Hide and Seek (5 page)

There was Lynn Needham, who had turned into a real pal, an occasional sitter, my official New York tour guide, my shoulder to lean on.

There was our West Side walk-up, the den of iniquity, which had only one really cool feature—a turn-of-the-century bathtub built right in the kitchen. I
loved
taking hot bubblebaths in the kitchen!

There were occasional dates, but nothing even close to anything serious. I began to remember what I'd felt like before Phillip—too tall, too gawky, a little tongue-tied, inadequate for all the wrong reasons, not big enough breasts, too many bad hair days. But really, what it all came down to, was that I was afraid to get involved again. I didn't want to have to tell anyone what had happened with Phillip—no,
to Phillip
. I had this
huge
scarlet
M
on my chest, and I didn't think it would ever come off, wash off,
whatever
.

Nope, there was no “elsewhere.”

CHAPTER 10

S
O, I WAS the coffee-and-sandwiches person, but do you know what—it was so much better than my life had been. It really sucked sometimes, I
hated
those despicable runs to the Famous deli, hated being “blondie with the coat,” but I also loved it. It was writing, composing, learning. I was part of something that on occasion could be very beautiful and moving.

One morning at the “music factory,” my buddy Lynn Needham peeked into my cubicle/storage bin. “You better drop everything, except maybe that hot coffee. Mr. Wonderful calls.”

Barry tried to reserve some time for me at the end of most days, so this was an unusual summons. I hightailed it to his office. His time was still precious.

“I've got good news, and unfortunately, bad news,” Barry said as I entered the room where I had once auditioned to be his gofer.

I could feel my pulse racing a little.
Tell me what's happened! Don't drag it out
.

“I sent one of your songs to California,” he continued. “ ‘Loss of Grace.’ The revision you showed me last week. Someone likes it out there. Wants to record it.”

Impulsively, I ran and hugged him. I don't think I'd ever done that before. I know I hadn't.

He smiled and gently pushed me away. He looked me squarely in the eye. “Now for the bad news. That ‘someone’ wants to sing it herself.”

It was
my
song. “Tell her no,” I said. Suddenly, I was crestfallen. “
No
. Barry, please.”

“Don't you want to know who that someone is? I
had
to agree she could sing it. That was the deal breaker.”

I had a nightmarish vision of some third-rater, some other up-and-comer getting my song all wrong. “Of course I want to know who she is. But if she messes up, I'll murder her!” Bad choice of words, I know.

“I think she'll get it right.” He grinned like the sweet person he could be sometimes. “It's Barbra Streisand. She wants to record ‘Loss Of Grace.’ And she wants you out there with her.”

I hugged Barry again. I crushed him and kissed him on both cheeks. Good-bye to shlepping for coffee and pastrami sandwiches—hello to Hollywood!

CHAPTER 11

I
BOOKED A flight to Los Angeles for Jennie and me. We deserved it; we'd earned it. Once we got out there, I found myself driving a rented Saab Turbo up to the Beverly Hills Hotel. It seemed as though we were a million miles from West Point.

“It's pink!” Jennie exclaimed as we curled up the hotel driveway and stopped in front. “My favorite color. It's pink
everywhere
.”

“I had it painted,
just for you
,” I told her. “I called ahead. I told them to
think pink
.”

“Motormouths!” Jennie yelled as we sat in the impressive hotel carport.

“Forever!”

A handsome, beachboy-blond bellhop carried our beat-up overnighters as if they were Louis Vuitton. He led us to a lovely cottage tucked behind the main hotel— Bungalow Six, our own private pied-à-terre, all arranged by Barry (“so you and Jennie make exactly the right impression”). He would know about that—I sure didn't.

“This is you, ma'am. And you too, little ma'am.” The bellhop smiled and swung open the door with a flourish.

I had to take a quick step backwards. Dozens of American Beauty roses were waiting inside.
“Jeez,”
I whispered. The blush-red flowers were everywhere I looked.

“Are there always this many flowers?” I joked. The humor sailed over the bellhop's shaggy blond mop.
The lights are on
, I realized,
but there's nobody home at Hotel California
.

“Oh, no, ma'am. It's a gift. There's a card.”

WELCOME TO TINSEL TOWN
.

I THINK YOU'RE ABOUT TO HIT IT VERY BIG
.

DON'T BE FOOLED BY ALL THE GLITTERY GOLD
,

THOUGH
…

OR A FEW DOZEN ROSES EITHER
.

LOVE YA AND JENNIE TOO
,
B
.

Love ya too, Barry. But I'll never bring you another cup of coffee for as long as I live
.

CHAPTER 12

M
AYBE YOU CAN imagine what I was feeling, or maybe nobody ever could.

This was everything I had dreamed of. All my mind-breaking work, all of Barry's merciless bullying, all the voice lessons and the rewrites. Now, here I was, my stomach tied in sailor's knots, peeking down the semidarkened corridor leading to Recording Room A in the famous Devan Sound Studios.

Famous songs are recorded here. My song could be famous too. Hooo boy
.

This was it, boom or bust; that one big shot everybody says they want, but that so many of us never get, and I sure never thought I would.

I knew that different studios achieved a curious mystique, sometimes a superstitious reputation, within the tight clique of major musicians, superstar singers, and their managers. For years, Elton John would record only in an isolated chateau in the south of France. The Rolling Stones had recorded in a ticky-tacky houseboat in Jamaica to get a certain sound. A lot of country singers wanted a specific Nashville studio, and only Chet Atkins could produce their records.

Devan was like that in L.A. I held Jennie's hand. We watched in a kind of dream as a Barry Kahn/Barbra Streisand recording session unfolded before our eyes.

I didn't like it! I hated it, actually. I wanted to scream at the two of them. Barbra's voice was not the one I'd had in my head when I composed “Loss of Grace.” Her style was
too
distinctive, too overpowering.

“What do you think?” I asked Jennie. She had heard me sing the song hundreds of times at home. She knew my phrasing, the big emotion shifts.

“Not as good as you,” Jennie said after a moment's deliberation, “but I like this one too. It's so pretty.”
Traitor. Infiltrator
.

It got prettier as they worked on it though. Each take got better. I began to hear things in my own song I never knew existed. It was my song, but it became hers too. I realized it was a nearly perfect collaboration.

I sat back and quietly ate some crow. Barry kept stopping by between takes. He was being so nice to Jennie and me, so supportive and encouraging suddenly.

After a while, I imagined Barbra Streisand was singing only for me, the way I had sung to Jennie, and I felt transported to a place where the music and all my emotions came together. I was back at West Point, but in happier times, when I used to sing to Smooch the squirrel, and only occasionally let myself dream about moments like this.

I began to feel numb all over, but
nice
-numb.

There were at least a hundred different takes before Barbra and Barry pronounced themselves satisfied, and the tension in the control room dissolved into dumb jokes and contagious laughter. I felt a powerful surge of relief, as though I had done the actual singing. I bowed my tired head.

I felt a hand touch my shoulder. I turned, and looked into the face of Barbra Streisand. She had snuck up on me.

In real life (
if this was real life
) she was striking, but not conventionally beautiful. There was kindness in her eyes, and her smile was sympathetic. I'd already seen that she could be tough, but she had a soft, sweet side as well. Don't believe everything you read in the papers—
trust me on that one
.

“I know what you must feel right now,” she said. “A little bit, anyhow. I remember my Broadway debut,
my
first recording session. Butterflies and the shakes, right?”

“Just your basic out-of-body experience,” I said.

She sat down next to Jennie and me. “Just remember that you earned this. All the sweat and the tears and the troubles
before
today give you a right to enjoy this tremendously. Your song would be a hit no matter who sang it. Because I did, it'll get the attention it deserves. I love your music, Maggie, and so will everyone else. Write more for me. Please?”

Then she kissed me on the cheek, and gave me a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Your song is so true, and the truth inside you is staggering.”

For a moment I was tongue-tied, then began to regain my composure. “Shoot, I'm trying not to say anything too stupid,” I whispered to her. “You can't imagine what this means to me, to Jennie and me.”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I can definitely imagine. The first song is the best of them all.” Then she looked at Jennie. “Your mom is amazing.”

Jennie smiled and nodded. “I know,” she said, “but sometimes,
she
doesn't.”

CHAPTER 13

I
USED TO daydream all the time about stuff like this happening. Everybody does. So this had to be a crazy daydream, didn't it?

I sold a lot of songs in a very short period of time. I was hotter than a ten-dollar pistol. I had the same thought every morning as I woke up in the tiny New York walk-up that I was still too insecure to give up:
None of this can be happening
.

One night, Barry took me to a very ritzy New York restaurant to celebrate “Maggie's greatest hits,” as he called them. I continued to be a hot item. Stories about me had appeared in
Rolling Stone, Spin, People
. It was bizarre, unreal, not my style, but I didn't want it to stop. I felt like somebody, probably for the first time in my life.

It was twilight when we arrived at Lutèce on Fiftieth Street in Manhattan. We were seated with a certain amount of pomp and circumstance in the garden room. Barry knew the chef, the owner, the busboys.

“Is this a date?” I asked him. I was kidding—I
think
I was.

“This is my way to make up, once and for all, for our very first interview,” he said and smiled. He was in a great mood. We both were. We ordered champagne cocktails, then I had foie gras, salmon with sorrel sauce, a plum soufflé.
None of this can be happening
.

“I could have cooked all that,” I said as we finished and ordered brandy and coffee.

“I believe that you could. You know,” Barry went on, “nothing has made me any happier than watching you—”

“Come back to life?”

“Blossom,” he said. “You know that it's hard for me to talk like this, but it's true. It's how I feel.”

Suddenly, I was a little nervous and uncomfortable. I wondered if this really was a date. I didn't think I was ready for it yet. I was also afraid of spoiling the friendship that Barry and I had.

Barry winked at me then. He must have sensed my discomfort. “More and more, people are going to want to hear
you
, Maggie. Your words, your music, your special voice. That sultry contralto of yours. There isn't going to be any stopping you, Maggie. There are no limits to where you can go.”

I started to cry. In the garden room of Lutèce. I didn't really care who saw me. I was so goddamn happy, so absolutely thrilled.

Barry used his napkin to dab at my cheeks. We both started to laugh.

“So tell me about yourself. Who the hell are you, Maggie? You're not ‘blondie in the coat’ anymore. That's for sure.”

I had kept everything bottled up inside, but that night I let some of it out. Barry was my friend and I trusted him, which was a big step too.

“There's a small town about twenty miles above West Point. Newburgh,” I began.

“Been there. No desire to go back,” he said and made a face. “The main street looks like Beirut.
That
Newburgh?”

“It used to be a beautiful city, Barry. Sits right over the Hudson River. Small town America, that's me.”

“I hear some of that in your songs, Maggie. Honest, sincere, not too much cynicism. Corny, but what the hell.” He grinned mischievously.

I was feeling very self-conscious. “You sure you want to hear this?”

“Stop putting yourself down.
Pleez
. You're going to be a big star now. Everything you say will be considered interesting. You were
interesting
the first day you came to my office.”

I punched Barry in the arm—hard—for that one. I shut my eyes, opened them again. This was hard for me. I didn't like to talk about it, not even to Barry.

Finally, I took a deep breath, and began:

“My parents drank too much. Slight understatement there. They were both alcoholics. My father was wild, ran around. He left us when I was four.
My pop
. I developed this horrible stutter that used to embarrass me to tears. I buh-buh-beat it though. Mom died when I was in the eighth grade. My two sisters and I stayed with my Aunt Irene. I moved out when I graduated from high school. My sisters both married and moved upstate.

“Teachers all wanted me to go to college. I just couldn't see myself there. I got a job at a fancy restaurant near West Point. Met Phillip.
He loved me
. Said he did, acted like it. I
really
needed for somebody to love me. I mean—
really
needed it.”

Barry frowned. “Phillip was your pop all over again, Maggie. We have a tendency to repeat our worst mistakes, don't we?”

“I guess so. He was a mathematician in the new army. Repressed. Vulnerable. Even needier than I was. Phillip turned out to be a drinker too. Just like Daddy. I wanted to save him, of course. Thought I could.”