Sometime After Midnight

by L. Philips

  “I’ve never thought Teresa would enjoy the business, but I suppose I was hoping she’d find she liked the work. Perhaps I should prepare more for the inevitable.” Father clears his throat. “Yes, well, thank you, Richard. I’ll leave you to the rest of your afternoon.”

  “Wait, before you go, I wanted to ask you something.”

  “What is it?” he says, not bothering to disguise the impatience in his voice. Obviously, he was done with the conversation, and I should have been too.

  “I want to know about Mick Grisheimer.”

  There’s silence on the other end of the line, and Nate and I exchange a nervous glance.

  “We can talk about that when I return, son. There’s really not much to say.”

  “Then tell me now,” I press him.

  He clears his throat again. “Why are you so interested? Because you met his son? Is there something going on there?”

  Well, if he has to ask, I guess he really hasn’t seen the photos.

  I ignore his questions and hit him with my own. “What happened with Mick, Father?”

  “Oh, come on, Richard,” he all but growls. “Surely you’ve heard. If not, I’m sure you’ve Googled. According to the rumors, I all but pushed Mick Grisheimer off that balcony.”

  I look over at Nate, and he’s gone completely pale. I aim my voice at the phone. “I’ve heard a few things like that, sure. More like you wouldn’t let him out of a contract and had a huge fight and Mick jumped.” I pause. “Is that what happened?”

  “There really is something between you and that boy, isn’t there?” I hear ice cubes clinking in a glass, then the wet sounds of my father finishing off his drink in one gulp.

  “It doesn’t matter if there is or not. Don’t you think I should know this? It’s one of the things everyone thinks of when you mention Paradise Entertainment,” I argue. “Everyone thinks of disco and soft rock, and Izzy James’s latest wardrobe malfunction, and Taylor Huffman’s last run-in with the cops. And they think of Mick Grisheimer. But you’ve been silent about it since it happened. Even to me.”

  I look toward Nate, hoping for approval. All I get is a slight nod.

  “You and I both know there are things the outside world will never understand, because they don’t want to listen, Rich,” Father says. “They don’t want the truth. They want what they can sell. You learned that when your relationship with that Garrett boy went south.”

  “But I’m not an outsider. I’m family. I’m your son. Tell me what happened with Mick.”

  “You’re just like everyone else, wanting to talk about the failures instead of the successes,” Father says.

  I don’t know what he means, exactly, but it stings and it makes me back off. I begin to wonder just how much my father has had to drink. He’s usually far more collected and composed. And if he’s angry, he’s usually cold and closed off, not verbally combative.

  I feel Nate’s gaze on me, expectant, and I pluck up some courage. “Are you saying Mick was a failure?”

  “Mick? No, not Mick,” Father says, and yeah, I don’t know how I missed it before, but he’s definitely had more to drink than normal. Case in point, I hear the pop of a stopper and the steady pour of liquid from one glass to another. “Mick was the finest musician I believe I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. No, the failure there was mine.”

  Nate and I turn to look at each other, his wide, confused eyes mirroring my own feelings.

  “What do you mean, your failure? Will you tell me what happened?”

  There’s a long pause, so long that I pick my phone up off the small conference table we’re sitting around to make sure the call is still going. It is. Finally, my father starts talking.

  “Mick was really ill, Richard. Very ill. And I didn’t know it.”

  I look at Nate, and he shakes his head, confused. Apparently my father wasn’t the only one in the dark about Mick’s illness.

  Father sighs deeply. “Or . . . maybe I did know it, but I didn’t accept it. Maybe I just didn’t understand how dangerous it was. Regardless, I was ignorant. I’d been to New York and caught him playing at a club.”

  A slight, relieved smile forms on Nate’s face. It had been my father who discovered his after all. I want to take his hand, squeeze it, share a smile with him, but I’m not sure it would be welcome.

  “He already had a solid group of fans, people who were spreading the word about him wherever they could, and that’s how I heard about him. I overheard a conversation somewhere. On the street maybe, I don’t know, but I found out where he was playing and went to see. And I’m telling you, I’ve never seen anyone who could play a guitar like that. Anyone. And this song he played . . .”

  “‘Blue and Black’?” I offer.

  “Yes. I think that was the name of it. It’s the one that really sold me on him.”

  Nate and I do exchange a smile then, and I’m so relieved, I could scream.

  “What I remember from that night is that he covered the Beatles’ ‘I Want You,’ then didn’t even pause for a drink and went straight into this completely slowed-down, hazy, mysterious version of Zepplin’s ‘Whole Lotta Love,’ and that’s when it dawned on me that this guy was a good singer too. Not the best voice, but he was fearless with it. He’d play a lick on his guitar and then sing it, in the same octave no matter how high or low, and he had this scratchy, primal-rock voice. And then he shifted gears completely and played this song about how love had beaten him down. Totally original song. Bluesy but all his own, and I wondered why he bothered with covers at all, because that was it. That was the sound. I had him on a plane to L.A. within two days. In a recording studio in less than a week. I’ve never heard a musician like him, and I won’t ever again. He was one in a million.”

  Nate’s eyes have filled with tears, pride for his father etched all over his face. I wonder if it would be best to stop here, let that be enough, but I know that’s not what Nate wants.

  “So what went wrong?” I ask my father.

  “Well, for a long time everything was fine. Mick was laying down guitar tracks, some vocals. He seemed to have a good sense of what the album would be, the direction it was going. Mick even found someone and got married. He seemed truly happy. Then, for some reason, things started to change.” A pause, more ice clinking against glass. “Mick would say he was blocked and wouldn’t work on anything for days at a time. We’d have studio time booked and he wouldn’t show, or he’d show up drunk. His producer—Anderson, you know Anderson, he’s still around—would try to talk some sense into him, but Mick would go on these big rants about how Paradise was trying to kill him. Literally. He’d mention people we’d never heard of, or talk as if famous people were giving him advice, telling him Paradise was evil. John Lennon, Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix. These famous people he said were giving him advice were all dead. By this time, major magazines had picked up on his overnight-success story. Videos of his performances in New York ended up on YouTube, and songs from this little album he’d put together with friends were being traded around online like currency. Everyone was listening to ‘Blue and Black.’ Everyone was expecting this amazing album. The pressure was on to create a masterpiece, and I think that only exacerbated Mick’s illness and we had to do everything in our power to keep it quiet.”

  “What was his illness?” I ask, my gaze steady on Nate. He’s listening, pale, and sweating now, rocking back and forth in his chair, and I wonder how much more of this he can stand. I tap his wrist and mouth, “I can stop,” but he shakes his head no.

  “I never knew. We tried to get Mick to go to therapy, to try medications, but he refused.” My father sniffs. “Afterward, I described his symptoms to a psychologist I knew, and he guessed schizophrenia. But of course, without knowing Mick, he couldn’t be sure.”

  My father exhales slowly. “The truly sad thing is, he’d have wonderful days of clari
ty, where he’d go in and lay down a vocal or guitar line that was just genius. Unfortunately, none of it amounted to much. The bad days got in the way. Recording dragged on for nearly a year, and Anderson and I pushed as much as we could. Maybe too much. But there was a day I sat and listened to everything Mick had done, every single thing he’d recorded, and just knew: it was never going to happen.”

  Nate hugs his knees, listening, an occasional tear silently falling onto his cheeks. He looks at me, torn between the pain of hearing all of this and needing to hear more, and nods at me, telling me to keep my father talking.

  “Was that the day you went to Mick? And fought?”

  “Yes.” The word is gruff, fraught with emotion, and for a moment I try to understand what my father is feeling. Regret? Sorrow? Anger that he’s feeling anything at all? Maybe D, all of the above. “We met at Anderson’s apartment and sat him down. Had Mick listen to what we had. Then we explained that there was nothing we could use. A whole year’s worth of recording had produced nothing that we could sell, and we couldn’t waste any more time or money. Unless he straightened out and produced something we could sell, and soon, we were going to cancel his contract.

  “He started ranting and raving about how selling didn’t matter, money didn’t matter, and we were trying to strangle the artistry out of him. He said the music was perfect; it was just that we didn’t understand.” I hear Father take another drink and swallow loudly. “Anderson and I tried to explain that it wasn’t about the music not being commercial enough, it was that it was unlistenable. No one was going to like what was on those masters. We argued. I don’t remember much of what was said, but I do remember Mick telling us that he hadn’t slept for days, that someone or something wouldn’t let him sleep. I don’t know why that sticks out to me. Probably because when he said it, I assumed he meant the songs, the writing was keeping him up at night. Maybe I should have realized it was the voices he was hearing. But I have no doubt his exhaustion was a cause for his . . . well, for what happened next. And I do remember another thing I said. I told him we needed to focus his genius. I remember that because he . . . I think he took it the wrong way. Like I meant to take his ideas from him and funnel them into a small, commercial box. It really set him off. Then his wife, Tonya, started yelling. Told us to back off of Mick, that we just didn’t understand him, and while we were arguing with her, I heard the glass balcony door slide open. And before any of us could register what was going on, Mick was over the side.”

  Nate is staring straight ahead, not even seeing me.

  “I’ll never forget it as long as I live. He smiled before he went over. Then there was this horrible moment of silence before everyone realized what he’d done. Tonya screamed. Anderson collapsed to the floor. I ran out to the balcony like maybe Mick was just hanging on to the side, maybe he hadn’t made it far and I could still grab him. But he was already on the pavement below. There was blood everywhere, people screaming and yelling . . .”

  Even if Nate doesn’t want to be with me anymore, I can’t let him hear all this alone. I pull him close to me, and for a moment he doesn’t respond, just stays stiff and unmoving in my arms. Then, all at once, he collapses into me, and I hug him tighter.

  “If I had known . . . If I’d had any clue how sick he was . . .” my father says, his voice wavering. Then he clears his throat and, like magic, his next words reveal a new man. They are clear, emotionless, determined. “That changed everything. It changed the entire way that Paradise ran. Of course the press took off with the story that a big record label pushed an artist over the edge, literally in this case. Because that sells. It hurt us, big-time. For a while people wouldn’t support any of our artists. And until recently we couldn’t get anyone with a rock bent to sign with us.”

  I feel anger bubbling up inside me. Of course the only thing my father would care about in the aftermath of this is how it affected sales. I open my mouth to say something, but Father continues before I can.

  “But it changed Paradise for the better, in a few ways.”

  That stops me. “What do you mean?”

  “We started paying more attention to our artists’ mental health. You remember when Izzy had that meltdown at her concert a few years back? Who do you think got her into that nice facility in Palm Springs? It wasn’t her money-grabbing stage mother, I can tell you that. Who do you think foots the bill when Taylor Huffman goes to therapy for his alcoholism? Paradise. Our musicians have a lot of pressure on them, Rich. You’ll learn that. And sometimes that pressure can exacerbate their depression or anxiety or addiction or whatever else you can think of. Mick is proof. I don’t know what else I could have done. I wonder that every day.”

  Suddenly there’s noise on the other end of the line, muffled speaking, a door shutting, then my father is back. When he speaks again, he’s in mentor mode and all business.

  “I hope you can learn something from this, Richard. Honestly, I would have saved myself and Paradise a lot of time and money if I’d talked to Mick more. Gotten to know him better.”

  And we’re back to the bottom line: time and money. Numbers. Not human beings.

  “I need to go. It’s late and I have an early flight to London.”

  “One more thing,” I say quickly. “The masters. Mick’s masters. I want them.”

  There is a long, threatening pause. Then Father says, “You are seeing him, aren’t you? Mick’s boy? That’s what this is all about.”

  “It’s more than seeing him,” I say with all the courage I can muster. “I’m falling in love with him.”

  Why I try to appeal to my father’s emotions is beyond me. Talk about a waste of time.

  “Richard, that is completely irresponsible. I’m sure he’d like nothing more than to use you for his own agenda.”

  Nate freezes in my arms. “He isn’t like that,” I say. “He would never—”

  “No? And if you give him those masters, what will he do with them? Sell them? Make a buck off his dad’s reputation?”

  My hands ball up into fists so tight, my knuckles are white. “You—”

  “Mr. Pierce,” Nate says suddenly. “This is Nathan Grisheimer. Mick’s son. I’m here with Cameron. I don’t want the masters. You can keep them. I just want to hear them. I just want to hear my dad again. I just want to know why he did what he did. I want to hear what he was going through.”

  “Richard, has he been listening this entire time?” my father growls. “This is unacceptable. Completely unacceptable.”

  “You haven’t told me anything I didn’t already know, Mr. Pierce,” Nate says. “At least not anything I didn’t know, somehow, deep down. Please. I just want to listen to them. I’ll give them back.”

  There’s dead silence for a full minute. Then my father says, “Is it really you, Nathan? The last time I saw you, you were in the studio with your dad. You probably don’t remember, but I think Anderson had to yell at you for hitting the buttons on the sound board.”

  Nate laughs a soggy laugh. “I don’t remember that. I don’t remember much at all.”

  “I’m sure it hasn’t been easy. I remember you didn’t have any other family.” Another pause, then my father addresses me. “Rich, if he’s willing to sign an agreement that the masters will remain in Paradise’s control—”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” I say at the exact time that Nate says, “Yes. I’ll sign.”

  We exchange a look. Nate nods at me and repeats himself to my father. “I’ll sign.”

  “Where are they?” I demand. “You’ve hidden them.”

  “Yes. Do you have any idea what would happen if they leaked, Richard?”

  I hazard a guess. “Paradise would be ruined?”

  “No, but Mick would. Everyone expected greatness. His reputation would be finished. Mick died a legend, with nothing but videos of his perfect performances and a few amateur recordings of
his music. If those masters get out, that image is gone. People will see the madness instead.”

  “That’s why you hid them?” Nate asks. “To protect my dad?”

  “Yes, and that’s why they can’t get out. Do you understand, both of you? And that’s why you must sign an agreement, Nathan. It’s for your own good,” Father says.

  “Where are they?” I ask again, and this time, my demand doesn’t quite have the same punch to it.

  “In the awards room.”

  Nate and I look at each other. His eyes have brightened, excitement taking over for sadness. “They’re in the house?” I ask.

  “Of course. I couldn’t trust anyone else with them,” Father says. “They’re in the Grammy case. Look under the velvet lining.”

  “They’re with the Grammys,” Nate says, almost laughing.

  “Your father should have had one. Ten. He truly was the finest musician I’ve ever had the honor of working with, Nathan.” Father clears his throat, clearing it of emotion too. “Rich, draw up the agreement first and send the scan to me. If these leak . . .”

  He doesn’t have to finish that thought. I understand his meaning. If these masters ever get out to the public, I’m gone from Paradise. I may be out of the family too.

  I promise my father and end the call. Nate and I look at each other. He’s practically vibrating with all the emotions going on inside him.

  “He wasn’t so bad.”

  I shake my head. “He’s going easy because you were there. Trust me, I’m dead when he gets home. But who cares about that. How are you? We should probably talk about all of that. We should probably talk about a lot of things.”

  He shakes his head. “I know we should, but please, I just want to listen. I need to listen now.”

  It’s all I can do not to beg him to tell me if he still wants to be with me, but a Pierce doesn’t beg, and that wouldn’t solve anything or make any of this better for him. So I set aside my anxiety and lead him toward the awards room.