I'm Glad I Did (11 page)

“Really well. I recorded my first demo last night. Would you like to hear it?”

She glanced over her shoulder. Today was Saturday. Of course—it was her shopping day. I could almost hear the siren of a Bergdorf Goodman sale calling out to her. “Of course I would,” she said, looking at her watch. “How long is it?”

“Two minutes and forty seconds.”

“Let's do it, then.”

I raced back to the record player and dropped the needle on the first groove. As “I'm Glad I Did” filled the room, I watched her face. To her credit, she really listened. Her brow was knit in concentration. On the other hand, I could tell that she didn't get it at all. There wasn't a flicker of emotion in her entire being.

“That's lovely, dear,” she said when it was over. I could almost hear the silent sigh of relief. “A very nice song.”

“Nice?” I would have preferred she hated it. At least hatred involves passion.

She looked me in the eye. “JJ, I know you have talent, and you can write very catchy melodies. I hope that by the end of the summer, you'll see that you can use the brains you've been given for something more.”

“Mom, we have our deal,” I responded, matching her glare. “Let's not discuss it anymore. I just wanted you to hear what I was doing.”

“And I did,” she said. “Now I'm off. Your dad and I are going to see
Enter Laughing
tonight. I'm meeting him for dinner before the show, and we're joining Susan and Marshall for drinks afterward, so we'll be home late. Since we didn't see you at breakfast, can you tell me your plans?”

I ignored her curt tone and brightened mine. “Someone in my office is having a listening party, and I was invited.” It wasn't a total lie.

“Have fun.” And with that Janny was gone.

I LISTENED TO THE
demo about ten more times once I had the apartment to myself. Then I fooled around on the piano, began another melody I kind of liked, and watched the afternoon melt into evening.

At six o'clock, I put on some lipstick and headed for the subway. I boarded at 59th Street. By the time the train passed 96th Street, I realized that I was the only white person in the car. There were a few Negro girls my age seated across from me. One of them shot me a look of such hostility that I couldn't help but swallow as I looked down at my feet. It hadn't dawned on me that I might not be welcome in Dulcie's world. There was no barrier between us. Music was our connection. But as I rode to 125th and Lexington, I realized that it wasn't that simple. The world outside the Brill Building, outside of music, hadn't caught up to Dulcie and me. I was an outsider on this train.

Fortunately, Dulcie's apartment building was just a few blocks from the station. I glanced at the piece of paper she'd given me—152 E. 126th Street, apartment 606—and picked up my pace. I kept my head down. I couldn't wait to talk to her about some ideas I had for the arrangement of her actual record. I was sure we'd be back in a studio in no time once a record company heard what she could do. My plan was to play the demo for Bobby on Monday.
I knew from experience that he was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to rock and roll when the week began. True, I still had to run my plans for Dulcie's comeback by my co-writer. But once Luke heard the demo, he would have no choice but to agree.

I smiled to myself as I turned the corner onto Dulcie's block. Luke knew how pushy I could be … in a good way.

I paused.

The street was cordoned off and surrounded by police cars. Their flashing lights threw streaks of red and white across a sea of anxious faces. People were milling around, asking what was going on. I frowned, trying to peer around the crowd. Getting through this mess was going to make me late for dinner.

I stood there for a minute, not knowing what to do. Something on the sidewalk was covered by a yellow tarp.

Then to my surprise, I caught sight of a familiar face: Frank McGrath. He was an NYPD detective Mom had known since she'd worked as a law clerk right after her graduation from law school. He'd been a beat cop back then, but they had stayed friends over the years, and his family had occasionally come to dinner at our place. He was a few pounds heavier, and his hair was a bit thinner than when I'd last seen him last, but he had the same craggy, weather-beaten face.

“Frank!” I called to him. “It's JJ Green.”

His eyes narrowed as they peered toward me. McGrath was as shocked to see me as I was to see him. He made his way over to me. “What are you doing here, JJ?”

“I have a friend who lives in the building. I came to have dinner with her.”

“I'll walk you in.” He lifted the yellow tape so I could slide under.

“What's going on?” I asked.

“Some colored woman jumped from the sixth floor,” he said.

I stopped. “My friend is colored, and she lives on the sixth floor.” I said. The words filled me with dread. The night was hot and humid, but still I shivered. I had a terrible feeling in my gut.

“Hey, so do fifteen other women,” he replied, ushering me along. “This building is half colored, half Hispanic. Just go on up and enjoy your dinner.”

I shook my head, my eyes flashing back to the yellow tarp. “Please, Frank, can I see?” My voice sounded hollow in my ears, as if someone else had asked the question. “Let me see the woman who jumped.”

“JJ, you don't want to do that,” he said firmly.

I turned to him and grabbed his arm. “Please,” I said. “Please, just let me see her face. I have to see her face.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, but he could see the desperation in my eyes. “This is against the rules. Don't ever tell your mother I did this,” he muttered.

His face was grim as we approached the tarp. I felt dizzy and looked up to see a young woman nearby weeping. Her face looked strangely familiar. Crouching beside the tarp, McGrath pulled it back just enough to reveal the face of the jumper.

The world went black.

This is what it feels like to die
, I thought.

My knees got weak. I couldn't breathe. I felt everything slipping away.

It was Dulcie.

The blood had pooled under her head, and her eyes were closed. I heard someone moan and realized it was me. The sidewalk came rushing up at me, and Frank caught me before I hit the concrete. In a dizzy haze, I felt myself being walked to a police cruiser and eased down into the backseat. I kept thinking I was going to wake up but I didn't. I was awake, and this was real. It couldn't be, but it was.

Dulcie Brown was dead.

I sat there, feeling nothing, feeling dead myself. Someone placed a paper cup of water in my hand.

“Drink this, JJ,” McGrath said. “Do you want me to have one of my guys take you home?”

“No, thanks,” I choked out. “I'll be okay.”

I gulped some water. I tried to get the image of Dulcie lying on the pavement out of my head. There was something about my glimpse of her that struck me as strange, maybe even wrong, but I couldn't bear to think about it. I pushed it out of my mind. I had to go home.

“Please don't mention this to my folks,” I whispered to McGrath, forcing myself to get out of the car.

“I won't,” he promised. “You sure you're all right?”

I nodded and shambled away, still carrying the cup of water. An elderly Puerto Rican woman stood apart from the crowd, sobbing. She looked up as I ducked under the tape, and we connected for an instant.

“
¿La conocía?
” I asked.
Did you know her?

“She was my neighbor and my friend. I heard her screaming as she fell. I'll never forget that sound.” She spoke in Spanish, barely a whisper.

I put my arm around her and held the cup to her lips so she could take a sip.
“Señora,”
I whispered, “she was my friend, too. Did you see or hear anything before she fell?”

“She was yelling at someone,” the woman said. “I can't remember what she was saying. I didn't pay attention. I thought it was none of my business, so I just turned up the TV.”

I pointed to McGrath. “If you remember anything, tell him,” I told her.

“I don't like police,” she whispered. “I'm not legal.”

“I understand,” I answered. “Then call me if you remember anything. Okay?” I scribbled my name and the Good Music phone number on the paper cup and handed it to her. “Will you do that?”

She nodded. “Was she a good friend to you?” she asked.

“She was more than that.” I almost choked on the words. “She was a mother to me, my music mother.”

The next morning, I experienced that weird moment when you wake up after something terrible has happened, and for an instant life is normal. It's just another morning. But then your pain hits you as hard as it did the first time, maybe even harder. I knew I needed to stay out of my family's way, because I couldn't guarantee that I wouldn't fall apart. So I broke Green Rule Number One for the second morning in a row and left a note saying I was having breakfast with my friend Rona from the office, and that we were going shopping and to a movie.

Then I went and hid in a movie theater by myself.

Cleopatra
was playing. It ran about four hours. I sat through it two and a half times, but I couldn't tell you what it was about, because the movie in my head was playing
The Too-Short History of Dulcie and JJ
, over and over. I kept reliving every moment we shared. Was I responsible in some way for her death? Would she still be alive if I hadn't talked her into recording our song? Maybe by bringing
her back to the studio, I'd also brought back the horrible memories of her drug addiction, failure, and loss. Maybe she couldn't handle all of that again. The final straw could have been that “I'm Glad I Did” would be part of a comeback strategy.

Was she so fragile that the idea of being a recording artist again pushed her out that window?

But the more I thought about it, the more I began to wonder why Frank McGrath was so quick to write off Dulcie's death as a suicide. She knew I was coming over to dinner. Why would she choose that time to jump? She was genuinely happy when she'd left the studio, the kind of happy that a person can't fake. Besides, the Hispanic lady had heard an argument before Dulcie had jumped. And something had seemed wrong about her when I saw her lying there …

Then it hit me.
The necklace
.

Her neck was bare. The gold note necklace was missing. I had never seen her without it until then. It wasn't valuable enough to kill for. But why would she take it off before she jumped?

When I finally got home, I headed straight for my room and dove into bed. When Janny asked if I was all right, I told her I thought I was coming down with something, and I just needed to sleep. Maybe she didn't believe me, or maybe she was just too fed up to bother pressing me. She left me alone, and that was all that mattered.

I MADE IT THROUGH
breakfast on Monday by not talking and pretending I was under the weather—maybe I'd eaten
something bad with my friend Rona—but would try to tough it out through work.

It wasn't until lunch with Bernie that I finally lost it.

Marla had decided to join us on this day, and I was glad she was there. I wasn't sure how Bernie would react, if he'd even give a damn. I knew, though, that whatever happened, Marla would know how to handle it. And I could share the tragedy with someone who knew Dulcie. Besides, Bernie had a right to know. He'd given Dulcie her start.

As soon as our plates were in front of us, I began to tell them that I had become friends with someone he used to manage. But the moment I said her name, I dissolved in tears. I managed to choke out, “Dulcie Brown is dead.”

Bernie and Marla exchanged a glance across the table. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

And then everything tumbled out: how I'd overheard her sing, how she'd heard me play, how we'd come together in a magical moment to record a demo—and the next night she'd thrown herself from her own apartment window. My voice was hoarse.

Bernie's face crumbled. He downed his vodka stinger in one gulp and held up his empty glass for the waiter to bring him another. “I can't believe it,” he whispered. “She was a tortured soul, but she was strong.” His voice was thick. “And she was a good woman.”

Marla's eyes grew misty. It was clear to me that she couldn't bear seeing Bernie in pain. She covered his hand with her own. “It's not your fault, sweetie,” she whispered. She turned to me. “Bernie always felt guilty about deserting Dulcie when she was out of control. But what else could he
do? She wasn't able to work. She was embarrassing herself and him, and she wouldn't listen to anyone.” She turned back to Bernie. “Please, honey, don't beat yourself up.”

I shook my head. “But she got past all that. She was working as a cleaning lady in the building. That's how I met her. Did you know that, Uncle Bernie?”