17 Overdue Reckoning
17
OVERDUE RECKONING
Teddy
The second session of camp went fast. I missed the hell out of Gretchen, and I wrote a fucking album.
I wondered if the two things were related. I kind of thought they were, if only logistically. I had been spending so much time with Gretchen the last session, and toward the end of that session I’d broken my writing logjam. This session, with the writing flowing and Gretchen gone, what the hell else was I going to do?
I did try to do a more respectable job this time around with the teaching and mentoring and shit. And getting up at the ass crack of dawn for sunrise circle. Still, that wasn’t enough to fill the days.
Or nights.
So I wrote. Way more songs than I’d need for an album.
The other weird thing? I became friends with Marion.
“I was thinking of playing lead guitar myself,” I said one morning over tea in her office after sunrise circle.
The Marion thing had started when I’d taken her up on her previous offer to help, asking her if she’d listen to a song. She’d liked it, and her feedback had struck the right balance of enthusiastic and constructive. She’d been right: she was a good audience member. That had led to her asking me to tea, and now I was a semiregular at post–sunrise circle teatime.
“Actually,” I added over a sip of Earl Grey, which I’d surprised myself by liking, “I’m thinking of playing all the instruments myself on this record.” Not in a power tripping kind of way, not because I didn’t trust anyone else. More because I wanted to feel my way through the songs as I recorded them.
“It doesn’t seem all that remarkable to me that you’d want to control the process pretty tightly for a record that is going to be your first without your former band—and one that makes a break stylistically from your old work. What’s the downside?”
“I guess if I ever want to tour. But I just came off a year of touring, and honestly I have no desire to do it again anytime soon.”
“You can cross that bridge when you come to it.”
Marion wasn’t telling me anything revolutionary, but she was smart and accomplished, and having her stamp of approval meant something.
When I called Anna—we’d been staying in touch—to see what she thought about my plan to do everything myself on my new album, she was similarly unfazed. She said, “It’s your Speak Now album.”
“It’s my what album?”
“Taylor Swift. Speak Now .”
“Right…” I was as much of a fan of Taylor Swift as anyone—the woman could write —but I wasn’t getting it.
“Her third album. Every song was written solely by her. No collaborators, no cowriters. She’d taken some heat about being a hack. You remember the whole Kanye West thing where he cut off her speech? And when she did that duet with Stevie Nicks and everyone criticized her singing?”
“Kind of?”
“ Speak Now was her eff-you to the public. But also it’s very introspective, reflective.”
Hmm. I guess I needed to go listen to Speak Now .
It was not lost on me that Anna was mentoring me as much as I was mentoring her.
Also that it was the summer of the girl: girl power songs, Anna the girl prodigy, Marion the patron of the arts.
Gretchen.
I thought about what Gretchen had told me about her dating travails. I thought about her experience with Scott. I thought about how she weathered it all, how she absorbed criticism and… well, abuse and just kept going.
I sometimes wondered, if all of that stuff hadn’t happened to her, would she have given me her phone number? Did I meet her too late?
Too late for what, though? I asked myself when my brain went in this direction. It wasn’t as if I were in the market for a relationship, even if Gretchen had been.
“I’ve been thinking about my album, too,” Anna said. I could almost hear her grin through the phone. “I still can’t believe I can say the words ‘my album’ and have it be, like, a legitimate concept.”
“Honestly, I think self-belief is half the battle.” For some reason I’d never had any problem in that department, at least artistically. Thanks to my education this summer in sexism and double standards, I wondered how much of that was because I was a dude.
“I go to a pretty rigorous school,” Anna said. “I had to fight my mom to let me go there because it’s not my local school. Getting there is a pain. She won’t drive me, even though she doesn’t work. I have to take two city buses, and my days are long. What if we worked on the demo, but, like, slowly? Maybe we could do some studio time over school breaks, if those times work for you. I know that’s probably the opposite of the way it should work. You’re probably supposed to do it all in a big intense burst of creativity.”
“Screw how it ‘should’ work. There are no rules. And I think this is a great plan. Finishing high school is important. Probably college is important, too.” I hadn’t gone, but I wasn’t as smart as Anna. “So yeah, let’s squeeze it in when we can. And honestly, if it’s a success, your life is gonna change. So I think it’s good to have as much of your education done as possible by that time.”
“And if it’s not a success, I still have an education.”
I agreed with her, but only because I didn’t want to sound too crazy-intense by assuring her I knew she’d make it. But I did. I knew she’d make a successful album more than I knew I’d make a successful album. Oddly, I was OK with that. I just wanted to record my songs. We’d see what happened after that.
“I’ll look into booking a studio in the Twin Cities,” I said. “Marion will probably have some leads. You want to send me the dates of your winter break? We can book some time, noodle around, and see what comes of it.”
The end-of-camp finale the second session was “Hey Jude.” It went fine, and the music kids did a respectable job collectively and individually. But the music counselors and I agreed after the fact that we should have repeated “Bohemian Rhapsody,” which had been a smash instead of merely fine.
Fine basically summed up that entire second session, aside from my songwriting, which had gone more than fine. But the public-facing, camp part of things had been unremarkable. Gretchen’s replacement had been a Russian ballerina named Irina who mostly kept to herself. Without Gretchen as the ringleader, evening artists’ swims fell by the wayside. Maiv got lost in a flurry of work. I barely saw her, and when I did, she was covered in paint and mumbling to herself. I still had drinks with Jack, but we’d never talked much to begin with. I hadn’t had any prodigies this session, which was for the best, as I could probably only handle one prodigy at a time.
Marion knocked on my door the morning after the final show and handed me a printout of an email. “This is an engineer-producer I made contact with through a mutual friend. He said he’s happy to help with your project. In general, but he also apparently has a cancellation next week if you want to jump right into it. He’s got four days of time free.”
“Tempting, but I should go home.”
Right? Auden would need me.
“I was just thinking Anna probably doesn’t start school until after Labor Day,” Marion said.
Hmm.
“You’d have momentum, camp still being fresh in everyone’s minds,” she said. “You could try out this engineer, then get serious about booking more time later, whether it’s with him or someone else.”
“Let me talk to Anna.”
“Did you meet her mom and dad at the end of last session?”
Mom and stepdad , I wanted to correct, but I held my tongue. “I met her mom.” Her stepfather had not come, which, given what I knew about him based on Anna’s delightfully vicious song, had not been a surprise.
“Did you float the idea of doing some recording with Anna?”
“Yes, and she was fine with it. Too fine, actually.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not going to insert myself into Anna’s family dynamics, but I feel like her mom has the potential to turn into a big-time stage mother. She said she would clear her schedule to be at any and all recording sessions.” Yet she wouldn’t drive Anna to school. “Anna won’t want that.” Which I knew on account of Anna’s making a dramatic choking motion from behind her mom when her mom said that. I didn’t want it, either. How were we supposed to lay down tracks about her shitty stepdad with her mom in attendance? “I’m afraid her mom will ruin the vibe, you know? I don’t think Anna can be her usual creative self with her mother hovering.”
“Ah. Sometimes the parents of our campers can be… challenging.”
“But I do feel like we need a chaperone for the studio sessions. I mean, we don’t , but we do, you know?”
“I would offer to do it, but I need to be here next week, doing some wrap-up. How about asking Gretchen Miller?”
The idea was jarring, but also… galvanizing? Like a bee sting.
Or a mosquito bite.
“You think?”
“Yes, she knows Anna; Anna knows her. It’s perfect.”
It was perfect. Except for the part where Gretchen didn’t want to have any more involvement with me. But maybe she would see this less as involvement with me and more as involvement in Anna’s artistic and career development.
That was what I told myself, anyway.
Given that I wasn’t going home to New York, I hitched a ride to the Twin Cities with Jack.
“You want to come back next summer?” Marion asked as she hugged me goodbye.
I started to demur—if things went to plan, I would be busy next summer on the new album—but she said, “Don’t answer now. Just think about it.”
“All right,” I said. Not declining outright was the least I could do. Marion’s invitation to come to Wild Arts, even though I’d had no idea what I’d been saying yes to, had changed my life.
“You’re not going to invite me back?” Jack said, drawing our attention. I’d thought he was serious—Jack was always serious—but he shot Marion a wink. Could have knocked me over with a feather.
“There are two kinds of artists,” Marion said. “Those who thrive when you take away external distractions, and those who don’t.”
“And I don’t?” Jack said.
“Am I wrong?”
He chuckled. Wow. Maybe Jack had been having tea with the artistic fairy godmother, too.
“In fact, I think what you need,” Marion said, eyeing Jack, “is a part-time job. A brainless one, but one that sucks up twenty hours a week. Starbucks or something.”
I expected Jack to object—God’s gift to the literary world was going to sling Frappuccinos?—but he said, “Maybe.”
“What was that about?” I asked as we pulled away.
“Marion’s been giving me some advice.”
“And you’ve been taking it?”
He smirked. “I’ve been not rejecting it outright.” I whistled, and he added, “What can I say? My inability to write this book has humbled me.”
Jack and I settled into the companionable silence we seemed to have mastered. When we got to the outskirts of the Twin Cities, he asked, “Where am I dropping you?”
I’d made a hotel reservation, but instead of asking him to drop me there, I said, “I don’t suppose you have Gretchen Miller’s phone number?”
“Why do you need Gretchen’s number?”
“I’m going to ask her if she can help with a recording session I have scheduled with one of the music kids from the first session.” I was, right? I hadn’t exactly decided what to do. I should have just asked Marion for Gretchen’s number. Or I should have had Marion ask her on my behalf. I had myself all tied in knots, wanting to respect Gretchen’s desire not to hear from me, but also just… wanting her to chaperone me. Us. Anna. Whatever.
“The kid who played the banjo?” Jack asked.
“Yeah.”
“She was phenomenal.”
“I know. We’re going to make a demo for her. But she’s only fifteen. And I’m a volatile asshole rock star.”
He glanced at me, then back at the road. “Are you, though?”
“Does it matter? It’s gonna be a middle-aged dude sound engineer and me. I can’t have a teenage girl in there without a chaperone.”
“So you’re going to ask Gretchen to do it.”
“Yeah.” Right?
Yes. I was going to do it.
“Are you also going to tell her you’re in love with her?”
“ What? ” The seat belt lock mechanism engaged as I twitched, pinning me against the seat.
“Are you going to tell Gretchen you’re in love with her in addition to asking her to chaperone your recording sessions?” Jack said with an astonishing degree of sanguinity considering what was coming out of his mouth.
“I’m not in love with her!” When he didn’t say anything, I added, “I’m not the kind of person who falls in love.”
“Never?”
“Well, certainly not in the span of one month.”
“But according to you, you’re also not the kind of person who writes folk songs.”
“They’re not folk songs.” I liked Jack better when he was grumpy and silent.
“What are they, then?”
“They’re folk-informed rock songs.”
Jack’s snort told me what he thought of that distinction.
“What is your point?” I asked shortly. Were we close enough to the city for him to let me out so I could get an Uber?
“My point is that people change.”
“Do you change? Are you going to get a job at Starbucks where you’ll have to mingle with the subliterate masses?”
“No, but I’m not as evolved as you.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
“I was being serious.”
“Fine.” I didn’t want to talk about this anymore.
“I’m just saying, everyone could see that you and Gretchen were into each other.”
OK, maybe I did want to talk about this some more. A tiny bit more. Because I needed some clarification on that. “You mean ‘everyone,’ like a generic anyone-could-see sense?” Which probably just meant Jack. Gretchen had gone to him for that condom.
“No, I mean literally everyone,” he said, his tone almost gleeful. “We all talked about you behind your backs. Well, they talked. I’m not much of a talker. I listened.”
He sure was doing a lot of talking now.
“Great. So glad everyone has the wrong idea about Gretchen and me.”
“Anyway, do what you want; no skin off my nose. I was just thinking you might have an ulterior motive in all this. There must be a million ways you could solve your chaperone problem without asking the woman in the middle of opening a new business.”
Ah, shit. I’d forgotten that part. Well, not forgotten it, but I hadn’t really thought through that she wasn’t going to have time to sit around doing nothing in a recording studio.
“Marion suggested it,” I said, like that mattered.
“Did she now?”
“What does that mean?” I really preferred Jack when he was silent. And if he wasn’t going to be silent, could he at least speak plainly?
“Nothing,” he said in a way that seemed to mean the opposite of nothing.
“Well,” I said firmly, “if Gretchen can’t do it, she’ll probably know someone who can.”
And if she didn’t?
Then it really would be goodbye.
“So where am I dropping you?”
“You don’t have Gretchen’s number?”
“I don’t have Gretchen’s number,” Jack confirmed. “I can’t imagine why you’d think I would. I also can’t imagine why you don’t.”
“We, ah, agreed not to keep in touch.”
He cracked up, which… was fair.
“Doesn’t she have a dance studio? Miss Miller’s or something? Why don’t you look it up and I’ll drop you there?”
“Or I could just ask Marion for her number.”
“Yeah, but I think a declaration of love is better done in person.”
“I’m not declaring my love for her. I’m asking her to chaperone a recording session.”
“Right. Still, it would be nice to see her.”
I… could not argue with that. And if I had Jack with me, it would, hopefully, seem a little less weird that I was showing up unannounced.
“Fine.” I looked up the address and directed him to a highway that would take us to the western suburbs. Soon we were pulling into the parking lot of a strip mall in a place called Minnetonka.
Well, shit. This was one of those fancy strip malls where all the businesses had the same type of understated sign, and there she was, nestled between a dentist and an ice-cream parlor. The sign that read “Miss Miller’s” didn’t look any different from its neighbors, but there was something about seeing it, about being poised to enter Gretchen’s real life, that threw me for a loop. There was no temporary “context” here; this was just her life.
Would I fit into it?
Whoa. All I was doing was asking if she would hang around in the studio with Anna and me.
Jack was out of the car and on his way to the door while I was still all up in my feelings about contexts. I had to hurry to catch up.
Gretchen’s friend Rory was behind the front desk. There didn’t appear to be anyone else around.
“Hi!” Rory exclaimed.
“Yeah, uh, hi. I’m looking for Gretchen.”
“Hi, Teddy. I’m Rory. We met at camp.”
“I remember.”
She looked me up and down. “Gretchen isn’t here. I’m about to lock up. There’s a party at the new building tonight. Gretchen closed on it this morning, and it’s her birthday, and she’s having a party to celebrate both occasions.”
Shit. Gretchen had referenced turning forty “at the end of the summer,” and of course, I’d known she was taking possession of the new building—she’d done that virtual walk-through with her contractor—but she had never said the exact date of either.
“Can we crash the party?” Jack asked, then added, “Jack Branksome. We also met at Wild Arts.”
“I know. You’re the guy who turned down Blair Kellermoon.”
“I am indeed,” Jack said with an odd cheeriness.
“And you want to come to the party,” Rory said, her tone quizzical.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He smirked at me before turning back to Rory. “Also, I’m procrastinating my book.”
“All right. It starts at six.” She reached for a business card and scribbled on it. “Here’s the address.”
“Can we bring anything?” I heard myself say. What? Like I was Martha fucking Stewart all of a sudden and I was going to go whip up some canapés? I was utterly befuddled by this invasion of Gretchen’s reality.
“Nope. And it’s a demolition party, so if you get any ideas about spiffing yourself up, don’t bother.”
I looked down at my ratty cutoffs and Metallica T-shirt. “Noted.”
“But maybe change your shoes. The contractor says no sandals. Not sure if those count, but…”
Yeah. I was wearing the orange rubber monstrosities.
“Don’t tell Gretchen we’re coming,” Jack said. “It can be a surprise.”
“Hopefully a good one,” Rory said, narrowing her eyes at me.