by Dee Ernst
He had sat with them since he was old enough to toddle down the hallway into their bedrooms. At first, they thought it was cute, the way he remembered the words to every song they played on their stereo. Then they realized that he was not only singing the words, but remembered melodies and harmonies. His voice, for such a little boy, was huge. It was also always on key.
He was always the smallest kid in his class. The Catholic School bullies pursued him mercilessly, so he learned to be the toughest kid as well. He played piano in the concert band, made straight A’s, collected model cars and waited for his sisters’ dreams for him to come true.
Dave Adamson had stared at Denise in disbelief when she asked him to consider Michael for his brother Joey’s band. Joey had put together Mitchell Street with his best friend Seth Bascomb, and they were starting to get something of a reputation in the wide open North Jersey club scene. But the band was just a cover band, and lacked the extra kick that could mean success. Besides, Denise Carlucci was beautiful and sexy and when they were in bed together, he couldn’t say no to her. So, he agreed to listen to Michael. And he had been blown away.
Getting the band to accept Michael had been easy, once they heard him play and sing. Getting Anthony Carlucci to agree to let his underage son go on the road had been another story. But Denise had kept up her end of the bargain with her father. Michael’s grades never dropped. He never had a beer with his band mates, never smoked a joint.
Three months after he began performing with the band, just days after he turned sixteen, a twenty-three year old fan followed Michael into the unisex bathroom in a bar in Ithaca, New York. As he came out of one of the stalls, she was waiting for him, bare breasted, and she pushed him back into the stall, gave him a blow job as he stood balanced up on the toilet seat, then left without saying a word. Denise came in moments later to find her sweet, beautiful little brother fumbling to zip his jeans while a hard-looking blonde rinsed her mouth out at the grimy sink. Denise never said a word to him. She never had to. One look at the disappointment on her face was enough for him. It didn’t happen again.
Michael graduated high school the following year. He had been accepted to Princeton. He had been rejected by Julliard. The band was asked to go on tour with BonJovi. Anthony Carlucci traveled down to Princeton and received the personal word of the head of the Department of Mathematics that his son would be more than welcome the following year should he choose to take some time off to travel the country. So NinetySeven went on tour. Denise and Dave had married that spring, so Denise traveled with them while David continued to work at home and pay the bills.
When the band received an offer from PolyGram records, Michael told his father he wasn’t going to Princeton after all. Michael had grown up, filled out, and was no longer a skinny awkward kid. His youthful confidence had grown to a real power. Everyone could see it, especially his father. Anthony took one look at the contract the band had been offered, tore it up, and drew up another that at least would assure his son a shot at some real money. Anthony then took all the savings that had been earmarked for his only sons’ Ivy League education and offered to send Denise to law school, providing she specialized in entertainment and would look after her brothers’ business affairs. Denise agreed, and after the release of the first album, Dave went out with the band on tour.
In six gleeful months, Michael tasted every formerly-forbidden fruit. Drugs did not appeal to him. He didn’t like the feeling of being out of control, and worse, the loss of creativity. Too much alcohol made him physically sick. Women, however, had no distasteful side effects. With his beautiful blue eyes, blazing smile, and adorable face, he found himself drowning in them. He was careful, respectful, and considerate. He thought he had been in love a couple of times. But when he had looked into Diane Matthews’ big, brown eyes, he knew he had lost his soul.
He couldn’t believe how lovely she was. Not one of the usual beauties that drifted in and out of the vague world known as show business. Most of the women who had appealed to him until now had been model-thin, with translucent skin, straight, streaming hair and serious, intense eyes. Diane’s skin was dark and warm, her hair thick and curling. She had smiled and laughed when she could have been shrill or severe. Her face was all ovals - large, bright eyes, full, smiling lips, high cheekbones. Her body round as well. When he held her, she was soft and yielding, no hard bones and angles. And her lips had been soft, sweet and warm. On top of all that, she was smart and funny. He could not get her out of his head.
Saturday morning after the concert, he started calling her at nine in the morning. No answer. He left a message, then tried calling again after fifteen minutes. An hour later he went to his computer, downloaded directions to her address, and was on his way. She had said she would see him. She had said she would be home. No point, he thought, in wasting the day.
Her house was in an older neighborhood, the streets lined with shade trees and brick sidewalks. He pulled into number 17, a white, expanded Cape Cod, with green shutters, and lots of daffodils blooming. The front door was closed. A Subaru wagon was in the driveway, and the garage door was open. She was home. He went up the walk and rang the bell. There was no answer, but he could hear music. He walked around the house, past the garage. A post and rail fence surrounded the back yard, and as he pushed through the gate, he could hear the faint jingle of a brass bell that was attached to the gate. It should have announced his coming into the yard, but the sound was drowned out by the music that blasted out of open French doors.
Diane was toward the rear of the yard, trying to dig up an oversized azalea bush. He could see she had already prepared a new hole for it, right beside a large, slate patio. She was dressed in overalls, faded and baggy, caked with dirt. She was wearing a sleeveless tee shirt underneath, and her hair was pulled up and off her face in a spiked ponytail. She had been working for a while, and had almost completely dug up the bush, but it was stuck, and as she strained to uproot it, he could see the muscles on her arms tighten from the strain. Sweat trickled down the side of her face, soaked the neck of her shirt. She pushed against the shovel with all her weight, grunting with the effort, but the bush did not move, and as her arms began to tremble she threw up her hands.
“Fuck,” she said very loudly. Michael broke onto a grin.
She was wearing green canvas gloves, and she pulled them off and threw them down.
“Fuck.” She turned away from the azalea bush, then walked back to it and tried to kick the shovel with her foot. She missed, and stumbled, off balance.
“Fuckfuckfuck.”
Michael walked toward her. “Would you like some help with that?” he called, trying not to laugh.
She whirled and stared at him, her mouth open in surprise.
“Michael. God. Hi. What are you doing here?”
“I tried calling, but you weren’t answering, so I thought I’d take a chance on just coming over. You said you’d be home.”
The blood rushed to her cheeks. “Oh, right. My ex picked up the girls early, so I’ve been out here all morning. I can’t hear the phone, especially with the music. I’m sorry. I should have brought out the cordless. I knew you were going to call.” She wiped her hands against her thighs. “I was trying to keep busy. I didn’t want to be hanging over the phone all day.” She looked away from him, biting her lip
“Oh.” He was watching her closely. When she looked back at him, he grinned. “So, do you want some help?”
“That would be so great. I was starting to get a little frustrated.”
“So I heard.”
She looked sheepish. “Not exactly appropriate language for an English professor, is it?”
“No, I thought it was perfectly appropriate. Do you have a pitchfork?”
“Yes.” She walked back toward the house and picked up a pitchfork from off the grass. He took it from her, and plunged in into the moist dirt. He worked quickly, using his weight, and in a few minutes, the bush heaved and flopped sideways. He and Diane
lifted it into a wheelbarrow, he took it over to the patio, and moved it into the new hole. He shoveled in dirt and she tamped it down, then she dragged over the hose.
“Thirsty?” she asked. He nodded, so she handed him the hose and went into the house. She turned off the music, and returned with a tray laden with two glasses and a tall pitcher. Michael buried the end of the hose into the base of the plant, and they sat down across from each other in two Adirondack chairs, drinking iced tea.
“Thank you, Michael. You just saved my whole morning.”
“Always a pleasure to be of service. Is there anything else around here you need help with?”
“No.” She spoke quickly and too loudly. She sipped tea. “No, thank you. Besides, you must have something more entertaining to do besides digging around in the dirt.”
He made a face and looked at his watch. “Well, sometime today I’m supposed to be going over to my sister Angie’s house. She’s painting her den. Whenever Angie decorates, she makes it a family affair. It wouldn’t be so bad, but she jumps into these things without knowing what the hell she’s doing, and then everyone starts giving advice, and by dinner there’s at least one major meltdown.” He shook his head and brushed loose dirt from his jeans. “It gets ugly.”
“How can painting one room be so complicated?”
“Well, she wants to do stripes and something called a faux finish. She explained it in detail to me the other night, but I have no idea what she’s talking about, and neither does anyone else.”
“But that’s easy, really. My dad was a painter. I worked with him every summer for years.” She stopped and poured more tea. “I’d be happy to help.”
“Really?” He sat up. “That would be fantastic. You have no idea.You wouldn’t mind?”
“Hey, you just performed major surgery back here. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me,” he said quietly. They sat together in silence for a few minutes. She was suddenly aware of how she must look – no make-up, dirty, hair tumbling down the back of her neck. She drained her glass.
“Why don’t you call your sister and ask if she minds me coming with you. And ask her if she has a three-foot level or a plumb line. We’ll need those. But if she doesn’t have them, I do.”
“Okay. Sounds good.” He followed her through the French doors into a cream-walled dining room. Wood gleamed and two watercolor landscapes hung on one wall. She stepped into the kitchen and handed him a cordless phone.
“Here. I’ll wash my face and change real quick, okay?”
“Yeah.” He watched her walk down the hall. It felt very quiet in her house, and he looked into a comfortable-looking living room, furnished in dark wood and rich browns and reds, with a brick fireplace, good art on the walls, and lots of plants. He dialed the phone.
Michael’s sisters were all sitting in Angela Bellini’s large, gleaming kitchen. Like Michael, they had their father’s small and graceful frame and their mother’s dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Unlike Michael, they also had her quick temper. Marie, the oldest at 43, was an ICU nurse and was used to averting any pending disasters. She was trying not to argue with Angela over plans for the next weekend. Angela had dug in her heels, so when the phone rang, and Angela answered hello, her voice was tight with anger.
“You’ve already started, haven’t you?” Michael asked accusingly. “I bet you haven’t even opened up a paint can, and you’re fighting about something, right?”
“Michael? No, we’re fine. Marie was just being the older sister. But you’re right, we haven’t started painting yet. We were waiting for you. We couldn’t do a thing without you.”
“That’s a crock of shit, and you know it,” Michael laughed. “The three of you will crowd me out in twenty minutes, just like you always do. But I want you to wait. I’m serious. I’m bringing somebody who knows about painting. She says it’s easy and you need a three-foot level or a plumb line. Have you got those things?”
“She? Who’s she?”
“Ang, concentrate. Ask Neil. A level or a plumb line.”
Angela covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “He’s bringing somebody. A woman,” she whispered to her sisters. She walked over to the open sliding glass doors and shouted outside. “Neil, have we got a level or a plumb line?”
“Not here,” came an answer, and she spoke back into the phone. “No, we haven’t got those things. Who is she, Mike? Anyone we know?”
“She’s a professional. Well, kind of. We’ll bring the stuff ourselves, in about half an hour. Wait for us.”
Angela hung up the phone and turned back to Marie. “Marie, did you hear me? He’s bringing somebody.”
“I heard you,” Marie said calmly. She was reading a decorating magazine, slowly turning pages.
“It’s just after eleven. Have you ever known Michael to even be awake at this hour, the day after a concert? He was probably up until five in the morning. You know what he’s like.”
“He’s awake?” Denise narrowed her eyes. She was holding Molly, Angela’s little girl. “What woman?”
“He says she knows how to paint.” Angela said skeptically.
“Well, now, why would he lie about something like that?” Marie said mildly. She was reading the magazine. “Ang, this says equal parts paint and glaze. What were you saying about water?”
“I saw it on the H&G Network,” Angela said. “But about this woman. What about the one from last night?”
Marie looked up from reading. “Her? Well, she seemed nice, but she was my age, Angie.”
Denise set Molly down on the floor and leaned in toward her sisters. “I don’t know how old she was, but there was something going on there. We’re talking real heat. I stepped between them, and it was like walking into an oven.”
Angela shrugged as Marie’s two sons came in from outside and headed for the refrigerator. “Michael didn’t say anything about how old she was,” she said.
“How old who is?” asked Steve Tishman, Marie’s husband. He had followed his sons into the house, and was helping pour soda for the boys. He gave his wife a quick look. “Who are you talking about?”
Marie sighed. “Michael is bringing someone over. Angie thinks it might be the woman we met last night, except that she’s probably our age.”
Steve shrugged. “Michael wouldn’t care about that. Age, I mean. That stuff isn’t important to him.”
“Oh, Dad,” protested his oldest son. “Uncle Mike only dates hot chicks.”
“Hey you,” ordered Marie, “don’t say things like that, especially around your Uncle Mike. It’s rude.”
The boys went back outside. Steve leaned against the counter, next to his wife. “That woman last night? Diane? She seemed very nice. And attractive. You really think forty?”
“At least,” said Marie.
“Well, she didn’t look it,” said Denise. “And she never took her eyes off him.”
“Denise,” Angela argued. “Maybe she has a thing for him. That I could understand. But the woman had teenage daughters with her. Why would he even bother with someone so much older? Remember Monique last year? Such a pretty little thing.”
“Come on ladies.” Steve looked at them all affectionately. “You have to remember that Mike has been a lover of older women his whole life. He may be tired of pretty little things.”
Angela stirred her coffee. “He told me Diane was lovely, and she laughed like an angel.”
Marie looked up. “He said that? When?”
“He called me last weekend. I guess it’s the same Diane. He had dinner with her.” Angela thought for a moment. “He said he had a great time with her.”
“He said that?” Marie turned to Steve. “You have to talk to him.”
“No, I don’t. Leave your brother alone. He stopped needing advice on his love life a long time ago.” Steve picked up paint samples off the counter. “Are you going blue or beige?”
“She still hasn’t decided,” Marie said dryly. “Apparently there’s no rush
, at least not until the expert arrives.”
“Expert?” Steve looked around. “What expert?”
“The mystery woman,” Marie explained, “is apparently some kind of paint maven.”
“Speaking of experts, how’s my husband doing out there?” Angela asked. Her husband was Nick Bellini, and he was an architect. They had purchased a redwood playground set for Molly and Jane the day before, and Nick was outside, sorting out all the pieces.
Steve shook his head. “There’s a million parts to this thing and he’s got to put each of them in numerical order. We won’t be putting anything together ‘till Tuesday. How do you live with him, anyway?” he asked Angela. She shrugged and made a face.
Steve sighed. “Maybe this woman can read Japanese?” he asked. “That would really help us out.”
“Denise, did he say anything to you about Diane last night?” Angela asked. “Maybe you could talk to him. He listens to you.”
“Yes, he does,” Denise agreed. “He listens very carefully, and then he does exactly what he wants to do. He’s been doing that since he was sixteen. Have you ever known him to change his mind on my account? Or anyone else’s?”
“Well it’s a good thing I have extra lasagna,” Angela said.
Marie snorted. “You made two more trays. How much do you think she’s going to eat?”
“I don’t think Diane looked like a painter.” Steve remarked.
“What does a painter look like anyway?” Angela asked.
“He was touching her.” Denise said pointedly.
They were all silent. Michael was always careful of his behavior around women, and made sure he did nothing that could be misinterpreted.
“What kind of touching?” Angela asked slowly.
“You know. Touching. Hands on each other kind of touching.” Denise looked smug. “I told you something was going on.”
“Well, that’s interesting,” Marie conceded. “Anybody notice?”
