Chapter Eleven
Eleven
I am not a Jen fan, but in this moment, I’d swear fealty to her. “I’ll help.”
“He’s just grilling him relentlessly.” Indy bites her nail. “Can we cut the interview early?”
Poor Lionel is sweating bullets. “It’s live TV. How would we even—”
But Jen shakes her head, eyes glued to the monitor. “Tom will be fine. And after, I’m going to make sure Joe Jennings never interviews another artist on the label for the rest of his life.”
While initially that doesn’t sound like much of a punishment, Halloran is signed with Sierra Records, the largest recording group in the industry. Being blackballed would likely be the end of Joe’s career. Go Jen.
“But this is why I always tell them to keep Tom off the goddamn live shows,” she snips. Her eyes are tight with fury, but there’s something else there. Concern?
Lionel pulls out his phone. “I’ll send a strongly worded email to the team.”
“Ah, sure, look,” Halloran says on the monitor. We all lean in just as he leans forward. He looks like he’s about to share something explosive. “Regardless of my sexual orientation, if you’re after intimacy advice, Joe, I’d be glad to help you out after the show. You needn’t suffer alone, mate.”
The crowd cackles and Joe’s porcelain demeanor cracks a smidge. Jen exhales audibly. Before Joe can open his mouth, Halloran moves back to the original question.
“In answer, ‘Halcyon’ is a nod to a Greek myth about a woman called Alcyone and the man she’s wed to, Ceyx.
Ovid writes that the two were so fervently in love, Zeus himself—the king of the gods—had Ceyx killed out of envy.
Alycone drowned herself rather than live another moment in a world without her husband.
In guilt, Zeus turns them both into halcyon birds, which are known now as kingfishers. ”
“Which is the name of the album,” Joe adds. Gold star for you, Joe, you absolute moron.
“Right. So the word halcyon , which means a time of idyllic peacefulness, actually comes from the thought that despite Alcyone and Ceyx’s punishment, they were at peace together in death.
And there’s some catharsis in turning the tale on its head.
Taking their lives, their story, and making it into folklore—a fable of devotion and acceptance. ”
Joe frowns performatively for the audience. “Not a very joyful song, is it?”
My blood boils . Not a very joyful song ? Was he even listening ? It’s a literary ballad spanning doomed love, memory, and metaphor. It covers everything from modern language to the stages of grief. How has this loser made a living interviewing people?
“I despise him,” Indy seethes.
“Same,” utters Lionel.
But Halloran just crosses his ankle over his knee and scratches at his beard thoughtfully. “Ehm,” he mutters, something I’ve noticed he says in place of the more American um . “I dunno, I guess not. It’s a tragedy, absolutely. But I’d like to think it’s hopeful, too. The whole—”
“So sorry, pal, we only have a minute left, can I get in one last pressing question?”
Halloran nods, patient as ever. “Yeah, a’ course.”
“Your very first single, ‘If Not for My Baby,’ catapulted you into stardom. Number one hit around the world, diamond certified, fifteen times platinum, won a Grammy. How do you continue to make music knowing, realistically, it’s all downhill from here?”
The audience laughs uncomfortably, and Joe adds, “That sounds rough, but I mean, the odds of you having that kind of success again are slim, most likely. How do you make more albums knowing that?”
I look at Indy. “Can we egg this guy’s house?”
Lionel scowls. “I can make a Costco run.”
Jen says nothing, but her jaw is rigid and I know she’s fuming.
“You know, I recorded that song with a friend of many years, and while I’m honored by all the continued love, I don’t hold it in higher esteem than any of my other work.
And I certainly don’t look at a song I’m writing or recording and wonder about its chances as a hit.
That would compromise the creative process, I think.
All I hope to achieve with my work is the distilling of my own psyche into music that, hopefully, resonates with people.
Whether that’s one person or a thousand is no difference to me.
That’s what makes the craft worthwhile, or at least, what success is to me, personally. ”
Joe nods, pleased. “Fair enough. Halloran, everybody!”
The crowd applauds and the four of us release tandem sighs of relief.
A PA pops the door open and I’m brought through the hallways onto a new section of the stage and placed on a wooden stool before a moody red backdrop.
This crowd at one time would have felt like a full theater to me, but now it’s just a cozy little gig—only three or four hundred people.
It’s daytime, too, so the spotlights aren’t blinding and I’m eerily calm.
Not that I get much stage fright, but for my first duet with Halloran, I’m surprised at my level of Zen.
But then I realize I’m not Zen, I’m just eager to get this over with and leave.
No—eager to get Halloran out of here. He shouldn’t even have to perform after that interview.
The force of my desire to protect him surprises me.
An image pops into my vision of me dragging him out by his elbow patches and throwing a Molotov cocktail in our wake.
Halloran’s brought out by a hurried grip in a headset and offers me a weak nod that almost kills me. He’s off his game, and I can tell. The grip knocks over the mic stand when he turns to leave, and I watch as Halloran bends to pick it up. “All right,” he mutters. “There ya go.”
Did he just console a mic stand? Why do I want to hold his hand? I’m feverishly angry at everyone employed here and can’t seem to shake it.
“You look fearsome,” he says under his breath when he comes to sit on the stool beside me. “Everything all right?”
“That interview…”
“It’s part of the machine. Don’t worry, I’m grand.” His eyes sweep over my body. “That color is very lovely on you.”
“Black?” I laugh.
A smile spreads across his face, and I can physically feel some of the stress leave my body. “It suits you.”
We don’t speak as we’re lint rolled and feather dusted with blush brushes. A Morning Show producer counts us in and then we’re live and the studio audience is cheering.
The first few chords of “Halcyon” are familiar to me, but I’ve never heard them like this.
The amplified acoustic guitar is lush and slow, the reverb carrying through the entire studio.
I can feel Halloran’s soothing words as if they’re his hand stroking my cheek.
The chords rock through me like a lullaby.
He conjures smoky mountain blues with just his guitar and impenetrable voice as he sings of the lovelorn Alcyone and the relief she finds in death.
His tortured, stormy expression is even more gutting in such an intimate performance, and as I tap my foot to the rhythm I wonder absently if he feels any relief in knowing I’m right here next to him.
Relief from what, I’m not sure exactly; it’s such a weird thought I don’t have time to analyze it as the song ends and “If Not for My Baby” begins .
“ The oceans rise to meet the skies, ” he sings while strumming, turning his eyes directly on me. “ My love just tells me, now we can be free.”
And though I know it’s a performance—no different than every night I’ve seen him and Molly perform the same song—my body purrs.
“ Broken roadways, sweet rain sideways ,” I harmonize back to him. “ The end of days, if not for my baby .”
Halloran’s eyes are nearly all pupil as I finish the verse.
He’s staring at my mouth, breathing hard.
He rips into the next lines and I hum alongside him.
We are one well-oiled machine. Finishing where the other begins, meeting in the middle to bridge a gap.
He croons low, I warble a bit higher—we sound like magic, bottled.
Electricity and madness and scratching an itch you didn’t know you had. I am floating.
And I decide in that moment, with Halloran’s steadfast, poetic eyes on me, his ruthlessly masculine face and multitalented hands and that heart, which I just witnessed withstand the worst interview in existence with little more than a frown…
that he’s not just cute. He’s otherworldly, reverently beautiful.
And try as I might to fight it, I’m a little infatuated.
It’s a shame, I think as the song ends and the audience cheers raucously for us.
It’s an attraction that will haunt me. One that’s likely not reciprocated, and will serve only to distract me over the next month and change.
It’ll be fine. I’ll get over it like I did with Mike. I’m not screwed.
I change quickly, and can’t bring myself to ask the Morning Show costume team to allow me to purchase the Morticia-Addams-meets-Stevie-Nicks dress.
I do make a note to google it once I’m changed, and stark horror slaps me across the face when I find out it’s some ridiculous French brand and over two thousand dollars.
“You two were stellar.” Jen huffs as we walk. “The only decent part of the day. It goes without saying we won’t be returning to The Morning Show with Joe Jennings . I’ll be giving the producer a piece of my mind as soon as we’ve left.”
“It’s fine, Jen.” Halloran pulls on his baseball cap as Lionel rushes us from the studio. Sound check is in an hour and according to Lionel the venue is about thirty minutes outside the city proper.
“You were brilliant with him,” I say, because I just can’t help myself. “He was such a jerk and you handled all his asinine questions and interruptions with grace and patience and humor and then blew the crowd away. I could never do that. I think I would’ve spat in his eye and gone home early.”
With the uncanny feeling of Lionel’s and Indy’s and Jen’s eyes on me, I realize I’ve probably overstepped. The crushing weight of mortification descends heavy on my shoulders.
But Halloran only glances down at me, vaguely amused. “Thanks.”
Oh, God, I could liquefy beneath that gaze.
My phone buzzes and I’m forever indebted to the distraction.
Mom Clark: Clementine Betty Boop Clark. What on earth is going on with you and that beautiful Irishman? Call me.
Okay. Maybe I am screwed.