by Lori Carson
“To the little rock star,” Alan says, and we lift our glasses to you. I barely let the wine touch my lips.
Then we make a toast to Jules, to wish her luck. She’s up for a big movie, and is anxiously awaiting a call from her agent. Last summer she was cast in an independent horror film about monsters in the subway tunnels. But this one would be huge. It has a big budget and a famous director. She tells us it’s shooting in London in the fall.
I’m jealous. I’d like to have exciting career things happen to me, too. Alan and I talk about starting a band, but it’s hard to imagine what life will be like once you’re born. Will there be time to do anything else?
After dinner, Alan takes my Martin from its stand and plays us an instrumental he’s working on. I sing along, making up words as I go. Jules attempts to join in with a harmony, although she’s not really a singer. The song gets sillier and sillier until we’re just laughing. Alan is yipping and barking like a dog.
“We should record that!” he says.
Fifteen
In the original 1982, my songs start to fill me with ambition. I want to hear them on the radio. I want to sing them with a band behind me. Drums and bass, piano, cello, accordion, trumpet. Alan and I get together all the time and practice. I’m less than confident about my guitar playing, so I teach him my songs, and he transforms them from folk songs into R&B ballads, rock songs, and bossa novas.
There’s a big songwriter scene at the time on Bleecker Street. We go down there one Monday night and sign up for the open mic at Folk City. After we play our two songs, Stevie, the owner of the club, approaches us. “That was really good, you guys,” he says. “You want to play a night here? I’ve got a Sunday open middle of the month.”
Yeah, we do. We talk about what we should wear for days. We assemble the rest of a band and book a rehearsal space to practice. I make flyers to leave all over town and mail to everyone I know.
I have photographs from that first gig. I’m wearing a headband like Madonna circa 1981. Alan looks handsome, his long hair is falling over one eye. Fish is playing keyboards. He played with a lot of up-and-coming singer-songwriters at the time. That’s Mildred, from Gabriel’s band, on backing vocals. Look how young she was. Her round, brown eyes are on me as she matches my phrasing, word for word.
We begin to play pretty regularly at Folk City and the other small clubs on or around Bleecker Street. I have terrible stage fright. Sometimes I shake so hard, I can barely hold my fingers on the strings. Alan covers for me and usually by the third song in I’m okay. We add a drummer and bass player, once in a while a guy on sax.
Gabriel comes down to the club and sits at the bar. It feels good to have my own thing, to have him come to hear me play for a change, although when I look over at him from the stage, he’s usually talking to some stranger and doesn’t seem to be paying attention. Still, he gives me notes about one thing or another. He thinks my songs are too slow, and I should add some up-tempo material to the set. He thinks I should cover Michael Jackson, maybe, or the Police. But I only play my own songs. Every one is about him. One is called “Part of the World.” It’s about the fact that Gabriel’s concerns are worldwide, while mine are only for the world we make between us. The refrain goes like this:
I, too, want to save the world
The part that’s yours and mine
Thankfully, it’s been lost to posterity.
I didn’t really become a good songwriter until many years later. It takes a long time and a lot of practice to do something well.
But enough of the old stories, Little Fish.
Sixteen
You kick him so hard, it knocks his hand right off my belly. Gabriel looks truly shocked, eyes wide, mouth agape. “¡Coño!” he says, laughing. “She’s gonna be a boxer. Is that normal?”
I laugh, too. I’m so happy to have him share in the amazement. “She’s pretty energetic,” I say. “I think she’s swimming laps in there.”
“You’re gonna have to name her after Manny,” he says. Manuel “Manny” Luís is a famous fighter from Gabriel’s country. “Easy there, champ,” he says to you as you give him another little kick.
After that, it’s what he calls you. “How’s the Champ?” he asks when he calls or stops by on his way downtown. His accent makes the ch sound sort of like a sh.
He makes my apartment feel small when he’s there, makes me feel messy and a little ashamed. Within five minutes of his arrival my clothes are off and we’re on the wicker daybed, his pants dropped around his ankles.
Afterward, he’s ready to go. “I can’t stay long,” he always says. “The guys are waiting for me. You okay? Need anything? Need some money?”
I pull my pants back on and button my shirt. I fear I’m no longer pretty enough to hold his attention.
He takes a roll of bills from his pocket, peels off a twenty, and places it on the table. “Gotta go, kid,” he says. “Let me know if you need anything. Maybe a movie this week?”
Your father is a tornado of energy. He’s got a million projects in the works. He’s always on his way somewhere to promote himself, or meet with somebody to talk about a new opportunity. He flies to L.A. to take some meetings. A guy from Warner Bros. wants him to make a record in English. There’s talk about a movie. He does an interview and a photo shoot for Rolling Stone.
Does he think of you as a ticking time bomb, an expiration date on his freedom? Does he think of you at all? Does he imagine he’ll escape us, somehow, find a way to outsmart us, trick us into never needing him?
Seventeen
In late September we rent folding chairs and set them up outside. The forecast has called for rain, but so far there’s no sign of it. In the garden, a weeping cherry tree sits in the center of the small lawn I’ve planted. Flower beds along the fence are full of goldenrod and mums. There’s a delicate rose or two in final bloom.
Alan has come early to help me set up for the baby shower. He’s brought a dozen frosted cupcakes, and we’ve already eaten half. Miki, a waitress friend who’s started her own catering company, drops by with tea sandwiches of cucumber, cream cheese, and dark bread. We set out a colorful bowl of fruit on the butcher-block counter.
My mother arrives with my sister, Lynn, up from Miami for the weekend. Her dark hair is curling in the New York humidity. She’s a dead ringer for my dad, who’s dropped them off and gone home. They’ve brought more food and a shopping bag full of decorations. My sister tells me what she’s been up to as we go through the contents. She’s working for a travel magazine now. She gets to go to honeymoon destinations and stay in beautiful hotels. The only weird thing about it, she says, is having her dinner alone in a dining room full of newlyweds.
Alan follows me out to the garden with a roll of streamers. We wrap the fence in pink and yellow. The cats sit in the grass and watch, waiting to make the colorful strips of paper their toy.
I think of Jules, far away. She won’t be coming to the shower. She’s gotten the lead in the big movie and is already shooting in London. She’s called to say she’s homesick. She misses her dog and her bed. They’ve cut her hair off, short as a boy’s, and she hates it. “You can’t imagine the drama.” She laughs. She does that, laughs after describing things that upset her, as if to emphasize the absurdity.
“I’m sure it will get better.”
“I don’t know. It’s very political and everyone knows everyone. I’m the only outsider.”
Still, I’m jealous.
My mother’s sister, Aunt Lou, arrives, carrying a big box wrapped in a pink bow. My cousin Rachel is right behind her; she’s a year older than my sister and looks more like my mother than we do. Sofia and Nina from work follow, wearing flowery summer dresses. Other friends arrive.
“What an adorable apartment,” they say. “Look at you! How are you feeling?”
“I can no longer see my feet,” I tell them happily.
Everyone smiles and holds their open hands against my high round belly, to feel you r
oll and kick. They ask about your name and stand in the nursery, admiring the murals. We envision your tiny person in the crib against the far wall. I’m already proud to be your mother.
They ask about Gabriel, too. He’s been in the paper recently, the New York Times Arts & Leisure section. The headline read CROSSOVER KING. He’s promised to make an appearance at some point today, as much as he hates these things.
I put off opening gifts for as long as possible, but when he hasn’t come by three, we start without him. We gather on the lawn, everyone seated around me. My sister places each wrapped gift in my hands, and I open it, trying not to tear the pretty paper. We ooh and aah over every miniature article of clothing and pass it along to be inspected by everyone in the circle. It’s a well-practiced ritual, exact in its specificity. At the end, every item is returned to its box, accompanied by a card, to remind me of whom to thank for what.
When it starts to rain, it’s getting late by then anyway. We quickly gather all the presents and wrapping and move inside. I call the cats in, and they come running back, from over the fence where they go.
After most everyone has gone, and only my mother, sister, and Alan remain, Gabriel shows up.
“Hi,” he says. “Sorry I’m late. Did I miss the whole party?”
“What a shame you couldn’t be here,” my mother says. “Such a wonderful day.” She’s mad at him, though it’s hard to tell through her characteristic cheerfulness. I’m almost seven months pregnant and there’s been no offer to put a ring on my finger.
Gabriel is oblivious to her message. “I know. I tried to get here sooner. These guys can talk your head off.”
I have to smile because although I don’t know where he’s been, I know he was the one doing the talking. He sits beside me and puts his arm around me.
“Sorry I’m late, baby.” He kisses my cheek.
My mother is picking up discarded plates and napkins, bits of tape, ribbon, and wrapping paper. Gabriel jumps up to take the garbage bag from her hands. “Let me do that, Mrs. Nelson.”
She warms to him then, just a little. Maybe she thinks it means a proposal is near. He picks up a napkin, a cup, and sets the bag down.
“Hey, nice article in the paper, man,” Alan says.
“Oh, you saw that? Thanks, man!” Gabriel is in good spirits. I’m feeling pretty good, too. I’m thinking about leftovers, planning what I’ll eat first after everyone has gone home. All I want to do is eat and sleep, but I’m glad Gabriel is there. I feel a hopefulness about us. Maybe it will all work out somehow. When he smiles at me, I beam my love at him full blast, and it makes him laugh.
“Pajarito,” he says tenderly.
Eighteen
When I first hear the rumor, I dismiss it instantly. I know it can’t be true. It hurts to hear the vile lie, makes me a little nauseous, but he would never, ever, do that to me. I know he wouldn’t.
Gabriel’s been spending more and more time in L.A. He says that’s where the opportunity is. He calls me every night, though. He tells me how much he misses me. We make plans for when he’s back in town. He seems happy again, in fact, accepting of impending fatherhood. He brings me little presents. He’s always full of stories. So, it’s not possible that what I hear is true. No way.
Janelle is such a gossip, I think. Why doesn’t she worry about her own life for a change? Why does she always have her nose in everyone else’s business?
“I heard it from a very reliable source,” she says gently. We’re all sitting around the table in the back of the restaurant where we eat before out shift. She’s speaking to me like I’m a mental patient, like I might totally flip out.
I want to slap her face, wipe the sympathy right off it. What does she know about the love we share? She doesn’t even know us. Look at her. She’s never been less attractive. She’s getting old; she must be nearly thirty.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. Then I stand up, throw my apron off, and storm out of the restaurant.
My heart is beating in my ears. I’m walking so fast, the people I pass are a blur. I go straight to his building. I walk past the doorman and get in the elevator, push three. I still have my key. If it were true, wouldn’t he have taken back the key? Gabriel, no, I’m thinking. Please, no. Don’t let it be true.
Though he’s in town, he isn’t home. I let myself in.
I stand in the kitchen and look around the place. I notice one strange thing right off the bat. The couch has been turned to face the fireplace. That’s when I know that what Janelle said might be true. The couch facing the fireplace fills me with dread. I go over to it and sit down. It looks east now. Through the window, I can see Central Park. The trees are beginning to turn yellow.
I get up and go into his office. You have to climb two steps and pass through French doors. I sit at his desk and open one drawer, and then the next. I’m not surprised to find evidence of all the others, photographs, postcards, and little notes he’s saved. What do I expect to find that will confirm it? I open a notebook in the second drawer. It’s filled with lyrics written in English. He’s been writing songs for the English album. I look for clues in the words he’s chosen. Some are love songs, but what does that prove?
In the bedroom closet, I go through the pockets of his jackets. He has a lot of them. Baseball jackets, blazers, cashmere and leather coats. I look at the names of restaurants on matchbooks. I check the addresses on crumpled receipts.
The phone rings, and I jump. I let it ring again before answering it.
“Hello?” I say tentatively.
“Hi,” Gabriel says. He’s startled to hear my voice. “I was just calling for my messages.”
“Gabriel,” I say.
“What’s wrong, baby?” He sounds worried. He loves me. I know he does.
“I heard something really bad.”
“What did you hear?”
“I can’t even say it, it’s so terrible.”
“Is everything okay with the baby? Is your family all right?”
“Everyone’s fine,” I say. “It isn’t that.”
“What is it, then?” he asks carefully.
“It’s about you,” I say.
He’s quiet then.
“Just stay there,” he says. “I’ll be home in an hour. Okay? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I hang up the phone and sit on the bed. This room is the world I would live in if I could. I wouldn’t care if everything else evaporated, if I could only stay here with him.
But it’s slipping away from me.
I place my hands over my belly and lie back on the bed. I look up at the white ceiling.
Little Fish, I told you he breaks my heart.
When I was a little girl, I used to talk to God this way, lying on my back in bed. I would look right up through the ceiling, as if God were a kind man just on the other side of it, as if His ear rested on the roof and His eyes could look through it to see me. I wasn’t raised with any religion, so I’m not sure where this idea came from, but it was a great comfort to me as a child, to feel His presence there. As I talked to him, the tears would fall sideways from my eyes onto my pillow, even if what I had to tell him wasn’t especially sad. It was being listened to that made me cry.
Gabriel gets home soon after. I hear his key in the lock; he says my name, finds me lying on the bed. He climbs onto it beside me, and we hold each other, not saying anything.
“What did you hear?” he asks finally.
“I heard you got married in California,” I say quietly.
“Who told you that?” He wants to know so he can seek revenge. He’d like to kill whoever told me.
“Is it true?” I ask.
“I was going to tell you,” he says. “It’s not what it sounds like. There’s a good explanation.”
I wait for it, the big lie sure to follow. Does he even know how to tell the truth? But perhaps this is too big even for a champion liar like him.
“It has nothing to do with how mu
ch I love you, Pajarito,” he says. “It just happened. I met someone. It just happened.”
“But you said you didn’t want to get married,” I say to him. “How could you marry her instead of me? How could you just meet someone and marry her, just like that?”
He covers his face with his hands. He’s actually crying.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I feel terrible. You know I’ll always love you.”
“But you’re someone else’s husband now,” I say.
That’s when I should get up and walk out the door, but that’s not what happens. Instead, we undress one another and make love for the rest of the afternoon. The whole time, we cry and cry.
Later that week, he packs his overnight bag and leaves for L.A.
I see the announcement in the New York Times. His wife is a leggy beauty, a former model. In one more blow, the paper refers to her as his longtime love. She has a name similar to my own and they mistake us for the same person. Reading it, I feel as if he’s taken everything that matters away from me, even the history we share.
Nineteen
Little Fish, when you lose someone you love, the color drains out of the world. Sounds seem muffled and far away. Your reaction to things happens in slow motion.
I feel Gabriel’s eyes on me the way some feel watched by God. I hear his opinions about every thought in my head. There are constant reminders: favorite songs and restaurants, baseball games, boxing matches, parking garages, lottery tickets, the scent of frying onions. His new record is being promoted, too, so there are pictures of him in magazines and an advertisement at the bus stop. He’s on TV being interviewed by Geraldo Rivera. It feels like the whole world has taken his side and left me behind to fill an unfillable emptiness.
At first, he still calls at odd hours. He promises he’s coming back to see me. When finally he does, we meet at his apartment. Before the door is even completely closed, he’s pushing my head down trying to get me to give him a blow job, and I know it’s his way of being loyal to his wife. She’s the one who hears now, “This is only for you, Mami.”
