by Leslie Pike
“We’re still young!” Van says, laying something metal on the coffee table. “At least I am.”
More footsteps and voices.
“Are we all ready?” Dove says. “Yes. Okay, Nobel you may remove your blindfold.”
As soon as I lower the scarf, I’m greeted with an onslaught of sound coming from The Lyon Family Birthday Band. The matching T-shirts declare the group’s professional name. Everyone plays some kind of instrument, from Sam and Teddy’s actual guitars to Aargon’s old tambourine. My mother has a kazoo I’ve never seen. She hands my father one of his own, which he immediately begins to toot. Scarlett and Parish represent the drum section with a bongo between his legs and a child’s drum hanging around her neck. Van is the pianist and that is probably because he took piano lessons longer than the rest of us. The portable keyboard works for his limited skills. Happy Birthday was his opus back in the day when anything more sophisticated was out of his reach. He played it fourteen thousand times back in the day. Dove holds a cowbell and she’s ringing it at the right spots.
“More cowbell!” I holler.
I think they are still playing Happy Birthday but it’s hard to tell because of the laughter and the fact they have to start over three times. Whatever it is, I love that they’re doing it for me. The lump in my throat will have to stay there though, because I’m not about to get emotional over a happy birthday song.
Dove dances around the group, cowbell in hand. As she passes Aargon he follows her lead forming an impromptu conga line that winds around the room and passes in front of my chair. Only the two guitarists and Van stay in their places. Parish and Scarlett beat their drums in time. My mother and father add a kazoo dance linking arms. Van can’t take being out of the loop any longer, and rises with the keyboard cradled in one arm, joining his fellow band members. Not sure he’s hit a right note since he stood.
It comes to an abrupt end when the keyboard falls and crashes to the floor. The edge of the board breaks off and slides under the coffee table.
“Ta da!” he says as a flourish as the last notes fade in an uneven finish. The kazoos and guitars are the last to sound.
I applaud and stand for the performers. They are clapping for themselves too. And laughing.
“Bravo!” I call. Bravo!”
Everyone is talking at once.
“That was so much fun!” Scarlett says, giving Parish a peck.
Pointing at Sam and Teddy I give them their due with a thumbs up.
“Very nice! Whose idea was this?”
“Three guesses,” Sam says. “And the first two don’t count.”
I look to Dove, and she smiles with my words. “It was you, right?’
“Of course it was her! We wouldn’t have had the balls,” Van says, getting on his hands and knees to retrieve the piece of plastic.
I walk to her and take her in my arms. “Thank you, babe. It was awesome.”
“We aren’t done yet. That was just the start of tonight’s festivities.”
She untangles from my hold and speaks to the group. “It’s karaoke time! Grab your shot glasses!”
“What? Oh no. Not me. But you guys do it for sure,” I say, knowing my opinion is going to be rejected.
The room talks back.
My mother gives me “the look” and points her finger.
“Don’t be silly! Of course you’re going to participate. Your girl went to a lot of trouble.”
“If Parish can do it so can you,” says Scarlett.
“Just do it. You are never gonna get out of it,” Van adds.
Dove ignores the whole thing. She knows perfectly well I will capitulate.
“All right, all right. Maybe one song. And someone has to sing with me. I don’t know the words of songs! Shit!”
“I call bullshit,” Argon says, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. “You know one for sure.”
Van starts laughing. Oh crap. I know exactly what he’s thinking. “Louie Louie’s” infamous dirty lyrics were enjoyed by The Lyon brothers, ad nauseam.
“I have to be drunker than I am to sing that one. It’s not for mixed company.”
“Listen, take your seats and this can be informal. The lyrics are on the screen if you can’t recall them. But this is a night for fun, so there are no wrong lyrics or bad voices,” Dove instructs. “We also have your songs on a playlist and you can sing along with the original artist if you feel better doing that.”
“That’s right. You can do a group singalong or go it on your own. Who wants to go first?” My father is into this whole thing, it’s obvious he’s raring to go.
“Gaston, why don’t you start? Oh! And every time a new performer comes to the stage, we have to take a shot!”
That gets everyone’s attention. Van’s all for it, but looks like he and Dove are alone in their opinion.
“We will be on the floor by the fourth singer! Let’s do every other song. Or third one,” the voice of reason says.
“You’re right, Aurora. Okay, every third song. Because once this gets going, we could be singing for hours.”
My woman has faith in her ideas. I reach for one of the tequila bottles on the coffee table and pour myself a shot of liquid courage. Dad lifts his and Mom’s glasses and I fill theirs too.
“To my family. Glad I landed in your world.”
There are toasts all around, and once again the two teenagers are bummed with their Cokes. My father rises and makes his way to the karaoke machine and microphone.
“Testing, one, two, three.”
“What are you going to sing, Grandpa?” Teddy asks.
“Teddy, my first selection…”
He’s interrupted by the rooms’ reactions. Laughter mostly.
“First? How many are you going to delight us with tonight?” Aargon says.
“As many as you request, son. I don’t really see the night ending early.”
The tequila is downed, and he clears his throat.
“As I was saying, my first choice is a song that has meant so much to me over the years. I think we should start with a love song. You will know it too and I encourage anyone who does to sing along. Don’t be embarrassed that I happen to be a better singer than any of you.”
He eyes Dove and rethinks his last comment. “With one exception that is.”
“Thank you, Gaston.”
“Hey, what about us?” Sam says loudly.
“Yeah! We both sing in our band.”
“Okay, okay. I’m the best singer with the exception of Dove, Sam, and Teddy. But that’s it.”
“Mom’s got a pretty voice,” Scarlett adds.
“Jesus, people! I guess you are all better than me. Just shut the hell up and enjoy the performance!”
We are laughing so hard and the singing hasn’t started yet. A nod from my dad signals Dove to play the chosen song. “Brick House” begins to the screams of laughter from the audience.
“Love song?” Sam says.
“Most definitely. I hear ya, Dad!” Van calls between the beat.
Watching my parents groove to their generation’s music is something great. I don’t know how they did it, but my father still sees my mother as that young woman he wanted to sleep with. And she sees him as the sexy bohemian artist with a cut body. For them, things have not changed.
We all know the words to the Commodores’ classic seventies song. Parish and Scarlett are dancing with their drums and Teddy and Sam accompany on guitar. Whether the woman in the song is mighty mighty or letting it all hang out, everyone here can identify with the image. Even the kids. I think back to when I was sixteen and wanting to lose my virginity.
As the tune ends, my mother rises and wraps her arms around the singer, who is happy to oblige.
“That was great, Gaston! Let’s give our first performer a big round of applause!” Dove says clapping.
“I’ll go next. I can’t be any worse than the last guy,” Van says.
“That’s gratitude for you. I taught you how to piss r
emember.”
Sam and Teddy find that very funny.
“And I thank you for that, Dad. I might not have figured it out on my own.”
“Smart ass.”
Picking up the mic, Van announces his selection in soft reverent tones. “The boys and I are going to be singing one of our favorites and an ode to women everywhere, “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix A Lot. Also known as I Like Big Butts. We have spent two weeks memorizing this, so we deserve best of the night. Just sayin’.”
The boys take their places on either side of their uncle and leave their guitars behind. Out of a bag next to the karaoke machine come two cheap blonde wigs which they quickly don. They are the backup singers I take it. Dove finds the tune on the playlist and hits play. The sound of two girls talking about big asses tells me this is the extended explicit version. Sam and Teddy play the girls perfectly, mouthing the dialogue and overacting their parts. That’s what makes it funny.
Itty bitty waists and round things in your face bring smiles and laughter and more than one person sings along. Specifically Scarlett, Parish, and my father. Why am I surprised he knows the words? Of course he does. Aargon stays silent, but he’s loving it too. When Van compares himself to a turbo Vette, my mother’s mouth drops in fake insult. She’s digging it just like the rest of us.
When the song ends, the guys get a huge round of applause.
“I told you,” Van says, proud of the performance. He bows and the boys follow suit.
“This is the third song coming up. Tequila time. Gaston, will you do the honors?” Dove says.
“Yes, of course. I pour a proper shot.”
“Which is actually two at once,” my mother says. “I guess I’ll go,” she says standing.
Taking her place in front of the family she takes the microphone.
“My selection is “Dream a Little Dream of Me” made famous by Mama Cass. This is the song I sang to all my children when I tucked them in. I hope it brings back good memories. Tonight, it is dedicated to Mr. Invisible. Happy birthday, son. I love you dearly.”
Oh shit. A note hasn’t been sung yet, and there’s a lump in my throat. Lucky for me, there are tears in Aragon’s eyes and Scarlett’s so I won’t be the only crybaby. Van’s head is hung, but I expect he feels the same way. Dove is biting her lip. Only the boys are clueless what this means to us.
With a nod to Dove, the opening notes fill the room. My heart is full too. Full of the sweetness of my mother and all the ways she gave love to her children. The voice is soft and pure, just as I remember. When she sings say nitey nite and kiss me, I’m transported back to the old bedroom, where the three of us boys slept in bunk beds. I remember hearing the same goodnight song through the wall as she would sing to Kristen and Scarlett.
Whatever my dreams may be, she asks that I dream a little dream of her. Looking across the room I see Parish holding back his emotions. The loss he suffered years back surfaces every so often in tears that are impossible to stop. That’s what Scarlett told me once when we were talking about his young son’s fatal shooting. She takes his hand, and he holds on tight. I see the white knuckles from here.
Oh hell. That does it. A fat tear streams down my cheek and my brothers look like they’re feeling it too. Now Dad lets go. And when he does, Mom gets choked up too.
I’ve learned you never know what is going to trigger memories of Kristen. The whistle at the end of the song was always our young selves’ favorite part, because mom’s the best whistler in the family. But tonight, it is broken up by a tight throat.
“That’s it! Oh my God. Didn’t mean to make us upset. I’m sorry. It’s just that the memory is one of my favorites. I miss those early days.”
I get up and go to her, taking her in my arms and whispering in her ear, “I love you, Mom. Thank you for everything.”
She whispers back, “Love you too, son. More than you could ever know.”
“This calls for another shot,” Aargon says, grabbing the bottle.
“Give me some of that,” Parish adds.
No one argues the point. Rules or not. Scarlett stands.
“Okay. I hereby proclaim a change of mood. Our turn. It’s going to be a trio. Parish and Aargon are not interested in performing. But I am! So, eyes on me, and hopefully they make it through an entire song without having heart attacks.”
“Oh God. Let’s get it over with,” Aargon says, joining my sister and soon to be brother-in-law. He downs the tequila and wipes away the last of the tears.
“Hit it,” Parish says.
“Wait! The hats!”
She digs in the bag and comes out with three baseball caps. Hers says Star and theirs each say Stick In The Mud #1 and Stick In The Mud #2. As the familiar song begins, Scarlett is dancing around the room to the familiar instrumental, using arms and hips to make her point. Thing 1 and 2 have borrowed the parents’ kazoos, and they stand blowing the general tune and pouring fresh shots. But the laughter from the family, and their general haze of alcohol, amuses them so much they begin to get into the spirit.
As their big moment arrives, they shout, “Tequila!” And so does everyone else.
Scarlett’s dancing recital continues, but it’s the two drunks that have the spotlight. When Aargon attempts a move that requires more talent than simply standing, he gets off balance. Thing 2 comes to his aid with an outstretched arm. Parish shouts, “Tequila!” But it isn’t the right time. He’s ahead of the lyric and that is funnier to them and us than if he had been on target.
“You assholes!” Scarlett yells across the room. But she’s laughing. “You’re ruining my performance!”
“I have to sit down,” Aargon suddenly says.
“Help him, Parish.”
“Me help him? Okay.”
The song continues to play and builds to its final notes, but all eyes are on my brother as he flops down in the club chair. And at the right moment he looks up through bloodshot eyes and says, “Tequila!”
“Oh Lord,” my mother says.
The drunk looks up for a moment. “I’m good. Continue.”
Dove gets ahold of the microphone and takes charge.
“That leaves Nobel and me.”
My expression sends her a message. Can you do this without me? She retrieves a barstool sitting behind the karaoke machine and pats the seat. Van moves another right next to it.
“Come on, get up here. I have something picked out for us and it won’t hurt too much, all you have to do is sit and look at me adoringly. Come on, baby.”
Aargon perks up.
“Ohhhhh. You calling him baby? I like it, Dove. He is a big baby.”
The insult only worked when we were between the ages of five and eight. He used to call me that and the words would make me totally pissed off crazy. In our young world, there was no greater put down than being accused of being babyish. The moniker lost its sting about thirty-five years ago. But that’s what makes this funny. He knows it too and chuckles in his stupor.
I rise and head for the stage. I’m very happy about this new direction. No singing, and I can look at her adoringly all day. As I sit, she gives me a quick kiss.
“This is for my birthday boy.”
She nods to Teddy and he presses a button on the karaoke machine. The opening notes of Rihanna’s “Stay” begin. I told her I thought of us whenever I heard this song. The room quiets to listen and to watch as she gives of herself to the person and everyone is charmed. Tonight the gift comes to me, even though in my heart I know it’s meant for the world. But God knows I want her to stay.
14
Dove
Adjusting the skirt of the dress, I catch my barefoot image in the dressing room mirror.
“What about this one?”
Deborah is a reliable judge of what looks good on me or not. She’s rarely critical but always truthful. That talent has been honed over the years. I rely on her take more than my own. Almost all of my stage clothes she has picked.
“I still like the fi
rst one. It shows off your legs. Besides, the color is gorgeous.”
Looking in Macy’s mirror I get her point. This is beautiful but a little generic.
“Let me try it on one more time,” I say, peeling off the rejected frock.
“Are we sure showing off my legs is a good idea at a wedding? I don’t want to look like I’m going to the club.”
I step into the royal blue, discounted, affordable designer dress.
“It’s a good idea. Play to your strength.”
“This one is seventy-nine. It’s pretty pathetic. I can barely afford that much. But it’s good, right?”
Before Deborah answers a familiar ping sounds. I got a text.
“Let me see who this is.”
Retrieving the phone sitting atop my purse, I stare at the name. Arthur James? Arthur James!!
“Oh my God!” I holler.
Deborah, who had been looking down at her own phone, jumps with my scream. “Fuck! You scared the shit out of me!”
I turn the screen to her.
“Oh my God! What did he say? Read it!”
With shaking hands, I bring up the text. I can’t help but remember the unfortunate circumstances of our last phone conversation two years ago. Hope things have changed.
* * *
Arthur: Afternoon, Dove. I was given a cut of your song “Mined” recorded at Cosgrove Studios in May. I’d like to speak with you. Are you and the band available for a Zoom call tomorrow at one?
* * *
“He wants to have a Zoom call tomorrow. With the band.”
That’s all I can get out before tears blur the screen and interrupt the words.
“Answer him!! Oh, Dove.”
“Don’t you want to? Shouldn’t it come from our manager?”
“Not this time. I think you should make the personal connection. Let’s see what he has to say.”
Her arms surround me with the compassion and shared joy only a best friend can offer. And the excitement a manager does. She is the only person outside the band that understands what this could mean to us. Could being the operative word. I untangle and try to compose the right response.