Melody Burning (9 page)

He didn’t want to. He really, really didn’t want to. “Please let me stay.”

“If my mother found you in here—I don’t even want to think about it. Do you have any identification?”

He threw his arms around her. “Don’t go on the roof like that again. Don’t ever!”

She leaned against him for a moment with her full weight, and it felt so good that he said in his mind, “Never stop, never stop.” But then she did stop.

He grabbed her hands. “Promise me.”

“You can’t ask me that, because—you just can’t!”

She turned away from him. He thought of the little birds that sometimes got into the crawl spaces of the upper floors. He tried to catch them, but he never could, and they died. They always died.

She said, “You have to leave now.”

“I can’t. I’m scared for you.”

“Oh, Lord, now a lurker fan who lives in the walls. Where does it end?”

“If you come back up on the roof, I’ll be there,” he said.

“I have a balcony.”

“I’ll be there.”

Her eyes widened and then sort of seemed to flash, and he decided that, whenever possible, he would be no more than ten feet away from her. He wanted to say “you have to live,” but it sounded selfish, so he said nothing.

He put his hands on her shoulders and held her, and looked down into that perfect face. He knew there was a great sadness in her and realized that, at all costs, his primary mission was to save the woman he loved.

Unable to speak, he turned from her and went quickly out the door, into the hall, and back to the den. In a moment he was up in the crawl space and racing off down the equipment chase and into the depths of the building.

He did not see the light that followed him as he dropped down the chase, but it was there, and it carried his fate with it, a terrible fate that was thundering toward him with all the fury of an avalanche.

C
HAPTER 10

O
hmygosh! Ohmygosh! Oh, he was beautiful, he was
beautiful
, he was gentle and amazing, and he lives in the walls.
He lives in the walls
!

I—I—I think I should be furious—at him for breaking into my house, at this stupid building for its rotten security. I think I should sue their asses. I think somebody should call the cops and get this kid into foster care. I think the Luther thing should be followed up . . . and I think I really, really want to see him again.

Where does he go, what does he do? Where
did
he go? He just suddenly walked out of the room, and I went out behind him and he was
gone
!

Is he a ghost, a
real
ghost? No, because he kissed me. It was like how a little boy kisses you, all sloppy and hard. He was clumsy and his heart was beating like a motor, but he’s
huge
, way over six feet, and handsome, too, with hair that makes him look wild, and those big soulful eyes and rippling arm muscles. The way he held me, it was like he was some kind of master of dance. I just fell into his arms. He made me feel like a feather, an adored, beautiful feather. Then the kiss, and it was just darling—he had no idea what to do, he was just way out of his depth.

And what’s with the blouse? What is
that
? He thought I was calling him an
actual
TV set, not a cross-dresser, because he must have no idea what that is.

I am laughing so hard I have to hold my face in the pillow until I practically smother, but then I just roll around in bed imagining him in here with me. He is really strong, and I know why—because he climbs around in this building like some kind of wonderful, beautiful phantom of the skyscraper.

His hair is a huge, blond wave that frames his face and hangs down behind him. You can see on the sides where he cuts it, but not very well. What does he use, pinking shears?

His face is an open window. His eyes are wide and blue-gray. He looks like everything surprises him. When I kissed him, he was so surprised that he almost collapsed.

He’s rough but sweet, and the way he was forcing himself to hold back just thrilled me and made me feel more wanted than I’ve ever felt before—

“Stop that preening and get dressed!”

“Oh, Jesus! Mom, you scared me!”

“You live for the mirror. It’s a sickness.”

“You don’t want close-ups of my zits ending up online, do you?”

She sighs. Her hair is in curlers; her face is so bare of makeup that her complexion looks as if she’s been drained by a vampire.

“Feeling okay, Mom? Because you look really pale.”

“I didn’t get much sleep.”

“Worrying about me, of course. So, my fault,” I say sarcastically.

“I’m glad you got some sleep, at least.”

“I’ve been up since four. Your boyfriend’s dope didn’t work all that well, I guess.”

“He’s a doctor, Melody.”

“A doctor who I’d bet spent the night with his patient’s mother? I’d like to see his credentials.”

I run to my bathroom and slam the door. I know I’m being hard on Mom, but she’s being hard on me, too. I mean, erasing my entire day of work at Reynolds? I’m expected to just forget it, I suppose, like some two-year-old who has about a thirty-second memory span.

All I can think about is
him
. How did he end up in here? There was a murder and he hid, so he says. This Luther, he hid from him. Why did Luther kill his dad? Or is it all a fantasy? What if he actually
does
have an apartment, or is just a damn stalker who lives in the Valley and snuck in?

No. He’s real. A wild child.

I turn on the shower and get in. It’s blue marble with gold fixtures, just like I wanted.

I’m amazed all over again, and kind of shivering while I stand looking down at the water sluicing me and think, what would it be like if we took a shower together? I’m really torn. Do you do it or do you not? Calabasas was no help—the girls ran in packs, and to hear one pack talk, all the other packs were basically whores. Actually, most of them were like me, complete virgins.

I finish the shower and slab on enough makeup to make Mom believe that I’ve decided to do it her way. But then I dress in a black, very severe Jil Sander dress that makes me feel good and bad, which is part of my love affair with Jil, I guess.

I have a heartbreaking day to endure with this ancient composer and his equally ancient lyricist. Back to Reynolds to do some songs he’s probably had in a drawer since the days of Brandy. Brandy, the former star of
Moesha
, grew up into oblivion and that’s what I fear is my fate.

“You look great,” Mom says as I come into the kitchen and eat a strawberry Pop-Tart.

As so often before, I feel this intense love for my mother, despite the fact that I’m still angry about last night. I go over and kiss her on the cheek.

At first, there is no reaction. Then I realize she has stopped moving. Her hands clutch the countertop, her head is down, and her hair hangs around her face. I hear her quietly crying.

Suddenly we are in each other’s arms and I’m saying I’m sorry and she’s saying she’s sorry, and we’re bawling.

You cannot hate your mother for very long, at least I can’t. In the limo, we sit hand in hand. This time, I don’t get sick. This time, she does not smoke. We have, thankfully, left Mr. Dr. Shrink behind to water the plants.

We meet Jim Dexter at Reynolds, and his partner, Ray. Jim and Ray. They smile. I can see that they’re happy for this work. I have a vision of a tiny apartment somewhere cheap, and them counting their change for food.

The first words out of my mouth stun me: “Could you do an arrangement of ‘Nature Boy’ for me?”

This sounds insane, even to me, but I know why I am saying it, and when Mom gives me a funny look, I just turn away.

Mom and I are not only mother and daughter, we are also business partners—and practically a married couple. But we’re business partners who don’t trust each other. At the core, it’s mom and kid, I guess, and that’s where we always end up.

We go to work in a little acoustic studio with a piano. People like Elton John and Burt Bacharach have worked in this room, Jim tells me. At this very piano.

Ray is thin and shabby. He has taped glasses. There are nicotine stains between his fingers. He has a scar up the side of his throat.

He begins to play, and for the first couple of bars, I think maybe there’s something there. But then it all falls apart into these god-awful cascades of arpeggios, and I cringe. It’s agonizing.

I can see Mom knows as well as I do that these guys are a disaster. But we keep working anyway. We’ve paid them for the day, so we might as well get what we can out of them.

They will do the “Nature Boy” arrangement for me. Mom is suspicious, but she doesn’t say anything except, “Since when did you take an interest in Nat King Cole? He’s not your kind of sound at all.”

All I can think of is those words from the song—“a very strange, enchanted boy.” They go round and round in my head. Will he love me—or does he already—and will I love him in return?

I’ve thought about the fact that Nature Boy washes his hair and he’s clean and everything. So he must use apartments. My guess is that he totally owns the Beresford, and nobody knows he even
exists
.

On the way home, we show up randomly at the Ivy, which is, I think, Mom testing my star power. We’re instantly seated. I get my usual scallops mini plate and Mom orders the lamb two ways. She says, “Bring me a Blue Label. Huge.” I go into my iPhone while she buzzes away, wildly enthusiastic about the songs and the arrangements. My Twitter profile is active. At least my professional tweeter is awake. My last tweet was twenty minutes ago: “I’m so into my new songs. On a roll today!”

The meal passes, we come home, and Mr. Dr. Shrink is not waiting for us as I expected him to be. He appears to be like the others who show up around here, strictly gone tomorrow. Not even mentioned.

I’ve been lying in my room in the dark for fifteen minutes, and there are
no
sounds of my boy. He is not in my wall, he is not in my ceiling. I miss him and I want him because frankly I was counting on going to sleep listening to him breathing in the wall, and waking up to find him beside me again.

You know how this feels? Exactly like waiting for Santa Claus when you’re a little kid. Only my darling guy is no big fat Santa.

I’ve never felt so beautiful as I felt in his eyes. I want that again. I want it right now, and I’m tossing and turning. I
want him here
.

I go up against the wall and put my mouth to it. “Are you in there? Where are you? Because I want you to come back. Please, come back.”

But ohmygod what if he’s a crazy person? He could be anybody. I could be in terrible danger.

Mom knows he is here because I told her, and I know a major complaint was filed with the building, so this beautiful person is probably being hunted down because of me.

I think he’s wonderful and strange and kind of like a poem. Could I love him? Maybe, but first I have to stop feeling sorry for him. Right now, that’s what I feel. It’s a good feeling but it’s not love.

I look in the closet again. The walls behind my clothes, the ceiling, the floor under my shoe rack. No secret openings. My bathroom, same deal—no secret openings, and the vent is too narrow. Under the bed? Not there, and no trapdoor.

So he doesn’t come in via my room. Could he possibly have a skeleton key? But how? We had our own locks installed, and most everybody else does, too. We have three doors that lead into the apartment through the den, the foyer, and the kitchen. All locked all the time.

Is there another way in, like maybe in the pantry?

I open my door, but carefully. If Mom is still in the living room, I’m not going out there.

She is, but she’s asleep on the couch and looks kind of haggard now. I love the Wicked Witch of the West because she is often my
mother
.

I creep very quietly into the kitchen. Open the cabinet under the sink. There’s a hole back in there, but it’s no bigger than your fist, plus it has a screen in it. Cabinet by cabinet, I open them all. No secret passages. Plus, the pantry is too full. He couldn’t come in through a door in the back of it because he would arrive covered with pasta and olive oil and Carr’s Whole Wheat Crackers.

Mom’s bedroom? I look again at the heap on the couch and go in. Her room is totally chaotic.
Much
messier than mine. I’m not insane on the subject, but I like things to be where they’re supposed to be.

There are a whole lot of clothes in Mom’s closet. Stuff I haven’t seen before. Crunchy silks and satins, and a big fur. When is she going to wear a fur? This is LA, so it’s never all that cold. It’s all white and stuffed into a plastic sheath. I didn’t even know she owned it. Anyway, who wears real fur?

I leave because this is ridiculous—he didn’t come in through Mom’s room, and if she wakes up and finds me snooping around in her territory, then what?

He has to be coming in through either the foyer closet or the den. Or the living room, but I can’t search there now. So I look in the closet, which contains my red parka and some umbrellas and no sign of any trapdoor, hatch, or anything like that.