Chapter Fifteen Your Right Hand #2
I can picture his index finger and thumb massaging the bridge of his nose. “But that’s not exactly the thing we need. Bud, they’re kinda breathing down my neck here.”
My chest tightens. I hate putting him in this position.
“I know, I know.” I sigh because I’ve given Jimmy one too many I knows lately with nothing to show for them.
“Go, you moron!” Jimmy yells at likely another car. “Sorry. Not you, Griff. So, is all this kids’-song stuff at least, I don’t know, helping?”
“Yes, I’m making progress. I am.”
I’ve written down little snippets of a song with the pieces that tap from my fingers. Chords that pluck at me when I watch Beverly laugh with my daughter.
“Good,” Jimmy says through a sigh. “Good.”
“It is. I feel…good right now.” I think about Beverly and her Bernie T-shirt. My thumb twitches where I hold the phone. A tiny beat desperately needing a song. “Jimmy, I gotta go.”
“All right. But Griffin?”
“Hmm?”
“Can you send me one song? Send me one finished song. That’s all I ask. Something maybe we can tease while we’re on tour, yeah?”
I force myself to nod. “One song,” I repeat back to him.
“And let me know about bringing Beverly as your date to the Grammys. They need to reserve a seat for her. And she probably needs a dress or something.” A car horn blares. Jimmy yells, “Eat a dick!” followed by a calmer “Talk later, Griffin?”
“Yeah. And stay safe.”
But I only hear a “Don’t make me come over—” from Jimmy before I hang up. I tuck the phone back into my pocket and exhale.
Beverly at an award show. A new song to record. Ever closer to the international tour in March. It’s all moving so fast.
I shake off the cold inside and make my way upstairs. I crest the top stair, and what I find is so absurd I have to bite back a laugh.
Beverly’s right arm is covered in a sack of blue feathers, disappearing up into Bernie Bird’s head. Her left arm is tucked into his large feathery one, pointing and waving as she makes him talk. Ava is across from her on the floor with her legs tucked underneath her butt.
“You don’t know about squares?” Bernie squawks. The voice is obviously just Beverly’s, but Ava doesn’t know or care; her eyes are locked on the bird.
“How about…circles?” Bernie asks.
Ava’s mouth opens with a giggly squeal. “Cake!”
“Cake? Like ice cream cake?”
“No!”
“Oh, a cookie cake!” Bernie nods emphatically. “Yes, yes.”
“No!” Ava insists through a laugh. She points at the Tupperware. “Puh-cake!”
“Plastic cake?”
Ava is in stitches by now. “No!”
I walk slowly across the hardwood so the magic isn’t ruined, but I don’t think I could ruin it anyway. Ava is enraptured.
“And who’s this messy-haired guy?” Bernie turns his attention to me.
“Me?” I ask, poking my chest.
Ava twists to see me mid-step. She’s teeming with bottled-up energy—just prepared for another laugh.
“Ohh, I know you,” Bernie shoots back.
“I know you,” I counter.
Ava’s giggles bubble out of her.
“You look worse than the last time I saw you, Griffy,” Bernie says.
My mouth opens in a gasping laugh, and I glance at Beverly. “Why’s he so mean, B?”
“Well, I can’t control what he says,” she answers in a normal yet offended voice. Bernie’s feathery head bounces, nodding in agreement.
I twist my lips to the side.
Ava is cackling with laughter now. It’s too precious. I wish I could make her laugh even half this often. But Beverly is a professional, and Bernie Bird…is Bernie. He’s a laugh magician, but Beverly carries the magic touch.
“You’re good,” I say.
“Me?” Bernie Bird asks.
“This.” I gesture to the puppet now opening its mouth and closing it like he’s at a loss for words. I roll my eyes with a grin. “You’re ridiculous.”
Beverly pauses. I snort when Bernie’s beak slams shut as well.
“You wanna help?” Beverly asks in her normal voice.
“What?”
“You wanna be my right hand?” she asks.
“Your what?” I ask.
Beverly slowly grins, like the joy is radiating through her.
“Come here,” she says.
My gut clenches. The little Come here shouldn’t make my stomach drop the way it does.
When I hesitate, she rolls her eyes with a laugh. “C’mon, Griffin.”
I creak across the hardwood. Ava’s eyes are wide as she watches me pause next to Beverly with my arms crossed.
“Sit down here,” Beverly instructs. “I won’t bite. Though Bernie might.” On cue, his felt beak snaps.
I chuckle and lower to a crouch.
“Sit all the way down,” Beverly says again with a tiny hiss.
I finally do, with my legs stretched out beside her. Beverly removes her hand from Bernie’s arm and unhooks a small safety pin in Bernie’s other wing, releasing it from its resting position against his tummy.
“Now, you’ll put your hand through his right wing while I put mine back through the left one, all right?”
“All right…” I reach for it, but it’s awkward and I’m stretching to find my place inside.
“You gotta sit closer for it to work,” she instructs.
I clear my throat, sliding until her thigh is against mine.
“Now, lean in a bit,” she says. My stomach clenches as I tuck my arm through the other hand of Bernie Bird. Beverly pushes off with the heels of her feet and scoots even closer.
My face grows hot. “What are you—”
“I’m telling you; it’s closer than you think.” Beverly shifts herself until our shoulders bump. Her hair sways with each movement. I’m immersed in the familiar citrusy scent, grapefruit with hints of lemon.
“There we go,” Beverly says. “Now, move your hand up higher.”
I do, and Bernie’s right hand rises. Beverly dutifully moves hers as well. We look ridiculous—both Beverly’s arms tucked into the puppet and one of mine inside as well.
“This is called right handing.” As she speaks, the words rustle Bernie’s feathers. She’s close enough for me to pick up the coffee scent on her breath—like the kind from a fresh candle. I bet it’s her fifth cup of the day already. I smile to myself.
“So there’s always a second puppeteer?” I ask.
“Not always, but if it’s this type of puppet, a sack puppet—live-hand puppet—then, yeah. Most of the time.”
“I didn’t know there were multiple people in here.” Beverly adjusts her position as she directs Bernie’s head to look at Ava. Her elbow brushes against my chest. “What if the other hand goes rogue?”
She twists to look at me. “What do you mean?”
Our noses are so close. I keep my voice even keeled, trying not to focus on the tiny freckles dotting her cheeks as I ask, “What if the other puppeteer—the right hander—does their own thing?”
She shrugs. “They don’t. It’s not about you in this industry. That’s kind of the beauty of it.”
“In my industry, it’s always about me.”
“Oh, Griffin, I know,” she teases.
My heart jolts again as I chuckle. “You making fun of me?”
“I would never,” Bernie Bird squawks.
Smirking, I shake my feathery hand in Beverly’s face. She gasps and waves her own feathery fingers back, tickling them over my nose with a laugh. Her laughs are always light and airy. That easy type of laugh. Everything seems like it comes easy to her. Everything is fun.
Playing at puppetry with Beverly feels like I’m getting away with something. Sneaking away from the record label and prying eyes. It’s like I’m at a sleepover as a kid when we’d stay up all night with no rules or parental oversight.
My fingers twitch inside the felt hand, tapping out that taunting new beat. Something different. Something about freckles and gentle laughs.
Beverly finishes up a performance for Ava with my hand flailing beside hers the best I can. When we both finally remove Bernie, Ava is left squeezing the air with her fists, asking for more.
“He’ll be back,” I tell her, but Ava waddles over to the limp Bernie set in the corner. “Nope,” I say, swinging her into my arms as she whines. “Sticky kid fingers off the bird, Ava.”
Beverly sets Bernie in the recliner, then heads to the kitchen and unpacks the foggy Tupperware. Steam rises from a small pile of pancakes and eggs. Ava is already sniffing the air.
I set her down at the table. “Let’s start with eggs this time, munchkin. Protein first, then sugar.”
I stroll to the cabinets and pull down plates for all three of us. It’s so domestic. So normal. I want more of this. After Ava is successfully chewing on eggs, much to her displeasure, I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the counter.
“Can I ask you something, B?”
“Always,” she replies. The ease of how quickly she answers makes me smile wider. Maybe she’s still riding the high of a good performance. Or maybe it’s because she’s with me.
“Would you want to go to the Grammys?” I ask.
She freezes in place, her palms gripping the plastic Tupperware. “With you?”
“Yeah. But I guess you could go with Bernie, and I’ll just tag along, if that’s better.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
Her cheeks get pink as she fumbles with the pancakes on her plate. “Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Music awards?” She gives a choked laugh. “Come on, I don’t belong there.”
I furrow my brow. I wonder if Beau told her that once. Or maybe it’s not about Beau at all. Maybe she doesn’t want to go with me.
She twists her lips to the side. “Can I think on it?”
“Of course.”
Beverly looks to the floor, the wall, and taps her boot on the ground. Then, in what might be an attempt to lighten the awkward situation, she holds up a floppy pancake.
“Pancake?” she offers. I grin and bend down, biting it in half as she holds it, leaving the remaining piece still in her hand.
Her face turns from pink to deep red. She laughs it off.
Being around Beverly definitely feels like getting away with something.