A Case of You

by Rick Blechta

  The girl must have slid in sometime during the first set while my attention was occupied elsewhere. In the second-to-last tune, an older gentleman who’d sung a few times in recent weeks was in the middle of a competent rendition of “Chattanooga Choo-Choo” when I looked over at that dark corner of the club, and there she was. She had on the same worn blue duffel coat and the black toque jammed down on her head. Her face had a small frown of concentration as she mouthed the lyrics with the singer.

  I again thought of going over to speak with her but got corralled into a conversation with two of the club regulars. By the time that broke up, we had to start the second set.

  As the evening progressed, we had some surprisingly good performances and only a few disasters, none of them too excruciating. Dom, Ronald and I were playing well, and in a few tunes we stretched things out a bit, which left the poor vocalists standing around with nothing to do, but hell, we were feeling good. I forgot about the waif at the back of the club.

  We were getting ready to finish off the final set with a couple of nonvocal numbers when the girl appeared next to Ronald’s grand piano, staring at us with huge, frightened eyes.

  “What is it?” he asked testily. “Do you have a request?”

  The girl shook her head. “I want to sing,” she said in a tiny voice. “The open mike night is over. If you want to sing, you’ll have to come back next week.”

  She didn’t move. Even with the duffel coat on, it was easy to see she was absolutely quaking in her boots. Coming up to the bandstand had taken a lot of courage on her part.

  “I want to sing,” she said softly but defiantly.

  Dom, perhaps sensing that this might be a good bit of sport, said, “Aw, let her, Ronny,” then turned to the girl. “What song, darling?”

  She mumbled something indistinguishable.

  Ronald decided to remain obnoxious – not much of a stretch for him. “If that’s how loud you sing, you’re not going to make much of an impression on the audience.”

  As he stretched out his hand to indicate the sixty or so people still in the club, the poor girl’s eyes got wider, and I felt certain she’d bolt. I suddenly remembered she’d told me her name.

  “Olivia,” I said loudly to attract her attention, “tell us the song you’d like to sing.”

  She looked at me gratefully. “‘Skylark’. Do you know ‘Skylark’?”

  Ronald rolled his eyes, since a woman had already sung it in the previous set.

  “What key do you sing in?” Ronald asked impatiently.

  Olivia looked confused. “I don’t know.”

  “Then how can we play it?”

  Her eyes pleaded with me for help.

  “Can you sing it in the same key that we played it in earlier?” I asked.

  “I guess so.”

  Dom nodded. “B flat then, Ronald. The lady wants to sing.”

  With her coat, hat and that scarf still on, she stepped onto the bandstand with a look of resolution. It took her a moment to figure out how to drop the mike stand to her height, but finally she looked over at Ronald, and with tight lips, nodded.

  One of the two visiting pianists was still in the house, half-potted, having an earnest conversation with one of the better female vocalists of the evening, so Ronald made up a totally different intro to the song than the one he’d used earlier, and it really was quite brilliant. Olivia, totally at sea, turned to me with a frightened look, so I smiled and nodded reassuringly, indicating I’d help her come in.

  Ronald finished with an arpeggiated chord roll to the upper end of the piano, and I mouthed “two, three, four” to bring her in.

  She turned to the audience, shut her eyes and started to sing. “Skylark, have you anything to say to me...”

  I had my brushes out, planning to join in for the second verse, and damn near forgot to come in.

  The performance of this very odd girl was, to put it mildly, stunning.

  There are always people who insist on talking through every song, regardless of the fact that it’s rude, irritating and distracting to those people who want to listen, but especially so to the musicians. By the time Olivia was halfway through the first verse, every eye in the house had turned to the stage. Even the bigmouth at the bar stopped gassing.

  It wasn’t so much her voice – although no one could possibly have any complaints in that department. What had every person in that club riveted was Olivia’s delivery. The girl could flat out sell a song like nobody I’d ever heard.

  “Skylark” is not a song you can belt out. It must be subtle, wistful, delicate, ingenuous. It’s about a young girl asking where her first love might be found. The performance earlier in the evening, which had been quite good, paled to black and white in comparison to the way Olivia was singing.

  We always set up with me facing Ronald and Dom in the middle, since he’s the glue that holds us together musically, so I had a good view of her. Her eyes were shut tight, and she gripped the mike stand with both hands as if it were saving her from drowning, but her body remained supple, swaying gently with the music. Her awkward-looking outerwear suddenly didn’t seem important as the subtle nuance of her melodic shadings washed over us. You could visualize her having run in off the street to tell everyone about her search for love. I felt as if I were hearing this song for the very first time.

  The trio rose to the occasion, giving this girl the very best we could – even Ronald. He’ll occasionally get overly busy, especially if he’s bored or put out. His playing in this song was easily the best he’d done in some months, matching Olivia’s understated performance with one of his own. He only took a two-chorus solo before he led her in for the last verse with a gentle nod, and smiled broadly as he ended the song with a gentle whisper of melody high up the keyboard.

  For a moment there was silence before everyone remembered to breathe. Then the place just went nuts.

  Olivia stood there for a moment with an increasingly fearful expression on her face, then turned, and with everyone cheering, she ran right out of the club as if the devil were at her heels.

  “Interesting way to end a performance,” Dom observed as he leaned on his bass. “Damn good vocalist, though.”

  Olivia’s singing haunted me the rest of the week. I wished someone had taped it.

  The following week, she didn’t show up on Tuesday, and I was sure the girl had either got it all out of her system, or had completely freaked herself out. More than one regular asked if “that interesting singer” was coming back. Even Harry inquired if we were going to hire her.

  Wednesday noon found me downtown to get my passport renewed, so I took a walk over to Union Station, to see if she was there. Street people are creatures of habit, staking their turf and guarding it jealously.

  No sign of her, so I grabbed lunch in one of the fast food joints in the underground city, that maze of interconnected office buildings stretching from the train station all the way up to Dundas Street.

  Back at Union for a last try, I got no glory, but some old guy was hawking one of those street newspapers homeless people sell. I’d seen him there the previous time I’d encountered Olivia.

  “I’m looking for a girl—”

  “Isn’t everyone?” he interrupted with a broken-toothed grin.

  If he was looking to sell a paper, bad comedy wasn’t going to get him there.

  “This is a particular girl,” I said patiently, “maybe five-foot-two, pretty, big eyes, long dark hair, wears a navy duffel coat and a black toque. Not your average street person. Know who I’m talking about?”

  The guy looked purposefully down at the sheaf of papers under his arm. I got the message and forked over a tooney, twice what the paper was worth.

  “She’s here most days. The cops did a sweep of the area, and she skedaddled like all the other panhandlers. Odd one, though. She spooks kind of easy.”

  “When is she usually around?”

  “You ain’t a cop, are you?”

  “Do I l
ook like a cop?”

  He cocked an eyebrow at my stupid question.

  “No,” I sighed, “I’m not a cop. She’s just someone I met.”

  His grin told me he’d imagined a meeting far different from the reality.

  “If she shows, it might be around three, maybe three thirty. The evening rush is usually pretty good.”

  After that, I felt I’d committed myself to sticking around.

  From up above at street level, you can see the open area where Olivia had her spot. In order not to spook her again, I hung out up there, occasionally checking to see if she’d arrived. Luckily, the February weather was a little more moderate that day than it had been, because I had to wait until nearly four o’clock before the black cap and red scarf were directly below me. Her outstretched Tim Hortons cup with two quarters in it jingled loudly when she shook it.

  Okay, I’ll admit it. I snuck up on her. It wasn’t hard, since most of the traffic at that time is headed into the station. I forced my way upstream and came at Olivia from her blind side. When I gently touched her shoulder, she flinched as if I’d struck her.

  “Hello, Olivia,” I said, smiling to look friendly and harmless.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed your singing last week. We were all hoping you’d show up last night and sing some more.”

  “That was a stupid thing for me to do!”

  “Why? You were really good.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Now leave me alone.”

  When I didn’t immediately disappear, she demanded again, “Leave!”

  I smiled. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee. You’re shivering.”

  “No. I’m busy.”

  “How about a coffee and a ten dollar bill, then? In the time it takes to have a coffee, you won’t make that standing here.”

  The dirty white running shoes she had on looked pretty soaked. I think cold feet swung the deal.

  “Okay,” she finally said. “Where?”

  “How about just inside the station? That way you won’t have far to go when we’re finished.”

  I bought her a large double-double and a toasted bagel. We went over to the seats where you wait for the local trains.

  Olivia wolfed down the bagel. While she chewed and sipped her coffee, I waited patiently, trying to figure her out.

  Toronto has a lot of street people. It’s part of our city’s shame. But something about this girl didn’t seem quite right.

  I put her age at well over twenty, far too old to be a runaway. She also didn’t have that spaced out look of the alcoholic or druggie. With her torn jeans and ratty coat, her appearance wasn’t the best, that was for sure, but her hair wasn’t dirty, and she didn’t smell. She knew I was studying her but kept her eyes averted.

  As the last bit of bagel disappeared, she licked a dab of cream cheese off her finger, and I spoke. “You sing really well, you know.”

  Her head stayed steadfastly down. “I do?”

  “Couldn’t you tell by the way the audience reacted?”

  She shook her head and gave me a sidelong glance. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “Why?”

  “Can’t tell you.”

  I took another tack. “If you ever came back again, what song would you want to sing?”

  She took a long time to answer. The flow of people around us had increased as the downtown office towers emptied for the day. If she’d wanted to bolt, there would have been little I could have done to stop her, and she had to know that.

  “Cole Porter. I like Cole Porter.”

  “What song?”

  “‘Just One of Those Things’.”

  “You like that one?”

  She nodded. “I used to sing it for my daddy.”

  “You know, if you wanted, you could come down to the club, tonight even, and sing with us. We might be able to offer you a job. You wouldn’t have to hang out here any more.”

  She took that in. “I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t worry about being frightened to sing in public.You’d soon get used to that.”

  “I shouldn’t do it.”

  “Why not? A steady paycheque has to be better than panhandling. Safer, too.”

  Her eyes suddenly got big again, but she said nothing.

  Patting her shoulder, I said, “Come down tonight and sing a couple of Cole Porter tunes with us. Okay?”

  I knew I should leave or risk having her run away again, and I also knew next time I wouldn’t find her so easily.

  As I walked towards the subway, she remained behind, but I could feel her eyes on my back.

  Since it was the second night of our three-day gig, I didn’t have to set up my drums, but I arrived early to check out the doorways in the area of the Sal. No sign of Olivia.

  By the time the first set had ended, I’d convinced myself she wouldn’t show. I couldn’t have told anyone why it was so important, but I just knew that it was. After all, the girl had only sung one ballad with us.

  She had good rhythm and listened to what was going on around her, that was clear. Even Ronald couldn’t fault her pitch. I felt confident that whatever makes a great vocalist, she had it in spades.

  As we sat down at our usual table, I casually mentioned to Dom and Ronald that I’d seen Olivia and invited her to sit in again. The bass player greeted that news enthusiastically, the pianist phlegmatically. I wondered what his problem was.

  She slid in between the second and third sets, and I immediately saw her standing uncertainly by the door. Getting to my feet, I motioned her over to our table. This time, though, she wasn’t alone. A woman, definitely older and with less of an air of indecision, followed in her wake.

  “I’m glad you made it,” I said as I helped her off with her coat.

  She had on a reasonably nice black dress. From the way it fit her, it had probably been borrowed or picked up at the Salvation Army Thrift Store or some such place. Still, it looked reasonable, if a bit old-fashioned. Around her neck was another scarf, this time a white silk one that complemented the dress nicely.

  Dom slid over two seats to make room for the newcomers. Olivia just about fell into her chair, and I could see she was even more nervous than the week before.

  The friend said nothing, and Olivia didn’t make an effort to introduce her. She looked to be at least fifteen years older than Olivia and definitely more careworn. Her face had a wary expression, and I got the feeling she’d been dragged down to the Sal against her will, or that Olivia had come against her wishes. She said her name was Maggie, but something told me it also might not be.

  Dom leaned over towards the frightened girl and said in his usual friendly manner, “Andy told us you’d like to sit in.”

  She kept her head down. “He asked me to come.”

  “So what will you be singing?”

  “‘Just One of Those Things’,” I answered for her. “Maybe another Cole Porter tune or two.”

  “Like what?” Ronald asked sharply.

  “I know ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’,” she answered.

  “And I suppose you don’t know what key you want to sing them in.”

  I was about to tell Ronald to back off, but Dom saved me the trouble. “Just sing them, honey, and I’ll tell you what key they’re in. Okay?”

  In a very soft voice, Olivia started ‘Just One of Those Things’ and Dom immediately said, “That’s in A.”

  Her other chosen tune was in G. We were ready to go.

  As the other two got ready, I pulled the vocal mike and stand to the centre of the bandstand and turned it on, checking its level.

  Ronald insisted on opening the set with a rather Bill Evans-like rendition of the Porter tune “Night and Day”, and it went on far too long. I kept my eye on Olivia, but my attention wandered when I did a brief solo at the end of the song. When I opened my eyes, I noticed that both women were missing.

  Cursing Ronald under my breath for not
starting the set with Olivia’s songs, I was about to let him have it when they appeared from the corridor leading to the washrooms. Maggie looked even less happy than before, but Olivia had a very determined glint in her eye as she led the way.

  Ronald switched on his mike, announcing to the club that we had a special guest who’d dropped by to sing a few songs. Olivia, having sat down again at our table, popped up immediately and stood there. Dom motioned her towards the bandstand, and she came much more readily than she had the previous time.

  “Will somebody help me come in?” she asked shyly.

  “Sure thing, sugar,” Dom said.

  Olivia seemed a bit more relaxed (as evidenced by her actually letting go of the mike stand a few times), and her performance was that much better because of it. Often she’d sink so far into the songs that she actually seemed to become the person described by the lyrics. The effect was quite astonishing and had the patrons of the club mesmerized – not to mention her backup band. The girl could swing, she could shout, she could be tender. I could only imagine what Olivia would be like with a little rehearsing under her belt.

  She wound up doing the rest of the set with us. We would suggest songs until we came up with one she thought she could do, she’d sing a few bars so Dom and Ronald could get the key, and we’d be off.

  By the end of the set, she had everyone in the palm of her ingenuous hand. That performance was the stuff legends are made of, and I’ve heard at least three times the number of people who were actually present that night say they were there.

  The only person who looked unhappy was Olivia’s friend. As we came off the stand, Dom put his arm around Olivia. “Would you like to sing with us steadily, sugar?”

  I thought for a moment that Ronald would object, but he finally nodded in agreement.

  I watched her carefully until she said, “I don’t know...”

  “Why don’t you come back tomorrow night and sing some more? You don’t have to make up your mind on the spot. Right, gentlemen?” he said, looking more at Ronald than me.

  She smiled happily at that, although her friend looked (if possible) even more put out.