Nine Volt Heart (2 page)

SUSI

“M
ISS NEVILLE! MISS NEVILLE!”

Someone called my name as bags crashed down the carrel,
flapping bar-coded tags for NWA33 (Schiphol, if I recall) and BA0049 (from
Heathrow, I was certain). One suitcase flaunted a tag from a previous flight to
FNO. Rome Fiumicino Airport. In former times, I rushed through SeaTac, excited
because I’d be walking into FNO fifteen hours later. Now—

The only woman in the line, I stood amidst a phalanx of limo
drivers, each a foot taller and double my weight, all of us holding up placards
to find strangers. They were doing a job. I was seeking my best friend’s
cousin. I needed him to come change the course of my life.

While there was still time.

“Miss Neville!”

Craning to peek around the flank of fullback chauffeurs
surrounding me, I spied a blond girl waving from the in-coming escalator.

Ashley, a second soprano from fourth-period choir. Her
mother had insisted that I was forcing her daughter to sing alto just because
the choir had too many sopranos. She believed in her heart that Ashley was born
a soprano. I failed to convince the woman that I hadn’t compromised artistic
values, only done what was right for Ashley. Then the principal summoned me, and
I failed to prevent bureaucratic compromises. So Ashley sings second soprano,
out of her register. Now choir isn’t fun for her; it’s just work at which she
cannot excel. Fortunately, Ashley wants to be an actress, not a singer. Or
maybe an attorney working for social justice. Or the corporate art agent for
Microsoft.

“There’s tons of time to find my calling and pursue my
dreams,” she said in our midterm counseling session.

Tons of time for some people, I thought, but did not say.

As other people’s baggage creaked along the conveyor, Ashley
breathlessly described spring break in Amsterdam. Out of the last eight days,
she’d spent thirty hours on planes and in airports.

“Schiphol is so far out!” she said, her speaking voice in
appropriate range. It took me a second to realize that she was not referring to
how far the airport is from the city. “It’s like shopping heaven. I could live
there. You can find everything that’s on Kalverstraat without tripping on those
wobbly cobblestone streets.”

Ashley’s parents appeared, and I thrust the placard with
Jason’s name behind my back while we shook hands. Ashley’s parents also towered
over me, but I’m five-foot-four, so I’m used to that. They were too engaged in
fetching their child to attend to her choir teacher, which was fine. At the
school where I teach, people have money.

I don’t, but I’m used to that. Now.

As much as I’ve learned to love teaching in the past year, I
need to be doing more: reaching deeper, extending instruction and opportunity
beyond the confines of a high school curriculum, even beyond what I can do at
Prescott, the liberal arts academy where I teach.

Drivers were beginning to depart with their charges. The two
nearest to me resumed their discussion of the Mariner lineup. It was April,
after all, so hope springs once more.

“Will the Mariners ever again go one sixteen and forty-six
for the season?” I asked the driver standing next to me, just to be friendly.

“How old were you that season? Five?” another driver asked,
teasing.

“That’s blatant ageism. There ought to be a law,” I said,
which made him laugh. His guess was almost in the ballpark, and I look
uncommonly young for my age if viewed under poor light. Up close though, people
can see the damage done. If I’d never kidded myself into believing I was in
love, that damage would not have occurred. I wouldn’t be standing here, stuck
in Seattle. I’d be headed for FNO and another adventure.

My chauffeur-companions all departed, faring better than me,
and a new battalion of drivers appeared, like a changing of the guard. I shifted
from foot to foot, after an eon of waiting for the archmagus to appear who
would help usher in a new era.

I’m Susi Neville
, I would say.
My life is in your hands.

No, I was feeling too nervous about meeting him and needing
his help, and I’m too shy to say things like that these days. Maybe I’d just
smile and say
how do you do
, as one is taught in
deportment classes. I’d had good teachers, and I believe in the value of solid
teaching. Everything I needed to know to succeed, I’d learned in school or from
strong tutors.

Up until that bad break, two years ago.

With time and boredom, my nervousness receded and I sank
into daydreams as people greeted each other and hauled away their baggage. I’d
spent spring break in my garden and working on the new curriculum, so I felt
happy—happier than any time in the last couple of years. The weather was good,
so I’d sifted rocks out of a new patch of soil and turned over the compost pile.
I took my father to see
Tartuffe
at Seattle U and
watched him laugh till he cried. I’d polished the curriculum outline and grant
request to be sent to that arts foundation. In my mind, the proposal was now
burnished so that it shined like a semiprecious stone—say, aventurine, the
stone that’s supposed to calm a troubled spirit.

JASON

“W
E’LL DO OUR BEST, Mr. Taylor.
Ninety-nine percent of the time, we deliver straying luggage within twenty-four
hours.”

Since my bags resisted returning to Seattle, there was
nothing to do while waiting but get back to business, so I again tried to call
Toby. He picked up on the third ring, and I plunged right into begging.

“Come back to Seattle, Toby. Stoneway needs your mandolin.”

“Jason, I can’t hear you. Are you on a cell phone in a tube
station again?”

“I’m at SeaTac Lost Baggage. They made me check that National
Steel guitar of Uncle Beau’s. Then they lost it.”

“You’re calling me to complain?”

“No, Toby. We need to talk about our recording schedule.”

“Call back later when it’s more private.”

“What’s private anymore, Toby? In the next hour you can
check the Internet to learn what I ate and how many times I used the john on
the flight from London. I’ve been hit on four times since the plane landed.”

“Why don’t you just stay out of public like I do?”

“That’s what I tried to do all winter.”

“You went to the Grammy Awards with your ex-wife. Why the
hell would you want to be caught on camera accepting an award for
Woman at the Well
?”

“My attorney thought I should go, to limit what Dominique
says about me in interviews.”

“Karl makes you date your own personal Jezebel?”

“Mostly I don’t date at all. Contrary to the gossip on the
Internet, I’m the indie American Morrissey. Celibate as a stone.”

“Our fans don’t care about Dominique’s lies. They, like me,
can’t tolerate country schmaltz like
Woman at the Well
,
especially if it’s supposed to be Stoneway’s music. Too bad your own personal
Yoko Ono had to screw up our music.”

“It was good music when we first recorded it.” I looked over
at the baggage clerk, who appeared to be absorbed in studying her computer
screen rather than listening to Toby chastise me.

Toby’s voice crackled over the cell connection. “Thing is,
Yoko never jilted John for George Martin.”

“Dominique wanted to cross over to mainstream, and she used
Ephraim Vance to do it.” That didn’t hurt my feelings. She had already finished
using me. “A country diva needs a producer more than she needs a guitarist.” I
prepared to admit what bugged me most. “‘I never should have been in love.’”

“The wake-up call came when Dominique started whining that
our music is too ‘alternative.’”

“Thanks for the beating, Toby. I get the same poke in the
eye with a sharp stick every time I'm online.”

“Crap, man, it burns my ass that she assaulted your soul and
battered the band along the way. Have you seen her new video? Lap-dancing to
your solo guitar in expensive panties.”

“Listen, Toby. Ian and I worked together all winter. You’ll
join us again—right, amigo? Hold on, I have to give them Ian’s address so they
can send my bags over. If they ever find them.”

“Jason, hang up and call me back.”

“No, Toby. I’ve been calling you for two weeks. Will you be
in Seattle by Monday?”

“Are you asking me or the lady at Lost Baggage?”

“Come on, Toby. Our contract requires one more album. If we
don’t have it by early June, we’ll all pay through the nose.”

“My name will not appear on another album with Dominique.
Get one of those Nashville studio guys to play and let her smother it with
boring vocals in the final production.”

“She won’t be there, Toby. Karl fixed it so we just lay down
tracks and send them to Ephraim. We can do what we want once we deliver these
tracks. When Ian and I played in Europe this winter, something new happened.
You’ll like it. We need you back.”

“Ian is closer to you than your own shadow. He’ll always do
what you want. Did you add back the twang and buzz? Who’s counting beats?”

“We have buzz. And volume. But you are the twang, Toby. I’m
checking out a possible drummer tonight.”

“No Hollywood strings with Phil Specter wannabes? Don’t let
Ephraim drown our music with the Dragon Lady’s crappy computer-enhanced vocals
until it sucks so bad it blows.”

“We will produce ourselves, like we used to.”

“No divas with egos bigger than the Mississippi at flood
time?”

“Karl promises to keep her away, Toby.”

“And you—no falling for divas who play you for a sucker
later?”

“My uncle Beau said every man fucks himself at least once.”
The woman at Lost Bags raised her eyebrows. I stepped further away.

Toby said, “Beau was stating common wisdom, not suggesting
your next action.”

“I’m not the only guy in the world who found out he didn’t
know the person he married. I woke up one morning and she was someone else.
Angry all the time, unpredictable. Hating my work, hating me.”

“Jason, you have never been with a woman who could work at
your level. No divas this time, OK?”

“If you check the fan blogs, my level is judged to be pretty
low. Toby, I got us into this nightmare and I’ll get us out. My attorney—”

“Screw that, man. Karl can’t save you out in the wild. Where
are we recording? Temple Bell?”

“Yes, and rehearsing at Ian and Cynthia’s house. I’ll be
sleeping in their basement for the duration.”

“Not at your place on the water?”

“That’s still tied up in court like everything else—except
my guitars, which the effing Port of Seattle is holding hostage.”

“OK, I’ll see you on Monday. But if you can’t deliver twang
and buzz, I’m heading right back to Mendocino.”

“I owe you, Toby. Thanks for giving me another chance.”

“Could never have done otherwise. I love you like a brother.
Me and Ian, we’ll keep you safe. Just call us if you start thinking you’re in
love.”

“I’m not going anywhere but the studio and Ian’s basement.
What trouble can I possibly get into?”

SUSI

F
RUSTRATED, I SWIPED MY card
in the slot in the phone booth and punched the number for that hotel in New
York. “It’s Susi Neville,” I said to the voice that answered in Angelia’s room.

Reflected in the phone’s chrome plating, my face seemed pale
and doleful. I hate looking pathetic.

“
Pronto
.” Angelia always says
this, though she’s never lived in Italy.

“I can’t find Jason.”

“Where are you calling from, Susi?”

“A phone booth at SeaTac. I had him paged six times in the
last two hours. How am I supposed to find him?”

“Meet him at that club on Capitol Hill where he’s going.
It’s called Neumo’s. He’s planning to find someone there tonight. I sent him
email, so he knows you’re taking care of him while I’m out of town. If you’d
carry a cell phone, it would much easier for people to connect with you.”

“I wish you were here, Angelia.”

“It’s just until Monday. The reunion of the Elgar Consort at
the New York Chamber Festival is a perfect opportunity for us, Susi. I can hit
up every one of my old partners for money to match our grant application.”

“All your stories made me nervous about meeting Jason. I
need his help, but other than that, your cousin and I have nothing in common.”

“He loves old-time music like you do. And he says he
reformed after being dumped by his wife. It’s years since he’s been in the
company of an intelligent, decent woman. That’s you, Susi.”

“So I’m a lamb sent out to greet the wolf?”

“His first wife told me that he’s unbelievably gentle for
being such a testosterone bomb. The best bad boy ever, she said. You need an
adventure like that.”

“What I need is an advocate who appreciates the folk
tradition and who can also give us decent business advice. I don’t need another
spoiled rich boy wreaking havoc with my life.”

“Jason is not that rich, Susi. Or that bad.”

“From every story you’ve told about him, ‘wreaking havoc’ is
a probability, not just a possibility. I’d prefer to read a good book.”

“Lord help me, I continue to believe that my friend Susi is
perpetrating an act of self-deception that’s bound to fail sometime. Soon, I
hope.”