Chapter 8 Back Home

MONTREAL, OT

Saturday, September 21

            I finally had twenty minutes of free time before we left the hotel for sound check. My first opportunity since last night to use the phone.

            She picked up after two rings, and I was relieved, but it was all I could do not to launch into a “Where the hell have you been?” speech. It was just so good to hear her voice, I almost forgot I was pissed off

“Hey, baby.”

“Hey.” Strange. She sounded pissed off, too.

I tried to sound jovial, considering it wouldn’t do me any good to rant and rave over the phone when I was on the other side of damn continent. “Where were you last night?”

She sniffed. “I was here.” Pause. “Did you call?”

Darkness settled over me, and I choked back the scream developing in my throat. “Several times. The machine didn’t pick up. Did you unplug it?”

She took a while to answer. “I…must’ve pushed a wrong button on it or something.”

I tried to convince myself she wasn’t lying. “Are you all right?” She sounded stoned. Either she’d finished off what was left of the stash or she’d been into her muscle relaxers again. Somehow I didn’t…I wasn’t sure what I thought.

“I’m sorry, I’m not feeling very well. I’ve come down with a cold or something.”

Okay, maybe she was telling the truth. She sounded congested…like she’d been…

Crying? About what? Maybe I needed to drop my suspicious nature after all and concentrate on someone else besides myself.

“I went to bed pretty early last night,” she went on. “I didn’t even hear the phone. I’m sorry.”

There’s one right by the bed, can’t miss it…unless you’re completely deaf or under the influence of really heavy drugs…or you’re ignoring it intentionally…you and your pool man…

 “It’s okay,” I said, though I was obviously a little cranky. “I was just worried when you didn’t pick up.”

“I’m just getting used to the climate, I guess,” she said. “It gets cooler at night here this time of year.”

As opposed to the ninety percent humidity and eighty-plus degree heat New Orleans has in the middle of September…I supposed she was right. Maybe she didn’t feel well, maybe she had zonked out and not heard…that still didn’t really explain the answering machine.

I kept telling myself I was making a big deal out of nothing. What with Steve and his bullshit, and that girl reporter…on to bigger and better things…

“I’ll be home tomorrow,” I said, attempting to brighten up the tone of my voice. “That should make you feel better.”

“It would.” She said that, but it didn’t sound like she meant it…

“So I’ve got an idea.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you feel like doing some shopping?” 

“What kind of shopping?”
            “Well…I’ve told you before about what I do to wind down after a road trip…” It was my typical “coming-off-the-road” habit to spend a day or two completely toked up with any willing female, having lots of sex and filling up on junk food, and I was more than ready to start making it a habit with her. “You can buy whatever you want. Or I’ll call Marietta and have her bring it to you.”

“That’d be good,” she yawned, and I wondered how long she’d slept that day. It was three o’clock in Montreal, making it noon in Phoenix. 

“Hey, listen, I may not be able to come pick you up tomorrow…”
            What? What could she possibly be doing on a Sunday? And why wouldn’t she want to come pick me up at the airport? Wasn’t she happy to see me? Couldn’t wait to…Well, if she’s ill, you stupid ass…

“If you’re still not feeling all right, I’ll have someone bring me home,” I said. “It’s no problem.”

“Okay.” Then she was awfully quiet, as was I. I really didn’t like this conversation.

“I love you,” I said, trying to make it a better one.

She returned the sentiment, but it sounded oddly subdued.

“I can’t wait to come home,” I went on, trying harder.

“I know.”

Shit. What was going on?

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Season…”

She hung up.

I stared at the phone for a long time, thinking five hundred things at once but unable to concentrate on any of them.

Terry banged on the door. “Hey, let’s go! Let’s wrap this puppy up and go home!”

One more gig…there would always be one more gig.

Sunday, September 22

We flew back from Montreal early Sunday morning, putting us back in Phoenix around nine a.m. I was barely awake when we touched down, not having had a lick of sleep in almost thirty-six hours. The video shoot had gone on longer than expected Saturday morning, and we ended up having to re-shoot more footage before we flew out. I wasn’t going to be worth shit for the next couple of days, and we were leaving for New York Monday afternoon.

            At least Season would be coming with me then. Or at least, I hoped she would. She wasn’t standing at the gate when we walked in, and that really bugged the crap out of me.

            I heard the snap of a Zippo lighter behind me.

            “She did say she wasn’t feeling well yesterday, right?” Randy was on his second cigarette after getting off the plane only about five minutes ago. “That she might not make it?”

            I chewed on the inside of my mouth, brooding, scanning the terminal. “Yeah.”

            “My local tech was supposed to leave the Mustang here,” he said, readjusting the carry-on bag on his shoulder. “I’ll give ya a ride.”

            Steve walked by, and a tall blonde standing near the desk started heading his way. She was wearing red hot pants, a yellow t-shirt that looked about four sizes too small, and wedge-heel espadrilles that laced up her tanned calves. In one hand dangled a set of keys that I figured were to Steve’s Corvette. Steve blew her a kiss and jerked his head to one side in a kind of come-hither motion. Was she…skipping?

            He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her on the mouth. They shared some inaudible dirty exchange, then he glanced over at us, making sure we saw everything.

            “Nobody here to pick you up, Jonny-boy?”

            I ran my middle finger up and down the center of my nose. 

Randy rolled his eyes. “You asshole.”

Steve grinned, and clamped his hand around his latest blonde’s ass. “See you guys tomorrow.”  They turned to leave, then Steve turned back again. “Season is coming with us, isn’t she?”

My nostrils flared, but I kept my cool. “Yes, she is.”

“Sure she is.” They proceeded out of the terminal, joined at the hip.

Randy exhaled harshly. “I don’t get it, Jon. I don’t know what the hell he’s trying to do.”

I didn’t either, but I wasn’t concerned with Steve. “Take me home. And drive fast.”

Randy pulled up to the house, which even in the bright morning light looked dark and deserted. 

Terry was in the back seat. “She’s not rushing out to meet you?”

I was still pretty tight-lipped, hardly speaking for the entire half-hour drive. “Maybe she’s still sick.” Why didn’t I believe that?

Randy shut off the engine and opened his door. “We’ll come in.”

“Do I look like I need reinforcements?” I asked brusquely.

Randy and Terry exchanged looks, then stared at me. “Yeah,” they chorused.

I swore, shaking my head, and got out of the car. Randy opened the trunk, tossed my carry-on bag to me, and hoisted my other bag over one shoulder. Terry simply tagged along.

The front door was unlocked, so that meant she was home. Or she left in too big a hurry…it was awfully quiet in here. I fought back the fear that she wouldn’t answer and called her name.

“Season?”

Randy and Terry followed as I peeked around the staircase down into the garage. Randy had just tossed my other bag on the couch when I heard the back door close. She came into the kitchen from the deck.

“Hey!”

She was a sight for sore eyes, and I felt again like I hadn’t seen her in ages. She stood in the frame of the kitchen entrance, wearing torn jeans, her slender arms folded across her white t-shirt, the top half of her hair pulled back from her face and secured in a ponytail at the base of her neck. Loose tendrils fell over her ears and she wasn’t wearing any make-up. She was barefooted again, and I was ten times more excited than I was helping Camille St. John pick her notebook up off the floor two nights ago.

I was about to throw down the bag I was carrying and gather her into my arms like I did that day at rehearsal, but the look on her face discouraged me. It was not so much of a frown as it was…a blank stare, like she was terribly angry but wasn’t ready to unleash the fury.

And she didn’t look sick. At all. 

She glanced around me. “Hi, guys.”

They returned the greeting, and I looked back at them, noticing their rather distressed expressions. They looked really uncomfortable.

As was I.

She looked right back at me, her mouth set in a firm line. She blinked, as if to say, “Could you get them to leave, please?”

I took a long, slow breath and approached her slowly. “What’s the matter?” I whispered.

She furrowed one eyebrow, and spoke to the guys. “Thanks for giving him a ride home, Randy.”

“Sure thing.” He smiled and winked at her, hoping to ease her ill temper. He’d already lit up another cigarette. “I didn’t want him to have to walk.”

Terry observed quietly, then said, “Well, we’re gonna get out of here.” He tugged at Randy’s jacket sleeve.

“Yeah, Jon, we’ll catch you later.” Randy backed himself toward the door. “See you both in the morning?” He glanced at Season again. “You glad to be coming along this time?”

She nodded slowly. “Uh, huh.”

All I could do was stare at her, feeling my exhaustion starting to set in all the more. I did not need to come home to this.  

Terry and Randy took their leave and closed the door behind them. I waited, watching through the windows that lined the front door, making sure the car was out of the driveway and they didn’t stick around to eavesdrop. Season disappeared back into the kitchen. I eventually followed.

She stood on the other side of the island. I finally set my bag on the floor and placed my palms on the counter.

“What is wrong?”

She turned and slid a bulky manila envelope about the size of a videocassette across the island.

“This came in the mail Friday afternoon.”

            It came to a stop right in front of me. There was no return address and no postmark. The only marking was “To Jon Warren, Phoenix.”

            “This didn’t come regular mail,” I said.

            “It came by private courier,” she said, raising her chin slightly. “From Monica Renard.”

            I lowered my head and wanted to die, right there. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

            She spoke after a long silence, her voice like thick ice. “Is it a full-length feature film or is it various scenes from your other on-screen appearances?”

            Denying this would have been pointless.

            “It’s actually an afternoon at her apartment,” I answered truthfully, meeting her evil stare. “You didn’t open it up and find out for yourself?”

            “I don’t open other people’s mail,” she said. “And I would expect you to show me the same courtesy, if I’m going to be married to you.”

            If… “You mean, when, right?” Don’t you dare back out on me, not now, even with this… “When you’re married to me?”

            She dragged in air through her nostrils. “Maybe.”

            I felt like she’d just slapped me. And I guess she probably should have. I leaned on the island for support, feeling my knees weaken, and not just from exhaustion now. I felt my ulcer rumble, and tried to think of some kind of explanation.

            “It was her idea, not mine.”

            “Really?”

            Oh, I knew that tone too well. If there was ever any woman who really knew how to be a bitch at the worst possible time…

            “You know what she did for a living…”

            She nodded. “You have two of her films in your collection upstairs.”

            Oh, well, I guess she knew where everything in the closet was now…

            “You’re not in those.”

            And she’d watched them, too, by the sound of it.

            I almost laughed. “I’ve never made a porn film.”

            She glanced at the envelope, then right back at me. “Then what is that?”

            I rubbed a hand over my face and around the back of my neck, feeling the muscles tighten like piano wire. “She knew I was leaving L.A. And her. She wanted…something to remember me by.”

            She just stared at me, furious.

            I threw my hands in the air and paced for a second. “I told you about Monica. Hell, you even met her.”

            Season looked down a minute, trying to keep her resolve. “I thought she left the business.”
            “She did,” I said. “She was finishing her last film when she met me. You know this whole story.” I had to stop moving and placed one hand on the island again. I was so tired, and so terrified I didn’t think I could stand anymore.

            She walked closer, and took a knife out of the holder next to the stove.

Oh, shit, she’s gonna kill me. For real. Or she’s gonna slice my nuts off right here in the kitchen…

She leaned her right hip against the island, and pointed the knife handle toward me.

“Open it.”

I sighed heavily, tossing my head backward. “Just let me destroy it,” I pleaded. “I don’t even have to take it out of the envelope…”

She shook her head and tapped the knife handle on the counter. She repeated her request. “Open it.”

“Why?” Don’t do this, please…

She tilted her head sideways, her bottom lip puckered in anger. “I wanna see it.”

I groaned in frustration. “You can’t be serious.”

She wasn’t letting up. She stood patiently, holding that knife just inches from my groin.

I glared at her, feeling that same rush of fifty thousand emotions all at one time: embarrassment, terror, anger...I took the knife then opened the envelope.

            A videotape, labeled “J-Jan 6, 1985,” dropped out, along with a folded piece of expensive vellum-finish stationery paper. I unfolded it, and read it.

Jonny,

I just can’t go anywhere without hearing about your wedding, so congratulations!

She’s so beautiful and you deserve to be happy. That’s why I sent this to you. I’d hate for it to fall into the wrong hands by mistake, knowing that someone could use it to exploit you or upset your new wife. I know it will be safer with you and you can do whatever you want with it-keep it, burn it, I don’t care. I’m also trying to get rid of a lot of things from my past, in an effort to start a clean slate with my husband. It’s hard to let it go…but you were always honest with me, and are still a good man. I hope she realizes what she’s getting-she’s one lucky girl.

Best of luck to you and love always,

Moni

            I handed the letter to Season, and before she could question me…

            “I have nothing to hide,” I said. I really needed to sit down.

            She read the letter quietly, then placed it back on the counter and picked up the videocassette. She moved past me, headed for the living room.

I ran my hands over my head, feeling I was going to pass out any minute.

She stopped at the entrance, awestruck that I didn’t follow. “You’re not watching?” she asked, for what reason I couldn’t begin to imagine. She had to be nuts.

“I’ve never seen it,” I confessed, over one shoulder. “And I’m not ever gonna see it.”

“You’ve never seen it?”

I turned to face her, still groping the side of the work table and pulling myself onto a barstool. “No. Why would I wanna watch myself doing that?”

She studied me, incredulous. “You’re not curious?”

“Just because you are doesn’t mean I have to be,” I muttered, looking away. I’d only watched myself in a mirror once. I wasn’t impressed. Despite what everyone else seems to think of my sexual prowess, all I could see was what I could be doing better, just like I do when I hear playbacks in the studio or watch myself in a music video. I constantly critique myself, and sex was no exception. 

I guessed she might be impressed. Why was she even doing this? How could she torture herself this way? She must really want to get back at me…

            I met her eyes again. “It was for Monica. Not for me.”

She turned away, disappearing to the left into the living room. I listened as she slipped the tape into the VCR. The TV clicked on and there was no sound for awhile.

I stumbled over to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of J & B, then went to the cabinet next to the refrigerator. I took out a glass, filled it with ice, and sat back down. I poured a strong drink and downed it in one gulp, remembering that afternoon in January as if it were yesterday...

            I was drunk after the second gulp, trying to drown out the sound of the television. Did she just turn the volume up on purpose? I put my head down on the counter, squeezing my wrists against my ears. I didn’t want to hear the end of that particular lovemaking session…but I could still hear it sometimes in my head, when I was feeling guilty about things I probably never should have done…

           

            The woman in the video looked up at him, stroking the sides of his face, her voice hushed and sweet as she spoke.

            “Jonny.”

            Season was shocked not only by its tenderness, but that it could even be heard over the harsh breathing and the sounds of The Brothers Johnson’s “Strawberry Letter 23” in the background. He opened his eyes and looked down at the woman.

            Were those tears in her eyes? It was hard to tell in a non-porn porn tape. No close-ups, not repeated shots of breasts jiggling and hips thrusting…

“I love you.”

            His shoulders tensed, his body slowed, and a look of intense guilt covered his face. He didn’t respond verbally, just lowered his head, closing his eyes again. Season caught the unmistakable clench of his jaw, something he always did when he was distressed. Monica’s hands moved back down over his arms, and she raised her head to whisper to him, and Season made a note to remember what she said.

            That little phrase might come in handy some time. Like later on that evening.

            And he did as she asked…moving his body faster and harder, the unmistakable pleasure rumbling in his throat, the tension rising in his shoulders…but even that was different also. There were things he wasn’t saying in the heat of the moment eight months ago…

            Two minutes later the VCR shut off. Season removed the videocassette and returned to the kitchen, finding him fast asleep, leaning over the counter, his head resting on his right arm, his left hand draped across the back of his neck, and a glass of melting ice cubes in his hand. 

            Suddenly she just couldn’t be mad at him anymore, and thanked God he was finally home. In the flesh.

            “Y’know, you’re good, but that wasn’t your best.”

            I jerked awake, nearly sliding off the barstool. I balanced myself on the edge of the island, rubbing the side of my face where it had been smashed into the counter. It took me a minute to figure out where I was, and why I had an empty glass in my hand.

            Oh, yeah, I was on the verge of being dumped because I got caught with my videotape down.

            I cleared my throat and wiped hair out of my eyes. “What?”

            She was back in the kitchen entrance again, her weight balanced on one bare foot, the cursed video in one hand. “I’d say you’ve improved since January.”

            Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. “Thanks,” I murmured, embarrassed as well as…insulted.

            “Maybe we could make our own and we could check your progress.” She tilted her head to one side, giving the tape a shake. “You’re very different now.”

            I think I had too much to drink already. “Different?”

            She nodded slowly and pointed to her quarry. “You didn’t make as much noise as you do now,” she observed. “And you move…more…aggressively, now, I think.”

            I made a face similar to one I always used to give my mother when she was criticizing me. Good God. Let’s hope she never sees the tape. Oh, wait, she saw me live. That’s even worse. Talk about criticism.

“I have more exciting company now,” I said. “And I was not in love with Monica Renard.”

“I could tell,” she said. “That wasn’t the same for her, was it?”

I looked down, studying the countertop, and didn’t respond.

She strolled in, and set the tape on the counter. “That must have been really hard for her.”

Oh, so she’s on Monica’s side, now? Women.

“She’s done just fine without me,” I said, resting my elbows on the counter and running fingers through my hair again. Damn, I was so tired…

“You basically used her, then?” she asked.

I didn’t want to admit that, but I guess that really was the case. I had a porn star, a woman desired by millions of men, wanting me twenty-four hours a day. It was real ego boost for a twenty-two-year-old rocker nerd, but I didn’t feel a damn bit of “love” for her. She was pretty, she was smart, she had a killer body, though most of it was fake, and she really knew how to please a man, but as far as anything serious…no way.

“I didn’t see anyone else while I was with her,” I began, then caught myself. “No, wait, I faltered a couple of times.” Ugh, more blasts from the past…I gotta cut this shit out or Season’s never gonna marry me.

She raised an eyebrow. “A couple of times?”

Damn, could I have more of a big mouth? I chose to tell a little bit of a white lie. “Monica knew.” About one, in the middle of December in Oakland, but not about the other. New Year’s in San Diego…

Season and I stared each other down for a second. 

“You falter often?” she asked.

Shut your mouth, now, Warren… Well, hell, the woman was a porn actress. Did it really matter if I was sleeping with someone else if she was? Did it matter that it was her job?

“No,” I said, knowing I looked as guilty as I felt, with my energy completed drained. I had nothing left to even put on a good show, not that I really needed to anyway. I was pretty transparent at that point.

She was still looking right into me, and I couldn’t tell what she was thinking to save my soul. All I could think of was how I could get her naked in next few seconds before I collapsed. I just heard myself having sex with a porn star. This didn’t help the frame of mind I’d been in all week, thinking of it every damn minute of the day and having to go without. I didn’t want to go without for a minute longer.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I never thought I would…” I gestured toward the videotape, resting on the counter as innocently as a stray piece of silverware. “…see that again.”

She picked it up, along with Monica’s note, and stuffed them back into the envelope. She laughed softly. “You didn’t even see it the first time.” 

I rubbed my eyes again. “Not my best, huh?”

She shook her head. “Nope.” She folded the edges of the envelope around its contents. “I thought you used to always wear a condom?”

Oh, yeah. “Monica was clean,” I said, referring to her status of being disease-free. “And on the pill.”

Season nodded. “You never worried about that with me.”

“I remember what you told me in Houston,” I said, remembering a discussion we had about AIDS only days before we’d gone to bed together for the first time. “And I knew you were on birth control.”

She bit her lower lip and I nearly pounced on her right then. When she did the innocent little girl stuff it just drove me nuts. Then she raised an eyebrow like a seductress and I was in bigger trouble. “Even if you didn’t love her emotionally, you made a decent impression of it physically.”

Decent impression…I poured another glass of scotch. “Can we not talk about this anymore?”

She moved closer to me. “Where did you learn to do some of those things?”

 “I’ve got a good imagination.” I drank and cringed from the sting. “So it wasn’t my best. Do I not rate as well as some of Monica’s co-stars? You watched her movies.”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to show me how much better you really are.” She leaned forward onto the counter, making her breasts push upward to form a rather excellent view of cleavage through the V-neck of her t-shirt. “Think you can do that?”

If that wasn’t a cue to nail her on the island again, I don’t know what was. I slid off the barstool and reached for her. “I know I can do that.”

I took one slim arm and pulled her hard against me, latching onto her mouth with mine. From there on out, there was a lot of groping and tearing off of clothes. Pretty soon she was completely naked and impaled to the wall between the entrance to the pantry and the oven, my shirt thrown off my back and my jeans undone, and I was pretty sure I was doing a much better job than the performance I’d given nine months ago with the same video director I’d just worked with in Thunder Bay.

My life is so strange.

I rested my head on her shoulder, weakening by the minute. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”

“You do look pretty tired.” She lowered her legs and set her feet on the floor, massaging my back. “I did what you asked.”

I was practically asleep already, the smell of sex and her perfume lulling me into dreamland.  “What was that?”

“I’m all set to help you wind down after your road trip.”

Ah, sex, dope, and sugar. I knew there was a reason why I wanted to marry her. “Thank you.”