Heart Songs

Copyright © 2002 Beth Ann Erickson

Second Printing 2003 

ISBN 0-9710796-2-5 

Published by Filbert Publishing, USA.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Heart Songs

Beth Ann Erickson

Dedication:

 To Maury… You put up with this neurotic dreamer. You’re my steadfast rock in a stormy profession. Without you, Jonathan, Penny, Steven, and Anne would never have told their stories. You’re a class act. 

To Gogi… You never cease to amaze me. I’ve learned a lot about inner strength and perseverance from you. 

My family… the constant encouragers. You’re a true gift to the world. 

Jano-Banano… D’wanna go-fur walk? I’ll mee-cha half way. Sheesh… I miss our long talks. I miss our laughter. Most of all, I miss you. (If I ever find out you’re whistling “chopsticks” with anybody else, you’re in for it, baby.) 

Loobie-Doo… Sigh. You’re my psycho-baby. Never thought you’d capture my heart, but you did. Go figure. 

The path to true happiness is a rocky one indeed

Many say the path doesn’t exist

Some say the road is impossible to navigate

But you’ll find the way

Just listen to your Heart’s Song

Chapter 1

“Damn cold today," he shivered, pulling the parka tighter around his body. He turned to the driver, “Bad Storm, don’t ‘cha think?”

"No shit.” The driver cringed as he gripped the steering wheel through woolen mittens. He turned to his passenger, “Jeez Bjorn… look at you… a regular Cheshire cat. What 'cha so smiley about this morning?”

Although the squealing heater barely kept up with the freezing air wafting through the '79 Chevy half-ton, Bjorn still felt her next to him. He closed his eyes to re-experience the sensation of her naked thigh pressed against his. He inhaled. The lingering scent of her perfume on his skin tickled his nose. He smiled, the memory of her touch still lingered in his arms, his torso, his heart. A puff of frigid air brushed his cheek pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Nothing," he flashed a grin, mentally reliving the morning’s events as shivers strummed his spine.

The men bounced along the highway, the wind’s icy fingers sculpting drifts. Snow coursed its way across the ever-narrowing road biting the tires of the vehicle. It scooted across the highway, glazing the pavement and making travel nearly impossible. Bjorn gazed at the snowfall, marveling at the swirls, wondering how it could move at such speeds, flying mere inches from the ground.

“God, I hate this weather - roads real icy?” Bjorn’s eyes darted towards the drifts creeping towards the yellow line.

“Yeah, in spots.”

“Probably should slow down ‘cause…” He never finished. A flash of brown snagged his attention. A deer leaped out from an unharvested cornfield directly towards the highway. He gazed in horror as it jumped in front of the pick-up. The driver slammed the brakes. Bjorn smashed his hands against the dash and tried to keep his head from crashing into the windshield. An eerie whistling sound pierced his ears; it took a few moments before he realized it came from his own throat. The truck spun in two perfect circles, then slammed into a grove of trees.

In a matter of minutes, the '79 Chevy transformed into a mass of twisted metal. It hissed once before bursting into flames. The deer scampered away.

*****

They snuggled on the sofa with a comforter tucked around them. A cartoon flickered on the TV.

“When's Daddy coming home?” Peter asked nudging closer.

“He'll be home Friday,” she kissed his head.

“What day is it now?”

“Monday.”

“Why did he go?” the child furrowed his brows.

“He has to work far away sometimes.”

“Oh.... When did he go?”

“Early this morning.”

“He didn't say 'goodbye.'”

“He did. You were sleeping.”

“Sweeping?”

“Yep, sleeping." She snuggled the child, remembering watching her husband pack his bags. She remembered feeling a stone form in her stomach as she glanced out the window and noticed a thick blanket of clouds moving in, preparing to eclipse the starlight.

Bjorn, she’d said, I don’t think you should go.

Why?

Bad storm coming.

He laughed, I’ve traveled in worse….

I don’t feel good about this one….

He kissed her nose. Don’t be superstitious.

She watched him tiptoe to their son's room and tenderly kiss him. He tucked Peter’s worn “blankie” tight around him and stroked his hair. She remembered the pain in his eyes as he turned to face her. Without saying a word, he stepped to her and kissed her temple. Her body tingled as she felt his arms envelop her.

He’d worked far away from home many times before, but this time felt different. With everything within her, she wished she could stop time and hold this moment forever. Without saying a word, he grasped her hand and led her to the bedroom. With the door latched, they slipped into bed for one last intimate moment before he left.

When they finished, he laid next to her, brushing her cheek with his index finger.

I love you, Anne Olssen. She knew he really meant it.

I love you, Bjorn.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his pants over his legs. I know this feels wrong, but I’ve gotta take this job.

I know you do.

He turned to Anne. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.

I know.

Harry’s a good driver.

I know.

And if we do get stuck in the storm, one of us can go for help. Or if we really get stuck bad, we can always keep each other warm. Or…

Or you can use your cell phone and call for help.

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. You’ve got it. He pulled a stray hair away from her face. I wouldn’t go if I didn’t think it was perfectly safe.

You’re right.

She stood by the door clutching her chenille robe as Harry’s '79 Chevy pickup backed out of the drive. Today she truly disliked these unpredictable Minnesota winters – already the storm felt worse than the forecasters had predicted.

Over the drone of Peter’s cartoons, the sound of the Chevy’s tires squeaking on dry snow rang in her ears. She shivered remembering the frigid wind whipping against her bare legs. She enjoyed the warm furnace air caressing her skin after she snapped the front door shut. She closed her eyes and visualized the old pickup disappearing into the white expanse of the storm.

Peter interrupted her thoughts.

“Mommy, I'm hungry.” She chuckled, watching his face crinkle in mock pain.

“I'll get you something,” she stood and tucked the comforter around her son.

She wandered to the kitchen, engrossed in her thoughts. While humming she haphazardly dug through the cupboard looking for some fruit snacks. Peter loved fruit snacks. The telephone rang as she handed the little package to the boy.

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*****

“Where's Steve?” the old woman demanded.

“Jeez, How'm I supposed to know?”

“We’ve got to find him,” she bit her lower lip and scowled, “I don’t plan on scouring all of Connecticut looking for him again.” Leona Kreps dropped to the kitchen chair. “God… I hate it when he’s gone for days on end.”

“And he seems to be pulling that stunt on a regular basis lately,” the groundskeeper said. Then he added, “Why do you need to get ahold of him?”

“Oh Gus,” she sighed, “this nanny is not going ‘ta work.” She wrung her hands. “God, I wish he'd stay around where I could find him.” Her gaze dropped to the tabletop.

“And you especially hated it when you probably already know where he is.”

She groaned. “Yeah.”

“He's with that new girl friend?”

Leona nodded. “Yeah.” Her face lifted as she said, “What’s her name again?”

“I don’t remember. But if it’s any consolation, I don’t like this new one either. She gives me the creeps.” He added, “But Mr. Vandrose sure likes her.”

“I don’t care what he likes. She’s poison.”

“I wish I could think of her name… Boy I hate it when that happens… I wish I could remember...” Gus pondered a moment then said, “Let me think... if memory serves… I think it starts with an 'N'.”

Leona concentrated briefly then spit out the name. "Natalie. It’s “Natalie.” That’s her name.”

Gus said, “Yeah. You’re right. God, I don’t like this one.” He shook his head, “She's no good for him, you know. His career is going to go to hell in a hand-basket with her around.”

“Musicians go in and out of popularity all the time,” Leona shrugged, “Who cares about his career. I’m worried about the kids.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “the kids are important. But he has so much talent. I’d hate to see it go to waste. He sure can play that geetar."

“Doesn’t matter. Harold deals with the career, we deal with his home. And today we’ve got to find him.” Leona picked at the tabletop, scratching an unidentified crispy spot from its surface.

"We’ll find him,” the grounds keeper touched her hand, “We always do.”

Her face creased with tension, “It’s just that I’m too old to keep doing this. I’m tired.” She shrugged her shoulders and brushed a tuft of white hair from her forehead. “I’m too old to keep this house orderly and keep up with those kids. I just can’t do it. I’m sick of everything.” She sighed. “If I didn’t need this job, I’d leave in a minute. The stress is too much.” She pulled herself to her feet, plodded to the kitchen counter and leaned on it. “We need a new nanny. Someone who’ll stay long term.” She rubbed her head, “I just can’t keep up.”

“So, what's wrong with this nanny?” Gus stepped towards Leona, leaned against the wall and picked at the black stains around his fingernails.

“I found Jordan playing with matches.”

“Matches? Again?” He wrinkled his nose, “Where was the nanny?”

“Same old story. She took the job to meet Steve.” She opened the cupboard and pulled out a mug. “Probably ran off somewhere when she found out how little he’s home. Kids don't seem to matter.”

“You gonna fire her?”

“Of course I am – if she ever comes back.”

“I suppose that means we get to watch Elsa and Jordan until someone new is hired,” Gus stated slowly as he grasped a mug of his own.

“Yup,” she sighed.

“Sheet.”

“Don’t swear.”

“Yes ma’am.”

*****

“Oh God,” he moaned, “What time is it?” No answer. He poked the lump of blankets next to him. "Natalie... you awake?"

No answer.

“Shit,” he groaned as he pulled his body to a sitting position, “Where's the clock," he mumbled scanning the room through blood shot eyes.

Potting soil spewed all over the floor from tipped-over planters. Clothes littered the dirty carpet. He glanced at a glistening bag on the floor next to his shirt and smiled. Potato chips. He chuckled remembering the lewd act Natalie had performed with the chips the previous night. He glanced at the crumbs scattered all over the floor, walls, even the ceiling. He peeled a chip from his arm and poked it into his mouth. It tasted a little stale. He started to rise from the bed but the room spun. He dropped to his seat.

Refocusing his eyes, he located his clothing and dropped to his hands and knees. Crawling across the room, he grasped his shirt and underwear. He brushed aside two more shiny bags in the process. With the room spinning like a vortex, he crawled back to the bed.

“Nat, where’re my pants?” He poked at the lump on the bed.

No answer.

"Hey, wake up," he said, “I gotta go.”

Natalie lifted her head. Her matted hair resembled a black cotton ball; white makeup smeared across her face and smudged the pillow. As she turned, one breast spilled from beneath the satin sheet. Steve peeled a chip from it and placed it on his tongue. He attempted to pull himself upright.

Somebody in his head appeared to be pounding on an entire drum set – cymbals and all – the sound piercing the back of his eyeballs. He dropped to his knees focused on maintaining his balance. After he pushed the pounding pain to the back of his mind, he began to pillage through piles of clothing, garbage, and empty bottles, snatching what was his. As best he could, he dressed and pulled himself upright. After a few shaky moments he made his way towards the door. “See ya later,” he called as he stumbled into the hall. Natalie groaned in response. He left the apartment building and plodded to his Porsche. Shivers quivered his hand as he thrust the key into the lock. After dropping into his seat, he pulled a comb through his hair. He squealed onto the street knowing he’d be late… again.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally flew into the parking lot. Harold, his manager, stood next to a blue Buick tapping his foot. The minute Steve rolled to a stop, Harold strode to the Porsche. Steve didn’t know if he dared open the window. Despite his reservations, his finger flicked the switch and the glass lowered.

“You're four hours late,” Harold spoke in slow, even tones, veins bulging in his forehead.

“Sorry...” he mumbled, picking a piece of potato chip off his jeans. He tossed it onto the pavement.

“Everyone's gone. They left hours ago." The tone of Harold’s voice rose.

"Sorry..." Steve kept his eyes on the steering wheel, his cheeks flushing pink. His forehead moistened.

Harold leaned into the car window. He stared straight at Steve and said, “And I’m not sure why I’m still here. So tell me, how are we supposed to conduct a recording session without you?”

“Sorry Harold…”

“Is that all you can say?” Harold’s eyebrows collided.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Steve answered.

Harold’s eyes narrowed, "Listen, if you expect to finish this CD, you have to be here. You have to perform. You at least have to show up."

"Sorry," Steve sighed.

Harold continued, “What do you expect me to do?"

Steve shrugged his shoulders.

"Just because your last CD went double platinum, doesn’t guarantee this one will. You need to work on it.” Harold stepped away and seemed to organize his thoughts. He leaned towards the window and softly said, “Right now, this CD stinks. You need this one to be better than the last one. Put some time into it. Write some quality lyrics. Get better melodies. You can’t rest on your laurels."

Steve glared at the steering wheel. How dare he speak to me that way. Hell… I’m the most popular singer in the nation. I could burp out a CD and my fans would buy it. Everybody wants Steve Vandrose. Everybody loves Steve Vandrose. The last review I read said I was the best lyricist this decade. “So I’m a little late?” Steve said, “So what?”

Harold said, “Listen, you've got to quit treating people like shit. You’re beginning to screw up big time. You’re out of control. Listen… you got to get your life together and quit kissing away your future. You hear me?"

“Yeah…” Steve mumbled.

“I really mean it.” Harold leaned closer, “You've got to pull your shit together or your career's gonna start to slide. You hear me?”

“Whatever….”

“Well, I've had just about enough of your attitude.”

“Yeah, Harold.”

Harold’s eyes bore into Steve. “So,” he said, “how are the re-writes on the last two songs coming?”

“I'm working on them.”

“What do you mean you're working on them?”

Steve shrugged.

“You haven't even started them, have you?”

“No, I haven’t had time.”

“Dammit Steve,” Harold exploded, “you promised you'd have them done.”

“I've been kinda busy.”

“Busy with what -- or shall I ask 'who'?” Harold hit the side of the car with his fist. “Natalie, perhaps? That bitch is gonna ruin your career.” Harold shook his head, “Ever since you met her, you've been all fucked up. You never get any work done. You treat people like trash. You gotta lose her or I swear you're gonna lose your career. Is that what you want? To lose the career we’ve spent years building?”

"Not really." Steve sighed.

"Then get your act together and quit fucking up. You hear me?" Harold stepped away from the Porsche.

“Yeah. OK. Whatever….” Steve mumbled as he put the car in gear.

“Now get outta here. Get cleaned up. Get sober. Be ready to work tomorrow. Got it?”

Steve nodded. The tires squealed as he rounded the corner onto the street. Harold shook his head.

That guy is never gonna get it together, Harold thought as he mentally listed all the musicians he’d watched who blew it once they made it to the “top.” Fame, then women, drinking and drugs, then the downward spiral. He didn't think it would happen to Steve -- too level headed – but since his wife died, the guy was out of control.

Harold envisioned the last time he saw Laurie. He could still see her beautiful smile and shining eyes. Steve loved her with all his heart. She was probably the only woman he’d ever love. If they hadn’t gone to the ocean that day, it never would have happened – the terrible accident. “Steve still won't go near that cabin,” he mused, “guess it was too much for him.” He stepped towards the Buick and pulled open the door. “I wonder what really happened out there to fuck him up like this – I didn't think Natalie was his type….”

Harold sat in silence a few moments before he fired the ignition.

"Good luck, friend of mine,” he whispered.

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