A Song for Julia

  I sighed and closed my eyes. If Sean was having a meltdown, I needed to mentally prepare myself. I cared a great deal about Sean. But he was emotionally volatile, and I’ve spent my adult life avoiding emotionally volatile people and situations.

  It was hard not to second-guess myself. Was being involved with Crank, with this family, the right thing to do?

  Of course, it was a little late to be asking that question now, wasn’t it?

  I rapped on the door with my knuckles and waited, slightly hopping up and down on the balls of my feet to stay warm. My mother had looked disapprovingly at my boots this morning. She wasn’t a believer in wearing boots with a dress. She wasn’t a believer in much that I did.

  A very frazzled looking Crank, dressed in torn jeans and a ragged t-shirt, answered the door. His eyes brightened when he saw me. He ushered me in, a grin on his face. “I am so happy to see you. Don’t mind them,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the front of the house. I could hear Jack shouting something.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Crank sighed. “Sean got in trouble in school yesterday morning, pretty big trouble.”

  I grimaced. “And they’re still fighting about it?” I asked.

  “My dad said something that set him off.”

  I sighed and followed Crank to the living room. “Can I put this in the fridge?” I asked.

  “I’ll take it,” he said. “Getting by them might be challenging.”

  I passed the cake to Crank and shrugged out of my coat, laying it on the back of a chair. A moment later he was back in the living room, and his eyes widened.

  “You look … lush. Almost edible.” His eyes swept up and down, like searchlights, and I suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious. I was wearing a grey sleeveless dress, tight fitting in the bodice, with an ankle-length skirt. He approached, putting his hands on my waist. “I’d really like to kiss you right now.”

  “Um … I’d like that,” I said in a small voice.

  He leaned his head close and nipped at my lower lip with a grin and then kissed me. My mouth opened, our tongues just touching.

  The front door slammed open, rattling the doorstop.

  “Mother of Christ, it’s cold out there!” shouted Tony as he entered. Crank and I separated, just slightly, and Tony shouted, “Don’t let me stop you two from smooching!”

  I laughed a little, and Crank and I leaned our foreheads together for just a second. Then I stepped back. “Tony, are you always this obnoxious?”

  “Only around beautiful women,” he said. “Why do you think I’m still single?”

  He wandered into the kitchen, chuckling. A moment later I heard Jack say, “Look, can you just drop it! Our guests are coming in.”

  Sean didn’t get a chance to answer, because Tony shouted, “Who you calling a guest?”

  A few seconds later, Sean came storming into the living room. He saw me and stopped.

  I smiled at him. “Hi Sean. I’d like to hug you, but you look so angry, you’re scaring me a little.”

  Sean’s face immediately went slack. His eyes pointed somewhere near the shelf as he said, “I’m sorry. Hi, Julia.”

  I walked forward and hugged him. “Happy Thanksgiving,” I said.

  “You too,” he said. He awkwardly grasped my shoulders then stepped back.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “Crank said you ran into some trouble at school … if you want to talk, I’m here.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, his eyes sliding off to the side.

  “It’s okay.”

  I can’t even begin to describe the contrasts and differences between spending Thanksgiving with my own family and with Crank’s. Most years, in my family, Thanksgiving consisted of official functions in embassies and consulates around the world. Less formal when I was very young, but by the time I was in middle school, my father’s responsibilities meant we often had to host large, official dinners for embassy staff, important expats in whatever country we were in, as well as the occasional important visiting dignitary from Main State.

  In other words, when I think of Thanksgiving, I think formal dinners, formal dress, stiff backed chairs and enforced, absolute silence for everyone under thirty. I also often think of Corporal Lewis. Three years running, in Belgium, Carrie and I sat with him at a table a fair distance from my parents. He snuck us candy and sweets, told silly jokes, and generally kept us entertained. I can’t imagine what he thought of it all. In what world would a United States Marine essentially end up as a babysitter for a preteen girl and often her little sisters? But whatever he thought, he never said anything, simply keeping up a constant banter about cars, girls, growing up in Texas, his fascination with professional wrestling and the vagaries of service in the Corps.

  I was too sick to go to any Thanksgiving functions my freshman year in high school. I didn’t realize at the time I was already pregnant, I just knew I woke up that morning and immediately had to puke my guts out. Odd, now that I think about it, that my mother didn’t think to call a doctor. I spent that Thanksgiving in bed in our apartment in the diplomatic compound. Alexandra was too young to attend the dinner, so the two of us sat up most of the evening, playing go-fish and later watching a movie together, curled up in bed.

  Thanksgiving at Jack’s house? Totally different.

  For one thing, no one dressed up. I stuck out like a sore thumb in my formal dress, but everyone was very nice about it.

  Second, everyone brought a dish. I was so glad I thought to bring something … it didn’t occur to Crank to warn me, of course. Mrs. Doyle actually pushed a small cart down the street, with covered dishes precariously teetering on top. Margot brought pumpkin pie, and Tony brought wine. Italian wine, which made me chuckle and made Jack burst into a string of colorful curses. The table was a scattered mix: a plump turkey Jack had been up half the night cooking, steaming buttery mashed potatoes, half a dozen vegetables brought over on Mrs. Doyle’s cart, fresh lobster, which caught my attention instantly, and homemade pies. Homemade.

  I’d never eaten a homemade pie in my life. I think I shocked Mrs. Doyle when I hugged her and told her it was the best pie I’d ever eaten.

  Jack’s parents showed up too. Imagine Crank’s charm and Jack’s humor and affability on a seventy-five-year-old man. Ryan Wilson was a retired Boston cop who arrived in the United States with his parents at four years old, just a few months before the 1929 Stock Market Crash. He grew up during the Depression and ran away to enlist in the Army at 16 years old. The Army sent him to Europe, where he ended up as part of the invasion force that landed on Omaha Beach.

  After the dinner, where I unashamedly stuffed myself to the gills, I ended up sitting next to Margot on the couch, while Jack’s father told stories of what he called Old Southie, when rival gangs dominated the whole neighborhood. Tony sat down on the floor next to Sean, controllers in hand, while they played one of the video games Crank gave Sean for his birthday. At one point, I jumped when Tony let out a loud shout. He’d died, body parts flying everywhere. It was gruesome. Sean started to talk, fast and excited.

  Margot leaned close to me and said, in a soft voice, “I’m so glad you could come.”

  I gave her a shy smile. “Thank you. I’ve really had a wonderful time. I never imagined a Thanksgiving like this.”

  She gave me an odd, curious look. “Like what?”

  I looked around the room. Then I sighed. “You’ve got a wonderful family here. It’s so—warm.”

  She looked down. “I think I know what you mean. You know Mrs. Doyle … she’s a widow. Mr. Doyle was on the force, he was shot during a liquor store robbery in … oh, I guess it was around ’85. Jack just … adopted her right into the family. It’s the same with Tony, really. Ever since his divorce, he spends all his holidays here.”

  “Jack’s a wonderful guy.”

  She blinked her eyes, looking at her husband. “He is. He’s the most generous man I’ve ever known.”

  She gave
me an appraising look. Something about it made me feel naked. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course,” I replied. What I really meant to say was, No. Please don’t.

  “Are you and Dougal … are you serious?” She was openly studying me now.

  I took a deep breath, looking back at her. “I don’t know.”

  She gave me a faint smile, but I could tell she wasn’t terribly pleased with the answer. “Well … that’s honest.”

  “I think it’s too soon to tell,” I said. I didn’t like this line of questioning. I didn’t even know how I felt about Crank. How was I supposed to explain that to her?

  She nodded. “I understand. All I’m going to say is … my son has had a tough life in some ways. He’s a very strong young man, but that strength comes from being hurt. Badly.”

  I nodded and kept listening.

  “Anyway,” she said, looking down at her hands. She was holding them together, moving them restlessly, as if she were unsure of herself. “It’s none of my business. But I’m hoping you won’t … I’m hoping you won’t hurt my son. You seem like a nice girl, and he’s never brought anyone around before. I think he may be more serious about you than you are about him. And that worries me.”

  I looked at Margot. I didn’t want to make an enemy of this woman, or offend her. My heart ached for what she’d gone through. But I needed to set some boundaries, and quickly. I liked her, but whatever was happening between Crank and me, it was between us.

  I sat up straight, put one hand in the other. In a gentle tone, but a firm one, I said, “I understand your concern. But … I can’t help you with this. This is new for both of us, and it’s going to go where it goes … and that’s between us. I hope you understand.”

  Her face adjusted into a fake smile, and she started to say something, but I kept going. “I won’t ever intentionally hurt him. But neither of us exactly has a good history when it comes to relationships.”

  “Maybe you should consider slowing down,” she said, meeting my eyes.

  I shook my head and said something I shouldn’t have, “You’re right. It’s none of your business.”

  She froze in place, her smile fixed automatically, like a mask she’d slipped on for the party.

  I tried to soften the blow of what I’d said. “Margot—I care about him a great deal. Can we just leave it at that? Please?”

  “I suppose that’s fair,” she replied.

  I looked at my watch, tangled on my wrists with my bracelets. “It’s getting close to time for us to go.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she reached out and touched my watch. And I felt a sinking feeling. The watch was delicate, on a thin chain which I’d had extended when I was sixteen and it didn’t fit any more.

  Her fingers touched the chain, then trailed down to the scars on my wrist, the edges just showing from underneath the bracelets. Then her eyes jumped to mine, and she said, “I’m sorry if I’ve judged too soon.”

  I almost got up and ran. I almost asked her, how dare she? But I didn’t. I just sighed and said, “Sometimes things aren’t what they appear. We all have hurts that we don’t show.”

  She bit her lip and nodded. Then she said something that surprised me. “I think we should get to know each other better. Maybe we can meet for lunch sometime?”

  I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to know Margot any better. It was one thing to sit here, with everyone laughing and happy and part of a big adopted family that Jack had put together. It was another thing entirely to open up to a woman who had the gulf of pain that Margot carried around. I didn’t want to open up to her, or tell her anything at all about me. I wanted to run. I wanted to tell her to go to hell and mind her own business. But I didn’t. Instead, I lied and said, “I’d like that.”

  So we exchanged numbers, and then I stood, and said to Crank, “It’s almost time.”

  He grinned at me, that boyish, sideways grin that made my heart melt every time I saw it. And just because of that, everything was okay.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Blue Ginger (Crank)

  You’re not really going to wear that are you?

  When Julia asked me the question, I looked down at myself. I guess I hadn’t really thought about it. I was wearing my Dirty Rotten Imbeciles t-shirt, which I happen to love, though it was faded and worn from wearing it for too many years. And my dungarees, faded and torn, were what I always wore. But my brain clicked into place that Julia was wearing a formal dress.

  I coughed. “Um … I guess I hadn’t thought of it. Where exactly are we going?”

  “Blue Ginger … it’s, um … French Asian restaurant. In Wellesley.”

  Wellesley? Where the hell was that?

  “Um … why?”

  She rolled her eyes. “My father made reservations. Apparently the chef is famous or something, they won a bunch of awards.”

  “All right,” I said, “in that case, we need to go shopping.”

  “What?”

  “Right … Thanksgiving morning. Everything’s going to be closed. Hold on.”

  So I went to Sean. We were about the same size. He loaned me a pair of plain black slacks and a button down black shirt. After I changed, I looked in the mirror. I hardly recognized myself. I took out several of my earrings, left just one in each ear, and dumped the rest in the pocket of my shirt.

  I drew the line at my boots. I wasn’t wearing Sean’s loafers, no matter if her father was the President of the United States. Besides, Sean’s feet were huge.

  I got back downstairs, shirt all tucked in and wearing a belt and everything. So, of course, my dad had to make smart-aleck comments, but I ignored that. We hugged everyone and got out of there. Julia was driving a rental car, and the second we got in, I lit a cigarette and rolled down the window a little to let the smoke out, then asked, “Mind if I smoke?”

  She gave me a wry look and said, “No, go ahead.”

  We were on our way. No sooner had we pulled out of the driveway before I was saying, “So … we haven’t had a chance to talk. What happened with Ron Murray?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Here’s the thing. They’re trying to lock you into a really bad contract. They want to pay two thousand up front, which probably isn’t that bad, but they want a five-year contract. And no guarantee that you’ll get a recording contract for an album.”

  “Damn,” I muttered. “But they want the song?”

  “Yeah, they want to release a single. I told him the deal wasn’t good enough and made a counteroffer, which was far more than you’re going to get. But I wanted to start outrageous and work our way down.”

  What the hell? Didn’t she know they could shut us down? This was the biggest chance we’d had yet, and she was demanding outrageous terms?

  “I wish you’d told me that before you made the counteroffer.”

  “Well, we were on the phone, and I had to say something then. I’m meeting them for lunch on Wednesday. But I’ll be honest with you … I’ve got doubts about Division Records.”

  “What kind of doubts?”

  “You may end up in a five-year contract with a bankrupt company. Murray’s being investigated by the IRS.”

  “Oh, shit,” I said. “Then we should move immediately. Get the single out while we can.”

  She frowned. “You’d be stuck after that. Give me a chance to work this, okay? It might take a few days, but …”

  “But nothing,” I said, starting to get angry. “This is the best chance we’ve ever had, and you’re turning your nose up at it?”

  Her response was quick, and her voice had a hard edge to it. “No. I’m negotiating. Which you and the band asked me to do.”

  “Julia,” I said. “Please don’t—”

  “Stop,” she interrupted. “Either you trust me to do this, or you don’t. What I said to the rest of the band applies to you. If you want me to manage this thing, then let me manage it. You’re not going to control every little step just because we’re … whatever
we are.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what I said, Crank. I’m trying to get you a much better deal than you’d get otherwise. You can’t just jump at the first offer, especially when it’s an insulting one. They think you’re so desperate that you’ll take anything.”

  “We are!”

  “No. We’re not. You’ve got real talent, Crank. You’ve got one hell of a song there. Don’t sell yourself short.”

  I tossed my cigarette out the window and immediately lit another one. She was turning on to the Mass Pike. It would take us twenty minutes or so to get out toward Wellesley from here.

  “Julia, I need you to hear me. This isn’t a game for me. This is my life.”

  “I know that,” she replied. “And you’re so close to it, you’re so tied up in it emotionally, that you’re not being rational.”

  All kinds of thoughts ran through my head when she said that. I’m not being rational? Who the hell was she to say that? And why would I want to be rational about something this important, anyway?

  “For Christ’s sake, Julia. I asked you to negotiate a contract with the record company, not take over my life!”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she squeezed the steering wheel, her hands compressing into fists, and she said. “No. You asked me to manage the band. Now will you let me do that?”

  I furiously took a drag from my cigarette and looked out the window. Then I said, “Maybe it’s a bad idea to mix up our personal life and the band.”

  “Little late for that,” she said. “Though if you want to get the band together and fire me, feel free.”

  Her voice was shaking as she said it. I didn’t know if it was anger or sadness. I replied, “What I want is for you to listen to me. Some bands spend years—many years—without ever getting an opportunity like this. This is everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”

  She shouted, “I know that, Crank! I know that! And I’m doing everything I can to make it work! I need you to back off and have some confidence in me, all right? Unless you were planning on doing this yourself and having me as window dressing, in which case you can take this thing and shove it up your ass!”