One Night (9 page)

He looked like I’d jabbed the fork into him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was rude of me. Pushy.”

Pushy? I laughed, thinking of Kit. This guy didn’t know pushy. “Tom Tomas Buckhorn Teronovich, you are the least pushy person I’ve ever met.” I picked up my teacup and cradled it.

“It’s just that we’ve spent the day together and I don’t know who you are. Who are you, Delivery Girl?”

I’m a liar and a tease and an ex-junkie gofer who is trying her hardest to lead you into a trap, I thought. I haven’t allowed myself to want something for a long time, and now it is my heart’s desire to lead you into that trap.

He said, “Please?”

I have so little strength sometimes, so little defense against so many things. Guilt, for example, almost always wins. Over the last few hours I’d deceived him, hijacked him, laughed at him, forced him to give up an expensive suit. Maybe I owed him a crumb of truth. So I counted to three and I said, “I’m a recovering heroin addict, Tom. Nineteen years old and I’ve been clean going on two years. Obviously, I started young. I grew up in Dakota City and have never lived anywhere else. Grew up and messed up right here.”

He searched carefully for the next thing to say, then hit wrong. “Your family—”

“No parents. I live with my aunt.” Too close—I’d brought it too close to what I needed to hide from him. “We’re a bit alike that way, aren’t we, Prince Tom?”

He nodded. “Did you quit playing violin because of the drugs?”

“Yes.”

He reached out and took my hand. Held and looked at my fingers. It was a chaste, curious move. His thumb stroked mine. Okay, maybe it wasn’t so chaste. “You told me earlier that you were very good. ‘Once upon a time,’ you said.”

I pulled back. “I was very good. I started when I was three and by the time I was four, it was clear I was special, a prodigy.”

“That’s fun to picture. What sort of music does a four-year-old play?”

“Entry-level classical. But tougher stuff very soon.”

“So you started using and had to give it up.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“You said—”

“I said I quit playing because of the dope. I quit playing
classical
for other reasons. I quit all that before I was using. It was a decision to quit. My decision.”

“And why did you make that decision?”

I laid a hand over my teacup, letting the moist warmth push against my palm. There were a hundred and one answers, of course, and I’d heard them all in countless chem-dep counseling sessions. It was exhaustion. Fear of failing. Fear of success. Giving in to the desire to take
charge of my life after years of never once being in charge.

“Kelly?” he prompted, his voice soft as fleece.

I met his gaze. “I fell in love with different music.”

“What sort of different music?”

“We didn’t know, that’s just it; we felt like we were making it up. Jazz was a big part of it, and rock, certainly. Like I said, it felt like we were making it up. I didn’t know what it was, the music I was discovering, but it was wonderful, and enticing enough to make me walk away from all the contests and competitions and the guest spots with orchestras.” I saw his eyes dart away, and I reached for my water. “This is way more than you meant to hear. I’m sorry to go on so.”

“No, keep going. I still don’t see why playing violin is so dangerous for you.”

I narrowed my eyes and sharpened my stare. “It’s not like I can draw you a map, Tom. A life is not that simple.”

“Neither are maps,” he said “So keep going, if you will.”

“By the time I was fourteen, I was in a whole new world, meeting all sorts of musicians and artists and moving in their different circles. It was a huge change, because as much as I loved what I was doing and the music I was learning, and making, I was no longer Kelly Ray, rising classical star. I’m not sure I knew who I was.”

“So you tried to be like the people around you.”

“Some of the people. Yes, you might say that having lost my own identity, I borrowed theirs.”

“Hip heroin-using jazz musician.”

Maybe it was simple after all. Like a straight line from one place to the next. I nodded. “By the time I was sixteen, I was using pretty heavily.”

He leaned forward. “But surely something you love, something you do so well, surely that should be part of…getting healthy.”

“Successful recovery depends on breaking old patterns.”

He rolled his eyes and sat back. “Sounds like a therapist’s line.”

I leaned forward. The teacup tipped, and liquid sloshed and leeched through the paper tablecloth. “Ever been addicted to something, Prince Tom? Ever tried to quit and stay sober? It’s hard. It’s very hard.”

“But to give up music? Can’t you even play by yourself?”

“Playing with others, inventing something with other musicians, that was the thrill, Tom. And no audience, ever? What’s the point of that?” I lifted my left hand, curved the fingers around a phantom violin neck. “I can still feel the strings, feel them vibrating. I hear the music, feel what it’s like playing, making those sounds.” I curled the fingers into a tight fist; my nails dug into the skin. “And when I do, I also feel the dope. I miss the music, Tom, but it was part of a life I can’t live, maybe not ever again. So now I’m a delivery girl.”

Someone’s heart—his or mine—was pounding loud and fast. Boom, boom, boom. He folded his hands on the table and studied them for a while. His eyes glanced up, looking past me, then they returned. “You said all of that as if you were saying it for the very first time.”

Bingo, Tom, bingo. “I don’t talk about it much.”

His eyes again scanned the background. I definitely must have been boring him if outside was so much more interesting. He pulled his gaze back. “I’m sorry to ask this, but could you tell me what—”

Maybe it was his polite interest, or the weight of talking, but for some reason, I snapped. “No. I’m not going to tell you what it’s like to use heroin. People always want to know, people always want the sordid details about using. What does it feel like? What made you do it? What were you thinking? It’s like they want to get close to something that’s out of bounds, something dangerous, but without the risk. And mostly I think they want to be entertained by my…mistakes.”

I had his attention now. “You interrupted,” he said tersely. “I wasn’t asking about that.” He leaned in. “Believe me, Kelly, I am not the least bit curious about the ‘sordid details.’ You know why? My parents were both drunks and my mother also loved her cocaine. They died together, and it was a lousy death. A pathetic drunk’s death. I assure you: I’m not interested in being entertained by anyone’s ‘mistakes.’”

There it was again: boom, boom, boom. My heart, definitely mine. “I’m sorry, Tom. Sorry I jumped on you. Talking about it is just so hard.”

“From the way you reacted, I’d say
not
talking is hard. Maybe you need more practice.”

I inhaled deeply. Let it out slowly. “What question did I interrupt?”

He made a face. “Now I feel awful. This is so dumb—I mean, here you were, pouring it out, we’re having this heart-to-heart thing when a day ago neither of us knew the other existed.”

Speak for yourself, Prince Tomas Teronovich. “And
…
?”

“So you’re telling me all this, and I’m really listening and I’m glad that you’re talking about it and I do want to know all about you, but meanwhile there’s some sort of
thing
going on outside and I see all these people and I can’t figure it out and you’re talking about this serious stuff and I’m listening, I really am, but meanwhile, I can’t help wondering: Why the hell are these ladies all dressed that way? Oh, that one is a guy; wow, nicely done. What’s happening out there? Look.”

I licked my lips, which had gone dry as I’d vented and raged, then pushed back my chair, turned, and looked. Outside, mixed in with the usual street scene, were several passersby clothed in period dress, dolled up for a party taking place in some other century. Hair piled high, hats, parasols, long slender dresses loaded with buttons.

“And now a lion?” he said in disbelief. I craned my neck. Coming toward us on the sidewalk was someone braving the heat in a full lion’s costume. Behind him, two silvery men appeared. Tin men. They turned and entered the Midtown movie theater.

I laughed. “Oh, my gosh, I’d forgotten. I know what it’s about. We did a show—” I stopped in time and held my tongue.

Luckily Tom was still staring and hadn’t heard me. “What’s going on?” he asked again.

“Do you really want to know?”

He faced me. “Please.”

“It’s Judy Garland’s birthday.”

two

that night

“Sing-along
Meet Me in St. Louis?
Sing-along
Wizard of Oz?
This is how you celebrate a dead actor’s birthday? A little weird, isn’t it?”

I handed Tom the popcorn and nudged him toward two empty seats. “This is nothing. This is just the party at the end of a film festival that kicked off a couple of weeks ago on her actual birthday. For real weirdness you’d have to go up north, to the town where she was born. There they have a huge blowout: a parade, carnival, Garland impersonators. They even used to fly in Munchkins.”

“There’s no such thing as Munchkins.”

It was one of those moments when I seriously doubted his fitness to be king. Maybe the old men were right and he did need to be tucked away out of sight. I spoke slowly and clearly. “Of course, Tom, there is no such thing as a Munchkin. The actors, Tom, the actors. The ones who played the Munchkins. They bring in the actors.”

He was not amused. “I still don’t get it. A dead star’s birthday? Why play dress-up?”

“She was born in Minnesota. We can’t claim very many celebrities, so we go nuts over the few we have. Whether or not they’re all that big or even alive.”

We’d settled into seats, clutching our popcorn and sodas. Two women in the row ahead of us turned. One laid down a scornful look. “Not that big? The greatest entertainer ever?” The woman next to her nodded. They both turned and faced front, simultaneously smoothing down the long skirts of their dresses.

I leaned forward and tapped the one who’d spoken. “Madame, would you kindly remove your hat?”

*

The Midtown is one of those great old theaters with fancy murals, red velvet seats, a balcony, and twinkling star lights. For tonight’s event two huge monitors had been brought in and set up on either side of the screen.

By quarter of ten every seat was filled. There were plenty of people in costume: lots of long dresses of the style I guessed was from
Meet Me in St. Louis,
lots of Tin Men, dozens of Wicked Witches. By nine-fifty-five the clapping and stomping had started. When the lights went down, the monitors went on. People whistled and cheered.

Meet Me in St. Louis
has a lot of catchy songs, but the sing-along was tentative at first. Of course, it was hard to watch the action on the screen, listen to the music, and manage to read the lyrics as they scrolled by on the monitors. But people got into other business: booing the stuffed-shirt dad; hissing the stuck-up school friend; ooh-ing and lip-smacking over the pretty boy-next-door.

And by the time Judy was riding the trolley with her crowd, headed to the 1903 World’s Fair for a day of wholesome fun, the Dakota City theater was singing and rocking.

Prince Tom loved it. So did I.

When the lights went on and the music stopped, Tom leaned forward and tapped the lady on the shoulder. “That was wonderful,” he said. “You were right.”

The woman nodded. “‘The Trolley Song’ is simply the best movie musical number ever. Period.”

A Tin Man sitting next to her companion turned around (stiffly). “Better than ‘Over the Rainbow’? I don’t think so.”

I whispered to Tom. “It could get rough; want to leave?”

He looked at me as if I were nuts, then leaned forward to ask the Tin Man a question.

One of the
Meet Me in St. Louis
women in the row ahead crooked her finger. I leaned toward her. She whispered, “Your boyfriend is very sweet.”

I glanced at Tom. He was reacting to something the Tin Man had said, rolling his eyes and laughing. I replied, “Yes, he is.”

“Be good and be careful,” she said as she turned back around.

One out of two, I figured. The best I could do for what remained of the night.

I checked my watch.
The Wizard of Oz
would start at midnight. I had ten minutes—should I call Kit? Would she be free to take the call? Was she alone? Was she even awake? I decided against calling. Either she was still being watched, or she was in bed. After all, on a normal night, she’d be sound asleep by now.

I looked around. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my; clearly, this was not a normal night. I wasn’t alone in this conclusion: Just then people in the balcony unfurled and hung a banner that read “You’re Not in Kansas Anymore.”

Any reserve that had been shown during
Meet Me in St. Louis
was long gone by the time
Oz
began. It was no longer a movie; it was one raucous party.