Thank You, Goodnight (39 page)

“That’s why it took some serious balls to do what you did. Serious balls. I know you guys have wet your shorts every step of the way thinking you were going to get laughed at. Laughed at by music
fans all over the world. Laughed at by the press. Laughed at by your families, your friends, your neighbors. And laughed at by that old gray-headed motherfucker right there”—his finger found Colin leaning against a mirrored wall—“who still thinks he knows best.” Colin adjusted his tie for show.

“I’ve listened to this record many times,” Sonny intoned. “On airplanes, in my car, my living room. Every kick drum, every guitar lick, every harmony vocal. It’s not a perfect record, but I can tell you with a straight face that you are most definitely not going to get laughed at.” He delivered the palest wink in my direction. “There are people in this room who’ve heard me say this before, but I’m going to say it again: I’ve made many records that nobody loved, but I’ve never made a record that I didn’t love.”

Sonny’s certification was as close to an opiate as I could ask for. My eyes drifted around the table, then around the room, and I experienced something resembling fulfillment.

Sonny gave the table a spirited bang. “I think I know what happens next with this band, but it’s your rodeo now, so it doesn’t matter what I think.”

With that, he stood and issued a clipped, economical nod to his driver, a tall man in a black suit standing stiffly by the door. As Sonny got to his feet, the gathering whirred back to life, chatter flaring up instantaneously as though Sonny had just unpoked the pause button on his stereo.

As I sat there confused, I was darkened by Jumbo’s shadow. He was fingering whipped cream off the top of the pie slice he was holding. “Don’t listen to him, Mingus. You do write like Dylan and this body of mine was made for tight jeans.”

Once breaking free of the herd of industry peeps who’d maneuvered in his path for a handshake, Sonny located me and lifted his chin—code for requesting a word. I negotiated the spasm of tables, chairs, and drunks until I reached him at the entrance.

“Listen, I can’t miss this flight, but we need to talk.”

I recoiled. “What about?”

“Just something with the record. Something you should know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“No time now. We’ll talk later.”

“Sonny,” I began, my mood quickly calcifying. “Life is suspenseful enough.”

He grinned. “Isn’t it though?”

“Two seconds. Two seconds isn’t going to make a difference on the highway this time of night.”

“It’s funny when you panic for no reason,” he said.

“Is it for no reason? Just tell me—good or bad?” Good and bad seemed tidy enough concepts from which to choose.

“Calm yourself. It’s not a bad thing, it’s not a good thing; it’s just a thing.” He signaled through the glass to his driver now in the limo. “Tell you what—I’ll send you an e-mail from the plane. All will be revealed by the time I land.”

“Come on, man. You can’t walk out of here with that. You’re kicking me when I’m down.”

“We’re all down and we’re all being kicked,” he said with a smile. He was looking at me with a blend of patience and tranquility, like a man who could always find peace in the harrowing walls of the tempest. He knew that my life hadn’t yet brought me to that place. Worlds of education lay before me.

“You ever hear of a guy called Sidney Bechet?” he asked. “Jazz musician?”

I sighed through my nose. “Aren’t you tired of always being the guy with the parable?”

“It comes naturally. Now Sidney Bechet was one of the first jazz soloists, played a lot of instruments—sax, clarinet. He was from New Orleans, so he spent some time with Satchmo. The story goes that one time he was giving a student some advice about the tone and voicing of his instrument. Sidney wanted to push this guy, really see what he had. So he says to his student, ‘I’m going to give you one note
today. See how many ways you can play that note—growl it, smear it, flat it, sharp it, do anything you want to it. That’s how you express your feelings in this music. It’s like talking.’ ”

I nodded restlessly. “Okay.”

“Are you hearing that?”

“Yeah, one note,” I said, fluttering with impatience.

“Flat it, sharp it, smear it,” he repeated.

“I get it. Sounds like a jazz solo to me.”

“Sounds like life to me,” he said. “One note. Do anything you want with it.”

I stared into the vast sweep of his eyes. “You know you could’ve told me your little secret in the time it took you to tell me this fairy tale.”

“Remember what I said to you when you first brought these new songs to me. Be careful of these cunning plans of yours.”

Suddenly, and for the life of me I couldn’t say why, I was on the verge of tears. “I’ve been as careful as the game allows.”

“I wasn’t talking about then. I was talking about now.” Then he flashed an easy smile. “Evolution, man, evolution.”

Before I could even begin to translate, he draped me in a hug. “I love you, motherfucker.”

Then he smuggled himself back out of the restaurant, taking with him a good chunk of the firm ground I’d traveled so far to stand on.

CHAPTER 24

I
t was after midnight when I slogged off the musty local and onto the platform at 30th Street Station. My leather jacket felt light against the chill that had settled in for the night, but I was too busy brooding over Sonny’s words.

Sara surprised me, waiting at the top of the escalator as I ascended from the track. She saw me, both of us amid a smattering of late-night passengers, and smiled feebly.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

One hand clutched a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee while the other bore into the pocket of her stylish navy windbreaker with the slightly off-center zipper. “I wasn’t sleeping and I saw your text about training home. I decided to take a walk.”

“I don’t like you hanging out in an empty train station in the middle of the night.”

She shrugged, as if having survived the adventure mooted my complaint. She hooked our arms together and we began to amble out of the desolate concourse.

Then a voice came from behind. “Teddy? Is that you?”

I turned and found myself looking at Marty Kushman, my former colleague at Morris & Roberts. “Marty.”

“Hey, Teddy,” he said, giving my hand a friendly shake.

Marty was a soft-spoken, perennially sixtyish duck of a man, well liked by peers, clients, and judges. The last conversation I’d had with him was when I gave notice.

“So good to see you, Sara.”

Marty remembered people’s names. He and Sara had crossed paths at maybe a half-dozen firm events over the years.

“What brings you here this time of night?” he asked me.

“Oh, just coming back from New York,” I answered vaguely.

“We must’ve been on the same train.” He held his briefcase down in front of him, gripping the handle with both hands, his pinstripe suit cloaked under a trench coat.

“Late night for you too,” I commented.

“A mediation ran over. Took a long time to get nowhere.”

I grunted in a collegial, knowing sort of way that I knew one day soon would feel phony.

“So, I’ve heard whisperings about a career change for you,” Marty said.

When I quit, I hadn’t supplied a reason, instead offering cloudy mumblings about it being time to move on. I knew nobody would be heartbroken anyway.

“How’d you hear?”

“Oh, I see your old man around town.”

“I’m sure Lou had nothing but nice things to say.”

Marty dipped his head diplomatically. “I think it’s terrific. I wish you all the luck in the world. You think we kept you around because of your legal skills? We were the law firm with a rock star! Just ask my kids.”

Sara and Marty shared a knowing wink.

“How’s everything at the shop?” I asked.

“Same place it’s always been. I imagine you miss it terribly.”

I resisted a sarcastic quip. “I think the firm and I will do just fine without each other.”

“I take it it’s going well then.”

“It is. It’s going well.”

“That’s terrific. I look forward to buying the CD.” CDs. How quaint.

Suddenly, the cavernous hall vibrated with a voice over the PA system announcing the departure of a southbound train.

“It’s late, guys, I’ll let you go,” Marty said. “But it was great to see both of you.” Then he reached out and touched my arm. “And Teddy, good luck with everything, but if you’re ever looking to get back into the law, I hope you’ll call me.” He smiled at Sara and shuffled off toward the taxi line.

I was unexpectedly jarred by the encounter. Coming face-to-face with the firm reminded me of all the people in whose company I’d spent a large, self-contained chunk of my life. For the first time, my separation from that environment felt real. The next time I saw Marty Kushman, we’d probably only wave to each other. Soon, a distant nod of recognition. You can do that. You can walk out of your life and make yourself a stranger to everything you know.

“So is it?” Sara was asking. “Going well?”

“Looks like we’re going to get a deal with MCA.”

“Are you serious?” I knew she’d bet against it privately. “That’s amazing, Teddy. Really.”

“Thanks.” I looked at her. “So, how do you feel? About this, I mean.”

“I’m really happy for you.”

“Yeah, but how do you feel about it . . . for you?”

“I’m really happy for you,” she repeated, tossing her coffee cup into a nearby trash can.

“You know I’m not going anywhere. Right?”

She smiled and gripped the front of my jacket with both hands. “Aren’t you cold?”

I took my hands out of my pockets and rested them on her hips. Her narrow back felt small in my hands. “The last time I did this, I was a lot younger and was married to someone I didn’t love. Basically, I had nothing to lose.”

She planted her cold lips on my cheek, a look of calm settling on her every feature.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m losing you,” I said. It was, of course, an unfair charge, as I was the one upending our lives. “Am I losing you, Sara?”

“You’re panicking, Teddy. Change is scary, even when you’ve been trying to bring it on.”

I stared into her. “Am I losing you?”

She threw her hands onto my shoulders. The concourse could’ve been a high school gym and we a pair of seniors swaying to a Bryan Adams ballad. “Let’s not be afraid of each other,” she said. “Let’s not be afraid of what each of us wants.”

“I don’t know what that means.” This had become the night of evasive responses, of worrisome ambiguities, of nonanswers. Sara, Sonny—everybody was going out of their way to say things that were just shy of what they meant.

But she’d already grabbed my hand and had begun guiding me toward the automatic doors.

Outside the station, the only sound to be heard was the flapping of flags high up on the stately facade. Despite the hour, we decided to walk, and as we made our way down the street, there would be no discussion of the goings-on at the Mirabelle Plum or what scale of havoc the album and a tour would wreak on us. There would be no questions about what Sara was doing awake at this hour, or how it was that she was sufficiently collected to meet me at the train station. Not tonight. Tonight, we would just be two people walking home in the thick, roiling unrest of living our lives.

CHAPTER 25

T
here was nothing from Sonny in my inbox the next day. Nor did he return the desperation-stenched voice mail I left for him the following afternoon. An e-mail I sent a few days later likewise went unanswered. One would expect more from me. I was on the cusp of accomplishing something unthinkable for someone of my ilk, age, and station in life, and yet Sonny’s parting benediction had reduced me to an insomniac.

All day and for vast stretches of the night I’d catch myself poring over the producer’s cryptic words with all my bleak imaginings. What was it about the record that he needed to share with me on his way out of the restaurant? One could only speculate, and the sleepless nights provided a near endless canvas upon which to cast those speculations. MCA only likes it enough to put it out on cassette, but don’t worry—most people still have tape decks. Or, We’re gonna redo the vocals in German, since your only fans seem to reside in the Swiss Alps. Or, Those demonic voices you hear when you play the last track backward, that’s actually the devil. For real. It’s him.

But as the days came and went, the leviathan eventually loosened its grip around my neck. I tried to rekindle the optimism on display at the Plum and assured myself that if there was something I truly
needed to know about this record, I’d know it. Sonny was a lot of things, but shy he was not. Maybe this thing seemed hotly crucial to him at the time, but its importance eroded as the days wore on. The curiosity still hounded me, but the notion that Sonny held some perilous piece of news that was going to derail my life gradually dissipated. Evolution, man, evolution.

The train’s four cars were dense with passengers on the midday climb up the Northeast Corridor. I was on my way to New York to convene with the band at Alaina’s office on a number of agenda items. Warren boarded in Trenton and met me in my car. In a striped brown sweater—something Charlie Brown might wear if he ever moved to SoHo—he took the seat across from me and tapped a manila folder on his slacks.

“You like any of these?” he asked, frowning.

I opened up my own folder of cover art mock-ups that had trickled down from Colin to Alaina and finally to the lowly band members, whose opinions counted the least. As I sat there on the train and tried to like them better, Warren seemed to grow increasingly disturbed by them, leafing spiritlessly through the dozen or so glossy printouts and muttering, “I mean, you know . . . right?”

“So, tell her,” I said. “It’s your band too.”

Warren’s cultured sensibilities as a teacher of art were clearly offended. “Look at this homage to Thomas Kinkade.” He held up an oil painting of some Middle Earth meadow with a stone cottage under a tree, windows glowing as dusk settled over a sweet little hamlet. “Fairport Convention must have a new album coming out and we got sent their pile by mistake. Is this what they think of us?”