Need

by Stephanie Lawton

  “Oh, sweet pea, no. I was eighteen. Stupid. Even stupider than I am now. They shipped me off to Boston so fast I didn’t know which way was up. Just dove into my music studies and didn’t look back. Figured you were better off anyway. From what I hear, I was right. A senator’s son, right?”

  Her thumb massages her left ring finger, where I swear I once saw a giant diamond.

  “We broke up, but yes, his daddy’s a senator.”

  “Sorry.”

  She waves it off. “Nothing to do with you.”

  This beer is going down too smoothly tonight. I take a sip and let Heather gather her thoughts. There are more questions collecting behind her lavender eyes, and it’s only a matter of time before she works up the courage to ask what she really wants to know.

  “How did it happen? I know this is sick, but I need to know.”

  “You mean, did I respond?” She nods and averts her gaze. I lift her chin with one finger, forcing her to make eye contact. “Sweet pea, I was so in love with you that no one else existed. Your mama cornered me in your driveway and made her intentions clear. She was pretty…determined.” As much as I hate Marcie Swann, I still can’t abandon my upbringing. Talking ill about women just doesn’t sit right. Heather doesn’t need to know that her perfectly manicured mama groped her eighteen-year-old boyfriend, or that she smeared her Mary Kay lipstick all over my face when I turned away.

  Heather and I had left the homecoming dance early because we knew her parents were out. One thing led to another and I had that dress off her in record time. We were so wrapped up in each other than neither of us noticed the headlights pulling into the driveway and illuminating her living room. I suppose Mrs. Swann saw my car in the driveway, saw the dark house, and put two and two together.

  That woman grabbed hold of my ear and yanked me all the way through the house and out the door. Hadn’t even gotten a chance to button up my dress pants. She shoved me up against my 1997 Volvo and reached in to pick up where Heather had left off. You want to talk about confused? That right there was the single most confusing moment of my young life. Still, I managed to get some blood back up into my brain, enough that I pushed her away once I figured out what she was about.

  She dropped to her knees then, right there in the driveway, and went to town. That image contrasted with the one I had of her in church helping children make arks out of Popsicle sticks and glue. I started to shake uncontrollably. She took it as a sign that I wanted her to continue, but then I began crying. She got mad. Real mad.

  I’ll never forget what she said. “Son, if you live to be a hundred years old, this will still be the biggest mistake you ever made.” She zipped me up, patted my cheek, and sauntered back into her house.

  I drove home like a bat out of hell, but sat in the carport for at least thirty minutes before I stopped shaking. Mama had waited up to ask me how the dance had gone. Don’t think I ever answered her.

  Heather takes a sip of her drink and doesn’t say anything. Our waitress brings our food.

  “Can I get y’all anything else right now?” She looks at me when she asks.

  “No, ma’am, I think we’re good.” I look up in time to see her wink. She has no idea how bad her timing is.

  We both poke at our food, me more out of sympathy for Heather than lack of hunger. After days of ramen and whatever scraps Uncle Robert brings over, my shrimp boil is heaven on a made-in-China plate.

  “Why now?” I ask.

  “Hmm?”

  “Why’d you want to meet with me now after all this time?”

  Heather picks up her napkin and pats her mouth. “Because it’s already been too long. We should have done this years ago. I think I can speak for both of us when I say there are issues that need to be resolved.” She looks down and smiles. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound clinical. It’s just that…” Her chest rises and falls as she takes another deep breath. “I’ve thought about you a lot over the last decade, even more since February. And now, Mama’s a wreck. You know those cartoons where the bear swats down a bees nest and the angry bees swarm around, buzzing and all angry and confused? That’s my mama right now. I’ve never seen her quite like this.”

  “So you’ve come to warn me that I’m the bear?”

  “Not exactly.” She stabs a piece of shrimp, taps it on her plate. “I think your friend Dave might be in more trouble than you.” Her smile is meant to reassure, but it settles in my stomach like a lead weight. “Anyway, you’ve cleared up a couple of things for me tonight. I appreciate it. My apologies if I’m being forward, but I hope we can do this again.”

  She looks anywhere but at me, sending a clear message to save her from the awkwardness. Even I can be a gentleman when I choose to recover that neglected part of myself. “How about Thursday evening? Will you still be in town?”

  She nods and presses her lips into a tiny smile. I remember that look—it’s the one she used to give me when I’d hold the door for her at school in front of her friends. “After Walter and I broke up—the senator’s son—Mama convinced me to move back here for a while. I’m staying with her and Daddy while they figure out what’s going on with their marriage. And if you don’t think that’s uncomfortable!”

  We both laugh nervously at her uncharacteristic admission. Southern Rule Number One: Do not air your dirty laundry, especially to those who could use it against you.

  “Then it’s settled. I’d offer to pick you up, but…”

  “Oh, heavens no! Can you imagine?” She taps my hand on the table. For a second, I wonder if she’s nervous or if she’s sending me signals.

  When we’ve finished eating, I motion to the waitress to bring the check. I take it and hand her my credit card, against Heather’s protests.

  “I asked you here, Isaac. It’s my treat.”

  “Do you honestly believe I would ever let you pay? I’d be no kind of gentleman at all. Thursday’s on me as well. No arguments, sweet pea.”

  The waitress sighs and walks away.

  Outside in the cool, humid air, I lean down to quickly kiss Heather’s cheek before parting ways. She blushes as I’d hoped, and I watch her bustle down the street to her car. After I see she’s safely made it inside, I slide into my Charger and shake my head the whole way home.

  The bright yellow can of furniture polish sits on the piano where I left it, taunting me as Uncle Robert knew it would. The man knows me too well. The past hour’s conversation replays in my head over and over, and the only way I know how to process things like that is to forget it for a bit, and the only way to shut off my head sits in front of me, beckoning.

  Somehow, this feels less like defeat and more like triumph, though I steer clear of Rachmaninoff. I press one key, then another. Both sound tinny, out of tune—a bit like me, I suppose.

  I start with Pachelbel, but then a strange thing happens. Something new trickles out. Then it pours. It’s both sad and sweet, but ends on a hopeful note, transitioning from a minor key to a major one while still retaining its overall tone. I sit back on the bench and stare at the keys. That hasn’t happened in ages. It’s been two months since I’ve played at all, and longer since I composed. I glance up at the yellow polish can and snicker. I’ll have to thank Uncle Robert.

  It’s three in the morning before I get it all down on paper, but worth the long hours and effort. At work the next morning, I find myself humming different melodies while digging post holes and spreading mulch. Get a few funny looks from the guys, but no one asks about the change. I’m glad for it, because honestly I don’t want to look too closely at it either.

  Hope is a funny, fleeting thing that doesn’t visit me often. If I put it under a microscope I might find that it’s false, that it’s actually another illness biding its time before it metastasizes into something sinister.

  No, I leave it alone and enjoy its effects while I can, composing and transcribing each night until the wee hours. Early Wednesday morning I head upstairs to finally get some sleep, but notice a piece of y
ellow notebook paper stuck in the front door’s mail slot. The uneven handwriting tells me it’s Uncle Robert’s. While his language and vocabulary returned quickly after his stroke last year, his fine motor skills did not. His note is clear evidence.

  Isaac, I didn’t want to disturb you, it starts. Heard you finally playing and I must say I’m pleased, though not surprised. Didn’t recognize what you were playing. Something new? Come see me soon. I have news to share—the good kind. R.

  I retrieve some tape from the kitchen and stick the note to the inside of the front door so I don’t forget to stop by Uncle Robert’s on my way home. Then I remember I’m supposed to meet Heather again. His news will have to wait.

  Chapter Three

  The sun the next morning is a little brighter, a little less antagonistic than it has been lately, though my freshly laundered sheets still seduce me with their “April Freshness.” I inhale and think, again, about changing scents in order to purge dark thoughts of Juli from my mind, but can’t bring myself to let go of that yet.

  Uncle Robert has always been an early riser, so I call to tell him I can’t come over tonight but will see him the following day.

  “I can tell you over the phone just as easily, Isaac. I had lunch with Dr. Reece the other day. He’s head of the music department at South now.” Although I didn’t attend the University of South Alabama, Uncle Robert taught there for many years and his connections have always proven useful.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He has a friend up north who’s looking for original compositions. Full orchestra, some with piano, some without. He’d like to publish them by Christmas. From what I heard last night, figured you might could help him out. Unfortunately, the pay isn’t enough to retire on, but it would put gas in your tank…and perhaps you could use date money?” The old man’s grin travels through the phone.

  “You sly dog. How’d you hear about that?”

  “I have my sources. Heather Swann, am I correct?”

  There are no secrets in this town. Don’t mind Uncle Robert knowing, but the thought of being fodder for the rumor mill again is unsettling. “Yes, sir. We’re meeting for drinks tonight.”

  “And her mother is aware of this?”

  “Doubt that. At least I hope she isn’t.”

  “So back to the reason for my note. Can I tell him you’re interested?”

  My fingers find the stack of staff paper on top of the piano. In just a few days, there are already three complete piano solos and the start of a sonatina. “Yeah, I think I can help him out.”

  “Excellent. Oh, and have fun tonight. I look forward to hearing more about it.”

  “Uncle Robert?”

  “Yes, son?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Love you too. Goodbye.”

  I smile at the phone and tuck it in my pocket. Time for the day job.

  ***

  “Wow.”

  Unlike earlier in the week, I actually put a bit of effort into getting ready for this…date? No, it’s not a date, but not a business meeting either. I decide not to label whatever’s going on here.

  “You clean up well.” She smiles and shakes her head.

  She’s referring to my haircut, washed and ironed button-down shirt, and shorts that match. After work, I made sure to scrub the dirt from under my fingernails, and I finally busted out the cologne I got for my birthday last year.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  I shrug. “New beginnings, I suppose.”

  She furrows her brow while I shove my presumptuous foot in my mouth.

  “Uncle Robert hooked me up with a guy looking to publish original compositions. I’ve been working on them all week. Been fun.”

  Heather’s shoulders relax and a genuine smile replaces the pinched one I caused with my thoughtless admission.

  “You look great too. But then, that’s nothing new.” We slide into our seats at the Deaf Donkey, a quirky dive bar downtown. I discovered this place after I resolved to never again set foot in Felix’s. They have live music on the weekends and their food is a well-kept secret.

  “What do you recommend?” she asks as she studies the menu.

  “Everything’s good. The burgers are their specialty, but the shrimp pasta’s excellent as well. Just don’t get a mixed drink. The bartender keeps a cheat sheet taped to the counter. Never a good sign.”

  “I take it you’ve been here a few times.”

  “Couple. They’ve got good craft beers, though.”

  “Sounds great.”

  After a few minutes of idle chit-chat, Heather begins wiggling in her seat.

  “Hemorrhoids?” As soon as the word leaves my mouth, I mentally kick myself in the nuts. Rusty doesn’t begin to describe the state of my “dating” skills.

  Heather’s eyes bug out of her head before she bursts out laughing. “Glad to see you’ve loosened up a bit over a decade. And no, not hemorrhoids. We’re not that old.”

  To my dying day, I will be grateful to this woman for covering my gaffe.

  “I was just thinking about something. Wondering, actually.”

  “Yeah?”

  She picks at the label on her beer bottle. It now says “oodoo” instead of “Voodoo.” “I already asked you about my mama, and I believe you, but there’s someone else I need to ask you about, and I know it’s not really my business,” she babbles, “but deep down I’m just not well-mannered enough to keep quiet.”

  Oh, no. Here it comes. Should have known.

  “Did you really sleep with Julianne Casquette?”

  I swear all the air in the room gets sucked out and every head turns my way at the simple utterance of her name out loud. A glance around the room confirms that in my self-imposed seclusion, I’ve become paranoid. No one here heard or would likely give a rat’s ass even if they had.

  I inhale through my nose and breathe out my answer. “Yes.”

  Her throat works as she swallows the information. “I see.”

  I put down my fork and ball up my napkin. “No, you don’t. Trust me, you don’t.”

  “Did you know I used to babysit Juli and R.J.? He was always a really funny kid, but Juli was such a serious little girl. I still remember one New Year’s Eve when her parents went to the Mystics party and I agreed to stay the night with the kids. Juli was so excited. ‘It’s like you’re my sister,’ she said. We painted each other’s nails, I did her hair, and we watched movies until midnight when the ball dropped. R.J. was still wide awake and playing some video game, but Juli was snuggled in against me, asleep on the couch.” Heather smiles. “I picked her up and carried her to her room. She was such a little thing back then, all freckles and wild hair.”

  My gut twists in reaction. She’s still all freckles and wild hair.

  “You know she thanked me that night? Said it was the most fun she’d ever had. Now how sad is that? I about cried when she hugged my neck. I’d never seen such a lonely little girl. The next morning she begged me not to leave, and I tell you what, I was so tempted to tuck her in my purse and bring her home with me. I always wanted a little sister instead of Geoffrey.” She stares at my untouched food. “I get it,” she says and lifts her eyes to mine. “I’m not judging you. Can’t say it was the best decision you ever made, but I know Juli and her family better than you think I do.”

  I imagine Juli as a little girl and I swear my heart squeezes so hard it’ll actually break. Was bad enough watching her suffer as a teenager. Can’t handle thinking about the shit she probably put up with as a kid—and it’s funny because this is the first time I’ve ever thought of Juli as a kid. The Juli I know is more adult than half this town. Of course, they don’t see it that way, and neither did Heather’s mama…or the Mystics…or even my own family. Thank God for Uncle Robert.

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “I needed to know.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “I needed to know if it was just a dumb move on your part or if you really cared about her.
I don’t think I could forgive the former, but it’s clear you had a connection. From the look on your face and the state of your poor napkin, I think you still do.”

  “I’m done.” I reach for my wallet to throw down some cash, but she grabs my wrist.

  “Stop running, Isaac.”

  I look down to where her pink-painted nails grasp my arm. “Heather, it’s been nice catching up, but I think we’re done here.”

  “No, we’re not. You sit back down and listen to me, Isaac Laroche. I am one of your oldest friends and I know you. Sure, a lot’s changed in ten years, but I was the cause the first time you ran. You broke my heart and now you’ve broken Julianne’s. I won’t let you do that to anyone else again, especially yourself.”

  “What do you want from me? Is this some sick game? A trap? Did your mama put you up to this?” A few patrons shoot me questioning looks.

  Heather withdraws her hand like she’s touched a hot stove. “You know that’s not true. Shame on you.”

  “Yes, exactly. Shame. Should get it tattooed somewhere prominent so people like you don’t feel the need to remind me.”

  “People like me? What does that mean?”

  “Perfect people with old money who get engaged to senators’ sons and then lord it over the rest of us when we don’t measure up to your impossibly high standards.”

  She has the nerve to laugh. “Oh, excuse me. This coming from a man with a master’s degree from one of the world’s most exclusive music schools, who’s toured Europe and has famous musicians programmed into his speed dial. Don’t even take that tack with me, you spoiled brat. All I’m suggesting is you stop running away from your problems. Instead of getting all huffy and ugly, accept things and make them right. I don’t know what it’ll take to make them right, but I also know I can’t watch you self-destruct again.”

  “What are you talking about? You weren’t there the first time and I survived.”

  She quickly looks down, then back up. “Tell me, Isaac, do you remember getting random packages with no return address delivered to you at the NEC? Sometimes they had your favorite cookies, or phone cards, or stamps and stationery? That ring a bell in that thick skull of yours?”