“Joanie, take in the fact that the notebooks still exist and so do we. We are all in this room together. Isn’t that something?”
I had no time for metaphysics. “I don’t want to breathe or appreciate anything. I’ve been calm for thirty years, always doing the right thing, being the good girl. I’m exhausted from walking the straight and narrow. You said you couldn’t talk to me over the phone about this, but you’re here, so, please, tell me. I don’t need the nitty-gritty. Big picture it for me.” God knows, I didn’t want the details. I could see, from Beckman’s expression when he looked at my mother in the kitchen sipping her tea and shaking her blond hair, what the details might have been from thirty years ago.
“Fine. I just got off a plane and read the riot act to Peter, but if you want to hash this out now . . .” My mother sat down in a wing-backed chair near the window. She sighed dramatically and paused, as if I might step into the void, call the whole thing off, and give her a big hug. No such luck.
“Hash away.”
“Oh, all right. I met Peter Beckman backstage at a Rolling Stones concert in 1978. Obviously, I was there with Jerry. The Ravens were the opening act, at least for a couple of cities before they were fired for, well, basically being drunk most of the time onstage. But the show I saw at the Palladium was their first on the tour, and they were amazing. Most of the people in the crowd weren’t even paying attention, but they did an unbelievable set. It was nothing like I’d ever heard before and really nothing like the Stones, so it was no surprise that they were booed offstage in later cities. But there was a connection between Peter and me that night. It was like a lightning bolt. Like a song, really. For a few months, we saw each other whenever we could. I was really working a lot then, traveling all the time, so it was hard to maintain. But he was on my mind—always. After a few months of . . . intensity . . . we called it off.
“Then about a year later, I was in LA for fun, and I ran into Peter Beckman at a diner on Fairfax late one night. His band was working on another album. It was like a second strike of lightning between us. I blew off work and stayed in LA for two weeks. It was unprofessional and really unlike me. The night before I had to fly out to a shoot in Miami, we went with some of Peter’s friends to this motel in suburbia that some brilliant artist ran as studio.”
“Wait, so not even the Rod Stewart birthday party bit of this story is true?”
“Oh, no. That was true. But I went with Peter, not the Swedish model. Anyway, Henry was working like crazy to have the money to stage Bright & Dark. He’d been on the Stones tour when he met Beckman. They hit it off, both being from Southern California, blah, blah, blah, you know. I had never heard of Henry Blakely, but Peter wanted to see this motel setup, so out we went. I mean, I thought Pasadena was where grandmothers in pearl chokers went to die. That night I met your father.” Her voice shook a little.
“While Peter was off doing . . . a lot of things in dark corners, I sat in the courtyard and talked to Henry. He told me about Paris, his plans, his work, and I was completely taken. Peter was this young, raw talent; Henry was mature, complete. If Henry had said to me that night, Don’t ever leave, I wouldn’t have. And I think if he and Peter hadn’t been such pals, he might have. But they were like brothers, the serious older brother and the wild younger brother. So, yes, I stayed with Peter, but I knew Henry was my future.
“The Ravens were starting a European tour, and I made up this excuse that I had to be in Paris all winter. Peter thought it was so that I could be closer to him, but really it was to be in Henry’s orbit. To be part of his world. I told my agency to book only European jobs. I rented a little flat near Henry’s studio. When Peter was in town, we all went out together with a big crowd of artists and musicians, and we were invincible. Henry called us Impasse Ronsin. Do you know what that is?”
I nodded. I thought of the photo I’d seen at Atelier Artemisium. Maid, Prince, and Silent Knight. That must have been during this time period. “Yes. I know what that is.”
“Of course you do. You know everything. You always have.” My mother carried on. “Peter was in and out of Paris a lot. I couldn’t have cared less. I didn’t know how Henry felt about me, and I was hedging my bets. If the mature genius didn’t want me, I’d stick with the bad boy. But Henry did. We fell in love. Hard. Neither of us had told Peter; it was really my responsibility. That photo in Paris Match was taken the night I did.” My mother picked up the clipping and stared at it like it was coming to life. “Peter was loaded and the evening ended badly and I blurted out that Henry and I wanted to be together. He did not take it well.” There was a long pause, but then she snapped back. “But God, I look great, don’t I?”
I smiled. “You do.”
“It was messy, Joanie, and I’m not proud. I was deceptive and desperate. I set a trap for Henry Blakely, and he fell in. Peter Beckman was the collateral damage.”
I took another sip of coffee to settle myself. “Is Peter Beckman my father?”
“No. He’s not. I can promise you that. Don’t ever wonder that again. I know for sure you are Henry Blakely’s daughter.” She was emotional. “Of course you are. Confident, mature, focused. You buckle down and do the work, like your father. You look like me, but inside, you’re all him. Joanie, your father and I wouldn’t have misled you about something like that.”
I was relieved, incredibly relieved at the news. Deep down, I knew what she said was true, particularly the last bit, about not misleading me. Especially about my father. My father valued honesty and integrity above all. You could see that in every aspect of his work. The relief was physical. Much to my surprise, I started to cry. My mother rubbed my back, a comforting gesture from my childhood. But she wasn’t off the hook yet. “Then why did you lie about getting married at Pasadena City Hall? I’ve heard you tell that story a million times. Wait, is November fifteenth even your anniversary?”
“It is. We did get married on November fifteenth, just not in ’79, but in 1980, when I was eight months pregnant. We lied because . . . well, your grandmother Adele would have died if she knew I was pregnant out of wedlock. You know how she is. So proper, so snobby. That sort of thing mattered to her. And it was a bigger deal back then than now. When we got back from Paris and I knew I was expecting, we made up the story. That we’d met, fallen in love, and married quickly but kept it a secret. You could lie a lot more easily in those days. It was great. No Internet, no social media. Adele Clements wasn’t doing a lot of fact-checking. She may even really know the truth. But it served both of us well.”
“And Dad went along with it?”
“I’m not even sure your father was aware of the timeline. Once Bright & Dark happened, it was like a whole different era for him. He didn’t sweat the details like I did.” My mother rose and walked over to the desk piled high with my father’s notebooks. She ran her hands over them like they were fine silk. I understood her need for tactile reassurance. Yes, they are really here.
But she still hadn’t answered all of my questions, some of which had nothing to do with Peter Beckman at all. “Why did you disappear after Dad died? Why did you leave me all alone to cope with everything? You stopped caring about the details at all.”
I surprised her. She was silent for a bit and then answered. “I am ashamed that I let you down like that. I know I should have been there, but I couldn’t be. People describe losing a spouse like losing a limb, a physical part of your body. But your father’s death, it was like being gutted. And then losing my spirit. And it was such an awful death. I couldn’t make the pain go away, not with Xanax or therapy or even you. At the time, I thought I was doing you a favor, giving you a role. But I know that was a lie of convenience. I’m sorry.”