no longer stand the inaction.
She let the curtain drop and flipped her cell phone open. Her fingers trembled and her palms were sweating as she dialed the long line of numbers. It took three tries and an operator's assistance to finally decipher the rules for an international call. When she heard an odd tone beep in her ear, she almost ended the call thinking she'd got it wrong again. Then there was a click and a rush of words she didn't understand.
“Ah. I'm sorry. Do you speak English?”
A minute later a young man came on the line.
“Good evening. How may I help you?”
“Hey! Great! Could you connect me with Marcella Dionysius's room, please?”
“Sorry. We have no Marcella Dionysius with us this evening. Would there be anything else I can do for you tonight?”
Jessie's heart sank. She couldn't believe the reporter had given her the wrong information just to get his story.
“Are you sure? I was told she's staying at your hotel.”
“I'm very sure, Madame. I'm looking right here at the computer. No Marcella—”
“She's the cello player. American. She gave a concert this evening at the…” She tried to read the reporter's scribbled notes but couldn't. “She's doing a tour.”
“Yes. I know exactly who you're talking about, Madame. But we have no rooms registered in that name.” At first Jessie didn't catch the inflection, but then she got it.
“Wait! I know. Do you have a room under the name Isabella something-or-other? Italian woman. Forties. Black hair. She's handling—”
“No. I see no rooms or suites under the name Something-or-other either. Will that be—”
“You know exactly who I'm talking about. Just put the call through.” She didn't know if yelling would work, but not yelling wasn't an option.
“I'm so sorry, Madame. But if you don't have a name, how can I possibly know you aren't—”
“Forget it!” Jessie slammed her phone shut and kicked her mattress. “Asshole!”
She tried to remember. Marci had been sitting to her left and the woman had come in. First Marci's father had spoken…then Marci had introduced the woman. This is Isabella…
“What was it? What was her name?”
Di Rossetti.
Jessie pulled her phone open and dialed again. When the same man answered, she rushed ahead.
“Di Rossetti! Isabella di Rossetti! Could I speak—”
“I'll put your call right through, Madame.”
She heard the same odd beeping sound and had just enough time to panic. She was calling Marci's first love. A woman who still evoked strong emotions. A woman whose memory had brought a tear to Marci's eye.
A sleepy female voice said something that sounded vaguely like hello. Jessie didn't recognize the voice, but she hadn't really stuck around long enough to know what the woman would sound like.
“Hi. My name's Jessica Butler. We met at the restaurant in Los Angeles. I—”
“Who did you say you were?” Clearly the woman had been pulled from a sound sleep.
“Jessica Butler. Jessie. A friend of Marci's. You met me at that—”
“Oh! Right! I know you. The guitar picker.”
Jessie ignored the disdain in the woman's voice and forged ahead. “Yeah. The guitar picker. Listen. I wanted to talk to Marci, and they don't have a room in her name. I wondered if you know what room she's staying in?”
“But of course. Yes I do.” The woman sounded bemused.
Jessie waited, and nothing else was said. Finally she prodded. “Yeah. So could I get the room number? I really need to get in touch with Marci.”
“Oh. So sorry.” The woman sounded wide-awake. “You see, we're leaving very early, and Marcella hasn't been sleeping well. The excitement of the trip, I guess. Getting to see old friends. Maybe I haven't been watching our hours like I should be. We've been having a wonderful time, you know.”
Jessie couldn't believe she'd come this far and was being told no. “Look. I promise I won't keep her up. I just want to say hi.”
The line was quiet. Jess
ie heard only the hollow sound of an empty overseas call and thought the woman had cut her off. Finally Isabella di Rossetti, her voice full of contempt and self-importance, spoke. “You are just a little girl. Do you really think you know how to love someone as beautiful and talented as Marcella? She is an angel, and you are nothing more than a mere mortal”
“What?”
“Marcella needs a real woman. Someone who understands her. Not some silly ninny that runs out of the restaurant scared.” The woman at the other end of the phone started laughing.
“You listen to me—”
“She pined for you, you know? For weeks. She wanted to call you. She told me so. She wanted to find you and talk to you.”
The line went quiet, and the only thing Jessie could hear was her own pulse in her head. Her ears burned, and she felt light-headed. Isabella di Rossetti shoved the dagger in a little deeper and gave it a twist.
“Yes. You know how impetuous Marcella can be. But when she told me of these things, I advised her against it. I explained that if you, some guitar picker, were really in love with her, you'd find her. I explained that she shouldn't make things too easy. After all, you couldn't even say the words to her face. How on earth could she expect you to—”
“Where the hell is Marci? I want to talk to her right now.”
“Now, now. You had your chance, little girl. What Marci needs is a woman. One who knows how to love her back.”
The line went dead with a click, and Jessie rolled into a ball on her bed. Her sobs were jerky and anguished. She dropped her phone on the floor and tried to unwind enough to get up. When she finally managed to stand, the room spun, and she ran for the bathroom. After throwing up she washed her face in cold water and went looking for her purse. When she found Judy Lewiston's card, she dialed the woman's personal cell-phone number. When she got voice mail, she tried the office. When she got more voice mail, she shut her phone so hard the plastic case cracked.
“If this is love, they can have it,” Jessie yelled in frustration. She paced her room. She was angry and frantic. By one in the morning, she had worn herself out. She finally fell in a dizzying heap of unresolved questions and doubt and tried to find sleep. She didn't.
* * *
Jessie felt the dull snub the next morning that sometimes comes to those who choose to be different. When she wandered downstairs to leave for the post office, she was confronted at the foot of the stairway by Mrs. Johnston.
“I forgot I rented that room to this guy who's coming in on Tuesday. He booked before you, so you gotta find someplace else to stay startin' tomorrow.”
He booked? Jessie looked around Mrs. Johnston's drab living room. Is this the goddamned Omni in Manhattan?
Jessie spied the day-old newspaper open in Mrs. Johnston's hand. She saw a picture of herself drunk, clinging to the microphone stand, staring back. Mrs. Johnston had the look of someone who would not be deterred. Finally Jessie said, “No you didn't. You're just afraid my girlfriend might come to spend the night.”
Jessie was checked into the Days Inn downtown before noon. The room smelled like disinfectant and stale cigarette smoke. One thing it didn't smell like was bigotry. She dialed Judy Lewiston's office, and some girl on perky pills answered.
“Lewiston Entertainment. How may I help you?”
“Yeah. Could I speak to Judy Lewiston please?”
“Ms. Lewiston is out of the office today. Could I take a message?”
Jessie left her name and number. She didn't have a show until Wednesday night and wasn't sure what to do with herself. She felt like a caged animal. In spite of hardly sleeping the night before, she was full of energy and hungry. She grabbed her Stetson, a jacket, and her purse, and headed out. When her phone rang she thought it was Judy Lewiston.
“Hello.”
“Jessica. How are you, dear?”
“Who is this?”
“Alexander.” It had been almost two weeks since her visit to Los Angeles. When she didn't say anything, the man went on. “Marcella's father.”
“I know who you are.” Jessie gritted her teeth and navigated traffic to get across the street.
“Yes. I guess you do. Listen. I happen to be in Nashville. I wondered if I could invite you to dinner—”
“You can't invite me anywhere.” Jessie closed her phone and ducked into a corner pharmacy. She perused the newsstand at the entrance and found what she was looking for.
When she was back on the street, her phone rang again. She flipped it open and yelled, “I said leave me the hell alone, you asshole.”
“What? Is that you, Jessie?”
“Judy? Sorry. I thought someone else was calling.”
“That's okay. Listen. I'm glad you called. Tell me you've thought things over—”
“Look, Judy. I need a favor.”
“The last time I did you a favor, it ended with me not getting a contract. Why should I do you another one now?”
“Because I'm beggin'. That's why.”
When the woman didn't answer, Jessie was afraid she was going to be turned down. Finally she heard her say, “Have you had lunch yet? I'm in Nashville. You know that—”
“What is this? National Feed Jessie Day or something?”
“We can just get together if you don't want to eat.”
“Food's good. I need to eat something. Where?”
They made arrangements to meet, and fifteen minutes later Jessie walked into one of Nashville's best-kept secrets. Clyde's, a local eatery that specialized in ribs and barbecue, was packed. She looked around for Judy and almost left when she saw Marci's father sitting at the woman's elbow, both of them on their cell phones. She ducked into the restrooms before they saw her and tried to shake off her rage. She brushed her hair out, splashed her face with water, and put on just enough lipstick to give her some color. Finally she leaned into the mirror and whispered, “You can do this.”
Jessie didn't walk up to the table; she assaulted it. She bounced up with a spring in her step, a smile in place, and stuck her hand in Judy Lewiston's face. “Hi, Judy. Good to see ya.”
The woman ended her call and took Jessie's hand. “You too, Jessie. And look who I ran into. I think you know Mr. Dionysius.”
The man put his phone away, stood, and stuck his hand out. Jessie pumped his hand and took a seat.
“Sure. Alex and I met up a while back. A real charmer. How ya been, Alex?”
“Jessica, look—”
“No. You look, Alex. I'm not too sure why you're here. Maybe you can let us girls talk first. Or would that offend your sense of morality?”
Judy stared, and Marci's father looked duly chastised. A harried waiter ran past the table and dropped plastic-coated menus before disappearing. Jessie picked hers up and tried to keep it from shaking while she hid behind it.
“Well. Anyway.” It was clear Judy was thrown by Jessie's swagger, but the woman regrouped and went on. “I was actually glad you called, Jessie. I was going to call you. I'm not going to beat around the bush. I'm in a pinch and I need your help.”
Jessie peered over the top of her menu. When she didn't say anything, Judy went on.
“Cotton's not happy. This guy we got isn't working out. And to top it all off, we may have to drop him on a morality clause. Seems some mother called the office yesterday looking for her seventeen-year-old daughter.”
“Sorry to hear that, Judy. I really like Cotton Mouth Lee. He deserves—”
“I'm glad to hear you feel that way. Maybe we can do some business.”
Jessie glanced at Marci's father. The man was unreadable. She was sure it wasn't a coincidence that Mr. Dionysius and Judy Lewiston both just happened to be in Nashville at the same time. Even more improbable was the idea they'd both happened on the same restaurant for lunch.
Jessie dropped the menu and looked across the table at the pair of coconspirators. She was tired of shadowboxing. Fed up with the game. There was only one thing she came to do, and she planned on getting it don
e.
“Right. Look. I need your help with something, Judy. I need to get in touch with Marci, and my calls aren't getting through. Since you're her agent, I thought you might be able to hook me up.” She dared either one of them to deny Judy's involvement with Marci. And she also wondered what Daddy Dearest would do if he knew some manipulative dyke was lording over his daughter's affairs. She didn't miss Judy's sideways glance. When no one answered, she looked at Alex and insisted. “Well?”
Finally, stomach in knots, not feeling nearly as brave as she hoped she looked, Jessie grabbed her purse, her bag from the pharmacy, and her jacket. She pushed up from the table and said, “You two are a real pair.”
“Wait! Let's talk!”
She ignored Judy and headed for the door. When she hit the sidewalk, she turned right and picked up the pace. Her tears wouldn't stop, but she refused to actually break down and cry. She wasn't about to give them the satisfaction. Mr. Dionysius didn't catch up until she turned the corner.
“Get away!” She shrugged out from under his hand and kept walking.
“Jessica. Look.” The man was huffing, trying to keep up. “I'm sorry. Really. Come on. Let's talk.”
Jessie pulled up short in front of a used-instrument store and turned on her heel. “Why can't you just leave me alone? Why can't you just let us figure it out? We don't want to hurt anyone. We just want what everyone else seems to have. We just want to be happy.”
Marci's father started to speak.
Jessie walked away.
The man didn't follow.
* * *
Jessie looked around the drab Days Inn room and tried to find it. She started pulling her clothes off and glanced in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door to see if she could find it there. She even sang a few bars of “Ain't Gone 'N' Give up on Love” in search of it.
She didn't feel any different. Exhaustion and an empty, hollow feeling in her stomach had become a constant companion. Aside from that, she felt pretty much like she always had. Like Jessie Butler.
She already knew what it was. It was the difference of having Marci in her life.
