Chapter Eight Sassy
eight SASSY
Chez Monique. Amateur night. Sassy could hardly believe it was happening. Dear Davey, with his straightforward attitude toward life. She never would have had the nerve to approach the manager like that. This afternoon, she had changed outfits at least four times before finally settling on a white peasant blouse with delicate navy and orange embroidery over a pair of perfectly faded denim flares. She layered a multicoloured macramé poncho on top, though she was slightly nervous about the fringe possibly getting tangled in the guitar strings. It never had before, but it just seemed like Murphy’s Law might apply. She tied her hair in two braids so it would be out of the way.
This would be Sassy’s first real performance. Oh, how she wished Joey could be there to hear her.
Even a year later, it seemed impossible that he was in Vietnam. She still couldn’t understand his reasons. She wanted him home, safe and sound and sitting in the front row. If Joey was still in Toronto, she had no doubt he would be at Chez Monique tonight. She had no idea what he’d be doing for a job, but he wouldn’t be working for their father. Joey was more about helping others than making money. Which was why, she supposed, he was in Vietnam. Surely there had been other options available, though. Options that didn’t put him in a jungle, dodging bullets and machetes.
If only he was here.
How could he have left her?
Her father had refused, in the end, to see Joey off at the bus station, but Sassy had gone. She couldn’t imagine not being there for him. He had climbed onto the Gray Coach bus to Buffalo without fanfare. With tears streaming down her face, she watched him walk down the aisle until he found an available seat, then he waved through the window. The bus crunched into gear, and she feared she might collapse with grief. She knew what happened to boys who went down there. She watched TV and read the news. If she ever saw her brother again—and honestly, she feared she might not—he’d be different.
His first letter arrived about a month later.
Training is dog-eat-dog tough. We run a mile before breakfast every day. One guy couldn’t manage the parallel bars, and he was bringing down the PT score for the whole team, so they had a “blanket party” for him. Sounds cool, doesn’t it? Wrong. They cover the fool with a blanket, then everyone beats the hell out of him to teach him a lesson.
We’re shipping off in a couple of days. I know you hate that, but I’m ready. I want to see what it’s all about, and I can’t do that here.
She didn’t hear anything more for another six weeks or so. That time, the paper was mud-smeared and wrinkled, but she knew his printing like she knew her own.
Food’s bad, but better than nothing. C-rats are meat, bread, and some kind of dessert. They all taste the same. There’s only one other Canadian in the unit. Mostly I hang out with a big guy named Tex. You’d like him. Handsome as hell, and boy, can he make us laugh with that drawl. Hal is a farmer from Ohio with six sisters. I told him that was nuts, because it’s too much work with just one! Ha ha. Stu is the quietest of us. He wants to be a lawyer. I think he’s from Seattle.
The people here are grateful for our help. They aren’t strong enough to fight back. They need us.
Sassy couldn’t bear the weight of his words by herself. That night, she had gone to see her father. She said nothing at first, just watched him read a book in the living room, a glass of whisky in one hand. He finally glanced up, brow lifted in question, and she told him she wanted to read him Joey’s letter. He put down his book and didn’t object. Afterward, she set the tattered page on the table beside her, waiting for his reaction.
“It’s true,” he said after a quiet moment. “If the people in South Vietnam want freedom, they need the strength and support of the American military machine. But the U.S. needs Vietnam, too.”
“Why?”
“American industry relies on Asia’s natural resources, and that includes Vietnam. Americans love freedom, but someone else usually ends up footing the bill for them. In this case it’s Vietnam.” He sipped at his whisky. “War’s great for business.”
“What an awful thing to say.”
“Why? It’s the truth. No good ever comes from ignoring the facts. The U.S. manufactures the weapons they’re using over there. In fact, I’d warrant a guess that both sides of the conflict are using weapons made in the U.S.”
She hesitated, taken aback by the idea. She’d never thought about it like that. “So Americans are extending the war and killing thousands of people on purpose? For money? Shame on them.”
“It’s not just Americans, Susan. We can’t go blaming everything on them. We sit up here in judgement, feeling morally superior because we didn’t agree to send our men to fight, although some of the stupid ones like Joey went anyway. War is good for our business, too. Guess who supplies the basic material for those weapons, and who picks up the slack—and makes the money—when American factories are overwhelmed.”
Sassy had never forgotten that conversation. It had shifted her perspective, and whenever anyone brought up the topic of how “bad” Americans were, she made a point to correct them. There was enough blame to go around when it came to war.
She slipped her poncho over her head and looked into the mirror, trying to envision the woman onstage she would become in a few hours. Her first real performance. Her first real audience. Maybe if she tried really hard, she could imagine Joey sitting up front, cheering her on. But no good came from ignoring facts, she knew. In reality, Joey was half a world away.
There was a knock, and Sassy broke out of her daze. Mrs. Levin stood at the door with a pot of flowers, smiling. Her neighbour was around sixty years old, with long black hair streaked liberally with silver. The bangles she wore on both wrists jangled every time she moved. With her warm, maternal personality, Mrs. Levin was one of Sassy’s favourite neighbours.
“My dear. Look at you,” the woman said, instantly concerned. “Are you all right?”
Sassy took the potted plant and placed it on the counter. “I am. Thank you, Mrs. Levin. I was just thinking about my brother.”
“Is he all right?”
She puffed out a breath. “As far as I know.”
“War is a terrible thing,” Mrs. Levin said, her soulful eyes deep on Sassy’s. She put her open palms on either side of Sassy’s face, holding her tenderly, in a way Sassy thought a mom might do. She couldn’t recall if her mother ever had. “One does what one must. Sometimes the worst part is not knowing.”
Sassy nodded and bit her lip, holding back emotions. Mrs. Levin must have seen that, because she stepped back, bangles clinking together, and made a show of admiring Sassy.
“Enough about that. Look at you! You’re a vision. All this colour. Are you going on a date?” Her eyes teased. “Is it that handsome David boy I met before?”
Sassy’s nerves swooped back into place. “I’m playing guitar at a coffeehouse tonight! At Chez Monique. It’s my first time.”
Mrs. Levin clapped her hands together. “My dear! How wonderful. I have to tell Mr. Levin. He will be so proud. I wish we could come, but the family is coming for dinner. Next time, we will be there.” She nodded once. “I will let you get ready. I just wanted to give you this. You know Mr. Levin and his dear little plants. He believes every home should have plants in it, so he sent you this calendula. He says to put it on your balcony with your geranium and water it once a week. It should bloom all summer.”
Sassy felt a rush of gratitude for the older woman and gently touched a sunshine-orange petal. “Thank you. This is exactly what I needed.”
Mrs. Levin leaned closer, and Sassy caught the woman’s spicy scent. She’d been cooking. Something with oregano. “You will be wonderful tonight, I’m certain of it.”
Sassy held on to her smile as she closed the door. Yes. That’s what she needed to remember. She would be wonderful tonight. With or without Joey.
Davey would be working in the kitchen, he’d said, and he would meet her there. He told her to arrive around nine, because Ed, the manager, wanted to meet her by the bar before she performed. At eight thirty, she stepped into the fifth-floor hallway and set out to Yorkville.
It was a lovely, warm evening, and the streets were active with cars and people enjoying the summer weather. Sassy walked between them, catching snatches of conversation and fighting the urge to invite every single person on the sidewalk to come and listen to her sing. When she reached the entrance to Chez Monique, with its dark brick exterior, she was startled to see a line outside the door. A shiver of nerves passed through her, but she set her head on straight and snaked her way through. She wasn’t the only performer, after all. These people had probably come to watch their own friends or family. They didn’t know Sassy—yet—but they would love her. She would make sure of it.
Hugging her guitar case to her chest, Sassy went to the counter and asked for the manager.
“So you’re our new little star, are you?” Wiping his hands dry, a man emerged from a back room then shut the door against the unwanted light. He was tall and bony. A dark halo of hair was all he had left on his head.
“I’m Sassy Rankin. Are you Ed?”
“That’s me.” He sniffed with amusement, his thumbs dug into his pockets. “Sassy. I’ll bet you are. All right. Lemme look at you.”
Sassy stood awkwardly, not sure what she was supposed to do while he inspected her.
“Do you want to hear me play?”
“I’ll hear you soon enough.” He walked behind her, then circled back and gave her a pat on her backside. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s good,” he said, nodding appreciatively.
Sassy set her jaw. This was not going to happen again. Not here, on her special night. “Just tell me where to put my case.”
For the first time, Ed met her gaze. “I can show you the back room right now, if you’d like.”
She squeezed her guitar tight, revolted. “You are disg—”
“Sass! Hey, Sass!”
She could have cried, seeing Davey’s goofy smile coming toward her. “Look at us, working! Hey, you look great.” He hugged her, and she clung to him a little longer than usual.
“This guy’s a creep,” she whispered.
“Yeah, but he has a lot of connections,” he replied quietly. “Don’t worry about him.” Louder, he said, “Tonight’ll make you a star.”
“Right,” she replied, stepping back.
“You don’t believe me? Who knows who might be in the audience? I hear scouts come in here sometimes.”
Wouldn’t that be a thrill? “What about you? Busy cooking?”
His head angled from side to side. “Not quite. I’m peeling potatoes tonight.”
Ed closed in on them. “Shouldn’t you be scrubbing plates or something?”
“Sure.” Davey’s arm wrapped protectively around Sassy. “I just came to show my old lady where to leave her stuff. Come on, babe. Let’s get you set up.”
Grateful, she followed him through the room, sensing Ed’s glare on her back. Would she ever get another gig after this? If kissing up to Ed was the price she was expected to pay, her dad was right: she needed to get out of this business. She hoped he was an anomaly among club managers.
Davey stopped before a closed door. “Here you go. They call it the greenroom, which is weird, since everything in here is basically orange and brown, but it’s where the performers go before they play.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Maybe because you’ll make lots of green here. Have a blast, babe.”
There was a cozy room behind the door, its two small tables littered with overflowing ashtrays. A stained orange love seat was shoved against the far wall. A tall man with a droopy moustache was already in there, attempting to pace, but he could barely manage two steps without bumping into a wall or table. He glanced up when she entered, then he looked down again abruptly. Baffled, she peered more closely at him and realized his lips were moving, though he wasn’t saying anything.
The door behind her swung open. “Poet? The poet’s next.”
The tall man stared straight ahead, shoulders back, then he strode past both the director and Sassy.
“You Sassy? You’re after him.”
Sassy’s mouth was suddenly as dry as dust. As she unpacked her guitar, she glanced around the room and spotted a couple of empty glasses with a half bottle of vodka standing behind them. Upon inspection, the glasses weren’t entirely clean, but she figured alcohol would kill the germs and her jitters. With shaking hands, she poured an ounce or so into one of the glasses and slugged it back.
“Liquid courage,” she told herself, closing her eyes as the booze burned down her throat.
Slightly calmer, she sat on the orange love seat and tuned her guitar, rotating the pegs to make sure everything was as exact as it could be. Beyond the door, she heard the drone of the poet speaking on the microphone, punctuated by the occasional cough and scattered applause. The audience had to stay quiet so they could hear him, but the lack of noise made Sassy nervous again. She shook out her wrist so blood rushed to her fingers, then she practiced a little, soothing herself.
The director popped his head in. “Sassy? It’s time.”
He left her in the wings, and while she waited she took in the sea of faces, obscured by cigarette smoke. A dozen or so pairs of glasses reflected the stage lights as heads bobbed along with the poet’s words. She doubted she knew anyone out there, other than Davey. She was on her own tonight.
When the poet finished, he lifted his face toward the light and stretched out his hands. The room rewarded him with a round of applause.
In a blur, the director called her name, then Sassy was under the lights, buzzing with adrenaline. She was aware of wolf whistles, but she was too preoccupied with climbing onto the high stool they’d set out for her to react. Finally settled and with her cheeks burning, she reached for the microphone and flinched when feedback squealed through the speakers. She spotted Ed standing at the side of the room, arms crossed, waiting to judge her, and she felt a little smug. She hadn’t fallen in line with his little “audition,” but she would win him over with her music.
“Sorry! Sorry about that,” she said, pulling the microphone closer and squinting against the bright lights. Her voice sounded unexpectedly loud to her, but she was thrilled with how clear the sound system was. “Um, thank you, everybody, for being here and for letting me sing for you. Like he said, this is my first time here. I’m hoping it won’t be my last.”
“You got it, babe!”
Davey had escaped the kitchen and was sitting up front. She gave him a grateful wink then turned her attention back to the audience. A deep breath brought back her confidence, and she dropped her gaze to her fingers, already placed where they were supposed to be. She knew how they would move, how they would feel, how the vibrations of the strings would accompany her voice. How her heart would sing. After days and months and years of practice, she was ready.