“Yeah,” D.J. agreed, “they don’t expect you to look good.”
That careless remark did it! I erupted in a flurry of activity, demanded my overnight case, combed my hair and redid my long ponytail, washed my face and applied lipstick, all while flinching with pain. Even D.J. thought I was a woman possessed, but my pride and vanity wouldn’t allow me to be seen by the McKays looking like death-warmed-over.
After D.J. went to get them, I asked my mother to help prop me up in the bed with the pillows. When at last I felt ready to receive them, Cassie Villalobos leveled a steady, accusatory look on me. Clearly, my mother felt I was showing my insecurity by putting on airs, trying to appear worthy of my wealthy, upper crust in-laws, when she, herself, or any of my Latino family never felt the need to impress anyone. It was a difference in outlook that even I myself couldn’t explain. All I knew was that I wanted D.J. to be proud of me, to never feel embarrassed or ashamed of me. Regardless of my upbringing.
There was a mild clamoring in the hospital hallway as the nurse carrying our baby boy met up with the three McKays. Exclamations of pride and murmurs of praise and amusement swept into the room along with the nurse ushering in the visitors.
To my surprise and niggling resentment, it was Liz McKay who walked in holding little Jamie. She was making cooing sounds and letting Matt stroke the baby gingerly even before Eva and D.J. had held the little tyke. Having wanted to be the first one to hold my baby, other than the nurses, of course, I felt disappointment weigh upon the joy of the moment. No one seemed to notice, though, so caught up were the McKays and D.J. in the exultation of welcoming in the first McKay grandson. Already Matt and Big Jim were crowing over this fact.
“James McKay! My first grandson—by God, I’m going to leave him my ranch. None of my sons want to live there,” he groused good-naturedly. “Matt here won’t settle down. Hates the ranch. And the older boys can only produce girls, it seems.” He shut up when Liz elbowed him gently in the arm.
“Eva, what’s his middle name? We gotta initialize him, too,” Matt was saying, taking a moment to come over to the bed and kiss me on the cheek.
“He has two middle names,” D.J. interjected, “Enrique Villalobos…after Evie’s father. We can’t call him J.E.V.” D.J. smiled drily as the three asked him to repeat what he’d said, having a hard time understanding him as his voice began to disappear.
“He said we can’t call him J.E.V,” Matt spoke for the ailing and forcibly silent D.J. “Enrique Villalobos’s his middle name.”
The elder McKays’ faces fell like a ton of bricks.
“I’m going to call him Jamie,” I announced proudly.
The McKay grandparents froze, apparently considering my abrupt, foregone announcement as a right that I’d usurped from them. Matt jumped in to defend her.
“Why, I like that. Jamie. Little Jamie McKay.”
“I do, too,” D.J. croaked hoarsely, nodding his head in earnest at the baby’s mother. “My son, Jamie.”
I held out her arms in supplication although one was still hooked up to an IV drip. Understanding my desire to hold my baby, D.J. gently pulled the child from his reluctant grandmother, rocked the baby a little, then tenderly placed the swathed, little bundle in my arms. Overcome with relief and happiness, I leaned back and stared at my newborn son’s face. All pinched and frowning, even in sleep, little Jamie had no clue about the strong-minded, powerful and talented family into whose legacy he’d been born.
In Liz McKay’s eyes, I perceived a shrewd speculation about the important role the little one would play in her husband, Big Jim’s life. Wearing a smart navy-blue and white, St. John’s knit suit and adorned with diamonds and sparkling, gold jewelry, the McKay matriarch glanced at Eva’s mother, gave a wan smile at my mother’s fulsome appearance, then studiously ignored her. The McKay patriarch, Big Jim, had removed his ubiquitous, black Stetson and, his big arms folded over an ample chest, was now gazing with unabashed proprietorship at the newborn.
“Yep,” Big Jim declared, “that boy’s gotta be raised on the ranch. Every generation of McKay men’ve been raised there…five generations worth. Ever since ol’ Great Granddad McKay bought the place in 1884. If Jim, John and Matt had sired sons, I would’ve said the same thing to them. Instead, Jim and John produced girls and, though cute as buttons they are, those pretty little things have no use for the ranch either. They’re into shopping and cheerleading and tennis. Now that John’s moved to Dallas, Jim and Matt’s in Austin and D.J.’s prancing on stage and wearing wigs and makeup like a San Francisco queer—”
I glanced over at D.J. who, in trying so hard to impress and please his father with his outstanding operatic career, had succeeded only in creating the only achievement Big Jim would ever acknowledge him for—a grandson. D.J.’s eyes met mine and although he made a point of rolling his eyes in exaggerated exasperation, I could sense his hurt feelings; his cheeks flushed with red spots. Big Jim was just being his usual garrulous, blunt speaking self but Eva knew his remarks cut deeply.
Hopefully, D.J. was finally accepting the fact that nothing on God’s green earth was ever going to change Big Jim McKay. A cultured icon, he was not nor ever would be. He’d no more understand the significance of D.J. playing the role of a lifetime—a tenor Mephistopheles—than he could appreciate the creative genius of Charles Gounod, the composer.
“So I say the boy should be raised on the McKay spread,” Big Jim repeated, challenging the others to rebuke the idea.
“But Dad, D.J. and Eva’ve made Houston their home base.” This was Matt, playing peacemaker of the family.
Liz McKay darted a worried look at me; I was not exactly prone to speaking my mind in front of the McKays. But Liz also knew the diva in me was proud of my two-story home in Kingwood, and both D.J. and I had lavished money on redecorating it.
“Dear, this may not be the time—”
D.J. broke in, finally losing patience with his father’s peremptory decisions. “Dad, we’ve got a great home. We’re happy here in Houston. The opera house is near. The airport’s close by.”
Thank you, D.J., my look to him said.
Big Jim wasn’t listening. “Your house in Kingwood’s got only five bedrooms, D.J. Where’re you going to put everyone who comes to visit the little one? The rooms are cramped, bathrooms too small…Besides, we’ve got a staff at the ranch to take care of all our needs. Eva’d never have to cook or clean. She can spend her free time caring for my grandson. And her daughter. You’re gone half the time, D.J., so what do YOU care? Out running around Europe and all over…Probably why you can’t talk today. You’re singing in cold, wet climates, wearing yourself out. I’m trying to make it easy on your wife here…and yep, I want to see my grandson every chance I get. I’m not getting any younger…”
I noted the exchanged look between Liz McKay and her son, Matt. There was something in their faces of foreboding, something that they hadn’t shared with either D.J. or me. Probably because D.J. had been abroad and because I’d been happily distracted, preparing for the baby. I had a feeling that D.J. and I would learn soon…
Even now, I was observing Big Jim’s stooped posture, the thinness of his face, the shadowed, haunted look in his eyes even though he tried to hide it with a kind of boisterous, manly chauvinism. Ever loquacious and domineering, the McKay patriarch didn’t appear ready to relinquish his control over his clan quite yet. He’d fight kicking and bellowing every step to the grave.
From the sudden pale, drained look on D.J.’s face, the truth about his father was dawning on him as well. He stared at his father with a slackened mouth.
“Let them think on it, dear,” Liz urged her husband, mollifying him with a show of reason, “After all, they’re overwhelmed with the birth of their son. Jim, let them think on it. I’m sure they’ll come around to your way of thinking.”
Big Jim harrumphed, pinning D.J. with a look of challenge. To his credit, D.J. didn’t take the bait. He just shrugged a noncommittal reply, glancin
g at Matt as if to ask: What’s the deal here? His older brother was no help at the moment, though, preferring to stare down at his shoes, not risking direct eye-contact or communication. Yet, Matt’s tacit message of impending crisis manifested itself in a way that D.J. understood.
“Big Jim, would you like to hold little Jamie?” I asked, my heart giving way to my father-in-law. A part of me realized the man was just trying to preserve a tradition in his family that he held dear and a family that he was losing control over. Everything—perhaps life itself—was slipping away from him. Whatever the problem was, I wanted to distract the man with our little bundle of joy.
With surprise, Big Jim looked down at little Jamie. A tender look of love enveloped his expression, smoothing out his haggard features with an inner light that made me envision the handsome man he once was. Maybe a future glimpse at my own husband’s face.
“Why sure, if you think he’ll be okay,” Big Jim gushed with pleasure.
When I handed up the tiny, sleeping baby to him, the big man cradled his arms and held him as if he were holding a blanket full of eggs. Precious, invaluable Tiffany eggs made for a Czar.
“James McKay,” he said, dropping the middle names—to my mother’s sardonic frown—”the next generation of McKay men. He kinda takes after my great Uncle Bill McKay. Family said he had a little Indian in him. That’s okay, little man. They were here first, so you can be gosh darn proud of that heritage. I’m going to do you proud, little Jamie. You’ve got a bullheaded Irish grandpa who’s gonna do you proud. You’re gonna get my ranch and everything on it.”
He dipped his head and gave the newborn a light peck on his tiny, creased forehead. Even Matt was astonished. D.J. was frozen in his shock. Never before had the two brothers seen such a sign of genuine, warm affection from their father for any living creature. Well, maybe except for his prize half-Arabian stallions he’d put to stud. Was the old man cracking up, their looks seemed to be asking.
D.J. looked at me as if to say, Girl, whatever you want, it’s yours. You’ve just created a miracle.
* * * *
Eva smiled again at the photo taken in the hospital by Matt. The days and months that followed, she barely remembered. Her life was all of a sudden swept out of her control. Who was it who’d told her, having two children was like having six? But it wasn’t the extra work so much—after all, she had Nanny Maria to help her with the children, baby Jamie and nearly six year-old Sara. Maria Solis was a full-blooded Texican woman, a kindly widow whose children were grown and scattered all over Texas. She loved children and was bilingual in Spanish and English. Sara took to her immediately and was already able to speak short sentences in Spanish.
No, it wasn’t the children or D.J.’s frequent absences. What happened in those months after Jamie’s birth caught Eva by surprise.
Like being hit by a truck when you didn’t even realize you were standing in the middle of a road.
Chapter Twelve
Eva turned the page in the photo album. The next picture showed an already slimmed down mother just a few months after Jamie’s birth. I was standing, smiling weakly, in front of our Kingwood home, holding Jamie, a sad little Sara clutching my skirts. Disturbing. Yet, perhaps more revealing than Eva cared to admit. She was, after all, her mother’s daughter. For all the good and bad of it.
It was a rainy early-October afternoon when I drove to the airport to pick up D.J. For some reason, the run of Gounod’s Faust had been cut after only three performances and he was flying home earlier than originally expected. When she’d spoken to him on the phone that morning, he’d sounded discouraged, disheartened.
At that moment, I didn’t care. Angry, murderous thoughts swirled in my mind. Chaos ruled my emotions, causing me to weep one moment and turn to red fury the next. I’d called him in Berlin one night around midnight, German-time, and he hadn’t picked up. Two hours later, I’d called again and still no D.J. In like fashion, I’d called him repeatedly for twenty-four hours, to no avail. Now, I was ready to commit homicide.
Blood boiling insanely, I watched as he strode to my waiting car and, stuffing his suitcase in the back, settled in the passenger seat. When he leaned over to kiss me, I arched my head back. My face was streaked with tears and I’d forgotten the last time I’d put on makeup or even brushed my hair.
“What’s the matter, Evie?” he asked, alarm-stricken.
“Where were you two nights ago? I kept calling your hotel room in Berlin and you never answered.”
His eyes never left me as I pulled away from the airport curb. D.J. fastened his seat belt with an angry, wrenching motion.
“C’mon, not THAT again! Don’t you ever get tired of distrusting me? Of doubting my loyalty? What’s wrong with you, Evie, that you have to distrust me so much?”
Not ready to relinquish my anger, I repeated my question, my voice laden with vitriol.
“Where WERE you, D.J.?”
He exhaled deeply and swore an impatient oath under his breath.
“After they cancelled the rest of the run, Hugh—y’know, my Aussie buddy—was in town, so we drove over to Hamburg to look at a customized car he’s buying. He wanted to get me away from Berlin and that freakin’ fiasco of a production. We stayed overnight in Hamburg, drove back the next day and then I packed and caught the flight home.” He shot her a reproachful look. “Does THAT explanation satisfy your insecure, little mind and heart?”
Overwhelmed with guilt—for I knew how easy it’d be to verify the truth of his story—I was suddenly swamped with shame. I felt foolish and unworthy. Without warning, I erupted in uncontrollable sobs. Racked with tears that obscured my vision, I swerved on the roadway. We were nearing the on-ramp to the freeway and I struggled to keep the car on course.
“Pull over, Evie. You’re in no condition—” D.J. wrested the steering wheel away from me and steered over to the right, into a gas station’s parking lot. The car lurched from hitting the curb, jolting us harshly, and we came close to hitting a concrete stanchion.
I had enough presence of mind, though, to step on the brake, sending the car into a screeching halt, throwing us both against the steering wheel and dashboard. When D.J. turned off the key, swearing loudly, I collapsed on his shoulder, surrendering helplessly to the waves of sobs that overtook my body. Seconds later, half blind with watery vision, I let him pull me out of the car and walk me over to the passenger side.
“What’s wrong with you, baby? It can’t be about Berlin—what’s happened to you? God, are the kids okay? Evie!”
He started up the car, sidling frantic glances over to me as I tried but failed to stop weeping. I couldn’t reply, could only shake my head and sob helplessly.
At home, he helped me up to our second-story master suite, unbuttoned my leather jacket and eased me down on our bed. My head ached, my sinuses clogged, I felt a mess. I let him cover me with the spread. My crying did not abate for even a moment. An endless stream poured out of me and I was powerless to stop the flow.
“Evie, you stay there. I’m going to check on the kids and the nanny. Then I’m going to get you some hot tea, some chamomile. Okay?”
Realizing D.J. was talking to me in a cautious manner as if I were a sick child, I could only nod in compliance. My eyes closed against the blackness in my soul, the futility of it all. I was a failure as a mother, a failure as a wife, a failure as a singer. Nothing I did was right or noble or even rational. My world was a bleak, gray nothingness. A riot of disjointed, hopeless thoughts, all warring inside me. In despair and confusion, I sobbed until the comforter under my face was sodden with tears.
“Evie, drink this,” he ordered, worry edging his mellifluous voice. I didn’t know how much time had passed but the sky outside the window had darkened. The rain had stopped but not the rain inside my soul.
He helped me sit up and drink the hot liquid. It was soothing and my weeping eventually subsided into mere snuffles.
“The kids are fine. So’s Nanny Maria. She’s worried
about you, she says you’ve cooked oatmeal for dinner every day for the past week,” he said, his voice now raspy with emotion. “The baby’s gotten fed and Maria’s made sandwiches and soup for her and Sara but you’ve had nothing but oatmeal. Evie, talk to me. What’s happened to you?”
I said nothing as I finished the cup of tea. Dear God, I felt slightly better, a little more in control of my mind and emotions. Lying back down on the bed, I let him cover me again with the spread. He’d turned on the bedside lamp and had taken off his wool coat and underlying jacket. Over my shuddering sighs, I heard him kick off his shoes. With cautious movements, he lay down beside me and wrapped his arms gently around me.
The warmth of his arms and the steady play of his breath upon my forehead, as I rested my head upon his shoulder, comforted me. Finally, the black chaos in my mind quieted, and I felt ready to speak.
“Oh, D.J., I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t think, can’t concentrate on anything for very long. I start to make a roast and end up making oatmeal. It’s like I don’t have the energy to do anything except make oatmeal. I find myself standing at the stove, stirring the oatmeal, and that very act consumes me, tires me so much that I can’t even lift the spoon. Oh, God, what’s wrong with me?”
He hushed me tenderly as my voice broke into another ragged string of convulsive sobs.
“You’re scaring me, Evie.”
“I’m scaring myself,” I whispered raggedly, my sobs suddenly tearing off. Yes, that was it! I was frightened—
“I have dreams, D.J. Strange ones. Verdi comes to me—”
“Giuseppe Verdi, the composer?”
“Yes! He comes to me and tells me I am like his Violetta. Strong and weak, a witch who brings down the men in her life. He says I should die like her…of consumption.”
“Evie, you don’t have tuberculosis,” he said patiently.
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