Hide and Seek (6 page)
“He hit you, beat you up?” Barry said and lightly touched my cheek. It was just the right thing to do. My friend.
“I didn't know how to get out of it. Not back then. I didn't know where I could go, how I could possibly bring up Jennie. I used to escape to the attic of our house and write songs all the time. I'd sing them for Jennie. Both of us up in the attic.”
“You never performed them around West Point?”
I shook my head. “Forget it! I was much too afraid for that.”
“You lied to me during your job interview. You're fired.”
“That's okay,” I said. I touched Barry's cheek. “I can take care of myself and Jennie now. Thanks for helping me.”
“I did nothing. I just watched it happen. You're an amazing person, Maggie. I hope you realize that yourself someday.”
I leaned across the table and gave Barry the gentlest kiss. We were such good friends and I loved him. I could
think
that—I just couldn't say it.
“You're the best,” I whispered.
“No. Only the second best. I mean that, Maggie. Remember where you heard it first.”
J
ULY SECOND OF my year of years, the best time in my life by about ten thousand percent. I was at the Meadowlands sports stadium outside New York City. I was there with Jennie and Barry.
I
will never
forget this. No one can take this part away.
A few minutes after eight-thirty the outrageous New York disc jockey, Bret Wolfe, came prancing out onto the Meadowlands' concert stage. He was dressed like a naughty teenager who shouldn't have been let out of the house by his parents.
The first warm-up act was scheduled to begin soon. Everybody in the audience knew that the headliners— R.S.V.P.—wouldn't make their grand appearance until at least ten, probably even later than that.
They were in for a shock though.
Bret Wolfe could barely be heard over the noise of the crowd:
“It is my distinct pleasure to introduce …”
The orchestra struck up a familiar melody. Glowing fluorescent flying objects flickered up toward the bland-faced quarter moon sitting over the stadium roof.
“…
My distinct pleasure to introduce to you
—
Ladies and Gentlemen … R.S.V.P.!”
Stunned silence followed, then there was chaos in the audience that was still lazily milling into the stadium.
“I can't believe it's
them
. They shouldn't be on for hours!”
“Jesus, what's going on? What is this shit?”
From backstage, I watched as long paper streamers and electric blue fireworks rocketed high above the stage. Billowing smoke and gold lamé sparks erupted and drifted east toward New York. The R.S.V.P. lead singer, Andrew Tone, lithe and very sexy, stepped to the microphone and held it like a live snake. He ran a hand through his long, sandy-brown hair.
“We're Alive and Kicking!” He raised his fist. The band hit its trademark downbeat. R.S.V.P. began to sing the song that was currently number one just about everywhere in the world.
Next came “Champion of Myself.”
Then the ballad “Loving a Woman of Character.”
The audience was in an absolute frenzy. No one could understand what was happening. Tens of thousands of fans wouldn't come until nine-thirty, when, ordinarily, the local bands and warm-up groups would just be finishing.
The music finally stopped. Andrew Tone stepped to the microphone. He held up his hands for silence.
“Don't worry,” he said. “We'll sing those songs over again when everybody's here. You early birds deserved a treat though. You're the
real music lovers
, right?”
Cheers. Some laughter. But the baffling mystery continued for the audience. What was R.S.V.P. doing onstage already?
“We sang those songs for a special reason. ‘Alive.’ ‘Champion.’ ‘Woman.’ I know they're three of our best songs.
You know
they are.”
Loud applause confirmed Andrew Tone's opinion of
their
opinion.
“The thing of it is, these three songs were all written by our first—and only—warm-up act tonight. And this is the best warm-up act we've ever had.”
Some in the audience might have known my name. Few could have realized I was a singer. Behind Andrew Tone, a bevy of stagehands wheeled out a piano. The stagelights went off and a spotlight hit the keys.
There was a murmur in the crowd, expectant but wary. Everybody's curiosity was up.
“
She
is a real woman of character,” Tone went on, speaking softly, away from the light. “It's her first live concert appearance—which is why we came out early. We wanted to introduce her. It's our way of thanking her for her songs.
“I guarantee you one thing! This is the last time the lady will be opening for anyone. So listen. Hold on to your heads. Hold on to your hearts.
THIS IS THE MIND-BLOWING, HEART-STOPPING MAGGIE BRAD-FORD
!”
I
LISTENED TO Andrew go on and on.
Too much
, I thought. He was raising their expectations way too high. He made it sound as though some scintillating world-class singer were coming onstage.
He wasn't talking about
me
. He couldn't be. The building pressure put a steel band around my chest. I had a contralto voice anyway, and had trouble hitting the real high notes.
I thought I wouldn't be able to play, much less sing. Not only didn't I feel like “a woman of character,” I felt I had absolutely no spine.
I could barely breathe
.
I made myself walk onto the massive concert stage. There was applause, sincere but scattered.
I remembered Andrew Tone's words:
“It's her first live appearance.”
I got my first full look at the slow-rising mountain of faces; the brightly colored, ragtag quilt of clothes; the streaming spotlight that made the piano look huge and frightening and self-important.
Oh, God, I can't possibly do this. There's an entire city out there watching me
.
A wave of panic suddenly swept over me. I felt exactly as I did when I used to stutter and stammer in school.
I knew many of the orchestra players from recording sessions in New York. They were standing now and clapping for me too.
“Cut it out, guys,” I yelled to them. “It's only
me
. Stop, stop, stop!”
“Go get ’em Maggie!” a drummer named Frankie Constantini yelled at me. “You're the best.”
Somehow, I made it to the piano. I even managed to sit down without fainting, or having a major coronary.
I am considered tall at five feet eight inches, and Barry said I was “striking” that night, but I just felt gawky—the same way I'd felt as a teenager. I'd let my hair grow very long, and it cascaded down my back. At least I liked my hair. If nothing else, my hair was cool.
“I was living in West Point,” I managed to say, speaking in a low voice into the gleaming silver microphone. “I was living in West Point, near the military academy there. I was a housewife and a mother named Mrs. Bradford. I loved to sit in the attic, I remember. There was a squirrel there named Smooch, and before my daughter, Jennie, was born, he was my friend. I loved to sit in the attic because there I was safe. There I wasn't afraid that my husband might come and hit me. There I began to write songs.”
My mind felt as though it had exploded. Phillip was in it, as vivid as when he was alive. I could hear his footsteps on the stairs in our old house, the menace in his voice:
You can't hide from me!
My hand was trembling.
I willed my fingers to strike the piano keys. I sang with all my heart, everything inside of me:
I used to be a housewife
A new wife
A midwife
I used to live the good life
High in the storm king mountains.
I used to give him haircuts
Fix cold cuts
Mend shirt cuffs
My name was Mrs. Bradford
And I thought I was going to die.
Battery
He hit me!
This can't be me
This can't be me
Battery
I used to be a housewife
A new wife
A midwife
He hit me!
How can he say he loves me
When I think I'm going to die?
The applause grew louder, and then unbelievably louder. People began to stamp their feet in rhythm to the beat. The noise was like a physical presence rising out of the stadium. It carried me higher than I had ever been in my life.
It told me that all these people believed in me. They believed my story.
It was like nothing I had ever experienced, not even in dreams, and I have to confess, I never wanted it to stop.
Hooo boy, hooo boy,
hooo boy
.
T
HAT WAS THEN; and this is now.
I could never have imagined being
where I am right now
, in prison in New York.
It seems so inconceivable, so impossible. I couldn't conceive of any set of circumstances that would have gotten me here.
This week they brought a top, well-respected psychiatrist to see me, a woman named Deborah Green.
I guess I couldn't blame anyone for thinking that I might be crazy.
The husband killer
. That's what I'm called in the newspapers.
The black widow of Bedford
.
I visited with Dr. Green in a small conference room beside the chapel, which made me smile at least.
I was pleased to learn that Dr. Green specialized in physical-abuse cases, rather than homicides.
She made it easy for me. She told me about herself, and why she had been chosen, and that if she wasn't right
for me
, she'd leave. She was my age, soft-spoken, unassuming.
I guess I liked her well enough. Trust? Well, that might come later.
“How's this?” I said to her. “I'll make this easy. I'll tell you everything that's on my mind. I don't see the point in the two of us having secrets.”
I was facing Dr. Green, rather than lying on the cot that had been provided. She nodded, then she smiled. She was good at this, getting people to talk.
Of course, I wasn't being truthful with her
—there was one important secret I wasn't telling her, or anyone else.
Ironically, it was what might have saved me
.
“However you want to do this, Maggie,” she said. “If you want to unload a lot of junk, go ahead.”
I laughed. “It is junk, isn't it?”
Yes, I wanted to unload.
So, in those first few sessions, I told Dr. Green everything that all the newspapers and TV stations wanted to know, and couldn't get out of me for any amount of money.
I told Dr. Green what made me anxious, ashamed, and also, very angry.
Like about my father, and how he'd left my mother in 1965. Just walked out and left us as though we were some motel he'd visited going cross-country.
Like my terrible stuttering from around age four to thirteen. How it had hurt so much when kids made fun of me; how it had made me feel worthless and small; how I had beat it by myself,
with no help from anyone
.
Like writing songs in my head, to escape from the negative voices in my childhood world.
Like Phillip, who everybody thought was this nice, quiet college professor—but he wasn't, really. He had his black Corvette that he used to
back
out of the drive at about forty miles an hour; he had his gun collection; he had his
rules
to be followed at every waking moment, and probably while I was sleeping too.
I talked for about two hours at a clip, and Dr. Green rarely stopped me.
Finally, though, I was talked out during our third or fourth session.
“I do think you left something out,” she finally said.
“What's that?” I asked her.
“Well, what about Will Shepherd? Remember him?”
Oh yes,
Will
.
The man I was in here for killing.
“I've been working up to Will,” I said. “Will is in his own special class.”
W
ILL HAD LEARNED to put on a good act in school, and to get by with it. He was already being touted as the best young football player in London. And he was very popular—with the girls anyway. He still didn't have a good friend though.
Early in the summer following his fourteenth birthday, he came down with the Asian flu. Chills and fever possessed him. He actually was afraid he might die, and go join his father.
His Aunt Vannie nursed him through the high fever. She was there for him. This was unusual, for until now, anytime Will got sick, it was Aunt Eleanor who brought him his food and comforted him. Indeed, sick or well, Vannie was a remote figure in his life. She went out almost every night, often on dates with men who squired her for a few evenings, and then disappeared to be replaced by others.
Mostly, Will and Vannie played chess, and they chatted. She was an avid player, but he learned the game rapidly, and by the end of the week they were able to play competitively. He found himself looking forward to the games with increasing excitement.
Chess enabled him to study his aunt up close. He and his brother, Palmer, had conducted countless, sworn-secret, late-night conversations about her. They wondered about Vannie's men, about her occasional trips to Bournemouth or the South of France. And now, as she studied the board, he was able to stare at her, watch her every move.
He examined her breasts whenever her eyes were occupied with the game board. He imagined kissing them, gently sucking on the soft nipples, which taunted him under every blouse and dress she wore. He imagined biting each nipple clean off.
“You can't fool me the way you do all the others,” Vannie told him during one of their tensest games. “I know that you're very clever, Will, and I know that you don't want us to know. But I know. I even know what you're thinking, dear boy.”
After six days, Will woke feeling a little bad about feeling so much better. He would have to get up, he knew, and the prospect of being able to play football again delighted him. But the times with Vannie would be over.
