I stare at him, and he stares right back at me. “I know, I know. The love of my life doesn’t even tell me when she has my kid. Isn’t that some pathetic shit?” He shakes his head with a little laugh.
“It’s not pathetic,” I say.
“Yeah. Well, it has to say something—”
“I don’t think it says anything about you. Or me,” I say, the truth crystallizing in my head. “I think it says something about her. The person she once was.”
“And still is,” he says. “People don’t change.”
I tell him I’m not so sure about that, realizing how foolish I probably sound imparting wisdom to someone twice my age. My own father.
Sure enough, he gives me a skeptical look. “Oh, really?”
“Okay. You might be right,” I say. “But at least she tried to fix it. She’s the one who found you, ya know? And she showed up today.”
“Sort of eighteen years too late, don’t you think?”
“I guess so,” I say. “But at least we’re here now.”
He smiles, takes a long swallow of beer, and says, “Yeah. That’s a good point, drummer girl. A good way to look at life. Try to keep that up if you can.”
I smile, thinking that it doesn’t sound like me; it sounds like my parents. Like Charlotte. Look on the bright side. Be grateful for what you have. Count your blessings. Optimism is the foundation of courage. I feel a sudden wave of homesickness, but not the kind that makes you sad. The kind that reminds you of who you are and where you come from.
“So what are your parents like?” I ask him, sure that they are nothing like Marian’s folks.
“My dad is a bit of a nomad. Pie-in-the-sky drifter. He’s been married three times and has never really held a steady job because, you know, all of his bosses are idiots. So don’t count on him for shit … But he’s likable. Never had an enemy.”
“What about your mom?” I say.
Conrad looks at me, his eyes changing suddenly. “My mom died in a car accident when I was eleven.”
My heart sinks. “Oh … I’m sorry,” I say, wondering why Marian hadn’t told me such an important fact about him.
“Yeah. It sucked. She was an awesome mother … And I’m not just saying that because she died. She really was special. She had this way of making everything fun—even when we were dirt poor. And man, could she sing. Gorgeous mezzo-soprano.”
I feel myself grinning as he says, “Is that what you are?”
I nod.
“That’s really cool,” he says, smiling back at me. “So what do you think? You wanna play tonight? Sing a little?”
“On stage?” I say.
He laughs and says, “Yeah. On stage. Drum kit right up there.”
I shake my head and tell him I don’t think so.
“Why not?”
I shrug.
“You ever played live? In front of an audience?”
I shake my head.
“Well, then, it’s about time, don’t you think?”
I shake my head again, this time smiling.
“C’mon. We can do it together,” he says, sliding off the stool and leading me to the back of the room toward the stage. “You pick the song. I’m cool with anything.”
“Anything?” I say, the music getting louder as we approach the main speakers.
“Just about,” he says.
We sit at a small table just to the left of the stage, marked with a little folded reserved sign, as he orders us burgers and fries and another Coke for me. Meanwhile, a steady stream of people come up to him, say hello, ask when he’s going to sing, some even making requests.
“We’re debating that now,” he says, pointing to me, introducing me as “Kirby, a drummer and my partner tonight.”
Two hours pass quickly, with lots of good conversation and music. The crowd isn’t at all judgmental, seeming to appreciate every effort, but that doesn’t lessen the terror I feel that Conrad might actually make me get up on stage. Every few minutes he suggests a song, which I dismiss for one reason or another—the meaning, the lack of a distinct drum break, the fact that I simply don’t like it. Mostly I’m stalling, though, vetoing some of my favorites that I know I can sing and play such as Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” and Neil Young’s “Good to See You.”
Around quarter to eleven, when he says, “C’mon, Kirby, what do you got to lose?” I finally bite the bullet and agree to Pearl Jam’s “Small Town,” his suggestion.
“You mean ‘Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town’?” I say, recalling Eddie Vedder saying in an interview that the unabridged title was a reaction to the band’s mostly one-word song titles.
“That’s the one,” he says. “You know it?”
I nod, going over the lyrics in my head.
He crosses his arms, shakes his head, and says he hasn’t played it since the summer of 1995.
“Then it sounds appropriate, huh?” I say.
“Well, I guess so,” he says, grinning, bending down the brim of his cap in such a way that it hides his eyes. “Let’s do it.”
My heart pounding, we make our way on stage, as I take my seat on a stool behind a DW drum set in a titanium sparkle finish, a real beauty. I feel my way around it, working the pedals, gripping the sticks, even testing them out. I decide I will skip the cymbals, the way the great Moe always did.
I watch Conrad take the mic, the crowd treating him like a huge star, everyone sitting up straighter, smiling more broadly, clapping or whistling in anticipation. He is not only the owner, but clearly a crowd favorite.
“Good evening, everyone,” he begins, his voice even deeper over the speakers. He spins his cap around, the brim now in the back.
A few dozen people bellow out his name; others wish him a “good evening” back.
“Tonight I’d like to introduce you to the great Kirby Rose. A talented drummer visiting us from St. Louis. I haven’t known her for very long,” he says, turning back to look in my eyes. “But she’s a solid girl. I really like her. And I know you will, too. So let’s give her a warm, Zelda-style welcome.”
The crowd begins to wildly applaud as I feel like I might faint, sweat pouring out of every pore, the bright lights burning my eyes. Gripped with fear, I watch Conrad walk to the edge of the stage, remove his guitar from a case covered with bumper stickers, then throw the strap over his head, strumming a few chords. Just as I’m about to pass out, he turns, walks a few paces over to me, and says, “Just relax. Take a few deep breaths. And follow my lead. You can do this, kid.”
I nod, hearing the rhythm of the song in my head, the way I always do right before I begin to play.
And then the bar falls silent, everyone watching, waiting, as Conrad begins to strum his guitar, then sing the words, his tenor smooth and rich, reminding me of Eddie but with his own distinct, scratchy sound.
I seem to recognize your face. Haunting, familiar yet I can’t seem to place it.
I have chills, despite the heat of the stage, as the beat of the song comes to me, as naturally as all the notes do for him. At one point, he walks over and tells me to sing. I shake my head. And he says, “C’mon, Kirby. I wanna hear you. Sing, girl.”
So I do, finding an impromptu harmony, singing tentatively at first, then as strong as I’m drumming. Well, my God it’s been so long. Never dreamed you’d return. But now here you are and here I am.
That’s when I look up and see her, standing in the back of the room, next to the bar, watching us.
“She’s here,” I tell him, the next time he comes near me.
He reads my lips, gives me a slight nod. Maybe he’s already spotted her, but I can hear him, see him, feel him suddenly playing with even more passion. He closes his eyes, strumming as I drum, both of us singing together:
Hearts and thoughts they fade away.
Hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away.
Fade away, fade away …
30
marian
>
I knew Kirby could play the drums from her little rap in the writers’ room. But I am still moved and mesmerized when I walk into the bar and see her playing real drums, under lights on a stage, before a live audience, with her father. It is overwhelming and surreal, and I am filled with pride and pain.
And yet, here they are, found, together, singing the song I remember so well him playing. It was one of my favorites in his repertoire—one that I always requested as we whiled away the hours on the futon in his bedroom. One that he played in the woods that day when we took our only photograph. His voice is even better now, more mature, although I never saw him in this element, in a real performance. His guitar playing is polished and confident, and God, so sexy that I can hardly stand it. I am watching the boy I fell in love with, feeling like the girl I once was, the memories rushing back so hard and fast that it hurts my head and heart.
After the last beautiful chord, there is a standing ovation, wild cheering, and whistling. People call out his name; some know hers. A man in a black felt fedora cups his hands around his mouth and shouts for an encore—at which point Conrad turns and consults with her. His back is to me, but I can see her nodding, smiling, then leaning in to whisper something back to him. They are a team tonight, their first together.
Conrad paces back to the front of the stage, lowers his head, and coolly mutters into the microphone, “Yo. Did I mention she’s my daughter?”
With this announcement, the applause escalates, as do the calls for an encore. But Kirby stands up, takes a quick bow, and then deadpans into the microphone that she has a curfew but thank you very much. People laugh. They like her. They love her. I love her.
She sees me and gives me a quick wave and a generous smile, then whispers something to Conrad as they step off the stage and work their way over to me, amid backslaps and praise. As they get closer, I can see they are both sweaty and breathless. Then they are right beside me. Conrad’s smile from on stage has faded, but so has his animosity from earlier today.
“Wow,” I say. “You guys were incredible.”
“Thanks,” Kirby says, her cheeks bright pink, her eyes sparkling. There is pure joy on her face that makes me want to cover it with kisses.
I want to kiss Conrad, too—the urge is overwhelming, scary—and against my better judgment, I look into his eyes and say, “That brought back memories.”
He nods, accepting this statement without exactly agreeing, as he drapes his arm over Kirby’s shoulder. “She’s a natural,” he says, deflecting the remark.
“It’s clear where she gets it,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, then turns away from me, converting the conversation into a private moment with Kirby. “Thanks for coming out,” I overhear. “I had a blast.”
“Me, too,” she says, flushed with pride and adrenaline and obvious affection for him.
“Come back soon,” he says, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.
“Maybe this summer?” she says. “After I graduate?”
“Anytime,” he says. “Absolutely anytime.”
I think back to the end of our visit when she first came to New York, how different that sentiment sounded from my lips. How different our first night together was on those stools in my kitchen—careful and restrained. How different he is from me. He is real and raw—the two things I loved about him. The two things I’ve never really been able to be, at least not in my real life, only in the worlds I create on paper. At least not since that summer.
Kirby steps away, exchanging a few words with the bartender, the two appearing to be friends, as Conrad looks at me. Really looks at me.
“I hate what you did,” he says. “But I’m trying not to hate you.”
“Thank you,” I say, overcome with a fresh wave of emotion.
“Thank you for coming back,” he says, then reaches up to lower his cap, hiding his eyes. “Well, I better get back to work.”
“Right. Sure,” I say.
“See ya, Marian,” he says, then turns once again, to have a final private moment with Kirby, giving her a sweaty hug good-bye.
* * *
In the car ride home, she is quiet, as if digesting everything that happened, basking in it, a small smile of triumph on her face. I want to respect her privacy, the emotional integrity of her experience, yet I’m dying to know what she and Conrad talked about, and what he may have told her about his life. Finally, I can’t stand it another second and come right out and ask whether he’s married.
She shakes her head.
“Kids?” I ask hesitantly.
“Only me,” she says, staring out the side window as we drive away from the city back north to the suburbs.
“Well, it’s good to see he’s still playing music,” I say, searching for an opening—anything to get her to talk about the night, Conrad, her feelings.
“Yeah. But he’s also a businessman,” she says. “Zelda’s is his bar. His creation.”
“Oh?” I say, surprised, pleased. “That’s great.”
“Yeah. It started out as a jazz club, like, fifteen years ago—and he brought in all these great musicians from the city, friends and other people he knew. And then word of mouth just spread and now the bar is like a legend in Chicago—and musicians come from all over the country to play all types of music.” It is the most excited she has ever sounded about anything.
“Well, I’m not surprised,” I say, even though a small part of me is very surprised, and I think she sees right through it, the way she always seems to cut through any bullshit.
“He never went to college,” she says. “But look at him. He’s really happy in that bar. He called it his home. His family. His ex-wife even works there—and they’re still friends.”
I file this fact, wondering what their relationship was like and why they broke up, then say, “You two were amazing together.”
“Thanks,” she says. “It was really fun.”
We fall silent as we approach Glencoe, then drive onto Maple Hill. The houses are mostly dark, except for an occasional porch light. When we pull into our driveway, she turns to me and says, “You broke his heart, you know.”
I freeze, then turn to look at her, her face in a shadow. “He told you that?”
“Not in so many words—but yeah. He really loved you.”
I can tell she is on his side, and I don’t blame her. I’m on his side.
“And I think…” she says, her voice trailing off.
“What?” I say, turning off the ignition and facing her.
“Never mind,” she says, shaking her head.
“You can tell me,” I say, bracing myself for something hurtful he said, something truthful that I know I will deserve.
But instead she says, “I don’t know. I kinda get the feeling he still does.”
Before I can reply, she is out of the car, slamming her door, walking toward the front walk. I get out and follow her, wishing I could go back in time. Wishing I had been a little more like her when I was eighteen.
* * *
The next morning, Kirby knocks on my bedroom door just before nine. She is dressed, with her suitcase at her feet, and says she has to get going, she has finals to study for. I quickly rally and throw on sweats, and a few minutes later, we are standing in the foyer, my parents coming in from the kitchen to meet us.
“Are you sure you can’t stay for breakfast?” my mother says.
“I really have to get back to study for exams,” Kirby says. “If I want to pass precalc and graduate.”
My father nods and says, “We certainly understand that.”
“Well,” Kirby says, her voice sounding bolder than it did when she arrived, as if she grew up on stage last night. “Thanks so much for having me. It was really nice getting to know you guys.”
“Oh, you, too, Kirby,” my dad says, stepping forward to give her a big hug and kiss on the cheek. “It’s nice to finally meet our granddaughter. We know you have a family who loves you very much, but
we hope we can add to that. We really hope this is just the beginning.” He looks at my mother and she nods her unconvincing agreement, nervously twisting her pearl necklace.
Kirby smiles, then shocks me by saying, “Thanks, Grandpa.”
He grins, the happiest I’ve seen him look in a long time.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, in which it becomes clear my mother is not going to hug her good-bye, I announce that I’m going to walk her out. My parents nod, getting the message that I want to be alone with her, as I grab her suitcase and head outside. By the time we get to her car, she has become quiet and serious again, but I tell myself it has more to do with the nature of good-byes, especially in fragile, new relationships. It will take time to establish trust and a real bond, whether a friendship or something more maternal, and I am willing to work for it.
“So, I’m graduating in a couple of weeks,” she says.
“Yes?” I say, hopeful.
“My parents wanted me to invite you. So. You’re invited … But I know how busy you are with your show and everything so it’s cool if you can’t—”
“I will be there,” I say. “Definitely.”
She nods and says, “Cool. I’ll text you the details. Or call or whatever.”
“That would be great,” I say.
“Well. Thank you,” she says, even though we both know that the invite is her gift to me—and not the other way around.
* * *
Back inside, my mother refreshes her cup of coffee and then pours one for my father and me. She then begins to crack eggs in a bowl, preparing to make omelets. I remind her that I have an early flight and not much time before I have to go pack.
“Final exams and television scripts,” my dad says, still looking reflective. “It never stops.”
“Or big trials,” I say, smiling.
“So how did it go last night?” my mother asks, her voice breezy. As if Kirby merely went to the movies.
I look at her, wondering why she can’t acknowledge the full weight of what’s happening—or accept the idea of Kirby in our lives. Maybe she feels guilt over the decision she helped me make and wants to justify to herself that it was the right one. Maybe she still sees a stigma in what happened and is worried about what people will think. Maybe she simply fears Conrad, worries that he will derail me once again.