Some Kind of Miracle (8 page)

Dahlia pushed open the door of the van and gestured for Seth to follow. Together they ran up the steps of the Sea View and through the door. All the other residents were gathered around the piano, rapt as Sunny sang. Dahlia stood at the back of the group between Santa Claus and the black woman who was no longer talking to herself but listening to the song written so long ago.

“Our love’s a perfect circle. That means it cannot end,” Sunny wailed in what was now a big, gravelly, funky voice.

“Didn’t take her meddies again,” Santa Claus said softly to Dahlia. “Stuffs ’em in her bra when Grover’s not watching, even though he knows she’s doing it. Then he leaves, and she sits down and plays her songs. She says the music blocks out the voices better than any pills.”

Santa Claus’s face was lit up proudly as he swayed to Sunny’s music.

“She plays a lot of songs?” Dahlia whispered in return.

He nodded. “We call her the Goddess of Music. She
makes ’em all up, too. This one’s nothing compared to the ones she usually plays of her own stuff. Most of ’em are better than the Beatles.”

Dahlia made her way through the group, which was now swaying with arms around one another, grinning and tapping and rocking back and forth on their heels, and when she got to the piano, she sat next to Sunny on the bench where she always sat when they performed as children.

Sunny used her right foot on the pedal and had her left foot sitting on the bench with her left knee turned out, and Dahlia, taking a chance, slid her arm around her cousin’s waist and sang the words with her. Sunny’s big voice was still so much louder than Dahlia’s soft one, just the way it had been when they were kids. And somehow, after all Sunny’s brain had endured, she still remembered the childish lyrics of the song Dahlia had written at age eleven.

The song was unquestionably catchy. As the two cousins launched into a repeat of the refrain for the third time around, some of the people in the group sang along. “When you are by my side, my life is worthwhile.” Seth laughed at himself for singing along and feeling so moved, but watching these people come alive with the music was heartrending, even though he knew that Dahlia was only thinking about this as a business opportunity. He was sure that her sliding her arm around the waist of the woman in the parachute jumpsuit was just her first step to pulling out the contract and a pen.

Maybe it was because he knew so much about the two cousins’ history that he had to hold back the tears.
Tears that if Dahlia spotted she would ridicule, so he was relieved when the song ended in a big musical flourish and everyone was cheering and hollering for an encore. At that point he could escape out onto the porch and wipe his eyes. But he did stay long enough to see Sunny rise in the midst of the ovation and, without even turning toward Dahlia, lumber through the group and make her way up the stairs.

“N
ow, this is the life,” Dahlia said. She was curled up next to Seth on a lounge chair by the pool of the elegant Del Coronado hotel. Once, about ten years ago, a concert promoter she was dating brought her to this hotel for a night, but then the schmuck spent the whole evening on the phone talking to his ex-wife. Dahlia had sworn to herself that night, hating the date and hating her life, that she would come back to this beautiful spot when she had money. Okay, so she still couldn’t afford it, but now that Sunny obviously remembered the song, things were moving along in that direction. Sunny remembered it. That clownish-looking woman who seemed to be completely blotto actually remembered their song from twenty-five years ago.

“The Santa Claus guy told me she always plays the piano,” Dahlia said. “That she has tunes, other tunes
that she wrote, and they’re great. Tomorrow I’m going back there, and I’m going to worm my way into her brain and get her to remember me. And then she’ll sign the contract. And when the movie comes out and the song’s a hit, she can go buy herself a whole new wardrobe of straitjackets.”

Seth didn’t laugh, and Dahlia poked him. “Lighten up. I’m kidding. Hey, she’s my cousin. You can’t seriously think I’m that mean. Can you?”

Seth frowned.

“Okay, it was a bad joke. But you have to laugh. That Sea View place was horror-movie time. Weren’t you freaked out?” Dahlia asked. “I mean, that group made me queasy. The one guy never stopped tapping his index finger so hard on the rail of his chair I thought he was going to hurt himself. And one of the women was moaning to the music. In the right key.”

A peal of laughter made them both turn toward the gate to the pool. They watched as a pretty, dark-haired woman who was probably in her fifties pushed a wheelchair carrying a bearded man who sat chatting amiably with her, despite an oxygen tube in his nose. The man said something that must have been funny, because the woman laughed again and pushed the chair to a stop near the edge of the pool. Then she took off her shoes, sat on the edge of the pool, slid her skirt above her knees, and dipped her feet into the water.

“Ooooh!” the woman exclaimed. “Been wantin’ to do this all day.”

Seth put his face against Dahlia’s and whispered into her ear. “Would you push my chair around if that were me?” he asked softly.

“I would,” she said. “And then I’d tip you right into the pool and find me a dude who could take me dancing!” She laughed, but when she looked into his face, there was something serious about his expression that bothered her. “Why are you asking me that? Don’t you think I would?”

Seth didn’t answer.

“You don’t!” she said quietly. “You think I’m too selfish. You think if we were married and you got hit by a car, I’d say, ‘I’m out of here,’ and leave you helpless. Don’t you?”

“Can you imagine how hard that woman’s life is?” Seth mused quietly, but Dahlia was sitting up now, her feet tapping around on the ground feeling for her sandals.

“Dahl, cut it out. I’m not going to get into a big harangue with you about some imaginary situation. Let’s go get dinner and call it a night.”

“I’m not hungry,” Dahlia said.

“Well, I am. I’ll eat something and be up later.”

“Why won’t you discuss this?” she asked. Her face was dark with anger.

“Discuss what?”

A bubble of laughter erupted from the couple at the edge of the pool.

“The idea that you think I’m a greedy flake.”

“You
are
a flake! Look what you’re doing. Look why we’re here. Look at the money we’re spending in this overpriced place so you can get that poor, drugged-to-the-teeth woman—”

“So I can get her to make a ton of money. Money she can use, keep, roll around in. She may even come up
onstage at the Grammys—where, the way she looks, she’ll fit in better than I do. Why is this a sin? I’m doing her a favor. Maybe if she had tons of money, she could find herself better doctors, better care, a better lifestyle. Not to mention what it would give you and me. So how about having positive fantasies about how we’re going to be flush with dough? Think about a life for us that’s full of prosperity, instead of ‘poor me’ scenarios where I’m going to have to take care of you when you’re disabled. You are the most negative person on the planet, and if you hate what I’m doing, then just go home. There’s a train or a bus or a flight between here and L.A. every hour.”

Seth shook his head at her tirade, then stood and left her sitting at the pool.

When Dahlia was eleven and her parents told Aunt Ruthie and Uncle Max how much they wanted her to learn to play the piano, even though they couldn’t afford to buy one, Aunt Ruthie volunteered the Steinway and her living room to Dahlia once a week for her lesson and any other time she wanted to come over to practice. Aunt Ruthie and Uncle Max only lived a few blocks down the street on Dahlia’s way home from school, so it was easy for her to walk there, and Dahlia couldn’t wait to get started with Mr. Hughes, who had been Sunny’s teacher when Sunny was Dahlia’s age.

Luckily, Sunny had already taught Dahlia some of the basics, so Dahlia was able to skip the first few
Teaching Little Fingers to Play
beginners’ books and start playing songs right away. Andrew Hughes had a long, thin face and very short hair. He always wore a
coat and tie no matter what the weather, and he carried a brown leather briefcase with his initials,
AH
, embossed on it in gold. He smiled a smile that showed protruding front teeth, and he blushed uncomfortably when he talked, as if he’d rather not have to say anything, just come in, put music in front of you, have you play it, give you some more pieces to work on for next week, and then leave.

“What an odd bird,” Sunny said, remembering when she studied with him and warning Dahlia. “He never tried anything with me, but he’s a bizarre one.” Dahlia, who was shy with everyone, felt especially shy with Mr. Hughes, as she called him, because he had this way of sitting too close to her on the piano bench, and she could feel his warm thigh pressing into her. And when he moved her hand off the keys so he could put his own hand on, in order to demonstrate something to her, he placed her hand on his lap.

But what bothered her most was the way he would show her how to play certain difficult passages in a new song. He’d have her stay where she sat at the keyboard, then get behind her and lean above her, his arms over her shoulders, his face close to hers, the back of his arms grazing her chest, and he would play the piece. After he’d done that the first time, Dahlia dreaded the next one, and soon he was doing it at every lesson, so when she’d see him stand and move behind her, she’d feel fluttery and sick, but she was too afraid to say a word. She would try to focus on what he was playing, but his closeness and the way his arms casually brushed her budding new breasts made her dizzy.

“So how was the lesson?” her mother would ask when she came home at night from her job at Dr. Raphael’s office.

“Good,” Dahlia would reply quietly, not looking at her mother, ashamed that she was letting the intimacy continue without reporting it, but afraid that if she told her parents, they would cancel the lessons. She was learning so much so fast, playing so many new and difficult pieces that even Sunny was impressed. And she wanted to tell Sunny what Mr. Hughes was doing, wishing she could ask her what to do about it, but she didn’t have to. One day just after Mr. Hughes put his arms over Dahlia’s shoulders and began to play a passage of “Für Elise,” leaning so close that Dahlia could smell the soap he used, she heard Sunny’s voice penetrate the air.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sunny roared into the room and grabbed Dahlia’s arm, pushing Dahlia behind her and standing face-to-face with Mr. Hughes, who flushed fuchsia.

“Showing her how to play this passage?” he tried, but the question mark in his voice gave him away. Sunny sat at the bench and played the passage perfectly. “That’s how you play the fucking passage, Dahl. And you get up when he wants to show you how to do anything.” Then she turned to Mr. Hughes. “If I ever see you touch her in that way again, I’ll break your fucking head, and that’ll be the nicest thing I do to you, before I go to the newspaper, the cops, and the Music Teachers of America Union, if there is such a thing. Got me?”

Dahlia remembered how Mr. Hughes pushed the
sheet music into his briefcase and hurried out the door, and she was sure he wouldn’t be back there on the next Wednesday after school, but he was. And when he wanted to show her how to play a new passage, he asked her to excuse him, she got up, and he played it for her, and then she sat down and played it for him. Sunny had saved her, not just that once but time and time again when Dahlia was a kid. Now she was returning the favor and saving Sunny. That’s what this was all about, she told herself as she dozed off that night in the hotel room. Saving her. Not taking advantage of her.

Seth was showered, dressed, and playing solitaire on the laptop when Dahlia opened her eyes the next day and realized she’d slept away a lot of the morning.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“So much for romantic nights in San Diego,” he said.

“I said I’m sorry.”

“Great,” he said, shutting down the laptop. “Shouldn’t we be getting back home or make another stab at the Sea View? I have work to do in L.A., so the sooner we get this family reunion over with, the happier I’ll be.”

His overnight bag was already packed and standing at the door. If it weren’t for the fact that they had driven down here together, he might have just left her there, she thought.

“Honey, come here,” she said in a voice that at other times might have convinced him to let her lousy behavior slide and climb back into bed with her.

“Get dressed,” he said, picking up his bag and leaving the room.

All the way back to the Sea View, while Dahlia drove, Seth had the computer open on his lap as he played solitaire silently.

“I’m just going to say good-bye to her,” Dahlia said. “I want to give her my phone number. Tell her if she ever needs anything, she can give me a call.” It was ten o’clock in the morning, but the day was already uncomfortably hot. The air-conditioning in the van was pushing out all the cold air it could muster, but it wasn’t much. Dahlia felt sticky and cranky.

“You’re not going over there to say good-bye,” Seth said. “You’re going to try one more time to get a signature out of her.” Dahlia wanted to pull over to the side of the road and tell him to get the hell out of her van for not believing her, for continuing to characterize her as some hard-hearted, callous bitch. But she didn’t, because the truth of the matter was that this time there was no doubt he was right.

Nobody was sitting on the porch of the Sea View as Dahlia pulled up at the curb across the street. “I’m gonna go take a walk,” Seth said. “I spotted a bookstore and a camera store on the main drag, so I’ll come back in a little while and get you.” He was angry, Dahlia could tell. And he was probably justified in being angry. She’d been bitchy to him. But she would apologize on the ride home, and he’d get over it. Meanwhile this was her last crack at getting Sunny to sign the contract, and she wasn’t going to let Seth’s mood get in her way.

As she moved slowly up the steps of the Sea View, she could hear the sound of somebody’s too-loud radio coming from somewhere, and she wondered if the
drugged-out denizens of the board-and-care even noticed irritants like loud music. It sounded as if it was one of those religious music stations, because the choir of voices was harmonizing to something that sounded like a spiritual, rising in intonation, now changing keys, and then stopping abruptly.

As Dahlia moved past the kitchen and the stairs toward a little hallway leading to an outside door, she realized that the singing had come from live voices. It was a group of the people who lived here, and now they were gabbing and laughing outside in the tiny backyard of the big old house. Most of them were from the group Dahlia had seen the other day, among them Sunny, who was chatting with Santa Claus. She was wearing overalls and a bright pink T-shirt. Santa seemed to be the conductor of the group, because he stood in front of the others with his back toward the door.

None of them seemed to notice Dahlia, who remained behind the screen door watching them. Sunny was pulling some sheets of paper from a folder and passing them out to each member of the group. The black man who had driven the car yesterday studied the piece of paper she handed him, and the short, stocky woman took a pair of glasses out of her pocket and put them on so she could peer more closely at the sheet.

“Is everyone ready?” Dahlia heard Santa ask them. “How many remember that we talked about this song last time before we worked on it?” Nobody answered, but Santa went on. “It used to be a song of prayer. A Nigerian folk tune. And what the people were really
singing was ‘Come by here, Lord.’ Asking God to visit them no matter how humble they were. I guess little by little over the years the three words got pushed into one, and now people call this song ‘Cumbayah.’ But I like to sing it in the original way.”

The white-haired woman who chattered to herself was gesturing and talking to some inward person the whole time Santa spoke. The man who always tapped continued to tap repeatedly on his thigh, Sunny stared into space, a curly-haired woman Dahlia hadn’t seen yesterday gazed intensely at the lyrics, and the short, stocky woman rose on her toes, then back down onto her whole foot as she listened.

Santa blew into a little pitch pipe, and somehow, at that moment, as if the sound of the pipe held magical powers, all of them mobilized. There was no more tapping, no talking, except from the black man who drove the car yesterday and who now sat glumly on a beat-up old Adirondack chair.

“I’m gonna sing from here,” he said.

“Eddie,” Santa commanded, “get up!”

“Too tired,” Eddie replied.

“Can’t do it if you don’t stand up. You need to use your diaphragm, and it doesn’t work as well sitting down,” Santa said, “and we’re not starting until you get up.” It was an order, and after a moment Eddie sighed and stood and took his place. Then Santa blew the pitch pipe again, and they all focused on him. He raised his hands conductor-like, and they responded in song.