Magnolias don't Die

by AJ Collins

  I glance down at my clothes. ‘What’s wrong with jeans and t-shirt?’

  He huffs. ‘Girl, does nothing I say get through to you?’

  ‘Apparently not. Are you going to let me in, or do I need a password?’

  I put a hand on his chest, kiss his cheek, then push him aside before heading straight for the kitchen and the vodka in the freezer. Snap tails me muttering something about my ponytail. I glance at the ginger kitty-themed clock on the wall with its paw-hands purrfectly and permanently stuck on five and twelve. We haven’t replaced the battery because it meows on the hour, but I always like to check it’s still booze o’clock.

  I help myself to a shot, grimacing as it burns its way down my throat. A family-sized block of chocolate might have done the trick just as well, but I haven’t done any grocery shopping this week, so there won’t be anything in the fridge except maybe gourmet pate and semi-dried tomatoes – small luxuries to supplement Snap’s free feeds at the pub. My free meals went out the door the moment I slapped Bob. Meh.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ Snap says, leaning back against the island bench.

  ‘Not much to tell,’ I say, readying to pour another shot. The first one is already limbering me up. Snap grabs the vodka from my hand before the liquid leaves the bottle.

  ‘Not another drop until you throw me a crumb.’

  He carries the bottle into the lounge room. I collect a second shot glass and follow. He slides into his favourite bright-orange retro armchair and sits cross-legged, smug and elegant as always. I so love how he’s blossomed into this cool self.

  After we first moved in, and he got his little ‘bedroom business’ up to a profitable standard, he started replacing our second-hand furniture piece by piece. I gave up trying to put my two cents in; the faces Snap pulled when I suggested coffee tables and sofas was enough for me to give up and let him style to his heart’s content. But it’s not just his taste in furniture and clothing that makes him look so amazing. If only I could rock satin the way he does. And his hair is ‘just so’, and he’s lithe, and witty, and has attitude with a capital ‘A’. None of which I have.

  We sit on opposites sides of a low glass-topped table with its little Zen garden underneath: sand, smooth pebbles, a miniature porcelain bridge, bonsai and a little wooden rake. It’s exquisitely arranged. Snap spends hours organising grains of sand into perfectly behaved feng shui–inspired paths.

  ‘So, give me the lowdown,’ he demands.

  I shrug. ‘He wants to mentor me.’

  Snap licks his little finger and grooms a perfect eyebrow. ‘Is that a euphemism?’

  I smirk. ‘He says I have something special.’

  Snap grabs the air in front of his chest, squeezing imaginary breasts. ‘You have two very special somethings, honey.’

  I screw up my nose.

  He laughs. ‘I’m just kidding. I think your guy is onto something. Your voice is truly amazing. I’ve told you that a million times.’

  I wave him off. ‘You’re exaggerating, but I love you anyway.’ I’ve never learned to take a compliment. Some people seem adept at it, as if it’s an entitlement. Not me. I’d rather run and hide. But somewhere deep inside, I know he’s right. I’m not stupid. A gift is a gift.

  Snap takes to quizzing me like a master:

  How old is he? Twenty. I think.

  Does he have his own place? Yes.

  Does he own it? How the hell would I know?

  Where does he live? In an apartment like normal people do.

  Smart arse. Is he single? I didn’t ask.

  (Apparently, I’m a fool for missing that detail)

  Does he have a car? Don’t know. Didn’t ask.

  (Fool again)

  Does he have a job? Doesn’t need one. He wrote a hit single.

  (Impressive)

  Did he buy you lunch? Yes, even though I objected.

  Snap approves. I’m incredulous. ‘How can you decide just from that? Are you sure you’re not giving your blessing ‘cos you think you’ve got a chance with him yourself?’

  He looks at me as though he’s indulging a puppy chewing on his fingers. ‘Honey, please. He’s straight. Off limits for me unless you happen to toss his poor heart to the gutter. Then I’ll be there to pick up the beautiful broken pieces and convince him to try another side.’

  Snap has no idea who’s broken whose heart, but I’m not about to tell him. ‘Choose?’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘Whatevs. Don’t go all PC on me, Kitten. You know you’ll never win.’

  He’s right. But I don’t care, I’m too busy looking at the vodka bottle, about to tell him to hand it over when I notice his I’ve-done-something-bad look.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Promise you won’t be angry.’

  ‘I’m not promising anything.’

  ‘Try.’

  I lean forward and pick up the little rake from his Zen garden. ‘Tell me or the sand gets it.’

  ‘Step away from the garden.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Put it down, and I’ll tell you.’

  I do.

  He takes a breath. ‘I called Harry.’

  ‘What?’

  He grimaces. ‘You said you wouldn’t be mad.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Snap, what did you do?’

  ‘The night he wrote that note in the pub? I copied his number down. Just to be safe.’

  ‘Snap!’

  ‘I worry for you. I knew he looked familiar, but I couldn’t figure out why.’

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘Only that I’d break his kneecaps if he hurt you.’

  I’m speechless.

  ‘Honey, don’t be angry. I was just protecting you.’

  ‘Unbelievable.’

  ‘Sweetie, you’re an innocent—’

  ‘I am NOT innocent. You have no idea what I’ve been through.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Because you’re so touchy. You never open up. You have to learn to trust someone. You can’t go through your whole life on self-depend mode.’

  ‘Of course I can.’ I go over to him and snatch the vodka bottle. ‘Watch me.’

  I return to my side of the table and sink another shot. Fuel for anger. At my own stupidity. I need to shut up before I say too much.

  Snap is silent as he observes me from his chair. I’m not sure what his expression is: sad, pitying or disbelieving. I don’t like any of them. He stands, and I brace myself. He’d better not be coming over to give me a hug. He pulls up his sleeve. ‘Remember these?’

  I look at his cutting scars. Most have faded, but they’re still there and always will be.

  ‘Yes.’

  He unbuttons his shirt, turns his back and lets the material fall. Across his back are more criss-cross scars. Only thicker. I suck in my breath. He couldn’t have done those himself.

  ‘My father thought he could belt the homo out of me.’

  I stare in horror, realising only now why, even though he’s developed the fittest body, taking care of it religiously at the gym, I’ve never seen him shirtless. It’s me who moves first. I put my arms around him. His cheek is freshly-shaven, and he smells divine as always – some foreign cologne that I can never remember the name of. He hugs me back, then pushes me away so he can button up.

  ‘Pour us both another shot, sister. I’m cancelling my night out. It’s time you and I shared some truths.’

  So, I tell him about Harry. I tell him more about Mum – how devastating her illness was. And how hard it was living with Samuel. But that’s all. I try. I really do. But I’m afraid if the words come out, they’ll swallow me, and I’ll disappear somewhere dark, and I won’t find my way back.

  I’m traitorous for not trusting him.

  6. Indoctrination

  I wander over to where Harry is sitting at his baby grand. He’s got a pencil between his teeth while he studies a piece of sheet music. A month into rehearsals, and I’m still tempted to press fingerprints onto th
e piano’s lid. It’s like a lake of sleek, black, reflective water you want to slip your body into. Only you’d slide off because of the angle. Too beautiful.

  There’s a row of three guitars suspended at an angle on the wall behind him. I recognise his old Maton from the farm. It looks rustic compared to the glossy new ones. Harry says he doesn’t play them much anymore. ‘More opportunity playing keys. Easier for composing.’

  His apartment is so light and airy with its white walls and skylights, I feel grubby, especially when I’ve come straight from my new job at a 7-Eleven. Polished floorboards, rugs, artwork and leather couches. He’s come a long way, baby. And all this from one hit single? If this is the music industry, show me the money.

  ‘You must be doing okay,’ I say. ‘Rent would cost a bucket load here.’

  Harry shakes his head. ‘I own it.’

  ‘Really? So why did you say you needed money to pay the rent?’

  He tilts his head. ‘It’s an expression. I’ve still got bills, and I can’t keep living off my parents. It was enough they helped me out with this place.’

  ‘Wow, they must have done well from selling the farm.’ I think of the paltry sum Mum got from ours. It doesn’t seem fair.

  ‘You don’t know, do you?’ Harry says. ‘Dad invented this hydraulic sensor thing for tractors. Farmers can install and replace it themselves. Sold the patent to John Deere. Made a bundle. Now, they’re off travelling again with my little sister.’

  ‘Things always seem to go right for you guys.’

  He looks annoyed. ‘We had to work for it. Like everyone else.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry.’ But I’m not really. Some people just seem to fall on their feet.

  ‘And my royalties are starting to dry up, so I need to get more gigs. Either that or a real job, as they say. I gotta eat, you know?’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ My new cashier gig is only part-time, but I’m beginning to wonder if all jobs suck.

  He returns his pencil to between his teeth, plays a few notes, then scribbles. A crease forms between his eyebrows every time he looks up, then disappears again when he plays. Cute. Too cute. But I’m not going there. I’ve already made that clear.

  I flop onto Harry’s baby-soft couch and sip my water. He’s told me to drink several glasses a day, to keep my voice hydrated. The upside is my skin feels amazing. It’s never been so clear. The downside: I’ve never spent so much time on the loo, which doesn’t help on my quieter 7-Eleven shifts when there’s only me and I have to hold out for a chance to zip out the back. I swear I hold the record for the fastest water bottle refill and whizz-break ever.

  Still, my boss doesn’t miss a trick. He’s obsessed with the security camera footage and always leaves reports for the staff. He’s onto customer thefts, which is fine, but he also knows if we’ve been slacking off. ‘Less yacking, more stacking,’ he says. He calls it surveillance. I call it a dictatorship.

  Not that I’m ungrateful; it’s paying my share of the rent, even if my bedroom is depressing with its faded Kmart bed covers and op shop furniture. Snap’s says he’s going to do a makeover of my ‘boudoir’ as soon as the cash starts rolling in from the music.

  Yeah, right. I haven’t seen a penny yet. ‘Early days,’ Harry says. ‘Another couple of months, and we’ll be ready. Hit ‘em hard and hit ‘em good. No point going in half-baked.’

  Harry’s busy focusing on his pencil markings – transposing, so the key hits my sweet spot. I don’t pretend to understand everything. I’ve always learned by listening. But I know how to count bars. And I know that I sound ridiculous if I try to sing too high. I should learn theory, he says, and insists on writing down a new musical term for me twice a week. Then he quizzes me at the next rehearsal. I miss those lazy days in the hammock where I sang songs I already knew.

  He puts his pencil down. ‘Okay, let’s warm up.’

  He plays a scale. I baulk. Something’s been plaguing me.

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why me? You must have met stacks of other singers at college. Plenty who are way better than me. More experienced.’

  ‘Because.’

  ‘That’s not an answer.’

  ‘It’s the only one you’re going to get.’ He plays my first note.

  I can’t let it go. ‘It’s all too convenient. You, turning up like that.’

  He falls silent. Why isn’t he looking at me? Then he puts on a big smile. ‘Luck, baby. Right place, right time.’

  ‘Well, I’ve given some thought to this and ...’ Hell, what I’m going to say will sound ridiculous, so I just blurt it. ‘I think I need to use a stage name.’

  ‘Really?’ He looks amused.

  ‘Yes. It’s the best way for me to stay anonymous. I know it sounds wanky but ... I’ve spent eighteen months hiding. Putting my real name out there is just stupid.’

  He waits, a strange look on his face. ‘Listen, I’ve been wanting to talk—’

  I grimace as I say it. ‘Kitten.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s what Snap calls me. What do you think?’

  Harry chuckles. ‘If you want. It’s a bit infantilising.’

  This gives me pause. I’ve never thought about it that way. I’m sure Snap doesn’t mean it like that.

  ‘But I don’t think we need to worry about it at this stage,’ he continues, then looks at me, all serious. ‘Maybe it’s time we talked about—’

  I put my hand up. ‘No. I told you I’m not going there.’

  ‘Things back home aren’t what—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why are you being so pig-headed? It could be so much easier if you just let me—’

  ‘I said no.’

  ‘Fine.’ he says, his jaw set. ‘Let’s concentrate on getting a repertoire together.’ He hits my note louder. ‘Sing.’

  Peeved, I stand and vocalise the scales, sliding up and down on each vowel: a–e–i–o–u. I’m like Old MacDonald who had a farm. Only instead of pigs I’ve got pitch, and instead of geese I’ve got glissando.

  ~

  It’s got a hold of me now. Music. The idea of being a professional vocalist is consuming. I’ve been going to a few of Harry’s gigs, and I can’t wait to be up there with him myself. Especially after listening to the recordings he’s loaded onto his old iPod for me. There’s a bunch of albums by this group called Postmodern Jukebox. Their stuff is so cool. They’ve taken current songs and given them a 1920s flavour, swinging some and bluesing others. Listen to me, prancing around my bedroom, posing and sending air kisses to the mirror as I sing along. Hilarious.

  This is the style we’re aiming at. That and throwing in a few classic standards, cos ‘You gotta play to the punters.’ I’m down with that. It’s under my skin now. Not like in Wineera, when it was just a way to spend time with Harry. It’s deeper. Seeing it being made. Played for real, not just a recording.

  How to describe it without going into some artsy-fartsy deep and meaningful rubbish? It’s that breathlessness of watching the pre-dawn sky back home: brilliant colours wiped across the horizon, sulphur-crested cockies, hundreds of them, swarming across the reds and pinks, and the deeper blues, higher up in the sky, still pierced with stars and yet to brighten. Ha. It does it to me, music. Or maybe it’s ... No. It’s not Harry. But he is irritably distracting.

  Tonight, he’s being a pain though, drilling me over and over. It’s been an hour. I’ve been at work at the 7-Eleven all day, and I just want to get on with it.

  ‘Look, I think I know when I’ve warmed up enough. Can we do a song now?’

  ‘Trust me,’ he says. ‘You need this. Remember "wax on, wax off"?’

  ‘Wax what?’

  ‘Mr Myagi?’

  I shake my head. He may as well be talking a foreign language.

  ‘You’ve never seen The Karate Kid?’

  ‘The what kid?’

  He gets up and crooks his finger at me to follow. What now? We move to the next room �
�� a studio with a huge wide-screen television. He goes to a bookshelf crammed with DVDs and runs his fingers over the titles until he stops at one and pulls it out. ‘Take this. Watch it.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I don’t have a DVD player.’

  He sighs. ‘Do you have plans for the rest of the night?’

  Oh, if Snap were here to hear that. ‘Not really ...’

  ‘Good.’ He points to the couch. ‘Sit.’

  I stay in the doorway and cross my arms. ‘Woof.’

  He moves to the television console and kneels to load the DVD. ‘I’m trying to help you here.’

  ‘Then stop treating me like a kid. Or a pet.’

  He twists on his knees to glance back. ‘Okay, I’m sorry. You’re right. Will you watch this movie with me? I think it’ll help you understand where I’m coming from.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  He fiddles with the remote control. When he’s got it working, he comes over to me.

  He tilts his head and looks into my eyes. ‘Please?’

  I can’t hold his gaze. I lower my eyes to his chest, his shirt, the pattern of the threads. So close. Am I imagining the warmth coming off him? I shuffle back. ‘Okay. But only if it comes with popcorn.’

  ‘That can be arranged.’

  I walk around him and sink into the couch. It’s even bigger than the one in his lounge room. He hands me the remote, dims the lights and leaves me to watch the movie. Soon, there’s muffled popping sounds from the kitchen. My stomach growls as the nutty smell wafts through. It seems to take forever. Eventually, I yawn and curl up in the middle of the couch. I doubt I’m going to make it to the end.

  Harry appears in the doorway, a bowl in one hand, glasses and a bottle of wine in the other. Uh oh. I move over to make room for him.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s okay. Pretty dated.’

  ‘But are you getting the message?’

  ‘Yeah. Practice, practice, practice.’

  ‘There’s a little more to it than that.’

  He holds up a glass, questioning. I shouldn’t. I’m so tired already. But what the hell? I nod.

  ‘I ordered pizza,’ he says. ‘Pepperoni. Hope that’s okay?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  We watch the screen together taking turns to dip our hands into the popcorn. Half a wine, and the dizzy warmth is spreading. I fight the urge to glance at him. Suddenly he leans in close, his breath on my ear, and it reminds me of another night. Backstage. A moment of yearning. My heart. Broken.