Two-Year Emile or Some People Can’t Tell the Two Things Apart

Joe was my best friend – besides Isaac, of course. He was a slinky, dark-haired, 28-year-old sound technician who worked at the Warehouse. The Warehouse wasn’t a warehouse, and Joe’s name wasn’t Joe, so it seemed like fate that they should work together. The Warehouse was Joe’s pride and joy – he needed no companion so long as he had his Warehouse.

It was Joe who first introduced me to Xavier.

“He’s a singer, Jason,” was the first thing he said as I picked up the phone Saturday morning. It was raining. “He’s going to be doing a cabaret and live recording at the Warehouse in a few months, and he’s starting to put together the show. I want you to come down and meet him.”

“Why?” I asked cautiously, twirling the cord around my finger. Joe was famous for getting into people’s (alright… my) personal life with “nothing but good intentions.” Yeah, right.

“I want you to write a song for him. Nothing funny, I swear.”

“I’m in the middle of something right now.” I wasn’t, but it was raining, and I hated to go out in the rain. Actually, I hated going in general, but that wasn’t the point.

“Alright, that’s fine. But try to come down sometime, okay? He’s a good guy. Great singer. I really want you to meet him - so you can write him a song. I think if one more of our cabaret singers does a Rodgers and Hammerstein set we’re going to be mobbed.

“Goodbye, Joe.”

I hung up the phone and sank into the couch, which was damp. My sorry excuse for a house always got damp when it rained. I sighed, and looked around at the barren living room for something to do. Isaac’s cat, Ophelia, was staring at me from her perch on top of the cabinet. From the basement I could hear Isaac’s CD player warbling out something 30’s-ish – it reminded me of the show we saw on Thursday and I wondered why Isaac had barely spoken to me since then.

Half an hour later, I found myself at the Warehouse.

Joe was eating a sandwich – mayonnaise dotted his moustache. “Hey, bub, you decided to show up,” he said with a mouthful of turkey and tomato and a wave of his hand.

“Yeah. Isaac was blasting his music and I couldn’t get any work done anyway.” I eyed Joe’s sandwich hungrily.

He got the message and handed me the other half, which I bit into greedily. “Well, we’re glad you’re here. We needed to find a piano player.”

I took another bite of the sandwich and chewed it thoughtfully before I replied, “Thought you wanted me to write a song.”

“I do. But not quite yet. First you have to meet Xavier.”

I looked around at the rest of the theatre – techies I knew from some of Joe’s previous shows at the Warehouse were mulling about. “All these people here for a cabaret that’s still in the planning stage?”

“Eh? Oh, no they’re here for rehearsals for that new musical. The one Dana wrote. You remember Dana?”

It was a stupid question, and we both knew it. Dana. How could I forget Dana? My first and last girlfriend, my greatest competition – I hated and worshipped her at the same time. We had lived together, until we reached a few – creative differences.

“No. I don’t remember Dana,” I told Joe shortly. Once again he got the picture. He didn’t open his mouth, except to insert the last bite of his sandwich and chew it at an agonizingly slow pace.

Luckily, the silence didn’t last long.

The sounds of a heated argument began drifting into the theatre. “…don’t wanna be here!”

A deeper voice gave a brief, muffled reply.

“…can’t believe this! Emily, Dad, think of Emily!”

“I don’t mind.”

“Shut up, Emily!”

The door at the other end of the theatre swung open with a bang, and all grew quiet as the three people in the doorway realized we had been listening to their argument.

Two of them were teenage girls – one with flushed cheeks, looking very nervous, like a mouse cornered by a cat. The third person was a man, a very tall, flustered looking man with glinting eyes I could see from the stage, where I sat. It was he who first opened his mouth.

“I’m going home…?” he offered with a small smile, in a gentle voice you would not have expected to come from such an enormous man. To my surprise, everyone in the room chuckled, except for me and the teenage girls.

“I don’t get it,” I murmured to Joe.

“Opening line of Dana’s musical,” he explained simply. “The one that’s rehearsing here? Yeah, well, he’s in it. That’s why you’re here.”

“Who’s he?” I looked back over at the man, who had somehow managed to get both girls to sit and was now speaking to them in a low murmur of a voice.

“What, don’t you recognize him?” Joe grinned. “Well, you don’t get out much anymore, do you? That’s Xavier.”

“The one I’m writing a song for?”

Joe nodded. “The very same.”

“And why should I recognize him?”

Shrugging, he replied, “He’s pretty well known in the theatre scene. I thought maybe you had worked with him before, or you and Isaac had seen him in a show sometime.”

“Generally, I don’t pay attention to the shows Isaac and I see.”

“You little devil.”

“No, I mean generally the shows Isaac drags me off to see are not exactly what I’m interested in.”

“Ah. And what do you mean by that?”

Joe wasn’t paying attention. He couldn’t have cared less that Isaac was always dragging me off to see the latest production of ‘Anything Goes’ while I wanted to see anything but, and how this was either the cause or the effect of the great rift in our relationship. No, Joe had his Warehouse – Joe was useless.

“Well, I would rather see something a little darker, you know? I can’t stand all that happy-dappy-tap-dance-la-dee-da…”

He nodded, a gesture that might have tricked a greater fool. His fake concern lasted only a little bit longer than his real concern ever did, and then he called out loudly (and right in my ear, mind you) “Xavier!”
“Joe!” Xavier cried back, turning his head towards us. His voice was deep, and in some strange sort of indescribable way you could tell he was a singer.

“There’s someone here I want you to meet,” Joe continued.

“Your songwriter friend?” Xavier said as he stalked towards us, a white binder tucked neatly under his arm.

“Yeah. Jason, Xavier. Xavier, Jason.” Joe’s hand then dived into a nearby bag of chips and then shoved them into his mouth in a way that made me vaguely nauseous.

“I apologize for my daughter…” Xavier began nervously, scratching his head. “I had to bring her here to wait for her mother to pick her up… obviously, she wasn’t too keen on the idea.”

“S’alright, don’t worry about it,” replied Joe.

“So what sort of songs do you write?” Xavier asked me, his brown eyes piercing me strangely. For a brief moment I was reminded of Isaac, but I quickly pushed the thought aside.

“Mostly darker things,” I replied casually. “With confusing lyrics that are very difficult to sing.”

“Ah, a budding Sondheim,” he remarked. I scowled.

“No, thank you, there’s a big difference.”

“Yeah, Sondheim can actually get produced,” Joe cut in.

Xavier laughed and I felt myself grow hot.

“Actually, I just don’t like to be compared to other people,” I muttered through my teeth.

Xavier coughed. “I can understand that.”

“It was a joke, Jason,” Joe murmured quietly.

“I’m not exactly in a joking mood right now,” I replied, not bothering to keep my voice down.

Some unknown force then gave Joe the crazy incentive to turn to Xavier and say “I’m sorry. He isn’t usually like this.”

“Yes – he’s right you know, I’m not usually like this. I’m terribly sorry I’m acting this way, I’m just in a foul mood right now because, well, you know, my life is crumbling before my very eyes-”

“See, Xavier? He’s a drama queen, just like you.”

Xavier bit his lip. “I see,” he said, but it seemed to be a comment murmured quietly to himself than a reply to Joe’s (rather inappropriate) statement. “So… what is your name again?”

“Jason,” I said, lowering my eyes to stare at my brown boots. I felt rather like a naughty schoolboy giving his name to the ominous presence of The Principal. “Jason Emile White.”

I looked up in time to see his eyebrows dart up and get lost in the mess of hair that draped over his forehead. “Emile?”

Pressing my lips into a thin line, I murmured quietly, “Yeah. Emile.”

“I like that. But, anyways-” he stopped and cleared his throat. “Mr. White-”

“Jason.”

“Mr. White, if you please… I’d like to offer you a job.”

I wrinkled my brow as I replied stupidly, “A job.”

He smiled. “Yes, a job.”

“Writing songs?”

“No – well, yes, that may be a part of it, but let’s just stick to this right now, shall we? You play piano?”

I nodded, my eyebrows still wrinkled together.

“Excellent. I want you as my music director.”
Wait a minute.

“You don’t – you don’t even know me!” I cried, realizing too late I sounded foolish. “I mean, you haven’t even heard me play or anything. And I don’t know you. How can I direct your show when I don’t even know you?”

He laughed, and it frustrated me. Surely if he was a “pretty big name in theatre”, as Joe had said, he would understand what I meant?
“Don’t worry. We’ll get to know each other,” he said, waving it off as if it were nothing.

“You’ll like him,” Joe cut in, and I was unsure whether he was talking to Xavier or me. “Really, you will.”

“Alright,” I said cautiously. “I’ll do it.”

“You will?” The corners of Xavier’s mouth flickered upward as I nodded. “Good we’ll have fun, hien, won’t we?”

“I hope so.”

And I did. So I excused myself to the restroom and leaned over the sink anxiously.

The silver fixtures glinted, even through the nice layer of dirt that had accumulated since the last cleaning. I could hear the rain pattering against the roof in here, and it was depressing, and I wanted it to stop.

My cell phone rang, slaughtering the silence. I ignored it and raised my eyes to look in the mirror. For some reason it surprised me that my eyes were bloodshot, that my face was pale. I remembered not sleeping last night, and I realized Joe and Xavier must think I looked like a zombie.

As I emerged from the restroom, I noticed something was flitting about. Something wearing a deceiving candy-colored shirt and speaking in a voice coated with enough sugar to make anyone sick.

In a second, Joe was at my side. “Just go. I’m sorry. I’ll make excuses for you.”

“I don’t want to be rude.”

“He’ll understand – he’s divorced.”

“I feel like I should stay.”

Joe shrugged. “Feel free to. But Xavier’ll be busy anyway – he’s in the show, remember?”

“Yeah. But I thought you needed a piano player.”

His eyes widened slightly. “You’re right, I forgot – she did tell me to find one…”

“Maybe I will go home.”

“Don’t!” he cried anxiously before he could stop himself. After a moment he added tactfully “Please.”

I laughed. It was amazing how a petite, pastel-clad woman like Dana could strike fear into the hearts of grown men. But then again, once you knew her… it wasn’t.

Dana’s score was like a brick, and she twittered and scowled as she handed it to me. “It’s a very difficult score,” she said slowly, as if addressing a tot. “If you have any problems, just let me know, and I’ll take over.” She grinned like the Chesire cat and smelled minty.As she whisked away, Joe came over to the piano and sat down on the bench next to me. “Don’t let her get to you too,” he muttered.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered back. “Isaac I can’t handle yet. Her I know how to deal with.”

“Also…” he hesitated a moment, “don’t be too angry with her.”

I peeled open the score and set it on the music stand. “Why would I be angry with her?”

Again he hesitated, but the quick flicker of his eyes to the song I had opened to was all I needed to know. I turned to study the black-dotted paper and immediately recognized it.

“Finale Act I: Letting You Go,” I breathed. “Music and lyrics by Dana R. Lansley.” I turned to Joe, who merely shrugged. “Music and lyrics by Dana R. Lansley? Is she kidding? Is this a joke?”

“I’m sorry, Jason,” he replied, a little too casually.

“Dana couldn’t have written this! This is… this is my masterpiece! The one thing I’ve ever written I liked! It’s – it’s-”
“To be fair, she did change a good deal of the lyrics, and she rewrote the bridge. Besides, she helped you write the thing in the first place,” Joe added. “And your name’ll be on the program under additional music and lyrics…”

“She should have told me,” I muttered. “What if I was going to write a show around that song?”

“She’s Dana, you should have assumed,” he chirped. “Anyway, it’s not-”

“Joe!” screeched an unpleasantly familiar voice. “Are you the sound technician or the… the… the guy who sits there all the time and ends up getting fired by the angry director?”

He gave me a good luck smile and then sauntered off to pretend to fuss with some floor mics.

Dana sighed wearily. “All right, let’s take it from… oh, God, is Cal here yet?”

“He’s stuck in traffic,” someone called out. “There was a crash. He’s on his way.”

“Alright.” Dana sighed again, very dramatically, then turned on her heel and snapped at me, “Take it from Chris’s solo. Page 102. Xavier!”

“A minute!” Xavier called back. He was standing at the back of the theatre again, with the two teenage girls who had come in with him and a red-haired scowling woman I did not recognize. Turning to her, he muttered something which caused her cheeks to flush and a quick, hush response to fly out of her mouth. In reply, Xavier threw his hand up in the air, snapped a reply, and turned and stalked down the aisle to the stage. “Let’s get to work,” he said, slamming down the white binder he was still carrying.

“I’m glad you feel that way. Page 102, Jason, if you please.” Dana smiled sweetly at me and then whisked herself away, no doubt to pester someone else.

Xavier clambered onto the stage. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the red-haired woman slow down her flight from the theatre.

Dana hadn’t lied. The score was hard to play – too hard, I thought. There seemed to be an overwhelming amount of music to make up for the fact that the lyrics were empty. She had always written like that. Heck, she’d always lived like that.

The music, though, only mattered for the first few bars – once Xavier started to sing nobody cared. Occasionally Dana would shout something pointless at him, and I don’t know about the rest of the people in the theatre, but I just wanted to smack her for it. Forgive me for waning poetic, I swear I don’t do it often, but he had a rich, soaring voice that made it difficult for one to concentrate on one’s music. The song was a ridiculous ditty of a number on the importance of “love” or “morals” or God-knows-what. Anyone else singing it would have sounded like a fool. Xavier sounded majestic.

Clever casting, indeed.

And suddenly, I heard my song.

Lyrics started forming in my head, sweeping lyrics with sweeping music, a ballad of epic yet miniscule proportions, a song for Xavier. A song which would blow him, Dana, Isaac, the whole world away.

By the time I got home, the rain had let up a little. Isaac was sitting on the couch reading Ibsen, which he promptly snapped shut as I walked in the door. “Where have you been?” he cried angrily.

“I was at the Warehouse,” I told him, dropping my bag on the floor.

“Pick it up,” he said automatically. Sighing, I did, and crossed the room to drop it on the piano bench. “Why were you at the Warehouse?”

“Joe called,” was the only reply I offered. I wasn’t keen on telling Isaac I was playing the piano for rehearsals of Dana’s new musical.

“And what did he want?”

I sighed. “Some singer is doing a show and he wants me as musical director.”

Isaac raised his eyebrows. “Well, congratulations, then. What’s his name?”

“Xavier… something.”

“Xavier Comeaux.”

“Maybe. I dunno. Why?”

“Because if it’s Xavier Comeaux, than you happen to be working for one of the kings of theatre!” Isaac cried. “What did he look like?”

“Uh… tall, messy brown hair, brown eyes… I don’t know, Isaac, I wasn’t paying too much attention.” I sighed again and sat down on the piano bench. “Don’t you have a special on TV to watch or something?”

“You want me out of your hair, huh?” he said, standing up.

“I have work to do,” I whispered.

“I understand.” Picking up the Ibsen book from the coffee table, he strode from the room. A few moments later I heard the door to the basement slam shut, and I scowled. It wasn’t my fault that the one time he wanted to be chatty I actually had some inspiration.

After pulling the blank sheet music from my bag and putting it on the piano, I stretched my fingers, put a pencil behind my ear, and began to write.

“I love it,” said Xavier when he heard the choppy beginning the next day.

“It needs work,” I admitted.

“It does. But no amount of work can fix something if it’s not on the right track from the start – which I think this is. Do you have any lyrics worked out yet?”

“That’s the thing,” I clucked nervously, “I was hoping that… maybe… you could write the lyrics.”

Grimacing, he sighed, “I’m not a lyricist, Mr. White.”

“I know. And call me Jason. But that’s what will make it an interesting project, I think. I’d like to see what you come up with.”

He glanced at me with a strange half-smile. “Why?”
“Because… well, you know…” I pushed a wayward lock of hair behind my ear. “I want to get to know you… so I can write this song… and I think this is a good way to do it – songwriting is raw, you know? You in your purest form. I mean, I don’t even know your last name.”

He nodded. “I understand – I’ll give it a shot. Don’t expect a work of genius.”

“I’ll work with you on it.”

“Good… yeah, I’ll get to work on it tonight. Euh…” he paused a moment to scratch his head. “Would you mind playing it again for me? So I can get the tune?”

“I made a copy of what I had so far,” I told him as I leaned over to reach into my tattered bag.

“Won’t do any good,” he exhaled. Suddenly, he laughed. “I can’t read music.”

“You can’t read music…?”

“I know, ridiculous, right? But I wasn’t trained in music. I was finished up a degree in paleontology when my friend persuaded me to audition for a local production of ‘Hello, Dolly!’ I never expected to get in, but I did – I got that lead, and…”

“…and it was all downhill from there,” I finished for him.

“Pretty much,” he said, rather sheepishly. He was avoiding my gaze, and I had the strange feeling of reverse deja-vu. Is there such a thing as reverse deja-vu? Well, I had the feeling that I had been in the same position he was in right now. Immediately I sympathized, gave him a small smile, and prepared to play the piece again.

When I had finished, he took a moment to finish digesting the melody and then looked at me with his soft eyes. “My last name is Comeaux,” he told me quietly.

Just as quietly, I replied, “That’s what I thought.”

“I was married for seventeen years to a woman named Caroline. We had two kids – Edward and Sophia. Beautiful kids. Sophia just turned fifteen. Eddie’s going to be ten. He was born on opening night of South Pacific, the production here that I was in, and I didn’t know, and I wasn’t there, and no one could reach me… that, I think, was the beginning of our problems.”

“My boyfriend is a big fan of yours,” I said. He blinked, then chuckled and replied with a smile,

“You know, Mr. White, for a musician, you possess and incredible lack of timing.”

“I hadn’t meant to tell you like that,” I murmured quietly, the faded ivory keys of the piano suddenly becoming very fascinating. “But now you know.”

“Know what? That you have a boyfriend, or that your boyfriend’s a fan of mine? Because either way I don’t care much – but, ah, don’t tell your boyfriend that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said as I looked up, and I could tell from his eyes the subject had been dropped. “Why don’t we… euh… go take a walk or something? We’ve got at least half an hour before Dana arrives to start rehearsals.”

He was faking that. Dana was supposed to arrive in twenty minutes, which meant she would probably be there in about ten.

“Yeah, let’s go for a walk,” I answered softly. His only reply was the smile at me in a way Isaac never had and a way Dana never could.

I had no idea where we were going, but Xavier seemed rather confident as he led me out of the theatre and down the noisy street. The scent and the moisture of yesterday’s rain still lingered in the air as the two of us cut through an alley to another street lined with rush-hour traffic. “Lots of people out today,” I commented, but he didn’t seem to hear.

He took me down the street, past a convenience store, past a small bar that was “closed for resivisions,” past two little girls in Catholic school uniforms discussing multiplication tables. We finally reached the end of the street, but, to my surprise, he led me to the edge of the sidewalk and waited for a break in traffic. The only thing across the street was an old stone church – it was a grand-looking church, yes, but just a church.

“Why are we going there?”

Smiling, he turned towards me and wiggled his eyebrows.

“You’re a strange man,” I told him in a low voice. This only made his grin grow larger.

“Ah, you must learn to trust me, Mr. White.”

“Jason. Call me Jason.”

“No,” he told me simply, turning back to watch the traffic.

“And why not?”

His grin had dispersed and his lips were now pressed in a thin line. “Because, hien, ev- come on, we can cross now.”

“Don’t change the subject!”
“Everybody calls you Jason,” he said breathlessly as we reached the entrance to the stone church’s parking lot.

“That would probably be because it’s my name.”

“Yes, but so is White.” He stopped his trek up into the parking lot to turn and wait for my rebuttal.

“But I would rather have you call me Jason.”

One of his eyebrows sauntered lazily upwards. “Why?”

“Why?” I repeated, wrinkling my brow. “Why? Because it’s my name, because it’s what everyone’s always called me-”

“Ah, but Mr. White,” he smirked, “I am not everyone.” He chuckled at my confusion and then went on, “You really shouldn’t be so attached to your name. It’s just a name. You are still you no matter what term of address comes out of my mouth.”

“Go on, Shakespeare.”

He grinned. “I’m just saying you need to learn to get past these things. They’re inconsequential. You see, Emile, I’ve learned over the years that there are only a precious few things you can hold on to with all of your strength, so you need to save your convictions for the things that really matter.”

“Emile,” I said quietly.

Without missing a beat he repeated “Emile.”

I inhaled a breath of the cool spring air and released it slowly before saying, “So, did you take me here to lecture me, or to actually show me something?”
“Right. I nearly forgot. Follow me, Emile, if you please.”

He led me through the gravel parking lot and up a small, grassy hill to a tiny park. You could hardly call it a park – it was a rusty slide and a broken swing accentuated by discarded soda cans and abandoned soccer balls. “No one’s been up here in a few years,” he told me in case I hadn’t taken my common sense medication that morning. “The church built a new playground on the other side of the building. It’s a lot nicer.”

There was more to the story than what he was telling me. I knew there was, but I also knew, somehow, that I had to wait until Xavier was ready. It seemed useless to coax him on.

“I used to bring Sophia here after the matinee shows of South Pacific,” he finally continued after a few minutes. “Caroline was busy with Edward, so I would have to take Sophia to my show – she didn’t want to take care of both at once, and she refused to hire or ask for help. So Sophia would come to every show and sit in my dressing room and play with her dolls, until one day she decided she wanted to see it. The show. So I bought her a seat in the balcony and told the ushers to take her out in the lobby if she got too noisy.”

He paused again and ran his fingers over the metal frame of the slide. “She loved the show,” he went on in just above a whisper. “Absolutely loved it. She didn’t understand a lick of what was going on, but it didn’t matter. There was singing and dancing and music and it thrilled her. Afterwards I took her up to this park as something to do between the matinee and the evening show. She hardly said a word. The magic hadn’t worn off yet. I remember it very clearly, she said, she said to me, ‘Daddy?’ ‘Yes, Sophia?’ ‘Daddy, will you sing the song for me?’ I didn’t know which song she meant so I asked her which one and she told me, ‘The one that’s not in English.’”

Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine Xavier and the little girl who was his daughter capering around the park and climbing up a not rusty sliding board. I tried to see him push her in a swing whose chain wasn’t broken. I tried to see him singing to her, and her sitting in the tall green grass, looking up at him, enthralled, but I couldn’t do it. The picture wouldn’t form – all I could see was the fifteen-year-old Sophia screaming at her father as he brought her into the theatre to wait for her mother to pick her up.

“She wanted to see the show every day after that. And I was more than happy to pay for a ticket. She loved that song…”

I opened my eyes to find him not two feet in front of me, his eyes widened intently. “I want that song to be the finale for my show,” he said with such intensity that I didn’t dare argue. “I know it’s anti-climatic. I don’t care. I want her to hear me sing it to her one last time. That’s what I want her to remember. It will end my show. Write that down, hien.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a blue pen. “Write that down.”

“I need paper.”

“Write it on your hand. The song is called ‘Dites-Moi.’ I’ll spell it for you: D-I-T-”

“I know, I speak French.”

“Really? You do? That’s exciting.” I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic at first, but he went on to say, “Nous devons réturner au théâtre.”

“Oui. Nous devons,” I replied, before adding bluntly, “Dana’s probably having a fit by now.”

After one last nostalgic glance over the park, he nodded, and then turned to lead me back.

I played the piano for the rehearsals, I noted the strange lump in Xavier’s throat, and then I got in my car and went home.

For the second time in a row, Isaac was sitting on the couch reading a play, only this time the tattered book in his hand was an Ionesco instead of an Ibsen. “The future is in eggs, Jason,” he told me solemnly as I turned the old copper lock.

“Good evening, Isaac,” I replied. My voice was cold and I made no attempt to soften it.

“Produce, produce, produce,” he muttered.

“I fully intend to, if you’ll be silent long enough for me to get anything done. Do you know the song ‘Dites-Moi?’”

“Why.”

“Because I’m thinking of working it into the song I’m working on.”

He sighed, and after a moment’s thought said, “Yeah. I know it.”

“Sing it for me. Please.”

“You know I can’t sing…”

I rolled my eyes. “Stop fishing for compliments. Just sing it.” As I stormed over to the piano I saw him close his eyes. After a few moments I remarked impatiently, “Any time you like.”

“I saw you and Xavier Comeaux walking past the Speedy-Mart today.”

“Isaac…”

“So you do work for him, then.”

“Yes. Now-”

“Dites-moi, pourquoi,” he sang. “So, are you two buddies now? Chums? He was holding your hand.”

“Isaac…!”

“La vie est belle. Dites-moi, pourquoi – I hear he’s divorced now. Is that true?”

“It’s none of your-”

“La vie est gai. Dites-moi, pourquoi, chère mademoiselle…” he trailed off, as if he had forgotten the lyrics, but only for a moment. “Est-ce que parce que vous m’aimez? Or are we?”

“Oh, for the love of… not now, Isaac, please…”

“If not now, then when?” His voice was strained, and he looked at me with wide eyes that vaguely resembled a puppy. Once upon a time I might have thought his pitiful expression adorable, but now I found it disgusting. All I wanted to do was work on my song. I didn’t want to deal with this.

“I have to work, Isaac.”

“Of course you do. You always do. Hide in your work, Jason! It’s what you do best!” He slammed the Ionesco book on the coffee table and glared at me. “But one day you’re going to wake up and – guess what! – you’ll be alone! And no score, no song, no lyrics, no matter how brilliant, no matter how witty or well orchestrated, is going to change that!”

“What are you saying?” I murmured, my fingers tracing the ivory keys but not daring to push one just yet.

“I’m saying I’m leaving, in case you care.” My fingers slipped and struck and off-tune chord that made me wince.

“And where are you going?” I asked him calmly.

“Anywhere. It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy yourself. Thank you ever so much for your help with my song. Your singing is magnificent. You’re the next Xavier Comeaux.”

I had hit a nerve. In a flash he was slamming the door behind him. The car engine revved up and tires skidded on the gravel. For a brief moment I felt strangely at peace, and then I remembered that there had been only one car in our driveway – mine.

I was outside just in time to see him slam the car into the stone retaining wall that contained his garden. Speechless, I watched him awkwardly pull himself from the wrecked car and shoot me what he thought was an icy glare but ended up looking like he had indigestion.

The ball was in my half of the court. “Oh, that’s mature,” I snarled, turning up my nose.

He shook his head sadly. “It takes all sorts to make a world,” he muttered. Then, raising his voice and lifting his eyes he told me sharply, “Produce, produce, produce, Jason. The future is in eggs.”

With that, he turned and stalked out of the driveway, and though for the second time in my life part of me wanted to call out to him, to stop him, old habits die hard. And so, for the second time in my life, I sank into a section of what remained of the wall and buried my hands in my hair.

My head was swimming, and I thought, vaguely, of Xavier. I wondered his the same thing had happened to him when his wife left, and I wondered if he had felt the same awkward feeling of guilt.

It wasn’t our fault – people like Xavier and me. We weren’t to blame. We had been given talents that would be a shame to waste. We knew our purpose in life and we couldn’t wait for the rest of the world to find theirs.

Xavier’s lyrics weren’t the best, but they stung, and definitely gave me something to work with. I told him I would have to work on it a bit, but that it was definitely a good starting point. His only response was to smile and repeat what he said the previous day about not being able to fix something if it wasn’t on the right track from the start. I told him it was, thought of Isaac, then distracted myself by staring at Xavier’s coat.

It had been thrown casually over a seat in the first row as he strode towards the orchestra pit. Dark and leathery, it looked tired – the kind of coat that had seen it all and was well past its prime.

“It was a gift,” Xavier said, noticing my eyeing it. “From the director of the first professional play I was in. Macbeth. The director gave it to me because he said I would be going places. It had belonged to him beforehand.”

“He was right,” I replied. When he shot me a strange look, I went on, “Well, wasn’t he? Didn’t you go places?”

“I’m still going, Emile,” he chuckled. “Though I must admit I’m not so sure where I’m going is where I want to be.”

“Well, who is sure, really? But you have to trust yourself. You have to trust your judgment.”

“I know myself too well to trust my judgment,” he said with another small laugh. After a pause he said abruptly, “It still has his name in it, even. Look.” In a moment he had brought the coat over to me and was forcing it into my arms, prompting me to examine the back tag. “Trevor. That was his name. He was a good director. You remind me of him, actually. I think that’s why I like you. He was a young genius too.”

That made me start. I had never thought of myself as anywhere close to a ‘young genius’ – but before I could even open my mouth Xavier had moved on.

“I suppose that was the beginning of it all, wearing Trevor’s clothes…”

Suddenly something short, with curly hair, appeared next to us. “What was that about Trevor’s clothes? Never mind, I don’t care.” Dana took a moment to loll something minty around her mouth before continuing. “Now. Can we maybe, perhaps, pretty please, get some work done?”

As she skirted away, Xavier clapped a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll see, tomorrow, Emile. You’ll work on my song?”

“That’s my job, isn’t it?” I smiled at him, waved goodbye to Joe, who was up on some scaffolding tinkering with lights, and then departed for my empty house.

It wasn’t until I reached it I realized I was still carrying Xavier’s coat.

Swearing, I draped the thing carefully over the side of the couch and reached for the phone. Some notion that that it would be pointless to call Xavier crossed my mind. All it would do was annoy Dana. He had probably realized by now it was missing and probably assumed what careless me had done. Calling would be useless. There was nothing it would accomplish.

Xavier answered on the fifth ring with a breathless “Hello?”

“It’s me,” I said, trying to sound casual. Hello, how are you, I accidentally took your coat home. “Jason. Emile.”

“Right. Euh…”

“I have your coat.” Smooth.

“I know.”

I paused. “So… um… that’s it. I’ll bring it back tonight if you want it.”

“No, it’s alright. Keep it. It’s not that cold.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Alright. So I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Euh… actually…” he paused, and I could almost see him scratch his head. “The rehearsals are intense now. We start previews in less than a week. Just after you left Madame Director nearly bit my head off. But after opening night we can work.”

“Alright. Yeah, that sounds good.” Another agonizing pause. “So I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah. I’ll call you.”

“Great.”

“Great.” In an instant he had hung up, and again I felt like a teenager, only stupider. I’d been through it all before – why had the fates conspired to put me through it again? And why with Xavier, of all people?

I sank into the couch and noticed a George Bernard Shaw play on the floor and Ophelia sitting by it, purring quietly to herself.

“I can’t believe he forgot you,” I murmured to her. “Come here, Ophelia. Here, sweetie.”

But Ophelia did nothing but stare at me casually, then turn her head away and continue to purr. Sighing in aggravation, I stood up and headed towards the kitchen, knocking over a picture of Isaac and I outside the Douglas Poorbanks Theatre in the process. It wasn’t my day.

The day at the Douglas Poorbanks hadn’t been my day either, I recalled as I sat down in the kitchen with a bag of licorice. We had a stranger snap the picture of us before Isaac went in for an audition he had dragged me along to. He went in with a nervous grin on his face and came out of it with a faltering smile and glazed eyes. I didn’t even remember what I said to him, but it wasn’t what I was supposed to say, so I spent the night on the couch. He didn’t audition for another show for weeks, and whenever I asked him about it, he would snap “You don’t understand.”

That was always my problem, I never understood. I didn’t understand why Dana would get upset whenever I told her that her lyrics didn’t go with the theme of her song. I didn’t understand why Isaac would always force me to places I didn’t want to be when he knew it always ended up in a slammed door and a stubborn silence. And now I didn’t understand why Xavier would hire me, call me Emile, write me his soul, watch me walk away with his coat, and then tell me he had to work.

I wanted to talk to him again so much it scared me. Another thing I didn’t understand.

At the first preview of Dana’s show, Joe was wearing a black t-shirt. “I told Xavier that you and Isaac don’t live together anymore.”

“Why would he care?”

Shrugging, he replied, “I don’t know. It came up.”

“Oh.” Trying not to look as embarrassed as I felt, I remarked lightly, “So, how’s the show?”

He gave me a Look. “Let’s just say you’ll be glad that you didn’t spend any money on the ticket. I almost feel bad for Dana. It’s a train wreck waiting to happen. Only the Act I finale is worth anything, and… well…”

“Yeah.” I sighed and looked at my feet. “Well, I guess I should take my seat, then.”

“Alright. I’ll see you later,” he said as I turned to walk back out into the theatre. “Oh, and Jason-” he called at the last moment, “Don’t kill me.”

I didn’t understand what he meant until I arrived at my seat and saw Isaac in the one next to it.

“What are you doing here?” he ordered as I slid uncomfortably into the green upholstered chair.

“Joe invited me.”

“Joe invited me!”

“Joe invited both of us. Leave it alone.”

“I can’t believe this. He said I probably wouldn’t enjoy the show, but-”

“Isaac!” I cried, and a few people turned around to stare at us. “Leave it alone.”

Adjusting myself in the seat, I opened my programme and pretended to be very interested in the cast biographies. Xavier’s picture stared up at me from the glossy page. Blinking, I suddenly realized there was a lump in my throat. My name was in his biography.

‘…Xavier will be appearing in The Warehouse’s cabaret season in a show featuring the music of upcoming composer Jason Emile White…’

“Isaac, look,” I whispered. He scowled.

“What?”

“My name. It’s in Xavier Comeaux’s bio. ‘Upcoming composer Jason Emile White.’ I’m an upcoming composer…”

“Well, I’m very happy for you,” he snarled.

“I wish you would be. That’s why it didn’t work, you know. You never supported me, you were never happy for me.”

“I never supported you…!” he began, but he didn’t get a chance to finish. The lights dimmed and the show began.

“I’m going home!” Xavier exclaimed triumphantly, bursting into the theatre from the back. His voice was a lot louder, a lot stranger, than I’d ever heard it.

The show was about an actor, Chris, and his wife, Violet, and their trials and tribulations. Throughout the entire first act they cavorted about onstage, saying predictable lines and singing dry songs.

For the Act I finale, Xavier was left onstage in dark lighting. His eyes swept over the audience, and I could have sworn for a brief moment they caught and held my gaze.

I looked at him and could barely breathe, and thus I didn’t noticed Isaac take my hand as the music went into a crescendo. When the lights came up and reality was around us again he promptly dropped it, and squeezed pas me and out to the lobby without a word. He didn’t come back inside after the intermission and I didn’t bother myself with worrying about it.

To my surprise there were a few other people waiting at the stage door after the show. Xavier was the second of the cast to emerge, and as he saw me, he grinned. Eyes glinting with adrenaline, skin glowing from just having been scrubbed clean of makeup, he made his was towards me.

We didn’t speak. For a brief moment I could have sworn something parodying fear flashed across his face, but it must have been my imagination, because in an instant he had wrapped his arms around me and his lips touched mine. “God, it is good to see you,” he whispered as he pulled away. “This week has been too long. Let’s go out to dinner, alright?”

As I nodded my consent he smiled again, then grasped my hand and led me down the street. It was all I could do to keep up with his long strides and to resist the urge to slap myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

“I hate that show,” he declared as he slid into the booth of the smoky little brew pub we found ourselves in.

“I’m not fond of it, either,” I admitted.

“The critics are going to eat it alive.”

“Not you. You were amazing.”

He smiled wickedly. “You’re just saying that because I kissed you.”

Surprisingly, I didn’t blush, or drop my head, or feel awkward at all. “And what if I am?”

“Then it doesn’t count.”

“Does so!”

“Shaking his head, he chuckled, “I can’t very well go out and kiss all the critics so I’ll get good reviews.”

“I don’t see why not.”

He peered at me. “Is that what you want me to do, Emile? Hmm?”

Either the bar suddenly got quiet or I stopped paying attention to anything else. “No, Xavier, that’s not what I want you to do.”

He reached across the table and clasped my hand. “Call me Phil,” he said. “Xavier’s just a stage name.”

“Call me Jason,” I replied, not missing a beat.

“Alright. Point taken.” He smiled, then leaned across the table, and we didn’t talk again that night.

The next morning Xavier made French toast with powdered sugar. It was the smell that woke me up, so distinctive, and so despairingly sweet. That smell stayed with me as I walked Xavier to the theatre, as the two of us mocked Dana with our eyes as she screeched at him for being late, as he kissed me goodbye and made me promise I’d work on the song. In turn, I made him promise he’d call me as soon as he got home, no matter how late it was.

When he did, at around eleven thirty, the smell still lingered in my room. I don’t remember what we talked about or even if we talked at all.

But I do remember that that night I had a dream about Isaac. In it we were strolling through a crowded, almost Seurat-like park, full of people with parasols and men in tall silk hats. We were walking along, perfectly calm, blending in with the serene scenery, and then suddenly I kicked his leg. There was no apparent reason for this action, but I did. Isaac only scowled at me, and we kept walked. A few moments later I kicked him again. This time he made a pained noise and looked at me sadly before dropping my hand and walking away. Then the scenery started turning into eggs – every green leaf became a single, shiny green egg; every parasol became a row of delicate lavender ones. I shuddered, and called out a name, but it wasn’t Isaac’s, or even Xavier’s. I called out, very distinctly, “Emile!” as my feet turned into two brown leather clad eggs.

I woke up in a tizzy, frightened and sweating, and the first thing I did was look at my feet. They were still feet, thank the god. Then I called Xavier.

My heart fell as I heard the dull sound of his answering machine. I didn’t leave a message. It would have sounded silly.

Life went on, and I quickly forgot about eggs – unfortunately Isaac would not abandon my mind so quickly. In one particularly embarrassing episode, I murmured his name while Xavier was lying on the couch in the basement next to me, kissing my neck. “You’re adorable,” was his only response, his breath warm and his voice muffled.

“You’re amazing,” I replied, but I was significantly shaken, and we spent the rest of the evening nestled on the couch watching reruns of Seinfeld. Occasionally his hand would skirt up to the top buttons of my shirt - however these moments were conveniently the exact same moments something hilarious happened on the show, so all I had to do was let out a great guffaw of laughter and all was forgotten.

Dana’s show got despicable reviews. “Garden Club is full of rotten tomatoes and dirty hoes – but unfortunately no plot, interesting characters, intriguing dialogue, or memorable songs,” quipped one review. “Dana Lansley tried. It’s obvious she tried. It’s too obvious she tried,” snarled another.

I almost felt bad for Dana as she read the reviews aloud to the cast, crew, and me. She continued to wear a smile on her face throughout the reading, though it was a faltering one. “Let’s keep in mind that the response of the public is much more important than the response of the critics,” she said cheerily. “Remember that Les Miserables got mixed reviews when it first opened. And there are some good points they mention.” She smiled at Xavier, who blushed, and then she cleared her throat.

“Xavier Comeaux, as the scheming and fabulous troubled actor Chris, is a joy to behold. He has a rich, operatic voice that manages to add at least a little depth to Lansley’s empty score. I for one am looking forware to his cabaret show this summer, featuring the music of Lansley’s former writing partner Jason Emile White.”

Dana looked up at us again, and with a flick of her tongue she eyed his hands clasped around mine. “They also praise our lovely sets and exquisite costumes,” she enunciated, not taking her eyes off of the pair of us.

“Here’s another review, Dana,” said Joe, appearing from the side entrance of the house. “They devoted their first three paragraphs to Xavier.” Grinning, he tossed the article in the direction of Xavier and me. Xavier caught it and Dana frowned as she stuck one long pink nail in her mouth.

“Read it, Xavier, called one of the cast members, and Xavier was obligingly opening to the Entertainment section when Dana grabbed my arm.

“I think it’s time for you to go now, Jason,” she said sweetly.

“Dana…” Xavier protested.

“That would be Madame Director to you!” she snapped.

I couldn’t help but smile. There was no stopping Dana when she was on a power trip. “It’s alright. I’ll go,” I said, standing up and putting on my coat, which was really Xavier’s coat, which was really Trevor’s coat.

“I’ll call you, Emile… I’ll come by tomorrow,” Xavier murmured, standing up to kiss me goodbye. As we parted and I turned to leave, I noticed everyone’s eyes on me. Smiling nervously, I vowed I would never understand why people like Xavier and Isaac liked being in the spotlight so much.

My car was still in my retaining wall (I hadn’t called a tow truck or a repairman for fear of not being able to pay them – I wasn’t sure my insurance covered overly dramatic immature ex-boyfriends), so I had to walk home again. Though it wasn’t very cold, I found myself hugging Xavier’s jacket around me tighter and tighter.

I had bought a copy of the recent National Theatre’s revival of South Pacific the other day and stuck the case in my pocket while listening to the CD on my Walkman. Now, my fingers touched the cool plastic and I couldn’t help but grin. Life is amazing, I thought as I smiled at an elderly Asian woman in a Christmas sweatshirt. I bought an apple from a street vendor and for a moment contemplated skipping home.

When I got home, I threw away the core whilst humming ‘Dites-Moi’, fed Ophelia without bitterness, then plodded down to the basement and turned on the TV. My full intent was to catch the last seven minutes of Days of our Lives, and to then spend the rest of the day working on Xavier’s show. Instead I ended up watching an entire three hour movie about Cleopatra on the Hallmark channel while eating rainbow sherbet with my finger and thinking about Isaac.

Joe had introduced me to Isaac as well. I was in the middle of producing my first show and ending a two-year relationship with Dana. Joe thought that Isaac could improve both situations, and he did – “Songs of the Lost World,” featuring Isaac, opened to satisfactory reviews and within a month Dana had returned her promise ring and Isaac and Ophelia has taken up residence in my dusty little house.

Isaac and Ophelia were an unusual pair, each with their own particular peculiarities that if you didn’t find adorable you detested. For example, Ophelia liked to be taken for walks on her lease (adorable) but would only eat a certain, expensive kind of cat food (not as adorable).

We must have been a sight to see, the three of us out for a walk on Sunday - Isaac and I, the odd couple, in jeans and tattered t-shirts, holding hands, and Ophelia, prancing delicately at our feet.

“Jason, will you write me a song?” Isaac had asked one particular Sunday, I recalled as Caesar and Cleopatra leapt at each other in a lust-filled passion for the fourth time in ten minutes.

“I’ve already written you one.” We were walking by the swings. A little girl was shrieking with joy as her father pushed her higher and a little boy ran past with a golden retriever. “I’ve already written you ten thousand. Every song I’ve ever written has been for you.”

It sounds ridiculous now, but on that lazy afternoon Isaac only squeezed my hand tighter.

“I’ve got an audition tomorrow,” he said, glancing over at me.

“Good luck.”

“No!” he cried playfully. “You’re not supposed to wish me good luck! It’s bad luck to do that, don’t you know that?”

“Yes. I just want you to do horrible at your audition so you won’t be running out every night.”

“Even if I do get in – which I won’t now! – there’ll be plenty of time after the show. We have our whole lives.”

“Our whole lives…” Dana and I had thought the same thing. It seemed I would never find a love to last that long. It seemed I would never be more than two-year Jason. Emile.

It was funny. I had been so sure Isaac was the one.

Where would I turn when Xavier was done with me? When we’d overstayed each other’s welcome, when the two years had come and gone? When he left, like Isaac did, would I feel the same guilt? Was it maybe, somehow, my fault?

Would I ever find out for sure?