by Susan Ward
She is more than just drunk. She did coke with Josh in my dad’s car and lied to me about it. I can see it in her agitated movements and the way she is standing. She’s coked up. Josh got her coked up and screwed her in a car.
I put my hands on her arms to stop her hopping. “It’s OK. Everyone is on the patio and Maria is asleep. Just run. Clear shot to the bathroom.”
Rene runs into the house. I hear my bedroom door slam. The shower turns on. I go to the kitchen and I fill a glass with ice water even though I’m not thirsty, but if I don’t drink it I’ll have a headache in the morning because of the alcohol.
I toss Jack’s keys back on the breakfast bar. I lean against it, sipping my water. The patio door opens and Jack steps into the kitchen.
“I’m glad you’re back. I was worried about you driving in this fog.”
He smiles, then goes to the refrigerator.
I watch him over my ice water. I’m wearing different clothes, Jack. Don’t you even notice? And my hair is all puffed out and sprayed like a heavy metal chick.
Jack leans an ear up toward the ceiling. “Is someone taking a shower?”
Ours is an old house. Large, solidly built, but the plumbing groans all through the adobe.
“Rene. She doesn’t think there will be time in the morning.”
“Oh, that reminds me. I’m taking you to the airport at nine, only a half hour earlier than we planned. I’ve got this thing.”
“Sure, Daddy. No problem.”
“Are you OK, Chrissie?”
I put down the water glass. “I’m fine.”
“You should turn in too, baby girl.”
He drops a kiss on my head.
“I think I’m going to practice for a while.”
“Well, don’t stay up too late. You have an early plane.”
I watch Jack disappear back onto the patio. If he had asked one probing question I would have crumbled. There is so much I want to talk to Jack about. I want to tell him about Rene. I want to tell him about me. I just don’t know how to start it and Jack never tries to start it.
In my bedroom I find Rene curled atop the covers of my bed, hair still damp, my mother’s quilt wrapped around her. I sit down beside her and I close my eyes. I’m exhausted, but not the kind of exhausted that gives way to restful sleep. If I go to sleep now, the way I feel, I will only have dreams, dark dreams, the kind that scare me.
I tuck the blanket in around Rene, and then I make my way down the long hallway to the back of the house where the studio is. The recording studio walls are lined with gold and platinum records, but I stop at the pictures of my mother to pay homage to how beautiful she was, how elegant she appears in the photos of her during her career with the New York Philharmonic.
My parents were such a strange couple. Opposites. I’ve never understood how they locked in place together.
I go through the soundproofing door into the studio and I sink to my knees before my cello case. I pull free the instrument and bow, and I switch off all the lights except a single dim spotlight above my chair. I settle in the chair and go through my routine, adjusting the instrument, clearing my mind and preparing to play.
It feels good to play. The music is soothing in its beautiful precision. It is not angry and confused like the music in the club tonight. I focus on the controlled moves of my fingers. The music is not like me. I’m angry and confused most of the time. But Bach is beautiful and precise. Slow, and then building, then pulling back. I wonder if that’s why I still play the cello even though I’m not very good at it.
I am almost through the prelude when I sense someone is watching me. The room beyond is almost pitch black. I can’t see anyone, yet somehow I feel them, the presence of someone beyond the soundproof glass when that should be impossible to feel. I try to lose myself in the music. I can’t. I halt the bow above the strings. I stare.
“You’re very good.”
The voice floating in on the intercom is male, low, raspy and accented. So it isn’t my imagination. I’m not alone. I strain to pick out detail at the dimly lit console behind the soundproofing glass. I am only able to see a figure, large and casually reclined in a chair, bare feet propped on the table. Jeez, how long has he been watching me? He looks settled in.
Why doesn’t he say something? Oh, it must be my turn to talk.
“That was mediocre. It’s my audition piece for Juilliard, but I’m waffling and I think I should play Kodaly’s Sonata for Solo Cello Opus Eight. Bach seems just a little too predictable. What do you think?”
OK, that was rotten. This guy probably doesn’t know Bach from Bon Jovi.
“The Bach. It suits you. The Kodaly I think too dark, too dramatic, too aggressive for you. Stay with the Bach.”
Jeez, it’s a sexy voice. British and raspy. I don’t recognize the voice. Who is this guy? I struggle to pick out more detail of my companion. He rises, and I can see that he tall, muscled, and graceful of movement. I wish I could see his face.
“Close your eyes,” says the voice on the intercom.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
I close my eyes. There is something so imperative about his manner that disobeying doesn’t seem an option. The studio door opens. There is the sound of bare feet against floor. The warm presence of a body moves into me.
“Don’t open your eyes. I’m not going to hurt you and if you open your eyes this will do you no good.”
“It won’t?”
My fingers tighten around the neck of the cello.
“No.” I feel the displacement of air that follows movement and then the heat of him even closer. “You are a very beautiful girl.”
“What?” I don’t know what to say to that.
I start to ease back but he stops me. “You are a very talented girl,” he whispers. “You are going to be remarkable at your audition. And you should most definitely play the Bach. It was flawless.”
I try to speak. His fingers touch across my lips to silence me. He leans forward and I am paralyzed just feeling his body near me. I haven’t even seen his face and I’m wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him. His voice is a seduction. His words. The way he turns them on his lips.
He takes a deep breath. On my cheek there is the whispering touch of a fingertip. The skin is rough and hardened. The kind of harshness you get from years of working the metal strings of a guitar. But somehow he knows how to touch with them so they are like a velvet seduction. Like his voice. A little raspy. A little rough. A velvet seduction. His touch moves down my face to trace my lower lip. The play of him leaves me frantic and weak. He puts a light kiss on my forehead and then I feel him moving away.
NO! That’s wrong. All that just to kiss me on the forehead?
“Open your eyes. Don’t hit me. It was a kiss for luck.”
“I wasn’t going to hit you. It was a peck, not a kiss. Downright…”
Oh my god! He is crouched down in front of me and only inches from me is a face I’ve seen a thousand times from a poster hanging on my wall in my dorm room. He doesn’t look at all like he does in his music videos, and stepping out of the TV definitely improves him. I like him better this way: simple jeans, a loose fitting t-shirt and what is surely one of Jack’s worn long-sleeve flannels. Even if I didn’t own every scrap of music he’s ever recorded, even if I hadn’t seen every video, I would have been blown away just looking at his face.
Alan Manzone is beautiful. He has lustrous black, unkempt shoulder length hair. I don’t really like long hair on guys, but oh, on this guy it is perfect. It frames his face and softens the features that would have been too strongly carved without it, especially with those dangerously intense black eyes. God, they are true black. I’ve never seen such a thing before, and they’ve got giant iridescent irises flecked with shimmers.
He doesn’t move. I don’t move. He doesn’t speak. I don’t speak. OK, whatever game this is it is working very well.
I fight to recover from the shock o
f finding him, and realize he’s watching me and expecting some kind of reaction. He knows exactly what he is doing to me with his little drama and he’s enjoying it. His smugness reminds me of Neil and that makes my temper flare. Oh no, Mr. Sexy British Rocker, I am not going to play your game and make a fool of myself. Some other guy has already made a fool of me tonight.
I adjust my cello in front of me as I fight for something to say. It’s not easy. Those intense black eyes make it nearly impossible to string together words. “Well, well, well. Not what I expected. The voice was hard to read, but the kiss. Definitely confusing. It made me think you were old. But you are a surprise.”
“A good surprise?”
My heartbeat quickens. “I don’t know. We just met.”
Alan remains crouched before me. “Why are you so nervous about your audition for Juilliard? You must know that you are extraordinary.”
Am I really in my dad’s studio with Alan Manzone telling me I’m extraordinary? I swallow nervously and I think he is suppressing a smile.
I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Just life jitters. I’m not sure of what I want to do. I’m not sure if I want to go to Juilliard. I’m not sure about anything. Today, I’m not even sure about the cello and it is my favorite instrument.”
“Well, you should be certain about the cello. You are remarkable.”
I blink at him, unsure what to say. There is something in his voice I can’t decipher at all. Is he being gracious, or mocking me? Toying with me or just making small talk?
I swallow as I stare into his gorgeous face. I search for words and then smile at him. “Are you an actor?”
Something flashes in his eyes too quickly for me to be certain of his reaction.
“Why?”
“This has all been very theatrical. You seem like an actor.”
His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disconcerted. “Sorry about the theatrical. I’m working on getting rid of that.”
“I didn’t suggest you should. Especially not if you’re an actor. I would think that would hurt your craft.”
“You can set aside your worry. Not an actor. A musician.”
I set the cello down in the case and hold out my hand. “How do you do? I’m Christian Parker.”
“The introduction is unnecessary. You look just like your dad. He likes to brag about you, in case you don’t know that.”
It’s just a lie, but it makes me happy that he went to the effort of giving me that. “You are not doing well getting rid of the theatrical. You seem almost committed to continuing it. When one introduces themselves the other usually does the same. Introductions are generally considered polite. Would you like to try again?”
He laughs. “I’m British. You do realize the absurdity of lecturing me about politeness?”
“Sure I do, Mr. Whoever You Are. But I don’t know who you are,” I lie.
“Really?”
His reaction is very odd. Maybe I shouldn’t do this.
I nod and struggle to maintain a deadpan expression. “Really. Nothing personal, but I’ve been locked away in a dark cell for eight years.”
“Prison?”
“Worse. Boarding school. I only get parole three times a year. Two months in summer, one month Christmas, three weeks Spring. It makes it really hard to keep up with the world. The last time I was out Reagan was President.”
“You haven’t missed anything. Not much has changed.”
I smile. “That’s good to know. I like Reagan. I’m going to miss him.”
“Well, any friend of Maggie’s is a friend of mine.”
“Maggie?”
“Margaret Thatcher. A great lady.”
“A great lady, but you shouldn’t say that in front of Jack. I don’t think I’ve heard any of my dad’s friends compliment Thatcher and Reagan on the same day. Interesting. And you must be someone to be sitting in with Jack’s gang on the patio.”
He shrugs and extends a hand. “I’m Alan Manzone. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Well, Alan, it’s a pleasure to meet you. So what instrument are you extraordinary with?”
“Guitar. With this gang I play the drums. I don’t know if I’m extraordinary. I was just here when this started. No drummer. I was here.”
“Are you naturally self-effacing or is it just being British?”
“I’m not self-effacing at all. I’m generally considered arrogant, flamboyant, obnoxious and completely self-absorbed. At least in the American press. They are less kind in the UK.”
That comment made him sound tired and annoyed with himself. I study his face, not sure how to respond.
“I’ve had a tough year,” he adds.
“Why tough?”
“I’m very good at fucking up. In fact, I excel at it.”
“It can’t be that bad,” I say.
“Oh, yes. That bad. Hardly anyone is speaking to me. The label is pissed. The promoters won’t touch me. I’m being sued by everyone.”
Wow, I never expected to hear that. There was something in the papers about him walking out on his US tour, but nothing that suggested it was as bad as all that.
“If not for Jack I’d probably be in a cell in the Chicago area,” he mutters, exasperated and shaking his head.
Jack? What does Daddy have to do with this? All this is news to me so my surprise is genuine and I can feel inside of Alan a strange pressure, a sort of not completely contained internal need to talk. But why is he here with me when Jack is only a patio away?
Now that I’m over the shock of finding him, I see details that I missed. He looks emotionally beat up. Under the theatrics, confidence and charm, he seems a very troubled guy, soulful and tired. Troubled, soulful, and tired at twenty-six. In real life he seems younger, nearer to his age. What the hell has happened to this guy?
A little lightness seems like it would be a good thing. “Jack puts me in a cell and keeps you out. That doesn’t seem fair since I’m his daughter,” I tease.
He laughs and pushes his hair from his face. “Well, you’re out of your cell tonight, but I’m still working free of mine. Forgiveness is a tough road.”
“Do you want to go for a walk? I like to take advantage of freedom and fresh air every chance I get. Or do you have to get back to the geriatric ward?”
“Sacrilege. Some of the greatest musicians in the world are sitting on your dad’s back patio.”
“But for some reason you’re here sitting in a studio with me. Why?”
“Feeling a little shaky tonight and even when I’m not I usually prefer solitude when I’m not working.”
“Is that how you ruined your career? You’re one of the twelvers?”
I wait. I already know the answer. I can see it. But that is another shock tonight. I hadn’t read anything about this. How did they keep it from the press?
“Twelvers?”
“Twelve step buddies of Jack. What’s your poison? Booze, pills or coke?”
He eases back on his heels as his eyes comb my face in a searching way that is uncomfortable. He shakes his head. “God, do you have any idea how strange that sounds coming from you?”
I flush. “Why is that strange from me?”
“Because it’s like being questioned about my substance abuse by a Disney character. When I look at you I half expect animated, chirruping birds to appear.”
That was insulting. I feel my temper stir. “Well, if you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to be rude.”
He looks puzzled for a moment. “Ah, the Disney character comment pissed you off. I didn’t mean it as a pejorative.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure from you it’s a compliment.”
I stand up.
“You’re not leaving are you?” He cocks his head to one side as though he doesn’t want me to.
I feel the color in my cheeks rising again.
“Are you going to stay pissed at me all night for that?”
All night? How did this turn into all nig
ht? He rubs his chin with his long index fingers as he waits for my answer.
“No,” I say with false sweetness, “I’m going to go to bed and forget all about you.”
I start for the door.
“Heroin,” he says from behind me. “I didn’t mean to be rude earlier. You know, with the Disney comment. I’m still learning how to have normal conversations with real people.”
I stop. It’s the first thing he’s said not packed with confusing theatrics. An honest statement that’s left him looking very exposed, very vulnerable.
“Real people? As opposed to…?” I ask.
“Everyone else in my life. I’d been clean eight years, but a year ago I had what they benignly call in Rehab a set-back.”
I’m intrigued by his honesty, in spite of my early irritation with him. “Eight years is a long time. Why did you relapse?”
He smiles wryly. “There are no whys. Only using and not using. Why is not allowed in the Rehab halfway house of Jack’s. Only the why nots.”
Yes, that sounded like Jack. “For what’s it worth I would never have guessed heroin.”
“Really? Why?” His voice is low and he’s gazing at me intently.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to fit you. You seem more elegant than that.”
He laughs. “Elegant? That’s a first for me.”
“You’re a tough guy to read, Alan. But you are elegant. It’s all mixed up in that strange sort of British rocker, messy jeans, t-shirt, shoeless, grunge sort of thing you’ve got going on. But definitely, somewhere in there, elegant.”
He grimaces. “If that’s how you see me then I have an image crisis to contend with and I’m spending too much time with Jack. I’m definitely not going for a shoeless grunge sort of thing. Your dad doesn’t let people wear shoes in the house. Remember?”
He looks down at my feet and I realized I am still wearing my UGGs with Neil’s silly half dollar sticking out of the fold. “Oh, I forgot our coastal customs. See what being in prison can do? Do you want to go for a walk or not?”
I don’t know why I change my mind about going to my room, but I just do. Not waiting for his answer, I leave the studio quickly. I don’t look to see if he follows. I bypass the patio off the kitchen and go down a long hall at the other end of the house to another patio exit. The yard is dark and woodsy here. I slow down, and then stop on the side of the house near the edge. I look back over my shoulder to find Alan standing patiently behind me.
