Coda (Songs of Submission #9)(32)

I hoped I wasn’t stepping out of the frying pan with Omar and into the fire with Quentin.

“Sorry,” he said, rooting around his leather messenger bag. “Not a big deal, but I didn’t know what this was, so I didn’t want to give it to you in front of everyone.” He handed me a long, blue velvet box. “This was at reception with your name on it.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking it.

He slung the bag over his shoulder. “I have to find a drummer.”

“No one in this building can do percussion? It’s a house full of musicians.”

“You have no idea how hard it is to find a good one.”

“I kind of do.”

“Evan Arden’s in the bathroom puking his guts out, and he’s on bass. If I can’t find someone within the hour, we’re all going home for the day.” He made motions to leave but was so slow about it. He glanced at the velvet box then back at me. “Sorry, not trying to be nosy.”

“Not trying?”

“Even straight guys like a little sparkle. Come on. Don’t hold out.”

I smiled. What could it be? Jonathan never disappointed me, but I was afraid it was a diamond-studded leather collar or a bracelet with the word SLAVE in emeralds. That might require a little more explaining than I was willing to do.

I held the box at my eye level and cracked it open so only I could see. Whatever it was, it didn’t sparkle. I didn’t know if that excited me or scared me. But it looked harmless enough. I opened it all the way.

“What is it?” he said, hand on the doorknob.

“It’s a Sharpie.” I turned it toward him. Indeed, right inside the bracelet box lay a black Sharpie. I could see from his expression that he was disappointed, as if he’d expected an actual bracelet in the bracelet box.

“What’s it for?”

“I have no idea.” I opened the little card that had been folded inside the lid. It was typed.

Keep this with you, goddess.

I closed it slowly.

“He’s more of a romantic than I thought,” Quentin said.

“You know him?”

“We have a long history of feeding children together.”

“Is that why you hired me?” I said before I could catch it. That was a completely unprofessional thing to ask, and it made me look like an insecure ingrate.

“I hired you because Dionne Harber couldn’t make it. I don’t regret it.” He winked at me and got away with it.

“Thanks. And I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply my spot was bought.”

“It wasn’t. Trust me.”

He left with a smile. I opened the velvet box again. Shook it. Looked under it. Turned the card over. Nothing special. I got my stuff ready to go.

Typically when I traveled, Jonathan and I spoke once a day, and our conversations were short and mostly about his medicines and appointments. But that was the old us. The miserable us. The couple treading water in a sea of doubt and unsaid truths. I didn’t know or understand the couple we’d become, and I didn’t think there was much precedent for it.

So I didn’t know what he intended with the permanent marker, and I didn’t know enough to be excited or anxious. I was only curious as we laid down some tracks, and I played my theremin for everyone in the studio while we waited for two other people to decide if they were too sick to continue.

“We’re doing a small thing at a club after,” Omar whispered in the hall outside the bathrooms. “You’re invited.”

“Thank you. I think I’m just going to bed.”

“Alone? I bet we have the day off tomorrow.” He put his hand on my wrist.

“You know I’m married, right, Omar?”

“Where is he?” He spread his arms, indicating the whole of the studio, New York, the world about us, where Jonathan wasn’t.

Was he drunk? Who would make such an implication? What person in their right mind would assume my husband’s presence was required for my fidelity?

The answer came to me in the tightness of Omar’s jaw and the tension in his fingers. He was on something. Some white substance whispered in his ear that he was a god and entitled to whatever he felt like having.

I sighed. I’d really admired him. He sang like an angel, but he’d just been in the studio thirty minutes ago. I recalled the moments of inappropriate laughter and long space-outs when I’d thought he was preparing, but he’d been stoned the whole time. I knew how many artists worked stoned. I’d always told myself it was their thing and not my business, but suddenly I felt as if it was most certainly my business.

“My husband’s home,” I said, “waiting for me to call.”

He looked at me as if he didn’t believe me.

“Look,” I continued, “I know what you’ve probably heard about me, and it may be all true. But this scene, the drugs, and the other shit? The partying until all hours? The f*cking around? It’s not my thing. And if that means I’ll always be small time, well, it’s okay.”

He didn’t move, as if stuck in that moment. “You think I got where I am because I party?”

“No, I—”

“No?”

I didn’t think he’d coasted. Not at all. But he wasn’t interested in hearing it. I’d insulted his talent and his manhood, and he was walking away with at least one intact.