AT 29

by D. P. Macbeth

  “I recognize you from Willies last night. You were writing something on a piece of paper at the bar. I’ve seen you somewhere before, too.”

  “I just finished a tour.”

  “That’s it, caught you on the telly a month back. Now what’s this about Blossom Records?”

  Jimmy couldn’t tell if Nigel was wasted. From the smoke in the room it appeared that he’d been at for a while. His eyes were bloodshot and it looked as though he hadn’t slept since the night before, but he seemed to be coherent. He knew plenty of potheads. The veterans had a high tolerance before it muddled their brains. Whitehurst seemed like one of those.

  “We want you to record for us.”

  “I was wondering when someone would get in touch.”

  “Then you know about the contract?”

  “No, mate. There’s no contract.”

  “My boss says you’ve been taking money for two years.”

  “Every month. Typical Americans throwing your dollars at anything that moves. I suppose you want it all back.”

  “Not necessarily. Like I said, we want you to record.”

  Whitehurst shook his head. “I’m not interested.”

  Jimmy put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the folded contract. “I talked with Sister Marie Bonaventuri.” He unfolded it to the last page and laid it on the counter. “She’s so convinced of your talent that she went out on a limb and signed it for you.”

  Whitehurst looked at the signature. “That’s hers. The other one’s not mine.”

  “Her assistant forged you name.”

  “Les? She did that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sister’s up to her tricks. Now she’s got others doing her bidding. Always manipulating.”

  “She seems to have your best interests in mind.”

  “You think so?” He was smirking.

  “You should be in a studio with good material.”

  “So you came all this way to tell me I should be like you?”

  “We have a tape of you. I was asked to find out if it was for real.”

  “How’d you get the tape?”

  “Leslie and Sister Marie.”

  “Am I for real?”

  Jimmy stared back at the big man. “Yes.”

  “Jimmy Button for real?” The comment threw Jimmy off. Whitehurst must have caught his reaction. “No, I shouldn’t have said that.” He softened. “I appreciate your interest, but I won’t record for you or anybody else.”

  For some reason Jimmy remembered his initial response to Kevin Royce. Nigel Whitehurst was showing the same reluctance. He turned the contract over and looked at the notes he’d written on the back, his songs for Nigel. “I’d like to work with you.”

  Whitehurst pulled once more on his joint then set it down and went through the narrow door that led into the living area. A moment later, he reappeared with a pen and checkbook in his hand. He opened the checkbook and began to write. When he finished he tore the paper out and handed it to Jimmy.

  “Total comes to twenty thousand. The deposits stopped a few weeks ago.”

  Jimmy took the check, but didn’t look at it. “We want you to sign with us.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I saw you on that television show. Button, Buckman, the whole thing with the booze. That’s not for me. Nothing against you or Blossom, but I like my life the way it is. I have enough to surf, sing and smoke right here. No need to make it complicated.”

  ***

  “He said he’s not interested.” Jimmy was back in his hotel room in Melbourne. Miles was on the other end of the line. “He wrote me a check for twenty grand on the spot.”

  “He’s honest. That’s something. Did you try to convince him?”

  “Of course. He knew me from my tour over here.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I told him I wanted to work with him.”

  “Did you mean it?”

  “Miles, he’s special. I’d welcome the chance.”

  “Maybe I should come over.”

  “To do what? He’s a hard case.”

  “If I showed him how serious I am…”

  “I don’t think he’ll budge. There’s another thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s a pothead.”

  “Lot’s of people smoke pot.”

  “And, lot’s of people drink. You have rules, remember?”

  “I could make the same deal with him. It seems to be working with you.”

  “He doesn’t want any restrictions. He said he likes it fine the way it is, surf, sing and smoke. He wants to keep his life simple.”

  “We really ought to get him over here. I mean, if you think he’s that good we shouldn’t give up so quickly. Besides, you’re there now. It’d be a waste not to make it work somehow.”

  Jimmy agreed with Miles. Whitehurst was special. The three songs on the back of the contract were just the beginning, hastily penned based upon a brief listen. He was sure he could write more just as soon as he had the chance to analyze the full range of the Australian’s talent.

  “I’ve written three songs for him.”

  Miles sat up in his chair. “When?”

  “Right after I heard him sing. They came fast.”

  “Does he know?”

  “No. I don’t think it would make any difference to him.”

  Miles paused, “But you wrote them anyway?”

  “He’s world class, beyond rock.”

  “We need to try something before we throw in the towel. Maybe Sister Marie could have a go at him.”

  “She asked me to come by before I fly home.”

  “Tell her what happened. Maybe she’ll have some ideas.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “More?”

  “She told me he suffers from depression. The owner at Willies implied it, too. From what I could see, they’re right. I think he compensates with the pot.”

  “We can deal with that later. See what she has to say then call me.”

  It was mid-afternoon when he arrived at the orphanage. Sister Marie was waiting in her office. This time she took the chair next to him rather than retreating behind her desk.

  “So, tell me, how is Nigel?”

  Jimmy thought he heard a touch of apprehension in her voice. Or, was it sorrow? Her eyes told him only the truth would do. “His voice is better than I expected.”

  “Will he go to America with you?”

  “No.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be going home?”

  “Mr. McCabe hopes you might have some ideas.”

  She gave this some thought, looking toward her desk. “What did Nigel say?”

  Jimmy told her everything, starting with the first night just watching and listening at Willies. He described the opening songs on the violin and then the startling quality of Nigel’s voice as he switched to vocals. He explained his conversation with Horace the next night, confirming what seemed to be depression. He struggled with how to tell her about the pot, finally letting it out in a matter-of fact way without implying judgment. He told her of Nigel’s mild surprise when shown the fraudulent contract, but he elected not to say that he called her a manipulator. He finished by stating exactly what Nigel said about Jimmy Button and the Today Tonight broadcast. “I think that’s what’s holding him back.”

  “No, that’s just an excuse. He’s simply fighting me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He thinks I’m manipulating him. As long as he sees my hand in this he’ll balk.”

  So, Jimmy realized, she already knew. “Well, everything is out in the open.”

  “Yes, that’s better.”

  “Do you know of anything that might convince him?”

  She didn’t answer the question. “I knew nothing of him playing the violin. Reina must have taught him.”

  “Reina?”

  She continued without acknowledging his question.
“How many instruments do you play?”

  “Guitar, keyboards and harmonica.”

  “Self-taught?”

  “Guitar and harmonica, yes. I had piano lessons when I was young.”

  She abruptly changed the subject again. “You left an important piece of information out of your description.”

  Jimmy was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “You wrote some songs for Nigel.” Jimmy realized that McCabe must have called ahead and told her. He had simply forgotten. It didn’t seem relevant.

  “Three quick pieces. They’re far from ready for him.”

  “Do you often write music for someone other than yourself, out of the blue like that?”

  Jimmy had to think before answering. He could remember only six songs that came to him inspirationally. Lulu, Choral Guns, Peg and the three he’d penned after hearing Whitehurst. All of his others were laborious efforts that took much more time. “No, not often.”

  “Something about Nigel caused you to write them?”

  “Yes. I can’t explain. Sometimes it just happens.”

  “You didn’t mention these songs to him?”

  “No.”

  “I think you should. It will impress him.”

  “I doubt they will convince him to sign with Blossom.”

  “You don’t know him. Underneath all that bravado is a sensitive child still trying to understand life. Everything he does begins with great success only to be derailed by some external event. He’s extraordinary, but trapped in a cycle of failure brought on by his own distrust. I’ve spent years trying to make him understand that we all need other people to move forward in our lives.”

  “What does that have to do with my songs?”

  “A stranger does something so personal for him. He’s not used to that. Take them to him. Show him how serious you feel about his talent.”

  He waited for Leslie downstairs. It took some courage to overcome his nerves before inviting her to dinner. His confused feelings made him too anxious. He couldn’t get his head around his sinking self-confidence. He was desperate to make a good impression, but he couldn’t relax. She appeared at the top of the stairs. He watched her descend, step-by-step, attempting to smile, but unsure that his lips moved. His admiring silence caused her to turn and look back as if someone else was the source of his attention. When she reached the last step he came forward and they exchanged a self-conscious hug, careful not to come too close. The smell of her made him weak.

  The Japanese restaurant was two kilometers away. He was relieved to run the gantlet without a mishap along the way. It had been a long time since he felt the need to hurry around a car and hold the door for a woman. This time was too special not to be gallant.

  The restaurant was thankfully quiet. A few tables were occupied, but there were plenty of others situated far enough apart so they could easily engage in conversation. They settled on the sushi platter.

  “I’m glad you came back to Melbourne.” She radiated warmth. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”

  “You asked. I couldn’t resist.” He wanted it to be a lighthearted compliment, but it sounded impatient. Leslie didn’t seem to mind.

  “You met Nigel?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “No go.” He knew he’d have to explain everything again, but he liked hearing her voice. He waited for further prompts.

  “I’m sure you had more to say to Sister Marie.” She was smiling. Jimmy hoped it was flirtatious. He launched into his story, making sure to tell her everything including Sister Marie’s suggestion that he show his songs to Nigel. Their meals arrived just as he finished. Leslie did not speak as they split their chopsticks in unison. She expertly selected a piece of tuna and brought it to her mouth. Jimmy stole a glance, captivated by her every movement. She stared at him as if forming an opinion. She swallowed then turned her attention back to the platter and easily lifted another piece.

  “You actually write your songs?” she asked.

  “Sure, how else would I do it?”

  “No, I mean write the bars, chords, and notes?”

  “I sound it out and write a few reminders on paper.”

  “So, you’re really keeping the songs in your head?”

  “I guess so. I let the pros preserve everything on paper.”

  “Keep the arrangements in your head, too?”

  “Same routine.”

  “But you could actually write the music if you wanted to?”

  “I’ve never tried. It’s in my memory. That’s good enough.”

  She took this in while studying him further. He met her gaze, but only briefly. He could feel her looking through him, reading his mind. Nigel Whitehurst didn’t interest him at the moment. He had dozens of questions to ask her; everything from her childhood to how she spends her time in Australia. The most pressing question, did she have someone special?

  “Will you go back to see Nigel one more time?”

  “Yes, but I think it’s futile. He’s not interested.”

  “We’ll see. Sister Marie might have something in mind.”

  Jimmy let this go. He wanted to know more about her.

  “Unusual combination, finance and history.” It was a statement, but a question too.

  She looked surprised. “You remembered that?”

  “Yes.” He tried to make it sound like casual interest.

  “History came later, following my first stint over here. Australia, this part anyway, felt comfortable to me. When I made my first trip to the Great Ocean Road I was enthralled. I started reading about Australian history. When I went home and finished my undergrad work at Bentley I decided to go on to Boston University nights. I received a Masters Degree in Marine History. I wrote my thesis on nineteenth century whaling in Australia.”

  “Do any teaching?”

  “One short course for the older boys each year. My primary duties keep me busy.”

  “What does it mean to be Sister Marie’s assistant?”

  “I keep the books, arrange financing when needed, pay the bills. Sister Marie is prepping me to take over when she retires.”

  The dinner lasted three hours. Neither of them noticed the time as the restaurant workers cleared the tables and stood idly by, waiting to close. Jimmy got lost in the conversation, eager to learn everything he could about the girl across from him. He felt himself relax and, as he did, he opened up, telling her as much about himself as she cared to know and volunteering inner thoughts and emotions he never expected to reveal. It came easy and it felt natural. His guard came down even as his heart beat excitedly with the desire to remain with her talking the whole night through.

  When the lights dimmed, signaling that they had stayed beyond their welcome, he reluctantly paid the bill, furiously calculating what he could do to keep their time together going. He thought of inviting her for a drink at the bar at his hotel, but the implication stopped him. He knew nowhere else to go and his heart sank as they entered the car and drove back to the orphanage.

  As he parked and came around to open her door, he grew nervous once again, wondering if he should do what he was burning to do. He might never see her again. The thought filled him with disappointment. He had spent time with her twice, touched her in only the most casually innocent way. He wanted more. A kiss. He walked her to the door, finally giving up on any solution. Something inside prevented him from doing anything more urgent than a handshake and good-bye, fearing that being more aggressive might meet with rejection he could not bear.

  “Do you have to leave?” she said to his back as he turned dejectedly back to the car. “I’d love to hear the songs you wrote for Nigel.”

  He stopped. “My guitar is back at my hotel.”

  “Do you play the piano?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned, opened the door and held it for him. “We have one inside. And, by the way, only two people in the world call me Leslie, my mother and Sister Marie. Everyone else calls
me Les.”

  She led him through the building to a large music room. At the far corner, a glistening baby grand beckoned. She gestured for him to sit then took her place beside him on the bench.

  “No lyrics,” he said, lifting the cover from the keys. “The melody always comes to me first. If I knew him better I’m sure I’d know the words to use.” He played the first song carefully. She watched his hands move along the keys with singular attention to each note. He knew she was looking and he was happy to let her. He was in his element. Her interest pleased him and soon he lost all hesitancy. She said nothing after he’d finished, except to urge him on to the other two creations. As he played, a calm came over him. Soon, he was caught up in his melodies, thinking not of the beautiful woman at his side, but of the music and how it sounded. He pictured Nigel Whitehurst at the microphone in Willies, uttering unknown lyrics to an enraptured audience. It never entered his mind that these could be sung in his own voice. Perhaps if Whitehurst refused, he would make them available to someone else. But he knew in his heart that they would never be as good as they could be without Nigel’s voice.

  Another feeling came over him as well, the contentment of having her at his side. Something about the two of them alone at the piano, filling the room with sound, seemed preordained, like it had always been this way, a joyful activity reserved for them alone. When he finished he turned to her for a reaction. She was smiling and nodding her appreciation. His spirits soared.

  “When he hears them he won’t be able to resist.”

  “He has something most singers don’t.”

  “Talent?”

  “Plenty of people have talent, soul, drive, a magnificent voice. He’s got the intangible ability to make music, any music, better. When he sings it belongs to him and him alone. Not another person on the planet can do it better in that moment when he brings it out in his voice. He’s one of a kind.

  “May I play them?”