The Angry Woman Suite

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by Lee Fullbright


  She was real, the dream existed, and of course she was not a good woman, this lovely dream of mine. How could she be? She’d been a challenging child to put it mildly, so she couldn’t be long-suffering like my mother, or generous like Sahar. No, Magdalene Grayson was interesting. She was inquisitive, fractious, self-absorbed, and judgmental. And to top it off she was totally out of reach and the absolute worst thing in the world for me.

  And I wanted her.

  Exhilarated, I looked closer and saw those pale eyes weren’t actually unkind; how could I have ever thought that? Yes, they communicated mystery, but it was an other-worldly kind of fey I saw now, not the doomed kind. It was question I saw in those eyes, and suddenly I also saw the rub: Magdalene didn’t know as much as she’d always pretended. She did not know about her mother’s affair with Frederick—and she’d been wrong about the dark cloud as well. That cloud she and I’d seen beyond the lovely distance on that long-ago day was not war. The war overseas wouldn’t be the adversary keeping us apart. That dark cloud had been the announcement of Frederick’s arrival, all he’d bring with him and all he’d leave behind.

  A clap of thunder rattled the great room, followed by a split of lightning. Everyone jumped and began talking. Only Jamie and Matthew and I remained silent.

  But even if I could’ve spoken the truth about Frederick, Magdalene would’ve never believed me.

  She’d have thought me insincere, because I had always been insincere with her. She’d have hated me for ruining her wedding day, her life—then I’d have been the beast, that black cloud she’d seen on the horizon.

  I flashed on what Matthew had told me about telling too much truth, about cause and effect. How smart Matthew was! Then yet another truth reared its head: I didn’t know anything about living and relating and probably never would’ve had I stayed wrapped up in museum relics and music. But now I was growing. I was wrapped up in Magdalene and Frederick. I was boxed-in, cut off, frustrated; like Lear and Matthew and Sahar, I was living. My love was futile, I was experiencing—and my hatred for Frederick Forsythe knew no bounds.

  ELYSE

  Sacramento 1955

  “‘Fascination,’” Mother answered when I asked her the name of the song she was humming.

  “What does that mean, fascination?”

  Mother inspected herself in the vanity mirror and cocked her head, then touched up her lipstick.

  “Mother—”

  “Why,” Mother asked between pursed lips, “do you ask so many questions?”

  “Because I want to know everything.”

  Mother smiled a little. “Fascination means you find someone or something very interesting, maybe even … mysterious.”

  “Oh.”

  “You might even say it’s the opposite of hating somebody, becoming fascinated instead.”

  What I was, was bored. It was Grandma’s night off and Papa had taken her to a card party. I picked up Mother’s pearls and held them to my throat. “Am I fascinated, Mother?”

  That got a full smile out of her. “No, you are fascinating, Elyse.”

  I giggled. “No, you are.”

  But Mother was rushing me, putting on her pearls, dabbing her wrists with perfume, and gathering up her gloves and wrap. Fat lot of good it did me being fascinating.

  “Will you be gone a long time?”

  “I’m going dancing with Uncle Francis,” Mother said, by way of an answer. “And I want you to behave and take good care of Aunt Rose and Bean for me.”

  Later that same night, when I asked Aunt Rose how fascinating she thought I was, I thought she’d spit her iced tea up all over Bean. We were in the kitchen, at the table.

  “Where in the world did you get that one?” she sputtered. “I swear, sometimes I think you’re twenty-five instead of five, Elyse. Isn’t she the funny one, Bean?” Aunt Rose rubbed her nose against Bean’s, who smiled.

  “If you don’t think I’m fascinating,” I pronounced, “it means you hate me.”

  “Well, I certainly do not hate you, Elyse Bowden! I love you—I would never waste precious time hating you!” Aunt Rose swilled her drink, which I was starting to suspect had whiskey in it, and took another drag of her cigarette, blowing smoke in the air between me and Bean. “You’re not like a certain someone whose name I won’t mention.”

  I pounced. “Who do you hate?”

  Aunt Rose’s eyes filled and her lower lip trembled, which confirmed she’d been drinking whiskey and was on the verge of a crying jag.

  “Let me take Bean for you, Aunt Rose,” I said gently. Aunt Rose let Bean slide off her lap, and I took my sister’s hand. “There, there,” I said needlessly to Bean.

  Aunt Rose lit another cigarette. “One good thing about hating,” she slurred, “is it keeps me busy, out of trouble … d’you know I haven’t had a real date in two months? Too busy hating. Haven’t dated since your mother met him again. Your mother doesn’t know about him, you know.” Aunt Rose looked at me quizzically, frowning a little. “You have two heads!” She hiccupped and then giggled—then cried some more.

  “I’ll be right back,” I told her. “Don’t move.”

  “As if I could,” Aunt Rose sobbed.

  In the bedroom, I tucked Bean into Mother’s bed, then raced back to the kitchen. “There, there,” I said to Aunt Rose. And then, “What doesn’t Mother know?”

  “She doesn’t know about me … and him,” Aunt Rose practically whispered. “And what a louse he turned out to be.” Aunt Rose looked up then, and a semblance of cognizance flashed in her swollen eyes. She smoothed my hair. “A real louse,” she said softly.

  Papa always used to say that most puzzles aren’t all that difficult to figure out if you just stay with the pieces that come in the box.

  “Is it … Uncle Francis?” I breathed. “Is that who you mean, Aunt Rose? Is that who you hate? But why?”

  Aunt Rose’s head wobbled as she laid it down on the table, on her arms. “The lousiest louse ever,” she mumbled before passing out.

  But the next morning my glowing mother told me a totally different story. She smiled and breathed, “Francis Grayson is the most fascinating man ever!”

  And there’s no doubt that Mother nailed that one, because Francis Grayson was, for me also, the most fascinating man ever—but for different, and slippery, reasons.

  Because, when it was all said and done that last night at Grayson House, with everybody but Mother and Aunt Rose left standing around that room Daddy had shared with Jamie, the final question we asked of one another, over and over, was, “Who was he, really? Who was Francis Grayson? I mean, really?”

  FRANCIS

  On the Road

  1943–1945

  The darkness was pervasive. I tried fighting it, but there was no point. The blackness kept pushing at me, cementing me to the bed, and although I managed to pull a quilt over my head, the next thing I knew they were ripping my precious cover away, thread by agonizing thread, in the form of food-laden trays and hands that plumped my pillow and caressed my brow: female voices. Voices that murmured gentle things. I shook as if chilled, and then I itched, and the more those women’s voices murmured, the more I shook and itched. They lied, those voices. They betrayed.

  But then, miraculously, I was fine. Elena pierced my darkness. What she said?

  “I’ve got an audition lined up for you, Francis.”

  Elena led the way. I followed her into the Rainbow Room on legs of pure putty, over to the men gathered around the piano.

  “Grayson, is it?” Mr. Goodman asked. He glanced at me, disinterested.

  “Francis Grayson,” Elena said.

  Why had I ever thought Elena a milquetoast? She wasn’t a milquetoast. She was understated. Not to mention, a miracle worker. I’d found that out my first night in Manhattan. I’d gotten off the bus and plopped myself down in the depot coffee shop, unable to face the city’s glitter, working up the nerve to go out there. And that was when the first miracle had occurred: Elena’s ha
nd has appeared from out of nowhere. It had curled around mine and infused me with glibness:

  “I couldn’t let you go,” I’d said. “I had to follow you, Elena.”

  She lived with an aunt by the name of Honey Fitzgerald, who ran a boardinghouse in Queens. I was assigned an attic room just big enough to turn around in.

  I palmed the hundred dollars in my pocket. “How much?”

  “It’s not a real room,” Honey replied. “It’s the attic. You want something bigger, I charge. But for this, for you, Elena’s friend, no charge.”

  I slept nearly ’round the clock, and woke up feeling almost hopeful. Until I phoned Aidan.

  “You doing okay?” he asked. I told him about running into Elena and finding a place at Honey Fitzgerald’s boardinghouse. His reply was brisk.

  “Good. Now I’ve got news. Hang onto your hat because you’re not going to like it: Lothian went to the police.”

  “To swear out a complaint against me. You said she would, Aidan.”

  “She showed off her beaut of a face, complete with shiner—but it was Stella, not you, she pointed the finger at.”

  My throat closed up.

  “Said Stella attacked her; that she went completely off her rocker. Also said Stella threatened your grandmother. Told the sheriff that Stella had to be removed from Grayson House, that she’s a danger.”

  “Shit, Aidan …”

  “Sorry, Francis. I didn’t see it quite this bad. Lothian’s out for you. And she knew she could get to you through Stella, through me.”

  “How is Stella?” I croaked.

  “You ought to know your mother vouched for Stella.” Aidan’s voice shook. “But your grandmother backed Lothian and … well, Stella was put back in the Portsmith asylum.”

  “What d’you mean, put back?”

  “She’s been there before.”

  “Shit, Aidan … I never thought those Portsmith stories were real—”

  “How much of my journal have you read? Any of it? It’s in there … everything about the murders and what happened to Stella.”

  And just before that maddening itch began, lights danced before my eyes. There was a roaring in my ears, and then that blessed, blessed blackness descended and I’d surrendered.

  “Let’s hear what you can do,” Mr. Goodman said. “Want a lead-in?” I shook my head, sweating, fumbling with the clasp on my trumpet case. Elena began to hum. I raised my horn and fingered the valves, repeating Elena’s cue, the opening notes for “Body and Soul,” a light jazz piece that had been one of Mr. Goodman’s biggest hits on clarinet. My horn’s tone was a cool silver. It demanded attention. Mr. Goodman looked up.

  “Go on, Teddy,” he said to his piano man. I froze, thinking maybe I wasn’t so hot after all, maybe Goodman already knew I was wasting his time. Maybe Teddy was supposed to be showing me the way out?

  Teddy ran his hands over the piano keys, producing what I understood to be a segue. I raised my horn and bent my knees, then gave Teddy’s piano its reply, which was also light at first, but then I slid in weight; then, cleverly, depth, and right after that I went for some gusto, and I pushed at the height, the trill, the fever. Excitement pulled at the back of my legs. Teddy answered elegantly on piano, and each time I got back to him with my horn, I gave him more height, more of the trill, more of the soul.

  “Well,” is all Mr. Goodman said when Teddy and I wrapped up “Body and Soul.” And then, “What else of mine can you do?”

  Goodman nodded. His sidemen scattered, picking up instruments. And then there it was, “Bugle Call Rag,” that incredible, escalating sound: Goodman sound, jive sound, hot sound. I wanted to dance, I wanted to snap my fingers and roll my head, whirl in circles; I wanted to twist, jump up and down. I wanted to do anything but stand and listen. It was impossible to stand still. I wanted to be a part of Goodman. I wanted to play!

  “Play!” Benny Goodman commanded.

  “You filled the room,” Elena gushed. “Oh my god, you were literally bouncing stuff off the walls, Francis! You should’ve seen the way they were looking at you!” She skipped a little on the sidewalk, eyes aglow, hair disheveled, never looking more beautiful.

  I grabbed her by the waist and swung her up against me. “Baby, we’re on our way!” I was rejuvenated, completely patched together again. “And you get all the credit. What would I do without you?”

  Elena pulled back, eyes soft. “You mean it?”

  Something hot and heavy, what I’m sure volcanic ash feels like, descended on me, making it hard to breathe, making me remember where Stella was because of me.

  “You bet I do, baby,” I said to Elena, smiling.

  I gave Elena’s aunt forty dollars for room and board. I bought a sport coat, flannel trousers, four ties, two white shirts, cuff links, and five packs of cigarettes. I’d five dollars left in my pocket, and payday was still a week off. I decided to take Elena to dinner, but first I called Buster and told him to get to New York and pronto, that bands were hiring because they’d lost so many musicians to the war.

  “You got a job?” Buster practically squealed. “With Benny Goodman?”

  I struggled to keep from laughing. “And so can you.”

  “You got a job with Benny Goodman?” We dissolved in fits of helpless laughter.

  “When can you get here?” I asked.

  “I can’t believe you’re in New York and that you got a job with the Benny Goodman and you didn’t tell even me you were—”

  “When?”

  “But, Francis, I can’t leave—”

  “Yes, you can. I did. Look, you pack a suitcase, get on a bus, and I’ll get you the audition with Goodman.”

  “I’m only seventeen,” Buster hedged. “I won’t be eighteen for another month.”

  “Shit, they don’t care, Buster. They’re not interested in age. They’re only interested in making the big noise, getting the best fellas. So, you act the part, be the part, you are the part, get it? Throw a suit on and you can pass for older, too, just as I did. And if anyone gives you any guff about the war and stuff, just say they wouldn’t take you. Asthma or something. You’ll think of a reason.”

  ***

  I told Elena about Buster over dinner.

  “Do you think you should’ve?” was her first question right off the bat. “What if Mr. Goodman doesn’t give Buster the job?”

  I disliked her second-guessing my judgment. “Buster will get a job with Goodman.”

  “But what if he doesn’t?” she persisted. “Francis, Mr. Goodman likes being in charge of everything. I mean, he really likes his control. He’s the controller of all time. If he thinks—and mind you, I’m not saying you are—but if he thinks you’re pushing him, why, he—”

  “Goodman’s always looking for talent, right? Buster’s got talent.” I cut my steak and set my knife on my plate at a precise angle. My fingers itched. I longed to throw the knife across the room. I longed to make Elena have to duck.

  “Well, you have something there, for sure,” she conceded. She seemed to warm to the idea. “I’ll never forget you and Buster that night at Washington’s Headquarters, doing ‘Moonlight Serenade.’ You might be right, Francis. Mr. Goodman may end up thanking you.”

  “We’ll see,” I said, cutting, chewing, looking around the room, making it clear I wasn’t placated.

  “Francis—” I heard the wariness. “Did I tell you I read part of Mr. Madsen’s journal while you were laid up with that awful flu?”

  I’d let Elena watch me unpack at her aunt’s, hard put deciding which was impressing her most: Aidan’s watercolor or his journal. She’d turned the painting every which way looking for a signature. I’d told her she should be looking at the journal instead. Who knew what nuggets it held?

  “No,” I answered, tone still chilly. “I didn’t know you’d started reading the journal.”

  “You said I could … and, well, you won’t believe this, but I think Sahar Witherspoon—she was married to Matthew Waterston, t
he famous artist, and they lived across from Washington’s Headquarters—”

  “Aidan describes the mill house perfectly,” I said curtly.

  “So you have read the journal, too?”

  “Aidan said I could,” I mimicked her. That had her. She looked confused.

  “Yes … well, the Waterstons lived in that old mill house across from the headquarters, like the one in your watercolor, Francis. That’s my point: I think Sahar Witherspoon painted your watercolor!”

  I didn’t mention pawning the painting that very afternoon.

  “The way Mr. Madsen writes about Sahar … well, I think it’s possible Sahar Witherspoon and our Mr. Madsen were once lovers.”

  She got my full attention.

  And that was the thing about Elena: she knew me. She knew how to get my attention. And not only had she seen one of my dark spells, but she’d also known how to bring me out of it. In fact, I believed Elena knew me so well because she’d fallen in love with me. And of course I was falling in love with her. Brave, independent Elena.

  Of course that’s the way it was.

  Elena exhaled her cigarette smoke and said teasingly, “Mr. Madsen wrote that he thinks you’re a creative genius, Francis.” I laughed, good humor fully restored. “But, Francis, how much do you know about someone called Jamie? Or about a Frederick Forsythe?”

  I reached across the table and took her hand, squeezing it hard. “You tell me.”

  ***

  Elena was discovered by Pete Burdick, a novice agent affiliated with MCA out of Chicago. At my urging, she left her spot as a stand-in for Benny Goodman, and took a full-time vocalist job headlining Lee Andrews’ orchestra.

 

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