Nine Volt Heart

by Annie Pearson

  I went to put on that copy of Turandot I saw on her shelf, because I’d been hearing it in my head ever since she rendered me helpless with admiration on the streets of Belltown the night before. Susi would have none of it. So we agreed on Madama Butterfly, though the story of a woman spurned by a cad didn’t seem a good candidate for make-out-and-hope-to-get-lucky music. I’d decided when she sang scat on Thursday that I’d wait as long as it took, so I could afford a couple of hours with—what was it Susi called it that first day?—the Slave-to-Romance theme.

  She sat beside me when I motioned for her to come, but she left enough distance that we could have been strangers waiting on the same bench in a dental office. I confess that I sprawled a little more than I do at the dentist’s, but she touched me first. She’s the one who elected to have oversized furniture. If she didn’t sit back and get comfortable, she’d have to perch at the edge in that ramrod way she has. At one point I could be comfortable only by stretching my arms across the back of the sofa, and then she let her shoulder and thigh touch me, but it was a long time after that—all the way through Un bel di—before my hand slipped down to her shoulder. She did not shrug it off.

  Lord help me, I was waiting for the faintest signal to stop, since I wasn’t going to end up married to her as quickly as I wished if I failed to notice the traffic signals.

  Her shoulders didn’t rise up. On the contrary, she moved more closely, and it was all I could do to keep from calling notice to how well we fit together and how much more comfortable her sofa was when she had me to lean on.

  So instead I said, “How could a woman be so blind as to spend years lusting after a total cad? That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? Everyone else can see it, while Madama is walking around blind.”

  Which seemed to douse any hope-to-get-lucky fires that might have been smoldering. She didn’t move away from under my arm, but I could feel her turn small and tight under my touch.

  I could have said, “Tell me what happened to you,” and would have spent the night trouncing through the gardens of lost love, or maybe she’d have said, “Tell me the same,” and I’d have to struggle to invent a more flattering history for myself. At the time I didn’t consider either of those alternatives. Instead, I blurted like a fool more than I’d ever told anyone. I murmured that my mother was another Madama, waiting forever for my cad of a father to come back to her, never rebuilding another life or finding another love, for reasons I never knew, because she died before I was old enough or bold enough to ask her to answer all the “whys”—why she abandoned her own career as a singer in favor of typing in a law office, why she never told me anything about my father until my Uncle Beau showed up and offered to help her, why she sealed up her feelings and let no one else into her life.

  “What she couldn’t tell me, I had to find out after she was gone. The story of my father’s life was a series of Pinkerton-type adventures with one Butterfly after another, or as many at one time as would listen to his story about being a lost and lonely man.”

  “How did you find this out, Jason?”

  “Uncle Beau left me all their papers when he died. I read all I could stand of my father’s correspondence and then put the letters away.”

  She closed her eyes, listening to Addio fiorito asil. I blurted, “I think this translates as I’m a flaming asshole, but it’s too late to do anything about it now.” I didn’t mean it as autobiography. I just resented what faithless men leave behind for the rest of us to deal with.

  She said, “I never understood the unrequited love theme. My lack of understanding makes it impossible for me to listen to Werther, for example. I have to forget what the words mean and just listen to the sound.”

  “Susi,” I whispered while Madama Butterfly was getting ready to die. “I spent a lot of time making myself into the man my father wasn’t. I want to be that man for you. I want to take care of you. Please love me.”

  “I don’t want you to take care of me, Jason.”

  “What do you want, Susi? Tell me. I’ll give it to you. I’ll be that man.”

  That’s when she jumped me. I swear I did not start it.

  Her hand went up my shirt, her tongue darted into my mouth. I was still setting my biological programming to the idea that it might take a month or two, or even six, when she stretched me out on her sofa, her pelvis jammed up against mine, her knee pressed against my thigh.

  I’m expressing surprise here, but I maintained considerable élan at the moment, and I didn’t refuse the advance. When she let my mouth free enough to speak, I asked the question.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  She thumbed my nipple and twisted her fingers in the hair on my chest, so that it almost hurt, and I assumed that meant I should do what I did, which was to make up for not having kissed her during the past hundred and thirty hours of deprivation. I was making decent progress against that goal—in fact, I was out of my head in bliss—when she unzipped my fly and took me in hand.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” I asked again, though I had already slipped over to the more feeble side of self-control.

  There is no use describing the nature of her affirmative reply in detail, but in the midst of all that affirmation, we rolled over so that I was part way on top, trying to figure how I could reach a condom and get out of my jeans without letting go of her, when she said:

  “Don’t. Please stop.”

  It took several moments for me to form articulate sounds.

  “Stop?”

  “Please.”

  “All right.” I could have choked to death, swallowing the words. It took me a moment to catch my breath and achieve any sort of dignified posture. I had to zip up without calling attention to what it took to avoid hurting myself. Then I stood with as much poise as I could manage.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Susi, the whole evening, you’ve been touching me while acting like you didn’t know you were doing it.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “When you let me hold you, I tried to keep the brakes on. But you kept writhing against me, driving me effing nuts. Now your pupils are dilated, your skin is flushed and every other sign indicates an aroused woman. I asked twice—didn’t I? Then you tell me to stop, even though you started it. Do I get a medal for valor here?”

  “I don’t feel ready.”

  “Masters and Johnson could use you as a textbook example of ready.”

  “I mean I’m not ready for a relationship like this.”

  “This is like high school. This is like dating Sunday-school girls.”

  “Where are you going? Are you mad at me?”

  “No, I’m taking myself out of the game. My internal coach is sending me to the showers.”

  48 ~ “Last Blue Yodel”

  SUSI

  HE DIDN’T ASK PERMISSION. He just went into my bathroom, shut the door, and turned on the shower. I had to assume that he stripped, because first he shrieked and then began singing in the shower. No, he was yodeling.

  I was no more comfortable now with him naked in my house than I had been the first time. Also, he was mad at me, even though he denied it. Yet he came out smiling, dressed again, rolling up the cuffs on his shirt, exposing the fine dark hair above his wrists.

  I tried to articulate my excuses, so he would understand and not be mad.

  “Jason, I explained when we first got to know each other. Teaching and my work to establish the institute matter to me more than anything. I can’t let myself by seduced into an inappropriate relationship.”

  He filled the kettle and began making tea.

  “You like Jasmine this late at night, don’t you?” he said.

  When the water boiled, he measured the correct spoonsful into the teapot, poured the water, and set it to steep. He took two teacups down from the shelf and put my favorite in front of me, dripping the half-teaspoon of honey that I like into the cup before pouring tea over it.

  He stroked my han
d with his little finger when I reached for the cup.

  “If I meet your ex, I’m going to wipe his effing face across the pavement, Susi. I don’t need to know what he did, but I’m now over-qualified to punish him for it.”

  “You’re angry with me.”

  “No, I swear I’m not. Listen, starting tomorrow we’re rehearsing at Ian’s at night, so we won’t be invading your life.”

  He set down his teacup and picked up his pack.

  “I hope like hell you’ll still sing with us, Susi. We start at eight every night. Call Ian if you’re unsure about coming.”

  ~

  I went to sing at Pete’s church on Sunday night, alone, which must have sent me off the deep end instead of saving me. Because after that, I went out of the house every night to sing.

  THREE: Scherzo

  49 ~ “Box of Rain”

  JASON

  “SONNY, IT’S JASON TAYLOR. How you doing?”

  “Far freaking out, man. Good to hear from you.”

  “What are you up to?”

  “Going to meetings. Working a gig at a motor hotel out on Aurora. The owner pays me to keep the property clean at night, if you know what I mean. Sweep away the solicitors and all that follows in their wake.”

  “Are you playing music?”

  “At home. At church on Sundays. Me and a couple of friends do some weddings here and there.”

  “I heard you’ve been playing Luther’s part for a Johnny Cash tribute, doing the casino circuit.”

  “I’m not doing any more club work. There’s too much temptation for a fucker like me.”

  “Have you done session work?”

  “Who’s going to invite me to a fucking tea party?”

  “Are you morally opposed to the idea? Can you work with me afternoons for a few weeks?”

  “Sure. What you have that needs cleaning up?”

  “I mean that I want you to play bass. We’re working at Temple Bell. You know the place?”

  “Far freaking out. What do you need? Blues? Nashville boogie? That cowboy shit you were doing a couple of years ago?”

  “Yeah, all that. Sonny, I have to ask you another favor.”

  “What you need, man?”

  “There’s a creep who’s been messing with me on the Internet for a while, but he’s started to put himself in my real life.”

  “Me and my friends can take care of him, Jason.”

  “I haven’t ever seen him to know who it is. It was just annoying, but things have gone missing that I care about.”

  “You want twenty-four hours of protection?”

  “The record company is paying for security inside the studio—though they’ll charge me for it later. I want someone to watch for a creep by Ian’s house. Nothing outside the law. It’s just that your usual rent-a-cop can’t watch for this kind of weirdo.”

  “I can call a few friends.”

  “Great. When can you start playing music?”

  “This afternoon? I can come right now if you want.”

  ~

  It’s going to be like The Little Prince from high school French class. At least, it will not be Huis Clos—I will not be sitting in hell with Jean-Paul Sartre, smoking cigarettes and longing for a mirror to reveal my true self. My true self has resolved to give up self-loathing in favor of true love. Since I’m a quick study, I’ll just have to practice patience while waiting for her to catch up with me. I can’t force divine revelation. Though it seemed to be at my fingertips to command that one morning, just before she discovered I was the wrong Jason.

  However, I am actually the correct Jason.

  To prove it, the new music is coming along outrageously well.

  Maybe the music will prove it to Susi too.

  I tried reasoning through the situation while waiting for everyone to show up at Ian’s on Monday night.

  “I’m a good guy. I don’t drink out of the carton. I put the seat down, even if I’m alone.”

  “Pussy,” Toby said. “You’ll never get any if you act like one.”

  “Toby is right. Maybe you’re too nice,” Cynthia said. She had spiked her hair again, which she hadn’t done for years, but it was a sign that she wasn’t in a mood to be trifled with. “Lots of women have a problem with that. I know I would.”

  “Fortunately, I’m good enough that I don’t have to be nice,” Ian said.

  “Oh please.” Cynthia scratched her nail across the stubble on his head, and he responded by Frenching her so deeply one had to look away.

  We’d spent five hours getting the living room set up for Monday night’s work. Ian still calls it the living room, though Cynthia shakes her head every time. We soundproofed it and prepared it for rehearsal and recording space when they inherited the house from his parents seven years ago. So getting ready meant positioning mics, hanging futons over the windows, and setting up Zak’s muffled trap at the far end of the long room. Cynthia had removed anything breakable or reflective.

  Even better, Karl had finally sprung my recording equipment free from the condo. All we needed was a vocalist. Angelia came over on Sunday, when we played music without taping. I guess the choir of bluegrass angels kept Susi in church on Sunday. I hoped that was it.

  Hope. What an effing stupid, fragile word. It was more like a canker sore than an abstract ideal. Might as well believe in fate.

  “I’d forgotten what nice microphones you have,” Toby said.

  “Yeah, I think I want a couple like these,” Ian said.

  “I think not,” Cynthia said. “You blew the budget on guitars. You need to restrain your impulses.”

  “There’s plenty of money,” Ian said, grousing.

  “If you continue working in the studio, then yes. If not, then not,” she said. “You need to go back on the road.”

  “We’re doing that anyway,” Ian said. “We’re playing twenty-two cities this summer.”

  “That’s not what Jason said.” Cynthia’s words turned both Ian and Toby around to stare at me.

  “Actually—” I hadn’t explained that part yet. “Stoneway has twenty-two cities to play if we want to play with Dominique. Otherwise, she’ll play those towns with other musicians dressed in our clothes.”

  Toby softly picked out the melody to “Wild Horses” on his mandolin. “There are hundreds of cities in America. Not every house is booked up. Some might still need a second act.”

  “Cynthia has been researching those possibilities. We won’t be playing as Stoneway—not unless we play with Dominique.”

  “There’s ten thousand band names that no one thought of yet,” Ian said.

  “You made your decision.” I wasn’t asking, since I knew the answer.

  Toby nodded. “I won’t go on stage with her.”

  Ian hesitated. “Buddy, I’ll go where you do. But shoot, how can we play with Dominique after Susi?”

  “How can another singer change the band’s direction?” Cynthia said. “Except that Dominique bent your music sideways until it hurt. I thought Jason swore to give up writing songs for a specific woman to sing. Didn’t you swear it, Jason?”

  Susi was at the door, with Angelia at her side. Toby and Ian both leaped up to unlatch the screen. I almost dropped the mic I was dinking with.

  “Oh god,” Cynthia breathed beside me. “You fell in the deep end, and you still can’t swim.”

  “It’s different this time.”

  ~

  I had sworn that it would be different this time. However, as soon as we started recording, I slipped and started telling Susi what to do, repeating the very action that had destroyed any ability to work with Dominique.

  But Susi did it. Everything I asked, without complaints, without sulking. She asked questions back, but only for the sake of ensuring that she performed as I wanted.

  She also brought great food for the break.

  50 ~ “Cynthia”

  SUSI

  IAN’S WIFE CYNTHIA IS tall and gangly, and she has long, thin, big-kn
uckled hands that seem to be battered from gardening or similar rough work, though she covers the damage with brightly colored acrylic nails. She is pretty in an ordinary sort of way, but wears full-battle eyeliner as if she made up for the stage, and her hair has been bleached and tortured within an inch of its life.

  She scares me.

  My first encounter with Cynthia had the same flavor of my first day in high school, when a gang girl caught me in the women’s restroom and threatened to cut me with a razor for kissing her boyfriend. After school her gang caught me and pushed me into the dirt, and she stood over me saying, “Sorry, baby doll. Wrong chick,” since she realized I was the wrong person. My mother put me in a private school after that. However, in this case, I’ll have to learn how to be friends with Cynthia with no outside help.

  Cynthia caught me alone in the kitchen.

  “So you’re a teacher, huh? What do you teach? Where did you go to school?”

  “I teach vocal music at Prescott. I went to Oberlin and Juilliard.”

  “Pretty classy for just a high school teaching certificate.”

  “I don’t have a certificate. Not every teacher needs one at a private school. What do you do?”

  “I’m a teacher too. But I only went to the UW. I haven’t got kennel papers. Just a teaching certificate.”

  “Where do you teach?”

  “I’m just subbing this year, since things are so crazy in the family. Ian’s schedule got all screwed up and our grandparents were ill, so I had to find care for them. And I helped my kid brother transition to decent care. He has cerebral palsy.”

  “What do you teach?”

  “Special Ed. The basket cases and worse, like my brother. I haven’t been in the classroom much this year. I mostly tutor. It’s been kind of nice to be free. For years I had to be the one to go to work every day so we could pay the bills and have health insurance.”

  “So you aren’t worried about that now?”

  She stared at me like I was dog meat.