The Other Brother

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  Jack’s eyes were bleary, and there was the smell of smoke about him.

  “Jack,” I said, “are you stoned?”

  “Stoned?” He giggled. Then: “Well, maybe just a bit.”

  He leaned down as though to share with us a great secret.

  “It’s full dark out now,” he said.

  It was? I looked at the windows, saw he was right. Where had all the time gone?

  “Let’s go outside,” Jack said. “The kids are coming too. Biff says we can do the fireworks now.”

  Fireworks? I looked across Jack at Denny and saw he was puzzled too. What fireworks?

  • • •

  We practically fell into the house, still laughing.

  Well, Denny and I were doing most of the laughing. Jack only giggled a bit, while the boys mostly just looked confused.

  “We won! We won!” I cried, doing my best American accent. And switching back to my own, a trifle sourly: “OK, we get it already. You won.”

  “But do you really need to set off fireworks too?” Denny added.

  “Imagine,” I said, “inviting a group of British people over to help celebrate the Fourth of July!”

  “I should have realized what day it was,” Denny said.

  “Me too. But here, I find, I lose all track of time.”

  The boys were still confused, tired too, so I brought them up to bed. When I came back down, Denny and Jack were seated in the living area. Jack had an unlit joint that he was rolling back and forth between his fingers.

  “Biff gave me this,” he said, pleased. “A spliff from Biff. Do you fancy some?”

  “You’re not going to light that in here, are you?” I said.

  Saying that, I remembered Edith at Easter telling Denny he couldn’t smoke in her house. It occurred to me then that I hadn’t seen him smoke a single cigarette since his arrival here. Come to that, I hadn’t been tempted either.

  “Course not,” Jack said. “We’ll take it out on the porch.”

  Once we were outside, Jack pulled out a lighter, held the tip of the joint to it until it glowed, and took a deep drag. He closed his eyes as he released the smoke. After taking a second drag, he opened his eyes and extended the joint toward Denny and me.

  “You go ahead if you want some,” Denny said, gently pushing Jack’s hand in my direction.

  “You’re not going to have any?” I asked.

  “I never indulge,” he said.

  “Of course you do!”

  “I can assure you, I would know if I did, and I don’t.”

  “If no one else is going to…” Jack took another long toke.

  “But how is that possible?” I insisted. “All those drug busts…”

  “How do you know so much about me, Mona? Are you perhaps secretly”—and here he practically touched his head to my shoulder before looking up at me and saying in a mock dangerous voice—“a fan?”

  “Of course not!” I pushed him off me. “Don’t be absurd!”

  I couldn’t tell him that I’d gleaned most of my information on him from what I’d read in mags. Plus, if the mags had been wrong about the rampant drug use, what else might they have been wrong about?

  “So you really never…?” I said.

  “Oh, of course I’ve tried pot. But I didn’t inhale.”

  Now I knew he had to be joking.

  “Who are you supposed to be? Bill Clinton?”

  “I can totally relate to Bill. We’ve discussed it. That stuff’s death to creativity and productivity, but you do have to try and fit in, at least initially.”

  The air around us was smoky, and Jack was leaning back in his chair, a silly smile on his face.

  “You’ve met Bill Clinton?” I asked.

  “Well, yeah. I suppose I’ve met just about everybody by now, haven’t I?”

  I realized it must be true. And not only had Denny met everyone, but at each meeting, he was the one of the two parties that the other party was impressed to meet. Imagine meeting presidents and princesses, artists and actors, and having each, down to the last man and woman, exude an air of: “I can’t believe I’m meeting you!”

  Fair play to him, sometimes even I had to admit: he had a good excuse for being such a prat.

  “What’s he like?” I asked. “Clinton, I mean.”

  “About what you’d expect. A bit paranoid at times—not that you can really blame him—but mostly he’s just a lot of fun, extremely focused, exceedingly smart. I’ve never had a better game of Scrabble.”

  “Huh.”

  “And he plays a mean sax. I’m not sure he’s quite as good as he thinks he is, but how many people ever are?”

  “Huh.” Then: “So all those drug busts? They were—”

  “There you go again, Mona, revealing an unusual amount of knowledge about me.”

  I ignored this, instead pressing with: “Those were what then?”

  “It was all for the image, especially when we were first starting out. You can’t very well lead any kind of revolution, musical or otherwise, if people’s mums are all like, ‘Ooh, they’re all so nice and sweet! I wish my daughter would date one!’ can you?”

  He had a point.

  I couldn’t seem to let it go. “So then Lex—he’s a put-up job too?”

  “God no.” Denny snorted. “Lex is the genuine article. For over a quarter of a century I’ve tried to figure out how he gets so much done in his perpetual condition, and I still haven’t figured it out.”

  Somehow, that was reassuring. At least one thing was as I’d thought it was.

  “So you’re, what, the straightest man in rock and roll?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I do like red wine.”

  “Me too!”

  I heard myself and was momentarily shocked. For a second there, I’d sounded just like I had on the first night I met Jack, when we were both all “You like the color blue best? Me too!” and “You like to breathe? Me too!”

  I shot a glance at Jack to see what his reaction was to this, but he looked as though he might have dozed off, that smile still on his lips.

  “Really?” Denny said. “But you were drinking white all night.”

  “That’s because that’s all the women around here ever drink. Well, except for when Budweiser Biff foists beers on us. But other than that? It’s only ever white. I think they all think it’s more slimming. Sometimes I’m tempted to say, ‘It’s not slimming when you drink the whole bottle!’”

  Denny laughed appreciatively at this, making me feel more satisfyingly witty than my words had warranted.

  “I prefer my red French and expensive,” Denny said.

  “I just prefer my red red,” I said.

  Denny laughed that appreciative laugh again. Then: “Where did I leave my phone?”

  “It must be inside somewhere.” I waved vaguely at the house.

  He disappeared inside for a few moments.

  “I should have realized,” he said when he returned, looking mildly frustrated. “Between it being late, and what with this crazy American holiday thing going on…”

  “Who were you trying to reach?”

  “It doesn’t matter right now. I made a note to myself for the morning, added it to the list.”

  “You make lists to stay on top of things?”

  “All the time,” he said. “Matt and Walter are great at keeping track of things for me, and I have a secretary who usually travels with me too, but they have other things to worry about, and I’m never convinced a thing will get done until I put it on the list.”

  “Me too!”

  Gack, did I just say that again?

  But Denny just laughed. “It’s been a good day, night too. Thanks for this.”

  I was about to say I hadn’t done anything, but just then, Jack let out a loud snore.

  Jack had one ankle resting on the top of the other knee. Denny reached out and grabbed on to the raised foo
t, jiggling it gently until Jack’s eyelids stuttered open.

  “What?” Jack said dumbly.

  “Do you want to go downstairs?” Denny said. “Maybe show me some of the songs you’ve been working on?”

  Jack was instantly sober. “You’re kidding, right?” he said in a voice I took for eager. Then, more cautious, perhaps in more ways than one: “But you must be tired.”

  “Actually, I’m wide awake. And now, so are you. So what do you say?”

  Now Jack looked nervous, rubbing the palms of his hands against his legs. “Well, if you really want—”

  “I’ll go get my guitar.”

  • • •

  Jack and I were standing at the base of the stairs when Denny came back down with his guitar. Then, as the men headed toward the door to the basement, I just stayed there.

  “Aren’t you coming?” Denny said, turning back.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think…”

  Jack never let me hear what he was working on. With rare exception, I only ever got to hear his music when he played an infrequent club gig or once it was finally on an album.

  I looked at Jack now but he just shrugged, noncommittal.

  “Come on then.” Denny smiled, holding the door open for me. “It’s got to beat sitting on the stairs, right?”

  Thankfully, Jack was currently too absorbed in his own thoughts to register what Denny had just said.

  Once in the basement, as the men tuned their guitars, I found a seat in the corner, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible.

  Jack looked so nervous, and I was so nervous for him—I didn’t want to add to that by being too obtrusive. As for Denny, he looked completely serene, as though he and Jack did this every day.

  “What have you got?” Denny said.

  “Three songs for the new album so far,” Jack said, a stiff tone coming into his voice as though daring Denny to say that Jack’s productivity thus far this summer had been paltry.

  “Great,” Denny said. “So what’s the first one?”

  “It’s…” Jack started to play something, stopping after a few notes. “Sorry. It’s…”

  He started to sing, his voice stuttering the words out, the nerves back. But then he closed his eyes, keeping them shut as he played the song through, I can only guess in an attempt to convince himself that his brother wasn’t sitting right there, close enough to touch, his knees just inches away.

  The song Jack played was neither as polished nor as sophisticated as the one I’d heard Denny play, but it was still good.

  When Jack finished, his voice having grown less wavery as he sang, he opened his eyes and looked at Denny defiantly, as though to say: “Well?”

  “That was good!” Denny said.

  I felt relief wash through my body as I released a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Jack looked incredibly relieved too. And when I looked over at Denny, I realized that that made three of us because Denny’s response hadn’t been mere enthusiasm, there was also a huge measure of relief in there. I hoped Jack hadn’t seen or heard that part.

  But he was too busy being pleased to notice anything else.

  “What about the second song?” Denny said.

  “OK, then.” Jack sounded more confident now, and as he sang the next song, it showed in his voice. After he finished the first chorus and verse, Denny came in with his guitar on the second, playing rhythm to Jack’s lead.

  “That one was good too,” Denny said, more casually this time.

  “You really think so?” Jack said. “I mean, wow! Thank you!”

  This struck me as being a little exclamatory—maybe too exclamatory—for Jack’s normally low-key personality. But then I thought: maybe he was still high?

  “And the third?” Denny prompted.

  “Oh, yeah. Right.”

  This time, as Jack played, it was Denny who closed his eyes partway through, his expression one of someone listening closely.

  “Well, what do you think?” Jack asked expectantly when he finished. “It’s the most recent, but I think it might be the best.”

  I know what I thought: that it was a beautiful song. Really, all the songs Jack had played had been good. But this one was a love song, and, vain as it might sound, I always assumed all Jack’s love songs were for me. After all, when he asked me to marry him, he did say he’d never been in love with anyone else before.

  “Yes,” Denny said after a long silence. “I can see why you like this one so much. The others are good, but this…?” Pause. “And yet…”

  “And yet what?” Jack said when Denny failed to finish his sentence.

  “It’s only…”

  “Only what?”

  Please, I prayed silently, even though I’ve never been the praying sort. Please don’t break my husband’s heart.

  “OK,” Denny said, as though something had been dragged out of him. Then: “The lyrics are mostly good, but there are a few lines that could do with a tweak. Do you have the sheet handy?”

  Silently, Jack handed one over.

  “Right.” Denny grabbed a pencil, pointed to two different parts on the page. “Here and here. It’s good to give people what they want, but it’s even better to give them what they don’t know they want. And with lyrics, you don’t want it to be so predictable that before the line is even over, the listener knows what the next line will be even if they’ve never heard the song before.” He pointed with the pencil again. “Those are the two I’d fix.”

  He held the pencil out to Jack, who took it without looking at Denny.

  Jack tapped the pencil against his lip a few times, then erased some things, scribbled over it, pushed the page back toward Denny. This time, Jack looked at Denny as he asked: “You mean like this?”

  Denny studied the page briefly, nodded.

  “Exactly like that. Now, the bridge could be a bit more dee-dee-dee-dee-dee than the dee-dee-dee-dee-dum you’ve got currently.” Denny hummed as he played it on his guitar, demonstrating, and Jack joined in, matching what he heard.

  “Good,” Denny said. “Now this one word here. If you change the phrasing…Like, just as an example of what you might do…”

  Denny sang what he meant. It was the same “it,” with him doing the same thing to it I’d heard him do with his own song that one time I’d been alone, listening from the stairs.

  “Do you hear the difference?” Denny said. “It’s counterintuitive to what the listener will expect. It’s like that word is a piece of heavy furniture, and I’m dragging it across a bumpy wooden floor, and when I slam on the final stress, rising up the scale—i-i-i-IT—it’s like I’ve found the perfect spot for it. Do you see what I’m getting at here?”

  Jack sang the hell out of it.

  “Right,” Denny said. “And, last, that Bono thing you’re doing at the end of the final chorus—you’ve got to stop that.”

  “What Bono thing? I don’t have any Bono thing!”

  “Oh, yeah, you really do. And it has to stop. Imitation’s fine for cover bands, but that’s not for you. You want to sound like you, only exaggerated, you don’t want to sound like anyone else.” He paused before finishing simply, “You’ve got a good voice, Jack.”

  Was I the only one who felt like dancing for joy when Denny said that?

  I thought Jack must be feeling pretty damn pleased with himself too. But then I wondered if he might be feeling hurt at what he would perhaps have perceived as Denny’s harsh criticism. I was no artist, and yet I suspected the reason Jack had never shared his works-in-progress with me as he went was that on some level, he feared criticism, or being compared to some other ideal. And yet, having heard what Denny had to say, I couldn’t fault Denny for any of it. He’d been clear and businesslike in everything he said. There was not a shred of malice, not like sometimes when people tell you something with an air of, “I’m doing this for your own benefit,” when anyone can see the real subtext is, “I’m doing
this for my own know-it-all benefit, so I can feel better about myself by making you feel like shit.”

  “Why don’t you play the song through again with the changes,” Denny suggested. “See what you think.”

  So Jack did that.

  And it was better.

  It had been good but now it was better.

  Jack didn’t necessarily look happy about this.

  “What’s wrong?” Denny asked with an uncharacteristic show of sensitivity.

  “It’s just that, it is better now, but that was all you, so it’s not really mine anymore, is it?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Denny didn’t wait for an answer. “You think songs just come out of me perfect, like Apollo from Zeus’s head? OK, maybe sometimes they do. But mostly? I take something as far as I can, and then I toss it to Lex. Or sometimes I think something’s fine the way it is, and then—hello!—one of the other guys starts playing around, and what I started turns into something else entirely, and that’s OK too because it’s all about making the music as good as it can be, and if that something is better, then of course I’m going to want to run with it.” Pause. “This is still your song, Jack.”

  “And you actually think it’s any good?”

  “Are you kidding? That song’s your single. It’s your A-side. Why do you think I even bothered trying to make it better?”

  “Huh.”

  Denny considered, looking torn. It was as though he was debating something in his head. Then:

  “Tell you what: That ‘it’? It’s yours. I was going to use it for a song, but you keep it.”

  “I didn’t know. Are you sure?”

  “Course. Maybe I’ll drag my ‘it’ upstairs or maybe just slam it against the wall. Don’t worry. I’ll come up with something.”

  I groaned, blinking at the harsh light, having been wakened by the sound of loud knocking coming from downstairs. At least, unlike the last time I’d been wakened by knocking, this time it was full day, so there was no need to be paranoid or grab a frying pan on my way to answer it. And answer it, I must, seeing as Jack was passed out beside me. Last night, I’d finally left the men around three a.m. They were still playing, and, no matter how good it sounded, I’d started to feel like a third wheel, and an exhausted third wheel at that.