Hide & Seek - James Patterson [5]
I was trying so hard not to have any negative thoughts … but things like this, really good things, never happen to people like me. They just don't.
“Do you sing your songs, or do you just write them?” he asked.
“I sing them too, at least I hope you'll call it singing.” Stop apologizing, Maggie. You don't have to apologize for anything.
“Ever performed professionally?”
“I did some backup singing in clubs around West Point, Newburgh. But my husband didn't like it when I did.”
“He didn't like much, did he?”
“He thought I was exposing myself. Couldn't stand other men looking at me.” So I shot him—three times.
“But you'd be willing to try it now? Sing in public? You could do that?”
My heart raced at the thought. “Yes, I could.” It seemed the right thing to say.
“Good answer.” He gestured toward a beautiful, shining black Steinway at the far end of his office. “But your first test's in private. Did you bring anything?”
I picked up my briefcase. “Lots. Do you want to hear ballads? Blues?”
He winced. “No, Maggie. Just one. This is an audition, not a gig.”
One song? I thought. My heart sank.
I had no idea which song to pick. One song? I had brought at least two dozen, and now I stood rattled and confused, as though I were standing naked in front of him.
Put it in gear. He's human. He just doesn't act like it. You've sung these songs a thousand times before.
“Go on,” he said, looking at his watch. “Please, Maggie.”
I sucked in a deep breath and sat down at the piano. I'm fairly tall, self-conscious about it, so I prefer to sit. From the seat I could see the silent chaos of Broadway through his window.
Petrified wood.
Okay, I thought. You're here. You're actually auditioning for Barry Kahn. Now, knock his socks off. You … can … do … it.
“This is a song called ‘Woman in the Moon.’ It's about a … a woman who works nights cleaning buildings in a small town. How she always sees the moon from a certain window while she works. What she dreams about all night in the offices she cleans.”
I looked over at Barry Kahn. Jesus, I was in his office. I was the Woman in the Moon. He was sitting back, feet on the bottom drawer of his desk, fingers steepled together, eyes closed. He didn't say a word.
Musically, “Woman in the Moon” was like Barry's own “Light of Our Times.” I began to play, to sing in a soft, uncertain voice that suddenly seemed dreary and ordinary to me. As I sang, I sensed I was losing him.
I finished. Silence. I finally dared to look at him. He hadn't changed position, hadn't moved. Finally he said, “Thank you.”
I waited. Nothing more came from Barry Kahn.
I put the music back in the briefcase. “Any criticism?” I asked, dreading his answer, but wanting to hear something more than “thank you.”
He shrugged. “How can I criticize my own child? It's my music,” he said, “not yours. My voice, imitated by yours. I'm not interested.”
I could feel a deep blush redden my face. I felt so humiliated, but also angry. “I thought maybe you'd be pleased. I wrote it in honor of you.” I wanted to run out of the room, but I forced myself to stay.
“Fine. Okay, I'm honored. But I thought you were here to play your songs. If I want echoes, I'll sing in a subway tunnel. Are all your songs like mine?”
No, goddamn you. They're not like anybody else's songs! “You mean do I have something more original?”
“Originality's what I'm looking for. Originality's a start.”
I began leafing through my sheet music. My fingers felt numb and unsure. A full marching band was stomping around inside my head. “Would you listen to one more?”
He stood up. He was shaking his head, trying to stop me from going on. “Really, Maggie. I don't think—”
“I do have one. Many. My own, not yours.” I had promised myself I wouldn't be embarrassed.
He sighed, having already given up on me. “Since you're here … one more song. One song, Maggie.”
I plucked out “Cornflower Blue.” It was a little like an old Carole King hit. Maybe not original enough. Too precious. Too clever. More bullshit. The noise inside my brain had become a loud roar