Ivory

by Hadley Quinn

  Real family wasn’t always the family you needed. I considered Luke, Wes, and Missy to be my real family these days.

  Wes remained silent when I climbed in the car, just started the ignition and drove out of the lot. The ride was a solemn one for the forty minutes it took to get back to our apartment complex.

  It was after midnight, and upon finally realizing he’d been sitting in the car for over three hours, I gave Wes a silent hug before I headed for my room. He knew how much those visits took out of me and I didn’t have to thank him with words.

  I always went to the cemetery for birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays, but I was grateful for a friend that knew what I needed outside of the regular routine. When I’d allow it to happen, a visit was like a purging sometimes. My soul would bare everything it could, just let it all out, and then I felt like I had some space to fill up with something else. It was an interesting system. All my heartache came from them, and then all my inspiration came from them immediately after.

  It was just hard to go through all of that exhaustion sometimes. And I had different things to say to Lily than I did to Annalise. It was like I held back because I didn’t want my little girl to hear such grown up issues. It’s not that I didn’t like visiting their gravesites; I just felt like I needed to be ready mentally, physically, and emotionally.

  I needed to be in top-notch shape for a damn marathon.

  4

  Missy came up to stay with us again the third weekend in September. She basically had the third room/office as her guest room anytime she came and she made herself right at home. She lived two hours south of us, and when her two kids were with their dad for a weekend, she sometimes came to see us.

  I felt that I was prepared for the show at The Urchin. I’d spent three weeks writing new songs, trying to find my niche. So much had changed over the years. Sometimes I think I tried too hard and I knew I needed to feel the right balance of emotion and creativity. The problem was that all of my music came from my own life, and anything in my head or heart still had to do with the family I no longer had.

  Finally I had to defer to someone else’s life for inspiration. I asked Wes for some personal stories, to which he gladly shared. I knew almost everything about him since we both grew up in the Chicago area and had gone to the same prep school together. We’d branched out on our own for a few years after that, but when I returned to my hometown with Lily, Wes and I reconnected.

  The thing about my music, though… I could write a story about anyone’s life but easily relate it to my own. That’s how I attached myself to it, felt it, and essentially, how I delivered an honest performance. And that’s exactly why I was struggling on Friday morning, the day of the show at The Urchin. I’d written new songs—nothing that had anything to do with Lily or Annalise—but they were all I thought about whenever I played. I just couldn’t pull myself out of that zone and I was afraid it was going to happen that night.

  “Fuck it. I’m just going to play my old stuff,” I said as Wes came down the hall from his room. “I’m not ready.”

  “Then play your old stuff,” he shrugged, pausing at the piano. “You know people will expect it.”

  Yes, I knew that. It didn’t matter how many new songs an artist created, people still wanted the chart toppers. But I was no longer the frontman to that multi-million dollar band. I was just Jude Collins, out on my own, without a direction. I felt like a washout when I played my old songs, still riding the coattails of my band’s success.

  I told Wes all of that. He already knew how I felt, but he shook his head at me. “You know why your band was successful, right? Seriously, Jude. Now is not the time to be humble. You know why they made millions too, right?”

  I didn’t have to answer. Yes, I wrote and composed all of those chart toppers. I was the face of the band, and I was the one the media was most interested in. Sure, my bandmates were talented; otherwise they wouldn’t have been on the ride with me. But generally there is one member of every group that stands out, and typically he or she was the one that did the most work.

  Or was the best looking, and apparently I was both. No need to be modest on that one. I was a decent looking guy and I knew it.

  “You’re Jude Collins,” Wes told me matter-of-factly. “You need to start owning that. Sure you have a former band attached to your name—like most solo artists do—but don’t let it define you. Most people will look at you with that in tow, but who cares? You’re smart and you’re fucking talented. You can do whatever you want.”

  A pep talk wasn’t necessarily needed at my age and position in life career-wise, but…maybe it was. I believed all of that; it was just a matter of knowing what path to take from there.

  What the hell did I want?

  Wes and Missy arrived with me at The Urchin around six that evening. The set wouldn’t start until nine, but I needed that time to get comfortable. We hung out in the VIP lounge, which I did not know existed. Ben showed us in through the back and we made ourselves at home. It was a nice room, simple, with a couple of couches, a television, bathroom, a small wet bar, and some instruments sitting around.

  And there were more photos on the walls. These were like the ones out in the restaurant—venue posters and printed merchandise that anyone could own copies of—but they were still interesting and for sure held inspirational value.

  Missy stepped up to one on the far wall and paused. “Wow, really?” She turned around to face Ben and asked, “Is this for Jude’s sake?” It was a sarcastic bite, which was totally our unabashed Missy. Her arms were folded across her chest and she had a scowl on her pretty face. She was never one to hide her feelings.

  Ben seemed a bit taken aback but answered, “As a matter of fact, no. Those were some of the first photos my dad put up.”

  “There are more?” she asked.

  “One out in the restaurant and one in his office.”

  She gave him a piercing gaze. “Is that right,” she stated impassively. Then she glanced at me but didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure what that look meant.

  I approached the framed poster on the wall. It was my father, sitting at a piano on stage. The title on the bottom read Carnegie and it made me ponder for a few minutes. I had no idea what anyone else was doing behind me—voices were just background noise—but I stared at this image for several minutes. Yes, I got my talent from my father. He was a concert pianist and had traveled the world. Anyone that had an ear for beautiful, intricate music…knew Joseph Collins. His name was also on tons of albums—his own and others that he’d collaborated with. His most renowned music was some of the soundtracks he’d done for movies.

  After I was born, my dad had to switch gears on the fly. He’d been touring all over with his career, working with top-notch producers for other artists too, and consulting on various projects. He was well respected in the industry as an honest businessman with mega talent, and many people wanted to work with him.

  He chose to stop traveling so he could be a father. He told me it was never really a choice, though. He and my mom didn’t get along much but he was set on making things work with her so I had two parents in my life. When my mother died, and after months of legal issues with her family, he raised me full time in the very apartment I was now living in. He worked from home and made a great living from it, along with the royalties from his other work, and after I turned eighteen and moved out to try my hand at college, that was that. He kept the apartment but returned to New York for several months out of the year and went back to work.

  “That was the first time I saw him perform live,” a man’s voice said behind me. I turned around and realized Blake was now in the room. “Such an amazing performance,” he shook his head in awe. “Truly took me to another place.”

  I could only nod. That’s how I felt whenever I heard my father play, especially in person. I could play some of the busy songs he was masterful at, but it was nothing compared to what my dad could pull off. We were different in that sense; hi
s full performance was with his hands, but mine included my voice. That was something he claimed he’d never been good at, so when I started playing and singing, he encouraged me to no end.

  “He was indeed gifted,” I finally answered.

  “Very much so,” Blake agreed. He cleared his throat and asked, “Is there anything else you need right now? I know Ben has been taking care of everything, but just give me a holler, okay?”

  “Sure,” I replied. “I’m sure everything will be fine.” As he left, a last minute thought occurred to me. “Oh, Blake?”

  He turned around to face me. “Yes?”

  “The name of this place… Why is it called The Urchin?”

  He smiled and stepped back into the lounge. “An urchin is a rascal, a scamp; someone that “average” people and above look down on.” He paused for a moment. “I was one of those kids that no one would take a chance on in the music industry. Just felt it was suiting. I’m living my dream now, just a different part of it.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You play?”

  “Not much anymore,” he shrugged. “I spent years taking on small gigs here and there with different bands—trumpet and guitar, a bit of piano. But I’m better at the admiring end of it, and the business aspect. Although…sometimes I wonder if I’m only fooling myself there, as well,” he chuckled.

  I motioned to the room we were in. “Well you seem to know what is needed for success.”

  He softly grunted. “So far, not so good. But…I have a dream and an overactive imagination. I’m hoping that’s good for something,” he winked before he left.

  I considered that as I grabbed an acoustic guitar from the wall and sat down on a couch. This instrument wasn’t second nature to me like a piano was, but I could still play it. Most of the songs I played on the piano I could also play on a guitar, simplified, but there were definitely musicians that were far better at it.

  Like Wes, for example, who was already strumming one in the corner. We easily got into a little acoustic jam session for twenty minutes, and then I put on a set of headphones so I could chill in my own little world. I never got nervous before shows—excited, yes, but no fear—but tonight I felt a bit on edge. This was basically a reappearance back in the scene, even though it was a small show. But it was the first occasion since walking away from the big time that I’d let it be known ahead of time where I would be performing.

  It wasn’t just a drop-in performance or open mic night; people were expecting the Jude Collins and the pressure to deliver was real.

  I thought back to all those little pub shows and such, signing up for a spot under a pseudonym. And if they’d wanted a personal meeting beforehand or to sign papers, I’d have Wes do it for me, and then he’d just be up there on stage with his guitar as our “duo.” It was how I needed to handle it at the time, trying to get my feet back under me. I didn’t stay anonymous for long, but at least it was a start.

  Now it wasn’t a secret, and even though I knew the place was packed to capacity, I also knew there were people all around the building outside, waiting for a chance to get in or catch me coming in or out. Luke and Hayes were out there tonight, willing to stand guard near the stage. Luke was a professional and actually worked for the top-notch security firm that I’d used quite a bit. And Hayes wasn’t a professional but he looked the part, calling himself a younger, better looking, ass kicking Wesley Snipes. Both were muscular guys and had no fear of roughing someone up if needed. Hell, I could probably put Missy out there with me and she would be just as useful.

  I smiled at that thought as I watched her sitting in an overstuffed chair by the wet bar, messing on her phone in between sips of cranberry and vodka. That little girl could claw someone’s eyes out if she wanted to. I felt bad for any person who pushed her far enough one of these days.

  Helping myself to a tiny swig of whiskey, I told her, “You won’t let the ladies touch me, right?”

  She choked out a laugh. “Of course not. I will be your right hand lady if you need me to.”

  I knew she would. She’d been there for me several times when I metaphorically pressed the panic button. See, I don’t do well with panting women and groupies. In my earlier days, I could handle it just fine because I didn’t have a care in the world. As I learned how the media worked in the industry—and the brazen fans that provided them stories—it was clear that I didn’t want to be perceived as that kind of guy, even if I didn’t do anything wrong. When I was married at age twenty-four, Lily had every reason to trust me. There wasn’t a single person in the world that could have tempted me enough to stray. I was loyal. Then things seemed to change, and wouldn’t you know, fate fucked me over and took her away before I could make it better.

  Life was cruel.

  My mood was slipping, and quickly. I had to take another drink, just as Ben popped his head in and told me five more minutes. I talked myself into needing that piano under my fingers. This wasn’t an interview, it was just me and the piano and whatever I felt like singing. And I even knew my set list might change after I got up there. Performances were sometimes random like that; it just depended on the crowd, and most importantly, what I was feeling.

  When Blake introduced me and I stepped onto the stage, I took a deep breath and studied the crowd in front of me. The place was packed. The people in the back were standing, but everyone else was also jockeying for a position to see me better.

  I sat down at the piano and adjusted the mic, glad Blake had replaced the bench with a stool like I’d asked. It made it much easier for me to interact with an audience that way. “Good evening, how we all doing tonight?”

  I got an array of responses, including applause, and someone even returned the question.

  “I’m doing fabulous, thank you for asking,” I replied. “Kind of a little gun shy tonight, hope you can bear with me while I get back into performing instead of just playing.”

  Honesty. I believed in it but didn’t necessarily feel up to baring my soul as an introduction. I would do that with my music soon enough if I could handle it.

  “I figure I’d start out with a song that’s special to me,” I continued. “When I was about…six or seven years old, I stopped banging the hell out of my dad’s piano long enough to try a tune.”

  Everyone chuckled.

  “My dad heard me take on this obnoxious approach, let me mess around with it for a bit, and then he subtly walked by and said something like, ‘Hey, Jude-man, try this.’”

  On the piano, I played the exact bit he taught me that day and everyone laughed. It was the deep, recognizable tune from Jaws.

  “I had no damn clue what it was from at the time,” I added with a smile, “but it was cool and I played it constantly. I mean constantly,” I emphasized. “Looking back, I’m sure my father was sick to death of hearing that shit over and over. So one day he did the same thing, just walked by and said, ‘Hey, try this at the same time, buddy,’ And he showed me a few notes with my other hand. So I played that for a bit,” I played the combined little melody on the piano, “until he’d show me another piece to it, and then another piece…” I stopped and faced the crowd. “And that’s how I learned to play the piano, folks. It all started from a killer shark.”

  I got laughter and applause. It was a true story, one I’d shared before at other shows.

  Facing the keys again, I started a basic rhythm to lead into my first song. “So on that note, this song is for my dad. May you rest in peace, Pops, and I hope you’re entertaining the hell—wrong choice of words—entertaining all those wild music lovers that repented fast enough to make it to heaven.”

  The crowd’s laughter again allowed me to move into my first song easily, a cover of “Only the Good Die Young” by Billy Joel. It was one of my dad’s favorites to play for fun and I couldn’t pass up the chance to add it to my repertoire.

  I did two extra songs that I wasn’t planning on, all because I panicked when I was about to go into a new one. After stalling long enough, I
just went for it, only announcing it was something new but not explaining anything about it.

  But midway through, images of that night flashed in my head…and I started to falter.

  5

  My vision was glued to the polished black lid of the baby grand, propped up at an angle in front of me, its smooth sheen catching bits of the stage lights reflecting off it. I never used sheet music to follow and I never had a set list sitting next to me. It was all from memory, but that wasn’t my problem right now.

  I played an extra line of just the instrumentation while I caught myself up, and I honestly knew that no one noticed, but my heart was beating so hard it literally threw off my rhythm.

  I took the chorus slowly, knowing everyone in the audience thought it was just for dramatic effect. Except for Wes. He knew what was going on and he caught my eye where he stood near the bar. He gave me a slight dip of his head, encouraging me to keep playing.

  It didn’t matter what I did at that point, I couldn’t get that night out of my head. I could still see the shiny black pavement, the headlights reflecting off of it, and the cars coming and going or stopping to have a look. I could feel the rain on my face mixing with hot blood pouring out of my head, and the smell of asphalt and engine burn. I could hear voices in the distance but they sounded muffled. My hearing was affected, or my head had been rocked too hard…I didn’t know what the hell was happening.

  But I didn’t hear my girls. I called for Lily and there was no response. Anna wasn’t crying, either. She had to be crying after something so horrifying, but I didn’t hear a peep. I yelled for them both but someone was touching me, and then pulling me across the pavement. I shouted at them to stop, I needed my girls, but they wouldn’t listen. I was told to hold still, don’t move, stop talking…