by Emma Scott
She shook her head, laughing at the memory. “You should’ve seen the look on his face, poor baby.” Her chuckling faded. “But turns out he was helping you, not hurting, wasn’t he?”
I nodded, trying desperately to remember. The shame climbed up my cheeks because I couldn’t.
“Anyway, he told me the situation, and I gave you a look over.” She glanced around. “Where’s your man now?”
“Oh, no, he’s not…my man.” I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “Teddy’s just a friend. No, more than that. My best friend. He’s actually my boyfriend’s brother. I mean, he was. Jonah…he’s my boyfriend… Was my boyfriend. He…passed away.”
It was the first time I’d had to say the words out loud. I had zero practice talking about Jonah’s death. I had no canned response, no rehearsed story. I couldn’t even get the tense right. When I could say my boyfriend had passed away without bringing the world to a screeching halt? It hurt, like a hammer striking my chest with every syllable.
“Anyway…well, I used to live in Las Vegas but I moved here after Jonah… I wasn’t doing so well and Theo helped me. What you heard and saw was me coming off the booze. I’m sorry. It must’ve been awful.”
“Not as awful as it felt for you, baby.” Yvonne reached across the space between us to take my hand, her dark eyes warm. “It wasn’t pretty, but you came out the other side, didn’t you?”
“Barely,” I said.
“Barely is still a ‘yes.’ Remember that.” Yvonne’s grip on my hand became a pat and her eye caught the watch on her wrist. “I wish I could stay longer but my shift starts in forty. Don’t be a stranger now.” She chuckled. “You know I won’t.”
I hurried to catch up and open the door for her. “I won’t either. Thank you. For the casserole. And for helping me when I was…”
“Down? You’re welcome. And honey? If you need anything? If you want to talk or if the craving gets bad? Give me a holler or knock on my door.” She peered at me intently. “Are you in a program?”
I wanted to tell her I was determined to do this on my own, but to a healthcare professional like Yvonne, it would sound like an excuse. You can’t bullshit a nurse.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I said
She pursed her lips. “Think about it. And don’t think you’re alone. This is New Orleans, baby. We stick together.” She started down the steps of my porch, shaking her head. “Boy, do we.”
“Thanks, Yvonne.”
She waved over her head and marched the five steps to her own shotgun house. It wasn’t as garishly colorful as mine, but it was ten times better maintained.
I closed the door and stood inside the quiet of my home.
Alone and sober.
Not entirely alone, I thought, and pulled the foil off the casserole. I cut a block of noodles, covered with crispy croutons, and ate it straight from the dish. It tasted heavenly. I ate that piece and another, standing up in my kitchen. I noticed my window faced Yvonne’s house. Only three feet separated our kitchen windows.
I threw open mine. “Yvonne!”
From inside her house. “Yeah, baby?” She came to her window and opened it, leaned her forearms on the sill. “Good, right?”
“It’s perfect.”
She laughed and made a shooing motion, then retreated back into her place. I laughed and shut my window.
My new cellphone chimed a text. It was Theo.
Wanted to make sure you got in okay.
I smiled. Nope. Not alone at all.
On Thursday, I showed up for work at Le Chacal, right on time.
Singing sober wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. The tears still came at the end of “The Lighthouse.” But instead of being walled off from my audience by alcohol, I could feel the intense emotion working its way through the crowd. No one drank, whispered or moved during the song. When it ended, I heard a collective intake of breath before the applause.
“Thank you,” I murmured into the mic, feeling strangely shy. I left the stage and took my guitar to my usual seat at the bar.
Big E planted his hands on either side of the old wood, grinning. “What’ll it be, sweets?”
“Seltzer with lime, please.” I slapped a ten-dollar bill on the bar. “And keep’em coming.”
He bellowed laughter and set the drink in front of me. “You done good, kid. How do you feel?”
“It’s weird,” I said. “I’ve played shows a hundred times bigger than this, but this was the first time I felt nervous. It’s so…intimate in here. I can’t hide anything. I either play my guts out or stay home.”
“I’m glad you didn’t stay home,” Big E said. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, E,” I said. “And thanks for—”
He held up his hands. “Nope. No thanks required. Just doing my job.”
“What is it with guys and gratitude? Teddy’s the same way. Wouldn’t hear a thank you if I paid him.”
Big E shrugged. “Real men take care of the women in their lives as a matter of course. Not because they want something in return.”
His words warmed me better than a shot of whiskey. “Not even a thank you?”
“Not even that.”
I laughed and rolled my eyes. “Theo definitely takes care of the women in his life,” I said. “His mother, me… If he ever settled down with a woman, I’ll bet she’d be spoiled for the rest of her life.”
Big E frowned. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“I thought…” He looked about to say something else, then shrugged. “Never mind.”
I was about to press him when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a young couple, maybe in their late twenties. The guy had short dark hair and black-framed hipster glasses—a Buddy Holly throwback. The girl had long, free-flowing red hair and a bohemian-looking dress splashed with flowers.
“Miss Dawson?” the guy said. He had to pitch his voice high above the jazz trio now onstage. “My name is Grant Olsen. This is my sister, Phoebe.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, smiling politely. Grant said nothing else. I looked from one to the other, my smile starting to slip.
Phoebe elbowed her brother in the side. “Talk,” she hissed.
“Uh, right.” Grant adjusted his glasses. “We own a small recording studio.”
“Like, totally small,” Phoebe added, “but still legit.”
“Yes, uh…legit.” Grant fumbled in his pocket for a business card and handed it to me. “I’m a sound engineer, Phoebe produces. Can we talk with you a minute? Buy you a drink?”
I agreed to the first, declined the second. We sat at a small table, where the Olsens described their studio and their commitment to producing local indie artists.
“We really love your work,” Grant said, pushing his glasses higher up on his nose. “Your voice. The lyrics. Very unique. Poignant.”
“You’re like if Brandi Carlile and Adele had a love child,” Phoebe said.
“Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s nice of you to say but…”
“But nothing,” Phoebe said, fishing a cherry out of her drink. “Great vocals and emotional lyrics. Dream combo.” She bit the cherry and pointed the stem at me. “And you used to play for Rapid Confession.”
“A lifetime ago,” I said. “I’m not interested in playing off that. I’m doing my own thing now. The band is doing theirs.”
She exchanged looks with her brother, and then Grant said, “We love that. Honestly, we want to help you do your own thing now. We noticed you don’t sell CDs prior to your shows and we can’t find any digital tracks anywhere either.”
“Because I don’t have any,” I said.
“We’d like to change that.”
We talked for an hour, Grant and Phoebe laying out a plan for me to record and produce an album—all the songs I’d been playing at these clubs. It could be sold both digitally and as a physical CD.
“Can we give you a tour of our recording studio tom
orrow?” Grant asked at the end of his pitch. He held up his hands. “Or later in the week? No pressure. No obligations. Just come over and check it out.”
I twirled my empty seltzer glass around and around. I’d never heard these songs from an audience perspective. Recording and then listening to them filled me with a strange fear. It would be easy to say no. Easy to say thanks, but no thanks, I was happy as is.
But I wasn’t happy.
And doing what scared me was the only way I was going to recover. I didn’t need a Tarot card to tell me.
“Tomorrow is good,” I said to Grant and Phoebe. “Why wait?”
The Olsens hadn’t been lying. Their studio was tiny, but it was also completely professional. It looked like a miniature of the studio where Rapid Confession recorded before the tour. A dim, windowless rectangle, separated by glass into two spaces. The recording area was hardly big enough for a band, but would accommodate one chick on a stool with her guitar perfectly well. On the other side of the glass, the soundboard took up half the space—a vast array of knobs, buttons, sliders and other functions I had no clue about.
Posters of indie shows and bands papered the walls of the soundbooth, while dark gray foamy-looking stuff, like the inside of egg cartons, covered the walls in the recording space. The whole place reeked of old incense. I loved the vibe of it immediately.
Grant rubbed the back of his neck and gave Phoebe a dark look. “I know it’s not much, and I keep telling Phoebe to chill with the incense…”
“Start wearing deodorant and I’ll consider it,” Phoebe snapped.
“I wear deodorant. Christ, you say something like that in front a potential client?”
They bickered under their breath at each other until I unstrapped my guitar case and set it down like I was unpacking a bag. Then they stopped and stared.
“So,” I said, taking a deep breath. “When can we start?”
Back home, I curled around the universe orb and told Jonah about the new developments.
“It might be the right thing for me,” I said. I usually had a cocktail in hand for these conversations. I clutched the glass tighter instead. “Or it might not. See, those songs…I’ve never heard them outside of myself. What if it’s too hard?”
It was already too hard.
I wiped my tears. “Teddy took me to see your glass when I was in Vegas. And it was so beautiful, Jonah. Your legacy. But remember what you told me in your letter? That our love was your legacy too?” The tears were streaming now, but somehow a smile stretched my lips. “These songs, they’re our legacy. They’re us. Love. You and me. And I think I should share them. How does that sound?”
It sounded good to me. It sounded right. Maybe recording this album, making those songs permanent, instead of watery breaths in a darkened club that dissipated into the smoky air, was what I was supposed to do. It could be a way to let him go.
I sighed and laid my head next to the glass. My sore eyes grew heavy watching the glowing stars swirl around the planet. I slipped into the twilight space between sleep and awake and felt Jonah with me.
And he was smiling.
Kacey
Three weeks later the album was nearly finished. I still hadn’t heard the whole thing mixed—I’d laid down the guitar track first, then the vocals. Only bits and pieces got played back for me.
I didn’t know what kind of impact it would make on the music world either, despite the fact that Grant and Phoebe were in a state of perpetual giddiness. They assured me over and over again it was going to be a huge hit.
“Even at ninety-nine cents a song, you can make a killing if just one goes big,” Grant told me, his eyes bright behind his glasses.
You can buy a lot of booze too, I thought. An echo of my Rapid Confession days when success wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
We wrapped it up on a Thursday night. Back home, I changed from my recording attire of sloppy jeans and T-shirt, to the nicer jeans and blouse for my gig at Le Chacal that night. My cell phone buzzed a text from Theo: You up?
I typed back, thumbs flying. You realize that’s the internationally-recognized code for booty call, right?
Nothing for a minute, then: Dirty mind. I was innocently asking if you’re awake.
There’s nothing innocent about you, Teddy. It’s only eight pm here and you know it. What’s up?
You working tongue?
I laughed. No, my tongue has the night off.
Tonight. I meant tonight. Fucking autocorrect. Calling…
Theo hated texting because he made so many typos. Which was fine with me, I preferred hearing his voice anyway. I liked its deep roughness in my ear.
My phone rang. “Yes, I’m working tonight,” I said. “I need the money to pay my gigantic phone bill.”
“You’re telling me,” Theo replied. “I had to take out a small loan after you kept me up until four in the morning last week.”
“All you had to do was concede The Princess Bride is the most quotable movie in existence and I would have let you off.”
I grinned, remembering how Theo tried to argue Monty Python’s the Holy Grail had earned that title. I’d badgered him with “Inconceivable!” until he gave up.
“Don’t start,” he said, “or I’ll fart in your general direction.”
I’d no idea stern-faced Theodore was a huge Monty Python fan. But during our marathon conversations, I learned he could quote the entire Holy Grail and Life of Brian movies almost verbatim, accents and all.
These monster phone sessions started out as him checking in on me. Brief chats, once or twice a week, making sure I was okay. The craving for booze was a constant. On bad days it flared into an insatiable thirst, laced with grief for Jonah. On good days, it was background noise, sometimes hardly noticeable.
The good days, I noticed, were growing more and more frequent. I had friends now: Yvonne next door. Big E. Even Grant and Phoebe were more like friends than business partners.
And I had Teddy, who now called me almost every day.
“So,” he said. “Oscar and Dena’s wedding.”
“Yes. Next Saturday. I’m so excited. Especially since my bridesmaid dress isn’t a total nightmare.” I glanced at the coral-colored, strapless dress hanging high on the door of my bedroom. “Not really my style but it’s pretty. Just the right color for a spring wedding.”
Theo grunted an acknowledgement of the girly dress talk, and then said, “When are you flying in?”
“Friday,” I said. “I’ll be there in time for the rehearsal dinner.”
“Cool.”
“You don’t sound super thrilled about it.”
“I never should’ve agreed to be the best man. It’s going to suck.”
“Why? Not a fan of making toasts in front of hundreds of strangers?”
“Something like that,” he muttered. “Anyway, are you bringing anyone?”
I blinked. “You mean like a date?”
“Yeah.”
“God, no. I’m soooo not ready for that.” I plucked at my duvet, making little wrinkles in the material. “Are you?”
“No,” he said.
A small smile spread over my face and I smoothed the duvet down. “Why not?”
“There’s no one I want to fly all the way to New York,” he said. “That’s an expensive date.”
“Good point,” I said.
Oscar and Dena were getting married at an exclusive club Oscar’s parents belonged to in upstate New York. The east coast location was easier on Dena’s grandparents—both in their eighties—who had to fly from Tehran, via London, to the US.
“So, we can be each other’s date,” I said. “At the least, you can save me a dance or two, so I’m not sitting alone at the table all night like a pathetic loser.”
“You’re not a pathetic loser,” he said darkly. “And I don’t dance.”
“Yeah, right,” I laughed. “You’ll have to beat the single ladies off you with a stick. Maybe the married ones too.”
&
nbsp; “That’s not happening.”
“You sure about that?” I said, grinning. “Admitting you have a problem is the first step toward recovery. You’re going to look amazing in a tux, Teddy.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I glanced at the clock. “I gotta go soon. I have my Le Chacal gig tonight.”
“You don’t sound super thrilled about it,” he said.
I smiled at his echo of my words. “I know. I’ve been more focused on recording. We finish tomorrow. The Olsens I keep telling you about? Turns out they really know their shit. They said the album might be ready by the time I get back from New York.”
“Already?”
“Not a lot of mixing and mastering to do when it’s just one voice and a guitar. Although they did talk me into letting a local violinist play background on a few tracks. I’m actually kind of excited about it.”
“That’s a good thing, then.”
I plucked the duvet again. “I think so. I’m nervous to hear it. Okay, no, I’m scared shitless to hear it. From an outsider perspective.”
“Take your time. Don’t listen until you’re ready.”
“When did you become so wise?”
“Born that way.”
I caught sight of the clock again. “Oh, shit. I really gotta run.”
“Tell Big E I said hi,” Theo said.
“I will. Text you later?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Bye, Teddy.”
“Bye, Kace.”
Kacey
My flight landed in Albany the afternoon before the wedding, and I just made it to the rehearsal dinner at a ritzy steakhouse. Dena had six bridesmaids, and I was thrilled to see Tania King, Jonah’s former assistant, was one of them. We hugged and cried a little—just seeing her brought back a flood of memories. She confided she was thrilled I was there for a more practical reason.
“Aside from the Fletchers, I literally know no one here,” she said.