Author's Note: The next chapter's taking on a life of its own and getting
kind of dark, so here's a little lightheartedness for ya in the mean time.
Oh, btw, I feel the need to point out that all the titles I've used are
either titles or lines of Christmas songs. And in case this chapter's
doesn't quite make sense, it's the line "You will get a sentimental feeling
when you hear voices singing 'Let's be jolly, deck the halls with boughs of
holly'" from Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree. Phew, now I feel better. :)
Chapter 5
A SENTIMENTAL FEELING WHEN YOU HEAR
*
"Abby, why can't I come?" Eric whined, tugging on the sleeve of my coat so that I missed putting my arm inside it.
I pulled it from his grasp and got it on this time. When I turned to face him, his arms were crossed in front of his thin chest. "I already told you. It's a surprise and you can't know about it, so you gotta stay here. It's only for a little while. You can handle that, can't you?"
He glared at me and nodded.
"Good." I kissed the top of his head and walked to the door, eager to meet up with Scott in the hall where he'd been waiting on me. My brother was not pleased when he discovered it was our neighbor I was going to be running around with today. I felt kinda guilty about leaving him alone and jealous, but I knew he'd forgive me later.
"You're coming back, right?"
It hadn't occurred to me he might see my leaving as one of Maggie's late night escapes or our father's abrupt departure when Eric was no more than a toddler. And why shouldn't he? When you get used to people walking out on you unexpectedly, it makes you start to wonder every time someone goes out the door if they'll be coming back.
"Of course," I said firmly, returning to give him a reassuring hug. He didn't object and I felt his hands clasp the fabric on the back of my coat like he didn't want to let go. "I promise. Now try to stay out of trouble while I'm gone. No wild parties, no joyriding." We smiled at each other when we separated.
"Lock the door behind me and don't let in any strangers," I added seriously.
He rolled his eyes. "Not even if they offer me candy?"
"Only if it's Sweet Tarts." I waved at him and pointed to the lock before closing the door between us. I waited to hear the click of the bolt sliding into place then hurried towards Scott, who waited by the exit, guitar case in hand.
*
"What if people don't like my voice?" I fretted, glancing over at Scott as he took a final drag on his cigarette. He'd been gentleman enough to ask permission to smoke. My father was a heavy smoker and Maggie lit up from time to time, so it made little difference to me.
"They'd have to be crazy not to. You've got a sweet voice," he said, smashing the cigarette out in the miniature ashtray in the armrest of his truck.
We were parked right in the middle of town where all the biggest stores were packed with last minute holiday shoppers. It would be busy here and lots of people would pass by. And that was precisely the reason why I suddenly felt like a big fat chicken who couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. What was going on in my head when I thought I could sing in front of people? The only one I'd ever dared to sing for was Scott.
"First time I heard you sing I thought you were a natural. And I know music, so trust me, ok?" He gave me that trademark wink of his and it was impossible to doubt him. "Ready?"
The butterflies in my stomach multiplied when I nodded and we climbed out of the truck, Scott toting his guitar case to a bench several yards down on the opposite side of the street. Nobody was paying much attention to us while we got set up and I was thankful for that. Heads started to turn, though, when Scott played a few notes of a song and made sure his guitar was in tune. I stood beside him and watched anxiously, repeating in my head what he'd said to me. A natural. Sweet voice. I was his nightingale, I could do this. If only I could will my hands to stop shaking. Self- consciously I folded them together, my fingers intertwining, and stood perfectly still. I had a habit of standing that way and Maggie called it my cherub pose, because she said I looked so innocent and childlike she expected me to sprout wings and fly up to Heaven. She even talked me into posing that way for one of her paintings. It was weird seeing my likeness captured on canvas by her vibrant pastel watercolors that were usually saved for landscapes and such. But I loved that painting and I'd felt special when she hung it in her room, making it a big deal and pretending she was unveiling a masterpiece at an art gallery. One thing I admired most in my mother was her skill at making the simplest thing entertaining and fun. Not only would she stand out here in the cold to sing, she would probably start dancing and perform nothing short of a Broadway musical. By the time she was finished, half the people who tried to pass by would be waltzing in the snow because she'd egged it on. I coveted her amazing ability to make people fall head over heels in love with her, but it was a trait I feared she hadn't handed down to me.
The night before, and on the drive to town, Scott and I had discussed some of the songs I would sing. Most were the traditional Christmas songs everybody, including me, only knew the first few verses to, but he'd been delighted when I told him I knew all the lyrics to John Lennon's Happy Xmas (War is Over). He said I was the coolest thirteen-year-old girl he'd ever met, so I didn't mention that I only knew the song because the choir at my school had practiced it for a Christmas play last year and sang it so many times, their voices echoing through the gym and down the corridors, I had no choice but to have the words crammed into my brain. Scott suggested playing it first to draw people in - Jingle Bells and Silent Night were so overdone that they'd just keep trucking right on by, he said - and then move on to some of the classic stuff. Confident that he knew what he was talking about, I went along with everything he said.
"Make John and Yoko proud, babe," he whispered now, and his fingers were sliding across the guitar strings whether I was prepared or not. I gulped and for one horrifying second forgot every single word that Michael Lane's loud voice had warbled off-key the entire month of choir rehearsals. I almost asked Scott to stop, but as the intro of the song faded to the first verse, I found myself singing. Quietly and uncertainly, yet singing nonetheless.
"So this is Christmas And what have you done Another year over And a new one just begun..."
I glanced fearfully at Scott when a pedestrian paused to look at me and then at the open guitar case in front of the bench. Scott just went on playing and smiled, sitting cross-legged on the cold seat, his body swaying so gently you barely noticed the movement. He was right at home. I tried to embrace that feeling as I sang on, disappointed that my first listener had wandered away. My voice was getting steadier and I chanced raising it a bit so I wouldn't be drowned out by the guitar.
"And so this is Christmas I hope you have fun The near and the dear one The old and the young..."
A tall, pretty woman with fancy clothes and salon perfect tresses stopped to watch. I could feel her eyes studying me, taking in my shoulder length hair that always appeared slightly messy because I hadn't quite mastered the art of styling my unruly waves; my white boots, which were no longer white but more of a spotted gray from walks home in dirty slushy snow; my entire underdeveloped body that didn't seem like it would ever mature to be as feminine and attractive as hers. She gave me one of those smiles, the sympathetic "I feel for you" kind adults give when they get around a kid they think is poor or abused. I'd seen the teachers look that way at a girl in my class who always came to school with bruises on her arms. I'd also caught them looking at me that way the few times Maggie had come to Open House or Parent/Teacher day and caused a scene. Eventually I stopped giving her the fliers that announced those events. And I did my best to avoid those looks. It didn't feel as humiliating now that there wasn't any real call for pity, though. I guess the lady had come to her own conclusions and saw me as a beggar or an orphan that had to sing for her supper. Maybe she thought I had a whole slew of brothers and sisters at home that I had to put food on the table for. Or maybe she thought I'd been abandoned in an alley somewhere and Scott, the poor and lonely soul who had found me, raised me as if I were his own, despite the fact he was barely scrimping by himself. Yeah, I liked that last one the best. I decided that's who I would be today. The poor little waif with no one else in the world but her handsome savior and his guitar.
When I finally had the whole plot arranged in my head, I realized my song was almost finished and a knot of people had gathered alongside the fancy lady to listen and smile and pity me. Some were digging in their purses or pockets, a few tossing loose change as they passed but the more devoted listeners parting with lovely green bills that floated into Scott's guitar case like leaves off a money tree. I don't know if I was most stunned by the cash or the small round of applause I got when the song ended. I figured my audience would move on, and some of them did, but the less rushed looking ones hung around, including the tall lady. I liked her best and snuck an occasional peek at her during my renditions of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas and The First Noel. Scott had to feed me lyrics here and there, but I made it through a handful of tunes and got some laughs when I tried out Santa Baby. It was Maggie's favorite Christmas song, so I knew it well and I even dared to add motion. Nothing showy, just a subtle rocking of my so-called hips and shoulders that matched the slow coquettish rhythm of the music. I could tell the onlookers thought it was cute and Scott was grinning widely as he harmonized the background bum-bum-bums of the song. It was my first small taste of the powerful energized sensation performing for a captive audience can bring. Frightening and exhilarating all at once.
"Sing Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer," shouted a little boy who had his father by the hand and was dragging the man over to listen.
And so it went on, carol after carol, until there was a nice pile of coins and bills resting against the red lining of the guitar case, and my throat was dry and scratchy. When we ended the final song and people clapped, Scott jumped up from the bench, grabbed my hand and did a few theatrical bows that made me blush. I was still holding onto his hand, my fingers pink and numb because I hadn't worn gloves, when the only member of my audience who had stuck around for the whole show came forward. It was the fancy lady and she towered above me in her high-heeled shoes. She eyed Scott suspiciously but looked on me with fondness.
"That was lovely," she said, slipping something into my free hand. I knew it was money and I waited to look at it, not wanting to seem greedy.
"Thanks."
She patted my cheek, making me feel about five years old, but I liked her, so I didn't take offense. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart. I hope you enjoy it." Again she shot a wary glance at my partner, and I felt bad for him. It was a shame she didn't see how wonderful he was.
"Merry Christmas," I returned politely. Scott and I watched her go, her heels click-clacking on the sidewalk, and then he nudged me.
"How much'd you get?"
I opened my hand and unfolded the two bills she had placed there. My eyes widened as I looked at the twenties, then up at Scott.
"Holy..." He was dumbfounded and didn't finish the statement, but I heard the ending in my head. Grins suddenly broke out on both of our faces and he whooped loudly, drawing some stares. "Dang, Nightingale, you put me to shame. I never made that much off one person. Maybe I oughta sign you up to come along on my gigs from now on."
I giggled shyly, flattered and amused by his enthusiasm. "You helped," I reminded him.
"You think anybody cared what I was doing? Hell no, they stopped 'cuz of you." He motioned for me to sit on the bench so we could count the rest of the money. I couldn't resist gazing at him as he shuffled through the change and silently added it with the dollar bills, a smile on his face the entire time. If I had to choose between the money and that smile, I would have taken the smile.
"Fifty dollars and thirty-two cents," he announced the grand total, impressed. "Looks like ol' Eric is gettin' a good present from his sis this year."
"Well, we're gonna split it, right? You and me, I mean. 'Cuz you helped."
"You don't give up, do ya?" he laughed, forcing the cash into my palms. "It's your money. I'm just here for the fun of it."
"But-"
He held up a finger to silence me and sifted through my earnings, plucking out a quarter. "This is all I'm taking. It'll keep me busy at the gumball machines while you shop."
I wanted to give him more, to make him see how important what he'd done was. No one else I knew would have braved the chilly winter air to sing Christmas carols with their kid neighbor. Everyone was always too busy worrying about their own problems, their own needs, their own desires. His willingness to put his life aside for me and treat me like I meant something to him filled up the hole I'd felt growing in me since the day I first realized I wasn't reason enough for Maggie to stay medicated. Sometimes I feared the hole would get so big that I'd just disappear altogether. But Scott kept that from happening. He was my missing piece.
Impulsively I leaned over and lightly kissed his cheek, sure it was the boldest move I'd ever make. It was the same kind of kiss I would give Eric or my dad, yet there was a world of difference. I pictured myself telling him I loved him, but by the time I distanced my face from his, the cold wind skimmed across my lips and snatched the words away, along with my nerve. He was looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher, so I spoke hastily and fumbled at stuffing the money into my pockets. "Th- thanks, Scott. I really appreciate what you've done for me lately. This and helping with the tree and stuff... it means a lot."
"No problem. Anything for my Brown Eyed Girl," he said, catching my hand and placing the softest of kisses on the back.
I melted inside and finally understood why women gushed about men who did stuff like that. It charmed your socks right off, that's why. And it made your stomach do flip-flops and your heart skip a beat and all those other silly little clichés I'd always thought were a load of bull. Nothing I said would have made sense at that moment, so I borrowed a line from the song Scott had just dubbed me after and playfully sang, "Sha la la la la la la la la la la te da..."
Pleased that I'd figured out the reference, he held up his palm for a high five. I slapped it and we hopped off the bench, gathering his guitar case and heading back to his truck to continue with our plans for the day.
Chapter 5
A SENTIMENTAL FEELING WHEN YOU HEAR
*
"Abby, why can't I come?" Eric whined, tugging on the sleeve of my coat so that I missed putting my arm inside it.
I pulled it from his grasp and got it on this time. When I turned to face him, his arms were crossed in front of his thin chest. "I already told you. It's a surprise and you can't know about it, so you gotta stay here. It's only for a little while. You can handle that, can't you?"
He glared at me and nodded.
"Good." I kissed the top of his head and walked to the door, eager to meet up with Scott in the hall where he'd been waiting on me. My brother was not pleased when he discovered it was our neighbor I was going to be running around with today. I felt kinda guilty about leaving him alone and jealous, but I knew he'd forgive me later.
"You're coming back, right?"
It hadn't occurred to me he might see my leaving as one of Maggie's late night escapes or our father's abrupt departure when Eric was no more than a toddler. And why shouldn't he? When you get used to people walking out on you unexpectedly, it makes you start to wonder every time someone goes out the door if they'll be coming back.
"Of course," I said firmly, returning to give him a reassuring hug. He didn't object and I felt his hands clasp the fabric on the back of my coat like he didn't want to let go. "I promise. Now try to stay out of trouble while I'm gone. No wild parties, no joyriding." We smiled at each other when we separated.
"Lock the door behind me and don't let in any strangers," I added seriously.
He rolled his eyes. "Not even if they offer me candy?"
"Only if it's Sweet Tarts." I waved at him and pointed to the lock before closing the door between us. I waited to hear the click of the bolt sliding into place then hurried towards Scott, who waited by the exit, guitar case in hand.
*
"What if people don't like my voice?" I fretted, glancing over at Scott as he took a final drag on his cigarette. He'd been gentleman enough to ask permission to smoke. My father was a heavy smoker and Maggie lit up from time to time, so it made little difference to me.
"They'd have to be crazy not to. You've got a sweet voice," he said, smashing the cigarette out in the miniature ashtray in the armrest of his truck.
We were parked right in the middle of town where all the biggest stores were packed with last minute holiday shoppers. It would be busy here and lots of people would pass by. And that was precisely the reason why I suddenly felt like a big fat chicken who couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. What was going on in my head when I thought I could sing in front of people? The only one I'd ever dared to sing for was Scott.
"First time I heard you sing I thought you were a natural. And I know music, so trust me, ok?" He gave me that trademark wink of his and it was impossible to doubt him. "Ready?"
The butterflies in my stomach multiplied when I nodded and we climbed out of the truck, Scott toting his guitar case to a bench several yards down on the opposite side of the street. Nobody was paying much attention to us while we got set up and I was thankful for that. Heads started to turn, though, when Scott played a few notes of a song and made sure his guitar was in tune. I stood beside him and watched anxiously, repeating in my head what he'd said to me. A natural. Sweet voice. I was his nightingale, I could do this. If only I could will my hands to stop shaking. Self- consciously I folded them together, my fingers intertwining, and stood perfectly still. I had a habit of standing that way and Maggie called it my cherub pose, because she said I looked so innocent and childlike she expected me to sprout wings and fly up to Heaven. She even talked me into posing that way for one of her paintings. It was weird seeing my likeness captured on canvas by her vibrant pastel watercolors that were usually saved for landscapes and such. But I loved that painting and I'd felt special when she hung it in her room, making it a big deal and pretending she was unveiling a masterpiece at an art gallery. One thing I admired most in my mother was her skill at making the simplest thing entertaining and fun. Not only would she stand out here in the cold to sing, she would probably start dancing and perform nothing short of a Broadway musical. By the time she was finished, half the people who tried to pass by would be waltzing in the snow because she'd egged it on. I coveted her amazing ability to make people fall head over heels in love with her, but it was a trait I feared she hadn't handed down to me.
The night before, and on the drive to town, Scott and I had discussed some of the songs I would sing. Most were the traditional Christmas songs everybody, including me, only knew the first few verses to, but he'd been delighted when I told him I knew all the lyrics to John Lennon's Happy Xmas (War is Over). He said I was the coolest thirteen-year-old girl he'd ever met, so I didn't mention that I only knew the song because the choir at my school had practiced it for a Christmas play last year and sang it so many times, their voices echoing through the gym and down the corridors, I had no choice but to have the words crammed into my brain. Scott suggested playing it first to draw people in - Jingle Bells and Silent Night were so overdone that they'd just keep trucking right on by, he said - and then move on to some of the classic stuff. Confident that he knew what he was talking about, I went along with everything he said.
"Make John and Yoko proud, babe," he whispered now, and his fingers were sliding across the guitar strings whether I was prepared or not. I gulped and for one horrifying second forgot every single word that Michael Lane's loud voice had warbled off-key the entire month of choir rehearsals. I almost asked Scott to stop, but as the intro of the song faded to the first verse, I found myself singing. Quietly and uncertainly, yet singing nonetheless.
"So this is Christmas And what have you done Another year over And a new one just begun..."
I glanced fearfully at Scott when a pedestrian paused to look at me and then at the open guitar case in front of the bench. Scott just went on playing and smiled, sitting cross-legged on the cold seat, his body swaying so gently you barely noticed the movement. He was right at home. I tried to embrace that feeling as I sang on, disappointed that my first listener had wandered away. My voice was getting steadier and I chanced raising it a bit so I wouldn't be drowned out by the guitar.
"And so this is Christmas I hope you have fun The near and the dear one The old and the young..."
A tall, pretty woman with fancy clothes and salon perfect tresses stopped to watch. I could feel her eyes studying me, taking in my shoulder length hair that always appeared slightly messy because I hadn't quite mastered the art of styling my unruly waves; my white boots, which were no longer white but more of a spotted gray from walks home in dirty slushy snow; my entire underdeveloped body that didn't seem like it would ever mature to be as feminine and attractive as hers. She gave me one of those smiles, the sympathetic "I feel for you" kind adults give when they get around a kid they think is poor or abused. I'd seen the teachers look that way at a girl in my class who always came to school with bruises on her arms. I'd also caught them looking at me that way the few times Maggie had come to Open House or Parent/Teacher day and caused a scene. Eventually I stopped giving her the fliers that announced those events. And I did my best to avoid those looks. It didn't feel as humiliating now that there wasn't any real call for pity, though. I guess the lady had come to her own conclusions and saw me as a beggar or an orphan that had to sing for her supper. Maybe she thought I had a whole slew of brothers and sisters at home that I had to put food on the table for. Or maybe she thought I'd been abandoned in an alley somewhere and Scott, the poor and lonely soul who had found me, raised me as if I were his own, despite the fact he was barely scrimping by himself. Yeah, I liked that last one the best. I decided that's who I would be today. The poor little waif with no one else in the world but her handsome savior and his guitar.
When I finally had the whole plot arranged in my head, I realized my song was almost finished and a knot of people had gathered alongside the fancy lady to listen and smile and pity me. Some were digging in their purses or pockets, a few tossing loose change as they passed but the more devoted listeners parting with lovely green bills that floated into Scott's guitar case like leaves off a money tree. I don't know if I was most stunned by the cash or the small round of applause I got when the song ended. I figured my audience would move on, and some of them did, but the less rushed looking ones hung around, including the tall lady. I liked her best and snuck an occasional peek at her during my renditions of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas and The First Noel. Scott had to feed me lyrics here and there, but I made it through a handful of tunes and got some laughs when I tried out Santa Baby. It was Maggie's favorite Christmas song, so I knew it well and I even dared to add motion. Nothing showy, just a subtle rocking of my so-called hips and shoulders that matched the slow coquettish rhythm of the music. I could tell the onlookers thought it was cute and Scott was grinning widely as he harmonized the background bum-bum-bums of the song. It was my first small taste of the powerful energized sensation performing for a captive audience can bring. Frightening and exhilarating all at once.
"Sing Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer," shouted a little boy who had his father by the hand and was dragging the man over to listen.
And so it went on, carol after carol, until there was a nice pile of coins and bills resting against the red lining of the guitar case, and my throat was dry and scratchy. When we ended the final song and people clapped, Scott jumped up from the bench, grabbed my hand and did a few theatrical bows that made me blush. I was still holding onto his hand, my fingers pink and numb because I hadn't worn gloves, when the only member of my audience who had stuck around for the whole show came forward. It was the fancy lady and she towered above me in her high-heeled shoes. She eyed Scott suspiciously but looked on me with fondness.
"That was lovely," she said, slipping something into my free hand. I knew it was money and I waited to look at it, not wanting to seem greedy.
"Thanks."
She patted my cheek, making me feel about five years old, but I liked her, so I didn't take offense. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart. I hope you enjoy it." Again she shot a wary glance at my partner, and I felt bad for him. It was a shame she didn't see how wonderful he was.
"Merry Christmas," I returned politely. Scott and I watched her go, her heels click-clacking on the sidewalk, and then he nudged me.
"How much'd you get?"
I opened my hand and unfolded the two bills she had placed there. My eyes widened as I looked at the twenties, then up at Scott.
"Holy..." He was dumbfounded and didn't finish the statement, but I heard the ending in my head. Grins suddenly broke out on both of our faces and he whooped loudly, drawing some stares. "Dang, Nightingale, you put me to shame. I never made that much off one person. Maybe I oughta sign you up to come along on my gigs from now on."
I giggled shyly, flattered and amused by his enthusiasm. "You helped," I reminded him.
"You think anybody cared what I was doing? Hell no, they stopped 'cuz of you." He motioned for me to sit on the bench so we could count the rest of the money. I couldn't resist gazing at him as he shuffled through the change and silently added it with the dollar bills, a smile on his face the entire time. If I had to choose between the money and that smile, I would have taken the smile.
"Fifty dollars and thirty-two cents," he announced the grand total, impressed. "Looks like ol' Eric is gettin' a good present from his sis this year."
"Well, we're gonna split it, right? You and me, I mean. 'Cuz you helped."
"You don't give up, do ya?" he laughed, forcing the cash into my palms. "It's your money. I'm just here for the fun of it."
"But-"
He held up a finger to silence me and sifted through my earnings, plucking out a quarter. "This is all I'm taking. It'll keep me busy at the gumball machines while you shop."
I wanted to give him more, to make him see how important what he'd done was. No one else I knew would have braved the chilly winter air to sing Christmas carols with their kid neighbor. Everyone was always too busy worrying about their own problems, their own needs, their own desires. His willingness to put his life aside for me and treat me like I meant something to him filled up the hole I'd felt growing in me since the day I first realized I wasn't reason enough for Maggie to stay medicated. Sometimes I feared the hole would get so big that I'd just disappear altogether. But Scott kept that from happening. He was my missing piece.
Impulsively I leaned over and lightly kissed his cheek, sure it was the boldest move I'd ever make. It was the same kind of kiss I would give Eric or my dad, yet there was a world of difference. I pictured myself telling him I loved him, but by the time I distanced my face from his, the cold wind skimmed across my lips and snatched the words away, along with my nerve. He was looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher, so I spoke hastily and fumbled at stuffing the money into my pockets. "Th- thanks, Scott. I really appreciate what you've done for me lately. This and helping with the tree and stuff... it means a lot."
"No problem. Anything for my Brown Eyed Girl," he said, catching my hand and placing the softest of kisses on the back.
I melted inside and finally understood why women gushed about men who did stuff like that. It charmed your socks right off, that's why. And it made your stomach do flip-flops and your heart skip a beat and all those other silly little clichés I'd always thought were a load of bull. Nothing I said would have made sense at that moment, so I borrowed a line from the song Scott had just dubbed me after and playfully sang, "Sha la la la la la la la la la la te da..."
Pleased that I'd figured out the reference, he held up his palm for a high five. I slapped it and we hopped off the bench, gathering his guitar case and heading back to his truck to continue with our plans for the day.
