Born to Sing, no. 1

by Donna Del Oro

  “I agree”. I clicked beer bottles with him, smiling up at his boyish enthusiasm. “My daddy wanted me to marry the farmer’s son down the road. Mama wanted me to go to Memphis and become another Dolly Parton. Ha! Imagine that!”

  D.J. laughed and clicked his bottle again. For his sake, I was forcing myself to sound cheerful and carefree. Inside, I still felt queasy and empty. And as quivery as jell-o. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the words which seared through me like a branding iron. That was it. Liz McKay had branded me as unworthy. A part of me agreed: It’s not meant to be, Eva. It never was meant to be.

  “What a waste of talent that would’ve been,” D.J. offered, “I can’t picture you a farmer’s wife but I can sure see you on stage, playing Dorabella to my Ferrando. Speaking of which, Mom wanted me to sing tonight Ferrando’s aria from Act I of Cosi Fan Tutti. For all the guests, y’know, but I told her I was off duty. Hey, it’s my birthday. I shouldn’t have to sing for my supper…or my birthday cake.”

  I smiled at his humor, and made a moue with my mouth. “I wish I could’ve afforded to buy you something nice, D.J. I brought a gift but—” I broke off, shrugging. It was a decoupaged montage of candid photos that I had Cheryl take during our rehearsals that month. Homemade and a bit cheesy, now that I was seeing first-hand the kind of background D.J. came from.

  “Hey, anything’s fine. I just wanted you to come and meet my folks.” He pulled me away from the crowd and up against a raised terrcotta urn, topped with a sculptured hedge-cone of rosemary. “You know what I want for my birthday, don’t you?”

  I smiled knowingly, decided not to play coy with him. He’d dropped enough hints over the past month.

  “Oh yes, you horny toad.”

  He pressed himself against me, his warm beery breath playing upon my face. His cheeks were rosy, like a little boy’s and his dark blue eyes glittered invitingly. Oh lord, I was going to give it up…very, very soon. For D.J., I’d do anything.

  Well, almost anything.

  “Well?” The predator in him was anything if not persistent.

  “Well, certainly not here. When we get back. I promise.”

  I watched through my own fog of desire as he inhaled deeply and smiled broadly. Or was it the sly, triumphant smile of the Cheshire Cat?

  “Thank the Lord,” he breathed, just before I socked him in the arm. “I’m getting tired of cold showers.”

  I recalled Matt’s warning just then. As soon as girls gave it up, D.J. lost interest and moved on. That warning stayed with me, even as we kissed.

  As we kissed fully on the mouth, despite the crowd nearby, I drew a few other conclusions. Falling in love meant you tried to please your lover. It didn’t mean you gave up everything else that meant anything to you. Just then, I made a sacred vow to myself.

  My oath: Never give up my singing career, wherever it took me. Whatever it cost. Never in a million years. Not as long as there was breath in my body.

  On that score, I agreed with Liz McKay.

  I had just promised the Dragon Lady that I would never cause D.J. to give up his dream. Falling in love, I reminded myself, just meant you had to be strong for the day when that love would end. When you had to walk away. Or run away. That’s what Liz McKay was trying to tell me. Be strong. Be prepared to end it.

  What was ironic was that our love affair hadn’t even begun. Not really. But we had fourteen weeks left of school. Surely not enough time to allow our love to consume all else. Fourteen weeks of joy and pleasure and then I’d have to find a way to end it.

  * * * *

  Serena, girl reporter, groaned aloud. “Oh, please tell me, you slept with that gorgeous hunk. You ignored what his mother said to you and made the most of it?”

  “Well, yes and no.” The suite’s entryway clock chimed. A half hour had passed and Eva was hungry. Holding up a hand to stall the girl, Eva picked up the receiver next to her on the Louis XV end table and ordered room service. Lunch for two. Two Asian chicken salads, a small tureen of tomato bisque soup and mineral water.

  Ah, the dramatic pause. She’d played this scene so often in the works of Mozart, Puccini, Verdi, Rossini, Gounod. Serena was perplexed, thinking Eva was deliberately evading the question.

  Well, maybe she was. It was private, a part of her story she could share with no one. She wondered if D.J. even remembered those love-filled days and nights. So much had happened during those twenty-five intervening years.

  To the world, Darren McKay was a lover on stage, a spinner of romance, a crooner of lovelorn ballads, a musical poet of heartache. In the yellow rags of what passed for celebrity journalism, he was Lothario in the flesh, had a lover in every city he played. When he appeared in concert in the States, women threw roses on stage, their phone numbers written on silk panties that landed at his feet. Women all over the world wanted the fantasy of loving him.

  “For us, music was indeed the food of love. And it played on, especially during that spring and summer.”

  Serena sighed breathily and clapped her hands together. “Oh, good.”

  Eva smiled wryly, thinking of her nineteen year-old daughter, Sarah, a sophomore at the Conservatory of Music in London. This girl, Serena, was just a few years older and so like Sarah in many ways. Earnest, outspoken, amusing.

  “Unfortunately, that topic’s not only off-the-record, it’s confidential.”

  When the girl reporter’s face fell in disappointment, Eva had to laugh. “Until lunch comes, would it help if I talked around it? I can edit out the, uh, private details.”

  The reporter smiled in return. “Better than nothing. Excuse me for a sec. Bathroom break.”

  Eva nodded and the girl disappeared down the hall.

  A memory surfaced in Eva’s mind, unbidden but certainly welcome:

  D.J. and I were sitting in his truck, about a month after the birthday barbecue. We’d been kissing for several minutes and were preparing to go into the house that D.J. shared with his buddy, Brian, and another male student. To my surprise, D.J. whipped a small, silver-foil box out of the glove compartment. Holding my breath, I untied the bow and opened it. When I held up the little, heart-shaped locket inside, I gasped with delight. It was the most beautiful thing anybody had ever given me.

  “Here, I’ll do the clasp for you.” He put it around my neck, and kissed the nape. Delicious, little shivers ran down my spine.

  “Oh, D.J, it’s lovely. I’ll need a tiny photo of you to put inside.” Truly touched, I kissed him on the mouth, letting my lips linger against his. “What can I give YOU?”

  “A scar.”

  “What?” In the darkness of the cab, I pulled back my head to see if he was joking.

  “Yeah, I’ve got scars all over my arms and legs from football, soccer, a knee scar from an accident on my brother, John’s motorcycle when I was fifteen. I was riding behind him and he took a corner too sharply. Wrecked my knee so badly, that was the end of my football. Dad was so furious, he ran over John’s bike with his biggest Deere tractor. There’s a scar on my butt where Matt’s mare, Bess, bit me—”

  By now, I was giggling. “No, seriously, what can I give you, D.J.?”

  “I AM serious. Whenever I see that scar, I’ll think of you. In case we have to go our separate ways after graduation. Here, bite me here on my arm—no, better yet, take this Swiss Army knife and cut me here, in the fleshy part.”

  I shoved him hard. “I will not! You’re crazy, D.J., if you think I’m going to do that!”

  He grew quiet for a moment, folded his knife and put it back under the driver’s seat.

  “Eva, there’s all kinds of scars. Physical ones are no big deal. They’re a reminder, that’s all. The emotional ones, those are the kind that hurt and don’t heal. I’ve got a feeling you’re going to give me that kind of scar. Big emotional scars.”

  It was my turn to be pensive. I thought of his mother’s warning, her strong message. Be strong. Prepare yourself for the ultimate breakup, however painful it might be. I d
idn’t want to be the first one to broach the topic but D.J. had opened the door.

  “Y’know, D.J., we’ll have to call it quits one day. Very soon. We’ll have to go our separate ways.”

  “Not if we get contracts with the same opera house.”

  “The chances of that are nil. You heard what Prof Nits said about getting work. You go where you can find it. We’ll end up probably thousands of miles apart. What kind of relationship can we have that way?”

  In the dim light, I could see him studying his hands. As he finally turned his head my way, his jaw was set tightly.

  “Then we’ll make the most of it while we can.”

  Throat tightening and feeling raw, I fingered my locket tenderly, already feeling the agony of our separation—

  The memory broke off as the girl reporter returned to the suite’s living room. Ever the actress, Eva smiled brightly, masking her feelings as she’d grown accustomed to doing over the years. She fingered the locket that lay hidden underneath her cashmere sweater. It gave her reassurance just touching it.

  “Miss Villa, I’d really like to hear about the first time you and Darren McKay made love…that is, if you don’t mind. I’ll tell my mother and she’ll get a vicarious kick out of it.”

  “No, I don’t mind. There’s nothing that makes me feel younger than recalling that spring and summer with D.J. McKay.”

  Oh yes, it was lovely.

  More than lovely. Sublime.

  Chapter Three

  All of a sudden, Eva sprang up from the couch, disappeared into the suite’s bedroom and emerged seconds later, holding a hardbound book.

  “Darren McKay’s memoirs. I have an autographed copy. He wrote these five years ago when he had his first bout with cancer. I think he felt his mortality for the first time in his life and wanted to force himself to recall the highlights of his life at that point. He talks about his brush with the Big C…and other things.” Eva plopped herself down again, tucking her feet underneath her. “I’d like to read you one of these chapters.”

  She tossed back a lock of bang that had flopped over her forehead. Inside, she felt young and excited, just thinking about that chapter. Which, of course, she’d read countless times.

  A relationship with Miss V., I pondered idly while my hand toyed with her long, fiery ponytail, couldn’t be just a quarter-mile sprint. It’d have to be a marathon…one with hurdles, no doubt. Was I really ready for it? I was twenty-five, selfish, spoiled, pretty much smug and feeling on top of the world most of the time. I had three super high-achievers for older brothers and a lot was expected of me. I took everything for granted— my voice, my looks, my health, our family’s wealth and position in society.

  The only thing I couldn’t take for granted, I later learned, was my relationship with Miss V. But heck, nothing worthwhile ever came easy, my daddy used to always say. And he was so right.

  With my left hand, I steered my new birthday gift—a hot new 8-cylinder, Ford F-150 pickup, Cayman blue, extended cab, spoked hubs—up to the curb outside her apartment building. It had been one helluva weekend. Seeing all the McKay relatives, showing off to Miss V. (I shamelessly admit) the family ranch, the house, all the servants and ranch-hands.

  Sure, I wanted to impress her—no, I wanted to knock her off her feet. In my youthful but callow enthusiasm, I guess I thought she’d be so impressed by the family wealth, she’d want me even more. I confess it wasn’t the first time I’d used the McKay name and status to get what I wanted. I guess it came with the territory. I’d never earned it, I took it for granted—sure, I occasionally exploited it.

  I just hadn’t counted on Miss V’s inborn humility. You see, in class and on stage, she was so poised, so self-possessed and confident. I didn’t realize at the time how intimidating all that wealth and status had been for her. How, deep in her heart, that very day she’d given me up…even before we’d begun.

  You bet your boots, I teased her about her family—they were poor, East Texas farmers, Tejanos –Texicans, some called Texas-born Mexican-Americans— but she took it so well, I’d thought the anger in response to my teasing was just posturing on her part. Y’know, the beautiful Drama Queen acting up a storm.

  Later, I learned the hurt ran deep.

  Who would’ve thought she had an inferiority complex, just because her family circumstances were unfortunate, sometimes just downright bizarre. Some of her kin had run-ins with the law, were borderline social outcasts. Others were successful ranchers. One even raised mesquite and donkeys, all on the same farm.

  Then there was her complex over her looks. Never in a million years would I have guessed that she thought of herself as gangly and unattractive. To me—and to lots of other guys—she was beautiful, slim, long-legged, with a pouty mouth I wanted to explore (and did my best to possess over the next several months). Thick, reddish brown hair that always reminded me of autumn leaves. Reds and browns in straight water-falls, all mixed together, silky to the touch.

  And she had a voice like an angel. Yeah, that sounds cliche but it was true. She could run up and down the scale in her four-octave voice, doing intricate embellishments and smooth passagios like a pro. Still is true. I’m happy to say Miss V’s still performing and she’s had an illustrious career. I’d never heard such crystal-clear high C’s and D’s above the staff before. Her voice seemed to drift down from the heavens. A true gift of the gods.

  That senior year I was so captivated by her beauty and talent, her pride and spirit, I would’ve promised her the moon. But first, I had to capture it myself. I had to prove to myself that I could earn a good living with my singing. That I could make a name for myself, a name that the McKays would be proud of. All I could give her that spring and summer were visions of future wealth and prestige. And, of course, myself in all my youthful, bullish, love-driven lust.

  We’d been riding in companionable silence for over an hour on the drive back to Austin from the ranch. I told her my folks were really taken with her, especially my daddy, who’d talked about her all that morning, while I made the rounds of the pastures with him. He’d told me to grab onto her and hold on tight. Come work for him and “take care of that pretty little thing.”

  I’d binged a little with the guys late into the night after the girls had gone to bed, and all I wanted was a save-my-soul infusion of caffeine and Dad’s encouragement with the spring opera. Big Jim was never known for his taciturnity but he said little that morning, just “take care of that pretty little thing.”

  That’s what self-respecting Texas men did, they took care of their loved ones, their families. They worked hard and did what they had to do. Leastways, that’s how I was raised.

  I should’ve listened to him. Later in my life, much later, I understood what he was trying to tell me. Nothing matters but the ones you love. I didn’t hear it at the time.

  I was a fool.

  * * * *

  Her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, Eva looked up at the girl reporter. Automatically, she cleared her suddenly clogged throat. A few sips of water helped. The girl was stone-silent, creases marring her young forehead.

  “Ohhh, nooo,” she sighed, “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

  “Well, now, it didn’t all turn out badly. Let’s get to the good part,” Eva went on quickly, turning to another dog-eared section of Darren McKay’s memoirs.

  Miss V was a lady, high-minded and highbrow, and I’d really never had a lady before. Girls—easy lays—but no lady. I was as nervous as a virgin that night. I knew she was going to let me make love to her but all of a sudden I was getting cold feet. But she was becoming a drug to me, a narcotic, and I knew I had to have her. There was no turning back even if I made a fool of myself or bungled the job somehow—I’d never had, you know, performance anxiety before. At the time, I didn’t really understand what was happening to me.

  So, with a certain amount of bravado, I pulled a six-pack out of the rear of my cab and stroked her all the way up the walk and into
her little apartment. She’d told me her roommate was spending the night with this baritone Miss V had once dated. Which was great to hear because I’d sensed that hound dog-baritone sniffing around her all year and I didn’t like it one damn bit. Miss V assured me my jealousy was unfounded but I knew better. She couldn’t see what I could—that the baritone was secretly in love with her and just waiting in the wings—but that’s a whole other story. Let’s leave that for another chapter.

  Even Miss Poise and Confidence was nervous. We’d talked about the train wreck a serious involvement would turn our career aspirations into. I think that was preying on her mind. My worries lay in another typically male’s direction. Maybe it’s a guy thing but I wanted her to be so satisfied and pleasured, that she’d see me as an Adonis. That she’d never want to let me go.

  We sat on the sofa, I think, and sipped some beer. Talked quietly about that weekend. Postponing the inevitable or savoring the anticipation, I don’t know. A moment later, we launched ourselves into each other’s arms. Her tall, lithe frame melted against mine and my hands were all over her. I felt her firm, small breasts, her hips, between her thighs—all my anxiety vanished in an instant. What was left was my all-consuming lust and my need to pleasure her.

  Believe me, I did my best. I slowed myself down and kissed her all over, tongued her to death until she was pleading me to…well, finish it.

  All the rest is a blurred haze as my memory splices in all the other times with that first one. I do recall this detail, though. Much later, totally spent, I clutched her hair with both my fists and had only one lucid thought: This girl I’m totally nuts about is going to ruin all other women for me.