by Julie Cannon
Chapter Seventeen
I waited until the Uber driver backed out of my driveway and drove down the street before keying in the code to my garage door. As a woman living alone I was more than a little safety conscious. I always drove with my doors locked and windows up. When it came to my house, I lived in a pretty nice neighborhood, each house sitting in the middle of a three-acre parcel of wooded land. Great for privacy but not so great for running next door in case of an emergency.
From my phone I could check the status of my alarm and quickly scan the four video cameras that kept watch on the exterior surrounding my place. The cameras were motion-activated, which saved me hours of fast-forwarding through hours of nothing just to check if I had had any unwanted visitors. In the last few years all I saw was the UPS, FedEx, and the occasional Girl Scout cookie troop.
I had checked both as my driver weaved his way through the street to my house. I double-checked again and keyed in my code and stood back as the door silently rolled up.
My garage is brightly lit, with nothing anyone can hide behind, so after a quick look behind me I stepped inside and hit the close button. Only after the heavy door sealed itself to the floor did I unlock the door leading into the house.
The familiar, comforting chime of the alarm greeted me as I punched in the silence code. I immediately reset the alarm to Stay mode, which allowed me to move freely inside the house without setting off those motion detectors, while the exterior doors and windows remained armed. Why do I live in what Courtney called Fort Knox? Because I’ll never forget the sight of my neighbor’s body being wheeled out of her house wrapped under a black tarp with the letters CORONER neatly stenciled on top. I was ten years old, and it scared the living shit out of me. What was the classic cliché, better safe than sorry? Yep, that was me when it came to me.
Sitting patiently beside her water bowl was Rockette, my sixty-nine-pound German shepherd. I named her Rockette after the Radio City Music Hall Rockettes because when I scratched her belly, her legs kicked. Between K-9 Companions and many, many hours on my part, Rockette had been well trained, including to sit quietly when I came home. The only muscle that moved on her big, hairy body was her tail, and that was wagging so fast, I could barely see it. I gave her the release command, and she sprang forward like a dog one quarter her size. She came to a sliding stop and sat politely no more than two inches from the tip of my shoes.
“Hello, Miss Rockette,” I said, kneeling and ruffling her head and shoulders. She dropped to her back and rewarded me with her exposed belly. My best buddy, my fierce protector was a belly-scratch whore. After a few minutes of attention, Rockette followed me through the house to my bedroom.
My shoes clicked on the wood floor as I walked through the kitchen, across the great room, and into the master bedroom. The plush carpet silenced any noise except the heavy, excited breathing from Rockette at my heels.
After I changed into a pair of purple LSU basketball shorts and a yellow tank top, Rockette followed me through the patio doors and outside. She grabbed her ball and nudged my hand with her wet nose. As soon as she felt my fingers at her mouth she dropped the ball into my open palm. I tucked the bright-orange ball into the Chuck It, and, well, chucked it far into the yard. That simple gizmo had made someone filthy rich, saved my shoulder from rotator-cuff surgery, and made Rockette a very, very happy dog. Twenty minutes and God knows how many throws later we were both relaxing on the couch. Rockette was devouring a treat, and I was flipping through the channels.
I needed to eat something to soak up the liquor sitting in my stomach, and after hitting the play button on a recording of yesterday’s White Sox game, I went in search of something quick and easy. I was a pretty good cook, but it was a pain in the ass to cook for one. Too much trouble and too much work. But the alternate was eating out, and that would add ten pounds without even thinking. I scrambled some egg whites, tossed in a whole egg for flavor, added a few secret ingredients, and presto—dinner.
Four innings later, Rockette nudged open the doggie door and went outside without a backward glance. The neighbor girl a few houses down the street usually came over after school to play with Rockette. Her mother was allergic to dogs so she lived vicariously by playing with mine. Rockette got some much-needed attention while I was at work, and Becky got to have a dog without actually having a dog. She refused to take any money, but periodically I gave her “movie money.” I wish somebody had given me fifty bucks to go to the movies when I was seventeen.
Rockette returned and effortlessly jumped onto the couch next to me. This was the only piece of furniture she was allowed on, and she snuggled close to my leg. She dropped her big head in my lap, dislodging the report I was reading. She sighed, obviously content.
A familiar voice drew my attention to the TV, and I looked up and right into the dark eyes of Tobin Parks. Other than my heart beating faster I hadn’t moved, but Rockette lifted her head and looked at me with a WTF expression. I patted her head a few times, my attention on the sixty-inch screen.
It was a promo for an interview Tobin was doing for the Today show. There were a few clips of the interview with just enough tease to get people to tune in, followed by the date and time of the segment. I looked at the date on my watch. Damn, the interview had been this morning. I grabbed the remote and scrolled down to until I found the On Demand selection. In a nanosecond I lost interest in whoever was beating the White Sox and hit play.
I had to fast-forward through at least eighty percent of the show until I finally saw Tobin in the interview chair. I turned up the volume.
“When did you first realize you could make a living singing?” the interviewer asked. The camera was on her face, and she beamed at Tobin. From what I could tell they were sitting in a Starbucks appearing to chat like two people who’d just met. A pang of jealousy shot through me and I frowned. That was ridiculous.
“I was in a bar sitting in a wobbly chair on a stage put together with plywood and two-by-fours when an old man dropped a wrinkled dollar into the tip jar on the corner of the stage. I’d begged the owner to let me sing, but since I didn’t have any experience he was hesitant. I told him I’d do it for free, like an audition.”
“Obviously he agreed.”
Tobin laughed, and my heart skipped and my stomach jumped a little. “No, not at first. It took weeks to get him to let me play.” Tobin’s face was wistful, as if she were experiencing it all over again in real time.
“What was the first song you sang?”
“‘Breakwater Baby.’”
The interviewer frowned. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one.”
“I’ve never recorded it. It was really bad, but it worked at the time…and every other time I sang it. I performed every night, and at the end of the first week I counted the money in that tip jar and never looked back.”
“How much did you make?”
“Fifty-six dollars,” Tobin answered proudly.
“Fifty-six dollars?” the interviewer asked, clearly trying to sound impressed.
“Yep, and at that time that was more money than I’d had in my entire life.”
“How old were you?”
Tobin hesitated a moment. She winked at the blonde, and I choked on the iced tea I was swallowing. The dark liquid dribbled down the front of my shirt. Rockette raised her head, sensing something wasn’t right, and I gave her a few reassuring words before Tobin replied.
“Let’s just say I looked a lot older than I was.”
The rest of the questions were pretty light: highlights of the three local shows she had scheduled and some background on her next single. This was clearly a puff piece, not the tough interview of 60 Minutes a few weeks ago. I guess sex, lesbians, and rock and roll didn’t mix well with morning coffee.
I hit the rewind button and watched the short interview three more times. Something about Tobin grabbed me. And judging by her millions of adoring fans, it snared them as well. She was direct, didn’t pull any punches,
but wasn’t obnoxious or full of herself. What you saw was what you got. I found that hard to believe. No one was that transparent, especially an artist whose entire livelihood was based on the fickle tastes and whims of fans.
Don’t get me wrong. Tobin was controversial. She worked hard and played harder, that was evident. She was young and was going to squeeze out everything she could while she could, and who could blame her? Not me. The average tenure on the top of the charts was fleeting at best, and she’d been there a few years. Surely dozens of others were just waiting for her to stumble, some probably plotting ways to trip her up and take her place.
Entertainment was a business. A BIG business with big paychecks and fragile self-confidence. I’d heard about it and was unfortunate enough to see it a few times. When athletes or personalities, or anyone high in the public eye, falls from grace they fall hard. One negative review, one song that doesn’t hit the top ten, one book that doesn’t sell a million copies, and their faith in their talent starts to crumble. Did Tobin suffer from that same curse? What made her famous could also crush her.
I turned off the TV, checked the alarm, and doused the lights. Rockette, who followed me, did her usual three circles before flopping down on her bed, which happened to be right next to mine. She settled in with a sigh as I set my alarm and crawled under the covers. I closed my eyes and started my own nighttime calisthenics to shut down my brain. After I inhaled deeply several times, I exhaled through my mouth slowly. Starting at my toes, I tensed, then relaxed them five times. I moved on to the arch of my foot, then my ankle, calf, and knee. The isometric exercises and deep breathing made me forget everything that had happened that day and the list of things I needed to do next. I’d tried yoga several different times but was always distracted by any little sound. Yet this routine ultimately caused me to relax and fall asleep. Occasionally it took several trips up and down my body before drifting off, but most nights I never made it past my shoulders.
Tonight, the last thing I remembered was the way my body responded when Tobin smiled.
Chapter Eighteen
“How did you get this number?” My heart raced and my anger soared and my blood pressure skyrocketed. Lights flashed in front of my eyes, and I felt ready to explode. We were at a rest stop somewhere between Boston and Des Moines when I made the mistake of answering my phone. I didn’t recognize the number and thought it might be Kiersten. Wrong on so many counts.
“Now, Carol, is that any way to greet me? We haven’t talked in a month of Sundays.”
With the Southern drawl, Sunday sounded more like Sundee. Even though the familiar voice was raspy from cigarettes and cheap booze, only four people in this world still called me Carol. I’d gone by Tobin Parks since my first gig, and when I was eighteen I legally changed my name. That had kept my family from finding me for a few years, but they eventually tracked me down.
“What do you want?” I looked over my shoulder in both directions, making sure no one was within earshot. This was nobody’s business.
“Why do you always ask that when I call, sugar?”
“Because that’s what you want.”
“You don’t invite us to any of your concerts.”
And I never will.
“How’ve you been, sugar?”
The endearment wasn’t dear, just a word used in habit in just about every conversation. There was never anything special about the word, or any of the others she used, like baby or honey.
“I doubt you called to inquire about my health.” I wasn’t quite as blistering mad as I was when I first heard her voice. I’d learned the hard way that I had to calm down. The first time she contacted me, I did something stupid and have paid for it ever since.
“Can’t I call just to see how you are? If you’re getting along all right?”
“No, you can’t. We have an arrangement, and the fact that you are talking to me violates your part of it. I could shut you down.”
“Now, Carol, honey. Oh, wait. I forgot it’s Tobin now. Well, anyway, Tobin. There’s no reason for you to be mean and ugly like that.”
I hated the sound of my name coming from my mother’s mouth. I held the phone away from my ear as if the germs in her cough coming out of the speaker could somehow float through the airwaves and deposit their contagion in me. Shit, with my luck with this woman, they probably could.
“What do you want, Irene?” I’d stopped calling the woman on the other end of the line mom years ago.
“Jimmy’s car broke down.”
Crashed it was probably more like it. “Maybe he should learn how to save a little instead of spending every dime. On second thought, maybe he should get a job.”
“Sweetie, you know he can’t work.” Another empty endearment.
“Won’t work.” My worthless brother was only good for one thing, and that was mooching off the state and everyone he came in contact with, including me.
“Nobody’s hiring, Tobin. You know how it is around here.”
My mother’s voice had the same nasal whine I remember hearing my entire life. Other than the Camel-cigarette accent, it still sounded the same.
“He’s your brother. Family helps family.”
“He can help himself. He’s a grown man.”
Why I kept arguing with her I didn’t know. She would never see reason, just as much as she would never stop calling me for money. The phone calls had started as soon as my first song hit the air waves in Sulphur Springs, Texas. No one in my family ever gave a damn about me until I had something they wanted. And now I do—money.
My father, Jimmy Senior, hadn’t been around much when I was little. But then again, if Irene (nee Johnson) was my wife, I’d have been a long-haul trucker too.
They’d married at nineteen, four months after too much partying, too much booze, and not enough birth control. Five months later, Jimmy Junior arrived, and eleven months later I came along. My father must have been gone a lot more after that, because it was another four years before my sister Frances arrived, looking suspiciously like our neighbor’s little girl. His love of booze finally caught up with him, and he was fired and became a regular fixture on our couch after that.
I wasn’t missed around the dinner table. It was piled high with crap and dirty take-out containers. No one asked where I was, cared about what time I came home or even if I went to school. The truancy officer frequently visited our trailer.
I remember walking in on a man and my mother one afternoon I did go to school. The guy moved faster than I thought anyone could at his age and waistline as he jumped off the couch, tossing my mother on her ass. Her short skirt was up and his belt buckle open, and there was no doubt I wouldn’t be getting into trouble that day. Finally, at age sixteen, I stopped pretending to go to school and focused on my music instead.
No one knew that, a few years ago, I hired a private tutor to help me learn how to read better and do more than basic math. With his help I passed my high-school equivalency test and was currently enrolled in an online program to get a business degree.
I was a good student, As and Bs, but I had to work my ass off to get them. I still had difficulty focusing at times, but I was determined to complete my degree. Not that it mattered that I would be the first in my family to graduate from college. Hell, I was probably the first one to finish high school.
“Are you daydreaming again, Carol?”
This time my mother’s voice had that edge to it that I knew so well. It was the one I’d heard when I had a song dancing around in my brain, when a chord or rhythm got stuck like a repeating track, when I had escaped from the reality of my dysfunctional life.
I didn’t answer, instead repeated my original question. “What do you want?” I asked, even though the instant I heard her voice I knew.
“A new truck for Jimmy.”
Now we were getting somewhere. At least it only took five minutes for her to make her demand. The first time she called she’d kept up the façade of catching up for fifteen minutes.
“No.”
“How do you expect him to get around? Take me and Sharon to the grocery store?”
The liquor store or the casino was more than likely their destination.
“That is not my concern. He needs to—”
“Are you sure you want to do this, little miss high-and-mighty superstar?” My mother’s nastiness contaminated her question. “All it would take would be one phone call, and the rich and famous life you have would be over.”
The first time she threatened me I gave in and wrote a check. The second, third, and fourth I wired the money to Western Union at the local Walmart. The demands and threats came more frequently now. I guess the more they got, the more they wanted. I’d given them more than enough money to buy a nice house, furnish it, and have more than plenty to spare. I wasn’t interested enough to find out what they’d done with it. I couldn’t care less. It’s not like it was a loan, even though my mother had phrased it like that the first few times. But I was older, a whole lot wiser, and completely confident in my talent, unlike the scared teenager I was when I struck out on my own.
Suddenly I thought of Kiersten and how she’d built her company out of nothing but a dream and a few bucks in savings. I admired her tenacity and her willingness to do what she needed to make it happen. A calmness came over me I never had experienced before.
“Then make it.”
I pushed the red-phone handset on the screen of my phone, ending the call.
Chapter Nineteen
I was getting pretty tired of losing focus. I’d dreamed about Tobin all night and had woken up so aroused there was no way I could get on with my day without taking care of business. I don’t normally do the “I am my own best lover” in the morning, but today was a very pleasant exception. Pleasant if you don’t mind solo sex. Solo is the only way I have sex, so this was nothing new. What was new was the intensity of my orgasm and the speed with which it blew off the top of my head. It was better than coffee, and that’s saying a lot.
