Phoenix didn’t bother holding back his yawn. “Are we finished with today’s morality lesson?” he said. “Because if we are, we might consider getting back to recording. But don’t let me stop you if you’ve more to say. I find it quite entertaining.”
At that point, he gave up. The kid was a lost cause. It wasn’t up to him to try to save the obnoxious brat. If Phoenix Hightower was determined to tank his career and his life, that was his business. It wasn’t Rob’s responsibility to give a damn, just because nobody else did.
It irritated the hell out of him that he did give a damn.
This time around, on the tenth take, the kid finally got through the entire song without making mincemeat out of the lyrics. Rob and Kyle exchanged high fives as the song wound to a close. The vocals sounded as good upon playback as they had originally. The kid actually had a strong voice. He was no Danny Fiore, but he could sing. And he was young enough so that, even hung over, his vocal ability wasn’t affected. Give him decade or two, and he’d find recording after a night of debauchery to be a little more of a challenge.
“Great job,” Rob said. “Now, I’d like to try something different.”
“I can barely contain my enthusiasm.”
“Shut up and listen to me. I want to record you singing some background vocals that we can overdub. You singing over yourself. Sort of an echo, when you reach the chorus. At the part where it says ‘for you’ I want you to harmonize with yourself. ‘For you, for you, for you.’”
The kid looked at him blankly, still wearing the sunglasses. “Oh, joy,” he said.
“As a matter of fact—” The wheels in his head began spinning at breakneck speed. “I think we could overdub you harmonizing all the way through. Give the damn thing a little meat. Because right now, it’s not much more than cotton candy.”
“I have no bloody idea what you’re talking about.”
Irritation warred with enthusiasm. This would really make a difference, add a little richness, a little quality, to what amounted to nothing more than another forgettable pop song, indistinguishable from all the other forgettable pop songs the kids danced to.
Enthusiasm won. “I’ll show you,” he said. “Trade places with me.”
So they traded places, and while Phoenix sat silently in the producer’s chair, arms crossed and a bored expression on his face, Kyle ran the track and Rob sang the harmonies that had originated inside his head. When they were done, Kyle played back the recording. “See?” Rob said. “See what a difference it makes? Before, it was bland and colorless. Now it pops.”
On the other side of the window, Phoenix stared at him blankly through those irritating sunglasses. And then he took them off and hung them from the neck of his tee shirt. The kid leaned and said into the mic, “You’re a better flippin’ singer than I am, MacKenzie. What in bloody hell are you doing producing for me when you should be making your own records?”
Rob blinked, opened his mouth to respond. Then closed it when he realized he had no idea how to answer.
Because he realized, for the first time ever, that it was a damn good question.
Casey
That night, as they were preparing for bed, she said to Rob, “You won’t believe this. We were walking around the Village today. Did you know that Wong’s is still in business?”
Through a mouthful of toothpaste, he said, “I didn’t know that.” He spat into the sink, rinsed his mouth, spat again. Swiping at his face with a towel, he added, “And I could’ve died a happy man without ever knowing.”
He stepped away from the sink and she took his place. Uncapping the toothpaste, she said, “Paige was ready to eat there.”
“Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick. I hope to God you said no.”
“Of course I said no. I’ve long since lost my taste for cockroach-flavored eggrolls.”
She finished brushing her teeth, put her brush and the toothpaste away, washed her face, and followed him into the bedroom. When they were situated under the covers, she laid her head on his shoulder and said, “Paige is worried about you.”
“Oh?”
“She told me today that since I lost the baby, you’ve lost your bounce.”
“Paige said that?”
“She did. I know she doesn’t always show it, but she loves you.”
“Ah, hell. It’s not just the baby. That’s a big part of it, but this job is getting to me. Working with Phoenix gives me stress on top of stress. I’m usually such a laid-back guy.” He absently stroked her bare shoulder with his thumb. “Remind me not to ever again take on an outside job, no matter how hard they beg.”
“You’ll be finished soon, won’t you?”
“I can only hope. We hit some snags in the last few days, and it only put us further behind. The minute we’re done recording, I’m out of here. I plan to find a good sound engineer, somebody who’s a whiz at mixing, make the guy an offer he can’t refuse, and finish this puppy in my home studio.”
She closed her eyes and drifted.
“I still have to connect with Kitty,” he said. “We’ve been playing phone tag for the last week.”
Casey opened her eyes again. Said, “Why does that woman’s name irk me so much?”
“I have no idea. You’ve peacefully coexisted with her for fifteen years, and never once during that time did you snap like a pit bull. Now, every time I mention her name, I can see the hackles rise on the back of your neck.”
“You should be grateful that I care enough to be jealous.”
“I love you, too, babe. But I think you’re going overboard. Kitty’s no threat to you.”
“Says you.”
In the silence, the bedside clock ticked once. Twice. “That’s not the only place you’re going overboard,” he said.
Stunned, she opened her mouth to respond. Closed it. Finally said, “Maybe you’d like to clarify that statement.”
“Look, I’m not trying to criticize, or tell you what to do. But…all that stuff you bought for Emma. Don’t you think it’s just a bit of overkill?”
“Overkill?” She sat up, turned on the bedside lamp, and stared at him.
He squinted in the sudden brightness. “You bought the kid two dozen dresses, Fiore. Two dozen. That’s twenty-four dresses—”
“I know how many two dozen is!”
“The way she’s growing, she’ll outgrow half of them before she gets a chance to wear the damn things.”
“What difference does it make how many dresses I buy for our daughter? It’s my money I’m spending. And it’s certainly not as though I’m breaking the bank. Why should it matter to you?”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph. It’s not the damned money. You know better than that. Between the two of us, we have more money than God. That’s not the issue. The issue is that you seem a little…out of control. And it worries me.”
“I don’t see it.”
“That’s what worries me. And don’t look at me like that. Don’t be offended. This isn’t criticism. This is—”
“It certainly looks like criticism to me!”
“—concern. Nothing else.”
“Let me live my own life, MacKenzie. Don’t try to hogtie me, because it’ll backfire on you, and I promise you’ll regret it.”
“So now, you’re pissed.”
“Of course I am. You’re insulting, and I don’t appreciate it!”
“Fine. You want to be mad, you be mad. But since you’re already mad, we might as well get into it, right here, right now. One, you bought the kid more dresses than she can wear in a month. Two, you’re having nightmares so bad you won’t even talk to me about ‘em. Three, you’re crying over nothing. Four, you went apeshit when I told you I’d allowed Paige to take Emmy to the movies. Five, you were hanging around outside Wong’s. What the HELL were you doing in that neighborhood? Six—” He paused, took a breath. “Should I go on?”
Her skin felt as if it were stretched too tightly over her face. Had her staunchest supporter abdicated? H
ad he somehow turned on her? A wave of despair washed over her, and she drew the blankets more tightly around her to ward off the sudden chill. “Because I don’t want to say something I’ll regret later,” she said, “I’m going to pretend I never heard that remark.”
And she switched off the light, turned her back toward her husband, and pulled the pillow over her head.
* * *
In the morning, he was gone before she woke, gone without a kiss, without a note, without giving her time to process last night’s squabble. He’d taken Paige with him. His daughter loved hanging around the studio, and Rob never had to ask twice. There was no sign of breakfast. No frying pan on the stove, no dirty plates in the sink. They must have eaten out before heading to the studio.
By the time she’d showered and dressed, Emma was stirring. Her daughter’s face lit up the instant she walked into the room. “Good morning, baby girl,” she said. “How’s my Emmy today?”
Emma stood in her crib, her chubby little hands clasped tightly to the rail, bouncing up and down with eager enthusiasm. “Mum mum mum mum,” she said, her second favorite word, right behind “no.” A pink crease from sleeping on wrinkled bedding marched across her left cheek. Her stretchy yellow sleeper, splashed with red and brown teddy bears, was damp and aromatic. Her little arms came up into the air, and Casey scooped her up and buried her face in Emma’s belly.
Emma’s peal of laughter melted her heart. “Ew, stinky,” she said. “Let’s get that diaper changed, poopy-girl, and then we’ll have breakfast.”
“Da.”
Emma kicked and squirmed and wiggled while she changed the smelly diaper, cleaned and powdered her daughter’s sweet little bum. Then she carried the baby to the kitchen, where she scrubbed both their hands thoroughly before she strapped Emma in her high chair.
Today was a good day. She didn’t have a lot of those, so she shoved her tangled thoughts aside and focused on her time with Emma, on the delight her daughter’s facial expressions brought her, on the fun of watching Emma’s intrepid attempt to pick up Cheerios with her sticky little fingers. Childhood moved so rapidly, and every day brought new changes. She couldn’t afford to miss any of those days, because they were building memories that would last a lifetime. Especially if Emma turned out to be her only child, she needed to cherish those memories, hang onto them with every ounce of her strength.
But last night’s quarrel with Rob had left a sour taste in her mouth. They’d always quarreled, often good-naturedly, sometimes vehemently. This was different. This was their own personal Tower of Babel. They were at opposite poles and speaking different languages, and simply couldn’t get through to each other.
Yet she wanted to get through to him. Wanted desperately to make things right, to take their relationship back to where it was before the miscarriage. From the beginning, things had been so good between them. Maybe too good. After her long, troubled marriage to Danny Fiore, she’d been so giddy with love, so overwhelmed by her discovery that Rob MacKenzie was the man she’d been meant to spend her life with, that she’d been blind to the reality of how to keep a good marriage on track. Maybe on some level she’d believed that once you found your soul mate, everything just fell into place, and there’d be no work involved.
If so, she’d been utterly wrong. Like a growing flower bed, marriage, even a good, solid marriage, took a great deal of work to maintain. It had to be fed and watered, pampered and pruned and given just the right amount of sunlight or it would wither and die right there on the vine.
The thought struck terror into her heart. If she lost Rob, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to go on. All marriages went through rough spells. Sometimes they ended. It was a fact of life. But their marriage was supposed to be different, immune to the slings and arrows of everyday life. Their relationship was special, wasn’t it? She’d always believed it was, believed they had something that other couples lacked. Rob MacKenzie was so much more to her than just a husband. He was air and water and sunlight. And, like a delicate flower, without him she would perish.
She had to make more of an effort. She had to snap out of this craziness, and start living a normal life again.
But she didn’t feel normal. She felt so far from normal that she couldn’t locate the place on a map. If only she could find a way to unburden herself, to make the overwhelming sadness dissipate. But every time she had a good day, every time she thought she’d tamed the monster, every time she let down her guard, the melancholy would return, like a heavy, wet, woolen blanket, all scratchy and smelly and miserable. She needed to make Rob understand what she was going through, but how could she, when she couldn’t understand it herself?
While Emma banged her plastic spoon against the tray of her high chair, Casey picked up her cell phone and called her husband. He didn’t answer right away, and she wondered if he was busy, or possibly avoiding her. “Hi,” he said cautiously after the fourth ring.
“Hi,” she said.
“What’s up?”
“I didn’t like the way we left things last night. And this morning, you were gone when I woke up.”
“I can’t really talk right now.”
Emma banged her spoon and sang tunelessly. Casey’s fingers tightened on the phone. “You’re mad at me.”
“No, no. I’m just…there are people here.”
“People. Not the usual people?”
“Correct.”
“Record execs?”
“Also correct.”
She let out a breath. “Then I’ll make this brief. I’m sorry about last night.”
“Me, too.”
“I know this—whatever it is—has been hard on you. I don’t mean for it to be.”
“I realize that.”
“So we’re okay?”
“Absolutely. Talk later?”
“Talk later. Love you.”
“Ditto. Always.”
She felt marginally better, although things still seemed a little stilted between them. Her behavior had been odd lately, no question about it. On the other hand, three years ago he’d stood before her in a white tux and a red cummerbund, held her hand in his, and promised to cherish her until one or both of them was dead. There should be a little wiggle room, shouldn’t there? A little play in the steering wheel? A little tolerance for oddball behavior?
As she washed the breakfast dishes, bathed and dressed Emma, and vacuumed the living room carpet, her mind kept drifting back to yesterday, when she and Paige had stumbled upon Wong’s Tea House. She’d been thinking about that moment ever since. Last night, she’d spent hours lying awake, alternately stewing over the squabble with Rob and obsessing over the empty apartment above that smelly Chinese restaurant. She couldn’t explain why she was so drawn to it. Her life there had been somewhat less than charmed. It was a past she thought she’d come to terms with, yet her instincts were telling her that her old life, and her old apartment, held the key that would unlock the craziness inside her.
“Come on, Emmy,” she said. “Let’s go for a nice walk in the sun.”
So she packed her daughter in her stroller, took spare diapers and a sippy cup and a bottle of water, and headed out. The streets were crowded; the subway was worse. All those sticky, sweaty bodies crammed together like crayons in a box. Alone with Emmy, she fought her aversion to the crowds, maneuvered the stroller on and off the train like a pro, and emerged back into the sunshine. After the damp, airless heat of the subway, where people were squeezed together so close she thought she might faint, the Village felt airy and open. Gripping the stroller tightly, she headed at a rapid clip toward her old neighborhood.
Rob wouldn’t approve. She knew this without being told. Rob was not the kind of person to wallow in the past. Neither was she. It was one of the things that made them so compatible, this similar outlook on life. They both believed in making lemonade out of lemons. It was pointless to waste time sitting around feeling sorry for yourself when there was work to be done, when the only acceptable way out
of a dilemma was to choose a new path—even if you had to go the eeny-meeny-miney-mo route—and follow it.
So why was she drawn back to a time and place in her life that had been so difficult in so many ways? A time when she’d endured so many body blows, it was a miracle she’d survived?
If there was an answer to that question, it was locked inside her, and the key, she felt certain, lay somewhere on that short block of mixed commercial and residential real estate in the West Village where she’d spent her early twenties.
New York, in the late Seventies, had been an exhilarating place. As musicians, they’d lived and breathed the local music scene, which was eclectic and exciting, and ran the gamut from folk to rock, from disco to punk. CBGB’s and Max’s Kansas City were the hot spots, where bands like the Ramones, the Talking Heads, Blondie, and Patti Smith played. It had been an amazing time for anyone who loved music, even more so for those who wrote and played it. Although she’d never been into partying, she’d spent a fair amount of time in the clubs, hearing bands both new and old, famous and obscure. And although she was married to Danny, she did most of her clubbing with Rob. They were, after all, musical collaborators and partners. Times were hard; the three of them had lived from paycheck to paycheck, barely making ends meet. But the music fed them in a way that money never could. They lapped it up, like kittens with a saucer of warm cream, and the music they absorbed in those salad days of the late Seventies heavily influenced the music that expanded and exploded their careers throughout the Eighties.
Times were different then. The travesty that was the war in Vietnam still hung, a dark shadow, over the nation like a bad dream. The anti-war protests were over, but the effects of the war were long reaching. Returning soldiers, instead of receiving a hero’s welcome, had been treated like pariahs. Many of them were scarred for life. She knew this intimately, because she’d married one of them. Danny had been broken inside. He’d left a piece of himself behind in the jungles of Vietnam, and he’d gone to his grave still missing that crucial piece.
The Miles Between Us Page 11
