The president had just resigned around the time they got back. She felt sad. He had been kind to her when they played the White House, just a few months before. “You’re a talented girl,” he said. She wore a white maxi and still had her bangs. The first lady, she remembered, was tall and friendly and smelled clean and perfumed, like laundry soap. The only downside of that day was when she remembered something a nasty critic had written in a review of their last album, that her trying to sing a rock tune reminded him of the first lady’s “eating an ice-cream cone with a spoon.” Why did everything always come back to food?
Back home after the tour, they confronted the mother. “We’re moving out,” they said. The mother flew into a rage, and said if they did, they could take the father with them. They compromised, offering to move to the same house together, just a few blocks away in the same suburb, not up to one of the “Uptown” parts of L.A. like Brentwood or Santa Monica. The mother accepted this deal.
She perused the entries in her check ledger. The hotel, the doctor, New York, those were all her choices, much to the chagrin of the brother and the mother, who wanted her close to home in L.A. But it was the cost of the husband that was mostly on her mind. For the year or so of their marriage, he treated her like his personal cash register. Twenty thousand here, 30 thousand there. A house, land, a $500 bottle of dusty wine to stick in the face of the guard at the gate of her condo complex, who always called him by her last name. The one thing he gave her, a car, turned out to be leased, and she was home when the company came to repossess it. That was the last night she saw him. He was her lawyer’s problem now.
Why had she married him? So fast? Well, he was good-looking. He was blond. (“His hair is a little too perfect,” P. had said.) He claimed to have money (“His own yacht!”). And to have no idea who she was. The family liked him. She’d just had a big letdown when the solo album was shelved. Maybe this would kick-start things again. When he proposed, two months after they met, she said yes by playing a song for him in her car. Their courtship and engagement took less time than it had for her to make the solo album. And while they were dating, no one told her she was too thin.
But even before the wedding, she knew it was all wrong. Among other things, he’d come to her a few days before the ceremony and said he’d had a vasectomy. She went to the mother, told her she wanted to stop the whole thing, but the mother said: “The invitations have been sent, People magazine is coming, your brother has written a new song for the occasion. Deal with the problems later.” A few times she thought that maybe the mother wanted her out of the way, that once she was married the brother could finally take center stage. On her wedding day, she stood at the back of the room in the Beverly Hills Hotel with F., her matron of honor, and said, “O.K., let’s get the worst day of my life over with.” She must be a good actress, she thought later, because one of her friends told the reporter from People that she’d never seen her looking so happy. The wedding made the cover, but only an inset at the top. The main picture was of Angie Dickinson, who had a big comeback movie that year. Well, she thought, if Angie can do it. . . .
That day I. was back with P. in Westchester. (She’d forgotten to change the breakfast order.) I. had recently delivered some big news: She was pregnant, due in early February.
“Wow, was that in the plan?” she asked. “What about your career? Are you sure you want to do this?”
Of course she was happy for I. and P., though. She wanted children, too. Someday. But for now she couldn’t imagine any other priority in her life than being a singer. She’d seen a news report recently about a janitor in a New York high school who was a famous doo-wopper in the ’50s. How does anybody stop being a singer? she thought. She had as much trouble wrapping her brain around that thought as she did around the fact that their song about the extraterrestrials hadn’t been a bigger hit, or when she heard that one of their fan-club members had died. Or that one of their fan-club secretaries had drowned while on vacation. How can somebody who bought one of our records not be alive anymore? she thought. Or somebody who worked for us?
She figured she still had a good 10 years of fertility, though, and there were all those other things ahead of it on her list: the career resurrection, dumping the husband and finding a new one. Of course she also had to get her period back. No such luck there today.
15. Queens, N.Y., July 1970
The three-hour rec session that morning couldn’t go fast enough for Sib. She tore through arts and crafts, could have made maybe 20 lanyards. She was a holy terror in dodgeball, catching anything that was thrown remotely near her and nailing her going-into-fifth classmates with boom-boom precision. In the game room, she banked shots off the sides of the knock-hockey table and into the slot goal with such accuracy that a crowd gathered, and even took her mind off Aunt Maddy and “Band of Gold” for a quick minute.
But by 11:45, when the classes were lining up for dismissal, she was practically shimmying in place to the rhythm of the song, and half-sprinted all the way home, taking the sidewalk squares two at a time. She bounded up the steps by the side door, and there they were, her mother and Aunt Maddy, setting places at the kitchen table.
“Siobhan,” Aunt Maddy said, bending down for a kiss, and suddenly Sib was aware of her sweatiness, her lack of girliness, in the presence of her still-pretty aunt with her Shirley Temple copse of gray curls and her straight spine and bright colored-in-the-lines lips and print dress and heels. Late-night-movie glamour. Old-lady glamour, especially in comparison with her younger, no-nonsense mother, in her plain white blouse, black slacks, tennis shoes and barbershop cut. Over Maddy’s shoulder, Sib could see the platter of cold cuts laid out from the deli, rare roast beef and turkey and Virginia ham (not like the packaged Oscar Mayer stuff they usually ate), paper containers of coleslaw and macaroni salad, a whole dill, a bag of freshly sliced bakery rye bread, an Entenmann’s chocolate cake for dessert. And four place settings with cloth napkins. Sib knew all of this was Maddy’s doing. Maddy always traveled fancy, even with deli.
And, Sib knew, with a heavy purse. At some point Maddy was sure to slip Sib some cash. Her mother would object, and Maddy would find some excuse for it. Sib could practically see “Band of Gold” spinning now on the downstairs hi-fi. But how would she get to Rose’s store to buy it? She still wasn’t allowed to go there by herself; it was too far down Liberty Avenue. She’d have to get Kieran to take her. But even though there was a place set for him at the table, he was nowhere in sight. Sib hadn’t seen his bike outside.
“Is Kieran coming home for lunch?” Sib asked her mother as she gently extracted herself from Aunt Maddy’s embrace. Despite Sib’s sweatiness, Maddy had offered no whiff of disapproval.
“He called to say that baseball practice was running late but that he’d be home soon,” her mother said, as Maddy now emptied the paper carton of macaroni salad, which she called “elbow,” into a proper dish. “Now go wash up.”
Sib used the basement bathroom — it was closer — and passed the record player on the way. “Gimme Dat Ding,” by the Pipkins was still on the turntable; Sib picked it off and put it back in its sleeve and ran a dust cloth over the hi-fi. She wanted the machine ready for “Band of Gold.” Where was Kieran? She had to have the record that day.
Back at the kitchen table, Sib reached for a piece of rye bread.
“Just a minute, young lady,” Aunt Maddy said. “You know you’re supposed to spread your napkin on your lap first.”
Sib was stung by this comment. Usually it was Aunt Constance who set conditions, who made them say grace or wash a second time because they’d missed a spot under a fingernail (or at least made her wash again; Kieran never seemed to miss a spot), who insisted on the proscription before the pleasure. Sib picked up her napkin and unfolded it, but before she could put it on her lap, two crisp dollar bills fluttered out and got there first. Aunt Maddy!
“Well, look at that,” Aunt Maddy said. “Someone must have been a good girl.”
“Really, Maddy, you shouldn’t have,” Genie said, only halfheartedly, because she’d probably reap some of Maddy’s generosity herself before the afternoon was over.
“Oh, now, Genie, I haven’t seen her since the school year ended, and I heard she had a good report card, so she deserves a belated reward.” Aunt Maddy glanced over at Kieran’s place setting. “Just don’t ruin the surprise for your brother, all right, sweetheart?” she said, winking at Sib.
Sib could barely contain her joy. Kieran, where are you? she was thinking. There’s money from Maddy and an extra trip to Rose’s. She was practically trying to will him home. The lunch conversation buzzed and flitted all around Sib but never quite landed; maybe her mother or aunt intoned the usual line about the roast beef being sliced thin, something about a sale at Lord & Taylor or A&S. Maybe a cameo by Carmen Miranda. All Sib could think about was spending that two dollars at Rose’s shop. She gobbled down her sandwich and dessert and kept listening for the bike in the driveway, but still there was no Kieran, no way for her to get to Rose’s. Aunt Maddy and her mother left his silverware while they cleared the rest, then sat back down at the table and poured themselves tall, cone-shaped glasses of Schaefer.
Sib couldn’t wait for Kieran anymore. She was going to look for him.
“Mom, I’m going to ride my bicycle,” she said.
“O.K., but don’t go too far or stay out too long. Come back in time to say goodbye to your aunt. If you see your brother, tell him to come in for lunch.”
“Have fun, sweetheart,” Maddy said, a beer-foam mustache bleeding into her lipstick.
Sib had the two dollars buried in her shorts as she pulled her green Sting-Ray bike with the banana seat out of the garage and set off looking for Kieran; if she found him on his way home she could let him know that Maddy was at the house and beg him to take her to Rose’s after his lunch. She knew he wouldn’t say no. But after riding around a few blocks, she still hadn’t seen him. She rode down to the ball field at the school where baseball practice was that day, but it was deserted. Where was he?
Finally Sib found herself at the intersection of Liberty and Rockaway, near the cemetery, where Sib was not to go by her- self. Beyond, the crossings were too wide, the traffic too heavy and coming from all directions, the neighborhood a little sketchier. Even someone as confident on her bike as Sib might have trouble negotiating all of that by herself. Rose’s shop — and “Band of Gold” — were waiting several blocks beyond, but she didn’t dare try the trip on her own.
Sib turned around, back to the safe confines of her neighborhood, and took another pass by the house to check for Kieran’s bike in the driveway. Still not there. She rode around some more as the sun got higher and hotter and eventually got back to the corner of Liberty and Rockaway. By this time she knew that even if Kieran got home soon it would be too late for him to take her to Rose’s; he’d be too tired or would need to practice piano. It was now or now.
The minute the front wheel of her bicycle rolled over the curb at Rockaway, Sib’s whole landscape changed. Everything seemed clouded over, tinted dark. The intersections became like Olympic-size long-jump pits, or Evel Knievel canyons for her to ford, with the scary snouts and jaws of the cars and taxis and trucks all around ready just to crush her or swallow her up. The rumble of the overhead el, which Sib had known her whole life and which had become almost as familiar and comforting as her mother’s singing voice, was now like an upside-down earthquake. Her legs and feet, usually so steady on the bike, at any physical pursuit, became jelly globs, her feet slipping on the pedals as she tried to steel herself, the bike sometimes as wobbly as when her dad taught her to ride years ago. She kept her mind on “Band of Gold” the whole time, singing it to herself, using the song’s frequent vocal and percussive accents to pump her legs, restore their power. Every horn honk, every shout, every dog bark in the distance seemed directed at her. Just keep going, she thought.
She got across nine of the blocks — dodging pedestrians, an old lady with a pushcart of groceries, a city bus that seemed so close Sib could almost feel it on the skin of her arms — until she was finally one block away from Rose’s store. While she was waiting at a light, she looked around and saw a man on the corner — scraggly, graying beard, tie-dyed T-shirt, army boots with detached flaps — turning around in backward circles, drinking something out of a paper bag. Suddenly he stopped circling and said, facing Sib, “That’s an awful purty bike you got there, baby girl.”
Sib didn’t respond. She turned back to the light, idling her bike, and just kept staring at the walk signal. For a few seconds the lyrics of “Band of Gold” gave way to an Our Father, a Hail Mary and a Glory Be.
The light changed, and Sib shot out. She could see Rose’s shop now, and the fear started to leave her as she got across and pulled up on the sidewalk, the cloud cover suddenly being drawn back. Other than her own house, there was nowhere as comforting to Sib as this dusty, cluttered, magical place. She’d made it. But when she got closer to the shop, her attention was diverted to the curb. There was Kieran’s bike, a three-speed English racer, locked to a No Parking sign.
So he was here already! Suddenly Sib’s competitive fires were lit, and she hurriedly fit her bike into his as she had hundreds of times in their garage — her pedal sliding neatly into his frame, her handlebars draping over his seat, car and sidecar, hero and sidekick, note and top note, body and limb. She clicked her lock and bolted into the store. She not only had to have “Band of Gold” now; she had to have it before Kieran. As she rushed toward the counter, she took a quick survey of the store: She didn’t see him, so maybe he was in the back looking at the albums. Maybe he hadn’t bought anything yet. Maybe Sib would get to “Band of Gold” first.
Rose was behind the counter twirling some spaghetti on a fork, a tin of eggplant Parmigiana, half a loaf of garlic bread, a green salad and a coffee milkshake arrayed in front of her. Sib marched behind the counter. “Chipper!” Rose said. “Here by yourself? Your brother’s in the back. . . .”
Sib slid a copy of “Band of Gold” out of its slot on the wall, put a dollar on the register and headed toward the back of the store. Rose had a booth tucked in a corner where customers could listen to their purchases or play a few seconds of the store copy of a record, and when Sib didn’t see Kieran in the aisles, she figured that’s where he had to be. As she got closer to the booth she could see the shadow of someone about Kieran’s height behind the frosted pane on the top of the booth’s door. And she could hear something coming from the booth. It was . . . that song they’d heard at the table that morning, that song that Kieran had sung, in harmony, with their mother.
Well, if Kieran was going to waste his time with that stupid song, Sib thought, she would show him that she had the real prize. She yanked open the door to the listening booth and had “Band of Gold” at the ready to shove in his face, as if to say, “I got it first!”
When she opened the door, in the split second of her gaze, she could see Kieran, his back to her, still in his baseball jersey and cap. She could smell the outfield grass and mud still wedged in his cleats. But then that sickly song, softer when the door was closed, assaulted her ears in full force. And she noticed that there was someone else in the booth with Kieran. And the two of them were swaying, at least as far as the cramped space in the booth would allow. And they were . . . holding hands. It was only after a few more seconds that Sib realized that the person in the booth with Kieran was another boy.
16. Queens, N.Y., July 1970
Sib froze. Until a few minutes ago the scariest experience of her life had been the solo trip on her bike down Liberty Avenue. But now it had been replaced by that vision in the listening booth, by the sound coming from it. Why was Kieran at Rose’s without her? Who was that boy? What were they doing in the booth? She’d felt as if she wanted to scream, not just
to get Kieran’s attention but to break the spell. Maybe it would all go away. That other boy. That dumb song. It was all that dumb song’s fault.
Instead she just turned around and ran. Through the album aisles, past Rose, now slurping the last of her milkshake. “Chipper,” she yelled as Sib dashed by, “you forgot your change.” Sib heard her but didn’t care. All she wanted now was to get back home, back into the kitchen with her Aunt Maddy and her mother, back to that moment at the end of lunch when this was looking like the most perfect day ever.
Sib was still clutching her copy of “Band of Gold” when she got outside to her bike. She threaded it through the handlebars and fumbled with her lock. She didn’t know if Kieran had seen her, but she didn’t want to wait around to find out. She spun the dial on the lock and overshot the combination numbers a few times until she finally steadied her hand and it clicked open. She uncoupled her bike from Kieran’s and hopped on the banana seat and was suddenly shooting back over those same treacherous roads she’d traveled on her way to Rose’s. But while on the outlaw trip there she had been aware of every pebble, every bit of graffiti, every hot-dog wrapper in the street, every whiff of exhaust and White Castle grease and malt liquor, the way back was all a blur, as if somebody else were making sure all the lights had changed, that the cars and pedestrians weren’t too close. She didn’t even hear the el. Once or twice she checked to see if “Band of Gold” was secure on the handlebars, but otherwise she was on autopilot, her bike wheels traveling smoothly in the same groove they’d struggled to carve out of Liberty Avenue just a half-hour earlier, the city streets blending into one another in a kind of reverse loop.
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