by Lisa Tucker
He nods. “To Susan, when my dad got sick.” He plays a trill. “I’m still not sure why.”
I knew his father had a heart attack not long before I got with the band, but I’m still surprised. I never heard about what happened to his sister, though I realize I do know her name. Claire. One of his saddest songs is called “Remembering Claire, Age 9.”
I pause for a moment. “Maybe you were afraid to see Susan. She knew you. She’d make it impossible to hide the fear.”
“I don’t know what I was afraid of. I’m just telling you I don’t handle pain very well. I avoid it, and when I can’t, I run from it.” He smiles a half smile. “I’m not brave like you.”
“I wish you would quit saying that. It really isn’t true.” I take a breath. “You know what? Sometimes I feel like I’d give anything to run away from all this.”
“This?”
“Everything.” I look at the brick wall behind him. “Rick, my mother, Fred. The studio. My life, I guess.”
He’s standing too, and walking towards me. “Patty, I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay.” Now his eyes are kind. Too kind. I’m afraid I’ll cry. “I’m just tired.”
His hands are on my shoulders. When he starts pulling me to his chest, I say, “I’m all right. You don’t have to—”
“Close your eyes.”
“But—”
“Just close your eyes and listen. I did write something. Tell me if you could sing this.”
He feels just like I remember. I don’t want to relax here, but I can’t help it. It’s so comfortable being in his arms.
“It was the wrong script,” he says softly, “the wrong time. You had drama with him, but never the rhythm oceans know, never the rest that surrounds the note, giving it meaning.”
He shifts his weight to his left foot. “That’s a first verse of sorts. Then the chorus is, ‘You start a rumor in your mind, and the words become a chain, each link obscuring, the possibilities that remain.’”
I look at him, and he shrugs. “At least it rhymes. Fred might appreciate that.” He takes a breath. “I have a lot more, but I’ll just give you one phrase. Another rhyme. Close your eyes again. This is from the last verse, when you realize you want something different.” He whispers, “Not that play with lines too slow, but me, waiting in tomorrow.”
He pauses. “It may sound corny but I didn’t write it to please Fred.”
I want to tell him how touched I am, but I can’t speak. He’s leaning forward and this time, I know he’s going to kiss me.
It still feels like what I’ve wanted forever. His mouth tastes like peppermint; his messy hair feels unexpectedly soft in my hands. And he’s touching me so gently. His fingers feel like I imagine they would when he’s playing a ballad, when he lingers on each note like it’s not just an insignificant part but the truth of the whole piece.
At some point, he whispers that he likes my hair. Then he laughs a little and asks if I remember the fight we had this summer when I was thinking of getting it cut. I say yes, but I can’t remember why I was so mad. At this moment, I can’t imagine ever being mad at him. The wrong script. This is how he looks at what I did with Rick. Just three little words. As innocent as a mistake.
thirteen
Irene is trying to get me to admit I’m in love with him.
It’s the next Sunday, and we’re in her Honda, headed to the mall. She begged me to come with her to pick out some fall clothes. I should have known she just wanted to get me alone and pump me for information.
Willie is in the backseat. I tried using him as my excuse for not talking even though he’s totally absorbed in his book, Things That Go Zoom. The truth is, I can’t talk about this yet. It still feels too new, too fragile. We haven’t even slept together, although Irene keeps teasing that that will change tonight, when I go to his apartment for dinner. I’ve told her to cut the crap, but it keeps flitting through my mind that I really should get some new underwear at the mall. Just in case.
“I’m your best friend, kiddo,” Irene says, as she turns out of Mama’s neighborhood. “If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”
I look out the window. “Maybe I’ll tell my mother. Ha-ha.”
“You know, she didn’t say hi to me or jack squat just now,” Irene says. “I felt like screaming, hey lady, I’ve taken care of Willie for a long time. I’m part of the family. Don’t act like I’m dirt.”
“Well, I am her family and she’s barely spoken to me all week.”
“I’m really beginning to think you should move out. You don’t deserve this kind of abuse, honey. And apartment 1D is about to open up.” She winks. “Right next door to Jonathan.”
“I guess I’m going to have to.” I lower my voice and glance at Willie. He’s making machine noises. Vroom. “I hate to do it to her though. She’ll miss Willie so bad.”
“But what is her problem? She can’t be this pissed just because Rick sent you some money. It’s like she’s gone crazy.”
“I know,” I say. It wasn’t even Rick who sent the money, it was Gerald Boyd. But it was Rick’s check, the first installment of his child support payments. An amazing sum, to me at least. Six hundred and eighty-five dollars.
Still, I thought about ripping up the check. And I offered to rip it up when Mama started freaking. She didn’t want me to do that though; she wanted me to use the money to leave Kansas City.
She’s sure I’m going to break down and let Rick see Willie again. And even if I don’t, she says, Rick will take the decision out of my hands.
“I saw a TV show about this. Fathers steal babies all the time. And sometimes the law helps ’em out. Ask that Mr. Boyd you’re so fond of, he’ll tell you even criminals have rights to their kids. For all we know, that killer will end up getting custody.”
I tried telling her Rick would never take Willie, but she wouldn’t listen. “I can’t believe you’re still in denial when it comes to that man!”
I hate the word denial. Even though Mama learned it in AA, I’ve never heard her apply it to herself, only to me.
She didn’t stop yelling until Jonathan showed up to take me to McGlinchey’s. He’s been picking me up all week. I figured she would see us holding hands as we walked to the van, so I told her I was dating him. No response. Nothing about my life seems to matter to her now. Nothing except what I’m going to do about Rick.
I wish I knew. I told Irene what was going on with Rick because I wanted her advice, but she didn’t have any. “What a mess,” she said, and then she changed the topic to what really interests her right now. Jonathan and me.
Jonathan and me. It still sounds so strange. Of course the guys think it’s beyond strange, but they didn’t snicker and laugh when they found out, like I expected. Far from.
Carl was the first to say what was written on all their faces. “I hope you know what you’re doing, man. That ex of hers is classic psychopath. If he finds out you even touched Patty, he could come after you and cut off your hands.”
Jonathan shrugged this off, but I felt like someone had dropped an anvil on my chest, making it difficult to breathe. All week, I’ve had to force myself to keep repeating what Boyd said about Rick having straightened up. Not that Boyd couldn’t be wrong, but he’s the professional. He’s spent hours and hours with Rick, as he keeps telling me.
“He really is a great guy,” Irene is saying. “I know I used to bitch about what a weirdo he was, but I was just kidding around. Harry says Jonathan has more integrity than anybody he’s ever met. I can definitely see why you’re in love with him.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
She frowns. “Boy, you’re a tough nut to crack.”
I smile but I don’t say anything. I’m thinking about him now, and the last week. It has been great, and so unlike any other part of my life. The intense closeness we’ve had on stage is only part of it. He talks to me—about music but also about the newspaper or a book he’s reading or the way the sky looks outside his
window. He listens too, like what I think really matters. He calls me Pretty Patty when we’re alone. He says I’m the first thing he thinks about in the morning and the last thing before bed.
Of course I’m in love with him. It feels like I’ve been in love with him forever, since I started singing jazz, since I heard him play, since he was born and I was born, and even before.
We’re almost to the mall. I’ve pretty much decided that I need new underwear anyway. Nothing too fancy. Cotton in pastel colors, maybe with some flowers. And some perfume, too. Just in case.
“Isn’t It Romantic” is playing on his stereo as I walk in the door. He has a beige blanket spread out on the living-room carpet, with a coffee mug full of daisies in the middle, and a bottle of red wine. “The food is coming,” he says, and smiles. “Chinese. An occasion like this is too important for mere pizza.”
Before I sit down, I call Mama. Willie was crying when I left, and holding out his arms for me. She told me to leave anyway, and I did, but I’m still worried. He never does this anymore.
“Is he okay?” I ask her. I hear the TV blaring cartoons. Then I hear Willie laugh and I feel so much better.
“He’s my grandbaby, Patty Ann. I think I know how to take care of him.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t worry about us,” she barks, and hangs up.
When I come out of the kitchen, Jonathan has poured us each a glass of wine. “Everything all right?” he says.
I tell him yes, because there’s nothing to say. Mama is mad at me, and that’s not news. She’s always like that now.
I don’t really like wine, but I take a big swallow, hoping it will help me calm down.
“You smell nice,” he says, kissing my neck. He leans back and smiles. “Do you notice anything different about me?”
The only thing I see is how adorable he looks, but that’s not different.
“I cut my hair,” he says, and turns around.
It’s true. It’s still not short by any means, but it’s shorter than it was. Almost as short as mine.
“It looks good, but why?”
“I thought you would like it.” He raises his eyebrows. “And this way, Irene can’t call me Beethoven anymore.”
I laugh. “You know about that?”
He laughs too, and moves closer. “Not the composer, the dog. I heard.”
I take another gulp of the wine before we start kissing. A few minutes later, we end up lying on the blanket. He pushes the mug of flowers out of the way with one hand; the other is on my stomach. It’s so much more intense than I expected. The food hasn’t even arrived yet.
“All week, I’ve been thinking about this,” he says. “I don’t mean just the physical act. With you, I want it to be philosophical, spiritual, and emotional. The union of our souls.”
His hand is inching up my shirt. Now I wish I’d thought to replace my raggedy bra, too.
He’s touching my breast and it feels so good, but something is telling me to hold back. Don’t do this with him, it could ruin everything.
I’m saved by the delivery guy. Jonathan jumps up to answer the door. I’m not hungry but I act like I’m starving when he suggests we heat it up later.
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s fine.” He squeezes my hand. “We have time.”
He eats three plates full while I’m still picking at my first. He’s talking about a new sax player he heard on the radio today. I’m listening, but I’m also trying to figure out what’s wrong with me.
“What are you thinking?” he says, as he stands up to change the CD. I’ve eaten a half-dozen bites of rice and half an egg roll; I can’t stuff in anymore. He’s already cleared away the cartons and the dishes.
“Nothing much.”
He sits back down and looks at me. “Are you nervous?”
“A little.”
“We don’t have to do this. If you’re not ready, I’ll understand.”
“That’s sweet. The thing is, I don’t know if I’m ready.”
He picks up my hand and kisses my palm. “The only way to find out is to start. But I’m not a brute. If you want to stop at any point, I will.”
“I know.” I gulp. “I think I might be a brute though.”
“What?” He looks like he’s going to laugh but then he looks closely at me and stops. “Of course you’re not a brute. You’re elegant and womanly, the very definition of the not-brute.”
“But I’m not like you. I don’t even know what it means to have philosophical sex.”
He does laugh then but it’s gentle. “Patty, you really do blow me away. You’re incapable of being anything but real.” He kisses my forehead. “All I meant was that I want it to be special with you.”
“I want that too.”
“Well, then?” He nods at the stereo. “Listen to the man.”
The man is Johnny Hartman, who’s becoming one of my favorite jazz singers. The song is “They Say It’s Wonderful.”
I smile and pull him closer. I hold his face in my hands as we move back down on the blanket.
By the time the phone rings, I have my shirt off, and we’re both out of breath. He says he isn’t going to answer, but I tell him it might be Mama. “Something could be wrong with Willie.”
“Right,” he says, and stumbles up to get it.
He says hello, then rolls his eyes and mouths the word “Fred.”
After a minute, when he’s still talking, I flip through my Jazz for Beginners book, lying on Jonathan’s floor. I finally showed it to him last week, and he told me it was a great book to start with. “You have good instincts,” he said. “You’re obviously really smart, Patty. Don’t worry, you’ll catch up.”
I beamed like I’d won the lottery.
I put the book down, go over to him and reach around the back of his waist. “Hang up,” I whisper, but he shakes his head. He looks away from me. He’s listening intently now and his mouth looks tight, mad.
Fred doesn’t know about us; we both agreed it was none of his business. This is why when I hear Jonathan mention my name, I’m stunned—and even more so by what he says.
“Patty and I would rather quit.”
“What?” I whisper.
“Then call her yourself,” Jonathan says. “Be my guest.” He slams down the phone.
“What was that?”
“The Almighty has decided that the piece isn’t marketable as is. He said the lyrics are too complicated for the average consumer.”
I’m really surprised. Fred seemed happy last night when we unveiled the finished version of Jonathan’s tune right after the last set at McGlinchey’s. We’d been working on it all week. I sang the lyrics with “he” and “she,” like a story, rather than “me” like Jonathan wrote them. The bartender and the waitresses applauded, so did Fred. He told me I was better than Darla, usual stuff.
“He thinks you sang it wonderfully, but the piece itself is flawed. The average consumer. Jesus, he’s such a moron.”
I’m back on the blanket, but Jonathan is pacing back and forth, almost knocking the mug of flowers over every time he passes. Obviously it’s time to put my shirt back on. I turn away from him to do it. He doesn’t come closer or object.
“If you don’t change them,” I finally say, sitting up straight, “then what?”
“I don’t know. You heard me tell him we’d quit first.”
“You mean not go in the studio?”
He looks at me. “No, I mean quit. The end. Finis. We don’t work for Fred.”
“But who do we work for?”
He shrugs. “Even if we starve, we’re better off than letting that idiot treat us like slaves in his puppet dictatorship.”
I lower my voice. “I don’t think I can starve, Jonathan.”
“That was only a figure of speech. I worked for years without a manager and I was fine. I couldn’t buy clothes or records or gas, but I ate. Sometimes it was fried flour and water, but it was food.”
“I have to buy clothes though. And I have to buy vegetables and fruit and meat and vitamins. I have Wil—”
“I don’t think you understand. Fred isn’t telling me to make a few minor changes; he’s saying the lyrics are unacceptable.”
“That sucks, but—”
“You told me you loved what I wrote. Were you humoring me, Patty? Is that all this was?”
On the next pass, he finally kicks the mug of flowers over. As I stand up and move to the couch, I watch the water spread over the blanket like a shadow.
“I do love the song,” I say, and force my voice to sound friendly. No matter how it looks, we’re not having a fight. We can’t be. “It’s just that I have Willie to consider. He can’t wear last year’s clothes. He can’t eat flour and water.”
“And what are you going to teach him? That art is irrelevant? That having no principles is acceptable as long as you have a convenient excuse?”
“I hope not. But I can’t teach him anything if I can’t feed and clothe him and take him to the doctor when he’s sick.”
He isn’t saying anything so I rush ahead. “I won’t be able to do this road crap much longer, Willie will be in school. I have to do everything I can to succeed now, while he’s still little. Put some money in the bank. Even be able to help him go to college.”
“College is vastly overrated.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You got to go.”
He doesn’t respond. I lean back on the couch, watch as he stomps back and forth on the blanket, running his hands through his hair until it looks as messy as usual.
Okay, we are having a fight, but still, I tell myself it’s not that bad. We can patch this up. Somehow.
Finally he spins around and looks at me. As he speaks, the side of his left hand seems like it’s slicing the air.
“While I was trying to write lyrics, I kept coming up against the idea that even if I wrote something great, you would reject it if Fred said it didn’t have the potential to be popular. That you wouldn’t defy him no matter how narrow-minded he is, how stupid and shortsighted.”
“But I just told you why. I understand how you feel, I just don’t have the choices you do.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but this is not what I expected after all the work we’ve done together in the last month.” He glances in my eyes. “It certainly isn’t the way I want you to be.”
