One Night (13 page)

There was more and I showed him all of it. The house with neon blue lightning bolts flashing in the second-story windows. The house with ten chimneys. And of course, my candidate for weirdest.

“Mannequins? A living room full of mannequins?” Tom’s voice cracked in wonder. “And don’t they ever get complaints about those orange lights? Are they on all the time? People must complain.”

“They’re not just mannequins, it’s an art installation. The lights are on all the time. I’ve heard that the only people who’ve complained are some neighborhood birders who say the constant light might disturb nesting patterns for a family of linnets supposedly living in a tree somewhere along here.” I paddled on.

“Do you come out here often?”

Only on the bad nights, I started to say. Then I realized that, at least tonight, that wasn’t true. “Pretty often,” I said.

“Ever come during the day, like normal people?”

“What’s the fun in that? You can’t see into houses.”

He shifted and the canoe rocked. “Steady,” I said. “I don’t want to go in the water. It’s not very deep, and the bottom’s weedy and mucky.”

“So you get your kicks from watching people’s houses. Kinky.” He reached out and dragged a hand in the water.

I pulled in my paddle. We drifted, with only the breeze pushing us along. “I’m not interested in all the houses.” I pointed my paddle; water trickled off the blade. “Mostly that one.”

He looked. “Nice, but compared to the others it’s pretty ordinary.”

“We can’t all live in palaces, Prince Tom. And it’s not ordinary at all. That was my house; I grew up there. Well, I lived there until I was twelve, until my mother fell in love for the second time and got married for the first time. It belonged to my grandparents, my father’s parents.”

Now he was interested. “You mean your mother—who wasn’t married to your father—lived with his parents until she fell in love with someone who wasn’t their son? That sounds as twisted as European royalty. No wonder we get along, Kelly.”

“They were happy to have us. I was their only grandchild and they wanted me reared properly. That is, what
they
considered proper. So they opened their doors and sucked us in. No one ever came right out and told me, but I’m pretty sure that they let my mother know they would fight her for me. Live with them—live like them—or lose me. And when it was clear so early on that I could do something special with the violin, well, that sealed the deal. My music was expensive—the lessons, the instruments, the travel. My mother could never have afforded to pay for it. So they…bought us.”

“That’s harsh, Kelly.”

“But that’s how it was. They gave us shelter and paid for my music, and in return they took control. Well, mostly it was her; my grandfather died when I was five.”

“Your grandmother took control of your training?”

“Control of our lives. She meant well, I know, but with every single thing she gave, there were strings attached. That’s a dangerous way to live and love, Tom. After a while those strings get twisted and people get caught up and maybe even strangled.”

“But she was trying to help. You can’t blame her for you being a drug addict.”

“I don’t,” I snapped. “I didn’t say that, and I don’t want you to think for a moment that I’m into passing off blame. I did what I did, Tom; I made the choice. I’m the one who jumped into the deep dark hole and I’m the one climbing out.”

“If your grandmother was so into control, how did she feel when your mother fell in love with someone who wasn’t her son?”

“Oh, she was happy about that. He was someone she liked, a son of a friend. Billy. Imagine: a grown man named Billy.”

“And where was your dad? What say did he have in all of this?”

“None whatsoever. No one had seen him in years. I’ve never seen him at all, not once in my life.” I let him take time to digest it, gave him all the time in the world.

Tom stared at the house without speaking. “So the delivery girl grew up in the swankiest neighborhood,” he finally said. “Does that make you Dakota City royalty?”

“Hardly. My grandfather was just a plain old hardworking lawyer, and she was a tireless volunteer with all the right charities. They climbed up the ladder by working, climbed up to a nice big house on Lake Lucille.”

“When did your mother die?”

“She didn’t.” I tipped my head. “She lives there, right there in my grandparents’ house. With Billy and…their little girl. Not with my grandmother of course. She died last spring.”

“But you said your parents were dead. Another lie?”

“I didn’t say they were dead, Tom. I didn’t lie about that. I said that I had no family except for my aunt, and that’s true. My father has been gone forever, and for some time now she’s been gone from my life.” I picked up the paddle and stroked twice, straightening the canoe, keeping it pointed toward shore. “I think the little girl’s room is the one on the left, second floor. See the glow—a night-light, don’t you suppose?”

“The ‘little girl’ is your sister, your half sister?”

“Her name is Louisa. She’s going on three.”

“And is she gone from your life, too?”

“That’s right. That’s how it is.” I resumed paddling, turning the craft away from shore and heading it toward the widest part of the lake. “Daylight pretty soon, we need to get out of this bay if you want a view of the sunrise.” Or if we didn’t want to be spotted watching the house.

The sky was lightening. A few cars were turning onto the lake drive. A lone runner moved along the pedestrian path. Morning.

Tom twisted until he could see me. He said, “What’s the story, Kelly? What happened?”

A kayak whizzed out at racing speed from between the islands, passed us, and was gone, headed toward the lagoon leading to another lake. I pointed. “If we go that way, we connect with all the lakes. We could spend the day on the water, going from lake to lake.”

He waited.

“Please understand, Tom, that I don’t feel sorry for myself. There’s no self-pity. I just look at the facts and say I did what I did and that’s how it is. I hurt them very badly. I was dangerous to them and they did what they did to protect themselves from being hurt again. And that’s what anyone should do. Isn’t that what you did? Built a life separate from your parents’ to keep yourself safe? Yes, it’s the right thing to do.”

He said, “Tell me the story.”

Drug stories are boring, Tom, they’re even worse than family stories, so don’t worry, I won’t bore you much with all that. Won’t bother you with the story of fights with my mom—after all, who doesn’t fight with her mom? But you know, I don’t like to use the word.
Mom.
I don’t have a claim on that word, not anymore.

Really, the fights weren’t even that bad. Typical stuff. Not bad at all, not even when I quit the violin grind. Guess what she said about that. “If that’s how you feel, then it’s fine. Go find something else, but whatever it is, be good at what you do.” And I remember thinking, What sort of reaction is that? All those years, all the work, and that’s all she can say? “Be good at what you do”? I mean, didn’t she care? But that’s what she said when I pulled the plug on everyone’s dream.

Which was considerably different from my grandmother’s reaction. There was nothing indifferent about that. As soon as she heard, she raced to where I was, and the first thing she did was put her hands on my shoulders—God, I can still feel those hands on my shoulders—and she said, “After all I’ve done for you…” And then she couldn’t go on, she was so livid.

It wasn’t the last time I heard her say that very same thing. I gave her plenty of opportunities to say it again.

You know how I did it, how I walked away from it all? I was playing—in the middle of actually playing for judges in a big competition, my third that year. It was Chicago, the Midwest Musicians of the Future, a very big deal, at least in that world. I’d come in second place the year before, and this year was supposed to be mine. I think it could’ve been, except for one thing. I didn’t want it.

But there I was and I was trying. Playing a Paganini sonata. I was nailing it, too. Well, if I look at it clearly, maybe I wasn’t nailing it, because I wasn’t focused. And then there I was in the third bar of the second movement, and suddenly I was thinking, Screw this. I don’t want to do this anymore. And so I sailed out of Paganini into an Andrew Bird motif. And I finished and said to the judges, “Wasn’t that a whole lot nicer?” Then I packed up and left. And later when everyone asked, Why? I said, I’m done. I’m done with this forever.

But I wasn’t done, not with the music, just with that music. I started playing other stuff, with other musicians. I was learning a whole new sound and living a whole new life. As much as you can when you’re barely fifteen. But it was enough, and I got in over my head.

It wasn’t like I had a gutter-sniffing habit. I never progressed to needles. I always had access to money, so I never had to steal or do worse to get stuff. A very middle-class habit, Tom. But a habit just the same and you can’t hide it forever. When they found out I was using, they packed me up and shipped me off to rehab. One month to a new life.

I was lucky, I guess, to have people who cared, who took action. My grandmother visited whenever they let her, which was often enough. And why not? She was paying. She’d come for an hour and we would have tea. And when the hour was over, she’d kiss me once on each cheek and say the very same thing she said before every recital, every concert, every competition.

Don’t disappoint me.

That’s when Kit enters the story. She heard what was happening and knew what it meant. Knew how my grandmother—her mother—would be trying to deal with things, control the situation, take charge. Kit quit her job and moved here, just to be close. Gave up the writing and reporting and started talking about movies and menopause with America so she’d have something to do while she settled down in Dakota City. She did all that to be an option for me. An option to my grandmother’s iron will. She knew about that iron will, of course. She was her mother’s oldest child and she knew.

When I got out of rehab, I moved in with Kit. Everyone agreed that it might be better. Everyone agreed we had to try something new. I’ll say this: I didn’t start again right away. I didn’t want to start again at all, but it was there by then; it was in me. The longing was in me.

Up to a point it’s easy enough to hide that you’re using. So when I did start again, no one knew. I was careful this time not to be gone at night and raise questions. Careful to keep the pattern of using under control. Up to a point you can do that. I was careful to wait until Kit was asleep or gone. Poor Kit. She never knew, never saw what was happening. No one did, of course, but I was living under her roof. Her mother never forgave her for that.

About the time I started using again, they had a baby, Billy and my moth—oh, let’s call her by name. Her name is Ann. They wanted to make a show of trust, of confidence in me. They let me baby-sit from time to time.

She was a beautiful baby, Tom. I could always stop her crying. I could always get her to laugh. She loved me. Took a bottle from me and only me. When it came to eating, she wanted to be nursed by her mother or she wanted me. Five months old. That’s how old she was the last time I saw her.

Up ’til then, I swear, I never did anything when I was with her, especially not when I was taking care of her. And I don’t know why I did that time, except I started feeling sorry for myself. That’s why I don’t get into feeling sorry for myself, Tom, because then it’s easy to do stupid things, and stupid things can be dangerous.

But that night I did. I broke my rule. First, though, I took care of her. Fed her, walked her, sang to her, held her, changed her. It was a very hot night, a lot like tonight was. So I had her in just diapers and a T-shirt. A little pink T-shirt. I put her in bed, pulled the shirt down over her belly, and turned out the light.

Then I went to the room that used to be mine and I turned on the radio. Am I boring you? All these details? I think I’m just now remembering these details; forgive me.

I turned on the radio, mistake number one.

I lit candles, mistake number two. The radio was tuned to 88.5, “Jazz Overnight,” live that night from Club Chase. I tuned in to other people playing while I was watching a baby, and whaddaya know, I started feeling sorry for myself, lying there in my old room with its pastels and lace curtains and sweet little flowers on everything.

Then I must have reached in my pocket. Mistake number three, because that’s when I found the dope a friend had given me earlier that evening. At Leo’s—I’d picked it up at Leo’s.

I remember that the radio announcer talked between sets about the meteor shower going on outside, and I must have thought, Hey, go outside and see. So I did Mistake number—oh, what does it matter. I went outside, and the sky was ablaze with falling stars, all right. Billy and Ann didn’t live in the lake house then, it was another. They moved in here when my grandmother died last year.

They weren’t her kids, but she liked them better than she had ever liked her own. So she left them her money, her house, her charity work, her place in the life of this city.

Back then, though, they lived in their own house. Smaller, but with a huge yard rimmed with lilacs. I can’t remember if they were in bloom. And I lay in the backyard and watched the sky. No: First I snorted my bag, then I lay back and watched the sky.