Songbirds
The
Ballad of Bridget and Brian 
Kitty Schooley
Chapter
1
Larks
Table of Contents
Chapter 11
Getting Cocked and Cock Fights
I realize that I have rejected sensitive men. I have thought of them as wimps who are the last to get chosen when teams are picked. There is no scene; it happens before it gets very far. I see one in a room. His hair is wild and soft. His eyes are misty; his fingers are long and smooth.
I cringed. I might have to have real conversation with that one, one that reveals the inner most thoughts and depths of my soul.
I have preferred the powerful men. The ones who walk into a room and command attention. The ones who stare down their enemies or competition with a fierce look. I go liquid inside, and internally I shout, “Yes, I will mop your floors, cook your dinners, and do your laundry ad infinitum. Just choose me and protect me.”
I think it had to do with the myth of the American cowboy. At noon, they would go out and face down the criminal element, come home and be kind to women, children and their dog. What I didn’t realize was that they still had that look in their eyes when they came home. My ex-husband, Ethan was such a man. When he came home at night the look was directed at me. I became enemy to be conquered, the competition to be squashed.
Except the man I loved most in my life was neither of these. He was fallible and human. He never struck me as overly sensitive though I would learn he was. He was not the commanding ambitious type, although he was enterprising. He grew on me much as a tree grows in one’s yard. One day you just realize what a big presence they are in your life.
* * *
I heard a large thud in the next room. I imagined the scene. They were spraying their semen, marking their territory. More of it would be in their imaginations now that they are older.
Mark would not be there. He would have crawled off with some boyish pretty thing or two. When I thought about it, it seemed strange. He was still rather boyish himself despite his age and I would think he would prefer someone more butch.
And he would come crawling into my room tomorrow morning. (The Andy Rooney impression kicked on in my head and said, “Why do we call it crawling when they’re not really crawling?”) If not tomorrow then the next day. The pattern of the concert tour had been set, and I was alone and lonely. I curse the Eagles for having Hell Freeze Over and Ozzy for Retirement Sucks and even the Beatles for their anthologies. Now anyone who was associated with our band, In Faith, had jumped on the wagon, pulled us out of the moth balls, had us produce an album and sent us on tour. I agreed, but it had nothing to do with the money or desiring the band to be back together. It had more to do with my ex-husband, Ethan Brook. Ethan was a powerful presence in the recording industry, had lots of money and knew the best lawyers in LA. When we divorced, all that plus the fact there were usually liberal custody judgments in California, meant that for this summer, Sonya, my little angel, would not be with me. I reacted out of grief more than logic.
He did not disappoint me. He showed up late morning and sat in my suite. He complained. He couldn’t do this anymore. He was getting too old for this. I let him vent as I had all the mornings before. He was like that shade tree that had grown up in my yard, wild and untrimmed. The verdict was out with the tree surgeon as to whether the disease could be trimmed out or whether the whole damn tree had to come down. The tree surgeon was rather lax about getting back to me. Suddenly, I heard something distinguishable from that morning and all the others before. “Bree, do you even listen to me?”
A spiral caught under the carpet at my feet, pulling me in toward the vortex of the perfect moment. I had decided the perfect moment was a myth, an illusion I created; yet he could make me believe it had been true. That it had happened. He called me Bree, born of an intimate moment so long ago. First, it had been Bree-gee, and then shortened to Bree. I have never allowed anyone else to call me that, insisting they call me Bridget even if they overheard him call me that. “I hear you, Brian. I just don’t know what you want from me.”
He looked rueful. I saw him swallow hard. “I’d like us to be together again.”
After I had left the band, I had been in the business end of music until my daughter was born. The negotiator in me kicked in. I named a price I didn’t think he’d be able to pay. “You’d have to have an HIV test. There have to be no messing around while you waited for the results. I’d know, you know, if there were. Then you’d still have to use condoms until another test could be repeated six weeks later. Any unfaithfulness and the whole deal is thrown out.”
“Fair enough,” he stood up. He hugged me briefly and gave me a kiss on the cheek; it was California affection and meant nothing.
Despite my strong show, I made the conversion to Central Time. I did it so often, with my whole family still being there, I seemed to live a major portion of my life on Central Time. I lifted the receiver and dialed my sister, Meg. “Meg, Brian was in my room.”
“Call me when something new happens,” she teased.
“It was different this morning. It wasn’t just the usual complaining. He wants to get back together.”
There was a long silence. I expected my older sister to tell me how daft I was for even considering it. “This is the part where you tell me what you said,” she said.
“Oh, yeah, I gave him an ultimatum.”
Silence. She waited for me to tell her what the ultimatum was and I waited for her to drag it out of me. It made no difference that I was the one who had achieved fame; I was still her younger sister. “God, let me call Luke! I could’ve had an entire conversation with him during that last lull.” She was referring to our older brother, a man of few words--at least not for his sisters. He preferred to reserve what he had for schmoozing with clients. “O.K. I’ll bite, what was the ultimatum.”
“I told him to get a HIV test. And he’d have to use condoms even after. And another test in six weeks. And no messing around with anyone else.”
“So, it sounds like you’ve got all your bases covered, Birdie.”
Birdie was my family’s nickname for me. I know the story of how that became my nickname from it being repeated many times during family reminiscing, not because I remember. I mentally reviewed it. Meg was only eighteen months older than me. When she first attempted to repeat my name, it came out “Birdie.” Luke, who was three years older than she, laughed and said, “it sounded like she said ‘Birdie!’” He grew a bit more serious, as he was wont to do even at four-going-on-five. “She does look like a pretty little bird. And some of the sounds she makes are like tweets and chirps.” So it stuck inside my family. Brian had once commented that ‘Birdie McIntyre’ would make a good stage name. I knew later in my adulthood that he was right; it had that blues or jazz edge to it and would be memorable. But in my late teens, when we were first starting out, I was still too close to the taunts of the few kids outside my family who found out I had been called ‘Birdie’ and couldn’t let anyone call me that. However, in the mouths of my family, the word still sounded affectionate.
Mentally, I switched back to the conversation at hand, and I did not feel like I had all my bases covered and I knew I hadn’t. I expected Meg to tell me that. But all I said was, “Yeah, I know.”
We moved from one hotel suite to another. When the band had no obligations, like radio interviews or autograph signings during the day, I spent my time at malls or shopping districts buying little gifts to send back to Sonya. When I exhausted that, I’d go to the local library, pick a section, and absorb knowledge. I seemed less recognizable than the men in the band, and could move around freely without many hassles from fans. It was on such a day that when I returned to my hotel suite, Brian immediately emerged from his. “Where’ve you been?”
“Shopping, the library.”
“I’ve been waiting for you all afternoon,” he said as I had managed to push open the door. There was no sense to asking him in. He would come in invited or not. I put bags down on a table, and he sat on the sofa in the seating area. He pulled a paper from his shirt pocket. I recognized the paper: fax paper, the waxy type when the printer can’t use plain paper.
“What’s that?” I came close as he unfolded it. He handed to me without words. The paper said that a few days ago Brian Timoney tested HIV negative. I sat down as the vortex pulled me. I realized that over the past few days since I had laid down the gauntlet, Brian had not only always returned to his room alone, but also had made sure that I saw him. “There was another proviso,” I reminded him uncertainly.
He reached into his pants’ pocket, but then came up with nothing. “No, this isn’t right. Not like this.” He got up, bent over to kiss my forehead, and said, “I’ll see you after the concert, OK?”
“OK,” I said, and sat there stunned with the paper still in my hand as he shut the door. Brian Timoney waived his right to privacy to get this, or perhaps he had called first and when it was negative, he asked for the proof. I had given him an ultimatum and he was up to it. Was I?
I didn’t even make the time conversion; I just dialed Meg. After she heard my voice, she spoke urgently. “What is it, little sister? All the kids got summer colds.”
“I’m sorry,” I replied to her news. I knew by the sound of her voice that she wanted no funny business from me like the last time. She didn’t have the patience to pull it out of me.
“He did it,” I said. “He, Brian, he…got a test. HIV. He’s negative.” I stopped.
“So, that’s what you wanted,” she said with irritation. “So, have you?”
“No, not yet. He said tonight. After the concert. Something about it not being right.”
“Romantics,” she scoffed.
“What?”
“Both of you. He’d been a damn sight better off if he hadn’t been so romantic when you were young.”
“What do you mean?”
“Waiting for everything to be perfect. Just so. He almost let you get away.”
My heart ached for the direction her half of the conversation took--the memory cell that was pricked. Then she said, “Look, Birdie, one of the kids is calling me. You’d better call me back tomorrow. You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I lied. “I’ll call you back tomorrow. Give my love to the kids.”
“They want an autograph from…what’s his name? The good-looking one. Not their aunt’s love.”
I laughed. “Joey,” I said. “So even the young ones are taken in by him?”
“Yeah, guess so. Look, I’ve got to go now. Call me tomorrow, OK?”
Brian sparkled on stage that night. I had to watch him for cues anyway, but I watched him more for the renewed appreciation I was feeling. He didn’t jump and slide across the stage on his knees like he used to, but he did move nicely. The way he bumped his hips as he played guitar gave me a renewed appreciation for him. He shifted his legs graceful and dance-like to the music. He had on those black jeans that made his legs look longer and leaner than they really were. Always he tapped his foot. He had on a loose shirt, not tucked in, and unbuttoned at the top, that caught the breeze. It was teal in color with yellow and tan sunbursts printed on it. The colors made me feel happy. When he talked in between numbers, I was thrilled by his Midwestern drawl. Ethan had a California accent: the one heard on radio and television all the time where no one can distinguish where in the country the person is really from. Brian’s voice was deeper, a little gravely. He sang this song I had written after reading a critic claim that our band and others like us were too old to be performing rock’n’roll:
He’s banging on the drums with his hands and feet
He provides the pulse that can’t be beat
She’s strumming on the guitar making it twang
It’s ringing like a bell that has been rang
They say he’s too old, she’s too old, they’re too old to rock’n’roll
Oh, but they don’t know
He’s plucking that bass making it hum
It’s a funky beat that can’t be strummed
She provides the harmony that’s really sweet
With a sound so sugary you wanna eat
They say he’s too old, she’s too old, they’re too old to rock’n’roll
Oh, but they don’t know
He struts across the stage in his finery
Like a rooster or a peacock man he’s mean
She’s dancing in the audience into the scene
First it moves her soul then her entire being
They say he’s too old, she’s too old, they’re too old to rock’n’roll
Oh, but they don’t know
The man on the radio said they remind him of his parents
So who does he think put up the Woodstock tents?
Okay so maybe all they’re into is paying the rent
But they’re never too old to rock’n’roll
He’s wailing on that saxophone like a cat
Listen to him play you know you’ll be back
She’s tapping that keyboard like a spinal bone
With a sound so grand you don’t wanna go home
They say he’s too old, she’s too old, they’re too old to rock’n’roll
Oh, but they don’t know
They say they’re too old, they’re too old, they’re too old to rock’n’roll
Oh, but they don’t know
When he was introducing the members of the band that night, he called out, “My favorite keyboardist, Bridget McIntyre.” A warmth and peacefulness rang through me. I stood up and bowed. The fans cheered, and I realized that this, too, was part of the reason I had decided to come back. The appreciation showed when we performed was a rush. All performers feel it once they get over the stage fright and apprehension.
We were giggling like teenagers when we left the concert that night. We sat together in the limo and held hands. In the hotel lobby, he put his arm around my waist and we walked toward the elevators. My body was remembering things both wonderful and scary.
When we got to my room and I pushed open the door, there was a large bouquet--as big as Sonya was, I thought--champagne chilling and a box wrapped in beautiful ribbons. A distressed look came over his face. “I forgot; you don’t do alcohol anymore.”
“Nice thought though.” I closed the door behind us. “You can send it over to the guys. I’m sure they’ll make short work of it.”
“It was kind of expensive,” he winced.
“Well, save it for your son’s wedding.” I moved toward the table that was decked out with all his gifts.
“Eddie’s only five.”
I opened the box. Inside were chocolate pecan turtles. “Oh, Bri, you remembered! My favorite!”
He was behind me. He encircled my waist with his arms and nuzzled my neck. “That’s not all I remember. I remember how to drive you crazy.” I twisted around inside his embrace. I gazed into his eyes: gray storm clouds unreadable to the meteorologically challenged. Would the clouds rain on me, or pass me by and rain somewhere else? We kissed and I felt the hot vibration of passion wave through me. My fingers were tangled in his hair in a moment. He was right. He could still drive me crazy.
He breathed in deeply and held his breath, like he was smoking pot. This time was what he was getting high on was me. We were kissing, embracing and struggling to get each other’s clothes off. His body was different with age since the last time I held him like this. Not too different, just enough to make it interesting. He noticed differences in mine, too. When my shirt had been shrugged off to the floor, he cupped one breast. “At least you got bigger tits now that you’ve had a kid.”
“I wouldn’t think that mattered to you judging by what you married.” Brian had been married to a waif-like super model. In a dark, secret place, I admired Caren Carroll. She must have recognized that there was still enough of the God-fearing Middle American in Brian that he would marry her if she got pregnant. She proceeded to do so; they married, had Eddie and divorced a couple years later.
“Well, I’m not married to her anymore.” It was getting difficult for either of us to talk. Passion had quickened our breath and dried our throats.
“Maybe we should go to the bedroom,” I said. We stumbled forward, trying to keep a connection as we walked. At the side of the bed, the rest of our clothes fell away. I slid under the covers, and Brian sat on the edge of the bed. He picked up his pants and pulled the foil package out.
“Back to the beginning,” he said, as he opened up the condom package.
I traced the faint line of hair down the center of his back to the cleft at the top of his butt. “No, a new beginning,” I said.
© 2005 Kitty Schooley
SONGS
WRITING SAMPLES
Fantasy Man Love You Tonight Oh Lord Have Mercy on my Soul Salvation Stay with Me I'll Be your Man Boats, Books & Brushes Article
Broken Shell
