“No, I know that. But Verdi says I should die…”
“Verdi doesn’t know shit, Evie. He’s been dead for a couple hundred years and you’re not going to die. Not if I can help it.” He sighed audibly, then asked, “Were you like this after Sara was born?”
“I-I was a little sad but then I went back to work…a month after her birth. I was busy and active, preparing for a role—I thought I was sad because of David’s and my relationship. It was falling apart even then. After Mama went back to East Texas, I kinda fell apart.”
“Maybe that had something to do with it but I think this is something else. Maybe it’s a kind of postpartum depression, Evie. You’re not accustomed to staying home, taking care of kids, being a fulltime mother and housekeeper. Or maybe it’s just a hormonal imbalance that’s causing it.”
My tears decreased to sniffles and I looked up at him as he raked a hand through his short, dark wavy hair. His calm explanation, like a buoy of reason, was floating up to the surface of my tortured mind. I grabbed onto it. It made sense. It had to, for what other answer was there—except the horrible possibility that I was losing my mind.
“Postpartum depression? My mother kept to her bed for almost three months after Dad died. I’ve been sleeping a lot lately, too. Ever since you left for Germany. I thought I could hold it together without you here but…I’m so sorry!”
He hugged her to him tightly. “Don’t fret, baby. We’ll see a doctor tomorrow, first thing, and get you some pills. Anti-depressants if you need them or hormonal stuff. Then we’ll go from there. Okay, sweetheart?”
“Oh, D.J., it’s sooo good to have you home. I’m sorry I mistrusted you—I’ve been crazy…and jealous and feeling so lonely…”
He hushed me to silence, cupping a big hand under my chin, tilting my mouth up to his. His loving kiss gave me reassurance that I wasn’t going insane. Soon all this fear and dread and darkness would be gone. I’d be back to my normal, organized, disciplined, energetic self. And then I’d be able to care for myself and the children again.
Profound relief and hope flooded through my whole body. My mind settled and began to focus again.
“Why did they cancel the rest of the Faust run?” I asked him, recalling then what he’d said at the airport.
“The production failed. Hell, maybe I failed, too. But all that’s not important.”
His voice was laden with sorrow, so much that it frightened me. Maybe he needed to talk about it. We’d always shared that, the need to talk about our individual performances. The musical and dramatic challenges of each role we played. We’d shared so much this past year and a half of our marriage.
“Tell me, D.J. What happened?”
A long moment of silence ensued. It was my turn to encourage him to open up, to assure him that I could handle hearing the bad news. I felt stronger already, just having him home again, feeling his strength and love surround me. His reassuring me that I wasn’t losing my mind…was everything.
“D.J., tell me. I’m not going to flip out, I promise.”
He sighed heavily. “It’s not pretty, Evie. But as long as you and the kids are okay, it doesn’t matter. Not really.”
“D.J., please…tell me.”
“Well, according to the Berlin critics, I was unconvincing as a young, dashingly evil Mephistopheles. Although one critic said he liked my ‘rich vibrato’, he also said a tenor should never sing that role. I lacked the heavyweight stature of ‘the sinister tempter of man’, as one critic put it…Blah, blah, blah. And then some. If there were a law against ruining an operatic production, they probably would’ve arrested me. One critic said that both the director and I should be strung up.”
“No…that’s terrible.”
“Yeah, those Germans really get sensitive about Faust for some reason. Anyway, a third of the audience left during intermission on opening night. The next two performances, it was worse. Three weeks rehearsal for three performances—what a waste of time! And money! Y’know, Evie, maybe I belong on the ranch after all. I’m an agri-business major. I could run that ranch in my sleep! What the hell am I doing singing opera? Especially for a bunch of Germans who apparently were offended by my mustache and military uniform. Critics said as Mephistopheles, I looked like Hitler. I think it was better than wearing a red-leather outfit, which is how Mephistopheles is usually portrayed. I would’ve looked like a pansy biker dude.”
“NO! The director had you dressed like THAT? What was he thinking?”
“You, too, huh? Hugh said it was a big mistake for Herr Mannheim to set Faust in the thirties, when the Nazis were coming to power. And then, for the devil to come out looking like Adolf Hitler was…I guess, too damned over the top for the Germans to handle. Hugh said he loved it,. He said that Mephistopheles should always look like Hitler. Devil incarnate and all that. Well, Hugh and maybe twenty other people thought so.”
He paused to chuckle mirthlessly, then kissed her again.
“Hell, I should be the one depressed! My career in Germany is probably over. The Berliner Oper lost such a bundle of Deutschmarks on that production, I doubt they’ll ever ask me back. They blame me, not Mannheim, their dumbass director. On the second night, there were crowds with posters, protesting the performance. Although Hugh said they might’ve been local neo Nazis. You’d think that kind of publicity alone would’ve sold more tickets.”
D.J. stretched out beside her, stacked his hands under his head and snorted. I rolled over and snuggled against him, not wanting to lose his warmth.
“Even Nate heard about the fuckup. He called to extend his condolences…but he did say that the Met’s creative director, Derek Fleming, had flown over from New York to see it. Fleming witnessed my humiliation and all the protests before flying back. Funny though, he told Nate that Americans would love it—that setting and character treatment. So maybe I still have a shot at playing Mephistopheles at the Met next year. Wouldn’t that be a freakin’ hoot! Ah, such is the opera world, my dear.”
Hearing him chuckle softly despite his deep disappointment, I felt encouraged. Somehow, we’d get through these setbacks. Couldn’t love get you through anything? Now that my black fog was lifting a little, I was capable of feeling empathy for my husband’s distress.
Folded into a sturdy embrace, I felt his hands caress my arms and felt soothed. I wished I could console him as expertly as he’d consoled and comforted me. As much as I needed his strength and unswerving support, he needed mine as well. I regretted that I had so little right now to give him except a warm body.
“I’m so sorry, D.J. Looks like both Mannheim and Verdi don’t know shit from shinola. I’d personally LOVE to see you as a Hitler-looking Mephistopheles.”
“Well, thanks, darlin’. Just don’t hold your breath waiting.”
* * * *
Eva put her martini on the tray of the vacant, adjacent seat. Strange, she hadn’t thought of her postpartum depression after Jamie’s birth in a long, long time. It was a troubling time in her life and in their marriage but bless D.J.’s heart, he supported her through it like a heroic knight. That’s exactly what he’d become for her, her hero. Her Rock of Gibraltar. Her harbor of strength and love.
Her champion.
She’d do anything for him, she resolved. Whatever he asked her to do…
She began to read the Bible. A passage or two every day sustained her whenever she felt that black fog overtake her mind. Luke 12:48 resonated with her, especially. “To whom much is given, of him much will be required.” She and D.J. were given much, certainly their ability to sing. It was a gift they both felt had to be shared with the world. In return, they were required to rise above the pettiness and trite concerns of mundane matters. Sure, they suffered through their separations and occasionally fought over misunderstandings, but at the end of the day, they both knew their trials were part of the world they chose.
Raised by parents who took her to church once a year at Christmastime, Eva had resorted to private prayer throu
ghout her life. She did so again, this time on a daily basis. Gradually, she began to believe the few words she recited every morning and evening: “Dear God, grant me Your grace and strength.”
The following day, they’d seen Eva’s doctor, got a prescription for mild, non-addictive antidepressants and was put on a regimen of vitamins and low-dosage hormones, all of which she took faithfully every day for six months. She was encouraged to increase her daily exercise, which she did with a jogging routine she stuck to religiously.
When she discovered she was pregnant six months later, Eva was already armed with the information she’d need to deal with the next birth and potential, subsequent depression. Strangely enough, after her third child, she was fine and she never again had to take antidepressants, not even when D.J. suffered his first bout of cancer. Then it became HER turn to be the strong helpmate in their marriage. The Rock. The Harbor. The Champion.
Armed with her newfound strength and courage, she became her husband’s Rock, his Harbor, his Champion.
Eva turned the page in the little photo album. Oh yes! The formal family portrait that the McKays insisted on having done. It was Christmas of 1993.
The McKay tribe was content with its good fortune and prosperity. Eva had paid off the Villalobos farm and her mother and siblings were doing well. Vonnie was back in school, had a recording contract and was busy preparing her songs, composing most of them herself. Ricky had gotten married the month before and seemed happier than Eva had ever seen him. Her mother was opening a quilt teaching-and-supply store, thanks to a generous loan from Eva and D.J.
With the exception of her six year-old daughter, Sara, who was with her father and his new wife in London that Christmas, everyone was in the McKay family photo. They included all four sons, the three wives and five grandchildren, all gathered around the proud, regal patriarch and matriarch, seated in the center of the picture. Behind his father, D.J. was holding seven month-old Jamie in his arms and Eva was leaning into her husband’s shoulder, one hand on her son’s little leg. Her little Navajo newborn was now a pale-faced little tyke with a shock of light brown hair and a dramatic flair like his parents. Eva loved little Jamie with her whole heart and soul. There was still enough room for Sara and D.J., of course, for both had grown to overflowing.
She felt truly blessed and every night she gave her prayers of thanksgiving.
The photo drew her back. The gigantic Christmas tree shone in back of them all, strategically placed in the composition like a backlight of festive majesty. Everyone was dressed in their finest.
It turned out to be Big Jim’s last Christmas. An emotional low point for the McKay family in several ways. It was Eva’s first Christmas without her daughter. There were a few surprises, too, not very welcome ones for most of the McKay clan.
Even D.J. dropped a bomb in her lap. There was one dropped in his as well. It turned out to be NOT just another Christmas.
Chapter Thirteen
Christmas of 1993. The Gulf War was short and successfully completed, or so people thought. Clinton was in the White House and although there were still hostile stirrings abroad and Jihadist attacks at home and abroad, the country was at relative peace. Eva stared at the formal family portrait with mixed feelings.
The family portrait belied the undercurrents of rebellion and unrest that erupted that Christmas. Which caught everyone by surprise.
* * * *
“Jamie’s in the nursery with the nanny and John’s girls. He’s getting his bottle and winding down while Jenny and her sister watch a Disney movie.” D.J. paused over me at the bathroom’s dressing table, his hand extended, holding out my martini. “Here’s to another McKay Christmas on the ranch. Probably Dad’s last.” The last was added with a shade of jagged bitterness.
Half-dressed in a black slip and bra, I was putting the finishing touches on my mascara but stopped to take the martini glass. Wishing I could say something to console him, I met the solemn, burnishing eyes of my handsome husband, so debonair-looking in his Armani navy-silk suit. He was holding up his scotch drink, outreached to clink with my martini glass.
“Are we toasting your father’s life?” I left unsaid what was in all our minds. We’d learned a week ago that Big Jim’s cancer had spread from his lungs and kidneys to his lymphatic system. Despite all the chemotherapy he’d had, the virulent cells had metastasized and were sending out deadly tentacles throughout his now ravaged body.
“Of course. The McKays always celebrate life, Evie—each other’s especially, no matter how big our differences,” D.J. explained, clicking the bottom edge of his highball glass of scotch with my martini glass. “This is what this Christmas is all about, anyway. It’s an Irish wake, lots of food, drink, merrymaking. Just as my daddy wants it.”
“I’m so sorry…for all of you. For Jamie who’ll never get to know him. He won’t know either grandfather and that’s a pity.”
I watched apprehensively in the mirror as D.J. bent over me, one long-fingered hand clasping a bare shoulder. He’d been drinking all afternoon, sharing beers with his father and older brothers, now switching to the hard stuff. This Christmas was going to be rough on him. No, more than rough. Traumatic.
“We’ll have to keep their memories alive for the little tyke.”
He stroked me with a little roughness as he took another swig, and put his drink down on the tile vanity. Spinning me around on the stool in one swift motion, he spread my legs apart with one insistent leg and kneeled down. With one hand, he cupped the nape of my neck under the fall of hair. Not saying a word, he pulled my head toward his and, slanting his face, kissed me on the mouth. In his urgency, our kiss deepened and our tongues did a hot, wet, mating dance.
At first I thought he was playing but as his kiss became insistent, lengthening and heating up my insides, I realized how needy he was. Our nearly two years of marriage had taught me that D.J. often sought solace and comfort in my arms and this affection usually turned sexual.
When our kiss ended, I smiled, reaching up to entwine my fingers into his dark brown curls. In his eyes, I read pain and fear and desperation. And galloping lust.
“I watched little Jamie sucking on his bottle and it gave me ideas…” he rasped out huskily. “We have about thirty minutes before we’re expected downstairs for that family photo.”
My mind swirled with objections—I had to do my hair, my makeup would get on his shirt, we might have to shower all over again, his mother wouldn’t tolerate any lateness on a night she’d spent months planning to perfection…After a moment’s hesitation, while D.J.’s sapphire-blue eyes bore into mine, testing my reaction, waiting for me to voice all manner of protests, I complied. Slithered off the top of my slip, unhooked my bra, letting my breasts spill out in front of his face.
He answered hungrily. Clasping my waist with both eager hands, he lowered his head and began to suckle at one breast, then the other. When I was reduced to small moans and clutching his head tightly, he raised his face, dazed with desire.
“Evie, baby, raise up a bit—” He began to tug under my slip at the waist band of my bikini panties, all the while kissing my mouth, neck, shoulders. I helped him, my desire nearly matching his, closing my mind to all the objections that threatened to surface. I didn’t have time for THIS…but lord, D.J. needed me and if coupling at such an inopportune time was what he needed…
Moments later, I was lying on my back on top of the bathroom shag rug, the dressing table stool slung out of our way, D.J. having divested himself of his suit jacket and trousers. His glossy, maroon tie and starched white shirt mashed against my breasts as my lover filled me with his throbbing manhood.
“Oh, yes,” I urged him as he began to pump into me, sending my mind reeling into an all-consuming, sensual tunnel where all worries and concerns were abandoned. Several thrusts later, he groaned and collapsed against me.
“Oh, God, Evie,” he panted heavily, “I needed that. Guess I’ll always need that from you—”
It ha
d been so quick, I hadn’t climaxed but that wasn’t important at the present. Later that night, I’d coax him to pleasure me as only he knew how.
“So long as you need that from only ME,” I whispered coyly, attempting levity. I held him tightly, raking one hand through his hair, the other caressing one cheek of his small, taut rump.
“Only you. It’s always only you,” he murmured against my temple. He smoothed down the side tendrils that had pulled loose from my jeweled barrette. “I know I’m kind of an absentee husband. I know you worry about me, my loyalty to you. I’ve never been unfaithful to you, not since we’ve been married. I want you to know that…but I need to change it, Evie. Not my loyalty. I mean, our situation.”
He raised himself on his elbows and gazed down lovingly at me. His face was still flushed and slightly sweaty but he remained inside me, as if both of us hated to break the physical connection. I sensed he needed this temporary, physical domination over me in order to reveal something he’d already made a decision about. Something that he thought might displease me.
“How so?” When he hesitated, I pinched his rump. “D.J., just tell me. Change our situation—how? In what way?”
His magnificent eyes wavered to the side of my face as if his mind were searching for the right words, then they returned. In that moment, I realized the power I had over him. He was afraid I’d be angry with him. My darling, talented, gorgeous husband was afraid of my disapproval.
“I had a long talk with Dad today…while you took Jamie to the stables. He wants to—”
“D.J.! Eva! Where the hell are you?”
Matt’s loud voice could be heard just inside their bedroom.
Since the bedroom door to the hall was locked, Matt must have entered through the French door that opened onto the second-floor verandah. On the floor of our bathroom, the door half open, D.J. and I both froze.
Born to Sing, no. 1 Page 19