Banjo Man

by Sally Goldenbaum

  “Rick,” she said, brushing away her anger with a smile, “in my big, middle-class, Irish Catholic family, common sense, practicality, tenacity, hard work—those are things to be treasured. Not dreams. But my family meant me no harm.”

  “Were you harmed?” He asked it softly, his gaze lingering on the faint worry line above her honeyed brows, the solemn set of her delicate jaw, the deep shadows behind her wide gray eyes.

  Laurie shook her head earnestly. “No, oh, no. I learned a lot during those years, saw into one part of myself I might never have tried to get to know otherwise. I made many dear friends, rubbed elbows with truly good, fine people. But I could never focus as clearly as I needed to, could never take that leap. I guess it was because”—she hid her smile behind her hand, but not before he had caught a glimpse of it—“I kept dreaming. Even in the convent, when I was trying so hard to adjust, dreams would fill my head at night. And in the day-time, too, when I was walking through the garden on the way to matins, or sitting at a window with the sun spilling through. Or even when I was teaching, when a class went especially well and some eager face would light up with understanding at something I had said. All those times, and so many others, I was filled with the feeling that I had to be part of this life again. Had to leave behind some of those restraints and be free to step back in, open my arms, and take what might come!”

  “Whew! You’re as bad as I am, darlin’. Ask the right question and we do know how to talk, the two of us.”

  “You know”—Laurie leaned across the table, grinning, her chin propped on her hand—“I think that was the worst. The single thing that drove me away. The silence. No one to talk to. To hear. To listen. Sometimes I thought I’d explode and go flying into space, whirling in the darkness, searching, searching for someone to understand, to share—”

  “Someone to ride to the moon with.”

  She gulped air in a gasp. “Oh, is that it? Do you feel it too?”

  Rick Westin sat quiet for a moment, a hint of surprise and wariness darkening his eyes. Then he smiled and pushed his chair away from the table.

  “Come on, I’d better get the check and walk you back. Wouldn’t want you to get fired and have to return to your old line of work, now, would we?”

  Without thinking, he wrapped an arm cozily around her waist as they started back down the Mall, but then she felt him stiffen and his hand dropped to his side. They walked along for a moment, silent.

  Rick ached to touch her, but did he dare?

  Laurie craved the warmth and delight of his touch; it was such a newfound pleasure! But now what? Would it all start again, the restraint and isolation, the loneliness? All because she had told him—

  Oh, she couldn’t stand it! She just couldn’t!

  Feeling slightly dizzy with desperation, she slipped a hand around his arm, and held on.

  Rick grinned, bent his arm to trap her hand tightly between his forearm and biceps, and strode on with a new jauntiness in his step.

  “Slow down!” Laurie laughed, her heart doing happy somersaults.

  “Are you kidding? I could leap, dance, kick up my heels, fling up my cap if I had one, Laurie O’Neill! You make me feel good, darlin’.”

  “I’m feeling none too bad myself, Banjo Man.” She giggled, drunk on his excitement. “How do you expect me to work this afternoon?”

  “Quickly! And then it’ll be evening, and I’ll look out into the audience and see your bright, shining face. Promise?”

  “I will try, Rick. Honest!”

  “I’ll settle for that. And this.” He lowered his face to hers and she felt his breath warm on her lips and then the dizzying pressure of his mouth, sweet and hot and more delicious than anything she had ever known.

  And then he flashed that grin. “Ummm, I could get used to this!”

  He waved from the corner, a lean, dark-haired man with gypsy eyes and a banjo. Laurie flung her hand up in response, and then fairly danced up the steps of the Rayburn Building.

  Four

  The Stage Theater always drew a good crowd. But ever since Rick Westin had begun playing there, four years before, there was hardly ever an available seat. Those early audiences had told their friends, and friends had told other friends, and the word had spread. It was a “must” for out-of-town guests. Students from Georgetown caught the metro and rode over just before show time, hoping to take advantage of a last-minute cancellation.

  The man had become something of a folk hero.

  It was not, Rick privately thought, what you’d expect for a guy who spent half the year riding his ’cycle through the hills and hidden valleys of the Appalachians, wearing worn jeans and work boots, a banjo strapped behind the seat. But what he learned out there, the banjo playing, the ballads, the tall tales and rowdy jokes, the good ghost stories, all were transformed into magic on the stage. The audience loved him. And every night, from November to April, at eight o’clock, things began to sizzle.

  At seven fifty-five a cab slid to a stop at the corner of Sixth and Maine.

  Laurie was late! She’d die if she had to walk in once the lights were dimmed. Heads would turn. He’d see her!

  It was all her own fault! She had spent all evening deciding not to come. Ellen was glued to the phone, hoping for a long-distance call from her boyfriend, Dan. Laurie could think of no one else to ask. Then, at seven, staring at a frozen TV dinner, she had a swift, absolute change of mind. No more hiding, no more saying no to life, no more turning back.

  So here she was, in a silk print dress borrowed from Ellen’s closet, balancing on a pair of sling-back high heels, stuffing a five-dollar bill into the cabbie’s hand and not waiting for change.

  “Hey, missy, thanks a lot!”

  “You’re welcome,” she called back, and raced to the main entrance.

  Handing her ticket to the man at the door, she could feel her heart knocking against her ribs.

  He took it, then frowned at her. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t for tonight’s performance.”

  Laurie swallowed hard. “What? But … but there must be some mistake. Rick … I mean, Mr. Westin gave it to me.” With an ice-cold hand she reached down and turned the ticket over clumsily. “He signed his name back here, see, and told me—”

  “Oh! Sorry, miss. My mistake.” He smiled. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “That’s okay.” She gave a shy little laugh. “I tend to scare easily. And I hated to come in after the curtain was up.”

  “Curtain? I guess you haven’t seen the show before. Go ahead; you’re in for a nice surprise.”

  A young girl with a ponytail met her inside the door and handed her a program. “This way, please.” She led Laurie down a narrow hall, down two steps, and into a good-sized, brightly lit room. It was filled with small tables circled by wooden chairs, all occupied by people whose attention was focused on the stage.

  On the stage were a single table and chair, and the now-familiar assortment of banjo cases. And Rick.

  He was standing stage left, tuning a five-string banjo and talking to a large group seated at a table up front.

  The ponytail swung sideways as Laurie’s usherette called up to the stage. “Mr. Westin, is this who you were waiting for?”

  Laurie froze.

  Rick swung their way, grinned, and nodded. “Sure is! Now, folks, we can get started.”

  There was a hearty round of applause and a few whistles. By then Laurie had melted into her seat, her cheeks aflame, her heart doing cartwheels in her throat.

  The lights dimmed and a spotlight caught Rick.

  “These first songs are presented exactly as sung by Miss Ada Selves in Hilltop, Kentucky. Miss Ada is ninety-seven, and has a tongue like a whip. She was real particular about my getting the words set down ‘jest right,’ and believe me, I keep tryin’.”

  The banjo twanged, and Rick’s rich baritone filled the room with “The Wagoner’s Lad.”

  He sang “The Swapping Song” and “The Wayfaring Stranger”
and “Cock Robin.”

  Laurie listened so intently, it was as if she were trying to absorb him through all her senses. Eagerly she took in the husky baritone, the lightning swiftness of his hands on the strings, the lean, dark power of his body as he moved around the stage. The spotlight found sparks in his hair and eyes; his smile beguiled her.

  When he stopped playing, she could almost hear the audience’s held breath before the applause broke out.

  Rick brushed an arm across his brow and grinned. “One summer I was ridin’ through Alabama. The bugs were so bad that year, they named the mosquito the state bird.” Accepting their laughter with a broad wink, he slung a different banjo over his shoulder and strummed a few chords.

  “Now, here’s one for that ‘fair, pretty lass’ who was brave enough to come see me tonight.” His dark eyes burned into Laurie’s soul. She sat, hypnotized, while all the waves of panic and excitement stilled into a deep, calm pool of happiness.

  He sang only to her:

  Come take my hand,

  We’ll fly away,

  Into the sky, away from here.

  On wings of love,

  And my sweet tune,

  We’ll fly to the moon, and linger there.

  Laurie gulped and held her smile steady, but inside she had begun to tremble. Something was stirring, awakening deep within her, unfolding like a bud, a closed hand, a locked heart. It hurt. How much would he ask, this Banjo Man? And how much did she dare?

  The rest of the show was a haze through which her turbulent feelings swirled and stormed. Oh, she laughed at the right places, and applauded, and really did hear the sweet, haunting melodies and the rich beauty of his voice. But it was all filtered through her longing and confusion.

  She could watch his hands on the strings, and suddenly she’d be seeing them unbuttoning her blouse. She could hear the stamp of his boot heel in time to the music, and suddenly she was imagining the hard shape of his thigh. Just a flash of white teeth behind his grin, and she felt the hot sweetness of his mouth on hers.

  She banished the thoughts by picturing the dark notes and scales written on clean white sheets of paper, and was suddenly swept by the thought that she’d want to make love to him in the morning, so that she could see the wonder of him in pale light filtering through the window.

  With a groan she sipped her cola, holding the ice in her mouth till her tongue was numb.

  Finally the show ended. Amidst a roar of applause, Rick took his bows, his dark, handsome face exultant, his eyes shining. People crowded to the front, asking about songs and places, wanting him to repeat the “jump” line to the ghost stories so they could go home and scare their kids at bed-time the next evening.

  And then they left, in groups and couples, all talking and laughing together, like guests invited to a party. The lights began to dim; the ushers straggled in to clean tables and straighten chairs. There was nothing left for Laurie to do but face Rick alone.

  He made it easy. Leaping down from the stage, he strode over and caught her in his arms.

  “Laurie O’Neill, I am so glad you came. Not that I doubted you would.” He laughed. “No, not for one second. But boy, was I glad to see you walk through that door! Ummm …” He hugged her tight, nuzzling his chin into her neck until she giggled to hide the rush of desire that flooded every part of her. “Oh, you smell so good. Feel so good. And”—he held her away at arm’s length while his eyes traveled slowly over her body—“and look so good, all soft and silken.”

  His words hushed to a whisper against her hair, and for a second Laurie forgot where she was, and felt herself spinning in space.

  Then she heard chairs scraping against the floor and the lively chatter of the crew, and she pulled away, laughing. “Hey, you are a crazy man.”

  “Yup. Crazy. Wild. Wild about you! Can I take you home and nibble on your ear for a while? Just for a day or two?”

  “No! Hush!”

  “Okay, then how about your nose? Your lips? Your chin?”

  Laurie’s soft laughter was edged with arousal. “Stop it, Banjo Man! Are you always like this after a show?”

  Rick turned to the crew and flung out his arms in mock innocence. “Gang, am I always like this after a show?”

  “Yes!” came the chorused reply.

  “Don’t believe them!” He spun back and caught Laurie around the waist, almost lifting her off her feet. “No, it’s you. You have me flyin’ high, darlin’! Come on, let’s say good night to these traitors and head for my place.”

  Before she could say a word, Rick had grabbed her hand and led her out of the theater.

  The night sky was black and endless, pierced by a million pinpoints of starlight. It hung so close above the quiet city that Laurie was sure she could reach up and touch it. A perfect night.

  They walked along in silence for a moment, Laurie’s hand curved inside Rick’s, enjoying this single point of contact, its innocence and promise.

  Rick’s voice, husky with desire, broke the stillness. “Will you come home with me?”

  Laurie didn’t answer.

  “We could get a bite to eat. Sit and talk. Whatever you want.”

  Silence. And the pounding of her heart in her ears.

  “Laurie? What do you say, sweet thing?”

  “I think I’d better get back to the apartment.” Her thin voice sounded strained and sad.

  Rick was silent, his brain reeling off arguments, persuasions, often-used lines. He kept them trapped behind his tight, clenched jaw, wanting her, yet knowing how easy it would be to frighten her away.

  “Rick, I really do have to go to work tomorrow. And it’s late—”

  “I know, darlin’. Trouble is, part of me says, ‘Go slow, take it easy with her,’ and another part of me”—he licked his dry lips—“well, I’m dyin’ to take you in my arms and love you!”

  The black night air pressed down, heavy and still, upon them. Laurie shivered. She tried to clear the cobwebs from her head, to still the feelings welling up within her.

  “Rick, I can’t. I’m not ready.”

  “I know.” He drew a deep, harsh breath, filling his head with the cool air, trying to get the earth to steady beneath his feet. “Okay, then, home it is! My Jeep’s parked around back. Just ten minutes and you’re back safe in your ivory tower.”

  “Rick!” There was no hiding the hurt in her voice.

  “I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hand tightly, hating himself. “I am sorry, Laurie. It’s late, and I’m beat, and the show gets me wild sometimes.”

  Leading her to a stripe of moonlight, he stopped, his gaze resting on her face. “Sometimes you have to listen to my words with half an ear, and to my heart for what I’m really saying. ‘Always interpret everything in the most favorable sense.’ Isn’t that a kind of convent maxim, or something?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ll take your word for it.” She grinned, knowing she was being teased. She cocked her head to one side, meeting his dark glance and feeling the immediate quickening of her pulse. Impulsively she added, “The one thing I do know for sure is that you were great on that stage. I loved the show, Rick; it was wonderful! In fact, you’re wonderful.”

  Rick looked down on her face long and hard, his eyes tracing the moonbeams as they played across her smooth cheekbones and danced in the shadows of her hair. The restraint in his voice was tinged with a low and sensual desire. “That is exactly what I intend to prove to you, sweet thing, and not on any stage, either!”

  Five

  “A guinea pig! A porcupine!” Laurie snapped, glaring at the window in the senator’s office.

  “What? On Independence Avenue? I don’t believe it.”

  “No, Paula.” Laurie groaned, turning around and tugging at her hair with both hands. “No, it’s me. My hair. I look like a guinea pig that’s slept wrong.”

  Paula yelped with laughter, then settled her face into a more solicitous expression. “Now, dear,” she said soothingly, “the color is just gorgeou
s, but the cut … well, it is a bit odd. But then, I don’t suppose they have a wide choice of beauticians in a convent.”

  “Beauticians?” Laurie echoed with a wry grin. “No, this was strictly do-it-yourself haircut time. You’d reach up to feel your hair, and anything long enough to grab, you cut off. At night. In the dark.”

  “No mirrors?”

  “Vanity.”

  “No long, lazy shampoos and manicures?”

  “Sloth.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Oh, my is right! Just look at this mess. I made an appointment for noon at a little beauty parlor near my bus stop, but now I don’t think I can even last till lunchtime. It never really bothered me before, but I took a good look at myself over the weekend, and suddenly I can’t wait to make some changes.” She didn’t mention that the self-examination had been prompted by her discussions with Rick.

  Paula shook her head, smiling. But she understood the younger woman’s sudden self-consciousness. “I know what you mean, dear. First time I found some gray, I rushed out and bought the biggest bottle of hair color I could find.”

  “Did you feel better … prettier?”

  “No.” Paula grinned. “It turned my hair green. But I do understand. Here”—she reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a small, square kerchief—“if it makes you feel better, you can borrow this until noon. Now, work!”

  At five before twelve, Laurie was rushing out the door of the Rayburn Building just as Rick rushed in.

  “Oh, excuse me,” he apologized automatically, stepping aside to let the strange woman in the babushka go by. Then he did an abrupt double take. “Laurie? What in the world are you doing? I know …” He waved her to silence. “It’s a costume party, and you’re going as a Russian peasant. Lovely! I’ll go as Zorba the Greek.” He pulled open the front of his shirt, lifted his arms, and did a quick little folk step.

  “Funny, Mr. Westin. Very funny,” Laurie scolded, narrowing her eyes in mock anger.

  “No?” he asked, slipping an arm around her waist.