by Roscoe James
The way they smell.
Her tongue came out and she dared a taste. Marci's salacious promise taunted.
The way they taste.
“The woman you turned me into.” She leaned close, and the mirror clouded with each whispered word. She stood transfixed by what she hoped Marci would see. Not just some guitar picker from Memphis. She wanted to be the beautiful, sophisticated, desirable woman of Marci's words.
The phone in her room rang, and the moment was gone. Jessie hiked her jeans, fell on the bed, and answered the call.
“Hello.” Even her voice sounded sleepy and seductive. She smiled.
For a few seconds there was only the hollow, empty sound of an overseas phone call. Her first thought was her father. She'd promised to call from the hotel to let him know she'd arrived okay.
“Is that you, Jessie?”
“Judy? What are you doing calling—How did you find me?”
“Not too difficult. You wanted to find Marcella. After a picture ran in Billboard this morning of you boarding a plane for Paris, you weren't hard to find.”
“Billboard? Why Billboard?”
“The studio work you did a few months back. The CD came out—”
“Whadda ya want, Judy? If you've called for Mr. Dionysius to try and bribe me to come home, forget it.”
“Listen, Jessie. I'm sorry about all that. Yes. The lunch was contrived. But not for the reasons you thought. My interest was business. Cotton Mouth Lee still wants you, and frankly, so does the record label. The deal's still there, Jessie. If you want it.”
Jessie rolled on her back and cupped her breast. Her body trembled. Not from the salacious caress. The rush of winning, being right, was heady. She dared not cry for joy. The tears would ruin her makeup. She finally managed to clear her throat and respond.
“My reason for not saying yes right now still stands. I have to talk to Marci first.”
After another silence Judy finally said, “Jessie? Have you considered the possibility Marci won't care?”
“That'd be great. I'd say yes. You get what you want. I get what I want. Everyone's happy.”
“No. Not that the complications wouldn't matter.” The hollow hum of the line was disheartening, and Jessie flinched. She wanted to keep Judy from going on, but like an unstoppable train, the woman had her say. “But that it won't matter to Marci either way what you do.”
As soon as the words were out, Jessie's chest tightened, her heart beat faster, and her palm sweated against her breast. How could Judy Lewiston know? She's just like Marci's father. She only wants to scare me away. None of them understand. But the seed of doubt had been planted, and anger blossomed.
“Someone advised me to ask for more money. A bigger signing bonus. They said that if you'd offer two hundred thousand, you'd go three.”
“What?”
“If I accept the deal, I want three hundred to sign.”
“I don't know, Jessie. I don't think—”
“That's right. You don't know, do you? Just like Marci and me. You don't have any idea what the record company will say. Maybe they won't. But maybe they will. You won't know till you ask.”
“Part of my job as an agent is to advise. Right now I'm advising you that this is not a wise course of action. Hell, Jessie. You're an unknown. Why would—”
“You said you saw my picture in Billboard magazine this morning. What was the caption?”
“Something about you flying to Paris. What does it matter?”
“Find it. I'm sure you've got it right there on your desk.”
Jessie listened to papers being shoved around and Judy huffing in a put-out sort of way. She resisted wiping the wet well of her eyes.
“Here. Here it is. It says, 'Tennessee's premier blues performer, Jessica Butler, was seen boarding a flight for Paris—'”
“Did you get that, Judy? Tennessee's premier blues performer, Jessica Butler. Somebody sure knows me.”
“Okay. I'll ask. But don't hold your breath.” Judy definitely didn't like losing.
“I'll make it easy. If they don't say yes, don't call back.”
“You can't just walk—”
“I'm the talent, Judy. I can do whatever I want.”
“And you'd pass on a sweetheart deal like this over an advance that's already bigger than most new artists get?”
“No. I'd walk because I'm sick and tired of you people messing with us. Get over it. We're in love, and that's really no one's business but ours.” Jessie was yelling.
“Okay. Okay. I get it. I'll see what I can do.”
The line was silent while they both tried to decide if they'd said enough or said too much. Jessie finally broke the silence.
“Down home we'd call you a real peach, Judy. Thanks.”
“Yeah. Well. Up here we'd call this highway robbery.”
Jessie was about to hang up.
“Listen, Jessie. One more thing. Woman to woman.”
Jessie didn't want to hear it, but she waited anyway.
“Look, I didn't know anything about you and Marcella when I found you the first time. I didn't have any idea Marcella was ga—that you two had something going on. Yes. Mr. Dionysius gave me your name, but it was in passing. In a phone call after Marcella left for her tour. He said Marcella thought you were the best, world-class. That's what he said. That was enough for me.”
“Gay. It's not a disease, Judy. We're gay. Whatever. Then—”
“Wait. Sorry. There's more.” Judy rushed ahead. “With two divorces and an asshole for a boyfriend, I think I might know a thing or two about this. I admire you for what you're doing. Or maybe I envy you. But keep your heart safe, Jessie. No matter what happens, remember that this isn't about you and Marcella. This is about the heart, and the heart can be a fickle thing.”
Jessie hung up the telephone without saying good-bye and stared at the ceiling. In that moment a frightening lesson came into sharp relief. There is no doubt more daunting than the doubt that lurks in one's own mind.
* * *
Jessie stepped from her taxi in front of the Palais Garnier, an imposing testament to Parisian opera and music, and realized once again how different Marci's world was from her own.
Where Los Angeles had been a staid and circumspect celebration of classical music at its very best, Marcella Dionysius at the Opéra Garnier in Paris rivaled any rock concert Jessie had ever seen. Street vendors selling T-shirts, plastic binoculars, and a collection of Marci's CDs filled the space between the gutter and the heavy stone of the building's foundation.
The air was full of strange enticing smells that wafted up from small hibachi-like cooking racks at a stand at the corner of the street. A pair of expressionless street performers pantomimed for tips as people made their way to one of the five entrances to Paris's grand house of culture and music.
Jessie's senses swam in the sound, color, and smell of the moment. They were all a fitting part to the end of her journey. A festive and dramatic shroud of humanity to hang her hopes on. She was sure she would never forget them.
She pulled her cape tight against the cold Parisian night air and made her way to the entrance. Marcello, the bellhop, had promised her seat was très magnifique. Given the scalper's five-hundred-dollar cost, she hoped so.
She reached into the pocket of her cape for the hundredth time to ensure the small neatly wrapped box was still there. Just touching it made her happy.
The street sounds fell away when she handed her ticket over and stepped inside the magnificent building. She was immediately engulfed in the hollow echo of footfalls and murmured conversations that filled the grand foyer. She wandered the edge of the gathered crowd, taking in the frescoed ceilings, ornate columns, many chandeliers, and overpowering artwork.
She chanced upon a bar and fished in her small black clutch for francs. The white wine added to the chill, and she clutched the top of her cape tight beneath her chin.
Grand doors finally swung open, and people started making t
heir way into the opulent theater. She'd discovered smiling a lot helped when one had no idea what people were saying. She balked but resigned herself to her fate when an usher who didn't understand the need for such smiles pointed down a row twenty seats away from the stage.
She sat lost in a sea of humanity directly beneath a six-ton chandelier that sparkled gloriously overhead. By the time the concert, complete with a full symphony orchestra, started, the grand old opera house of Paris was packed.
Jessie sat with bated breath as the orchestra finished tuning their instruments. The chandelier dimmed and applause started. Her entire body trembled when Marci took the stage. She stared unblinking at object of her adoration. Jessie thought she would cry from joy even before the first note was played. At last she was entranced as Marci opened with a haunting dance between cello and oboe. Violin and viola joined the delicate ballet of the first movement of Sir Edward Elgar's Cello Concerto in E Minor.
Marci sat on a raised platform at the edge of the stage bathed in light. She didn't hold her cello; she embraced it like a lover. She didn't watch her hand as it slipped from note to note on the fingerboard; she bore witness to each movement, every note as she caressed them lovingly.
Jessie whimpered when the foreboding dive into E minor became a waltz with woodwind and strings. Marci's body swayed with her instrument as she brought love to life. The caress, the touch, the longing and hungry sigh in counterpoint to the hypnotic wave of the conductor's baton.
When the first movement ended with majesty and a final long lonely note from Marci's cello, Jessie sat trapped in the sonorous silence of the moment in anticipation of that which was yet to come.
The power of the next movement overwhelmed. The magnificence daunted. The hurried buzz defied the clarinets and ended with a smile of joy and satisfaction when Marci struck the final note, which sent a small skitter through the audience.
Jessie's skin exploded in tiny goose bumps of emotion and bliss. She closed her eyes, and she could feel Marci touch her as the third movement opened. Brief and lyrical. Soft and poetic. The calm before the storm
Then it happened. Marci and her cello became one. They were perfect. They were celestial. They commanded all those who joined them to fall in step. They led them to the summit and danced them through the clouds. Pirouettes and salacious dips in orchestrated strings.
Jessie could sense the change. It was not the conductor who commanded. It was Marci. It was not the wave of his baton that was anticipated but the slide of Marci's bow that directed the baton. Then, with fanfare and strength, Marci rushed ahead, pulling the orchestra with her into a flurry that ended with one final haunting note.
The audience and Jessie hung on that note, even after the sound died away, stupefied while their hearts recovered. Then the Palais Garnier exploded in adoration. Marci jumped up and took the conductor's proffered hand. The audience applauded and applauded some more. Her many lovers' calls of “bravo, bravo” echoed around the great hall. And too soon it was over. With a collective sigh the thunderous beating of hands turned to soft murmurs and muted words as the great chandelier came to life and people started making their way to the grand foyer for a brief intermission.
So overwhelmed, so distracted by her own thoughts and emotions was Jessie that she didn't notice the seats were half-empty until someone asked to get by. She stood and looked at the dim stage, instruments waiting, Marci's chair abandoned. With purpose she made her way to the aisle and walked solemnly to the edge of the stage.
Jessie marveled at the tiers of balconies on each side of the grand theater where people would return to bask in the glow of Marci's unfinished performance. She inspected the intricate gold-leaf adornments that crowned the stage. It was as if Marci would be crowned as she sat at the edge of the grand stage to give court.
The heavy weight of loss settled around her like a numbing stupor, and she finally reached into the pocket of her cape and pulled the small box out. She didn't hesitate as she reached up and placed the tiny offering at the edge of the small platform where Marci would continue her concert. She touched the small gold bow one last time and withdrew her hand.
She could not imagine what she had thought she would do in Paris. Isabella's words rang true as they swirled around inside Jessie's head. “You are just a little girl. Do you really think you know how to love someone as beautiful and talented as Marcella? She is an angel, and you are nothing more than a mere mortal.” Jessie was both humbled and humiliated. She could see no part, no matter how small, for herself in the purpose of Marci's life.
In a flutter of fur-edged cashmere, Jessie turned and left the great hall. In the grand foyer she clutched her purse close and her heart closer as she strode with purpose for the exit.
She had always lived her life without regret. Not because there was never reason for regret. Just because she never cared enough to regret. The last thing she wanted to do was run, but running was the only thing she had left.
That and regret.
When the elegant woman dabbing at her cheek raised her hand in front of the Palais Garnier, the taxi driver pulled across two lanes of traffic and screeched to a stop. He considered it an honor and a privilege to assist such a beautiful and sophisticated woman in distress on a chilly night in Paris.
Chapter Thirteen
Jessie stood behind the curtain wing offstage and waited. She adjusted the bodice of her sequined full-length evening gown and glanced at her gold-toed high heel. Tommy, the stage manager, walked over and whispered in her ear.
“Fifteen minutes. You should wait in your dressing room.”
“I'm okay. Thanks, Tommy.”
She enjoyed listening to the murmurs and snippets of conversation from behind the curtain as Radio City Music Hall filled. Zoe came up carrying a cell phone. Jessie looked over and smiled. She wondered when life got so complicated she needed a girl Friday.
“Mr. Goldman, Miss Butler.”
Jessie took the phone and stepped back into the dark maze of props and stage ropes.
“Hey, Jessie. How's the crowd?”
“The crowd is great, Bernie.”
“Just wanted to let you know we signed that deal with Bennett's agent tonight.”
“Really?” Jessie doled out a small portion of emotion to the manager she loved to torment. “That's great, Bernie. You're the best.”
“Yeah. Three shows in San Francisco and two at the Hollywood Bowl.”
“Damn, Bernie. Not too shabby for a schlep like you.”
“Schlep? Right. Just remember who made you what you are today.”
“I'll do that, Bernie. I gotta go, sweetie.” Jessie held the phone out and snapped it shut while the man yelled at her not to hang up. Like an old married couple, they'd fallen into a routine that was both comforting and mutually fulfilling.
The person who made her what she was today was seldom out of Jessie's mind. Even after more than a year without seeing Marci, her first thought in the morning and last before falling asleep was of the goddess she liked to think lived in the Butler family quarry.
Upon her return from Paris, Jessie had landed at the farm in a cloud of tears and uncertainty. Judy Lewiston tracked her down two days later. The woman was pissed as hell and equally ecstatic. The record label had said yes. All Jessie had to do was fly to New York and sign. The woman was pissed because Jessie had disappeared.
“Time is of the essence, Jessie. I need you here yesterday.”
“Wow. What can I say, Judy. I'm floored.”
“Say thanks and get on a plane.”
“I'd really like to,” Jessie had looked around her father's old office, taken in his framed collection of memories and hopes on the wall, and said the words Judy Lewiston didn't want to hear. “But I can't.”
There'd been much ranting and raving, and three days later Jessie had given in to a compromise. She'd promised studio work on Cotton Mouth Lee's final album that included guitar and voice. She'd explain to Judy that legends like Cotton Mouth Lee
can't be contracted and made out of three record deals. Legends just happen.
The studio work had been fast. Working with Cotton Mouth Lee wasn't the same as working with some kid who didn't really know what his sound was. Christmas had come and gone, and in April Jessie had stood over Cotton Mouth's grave, glad to have been a part, no matter how small, of the legend's legacy.
Along with Cotton Mouth Lee, the rampant rumors about cello player Marcella Dionysius and Tennessee's premier blues player had also died. Out of sight, out of mind turned out to be true.
Nana's unexpected passing a month later had thrown a blanket of gloom over the entire Butler family. Kimmie and Richard had flown in, and Jessie had spent hours playing with her new nephew. Nana had been laid to rest, and Jessie and her father had sat around the living room that evening listening to the contents of the box her Nana had entrusted her with during their last visit.
A treasure trove of memories on a department-store gimmick. Old 78s that, for a short while before WWII, could be recorded in tiny rooms they offered just for that purpose. For a couple of bucks anyone could buy a two-dollar blank, and at seventy-eight revolutions per minute could talk, sing, even play the piano they had in the room. A novelty the stores used to help promote their record sales. The box was full of dusty recordings of her Nana singing all the old jazz and blues standards that, surprisingly, were still popular today. Jimmy, Grandpa Butler, played the piano and would occasionally get a comment in at the end before the recording ended. Jessie was amazed. It was a facet of her Nana's life she never knew enough about.
“Sorry, Miss Butler. A Judy Lewiston is calling. She says you know her.”
“Tell her I'm about to go on. She can call later, or I'll call her back tomorrow.”
“She just wants to know if you can get her a ticket. She's in the lobby.”