Screaming Divas Page 2

  “Your father is here to see you,” the woman said.

  “My father?” It must be some kind of a joke. Trudy hadn’t seen Jack, her biological father, since the divorce. According to Sarah, Jack had slipped some acid into her Kool-Aid during an adult party. Trudy had freaked out and Jack was banished from their lives.

  None of her stepfathers had ever been to visit her. Her mother’s latest husband didn’t even like her. That’s why she was living in this hole. She was smart enough to figure that out.

  She followed the guard out of the tiny cell into the corridor. In the waiting room, she saw him. He was standing, facing away from her, reading a notice posted to the wall. Something about holiday leave and what kind of presents parents were allowed to bring. The man was slim-hipped, dressed down in faded jeans and a black T-shirt. His black hair rippled over his shoulders like some hairdo in an old Italian painting. When he turned, when she saw that face—the kind dark eyes and the fleshy lips, the too-big nose that hooked like a beak—she recognized him. Her heart hammered.

  “Dad, where the hell have you been?”

  He regarded her warily, as if he wasn’t quite sure he had the right girl. Then he lifted his hands, palms out. “Your mother wouldn’t let me near you,” he said. “She took out a court order. You knew that, didn’t you?”

  Trudy stood stiffly, her chin angled upwards. It’s got to be a lie, she thought. She wanted to believe him, but she’d been betrayed so many times in her life that it was next to impossible to have faith in this man. “All I know is that you abandoned me.”

  He looked stricken then. His face seemed to sag, and Trudy wondered for a moment if he would cry. Well, good. He deserved to suffer. She wanted a cigarette badly.

  “Got a smoke?” she asked.

  He shook his head. Stared at the floor. “Trudy, I—I wrote to you. Didn’t you get my letters?”

  “Nope. Not a one. But I’ve moved a lot. Maybe they just didn’t get to me.” She could see how disappointed he was. What had he expected? She’d fly into his arms—“Oh, Daddy!”—and it would be happily-ever-after from hereon out? Afraid not. Yet, he was here and she had a chance to get something from him, something to make up for twelve years of neglect.

  “Can you get me out of here?”

  He looked at her then. “Yes. Yes, of course. You don’t belong here. I don’t know what Sarah was thinking. You’ll come home with me.”

  Trudy nodded. “Do you have a wife? Kids?”

  “No, there’s just Ginny, my girlfriend, but she doesn’t live with me. And if you get to know her, I think you’ll get along fine.”

  “You don’t know the first thing about me,” Trudy wanted to say. But she didn’t. She kept her mouth shut. This man was her ticket out of that hellhole. No more Quiet Room. No more bed-making inspections. If she didn’t like her dad’s place, she’d leave. She was old enough to get by on her own. She thought of Lydia, chubby Lydia who’d made a hundred dollars just by spreading her legs for five minutes.

  Her dad went off to fill out some papers, and Trudy was sent to collect her things. The room was empty. Everyone else was off doing arts and crafts. Trudy opened the footlocker she’d kept beneath her bed and grabbed a handful of underwear, stuffed it in her duffel bag. She didn’t bother folding the T-shirts, the jeans, the other Saturday-only clothes, just crammed them into the bag and zipped it shut. Then she carefully unpinned the pictures from her allotted twelve inch by twelve inch corkboard—the magazine pictures of Marilyn on her back, bench-pressing a barbell, the Supremes in matching spangly outfits, the black and white picture of her father with short hair, wearing bell-bottomed pants and with Trudy in his arms. She tucked the pictures into the outer pocket of her duffel bag.

  When she left, there’d be no trace of her. The bed with its plain blue coverlet would belong to someone else. Another girl would stow her panties in that latched chest. Trudy wished she had a knife so that she could carve her initials somewhere. Then someone would know that she’d been part of this place, if only for a short time.

  2

  Harumi Yokoyama and her mother were not exotic in New York City. So far since arriving, Harumi had seen the following: a raggedy man yelling at God. A six-foot-tall transvestite with cocoa skin, a curly wig, and a feather boa tossed over his/her quarterback shoulders. A movie star flicking her cigarette out the window of a limo. And there were Asians everywhere: Chinese boys ferrying moo goo gai pan through the city on their bicycles. Wrinkled grannies with babies on their backs, just like in the old country. No one treated Harumi’s mother like an imbecile when she mixed up her verbs or made mistakes in grammar. No one scrunched their eyebrows together, trying to make out her accent. In certain neighborhoods, Mrs. Yokoyama spoke in Japanese and was understood.

  “Oishii!” she said, as they sat in the Sakura Garden eating sushi.

  The waitress smiled. She wore a kimono and the bun at the back of her head was studded with decorative sticks. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “O-cha o kudasai,” Mrs. Yokoyama called out the next time she walked by.

  The waitress disappeared for a moment, and came back with a pot of tea. She bowed slightly, then with one hand on the lid of the teapot, poured light green liquid into stoneware cups.

  “Just like Japan,” Mrs. Yokoyama said to her daughter across the table, her face all aglow.

  “Kincho shite imasu ka?” she asked.

  “No, I’m not tense,” Harumi lied. She got nervous before every performance, no matter how minor. Whether she was soloing or playing along with the rest of the orchestra, she always worried that she would make a mistake. She was afraid that she would suddenly forget how to read the black notes on the page in front of her, or that her fingers would cramp and freeze.

  Today there wouldn’t be an auditorium full of people. There’d be five or six, maybe. It would be like playing to her mother’s Friday lunch group or to the few relatives that gathered during the New Year’s holiday. She’d be alone, onstage, and she could look out into the depths of the theater and pretend that she was playing for herself.

  She had practiced for this day for months now. Hashimoto-sensei had helped her choose the piece that she would perform for her audition to the most famous music school in America. She had sat and listened to her star pupil play Schubert’s “Rondo in A” over and over again. “A little slower there,” she’d say. Or “Fortissimo! Louder!” When Harumi had finally gotten it right, Hashimoto-sensei had broken down in tears. “I can’t help you anymore,” she said. “You’ve learned all that I can teach you.” So now it was time for a higher level of instruction. Professionals would guide Harumi to a career as a concert violinist. She would cut records and appear on PBS.

  Harumi dreamed in music. She sawed at her violin all night long, her strings sometimes snapping and flying off the instrument. Her fingers formed chords as she slept. “Rondo in A” had been the soundtrack for her life over the past few months.

  “This will give you strength,” Mrs. Yokoyama said, scooping a mouthful of rice with her chopsticks.

  But Harumi’s stomach was in revolt. She could manage only a few bites of sea bream on vinegared rice and a sip or two of miso soup.

  “Tonight we will have shabu-shabu,” Mrs. Yokoyama said, already thinking about celebrating. “I saw a place for it in my guidebook.”

  Is this what life would be like in New York? Being led from Japanese restaurant to Japanese restaurant like a dog on a leash? If she were accepted into the music program, she would have to live in the city with a guardian. Mrs. Yokoyama had already declared that she would be willing to look after her daughter, leaving her architect husband and son to fend for themselves in their home down south. They would see each other on weekends and holidays. They would spend all summer together, maybe at Coney Island. It would be lonely, especially at first, but the sacrifice was worth it. Harumi had been born with a glorious gift and her parents agreed that it was their responsibility to do everything in their power to
help their oldest child develop her talents.

  Harumi knew about sacrifices. She’d given up jazz dance and the photography club and shopping and TV. She’d given up her friends, too, all so that she could become the best young violinist in the state. She was a freak, not even remotely aware of the latest movie or high school gossip. She didn’t even know what kind of music was popular. Sometimes this made her feel incredibly lonely. At school, she felt a pang when she passed Esther Shealy in the hallway. They’d once been like sisters. Esther had even beaten up a kid in defense of her honor. But her parents had quashed the friendship. They pretended to forget to pass on Esther’s phone messages until she stopped calling altogether. And when Esther dropped by on her bicycle, they told her that Harumi was practicing her violin. As for boys—forget it. Harumi was forbidden to date until she was eighteen.

  “Look at handsome guy,” her mother stage-whispered in the sushi restaurant. This was her attempt to make up for all the girl talk Harumi missed among her peers.

  Harumi’s eyes followed the direction of her mother’s nod. A young Japanese man in a well-cut suit was settling in at a booth near the door. He had smooth hairless skin and slicked back hair. Even from across the room, Harumi could see that his fingernails were manicured. He looked the picture of success. And he was Japanese. Husband material.

  Harumi didn’t think her mother had ever had a fling. She might have had a few harmless crushes in her girlhood, but as soon as she’d been old enough for dating, her mind had been on marriage. She’d married fresh out of an all-girls college, at the age of twenty-two.

  Harumi had heard the story of their courtship plenty of times. A friend of the family had brought over a young man visiting from America, where he was studying to be an architect. Her mother, who had never had a boyfriend before, had been smitten at first sight. Letters were exchanged. On his next visit a wedding was hastily arranged, and she went back with him to a tiny roach-infested apartment in married housing.

  Probably the idea of life abroad had seemed exotic at first, but these days her mother’s dreams were about going back to Japan. They all knew, however, that architects didn’t make as much money there as in the States, nor did they have the same kind of prestige. Plus, after a certain age, it was hard to start over. So they stayed in America.

  Sometimes Harumi wondered if her mother wished she had married someone else. She was sure that she’d never slept with anyone other than her husband.

  Harumi suddenly felt dizzy. She was nervous and she hadn’t eaten, but there was more to it than that. Her life was like a box and Mrs. Yokoyama was hammering down the lid. Everything had already been decided by others who claimed to know what was best for her. No one had ever asked her what she wanted. Maybe she just wanted to take her violin out on the back porch and play for the crickets. Maybe she wanted to sprawl across Esther Shealy’s bed watching General Hospital and eating marshmallow pies. Maybe she had no interest in living in a tiny walk-up apartment in New York, far from her brother and father.

  After a few more mouthfuls, Harumi pushed her plates away and followed her mother out of the restaurant. They went back to the hotel where Harumi changed from jeans and a polo shirt into a blazer and skirt.

  “You look very nice,” her mother said. “Very serious. Do you want to practice some more before we go?”

  Harumi shook her head. “No, I’m ready. Ready as I ever will be.” She grabbed her violin case and headed for the door.

  There was a line of nervous mothers and their children at the school. Harumi registered at a long table and took her place in the queue. The others—ranging in age from about twelve to eighteen, and in color from pearl to ebony—eyed her suspiciously. Friendly conversation didn’t seem likely.

  Harumi slumped into a chair. She cradled Sadie II in her arms, as if it were a baby in need of a lullaby. She remembered the day that she had traded in her first violin for the full-sized one she used now. It had been nearly a ceremony. Hashimoto-sensei, the music shop clerk, her mother and father, and even her brother had stood around her as she first fondled the instrument. They’d watched her stroke the strings with her horsehair bow and strained to catch each plaintive note. Everyone knew that Harumi was destined for great things, that she’d be a guest of the Carolina Symphony, and that in the future, they might be asked to recount this day for some journalist.

  Harumi had tried several instruments before she found the right one. No one else would have been able to tell the difference, but when Harumi hoisted this one onto her shoulder, it fit just right. When she plucked the strings, they seemed to be communicating with her. This was Sadie II.

  At the end of the line, a boy wearing a necktie and horn-rimmed glasses unzipped his cello from its case. He stood perfectly straight while his mother licked her finger and smoothed back a stray lock of hair. The mother looked ordinary. She wore orthopedic shoes and a suit two or three years out of fashion. Harumi wondered if all of that family’s fortunes depended upon the boy. Had they poured all of their savings into his future? Were those slender shoulders strong enough to support the weight of their expectations?

  Harumi felt sick to her stomach. She’d heard stories about dutiful Japanese daughters, girls who devoted their lives to caring for sick parents. They gave up on careers, on love, on motherhood, to play nurse. And then when the parents died, they had nothing left in their lives. But her parents weren’t sick. Her father’s salary was enough to feed and clothe them and keep them in a house with a swimming pool. Her father hadn’t said a word when his wife made a reservation at the Savoy.

  “Go see a show on Broadway, too,” he’d said, pressing his credit card into her hand.

  Harumi’s parents could get by without her. They were greedy, that’s all. They wanted a famous daughter to make up for every humiliation they had suffered as a member of a minority in America. With Harumi’s success, they would be able to rise above the Confederate flag bumper stickers, the slurs of Jap/Chink/Gook, the fact that Harumi’s mother hadn’t been invited to join the Junior League or the Garden Club.

  She looks so smug, Harumi thought, looking over at her. All of that praise directed at me has gone to her head.

  “Harumi Yokoyama!”

  Harumi startled at the sound of her name. She hadn’t noticed that the three in front of her had already finished their auditions.

  Mrs. Yokoyama nudged her out of her seat. “Ganbatte,” she said. “Do your best.”

  Harumi took a deep breath and strode toward the stage door. She nodded to the man with the clipboard, and went out onto the bare stage. There were no chairs, no music stands, only a pool of light. Harumi stepped into the beam and took her instrument out of its case.

  “We’re ready when you are,” a voice called from the shadows just beyond the stage. The voice was gentle and patient, seemingly disembodied. If she looked carefully, she might have been able to make out the figures seated there, but she chose to ignore them. She pretended that she was alone in a forest, far away from New York City.

  Harumi lifted Sadie II onto her shoulder, the gesture almost second nature by now. She picked up her bow, her fingers forming a fox’s head. And then she launched her bow-turned-rocket and began wheedling sweet music from the strings. Her touch was perfect and she felt herself flowing with the notes, her spirit soaring through the treetops. Her body swayed with the melody, as if she were dancing with an invisible lover.

  But then a black crow flew into her thoughts. She became aware of the judges sitting in the dark, of her mother praying on a folding chair. She became aware of the dim theater and it suddenly seemed like a jail. If she kept playing, this would be her home.

  Harumi’s playing became more furious, more beautiful. It was as if the music had a mind of its own. She had to stop. She had to let the bow fall from her fingers and clatter to the hardwood floor. She had to tell those invisible judges that she wouldn’t play for them. And so she summoned all of her strength, siphoned it from the music, from the deepest part
of her, and raised Sadie II high into the air.

  She closed her eyes and cupped her hands over her ears as the violin smashed and splintered on the floor.

  3

  Cassie Haywood was in her room, listening to Billie Holiday, smoothing foundation over the scythe-shaped scar that ran along the right side of her face. It was the same kind of special heavy-duty makeup that had been used on her mother after the accident. Before they put her in the ground. In another couple of years, she could have cosmetic surgery again. She’d never be able to wear a bikini, but maybe something could be done about her face. Her broken heart was another story; that could never be fixed.

  “You’re a beautiful girl,” her father always told her. “So what if you don’t have a crown.”

  She knew that even though he had married a beauty queen himself, he had never approved of the pageants. He was unimpressed by her titles—Miss Peach Blossom, Little Miss Chitlin Strut—and her once-possible future appearance in Atlantic City. Others squealed over her sausage curls and vocal talent, but her father always said that there was something sick about parading a five-year-old around in sequins and mascara.

  “Then why did you let her make me go up on all those stages?” Cassie hadn’t minded. She’d loved having her mama fuss with her hair before she went onstage to sing, the heft of the gold cups, the sparkle of the crowns. She hadn’t known anything different.

  Her father shrugged. He didn’t like to talk about his first wife, Cassie’s mother.

  A motor rumbled outside and Cassie turned to the window. She pulled the curtain back. A red Mustang was idling in the driveway. After a moment, the engine cut off. The door swung open and there he was, Todd Elsworth, star quarterback at Irmo High School. He stepped out onto the driveway and marched to the front door.

  Cassie pulled away from the window and fluffed up her hair. She’d dressed casually in a black miniskirt and an oversized red sweatshirt that grazed her thighs. They were just going to a movie—no need to get too dressed up, even if it was a first date.