A quick break to snatch a Diet Pepsi out of the refrigerator. His sixth of the night.
The chorus. The main musical hook had to coincide with the title of the song, and had to resolve back to the verse riff. He played around with a few different melodies until he found one that resolved with enough drama.
Happy with the basic building blocks, he stitched together the song: first verse, chorus, second verse, chorus, final verse. Not quite. Not enough lyrical and musical tension in the middle. A bridge would do. He bounced around bridge chords and melodies until he found a combination that clicked, then penned the lyrics for the bridge in one pass.
Wheeling back over to the recording gear, he set up a couple of microphones. Balancing his guitar on his knee, he placed his headphones over his ears. “Check. Check. Check.” Good to go. The metronome sounded. Tick. Tick. Tick.
I know you so well
There are times when I just can tell
What you’re thinking
How you feel
What you need
Oh come to me now
Bring all your problems
And we’ll knock them down
Oh come to me now
Show me everything
I will hold you
Hold you
Listen now
To the undercurrent
We’re riding it each day
The words we say are its messengers
Our bodies are its vessels
Oh come to me now
Give me your hands
Teach me to dance again
Oh come to me now
There is such sweetness
When I hold you
Hold you
Slow down
Let’s go quietly
Toward home
Don’t you see
I believe
You are
Part of me
I know you so well
There are times when I just can tell
What you’re thinking
How you feel
What you need
The next day Nick met Sassa for coffee at Joe’s. He reeled off details about his fabricated reggae session but didn’t mention a word about “Hold You.” Overnight, doubt had won. Unlike the song, he didn’t know her so well. Unlike the song, he couldn’t always tell what she needed. Unlike the song, he didn’t know how to ask her to go quietly toward home. He pulled on the neck ribbing of his T-shirt and scratched his chest for a bit before asking, “Do you want to move in with me?”
“You should do more reggae sessions.”
“My apartment is bigger and you can save some money.”
“Aren’t we practical this morning? That’s all?”
“I’m in love with you.”
“Let’s see. Move in. Bigger apartment. Save money. Love you. What’s wrong with this picture?”
“Sorry. When I was a baby, I crawled backwards first.”
She laughed. “We can start moving my stuff today.”
• • •
One early afternoon in October, Nick persuaded Sassa’s boss to let him watch her work. Out of the way, he squatted on the cement floor in the corner of the stainless steel kitchen and took in each movement, each gesture, each direction, as Sassa julienned vegetables. Surroundings blurred until only she remained, with her hair pulled back, wearing her white chef’s jacket and orange Crocs.
“Aren’t you bored?” she asked.
“I love watching you work.”
“You’re a strange man.”
“I was.”
Her cutting and dicing skills were artful. Carrots transformed to orange flying saucers. Beets cubed into perfect quarter-inch squares. Celery smiles spewed out of long stalks. As he watched her, barely perceptible threads connected the two of them.
“Do you know the Chinese saying about the red thread?”
“Nope.”
“An invisible red thread connects those destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. The thread may stretch or tangle, but never break.”
“Sounds like a good saying for a refrigerator magnet.” She glanced over at him and blew him a kiss.
He grinned. Time passed as she sculpted another batch of vegetables.
“I wish you had a free hour,” he said.
“To shop for a new bathroom curtain, right?”
“Something like that.”
He hoisted himself up from the floor, floated over to her, and placed his hand in the middle of her back. “Thanks for letting me watch you.”
“There’s a thought.” She grinned, pecked him on the cheek, and sent him on his way.
Hesitating at the door, he whirled around. “If you could do anything on your next day off, no matter what, what would you do?”
“Let’s take a ride to New Jersey.”
“That’s the best you’ve got?”
“Yes.”
• • •
Nick and Sassa took off for New Jersey on a sunny fall afternoon and headed out Route 80 toward the Delaware Water Gap. They cruised into the bucolic, northern part of the state. He had no idea where they were going, and that was perfectly okay.
“Why does everyone make fun of New Jersey? It’s beautiful here,” she said.
“We live in America.”
“What does that mean?”
“People like to judge without knowing.”
They exited the highway to drive the fall country roads. The trees, still holding most of their red, yellow, and orange leaves, formed a canopy overhead. Sunlight laced the leaves together, mottling the hood of their car.
“I want to see where you grew up. I want you to show me your old house, your high school, that pizza place you told me about the other day, the railroad tracks, the race track, everything.”
A short time later, he entered Denville’s town center and parked in front of the F1 Race Shop. As he exited the car, childhood memories flashed. Driveway basketball. Swing jumping. Building his first Star Wars LEGO kit. The K’NEX Roller Coaster. Racing model cars with his dad.
He opened the F1 Race Shop door for Sassa. They had happened in at the right time, just as an arrive-and-drive race was about to start. The indoor kart-racing track, a full half-mile of hairpin turns, housed eight miniature race cars capable of speeds up to forty miles per hour. They slipped on their black one-piece, fire-retardant race suits and secured their fire-engine-red helmets. They strapped into their Formula One karts and revved their engines. The attendant waved the checkered flag. Nick floored the gas pedal, but Sassa beat him to the first turn and never let up. She trounced him by almost a full lap in a ten-lap race. Five more races. Same result.
“That was a lot of fun,” she said.
“For you.”
“I’ve always liked speed.”
“It suits you. Where do you want to go now?”
“Your old house.”
He slipped his hands into his pockets. He hadn’t been back to the house since his mom had sold it years ago. And the last time had carried so much emotion that he had only stayed for a short time. When he had left that day, he had promised himself he would never return. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. “Hot in here.”
A short drive later, they inched into a parking space across the street from Nick’s old house. They rose out of the car and leaned against the hood. His dad had built the house in the mid-nineties, right after he was promoted to vice president and two years before he died. He spared no expense—a gourmet kitchen, a full cinema, a small basketball court in the basement, parquet floors with mahogany inlays. His dad’s dream home.
“My father said, ‘This will be the house your mom and I retire in.’”
“It’s lovely.”
He pointed out windows that fronted different rooms. Living room. Library. His bedroom. Music room. “Behind the music room is the family room.”
“Is that where—”
“Yeah.”
She pushed off the car, turned
around, and leaned on him so that she stood between him and the house. Pressing up on the balls of her feet, she kissed his forehead. “You know, I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know.”
A moment later, a woman came out onto the front porch. “Can I help you?”
He took a few steps out into the middle of the street. “No. No. I used to live in your house. I just wanted to show my girlfriend my old home. I’m sorry we bothered you.”
“Are you the Satterborn boy?”
“Nick.”
“I know your mom. Come in. Come in.”
Nick and Sassa made their way up the driveway and entered his old house.
Nick had been relaxing beside his father while they watched the Knicks-Lakers game; the score seesawed to 88–87 in the fourth quarter. They were laughing, talking, and munching on potato chips, excited about the possibilities for the Knicks in the upcoming 1998 playoffs.
“Can we go to a game if they make the playoffs, Dad?” Nick crunched a chip, then took a swig from his soda can.
“Absolutely. Pass the chips.”
Nick did so and turned back to the television. Patrick Ewing made a jump shot. “Yes!” He high-fived his father.
Suddenly, his dad jumped out of his chair holding his chest. He tried to take a step, but collapsed to the floor instead. Mutating blue, he made a gurgling sound that permanently burrowed into Nick’s mind. A horrible smell, like burnt toast, rotten meat, and nail polish mixed together, rose up from the floor. Nick screamed “Mom! Mom!” He knelt down by his father and shook him over and over. “Dad . . . Dad . . . Dad!”
His mom ran into the family room. She took one look at his dad and calmed. “What happened, Nick?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. He just passed out.”
“I’ll call 9-1-1.” She raced out of the room.
He paced back and forth next to his father, his hands pushing against each other as hard as he could. The fear was so sharp that he was sure he was about to be cut into pieces. He knelt down next to his father and held his hand.
His mother rushed back into the room. She put one arm over Nick’s shoulder and the other on top of his and his dad’s hands. “He’ll be okay.” They waited.
Why was she so calm?
The paramedics stormed the house. They huddled around his father, lifeless on the floor. Disjointed images. An oxygen mask. Someone pressing rhythmically on his dad’s chest. An aspirin bottle. His mother praying. He couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t make sense of it all. From the middle of the chaos, a paramedic shouted, “We can’t get his heart started.” Another pulled out shock paddles. “Clear . . . Again . . . Clear . . . Again.” His dad didn’t move. They pulled him onto a stretcher, strapped him down, wheeled him off to the ambulance.
“Follow us to the hospital,” one of the paramedics said to Nick’s mom on his way out the door.
His mom found her coat and purse. “Coming?”
Nick froze. He didn’t know what to do. “I’ll stay.”
“Okay. We’ll be back soon. Everything is going to be okay.” She rushed outside.
He took in the leaving from his living room window. His neighbor, apparently watching from his front porch, stepped out and met his mother at the ambulance. The paramedics secured his dad inside. His mother and neighbor slid into his neighbor’s car. Red lights spun and blinked as the ambulance rushed off to the hospital. The car, dwarfed by the ambulance, trailed.
A moment later in his parents’ bedroom, he stationed himself in front of a giant statue of Saint Jude on top of his father’s dresser. His mother had placed rosary beads around Saint Jude’s neck, which were too high for him to reach without help. He got a stool and placed it in front of the statue. On the stool, he lifted the rosary beads off the saint. Time to pray. To negotiate.
He pictured his grandmother, how she had moved through her prayers, kneeling, head bowed, wisps of hair dangling out of place, beads wrapped around her hands, stockings rolled down to her black, clunky-heeled, laced-up shoes. She advanced the beads between her fingertips, repeating something.
He knelt down in front of the saint and tried to mimic her. Lost, he would have offered up anything that night to save his father’s life. He would be a better son. Next bead. A better son. Next bead. A better son. He had to do better.
He also had to move. How could anyone pray for hours at a time? He jumped up and bounced from room to room, punching walls along the way, trying to wake up God before it was too late. Living room. Dining room. Kitchen. Family room. On the basketball court, he made eighty-one out of a hundred free throws.
Hours later, his mother came back to the house with his neighbor. A sign? She rose from the car, in that moment of uncertainty where fear and hope coexist right before the truth becomes clear. His neighbor eased his arm around her.
A shiver ballooned. He darted from one spot to another, first in the house, then outside on the snow-covered lawn. Barefoot, barely coherent, he zig-zagged into a snowdrift curved like the body of a woman. “No! This can’t happen now. The Knicks? College? My fault, my fault. No more Christmas.” Overcome by the cold, he slowed until he collapsed in the drift, sobbing.
The front door opened. His mother, one foot on the porch and the other in the foyer, waved him in. Pulling himself up off the ground, he hobbled back to the house. He couldn’t feel his feet. In the foyer, his mother cradled him. A moment later, in the kitchen, she put on a pot of coffee.
“I don’t like coffee.”
“Your dad loved it black.”
His father had died at forty-one of a massive heart attack. His mother was forty. Nick was seventeen. Later that year his grandfather died, solidifying his view that his world—at least with men anchoring it—had ended.
But not with women.
Back in the car, Sassa asked, “You okay?”
“It didn’t hold as much charge as I thought it would.”
“Thank you for sharing it with me. Are you up for one more thing?”
“Sure.”
“Can you drive me out to your high school?”
“Sure.” He pulled away from his old house and drove along back country roads toward the high school. No need for further clarification. She had something worthwhile planned. Trusting her was even more important than loving her.
“Stop right here,” she said. She started humming a song he didn’t recognize at first. She pulled out a CD from the glove compartment and deposited it in the car’s CD slot. She rotated the volume way up. “Nothing Compares 2 U” blasted through the car speakers.
“I want to dance around the car. Let’s go, Nick.”
“You want to dance in the middle of an intersection?”
“Yes, let’s go.”
“I don’t dance.”
“Anyone can dance, Nick. Come on.”
He reluctantly got out of the car. Sassa, arms in ballroom dance position, offered to lead. Stiff, he danced in fits and starts as they looped around the car. He was clumsy, silent. She was graceful, beautiful. A total mismatch. He couldn’t go any further. After a few minutes, she gave in. He studied the asphalt.
“We can go,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He opened the door for her and she slipped back into the car. With disappointment all over her face, she hit the eject button on the CD player and tossed the CD back into the glove compartment.
“I’m sorry, Sassa. I’m not a dancer. Why was that so important to you?”
She pressed her forehead against the window, and didn’t respond right away. “I imagined dancing would be fun, that’s all. No big deal.” Soon after, she withdrew and fell asleep.
What had just happened? He raced back to familiar ground.
• • •
Despite a number of affirmations during their first eight months, despite moving in together, despite writing “Hold You” for her, Nick remained afraid. Did she feel at home? He’d shown her more of himself than h
e’d ever shown anyone else. He loved her. She was his partner. Still, on the ultimate question in his mind, fear ruled him. He couldn’t bring himself to ask her, even though he came close on numerous occasions. Each time, he imagined what she would say and visualized the look on her face: she would respond with a warm smile; flushed cheeks; rounded, widened eyes; and then she would avow that she too had found home. Each time, he deserted his thoughts, disappointed, fattened with fear, unable to navigate through his self-imposed knothole.
One night as they read on the sofa, facing each other, bare legs crisscrossed under a blanket, Sassa peeked over the top of her book. “It doesn’t look like you’re paying much attention to that book. What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. I’m having trouble working out a song. No big deal.”
“Why don’t you play it for me?”
“Not yet.”
“You know, I can play the micro-expression game too.” She lifted one leg and stroked his thigh with her foot.
He smiled. He put his book down and ran his hand through his hair right above his ear on his way to scratching the back of his neck. Should he tell her? Why was he so afraid of the answer? “Okay. The song’s a big deal.”
“What’s the song called?”
“‘Hold You.’”
“Why don’t you?” She dropped her book on the floor, and crawled on top of him. Placing one hand over the other on top of his chest, she rested her chin on her hands. “Sometimes you need to take a leap.”
“This whole year’s been a leap.”
“I meant on the song.”
He drew curlicues on her back with his index finger as her breath fanned his face with hints of cinnamon.
• • •
A week later, Nick and Sassa pulled up in a taxi to Bobby Flay’s Mesa Grill. Steam rose up from the sidewalk from a flash rainstorm. They sprinted the short distance from the cab to the restaurant and, drenched, waited inside to be seated. Nick had been on edge ever since their “Hold You” conversation. He wasn’t sure why, but they seemed to be averaging a minor squabble a day. Didn’t she hear him? Did he have to spend so much time in the studio? Why wouldn’t he clean up after himself? Things like that. A server seated them in the back corner of the dining room.
The Color of Home: A Novel Page 5
