The Last Goodbye (17 page)

Come to St. Louis
, she had said.
We'll be friends.

I looked at my watch; it was two-forty, which would give me just enough time to get to the plane, if I completely lost my mind.

I completely lost my mind.

THE HORIZN JET WAS
a polished, black Grumman that looked every penny the seven million or so it cost. The Horizn insignia, a white, artistic
H
on a red background, was emblazoned on the tail. I parked at Brown Field, a private airfield in northwest Atlanta. I locked up—a superfluous act, considering the gated, twenty-four-hour security intended for the luxury cars surrounding my aged Buick—and walked across the street to the reception area. As soon as I opened the door, I saw her.

Michele was sitting in the office alone, dressed down so far only someone fabulously wealthy could pull it off. Her jeans were tattered, and she wore a simple orange cotton shirt, loosely hanging on her trim body. She looked up when I came in, and her smile almost melted me where I stood. She kissed me, her lips soft and warm on my cheek. We walked to the plane together, and boarded.

A private Grumman jet is one way to measure the distance between the merely rich and the seriously rich. People who shop in this price range consider commercial first-class to be an insult to their tastes. They spend hours with the aircraft interior designer, making important decisions like whether they want the bathroom fixtures to be gold or titanium. Thanks to the fortunes of Horizn Industries, this was the world Michele inhabited.

Michele was chatty for the first part of the flight, almost girlish. She smiled and poured us both some champagne, then leaned back to watch the north Georgia mountains flow by underneath us. It was so comfortable, it was as if Charles Ralston didn't exist. But he did exist, no matter what kind of arrangement there was between the two of them. “I've been thinking,” I said. “It's a great thing, what you did. You shouldn't play it down. Coming from where you came from, and making something of yourself.”

She set down her glass, looking mildly irritated. “You would say that.”

“What does that mean?”

She sighed. “It's the black thing.”

“Which black thing is that?”

“The one where white people decide which pretty black girl gets to be the house nigger.”

I looked at her, surprised. “Maybe you can break that down for me.”

“You know I went to New York. I met some people, ended up across the river, in New Jersey. Elizabeth.”

“Never been there.”

“East hell,” she said, her voice flat and detached. “There's a big Portuguese population there. It's not so bad. They take care of their own. But the black areas are something else.”

“So what happened?”

“I enrolled in high school. I was lonely, and school is a society.”

“Right.”

“There was a program that brought orchestras into the schools. Little groups would come a few times a year, like Care packages delivered to Somalia.”

“I guess if you're in Somalia you need the food,” I said quietly.

“I knew it wouldn't make sense to you.”

“I thought we weren't going to get into the white and black thing.”

“I know. It's just that. . . why don't we have our own, you know? You get tired of being on the receiving end of all that. We could see them looking around at the school, feeling pity for us. Brave little smiles, like we were hospital patients. It makes you feel worse than before.” She looked past me, drawn back into her memory. “But the music. For as long as the music played, it didn't matter where I was. Nothing mattered. Just the notes, the sound. Most of the kids didn't even listen. I crept up to the front, like I was in a trance. I had never seen or heard anything like that in my life.”

“Was there singing?”

“Yes. I don't know if she was any good. It's been too long, and I was too easily impressed. But she was beautiful, in a glamorous costume. I watched her for a long time, even before she sang. The way she sat, her legs crossed just so, her back as straight as a ruler. She was smiling at us, and I thought she must know everything in the world. Finally, she stood up and walked to the center of the stage. I was awestruck.”

“Like you make people now.”

She smiled. “I suppose.”

“So what happened?”

“It was only a little chamber group, ten or twelve players. She started singing something in French.
French.
I didn't know much, but I knew I wasn't supposed to like it. It was European. One thing was made clear to me. If things were old and from Europe, they were the enemy.” She paused. “Which was a terrible problem, because I thought it was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.”

“So what did you do?”

Her expression darkened. “I started listening to more of it. But not like a student, like a little child. They had everything in the public library.
Everything.
I listened and listened and mimicked. I had no idea if I was any good. I kept it hidden. But it was burning a hole in me.”

“How long did this go on?”

“A couple of years. I was singing constantly, learning repertoire, although I didn't even know the words. A few times I sang out loud to my friends. They laughed, or worse. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I had to find people who were like me.”

“And?”

“I knew nothing, you understand? All I knew was that people sang at Lincoln Center. One day I worked up my courage, rode a bus there. I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe I expected opera singers to be standing around in costume, singing to each other. But I wandered into the Juilliard School and walked around the halls in a daze. I could hear the music coming from behind the closed doors. I felt like running up and down the halls, just to hear all the different things.”

“What happened?”

“I was there a long time, three or four hours. I was afraid I'd get thrown out. I kept ducking away when somebody came by who looked like they wouldn't approve. But finally, a door opened right in front of me, and I couldn't get out of the way. A woman came out of the room and nearly ran over me. I remember looking around her into her studio, which was crammed with books and a piano and little works of art. It looked like heaven.”

“What did you do?”

“I froze. She looked at me a second and said, ‘Are you lost?'” Michele turned and stared out the Grumman's window, lost in her memory. “I couldn't speak,” she said. “The woman was just about to walk off when I managed to say, ‘Yes, ma'am. I'm lost.'” Michele looked back at me, brushing off the awkwardness with a smile. “She was kind,” she said. “I told her about the singer at my school and about going to the library every day. I told her my favorite arias and that I'd been singing with the recordings. Maybe it was impressive to her, maybe not. After all, she was at Juilliard, and there's no lack of precocious children there. It was something else that made her help me.”

“Which was?”

“I said I knew I was supposed to hate her, but I didn't.” Michele looked back out the window. “She looked like she wanted to cry.”

“Did she agree to teach you?”

Michele drained her glass of champagne. “That's right, Jack. She said I could come up and live in the big house, with the Massah.”

“You'll forgive me for calling that attitude a little ungrateful.”

“I told you, you can't understand.”

“You know, Michele, I can't decide if it's the fact that you get paid a fortune to sing Mozart or the private jet that makes me feel more sorry for you. I'll have to get back to you on that one.”

Her eyes flashed. “I've banished men for less than that.”

“Tell it to somebody who isn't on a first-name basis with every bail bondsman in midtown Atlanta.”

She stared a second, then burst out laughing. “If you aren't going to respond to white guilt, you're really going to piss me off.”

I shrugged. “I've heard it all. I'm inoculated. Now tell how you ended up here.”

She smiled and leaned over to kiss my cheek. “You don't scare easily. I like that.”

She was wrong about that, although she didn't know it. What was scaring me was how much I wanted to kiss her. It was taking an act of will not to cover her impeccable lips with my own.

“I came every Tuesday for a while,” she said, “and then we added Thursday, and finally, I was there practically every day. It took a long time for me to figure out what she realized the first time she heard me.”

“Which was?”

Her voice dropped. “That no matter what song I'm singing, I'm always singing my own life.”

I smiled. “Just like Johnny Cash. That's the secret to his success, I've always thought.”

She looked up in horror. “God, Jack.”

“If you disrespect the man in black, I'll throw you right off this plane.”

She shook her head. “Okay, Jack. It's just like Johnny Cash, only in Italian, in an Elizabethan costume. Fine.”

“How did you end up back in Atlanta?”

“That was my husband,” she said. “If you're black and ambitious, Atlanta is the center of the universe. It doesn't hurt that the workforce is cheaper.” She turned to stare out the window; the mention of Ralston seemed to bring her down. “I need to rest my voice, if that's all right,” she said. “I'm going to try and get a little sleep.”

We flew on in silence, the plane arrowing its way over Nashville, then turning northwest to St. Louis. Michele closed her eyes, although I didn't know if she was sleeping. Time crept by and I watched her doze, wondering again if I had made the right decision in coming. Her face while sleeping was troubled, as though her dreams were haunted by her awful memories.

We landed at Spirit of St. Louis, a small airfield in suburban St. Louis just off the Missouri River. This was the lowlands, an airstrip dug out of the mud and fecund soil of the delta. The plane taxied up to a limousine already parked out on the tarmac. The man I had seen escorting Michele around at the party and at the Fox Theater got out and stood by the car, watching the plane creep up to a stop about a hundred feet away. The engines spooled down, the whine slowly settling into silence. “Who's that?” I asked.

“Bob Trammel,” Michele answered. “He comes early and advances the dates for me. Makes sure everything's ready, that kind of thing.”

I peered out the small window of the Grumman. Trammel was early forties, about five-ten, compact build, with coal-black hair combed straight back. Like the last time I saw him, he was smoking. The pilot came back through the seating area, unlocked the door, and pushed the small gangway down toward the pavement. I could see Trammel moving toward the plane, his expression bored. Michele appeared in the doorway first; before she had descended, Trammel spotted me behind her. His face turned unpleasant. While we were still out of earshot I asked, “Been with you long, this guy Trammel?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “He's Charles's idea. He's been good, though. Very efficient.”

We walked down to the pavement, one of the pilots bringing Michele's bag down with him. Michele walked up to Trammel, and whether or not he came from Horizn, she definitely acted in charge.

I don't know anything about opera, but like everybody, I'd heard the word “Diva.” In the ten seconds between getting off the plane and walking over to the car, Michele took on the persona in toto. In those few steps, she seemed to stand up taller, back erect, chin a good inch higher. She didn't even bother to introduce me to Trammel. “Get the bags, will you, Bob?” she asked, without looking at him. The car door was open, and she slid in—but only after she took my hand and pulled me in after her. It was a surprise then, feeling her skin against mine. She was utterly in control; I'd never seen a woman exercise that kind of effortless authority. At least in this world, she reigned supreme.

I heard Trammel shut the trunk, and he came around and took the front seat of the Town Car. “Good flight?” he asked. He was watching me in the rearview mirror, trying to make me.

“Have you spoken to Colin?” Michele asked, ignoring his question.

Trammel nodded. “He made the changes. No problem.”

I turned toward Michele. “Colin?”

“Colin Timberlake. Artistic director. Such a brilliant man. He uses a baton like a hammer, but there it is.” She turned and looked out as an unattractive, industrial part of St. Louis passed by the window. I could feel her withdrawing, preparing inwardly for the performance. If I had imagined some kind of intimate experience on the trip, I had been mistaken; from the second we touched down, Michele was all business. In a few hours she would be taking on a completely different persona, risking her career against another night of brilliance.

Michele stayed within herself for the rest of the drive to Webster University, where the Loretto-Hilton Center was located. We pulled up to the hall, which was quite a bit smaller than the Fox. But it was beautiful, surrounded with extravagant flowers and perfectly manicured greenery. “Nice place,” I said, getting out of the car.

“It's small and intimate,” Michele said. “Beautiful acoustics.” She began walking toward the stage door; I had started in just behind her when I felt a hand on my arm. It was Trammel.

“I know you,” he said quietly, pulling me back. “You were at the party in Atlanta. And again, backstage, the last night at the Fox.”

“Well, that's the long version. Most people just use my name. It's Jack.”

Trammel's eyes were narrow. “There's a great deal to accomplish right now,” he said. “I know you won't want to be in the way.”

“No,” I answered. “I wouldn't.”

“The green room's on the other side of the stage. There's Cokes and fruit and things. Wait there.”