The bus rolled up, its brakes screeching to a stop. I boarded. This was the last leg of the trip; at the other end was a little redheaded daughter. She couldn’t understand when I talked to her, but I could sing to her—the Cree ballads no one wanted to hear, and that wonderful lullaby. That she would understand.
Telegraph poles whizzed by. We passed a lot full of old tires, not the best part of town. We were slowing down. I looked out the window and there was Jack waiting for me.
He smiled and waved. I rubbed the window with the arm of my sweater, hoping it was a mirage, that he would go away. But he was still there, still smiling.
A smile is simply a distorted face, the lips spread open. I don’t know why people think it kindly and jolly—I didn’t. I didn’t like Jack’s smile.
I wasn’t getting out of the bus. He had to come in and get me.
“Honey,” he said, “I’m not mad. I don’t blame you. You just want to see your baby. Don’t you think that’s what I want? She’s mine too, you know. I want her just as much as you do. But I want to do it right, Kathy. I want us to make a real home for her. I want to be able to take care of her properly. A little girl like that, she’ll want piano lessons and maybe ballet. And we’ll be able to give her those things. Just not yet.” He got me into the parking lot and walked me to the car.
He opened the door.
I stood there. I didn’t get in.
“The Masons understand this, honey. They know it’s just a temporary arrangement while we get our feet under us.”
We stood facing each other by the open car door. “All right,” he said in a change of tactic, “I’ll take you to the Masons. We’ll go right now. We’ll say hello, get acquainted. What do you say?”
I got into the car.
“Take me back, Jack.”
Chapter Nine
MY voice was fuller these days; maybe it was from having a baby. I don’t know why, but I was able to throw a note into the air and sustain it in a way I had heard no other singer do. Wherever I sang, people loved it and wanted more. My breasts no longer ached and I didn’t use the pump, but my mind was always on Kathy.
“You still send the Masons money, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“A hundred dollars every month, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s good.”
“They’ll be able to get the kid anything she wants.”
“No. I know them. They’ll save it.”
At the moment things were pretty bumpy with us. These days Jack lost as much as he won, maybe more. He claimed stud poker was his game, but as we moved into bigger towns and classier joints, it became obvious that he was overmatched.
I had a talk with him, and he promised to stay away from bar bets and football handicapping. Poker, on the other hand, he didn’t consider gambling. It was, he insisted, a science.
Gambling was in his blood; he was like a drunk hiding bottles in the chandelier.
I wasn’t angry. He didn’t tell me deliberate lies, he meant what he said. But it was discouraging to watch the money disappear. I needed things; my shoes were run down at the heels. And I wanted a dress I’d seen in a store window.
On the other hand, you couldn’t be gloomy long around Jack. He was always good for a laugh. He whipped up a story for every occasion. Life to him was one big party, and if you were light on your feet and quick enough, you could keep ahead of the bad parts.
I GOT into the habit at night, before I slept, of asking Abram what I should do. Should I ditch Jack and get my baby?
Then what? Could I earn a living? I needed Jack to get dates. Maybe I could take little Kathy back to Canada. I grinned, imagining how pleased Jellet would be. Abram, you’ve got to tell me. It’s like I fell down a well and can’t climb out. Or maybe I was at the bottom of the Sargasso Sea.
I knew what Abram would say. “Later, when you’ve made a success, you can make a decision about Kathy. It will work out. You’ll be together. Have faith.”
I gave up on daydreams; they were scarier than the nightmares.
Worse than the scary ones were the ordinary everyday dreams. I’d be bathing her in a little plastic thingamajig that floated in the tub. She lay on her back and dabbled her hands in sudsy water. I had bath toys for her, a rubber duck that she chewed on happily.
I baby-oiled her on the counter. Mrs. Mason supplied me with talcum powder and urged me to use it freely. But I’d read that it wasn’t good for infants to inhale talcum, which proved I was a better mother than Mrs. Mason….
I put Kathy in a pink silk bassinet with flounces of lace next to my bed and sang her to sleep over the disruptive noise of Mrs. Mason’s vacuum….
Jack shook me awake because I was crying.
NOTHING changed, it just went on until a particular Saturday night almost two years later. Saturdays were big, with more of everything, more audience, more money coming in, and, as usual, more going out. A fellow at the bar named Mac steered Jack to wagers he lost heavily on.
Mac was a short, broad man, but powerful, built like a wrestler—and older, late thirties or forty. He gave a good account of himself, though. If you believed him, he was a freelance promoter. However, I had come not to trust characters that were too ready to reel off their vitas.
Jack ferreted out the full story. Mac had made a very decent thing out of promoting music—records, demos, the usual. He had contacts, hung with the right people, was on a first-name basis with one of the performers at the Grand Ole Opry, developed quite a client list. Then what happens? He takes promoting one step further and cuts himself a bigger slice than he’s legally entitled to. Of course it all fell in on him. He got jail time. And when he got out he’s a has-been. No one would have anything to do with him, his calls weren’t returned, doors closed in his face. He wound up scrounging for a living, another Jack, but smoother, more sophisticated, which he proved by taking Jack to the cleaners.
After one of my sets, he came up to me. I somehow knew he would.
“Hey, Kathy,” he said, breezily, “I like your style.”
“Thank you,” I replied frostily. I might have added, “And I’m on to yours,” but I didn’t.
“You know, I just might be able to do something for you.”
“Oh?” This kind of propositioning was standard, but I listened.
“I’m in the music business myself. And I must tell you, a voice like yours doesn’t happen every day. It isn’t just the voice. It’s the whole package, the way you come across.”
“Could you get me an audition with a record company?”
He was more knowledgeable about these things than Jack. “First, cut a demo, and we’ll try to get the deejays to play it. That’s the usual route.”
“You’re the first person I’ve met who talks my language.”
“Oh, I’ll do more than talk.”
Would he? Could he?
If he really knew how to go about it, we might hook up with him. I’d cut a demo and be heard by the right people. The rest would follow; the world was there to be conquered.
When I was famous, I’d get my baby. Kathy would be proud of me. I’d raise her like a princess.
When I was up again I sang my first number directly to Mac. I tried a top note I’d been angling for. It came out round and gold and sexy. It had been there all the time; now it spilled into the room.
Mac applauded loudly.
Jack noticed. Back in our motel room he said, “I don’t like the way you came on to Mac. What’s the idea making up to him, shaking yourself at him?”
I laughed. “That was part of the act.”
Jack accepted this. He knew by now I couldn’t stand still when I sang. I was all over the place. Still moody and irascible, he said, “I want you to sign a contract with me.”
“What?” I was dumbfounded.
“It’s the only way to protect you from guys like him, guys that want to muscle in.”
I was even more amazed when he pulled the pap
ers out of his pocket. He had it all drawn up; it was even typed. Actually it made me feel important, like a star. He called the night manager in to witness my signature. Then, from the same pocket he produced a miniature bottle of rum, the kind they give you on airplanes. He’d won it from some mark who’d run out of cash. We both had a drink, more like a sip, and Jack brandished the contract.
“This will be worth gold some day.”
I climbed up on a chair and began to sing.
Next door they pounded on the wall for quiet.
THREE nights out of four Mac would show up. Between them, they kept me off balance. I wanted Mac to become familiar with my various routines, but Jack’s sour mood persisted, I didn’t know whether over me or the money he was losing. By now he was into gin rummy, which he also analyzed thoroughly. “The trick is to keep a close watch on your opponent’s discards. That, and the way he arranges his hand, gives a good picture of what he’s holding.”
The problem was Mac never sorted his cards. He’d pick them up, glance at them, and play without separating the suits. And talk about poker faces. Mac’s was carved in stone, while Jack found it impossible to conceal moments of elation or depression.
I was fairly confident I was the reason Mac kept coming back. And I didn’t want to shut the door on the one possibility I had of moving up in the business. Although it would be almost worth chucking it to have Jack in an optimistic frame of mind again.
This night I noticed the two of them were huddled longer than usual at the bar. Between sets I joined them to find out what was going on.
I figured Jack would be down to his last cent. Instead, he flashed a wad and grinned. He was rolling.
I glanced at Mac. His usually taciturn expression came close to approximating a smile.
What could have pleased them both?
The explanation, which they were equally eager to give, stunned me. Mac had just bought my contract for seven hundred dollars—most of it, probably all of it, our own money.
Fury mounted, blotting out everything, including good sense. Jack got it first. “You did this without consulting me? Without asking how I felt about it? You did this behind my back?” Mac was next. “You think you’ve made yourself a deal? Well, you’re mistaken. I’ll never sing a note until you tear that thing up. So now you know what you bought—a big fat nothing!”
“Kathy…” Jack tried to take my arm, but I shook him off.
“Selling me like meat, like something you buy at the market. You’re nothing but a pimp, and I will never let you in my life again.”
“For God’s sake, Kathy, I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Pleased? I am pleased. I’m pleased to find out how low you can sink. You gambled me away, and I’m gone.”
I slammed doors in their faces and took a cab. I wound up in another motel; they’re all alike, aren’t they?
It was time for one of my talks with Abram. “I walked out on them, Abram, and it feels good. Jack Sullivan is scum. I don’t need him in my life. But I need someone. A singer can’t just waltz into a club and say, ‘I sing. I’m good. Hire me.’ She needs someone to say that for her. It could be that’s Mac. I don’t really know him. He owns my contract. Maybe if we kept it strictly business. What do you think, Abram?”
Of course Abram wouldn’t know anything about situations like this, but then neither did I. Still, it was good to talk it out, and I stopped being angry and stopped fretting about things, and had a good sleep.
In the morning I went back for my things. I saw right away by the cars parked out front that both men were there. I took a deep breath and sailed in like a prima donna.
Mac had sacked out here and they occupied the twin beds. They were still in them. When they saw me they drew the covers up to their necks. They were probably stark naked, and trapped where they were.
I remembered when the situation had been reversed, and took my time getting my stuff together.
“What are you doing?” Jack was the first to recover himself.
I didn’t see the need to reply.
Then Mac tried. “I told Jack after you left that you were right to be ticked off. You certainly should have had a say in the matter.”
Again there was no need to reply.
“So.” Jack forced an upbeat note. “I thought we’d go out for breakfast and discuss our future.”
“I’ll be happy to go out for coffee with Mac and discuss my future, but only if you stay strictly away.”
“But—”
“You heard her,” Mac said.
“Now hold on a minute…”
I threw the last of my clothes into the suitcase. “I’ll meet you in the car, Mac.”
“Wait a minute,” Jack yelled. “That’s my suitcase!”
Five minutes later Mac came out. Jack was right behind him, tucking the tail of his shirt into his jeans, talking fast. And that’s the way we left him, doing what he did best, talking.
I HAD a few things I wanted to say up front.
“I want you to know this is business between us, Mac. I don’t want any personal junk to get in the way. Because if it does, contract or no contract, I’m gone.”
“Well, if those are your terms, that’s the way it will be.”
“You’ll hold the money. But it’s only fair to warn you, I know your history. So I’m going to keep a close watch, what we take in, what goes out. And I’ll go over it with you the end of each week.”
“That’s fine with me.”
“And when we travel, separate rooms.”
“Okay, if that’s how you want it.”
“That’s how I want it,” I said firmly.
Then it was his turn. He laid out his plans. And beautiful plans they were. We put them into effect that afternoon. Going to a music store, Mac rented their equipment and in a little side room, accompanying myself picking guitar, I recorded my three best numbers. Mac, who had a good, well-placed speaking voice, announced them and presented me.
“This is what I was born to do,” I told him. Because it was a take the first time. “God, I’m good,” I said, listening to it objectively.
Mac laughed and agreed.
He pointed out a couple of things, though. A note he felt I could give more emphasis and a spot where my diction was muddy. We did a second demo, and I had to admit it was improved. So at the outset I leaned on Mac as I never had on Jack, and trusted his opinion. His general plan was to work our way south, head for Chicago, stop at radio stations and pitch my tapes. Our distant goal was to wind up with a recording contract.
Mac was a pro. He knew how to go about things and how to name-drop. Jack only knew about ponies and how to lose at cards. One of the first things Mac did was to sit me down and list all the places I’d sung. There were a lot of them, mostly holes in the wall. But a reader of the prospectus wouldn’t know that. They were credits, and added up to an impressive total.
Next came photographs. Mac had an expensive 35-mm camera. He said you could scrimp on lodgings and transportation, but never cut corners on professional equipment. He bought rolls of high-quality film and we shot poses in every conceivable light. My lips ached from the different smiles I tried. When we finally got a good negative, we had it enlarged and fifty copies made. I wanted copies of the three or four best, but Mac educated me. “Just one. You keep pushing that one, and eventually people will recognize it.”
I scrutinized the photo. It was sexy, in a clean-cut, windblown country way. Mac had pulled my blouse down and there was plenty of cleavage. My lips curled provocatively, and my black eyes snapped. But you knew deep down I was a decent, small-town gal.
“Is this me?” I asked.
“It’s what we’re selling,” he said.
After making the demo, listing my credits, and printing the photos, Mac discussed what he called “the bottom line.”
“It’s the last line on every financial statement, and sums up the whole operation. It’s the score, the result, the finish, the ball game. Better known
as Profit or Loss. You were getting nowhere with Jack. Why? You never looked at the bottom line. You were making it; as a matter of fact you were doing great. But the faster the money came in, the faster it leaked out. If you got holes in the bottom of your boat, it won’t help to rev up the motor. Income is important, but Income minus Outgo, that’s what sinks you. The Profit factor is what you got to keep your eye on.”
I nodded sagely, although I could see that this deep financial wisdom wasn’t any different from what Mum dinned into me at age six. Mac took it seriously, though, and purchased a used trailer so we could save on motels. That was okay with me as long as I could lock my door.
The more I got to know Mac, the better I liked him. There weren’t the ups and downs there had been with Jack. Mac was on an even keel. He lacked Jack’s sense of fun and high good humor, but there weren’t the sulks and the despondencies.
We got to be buddies. He was as good as his word. He never came on to me or made a pass, except once when he was drunk. Best of all, he discussed things with me. We talked over strategies. They were mostly his ideas and his knowledge of the business, but it made me feel I had a say in the matter, and he was quick to praise me when I came up with a good suggestion. He was ambitious but realistic in assessing our chances. All in all, I felt I’d made a move for the better. At first Jack dogged our steps, showing up where I was singing, trying to horn in. But I never considered relenting. Anyone who would sneak behind my back, who thought he could buy and sell me! It made my blood boil to think of it, and I’d start getting mad all over again.
“But we’re married.” It was a refrain he brought up constantly.
Mac made the decision; it was a bottom-line, strictly-business decision. “It will cost something, but you’ve got to make the separation legal.”
When Jack showed up next I told him.
“Divorce?” he said, looking pained.
Giving every word its own emphasis, I said clearly and emphatically, “You and I are history.”
He saw it was true and gave in. “All right. But there’s something you ought to know.”