She reached out and unbuttoned his fly. His stomach muscles twitched as she lowered the zipper slowly, then slid the worn denim down over his hips, to his knees. Max kicked off his shoes and let Iris free his legs of the jeans. His underwear was tight-fitting, unlike the baggy boxer shorts worn by the only two other men she had ever seen take their pants off. Max placed a hand behind Iris’s head and pulled it toward his crotch. He was hot and hard, and full of that smell she had picked up the first time she stood near him.
“What were you doing in church?” he asked her, his voice low.
Iris tilted her face up to him. “What?”
“In church, when you were waiting for me,” he said, staring down at her.
She heard the voices of those breast-beating old ladies. Mea culpa, mea culpa.
“Nothing, I …” He pushed her head against him, forced the words back into her mouth with the penis still stuffed inside his underwear.
“Did you pray?” He relaxed his hold on her head to let her speak.
“I was only inside a minute.”
White-haired heads snapped around to look at her, their mouths moving with words she could not hear.
“Did you pray?” he repeated, in a louder voice. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulled her head back so she would be forced to look up at him. The light of the votive candle flickered on his face.
“Yes, I prayed.”
Mother Mary came to her in a statue, whispered something she couldn’t quite hear, then disappeared.
“I knew it. You should always pray.” Still holding her hair with one hand, he slid his underwear down with the other. He released his erection, shoved it into her mouth. Iris gagged. He pulled her head back by the hair again, and took his penis in his free hand. “Will you pray for me?” he said.
“What?”
“Next time you go to church, will you pray for me, too?” He thrust himself at her, moving his hips, holding his penis over her upturned face.
“Yes, Max,” she whispered. Her throat was tight, her heart racing.
“Somebody has to save me,” he said, panting, thrusting. “Are you gonna save me?” he cried. He was getting close.
“Yes, I’ll save you!” Iris dug her nails into his thighs.
Max’s scream echoed through the deserted villa, as a spasm shook his body. When he released his hold on her, Iris stood up, trembling with confusion, wet with arousal. Max pulled her close, rubbing his liquid into her face and hair.
“Take your clothes off,” he said.
She undressed and stood before him in the flickering candlelight. She had never felt so exposed in her nudity, so consumed by desire. Max ran his fingers over her girlish breasts and pointed nipples, down her flat belly, along the curves of her full hips, then lowered himself to his knees before her naked body, and toyed with her need until she, too begged to be saved.
2. Lily
Nick was the owner and chief engineer at Black Rose Studio. He spent ten minutes on the phone with Lily, asking her what kind of music she liked to sing and patiently explained the recording, mixing, mastering, and duplication process to her.
“I tell you what,” said Nick. “I have a soft spot for new artists. If you can get down here this afternoon, I have a nice blues band coming in. I let them use the space to rehearse. If you guys hit it off, maybe they would be willing to accompany you on your demo. Can you come by around two?”
Black Rose Studio was newer, cleaner and more sleek than Owen’s studio. The walls were painted a dark gray, with light gray trim around the doorways. With no windows to the outside, the reception area was dark, but the track lighting from the ceiling gave the room a subdued, sophisticated feel. The reception desk was occupied by a stylishly dressed woman of about twenty-five, who greeted Lily as she entered.
“Good afternoon! Welcome to Black Rose Studio.” The woman’s face seemed to get swallowed up in her enthusiastic smile.
“Hi,” said Lily. She was impressed with herself for getting back into an old pair of jeans, but as she looked down at what she referred to as her “rock star” boots, she wished she had taken the time to at least remove the scuffs. With any luck, they wouldn’t bother paying attention to her feet.
“How may I help you?”
“I’m here to see Nick. My name is Lily. Lily Diotallevi.”
The woman picked up the receiver of the telephone and pushed a button with a long red fingernail.
“Lily Ditelli to see you.”
“Diotallevi” said Lily.
“Dovtelli,” the woman said into the headset.
She led Lily down a long hall that was adorned with photos of people posing with musical instruments, framed handwritten letters, and one gold record.
“Welcome, welcome,” said Nick, extending his hand to Lily. “Have a seat - we’re just finishing up here.”
Nick was about sixty-five years old, with a scraggly white beard and a few lonely wisps of hair floating just above his scalp, like a cloud. Cirrus. Fair weather cloud. It was a good sign. He sat in a large black leather chair on wheels - no doubt purchased at La Casa Bella, from Joe - and glided himself back and forth along the long mixing board in front of him. He reached over his protruding belly to adjust the levers, which Owen had taught her were actually called faders, as the band on the other side of the glass cranked out their version of “The Things I Used to Do”. Another good sign.
When the song was over, Nick flipped a switch on the microphone in front of him. “Guys - hey guys - ” he called as his voice was piped into the booth. “This pretty lady here is Lily, and she’d like to record a vocal demo one of these days. I thought maybe you could help out. Her husband is the one who gave me a great deal on that fine leather couch you guys are always crashing on.”
The musicians all waved and shouted hello. One of the guitar players, who Lily assumed was the leader, leaned into his mic and said, “C’mon in, Lily - let’s play around a little.”
Shit. What? Right now? She could hear Uncle Alfred, coaching her when he had first put her in front of an audience at The Luau restaurant. “It’s no big deal - anyone can sing. You just have fun, keep the beat, and no one even notices if you do it right or not. It’s music, not brain surgery. You’re supposed to have a good time.”
“So what song do you want to record?” The guitar player placed his pick between his front teeth and extended his hand toward Lily. “I’m Tommy, by the way.”
“Hi, Tommy. Well, I was thinking of this song I have from church.” She was sure she sounded like Laura Ingalls Wilder from Little House on the Prairie. “I didn’t know we were going to work on it today. I don’t have sheet music - just the lyrics and the chords, and a tape of me singing it at Easter Vigil.”
The drummer and keyboardist exchanged smirks.
Tommy looked up at Nick, who shrugged.
“Well, boys, it looks like we’re doing a church song.”
Lily wanted to explain to them that it wasn’t really a church song - like it wasn’t the “Ave Maria” or “The Lord’s Prayer” or anything like that. She knew she could explain what it wasn’t, but she had no idea how to explain what it was.
“Tell you what,” said Tommy. “I’ll have Nick pop this tape into the deck and you can start singing along while we get a feel for it, OK? Then, when we’re all synched up, I’ll have Nick pull the tape and you just keep going. We’ll catch on and see what we end up with - how would that be?”
“OK.” Lily felt drunk with exhilaration and surprise, anchored to the floor only by the heaviness of her anxiety.
Lily slipped the headphones on and adjusted the mic stand. She was grateful for the meager experience that Owen had given her; maybe it would help prevent her from looking like a complete moron.
As she sang along with the recording, Lily was comforted by the waves of Jeffrey’s familiar piano accompaniment. At the second verse, Nick pulled the recording out and the band began to improvise. Tommy played an achingly sweet guitar line, and th
en George came in with a soulful drum beat, followed soon after by the tinkling of the keyboard and the gentle pulse of the bass guitar. She was singing, and they were all there following her - growing more dynamic as she did, pulling back when she backed off. The musicians supported her, and she felt safe in their care as they played with the spaces between her words, filling them with flourishes of melody and percussion, thrilling her and lifting her out of her inhibitions.
Lily’s voice gained an autonomy of sorts, continuing under a power and force of its own, without her conscious thought directing it. When she sang in church, she was always so careful not to call too much attention to herself. The music was about God, not about her. But here, it was about her and the song, and this was her chance to show this somewhat reluctant troupe of Samaritans - and herself - that she was talented, and serious, and in charge - as far as any of them knew, anyway.
Lily abandoned her tentative approach to the higher notes in favor of boldness and risk, and she hit every one of them with strength and clarity. When the song lingered in the lower registers that she loved so much, she played with her breath, sometimes releasing it into the note, making the tone fuzzy and warm, and at other times, holding her breath back, letting it slowly wind out, sustaining the notes, stretching them thinly across the room. On the final verse, she improvised the vocal line, the way Uncle Alfred had taught her to do on the guitar when they played blues. As the song ended, Lily’s voice trailed off to a whisper, the final keyboard chord hung in the air, the drum beat tumbled away, and the studio dropped into complete silence. The band erupted into applause.
“Boy, you nailed that,” said Nick, from the control room.
“No shit,” said Tommy. “Hey, Nick - any chance you were rolling tape on that?”
“No, man,” said Nick. “I thought you guys were just going to mess around a little. Then I guess I just got caught up in it.”
“Too bad,” said Tommy. “I gotta say, Lily. That didn’t sound like any song I ever heard in church - that was a freakin’ soaring ballad.” He shook his head. “Man!”
Lily thought she should say something in return. Tell them how great they sounded, make a semi-intelligent remark about their ability to come together cohesively so quickly on a song they hadn’t even heard of fifteen minutes earlier. But she couldn’t form the words. She didn’t want to soil the sanctity of the moment with ill-formed amateur judgments.
“What do you say, guys?” said Nick. “Wanna back her up?”
“Absolutely,” said Tommy. “We have a lot going on for the rest of the summer, what with all our gigs, but we could do this in a couple months - can you check in with us after Labor Day? That’ll give us some time to work on punching it up a bit.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Lily. She could use the time to rehearse anyway. “If you’re sure you don’t mind. I don’t want to take advantage.”
“Are you kidding?” said Tommy. “It’s an honor to work with someone as talented as you.” He smiled and winked. “Just don’t forget us little people when you get to the top.”
Lily drove home feeling warm, happy, disassociated from the past, excited about being alive. It reminded her of the way she felt the first time she and Iris smoked pot in high school. She wondered what Iris was doing now. Lily wanted to share this exciting news with her. It would be a chance to show Iris that she was not just some boring old housewife. She might not be as sophisticated as Iris, or as wealthy. But she could sing. That had to be worth something.
Lily spent the summer busy with the boys and adequately distracted by anticipation, which took enough of the pressure off to enable her to slip back into the mechanisms that allowed her to cope with Joe’s behavior. She could put up with just about anything as long as she had the demo to look forward to - and this certainly was not the time to rock the boat. As she worked with her song, she became sensitive to how religious the lyrics sounded, and embarrassed at the recurring memory of Tommy saying, “Boys, it looks like we’re doing a church song!” As it was, the song was nice for Easter, but Lily wanted to give the tune more of a contemporary feel, so she drafted a modification to the lyrics that came to her one afternoon and she emailed them off to Jeffrey with a request to get permission from the songwriter to record the demo, and to modify the lyrics.
Dear Lily, Jeffrey wrote in his reply, Jackson said he’s cool with you recording the song as a demo and he said he loves what you did with the lyric - says it’s even better than the original. He wants a copy of it when you’re done - so do I!
Peace,
Jeffrey
September arrived, Pierce entered school full-time, and Lily was ready to embark on a new adventure of her own. She contacted Tommy as promised and they booked a session.
When Lily’s recording date arrived, Joe announced, “I’m coming with you.”
“What?” Lily said, alarmed. “Why?” Lily had not ever imagined Joe would want to go with her, and the prospect caused her to tremble. She and Donna had the whole thing planned out. Donna would come with her so Joe wouldn’t be uncomfortable and to provide Lily moral support.
“I’m coming to support you,” Joe said, slamming the red toolbox onto the floor. “Jesus Christ, how did you let Pierce break this door handle again, anyway?”
“He likes to slam things.” Lily raised her brow. “And it’s been broken forever. I keep fudging it fixed and he keeps breaking it again. When you try to fix it, you’re only delaying the inevitable; it needs to be replaced. Joe, I was counting on you to watch the boys for me when I went to the studio. That’s really what I need from you.”
“Donna’s gonna watch ‘em. I just went over there and set it up. You said you wanted me to be supportive. I got you a studio and I agree to come with you.” He turned the screwdriver with a grunt. “Now you’re telling me you don’t want me there? You don’t even know what you want. Why don’t you want me there? What is it that you don’t want me to see?” Joe was leaning his weight into the screwdriver as he turned it over and over, the screw endlessly spinning in place.
“I think it’s stripped,” said Lily, fighting her own confusion. She did ask him for his support. But she did not want him to see her singing. “I do want your support, Joe - and I appreciate everything you’re doing to help, but I really need to know that the boys are home with you so I can relax and not be distracted during my session.”
“Your ‘session’? Who do you think you are, Cher? ‘My session’... Jesus Christ.” The screwdriver slipped, catching Joe’s finger and taking a chunk of skin with it. “Fuck!” he shouted. “Maybe if you were spending as much time watching your children as you do working on that fucking demo, I wouldn’t be spending my day off fixing doors!”
Lily and Joe dropped the boys off with Donna, and as though he knew they harbored a secret, Joe would not leave the two women alone together. Lily hoped the panic in her own eyes was as evident as the helplessness in Donna’s.
“God has this situation in hand,” whispered Donna, kissing Lily on the cheek.
Lily was grateful that at least Joe had agreed to take separate cars to the studio. “I have no idea how long this is going to take,” Lily told him. “And this way, if you need to leave for any reason, you won’t get stuck driving all the way out there to pick me up again.”
Lily used the ride over to warm up her voice, and to try and settle her frazzled nerves. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” she prayed.
Lily said hello to Nick as he and Joe shook hands.
“Wow, the place looks great,” said Joe. “Are you happy with your room design?” Joe asked him.
“It’s great, just great. Love it - thanks again for all your help.”
“My pleasure - and thanks for helping my wife out with this little project.”
“Not at all - she’s got a great voice. She should really do something with it.”
“She does,” said Joe, reaching down to scratch his crotch. “You should hear how she screams at home.” Nick chuckled n
ervously, and Lily escaped into the recording booth where the band was setting up.
“Hey, Lily!” called Tommy. “Good to see you! How are the pipes?”
“They’re fine,” Lily replied without looking up.
Lily looked back through the glass as she distributed the updated lyric sheet to everyone, and it was evident from the look on Joe’s face that the microphone between the two rooms was open. She would have to be very careful not to be too friendly with the band.
Joe burst into the room, stalked by a cloud of English Leather cologne. He stepped between Tommy and Lily, grabbed Tommy’s hand and shook it vigorously.
“I’m Joe, Lily’s husband.”
“Nice to meet you,” Tommy replied, looking past him to catch Lily’s eye. Lily looked away.
“I’m here to support her, you know, let her get this out of her system and whatnot.”
“Cool... cool,” said Tommy. He looked back and forth between Lily and Joe, as if trying to imagine them together but being wholly unable to come up with a believable image.
“You can take a seat right in the control booth with Nick,” Tommy said to Joe. “We’ve just finished putting a rough mix together, so we’ll be leaving Lily in here to do her thing.”
“I’m staying in here with her,” said Joe.
Tommy looked at Lily. Lily averted her gaze, unsure of what to say or do, not wanting to make Joe angry in front of everyone.
“Oh. Well, OK. I guess you can have a seat, then.”
Joe dragged a chair to a spot along the same wall as the control booth window, sitting down directly across from where Lily’s microphone was set up, and outside the line of sight from the control booth. He adjusted the bloody bandage on his finger, sniffed, and crossed his arms over his chest.
The band members and Nick situated themselves behind the glass of the control room. They were talking among themselves. The drummer laughed. Lily felt like an exhibit at the nature museum, where all the children were gathered around to see what happens when you put a rat in the snake den.
[Iris and Lily 01.0 - 03.0] The Complete Series Page 106