by Julie Cannon
She didn’t need to finish the sentence. I’d heard horror stories of facilities that were little more than storage places for the elderly.
A rail-thin woman in her mid-fifties, with dyed red hair and way too much lip liner, greeted us and introduced herself as Joanne Gough, the manager of Rosedale, and said everything was set up for Tobin’s mini concert. At least a dozen residents were sitting in wheelchairs placed around the perimeter of the room, some grouped together, and their occupants were chatting away. Others were alone, while some had their chins on their chests napping. More than a few looked at us with curiosity. Tobin gave a simple hello to everyone she made eye contact with.
We probably did look a little different than the average person coming through the front doors. At least Tobin did. With her spiky black hair, her bright-red tank top, black biker boots, and the way she filled out her hip-hugging jeans, she definitely did turn a head or two. Even mine. She had a tattoo of a phoenix bird on the inside of her left arm and a feather on the right. I wondered if she had any others that the general public didn’t see.
We followed Mrs. Gough across the lobby, past the reception desk, and into a large carpeted room just off the main hall.
“This is our PT room,” she said, explaining the stationary bike in the corner adjacent to a treadmill and four colored beach balls of different sizes sitting neatly in a rack by the window. It didn’t have all the mats and machines like the physical-therapy clinic I went to after I broke my ankle, but I suspected they didn’t need much more than a few items for these patients.
“I thought the acoustics would be better for you in here than the dining room. That’s all tile, you know,” she said, as if we knew her residents might spill.
“This is perfect, Mrs. Gough. Thank you.”
“I’ll go round up everyone. I know they’ll be thrilled you’re here.” She scurried out of the room in search of Tobin’s audience.
Tobin laid the guitar case on a low, padded exercise table and snapped open the three latches. She lifted the acoustic guitar out and pushed the case out of the way. She sat and began strumming a few chords, tightening or loosening a few strings as she did.
“Do any of these people have any idea who you are?”
Tobin looked at me for a few moments before answering. “Some of the staff maybe. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not here to get anything, and frankly if I get a few smiles or a foot or two tapping along to the beat, I’m happy.”
“Why do you do it?”
“Because they need it and I can give it to them.” She strummed a few more chords, her fingers moving expertly over the strings. She hummed quietly as a few residents began to shuffle in.
For the next hour I sat stunned at the beautiful, melodic sounds emanating from Tobin and her guitar. No backup singers singing harmony, no drums pounding out a sensuous beat, nothing to distract from the pure, strong sound of her voice. This was a Tobin I’d never seen, or even knew existed for that matter. She’d said it was a secret, one that my research staff hadn’t uncovered. This was something JOLT could stand behind.
Tobin played a mixture of what could be classified as golden oldies, and I struggled to remember some of the words. Tobin sang favorites from Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, Duke Ellington, and the Andrews Sisters. She took requests and knew every single song that was asked for. Several of the residents did, in fact, tap their foot, and more than a few smiles filled old, craggy faces. I saw Mr. Albert walking toward me.
“Would you care to dance?” he asked politely, holding out his hand, palm up.
“What would Mrs. Albert think?” I asked seriously. I’d kept an eye on the cute couple but saw no sign of recognition from his wife even when he held her hand. My heart hurt for him.
“She wouldn’t mind,” he answered, sounding a little sad. “She knows how much I like to dance, and since she can’t, she’d want me to have fun.”
How could I refuse? I put my hand in his and he moved it to the crook of his elbow, like any respectable gentleman would. I walked beside him to the front of the room, my arm actually supporting him. He stopped and I stepped into his arms.
Other than at the reunion it had been a few years since I’d danced, and many more since I’d danced backward. However, it wasn’t too difficult, as Mr. Albert was barely able to do more than shuffle his feet. He held me at a respectable distance, his hand barely touching my lower back.
“You’re a wonderful dancer, Mr. Albert,” I said honestly. My compliment was returned with a beautiful smile from this kind, elderly man. “How long have you and your wife been married?”
“Seventy-two years this June,” he answered proudly, including information on their eight children, thirty-two grandchildren, and seventeen great-grandchildren. His eyes glowed as he talked about his family, and I wondered if I would ever have the same.
“The lady singer. What’s her name again?”
“Tobin.” I liked the sound of it coming off my lips.
He frowned and shook his head. “Never heard a girl called that before. Never mind,” he said, changing the subject. “If she won’t ask you to marry her, then you need to ask her.”
I chuckled at his continued insistence that Tobin and I get married. “Mr. Albert, we barely know each other.”
“Phyllis and I knew each other for six weeks before we tied the knot. Look how long it’s worked for us.”
“Mr. Albert, I have to say that I’m very surprised at how liberal you are about…”
“Homosexuality? I may be old and sometimes forget where my teeth are, but people are people. It doesn’t matter who they sleep with. It’s none of my business.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Albert.” A little smattering of applause stopped me from saying more. Mr. Albert dropped his hands and bent at the waist.
“Thank you, miss. It’s been a long time since I’ve danced, and it was a pleasure to share the occasion with you. Please thank the other lady for coming. It’s not often we have something as enjoyable as this has been. Now I’d better get back to my wife. She’s not the jealous type, but I don’t want to push my luck. My back can’t handle the couch anymore.” He chuckled and winked at me as I walked him back to his chair, stunned when his wife reached for his hand.
I glanced up and saw Frank standing in the doorway. I looked at my watch and was surprised at how long we’d been here. Tobin had less than an hour to get back for the sound check.
Tobin must have seen Frank as well, because she told her audience that she’d take one more request before she had to leave. An elderly man in a faded army jacket raised his hand politely and asked for a song I’d never heard of. However, Tobin had, and five minutes later she was shaking the hand of everyone in the room. She stayed a few minutes longer for punch and cookies, and I watched her interact with these strangers.
For someone so young she was completely at ease with these elderly people. She didn’t patronize them or talk to them like they were children, which in some cases I wasn’t so sure. She held hands with some of the women and flirted with some of the old men. She didn’t skimp on touching an arm or a pair of arthritic, mangled folded hands sitting quietly in a lap. She adjusted one woman’s blanket that slid off her knees and wiped the crumbs off the cheek of another. She was completely at ease here and obviously did this often. She signed a few autographs for the staff and the cast on the leg of a forty-something-year-old man, who proudly stated he was finally going home tomorrow.
“I now get why you do this,” I said as we exited the building. We were walking right into the afternoon setting sun, and I squinted and reached for my sunglasses.
“They’re always so appreciative. It doesn’t take much to put a smile on their faces, unlike the rest of the crazy world. They don’t want anything from me, and because of that I give them everything I have.”
I thought about that and many other things on the return ride to the stadium. The few hours I’d spent with Tobin told me more about her than all the articles I’d
perused. I was good at reading people, really good, and I hadn’t detected anything other than pure, selfless pleasure from Tobin all afternoon.
As we rounded the corner, the crowds around the building were heavier than when we left. There was an excitement in the air that wasn’t there earlier either, and I remembered what it felt like to go to a concert on a warm summer night.
Frank pulled up to the door, and Tobin got out of the front seat. I took her offered hand and climbed out of the small, cramped backseat. “Remind me to call shotgun next time,” I said, teasing.
“Frank and I are always alone on these visits,” she said quietly. The guard at the door nodded at us and quickly opened it.
“Why is that?”
Tobin didn’t answer for a few moments, our shoes clicking on the tile floor the only sound. “Because it’s not about me, or anyone else that would come along. It’s about giving these wonderful people something to smile about, someone to take their hand and tell them they’re special, that someone remembers them. I’m afraid if I took anyone with me, it would interfere with that.”
“Then why did you take me?”
We walked a few more yards, and I wasn’t sure Tobin was going to answer. Finally she said simply, “Because I knew you were different. Because I knew you’d get it,” she added.
We stared at each other for several minutes, neither of us breaking eye contact. The sexual tension that had been brewing between us and had flared this morning was even more electric. At least it was for me. Watching Tobin play for those wonderful people just for the sheer joy of it was powerfully moving. She strummed the guitar strings like she was touching a frail bird. The words to songs I didn’t recognize seemed to have a special meaning to her. I especially liked the way her eyes lit up when someone asked for a song and she could give it to them. This was a side of Tobin I hadn’t seen, and from what she’d said, it was reserved for these select few.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I said, a bit choked up.
“Mr. Albert was a hoot, wasn’t he? I saw the way he looked at you. He may be old, but he certainly isn’t dead yet.”
“No, he certainly isn’t.” I laughed. We walked a few more steps before I added, “He said that I should ask you to marry me.” The idea made me just as warm as when he suggested it.
“Did he? Hmm. Maybe he has something there.”
“You assume I’d want to marry you,” I teased her.
“What’s not to love? I’m cute, funny, and rich.”
“No, you’re hot, sweet, and filthy rich.” I took at least three or four more steps before I realized Tobin wasn’t beside me anymore. I turned around. She had the strangest expression on her face. “What?”
“You think I’m hot?”
“I also think you’re sweet. What’s your point?” It made me nervous that she focused on the “hot” descriptor. “That’s not news, Tobin.”
“It is that you think I am,” she said, closing the distance between us.
“You should be focusing on the sweet part.”
“Instead of what?”
“Sleeping with anyone in a skirt.” I bumped my shoulder against hers, signaling I was still teasing her.
“I do not.”
“You do too.”
“I do not.”
I laughed because we sounded like squabbling siblings. “For a songwriter you really have a way with words.” I was enjoying this verbal banter. Tobin did have a good sense of humor and a quick wit.
“Okay, let me rephrase my rebuttal. There have been many, many women in skirts that I have not had carnal knowledge of.”
I laughed and stopped and turned to look at her. “Carnal knowledge? Good God. Now you sound like a Victorian romance novel.”
“I don’t sleep with every woman. I do have some scruples.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled. “By the way, since you’re so experienced in all things sex…”
“I would say thank you for the compliment, but somehow I don’t think it was meant as one.”
I glanced at Tobin to make sure we were still having a light conversation and I hadn’t upset her. “Why does everyone call it sleeping together? I don’t know about you, but when I go to sleep, it’s nothing like sex. Am I missing something?” I was, but I just needed to ask the question.
“Maybe, because right afterward, you just want to curl up and fall asleep, you know. At least if you do it right,” she added, this time bumping my shoulder with hers.
I didn’t reply because I didn’t know.
“Why are you so interested in my sex life?”
Because I want to be your sex life, I thought. Instead, I said, “Because you want my company to sponsor you. And your very public sex life affects your image. Ergo, it affects me.”
“Dang, and I just thought you wanted to have sex with me,” Tobin said as she started walking again.
I stumbled over probably nothing. Oh, fuck, did I say what I was thinking out loud? “Just professional curiosity,” I said, trying to regain my composure. All this talk about sex combined with seeing Tobin lose herself in her music and her close proximity had made my sex start throbbing—again.
Chapter Thirty-four
I could get used to a traveling partner, I admitted to myself one night. If that partner was Kiersten. I admit I didn’t know what I was thinking when I invited her along. I’d never had a roomie in my personal life and certainly not in a fifty-foot, self-contained home on wheels. I should have been crawling the walls or at least trying to sneak into her bed in the middle of the night, but I wasn’t and I hadn’t. Okay, I’d thought about it more than a few dozen times, but I hadn’t done anything about it. That was another thing that was unusual. I hadn’t had sex in two weeks, which, when I was on tour, just did not happen. I’d had opportunities, plenty, as a matter of fact, but no one seemed to interest me. Actually, the thought of mindless sex with a complete stranger didn’t appeal to me at all, and that scared the shit out of me.
Mindless sex had been all I wanted, all I was capable of giving, and all I needed. I was in no position to have any kind of steady girlfriend, even if I wanted one. I was on the road more than I was at home, which made it hard to try to build and maintain a relationship. It’s not that I was unhappy, far from it. I loved my life, the excitement of a new town every day, a new crowd screaming my name. It was a rush, plain and simple. After going full speed for days leading up to a show, then the sheer euphoria of the crowd that had come to see me, my body was like a shaken champagne bottle. I needed a release, and sex was the popping of the cork, so to speak.
I suppose some shrink would probably say that because I’d had such a shitty childhood with neither of my parents giving a damn about me, the tens of thousands of screaming fans were my substitute. They would go on to conclude that since I’d had no normal affection as a child, I mistook sex for emotional connection. Well, they would be wrong. At least the part about sex as an emotional connection. I enjoyed sex. It felt good leading up to it, during, and after. When it involved two consenting adults, then why not? It was like skiing or tennis or any other recreational activity. Sex was something my body needed, like food or water, and when I found something I liked, like pizza or beer, I imbibed. Nothing more complicated than that. But all that changed when Kiersten came on board.
We’d been on the road for six days and had quickly fallen into a comfortable routine. We’d pull into town, and, time permitting, I’d play a few songs at one of the facilities Jake had arranged for me. Kiersten had replaced Frank as my driver and was much prettier to look at and smelled better as well. She was a good pilot/navigator, and we got lost only once. After making a few calls we were quickly on the road again, laughing at our stupidity for confusing Blankenship Avenue with Blankenshire Avenue. We both kept pretending the kiss never happened, but I caught her looking at me more than once.
Kiersten would disappear into the coach or wander around on her own during the sound check and pre-concert interviews. Several times d
uring a show I’d catch a glimpse of her stage right or sometimes sitting in the first row. I found myself looking for her all the time and couldn’t quite settle into the set until I had. It wasn’t like I was looking for her approval of the show. Far from it. The decibels of the crowd told me all I needed to know. I just needed to know where she was, whether it was to make sure she was safe from the strangers wandering around backstage or to make sure she was enjoying herself. I know it wasn’t my job to entertain her or keep her happy, but I found myself trying to nonetheless.
Tonight was no exception. It was a warm summer night in Biloxi, and the beer was cold and inexpensive. The first four or five rows were filled with scantily clad women and more cleavage displayed than should be allowed. I, however, wasn’t complaining. Neither was Jones, my bass player drifting to the front of the stage far more often than ever before.
The after-show interviews were tedious, and I fought the urge to tell everyone to just get the hell out. I was keyed up and had a bad case of the jitters. I needed some fresh air. Finally, everyone was occupied with the free booze and food, and I managed to slip out unnoticed.
I was a dozen steps down the hall when I heard my name yelled from behind me.
“Tobin, phone call.” It was Howard, one of my road crew. “He’s pretty insistent,” he said, holding my phone out toward me.
“Great show tonight,” the voice said into my ear. It was familiar, but the noise coming from the room I’d just left made it difficult to hear clearly.
“Who is this?” I asked, impatient to be in the next room.
“You don’t recognize my voice? I’m hurt.” The voice was gruff and a little garbled, like he was holding the phone too close to his mouth.
“Look, I don’t have time for this shit. Who is this?”
“Carol, this is your brother Jimmy.”
When I heard my birth name my heart stopped, and I knew before the caller went any further I was not going to like whoever it was. I should have immediately hung up, but for some perverse reason I didn’t.
