Nine Volt Heart (40 page)

JASON

W
HEN SHE CLOSED THE door—slamming
it for what I hoped was the last time that I would hear—Karl burst out in
dismay.

“No offense to your joyous reunion, but how the hell can you
get back in bed with Ephraim?”

Ephraim and I stared at each other, feeling out what this
might be.

“I gave Ephraim a hint about the phone bill, since I figured
that I’m not the only naïve guy in the world. Is that about right, Ephraim?”

He nodded. “Unlike you, Jason, I rather expected that she
would entertain other bed partners. I can accept that.”

“Oh, yuck.”

“When you’re my age, Jason, fidelity might look different to
you.”

“Nope, I don’t think so. We aren’t wired the same. I believe
I’ll still draw the same firm line.”

“In my case, I draw the line on a partner sleeping with
other recording companies. However, I don’t believe that Dominique’s last
scouting trip resulted in everything she desired. I’m sure that granting her
freedom from the contract won’t please her the way it would please Jason if I’d
flipped the other way and let him off the hook.”

“Um—” I felt like hugging him. It seemed like a long time
since there had been anything good news.

“We’re digressing from our discussion of your work, Jason.
Rumor has it that you are working your ass off, cleaning up your live work.
Show me what else you have.”

I took a breath, gathering the courage to begin. Karl put
his hand on my shoulder again, which buoyed me. I put three more CDs on the
table.

“There is a long CD of older material, live and studio, from
before I met Dominique. It’s clean and ready to release, or will be in just a
few more days. No one owns rights to any of the songs except me, Ian for two
instrumentals, and Beau for the tracks where we covered Lost Sons’ material.
This music beats anyone else’s garage band anywhere. It is not too alternative,
so it will appeal to more than a handful of interested listeners. Stoneway’s
new listeners from
Woman at the Well
will like it as
much as our old fans. The live work will earn money for the new label. That
will be the last of any new work by Stoneway. As we agreed yesterday, after
this summer’s tour, there is no Stoneway.”

I managed to mean it, and found I was ready to say goodbye
to Stoneway, since no one else would be taking the name.

“What about the Jason Taylor Band?”

“We have this other collection—we call it backporch
music—that a reasonable number of people will want to hear. It is mostly
acoustic, and it is either old-time mountain music or songs of mine.”

Ephraim nodded. “If this was where you’re stopping, I’d warn
you against it, but I heard you play last week, so I want to know what’s on
this one.” He tapped the edge of the final CD.

“It’s the next logical step after the
He
Said
material.”

“What we heard at the Showbox last week?”

“And beyond. I need two more tracks. The others are done and
set. I have the songs. We just haven’t finished the arrangements.”

“Susanna Childs sings on all of them?”

“Five of them,” I said. “Not the final two. She’s a guest of
the band. She is not a member.”

Karl let out a breath again, as if he’d been kicked.
Ephraim, still playing poker with me, just nodded.

“This is goodness,” he said. “Are you bringing this as an
artist who wants to sign with my brother’s label, or are these chits for
re-signing with Albion Records? Mind you, Albion will make you take your backporch
music and peddle it on the Internet, and my brother’s label won’t take you
without all three discs.”

“Karl knows what I want because I asked him to make
overtures. As soon as Albion Records accepts
He Said
,
I want to sign with Rama Jam.” I named a label that, like Subpop and Hightone,
works for artists and does right by them. “Rama Jam has done an excellent job
of figuring out an Internet business model.”

Ephraim laughed. “I didn’t know you understood the term
‘business model,’ Jason. Have you talked with my brother personally?”

“Listen to me. I don’t want to shop around. I don’t want to
be romanced by your fellow sharks. I’m going to focus on Rama Jam, because I like
how they do business.”

“Rama Jam is my brother’s label.”

Yikes.

“Ephraim—”

“You couldn’t know. He hates my father—his stepfather—so he
never mentions it. Will you work with me? Why don’t you consider coming to Rama
as an investor, too? That’s where I’m putting all the money you made for me.”

“Partner with you?”

“You are a better judge of others’ talent than most A&R
guys in the trenches, when you let your guard down and speak your opinion out
loud.”

“Jason’s capital is tied up, for the most part,” Karl said.
“Though I wish I knew who I was negotiating with about what right now.”

Ephraim watched as I tried to find firm ground. “Partner
with the label,” I repeated, stupidly.

“What can you bring besides this material? Your royalties?
You have the Lost Sons catalog, which I know my brother lusts after. Re-issuing
that catalog could be lucrative, with the right promotion.”

“I don’t have the catalog anymore.”

“Oh screw, Jason. Who did you sell to? Is it too late?”

“Susi’s father has it.” It made me smile to think about it.
“You know, Chas Neville is the perfect person to work with. He’s smart and
informed. He’s been chasing down rights to other old material as a hobby.”

“What about your royalties from
Woman at
the Well
?”

“I gave the songwriting royalties over to an institute that
trains young musicians in roots music.”

“Your girlfriend’s gig?”

“She is, unfortunately, not my girlfriend, but yes. Her
nonprofit holds my share in future earnings.”

Karl had his head in his hands, but Ephraim was laughing.
“Dominique is going to love auditing royalty statements. This will be a thorn
in her side for the next twenty-five years. Who do we contact to start
negotiating for the Lost Sons catalog?”

“Probably Chas himself.”

“Do you want to do this, Jason? Can you work with me?”

I held out my hand to shake Ephraim’s, like grownups do.

“You’ve been right all along,” I said. “I want the Jason
Taylor Band to succeed in every way possible. A small crowd of devoted fans
won’t be enough. I need partners I can trust, and I can’t shop for that among strangers.
I realized this morning that you and Karl are the only people I know well
enough to trust.”

“When did you decide to trust me?” Ephraim said.

“Ian made me listen. And Susi.”

“What did Susi say?”

“Besides goodbye? She said you were trying to keep me from
hurting myself, the same as you’ve been saying. As things go right now, that
sounds about perfect. Also, I finally heard what you were saying, that you
tried to take care of business when I lost it over Beau. I was a basket case
for most of last year, and everything I have in the world right now I owe to
you and Karl for taking care of my business.”

Karl laid a yellow pad on the table. “Shall I take notes and
prepare an agreement? Do you need to bring in an attorney, Ephraim?”

“I am an attorney. How do you think I survived this long,
swimming with you sharks?” Ephraim said. “Why don’t we go to lunch and beat out
details while we eat? Are you really Jason’s business manager? What do you know
about the business?”

Karl said, “I hope there’s a cram course at night school so
I can catch up on the details. When I last managed anything for the band, it
was as roadie ten years ago.”

“That is too modest. Karl helped Beau get back the rights to
the Lost Sons catalog,” I said. “That experience is worth a lot to us. The way
I see it, there are two kinds of work to discuss: the band and the label. For
my interests, I would like Karl to represent the band and Ephraim the label. Is
that a good starting place?”

When the three of us stepped into the elevator, Karl—damn
his eyes—said, “So if Ephraim is going to be your partner, are you going to
tell him about the stolen tapes while he’s still the Albion rep?”

Watching Ephraim blink, and having mastered false bravado
that morning, I said, “Since we don’t have to spend the next two weeks
recording with Dominique, there is no reason why he should be concerned about
what it takes us to deliver the final masters.”

I smiled at Ephraim for the first time in over a year, and
he decided not to have a coronary.

We spent almost three hours at lunch, sitting in a sports
bar on Lake Union, with TV news blaring in the background. They could make
veggie burgers, which is another benefit of living in Seattle again. Just when
the time came to meet Ian and the others at Temple Bell, the local news showed
close-ups of Dominique in plastic handcuffs, with Quentin Henderson trying to
be sure his face also got on camera.

SUSI

I
DIDN’T SLEEP AT ALL.

I know I did the right thing in closing the door on Jason. Yet
the right thing should make it possible to put one’s head on a pillow, close
one’s eyes, and drift off to the land of Nod. I re-read everything I had
scribbled in my mental health journal, which was like reading a precise history
of self-deceit. As humiliating as it was to review, I could at least take
comfort in knowing that there was a modest sort of integrity I could claim: I
only lied to myself.

I went running at dawn, pounding pavement, hoping that it
would pound out of me whatever had taken away my self-assurance. I came back
throbbing from the run, but never emptied my mind. Showering, dressing for
work, making my lunch—it was all too mechanical to be diverting.

The truth flashed before me every moment: I’d tried to
venture into the world, but I had done so in a cowardly, half-hearted way.
However much I might privately decry Jason’s arrogant wrong-headedness, I had
hurt him.

Since my boss had made it clear that my every action would
be watched, I vowed to perform each act with scrupulous attention to all the
rules, both overt and covert. My attendance sheets would be one hundred percent
accurate, though I’m sure that in the final weeks of school, I’d be the only
member of the faculty still doing that to the seniors. All student papers would
come back marked in detail the day after being turned in for grading. Every
class would follow the day’s lesson plan rigidly, with no time out for detours
of thought or inspiration. An observer would be able to walk into my classroom
at any moment and find a model classroom of calm decorum and the orderly
progression of tuition. An atmosphere in which no learning could possibly be
taking place.

“Everyone read about you and Jason Taylor on the Internet,”
Jamie Clayton said after fourth-period voice class. “We have a bet that the principal
can’t stand that you’re more famous and important than he is. So we’re
supporting what you’re doing, Miss Neville. We know what’s happening.”

I did not take comfort in that.

Asking what the Internet said about me was more than I could
do. Looking for myself? The idea was out of the question. I had to believe that
if it were bad, my brother Steven would tell me, since he lives on the
Internet. Wasn’t the Internet the well-spring of hideous rumors? I hear them
from students all the time:

 
You can give yourself CPR by coughing during a heart attack.

J.F.K. standing in Berlin claimed to be a jelly donut.

The rock formation on Mars is a model of a human face made
by extraterrestrials.

Ironing your mail will kill anthrax spores.
 

Perhaps ironing my email would kill the spores of hatred and
vexation that I received every day. I didn’t need to browse the Internet for
bad news, for I had Randolph to appear just at the start of lunch period.

“I’m so sorry, Susi.” He looked like someone died. “The
foundation has rejected your grant.”

“I’m sure you’re really broken up about it, Randolph.” Of
all things, this was not a surprise. Rather than an announcement of a death, it
was only a statement that the internment was complete. Alas! Poor Yorick, and
all the rest of the graveyard scene.

“Susi, you didn’t used to be so cynical. Your new friends
have not been a good influence.”

“I don’t have new friends. All I have is teaching, Randolph.
It’s my entire life.”

“If you’re coming back to the real world, Susi, you know
that I’m always right here for you.”

“The real world?” Perhaps it was lack of sleep, but the idea
of Randolph representing the real world struck me as ludicrous. I laughed
aloud.

“Shall we have lunch together, Susi?” He ignored my
outburst, but he has always ignored anything to do with the real world that I
live in. Or wanted to live in.

“No, thank you. I brought my lunch. I’m going to get it from
my car and eat it in the courtyard with the students.”

“I’ll walk out with you.”

“That is so thoughtful.” It wasn’t his fault. Still, I
wanted to rake my nails across his flesh anyway. I took the faxed rejection
letter from his hand, folded it into a square, and tucked it into my pocket
with my car keys.

In the courtyard, a local news station was filming an
interview with several students and Hector Henderson, so the whole area was
clogged with students. Even the ones usually out smoking behind the gym were
there.

“It’s the jazz band,” Randolph said. “Prescott fielded state
champions for the first time in ten years.”

I tried to spot among his students which of them were the
leaders who, like Jason, had pulled or pushed the rest of them to a
championship. I couldn’t quite tell. Jeremy Simpson stood among the students,
talking into the TV microphone, but the reporter could have selected him
because he was the best looking member of the jazz band. That sad-sack
newspaper friend of Arlo’s stood with the other reporters, taking notes. Chastity
Keller hung at the far edge of the knot of students, the blankest possible
expression on her face, blank enough to frighten me.

“You!”

A hand on my shoulder half spun me around.

“You bitch!” A hand slapped me before I saw who it was. For
the second time in a murderously long week. “I don’t care if you fuck my
bastard husband, but don’t you dare fuck with my boyfriend. I still need him.
You are not taking everything I’ve worked for!”

When the sting subsided enough that I could see, it was a
tall, auburn-haired Fury who must be Jason’s wife. She was one of the most
beautiful people I’d ever seen, but she was also more stunningly angry than
should be possible for a human. What else could I see? The thrilled faces of
three dozen students turned on us, with a camera in the midst.

“Let’s step away from here,” I pleaded, wrenching away and
sprinting for the parking lot. Surely the burden of the camera set-up would
delay their following, if indeed a mere cat fight interested Channel Four News.

“Come back, you little bitch!”

I stopped where she’d parked her car—students at this school
also drive Porsches, but they weren’t allowed to park them in the faculty/guest
lot. Hers ticked, cooling alongside my modest Corolla. That pretty much
described the baseline differences between us. She was like a thoroughbred
racehorse against my Welsh pony. One absurd thought crossed my mind as she came
toward me: How could Jason choose me? Then the next thought: But he did.

“He chose me,” I said aloud, though I shouldn’t have. This
angry person needed pacification.

“You lying bitch! You made Ephraim throw me out. I need one
more album with the band. You’re stealing my place. Why would he choose a
nobody like you?”

“For several good reasons,” Angelia said. “For one, she can
sing.”

Angelia stood with Cynthia and Arlo at her side, and for
once I took comfort in Cynthia’s girl-with-a-razor-in-her-shoe demeanor.

Dominique sniffed at Angelia. “Who are you? You’re nobody,
too.”

“I’m in the band. You’re not.”

Cynthia said, “On one side we have you, playing bitch
goddess. On the other, the band is playing music. The two don’t exist in the
same universe.”

Behind us, the cameraman and Arlo’s newspaper friend had
emerged from the courtyard, and the principal and Hector Henderson loped
alongside, arguing against the change of focus.

“I’m leaving,” I said. “No good can come of this fracas.”

I had my car key in my hand, prepared to do just what I
said, when Dominique advanced on Cynthia and I found myself tossed aside in the
clash between the two battling goddesses. As I fell, my key raked down the side
of her car.

Dominique shrieked as the camera focused on us. “You bitch!
You fucking bitch!”

“Not very original,” Cynthia remarked. “Those aren’t lyrics
that Stoneway could ever use. Perhaps you could join a punk band. Though as
Ryan Adams pointed out, you would have to be able to sing.”

Just as Dominique chose to slap Cynthia, who could hold her
own, blue lights flashed and a Seattle patrol car whipped into the lot.

While the officers approached, Zak walked up from the other
side, looking around before recognizing us. He exchanged a hippie-like
handshake with Arlo, who repeated his usual spacey greetings.

“I thought you were playing music, man.”

Zak said, “Jason canceled the morning session. We aren’t
playing until later. Maybe you can give me a ride back.”

Randolph stepped up, moving into the bullying posture he
used with the boys when he prepared to administer discipline. “You no longer
have business here, Mr. Lukas. You withdrew from school, which makes your
presence here trespassing.”

“I came to empty my effing locker. You were always the king
of assholes, Randolph. It is the one true thing my mother said.”

“I don’t have to tolerate such language from you, young
man.”

“There isn’t a person standing here who can’t recognize a
flaming asshole when the light from the flame is shining right in their faces.”

A murmur rippled through the students, like the famous Wave
cheer.

“People here can’t speak up, but I can.” Zak turned to the
crowd of students. “Seize the day, like you learned in Miss Neville’s class. Declare
freedom from the tyranny of assholes!”

“Officer, we’d like you to remove these trespassers from the
school. It is distracting and dangerous to our students.”

“Oh stuff it, Randolph,” I said. “The police aren’t going to
get you out of this. Zak, can you please leave? I don’t need your mother
raining hellfire down on me again.”

Once I spoke, attention turned back on me.

Dominique said, “Arrest her! She vandalized my car.”

“She fell,” Cynthia said, “because your big butt pushed
her.”

Dominique didn’t have a big bottom at all, but it was an
obscenity-free insult, and some hideous devil called forth joy in me, because
that line might make it on the evening news, unlike anything else that had been
said so far.

A second squad car came, and the four officers divided us
up, asking each of us for identification.

The officer questioning me stood close by, looking at the
picture on my school identity badge, asking if there was anything with my
address inside the car. While I fetched papers from inside my car, Arlo and Zak
looked in the back window—standing far too close to the officer who had already
asked them twice to step back.

“Frickin’ hell, Susi, that’s the box of Jason’s stolen
tapes.”

Zak gestured at a box in the backseat, which I know wasn’t
there when I parked the car. I was distracted, because Zak had taken to using
Jason’s pet expletive.

“Susi has the stolen tapes?” Angelia said.

“What tapes?” I asked, but the policeman had already focused
on the word “stolen,” and the whole conversation took a left turn.

“Ma’am, I need you to unlock all the doors and open the
trunk.”

“I didn’t steal anything.” I bent my head to open the door
for him. “Oh, it isn’t locked.”

Cynthia said, “She couldn’t steal anything. She pretends to
be a goody-goody type, but she’s just chicken-shit.”

“I am not,” I said.

“You’re scared of Jason.”

“I am not.”

“Ladies, can it,” one of the officers demanded. A third was
taking a guitar case from the trunk of my car.

“Hello!” he said. “This is that guy’s guitar that Lee Page
was all over us to help find. Look, it says Beau Rufus on the case.”

The officer at my elbow said, “Ma’am, I’m going to have to
ask you to step over to the squad car with me.”

“She didn’t steal it,” Zak said. “I put it in there when we
were rehearsing at her house. Weeks ago.”

“Then if you’ll both step over here, please.”

“She vandalized my car,” Dominique said, after staying quiet
for several moments.

“Take a leap at the moon, Dominique,” Cynthia said. “Call
your insurance agent. Maybe he can also find you a spot in a half-rate band,
one that auditions for free snatch instead of talent.”

Dominique slapped her, hard enough that Cynthia fell back
against one of the officers, who toppled too, landing at the feet of the
cameraman, who panned down and then back to the rest of us.

“How could Jason Taylor ever sleep with you, you silly
twit?” I knew I’d weep later for having said it aloud.

“Fuckin’ A,” Arlo said.