Freudian Slip (22 page)

J
ULIAN
S
HAW BROKE OUT
in a sweat.

He also had the very distinct feeling he might puke at any moment. His hands shook like he had the DTs. And if anyone knew what those were like, it was him.

It was five minutes to air time, and he stared at his microphone like this giant monster. Never, not even the first time he did a college internship, had he feared the microphone like some beast, feared the airwaves. His whole
career
was based on being fearless, saying anything that came into his head.

He had never had an internal edit button. No three-second delay. Whatever came into his brain, he said. Loudly. When he was a kid with drunken parents raging at home, he took out his anger and fear at school. He said whatever popped into his mind—out loud, no raising his hand—and spent whole weeks in the principal's office. He came close to dropping out several times—until he found radio.

The microphone, of all things, was his salvation. He spoke the things other people were too scared to say—about race, sexuality, gender, politics, bodily functions and most of all porn. And lesbians. At least, for years that's what he told himself.

But now that he wasn't so angry anymore, he realized that perhaps he wasn't speaking for everyone. He had been speaking for himself. What he thought was a voice for the masses had actually been the voice of one. One mess.

He'd been exorcising
his
demons.

But now?

Frank looked over at him. “You okay, man?”

“I'm fucking terrified.”

“Look, just talk like you always did.”

“But I don't have porn to back me up.”

Frank winked at him. “Jules, it's still talk radio. You're just talking about issues now. Politics. Poverty. Race in America. Health care. The stuff ordinary Americans care about. You're just going to put that focus you always had on things you now think people should hear. Whether they want to or not. The things that are important for them to hear. And not porn.”

“Think anybody out there still cares about what I have to say?”

“Jules, I don't want to freak you out anymore
than you already are, but this is the most anticipated show in the history of radio. If I know you, people will care what you have to say. You have a way of cutting through the bullshit.”

Julian nodded. He bowed his head and whispered to himself, “Okay still, small voice, let me say the right things. Give me guidance.”

With two minutes to go, everyone around him was settling in. One minute and he felt his heart pounding.

Intro music played. Pete Townsend singing “Rough Boys”—because Lord knows that was him. A rough boy. A rough boy trying to change.

He shifted in his seat. The pain in his legs, back and gut still bothered him every day. And he still had the pain of a deep soul ache, but he hoped the new show would somehow cure him. He had thrown himself into the preparations with a vengeance. He did it because he had to do
something.
But on those nights when he didn't fall asleep exhausted, the soul ache was still there.

Frank gave him the cue.

Taking a deep breath, he spoke into the mic. “Good afternoon, New York, this is Jules Shaw and welcome to five hours of whatever the hell pops into my infantile mind. But here's the thing, ever
since that jackass shot me, what pops into my mind is different. I know some of you want porn, lesbians and discussions of oral sex on the air. But not this show. Today, we're going to discuss life after death.

“Now, I know that topic is sure to bring all the nut jobs out of the woodwork. I have to tell you, I apparently died for a minute in the ambulance, but they were able to save my pathetic life. I didn't see a white light. For those of you who think that's because I was bound for Hell, that may be. But no white light. No Grandma waiting for me. No cherubim or seraphim. No dreamy floating sensation or rushing down a long tunnel. None of it. In fact, I don't remember being dead. But I do remember…there was no white light.

“At the same time, I am not the man I was before my brush with death. It changed me.”

Julian talked for about ten minutes. He took a commercial break, and then his first guest, a noted expert on near-death phenomena, sat down in the studio. The switchboards lit up with phone calls. They didn't light up the way they used to when he needed a dozen interns to just handle it all. But they were really busy.

When the show was over, he and Frank cracked the seal on a bottle of Patron. They each had a shot,
and then Frank asked him if he wanted to go grab something to eat.

“No. I think I'll just head home. I've got the senator on tomorrow. I have to be prepared. She's no dummy.”

“Okay, Jules. You were brilliant. Edgy but not sophomoric.”

“That's what I was aiming for. A little less id. Still the same bad boy, only polished up a little.”

Jules left the studio and exited out onto the street. The station was so grateful he returned in any format, they redid the studio. He now broadcast from the ground floor, with glass, so people could watch him as he did his show.

He pulled up the collar of his jacket, and limped down the street. It was a good show. He was proud of it in a way he had never felt about the old show.

Still, he hadn't cured his ennui. It clung to him like a fog. He felt lost, like he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. The confusion, the lost feeling, was as thick as the fog got on the Hudson sometimes.

But the still, small voice told him he was on the right path.

“S
O LET ME GET THIS
straight,” Mal said, sipping straight vodka on ice with a little Rose's lime cordial. Her hair was now peroxided white blond and, Kate decided, totally hot. Totally Mal.

“You canceled your wedding. You are not going to get to wear your nonreturnable Vera Wang. You returned your big friggin' rock of a diamond. For a ghost?”

Kate, feeling freer than she had her whole life, nodded. “Maybe not
for
the ghost, but for the idea of the ghost.”

“I don't get it.”

Kate looked down at her bare left ring finger. “Well, I'm not sure I get it, either. But I guess my ghost was my soul mate. And I would rather have just the memory of that than something less than that with David. He wasn't the one, Mal. And not because he slept with Leslie. He just wasn't the one. And maybe there
is
someone out there that I will
feel the same way I did about my ghost. And maybe not. But I'm willing to hold out for a soul mate.”

“Well, now I don't have to wear a hideous bridesmaid dress. I really wasn't at all sure you should go through with it, Kate. But I also…I don't know, I've been worried about you. How did David take it?”

“He thinks he'll change my mind. But I told him even if he had never banged Leslie, we were missing something. I just didn't know it. And maybe, you know…I sort of look at it as maybe God had a plan for me. I thought walking in on them was the worst thing in the world, but when I step back now, look at the big picture? It's kind of okay. I feel like it was part of the plan.”

“God had a plan involving your boyfriend banging your best friend?”

“Yes. I couldn't see it at the time, but yes. Exactly.”

“Okay, this has nothing to do with the ghost. This is why you've totally lost it, Kate.”

“No, listen. I've thought about it. If he never had banged Leslie, then I probably would never have questioned any of this. I would have gone with the plan. Not God's plan or fate's plan, but
David's
plan. My plan. The whole this-is-what-we-should-do-next thing. I wouldn't have yearned for more until maybe years went by and I realized David was not my soul mate.”

Mal furrowed her brow. “All right.” She nodded. “Okay. I get where you're coming from.”

“Maybe God's plan is just too big and complex for us to comprehend it all at once. Things happen for a reason. My ghost came to me for a reason, Mal.”

“What did your mother say?”

“Oh, she was, you know—Mom. Worried I'm going to end up alone. But Martin? He told me I did the right thing. He's growing on me, that Martin.”

“He's not your dad.”

“No. But who could be? I'm okay with them now.”

“You know, not just your mom…you know, you getting along better with her. But you are different. You have an inner peace, Kate. You were always an amazing person, but you have something glowing inside. I don't know how a woman goes through a break-up, a robbery, a haunted apartment, another—albeit weird—robbery, a marriage proposal, wedding planning and a cancellation of said wedding…and comes out looking happier than I've seen her in years.”

“Thanks, Mal.”

“You know, can you put on your radio?”

“Sure. You want me to play my iPod? I have a jazz playlist I love.”

“I hate jazz.”

“I've also been listening to the Clash.” She decided not to tell Mal it was because Jules love the Clash.

“No. You're going to think I'm crazy, but I started listening to talk radio in the afternoon. Julian Shaw, that DJ who was shot and then in a coma? He's back on the air.”

“The creepy one into all that porn? The lesbian guy?”

“Yeah. But he's different now. His show is very political. He's really, really good. You'd like him.”

“I doubt it.”

Kate stood and walked to her stereo and turned on the radio. “What station?”

“WVHR. Down at the low end, near 92.3, I think. Same station he was on before. Just now it's lesbian-free and political instead.”

Kate fiddled with the dial. “Since when do you, the woman who loves Ani DeFranco and the Clash and old Joan Jett, like talk radio?”

“I don't know. I went to turn on my radio one day, and my usual station had moved. I mean, the preset button was wrong. And I started listening. He's good. And that
voice.
”

The station was on a commercial break. When it came back, the DJ said, “Hello, this is Jules
Shaw, and we're taking your calls about health care and uninsured Americans right now. These stories are heartbreaking. I defy any listener out there not to be moved by what we're discussing here today.”

Kate collapsed to the floor and put her ear to the speaker. “That voice…it…I thought his name was Julian. The DJ who was shot.”

“He uses Jules now. He was interviewed, and he said that after his coma, he wanted a new name to signify a new chapter to his life. He calls it Act II.”

“That voice…Mal.” Kate didn't think she could stand. She remembered Helen telling her about her knees buckling. That was it exactly.

“You're hyperventilating. Kate, what's wrong?”

“I can't explain it right now. Where is this show broadcast out of?”

“Over by Rockefeller Center. He has a new studio. On the ground floor. You can watch him. People stand outside with signs and stuff. Pretty wild scene.”

“I have to go.”

“Can you tell me why?”

Kate scrambled to her feet. “Honestly, no. I have to go. Let yourself out. I promise you I'll explain later.”

Kate threw on a jacket and ran out the door and
down the hall to the staircase. She had no idea what she was going to do.

Or say.

But she
knew
that voice.

He was her Jules.

S
HE STOOD ON THE
sidewalk with the crowd. Around her, people waved homemade poster-board signs declaring their political positions. The crowd was from both sides of the political aisle. Though his politics were decidedly to the left, he was patient with the right. He was intelligent—and the crowd loved him.

So did she. Watching him, she felt her gut twist and churn with longing. She wanted him. He was beautiful and handsome and he had that voice she knew so well, coming out of speakers. The voice she knew as well as her own. But how could she explain it to him?

“Excuse me.” She tapped someone on the shoulder who looked like a rabid fan, judging by the Jules Shaw T-shirt he was wearing.

“Yeah?”

“I really am a new listener. Does he ever talk about getting shot?”

“Yeah. Sometimes. He's still in a lot of pain.”

She winced. “What about his time in the coma? Does he remember
anything?
”

“Nope. He even joked about it his first time back on the air. He expected a white light. His grandma. Nothing.”

“Thanks.”

She pulled up the collar of her coat. What she was thinking wasn't possible. But at the same time, she was so completely sure he was her soul mate.

She ran though a dozen scenarios in her mind.

You don't know me, but…

And each scenario ended with him calling the cops and her being declared insane. She hoped Mallory had enough money to bail her out. He would think she was a stalker.

As the sun set, the crowd dwindled. Until eventually, it was her and some guy holding a sign predicting the end of the world, another guy in a crisp suit and two older men, one of whom had really eccentric hair.

Kate pressed herself up to the barricade. In her head, she repeated the mantra,
Look at me, Jules. Look at me. Look at me. I'm here. Look at me.

But he continued to talk to his guest. He was fired up, passionate. He was her Jules. She loved
listening to him, not just for that voice of his, but how quick he was, how witty and sharp and brilliant. She smiled to herself remembering some of the things he used to say to her. Back when he was…

He was what?

How on earth would she ever explain this to him?

Then, just as he was getting ready to do his sign-off, he looked up—right at her, actually.

And he fumbled.

Dead space. On talk radio.

For a full minute. Kate saw his producer leap up and wave his arms, even write something down on a pad.

Then, finally, he spoke again. “This is Jules Shaw, signing off. And the woman out there in the black coat—don't move. Please. Don't move.”

Kate stayed frozen. She didn't dare move, or breathe. She just stood there, shivering slightly in the cold. And waited.

Ten minutes later, Jules Shaw emerged from the building and limped toward her. She would have walked toward him, but she thought her knees would buckle.

“Hello, Jules,” she said when he reached her.

He didn't say anything. He looked at her, and
then reached out and gently touched her hair. At his touch, his real touch, she started shaking, and had to grab onto the barricade for support.

“I know you,” he finally whispered. She saw him swallow hard. She watched as his pupils registered this shock—the same shock she felt when she heard his voice.

“I don't know how,” he said. “But…I know you. This is so…”

She nodded and inched closer to him. Then he took her face in his hands. She could
feel
his hands. And she wanted them on her in other places. Naked. Touching her. She wanted him as she had never craved another man in her life.

“Do you know me?” he asked.

She nodded, eyes shining.

“What was missing. I…this makes no sense, but I've been missing something. Ever since the coma. I've been missing something. And I know you're going to think I'm crazy.”

“I don't,” she said. Her eyes welled up.

“I know you somehow. And…”

“I'm Kate.”

“That's it.” He broke into a grin as if he finally recognized her. “Kate. I know you.
You
called me Jules, didn't you?”

She nodded.

“You're the one. You are.” He suddenly pulled her to him. “I'm going to kiss you, Kate.”

And when he put his lips to hers, she felt, finally, like Gussie said—Zeus had split her soul in half. And now it was whole.