Page 18 of Night Songs

“Are you a singer?”

“No.”

“Do you play an instrument?”

“No.”

Phoebe raised her eyebrows at the other girls. “Whatareyou interested in?”

I hated questions like this. How was I supposed to sum up my entire being in a list of interests?

Tima saw me hesitate and jumped in. “Are you planning to go to college? My son is starting at Vanderbilt in the fall.”

I smiled gratefully. At least that was easy to answer. “Yes, I’m going toUCR,” I said, and when I saw their confused looks, I clarified, “University of California at Riverside.”

“Good for you,” said Tima, though I could tell she’d never heard of it.

Phoebe gushed, “IloveCalifornia. People are just happier there. Everyone on this coast is so tortured, blah blah blah. But California people, they’re just lighter.”

I had heard of this stereotype before, and I had to stop my eyes from rolling. I didn’t consider any of the beleaguered, disillusioned adults I knew from back home as “happy” or “light.”

She studied me. “Thoughyouseem more like the tortured artist type. Like your mother and father.”

My ears perked up, and I tried to ask a follow-up question, but she kept going.

“Have youtriedsinging?” she asked again.

Hess breezed in carrying a pie and cut her off. “Feebs, give it a rest. You sound like an old lady.”

Tima laughed as Phoebe pretended to look chastened. “My God, you’re right.” She turned theatrically toward me. “Forgive me, dear. I can be a little much.”

The rest of the dinner passed with the group of women sneaking in casual questions about me amid the merciless ragging they gave each other. I learned that Phoebe was a fashion designer who had designed my mother’s wardrobe throughout her career. And Martha was a legendary session musician who’d played on the best country and rock albums of the ’70s and ’80s, including my mother’s.

They had all met her living in a boardinghouse together when they were my age, and it wasn’t hard to imagine them as young, bubbly girls. Even now, they seemed younger than most middle-aged women I knew, and I wondered if it was the effect they had on each other. I marveled at their gleeful intimacy, too intimidated to interject and ask any other questions.

The food itself also contributed to the general euphoria; the buttered lushness of the chicken pot pie was making me high.

After the blueberry cobbler and ice cream, Hess put down her napkin and announced, “It’s time for a field trip,” and the other women smirked knowingly and topped off their wineglasses.

At the front door, Hess handed me a flashlight but advised me not to turn it on yet. Then we skipped out into the night, their giddiness fizzing in the darkness. The air was heavy and warm against my skin in a way the cool, dry California nights never were—I was wrapped up and held against it.

We walked out to the main road and took a left, strolling casually in the middle of the street. Tima and Phoebe giggled arm in arm with their wineglasses in the front, then came Hess and me, with Martha loping in the back smoking a cigarette and looking up at the stars.

On the right, we passed an enormous white-columned house on a hill like a Greek temple. It was cast in shadow, as if it’d been abandoned by its followers. Hess saw me studying it and explained in a low voice, “My parents’ house. Where I lived as a child.”

“Wow. It’s so… grand.”

She smiled. “People used to say that Nashville was the Athens of the South, which is why many of the mansions around here are Greek Revival. My parents bought into it big-time.”

“Do they still live there, or…”

“No, they moved to Florida decades ago. To be close to my sister and her family.”

She said this with a tinge of wistfulness, though I wasn’t sure for what. Maybe that was just how things sounded in Southern night air.

Hess continued, “What I remember about that house is silence—my parents didn’t like music being played unless it was classical at a dinner party, and even then, my mother sometimes found it a bit overwhelming.” She paused. “But I loved this area with all of the huge, ancient trees.” She gestured around. “It’s peaceful. Which is very different from silent for me. Peace is a kind of safety that lets you create without fear.”

I gazed around at the hulking, shadowed oaks, and I tried to see it. Feel it. There was definitely something here, but I wasn’t sure it was peace. In this place, everything felt more substantial, more dense with meaning.