What Doesn't Kill You (4 page)

In a way I was sad when the business got big enough for Olivia to move into a floor-through on Riverside Drive and make the loft her business address. I was in my last semester, and she said she wanted to keep the company small—exclusive but homegrown, she said. Still, she had to hire people to help with bottling, consult with chemists. But my desk was near the window, next to hers, which was still the big old table. I even brought in my own plant—a philodendron in a plastic pot the size of a teacup. Not even I could kill that. Olivia brought me samples of whatever she was working on. When I suggested Apricot Sage, she gave it a try. It's my favorite and it's still a Markson & Daughter best seller. And when I received my associate's degree in business administration, Olivia announced she was taking me to London.

I didn't even have a passport before then. Daddy didn't be
lieve it until I showed him the round-trip ticket with my name on it. My mother, always one to take lemons and make a sour puss, asked if I was sure I wouldn't be the baby-sitter. I told her Olivia was going to deliver Hillary to her father for the summer, which had nothing to do with me, and kept right on trying to figure out what to pack in my borrowed American Tourister. England seemed formal, so I took clothes I would wear to church. Even got a new hairdo for the occasion—the infamous Jheri curl. I sort of wanted it to look like Olivia's hair—and Chaka Khan's. Nobody saw the resemblance.

Anyway, I, who had never set foot in an airport, was served a four-course meal with cloth napkins in business class. I never thought about how much money Olivia had, but hippie girl was not hurting. We checked into a swanky two-bedroom suite in Mayfair. I mean, the place had gloved doormen and chauffeured Bentleys out front. Olivia looked way more polished than usual in a slim white pantsuit and matching black luggage. And I'm sure I looked like cousin Mabledene from Doozerville in my plaid polyester A-line dress and powder-blue suitcase. I promised myself that day I'd never go anywhere looking so homely again.

We spent the afternoon riding double-decker buses past Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace, which bored Princess Hillary. She'd seen it all before. I tried not to walk into bass ackwards traffic. And that night I met Eliot Markson.

I wouldn't have put the two of them together if there was nobody else to choose from. Olivia must have been part of some phase he grew out of, but it sure explained Hillary's fondness for Fair Isles sweaters and tartan skirts. Eliot was pure Savile Row, and Hillary was Daddy's girl. “He's a bit of a prig,” Olivia had whispered on a trip to the ladies' room after dinner. I had a
few other choice names for him after I overheard him ask why she brought the nanny out to eat.

Transfer complete, Olivia and I were on our own. It was a little odd at first, hearing her snore in the bedroom down the hall, figuring out who was going to be first in the marble bathroom. I mean, it wasn't like we were running buddies or anything, but she kind of taught me things about the world outside of Brooklyn. But it was all so foreign, even the language, and they were speaking English. Once I relaxed I had a good time, and I think playing 'enry 'iggins took her mind off missing Hillary. We prowled the stalls at Portobello Market and she bought me antique garnet earrings. We sniffed and fingered our way through about a million plants at the Columbia Road flower market. In Harrods we fantasized about the day Markson & Daughter would have a counter there. And we took a train about half an hour outside of London to a town called Dorking, where Olivia got weepy walking by her beloved field of lavender. It was nice, but I think the tears were mostly because we were near that cottage she used to share with Eliot.

Everywhere we went Olivia had me take notes, since this was a “business” trip, therefore tax deductible. She learned that strategy from Eliot, who was involved in his family's wholesale jewelry business. Right. I never saw Olivia wear so much as a diamond chip. It would not be me.

And as if showing me a new country wasn't enough, when we got back, Olivia offered to help with my tuition at Baruch, where I transferred for the next two years. It wasn't some fancy school with a hefty tuition, but I still said, “Are you crazy? You are not my mother or the United Negro College Fund.” And in an accent I knew quite well from my neighbors but never heard
from Olivia, she said, “I know a little something about being a Brooklyn girl who's undecided about her future.” Then she winked. Olivia Schaeffer—from East New York? Who knew?

That's when I entered my seriously studious period—or tried to. Truth is, I could never get as worked up over solving problems for hypothetical companies in class as I did negotiating booth rates for trade shows or finding the best way to ship to Palm Beach. At that point, we were mostly in boutiques and pharmacies, but business was growing every day. Olivia spent most of her time showing the line, checking out suppliers and developing new products. I held down the fort. I liked that. I felt useful, and I had reached a reasonable work-school balance.

Then I met my ex. It was one of those April days that make you believe winter is really over. I was booking it up Broadway when I heard this voice behind me saying, “You are looking positively hypnotic on this polyphonic afternoon.” What?! Well, I
was
feeling cute so I was glad somebody noticed. I was all set to give whoever it was a hard time when I realized that a brown-skinned beanpole with a floppy 'fro, a shredded jean jacket and big black motorcycle boots had fallen in step beside me. Now, I was not in the habit of picking up strange men on the street, but everything he said seemed like poetry to me. What is it they say about birds and bees and spring? Probably the same thing they say about too much champagne and weddings. Anyway, by the time we hit Forty-sixth Street he had talked me into stopping at Howard Johnson's, at least for coffee.

Two hot dogs and a shared black-raspberry sundae later I was severely in something—like, love, lust? Who can tell at twenty? I asked what made him pick me to talk to. He said I had a beautiful vibe, and I got all tingly and tongue-tied. He
was a musician—played a lot of instruments, but mainly keyboard—and although he wasn't with a band, he said he did lots of session work. DeBarge was planning to record one of his tunes. It was a big whoop at the time. He was heading to a gig and invited me to stop by the studio after work. I debated all afternoon until finally Olivia said, “Nothing good ever happens if you don't take a chance. If he's a creep, you'll come to my place.” Well, I wanted something good, so I went for it.

Whatever happens in springtime happened to me while I sat on a lumpy sofa in the corner of that dark, crowded studio, smelling cigarettes and sweat and watching them lay down the music. It was the instrumental tracks for a ballad, but I didn't need words to make me swoon. In the booth he was all business and he sounded great—like “I'd buy his record” great. I was killing myself acting like I did this every day, and I couldn't believe somebody that talented had walked into my life. By the time we left I was under some kind of spell—probably lack of oxygen. It was late, and I knew I should call home, but what for? My parents wouldn't get anything about this and I wasn't about to wreck the mood so they'd just have to be mad at me. Wasn't the first time.

He drove me home in the beat-up yellow Opel Kadett he called Sunshine. It had no backseat so there was room for his Fender Rhodes. We parked around the corner from my house and talked until the windows fogged up about life, about the future, about all the songs he had written. “Music that will make things better. Songs that bring the world together.” He spoke a lot in rhyme. Back then I used to think it was deep. And speaking of deep, when we kissed I felt like he touched my soul and showered me with stardust. I talked like that when we were together, heaven help me, and that was just a kiss. I mean,
many had knocked on that door—nobody had come in, but I was ready for him to ring my bell.

I always thought I'd be nervous the first time, but with him it was like I had found a seventh sense, way past the five I knew. Beyond intuition, inner vision, superstition, all of it. Those were the days of his hole-in-the-ground apartment on West Nineteenth Street. It was three steps down from the street, and from the front window we could watch people's ankles go by. But it was our private universe. We'd eat baguettes and butter, bowls of grapes or Alpha-Bits, smoke a little herb sometimes, laugh, dream…oh yeah, and do it 'til I couldn't hardly walk. I could listen to him fool around on the piano for hours, making up songs about anything—pizza, sneakers, everlasting love. And the closer we got, the more the balance in my life went straight to hell.

We'd go to Monday-night jam sessions at dive bars so he could play and maybe connect with a musician looking for a sideman or a record label A&R person out to discover the next musical genius. We'd drag in late, I'd end up skipping class and feeling guilty, like I was letting Olivia down. But I always went to work. For once I had plenty to talk about. Him. His energy and creativity, the places we went, the people he introduced me to—everything about being with him made me feel special. In no time, he let me keep his life organized the way I did Olivia's. He let me—first sign I had lost my mind.

My parents lived on my case, said I could not march in and out of their house when I felt like it. I told them I was grown. Where have I heard that lately? Anyway, Mom suggested I move, since there couldn't be but one grown woman in her house and she had that covered. Daddy said a grown man ought to have a job. I said music was his job. He said the
fools playing accordion in the subway could say the same thing. Clearly, we were having a failure to communicate.

None of that mattered, though, because we were in love. I knew it because he wrote a song that said so and put the tape in a Walkman he gave me for my birthday. I was dumbstruck when I heard it—
dumb
being the operative word. I think he got carried away too, because next thing I knew we were headed to city hall. Sounds stupid, but I can't even remember whose idea it was to get married. One day we were sitting in Sunshine, parked in a Jack-in-the-Box lot eating burgers and watching a wedding at the church across the street. He said something like, “Can you imagine us getting married?” And I must have said, “Yes.” By the last slurp of my vanilla shake he had tied the straw wrapper in a bow around my ring finger and we were engaged. I still have that stupid thing in my jewelry box somewhere—keep meaning to toss it. Next thing we were exchanging “I dos” and chunky silver rings that looked more like car parts than jewelry. A guitar player he knew named Melvin and his girlfriend, whose name I never did know, stood up for us. Guess I could have asked Olivia, since she was in on it from the beginning, but that felt kind of weird. I mean, I didn't tell anybody, including Mom and Dad. Anyway, our honeymoon consisted of a romantic trip on the A train out to Rockaway Beach, where we walked hand in hand in the sand—avoiding cigarette butts, pop-top tabs and broken glass, and celebrating our new lives together.

“We're married! Surprise!” After my parents moved beyond shock, I think they were relieved. I was officially off their watch. They gave us the double mattress and box springs I asked for. It was all we could fit in the apartment, and the twin bed was getting a little too cozy. Then they bought themselves a new living-room suite in honor of their empty nest.

Olivia spied my ring soon as I walked in the door. She was unusually subdued. I figured she was hurt that I didn't confide in her before I took the plunge, but maybe she saw the writing on the wall. She and Eliot had eloped too. She did come around though, gave us a hand-blown glass vase. I still have it. She also understood when I said I wanted to leave school for a while. That's when she invited me to come on full-time. She had moved manufacturing to a small plant in New Jersey, and she was having the loft remodeled to make room for a sales staff. She couldn't pay me benefits yet, but she'd started talking with lawyers about how to structure her kitchen-table company into a corporation. If I hung in a little longer the company would turn that corner. I never hesitated. I wasn't about to give up my spot as first employee. That's a once-in-a-lifetime thing. It was a relief, finally being out of school. I wasn't exactly a dropout, since I had some kind of degree, and the extra money was right on time.

Unfortunately, the reality portion of my marriage set in pretty soon. The part about What's for dinner? Who's doing the laundry? And, What time are you coming home? Still, life was more
Newlywed Game
than
Divorce Court.
We even drove his piece-a car to Key West to salute the sunset for our first anniversary. Sometimes I hung out when he played, but I headed home early so I could get up and go to work. After I nudged him a little—OK, a lot—and made a few phone calls as his “manager,” he started hustling commercial jingles, which he informed me were artistically beneath him. I said I'd be happy to cash the checks if it was too painful. But he was tickled silly first time he heard a jingle he did for a local tire chain on the radio.

Amber was as much a surprise to me as she was to her
father. One morning I slapped on my Apricot Sage Crème as usual and promptly washed it off because the smell was making me sick. When I got to work the smell of everything including Wite-Out made me want to puke, and Olivia said, “Bet you're preggers.” I said she was nuts. That's why I never gamble.

After several days of needing a clothespin for my nose, I swallowed my pride, which always sticks in my throat, and found a clinic. It was filled to the rafters with women and wiggling children and strollers and crying babies and overworked nurses—it sobered me up from my bohemian romance in a heartbeat. When I got the official word from a doctor that I had company, I wanted to go cry to Mom and Dad, but I distinctly remembered telling them I was grown, so that was out. Papa Bear was so excited he stayed up all night writing a lullaby. I stayed awake too, worrying about paying for college, baby food, and a car with a backseat. Then the arguments started. I wanted him to look for a job, at least part-time. He said a job would waste the creative hours he needed to compose. Right. I reminded him he wasn't Ashford or Simpson yet. Then he decided we should move to LA, since more recording was coming from the West Coast. I ended that when I said the one of us who did have a job worked in New York.