Chapter Eleven
A few days later, I race down the subway steps, holding the banister as I fly around the corner and swipe my Metrocard through the turnstiles. I’m supposed to meet Natalie for a Sunday morning run in Central Park. I jam onto the train. It lumbers for a minute, threatening to crawl the whole way uptown. But then it picks up speed and I make it to the stop ten minutes later.
I pound the concrete and reach our meeting spot near the pond only five minutes late. Fortunately, Natalie knows how to keep herself busy. She’s doing push-ups on the crunchy, cold ground, decked out in running pants and a fleece jacket.
“Hey, Ironwoman,” I call out.
She pops up and strikes a muscle pose for me. “What do you think of these guns?” she asks, patting her biceps in a deliberately self-aggrandizing manner.
“I’ll need a magnifying glass to see them.”
“I already did buns, abs, and arms, thank you very much,” she says, then starts running, gesturing me alongside her.
“And wrote a new addendum to the Kyoto treaty limiting carbon emissions too?”
“You know it.”
Natalie is the typical first child, an overachiever. She was the athlete of the family, having excelled at field hockey and soccer in middle school and high school. Owen and I watched her score many goals from the bleachers. She earned impeccable grades and went on to Brown, graduating magna cum laude with a degree in environmental science. Now, she has two kids—Ben is her biological child and Grace she adopted from China.
Natalie manages to hold a full-time job she loves, running the farmer’s markets in the city; pick her kids up from school every day; spend time with her husband every evening; and work out each morning. If she decided to write the Great American Novel she would find a way to pound it out in three months, not sacrificing any of her other activities. Owen, on the other hand, has been working on his book for three years and he’s single and child-free. Proof that we are all different people, and that’s the way it goes.
“So today is your CRB Radio interview,” Natalie begins, shifting into the perfect runner’s stride that she learned from her coach, Jill, who trained her for the New York City Marathon last fall. Why do I run with my sister? Oh right. I’m a glutton for punishment.
“And the most important thing is what you wear. Have you thought about that? Because you could actually wear your pajamas or even that hideous blue T-shirt from Matt Murphy’s that has a hole in the neckline but you won’t throw out.”
“Very funny.”
She maintains her perfect conversational pace. “But seriously, maybe you should get a PR person to go with you. I keep sending you names.”
“I haven’t found anyone yet.”
“Well, you better make that a top priority. I’ve been talking to your booking agent and she has some contacts she’s going to share with me too for publicists.”
“I will, but I’ve managed without one for a long time.” I slow down, forcing her to slow her pace, too.
“And don’t you think recent events justify the need for one? Like that Star Magazine piece?”
I drop my speed further so I can actually talk. She narrows her eyes, but knows if she wants to administer her big-sister edicts she’ll have to trot, too. “I know,” I admit as we continue north on Central Park Drive. She’s going to get antsy soon to run at a clip, so I decide to mention my upcoming story with Matthew. It’ll keep her occupied with chewing me out, so she’ll have to run at my sluggish pace. Her jaw drops after I dispense the details and she touches my forehead momentarily, as if I have a fever. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Why do you ask?” I’m secretly enjoying getting her riled up. Just imagine what would happen if I stole all her Kickin’ Kelly DVDs. She’d rip up her apartment like a Rottweiler on speed.
She stops running. We walk in the brisk morning air. “I understand you like the whole indie-artist approach. And that’s cool. I totally respect that. I am just saying that with Star Magazine two days ago and now this behind-the-scenes story with Beat, I worry that you’re letting the media in too close. You’re in the spotlight whether you choose to be or not. And this whole ‘I don’t need a publicist, I can do it myself, I’ll talk to any reporter, any time, any where’ thing might have worked fine when you were a rising star, but now you’re a star.”
“I’m not a star,” I insist. Success is temporal. Fame is mercurial. Tomorrow, I could be nobody again.
Natalie brushes me off. “You’re a star, and I worry about you. Reporters are interested in you. That, my darling, is self-evident. I bet even CRB Radio won’t be able to resist discussing Aidan’s sexuality. Oh, they’ll frame it in some socially responsible light, but still it will come up. And this Beat reporter now coming to the recording sessions. When you let a reporter in too far, you lose control.”
“Would you feel better if you met him first, Mommy?”
“Jane, now for the moment of truth. Did you say yes to the Beat guy because he’s hot?”
“How did you know he was hot?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Might it have been when he said hello to you at the Grammys and told you that you looked fabulous? You two were flirting like it’s going out of style.”
“You were checking him out?”
“It’s my job as your older sister to keep track of details like this so I can put two and two together when you make these decisions. And he’s British, too. I’m sure that didn’t play a role in your decision, either.”
I glance away. I’m definitely not telling her that his fantastic kisses that send me into another stratosphere might also have played a little role in my decision. Not to mention his e-mails and the delicious way he felt when I wrapped my legs around his sexy hips. Nah, I’ll keep those details to myself.
“You think I’m boy crazy, don’t you?” I ask, because I love egging her on.
“Jane, I like boys too. Just be careful, okay?”
“I will, Nat.” Then I soften. “I know you’re just watching out for me and you can’t help being a know-it-all. But I still love you for it.”
“And I will now kick your artist ass,” she declares with a smile and proceeds to take off. I do my best to keep up, pleased that I wheedled at least a few minutes at low speed
…
The CRB interview is a blast. Max Cohain, the host for the station’s weekly Words and Music show, asks me all the questions any musician yearns to hear.
“Tell me who you listened to growing up, who influenced you when you were a kid?” he asks, leaning back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face as he listens.
I am not wearing jammies or the T-shirt I can’t throw away. Instead, I have opted for skinny jeans, slouchy brown suede boots, and a long-sleeved olive-green V-necked shirt made of that soft, thin material that sort of hugs your body. Not that anyone sees the getup besides Max, but my mom always says the way you dress should show people that you respect them. This does the trick. I look casual but put together.
“All the great divas, of course. Aretha was my girl. I could play ‘Chain of Fools’ over and over again. I wore out the grooves on that record. And I loved Billie, I loved Ella. Is there anything better than Billie Holiday on a summer night?”
“Give me a glass of lemonade and I’m good to go,” Max tosses back, his dreadlocks swinging a bit as he nods his head in admiration. “Is your family musical too?”
“My mother runs the Maine Musical Theater. She probably would have loved it if I were a soprano and angling for roles like Christine in Phantom of the Opera. But I was never that into musical theater, except I did love the Supremes. So I practically begged my mom to let me play Effie in Dreamgirls, the show she was casting when I was seventeen. I even showed up at her auditions. I put down a fake name. As if that would fool my mom. But want to hear something I’ve never told anyone about the fake name I used?”
Max smiles broadly. “I would love to hear something you’ve never told anyone,” he intones into the microphone in his deep baritone.
“The fake name I used became my stage name. My real last name is a clunky mouthful, so I glanced around, noticed the curtains were black, and I put down Jane Black. First time I ever used it, and my mom rolled her eyes when I walked onstage. But she let me sing ‘And I’m Telling You I’m Not Going.’” I sing a line from the song, giving it my best throaty, big, bluesy voice.
“Please tell me she cast you as Effie, because you were made to sing that song.”
“No. I didn’t get the part. It might be okay to let your little girl play Annie or Cossette, but there’s no way she could pull off casting me as Effie. But my mom told she had a feeling she’d see Jane Black on stage somewhere else.”
“And she was right. So with all you’ve accomplished, the big question is,” he begins and I tense. “What’s next? How are you going to top Crushed?”
I relax. Whew. I’m glad he didn’t ask about my marriage. But then, is this question any easier?
“Where will you find inspiration this time?” he asks.
I scan the studio, the equipment, the mike, the boards. I’d never sing about a radio station, but the quick visual inventory gives me a way to answer. “The world around me,” I say in a too-bright voice as I improvise.
He nods. “What inspires you about the world around you, Jane? Sunny days? Love on the horizon? Or maybe just the sweet smell of success?”
I laugh, mostly because I haven’t a clue how to write about love. When I was in love with Aidan, my music was mediocre. My songs were average. I’ve never been known for writing the kind of over-the-top love songs that make you want to stand in the rain and twirl in circles, like Matchbox Twenty’s “Overjoyed.” I would love to write a song like that. I would love to sing about chemistry, too, like Bruce Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire.”
But how would I even begin? That’s not my forte. I know the jagged terrain of the heart, but not the repaired one. All I’ve managed is “Mixed Messages” and it’s not exactly a love song, nor is it my best song. “Exactly. That’s exactly what I’m going to write about,” I answer happily, practicing more darting and dodging.
“I believe I speak for all our listeners when I say I can’t wait for your next album. Let’s thank Jane Black—and her mom, for inspiring that stage name—and how about a little Effie right now?”
Max nods to the microphone, and I need this song right now, because sometimes music is my only savior from uncertainty. I jump right into one of my favorite big, brassy songs about heartbreak, giving the listeners about thirty seconds or so of the chorus and feeling the way I usually do when I sing—as if I’m on top of the world and no one can hurt me.
When the show ends, Max walks me down the hall to the elevator. “I really liked having you on the show today,” he begins.
“I had a great time.”
He leans against the silver pad with the up/down buttons for the elevator, preventing me from summoning it.
“So, Jane.” He reaches out to push my hair off my shoulder. The slight touch of his hand on my body does nothing for me. “Maybe I could take you out. Hit a jazz club, hear some blues, I could even show you my record collection. I have all of Aretha in it.”
I give him a sweet little laugh, but then shake my head. “Thanks, Max. But I’m going to pass.”
“Can’t fault a man for trying,” he says and leans in to kiss me on the cheek. I say good-bye and step into the elevator as Max disappears down the hall. Max Cohain is a good-looking guy. We like the same music. But I’m already into someone else. And once I like someone, I only have eyes for that person.
…
The bright, cherry chorus from The King and I’s “Shall We Dance” sounds from my phone.
I answer immediately. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hello,” she says, her voice crisp, light, and professional. “This is the director of the Maine Musical Theater, and I’m calling to see if you’d be interested in auditioning for our upcoming spring musical.”
“Why, I’d be ever so delighted,” I say as I walk home from my CRB interview past the midday crowds on Lexington Avenue.
“By the way, I knew it was you,” she says, back to her mom voice, and I can picture her perfectly at our home in Maine, a big white house at the end of a long gravel driveway, overlooking a sapphire-blue lake. “I wanted to hear you sing anyway, so I let you try out.”
“Darn. And I thought I had fooled you all along.”
“You can never fool a mother,” she says. “But I did enjoy your interview. You were wonderful.”
“You’re a sweetie to say that, and thank you for listening. So what are you doing for the spring musical?”
“We’re doing Tommy.”
“No way! I can’t believe you’re doing a rock opera. You’re so Rodgers and Hammerstein, Mom. How did this happen?”
“I have a very extensive repertoire of interests, young lady,” she chides playfully as a truck driver bleats his horn at the intersection. I stop to wait for the flashing, green walk sign. “Do you want to come see it in April? It might even be during Ethan’s spring break.”
“Hell yeah! I haven’t seen one of your shows in ages,” I say, then glide into the lyrics from “Pinball Wizard” as I cross the street and walk past a construction crew jackhammering a piece of the street. She joins me, line for line, warbling in her perfect soprano, singing about a deaf, dumb, and blind kid playing a mean pinball.
“I’ll bring Ethan,” I say when we finish. “He loves visiting you guys, and that’s not only because you have dogs.”
“If the dogs help me see my grandson more often, so be it. See you soon, love.”
“’Bye, Mom.”
When I return home fifteen minutes later, I peel off my boots and toss them into the middle of the living room. They land on my crimson-colored rug with a double thud. Then there’s a knock on the door. It’s Quon from Hunan China. I called in my regular order on the way home—scallion pancakes and cold noodles.
“I haven’t seen you in two weeks,” Quon says when I open the door. “Are you seeing another delivery man?”
“Never! You know I am one hundred percent loyal to you. I was in Los Angeles for a couple days,” I say, then invite him in. “You want some noodles with me today, Quon?”
“No, no, I am super busy today.”
“Super busy, not regular busy, but super busy?”
“Super busy, super busy. Like my six-year-old niece says.”
“My son says that too. You have a hot date tonight?”
“Ha-ha. You are very funny, Jane.”
Quon is still recovering from a wounded heart when his girlfriend left him six months ago. “Hot date for you?” he fires back.
“I wish,” I say as an answer. I wish I had a hot date with Matthew. But the sooner I get to writing and to recording and to cutting an album, the sooner I can explore all the possibilities of that man. Damn, the prospect of getting to know him—in every way—is all I need to write my ass off this afternoon.
I place the cartons on the kitchen counter.
As I pay Quon, adding in a fifty-dollar tip today as a thank-you from the Grammy, my phone rings. Quon mouths, “Thank you” several times as he steps backward out of the door.
“You were fantastic.” It’s Matthew, and I beam even though he can’t see me.
“You listened?”
I walk across the living room to my sliding glass door, pushing it open, enjoying both the crisp, cool air and the midday sunshine.
“Of course I listened,” he says as I sit down in the lone chair, and a thrill races through me that he tuned in. Sure, it’s his job. But I hope he listened for other reasons too. “What are you doing right now?”
“I’m sitting on my deck.”
“Lucky deck.”
Lucky deck. Lucky deck. I turn those two words over in my head. I like the sound of them together. They fit.
“You think my deck is lucky, do you?”
“I’d like to be on that deck getting lucky,” he says.
I laugh instantly, loving the boldness in the statement. “Maybe someday,” I tease.
“You let me know when I can put that someday on my calendar,” he tosses back. Then he clears his throat. “So did Cohain hit on you?”
There’s a jealous note to his voice that doesn’t go unnoticed. Or un-enjoyed, and I can’t resist toying. “As a matter of fact, he asked me out. He wanted to show me his record collection.”
“What did you say?”
“I said no. Why? Are you jealous?”
“Completely. Though I’m thrilled you declined, and not merely because I don’t want you talking to other reporters,” he says, and if he’s going to flirt like this the whole time we work on the article, I might go insane with pent-up longing. But then, I’d likely welcome that kind of crazy right now. “So, how are those gift cards doing?” he asks, shifting gears.
“Burning a hole in my pocket. I have nineteen more. Wait. Make that twenty. You didn’t let me use that one at all.”
“I would be delighted to not let you use another one. Sometime soon, I hope,” he says, stripping his voice of all the teasing, and speaking only with what I hope is sincerity. “You know, I like to cook too, though.”
“I hate cooking. What do you cook? Lamb, sausages, bread pudding?”
“Actually, my orders from the Queen are relaxed at home. I’ll have you know I make a wonderful pasta primavera. I usually go to the farmer’s market on Wednesdays in Union Square to get vegetables. It’s near my office.”
“Get out of here!”
“No, I really do,” he insists.
I quickly explain my exuberance. “My sister runs the market. I usually go there too. Not to buy food, of course. I go for the jewelry.”
“We should have a cup of coffee there Wednesday. We could get started on the story right away. Do our first official interview and discuss a time frame for the rest, schedule it, you know.”
“Sure, I’ll probably head over around ten. That work?”
“Absolutely. Let’s meet by the Waffle Guy. You know where he is?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t you work on Wednesdays?” I ask curiously.
“Yeah, I do. As a matter of fact, this Wednesday I have an interview scheduled with this year’s Grammy winner for best album.”
“Duh,” I say, laughing at my own faux pas.
“So it’s a date then.”
“Is it?” I ask, wanting to know what he’ll say.
“Probably the most painful one I’ll ever go on since I’ll have to pretend I’m not dying to kiss you again. And, you know, do a hell of a lot more than that. So I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And on that note, I head back inside, dig into my cold noodles, and bust my butt to write a song about a hell of a lot more.
The problem is I can’t focus on the music. My naughty imagination is far too busy occupying every inch of real estate in my brain, and a hell of a lot more.