Warning: Squint and seeing a naked bum is implied.
He turned the heat off but kept the pan there so the food would simmer.
“Behind you there are plates, grab us two.”
“Sure.” You shifted and opening the cabinet it creaked. Grabbing the plates, he watched how you moved, how strands of your hair brushed over your shoulder. How you nudged the cabinet closed.
He came over you. His fingers grazed yours as he took the plates from you. A seriousness filled him. In his gut, he could only push away what took place for so long. He needed to talk to you.
So after all, all of the bullshit of last night he needed to get a grip on what was happening or on the cusp of it . He was in no mood for games.
Sure he could play them. He played enough of them when he had been younger. But now, that’s not what he wanted.
He felt certain about a few things, but he had to know.
“Yes Fred?”
“Why did we dance around each other for so long?” He saw emotions run across your eyes.
“Because, I didn’t think you would be ever interested in a girl like me.” You swallowed.
He rested a hand on either side of you. “What kind of bullshit is that?”
You shrugged. “I’ve seen what those close to me are interested in” You turned away, your lips were pressed together when you met his gaze again. “I’m not like that.”
He shook his head. “No more dancing. I can’t promise a big romance but I’m not casual fuck kind of guy.”
He looked down as he felt your smaller hands move over his. “No more dancing.”
Turning one of his hands, he grazed his fingers against the soft skin of your wrist. You closed your eyes, lips parted and under some of the bruises he enjoyed seeing the flush of pink. Seeing the his effect on you made his stomach tighten.
“Good.” He leaned in close and whispered in your ear. “That makes you my girl now.”
“I’m glad, I’ve wanted to be your girl.” You whispered.
******
As you dug into the food, you found you and your chair scrapping against his linoleum floor. You squealed in delight as he was able to pull you close.
“You were too far away.” He reached under the table and squeezed your thigh. “I also like you being within reach.”
“I do too.” You beamed.
When his hand slipped away. You leaned over you retrieved your plate and your drink.
“Baby?”
You looked over mid-lean. His eye gave you a hard look down and then back up at you. “Oh!” You pulled his shirt down, to cover your nakedness.
“I certainly want to wear my shirts now.” He took a sip of his beer. “And often.” The one side of his mouth twitched up into a smirk.
You flushed. “Like I said, I could be persuaded to say wear them. I could when going out to get your mail? Or perhaps if I am washing your pickup truck.” You took a bite of your food again and rose an eyebrow.
“Or just in here? Maybe joining while I watching a game or something.”
You giggled. “You won’t be distracted?”
He smirked. “You’re the distraction, I want.”
Contently you ate, you were feeling incredibly light and happy.
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Part 6b: Roman is worried, he rememebers better times.
Warning: off scene reader got sick (does not go into detail)
Note: Flashback in italics. Makes reference to An Attempt and Roman’s Lady is his Luck (since this story line comes after these two along with Creative Fervor and A Dark and Stormy Night, it’s prequel.)
Looking at Zsasz he grimaced. “Grab my mask. Keep it at the docks. I will be there later. Call the doctor, tell him I need him in the penthouse.” His heart was still racing. “Text me if you need the doctor to keep Gillis alive. I’m not finished with her.“
Zsasz nodded. “Sure thing boss.”
Bending down, he easily scooped you up. You were utterly limp in his arms.
“Fucking wake up.” He screamed once the two of you were alone in the elevator. “Don’t you want to squirm or wiggle.” His chest felt hollow. “Say my fucking name again.”
The ding announcing the elevator arrived at the penthouse echoed in the silence.
Walking over to the sofa, he out you down. Grabbing one of the extra pillows he put it under your head. Feeling like he he was being strangled he overturned and pushed away the coffee table beside him. It did little to help, so he tore off his jacket and holsters which fell with a clank onto the floor.
Breathing hard he sat on the edge of the sofa. Looking you over nothing much had changed, you were still incredibly pale and your lips pink hue were growing paler. He took one of your clammy hands into his; he closed his eyes.
******
The heat was stifling in Gotham. Negotiations, and meetings were piling up for the both of you. For him the more allies the better, for you more clients the better. Though with the heat stifling it felt like neither of you saw an end in sight. You both desperately needed some kind of break to just get away from everything. The two of you had not been away since Vegas.
Sneaking away for a long weekend was the best thing you and him could have done. As he floated around on his inner tube, he wondered where you had wondered off too. You had said you were getting a cocktail, but that was taking way too long. He eyed your abandoned inner tube which still floated beside him.
Closing his eyes he tilted his head back and exhaling he let himself relax further, you’d be back. He inhaled as he felt very soft lips press against his throat, a very welcome change from the sun’s warm rays. A soft deep sound came from him.
“Guess who?” Your voice was soft as you whispered in his ear.
Turning his head in the direction of your whisper, he smiled. “Hi baby.” You smiled back at him. He loved seeing, how the sun had kissed you since you two had been out of Gotham. He breathed in the wonderful scent of you mixing with the suntan lotion he had helped to rub into your body. That would be his new favorite smell, it would always remind him of summer. He looked at you over the rim of his sunglasses. “Give me a kiss.”
Kiss him you did, easily he deepened it as he felt your fingers in his hair.
******
“Roman, Roman?” Your shaky voice sliced away the memory from the past you two shared.
He opened his eyes, your fingers moved in his grasp. “I’m here.” He moved closer. Your eyes were watery and unfocused, they didn’t meet his.
The bell announcing the elevator made him look away. Cool relief began to wash over him as he saw the doctor. “We’re over here.” He called out. “It will be ok baby the doctor is here.” He said and pressed a kiss to the back of your hand.
The older man came over, his eyebrow was raised when his eyes settled on the over turned table but didn’t say anything when
“Are you alright Roman?”
He nodded. “It’s her they did something. She acts like someone knocked her out and just now her eyes are very unfocused and her breathing is labored.”
“I see. Go and get her a glass of water.” He said calmly.
“Warm or cool?”
“Cool is fine.” He squeezed your hand and made his way to the kitchen.
When he came back there was a mess. You had gotten sick, he swallowed hard when he saw it but seeing you clear headed and even looking over when he came back with the glass made it not matter.
“Roman...I’m sorry.” You began and he held up a hand.
“No apologies drink this.” He looked over at the doctor.
“Yes drink that young lady and we will get you another. You need fluids.”
His voice was warm and gentle, not demeaning but very father like. Perhaps, it came as part of the man’s profession or his demeanor; but it had always soothed Roman. It had a way of calming him regardless of what ailed him. It could be a gunshot, knife would or even the headaches that had consistently plagued him before you came along. And this was the only man, whoever came close to feeling like a father to him.
“So what was wrong with her and why...” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure you were still sitting up and drinking the water. “...and why does she seem ok now?” Once in the kitchen he grabbed another glass and began to fill it.
“Chloroform.”
“Fuck!” He shook his head. “Seriously?” He looked over at the man.
He nodded. “Yeah, she is horribly allergic. But she should be ok now.” He met his eyes. “Roman, I saw her when you got shot a few months back. You really care about her don’t you?”
Roman returned the look but looked away and cut the water. “Yeah. Yeah doc, I do.”
A small smile crossed the older man’s face, it was the most he ever did. “Have you told her?”
“No.” He looked at him, he shrugged. “She knows.”
The man exhaled and rolled his eyes, not even did he let Zsasz do that. “Tell her. You could have lost her tonight.” He urged him in a low tone as they began walking back to the sofa.
He stopped, swallowing and looked over where you. You looked over then and gave him a weak, tired smile. He returned it. “It looked bad.”
“Yeah, they gave her a heavy dose. Next time, might be worse.”
“Fuck.” He muttered. “Alright. Anything I should do?”
The man actually smiled a little broader. “Just take care of her. Make sure she gets some rest. She might suffer from some depression, this quote the depressant and she should be completely fine in a few days.”
“I guess I can do that.”
“Nothing is impossible when you care, and you do.”
He clapped him on the back. He looked down at you. Once they were behind you. “Now you take it easy. Get some rest.”
You nodded. “Ok.” You whispered.
“Here baby.” He handed you the second glass of water be filled.
“Thank you.” Your hands shook a little as you held the glass with both hands.
“You will be worlds better in no time, like I told you.” He turned to him. “Walk me to the elevator, Roman.”
“Sure.” He looked at you. “I will be right back.”
“So who am I looking at, at the docks.” He crossed his arms in front of him.
“The woman who started all of this. The woman, who almost killed Y/N last night.”
He grimaced, pressing his lips together. “Alright. I will make sure I treat the wounds made sure death can’t whisk her away but after that, don’t tell me more.”
“Alright. And I will keep you updated about.”
He nodded. “Good.” He then went into the elevator.
To Zsasz: Doc, on the way. Will be at docks in at two hours or so.
From Zsasz: Sounds good.
To Zsasz: Y/N, is ok.
From Zsasz: Good.
He tucked away his phone, side stepping the vomit, he went and sat beside you on the sofa. Your arms were around him and he barely breathed before wrapping his own back around you. A single tear slid free from his eyes.
I’m still feeling my way through history in this thing, or rather (as I’ve yapped about to several extremely patient souls) trying to figure out how to show the myriad ways in which small histories intersect with larger ones—trying, really, to figure out if I’ve got the chops to show such things in the first place. But regardless of whether this succeeds or fails on whatever levels it does, I am indebted to every single one of you who bothers to read along for any of it. Including the previouslies: Soon, of course, and part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5a, part 5b, part 5c, and part 6a of this experiment known as Sound.
Sound 6b
Every violinist who has played for Phil Spector must at some point contemplate garroting himself or herself with horsehair. Helena is solidly certain of this, and she has never been so tempted to try it as she is today. She has bowed and plucked her way through nearly fifty full, recorded takes of “Winter Wonderland.” At least triple that number of untaped “try it like this”es and “no, like that”s, such that the chart in front of her looks like she has attempted to pencil a novel in shorthand atop it. Helena does not care overmuch for Myka’s beloved Russian authors and their narrative excesses, but she would read every word every one of them ever wrote—she would read those words in Russian and in English, she would learn them by heart, she would recite them as her sole means of conversation for the rest of her natural life—if only Phil would never ever ever again say the word “again.”
At long last, however, the moment does come when he judges that the recording of her exhausted violin has reached a quality (a sweetness?) that satisfies him. He immediately begins to mix. She starts to ask if they might get some rest and come back fresh tomorrow, but he grunts out, “It’s building.”
The strings alone, he mixes seventeen different ways. The vocals, percussion, guitars and keyboards, horns, none of these are placed or changed with quite as much precision, and she sees no point in lying to herself: she does like the attention he pays to strings, the minute differences he can hear between one resonance and another. Phil manipulates the console’s knobs with authority; he makes large or small adjustments and clearly knows precisely what effects will ensue. At certain points, however, he sighs and offers such laments as “Larry’d do this in a flash.”
Helena refrains from noting that he might have Larry here today, doing things in a flash, if he had only let him get some rest, regardless of what may have been building for two months straight.
The track entire is put together a number of times that Helena does not bother to count; the tape machines will no doubt decide for themselves, at some point, to smoke it off, and Helena herself fights through several stretches during which she has heard the thing so many times that there is no music as such left in it. She asks constant questions—why this fader up, why that frequency clipped—and sometimes Phil can articulate a precise, technical answer. Sometimes he shakes his head and says “Larry could tell you.” But sometimes he strands her: “the sound” he says. A lifeboat into which she cannot clamber, but—
“Wait,” she says, after the fade of the latest rendering.
“Wait for what.” His head is tilted down, but—can a head be tilted eagerly down?
“Is this it? This is it. This one, this is it.”
“You sure?” Noncommittal.
“Yes?” Helena is delirious, or maybe just wishes she were.
“How do you know.” Still nothing in his voice.
“I... I can hear all of it.”
Phil lifts his head. He nods. “You’re right. Listen. H.G., listen.”
He plays it again—loud, he loves loud playback, such that the ears ring, no doubt to force any listener into acknowledging the power of his sound—and in front of her is an edifice in which she can hear, now, every single brick and bracing. Of which her ears understand, even if her mouth cannot articulate, the reason for each piece.
Bass thick, just discernible as an instrument in its own right. Percussion occupying a full, embodied space of its own, and now she does understand why everyone raves about these echo chambers.
Vocals buried deeper than she would have thought could be correct: but they are. “What will Darlene say about where you’re putting her voice?” Helena had asked, several generations of tape ago. Phil’s response: “Who cares?”
The strings are sweet but not sickly; and she can in fact still distinguish her own violin—in particular, that pizzicato, elsewhere so often dry and delicate but here saturated, robust—from the rest. He might be using the near-masculinity of that sound to mock her, but in the end, she must echo him: who cares?
The horns are... well. She begrudges him those obscenely honking saxophones.
They have been in the studio for very near forty hours; they emerge into morning sunlight as if on the opposite side of the world.
“When’s your flight?” Phil asks.
“I have no idea. What day is it?”
The travel agent had made a reservation for her in a hotel in which she never set foot. She carries a suitcase that she never opened.
She makes the plane with very little time to spare; she spends the first half of the flight too jangled to relax, the next half too exhausted to sleep. She takes a taxi home from Idlewild, and when Myka asks “How did it go?”, she says “I don’t really know.”
“You look terrible,” Myka tells her.
Helena answers, without thought, “I feel worse.” But then she stops and does think. “Or actually... no, I don’t. I was in a studio for two days, on airplanes for another half a day, but I don’t feel terrible at all.”
“I think you enjoyed yourself.”
“I think I may have done. Not at every point, and at some points not at all, but... is that all right?”
Myka doesn’t often kiss Helena often in front of Christina, not with purpose, but she does now; she pulls Helena to her and kisses her like they are the lovers they are. Through gratitude she barely knows as such, given the distraction of lips and tongue, Helena considers the unreal-yet-real possibility that she is dreaming.
Christina, apparently unperturbed, asks, “How’s Phil?” She has met him twice, just as Myka has. Their interactions began, both times, in a studio: the first time, he had looked down at her and asked “What are you?” and Christina answered, “I’m an American. What are you?” before Helena could admonish her into politeness. The second time, his question had been, “Where do they keep the patch cables in this place?”
“Haven’t you been here before?” Christina asked him.
“Yeah, but I never needed patch cables here before.”
When Christina brought him a handful, he asked, “Do you like steak?”
“Not as much as waffles.”
So when the setup for the next day’s recording was completed to his very specific specifications, he took Christina and Helena both out for waffles. He held Helena’s chair for her, then Christina’s.
After the meal—the surprisingly pleasant meal, during which he tried to explain to Christina’s not-quite-satisfaction why he liked to double, triple, quadruple so many instruments (“makes a bigger sound,” he said, to which Christina replied “but you could just have one and they could play louder” and they squabbled about the difference between “bigger” and “louder” as if they were both children)—he put them in a taxi to go home, paying the driver in advance. He did not once remove his sunglasses. “He’s funny looking,” Christina said in the cab. “Or maybe just funny. But not funny.”
“That’s quite true,” Helena said.
So now, when Christina asks how Phil is, Helena tells her, “Still funny. Somewhat differently funny.”
“Still wearing that cape?” Myka asks.
“No cape. But the sunglasses remain. I suppose he did have on a rather striking waistcoat. Jacquard.”
“Speaking of funny,” Myka says. “Funny detail to notice.”
“I think one is meant to notice.” In her back-and-forth with Myka, she hears the reaccustoming that always occurs after a separation of any length, even so short as a workday. The pretending, also, that that is not what they are doing, pretending that everything is familiar and fine, until the moment of magic when it becomes so.
Christina chimes in again with, “Is L.A. pretty?”
Never any reaccustoming with Christina. Never any need for pretending. Helena sees her daughter, hears her voice, and everything is always already as it was. “I bought several postcards. So we could all get a look at Los Angeles, because what did I see? I saw the airport and the interior of the studio. Possibly a palm tree? I did spend time in two cars. What does one see from a car?”
“That’s probably when you saw the palm tree. Is the airport nice at least?”
“I quite frankly can’t remember, but here is a postcard that depicts it. What do you think?”
“Looks new.” Then she takes hold of Helena’s right hand, from which she had plucked the postcard. “What happened to your finger?”
It does look unattractive. Not one but two slightly horrified stewardesses had tried and failed to find her a bandage for it when it began to bleed during the flight, so Helena now has, to her mortification, a blood-stained American Airlines napkin stowed in her handbag. “We’ll call it a war wound,” she says. “Sustained during the Pizzicato Hostilities of 1963.”
“God, how much pizzicato?” Myka’s voice wavers between a gasp and a laugh.
Helena looks at the offender, holds it up to Myka evidentiarily, apologetically. “Just about this much.”
“I’d kiss it, but I don’t think that would do anything but give you an infection.”
“So romantic. Although most likely also accurate.” But they smile at each other—and there is that moment: they are themselves again, and Helena is home.
Christina is still focused on the details. “Okay, so you didn’t see L.A. But you had to eat. Was the food good?”
“I can’t remember that either. There were delivery containers at certain points. Italian?”
“I’m not sure you really went to California at all,” Christina says, shaking her head and sighing.
“Neither am I.”
“Maybe you just rode around in a cab here for two days playing pizzicato for the driver.”
“Although she did get the postcards,” Myka says, nodding at the remaining stack in Helena’s other hand.
Helena had bought as many different cards as she could grab—twenty, thirty?—before having to run for the airplane. She hands the rest to Christina, who begins flipping through them. “Good point. So we know she flew to California.”
“And we know she destroyed her poor finger on the violin.” Now Myka does take Helena’s hand, does kiss her finger, just a little, just a sigh’s press.
“Or maybe she slammed it in the door of the taxi. Mom, can I put some of these on the wall of my room?”
“Of course you may. And clearly you both are quite good at deductive reasoning. You should become police detectives.”
“We could be detectives on a TV show!” Christina enthuses. “Wells and Bering!”
“Bering and Wells,” Myka says, to which Christina delivers a thumbs-down verdict.
Helena once again is visited by that unreal-yet-real sensation as Christina and Myka continue to plan their television program.... they will be not police but private detectives... they will drive a car like the one on Route 66 (Christina’s idea)... they will need a theme song (also Christina’s idea). Christina requests Helena’s help with this latter task.
“I don’t write music.”
“I know that.” Christina is aggrieved. “But you have Nelson’s phone number.”
“Mr. Riddle.” Helena supplies the automatic correction, but she thinks she may be one of the few people in the nation who knows several other parents whose children would also recommend calling on Nelson Riddle if they were in need of a melody for their imaginary television show’s theme song.
The utter strangeness of this life. But the suitability, too, how as each day closes she cannot imagine wanting to have had a different day.
The way Christina and Myka speak to each other: strange twinned with suitable. If Helena could determine how to capture that as a sound... an approach...
“Helena,” she hears Myka say. “You’re going to fall over. Sit down.”
Helena would not have been able to say with certainty that she had not already sat down. Or fallen over.
“Come sit at the table, Mom. You missed dinner, but we saved some for you.”
“I ate a meal on the airplane,” Helena protests, more weakly than she would like.
“But we made meatloaf. And also mushroom julienne. The meatloaf was mostly my job.”
“It was,” Myka says. The smile in her voice, the very quiet pride: it’s just meatloaf, of course. But Helena can hear, in that quiet, the day-by-day of that pride’s accrual.
“I could do even more if you’d trust me with the sharp knife like Mrs. Cho does now. Then all the julienning wouldn’t have to be your job.”
“See, no, because when she’s not around, you get sloppy. I like you with all your fingers intact.”
Conversation, suitability, strangeness. Keeping Christina intact. Maintaining this space where all of this can happen, with pride and love and family all accruing. A right fit that no one could have thought to predict; unexpected, yet apt. There must be a way to translate that, its traces, its evidence, into a sound. It would not be a wall.
Helena tries to concentrate on meatloaf and mushrooms.
Yet strangeness... in bed, later, Helena says, “I didn’t hate it. Why didn’t I hate it?” All she will ever let Myka know about is the time and effort spent, but even that is enough. A normal person would have hated it.
“Are you talking about the meatloaf?” Myka asks, and Helena does laugh. Christina likes to experiment in the kitchen, particularly with sugars... and her meatloaf had featured a surprising application of a honey glaze. The result was some combination of delicious and disgusting; Helena’s mouth and digestion have not come to an agreement in the matter. Myka shrugs, a gentle wave of motion that makes Helena’s body, in its customary position against Myka’s side and shoulder, rise and fall. “Why didn’t you hate it? Because... maybe because you recognize it. You see where you’re going.”
“Do I? I can’t... I mean, not as Phil has. And not as who he is. Never like that.”
“There’ll be an H.G. Wells way to do it. You’ll be her instead.”
“Will there? I don’t know what she’ll do. Who she’ll be, who I’ll be, as she does it. That is, if I ever have the chance to... what, invent her? Because—”
“You will.” This is followed by a long, aggressive kiss, and Helena is a bit surprised when Myka pulls back and says, “I was lonely. While you were gone.”
“Well. When you’re gone—”
“Don’t,” Myka says. Mild, but it’s a warning.
And it’s not inappropriate, that warning. Helena had been, reflexively, about to restart a familiar argument, one that they have been having for two years now—almost exactly two years: Helena knows it and she knows Myka does too, because forming their household had happened so easily, just over two years ago, as if they had at last stepped into their right lives. Their right-fit lives. The rhythm set itself in the first week: they sent Christina to school in the morning, enjoyed a few moments of blessed privacy together; then Helena kissed Myka away to her campus and took an hour or more to practice the violin alone before her day’s sessions.
Five weeks it lasted, this plain and comfortable regularity. Then Myka left, for four days, at Abigail’s behest. Helena had fretted through the entire four days, hiding it as well as she could from Christina and everyone around her. She hid it very well from her violin: both in practice and in sessions, her playing was very near flawless. She produced exactly the sounds she wanted to. She hated each note.
Adding to her fretfulness was the fact that she had no way to determine which response was right, the worry undertow or her hands’ proficient disregard of it. For four days, she tortured herself. Then Myka came back, and while she did seem to try to be reassuring, did try to comfort Helena with words and actions of love, all she would say about the issue at hand was, “I can’t talk about it.” And all Helena could say to that was, “That does not help.”
Helena still does not know which response to settle on, and Myka still does not help. They talk around it, but that solves nothing; sometimes they talk directly at it, with just as little success. Myka says “you know I can’t tell you” and Helena struggles to explain her inability to reconcile what she knows and what she needs.
Myka did try, once: she said, “This time, don’t worry.”
To which Helena had replied, with a face rapidly turning red, “How do I know if you’re telling me that simply because it’s what you think I want to hear?”
“You don’t,” Myka said. They kissed goodbye as always. The next time, Myka didn’t say anything about how Helena should feel.
Now, here in their bed, Helena says, “At least you knew I was—” But then she stops.
“Knew you were what?”
Phil and his “I’ve got a gun.” But Helena says it anyway: “You knew I was safe.”
Myka doesn’t say anything. But she exhales in a way that suggests frustration, even injury.
Helena acknowledges that bringing up safety is a provocation, for the fact of the matter is that what Myka does is what she feels she must do. But Helena now has a brief vision: if they lived in California, Abigail might find it more difficult to send Myka to Europe, to Russia. If they lived in California. “I did love the studio,” Helena ventures, and that is not a lie. “Utterly unprepossessing space, but a lovely sound. Magnificent echo chambers.”
Myka turns her head toward Helena. “Unprepossessing,” she whispers, with a tiny huffed chuckle, and she places her hand, warm and well-known, against Helena’s face.
Helena doesn’t want to leave New York: its spaces, its scene. But she has been thinking so much, of late, about the future... and she is now entertaining the wild notion that she might be the one to finally secure Myka’s freedom—that California might be Jerusalem. She could at long last fulfill her promise to keep Myka safe. And so much money is there, as witnessed by Phil’s complete indifference to the cost of flying a violinist in from New York to do his bidding for two days. She suspects he is right, that the record will be huge, and that will allow him even greater leverage to create sounds that are ever more huge... and Myka is right: for whatever reason, he likes Helena. Who would prioritize spaces and scene over security?
****
The cliché is exactly that, but it is true: everyone remembers where they were, what they were doing.
Helena is in a record store, buying the just-released A Christmas Gift for You from Philles Records, cursing under her breath at Phil for not sending her an advance copy. A radio is on—news of some sort; she pays little attention, except to note the oddness of its being news, rather than music, in a record store. The time... she had realized later that it was in fact one of the first announcements, if not the first, because it was not yet two-thirty in the afternoon. Not quite two-thirty, and everything in the store stops: every conversation dies, every movement ceases. Helena has a bill in her hand, suspended over the counter; she keeps that bill in her hand, suspended over the counter.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States is dead. John F. Kennedy has died, of the wounds received in an assassination in Dallas less than an hour ago. We repeat, it has just been announced, that President Kennedy is dead.”
And Helena’s first thought is not for the nation, not for the man himself, not for his newly widowed wife, nor even for his now fatherless children. She does not worry over Christina’s potential response to such an event, or even Myka’s reaction. Instead, she looks down at the new LP on the counter in front of her, at its cheery holiday cover, its Christmas-wrapped array of Philles recording artists. And she thinks, No one will care about this record. No one at all.
And no one should care about the record, but that thought—that that is her thought—is a splinter she will never quite work out of her character.
****
In fact no one at all cares about any music at all, not for the next several days. Instead, stunned spoken refrains: “I can’t believe it. Can you believe it?” “I can’t believe it.” “Where were you? What were you doing?”
When Myka is asked the question by someone she does not know well, she says, “I was at home. Waiting for... well, waiting. Then I turned on the television.” When she is asked by someone she does know, and with whom she feels safe, she says, “I was at home, waiting for Christina to get home from school, waiting for Helena to come home from a session. Then I turned on the television.” What she never says to anyone is that her immediate, first thought had been that she needed to, but could not possibly, call Abigail.
Christina remembers it thusly: “I got home from school, and Myka had the TV on. She had the weirdest look on her face, and when she saw me, instead of saying hi, she made the weirdest noise.” What she never says to anyone is that before she fully realized what had happened, she had wondered how long the strange upset that Myka’s face and noise signaled would last: whether school might be canceled the following Monday.
After a few days, Helena hears a rumor that the record will be pulled from distribution. On impulse, she sends Phil a telegram: unpunctuated, nearly nonsensical, but telegrams are for disasters. “GRIEVING EVERYTHING TRAGEDY XMAS LP”, it says.
Phil responds in kind. Helena does not know how many telegrams he has sent before, how many he sends after. But this one reads, in toto, “BAD LUCK CHARM.” Because, she suspects, Western Union would not allow him to write “FUCK YOU.”
Your heart was racing and you were breathless as you ran through the suite. Covering, your mouth you hid behind a sofa, peering around it. You saw him, you immediately crawled over to the other sofa. Once he entered it more and his back was to you, you crawled than ran to his office. And you waited, you finally sighed sat against his desk.
“Hi there baby!” He appeared from around the edge of the desk.
You screamed, you had not expected him to look there.
Standing up, you shook your head. “You found me.”
He went over to you, a smirk curled his lips. As he came to rest a hand on either side of you. “What am I going to do with you?”
You could feel as his eyes moved up and down you.
He gestured, “Take that dress off.”
You slipped of the desk, your body slid against his body. You turned and looked at him over your shoulder. “Please, unzip me daddy I can’t reach.”
“I would love to.” He whispered in your ear. “Oh, baby.”
You felt as he smoothed gloved hands over your bare back as he slipped the dress off of you. His fingers unclasped your bra and you let that also fall to your feet.
He made a soft sound. “I want to see you.”
You turned and gently held onto the desk. His hands wrapped around hips and lifted you so you perched there.
He stepped back, “Baby.” Drawing close, he opened your legs so he could stand between them. He brought his lips to yours. The kiss was hungry. You could still taste the strawberries he ate. “You need to make daddy feel good.”
“Ok, what do you need me to do?”
******
He inhaled sharply as he took you in perched there in just the wonderfully black lacy panties and the pearl necklace.
Pulling back, he smirked. “I need to get on your knees for daddy.”
Sitting down he watched your every move. “Stop.” He stopped you right before taking him out. He grabbed your chin. “Damn, you are beautiful, baby.” He smiled at you. Your eyes shined and a flush already dusted your cheeks. “Ok...daddy needs to feel that sweet mouth.”
Closing his eyes, he lost himself in the sensations of your lips and tongue. His head rested against the back of the chair. At first he his arms remained on the chair.
He moaned softly. “Damn.” He moaned. “Yes, like that baby.” He encouraged.
Feeling, his pleasure sharply increase he laid a hand on your head. “Yes, baby.” He moved with your pace, then he increased it. “Take me deeper and faster, baby. Do it”
His fingers entwined in your soft strands pulling and pushing you on him. Arching into your soft mouth.
He shook, then still he didn’t want to cum just yet. A strangle sound came from him. “Stop baby. Stand before me and take those panties off.”
He pulled off his gloves and tossed them on the desk near you. He reached out, and smiled when he felt how wet you were. “Sucking on daddy, gets you wet doesn’t it?”
“Yes, daddy.”
“Good, baby.” He pushed his pants, he didn’t want you to hurt yourself on belt. “Sit with back to daddy as you take him inside of you.” Once settled, enjoying the moan that came from you. “Look, in front of you baby.”
There on the far wall was a mirror.
“Oh, daddy.” He met your eyes, he loved how felt you get wetter.
“Ride daddy, while watching us in the mirror baby.”
Reaching up, he let his fingers play with your nipples loving the sounds that poured from you as you braced yourself on the chair as you moved.
As the sounds from you intensified he knew you were getting close. He smoothed his hands up and down your back. “Cum for daddy. He wants to watch you cum.”
Soon you were watched up against him, breathless and panting, moving just so he kissed you hungrily, he eased his hands down your sides till he held your hips thrusting deep within you, he came hard.
*****
You nestled into his throat and shoulder as he picked you up. He carried you all the way to the jacuzzi. Gently, he lowered you. Stepping in, you sighed. You enjoyed the sight of him, shedding his clothes before stepping in himself.
Holding out his arms, he held you close. You felt as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Baby, what do you wanna do? We can go shopping, veg on the beach getting sun kissed, I’ll let you decide.” He looked down at you mischievously. “Though, l may want to do a touch of gambling since my lady-luck is with me.”
“Maybe alittle bit of everything? I would love to walk the beach and pick some shells.”
“That would be great.” He squeezed his arms that were around. “I think I will miss having access to one of these. I need one for the penthouse. What do you think?”
You stretched languidly in his arms before cuddling back up to him. “I may never leave it.”
He chuckled. “You and me both baby.”
A comfortable silence enveloped the two of you. As you both stared out at the palm trees, brilliant blue eyes and the ocean waves breaking on the beach.
Summary: Passions ignite and you have to convice the scared past to help the unsure future.
Warning: some intimacy, some teasing
“Damn.” He cursed as he pulled back from your kiss reluctantly.
You drew him in and kissed him again. “Don’t forget,” you whispered against his lips. “I’m your girl.”
You drew your lips along his cheek till you reached his ear. “Maybe later before we go and grab your friend Spud, I’ll let you take me.”
You don’t know what had made you, feel so playfully naughty. Maybe it was seeing Mark from the angle of being young, you were not really sure but every part of you wanted him on top of you. You pulled back, and smiled at him. “What do you think?” You asked, looking at him coyly.
“Let’s eat.” He licked his lips. “And maybe I will take you up on that offer.”
You smiled. “I hope so.” You slid from his lap and pulled back on your cardigan
******
The savory scent of food and its taste was so good. You dipped in some bread that was just perfect for the stew. “Oh, not only does this smell good, but it always tastes amazing, Mr. Renton.” You said sweetly.
“Please, I feel much older then I am when you call me that. Call me Charles. Mark will tell you, I was never formal.”
You looked over and Mark grimaced and nodded.
“So...” His dad looked from you to Mark and back again. “Are you two going to tell you how you met? Or where you’ve been?” He scooped up a spoonful of the stew.
Mark cleared his throat, he slid you a glance. “I went to Amsterdam.” He shrugged. “I own a night club there.”
“Oh, wow. Good for you son. Let’s drink to that.” He held up his cup. A smirk then played under his mustache. “Oh, is that how you met?”
“Oh, um.” You struggled to find right words.
Mark, spoke up then. “My lass here, is a teacher but filling in some time at a coffee shop.”
His dad made a proud like sound. “Well, your a smart girl then.” He smiled. “My son was always fond of his books.”
Mark nodded, shrugging. “She is.” He smiled at you. “She is far too beautiful and smart for me.” He took a sip of his tea. “Somehow,” He continued. “Somehow, I caught her eye and she makes me very happy.”
His dad, clapped him on the back. “You’re a good lad.” He smiled at the two of you. “Sure, he’s had your moments. But I raised a good one, Y/N.”
You nodded. “I think so.” You agreed. “Very charming and sweet, I’m very happy to be his girl.” You smiled at Mark.
*****
“Don’t be a stranger Mark.” His dad hugged him tight.
You and his dad shared a look and then you hug. “I’ll drag him around.” You promised.
“That’s a good lass.” His dad smiled.
******
You slid, behind the wheel and made a quick haste for your flat. Outside your door, Mark slowly began dragging down your cardigan. “Mark!” You squealed, you felt his warm lips on your bare shoulder. “I’m trying to get my keys out.”
His eyes twinkled. “I am not stopping you.” A rich deep chuckle came from him, that only caused the butterflies in your stomach to flap their wings harder.
With your hands shaking, you opened your purse and reaching in you took out your keys. “Finally.” You said, exasperated as you opened your door.
Once inside, you let your purse fall to floor as Mark pressed you passionately against the door kissing you. Easily you wrapped your arms around his throat as your lips moved and echoed the passion you were feeling.
*****
You pulled him over you, as you shifted and moved further up onto your bed. Your clothes and his were in a small heap beside your bed.
“Mark,” You breathed.
You called out as he came over and settled between your legs.
A moan came from him and mingled with yours, as he finally entered you. You feel so good.” He murmured.
Once he was fully inside of you, he stopped and he looked down at you. “I had no idea you, could be such a tease.”
You blushed hard. “You didn’t like it?” You asked playfully.
“Oh, I liked it. I just...” He kissed you moving only slightly, to tease you.
“Mark, please.”
“You deserve this. I had not expected to get so hard in my old bedroom.”
You closed your eyes, a soft moan of pleasure and frustration. “Oh, did I do that?”
“You know what you were doing?”
“Maybe.”
He pulled you closer to him. “If we would have been alone...”
“Show me.” You said breathlessly.
He smirked. “I suppose I could.”
He did then, pleasure ripped through you as he began moving in and out of you. Arching, your moans filled your bedroom.
*****
As you laid on your tummy, still gathering your breath, he came over and kissed your shoulder.
“Will you be staying with me to get Spud while I talk further with Simon?”
“If you want me to. I have the night off again but then I work all tomorrow night.”
“Then, you are coming with me. I want you with me.”
You smiled at him over your shoulder. “It will work out, Mark. That guy can’t get his way.”
“Exactly. I didn’t start a new life only for him to destroy it.”
You sighed, looking off. A frown brought your lips down.
He was going to say it, since he felt it was finally the right time to say it. “I want you as in my life. You’re part of me now.”
You flushed and smiled at him. “Really?”
He nodded. He cupped your cheek. “Yeah, I do.” He kissed you then.
*****
“Spud, it’s safe. Come with me and Y/N.”
Spud looked anxiously up at them. “But..but...” Begbie scares me.
“We’re heading back to Simon’s to see what we should do.” Mark scratched his neck. “You can tell him all about seeing him.”
“So you’re not leaving back to Amsterdam, yet?”
“No.” Mark shook his head. “Not yet. You have me a little longer.” He smiled.
“Good.” He then smiled broadly. “I enlisted at a gym. I’m running now. ”
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Myka and Steve stood somewhat uneasily together on the sidewalk in front of Dakota Elementary School. Myka knew they should get farther away from the park before the women emerged and saw them, but Steve still seemed overwhelmed, and she didn’t want to just take off and leave him. “Do you want to get a coffee or something?” she asked him.
“Oh,” he said. “Myka, I think you’re great, but I’m gay.”
Steve covered his face with his hands. “Oh my god,” he mumbled, “I’m an idiot. Don’t tell Pete; he’ll fail me. I’ve lost my mind—this whole thing since it started yesterday has just been so, I don’t know, intense?” He rubbed his eyes. “I’d love to.”
When they were at last indoors, fortified with coffee (for Myka) and herbal tea (for Steve, who said he felt about caffeine the way Myka did about sugar), Steve said, “So I have to confess this, or I’ll go crazy: I stalked them.”
“Stalk who? I mean, whom?”
“Claudia, and Helena and Leena. Because I just had to know more. I mean, they make sense when they’re there in the room with you, right? But then when you try to think about them, it gets weird and fuzzy. Doesn’t it?”
Myka tried concentrating on them. Her mind’s eye had no trouble at all conjuring up Helena, with that hair and those eyes and that attitude. For Leena and Claudia, though... she knew what they looked like, of course, and what they’d said yesterday, but she couldn’t remember if she knew anything else about them, or if that was at all important. They weren’t really... it didn’t... “What’s going on?” she asked Steve. “Who are they?”
“See, I don’t know! That’s the point! So last night I followed them, or I tried to follow them. I don’t remember what happened then, but I woke up right outside the park this morning, and there they were.”
Myka didn’t want to be mean, but Steve was an undergraduate... “You didn’t... drink too much? Maybe?”
“I don’t drink,” Steve said. “No drugs, either. I try to keep my mind pretty clear.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay. It’s a little out of the ordinary.” They sat in silence for a moment, then Steve went on, “So I have to ask, what’s this big-deal project that Helena wants to know about? Is it really super-secret?”
Yesterday, Myka probably wouldn’t have thought twice about talking about it; today, it certainly felt like it ought to be kept super-secret. But that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? The project wasn’t any different, and Steve was an undergrad. What could it matter? “It’s about the war in Heaven. Artie’s pretty sure it was a bigger thing than in Paradise Lost. Or a different thing. Parts were left out. Important players.”
“Like that da Vinci code thing?”
“Well... in the sense that there seems to be some kind of shadow history, then yeah. Not that Milton was writing actual history, so I guess that’s the difference. There just seem to be more ideas he could have included. So what we find out will be interesting in itself, but it’s also going to shed light on Milton’s choices. And the Bible, if you think about the Bible as literature instead of this immutable holy thing. Though if you’re invested in that... I don’t want to upset you.” She sat back and took a sip of coffee. Best to get any concerns out of the way now, before she said any more.
“You won’t upset me,” Steve said. “But I might upset you with this: I don’t know much about Milton.”
“But you’re in the Masterpieces class! You’re doing really well in the Masterpieces class!”
“You guys did Milton in the first part, last term. I had a chem lab on Wednesday mornings. I wanted to take it, I swear.”
He sounded so sincere that Myka wanted to hug him—but given their earlier misunderstanding, he might take that the wrong way. She settled for saying, “That you would even say you wanted to is good enough for me. But I might have to give you some homework if you’re going to stay involved in this whole.... well, whatever this is.”
Steve gave her some pretty impressive puppy-dog eyes. “Please, I’m begging you, no more homework. Swann’s Way was bad enough—I mean, not bad bad, but long and mystifying and couldn’t you basically read just that and nothing else for the rest of your life? I don’t see how Professor Lattimer got past it to the other volumes, honestly, and then to be an expert on all of it? It makes me want to go dunk my head in a bucket. And quit school. It’s just so big.”
Myka said, “I think I love you, Steve. In a totally platonic way, of course. I wish you were in my Masterpieces section.”
“Pete’s pretty fun, though,” Steve said. “And funny. Is his mom ever funny like that? She seemed mostly terrifying to me.”
“I’ve only met her a couple of times, but she’s... she’s a very good role model. As a woman in this field.”
“Oh. I figured you’d know her pretty well, on account of you and Pete.”
“Well, it’s not like she hangs out in our office or anything when she’s in town... wait. On account of Pete and I what?”
“Aren’t you guys... you know.”
Myka was afraid she might hyperventilate. “No! Oh my god, please don’t tell me all the kids in class think that.”
“They sort of do, because you guys are always together. You share the office, everybody sees you out at restaurants all the time...”
“That’s because Pete can’t go two hours without a meal!”
“That doesn’t really mean you aren’t together,” Steve pointed out.
“This does: we are not together. Okay?”
“It’s fine by me,” Steve said. “But I figured he got roped into this whole thing with Artie—I mean Professor Nielsen—because he was your boyfriend. It doesn’t exactly seem like it would be his thing.”
“It doesn’t, does it,” Myka agreed. “But he’s into the war part of it, angels fighting. In Paradise Lost, the angel Raphael tells Adam about this war in heaven, with swords and cannons and crazy stuff. But the thing is, it’s completely pointless, because the angels can’t die or anything. And Raphael’s already said that Adam’s mortal mind couldn’t understand what really happened, so it’s all a big fakey metaphor, and anyway the whole thing seems like a setup for the Messiah to waltz in at the end and vanquish Satan. Which he was always going to do anyway, and God knew it beforehand—exactly like Adam and Eve, where they have free will but God already knows they won’t be able to resist temptation. So basically everybody’s just going through the motions. You have to wonder, what is Milton really up to? And why is he not up to it out in the open?”
“So you think it’s like the da Vinci code, where Mary Magdalene’s in the painting, supposedly, but there isn’t a big neon arrow pointing at her?”
“Sort of. So we’re looking for neon arrows in other places. Artie has this former colleague, James MacPherson, who’s got access to these privately held manuscripts, and we haven’t figured it all out yet—Artie just got back from seeing him—but there’s something interesting going on.”
Myka was warming to her tale now—so much so, in fact, that she failed to notice a small redhead dashing, one could say almost flying, out of the shop.
****
“Okay, guys, the intel is that somebody named James MacPherson is feeding this Artie whatever his information is. From manuscripts.”
“Manuscripts,” Helena said. “What could possibly be the content of such manuscripts? Where would they have come from? And who, exactly, is this James MacPherson? Why were we not sent to him in the first place?”
Claudia shrugged. “That’s a lot of questions that are a lot above my pay grade. Oh, also: Myka and Pete are absolutely not an item, but Myka thinks she loves Steve.”
“What?” Helena raised her shoulders in exactly the way she did when preparing to extend her wings in indignation.
“Ha, gotcha. It’s totally platonic. But I knew you liked her.”
“I do not like her. As if I had the capacity for such a thing. As if, even if I did, I would choose that defiant little beast.”
Leena sighed, “Oh, Helena. You always end up liking the ones who defy you.”
“Oh, Leena,” Helena mimicked, “you always interpret my actions incorrectly. I merely wish to teach them a lesson.”
Claudia snorted. “Some lesson.”
“You,” Helena said, pointing somewhat awkwardly at Claudia with her right shoulder, “are cordially invited to stifle your instinct to commentary. Now.”
“I think the mortals have a different gesture to go with that kind of cordial invitation.”
****
Myka had exactly forty-eight hours to write a “brief commentary” on a pair of poems: one Elizabeth Bishop and one Mary Oliver. She was hiding in her office, trying to come up with an approach, when her phone rang. It was Pete, who when she picked up, whispered, “Artie’s office, stat.”
“What are you, a secret agent?”
“Kinda, yeah. But seriously.”
Myka sighed. She’d known Artie was going to want to talk to them at some point today, and it wasn’t that she wasn’t interested in knowing what he’d learned from MacPherson, but it also wasn’t like she could put her classes on hold just because he’d found some commentary on some previously unknown angelic figure in some manuscript from some rich guy’s private collection.
She understood Pete’s whispering the minute she reached the faculty hallway, and she slunk up next to where he stood against the wall next to Artie’s door.
Artie was bellowing, “Yesterday you didn’t know, and today you do! Who told you? Was it Pete? Myka?”
Helena’s voice was calm. “Of course not. Your instructions to them, regarding speaking to me, were quite clear, and they do not seem inclined to go against your wishes.”
Something about the way she said “speaking to me” made Myka’s spine go cold.
Artie roared, “I know for a fact it wasn’t me, so it had to be one of them! It was Pete, wasn’t it! Why does he have to be so friendly!”
Pete made a face at Myka. “Now he’s got the idea in his head,” he said softly, “and you know how he gets. I’m toast.”
“You’re not toast. I think...” Myka swallowed. “I think I know how this might have happened.”
She took a breath. It wasn’t Pete’s fault, and if Artie was going to lose his mind about something, it might as well be the right thing, or at least the closest version of the right thing Myka could stitch together. Whatever the consequences for her turned out to be.
In the office, Artie was leaning across his desk, red-faced, clearly ready to launch himself at Helena—she was sitting in the facing chair, looking so undisturbed as to be almost bored. But after a second, she turned her head to look at Myka. And she smiled.
That smile was, Myka thought, something like the smell of her hair had been: it was all the smiles, impossible to interpret as friendly or malevolent or carefree or sadistic or joyful. “Hi,” Myka said in response to it.
“Hi,” Helena said back, quietly.
Myka then saw Artie look at the two of them. He said, “Oh my god.”
That seemed to catch Helena’s attention; she rolled her eyes and said, “Not this again—”
But there was no stopping him: “I can’t believe this! Myka, how could you?”
Myka protested, “I didn’t! Not directly, anyway. I was talking to Steve; it seemed like it would be all right, because he’s so serious! So I guess he must have told you.” She directed this at Helena.
Helena said, “I am tempted to simply say yes. However, as you are being honest, I will be as well: Claudia followed the two of you and overheard your conversation. At my direction, so spare her your wrath, Mr. Nielsen, Ms. Bering. Then, as instructed, she reported to me. There. Now you know.”
Myka said, “Thank you for not throwing Steve under the bus.”
Helena leaned forward slightly and cocked her head. “Your friend said something similar yesterday. What is this penchant for people being, or not being, thrown under buses?”
Pete poked his head in the office and said, “Speaking of Steve, it’s like he said last night: you guys aren’t from around here, are you?”
Helena’s expression turned slightly squinty. Myka was coming to recognize that as meaning something like “I don’t know quite how to respond yet, but you will be sorry when I do.”
“It’s just an expression,” Myka said. “All I mean is... thank you.”
Helena inclined her head. Myka felt something like that strange slowing from last night—and then it was gone, as Helena said, “To the business at hand. Mr. Nielsen, I really must speak with your James MacPherson.”
Artie said, “I’m sure you can just eavesdrop on somebody else and find him that way.”
Pete said, “Or, you know, Google him.”
Artie harrumphed. “Let me talk to him first, at least. Give him a little advance warning about this explosion of interest in his sources.”
“As you wish,” Helena said. “But impress upon him: this is a matter of great importance.”
Helena kept on with her pronouncements about the seriousness of the situation, prompting Artie to throw all of them out. Pete zoomed off god only knew where in search of food, which was how Myka came to be in the hall alone with Helena, fighting a cowardly impulse to just run away, trying to figure out how to say goodbye appropriately and then scurry her way back upstairs.
The words she in fact uttered seemed to come from somebody else. “There’s a minor league baseball game tonight that Pete wants to see. We’d have to drive to Sioux Falls for it, but you could... come too? If you wanted to? Since you aren’t from around here, it could be something different, at least.” She had no time for this at all; she had to write that Bishop/Oliver thing and get ready for her section tomorrow, not to mention read about sixteen articles. But Helena was so... yes, she could be awful, but she had also just been really decent, and Myka, having had way too much experience with Pete, was a big believer in rewarding good behavior... not that Myka thought going to a minor league baseball game was some big reward, but it was at least a peace offering.
Helena said, “That would be pleasant, I’m sure, but...” Myka steeled herself for polite dismissal. Helena followed up with, “My knowledge of your baseball is quite limited. I suspect I will require instruction.”
“I can tell you all about it, no problem,” Myka said, far too quickly. “I mean, Pete’s the fan, but I know enough.” Only then did she remember the other members of Helena’s party. “Will Claudia and Leena be okay with the idea?”
Helena made a strange, almost birdlike, shoulder-rolling motion; Myka found herself tempted to try to mimic it, just to see if it could be done. “Psh. Claudia most likely made a detailed study before we arrived, and Leena enjoys a show in general. All will be well.”
