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Of Nettles and Deliverance

IX
And the Ever After

ONCE UPON THE EVER AFTER

(Little Red Ride)

I was too young to know why, but I knew he was happy, and I knew I was safe.
It was a metamorphic night. From the volatile heat of his frustrations and the
crushing pressure of my constant fear, came a diamond.

En route across the desert, our red Beetle’s engine seemed to be humming to the
cadence of its tires against the asphalt. A laid-back rhythm, as if it knew our
destination This was a rhythm that could tame betrayal and deceit until, like gentle
lovers, they danced to promises of moonlight and meadowlarks.

It was the rhythm of Las Vegas in its heyday; where blue-eyed crooners
swaggered with style and their classic songs had a story to tell. His stories. His
fairy tales, the way fairy tales were meant to be told—cleverly disguised with
flowing silver-gown melodies and golden lyrics, but you knew underneath, it was
all about raw and real, with no guarantee of a happy ending. How he loved to
sing those songs, and looking back, I know what my daddy yearned for, was to
have been a part of it all.

A night, a desert road, a red Volkswagon and a family of five. A mother, father,
grandmother and two sisters had become one. A short-lived entity in an odd little
universe where there was no sign of the ugliness that was our everyday life.

I remember being mesmerized by the bright round lights on the VW dash, and
staring for miles into their brilliant colors. Crowded in the backseat, my sister and
I flung our cramped limbs over my grandmother’s lap covering the deformed hips
that caused her to sway side to side like a pendulum when she walked. And like
her deformity, all our secrets were hidden under the sprawling limbs of that one
night. More than hidden— forgotten.
It was Ring-a-ding-ding, baby!

“Hell’s Bell’s!”
Sometimes he said it lightheartedly, but more often you knew he was irritated.
Like I said, that diamond was a short-lived entity, and once we were back home
I knew it wasn’t safe anymore. Truth in my family could be as fleeting as a ghost
note, but legend has it my parents met at a music workshop taught by my father. I
don’t know if he ever worked as a musician after I came along, but by the time I
was old enough to remember, my mother was teaching piano from our house, and
my father had returned to his WWII military specialty; aviation and electronics.
He still loved to sing. Sometimes I’d see him set up a mic. I’d stay out of sight,
but close enough to hear him—I loved listening to him. I’d been playing the violin
from the age of 5, but he’d never asked me to play while he sang.

Many of the piano students coming to our house were my friends from school. I
would hear my mom tell them how extraordinary they were; incredible little
musicians—even geniuses. My daddy was always nice to them, too. Sometimes,
I would overhear my mother mention me as “her daughter the musician” while
talking to friends. She sounded happy. But when we were at home, and no one
else was around, I heard different “M” words about me like “Mooch” and
“Moron.” That would confuse me, but I decided it was because I wasn’t
“a genius” like my friends. I wasn’t sure what made someone a genius, but
knowing how my parents loved their music, I decided it had something to do
with being “an incredible little musician.” I practiced my violin until I won award
after award hoping to make them happy and proud. It only made things worse.
A lot worse.

My daddy would come home from work looking dapper in coat and tie, but if he
looked at me, his stare would go cold—colder than his icy martinis.

Daddy, what big eyes you have.

Then, like a snow capped volcano, his rage would erupt, and all I could do was
run for my life. I never knew “what” he was going to do to me, but, like I could
count on the ever steady beating from my metronome, I could count on the same
from my daddy. Night and Day. Day and Night after night after night . . .

“Don’t cry wolf, little girl.”

“Don’t cry, little girl.”

“Don’t cry or I’ll really give you something to cry about.”

Don’t cry.
Don’t feel.
Don’t exist.
DON’T!

I was sixteen when he finally left us. He never did ask me to play while he sang. I
guess part of him must have hated me because I was free to do the thing he loved
most, but had given up to earn a better living. I kept playing the violin. I didn’t like
it—it scared me, but I was good at it, and by that time I was so numb with fear
and confusion, it never occurred to me that I could do something else. A couple
of years later, I joined the American Federation of Musicians. That’s when I first
learned my daddy had been a member for years.

The next time I heard from him I was in my twenties.

“Have you played for Nelson?”* Just like that! The first thing he asked me.
No fiddle-de-dee contempt in his voice. He really wanted to know. There was
even a shy excitement in his voice, as if maybe we . . .

So, I went to see him. He was standing across the room, holding a drink. I could
smell the memory of his breath.

“You grew up pretty,” he said.

Fear began to squelch any hope. I didn’t know how to respond. The echoes.

Don’t cry, little girl.
How are you supposed to feel?
Don’t cry.
Not “what” are you supposed to feel… I mean, other than fear, how is it possible
to feel anything at all when you didn’t dare exist. You don’t.
DON”T.

I never saw him again.

Twenty-five or so years later, I had a dream—about the diamond. My father was
driving down the same desert road, in the same red Volkswagon beetle, with the
same hypnotic round lights on the dash and that laid- back rhythm of the tires. My
mother was there, same place, in the front passenger seat, but I realized as I
watched her gaze out into the desert night, she had no awareness of what was
happening in front of her. Actually, that’s how it had always been. I was seated in
the back, same as that night so long ago, behind the driver’s seat, but this time I
was alone, and I was grown.

I could only see the back of my father’s head, yet I knew his lips never moved. I
guess lips don’t when one speaks from the heart—or the soul. His voice was
gentle.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t do any better in this life.”

“I know,” I answered, “I love you.”

I leaned forward from the backseat and kissed him on the cheek. Then I woke
up, and I knew.

“I think something happened to my father,” I said to my husband. “I had this
dream.”

I phoned my sister. “No,” she said, but word came the next day that he had died
of a massive stroke.

I don’t believe my dream was by chance. I don’t believe in coincidence. I wish I
could say it brought me closure, but I wouldn’t be speaking honestly if I did. I
wish I felt what I said to my father in that dream. Wherever we met—that place,
that dream, that dimension of awareness— we both knew something more. It’s
hard to explain, but for me—here, on earth and of his flesh and blood— my
humanity defines the boundaries of my understanding and my ability to be
compassionate.

“DON’T!” was my life for a very long time, and it’s taking a very long time to
overcome the fear of simply being. I’m only beginning to realize there was
strength and determination in that little girl’s ability to endure the years of brutal
physical abuse. To believe in her—to accept her for the innocent child she was, is
to begin to reclaim the self I lost.

“Yes, Daddy, I played for Nelson. But how I wish I could have played a song
with you.”

*Nelson: Nelson Smock Riddle Jr. 1921-1985. Esteemed arranger known for
his lush orchestrations and swinging big band charts. Prominent arranger at
Capitol Records during the 1950’s.

In 1984 Nelson Riddle wrote some of his last arrangements for Linda Ronstadt.
I was a member of the studio orchestra for the recording session, and from
1984-2004 frequently played his classic orchestrations with artists including
Frank Sinatra and Frank Sinatra Jr.

Though he never worked as a musician, my father remained a member of the
American Federation of Musicians, Local 47 until he died.

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www.megfoxart.com

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