“I know. Do you want to give us another try?”
“Okay.”
“How about Saturday night?”
When she hung up the phone, Cassie and Esther and Trudy made her repeat every word. Pee Wee brought her a piece of pecan pie and told her it was on the house.
When Chip showed up at six-thirty on Saturday night, he was wearing a tux with a white scarf tossed around his neck. Fancy. He hadn’t told her where they were going, but obviously she was underdressed. He waited for Harumi to change out of her leotard and wrap skirt and into a black dress. Then he ushered her out to his car.
“Tonight, we’re going to listen to my kind of music,” he said, starting the engine.
Harumi’s stomach flip-flopped. She hoped he was taking her to some quiet bar with a singer-songwriter on a stool, or even a disco where thirtysomething couples shagged to beach music. She didn’t want to be reminded of her previous life.
A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of the Township auditorium and Harumi saw the marquee: Carolina Symphony with Anne-Marie Muller. Classical music. Violin soloist.
Harumi didn’t say a word as Chip parked the car and opened her door. She let her small hand rest lightly on his elbow as they walked to the entrance. Women with stiffly styled hair and long gowns swished through the lobby.
Harumi had heard of Anne-Marie. She was one of the most famous young violinists in the world: a child prodigy, a daring original who sometimes stomped onstage in black leather. Once she’d shocked an audience by appearing in blue jeans, but she’d been quickly forgiven when she put bow to strings.
Chip had secured good seats, only twenty rows from the stage. They’d be close enough to watch Anne-Marie’s face—the expressions of effort and genius.
Harumi sat rigidly, her back not even touching the velvet-upholstered seat. She could feel Chip’s eyes upon her. Maybe he thought she wasn’t used to such a luxe environment.
She felt his hand hovering above her own, and she took it and held it on her lap. Why was she so nervous? She wasn’t even the one performing. She took a deep breath and eased back into her seat.
“Are you okay?” Chip asked. “You look a little pale.”
Harumi gave him a small smile and squeezed his hand lightly.
Finally, the stage cleared and the house lights dimmed. The audience applauded as the orchestra took their places. The applause increased when the conductor appeared. And then Anne-Marie, resplendent in an iridescent pink strapless gown, stepped from behind the curtain. Her hair spouted from a high ponytail and spilled into her face. She looked gorgeous. A front row fan whistled.
When the music began, Harumi closed her eyes. She could see, even then, the bows slicing air, the dance of the conductor’s baton. She could feel her own calloused fingers pressing against strings. She could smell the piney resin.
They were playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons concerti, and when Anne-Marie took up the sweet, joyous notes of the Spring concerto her face was filled with something akin to love. Harumi knew that she had lost that look in her last year of playing the violin. Her passion had turned into resentment. She had been right to quit. Still, listening now, she wondered what it would be like to lift an instrument—Sadie III?—to her shoulder.
Her eyes stayed open from then on, fixed on the performers. Nothing distracted her, not even the snoring of the man next to her. She almost forgot about Chip as well. At intermission, she turned to him at last.
“Your cheeks are blooming,” he said. “You look like an angel.”
“She’s brilliant, isn’t she?” Harumi nodded to the place where Anne-Marie had stood, tossing her ponytail.
“She made a deal with the devil, that one,” Chip said with a wink. “Care for a cup of coffee?”
They went into the lobby, into the hum and buzz of ordinary conversation, and had espresso.
“I’ve missed you,” Chip said.
“Me, too.” Looking up at him now, she couldn’t believe she’d been so silly and nervous. She felt completely at ease.
He leaned close to brush a stray hair from her cheek and she inhaled his musk. She felt a flash of desire and wondered, for a moment, if she would make love to him that night. But no. It was too soon. She would have to tell him that.
The lobby lights clicked off and on and they returned to their seats.
“Chip,” she whispered, just before the orchestra reappeared. “I have something to tell you.”
“What?”
Harumi took a deep breath. “I’ve never had a boyfriend before, and I play the violin.”
36
It was a week before Valentine’s Day, and it was snowing. Esther hugged her body as she ran from Trudy’s door to her car, her teeth chattering. No matter how cold it was, though, she was glad to be out of Trudy’s living room. The lead Diva had been in one of her moods. She’d actually flung a beer bottle against the wall, putting a dent in the plaster, when Cassie messed up on a chord progression. Not a good scene.
And Cassie, well, she’d been acting strange lately. Spacey. Sometimes she started laughing or crying for no reason. And she’d been losing weight and color. Esther was sure she was on some kind of drug.
Harumi was the only one who seemed normal. If anything, Harumi seemed happier than usual. She no longer sat in the corner, caressing her bass. Now she actually laughed at Trudy’s off-color jokes. She was quicker to make suggestions on improving songs. And this evening, once or twice she’d exchanged looks with Esther, rolling her eyes when Trudy threw the bottle.
Esther waited till the car was warmed up, then stabbed a tape into her cassette deck. She warbled along as she made her way home.
She’d promised to call Rebecca later, but she had a biology test to study for and a paper to write. Plus, she wasn’t in the mood. Rebecca would want to discuss Valentine’s Day plans—sex on a public beach, or something equally outrageous—and Esther wasn’t up for it. She was dreading the fourteenth of February. She wished they could just exchange boxes of chocolate and be done with it.
Rebecca. Lately, just the thought of her mentor/friend/boss gave Esther a headache. She knew that there was something very wrong with the relationship. It was time to put an end to it, but Esther didn’t know how. If she had the money and the guts, she’d leave town without a forwarding address. That would be the easiest way.
Or she could write a letter. Breaking up by mail was cowardly, but she was a coward. She’d be the first to admit it. Besides, in a live, one-to-one confrontation, she’d either lose her courage or wind up being persuaded by Rebecca to change her mind. And then she’d continue being miserable. A letter would be best.
Esther reached the house just as the tape was ending. Her mother had left the porch light on, and Esther could see the snow whirling around. She sat in her car for a moment, letting her decision harden into something concrete. Then she took a deep breath and yanked the door handle.
Almost as soon as she was in the foyer, her mother rushed out to greet her.
“Oh, honey. We were worried about you. Were the roads icy?”
Esther kissed her cheek. “No, not at all.”
“Your boss called a little while ago. She wants you to call her back.”
Esther gritted her teeth and nodded. She wouldn’t call. Instead, she ducked into the living room to say hello to her father, enthroned as usual in his La-Z-Boy with a cold beer, and hurried upstairs to her room.
As she lay sprawled across her bed, she tried to concentrate on “A Rose for Emily,” but thoughts of Rebecca kept barging into her mind. She finally gave up, closed her book, and took out a notebook.
“Dear Rebecca,” she wrote, “I am unhappy in our relationship and I don’t want to be your girlfriend anymore.”
With Rebecca, she knew, it was best to be direct.
She was going to have to give up her job, but that was okay. She’d socked away quite a bit of money over the past few months, and she was sure she could find something else. She’d slin
g burgers at McDonald’s, if need be.
At one in the morning, after four drafts had already been crumpled and tossed, Esther finished her letter. She signed it, stuffed it into an envelope, and went downstairs to get a stamp out of the kitchen drawer. Then she slipped back out into the cold, hopped in her car, and drove to the nearest mailbox.
She wouldn’t go to work tomorrow. She’d leave a note at the gallery and that would be it.
When she got back home, she went straight to bed. William Faulkner would have to wait.
She thought that relief would wash over her immediately, that sleep would come easily, but she tossed and turned all night. The letter in the mailbox was like a bomb waiting to go off. At dawn, after a few twisted dreams, she dragged herself out of bed and splashed her face with cold water. Her eyes in the mirror were red-rivered and shadowed.
All day long, she found herself looking over her shoulder, as if Rebecca might be there, ax in hand. It was silly. The letter hadn’t even been delivered yet, but in her sleep-starved state, paranoia ruled.
By the time she got home that night, after classes and band practice, she was too tired to care. She glanced at the note her mother had left on the table—“Call Rebecca”—and shredded it. Then she dove into bed.
It was not until two days later, at four in the afternoon, that Rebecca showed up on the Shealy family’s front porch.
Esther heard a car tear into the driveway, heard a door slam, and quick steps on the sidewalk. This was followed by the doorbell—three impatient rings. She crept to the window knowing what she’d find, and there it was—Rebecca’s red Mustang.
She heard her mother chirping downstairs, and then Rebecca’s deeper voice.
“Esther, honey? Could you come down here, please?” Her mother’s voice was obscenely cheerful. She had no idea what was about to go down.
Wild thoughts caromed in her head. She could jump out the window and flee across the lawn, or hide herself under the bed. If she just ignored them … but now her mother was banging on the door. “Esther? You have a visitor.” Damn that singsong voice. She’d be setting out coffee and home-baked cookies any minute now.
“Coming.”
Rebecca stood in the foyer in a sharp tweed suit. She looked great, totally unaffected, and Esther wondered if she had gotten the letter.
“Hey,” she said, not knowing what else to say.
“Hello.”
They stared at each other for a moment, then Rebecca reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the letter. “We need to talk.”
Esther’s mother bustled in the background, her ears, no doubt, alert. “Let’s go someplace. We can sit on the porch.” It was cold, but she didn’t want Rebecca in her house.
To her relief, Rebecca followed her outside and took a seat beside her on the cement steps.
The first words she said were, “You have devastated me.”
Esther hung her head. “I’m sorry.”
“What happened? We were so happy. We loved each other.” Her voice was getting louder, verging on the hysterical. Esther hoped her mother was minding her own business.
“Is there someone else? Some boy?”
Esther shook her head. It was true. She was cured of Cassie, after all this time.
“Don’t you love me anymore?”
Esther could see that her hands were trembling. She was truly falling apart. Part of her wanted to soften the blow, but she knew what she had to do. “No,” she said. “I never loved you. Not from the beginning.”
And then Rebecca was wailing, clawing at Esther’s face, and the door opened. Esther’s mother stepped out onto the porch and bent down. “Is everything okay?”
“It will be,” Esther said. She squeezed Rebecca’s shoulder once, one final time, and disappeared into the house.
37
Cassie was late. Trudy would probably be furious, but she’d get over it. After all, she wasn’t the one who’d booked the studio. And the money was coming from Cassie’s daddy.
By some weird coincidence, he’d reserved studio time on the anniversary of her mama’s death. They’d never done anything formal to recognize the day, so she assumed he wasn’t aware of it. He’d probably forgotten. Or maybe it was his feeble attempt to distract her from grief. But this day always made her feel edgy and sad. She had a hard time concentrating.
When she screeched up to the curb, she saw them standing there on the sidewalk, Trudy, in jeans and a cracked leather jacket, shifting from foot to foot; Harumi, hugging her bass; and Esther, hovering nearby. Cassie knew that since Rebecca was no longer helping out, Esther wasn’t sure of her place in the band. But she’d come along as a drummer. She was good at it, and she was dependable. All of them ought to praise her more.
“Hey, y’all,” she shouted. “Sorry I’m late!”
Esther’s face lit up with what looked like relief. “We thought you were ….” Her eyes darted from Trudy to Harumi, and back to Cassie again.
“What?”
“We thought you were shooting up with Adam,” Trudy said, looking her straight in the eye.
They knew? How could they know? She’d been so discreet, keeping her arms covered, her mouth shut.
“Look,” Trudy said. “This band means a lot to me. I don’t want you to screw it up.”
“It means a lot to me, too,” she said, annoyed. It’s not like she was some junkie, selling herself on street corners, desperate for her next fix. She had it under control.
“We’re worried about you,” Harumi put in, quickly. “What you’re doing is dangerous.”
Sweet, innocent Harumi. Cassie spread her arms and gathered them in a group hug. “I’m totally fine. I just thought I’d give it a try, once or twice, for kicks. I’m not addicted. So don’t you worry about me.”
When they came out of their huddle, she could tell that Harumi and Esther were reassured, but Trudy—she’d need a little more convincing.
“Come on,” she said, waving them on like a tour conductor. “We’ve got a demo to record!”
Once they were all set up in the studio, Cassie turned things over to Trudy. She wasn’t interested in keeping everyone in line, anyway.
Trudy reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper that had been folded into an origami crane. She flattened it and read aloud. “Okay, we’re going to do ‘Crashbaby’ and ‘Lady Lazarus Rises Again’ first, just to make sure we get those tracks laid down. I think those are going to be our hits.” This, with a nod to Cassie. “And then we’ll do Esther’s song.”
“Really?” Esther’s eyes flooded with tears.
“It’s a good song,” Harumi said, quietly.
Cassie nodded in agreement. Tell her now, she thought, willing Trudy to be nice. Tell her what she means to us.
“You’ve proven yourself to be a true Diva,” Trudy said. “And this song has actually kind of grown on me. Plus, it’s sometimes good to slow down once in a while, give ourselves a break.”
They hadn’t practiced it all that much, but Cassie was sure they’d be able to conjure some rough beauty.
The studio sound engineer was waiting for his cue on the other side of the glass. They put on their earphones, adjusted their mics, and did a sound check.
“Are you ready?” Trudy asked.
They all screamed at once, “Yes!”
By the end of their allotted time, they’d managed to record five songs. It was a solid sampler, enough to give local DJs and record companies a taste of their talent. As they were packing up, they made plans to celebrate at the Capitol Café.
“Before that, would you mind doing me a favor?” Cassie interrupted.
“Anything,” Trudy said. “As long as it doesn’t involve Adam.”
A low blow, but Cassie figured she’d ignore it. “Would you all go with me to Mama’s grave?”
“Of course we will,” Esther said. It was as if now that her initiation was complete, she was free to speak up.
They all moved closer. She cou
ld feel their warmth, their strength. This must be what it’s like to have sisters, she thought.
“What did your mama like?” Harumi asked.
“What did she like?” What a strange question.
Harumi shook her long hair out of her eyes as she tried to explain. “When we went to Japan, after my grandfather died, we laid his favorite things at the family altar. Like tangerines and green tea. To keep his ghost happy, I guess.”
Cassie nodded. She was pretty sure the spirit of her mother wasn’t happy. Whenever she dreamed about Mama, she was raging. “She liked to drink. And she was really, really into beauty pageants.” She rolled her eyes, but Harumi just nodded thoughtfully.
“Okay, let’s go,” Trudy said.
They caravanned to the cemetery and parked in a row under some oak trees. Dusk was falling. The sky was edged in pink, and bats swooped over their heads as they walked across the lawn to her mother’s grave. Talk about spooky.
Cassie walked up to the headstone and traced her mother’s name—Leticia Anne Haywood—with her fingers. “Hi, Mama,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I’ve been away so long.”
Usually, on this day, she lit a candle in her room and talked to the ceiling, imagining that her mother was listening. Sometimes she cried a little. But she was always alone.
Harumi stepped forward and put her left hand on Cassie’s back. In her right hand, she held a tube of lipstick, which she placed in front of the stone. Trudy came next, with a mini bottle of whiskey. And then Esther. “Did your mama like music?” she asked. “Maybe we could sing something for her.”
Cassie’s eyes were filling with tears. “She did,” she said, with a little laugh, dragging her wrist across her nose. “She trained me to sing ‘How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?’ It was my stage number. She had it all choreographed. Do you know it?”
“Wait here,” Harumi said. “I’ll get my bass.”
A few minutes later, after a quick lesson, they were all singing a raucous punk version together. Cassie thought that they sounded good, but her mama was probably turning over in her grave.
Screaming Divas Page 16