Chapter Six Sassy
six SASSY
Every minute of every day since she’d left Jamieson, Baines, and Brown, Sassy’s gut had churned. She’d tried to tell herself it was the flu or something, but she knew perfectly well what it was. Sassy had never lied to her father before, and she had always insisted with Joey that omission was the same as lying. She should have told her father about her job right away, or rather the lack of one, but having delayed her confession for a whole week, she was now stuck in the middle of an even bigger omission.
Out of guilt, she went the next morning to visit Mr. and Mrs. Moore, her father’s war buddy and his wife. She rarely saw them outside of the building unless it was Mrs. Moore carrying groceries. Whenever she saw that, Sassy carried them for her. Today she went to visit, but Mrs. Moore turned her away, saying Mr. Moore was feeling out of sorts. So Sassy returned to her room and tried to keep her mind off the inevitable meeting between herself and her father. Like the Moores, Sassy spent as much time as she could in her apartment, watching television, trying to concentrate on books, eating potato chips, and playing guitar.
Music had always been Sassy’s happy place. Her father had no musical talent whatsoever, meaning that when she encouraged him to sing with her, his version sounded nothing like hers. He was tone-deaf, he couldn’t maintain a rhythm, and he was content with spending a day without listening to a radio or a record player. But Joey and Sassy were born with music dancing through their veins, just like their mother.
In the large glass-domed parlour of their massive old house stood a Heintzman mahogany baby grand piano. Years after her death, her father told Sassy that her mother had been able to play anything by ear on that piano. Of the very few memories Sassy had of Rita Rankin, she clung most tightly to one. It felt dreamlike, but it filled her with such nostalgia, she knew it had to be real. Every night, her mother had played soft, sweet music after the children had been put to bed. But on one special night, Sassy snuck out of her bedroom to listen, tiptoeing as quietly as she could. Her mother hadn’t seen her there, tucked underneath the piano, barely breathing in an attempt to keep quiet. Sassy was held spellbound by the majesty of the instrument vibrating all around her, and the wonder of the chords and melodies her mother created. The sweetness of the memory was tied to one clear image: soft brown slippers beneath cream satin pant legs, slowly lifting then lowering on the pedals.
After her mother’s death, and before they were tall enough to reach the pedals, Sassy’s father signed both children up for piano lessons. Scales and arpeggios were torture for Sassy, but they were even more agonizing for Joey. After six months, their teacher, Miss Lilly, frostily informed their father that Joey refused to play a note during lessons. The little boy’s protest eventually won out over his father’s insistence and Miss Lilly’s weak objections, and Joey happily shifted his attention to baseball. Sassy stuck with Miss Lilly, forcing herself through the tough stuff so she could get to the fun. She even learned music theory and history, though the whole concept of chord progressions initially baffled her.
What Sassy hadn’t expected was that during those long, repetitious scale sessions, she would fall in love with the mindless intricacies of the process. While her fingers worked, her mind sang, creating vague little melodies that wrapped around the arpeggios and wound through the scales. One by one Sassy added to her colourful stack of John W. Schaum piano method books, working all the way through until she finished the Grey Book. That’s when Miss Lilly finally gave in to Sassy’s campaign for sheet music of current popular music. “The Great Pretender” and “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” were the first two, since Miss Lilly enjoyed the Platters, but the notes on the paper were simple and felt dull to Sassy. She asked for more, and Miss Lilly challenged her with a stack of Rodgers & Hammerstein musicals. Sassy melted into the romantic songs, livening them up with chords she’d perfected through learning theory.
One night in October 1964, she turned on the television to watch The Ed Sullivan Show , excited to watch a band from England that everyone was talking about. At school the next day, all the girls were swooning over Mick Jagger. For Sassy, it was all about Keith Richard’s guitar.
The next day, her father bought Sassy the most gorgeous guitar she’d ever seen. He’d bought it off a client, who guaranteed she’d love the clear sound. Right off the bat, she noticed the trademark gold “Martin” written above the pegs.” Jazzed, Sassy carried it to a girlfriend’s house, since Nicky had been playing guitar for a year already.
“Sassy!” Nicky cried, astounded. “This is the same guitar as Bob Dylan plays!”
It took a while for Sassy to memorize the placement of the frets and to harden the new callouses on her fingertips, but over time, the guitar replaced the piano. She returned to the eighty-eight keys and polished the mahogany whenever she felt the urge, but those six strings, strung across the sensuous maple shape of her guitar, had won her over. The instrument was freeing, compared to the anchor of the piano. She played for girlfriends on the school’s football field, and they all sang along as the breeze lifted their hair. When the women in protests called for liberation, she smiled, because she had already found her own version.
But it had been two years since Sassy graduated from high school, and her friends had moved on. A pregnant Nicky had gotten married after graduation to some boy Sassy had never met, and a couple of others had left for college. There was nowhere for Sassy to play guitar anymore, except by herself, and she craved an audience. If only her father understood. She needed to express herself, and for that she needed freedom from his demands.
Then again, there was rent to pay.
She had a couple of choices about what to do next, she figured. Or maybe three. Try and find a new job, somehow make it big with her voice, or crawl back to her father and beg for forgiveness. She liked the middle option best, and she truly wanted to believe it was possible, but while Sassy might be a dreamer, she was also a realist. She knew the truth.
There was a knock on the door. She swallowed a lump of apprehension as she turned the knob, though she doubted it was her father.
“Davey,” she sighed, letting him in. He curled a warm arm around her waist and drew her in for a kiss that temporarily took away her anxiety.
“Got you something.” He handed her a bunch of red tulips, which she was pretty sure had been growing in front of the building.
“Thanks. Where you been?”
“Work. You know.”
“Did they move you up from dishwashing yet?” she teased.
He’d started working in the kitchen at Chez Monique, one of the coffeehouses in Yorkville, and though he’d had to start at the bottom, he claimed that it was only the first step to his career as a chef. Sometimes he brought her leftovers, which she appreciated.
“Yeah! I chop onions now. Are my eyes red?” He put his face right in hers to make her laugh.
“I can smell them on you.”
“And I’ve been hanging on Baldwin Street, too. There’s a hip new pad there with plenty of cats like me. You know. Resisters.”
His fingers snugged around the curve of her body, sending a thrill through her. She wasn’t deluded that the closeness she shared with Davey was love, but for now, all she wanted was comfort. With her eyes on his, she skimmed her tongue over her upper lip.
Evidently, Davey wanted something else. “Sassy, I got a problem.” He took a step back and turned his jeans’ pockets inside out. “I’m broke.”
“That’s why you’re here? You came to sponge off me? What would make you think that was a good idea?”
He held out his hands, indicating the apartment. “You gotta have green to live in this choice pad, baby. Everyone else I know is living on top of each other in rooming houses.” His sensual smile curled beneath impossibly golden eyes. “But no, that’s not the only reason I’m here.”
“You can crash here, Davey, but I have no money.” She held the words in as long as she could, then she blurted, “I lost my job.”
His lips made an O shape. “Bummer. Sorry, man. What happened?”
Her gut rolled, and she turned away. “My scuzzy, chrome-dome boss got all handsy. I nearly puked on his fancy carpet.”
“Oh man. That’s heavy. Then he fired you?”
She was a little put off by his response. Maybe he was smoking too much weed and his perception was off. “No, Davey. That’s when I quit . I wasn’t gonna hang around there another second.”
“That’s tough.”
“Yeah, well.” She sat then picked up her guitar and strummed a chord, picked out the first few notes of “Turn! Turn! Turn!” “It is what it is.”
“Don’t sweat it. You’re talented. You’ll get a job.” He followed her to the couch. “I don’t know about me, though. I’m kind of lazy. I’m really good at lying down. Wanna see?”
He was so cute, reclining on her couch and looking at her like a puppy. She’d thought about him a lot over the past few days. She’d missed him and the ease she felt when she was with him. Giving into temptation, she put down her guitar and lowered herself into the welcoming basket of his arms with a deep sigh, she laid her head on his chest.
“I gotta get a job.”
“Bummer,” he repeated gently, his voice vibrating under her cheek. His fingertips skimmed up and down her back. “Do you want to go look for one right now, or maybe you and I could chill first?”
She let herself relax, if only for a little while. “Let’s chill. We can find a job later.”
When later came, it was already dark. Too late for job hunting. While Davey snored, Sassy got up and made grilled cheese, knowing the aroma of frying butter would wake him. She was right, and a few minutes later she heard him on her telephone, though she didn’t listen in. As she flipped the sandwiches, he nestled up behind her, encircling her with his arms.
“You smell nice,” he said, resting his chin on her shoulder.
She grinned. “I thought you were a chef, mister. What you smell is burnt butter and cheese.”
“Yeah? Well, I got you a job.”
She stepped out of his embrace and gazed into his careless good looks. His hair was tousled from sleeping, sticking up like a rooster tail in the back. “Oh yeah? What kinda job?”
“It’s a gig.”
“What?”
His smile was smug. “Yeah. I asked the boss. Eddie says he’s got an opening for tomorrow night. Amateur night. Technically, I guess it isn’t a real gig, because you only get one song, but it’s something. Nine thirty, he said. What do you think of that? Did your boy do good?”
“Seems too good to be true.”
If you get a full-time job , she heard her father say again, I will help you pay for the apartment. Something that is not to do with your guitar and your voice.
This gig had two strikes against it already. It was not full-time, and it had everything to do with her music. But she couldn’t help wondering where amateur night might lead. Her father hadn’t said she wasn’t allowed to try.
One song. Her mind raced through her inventory, picking her favourite.
She popped up onto her toes and kissed him. “My boy did good.”