CHAPTER 2
I WAS PETRIFIED.
And then it got much worse.
“You're late,” he said. Those were his very first words to me. “I work on a very tight schedule.”
“It was the snow,” I said. “It took forever to find a cab, and then it kept skidding. I guess I was nervous and asked the driver to go faster, only he went slower, and—”
Jesus, I thought. You sound like a dumb parakeet. Pull yourself together, Polly. Right now!
He was unmoved. Seemed like a real bastard. “You should have left earlier. My days are full. I plan ahead. So should you. Would you like coffee?”
The question, the sudden politeness, took me by surprise. “Yes, please.”
He rang for his secretary. “Cream and sugar?” I nodded. His secretary appeared. “Coffee for Ms. Bradford, Lynn. The works. Danish?” I shook my head. “Nothing for me,” he instructed, his voice filled with the huskiness that made his singing so distinctive.
He dismissed Lynn with a wave, then sat at his desk with his eyes closed, as though he had all eternity. I wondered: Who the hell is this guy?
He was in his early forties, I guessed, with a receding hairline and brown hair, a long nose, thin mouth, and a slight perpetual stubble on his chin. A homely face (the fans who think he's “sexy” are attracted by his soul, not his looks), but its lines suggested struggle and its repose peace. At our first meeting he was dressed casually, in gray flannel slacks and a blue shirt, open at the neck, obviously expensive but worn with lack of care. Barry Kahn looked rather sweet and harmless.
Single, I deduced, and living alone. I wasn't interested in him that way, but I noticed anyway. I'm good with details. I always notice things, especially about people.
Lynn returned with coffee in a china cup, and I took it from her, splashing it on my wrist. Not very relaxed. Indeed, kind of an ass. That's how I felt at the time anyway.
Petrified! As in wood—that never, ever moves.
Barry stood to offer assistance, but I waved him away. “I'm fine.” I'm in control. I'm cool. Pay no attention to the scarlet M.
Barry sat back down. “You're quite a letter writer,” he said. I guess it was a compliment.
In the hospital, as my recuperation progressed and I began composing song after song, I had planned to write only one letter to him, telling him that I admired him and hoped I could audition for him someday. But the one letter gave rise to another, and by April, I was writing him nearly every week, letters from deep inside my heart, to a person I had never met. Hooo boy!
Weird, I know, but that's what I'd done. I sure couldn't take the letters back now.
He didn't answer any of them, and I wasn't even sure he read them. I only knew they were never sent back unopened. But I continued to write the letters. Actually, the letters kept me going. Talking to somebody, even if the person didn't talk back.
In a way, I think writing the letters helped me recover. I gradually got stronger, began to believe that one day I would be all right again. I knew Jennie would be okay, or at least as okay as you can be if, at age three, you've witnessed horrible mayhem in your own house.
My sisters traveled from upstate New York, and took turns watching her. The hospital let Jennie visit as often as they could bring her. She was fascinated by my wheelchair and the electric bed. And she could thrill me whenever she hugged me and pleaded, “Sing me a song, Mommy. No. Make up a new song, and sing it.”
I sang to Jennie often. I sang for both of us. I wrote a new song a day.
Then, an amazing thing happened. A miracle. A letter arrived for me at West Point Hospital.
Dear Maggie, the letter said.
Okay, okay, you win. I've no idea why I'm answering you, but I guess I'm an easy mark even though I don't like to think so and if you tell anybody else, that'll be it for us forever.
In fact, your letters moved me. I get lots of mail, most of which my secretary throws away without showing to me. And the letters she does give me I throw away.
But you—you're different. You remind me that there are real people out there, not just sycophants wanting to get into my studio. I feel I've actually come to know you a little bit, and that says a whole lot about what you've written so far.
I was impressed with some of the lyrics you sent me. Amateur stuff—you need a songwriting education—but powerful all the same because they say something. None of this means that (a) the education will do you any good; or (b) you can write music for a living, but okay, okay. I'll give you the half hour of my time you asked for “to find out once and for all if I've got a talent for songwriting or not.”
When you get out of the hospital, call Lynn Needham, my secretary, to set up an appointment. But in the meantime, please don't write me any more letters. You've taken up enough of my time already. Don't write to me—write more songs!
CHAPTER 3
HE SIGNED THE letter “Barry,” and now here I was and he was looking at me, and I felt hopelessly out of place, one of those “sycophants” he had grumbled about. I definitely hadn't overdressed—that wasn't my style. I had on a white peasant's blouse, pink camisole, a long black skirt, flat shoes.
But at least I was here. I was going for it.
I was trying so hard not to have any negative thoughts … but things like this, really good things, never happen to people like me. They just don't.
“Do you sing your songs, or do you just write them?” he asked.
“I sing them too, at least I hope you'll call it singing.” Stop apologizing, Maggie. You don't have to apologize for anything.
“Ever performed professionally?”
“I did some backup singing in clubs around West Point, Newburgh. But my husband didn't like it when I did.”
“He didn't like much, did he?”
“He thought I was exposing myself. Couldn't stand other men looking at me.” So I shot him—three times.
“But you'd be willing to try it now? Sing in public? You could do that?”
My heart raced at the thought. “Yes, I could.” It seemed the right thing to say.
“Good answer.” He gestured toward a beautiful, shining black Steinway at the far end of his office. “But your first test's in private. Did you bring anything?”
I picked up my briefcase. “Lots. Do you want to hear ballads? Blues?”
He winced. “No, Maggie. Just one. This is an audition, not a gig.”
One song? I thought. My heart sank.
I had no idea which song to pick. One song? I had brought at least two dozen, and now I stood rattled and confused, as though I were standing naked in front of him.
Put it in gear. He's human. He just doesn't act like it. You've sung these songs a thousand times before.
“Go on,” he said, looking at his watch. “Please, Maggie.”
I sucked in a deep breath and sat down at the piano. I'm fairly tall, self-conscious about it, so I prefer to sit. From the seat I could see the silent chaos of Broadway through his window.
Petrified wood.
Okay, I thought. You're here. You're actually auditioning for Barry Kahn. Now, knock his socks off. You … can … do … it.
“This is a song called ‘Woman in the Moon.’ It's about a … a woman who works nights cleaning buildings in a small town. How she always sees the moon from a certain window while she works. What she dreams about all night in the offices she cleans.”
I looked over at Barry Kahn. Jesus, I was in his office. I was the Woman in the Moon. He was sitting back, feet on the bottom drawer of his desk, fingers steepled together, eyes closed. He didn't say a word.
Musically, “Woman in the Moon” was like Barry's own “Light of Our Times.” I began to play, to sing in a soft, uncertain voice that suddenly seemed dreary and ordinary to me. As I sang, I sensed I was losing him.
I finished. Silence. I finally dared to look at him. He hadn't changed position, hadn't moved. Finally he said, “Thank you.”
I waited. Nothing more cam
e from Barry Kahn.
I put the music back in the briefcase. “Any criticism?” I asked, dreading his answer, but wanting to hear something more than “thank you.”
He shrugged. “How can I criticize my own child? It's my music,” he said, “not yours. My voice, imitated by yours. I'm not interested.”
I could feel a deep blush redden my face. I felt so humiliated, but also angry. “I thought maybe you'd be pleased. I wrote it in honor of you.” I wanted to run out of the room, but I forced myself to stay.
“Fine. Okay, I'm honored. But I thought you were here to play your songs. If I want echoes, I'll sing in a subway tunnel. Are all your songs like mine?”
No, goddamn you. They're not like anybody else's songs! “You mean do I have something more original?”
“Originality's what I'm looking for. Originality's a start.”
I began leafing through my sheet music. My fingers felt numb and unsure. A full marching band was stomping around inside my head. “Would you listen to one more?”
He stood up. He was shaking his head, trying to stop me from going on. “Really, Maggie. I don't think—”
“I do have one. Many. My own, not yours.” I had promised myself I wouldn't be embarrassed.
He sighed, having already given up on me. “Since you're here … one more song. One song, Maggie.”
I plucked out “Cornflower Blue.” It was a little like an old Carole King hit. Maybe not original enough. Too precious. Too clever. More bullshit. The noise inside my brain had become a loud roar like the sound of an approaching subway train. I felt as though I were about to be run over.
I stuffed “Cornflower” back in the briefcase and chose another song—”Loss of Grace.” Yes. This was a better choice. I had written it recently, since I had come to New York.
One song.
I could feel Barry Kahn's eyes on me, feel his growing impatience. The room felt hot. I didn't look at him. Just at the music for “Loss of Grace.”
The song was about my marriage to Phillip. It was deeply personal. The initial ecstasy, the love I'd felt, or thought that I did. Then the mounting terror. The horror of that first fall from grace … and never being able to stop falling.
One song.
I turned to the piano, took one deep breath, and began to play.
I sang very softly at first, then with mounting passion as the song gripped me and I remembered exactly what had inspired it. Phillip, Jennie, myself, our house near West Point.
I could sense something new in the room as I sang, a kinship and understanding I had longed for in my letters, a bond between me and the man sitting silently at the other side of the room.
I finished, and waited for what seemed like forever for him to say something. Finally, I turned around. His eyes were closed. He looked as though he had a headache. Barry Kahn opened his eyes.
“You shouldn't rhyme ‘time’ with ‘mine,’“ he said. “It's a false rhyme, and while you might get away with it in a country song it's distracting when you're trying something serious.”
I began to cry. I couldn't help it. It was the last thing in the universe I wanted to do. I was furious at myself.
“Hey,” he said, but I had already jammed the song into my briefcase and was heading for the door. I almost started to run. I wouldn't run though.
“Hey,” he repeated. “Stop crying. Hold on a minute.”
I turned to him. “I'm sorry I took up so much of your precious, valuable time. But if all you can talk about is one lousy rhyme, when I've just sung my heart out, then there's no way we can work together. And don't worry. I won't bother you again.”
I rushed out the door, past an astonished Lynn Need-ham, and took the fancy Deco elevator to the lobby. Screw him. Screw Barry Kahn.
I was tough enough to deal with this—I had to be. I had a little girl to take care of, not to mention myself to look out for. That was why I had written to half a dozen music companies besides Barry Kahn's from West Point Hospital. Tomorrow I would see one of the others. And then another. And another after that if I needed to.
Somebody was going to like my music, my songs. They were too good, too true, for somebody not to listen, and to feel something.
It's your loss, Barry Kahn, Mr. Big Shot. Mr. My-Time-Is-So-Precious!
You missed out on Maggie Bradford!
CHAPTER 4
DID YOU EVER want to say, even to shout out loud, Hey, I'm smart. I'm an okay person. I have some talent.
I shouted those very words in Times Square. No problem. Nobody even noticed. I fit right in with the rest of the loony-birds there.
I wandered for a couple of hours, oblivious to the falling snow, then went to pick up Jennie at her school on West Seventy-third. I felt like absolute crap and hoped I didn't look it. Sheesh, what a day.
“Let's celebrate,” I said. “Tomorrow starts the Christmas holiday. Give your favorite mom a big hug, and we'll go to some fancy New York restaurant. Just the two of us. Where do you want to eat? Lutèce? Windows On The World? Rumpelmayer's?”
Jennie carefully thought the offer over, wrinkling her forehead and pulling on her chin, as she always does when she has to make an important decision. “How ’bout McDonald's. Then we can go see a flick.”
“Quarter Pounders it is!” I laughed, and took her small hand. “My sweet bunny rabbit, you're what's important. And you like my songs.”
“I love your songs, Mommy.”
The two of us began to babble at each other—just like always. We were “best friends,” “girlfriends,” “the original motormouths,” “soul sisters,” “the odd couple.” We would “never be alone, because we would always have each other.”
“How was your day, Sweetie? Boy, you've got to be tough to make it in New York. Fortunately, we're tough.”
“School was fun. I made another new friend named Julie Goodyear. She's real funny. Mrs. Crolius said I'm smart.”
“You are smart. You're also pretty, and you're a very nice person. You're awfully short though.”
“I'm going to be bigger than you, don't you think so?”
“Yes, I think so. I think you'll be around seven foot or so.”
On and on and on like that.
The motormouths.
Best friends.
We were both doing pretty well actually; getting used to New York—kind of; getting over Phillip as well as we could.
To hell with Barry Kahn.
You blew it, Mr. Big Shot!
It was as dark as Phillip's heart by the time Jennie and I got home. All my feelings of defiance had evaporated, and I looked at the front of our run-down brownstone with complete dismay.
Shit, shit, shit. I guess we'll have to live here a while longer. Like maybe the rest of our lives.
I opened the front door, and it yawned as it always did. Typical New York reaction.
Damn, damn, damn! The lights had gone out in the hall and on the first-floor landing.
All I could see was a pattern of light edging its way through the first-floor window from the lamppost in front of the house.
“Spooky,” Jennie whispered. “Scary and spooky.”
“No,” I said. “This isn't spooky. This is fun in the Big Apple.” I took her hand and we started up the “fun” stairs.
I stopped moving. My body tensed, and I tucked Jennie behind me to protect her.
Somebody was sitting in the shadows on the landing. The person was silent, unmoving. It was somebody tall and well built.
This wasn't good. This was scary and spooky.
I moved toward the figure cautiously. “Hello. Who is it? Hello up there,” I called out, thinking of the horror stories I had heard about New York—and about the horrors I had recently endured in West Point.
The person seemed to be wearing something on his head. A strange top hat? Something weird as hell.
Phillip! I thought the unthinkable. I knew better, but the flashback came anyway.
Phillip loved to frighten me, jumping out
from behind a bush, from behind a closet door, knowing he could scare me and thinking it funny when he did. Once, on Halloween, he wore an Indian headdress and came at me with a tomahawk. It was the worst of the scares. At the end, of course, it was I who had jumped out at him, had leaped at him with the gun in my hand, firing … firing …
But Phillip was dead, I told myself, and there were no such things as ghosts, not even in New York.
I inched closer. Still, the figure did not move. I neared the landing. “Hello!” I called again. “This isn't funny. Please talk to me. Just say hi.”
The sound of our stealthy footsteps on the stairs reminded me of Phillip's steps, the way he stalked around the house.
Becoming a little hysterical, consumed by ancient fear, I forced myself to reach the landing.
Behind me, Jennie whispered, picking up my fear. “Who is it, Mommy?”
Not twice, I thought. You won't hurt us twice. No damn way!
I lunged at the threatening figure, striking out at it with my heavy case. I hit the bastard hard.
He toppled unresistingly, and I realized what I had done.
“Oh my God! I can't believe it!” I started to laugh, relief not entirely wiping out the dread. “Hooo boy.”
Jennie hurried up the final stairs, laughing with me. “Phillip” was a mammoth basket of what had to be a few hundred dollars' worth of long-stemmed roses.
I opened the note that came with them.
TO MAGGIE BRADFORD.
HERE'S TO THE FIRST DAY OF YOUR RETURN TO GRACE. IF YOU REALLY WANT THE JOB, YOU'RE CRAZY, BUT YOU'RE HIRED. YOU MADE MY ‘PRECIOUS TIME’ PASS LIKE IT WAS NOTHING TODAY. TRUST ME ON THAT.
BARRY
A kind of funny story, in retrospect anyway. A happy ending for sure. But as I write it now, the question comes again, and it's not so funny anymore. Not to me.
When I'm in trouble, is my first impulse always to kill?
Have I murdered, not once, but twice?
A lot of people think so. One of them happens to be a prosecuting attorney for the southern district of New York.
First, there was Phillip Bradford.
And then—there was Will.