The show was over, the audience was dispersing. Elle was expecting to leave, as were the others. Although it hadn’t quite turned out the way they had thought it might, Vee’s moment had come and gone backstage before the show. Throughout the entire performance not a one of them could deny that A.J. had focused on them, on Genevičve in particular. That in itself had been thrilling, but it was time for them to go.
Vee, it seemed, was of a different mind.
“Backstage, I’m going backstage,” she told Elle as she stood on the concrete floor littered with glittering bits of confetti, pulling the tiny shards of metallic paper from her hair. “How do I look?” she asked her friends.
“Fine, you look fine,” Iris told her.
“Why are we going backstage?” Elle asked.
Vee just smiled at her. It was a wide, secretive smile, followed by a tinkling laugh. Elle looked just like a mother hen with her disapproving head on the chopping block. Vee rolled her eyes and gestured for the others to follow her.
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A.J. was shaking. His heart was racing so hard that he found his hand pressing against his chest time and again as if to make it slow to a recognizable pace. People were coming and going all around him. They were picking up sodden pieces of costumes, shuttling bottles of water to whoever needed them, and attending to a thousand small tasks that A.J. never concerned himself with. At the moment all he wanted was for his heart to slow down and to take a deep breath of fresh air. His performance, fueled not only by cocaine but by the presence of that compelling woman in the audience, had been above and beyond. He was aching, drained, and he damn well couldn’t breathe. He sat in the middle of the room on a long, hard bench and swabbed his dripping face with a rough towel. It scratched, but he liked the texture of it on his over sensitized skin. With his face hidden in the thick material he didn’t notice others noticing him.
Brian toweled off his own face. He was dripping. It had been a more physical show than usual. A.J. had gotten prodded on by the crowd and they had followed his breakneck pace. Even he had found himself caught up in the music and the moment, which was surprising to him. For quite some time now he had felt strangely distanced from himself on stage, as if putting an effort into the more physical aspects of it was taking away from his singing. Tonight it had all come together in a seamless way that was reminiscent of their earliest shows, and he was not displeased with that.
Kevin, stripped to the waist, also stared at A.J., not believing that the tiny, almost shriveled form on the bench before him was the same person who only moments before had been goading the audience on with shouts and gestures; someone who had been almost transcendent. Kevin had seen the women in the audience, noted A.J.’s focus on them and been attracted to what was attracting A.J. Four beautiful women near the front of the crowd, standing out for no other reason than their direct stares and their almost guarded participation. It had seemed to him that the more A.J. had tried to provoke them, the less able to be provoked they became. And the one woman, the black women, had been patently gorgeous in her lassitude, managing to draw his own attention all on her own. But now A.J. was a crumpled heap. He sat on the bench with his shirt that he had ripped from his body during the first finale in one hand and a towel in the other, alternating wiping sweat from his chest and face. Every inch of his being looked drawn and strained.
Nick, bundled in a terrycloth robe over his drenched costume, peeked with guarded eyes at A.J. He noted the heaving chest and his mind went back to the moments in the bathroom before the show. A.J. was crashing. He thought to himself that perhaps he should have held onto the cocaine that had remained in the vial, then dismissed that thought. A.J., as if sensing the pressure of Nick’s gaze, lifted his head for a moment and glanced at the taller young man. It seemed to Nick that A.J. shook his head at him, and chills swept through his body.
Howie watched them all. He had a vantage point in the room, being in the farthest corner he could see it all; see all of the people in it and what they were doing. Watching without looking as if he were watching, he saw A.J. heaving as he breathed, saw the concern on Nick and Kevin’s faces. Even some of the crew shot A.J. sympathetic glances as he struggled with himself. And during all of this, it was Howie who noticed the stately black man who entered the room from its only doorway. He dwarfed most of the people who squeezed past him. Something about his being commanded those around him to treat him with deference, and Howie felt that power of personality emanating from across the room. No one questioned him being there, no one spoke to him at all, and no one stopped him from walking through the busy clusters of personnel and making his way toward Kevin. Without thinking twice, Howie made his own way across the room.
“Miss Brevelle thought that perhaps you might find it interesting,” the dark man was saying when Howie approached Kevin.
“It does sound interesting,” Kevin concurred, then he turned to Howie. “Howie, this is Martin Fontenot. Martin, this is Howie Dorough,” Kevin said. The obligatory handshaking occured before Kevin spoke again. “Martin was wondering if we might want to take a trip out to see a place called… I’m sorry, what was it again?”
“Vieilles Chantantes,” Martin repeated, his silky voice and French accent giving the name of the house its proper lilt. “A dear friend of mine lives there and would like to extend to you the hospitality of the house for the remainder of your stay in New Orleans. The plantation is quite charming, oui, and was, at one time, a, how do you say, bed and breakfast? Oui, so there is room for everyone. Also, privacy. A chance to experience country life, yes?” He offered the two young men the full force and charm of his white smile. “My friend, she extends to you all an invitation to visit this evening, for everyone,” Martin said, spreading his hands to indicate not just the group, but everyone in the room. “If you find the atmosphere to your liking, eh, then other arrangements can be made to perhaps extend your stay.”
“Oh, man, I don’t know,” Kevin said, but he was intrigued. He liked to sightsee wherever he was, be it in or out of the country. He knew that Howie was the same way, always off on some excursion or other if time and scheduling allowed it. They were going to be in New Orleans for a while, in fact, it was open ended because the tour would be over there.
“If you wish, you may speak with Miss Brevelle, she’s just outside,” Martin said with another graceful, sweeping gesture to the door.
“It’s not that, it’s security, and...”
“I’m sure that Mademoiselle Brevelle can offer you the utmost in security. Vieilles Chantantes is out on the edge of the river and bayous; it is not likely that you would be bothered there. You are invited to bring whomever is necessary to assure your... safety,” Martin said, then laughed a little. “I have spoken to Monsieur Rickert, your production manager. Perhaps...”
“Oh, Skip knows about this?” Howie said. Of course. How else would this man even gotten backstage? Suddenly the invitation was doubly appealing.
“Oui, Skip,” Martin said, pronouncing it ‘skeep’. Again, he smiled. This time, Howie and Kevin returned his smile. Martin was about to speak again, when a coughing, choking sound turned their attention to the center of the room.
Martin moved quickly, his long legs taking long strides, and appeared at A.J.’s side before any of them could get there. He ran a large hand up the curve of A.J.’s spine and delivered a sharp blow to a specific spot between the heaving man’s shoulder blades. The force of the punch seemed to dislodge whatever it was that had been making A.J. strangle.
“Are you all right now? Is that better, Michie?” the tall man asked. He bent low to look into A.J.’s face.
A.J. didn’t know if he was all right, but it was definitely better now that he could catch his breath. Something in the warmth of the hand that still rested on his back soothed and calmed him.
“You okay, Aje?” Howie asked. He sat beside the shaking man and got him to sit up straight.
“Yeah,” A.J. croaked, then a fit of coughing took his voice away. He held the towel in his hand to his mouth and hacked into it.
Howie looked close at his friend and was worried. They had all been worried about A.J.; about each other. Here and now seemed like a culminating point. Maybe a few days out of a city, away from all the rigmarole of the tour, on a farm, or plantation, or wherever, wasn’t such a bad idea.
“Bien,” Martin said, then he stood up, towering over the two men sitting on the bench. This one, this one that Genevičve had spoken of to him, he was sick; a shadow man. Martin could see so many entities below the surface of the man’s skin he was tempted to go out into the hallway and tell Missy Vee to just go on home and forget about this lost soul who didn’t know up from down, in from out. The thought entered and left his mind with lightening speed.
It didn’t matter.
Now that he had touched him, this shadow man, Martin knew that it wouldn’t matter if he drove Missy Vee to the opposite end of the earth, they would find each other eventually. So now was as good as later.
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“I cannot believe that I’m standing in this smelly hallway, waiting for some smelly Backstreet Boy,” Elle said. She didn’t like the gray corridor. It was institutional and cold. She didn’t like the stares and glances they were getting from the many people coming and going from the doorways that were the only adornment to the concrete walls. She didn’t like any of it, but most of all she didn’t like Vee’s quiet.
“Not too much longer, I’m sure,” Vee murmured. She appeared preoccupied and distant, not unlike her attitude for the better part of the night. She was with ‘them’. Inside she was alert and watching, feeling the atmosphere around ‘them’. At that moment she imagined that it sighed and found herself sighing in return. There was no doubt in her mind that the invitation being extended through Martin would be accepted. It was the waiting. She didn’t like to wait, and she felt as if she’d been waiting for too many things for too long a time.
“Missy Vee,” Martin’s voice beckoned, and the four women turned to the doorway to see the imposing man lean out and gesture with his hand to ‘come’.
Vee followed the voice, but the others remained where they were. They expected Genevičve to enter the room, but she stood at the door in discussion with Martin and another person they could not see. She seemed serious, but pleased, nodding her head in time to the rise and fall of voices they could hear but words they couldn’t discern.
“What do you think she’s up to?” Elle asked.
“No good,” Iris said, but she said it with a laugh in her voice and was surprised to see the stern expression on Elle’s face at her remark.
“Probably trying to get a date with the boy toy,” Linda said.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Elle murmured. But she was surprised when Vee turned back to them and approached with a smile beaming on her face. “Well? What was that all about?” Elle asked.
“Oh, we can go now,” Vee said, hooking her arm through Elle’s.
“Just like that?” Iris asked.
“Just like that,” Vee said as she began walking down the hallway to an exit.
“What, no autograph? No pictures? No date?” Linda needled.
“No,” Vee said, turning around to look at Linda who was walking behind her with Iris. “No need. They’ll be out to the house in about an hour.” She gave her friends her most gracious and engaging smile. “Got ta get home, now, y’all,” she drawled, “we got comp’ny coming.”
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“We got comp’ny coming,” Vee repeated to Françoise the moment she returned to the house. Françoise looked up from where she was bent low to the oven. The kitchen looked as if it was ready to host an elaborate feast for thousands. All of the house staff was there, bustling about the huge room, moving in and out of the pantries.
Even when the car had approached the house, Vee had seen that all was in readiness. The French doors were opened to let in the cool evening air. Lights glowed from every room and the strains of music wafted from the ballroom on the second floor. The picture the house made, glowing at the end of the long oak flanked drive, impressed the women into silence as they neared and had kept them that way right up into the main entrance.
“She tells me this as if I didn’t know,” Françoise said under her breath.
“I don’t know how long they’re going to stay.”
“The night, I would imagine, Missy,” Françoise replied as she bathed the crisping chickens in the oven with their own fragrant drippings.
“Not all of them,” Vee told her, bending over the roasting birds and taking a deep sniff.
“Enough. No matter, I’m ready. The house is ready,” Françoise assured her. She pushed the chickens back into the oven and stood up straight. Her dark black eyes took in the sight of her young mistress, her charge, and she offered one of her rare smiles that wasn’t more than a slight rearranging of her thin lips. “The question is, Missy, are you ready?”
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© 2002 Chandrah, Inc.
© 2002 (*> Baby Bird Productions, Inc.
