The Music of Your Life (20 page)

“You and I can go to the movie, son,” Daddy says. “I don't mind. Mama and Henry can stay home.”

“You won't like it, Daddy,” I say. “You never do.”
God, anything but this
.

I'm thinking of the previous year's movie debacle. I got Daddy to take me to see
Nicholas and Alexandra
, not because I thought I would like it, particularly, but because I thought he would, being a history teacher. For reasons I still can't figure out, he hated it, and we heard about it for months—the broken record of what a miserable time Daddy had at the
Nicholas and Alexandra
movie.

“Nah, nah,” says Daddy. “If it's got Judy Garland's daughter in it, it ought to be good. If she's anything like her mother. Besides, y'all are too hard on me. I don't dislike things.”

“Oh, Ed,” says Mama. “I still have to listen to how much you hated
The Graduate
.”

“That's because I thought it was gonna be about teachers,” he says. “It sure wasn't, not by a long shot.”

“Well … if you don't like it, I'm telling you now that I don't want to hear about it for a week. And I'm sure Hunter doesn't, either.”

“Where is it playing? Down at the Miracle?”

“The Miracle?” Mama says. “Ed, you're just plain out of it. They don't show anything at the Miracle anymore except the Oriental Kung Fu movies. I thought you knew that. There hasn't been a good movie down there for years.”

“It's at the Park Point Cinema!” I scream. “Park Point Cinema!
Park Point Cinema!!
”

Daddy sighs. “What time?” he asks.

So that's it, then. Me, Daddy, and Judy Garland's daughter at the Park Point Mall Cinema 3. That's just about perfect.

I could just bag it, I guess, but it does seem like seeing the movie even with Daddy sitting beside me is probably better than not seeing it at all. Maybe he'll just fall asleep anyway, like he often does. I try to decide if I should still wear the outfit I've been planning on, my favorite bell bottoms with the alternating burgundy and cream panels on the legs, and my new two-toned tan and brown ankle boots with side zippers.
Damn Lynette
, is all I can think. I hope Mark Perkins calls her a big fat whore at the dance and tells everybody that she stuffs her training bra on JV basketball game nights.

If he doesn't, I will.

As soon as the lights go down, I start to glance over at Daddy, as slyly as I can, without turning my head, to check for any visible signs of disgust. It doesn't seem like he's gonna fall asleep tonight though, like he did when we saw
Sleuth
, which is too bad, because when he sleeps through a movie, he can't rightfully claim later on that he hated it because he knows I'll say, “Daddy, you can't hate something you didn't see.”

The movie starts to deal with some Nazi stuff, which I hope appeals to his love of war things. Now if only they would have some battle scenes or something, instead of so much stuff about trampy-looking women at the nightclub acting trashy, which is, of course,
my
favorite part. Actually, he seems to be enjoying it; I think it helped that when we were out in the lobby getting popcorn there were several friends of ours from Second Presbyterian Church whom he spoke to.

On the screen, Michael York and Liza are hanging out with their German friend, who is blond and really handsome; he looks like he could be in the J. C. Penney catalog modeling suits. The three of them are getting drunk or taking drugs or something, and dancing around, not caring if they knock things over or bump into each other. This is kind of a serious part, because nobody sings any songs. Suddenly, in the scene, the old-fashioned record player stops playing music and the needle scratches and starts to repeat. Michael, Liza, and the German guy are all kind of looking at each other, and they keep moving together, kind of as one—a girl and two boys. And the two boys' faces get real close, and they kind of nuzzle each other, with their noses, the way Lynette and I sometimes do, and I can't explain it, but, watching this, I feel kind of like I'm gonna faint or something, and I feel sweat break out on my upper lip, and my stomach starts to swim around. I shift in my seat, and cross my legs, and lean over on my elbows, for protection, so no one will notice anything. If the two men kiss each other, I know my father and some of the other people in this theater are gonna start heading for the aisles, screaming that this is filth and calling out for the manager.
Please, God, don't let me faint
. Of course I don't shut my eyes or anything like that. I wouldn't miss this for anything, I don't care who's sitting next to me.

I don't dare glance over at Daddy now to see how he's reacting. In fact, after this, I may never be able to look at him again. Mama was right: this is definitely not Walt Disney. I shift around again, and hope that the action will soon go back to the club where Liza sings, even if that does mean Joel Grey running around in lipstick and rouge. But still … this is fantastic. Two boys … and a girl.

I'm not ever gonna stop thinking about this.

“You enjoy it, son?” Daddy says. We're in the car on the way home.

On the way out of the theater, I'd already started to think about all his potential questions, and all my potential answers. This was definitely one I had counted on. “I thought it was good, not great,” I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. And then, I probably shouldn't add this, but I do: “What did you think?”

He hesitates. “I don't know. I don't know,” he says. “Did you … was it what you thought it was gonna be, from playing the record so much?”

Is this a trick question? I hadn't figured on this one, so I wait a few seconds before answering.

“Pretty much, I guess. Yeah, I'd say pretty much. So … did you like it?”

He pauses a long time, so long I start to feel sweat at my temples. I roll my window down even further, to get a breeze and also to invite street noise and honking sounds into the car so it will be harder to talk.

“It was all right,” he says, finally.

I feel the tension start to drop from my shoulders; at least this is better than the anger with which he greeted
Nicholas and Alexandra
. I'm thinking maybe he didn't notice that scene with the two guys nuzzling after all; maybe God did me a favor and caused him to nod off right at that moment. Now I wish I
had
looked over to see if he was watching. Or maybe the scene didn't even happen, maybe I imagined it. So why did I almost faint? I will have to ask Lynette McKinney, Youth Psychiatrist, why she thinks I nearly passed out from seeing two boys dancing with each other. Except … wait … it's because of Lynette and that stupid basketball player that this whole evening happened to me. This is the thanks I get for helping her write all those cheers and let her claim them for her own and have everybody say what a good cheer writer Lynette is and
isn't she the most valuable addition to this year's JV squad
. I plan to never speak to Lynette again, and hope that some good Christian tells her mother that
Cabaret
is the dirtiest thing to ever come to our town, and that no child of hers should ever even
think
about seeing it. Then she will be all pitiful and want to hear my blow-by-blow description of the movie, and beg me to re-create the “Mein Herr” choreography on a bar stool in her downstairs family rec room, and I will not do it. I will stick to my guns. I will deny her, and she will just have to suffer, suffer, suffer. I might even say, “Why don't you let that stupid, thickheaded caveman boyfriend of yours take you to see it?” I won't even let her listen to my soundtrack album anymore. Lynette and I are through!

“Some of the stuff in that movie, though, son …” Daddy says, as we are waiting at a particularly long light, in front of the Hardee's where we got supper earlier, and where the high school kids are now hanging out, like they always do on Friday nights, even in late winter. I stare into the parking lot to see if I recognize anybody from the church Teen Fellowship. If I see someone I know, I will lean my head out the window and scream out, “Hey!” and then Daddy won't remember what he was just about to tell me.

“Some of that stuff,” he says again, as the light changes green and he goes, ruining my escape plan, “Good God Almighty, I never thought I'd see—”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “It's outrageous.”

“Good Lord,” he says, shaking his head. “Good Lord.”

Then, after a moment, a moment in which I haven't even
thought
about drawing breath, he says, “But that Liza Minnelli …”

“What about her?”

“Well, she's talented. But I don't believe she'll ever be as good as her mother. Now her mother was something.”

I'm thinking we've now gotten through the worst of this conversation—maybe I'll be spared what he has to say to Mama after I go off to my room—so I spend the rest of the ride home trying to think of movies that Daddy liked. I can only come up with two or three, most of which are before my time, but he's talked about them since day one.
The Bridge on the River
… something,
The Guns of Navarone, Airport
. No, he hated
Airport
. I guess he likes
The Wizard of Oz
OK. He watches it with us every time it comes on TV, even though he always asks, “How many times can you all watch the same movie over and over?”

I wish I could watch
Cabaret
again, that's for sure.

Later, in my room, I reach under my bed and pull out the
Cabaret
album cover; I suddenly remembered that I stuck it under there a few days before. I replace the record in the sleeve and return it to my gold wire record rack, placing it between
The Partridge Family Sound Magazine
and one of Mama's records,
Mantovani Plays the Best of Broadway
. I take that one out and look at it. It's one of my all-time favorite album covers because of its neat photograph of the New York City theater district, with the marquee lights glistening way up in the sky but also reflected down on the ground in neony rain puddles on the sidewalks and at the edges of the streets. In the picture, the women are all in mink stoles, with bouffy hair and diamonds, on the arms of men in tuxedos, and they're all getting out of limousines and taxicabs and hurrying into some Broadway theater lobby. I've always loved this picture, and someday I plan to go to New York to become like the people in the photograph, well-dressed and glamorous, and going to Broadway shows all the time. That is, if Mama and Daddy will let me. I'll have to start working on them soon.

In the back of the record rack, I spot my old
Mary Poppins
album, the one that got all warped in the hot car when I was a kid. I haven't thought about it in years; Henry must have been playing it. I remember he used to think it was funny how the song went “Super-cali-fragi-waaa … waaaa … expi … waa … waa” all over the place. He liked it because he said it sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher. I return the record to the last wire groove and get into bed.

But as I lie there, I keep hearing all the songs from the movie in my head. Liza keeps singing to me, even as I roll over and try to go to sleep. I put the pillow over my head to try and block the music out of my mind.

But I also keep thinking about that scene—that nuzzling scene. It keeps playing in my head, too. I feel suddenly sweaty, and my stomach feels airy. I look to see if my door is closed all the way. My room is totally dark now since they moved the streetlamp that used to shine in my window.

I'm not sure I should do this, this thing I love to do, but I do it anyway. I can't believe anything can feel so good as this. Especially tonight. I keep picturing the scene: the girl and … the two guys. It's almost like how I used to picture my old G.I. Joe doll out of his uniform, when I'd be in bed at night, and that would do the trick. And after my cousin brought over her Barbie and Ken dolls, I switched to thinking about Ken naked. I liked Ken even more than G.I. Joe.

I turn over in my bed, and then back over again. I picture Ken and G.I. Joe dancing together like the men in the movie, with Barbie sitting in a Barbie chair, just watching them, not saying anything, and then I see Joe and Ken lying next to each other on the floor, and they are naked. I make them nuzzle each other's faces. I imagine the men in the movie taking their clothes off, so they can be just like Ken and G.I. Joe. Then they could all dance together and nuzzle each other and lie down side by side as I watch.

Gee … this is … great
…

I love having secrets only with myself, and this is the best secret I've ever thought up. I wouldn't even tell Lynette about this one, that is if I ever decide to start speaking to her again. Which I won't.

God, this is
… it's hot under the sheets. I kick them off.

Much better … oh …