But that wasn’t true. She remembered, all of it.
She remembered wanting to win so badly that she was afraid she wanted it too much. Boehm said there was no such thing. He convinced her that it was right to feel so passionate, to strive, to grasp at the extraordinary, but that she could only do so by being extraordinary and to do this she had to be willing to immerse herself completely in the music.
She remembered his studio, always such a mess, and the shining black piano by the French doors, the sunlight and the pink bougainvillea. She remembered the thousands of miles her fingers had traveled up and down the keyboard playing scales and arpeggios, chords in combinations that sometimes seemed impossible, the tears of frustration at her failure, the heights of ecstasy at her mastery.
She remembered her elation at winning the bronze, and how Minerva had crushed it, calling her lazy and an embarrassment, saying she spoiled everything. And she remembered believing her.
But she also remembered coming into the studio for her next lesson and seeing that Boehm had placed her photograph on his wall along with his other students. That was the maestro’s way of saying she’d done well, that he was proud, and that she belonged.
And now, he had removed it.
“Is he all right?”
“I don’t know,” Hal said slowly. “I don’t think so. I think he wanted to make sure you got it before he goes. He said that he hopes it will remind you of the happy times you shared. And of who you are.”
“Who I was? Or who everybody thought I was supposed to be. It was a long time ago.” She slid the picture back into the envelope. “Well . . . thank you.”
“There’s something else in there; a recording of your audition for him,” he said, even as the question was forming on her lips. “Do you remember what you played for him?”
“Liebestraum Number Three. It was always my party piece. People recognize it, even if they can’t name it. And it’s flashy, sounds like it’s difficult to play.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Not as difficult as it sounds.” She shrugged. “I was playing it at eleven.”
“But you were a prodigy.”
Joanie picked up her embroidery scissors and carefully snipped the slit for a buttonhole. “And now I sew pants for a living.” She could feel his eyes on her. “I need to finish this. There’s some coffee in the kitchen if you want it.”
“You’re not going to listen to it?”
She shook her head. “I already know every note. I could play it in my sleep.”
“Even today?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
She pulled a length of dark blue thread from a spool, ready to stitch the buttonhole.
“Why don’t you have a piano anymore?”
Joanie dragged the blue thread across the surface of some beeswax.
“No room.”
“There’s plenty of room. Not in here maybe, but the living room is—”
“Hal, if the reason you’re interested in making this movie is to try and figure out why I don’t play anymore, I can save you a lot of time and tell you right now—I was sick of it. The piano was my mother’s idea, not mine, and I’d had enough of it. So I sabotaged my performance on national TV, knowing that Minerva would react exactly like she did and that would be the end of it. And it was. Maybe I didn’t think through all the consequences of what I was doing, but I put a stop to it. To her.”
He looked as if he was about to speak again. She didn’t give him the chance.
“I wanted a life. Just a simple, regular, ordinary life. Is that so hard to understand?”
“Okay. But what I don’t understand is why you wouldn’t—”
“Wow.” Joanie let out a hollow laugh. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“I just want to get a clear picture of what happened and why.”
“And I just gave it to you. You can ask me questions all day long and I’m going to tell you the same thing. But, hey, it’s your money. And your time, which extends between the hours of nine and four. Like. We. Agreed.”
She lifted her brows and stared at him, just in case he’d missed her meaning.
“Right,” he said, and shoved his hands in his pants pockets. “I’ll go into the kitchen and get some coffee until the guys show up. Oh, and speaking of money . . .”
He pulled a folded check out of his pocket and gave it to her. Joanie opened it.
“A personal check?” She looked at it again. “This is only fifteen thousand.”
“Yeah, I’m producing it myself, at least for the moment. I’m still working on bringing in some investors. But, you know. It was pretty short notice.”
“We had a deal for thirty. The only reason we agreed to this was because we needed money to pay off Meg’s medical bills. If you’re not going to be able to come up with it . . .”
“I will come up with the rest. I swear. I just need a little more time.”
His eyes begged her to trust him. Joanie wasn’t sure if she could. Or should. But what else could she do?
“Coffee’s in the pot,” she said. “Cream is in the refrigerator if you use it. I think there are some bagels in there, too, if Walt didn’t eat them.”
“Thanks. I’ll go get out of your hair for a while.” He grinned. “See you at nine.”
Joanie stabbed her sewing needle into the blue wool.
“And not a minute before.”
Chapter 21
Joanie sat in a ladder-back chair they’d placed near the picture window in her sewing room, fidgeting as Hal tinkered with the placement of the studio lights.
“Is this going to take much longer? I have work to do.”
“So do I,” Hal muttered, looking at his light meter. “Hold still.” He shifted a light three inches to the right, took two steps backward, checked the light meter again, then moved the light back one more inch.
“There we go,” he said at last.
Brian Lutz, the cameraman, frowned. “You don’t think it’s too dark? You’re going to have some shadows.”
“Yeah, but they work. Look for yourself.”
Brian peered into his lens. “Wow. I was worried about her eyes being so deep set, but you’re right. This works.”
Hal shrugged. “See? You’ve got to trust me on this stuff.”
Joanie twisted in her chair. “You know I’m here, right? And that I understand English? What’s wrong with my eyes?”
“Nothing,” Brian said, still looking into the camera. “Not a thing. You’re going to love the way you look. Like a goddess. Or the Mona Lisa. That’s why Hal’s the boss. He’s got an eye.”
“Okay, okay. Enough sucking up. You ready to go to work?”
Brian bent down and fiddled with his camera. Simone Alcott, a film student they had been able to hire cheap to do the sound, put on her headphones. Hal took a seat off camera and smiled at Joanie.
“Relax. You look great. Just forget about the camera and talk to me.”
Joanie looked better than great. She looked beautiful. Hal really did have an eye, that gift for seeing what people couldn’t recognize in themselves. But she wouldn’t talk to him.
She went through the motions of talking to him, fulfilling her obligation and answering his inquiries, but she revealed nothing. Her responses were stiff and over-rehearsed, like a politician who has settled on what to say before the question has even been asked. She didn’t trust him.
Hal tried not to take it personally, reminding himself that she didn’t trust anybody. After an hour, he gave up.
“Okay, cut. Thanks, everybody.”
Joanie unclipped the microphone from the waistband of her pants. “That’s all? That wasn’t so bad.”
“That’s all for today,” Hal corrected. “We’ll be doing more of these.”
“How many more?”
“As many as it takes.”
* * *
The interview with Meg was different, but no better. Her answers were monosyllabic rather than evasive, consistin
g primarily of “yes,” “no,” and more often than not, “I can’t remember.” They also shot some footage of her sitting on the porch steps of her tiny house, sketching a bird.
It didn’t add up to much and Brian told him so as they drove back to Capitol Hill to catch up with Avery.
“Will you give me a break?” Hal spat back. “It’s only the first day.”
“I’m just saying. People aren’t going to pay to watch some lady say ‘I don’t remember’ ten times in one interview. You’ve got to find a way to loosen them up.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Hal wasn’t worried. The first few days of film almost always ended up on the cutting room floor. It was part of the process. It always took time for people to open up. They had to get to know him, and vice versa. Often, in spite of all his research, it wasn’t until filming started that he discovered who he was really dealing with and what the film would be about.
Still, time was money. And this time the money was his. All told, this day was going to cost him around a thousand dollars. Hopefully, the time they spent with Avery would give him a better return on his investment.
* * *
Avery was only five years old when The Promise Girls was published and so the book focused less on her than Joanie and Meg. Minerva claimed that her youngest, fathered by an unnamed sperm donor who was also a gifted writer, displayed an extraordinary gift for narrative. In Chapter 5 she presented evidence of that claim, a story that Avery had dictated and her mother had transcribed.
It was the tale of three dragon sisters, each with her own distinct personality, whose flames had been extinguished by the spell of an evil sorceress. They went on a quest to regain their incendiary powers, enduring many trials before facing their final test, solving a riddle that would unlock the door of an enchanted lighthouse, ascending the stairs to the eternally illuminated beacon, and then swallowing some of the magical lamp oil to ignite their flames once again.
But upon arriving at the sea, the oldest dragon, entranced by the beauty and peace of the waves, decided that she preferred the idea of life as a leviathan to that of a dragon. She waded into the surf and beckoned her sisters to do the same. Knowing that to do so would be to extinguish their flame forever, the other dragon sisters hesitated, but ultimately followed their sibling, disappearing into the depths, never again to be seen by human eyes.
It was a remarkable creative effort for a child so young and, as things had turned out, eerily allegorical. If Avery truly had authored that story, Minerva had some basis for her claims as to the girl’s genius. But two decades later, Avery still wasn’t a writer. Or much of anything else.
Hal found Avery was winsome in her way, but with a demeanor that made her seem younger than her years. He theorized that the mermaid thing was a way for an otherwise unremarkable baby sister to gain some notice among her more gifted siblings. Avery was nervous on camera, something Hal hoped was just a product of first-day jitters, but at least she was willing to talk to him.
“Tell me more about how you decided to become a mermaid,” he asked.
“Well, I didn’t exactly decide,” Avery said, corkscrewing a piece of hair around her index finger. “I mean, not consciously.”
Hal reached out, gently, and touched her elbow, hoping to contain her fidgeting.
“Oh. Sorry.” She blushed and lowered her hand, clutched both hands together in her lap.
“It’s okay. We can edit it out. Let’s try again. Tell me about becoming a mermaid.”
“Well, when I moved to Seattle I needed some kind of job. I didn’t have any real work experience. So, you know . . .”
Her giggle sounded more like a product of nerves and embarrassment than amusement. It was hard to know for sure from a first impression, but Hal was starting to wonder if Avery’s lack of interest in a serious career was more a reflection of a lack of faith in her own abilities and experience than a conscious choice to remain unencumbered by the demands of adulthood. Of one thing he was certain, Avery suffered from a genuine lack of confidence. He’d need to go gently with her.
“Anyway, this family in the neighborhood, the Meisners, needed a part-time babysitter. I figured even I could take care of one five-year-old girl, right?” She giggled again. “And they were pretty desperate. They’d gone through four sitters in a year.”
“Why so many?”
“Sarah was autistic. She had a hard time interacting with people, even her parents and especially babysitters. But she loved the Disney movie The Little Mermaid. She watched it over and over. Whenever anyone turned it off she’d throw a tantrum.
“So, I had this idea. Kind of crazy,” she said, rolling her eyes to emphasize just how crazy. “I bought this cheap mermaid tail on discount at a Halloween store. It was pretty terrible. Nothing like a real tail, just this tight, horrible, shiny green skirt with a purple bodice that had a bunch of seashells sewn to it. Really tacky.
“I felt like a total idiot when Mrs. Meisner opened the door for my interview, but Sarah turned away from the television and said, ‘Do you know Ariel?’”
Hal laughed. “What did you say?”
Avery smiled and, for the first time since he’d met her, it looked like she actually meant it.
“I just went with it. I said, ‘Oh, sure. We’re old friends. Would you like to hear about the time we were swimming with a school of porpoises and got caught in a tuna net?’ ”
“Next thing I knew, Sarah turned off the television—which was a very big deal—and sat down next to me to listen to the story. Mrs. Meisner started to cry and I got the job.”
“That’s great,” Hal said. “So you took a chance and it worked out.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think it was just more of an . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
She started to reach for her curls once again. Hal touched her on the elbow and Avery clutched her hands together tight in her lap, as if she were afraid they might suddenly fly off her wrists.
It took some time, but eventually he teased out the rest of Avery’s story, how she came to adore little Sarah Meisner and to be adored in return. But what Sarah loved most were Avery’s stories. If she became belligerent or started to throw a tantrum, all Avery had to say was, “Well, I guess you’re too upset to listen to a story today,” and the girl would calm down. Over time, Sarah’s ability to connect with other people improved. So did Avery’s storytelling skills. Parents in the neighborhood started hiring her to entertain at birthday parties. And that was how Avery Promise became Avery Poseidon, Part-Time Mermaid.
It was a neat story. But considering she was the sister who supposedly possessed a gift for words, she had a hard time explaining it. Avery was a nice enough and very pretty young woman, but overall, she seemed unremarkable to Hal and pretty inarticulate.
He asked her what she thought it was about mermaids that captured the imagination of so many people, even adults, including herself, but she couldn’t seem to come up with any straightforward answer and kept stumbling over the response.
The second time she said, “I’m sorry. I’m not explaining this very well,” Hal interrupted her.
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s try something different. Why don’t we film you getting into your mermaid costume? That might be a good place to start.”
“It’s not a costume,” Avery corrected. “It’s a persona.”
It was such an unexpectedly definitive response, delivered in such a haughty and almost pretentious tone that Hal had to fight to keep from rolling his eyes.
Ten minutes later, he understood what she was talking about.
* * *
Avery tapped a makeup brush into a pot of loose, sparkly pink powder and swept it across her eyelids and then her cheekbones before dipping her fingers into another jar filled with a substance that had the texture of sand but the shimmer of glitter. She sprinkled it sparsely over her hair, then moved her head left and right, observing the effect. Light sparkled on her hair like the
sun on the surface of a wind-swept sea.
She twisted her body around, the mirror behind her now, and slid her hands very slowly down the shiny blue-green length of her mermaid tail, then lifted her head and smiled straight at Hal.
“I’m ready.”
“Don’t look at the camera,” he said. “Forget we’re here and just be yourself. It’ll be easier after a couple of days, but it’s going to feel weird at first.”
Avery’s smile softened into an expression that was sensuous and knowing. She lifted her arm, arching it above her head with a movement that was almost balletic.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she murmured, sweeping her auburn mane over her shoulder, then looking at him through the fringe of her lashes. “I can think of worse things than being followed around by you.”
Her voice had changed. It was lower, but almost lilting, like the deepest notes on a flute. Her demeanor changed too. Avery was confident, in control.
She fixed him with her eyes for a moment, then raised and lowered her knees, flipping her tail fin with an undulating, sinuous movement before reaching for a pearlescent-colored comb and brushing it through her shining hair, humming to herself in a low and longing vibrato.
Avery wasn’t quite young enough to be Hal’s daughter, but was close enough so he’d felt no attraction to her; that wasn’t his thing. But looking at her, hearing her voice, he experienced a physical stirring that took him by surprise. At the same moment, he felt the hair on the back of his arms stand up. Both signs of danger.
He stepped behind Brian and peered over his shoulder and into the viewfinder, not because he needed to check the shot, but because he felt the need to put some distance between himself and Avery.
She let out a low laugh.
“Do you feel safer there? Standing behind your friend?” Her voice was hushed, almost a whisper, like she was sharing a secret. “You’re right to be afraid. Mermaids have a deservedly dangerous reputation. The stories of sailors lured to watery graves by songs of the Siren are legion.”
Ignoring what he’d told her, looking directly into the lens of the camera as if she were gazing into the eyes of someone she knew well, Avery told the story of one such ill-fated seaman, a tale of unobtainable desire, tragic consequence, and destiny, the inborn weaknesses that lead us to make the choices that leave us no choice.
The Promise Girls Page 14
