Wicked Stepmother

by Michael McDowell

  Cassandra laughed.

  “Laugh,” said Louise, nodding her head, “but the fact is, since your father’s death, you’ve been acting like a sex-starved teenager running around with these rock ’n’ roll singers, and that’s a fact. I know it’s hard to cope with the death of a parent, and grief comes in all shapes and sizes. But it’s time to snap out of it. You’re not a teenager.”

  “She’s not sex-starved either,” interjected Rocco.

  “And you, young man. At your age, you ought to have a responsible job.”

  Rocco lay back and smiled. “I’m an assistant buyer at Filene’s. Third-floor men’s department.”

  “Have you got it all off your chest, Louise?” asked Cassandra.

  “Certainly not. This place,” she said, looking around with distaste.

  “What about it?”

  “What are the neighbors going to think when they see this rabble floating in and out of here? What will they think has become of Richard Hawke’s well-brought-up daughters? They’ll think you’ve gone wild, that’s what they’ll think. Verity lying around the house all day, swilling down liquor like there’s no tomorrow, smoking pot all the time—”

  “Verity hates grass,” said Cassandra.

  “—and you with this rock ’n’ roll band. You weren’t raised to act this way. This is a disgrace, a disgrace to the family!”

  Cassandra asked curiously, “Louise, did you really think that Verity and I would have let Eric move in here?”

  “I’m sure you would have,” Louise replied complacently.

  “No,” said Cassandra, “I’m sure we wouldn’t have.”

  “Verity has been seeing a great deal of Eric lately. A reconciliation is just around the corner.”

  “Verity sees Eric twice a week,” said Cassandra flatly, “on business. Do you want to know what kind of business?”

  “Cover that man up,” said Louise, ignoring Cassandra’s offer to explain the real relationship between her son and daughter-in-law. The blanket had slipped off Rocco.

  “If you’re offended, Louise, then leave.”

  “I’m ashamed for your father’s sake. I’m glad he’s not alive to see such a thing.” Louise glared at Rocco balefully.

  “I can imagine,” said Cassandra.

  “Imagine what?”

  “Imagine that you’re glad he’s not alive.”

  Louise’s eyes flared, but she made no reply. She pushed away from the stage, and stalked across the floor. She went down the stairs and out the door, slamming it forcefully behind her.

  “Well,” said Rocco with a smile, “she certainly does make her entrances and exits.”

  Cassandra laughed. “What time is it?”

  Rocco reached over and peered at his watch, lying atop his undershirt. “Nearly noon, why?”

  “What time are the others coming over?”

  “One, they said. But Bert and Ian are always late.”

  “Then we have time,” said Cassandra, pressing his shoulders against the floor.

  18

  Later that same afternoon Apple brought over in her car all the band’s music, notes, business records, publicity files, and some of the costumes they wore on stage. Rocco unloaded the car while the two women arranged the papers. Bert and Ian showed up at two with the collected hardware of the band—the instruments, amplifiers, cords, and speakers—much of it secondhand when the band was formed, now quite old and frayed. Bert, Ian, and Rocco set up the stage. By three they were ready to practice.

  “Stay and listen,” said Apple to Cassandra. “Help us inaugurate this place.”

  Rocco laughed. “We’ve already done that.”

  Apple clucked her tongue. “Hit it!” she cried, and she flew into their newest showpiece, “Nan Reagan’s Humiliation.”

  Cassandra sat sideways in a heavily upholstered chair at the far end of the room, with one leg slung over the chair’s arm. The music was loud, and until she had sensed the presence of someone behind her, she did not turn around. Lenny Able, the band’s manager, stood just behind her chair, looking all around the studio and nodding approval at what he saw.

  He stepped closer to the stage, past Cassandra’s chair, without even acknowledging her presence. Apple stopped singing, then Rocco left off his percussion. Bert and Ian trailed off together.

  “Hey,” Lenny exclaimed, his eyes still roving over the room, “don’t stop for me. Man . . . ,” he shrugged, laughing and running one hand through his frizzy hair. Then, raising his chin and staring at the soundproofed ceiling, he scratched his equally frizzy beard. “This is perfect, perfect.” He came right up to the stage. “Top quality,” he mumbled. “Very top quality.”

  “Thank you,” said Apple coldly. “It suits us.”

  “Hey, I guess it does. Listen,” he said, turning in a circle and looking over the room again, “this place is a perfect rehearsal space. No rent, no neighbors to complain. Hey, you know I’m managing the Instant Spellers now too, and they just got thrown out of that loft they had over in Chinatown, they really need a place to rehearse. Maybe we could work something out.”

  “Work something out?” echoed Rocco.

  “Yeah, I mean, you guys can’t rehearse all the time. You can’t let this place go to waste, I mean, if it was coordinated and everything, you could have three or four bands in here rehearsing all the time, and you’d never even see each other.”

  Apple looked across the room, and caught Cassandra’s eye. Cassandra slowly sat up in the chair, but she said nothing.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” said Lenny, looking at the four impassive faces on the stage. “What’s with the mime show here? Don’t you like my idea?”

  “Your idea stinks,” said Bert.

  “All your ideas stink,” said Ian.

  “Hey, don’t say that,” Lenny protested, arching his head sideways and taking on an expression of persecution, “I do a lot for you guys. I get you more play dates than you can handle. You guys work as much as any new band in Boston.”

  “We work in more dives than any other band in Boston,” said Rocco.

  “We play more third-on-the-bill’s than any other band in Boston,” said Apple.

  Lenny’s expression of persecution deepened. His eyes narrowed. He climbed up onto the stage, so that he wouldn’t be so far below them. “You guys are upset about something. I can tell. You can talk to me. Tell me what’s eating your ass. Hey, man, we don’t have to share this space if you don’t want, the Instant Spellers can practice in Jerry’s mom’s house. So, hey, what’s wrong?”

  “There’s nothing wrong,” said Apple. “You’re fired, that’s all.”

  Lenny’s mouth fell open. A momentary look of surprise streaked his face before one of suspicion replaced it. “What the fuck is this?” he muttered.

  “This is,” said Apple, “your final notice. We don’t want you for our agent, or our manager. You were a mistake from the beginning, and it’s a wonder we’ve got as far as we have. You can find some other band to bleed your ten percent out of.”

  “Fifteen,” said Lenny absently. “My rates went up last week. Man, I got people crawling at my door. I got club owners call me up say, ‘Hey, Lenny, get me some bands for week after next.’ I got bands come up to me, say, ‘Hey, Lenny, take us on,’ ’cause they know I can get ’em in any club in town. Man, I got you guys in everywhere.”

  “You didn’t get us in the Paradise,” Rocco pointed out.

  “Hey, man, that’s for headliners pure and simple. That’s not your speed. They wouldn’t let you in the front door. They don’t even want Boston bands in there, gotta come from L.A. or New York.”

  “Apparently,” said Apple, “you don’t read the entertainment section of the Globe. We’re playing at the Paradise tonight. We’re second on the bill, with Blackmarket Babies at the top.”

  “Who arranged that?” cried Lenny.

  “Apple and I did,” said Rocco. “You weren’t doing your job. We heard their second band canceled o
ut, so we called up the manager and brought over the tape. He said sure, and put the ad in the Globe. It was too late to catch the Phoenix. That’s the kind of thing you should have been doing, but you weren’t. So if we’re going to have to do it, then we’re keeping that ten—I mean fifteen percent for ourselves.”

  “This is a really fucked-up thing to do to me!” he shouted. “I brought you up the fucking ropes, I—”

  “You’re not the injured party, Lenny,” said Apple slowly. “We are, because of your incompetence over the last two years. So get out. Now.”

  “You piss me off, Apple, you know that? I’m going to fix it so you guys never get another gig in this town again. I’ve got the club owners in the palm of my hand. They do what I say. They book who I say fucking book.”

  “The stairs work going down too,” said Rocco. “Go try ’em.”

  “Hey, fucking Rocco man, you piss me off too!”

  Rocco, clenching his drumsticks, stood and took two menacing steps toward Lenny. Lenny retreated immediately, and nearly stumbled off the stage. He hopped down and stalked across the room.

  Cassandra held out to him a copy of the Globe, folded back to the entertainment section. “Here’s the ad,” she said.

  He swiped at the paper and knocked it out of her hand. He stomped down the steps. After he’d flung open the door of the studio, he turned and screamed up, “You’re all a bunch of fucking salamis, you know that!” He slammed the door behind him.

  Apple and Rocco glanced at one another and burst into laughter. Cassandra reached down to retrieve the paper, and when she looked up again she was smiling too.

  “Well?” Apple asked her. “Did we do it right? I’ve never fired anybody before.”

  “Perfect,” said Cassandra.

  After Jonathan’s death, Apple had intended to move back into the Commonwealth Avenue apartment with Rocco, but Cassandra objected to this plan. She suggested that Rocco move instead into the Prudential Towers. Apple made no sense out of this, but Cassandra explained. “It’s a condominium. After Jonathan’s death, the deed to it came to Verity and me, and since the payments are only a few hundred dollars a month, we’ve decided to keep it as an investment. We’re not going to live there, and we’d just as soon have somebody taking care of it for us. And since there’s room for two, and you and Rocco were planning to live together anyway, you might as well stay there and save the rent. You know what it will mean, don’t you?”

  Rocco and Apple shook their heads in a little bewilderment, as if Cassandra were already too far ahead of them.

  “It will mean,” said Cassandra, “that with the money you’re saving on rent, at least one of you will be able to quit work and go full-time on band business. Manipulation.”

  “You certainly are taking our lives in your hands, aren’t you?” Apple asked, laughing.

  “It’s probably what I’m best at,” returned Cassandra. “Not minding my own business.”

  “Listen,” said Rocco, “if you can get one of us out of work, then that’s a hell of a lot more than we’ve been able to accomplish.”

  Apple sighed. “Oh, I guess it ought to be you, Rocco.”

  “Why?”

  “I make more money than you.”

  Rocco grinned. “I don’t mind. I’ll sacrifice my employment for the good of the band.”

  “Only if you promise to do my laundry.”

  He agreed with a nod, and the plan was set into motion. He gave up the Commonwealth Avenue apartment, and moved into the second bedroom of Jonathan’s Prudential Towers place.

  Cassandra’s involvement with the band became more intense. Frequently she stayed over at Rocco and Apple’s, seeing Rocco, but at the same time helping to plan strategy for People Buying Things. She often sat in on their rehearsals in the studio over the garage. She went to many of their gigs, and learned, as a result of natural curiosity and her involvement, as much as there was to know about the financial side of the Boston rock scene.

  For a time, Rocco acted as the band’s agent and manager, but he soon discovered that his self-promotion was taken less seriously than it warranted. Club owners didn’t want to deal with a member of the band, they wanted to talk to an agent. Often agents and club owners worked out a deal that was mutually advantageous to themselves, at the expense of the band and the club’s customers. No club owner wanted to allow the bands in on those secrets. Rocco complained that because of their self-management they were being kept out of some clubs.

  Cassandra, Rocco, Apple, and Verity were sitting in the Prudential Towers apartment one Sunday afternoon, after they had all gone out to brunch at the Copley Plaza. Verity had insisted on champagne, and the four were a little looped. As always, the subject of their conversation was the band, its problems and its future.

  “Get an agent in New York,” suggested Cassandra. “Somebody high-powered.”

  “Fat chance,” said Rocco. “Do you know how few good agents there are, even in New York? Besides, we’re a Boston group.”

  “Wouldn’t a high-powered agent on the telephone carry more weight up here than you would, certainly more than Lenny ever did?” Cassandra argued.

  “Yes,” said Apple, “but we still don’t know one.”

  “What about Ben James?” suggested Verity.

  “Who?” asked Rocco.

  “An old friend of Verity’s,” said Cassandra meaningfully. “But Ben’s not an agent, he’s an accountant.”

  “But lots of his clients are rock people, and people in the business. He’d at least be able to supply us with a few contacts. I’ll call him now.” She began rummaging through her bag for her address book.

  “Wait till tomorrow,” said Rocco. “Don’t call on Sunday.”

  “Today’s better,” said Verity. “I imagine it’s pretty hard to get through to him at his office. And I have his home phone. Somewhere.” She found her book, and picking out the number, began to dial.

  “I’ve never seen you with such energy,” said Cassandra admiringly.

  Verity shrugged, a little sheepishly. “I don’t often get the chance to be of use to anybody.”

  Ben James asked first to listen to the band’s tape. The tape was sent by express mail the following day, with a letter written by Cassandra, describing the group and its strengths. James tele­phoned a few days later, and said he was flying to Boston the following week on other business, and would take the opportunity to hear the band play in person. He couldn’t promise anything, he warned, and he was primarily a financial manager—but he’d see what he could do.

  Cassandra took the matter in hand. She and Verity met James at the airport, and brought him to the house for drinks, where he was introduced to Apple and Rocco. Ida, who had grown fond of the members of the band, prepared one of her best dinners, and afterward, Rocco and Apple excused themselves to set things up in the rehearsal studio. Cassandra left Verity and Ben James alone in the living room.

  “I was sorry to hear about your brother,” said Ben.

  “Thanks,” Verity replied. “And thanks for the flowers.”

  “You’ve had a rough year of it.”

  “Yes,” said Verity, agreeing with a sigh. “It has been rough.”

  “Need some comforting?”

  “Sure,” she smiled. “Right now or later? My place or yours? Standing up or lying down?”

  James laughed. “I also came by to hear the band.”

  “Right,” said Verity. “Do you want a drink?”

  “If you’re having one.”

  Verity hesitated. “I was thinking of having something else,” she said.

  “Oh, yes?” asked James curiously.

  “Would you be upset if I had some coke? Just a little?”

  “I’d be upset if you didn’t offer me any,” said James, shrugging.

  Verity smiled broadly and reached into her pocket.

  “Here,” said Ben gallantly, taking from her the gold matchbox, the mirror, and the razor blade. “Allow me.”

 
Twenty minutes later, Ben James and Verity wandered over to the garage. Cassandra had arranged the furniture very comfortably, and the band had changed into their simplest costumes. The stage was lighted with soft amber spots; the opposite end of the room was in near darkness. The band played a polished twenty-minute set. At the end of it, Ben James stood up and clapped. He came up to the stage and said, “All right, give me three more, things that come at the ends of your range, you know what I mean?”

  He went back to his seat, and accepted more cocaine from Verity. Rocco and Apple conferred briefly on the stage, and in only a few moments, started up again.

  Bert and Ian began an introduction that was quick and spirited, with the feel of banjo music to it. And to everyone’s surprise—Cassandra’s, particularly—it was Rocco who sang, in a crooning falsetto, an old music-hall song called “Frigidaire Fanny, the Flame from the Argentine.” It was old-fashioned, charming, and altogether pleasing. Apple then performed a surprisingly straightforward and melancholy rendition of “Ten Cents a Dance.” At the end of these, Apple bowed, thanked their small audience, and remarked, “We did not write those songs. The last is something Rocco and I have been working on for a few days, and it’s not entirely set, but it’s called “Braces” and—as they say—it goes something like this. . . .”

  Rocco began a metallic clatter on the cymbals, Bert came in on the keyboard, and Ian wasn’t far behind. Apple grinned and sang:

  Metalmouth, metalmouth,

  Taste my silver;

  Metalmouth, metalmouth,

  Lick my gold;

  Metalmouth, metalmouth,

  Weigh my kisses;

  Metalmouth, metalmouth,

  Rim my mind.

  Braces, you got braces,

  Now you hang heavy in my mind;

  Braces, you got braces,

  How you take possession of my soul.

  The agent’s audition was a complete success. Ben James agreed to do all he could to help the band. Afterward, when he, the Hawke sisters, and the band had gone back to the house for drinks and more cocaine, he took Cassandra aside, and said straightforwardly: “It was the combination of the studio, the location, the lighting, the cocaine, and the songs. I know I ought to be judging them simply on the basis of the music, but when it comes down to it, that’s never the only factor. Sometimes it’s not even the most important one. One thing I really liked about this band was its sense of professionalism. The whole thing was done right, and that goes a long way in my book.”