The Pages We Forget (9 page)

“Junie, if you can give me one good reason, or any reason, for rushing this CD, then at least I'll have something to go on this afternoon when I tell the label what you're requesting.”

“Tell them that Torrence will have the master ready for them in a week and I want the CD on the market exactly one month from today. That's what you tell them. If that isn't good enough, then the hell with them.”

Bernard walked around the counter and sat next to June. “All right,” he said. “Let's forget about the label for a minute. This isn't
about them now. It's about you and me and me being able to do my job, which is to take care of you and your career. Junie, I can't do that job if you don't talk to me and at least let me know what's going on.”

“Sounds like you've been talking to Alex,” she said.

“Yeah, we talked.”

“Well, I'll tell you, like I told him. This is one of those times when you're going to have to trust me to know what I'm doing.”

“Fine. You can start by telling me what you're doing.”

June looked away, but she could still feel Bernard's discerning stare. He was waiting for an answer.

“I'm listening.” He pressed on, no longer willing to blindly acquiesce to her request. “You said trust you, and I've trusted you. I had my doubts at first about this CD, but I stood behind you because singing is what you were born to do. Nobody does it better. That was trusting you. But what comes after singing and recording is my game, and like you, nobody does it better. I trusted you to do what you do, now you need to trust me to do what I do. You can start by letting me know what your plan is.”

Bernard wasn't as physically striking as Alex. He was thinner and shorter. And, he was going bald and gray. What Bernard lacked in physical prowess, he more than made up for in confidence, business savvy, and sharp-as-a-whip wit. He was always dressed in blue, gray or dark pinstriped suits by his favorite designers, Ron and Ron Delice. His regal demeanor was adornment enough. He was a commanding presence, so it took a great deal for June to say, “I'm doing it my way, B. Nobody else's but mine.”

“Okay.” Bernard gathered his notes and put them in his leather briefcase. “We'll do it your way.” Bernard's face was stoic. He was there at the beginning. It was Bernard, even more so than Alex,
who was responsible for her success. Alex wrote the songs and produced the music, but he was the one who sold her to America and the world. Her career had been a paint-by-numbers blueprint that he drafted. “I better get going. I have to meet Alex over at Dreamland in an hour. We're hoping they'll postpone production on
For His Love
until July, which will give you a little time to take care of whatever it is you're doing. But, I don't know how much longer we can keep Zoe attached to the project.”

“I'll give her a call,” June said.

“Whatever.” He started toward the door, shaking his head while trying to figure out what was going on with his friend.

“B,” June called. He stopped but didn't turn around. “Thanks for understanding.”

“Junie, I'll be honest with you.” He slowly turned to face her. He didn't bother to disguise the perplexed look on his face, and his body language suggested that he didn't much care. “I don't understand, and I won't pretend to. I don't know why all of a sudden you needed to record this CD. Or why you said to hell with one of the most important nights of your life. Or why you're breaking contractual agreements that could end your career. And I damn sure don't understand why you're willing to risk what you have with Alex for…” Bernard stammered.

“For Keith?” She stood and stared at Bernard. “Is that what you wanted to say? How many times am I going to have to tell you, this isn't about Keith?”

Bernard walked over to the counter. “Listen, Junie. If this CD isn't about Keith, why is every song on it about missing an old lover? And why would you put your prom picture with Keith on the cover? I won't even go into the video.”

“That doesn't mean it's about Keith. I know you don't believe
me, but this album is supposed to be about me and that time in my life.”

“Keith was your life then. I don't get it, Junie. I don't know what you're trying to do, but I can tell you this. It's not worth it. I want to know something. Have you forgotten what Keith did to you? Do I need to remind you? You thought your life was over.”

“That was then,” she replied. “Bernard, I can't sit here and tell you that Keith doesn't mean anything to me now, because he does. It's been seven years since I've seen him, but every time I look at my son, I see him. So he's been here with me every day. He's never been completely gone.” She paused. “But I love Alex, and I'm happy with Alex.”

“Junie, I don't doubt you love Alex. As a matter of fact, I know you love him. And you may not think it, but I understand how hard it's been for you. But, what I don't get is why you're still longing for Keith. Why can't you put him behind you?”

“Behind me?”

“Yes, behind you,” Bernard answered. “Ten years behind you.”

June sat and watched Bernard walk out of the kitchen. She heard him say good-bye to Mrs. Freda. No longer hearing Bernard's voice, she heard Mrs. Freda coming.

“Junie, what would you like for lunch?” Mrs. Freda asked.

“I'm not really hungry,” June answered. “Mrs. Freda, I don't want to be disturbed today, so I'm not taking any calls, unless it's Trevor or Leatrice.”

“Your mother called this morning while you were in the studio, and she was really upset. She told me to tell you her exact words which were, ‘If I don't hear from you today, I will see you in the morning!' ”

June took a sip of juice. Her mother would make good on her
threat, there were no two ways about it. “I'll make sure I call her. By the way, did Alex say what time he would be in?”

“No. He seemed a little distracted this morning. He didn't say much. He took Trevor to school and said that Willie was going to pick Trevor up.”

June started out of the kitchen.

“June,” Mrs. Freda called. “Why don't you get some sleep? You look exhausted.”

“I am.”

•  •  •

June took a shower, put on one of Alex's big T-shirts, and climbed in bed. She'd been up nineteen hours, but she was still restless. She tossed and turned for twenty minutes before she gave up on the notion of sleeping. She got up and went to the studio. Her mind was on the straw pocketbook that her mother brought her from the Bahamas several years ago. She'd looked for it earlier, which was why she missed breakfast. It was an ordinary straw clutch pocketbook with a red straw handle and red and yellow embroidered flowers. Its contents were what was important. She kept the pocketbook in a hatbox on a closet shelf, but she had taken it out of the box when she started recording her new CD. Every letter Keith had written her throughout their courtship was in the pocketbook. Even though they lived next door to each other, they frequently wrote and mailed letters to each other. The old letters and the stories they told were part of the inspiration for most of the songs on the CD. She would always take out the letters, put them in chronological order, and read each one.

Junie, I just wanted to say thanks for covering for me the other day when I missed baseball practice,
he wrote in one of the letters.
Coach
Rickards was really upset and going to suspend me for a game, but when you told him you were sick and that I was with you because your mother was out of town, he excused me.

She remembered almost every word of every letter, and she recited one letter after another as she tore the studio up looking for the pocketbook.

I'm sorry I stood you up the other night, but Coach Rickards wanted me to go with him to see Wakulla High play Madison High,
another letter began.
I would have called and told you, but I didn't know until the last minute and we were already running late. Junie, Coach really thinks that I have what it takes to make it as a major league pitcher one day. He says that I have something special.

“You are special,” June said to herself as she looked behind a stack of small boxes in a corner of the studio. She paced back and forth around the room, trying to retrace her steps. She was getting more and more worried about the missing letters, which, along with Trevor, was all she had to keep Keith a real flesh and blood man and not a canonized lover.

When she read the letters, she saw a person who could be engaging and open one minute and the very next minute retreat to a distant and impenetrable place inside of himself. Moments of extreme happiness and optimism were often followed by reclusiveness and detachment. He never offered an explanation for his roller coaster mood swings and the depression he hid from everyone. By the beginning of their senior year, he had grown obsessively attached to her. He was at her side when she woke up before sunrise to dance in the morning light; with her during every break between classes; after baseball practice; and in the evening after he managed to make it through another day. Sometimes, she'd fall asleep with him sitting on the floor at the foot of her bed writing
letters to her, and awake to find him there asleep, wrapped in a blanket that her mother had thrown across him during the night.

I don't know how to say this, Junie, so forgive me if it doesn't come out right,
he wrote in the last letter.
I have to say this and I wish I could say it directly to you, but I can't. Junie, if I never get the chance to say this again, please remember, I love you.

That was all he wrote.

Two days later, on prom night, he whispered those same words in her ear as they posed for the photo that now graced the cover of her new CD. The next morning, two hours after he walked out of her life without saying good-bye, the letter arrived in the mail.

“Junie, if I never get the chance to say this again, please remember,” she recited as she walked in the recording booth to search for the pocketbook. “I love you,” she finished.

Even though she'd memorized each of the letters word for word, she couldn't recall if those were his exact words.

“It's got to be here somewhere.” Her search became more frantic. “I left it here this morning,” she told herself, stopping momentarily to think where else it could be. “I don't remember, but maybe I took it upstairs.”

As June raced up the stairs, she tried to remember the exact wording of his last letter.

“Junie, if I never get the chance to say this again, please remember, I love you,” she recited. “If I never get the chance. If I never get the chance. If I never get the chance.” June stopped midway up the stairs. It had been more than ten years since Keith had written the letter. Ten years and a thousand readings, and she had never questioned his choice of words. “If I never.”

“He knew he was going to leave!”

She felt lightheaded, so she hurried to her bedroom.

“He knew,” she cried. Sharp pains began to race through her body. “Aawww!” she screamed and fell to the floor. “Please, no. Not now.” she balled up in a fetal position. “Lord, help me. Please. Aaawww!” She screamed.

“Ma!” The door flung open and Trevor ran into the room. He stopped in his tracks when he saw his mother on the floor.

“Trevor?”

He rushed over to June and kneeled beside her. “Ma, what's wrong?”

June saw the tears already forming in his eyes and heard the fear in his voice. She had to say something to calm him down before Mrs. Freda heard him and came running into the room. She could force Trevor to keep quiet, but Mrs. Freda would tell Alex, even if it meant putting her job on the line.

“I'm all right,” she said and reached for his hand. “I ate something I shouldn't have,” she told him.

“I'm going to get Mrs. Freda.” Trevor started for the door, but June grabbed his arm.

“No, Trevor! Stay here, with me.”

“But you need help!”

“No, I'm all right. I just need you to help me up.”

Trevor put one of June's arms around his neck and put his arm around her lower back and tried to lift her up. She was too heavy.

“Hold on, baby. Let me grab the edge of the bed. That way I can help pull myself up.” She reached for the bedpost. “You ready?”

Trevor nodded.

“Together now.”

June pulled herself up on the bed and tried to regain her composure as Trevor stood in front of her, staring into her eyes, trying to see for himself if she was still hurting.

“Trevor, I need you to make me a promise.”

“Why?” He remembered what his dad had said about people wanting you to make promises: Always question their motives.

“I need you to promise me that you will keep this between the two of us,” she said.

“Why can't we tell Dad?”

“Because we can't,” she answered. “It was just something I ate. Daddy doesn't have to know about every little thing. You know how busy he is. Why worry him about some bad tuna?”

“That's what it was?”

“Yeah. It was a tuna sandwich.”

“Then I better tell Mrs. Freda.”

“I made it myself. And I already threw it out. So let's not bother Mrs. Freda either. She's busy, too. Okay?”

Trevor's eyes mirrored the confusion and doubt he felt.

“See. I'm feeling better already.” She tried to assure him by standing without holding on to the bedpost.

Reluctantly, he smiled.

“So you promise?”

“I promise.”

“Thank you.” She kissed him on the forehead. “Now, I need to get a glass of water.”

“I'll get it for you,” he said. “You just sit here until I come back.”

When Trevor walked out the room, June picked up the phone and dialed Leatrice's cell phone number. “Come on. Answer.”