A Gift for My Sister: A Novel

by Ann Pearlman

  CHAPTER TEN

  Slightly Tarnished

  Tara

  WE’RE STAYING IN the van tonight. Oklahoma City is a quick concert at a casino, no kids allowed, so Levy and Rachel will stay with Sky and Allie. In the morning, we’re off to Memphis, seven hours away. An entire day’s drive. The crew and Levy are in the tour bus. Tomorrow, Sky will drive her U-Haul with Rachel, and Allie will drive Sky’s Honda. That was Allie’s choice.

  Aaron and I ignore each other. I know we should talk, but I don’t know what to say. Every time I see him, my stomach flips. I want him to hold me. Say he trusts me. Scream that he can’t be without me. Accept that I didn’t start any of this with King, and say that he understands the benefit for me, for both of us.

  I recognize, as I think about it, that it is King who made this all difficult. His big ego. It’s not unusual for artists to work together and feature other singers on tracks. Why would he feel the need to break up our crew?

  I keep trying to come up with a way to have it all. Aaron’s love and trust, our music, and my music, maybe venturing forth some with King. Going up one rung on that celebrity ladder to reach star status.

  My cell phone rings.

  Mom.

  Her call will be about Sky and I consider not answering. Sure enough, that’s the first thing she asks: “How’s Sky?”

  “Why don’t you ever ask about me, Mom? Why don’t you ever say, ‘How’re you, Tara? How’s your tour? Do the audiences appreciate you? How was the Grand Canyon you wanted to see, and what was Allie’s brother like? How are you and Aaron and Levy?’”

  There’s silence on the other end, and then I hear Mom say, “I know how you are, Tara. I always know. You’re okay. You’re strong and self-reliant.”

  “I am?” I don’t feel strong or self-reliant.

  “Yes. You have been strong since you were a toddler.”

  Is that what she told herself when she only paid attention to my dad and Sky?

  “You figured out how to get through things your own way and no one could stop you. Sky, well, she was so dogged she didn’t even see what was around her, just kept blindly going. You were smart and figured things out. Even if it wasn’t the way I would like.”

  I know she’s thinking about my piercings and my black hair. She doesn’t know that was in response to seeing my father with yet another woman. My—what did she call it?—my incorrigible teenage years. She thought Aaron was going to ruin my life. She assumed I could survive, and forgot to ask what was going on in my life. “Well. I can’t figure things out now.”

  I can’t believe I am going to tell her, but I do. I tell her about King. I tell her about the jeweled key pendant he gave me. I tell her about Aaron flirting with other women. I walk outside. The crew is inside preparing for the show. I stroll circles around the parking lot, clutching the phone to my ear, talking to Mom.

  I hear her inhale deeply. “What do you want?”

  I tell her, I want it all. I want Aaron and me back where we were before King walked on the L.A. stage, but I want both of us to work with King.

  “What does King want?”

  “I’ve never known. It can’t be sex. He has as much of that as he wants.”

  “But maybe that’s the hook. Your unavailability makes you a challenge. And he’s smart enough to tempt you with what you want: artistic freedom and acclaim.”

  Mom still hopes the woman controls everything. “Why can’t Aaron just see I haven’t done anything and that I’m not going anywhere? Why can’t we both work with King?”

  “Has King asked for you to work with him as a couple?”

  “No.”

  “Aaron views letting you work with King as giving you away, like you don’t mean enough to him.”

  And suddenly it’s clear. For Aaron to accept King, or feel comfortable with me wearing that orange key, isn’t just a blow to his pride. It means I don’t matter to him. He’s upset that another is man trying to take me from him. Me, Tara. Not me, Li’l Key. I count. I matter. I’m important to Aaron and he’s not going to pretend otherwise.

  “Do you think I’m like my father?” I choke when I ask her.

  “Do you?”

  That’s an Allie question. “I don’t know.” I shrug.

  “I guess that’s what you have to find out. But I never got the feeling that your father was tortured like you are. He wanted conquests. You just want to create your music.”

  “Yes. That’s what I want. My music and my family.”

  “Tara, you already have that.”

  Our conversation switches to Sky. Then she tells me about Jim. I tell her how cute Rachel and Levy are together.

  “I don’t remember such a good conversation with you in a long time, Mom. Not since right after I left home.”

  “That’s because you’re giving me a chance.”

  Giving her a chance? She never asks about me, I think, but now we’ve come full circle, so I simply say, “I love you.”

  After we hang up, I consider the fact that she doesn’t ask Sky about herself either. Maybe Sky used to volunteer, but has stopped since Troy’s death, so Mom calls me.

  I slide the phone into my jean pocket and continue to stroll the parking lot’s perimeter, scanning the modern skyscrapers that make up the city and thinking, I’m strong? Me?

  Maybe I am.

  I hunt for Aaron, but he’s surrounded by fans. He signs a woman’s shoulder so she can have it made into a tattoo.

  I don’t say anything. Instead, I go to the van and get dressed for the show. I read Levy “Hiawatha.” Tickle his cheek with butterfly kisses. Sing him “I’ll Miss Me.” We do a little duet together. He sings the la de la de sometimes by himself, sometimes with me. And he adds his own little verse, making it up as he goes along.

  “Oh you’re so silly. My squirmy Levy.” I laugh.

  “I’ll miss you, Mommy.”

  I tell him, “I’ll be singing for you. For us. For all the love we have.”

  That’s true.

  Aaron keeps his distance, but watches me from the corner of his eye, considering everything I do. I want to crawl inside his mind and know what he’s thinking, all the things he doesn’t tell me. His fingers touch the mic, his arm flexes when he raises it high. A slight ridge outlines his lips; I watch it expand as he mouths his lyrics. I notice the span of his shoulders under his T-shirt, imagine how his ass flexes under his baggy pants. It’s easy for me to mentally undress him. I do, while my fingers automatically play. Will we ever make love again? We seem so separate and the loss fills my chest, my throat. It’s easy to spin away from each other.

  I can’t imagine my life without knowing what words he’s writing, weaving our dreams together, the daily joy as we clean our apartment, play with Levy, pick veggies at Farmer Jack’s. I can’t imagine not eating the eggs he cooks. I can’t imagine his lyrics without my keyboard. I can’t imagine my bed alone.

  Then there I am again, singing my song. And he introduces me perfunctorily, as though my solo music is now part of our act. He doesn’t say it, but he shows me that there’s room for me.

  I make up a verse, staring at him while I sing it. I know my expression is naked; not even the orange makeup hides my fear and longing.

  I don’t have a clue whether we’ll be able to make our way back together.

  That night we sleep in our narrow bed back to back. I lie there, eyes open as the van rocks us to each other and away, touching him accidently, and resist the urge to put my head on his shoulder. I want to softly kiss his sweet mouth.

  He doesn’t sound like he’s sleeping either.

  But neither one of us makes a move. I close my eyes and see that woman kiss him, his arm around her.

  We’re each paralyzed by our respective fears.

  When we wake up I say, “I get it. If you let King have me, then he’s won. I haven’t done anything, though. I just wanted to explore my music without you feeling like you’re losing me or not valuing me enough.”


  He glances at me out of the side of his eyes, his eyelashes shading his pupils. “You can do something now, Tara.”

  I don’t know what gesture he wants me to make. Throw the necklace away? Give it back to King? Call King and tell him I’ll never work with him?

  “We are,” I emphasize the we, “giving away a great opportunity.”

  He just snickers. “For a threesome?”

  “I’m talking about music.”

  “You don’t get it, and this is pointless,” Aaron says as he slides on his pants.

  “What would you want me to do? Throw it away? I did, you know. You started fooling around with that bitch and I picked it back up.”

  “You don’t have any idea how men think.”

  “How could I? The only man I’ve known is you. And Troy.” I pick up a comb. “So, tell me how you think.”

  “Most men would think you’re a bitch by accepting an expensive present from another man. Not being clear with King that even if you work with him, I’m your man. I’m your partner.”

  “I was thinking of us. Of what we could get. Rappers mix crews all the time.”

  “You’re playing with fire.” Aaron pulls a T-shirt from his duffle bag.

  “I play with fire simply by loving you.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Those women all over you. And I get blamed and called a bitch when I haven’t done anything.”

  “I don’t encourage them. I don’t accept presents from them. How would you feel if some woman gave me a thirty-thousand dollar present? You disrespected me while I represented for you. I stuck up for you with the crew, too. And gave you the stage.” He whisper-shouts the And. He pulls his T-shirt on and turns to me, his face dark with anger. “Like I said, you have no clue how men think. Or you’re a cheater at heart because you can’t commit. And you don’t recognize when someone can.”

  At first I feel slapped. A cheater at heart? But then I think about my thoughts, my fear of being my father’s daughter, and look at him. “You’re right. I’ve never seen commitment. So don’t tease me with the possibility of having sex with another woman. You can’t imagine for a moment that King and I did more than shake hands.”

  “I did that to show you how it felt.”

  “What it showed me was how little I mean to you. You can always trade me in for someone else.”

  “I could get a new woman. But no one would be you and you’re way more than that. I rely on you. Not to do stuff, not even for your music, but for you.” His face looks stricken.

  “I guess you don’t know how women think, either.” I lift my head and meet his eyes. He’s turned sideways to me, so he looks from the corner of his eyes. “I told you I was scared from the beginning. That’s why you were the chicken choice.”

  We whisper our anger because we don’t want everyone to know what’s going on. But it’s futile. They do.

  In Albuquerque, I heard T-Bone saying to Aaron, “Should have listened and not bring no white baby-mama on no rap tour.”

  “You here because of me. Respect my decisions.”

  “White bitch drives our fan base away.”

  Aaron turned and walked out of the room. He didn’t say, “Tara’s our keyboardist.”

  But I heard Red Dog say, “Half our fans are white. Maybe they like seeing her.”

  I slide on a T-shirt. The bus edges toward Memphis. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” I repeat. “I should have fallen in love with a classical musician.”

  “I haven’t done anything either. What you want, Tara? You want me? If that’s what you want then I’ll handle King. Just give me the word.”

  “I’m not a baby. I’ll handle it.” I’m not some stupid chick that cries for her man to take care of the difficult stuff for her. “Are we just going to let each other walk away?” My voice catches.

  “I’m still here. I’m giving you time, but my patience is turning to dismay,” Aaron says. “But you can’t have both of us.”

  I exhale, and shake my head, close my eyes. I go sit in the back of the bus. When he talks literary like that, I know he’s turned the phrase around a hundred times. I imagine it in his next lyrics and sure enough, Aaron grabs his paper and pencil and walks out of our little cubicle behind me. I’m tired of going round and round in my head looking for a perfect answer. I’m weary of dealing with it all, so I pull out my keyboard and play.

  My escape. My oasis.

  I glance outside and see a black car driving beside us. Scrawled in white paint on the rear window are these words:

  Love God.

  Love people.

  It’s that simple!!

  I read them out loud.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Red Dog says.

  “Simple but not easy,” Smoke says.

  Aaron doesn’t look up from the lyrics he’s writing.

  We arrive in Memphis in early afternoon and walk down Beale Street. I hear snippets of the Staple Singers, Elvis, Otis Redding, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Booker T and the MGs pouring from storefronts as we stroll. I buy a bright green apron for Mom and imagine her wearing it in her kitchen with the soft purple wall.

  When we go to the Rock ‘n’ Soul museum, everyone talks about the music they remember their moms playing. Unbelievably there’s a black-and-white poster of a white sharecropper standing at the door of her house, five high-cheek-boned kids surrounding her. She wears a plaid shirtwaist dress that is exactly like Sky’s.

  “Look, Sky, you’re wearing her dress.” Sky looks as worn, tired, and scrawny as that woman, too, I think.

  “Do I look as bad as she does?”

  “The dress looks great on you,” Allie says.

  “It’s a designer, originally three hundred dollars, with purposely frayed edges. I got it used for twenty-five bucks at Crossroads in Santa Clara.”

  Allie takes a picture of Sky next to the poster of the sharecropper, a world and two generations apart, both wearing the same dress, and we laugh.

  The museum tells the story of how white and black music ended up mixing by accident via field hollers, church music, folk music, and blues. It got stirred together, and birthed the Memphis sound: a hard-driving rock and soul.

  We walk the few blocks to the civil rights museum. Suddenly, we see the Lorraine Motel at the end of a street, just like in all the documentaries, photos, and books on civil rights. A white plastic wreath with a faded red bow hangs from the balcony where Martin Luther King was killed.

  Aaron takes a bunch of pictures. “For Moms,” he says. “She always talks about seeing Martin Luther King Jr. in Detroit, giving his speech on having a dream before he said it in Washington.” Aaron snaps another picture, and then one of the motel sign. Underneath the name is a marquee that says, “I have a dream MLK.” The e is widely spaced from the v. I wonder if it’s been like that since his assassination. “I wish she was here.”

  I hold onto Levy’s hand. Aaron catches his other one and we look like an ordinary family.

  Aaron and I don’t touch each other, but through Levy, we hold hands.

  It makes me want him more, this new rule of no touching. As though if we touch each other, make love to each other, we’ll reclaim each other, and we’re afraid to do that.

  Just then he turns to me and smiles, swings Levy’s hand, and I swing the other one. We’re a happy family.

  And then Levy leans down and picks up a rock. It is half charcoal gray and half cream. It lies in his pink palm etched with brown creases. He just looks at it. Aaron and I meet each other’s eyes. “That’s a special rock,” Aaron says. “I bet Smoke could drill a hole through it and you could wear it around your neck. A special rock from a special place.”

  Levy curls his fingers tightly around it. “Yeah,” he says.

  A slight breeze raises goose bumps along my arms.

  In the museum, movies show white students hauling black students from lunchroom stools and beating them, Police punching them, throwing them to the ground and kicking them, p
olice spraying protesters with hoses spewing fierce water, sharp-toothed dogs snapping and growling, people stomping a young black man to death who was protecting his mother.

  “We were so violent,” Sky comments. “I didn’t realize.”

  “You didn’t know?” Smoke says. He doesn’t glance at Sky, but crosses his arms.

  Allie says, “Back then, it was almost expected. Now, seeing it all together, all at once, it’s horrifying that people of our race acted as they did.” She rocks back slightly on her heels. “The black protesters remained nonviolent and peaceful for over a decade. Then after King’s murder the country erupted.”

  “We attacked property. Not people,” Aaron comments.

  “Hey. And then they started putting mass numbers of black men in prison,” Smoke says.

  Red Dog and T-Bone laugh and slap five.

  Smoke stands with his arms crossed.

  For the first time, I understand Mom’s concern about me being with Aaron. I can see her point of view.

  “It’s amazing to have lived so long that events I remember are exhibited in museums,” Allie remarks.

  As we exit, she says, “How far we’ve come.” She doesn’t say it to anybody. Just says it aloud.

  “We still get pulled over, beaten up, and caged in prison. We just don’t get lynched,” Smoke says.

  Sky shudders and closes her eyes, remembering the incident yesterday on the road. She pulls her shoulders back and lifts her chin. “The movement brought an awareness of morality. Lawyers working quietly and sometimes unseen crafted laws and policy. Things changed.”

  I turn to her, in her sharecropper dress, her blond hair hanging, Rachel holding her hand, tugging and skipping beside her. “What’re you thinking?”

  “I don’t have to remain in family law.” Her gray eyes look right at me. Her lips firm as they end the sentence. “I can be any kind of lawyer I want. Criminal defense. Civil rights. I could help write policy.” She nods, her lips now pressed together. “That might feel more meaningful, important. I could take the bar and go from there.” And then Rachel pulls her toward Levy walking with Aaron.