AT 29 (87 page)

“Look, let's be honest with each other. We aren't the best of friends. You won't even give me a song. Nigel's willing to let me sing. We get along good. It's going to be better for everyone.”

“I want to run this by McCabe.”

“Winfield's taking care of that.”

“He doesn't speak for me.”

“He's going with Whitehurst too; me, him and Chase. That Travis kid comes over to you. Ellis, or that other guy, who took Cindy's place with the Brits will takeover your part of the tour.”

Nigel took Jimmy's call in his suite. “No, that's not what I said, mate. I told him it was all right with me if it was all right with you and McCabe. That's all.”

“He's already moving his stuff.”

“He's your drummer until you say different.”

“What about Travis? I thought you were happy to have him.”

“We're mates. Benson's way ahead of himself on this.”

“Okay. I'll talk to Travis. If he's cool, I'll run it by McCabe. You know Winfield's switching over to you, too.”

“Heard that one, mate. Ellis told me. He said he's going to take over Rebellion's gigs. Their guy runs things for you.”

This smacked Jimmy hard. “Sounds like I'm the last to know.” There was knock on the door. “Someone's here. I'll get back to you.”

McCabe came into the room followed by Ellis, Winfield and a man Jimmy didn't know, but guessed was Rebellion's road manager. They took seats on the couch and chairs. McCabe cleared his throat, showing signs of discomfort.

“We'd like to make some changes.”

The last six months of the 1980 tour were like a shooting star that bursts into a shower of beautiful lights just before the sky returns to darkness. That's how it went for Jimmy, Nigel, Mike Winfield and me. It was heaven followed by hell
.

- Alice Limoges

Travis moved into Benson's role with ease. Jimmy was grateful that the Australian transplant had no objections. Losing Benson and his shifty friend was a relief. Now, they were Whitehurst's headache. Ellis was another matter. That his agent elected to travel with Rebellion came as a surprise.

“They need a steady hand. You don't.”

“The Riland brothers?”

“They idolize you. At least that's what I'm seeing. As long as you keep your nose clean, they're going to stay in the line.”

“So, now I'm a babysitter?”

“Jimmy boy, you're doing great.”

“Everyday is a struggle.”

“Keep struggling. No slips like you almost made at the wedding.”

“When this is over we'll need to sit down and talk.”

“McCabe wants new albums, a world tour, you and Nigel.”

“Not right away. I want a break.”

“Sure. We'll all need to take some time.”

“A lot of time. Just because McCabe thinks he sees the future, I'm not sure I do.”

“The girl in Melbourne?”

“Yep.”

“There's room for her.”

“She won't leave Australia.”

“Oh,” Ellis paused. “Complicates things.”

The wedding between Miles and Cindy opened a wide door for others in Jimmy's entourage. As the
Back and Blue
portion of the Blossom Presents swing shifted south, new arrangements came into play. Marsha abruptly quit her nursing job and joined Sonny on the tour. She moved in with the guitarist, effectively taking all of his free time. The relationship between Ted and Melinda also took a more serious turn. They no longer hid their infatuation. They, too, shared a suite. Jimmy found himself spending more time with Travis and the Riland Brothers. Eugene, always a loner, came by from time to time, but mostly he prowled the clubs in each city, getting deeper into his own musical preferences. Country captured his imagination. He'd had little exposure to this uniquely American genre. Now he couldn't get enough, especially as the tour hit cities like Houston and Baton Rouge where the opportunities were everywhere.

Jimmy felt more alone than ever. The recognition that met him wherever he went grew tiresome. He became weary of planning his every move just so he could get some fresh air. Photographers were camped out every step of the way. And, they were aggressive, blocking his path and thrusting lenses into his face so close that he had to bob and weave. The fans were little different, accosting him with high five's, pointed fingers, demands for autographs and even a few taunts. Some women raised their blouses with bold offers, some merely seeking attention, others deadly serious and willing on the spot.
When two young girls broke into his suite in Nashville, he was forced to flee. He felt violated, physically insecure for the first time in his life. From then on he forced McCabe to rent a house for him at every stop, a nondescript address away from downtown where he could escape the throngs, but he was still a prisoner.

Les listened to his complaints. She sensed a change in Jimmy, withdrawal taking the form of cynicism that she hadn't seen in him before.

“Can you get away for a while?”

“The schedule is set, tickets sold. I'm on this treadmill until the end of the year.”

“Suppose you got sick.”

“Fake it, you mean?”

“Whatever, come to me for a few of weeks.”

“You don't know how appealing that is. But, no, I have to fulfill my obligations.”

She changed the subject. “What comes next?”

“We all come together in Chicago next week. Then later we link again in Dallas.”

“Nigel has become very big down here,” she declared. “Native son.”

“He's huge. Stole my drummer, too.” Jimmy said the words lightly.

“Really? Are you two on the outs?”

“No. I'm glad. Everything is fine.”

“I miss you.”

Miles put Cindy in charge of a new development department. The notoriety of Blossom Records had grown so big that unknowns, seeking recording contracts, were coming to Millburn's doorstep in droves. With money pouring in, he had the means to hire the best evaluators in the industry. Cindy, with her own expert skills, headed the group, spending day after day listening to tapes and running auditions in the studios. When promising talent emerged she called Miles in to make the final decision. He never overruled her recommendations unless Felix found something in their backgrounds. Plenty of contracts went into the books. The funnel of new talent was humming. Miles Michael McCabe was very satisfied.

Alice completed what she considered to be her finest piece back in her small apartment in New York. Whitehurst's spectacular reception in LA gave her the insights she needed to spin a dazzling tale depicting artist and performance. She would join his tour the next day and stay with him, writing Dispatches From the Road for the rest of the year. Most times, she would pack her story in a manila envelope and walk it the few blocks to her editor's offices. This time was different. She wanted a second opinion. Only one person counted on her scale of sharp-eyed critics.

Hillary worried about her second daughter more than anyone knew, except Red. She was all too aware of Alice's penchant for excitement, partying ways and overactive libido. Sometimes, she rued ever letting her leave the farm after that failed first year at Syracuse University, but for a while, at least, everything settled down during her four years at McGill. Still, the rock scene played to her daughter's weaknesses. She feared a fall. Intuition told her it could happen anytime.

The package came by air express two days after Alice's call. Hillary pulled it from the battered mailbox and carried it into the house. It was unusual for Alice to seek her mother's opinion. She was thrilled. It meant her daughter needed her. A mother lived for that.

Despite her lifelong devotion to the farm, Hillary Limoges was well respected among literary circles. Poetry was her forte and she had earned plenty of awards. Opportunities to travel where she could read from her works and lecture aspiring poets came often. Rarely did she accept these offers, preferring to stay close to Red, the rock upon which she had built her life. But she had her contacts, not only in the world of verse, but also among the titans of prose, those men and women on the frontlines of publishing who judged the merits of others.

She settled behind her tattered old desk in the den, opened the envelope and began to read her daughter's latest creation. As her eyes took in each word she slipped into her habit of re-phrasing. Always she looked for ways to make a sentence better. To her, the written word was like music with its own rhythms. Some words sounded better with others. With her vast depth she could summon better phrases easily. That's how she taught her daughters to write, constantly imploring them to see what she could see, to sound out the prose, over and over, until the right words clicked together in a rhythmic combination. It took her an hour to finish Alice's piece, sometimes reading sections aloud and often re-reading specific sentences.

When she was done, she removed her reading glasses and looked out the window at the fields. She knew Alice had always competed with her. From the very beginning, as a precocious youngster, she fought against her mother's insistence that she ‘do it over until it was right.' She recognized that Alice had the same gift. In time, her second daughter came around, realizing that Hillary was only trying to help her bring her innate skill to perfection. By high school, Alice had read everything her mother had ever written, not because she had a particular interest in poetry, but because she aimed to be her mother's equal with pen and paper, to one day hear her mother say, ‘I wouldn't change a thing.' A happy tear slid down the rugged woman's cheek. Today was the day.

***

Fifty thousand was the capacity of Comisky Park in Chicago. On July 20 the White Sox ended a two-week home stand and headed to California for a west coast swing. Mike Winfield surveyed the construction of the stage, bleary eyed, unsteady on his feet, but clear-headed enough to enjoy the satisfaction of an impending sold-out concert. It didn't matter where his tour took him, Nigel Whitehurst was the hottest act in the country and the crowds were huge.
Yarra
remained at number one on the charts.
Paradise
, written by Jim Buckman, was the number one single for the fourth straight week, nearing a record. Another single from the best selling album, simply titled
Number Twelve
, also written by Buckman, had just entered the top ten. Winfield mused about Jimmy Button, now Buckman, the singer/songwriter who wrote better songs for others.

The girls were all lined up, twenty-five of them now, dressed in tight jeans and skimpy halter tops of varying colors. Blondes, brunettes and redheads, his favorite, carefully selected to sway and swoon for the cameras as Whitehurst shook the stage with his violin and magnificent vocals. Mike had done plenty of concerts, seen the best rockers in the world, and befriended them for his own fame and profit, but Whitehurst was the best he'd ever encountered. Each show was a masterpiece.

Benson was a problem. His outfits and ridiculous top hats looked absurd, particularly when he tried to outshine the real star with his weak voice. Goes with the territory, the DJ decided. There's one in every group, a decent backup with visions of grandeur that had to be tolerated. He was also getting rambunctious off the stage. The
man never backed down from anyone. The parties were beginning to take on a rough edge. Some of the bikers who showed up uninvited egged the drummer on, particularly when the coke kicked in. Chase's friends delivered an endless supply of the white stuff. Good thing. Otherwise, Winfield knew he'd be scrambling to keep enough on hand for his own use. Nice enticement for the girls, too, and Alice, she was into it big time. Nigel liked his weed, but she was sleeping with him often. Ever since the wedding the joints weren't enough. No matter, the gigs were all good despite the drugs. Too bad Winfield didn't hide it well from his wife. The latest court order meant he wouldn't be seeing his daughters for a while.

Loren was getting irritated with her on-air partner. The daily call-ins that Winfield was supposed to make came less often. She didn't mind carrying the show. She was a competent DJ in her own right, but Winfield was the draw. It was his responsibility to do the show from wherever he was on the road. He had obligations to the advertisers. Ratings had slipped. She hated to admit it, but she was pretty sure he was back to his old ways. WAGZ-FM was his baby. The drugs were jeopardizing everything.

***

Nicky grabbed Les' hand and held it tight as they walked to the small garden. It was early morning, their appointed hour together before the other boys finished breakfast and prepared for classes. Nicky still wasn't ready to join them, but he was making progress. She adored the little boy. He was speaking now, but only to her as she read to him and pointed out trees, flowers and birds so he would think of other things, things more pleasant than the tortures of his short life. His concentration was better. He studied the pictures accompanying each of the stories she read aloud. When he grunted, she gently chided him, encouraging him to sound out the words that represented the things he pointed to. He had his favorites, stories about gentle animals. So, she scoured the library for tales that included these favorites, taking personal pleasure in the interest he showed. He eagerly climbed upon her lap as she opened the books.

He recognized when his clothes were not right, another small step. He still needed guidance, but the uniforms made it simpler. Everyday, the same colors, coordinated and easy to identify. He was eating better, too. This was Les' biggest thrill, to see him try new things, even a vegetable now and then. In the six weeks since his arrival he had gained weight, still not where he should be, but far better than the scrawny urchin Social Services left at the door. It became harder for her to leave him at the end of their times together. Sister Marie insisted that he become indoctrinated into the routines of the other children, even if he wasn't quite ready to join them. Besides, Les had so much else to do. She ran Saint Malachy's. Sister Marie merely provided guidance.