Lovely, Dark, and Deep (20 page)

I reached Sally and said hello, forcing a smile for Mr. Taglieri. He introduced his wife, Maria, and Sally introduced me to Tommy, who had obvious charisma. I could feel its power when he shook my hand and winked at me. I always mistrusted winkers, but I felt I should trust Sally's taste in men.

I told Sally hastily, “Listen, they're about to start, but I saw an empty booth there by the wall. I'll come and join you at intermission.” Sally nodded, and I jogged back to my family.

As I turned away, I felt the sudden numbness of shock. Something had just dawned on me, something I hadn't noted in all the noise and bustle. Mr. Taglieri's wife, Maria Taglieri, was an attractive older woman with dark hair, streaked with grey. The head I'd seen on his shoulder the night before was red—I was almost positive the hair was red. I thought of the time he'd spent talking outside, talking in the cold driveway, not even wearing a coat. Was that so the redhead could run out the back?

When the lights in the restaurant dimmed and a bluish spot came up on Juan and Jack, my heart plunged into my stomach. Jack smiled at his audience. He had a lot of star power, did Jack. If he ventured out to L.A. he could really hit it big, I thought proudly.

They began to sing. Their first song was
Heart of Gold
by Neil Young. This was the perfect venue for Jack, because the Sneaky Moon liked to feature folksy artists, and their audience came for that reason. The crowd clapped at the beginning and the end. When the noise had died down, they sang
Leila
, the acoustic version. I always thought this song was a great example of how things mellow with age, even Eric Clapton. Listen to version one, where he's screaming the words and the guitar is screaming, too, and you really can't understand much of what he's saying; then in version two it's slower, more melodic, more understandable. Jack and Juan were on fire. The high school girls were screaming with adulation, and Juan was starting to preen like the lone rooster in the chicken coop.

They sang
I Can't Tell You Why
by the Eagles; Juan sang lead on this one, and his tenor was so impressive that even I was ready to swoon for him. They sang tunes by the Dixie Chicks, Dire Straits, Allison Krause, Willy Nelson, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and they closed the first set with
If I Fell
, by the Beatles.

I was blushing with pride and admiration when the two of them walked off the little stage and went in the back room for a brief rest and some liquid refreshment. I accepted my family's compliments, and then we all dispersed: Fritz to talk to the stage techs, Gerhard to get a milk at the bar for Veronica, my father and mother to say hello to friends across the room, and I to chat with Sally and meet Tommy Watson.

I joined their table, where people seemed a bit tipsy and ready to laugh. I'd found
The Great Gatsby
in my pocket at my parents' booth, and had been scanning Chapter 7 between songs. For some reason I still had it in my hand, so I hid it in my lap after I took a seat next to Sally. So far nothing really stood out for me in
Gatsby
. They all go to New York City. Eventually Tom confronts Gatsby, and Gatsby asks too much of Daisy, and she lets him down, and he's disillusioned: he loves her more than she loves him. Then they ride back in different cars. Could that be what Francis meant, the different cars? And Tom finds Myrtle dead, and Nick speaks with Gatsby at the end, and Gatsby is watching Daisy's window in a solitary lover's vigil.

Tommy was obviously the life of the party, and was telling a story when I arrived; he broke off so that everyone could compliment Jack and congratulate me; I accepted on my fiance's behalf. “I'm very proud of him,” I told them. Eventually Tommy launched back into his story, which ended with a big punchline and a laugh from everyone.

I smiled and said, “So, do you double-date often?”

This earned a guffaw from those assembled. Tommy took pity with an explanation. “Tag and I haven't seen each other since the last time I subbed, which was almost a year ago. So when I saw him the other day, I said he and Maria should come out with us on Saturday.”

“Thank God,” said Tag's wife, “or I'd be sitting at home watching ESPN!”

More laughter. I was starting to notice how much funnier everything was to people with a little booze in them. I was trying to think of a question to ask of those assembled, but I felt constricted. I'd wanted Tommy on his own, not Tommy with my prime suspect. The last thing Tag wanted to do, I was sure, was talk about Sister Joanna on his evening out. What I really wanted to do was ask if he was having an affair. Again? I absently riffled the pages in my lap.

“What are you reading?” asked Mr. Taglieri pleasantly.

I hesitated. They all knew, these people at the table, what Sister Francis had said. Which would make my reasons for reading the book quite obvious. I was scanning my mind for an alternate title when Sally playfully grabbed it.
“The Great Gatsby
,” she called out. Sally was the one person who probably didn't know the significance of the title.

I blushed and didn't look at anyone, pretending to be interested in the currently empty stage. No one spoke for a moment; then Sally finally said, “Geez, I didn't realize Fitzgerald was such a conversation killer. I always thought he livened up the parties, back in his day.”

I met her eyes, which were confused and now a little worried. I smiled. “He did. But that's because they were all drunk. Maybe we need to get drunker,” I said lightly. “I think I'll go order a drink. Can I get anyone something?”

Tommy Watson stood up. “I'll help you, Madeline.” Surprised, but pleased, I led the way to the bar, where I ordered a White Russian, my first drink of the evening, and Tommy ordered a couple of beers for Sally and him. He faced me, leaning on the bar, while we waited for our drinks.

“It's nice to finally meet you,” he said. “I was starting to think Sally would never let me meet her friends.”

“Well, your secret is safe with me,” I said absently.

“I'm a little tired of secrets, actually,” he said.

“Meaning what, exactly?” I dug my fingers into a dish of peanuts, then remembered Francis, and let them fall again..

“I want Sally to make things permanent with me again.”

Ever the matchmaker, I cried, “Are you going to ask her tonight?”

Tommy laughed. “Oh, I've asked her several times. She's a slow decider.” He looked toward Sally, his eyes admiring. Then he dragged them back to me. “I understand you hate secrets, too. How clever of you to hunt for clues in
Gatsby
. Find anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Sally said you wanted to talk to me.”

“Yes. I suppose you don't remember your days of teaching Rachel Yardley very well.”

“Oh, I do and I don't. I remember her better as my colleague. We taught together for a couple years, before I got tired of the pay. Once in a while I still take a sick day from the regular job and sub at Roselle. Nice memories, and an easy one hundred dollars. Then I can buy presents for Sally, the way she's become accustomed,” he joked.

I got the impression money was important to Tommy. Maybe no more than it was to most. “I have a crazy question for you. Do you remember Rachel, the student, ever calling you at home?”

Tommy went for the peanuts, too, and rolled a couple on his palm before tossing them in his mouth. “That's certainly an interesting question. I doubt that any of my students ever called me at home. I had an unlisted number, and I didn't give it out to kids.” He shrugged apologetically. “Does that help you at all?”

I shrugged back. Rachel had told her father she'd called her math teacher, who at that time was Tommy Watson. But of course she could have lied. She could have been talking to any man—Tag Taglieri, Thomas Fahey, or someone else. “Not really. But I'm used to dead ends,” I said.

Jack and Juan walked back out on the stage, to much applause. “I've got to get back,” I yelled over the din. “Can I talk to you some more after? I might think of some—”

“Sure,” he said. “Sally warned me to expect the third degree, but so far it's been painless. Even fun,” he added with a smile.

“I'd love to have you and Sally over sometime,” I told him. Assuming you don't turn out to be a murderer, a tiny voice said in my head.

Tommy nodded, and his dark hair fell over one eye as he dove toward the peanuts one last time, tossed some in his mouth, and claimed his beers with salty fingers. He dug in his pocket with his left hand, found a bill, and tossed it on the counter. “I got yours, too,” he said with a wink.

I thanked him, surprised, and made my way back to the booth. I didn't know what to think of Tommy. I felt almost victimized by his charm. Maybe he was just a really delightful, handsome guy. Or maybe he was distracting me with his winking and his casual attention.

I sat down, rather dazed, and slightly tipsy after only a couple of sips of my drink. I have no tolerance for alcohol, none. But once in a while it's fun to have a little something, to feel that warmth in the throat and belly, the slight dizziness. I felt even more of a floating sensation when Jack began to sing. He crooned one of my favorites,
This Old Guitar
, a John Denver tune, and I felt like crying. Must be the alcohol, I thought.

They made their way through another folksy set: James Taylor, Carole King, Gordon Lightfoot, Emmylou Harris. Then, suddenly, I heard Jack saying my name into the microphone. I felt my family, and a lot of other people, staring in my direction as Jack pointed at me and said, “In the audience today is a very special woman named Madeline who will become my wife in two months. She's that beautiful blushing blonde over there, and this is for her.”

They played that tune that had been haunting me for weeks of rehearsal, a familiar interlude. It was the introduction to
Sister Golden Hair Surprise
, an old America song that Jack and I both liked. It had extra meaning tonight, though, because I now had golden hair, and it had certainly surprised Jack, but he had come to like it, because he liked me, and when he sang the words “I just can't live without you, can't you see it in my eyes?” I felt hot tears running down my face. Fritz, in a rare moment of delicacy, handed me a napkin and patted me on the arm.

I don't know that I've ever been that happy. I grinned at Jack until my face hurt, while they sang the final “Doo wop, doo wops,” of what was now my favorite song of all time.

They ended with that tune, but were brought back for an encore and sang
Desperado
. The applause was thunderous, and the lights came back on. The men took a bow and walked into the back. I wiped at my eyes and chatted with my smiling family, accepting compliments on Jack's behalf. I was still clutching
The Great Gatsby
, so I shoved it back into my pocket. My mother disappeared, then reappeared a moment later. “I was going to go to the girls' room,” she said, “but the hallway was clogged. There's no getting through there right now.”

I nodded, staring at her, while something tried to dislodge itself in my brain. No getting through. Clogged. Nothing would get through. I thought of the convent. Sister Joanna. What was it? There was something, something there in the back of my memory. I felt a little jolt, realizing that little things had been bothering me all along, things that should have come together, but didn't.

Sister Francis, I thought. Her allergies. Her deep voice. Fran the Man. I was trying to unearth something in my brain, but so far, nothing. I thought of my visits to the convent. Sister Iris and her math award. SISTER IRIS! I stood up, feeling nervous. “I have to run.”

My family members stared at me in surprise. Veronica piped, bleary-eyed, “I thought we were going out for ice cream!”

Sandra laughed. “You need to go to bed. And Madeline probably just wants to find Jack.”

“Right,” I said, giving a general wave. “Would you all excuse me?”

I jogged to the wall next to the bar, dug a business card out of my wallet and leaned it against the paneling to write a note on the empty side. “You are the best, sweetest, sexiest singer in the world, and I have a new favorite song. And a special reward for you. Just have to make one trip and I'll probably beat you home.” I signed my name and headed toward the back.

Sally stepped in front of me, stopping me cold. “Where are you going, young lady?” She still seemed tipsy.

“Sally, I'm glad I saw you. Could you please give this to Jack? I have to run an errand, and I can't wait for all those people to congratulate him. I need to get going.”

“But I thought we might go out—” she said as I ran past her.

“I'll call you,” I yelled over my shoulder..

I made it to the parking lot before someone else stepped in my way.

“Madman,” Fritz said. “What the hell are you doing? I've seen that look on your face before, hence your nickname.”

“Fritz, I'm not crazy. I just need to do something.”

“And haven't yet noticed that you forgot your coat.” He held it up for me, and I grabbed it. “And your camera. And it's kind of odd that you wouldn't be in there, waiting to talk to Jack.”

“I've got to go, Fritz. Please.”

“Why do I have the feeling this is going to end up with you losing quantities of blood again?” he asked.

“If you don't trust me, come along.” I'd found my car and was fitting the key into the lock.

“I believe I will,” said my little brother stubbornly, waiting at the passenger door.

So we drove to the convent together. Fritz figured it out after we turned at the weeping willows. “Why are we going to visit nuns at 10:30 on a Saturday night, sis?” he asked sarcastically. “You're leaving Jack to become one? You're getting thee to a nunnery?”

“Could we not talk?”

"Or are you thinking of exposing one of these old gals as Joanna's killer?

“Fritz.” I sounded like my mother: stern and final.

Despite that, Fritz babbled on, amusing himself, and I didn't choose to answer any more. I pulled up close to the fountain, left my headlights on, and leapt out of the car. Fritz followed. “Mad—”

I suppose I looked at him briefly, but I was really seeing something in my distant memory. I tried to put it into words.