The Ballad (The Bridge Series)

by Ashley Pullo

  The rest of the evening is pretty mundane . . . homework, vegetable lasagna, baths and bedtime stories. Adam calls me around ten as I’m settling on the sofa with a sleeve of Ritz crackers and a Diet Coke. There’s nothing entertaining on television so I indulge in my favorite guilty pleasure, Dance Moms. This is something Adam would never be caught watching, but I also know that he has a guilty pleasure by the name of Little House on the Prairie . . . we don’t speak of our guilty pleasures.

  “How’s Hotlanta?” I inquire with my mouth full.

  “I never understood that nickname,” Adam answers. “Atlanta is like New York, almost. Unfortunately, this case is going to be a nightmare. Wealthy parents and a child homicide are the first to be sensationalized, especially with Nancy Grace in town. It’s a shame that it will become a circus before the trial even begins. Hey Chloe, you would love the bathroom in my suite. It’s very modern and it has that blue glass tile you like.” He says both statements like they flow together in a conversation, homicide and glass tile.

  “Hey! Dan and the Wandering Willows invited me to sing backup this weekend at the Coffee Bar! It will keep me busy while you’re gone.” I don’t have the courage to tell him what I’m really thinking.

  He doesn’t answer for a few moments and then calmly responds with, “I enjoy watching you sing.” It actually breaks my heart that he won’t be here to watch me perform because I know how much he enjoys the raw emotion I tend to save for the stage. We say our goodnights and jokingly plan to have phone sex tomorrow evening . . . but then we decide that now is as good a time as any.

  Fucking alarm clock! Black leggings. Stupid snow. Snobby Brooklyn moms. Coffee Bar. Dan’s smile. Burnt turkey paninis. Pillow talk with Adam.

  “Dan gave me the song list for Saturday. We’re doing five songs, two audience requests and then I get my own set! I might not be ready to sing solo, because, well you know . . .” My voice trails off into a quivering sniffle.

  Adam breaks the tension by telling me how proud he is of everything I do. Thankfully, Adam changes the subject and shares details about this weird attorney on the case that has ticks and could quite possibly screw up during the opening statement. I tell him to do what he does best and control the situation. He admits that he already put in a request to have the attorney replaced. We talk about buying Will a Lego set after he can write our address and Adam offers to take Sophie to Gymboree class. The sound of his voice is so familiar and comforting that I eventually drift to sleep.

  Will’s tummy hurts. Fucking alarm clock. Navy leggings. Blinding winter sunlight. Wave at the pretentious-Brooklyn-working-moms-that-drop-off-once-a-week-to-smirk-at-the-snobby-non-working-moms-in-leather-jackets-and-$500-boots. Coffee Bar. Dan’s dimples. Pizza. Baths. Books. Adam.

  “We’ve selected six jurors.” I’m smart enough to know that means half. “I should be home on Tuesday or Wednesday,” he adds.

  This trip has been tough, with the lack of Vitamin D and the need for Adam to be at my side for the performance, I’m left with an overwhelming sense of impending failure. I hold back my slobbering tears and whisper to him, “I miss you. I love you.”

  “Hang in there, babe. Everything will be great.” And with his smooth voice I float off to sleep.

  Fucking alarm clock. It’s Saturday! My phone is chirping on the dresser and I use every muscle to get my lazy body in gear. I’ve been listening to my iPod for two days straight and I think I can sing harmony in my sleep, which I probably did. I still don’t know what I will sing during my solo set and I pray the mood of the Coffee Bar will inspire me to improvise my way through. I have a text from Adam, well from Adam at five-thirty this morning.

  Adam: Good morning, babe. There’s another surprise for you inside my briefcase. I’m proud of you.

  Chloe: You should really stop facilitating my chocolate addiction. Which briefcase??

  Adam: Top shelf closet

  Chloe: xoxx oo xx oo

  I go to our 4 x 4 walk-in-and-out closet and study some of my clothes. I could go shopping for something eclectic and cool, but I decide on one of Adam’s favorite dresses. It’s an emerald green, knee-length wrap dress that hugs all my curves and would look perfect with my peacock-feathered cowboy boots. I find Adam’s old briefcase on the top shelf and search for my chocolate surprise. Nothing. My hand slides across smooth glass and I remove a frame hidden in the center compartment. It’s a photo of me from several years ago without my current wrinkles . . . I’m holding my guitar and singing into the microphone. My lips are parted as if I’m about to say something magical and my eyes are wildly green, powerful and hungry. I recognize the stage in this picture and it’s definitely the Toronto Music Festival, but I haven’t performed there in ages . . .

  The night of the show, the Coffee Bar is packed. The Wandering Willows has a dedicated college following but I’m shocked by the turn out. The coffee lounge motif has been transformed into an energetic bar full of music fans enjoying a Saturday night. Mike and Mike offer us shots of bourbon, but that’s the last thing I want stinging my throat, so I take it with some Kahlua and a tiny straw. The band consists of Dan, Tom on guitar/mandolin and usually Marta with harmony vocals and guitar. They have a promising future and I’m truly honored to play with them.

  We take the designated corner and Dan shouts into the microphone to give the introduction. “Hello Seattle . . . ah who the fuck am I kidding, we’ll never leave Brooklyn!” He’s playing the boom chicka boom bass line of a Johnny Cash song as he continues his rant. “Music is about feeling something. So, sit back, run up your bar tab to make The Mikes happy and experience the amazing feeling of . . . The Wandering Willows.”

  Everyone claps and a few people whistle. The mood of the bar definitely has an energetic pulse with a ton of dynamic drunks singing along. We do our set of five of the band’s own songs, a funky version of Debbie Gibson’s Shake Your Love and finish with a roaring tribute to the Brooklyn favorites, The Walkmen. Dan is breathless with adrenaline and takes the microphone to address the crowd.

  “Everyone, look at this gorgeous woman to my left and make her feel like a rock star.” I blush as a few of the college guys toward the front grunt and whistle. “Let’s do a couple of your drunken requests and then we have a special treat tonight . . . prepare . . . to be hypnotized . . . by the delicious pipes of Chloe LeGrange.” This is my cue to sit off to the side, rest my voice and have a beer.

  When it’s my time to stand solo in the corner, I’m astonished by how completely vulnerable and far removed from this younger crowd I actually am. I place my guitar case on the floor and strap on my gorgeous Les Paul. The cheers and applause start again, so I grab one of the wooden stools, sit with my leg crossed and adjust the microphone. Show time.

  “So, singing in a coffee shop, eh? I’m channeling my inner Phoebe Buffay . . . this first song is a little ditty called Smelly Cat.” Everyone laughs and I’m suddenly more comfortable and relaxed. I play one of my older songs, one I wrote as a teenager about Degrassi and Lake Niagara . . . random, but it totally works for this type of crowd. Something about the simplicity of the lyrics alongside the charming story seems to put me at ease, and the patrons of Coffee Bar seem to appreciate my choice, or they’re really that drunk. As I consider my next song, I reach in my guitar case to dig for my favorite pick. I take a drink of water and adjust the microphone so my lips touch the head . . . we’re intimate friends now.

  “Dan’s wrong about a lot of things, like his choice in metrosexual clothing and his love for all things soy, but he’s right about music being powerful enough to stir feelings. Pain, passion, pride, sadness, joy . . . love . . . so, I would like to sing for you a song that encompasses all of these feelings. A proclamation really, by the enigmatic Brandi Carlile, Pride and Joy.” I strum the opening chords and look around the crowded bar to find a focus. Dan is smiling at me with his adorable dimples so I close my eyes and think of Adam.

  I complete the second verse and my voice is strained and ra
w during the last chorus, asking all the right questions but longing for the answers. This song is so personal and physically exhausting that I doubt my song choice in such a public forum. But that’s the thing with passion, it seeps from my veins and it’s unpredictable. Everyone claps and cheers and a few even stand up. Dan and the Willows are stomping their feet and whistling and as a performer, I should be happy that I’m well received, but instead my anxiety takes over. I’m considering a quick getaway to escape the fear that a hundred people just crawled into my heart and stole my existence.

  “I have a request,” his velvet voice glides through the air.

  I turn my attention toward the familiar tone and find Adam, leaning casually against the bar. He’s wearing dark jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. The dark stubble on his masculine face is naturally a turn on, but the fact that his features are so relaxed is even sexier . . . and oh, how I missed his lips. Adam’s been drinking a Stella and the empty glass rests by his hand . . . he’s been here for awhile. His concentration on me is so intense that no one else in the room seems to exist, resulting in an anxious leg twitch that shakes my guitar. Adam can penetrate my soul from twenty feet away.

  “Sure, I can do a request, but I’ll only have time for one,” I finally get out in a dry rasp and a nervous smile.

  “Good. How about Rainbow Connection? Our kids love that one.” Then he smiles, for me.

  Montague Street

  June 2011

  Keeping a surprise from Adam is possibly the stupidest idea ever conceived. I’m sure his tart of a secretary is giggling with satisfaction and taking full responsibility. This is Adam’s last week at Jenkins, Shaw and Davis, and the firm plans to give a huge send off to their most lucrative new billings partner. The plan is as follows: Friday night, I will take Adam to a restaurant where the firm will be waiting. Brilliant plan!

  Adam has been an attorney for almost ten years and he’s amazing at what he does, but there’s always an unpleasant crust smothering the silver lining. His work has often consumed him, resulting in incredibly dark periods during our relationship. Adam’s departure and transition into consulting is welcomed, although bittersweet. Bitter because I lost my in-a-moment’s-notice notary public and sweet because Adam’s leaving with a hefty buy-out bonus.

  Today I’ve been sequestered to accompany Adam to a partner luncheon at his firm. Over the course of his legal career, I’ve been to his office maybe three times, each time leaving me with thoughts of insecurity. Women fawn over him and the men all want to be him and I refuse to believe that Adam dislikes this attention. It’s obvious that the women perceive me as an erratic, emotional butterfly flittering through Adam’s perfect, disciplined persona. The quirky musician with the crazy ideas, thinking Adam probably knocked me up and did what a gentleman would do, twice . . . blah blah blah! Perception is never truth.

  I wear a peach, linen dress and two-inch nude heels. I’m already tall at 5'8", but it excites me to enter a room and steal some attention away from Adam, if only for a moment. I opt for the ivory cameo and pull my golden-brown hair tightly into a side chignon . . . red lipstick to summon my inner sexpot and a dab of my favorite perfume to complete my outfit. Adam is wearing a tan suit with a crisp white shirt, and a pale blue tie with tiny, gold dots. His hair is the longest it’s ever been and I keep fantasizing about ripping that shirt open and running my fingers through his hair . . . on the table . . . at the luncheon.

  Jenkins, Shaw & Davis is so fancy that they have their own dining room complete with private chefs and luxurious linens. All fifty partners gather in the windowed Fifth Avenue tower drinking champagne and shaking Adam’s hand. I stand by his side and squirm every time he flashes his plastic smile at some cheesy comment or dull conversation. We finally take our seats and have an awkward lunch with more courtroom gossip, wherein I daydream about the last episode of Breaking Bad and pick at my poached salmon . . . bleh, the same color as my dress. The luncheon ends with some toasts, congratulations, some boring legal jargon and no freakin’ dessert. After I secretly confirm the surprise dinner location for Saturday night, we excuse ourselves politely in order to make our four o’clock appointment with Dr. Shay of Brooklyn Heights.

  Dr. Shay is your typical therapist, and by typical I mean she sits in an expensive chair and judges me. Marriage counseling was my desperate idea last year, but frankly, I’m glad this is our last session. Her office is beige and white and completely Zen. She has dozens of stuffy family photos and five of those stupid little bonsai trees; I mean really, why am I confessing my every thought to this snob? Of course she loves Adam and his calm, cool discourse and I often catch her in a daze, just staring at him.

  “Tell me Chloe, how are you feeling?” Dr. Shay arrogantly asks. Aye, I just want to scream at her for spewing this textbook bullshit. I feel like you’re an idiot!

  “I’m fine. I feel great! I started yoga last month and it’s nice to have that feeling of balance . . . plus it’s really helped with the baby weight and being physically fit again,” I reply matching her judgmental tone. She scribbles in her notebook and glances at her watch.

  “How are the children . . . Sophie and William? Do you feel you have an adequate way to express yourself artistically as well as caring for the children?” She studies her little journal like it’s the latest crime novel then peeks at Adam.

  “The children keep me busy, but I feel it’s definitely a welcomed privilege. I started teaching music lessons, vocal instruction mainly, but I also have a guitar student. I’m definitely optimistic about this artistic outlet that also allows me to be a mommy.” Every word from my mouth sounds rehearsed. Adam places his hand on mine and gives a tight squeeze to silently request that I simmer down.

  “Adam, does Chloe seem content with her choices?” Dr. Shay smiles sweetly and gives him her full attention.

  Let’s wait for the perfect response . . . calm and cool . . . “Yes.” Bam! He nailed it. She nods politely at him and turns her focus back to the stupid journal.

  “Chloe, do you feel Adam is providing the emotional support you need? Do you express your needs with him?” I really wish she would look at me when she questions me. I also wish she would look in a mirror after applying her tacky mauve lipstick.

  “Let’s see. I feel he is very responsive to my needs. He makes himself available to me and the kids whenever we need him.” At this point, I could tell her that I’m considering a sex change and she wouldn’t flinch.

  “How’s the sex? Are you both finding time to connect sexually like we discussed?” She looks at Adam and I could swear her lip was quivering. I smile and dramatically kiss Adam’s hand, preparing my wicked response to her provoking question.

  “Yep, we fuck a lot. And it feels good.” As soon as my vulgar words hit the air she frantically writes in her notebook with a deep set frown. Adam lowers his head and snorts. I don’t want to end our session with me being remembered as vile and snarky, so I carefully try to find recourse to my candid statement.

  “I’m terribly sorry Dr. Shay. What I meant to say is that Adam and I find plenty of time to make sweet, sweet love.” I can’t help but laugh as her lips twitch in anger, realizing I’m making a mockery of her therapy. There’s no doubt that she’s writing down ways to clinically institutionalize me.

  “How is Adam’s new career change affecting you, Chloe?” Son of a bitch. I look at Adam and he gives me the smuggest expression of “I told you so” and 3-2-1 . . .

  “Dr. Shay, what do you scribble on that pad? Do you think I’m too stupid to realize that I’ve been coming here for the past year to be patronized and caressed like some fragile time bomb? I don’t have a problem with expression. I know how to show my feelings! I understand human nature enough to know that there isn’t some secret method in psychology that can understand this man the way I do.” I stand up to smooth my dress as Dr. Shay gapes at me in horror. Adam has lowered his head completely to his chest and I can tell by his te
nse shoulders, he’s suppressing laughter.

  “Today will be our last session and we thank you very much for your time and effort in assessing my faults. By the way, you have lipstick on your teeth.” I walk out of the office calmly, never to see those stupid little Japanese bushes again. I feel Adam’s hand on the small of back as we walk toward the only elevator in Brooklyn Heights. Once inside, I feel hot with frustration, but Adam is laughing and shaking his head.

  “Well? You’re going to stand there and laugh?” I whine. Adam puts his arms around my waist and pulls me close to him. “And now what? What will we do, Adam?” He exhales like he’s breathing life into me.

  “Let’s get dinner.”

  We walk to our favorite Italian restaurant on Montague Street, but the June heat is unforgiving and the sun is stinging my shoulders making our walk somewhat miserable, however, I wouldn’t dare complain after my childish stunt. The place is empty at five o’clock and we choose a small booth near the front under the large fan. We used to come to this place at least once a week when we lived in our apartment years ago. The food is delicious, the ambiance superb and the legend of the restaurant’s lobster sign is controversial. The waitress gives us the menu for the Early Bird Prix Fixe while Adam studies the colorful bottles displayed at the ornate bar.