Love Lies

The worst part of being the wife of a rock star is that everyone expects an autograph.  

My husband, Jimmy is standing on the stage, wiping sweat from his brow and rolling a fistful of cables. His band just finished a rollicking 60’s tribute concert, after a double encore. Less than a half-hour ago, the fans begged for more, stomping their feet and fist-bumping the air, “One more song! One more song!”

The bandmates looked at each other, the pianist smashed the black keys, and the band ripped into a wild rendition of Elton John’s “Funeral for a Friend.” The standing-room-only crowd roared, until they had no choice but to simmer down, when the drummer split his sticks, and had to finish the song with fists pounding on the Tom-Toms and both feet stomping on the kick drum. 

“Last call!” the bartender bellows from the far end of the room. 

A medley of star-struck groupies linger on the dance floor, swaying in huddle, singing the last chords on an endless loop. My guitar-man is oblivious to the drunken Cougars approaching the stage, tossing pretend panties, and salivating for an autograph. A petite redhead, wearing scanty shorts, knee-high cowboy boots, with fuchsia lipstick smudged on her teeth, struts her double-D’s while waving a black Sharpie in the air. “Sign here! Right here!” she says, pushing her cleavage together, popping the buttons of her blouse. 

I smack my forehead and groan, unimpressed with her steamy performance. Show-off! How do I ask them to leave?” The theatrical divas don’t let up, and after one-too-many-taps on my shoulder, I turn to Jimmy, my voice dripping in sarcasm, “Hey Romeo! Aren’t you even going to say hi to your adoring fans?” 

The nauseating wave of sweat and tequila doesn’t bother him in the least bit. He stops fiddling with the mics, grabs his double-necked Strat and jumps off the stage. The smitten fifty-year-old babes swarm him, scooching as close as they can, before linking elbows, spoofing their hair and practicing Cheeeese. 

“Do you mind? Red asks, slapping her cell phone into my hand.

“And what if I do?” I mumble, but she is long gone, squatting in front of Jimmy, with her arms stretched out, leaning against his ankles for support. He glances down at her, smirking behind his RayBans, his artistic signature-look for a photo op, even when the gig is indoors and it is well past midnight. 

“Anything else m’ladies?” he asks before I can push them away. 

“Yes, yes! Over here!” purrs the tall one with the bangled bracelets and a tattooed mermaid swimming up her thigh. “We got a little som’thin-som’thin for your tip jar!”

Her pals nod in unison, and quickly form a chorus line, alternating hip bumps and high kicks, like they were the Rockettes. “Come on!” they flirt unashamed, waving Jim over to the merch table. I roll my eyes, torn between being enamored or envious at their perfect pixie haircuts, Yoga bodies and Louis Vuitton clutches. 

Jim is hypnotized by the Pied Piper of giggling women. He grabs a kazoo from the music stand, and sashays behind them, shaking his booty and blowing obnoxious bursts from the tiny trumpet. “C’mon Babydoll!” he says, lunging for my hand and missing, brushing my palm with his fingertips.  

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” I say, louder than intended. I grab my backpack, make the sign of the cross and follow the pageantry. 

The bartender, Boyd, a burly man who once played for the Minnesota Vikings, looks up from a pre-televised football game. He lets out a high-pitched whistle, perfectly timed with the referee’s call of a penalty flag. He throws a red dish towel over the counter, and lets out another loud shrill intent on keeping the peace at his pub. When that doesn’t work, he slams his fists on the tabletop. “Hey!” he shouts, and shoots a villainous glare at the women, stopping them in their tracks, toppling them over like dominos. 

The chorus girls fall to their knees, their margaritas and designer handbags spill onto the tiled floor, leaving a trail of prescription pills on the ground. In a frenzy they pile on top of one another, tugging at their skirts and screeching like parrots, “Gaawd! Oh gaawd!” they squawk in unison, patting the floor in a mad search for cell phones, reading glasses and scattered xanax tablets. Jim’s right eyebrow perks up, as he steps over their tangled Twister game, his white sneakers crunching over the broken glass, until he stands eye-to-eye with the barman. He flips his sunglasses on his head, and extends his hand with a smile. 

“Forget that buddy!” Big Boyd squeals, grabbing Jim by the shoulders and pulling him into his hairy chest. “C’mon, bring it in,” he says, squeezing him so hard that Jim knocks his ball cap right off his bald head.

“Been waiting for you Jimbo,” he slurs, and points to an oversized safe that is sandwiched underneath the bar. “Here ya go,” his glassy eyes bulge, as he slides a crumpled piece of paper towards Jim’s eager hand. “I know it’s what you’ve been waiting for.” He wipes the slobber from his mouth and stands back, satisfied, as if he has just given Jim the secrets of the Universe. 

“A-ha! Finally. The secret password!” Jim winks at me, his fingers tapping ta-da ba-da-boom on the mahogany countertop. “This, this will get us to the next step and then we’ll be safe and we’ll be protected!.” 

I wasn’t sure where we were headed, or how a safe would keep us safe, but I kept my mouth shut. Before I could figure out if we were actually in danger, Jim lets out an ear-splitting holler. “Aw shiiiit! The dial is freezing!” he says, yanking his hand away from the knob, flinging ice crystals from his fingertips. 

Big Boyd laughs so hard, he snorts his vodka-cranberry out his nose right onto his bare feet. He swirls the ruby red puddle with his heel in figure-eights, while rummaging through a drawer. “Here, use these,” he says, tossing Jim a pair of fuzzy gloves, “They’re spun from the wet nose hair of a dragon, still warm from its breath.” 

Wait, what? A dragon? My eyes scan the entire place, peering back and forth, like a radar looking for a fire-breathing mystical beast soaring inside the pub. Unless it is hiding like a genie in a liquor bottle, this creature is nowhere to be found. 

“Quit yer daydreaming and help me out,” Jim interrupts, reading my mind. He cracks his knuckles before slipping into the oversized mittens. I start to ask a question, but my pleas are drowned by the Viking playing a rowdy Elton tune on an off-key harmonica. Instead of chiming along to the chorus, I pop my hoodie over my ears to drown him out, and focus on Jim. 

“You can do it, babe.” I raise a set of pretend pom-poms in the air, as he cranks the icy knob to the left, then the right, then back again. The handwheel stops with a muffled thud. The vault creaks open, exposing a long, dark tunnel with a strobe light flashing in the distance.  

“After you, Babydoll,” Jim says, extending his hand towards the glow. Bending in an absurd pretzel position, I tuck my left shoulder in, squeeze my eyes shut and tumble in. Suddenly, I am bouncing down a steep stairwell, like a Slinky. Thunk, tink, thunk, tink—Jim is on my tail, head over feet, wrapping his arms around the neck of his guitar. “Whoa Nellie!” he yells as we land with a clunk at the bottom. 

I look up, squinting my eyes, struggling to make out the looming faces surrounding us. Before my vision can focus, a floodlight blasts from the tall ceiling. I blink, and there is Jim sitting cross-legged on the floor, his knees touching mine. He holds a finger to his lips. “Shhh, just listen.” I tilt my head back, and lift my neck towards the heavens. Rain is pitter-pattering on the metal roof as if the sky is crying. 

A willowy, elegant woman dressed all fancy in leather and lace, taps her foot impatiently, She shoves a contract in front of us, pointing to the dotted line.“Need your autograph on the non-disclosure before we go live,” she says, pushing the bangs out of her eyes and motioning to the camera man to wait a minute. 

From behind our backs, an intern jumps out from the other side of a silk-wrap curtain, with pouty lips, caramel-colored dreadlocks and sunshine in her eyes. She has a rainbow-colored apron tied around her tiny waist that reads: “Curls just wanna have fun!” Like a ballerina on a tightrope, she twirls and spins on her tippy-toes, while juggling blow-dryers and brushes. She finishes with a cartwheel in front of us, and takes a bow. 

“It’s hair and make-up time, dearies,” she chirps. Without even asking, she promptly smears creamy foundation on my cheeks, and dabs goop on Jim’s salt-and-pepper hair.  

“Okay, here we go. Five, four, three…” then silence as the director holds up two more fingers, to complete the count-down. A cymbal crashes, and dozens of balloons in a kaleidoscope of colors fall from the ceiling. I feel a damp hand on my hips that lifts me up to a velvet green couch. I almost gag as an old-fashioned microphone isthrust in my face.  

“Mrs. Laaamb.” An ominous voice, as gritty as the Wizard in Oz, crackles from rickety speakers dangling precariously from the rafters. “What’s the question you haven’t asked?” 

My heart pounds so hard it jumps out of my body and bounces onto the cement floor, spurting with blood. Startled, I pick up the bloody mess and try to wedge it back onto my sleeve. It refuses to stick, the Velcro holding my emotions together, that are long worn off. I stare at it, as it lies there, dripping with a stringy strand of memories, hopes and dreams, bleeding in my hands. 

“You better not fib, fib, fib!” the director says in a sing-song voice, that I am certain every extra in the building can hear. The rain drips louder from holes in the roof and pings like tiny silver bullets onto the concrete floor. 

Jim slings his guitar over his shoulder and starts shredding “Drip Drop,” one of his favorite songs by Dion and the Belmonts. He slips me a curious glance as my knees turn into congas and I pitter-pat on my thighs, keeping in rhythm with him. Sometimes, we are so in tune with each other. Clipboards and cameras drop in sync with the beat, and a spontaneous dance explodes on the floor, on the rugs, on the walls, with bodies flipping and spinning like tops. The director hollers “Cut!” and the cast and crew burst into applause. “Great job everyone!” 

Jim glosses over the commotion and turns his attention to me. Only me. He locks his baby-blues to my honey-browns, and I count a million stars in his eyes. From his soft lips he blows a broken dandelion of fairy dust that slowly swirls around the room like glitter. An explosion of sound alters the air, bursting into a secret chord, far beyond what we ever shared on our front porch, in our music room or in our bed, as if Heaven and Earth were newlyweds.

Suddenly, a tornado wind blows through the open doors, flinging me out of my seat and plopping me dab-smack onto Jim’s lap. “You okay?” he asks. Startled and confused, I stammer with a lame explanation, the lump in my throat choking me. I sputter nonsense, totally unprepared for this moment. 

“Am I okay?” I ask, my voice finally breaking in a sob. 

“Go on, Tiny Dancer, you can ask me now.” Jim says with the softest of smiles. He is holding my heart in his outstretched fingers, cradling it between his thumbs, ever so gently. “You’re safe now, we’re safe, remember?”

Oh yeah! The safe! Relief washes over me like the rain falling from the cracks in the roof. I don’t have to pretend anymore. Love doesn’t have to lie bleeding in my hands. Love could tell the truth. I could tell the truth. At long last. 

I blubber until the words gush out like a fire hydrant, and turn into a deluge of busted bones and broken dreams. Jim just nods. His teeth glisten and his tongue turns into a slingshot, flinging bright diamonds from his mouth to my wedding band. To and fro, back and forth, reminding me of our improvised vows; Even death won’t do us part. 

Jimmy nuzzles my head against his chest, pulls the scrunchie out of my hair and strokes my tangled mess. “Shhh, just listen.” he repeats over and over. Tears begin to trickle down my nose and I swallow the salt, swallow my pride, swallow him whole, gulping and sobbing, until finally, the shivers subside, our breathing synchronizes and we become one. 

Spinning backwards to thirteen months ago, I flash to when Jimmy’s pleading eyes bore into my soul—months after the diseased glands in his saliva pulverized his vocals— and he asked in a raspy voice “Babe, you gonna be okay?” Back then, I could not answer honestly, not while he was clinging to life like a barnacle, Not while tickling his back, rebuking radiation scabs, with my breasts pressed against his silky Swedish skin. Not while he dozed in and out of consciousness in our candle-lit hospice room, eyes wide shut, like a sedated lizard in a morphine stupor. 

I didn’t have a choice but to lie and say Yes, my love, I’ll be okay. 

Love lies when it is desperate, wounded and frightened. It’s hard to be honest while boggled by the unknown. How could I imagine what “okay” would feel like when he was no longer at my side? When I had to take out the trash by myself, sit in a pew alone, or beg the banker for our secret password? 

Neither one of us could admit the truth, even if we’d had an inkling of the inevitable, of foreshadowing what was to come. Was it a lie to trust in miracles? Or was it the truth? Faith, hope, and a surreal optimism ruled our world during his tumorous demise. Without a clue, we were tying a tourniquet on my emotions. Simply, desperately, naively; we were trying to stop the flow of what would soon be my new reality. For all his fix-it manuals, Jim didn’t leave me instructions on how to survive after his death. 

What I held back from asking, while his breathing labored and the jasmine incense burned was Are you going to be okay? The question still burns within me now. It keeps me awake at night, churning in my gut, rendering my Xanax useless. Why hadn’t I asked when I had the chance? 

At this moment, in this bizarre theatrical sound room, I didn't have to ask. I knew without any doubt Jimmy was living in the answer. He was okay. In the right here and now, I had answers only intuitives hear and angels whisper. James Boyd, my husband, spoke in a new love language, as loud and crisp as if he had a microphone between my ears.

As odd as it was, I understood it was okay to have fibbed. In the right here and now, I stopped torturing and started trusting that it was okay to have answered as honestly as I could—given the limited information that I had. For the truth is, we did it for the sake of love. We ignored our own red flags for the sake of safeguarding and savoring our final nights together. By ignoring the fire-breathing dragon, we were protecting him, protecting me, we allowed him the grace to slip from one realm to another, in peace.

As I sat on his lap with his strong arms wrapped around me, nuzzling into his unshaved chin, I imagined the peaceful easy that surrounded him while knocking on heaven’s door. With his fingers interlaced with mine now, I felt that same serenity flooding my veins.

We stayed motionless for what seemed like eternity, until the owls stopped screeching, and bubble-gum pink sunlight streaked through the windows, and the bluebirds sang their morning chorus. Until the pounding rain stopped and a light mist tapped on my windowsill and a stillness flooded into the room. 

And then, a faint instrumental jazz song surged into my bedroom, with tinkling piano keys and the familiar lyrics of the very same Elton John song, Funeral for a Friend. Cracking one eye open, I wiped the sweat from my brow, paused, then turned up the volume. Alexa must hear me babbling in my sleep. 

I stretched my arms overhead, cracking my knuckles the way Jim used to and rolled over onto his down pillow. I buried my cheeks onto the creamy beige pillowcase, the same one he had once autographed for me, in a fit of laughter after I smashed my cleavage in his face. The very same one that I hadn’t changed in over a year. I inhaled. It still smelled like his peppermint mouthwash. I could feel his warm breath coming through the open window.  

Flipping the pillow over to give it a little fluff, I stopped in mid air and gasped, holding it in my outstretched palms. With blurry eyes, and goosebumps tickling my spine, I whispered Hallelujah. There, in the center of the pillow, was a single drop of crimson red blood, in the shape of a tiny heart.

Love lies bleeding in my hands.