Authors: Tracey Ward
Swan Song (18 page)
Drew’s apartment is a surprise. It’s in a nondescript neighborhood that I feel both a little nervous in but also comfortable. It doesn’t make any sense, but it’s riding this fine line between poverty and middle class. Once we’re inside, though, it’s a completely different story. He doesn’t have much there at all. It looks like a sparse hotel room with a couch that folds out into a bed, a gorgeous, gleaming coffee table, a matching bookshelf, and a small radio. There’s a closet that probably has a dresser in it, but for the most part the apartment looks unlived in. His kitchen is spotless, every surface bare, including the sink. I’m scared to look inside his icebox and find that there’s no food at all. That this man doesn’t eat, drink, or exist when no one is looking, but I suppose that’s the point. There’s nothing here to lead anyone to him in any way. If I tossed the place, I’d never find an address for a favorite restaurant. No numbers for any women, no photos of any family. Nothing.
He’s a ghost because he has to be. Because that’s the job, and Andrew “Birdy” Tyannikov is very, very good at his job.
“No one knows my last name,” he tells me when I point that fact out. “You’re the only one.”
“And telling Rob your name is Andy instead of Drew?”
“It
is
Andy.”
“I’ve never heard anyone call you that.”
“You’ve never heard anyone call me anything but Birdy.”
“Why do they call you that?”
He pauses in the kitchen where he’s getting me a glass of water. He helped me get out of my vomit sprayed dress when I got here, turning his back like a gentleman as I stripped down to nothing and put on his soft cotton bathrobe. I immediately excused myself to the bathroom with his mouthwash and swished the harsh liquid until I couldn’t feel the grit of my shame on my teeth anymore. Now I’m sprawled out on the couch with strict instructions not to move. I’m not fighting him.
“I warned you. You don’t want to know.”
“No, I think you told me that
you
didn’t want me to know.”
“And it’s still true.” He clears his throat. “I can’t find any crackers, I’m sorry. I had planned on taking you out to dinner tonight, so I didn’t bother going to the grocers.”
“That’s alright. I’m sorry I ruined your plans.”
“You didn’t. They were more for you than for me.”
“Oh really? And where were you taking me?”
I see him smile in the harsh light of the bulb hanging in the kitchen, his scars and crooked features softening.
“The Cotton Club.”
I slap the pillow on my lap hard. “No!”
“Yes. I pulled some strings, called in a favor or two, and I had a table waiting for us. It probably still is.”
“Oh no,” I lament, but it’s not for me. It’s for him and the fact that he tried to do this wonderful, thoughtful thing for me and I ruined it.
I watch him move around the dark apartment with his coat off, his sleeves rolled up, and his broad shoulders testing the fabric of his stark white shirt, and I think how perfect he looks. How calm and at home. He brings me a glass of water, setting it on the small round table that gleams with a waxy shine, reflecting the single light from the kitchen.
“Drink this if you can,” he says, his deep voice hushed and full of gravel.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.
He shakes his head, sitting back on his heels to look me in the eye. “Don’t be.”
“I ruined your night. You went to all this trouble, all for nothing.”
“It wasn’t for nothing. It was for you.”
“And I ruined it.”
“Are you here with me?”
“Yes.”
Drew leans in and kisses me softly on the forehead. “Then my night is going pretty damn well.”
He goes to sit back, but I reach out and grab his shoulder to hold him in place. His face is above mine, his eyes unable to find my face and I need him to stay there. I can’t look at him as I say this because I have no idea what it will do to him or me, and I definitely don’t know what it will do to us, but it’s real and that’s always been the best thing about Drew and I. It’s the only thing that gives me hope.
“I’m pregnant,” I say clearly.
His arm stiffens under my hand and I grip it tighter, my heart full of fear and dread.
He takes a sharp breath, his voice coming out tight and level. “It’s why you’re sick?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Time served or left to go?”
“Served.”
“Maybe a month.”
He tries to sit back, but I pull him closer until my face is nearly touching his chest. He lets me hide from him and the tension in his arm under my hand loosens slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
A tear slips from my eye before I can stop it. It splashes on the pillow he so carefully laid under my head and soaks into the light fabric, turning it shades deeper with its touch until it’s a different color entirely.
I clear my throat to make sure it’s steady. “I didn’t know until after you’d left Chicago and I didn’t have a way to contact you.”
He sits motionless under my hand, and I wait for an eternity for him to speak. I don’t know exactly what I expect from him, and that’s the worst part. The waiting and the wondering. I’ve been worrying about this for weeks, ever since I found out myself, and I need an absolution. The stress is killing me inside.
“You can’t go back to Chicago.”
I push against him, shoving him back until he’s sitting on one knee on the floor, still towering over me where I lay on the couch. “What are you talking about?”
His eyes are steel, serious and set. “Don’t act surprised, Addy. You know you can’t go back.”
“Of course I can. Chicago is my home.”
“It’s where you live.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not,” he argues calmly. “What would you do in Chicago if you went back? Sing at the club? For how long?”
I sit up, biting the inside of my lip. He’s right. I wouldn’t last. The second I started to show, I’d be booted off the stage. Then what am I going to do? Dishes in the kitchen? Sweep up after we close? I could go back to work after the baby was born, but who would take care of it at night? Lucy would for now, but she’s getting married someday soon and Rosaline works the same hours I do. And do I want my baby in this life? Do I want to raise it with the possibility of Tommy banging on the door in the middle of the night with broken and bleeding men in tow, guns waving?
“I have to quit the club,” I admit morosely.
But am I really that sad about it? I’m not so sure. The feeling I get when I say it isn’t so much sadness as it is relief. A strange kind of euphoric lightness that buoys me up and brightens the lights in the room until I can see Drew clearly, watching me and grinning slightly.
“This kid is already doing me favors,” he says.
“What do I tell them? I can’t tell them I’m pregnant.”
His smile disappears. “You don’t tell them anything. You aren’t going back to Chicago.”
“Yes, I am,” I tell him adamantly. “I have to go back and say goodbye to Rosaline and everyone in the orchestra. I have to tell Ralph, I can’t just disappear. He’s done a lot for me. Besides, I don’t own much, but what is mine I’d like to keep. I have to go back to get it.” I shake my head, frowning. “And where am I going to live? Or do for money. No, I can’t leave Chicago. Not yet.”
He takes a seat on the other end of the couch, falling into shadow until I can barely make out his face. “You’ll live here and you’ll do nothing. I’ll take care of you. Both of you.”
I scowl at him, unable to express how much I dislike that idea. I’ve been responsible for myself since I was sixteen. The idea of being kept by a gangster – even if it’s a man I’m in love with – rubs me the wrong way. Always has. “I’ll find a job. I can do more than sing.”
“Like what, for instance?”
“I can waitress.”
“You can’t stand the smell of food right now.”
“I could work the switchboards for the phone company.”
“You ever done that before?”
“No, but I’m sure I could manage.”
“Without going stir crazy?”
“Why are you so against me taking care of myself?!” I demand, getting frustrated.
He doesn’t flinch. “Why are you so against
me
taking care of you?”
“Because I don’t want to be a moll kept in an apartment with a wailing kid while you spend nights at the clubs with other women, coming home at all hours when you feel like it and throwing cash my way to keep the lights on and the water hot, that’s why,” I snap. “I’ve seen it happen to so many women, and I swore it would never be me. I’ll never be a kept woman.”
“I love you, Addison,” he says plainly, unapologetically honest as always. “I don’t want you to stay with me because I want to keep you caged or keep you
kept
. I want you to stay with me because I love you and that’s my kid inside you. That makes you both my responsibility because I’m a man. Not a gangster. Not a gun. A flesh and blood man.”
“I know you’re a man, Drew,” I reply softly, surprised by his outburst. I’ve struck a nerve, or the baby has, and it’s then that I realize I’ve never heard him talk about his dad other than to say where he got his last name.
“Then treat me like one. Let me take care of what’s mine.”
I smile, sitting up on my knees and crawling slowly down the couch toward him. “I’m yours, huh?”
He doesn’t respond. He watches me with his sharp, glowing eyes, and I pull in close to him. I hover over his large body with mine and let my hair fall around his face, encasing both of us in shadow where he’s comfortable.
“Say it again,” I whisper down to him.
“You’re mine.”
“No,” I chuckle, kissing him softly once. “The other part. The sweet part.”
I feel him grin against my mouth as his hands take hold of my hips. “I love you.”
I open my legs, letting the robe fall apart at my waist as I straddle him. “Again.”
“I love you.”
I unbuckle his belt, pulling his pants open and freeing him. “Again,” I plead.
He lifts my hips to position me over him, then he’s sliding me down with a painful slowness that makes me arc and ache, my head falling against his as I whimper softly. “I love you,” he growls.
I rock back and forth, up and down, and it feels so good to be in control. He lets me have it. He lets me ride him and own him. I make him repeat those three words over and over again as I begin to sweat and tremble. They propel me forward, soothing my soul and erasing my worry with every utterance, because I believe him. I trust him.
I love him.
“Again,” I gasp, my body slipping away from me as I reach for my release.
He meets my eyes before he pulls down hard on my hips, slamming me to him and filling me to the brink of pain and possession. His fingers find my center and press down firmly and just like that, I find it. He finds it for me, gives it to me, and I’m nearly screaming his name as my body responds to him in every way.
“I fucking love you, Addy,” he tells me roughly.
I gasp and squirm, but he holds me still and makes me feel it. All of it. “I love you too,” I groan, long and low.
He moves inside me, letting me relax, giving me relief, then taking me to the edge again. “Stay with me.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“What?” I ask, struggling to focus.
He takes hold of my face and stills me, forcing me to meet his eyes. “How long will you stay?”
There’s something in his expression, in the shadows of his features and the bright scars on his face that come together in a perfect picture of pure clarity that tells me so much more about him than words ever could and probably ever will. He’s telling me something now that he’ll never say out loud and I may not understand all of it, but I understand enough. The sixteen year old kid standing in an empty, silent house slowly being covered in dust and darkness understands it very, very well.
“Forever, Drew,” I promise him. “I’ll stay with you forever.”
He pulls me against him and buries his face in my neck as he takes over. He rolls beneath me like waves and when he crashes, he takes me with him and holds me so hard it hurts, but I don’t complain. I run my hands over his head, kissing his temples and whispering words to him that remind me of home. Words my mother said to my father. Words that mean so much to me now because I finally understand them. I feel them.
I
know
them.
“Are you sure you’re feeling better?”
“Yes,” I laugh, hugging his arm as we walked down the street together. The lights of New York are bright and chaotic around me, pulling my attention forward, backward, sideways. Up and down. Everywhere. I’m sure I look like a tourist with my eyes wandering and devouring everything, but I don’t care. I’m in love. I’m drinking it all in and storing it away where I can remember it forever, because odds are that I’ll never be back here again. This is my chance, my
one
chance to taste something even close to my dream. A dream I’m learning to let go of. One I’m molding and making into something new, something I’d never thought of before.
Something real.
Drew suddenly pulls me down an ally and part of me is instantly afraid. It’s New York, it’s after three in the morning, and this doesn’t exactly look like the safest neighborhood to be in. I’ve asked Drew three times where we’re going but he’s refused to tell me. Finally I gave up and decided to enjoy the ride and the scenery. But now that the scenery is a dank ally, I’m less copacetic.
I hold his arm tighter and I remind myself who I’m with. This is Drew, yeah, sure, but it’s also Birdy and even though he’s on an evening stroll with his girl, he’s still packing heat. I saw it strapped to his chest when he put on his jacket, the bulge immediately blending under the dark wool fabric with the contours of his body as though it were made to be there. As though it were a natural, God given part of him.
He stops at a door at the back of a building and raps twice, pauses, then raps three more times. We wait only a minute before the door cracks open. Drew puts his face in the light for whoever is looking, and suddenly the door swings wide.
“You made it! You’re late,” a man scolds, thrusting out his thick, meaty hand for Drew to shake.
“We had a hiccup with wardrobe,” Drew explains.
The man tsks, shaking his head dramatically. “I know how you hate hiccups.”
“Sometimes they can’t be avoided.”
The man’s eyes fall on me and his smile falters for a half a second. “And sometimes,” he says quietly as he offers me his hand, “they are too beautiful to be angry at.”
I smile as I give him my hand and he kisses the back of it regally, his sausage sized fingers nearly blotting out my own. “Addy,” I introduce myself. “Nice to meet you.”
“Eugene, and, Adrian, it is my honor to meet you.”
“Easy,” Drew warns.
“She’s a gem, Andy! Too pretty for a sour face like yours.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Eugene laughs loudly. “Just pray she doesn’t!”
“I’d like to get her inside, it’s cold.”
“Of course, of course.” Eugene steps out of the way and lets us come into the dark hallway behind him. He closes the door, latches it, and motions for us to follow his massive frame as it lumbers toward the light. “The place is closed, of course, but you can show her the layout. Let her see the sights, smell the smells.”
“Where are we?” I ask, stepping around a mop and bucket blocking part of the hall.
Eugene glances over his shoulder at me. “He hasn’t told you?”
“No.”
“You’ll see,” he laughs. “I don’t want to ruin Andy’s big surprise.”
We exit the hallway and enter a dining room that reminds me instantly of the Cicero CC, and immediately my heart starts racing. It smells the same. The tables without the linens, the floors with the cleaning solution and the wax on them to dry overnight, the scent of pot and booze and perfume still hanging faintly in the air as though the place is remembering the night and the lights and the sounds. I spin around, searching, and then there it is at the edge of the darkness. The stage.
“Drew?” I ask hesitantly, an amazed smile spreading across my face. “Are we where I think we are?”
“Eugene!” he shouts in reply. “Hit the lights!”
The room echoes with a loud
snap
!, followed by the hum of lights coming to life, then it explodes with an unnatural glow and my shrine stand before me, golden and glittering. I release Drew, stepping toward the stage and putting my hand over my mouth in awe. It’s everything I thought it’d be. It’s more than the fuzzy snapshots had promise. It was elegant and ornate and larger than life itself, and I can’t even imagine what it would be like to be here on a night when the entertainers took the stage.
I turn to smile at Drew with all the gratitude and childlike excitement I have in my body. “This is the Harlem Cotton Club,” I whisper.
He nods, an amused grin on his lips. “I made you a promise.”
“And you made good on that promise.” I turn around and head for the stage, running my hands over the smooth, black surface. “Oh brother, did you make good.”
“Try it out.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m happy just to touch it.”
He laughs and I hear the clatter of chair legs hitting the floor as he takes a seat. “That’s how I felt the first time I stepped on the grass at Fenway.”
I look over my shoulder at him, not yet willing to relinquish my hold on the stage. “I thought you were a Yankees fan. Fenway is Boston.”
“I never said I was a Yankees fan.”
“Yes, you did. You told Rob—“
“I told Rob I get tickets to every single Yankee game. I never said I wanted them.”
“Then why buy them?”
He knocks out a cigarette, sitting back in his seat. “I don’t. They’re gifts.”
“Dare I ask why?” I ask, eyebrow cocked.
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“No. I don’t need to know.”
“That’s a shame,” he comments, releasing a white plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “It’s one of my few noble stories.”
“Tell it to me next Christmas over eggnog.”
“And whiskey?”
“I’d rather drink turpentine.”
“Quit stalling. Take the stage.”
I turn back to the black beast, running my hands over it lovingly. It’s bathed in the hot spotlight that feels so much bigger and brighter than the one at its Cicero sister’s house. Everything here feels bigger. More alive. Everything but me. I feel small standing at the foot of this stage, as though it’s a mountain to be climbed but I don’t think I brought the right gear. I’m not equipped for this. Maybe at one point I was, but not anymore.
“Can you ask Eugene to kill the lights?” I ask Drew.
“You don’t want the spotlight?”
“No.”
Drew snaps his fingers twice, shouts out to Eugene, and the lights go dead. He leaves on the dim row of clamshells burning at the foot of the stage, and I’m grateful for that. Without them I wouldn’t be able to find the edge. I’d walk right off into infinity, probably snapping my neck, and that is definitely not part of my dream.
As I take the steps up to the stage, I wonder for the fiftieth time in the last few days what it is that I really want. Is it Harlem? Is it the CC and my name in lights outside? Is it the Hudson and the Yankees and Broadway? Or is that all residual stardust in a young girl’s eyes, a girl I don’t even know anymore. Maybe it’s time for a new dream. One full of sickness in the morning that foretells sleepless nights in the future. Small hands with impossibly tiny fingers, raven hair, and shocking blue eyes. Is it the man in the smoke and the shadow that I can barely see, but I can
feel
like he’s standing right next to me? Is it something tangible, something real, something I already have in my hands and I’m risking it every second I don’t look at it and acknowledge it and do everything in my power to possess it? To protect it.
When I reach the center of the stage, I sing for Drew. I sing for me. I sing for our baby waiting in my belly, and I do it in the dark where no one else can hear, and it’s the most intimate, fulfilling moment of my life. I feel whole with my hand on my stomach and my heart in my throat, and I know this dream is done. When I leave here tonight, this star will snuff out. It will disappear from my sky, and that’s okay. It’s good, because once it’s gone the others will shine more brightly. I’ll see them more clearly and I’ll reach for them and strive for them the way I did for this.
Some of them I’ll reach, some of them I’ll lose sight of, and some of them I’ll steal from the sky to put in my pocket, keeping them with me forever.