by Joni Rodgers
Kiki didn’t say.
There’s a particular rise, southbound on 45, where the skyline suddenly reveals itself, and that view of Houston always made Kit feel like she was standing at the gates of the Emerald City, ruby slippers on her feet, heart full of belief in something greater than herself. Traffic surfing around the Pierce Elevated, she passed the honeycomb of high-rise apartments, the twin monoliths that reminded her of 2001: A Space Odyssey, the giant blue icefall, and a great green glass phallus.
It seemed more appropriate, somehow, to take this bold step among the glass and granite of the city, where the wind soared between steel structures that sheered right up into the clouds like tall sailing ships. She felt stronger here than she did among the low roofs and ceiling fans of the suburbs, where privacy fences and manicured hedges blunted the breeze, and strip malls stretched out like afternoon cats. Suburbia was a lifestyle too lazy for the country, too chickenshit for the city. This brazen gesture required the sophisticated danger of downtown.
Besides, Kit reminded herself, the last thing she needed was to bump into someone from church or PTO.
When she pulled off Fannin into the parking lot at Cinema Star Video, her face was already flaming. She meandered through the children’s section, scanning the shelves for something the kids hadn’t seen fifty-five times already. She picked up The Fox and The Hound, Goonies, and some cheap foreign animation version of Gulliver’s Travels. She wandered over to the comedy section and picked up Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls, a movie she hadn’t allowed Cooper to see previously, even though he protested to her that everybody except stupid little kindergarten babies had been allowed to see it, and she was just being mean.
Toward the back of the store there was a plywood partition with swinging shutter-type doors and a sign that said “NO ONE UNDER 18.”
Kit looked over her shoulder and sidled in that direction.
“Can I help you?” A tiny Korean lady appeared from around the corner, and Kit practically jumped out of her sandals. “You finding everything okay?”
“Yes. Oh, yes. Fine. Thank you.”
“Okay.” The Korean lady stood there smiling.
“Just fine.” Kit repeated. “Thank you.”
“You ready to check out now?”
“No. No. Not quite,” Kit browsed pointedly at the documentaries on the shelf. “Still looking.”
“Okay.” The Korean lady kept smiling.
“Right...” Kit glanced over her shoulder at the swinging doors. “Okay. Well, I guess this’11 do me,” she said and followed the lady to the counter.
At the place on San Felipe, she came out with The Sound of Music and the place on Old Katy Road provided Squanto: A Warrior’s Tale.
Kit was getting disgusted with herself. They couldn’t afford this. The kids were going to be home from school in an hour.
Is this a free country, or isn’t it? she demanded of the rearview mirror. Am I over 18 or not?
She strode into the place on Post Oak, stepped over to the desk, removed her sunglasses, and said, “Excuse me. Do you have pornographic movies here?”
The guy shook his head at first, thinking she was some Baptist or something, but when she seemed disappointed, he guessed she was more likely a desperate housewife.
“However,” he said, “we do have adult features. In there.”
He pointed to the same swinging doors and sign that must be marketed through some massive fuck film outlet supply catalogue.
Porno-R-Us, Kit mused.
She nodded and went over to the doors, veering off at the last second toward the children’s section. She looked at her watch and sighed. She went out to her car. She looked back at the store window. The guy was smirking at her.
Head high, purse clutched primly under her arm, Kit strode back into the store, passing the new releases, ignoring romance and drama, pushing through the swinging doors. The room had that basementish skanky-carpet-and-air-conditioner smell born of sustained deep South humidity. The walls were lined with plastic boxes bearing pictures of heavily made-up women bending over things—their eyes closed, their lips open.
The films were all cleverly titled with double entendres like Wet Nurses and Between a Cock and a Hard Place and Tits a Wonderful Life. Kit picked up a box that said HOT! HOT! HOT! across the top. The woman on the front was bending over the hood of a vintage Ford Falcon. Royal blue.
It felt like an omen.
Kit turned the box over. The woman’s tongue protruded, tip touching the erect shaft of a shiny steel ratchet.
“Triple T & A Auto Club: Mr. Good’s Wrench
XXX 75 minutes
Gentlemen, start your engines! The Triple T&A girls are back in their nastiest, fastest, most motor-revvingest adventure yet! When a nosy neighbor schemes to shut down the only all-gal garage in Peterville, Candyapples, Pussywillow and Miz Pistonpumper treat him and his horny henchmen to the lube job of their lives!” .
Kit wasn’t sure why they would want to do that or why it would be particularly off-putting to henchmen with an announced predilection toward horniness, but—what the hey. The overall theme seemed like something Mel might be able to relate to, and chances were, he wouldn’t pause to question the commercial stratagem of three businesswomen named Candyapples, Pussywillow, and Miz Pistonpumper, particularly when they were uniformed in excruciatingly short bib overalls with no shirts underneath.
Kit tucked it under her arm and hurried out.
“Find everything?” the guy at the counter smiled.
He looked dangerous in a handsome young Hispanic kind of way. Kit put the plastic box face down on the counter, and he ran it across the scanner. There was an electronic chirp and “Title: T & A: Good Wrench” flashed up on the computer screen.
“That’s a great one,” the guy said, to Kit’s horror. “It’s a classic.”
She couldn’t imagine what she was supposed to contribute to this conversation. A lady with two Care Bears cartoons stepped in line behind her.
“Adult features are two-for-two,” the guy said.
“I’m sorry?” Kit whispered, hoping to bring his voice down.
“Adult features. Two-for-two,” he repeated impatiently and even louder. “You rent two adult features for two days— five bucks.”
“Well, I just... I just need the—the one,” Kit stammered.
“Well, you might as well get another one, ‘cause I have to charge you the five bucks either way.”
“No, really. I—I—because, see—I’m actually just getting it as a joke on my cousin...”
“You got two days to watch ‘em. Two-and-a-half, in fact, ‘cause adult features don’t have to be back till midnight.”
Kit felt the woman behind her giving her the Care Bear stare.
“Just charge me the five dollars,” she hissed. “I’m in a hurry.”
“Geez,” the guy looked hurt. “I guess you are.”
“She’s white,” Xylo Haines repeated.
“Yes,” Vivica nodded. “You know, I noticed that about her when she was born.”
“She’s a white girl.”
“So is Peggy Lee.”
Kiki shrank back into the semicircular booth, quiet as instructed, letting Vivica do all the talking.
“And she looks... she looks... pregnant,” Xylo whispered the last word toward Vivica, as if Kiki might not know this about herself.
“I’d noticed that, too,” Vivica whispered.
“You’re killin’ me, Vivica. Killin’ me here.”
“We’ll get her something with a princess waistline,” Vivica said. “She’s still got a terrific set of pipes.”
“What are you trying to do to me?” Xylo tried to turn aside to avoid hurting Kiki’s feelings. “Ain’t no little white girl gonna sing like Ramonica did, and ain’t no pregnant lady gonna look like Ramonica did.”
“Maybe not, but Ramonica’s gone, Xylo. We’ve already canceled out of six very decent gigs, and if you want to do this thing in Buena Vista at
the end of the month, you’re gonna need—” Vivica gestured toward Kiki as if she were the prize on a game show,”—a girl.”
“Think about the repertoire, lady. No way she’s gonna be hip to the repertoire.”
“You guys don’t have a repertoire without a female vocalist,” Vivica countered. “I’m sure you could sing ‘Oh my man I love him so,’ but this isn’t The Flaming Flamingo.”
“And it ain’t the cocktail lounge at the Ramada Inn, either. This is a blues gig in a blues establishment frequented by those who are able to distinguish blues from elevator music. Don’t even try to tell me this girl is gonna sing ‘Suitcase Blues’ and sound like Sippie Wallace.”
“No, Xylo, she’s going to sing ‘Suitcase Blues’ and sound like Kiki Smithers, and you’ll be damn lucky to have her.”
He started to say something else, but she raised her hand and continued.
“Sweetie, I guarantee you, this girl knows every song that ever passed the lips of Billie Holiday, Koko Taylor, and Cleo Laine. Not to mention Peggy Lee. And what she doesn’t already know, you can teach her, Xylo. She’s very bright. And it’s the obligation of the old master to pass his knowledge on to the next generation.” She cued Kiki and gestured toward the stage. “At least listen to her. One number. Something easy. Something quick. Say ... oh ... ‘Gloomy Sunday’?” She suggested it as though she’d just thought it up off the top of her head and hadn’t actually been coaching Kiki on it for three days. “Just give me ‘Gloomy Sunday,’ hmm?”
Xylo rolled his eyes and trudged up onto the stage where Kiki waited now, smiling a bit too brightly, microphone held up to her pink mouth.
“Gloomy Sunday,” he mumbled. “Yeah, I got a gloomy Sunday for you, lady...”
But then he looked at Kiki, and even though he still seemed irritated, his features mellowed slightly.
“Good afternoon, Miss Kiki,” he said, his voice low and slow like deep water. “In which key do you prefer your ‘Gloomy Sunday’?”
“Could we do it in A minor?” she asked timidly, hoping Xylo hadn’t noticed how the microphone trembled in her hand. ‘“Cause I... I practiced it in A minor. If that’s no trouble.”
“A minor it is,” he shrugged. “A minor, my brothers.”
The rest of the Euphonious Brethren drifted onto the stage, and the stand-up bass started an easy rhythm. The drummer fanned out a pair of brushes over the cymbal and snare, and Xylo squeezed in between the electric piano and his xylophone, picking up the intro on the keyboard. After a moment, he looked over his shoulder.
“You gonna sing the song or what?”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s cool,” he softened a bit, “just jump on in when you’re ready.”
“Okay.” Kiki smoothed her hand over her dress, eyes forward like she was timing her way into a twirling jump rope. “Now?”
“Do it, girl.”
“Sunday is gloomy... my hours are slumberless...”
Kiki stumbled a little, but then she smoothed it out. She felt safe with Billie Holiday. She’d been listening to the lady sing the blues since she was a child and practiced this song a million times in front of the mirror, polishing the pouty mouth, the droopy eyelids, the tragic trill.
“Dreaming,” Kiki belted over the bridge, “Oh, I must have been dreaming...”
She looked down and saw Vivica tugging on her earring, the sign for “you’re trying too hard.” Kiki pulled back and tried to relax the straining muscles in her cheeks.
She sensed Xylo looking over his shoulder.
“Gloomy—Sunnnnn-daaaaaaaaaaay,” she finished with her arms extended wide above her, microphone tipped down, chin tipped up, and then her hands arched gracefully down as the bass trailed out.
Vivica stood, applauding vigorously.
Xylo sat on the piano bench with his hands at his sides.
“Viv,” he said without turning to face her, “I don’t want to hurt nobody’s feelings or nothin’, and the lady has a powerful instrument there, but... she’s a white girl, Vivica. She might have all the words memorized, but I’m sorry. She don’t know nothin’ about singin’ no blues.”
“Okay. Well...,” Kiki nodded and replaced the microphone in the stand. “Thank you, Mr. Haines, for your time and ... and everything.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Vivica strode forward. “C’mon, Xylo, you can’t base this decision on one number. Let’s call that one a warm-up, all right?” She patted Kiki’s hair back into place. “How about ‘Them There Eyes’? She’ll knock you dead on ‘Them There Eyes.’ Kiki, get back up there.”
“It’s okay, Mama, really,” Kiki whispered.
“No, it isn’t!” Vivica whispered back. “You think you’re going to get anywhere giving up that easy? You were just a little nervous. Now, shake it off.”
She took Kiki by the shoulders and spun her back toward Xylo.
“She was just a little nervous. She’s fine now.”
“I’m sorry, Vivica,” Xylo repeated, “but she don’t know nothin’ about singin’ no blues. She was smilin’ and muggin’ the whole time like the damn Miss America pageant. She’s all lookin’ like ‘Star Search’ or some damn thing, makin’ them plastic Barbie-doll hand gestures. I don’t know who’s been tellin’ her what, but that microphone up over her head, she look like a widemouthed bass comin’ up to take the bait off a hook.”
“Vivica?”
A soft voice came from the doorway before she had a chance to come back. It was Estelle, her assistant from the agency, and she had Oscar and Chloe by the hand.
“I’m sorry, Viv, but I had that appointment, remember?”
“Oh, damn. No, I forgot, Estelle. I apologize. Just leave them here with me.” She pointed at Kiki and said, “I’ve got ‘em. You sing.” Then she pointed at Xylo Haines. ‘“Them There Eyes.’ Key of D.”
She took the children from Estelle and parked them at a table near the front of the stage with the very same air of authority while Xylo’s mallets danced a tinkling upbeat intro and Kiki started singing.
“I fell in love with you the first time I looked into ... them there eyes...”
She tried to move around the stage a little, but she bumped an amp cord, and her mike fed back on her with a shrill beam, so after that she stood still, focusing on Oscar and Chloe, singing it to them the way she always did.
She decided at the last second to tag a more casual ending onto it this time.
“Oooooo, baby... themmmm... them there eyes.”
She looked hopefully over at Xylo, who closed with a rhythmy upward canter.
“Much better,” he nodded with those kindly eyes. “Kiki, you’re a beautiful woman, and you got a beautiful voice, and that was real nice, but ...” He shrugged uncomfortably at Vivica, pleading, “You got nobody else to show me?”
“Nobody.”
He shrugged again and shook his head.
“Your loss,” she shrugged back.
“I’m sorry, Miss Kiki, I wish you the best of luck.”
He took her hand, not to shake it so much as to embrace it between both of his. Kiki focused on his long fingers, pale palms, and ebony smooth forearms. The small gesture awakened a part of her that had forgotten grown-ups could touch with the tenderness of a child, and that part of her hated to let go-
“All right then, Mr. Haines.” Vivica snapped the catches on her briefcase and opened it on the small round table, pushing aside the round candleholder and making room for a stack of contracts. “I’ve been holding the paperwork on these bookings, but I have to believe that your signature on the bottom line here means that you will be there to perform, come what may. Kiki, do you mind waiting? It’ll just take a minute.”
“That sure is a fine xylophone you have over there, sir,” Oscar spoke up from his grandmother’s elbow.
“Yes, son, it surely is that,” Xylo said with grandfatherly patience.
“It starts with an X, you know—not a Z, like it sounds.”
“Well, this one over here,” Xylo smiled, “actually, this one starts with a V.”
“Mama,” Chloe said, “I have to go potty.”
“C’mon, then,” her mama smiled.
It was a relief to move toward the ladies’ room with Chloe’s familiar hand in hers. Kiki was having a hard time keeping her okay face on.
“In point of actual fact,” Xylo’s voice faded behind her, “this here is what you would call a vibraphone...”
Kiki let Chloe into the stall and then sat on a wooden chair by the door, listening to the muted voices and music on the other side. There was laughter, a lush, upward interpolation, then a blunt yelping from the instrument. Kiki smiled and guessed correctly that Xylo was giving Oscar a turn.
“Mommy, there’s no toilet paper in here,” Chloe called.
Kiki reeled some off in the neighboring stall and passed it under to her.
“Got it?”
“Yeah. But somebody put a cigarette on the floor in here.”
“Well, don’t touch it. It’s yucky.”
The toilet flushed, and Chloe came out.
“Wash your hands, honey,” Kiki said wearily.
She realized she was always saying that. She even made it into a little song to remind them as they were getting potty trained.
Wipe! Flush! Wash and dry your hands off...
She was always saying the same things over and over, knowing nothing would ever change. She was running out of money. Wayne had canceled her credit cards. In a tourist town like Orlando, she figured, there must be some kind of work for her. But the thought of auditioning turned her cold. She knew from experience that not everyone in the business shared Xylo Haines’ reluctance to hurt anyone’s feelings. Kiki wasn’t sure she had it in her anymore, the ability to bounce back. And with the baby showing already, there wasn’t much hope of being hired anywhere else, even if she were to discover something she was qualified to do.