Unforgettable (13 page)

Though every day she used almost all of what she’d learned from Mrs. Raguzzo, she hadn’t thought about the elderly woman in quite a while. She’d died five, no … at least ten years ago, not long after Rett had moved to L.A. She wished Mrs. Raguzzo could know that her hard work with Rett hadn’t gone to waste.

She stood just inside the club door. None of the people, including the owner, were familiar from the old days, but the rickety tables, the scarred bar and tiny stage were the same. She shook off the feeling of stepping into the past. Bad place to go, she warned herself. You have to dance with the past while you’re here, but you don’t have to take it home.

The club’s house band was kicking back with beers while they waited for her, but the five of them — all men — got down to business readily enough. They quickly agreed on a song list. Like the jazz group she’d sung with in New York, they were focused on the improvisation and musical rapport.

The unofficial leader, Dave Clark — no relation, he said quickly — wrote down the songs they chose on a bar napkin. Rett would never trust important information to a bar napkin again.

“We’ve been working on some killer solos and waiting for a vocalist — you willing to do ‘Me and Mrs. Jones’?”

Rett fluttered her eyelashes. “Mrs. Jones, yes. You — sorry.”

The other musicians snickered.

Dave grinned. “I guess that’s a yes — just wondered if you’d be up for singing about a hot affair with another woman. It’s not the same sung as ‘Mr. Jones.’ “

“If you think the audience won’t go Jerry Falwell on us, I’d love to sing it.” It was a bluesy, moody piece that worked into an all-out fever. Yes, she was in the mood for a song like that.

The bass player hissed air through his teeth and said, “This may be a rundown firetrap, but I’ll give it one thing. The people are here for the music.”

 "Great. You want to try a couple of numbers? I have to check into my motel and change, but that can wait an hour or two.”

Keyboards, bass, guitar, drums and sax. They were well-balanced, and Rett found a low, even tone that brought a smile to Dave’s face. They grooved through “You’ll Never Find” and “Fever,” then turned to “Me and Mrs. Jones.” The sax moaned and the bass player took the beat into definite pelvic regions. The keyboard and guitar teased each other while Rett sank into the mood of the song. Improvisation let her draw out “we got a thing goin’ on” so that all the emphasis was on “thing.” Her voice, husky and low, communicated that this “thing” was consuming and physical. She closed her eyes. Angel was there behind her lids, then Angel became Cinny and she let memories shade her phrasing and tone, holding back a little of the passion for the evening.

The song ended with a brush on the snare drum and Rett sighed.

“Oh, yeah,” the sax player said. “I knew with the right vocal that would be sweet.” The bartender looked approving, which was more than most bartenders ever conveyed.

They rehearsed a few more numbers, then Rett took her leave until later that evening. She checked into her motel and went in search of dinner. She was tempted by a Mexican restaurant off the freeway, but she doubted that it would compare to what she was used to on Olivera Street in L.A. When she’d left Minnesota the favorite spice was Miracle Whip.

She ended up at White Castle, a real trip down memory lane. The burgers and fries tasted just the same, with all the artery-clogging fat and grease she remembered packed into a Chiclet-sized burger. Delectable, even in small quantities — she didn’t want to get full. She had to take an antacid while she was dressing, but it was a small price to pay.

Having seen that the club was very much the same as it always had been, she felt perfectly comfortable in the jumpsuit she’d been planning to wear. The electric purple looked even better with the red highlights she’d decided to keep in her hair. She remembered Henry’s dresser’s comments about nobody looking at Marilyn Monroe’s stomach and left the zipper down a little bit lower than she normally would have. It was hard to sing sexy songs zipped up like a church organist.

With the owner’s permission she parked behind the club and let herself in the rear door. The club was still only half-full, but it wasn’t quite nine yet. The band was just fooling around as a way of warming up. The owner was affable and assured her that a friend from the Star Tribune was going to stop in to do a review.

Smoky, smelling of beer, sawdust and musty air-conditioning, the place did take Rett back. She didn’t, however, feel like a girl barely out of high school lying about her age to get a chance to sing. Confidence was a wonderful feeling. Only a few months ago, she had thought this sense of competence would elude her forever in spite of all her hard work. Now it seemed like she’d found Patti LaBelle’s “new attitude” — a sense of self that allowed her to deftly find and hold a sultrier stage presence than she was usually comfortable with.

The dim, filtered light added to the mood. They entered torch song territory with “Fever” and the first set climaxed with “Me and Mrs. Jones.” Rett found herself thinking about Angel again — it was that kind of thing goin’ on. Two meetings and both seething with desire. The jumpsuit felt too small; the lights were too hot. “Me and Missus, Missus, Missus Jones” became an “oh-whoa” moan and she let the note go to the saxophone, which soared upward to a full-out wail as Rett moved into the shadows.

She sipped from the bottle of water she’d stashed behind the stage and fanned herself. Thinking about Angel left her feeling lightheaded. The solos would take as long as ten minutes, given the slow, aching mood everyone seemed to be in — enough time to pull herself together, certainly.

Out of the lights it was possible to see more of the seating area. The Top Hat used to court a seasoned jazz crowd, but the average age was now on the young side, Rett noticed. Most looked like university students in basic black T-shirts and jeans. They were good music fans — they all seemed into the sound, moving with the beat.

A flash of hot pink caught her eye. The shoulders and back the pink blouse was clinging to were curvaceous enough to motivate Rett to lean out a little to see if she could see the whole woman.

All she could think was, I should have anticipated this.

Cinny Keilor looked as if she hadn’t aged a day. Nothing on her body appeared to have moved southward. Her blonde curls were caught back with a Barbie-type bandeau in hot pink that matched her blouse. Her mouth … Time was stopping for Rett. Her throat was dry and a quick sip of water made no difference at all.

Cinny was at a table with other women — no sign of the husband. The woman next to her had to be Bunny Gustafson — she and Cinny had both been cheerleaders and at the very top of the best clique in school. God, it looked like a group of Woton High grads had come to see her.

I should have anticipated this, she told herself again. She was desperately glad that she had not, however. The idea of singing all these bluesy, lovesick songs in front of Cinny would have been too distracting. The only thing that would have been worse was if Angel had been …

… it couldn’t be.

Angel leaned into view between Bunny and someone else who looked familiar. Angel.

Angel.

Longer hair. Add glasses.

Angelica Martinetta.

She hadn’t changed that much. No wonder she had been peeved — Rett knew she should have recognized her. Besides Cinny, Angel was the only other girl she’d ever kissed in high school. How could she have forgotten — the night of the senior prom had been the lowest point of all in her non-relationship with Cinny. Angel had been one of the group of kids sitting on the hill behind the school pretending they were too cool to go to a stupid prom. Rett had tried to be cool that night, tried to get drunk for once. She had failed as usual and stayed on the fringe of the group, nursing a single beer.

One of the boys, under the cover of darkness, said loudly, “They don’t let lesbos go to dances, do they?”

Rett didn’t recognize the voice, but it didn’t matter. They all said pretty much the same thing.

Equally loudly she said, “Does anyone know if a small dick makes you stupid?”

“Shut your pie hole, Jamison.”

“Just an innocent question.” She rolled over onto her stomach and looked down at the brightly lit gymnasium with “Stairway to Heaven” theme banners for the dance. Every once in a while music would drift up to her, but it all sounded the same.

The memories, once tapped, came back vividly. They came back several months too late.

“Stairway to fucking heaven,” she had muttered.

“They’re morons. Just ignore them.”

Angel had been sitting just far enough away for Rett not to have noticed her sooner. She was wearing cutoffs and an old T-shirt. Her glasses occasionally reflected the lights below. She drained her beer and tossed the empty bottle into the growing pile near the trash can.

“I think there’s more beer in that cooler over there.”

“Two’s my limit,” Angel answered. “Otherwise I do things I regret.” She scooted down the slope toward Rett, stopping when their shoulders were level.

Rett had barely looked at Angel from the depths of her depression. Cinny was at the prom, of course, wearing a low-cut, backless formal that her boyfriend would get to remove later. They were probably down there getting chosen King and Queen of the fucking Prom. “Oh yah? Like what?”

“Like this.”

Angel kissed her and Rett kissed her back, wishing Angel were Cinny. She had never stopped to wonder about Angel’s feelings at that moment.

“You could stop thinking about her,” Angel said.

“I can’t.”

Angel looked as if she wanted to cry. “We’re all going to graduate in a month. Maybe we’ll never see each other again. I’m going to Cal Poly.”

“I’m getting the hell out of this town.”

“She won’t go with you.”

Rett drained her beer. “What do you know about it, anyway?”

Angel’s anger flashed in the night. “She’s a phony and you’re a fool, Rett Jamison. You don’t know the real thing when you see it.” She had flounced off into the night and Rett had truly never given her another thought.

Angel had been right. Cinny had refused to leave Woton the day after they graduated. Rett had scrimped and saved for a car and with her mother’s invectives ringing in her ears she’d driven east to Minneapolis, which had seemed a world away. She’d spent much of the first year on her own thinking about Cinny until other women had come into her life. But she’d never remembered that Angel even existed.

How could she have been so blind?

Belatedly she heard the guitar winding into the melody for the verse and she hurried back to the microphone as the crowd applauded the soloists.

She had to clear her throat. She’d been using the memories of Angel and Cinny to get into the music, but now she used the music to push Angel and Cinny out of her head. She’d never get through the song otherwise. She closed her eyes and found the words somewhere in the tumult of her mind. Her vocal cords remembered and she found her way back into the mood. Her hesitation gave way to more skillful intonation. Think about anything else, she told herself — think about Trish if you have to — just pull yourself together.

The song and set were over, finally. Rett was perspiring and feeling dizzy when she beat it for the storage room in the back that doubled as a dressing room.

She’d recovered somewhat when the bartender leaned in. “There’s a group out front who say they’re old friends if you want to say hello.”

It was what she had been dreading. Now she had to meet Cinny again in front of Angel, and look at Angel and somehow not want her and hold it all together in front of Bunny and the others.

“I don’t know what I’ve ever done to deserve this.” She didn’t realize she’d spoken out loud until the bartender gave her an odd look, shrugged and walked away.

Deep breath. Calm, cool, collected, she repeated to herself. Dee-ee-eep breath. She had to actually put her hand on her abdomen and breathe in until it inflated to fill her lungs completely. Her nerves steadied a little. She walked toward the table with Chopin’s Funeral March playing in her head.

Cinny saw her first and hopped to her feet with a bounce worthy of a seventeen-year-old.

“Rett!” She threw her arms around Rett’s neck. “You were amazing! God, it’s good to see you.”

Rett hugged her back, feeling none of the taut passion she’d been expecting at this moment. Her lack of response might have had something to do with the mocking glance Angel gave her over Cinny’s shoulder. Then Angel looked away.

“I know you’ll remember the old cheerleading squad,” Cinny said when she let Rett go. “Bunny and Lisa and Mary and Kate. I’m sure you remember Angel-the-brain, too.”

“It’s been a long time,” Bunny said as she hugged Rett by way of greeting.

Rett agreed, then waved at the others across the table. “Sit, sit. It’s too crowded.” Thank God, she thought. She didn’t know what would happen if she touched Angel.

Yes, she did. She’d make it plain to everyone that she wanted to double-aardvark on the floor all night.

There was no chair for Rett, so Cinny slid to the edge of hers and invited Rett to join her.

Cinny’s thighs were still excellent, Rett noticed. “Is this where we all lie and say none of us have changed a bit?”

Mary looked down at her chest. “Three kids — I know I’ve changed.”

“You don’t wear glasses anymore.” Rett looked right at Angel.

“The miracle of contact lenses.” Angel’s voice was husky. She glanced down at her drink, then back at Rett. Her gaze was like a flame and Rett did not care if it was anger or lust. The heat went right through her and she moved on the chair, realizing too late that it was Cinny’s thigh she was rubbing her hip against.

The others seemed blissfully unaware of the undercurrent, though how they could have missed the fact that the temperature at the table had gone up ten degrees was beyond Rett.

Cinny twisted a little on the chair and put her arm around the back to keep from falling off. Under the cover of “do you remember” conversation, Cinny’s thumb smoothed Rett’s shoulder blade.