Interlude (12 page)

“Hi, I'm Josh. Are you Elisabeth Casey?”

“Yes, hi. I'm Betty.”

“Come with me. The ShakeDown session's in Studio B.”

Betty was surprised at the posh interior of the place; it had looked anything but opulent from the outside. Josh led her down a hallway, past a coffee room cluttered with boxes of donuts, and finally to another heavy door. A red light, lettered “In Use,” next to the door was unlit. They went inside.

Betty found herself in a soundproof booth, monopolized by an enormous 24-track mixer board and several monolithic speakers. Four swivel chairs and a leather couch faced a wall of thick, double windows. Through the windows Betty could see a much larger room where a group of eight ragged-looking musicians were standing around talking. Three of them were white, the rest black. Behind them was a set up of drums, microphones, and synthesizers. There were two electric guitars and a bass.

An unshaven man seated in the booth looked up and smiled politely.

“This is Betty,” Josh said with a sweeping gesture.

“Oh, yeah. Betty. Hi, I'm Dave Demetrius, Brian's brother. This is Jake Arnold, our engineer. Brian's out there with the band. I'm producing the album for Libra Records. You did a nice job on the lyrics. Wait ‘til you hear Brian's song—it's awesome.” Dave was a fast talker and very much to the point. When he was finished, he fell silent.

Jake, the heavyset engineer, hoisted himself up to adjust some tape on a reel-to-reel machine behind him. He had several earrings in each lobe, all unmatched. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked in a husky voice. “Have a seat on the couch there, and Josh will get you one. What do you want in it?”

“Cream and sugar, thanks.” Betty curiously surveyed the studio. It was cluttered with tapes, boxes, clipboards, ashtrays, and other paraphernalia. But it was spotlessly clean and tastefully designed. Someone had invested generously in the place.

Just then Brian Demetrius came into the booth. Brian wore faded jeans, which were ripped at both knees. A brown ponytail cascaded down the back of his faded green t-shirt. He was barefoot. “Elisabeth?”

“Call her Betty,” his brother interrupted. “She's cool.”

“Yes, call me Betty. It's good to meet you, Brian. I'm dying to hear your song.”

“Well it's your song too, you know. What do you hear about your boyfriend?”

“Not much. Just rumors, as usual.”

“Yeah, I heard somebody was supposed to be coming out last weekend.”

“Somebody's always supposed to be coming out. The problem is, nobody ever does.”

Brian shook his head. “Bummer, man.”

Just as Josh returned with Betty's coffee and a fat, shiny donut, Dave pushed a button and his voice was broadcast all over the studio. “Okay, we're ready in here. Let's take one pass on tape and see what we've got.”

The musicians very leisurely made their way to their instruments. Relaxed and jovial, they tuned up for several minutes while Jake did a final sound check on the mikes. Finally Dave hit the button again. “Okay. This is ‘We'll Never Say Good-bye'. Take one. Tape is rolling . . .”

There was a pause. Someone counted out a beat. The band began a song that brought tears to Betty's eyes almost instantly. First a single voice sang a quiet solo. One by one the others joined him. It was just soulful enough not to be saccharine, and it was really, really beautiful. Betty couldn't believe her ears.

Even though she'd thoroughly enjoyed one of their other recordings, Betty had assumed that ShakeDown would somehow desecrate her tender lyrics. She had been bracing herself for the worst since Brian had called two days ago and invited her to the recording session.

But this—this was really breathtaking. The melody had an almost classical sound, and the singers' harmony was complex and rich, like nothing she'd heard before. Brian had been very sensitive to the words she had written, and his composition reflected it.

Dave cut in after the last chord. “It's happening, guys. Sounds good. But the bass is too hot, Phil. Tom, back off a little on the synth until verse two, and then give me a little more reverb. Let's do it again. ‘We'll Never Say Goodbye.' Take Two. We're rolling.”

As far as Betty was concerned, the song was perfect the first time. The musical subtleties that troubled Dave were completely inaudible to her. Whatever he was striving for was irrelevant as far as she was concerned. The more they played the song, the more she loved it.

I can't wait for Jon to hear this.

Dave asked for three more passes before he was satisfied. Finally he called the band into the booth to listen. Jake turned the speakers up and started the tape. Everyone fell silent, concentrating on the newly birthed tune.

When it was over, the musicians didn't say much. They looked at each with knowing smiles and nods, quietly delighted with their accomplishment. “Yes!” said the drummer, gesturing thumbs up to his friends, unable to restrain his enthusiasm.

“Are you the lady who wrote the words?” the bass player asked Betty.

“Yes, I am. I'm Betty Casey.”

Dave jumped in. “Sorry, Betty, I forgot to introduce you. We aren't real formal around here. Guys? Betty Casey. Betty Casey, ShakeDown. Betty, we're going to try and release this tune as a single, and we're looking into international distribution for it. Maybe your man will hear it in Lebanon. Who knows?”

Not knowing what else to say, Betty got up to leave. “It's wonderful. I love it. Brian, you did a super job. I don't know what I was expecting, but it's so much better than I thought it would be.”

“Do you want me to send you a couple of cassettes once it's mixed? It won't be on the market for a few weeks, but I'll send you some personal copies this week if you want.”

“Yes, please. Thanks guys.” She waved to the band in the studio. They were making their way back to the microphones, getting ready to record the next song. Several of them waved back.

Betty smiled at Dave. “I'm really excited about the song.”

“So are we. It's a happening tune.”

As much as she'd enjoyed the music, Betty was glad to be on her way. She'd never been inside a recording studio before or had any contact with musicians. Theirs was a different world, to be sure. And in some ways they were a strange group.
Nice but bizarre,
she concluded.

Ah, but the song! It haunted Betty—she couldn't get it out of her mind. After several days she found the courage to call Brian and ask him the question she'd been rehearsing for some time.

“Do you think the guys in the band would mind if I played the song at my wedding, once Jon gets out?”

“Of course we don't mind. It's your song, too. Besides all of the guys are feeling bad about you and your boyfriend. We'd like to come to your wedding and celebrate with you!”

“Well, you're certainly invited. I just wish I could give you a confirmed date.”

“Yeah, I guess that's a little tough at the moment. By the way Betty, did I tell you we're pretty sure we're going to be getting airplay in the U.K.?”

“No, you didn't. What does that mean, anyway?”

“It means that if we're on BBC, the tune might be broadcast into Lebanon.”

“Well, Jon won't know it's for him, but he'll love the song.”

“I think he'll know it's for him.”

“Why is that?”

“Because we decided to tell him.”

“What do you mean? “ “In the final mix, we decided to add something. At the end of the song, I said, real soft, “Hey Jon, it's time you got yourself out of Beirut and came home, man. Your lady's waiting.”

Betty hesitated. “It doesn't sound corny, does it?”

Brian laughed. “No, it's cool, don't worry. I'm sending you a demo tomorrow. It's a love letter, man. He'll know.”

As it turned out, Brian was right. The final tag line on the recording worked surprisingly well. It gave a personal touch to the song, and if Jon ever did happen to hear it, he'd certainly have something to think about.

If
he heard it.

Months had passed since the kidnapping. It was nearly March, and Betty was still alone. Day after day she drove to the office, worked on the Uganda report, checked her phone messages, made small talk with Jim, Joyce, and the others, and drove home again. Her father called every few weeks, but his very evident pessimism about Jon's circumstances only compounded her distress. He'd obviously been talking to Red Jeffrey.

Badr hadn't called for weeks, and Betty hadn't called Mike Brody. Besides the fact that she had no reason to contact him, she was secretly afraid of what he might say. Suppose her letter to Badr had been intercepted? The check had cleared the bank weeks ago, but anyone in Lebanon could have cashed it and she'd have been none the wiser.

The only good news she could think of was that ShakeDown's “We'll Never Say Good-bye” was on the radio now and then. Oddly, whenever Betty heard it, she felt a strange emotional detachment. Like everything else that was related to Jon, the song had taken on a sense of unreality.

Jon was beginning to seem like a figment of Betty's imagination. The diamond on her hand still sparkled in the light. The silver prayer bracelet still curved around her left wrist. Jon's portrait still adorned her room. But Jon himself was fading from her memory. She couldn't quite remember the sound of his voice. She wasn't sure anymore about the shade of his blue eyes. But worst of all she was beginning to wonder about something far more disconcerting. Was Jon still alive?

From what she'd read, some hostages had vanished and had never resurfaced again. Granted, Jon's picture had appeared on the day of his abduction, but that was the last word anyone had heard. Of course Badr had said, “He's good, very good.” However, Betty wasn't at all sure of Badr's credentials as a “reliable source.”

A poem, written on the back of a church bulletin, was stuck in Betty's Bible—a Bible that hadn't been opened for days. The poem read,

Lost
Between the warm radiance of your welcome
And the unthinkable blackness of farewell
I tremble in a half-light:
Watching
Waiting
Wondering.

Betty had tried to find something in the Bible to comfort her heart. She'd read Psalms. And passages about restoration in the Old Testament. And words about faith from the New Testament. But nothing reached her heart. Nothing seemed to permeate the heavy sorrow that clung to her.

One day her friend Erica called from Orange Hills. “Betty, I've had you on my mind. How are you doing?”

“Oh, I'm fine, I guess. I'm still breathing.”

“It's been a long time since we've seen you.”

“Yeah, I've been sticking pretty close to home.”

“I can imagine you would be. But, look, we're having a special prayer service for the Lebanon hostages on Sunday morning. We'd like to invite you to be our guest. After the service, maybe we can all go out to eat and visit.”

“Oh, Erica. That's so nice of you. Are other hostage family members coming?”

“No, it's not that kind of a service—nothing public— just our usual morning service, but we want to have special prayers for them—and for you. Can you join us?”

I don't want to drive all the way over there.

“Uh, sure, Erica. That's really kind of you. Did you say it's at eleven?”

Chronic depression had all but immobilized Betty, especially on weekends when she didn't have to be at work. She hadn't been to church in months. In fact, she had no inclination to get out of bed, get dressed, or see anyone. She was becoming increasingly reclusive, sometimes not even talking to her closest friends when they phoned. Betty was sleepy all the time and dozed off several times a day. A peculiar series of aches and pains were also beginning to worry her. The hypochondria she'd overcome as a younger woman had returned with a vengeance.

I'll probably be dead before he gets out.

Thoughts of cancer, obscure muscle diseases, and heart trouble crept into her mind in the darkest hours of the night. Panic gripped her from time to time. She would awaken from a sound sleep sweaty, shaking and nauseous.

Worst of all, she had lost her sense of hope. She had learned too quickly how devastating false hope could be to her. So, little by little, she had rejected all hope. There seemed to be safety in that posture, at least from disappointment. But the gathering darkness was potentially more dangerous than any deferred dreams could ever have been.

She steeled herself this Sunday morning for the trip to Erica's church. There were a thousand reasons not to go, and Betty could have kicked herself for not thinking of one when Erica invited her. In the first place, she had no idea what an Episcopal church service was like. In the second, she didn't want to hear the usual passages about “Waiting on the Lord.” She'd heard them all. She'd tried to believe them. She was still waiting.

Just before eleven, she parked in front of a well-tended stone sanctuary, got out of her car, and all but dragged herself inside. The pain that had stabbed through her chest for months gnawed at her again. Erica found her just as she walked through the tall, wooden doors. They embraced. “You've lost weight, Betty.” Erica's eyes reflected concern at her friend's haggard appearance. As they found a seat together, Betty noticed that the building was nearly full.

Erica knelt and prayed for a few moments before she sat down on the pew. Somehow Betty wanted to join her, but she didn't. Things were already more different than she'd imagined, and the service hadn't even begun. A guitarist, a flautist, and a keyboard player stood at the front of the church, waiting for something.

Betty started when a voice from the back said, “Would the congregation please rise?”

Everyone stood.

A teenager in a white robe with shoulder-length hair proudly carried a golden cross down the center aisle. He was followed by two white-robed acolytes and three priests. Some of the older people bowed when the cross passed. For some reason, their ritual brought tears to Betty's eyes.