I'm Glad I Did Read online

  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.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  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?”

  Bernie swallowed hard. He took a slug of his fresh drink. “Justice, baby, did she know I was your uncle?”

  “I didn’t have a chance to tell her. I was going to tell her that night …”

  “Bernie,” Marla whispered, “people do what they have to do. Dulcie did what she had to do, and so did you.”

  Bernie downed the next drink just as quickly and held up his glass for a refill. I decided to excuse myself. I didn’t want to watch my uncle drink himself into oblivion. And I knew Marla could handle him better without an audience. I promised to get in touch soon. Besides, I wanted to play the demo for Luke. He deserved to hear it. He deserved to hear the miracle Dulcie had performed with his lyrics as soon as he could.

  Of course, my face gave me away as soon as I stepped in Nick’s “office.” He looked at me intently as
he closed the elevator door. “Everything okay, kiddo?” he asked gently.

  I spilled everything once more. To my surprise, when I described how Detective McGrath had pulled the tarp away to reveal Dulcie’s face, Nick’s eyes welled up. “I knew Dulcie,” he murmured.

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, she asked me some questions when she first began working in the building. I knew her big hit record. I was a real fan of hers. And I knew she was trying to clean up her act. In fact, sometimes when I worked double shifts, I’d drive her home. It was on the way to the Bronx. She used to ask me to come up so she could give me some money for the gas I used getting her home. Can you believe that? I said no, though, ’cause I’m a gentleman. I was afraid people in her building might talk, you know?”

  I choked back my tears. Dulcie had no idea how many people adored and respected her.

  Nick turned the crank. “Anyway, I’m sorry, kiddo. Where to? Eight?”

  I shook my head, patting the demo in my purse. “Seven, please.”

  I COULDN’T DECIDE WHETHER to tell Luke what had happened before or after I played the demo for him. I half hoped he wouldn’t be there so I could drop it through the mail slot and not have to deal with explanations.

  I knocked softly. If he didn’t answer I’d leave it and scoot. I never thought I’d be less than happy to hear his voice. But my heart dropped when he answered, “Come in.”

  He didn’t sound as if he were in the greatest place either.

  I opened the door tentatively.

  Luke was sitting on a packed carton hunched over what appeared to be a stack of legal papers. His white shirt was grubby and rolled up at the sleeves.

  “Hey,” he said, making an effort to look welcoming and not succeeding. He stood and his brow furrowed. “JJ, are you all right?”

  “Not really,” I admitted. I pulled the demo out of my bag. “Listen to this first. I’ll explain everything when the song is over.”

  He took the record, slipped it carefully out of its sleeve and retreated to the record player at the back of the room.

  “Actually before you play it, I want to say something—”

  “It’s okay if you screwed it up,” he interrupted over his shoulder. “We’ll just do it again together.”

  “It’s not about the demo,” I told him. “Before you play it, I just wanted to thank you for the words. I thought I was okay at lyrics until Bobby told me I wasn’t. Then when I read yours, I knew what he meant. I grew up loving folk music and musical theater, so that’s where my lyrics tend to go. They’re either too ‘Kumbaya’ or too ‘Bad Larry Hart.’ So I want you to know how grateful I am to you for sharing those words with me.”

  Luke turned to face me. I think he actually blushed a bit. “I’m sure you’re better than you or Bobby thinks you are. I just wrote what I felt. I know that if you did that, if you wrote from your heart, you’d be fine.”

  “You may have a more Top-Forty-type heart,” I cracked.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he answered dryly. “Can I play this now?”

  “You can. I’m dying to know what you think of it.”

  He clicked on the power and dropped the needle on the vinyl. For the next two minutes and forty seconds, we stood there listening. I could tell by the look on his face that he was listening not only with his ears but with his entire being, his soul.

  When the last note faded, he asked if he could play it again. This time, I could see a more detached look on his face, though he couldn’t keep his head from swaying in time. He was a music mogul’s son, after all; I could tell that now he was sussing out the demo as a sales tool, now that he knew how amazing it truly was.

  “Why that face, JJ?” he asked once the song was over. “You did a great job.”

  I shook my head. If I opened my mouth, I knew I’d start crying again.

  “I hated not being there, but the truth is I didn’t need to be,” he went on. “There’s nothing I would have done differently. Dulcie’s performance … there are no words for it. Everything fits: the song, the track, the singer—it’s perfect. It’s one of the best demos I’ve ever heard. And believe me, I know. My dad used to bring home plenty of them. So what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll just say it,” I blurted out. “The night after the demo, I went to have dinner with Dulcie at her place. When I got there, she was lying dead on the street. They say she threw herself out her own window …”

  “My God,” he whispered, sitting down on a packed carton.

  For a moment, we were both quiet.

  “I’m so sorry, JJ,” he whispered. “That must have been terrible for you. I don’t understand. Was she back on drugs?”

  “I don’t believe she was,” I answered, collapsing onto a carton across from him. “She wasn’t high on anything but music when we worked on the demo. I had all these fantasies that I could get her a record deal from this performance, and she might be able to make a comeback. She was excited about it and happy.”

  Luke chewed a nail. “I can’t even imagine what you must be going through right now. Is that the whole story?”

  I nodded. “It doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” he said firmly. He looked at me. “You say she was happy the night before. Happy people tend to keep on living if they can. Did she say anything that could have hinted at something bad in her life?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I sniffed and wiped my eyes. “I’ve been too upset to think about this clearly. There was this woman, a neighbor, who said she heard Dulcie fighting with someone before she jumped. But the woman won’t go to the police because she’s an illegal. And Dulcie said some things that made it sound like she had some secrets. I figured it was just stuff from her past. You know how drugs can mess up family relationships. She had a daughter things weren’t right with. A brother … I don’t know.”

  We both sat there staring into space, thinking. Then Luke’s eyes flashed to a stack of ledgers on his desk. “I have to ask you something,” he said. “What do you know about your Uncle Bernie? Are you two close?”

  I shrugged. “Not until now. I’ve only really gotten to know him this summer. I know he’s got a rotten reputation, but he’s been really good to me. My mom hates him. They’re so different sometimes I can’t even believe they’re related.”

  Again, he almost smiled. “It’s funny you said related. Remember how you said, we’re kind of related?”

  “Yeah, but the key words are ‘kind of,’ ” I said quickly. “I only said it ’cause your dad and my uncle were partners. It was a bad joke, really, that’s all it was. It’s not like we’re actually related.” I’m the bad joke, I thought. I’m babbling like an idiot.

  “I know, I know,” Luke soothed. “I meant that we have a connection through our families, the music business, and now through this song. I guess what I mean is … I hardly know you, but you took my lyrics and turned them into something I never could have imagined. You saw something in those words I didn’t see myself. And now …” He stood and began pacing around the messy office. “JJ, there’s something I have to share with someone, and you’re the only person it makes sense to share it with.”

  I swallowed nervously. My mind was darting all over the place. He was going to tell me that he felt something for me. I knew I couldn’t be the only one in this equation.

  “What is it?” I asked. My voice trembled.

  “I’ve been going through royalty statements and payment schedules that go back a long time, all the way to the forties.”

  I blinked. Confessions about feelings don’t begin with a sentence like that.

  “And from the way I read them,” Luke continued, “my dad and your uncle had a habit of not paying their artists their rightful share. It looks to me like they put their names as writers on songs they had no part in writing. And there were two sets of books.”

  My mouth was suddenly dry. “What are you saying?”


  “That they ripped off a whole lot of people, including Dulcie Brown.”

  “Are you sure?” I whispered.

  “I’m not an accountant, but a lot of what I’ve found is self-explanatory,” Luke said, his voice strained. “I’m going to have someone check everything out, but I have to tell you, from what I see, all their writers and recording artists have a lot of money coming to them.” He looked down. “I feel lousy for everyone, including me. If this is true, a lot of the money my dad left me really belongs to other people. I can’t live with that.”

  For the first time I noticed the dark circles that ringed those bright eyes. His chinos were rumpled. He looked as if he’d slept in his clothes—if he’d slept at all.

  “My dad was all I had,” he went on. “I never knew my mother. She died right after I was born. I looked up to him. He was my idol, and now I see that he may have made a mess of his own life and the lives of everyone around him.”

  I couldn’t stop myself. I reached out and took his hand. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I know what it feels like to care about someone who isn’t who you’d like them to be. It may not stop you from loving them, but it sure has a way of screwing up your head.”

  I let his hand go even though I didn’t want to.

  He looked at me. His eyes had softened to jade. “You get it,” he said. He smiled a little half-hearted smile.

  My heart soared for an instant. “I do,” I told him. I checked my watch. My lunch break had ended, but the rest of our conversation was unfinished. “Luke, why would someone invite a friend for dinner if she was planning to kill herself?”

  “The answer is, she wouldn’t,” he said softly.

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” I told him, and with that I was out the door.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The next morning dawned with breakfast as usual at the Green apartment. Everyone was seated in their usual seats. They were going through their usual breakfast routine, and it struck me that their world hadn’t changed at all, while mine had been shaken to its core. My parents had no idea of my pain and loss, and there was no possible way to tell them.