The Angry Woman Suite (27 page)

“No—wait. Give me three days, bud. Three days and then we
all
hit the road. We’ll be back in PA in eight days, no play dates in-between. Nothing till Jersey.”

Buster winced. “I can’t do Jersey … besides, Pete will hemorrhage all over himself having to cancel dates till Jersey. And what about the other acts we’ve booked? We gotta pay them regardless—”

“After Sacto and up till Jersey, there’re no other acts to worry about. And of course you’re not doing Jersey! Don’t be an idiot, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying we’re taking time off.
Ten days off.
All of us. And screw Pete.”

Buster shook his head. “You can’t just walk away from the dough. This … all of it could disappear tomorrow.”

“
Three
days,” I begged. “Then I drive you back to PA myself.”

“No.”

I sank into the nearest chair. I could make music without Buster, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was I deserved a little consideration in return. I deserved a little meeting halfway.

“Go on then,” I said. “I understand.”

“You do?”

I told him how unfair I was being, and that it wasn’t the constant traveling or playing and arranging getting to me. It was having to deal with Pete, too. I was sure he was skimming. Couldn’t prove it, but I was sure. I just didn’t know how to dump Pete without alienating Elena. She’d
given
Pete Burdick to me.

“I’ll miss you, Buster. There’s the personal in this for me, you know.
Plus
you’re my partner. Could’ve used the help with Pete. Hate to lose you. You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?”

“You bet.”

“I talk too much. My nerves are shot. My fault, though. It’s
my
responsibility, all of it. But I can handle Pete. Forget it, will you?”

Buster decided to stay the extra three days, his decision. Long enough to play at the Memorial, and to help me give Pete the boot—which, the way I’d set it up, Elena would understand why it had to be done.

ELYSE
Sacramento 1955

I know that Papa worried about Aunt Rose’s drinking because I overheard him talking to Grandma about it—but Grandma didn’t seem as concerned, because I heard her ask Papa what the hell one was supposed to do with whiskey besides drink it?

“Moderation,” Papa said patiently to Grandma. “Rose is looking puffy; it’s not good for her, all that drink. Maybe she has a broken heart?”

Papa believed that optimum health depended on good food, enough sleep, and good, strong hearts.

“They need to be exercised, hearts do,” he said to me one early morning while whittling on a wood decoy. “To keep them strong.” I leaned my head against his arm. We were on the porch watching the little mourning birds puff their tiny chests out, getting ready to sing. “Listen—they will sing their hearts out,” Papa said.

“Can they really sing their hearts out, Papa?”

“Ja,
I believe so,” Papa said seriously. “If they sing hard enough. Singing a heart out is probably very good exercise for it.”

I considered this. “But, Papa, can the mourning birds sing so hard that they
break
their hearts?”

Papa’s arm tightened. I looked up in time to see comprehension dawning in his blue eyes.

“Ah,” he said. “I see. Well, then … I believe the idea is to not sing your
guts
out, Elyse. You have to stop short of that, because if you sing the guts out, the heart
can
break, you understand?

“So
, nein
, I believe the ideal is to sing with
disciplined
strength—I would call that singing the heart out in a good way.” Papa nodded, obviously satisfied with his disciplined save, not yet realizing I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what “discipline” actually meant.

“Oh.” I fell quiet once again, watching and listening to the mourning birds. And then, “Did Aunt Rose break her heart by singing her
guts
out?”

Papa hesitated for just a second before answering gravely. “
Ja,
your aunt Rose holds nothing back … she is
unbesonnen.”

“English, please.”

“She flies by the seat of her pants and thinks later.”

“That is discipline, then, Papa? To keep your pants on?”

“Mein Gott, mein erstaunlich
girl!” Papa’s smile was brilliant. “My, my, Elyse, but you make an old man supremely happy.”

FRANCIS
1945

I swiveled on my barstool, amused. They couldn’t have been more different. The pretty blonde elbowing her way through the crowd at The Senator, the popular Sacramento nightclub, had a round face topped by a high pompadour, a la Betty Grable. The brunette was tall and lanky, with long hair, thick and wavy, pinned back on one side, no pompadour, just a hint of bangs. She was Lauren Bacall-classy. Not the bar type.

I told the boys to cut the noise. They were a rowdy bunch, pumped-up after our wing-ding performance at the Memorial. The blonde made a beeline for me.

“Mr. Grayson! Would you sign my program?” I poised to scribble. “Name’s Rose,” she gushed. “This here’s my sister Diana. Would you sign hers, too?”

I put my hand out for the classy brunette’s program. She ignored it. Instead she seemed mesmerized by my shoes—and slowly, as if we’d nothing but time, her gaze traveled upward to my belt, to my tie clasp and lapels, then finally to my chin. Her eyes, when they met mine, were tinged with laughter, amazingly blue, although she didn’t smile.

“You can always tell a gentleman by the shine of his shoes and the crease in his trousers,” she said, handing her program over. Her voice was husky. I hesitated, intrigued. “Diana,” she prompted.

I wrote slowly, handing the program back without making eye contact, eyes on navy pumps instead, lingering on ankles and well-turned calves, the belt cinching the navy wool at her waist, the pin at her collar, the pearls at her throat. I knew she wouldn’t be the least put off, although she’d pretend to be.

“Touché,”
she said, still unsmiling, when I reached those amazing eyes of hers.

She seemed wary, but Rose jumped at the invitation for the two of them to join me at a table. Rose inquired after “Miss Fitzgerald,” and when I answered that Elena always turned in right after a show, Rose nearly melted into her Brandy Alexander. Diana had yet to touch hers.

“You engaged?” Rose asked. “To Miss Fitzgerald, I mean?” I managed to tear my eyes away from Diana.

“Elena and I practically grew up together.”

“Miss Fitzgerald’s so beautiful,” Rose chattered away. “And everybody talks, you know, about what a swell-looking couple you are. I’m a big fan. I have all the records Miss Fitzgerald did when she was with Lee Andrews. Me and Diana here, we dance to them at home. Have ourselves a regular party.”

“That so? Just the two of you? No other sisters at home?”

Rose giggled. “No, we’re the only girls. But we’ve got a brother …” The giggle faded, and I suddenly had Diana’s full attention.

“Stephen Eric,” Diana said briskly. “That’s his name: Stephen Eric. And he’s not
my
brother. He’s on a ship in the Pacific, and when he gets home I’m going to marry him. He doesn’t know it yet, but that’s the idea.” She took the first sip of her drink. “Rose is my stepsister. Stephen Eric is
Rose’s
brother.
Their
mother, who was divorced, married
my
father, a widower, when we were barely into our teens. And now that you know everything about us, Mr. Grayson—”

“Francis.” I couldn’t help grinning. It didn’t matter one iota that Diana was semi-engaged—and forget the ladylike looks. Diana was clearly on the prowl, or she wouldn’t be at The Senator, and I was on the make, and we each knew the other’s game. Hers was playing hard to get. Mine was scoring.

“Francis doesn’t suit you,” Diana said coolly. “Do you have another?”

“Another name? Francis Lear Grayson. Only one I got.”

“Francis Lear, then. I like that better.” She pushed her glass to the middle of the table. “I have to go. I enjoyed your show very much. Thanks for the drink, Francis Lear.”

“But I don’t want to leave,” Rose protested.

Diana finally smiled, showing beautifully squared white teeth, and I gave it my best last shot, working the old star charm, inviting both to join me in a late meal.

Diana reached for her handbag and gloves. I couldn’t believe it. She
was
leaving.

“Rose is a big girl,” she said. “I’m not.”

And then Diana stepped back into the throng at the club, disappearing.

It was Diana I’d wanted, who didn’t want me and didn’t care I was a huge star. It was Diana I’d wanted to make love me.

Rose was a no-good—and she was easy. She passed the time and salved my wounded ego, and then I let her go.

At dawn I crept into Elena’s room and put my arms around her, moving in as close as I could get, carefully, so as not to wake her, so that all her goodness might seep into me.

I counted my musicians, every last booze-sodden one of them—all there.

“Buster thinks you’re the salt of the earth,” Elena said, watching.

I slammed the bus door shut and steered Elena toward the Ford. Buster would drive the Chevy—a straight shot across country to Pennsylvania. I could hardly wait to get out of California.

“Because he’s getting the convoy escort?” I put the Ford in gear. “It’s nothing. I started with Buster. He was my first friend after you, Elena, and I see you
both
to the end, understand?”

I avoided Pete Burdick until a parking lot in Ohio, outside a coffee shop.

“We got a gig in Jersey,” Pete said, as if this were news to me.

I pretended to examine the Ford’s tires. I kicked one. “Petey, what makes you think I’m not going to show in Jersey?”

“Don’t call me Petey.”

I glared at him.
“I’m gonna show!
I’m not only gonna show, but I’m gonna knock them dead. And you know what else, Petey? Your pestering is getting on my nerves.
Back off.”
I kicked the tire again.

Pete bristled as expected. “Listen, Francis, I’m not so in love with you either, but you can’t talk to me like I’m shit. I’m your manager, see? The behind the scenes guy doing your grunt work. Put another way, I’m your bread and butter. See?”

I struggled to keep from making fists. “Fuck you, Petey. And you
were
my manager.”

Pete turned a dark shade of red. “Fuck you back!
I gotta contract!
”

“You got shit!” I yelled. “You’re stealing from me right and left,
and I can prove
it,
and that makes
you
null and void! Null and void, Petey!”

Sudden silence. My musicians, and Elena, had gathered, were watching.

And then Pete made a move for me, but that’s when Buster appeared from out of nowhere, just like we’d practiced, practically lifting me off my feet. He took his time about it, giving Pete a good gander at his impressive burliness, before pulling me around to the other side of the Ford.

Buster’s voice was low. “Watch the temper, bud.”

“I’ve got it under control,” I said, shrugging him off, pulling myself up to my full height, shooting daggers at a muttering, retreating Pete Burdick.

“I’m calling the police!” I shouted at Pete’s back. “I’d be packing my bags if I were you, Petey! I got proof you’re stealing!”

I had shit for proof against Pete Burdick, but everyone knows even false accusations plant seeds of doubt. And if Pete didn’t break the contract soon, the entire orchestra, and Elena, would make his life so miserable he’d rue the day he’d ingratiated himself with me. Anything taken from me meant delayed raises for
them.

I’d come to the conclusion that I was actually looking forward to some
real
time off. The Lothian altercation had occurred
before
I’d become famous and rich and respected. It was now safe to go home. And the first thing I was going to do when I got there was spring Stella from the nuthouse. After that I was going to preen. I was going to show those women what a winner I’d turned out to be. I was going to show them how stupid
they’d
been, treating me as they had. And then after watching them choke on their respective pieces of humble pie, I’d get them to come clean. I’d get them to tell me where that elusive young man who they’d
let
get away,
depriving me,
had gone.

And then I’d go see this Jamie Witherspoon, the first man to escape the women of Grayson House, and I’d preen for him, too.

***

The band continued on to Jersey, but Elena and I followed Buster to the Carlyle place outside East Chester. I pulled into the dirt drive behind Buster. I got out of the car and extended my hand.

“I’ve seen you home,” I said.

A grin split Buster’s fat face. He pumped my hand. “Man, I thought for sure …
you know.
I thought you’d something up your sleeve, something to keep me …”

I pretended to be insulted.

“Man, you’re such a kidder,” Buster said. He hugged me and Elena. “I won’t forget this, bud. I’m always gonna be there for you, bud—thick and thin. That’s us, Francis: thick and thin.”

The first thing I noticed about Grayson Hill was that the shrubbery lining both sides of the long drive up the hill had been pruned. The second was that Elena’s mouth was hanging open.

“I’d forgotten how
big,
” she breathed. “I remember it from when I was a kid, but it’s
still
huge!”

The third was that Stella’s old garden had a new fence around it. Pulling into the circle at the top of the hill, I saw my brother and Aidan next, on the gallery-sized portico. I slowed. Earl’s right shirt sleeve was folded at the elbow and pinned to the shoulder of his shirt: he had no forearm, no wrist, no pig hand to wrestle with my spider hand. I braked and got slowly out of the car.

Earl limped down the porch steps. “Hey, hey, hey.” His dirty blond hair was long, uncombed. He sported a stubble of a beard.

“Pissant,” I said softly.

“Stupid,” he said, his old childhood name for me. He shrugged the shoulder of his maimed arm.

“Blown off.”

Aidan grabbed my head and held it in the vise of his hands. His look was unsparing: “Haven’t called, haven’t written,” he said.