Chapter Fourteen

THE ANDERCHRONICLES

By Me, Ellee

[WARNING: The following story has been rated FNF*]
*Fiction NOT Fact

“Ellee . . . Honey, Don’t Sing”


“Ellee . . . Honey, don’t sing!” Mamma would say, elbowing me as I sat next to her on the church pew, dangling my legs over the edge because they didn’t yet reach the floor.

She said this each and every Sunday once the organist slid onto her wooden bench, and let her feet and hands start flying over the keys, creating the most beautiful sounds my young ears had ever heard.

Later on, during Christmas season, when my school class would go caroling in the neighborhood, once again I got the elbow–only this time it would be from my best friend, Ally Burke, when she would caution, “Ellee . . . shhhhhhhh, don’t sing!”

Much later, in high school I had the idea maybe I could “train” my voice to . . . blend in a little better . . . so that it wouldn’t be noticed quite so much—at least, so no one would say,“Ellee . . . don’t sing.” But when I signed up for chorus, after the first class the teacher came to me and said,

“Ellee, I’m sorry, but you can’t sign up for this class.”

“But I already did Mr. Lipshitz . . . last spring.”

“Well, the class is filled . . . I can’t possibly take . . . ummmm . . . one more student.”

Meaning me, of course. However, he let Ally Burke sign up the very next day when she dropped chemistry and wanted to transfer into chorus.

So, I asked my mom if I could taking singing lessons from a voice coach, but after furrowing her brow, she said she was pretty positive dad would never go for it. Later I overheard them talking and dad said, after choking and spraying his Diet Coke he was drinking all over the table,

“What????? . . . a voice coach???. . . for Ellee???” He broke out in laughter.“You’ve got to be kidding! Waste of money, waste of money! That would be like sending an elephant to flight school.”

So, each day in the privacy of my bedroom—when everyone was gone, I would practice and practice singing, “Do re me," with Julie Andrews, until my senior year. At which time, feeling confident that my voice was polished enough, I tried out for chorus once again—with another teacher—just to insure my success this time. But when I consulted the list posted on the choir room door to see who had made it, I noticed my name at the very bottom, like an afterthought, but I also noticed that it had been crossed off, not only with thick, red ink, but with a huge black X, thereby successfully blotting out my chances of ever being able to sing around anyone in this world—ever.

So, what’s a girl to do? I have this song in my heart which wants to be sung, and no one will let me sing it. I can’t even sing in the shower, because, I was told by my SWEET little brother, that when I sang in the shower it amplified the ‘noise’ to an unbearable decibel, and caused the leaves on mom's ficus tree to wither and die. So I figured the only place left to me to sing, was in a ‘dead room,’ and since I didn’t have access to one of those , I figured my song would have to be left unsung, forever.

After I had opened Andy’s Christmas gift, the morning after the day after Christmas, I noticed a note attached to the stove which read,

Will be gone for the next few days .
Harriet has gone on holiday, too.
Molly is at daycare.
And please . . . don’t burn up anything while I am gone!
And also try not to break anything.
Signed,
A

So . . . I was left completely alone. All by my myself. No one else—just me, roaming his apartment—hour after hour—checking EVERYTHING out—Wouldn’t you? There is nothing I don’t know about that apartment now. Except for that locked and bolted door which says : CAUTION: Do Not Enter! Now, why would he have a door with a sign like that? This question weighed heavily on my mind for the better part of one whole day, and then I had to give it up because I couldn’t arrive at anything plausible.

It was at this time the idea occurred to me that, being completely ALONE, just maybe . . . I could possibly . . . SING! Certainly no one would hear me, and I could finally let that song OUT!!!

So, after cleaning up breakfast on the second day, I went into the library, where Andy’s music entertainment system resides, including his karaoke equipment. It took a while, but I finally found the perfect song. I would sing it for Andy, although, thankfully he wouldn’t be there to hear it as I belted it out. This was my once in a life time opportunity, having never been allowed the luxury of belting out a song—any song—ever in my entire life! WooooooEeeeeee This was going to be fun!

“The Boy from New York City”—how appropriate, I thought, by the Ad Libs from the soundtrack of “One Fine Day” was the song I chose.I selected the necessary mode, engaged the correct buttons, adjusted the right levers, and all at once, I had music—and it was swinging—and I was, too, abandoning all my inhibitions and tearing down all the walls I had built up over the years to hide my song, because now with nobody there to hide it from, I could really let go.THIS WAS MY BIG MOMENT and I was going to play it for all it was worth! I clutched the microphone with both hands—my singing debut was about to begin.

Oo ah oo ah oo oo, Kitty—the backup began
Tell us about the boy
From New York City

Oo ah oo ah come on, Kitty
Tell us about the boy
From New York City

He's kinda tall—I began singing, rotating my shoulders in time to the beat, like I 'd seen on TV.
He's really fine,
yeah, yeah,

Someday I hope to make him

mine, all mine
yeah, yeah

And he's neat and oh, so sweet,
and the way he looked at me

just swept me off my feet

Yeah, yeah —I rolled my eyes and twirled across the room ending in mid-air splits, which was kind of difficult to do. However, I recovered quickly and never missed a beat.

Oo ee you oughta come and see
How he walks
yeah yeah—and I strutted across the floor in a mock walk, hands at my hips.
And he talks

Oo ah oo ah oo oo Kitty
Tell us about the boy from New York City
Oo ah oo ah come on, Kitty
Tell us about the boy from New York City

He's really down
and he's no clown,
yeah yeah

He has the finest penthouse
I've ever seen in town
yeah, yeah

And he's cute in his mohair suit
And he keeps his pockets full of
Spending loot
yeah, yeah

Oooooooo eeeeeeeeeeh,
You ought ta come and see
His pretty bar
And his brand new car
Yeah yeah

Ev'ry time he says he loves me— I crooned, swiveling my hips, and rotating my shoulders, keeping perfect time to the rhythm.
Chills run down my spine— and my shoulders shook from all those chills.

Ev'ry time he wants to kiss me— I puckered up, wrapping my arms around myself as I shimmied to the floor
He makes me feel so fine.— then I shimmed back up, lips still kissing those fine Andy lips I was seeing as I sang.

Oo ah oo ah come on Kitty
Ohhhhhh yeaaaaah
Tell us about the boy from New York City

He can dance
And make romance
That’s when I fell in love
With just once glance.
Yeah yeah

He was shy, and so was I
and now I know we’ll never, ever say good-bye
yeah yeah

Oooooooo eeeeeeeeeeh,
You ought ta come and see
He’s the most from coast to coast

yeah yeah

Oo ah oo ah oo oo Kitty
Ohhhh yeahhhhhh
Tell us about the boy from New York City

Oo ah oo ah oo oo Kitty
Tell us about the boy from New York City

The song ended with me twirling round and round, eyes closed, arms as high in the air as the final notes were, head thrown back in complete abandon, hair flying wildly, when all at once—two arms and a body brought the spin to an abrupt halt, just as the last note resolved. For a few moments I was caught in a vortex, still whirling, spinning, and then as that subsided, my long hair, tousled across my face,began moving away slowly as a hand pushed it to one side, revealing the blue fire of two eyes riveted on mine. They were smouldering.

“What are you doing?” the husky voice asked.

My heart, pounding from the song and dance had now given way to pounding of another kind, and I could not collect my thoughts enough to form a coherent answer.

“Andy,” I gasped in surprise, “ I . . . uhhhhhh . . . I . . . I . . . I didn’t know . . . you were . . . here, I mean I thought you were gone . . . I thought I was alone.” I was truly speechless. And I was being drawn into another vortex now—of a different kind.

Ever so slowly, almost imperceptibly, my arms still in the air, with nowhere else to go, came down around . . . him. A gust of air escaped his nostrils, much a like a stallion pawing the ground, anticipating his next move. His eyes had never left mine. They were piercing, unrelenting. I couldn’t escape them. Nor did I want to. We were caught in an embrace. I blinked. Was it really an embrace? I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t ask him—in case it wasn’t. But if it weren’t an embrace, what was it then? It felt like an embrace. All of a sudden he thrust me from him! I could see anger erupting in his eyes as he put distance between us.

“You can’t do this!” he blurted out emphatically.

“Do what?” I didn’t know what I had done. Usually, I know what I've done—but not this time.“What did I DO?” I questioned, pleading for an explanation.

“This . . . this . . . THIS,” he pointed around the room with straight-locked fingers.

“What?” I still didn’t understand.

We both scanned the room; It was obvious to both of us—I had done nothing. At that he became even more upset, and began raking his fingers through his hair, which looked like it had been growing for over a week.

“I haven’t done ANYTHING! You know I haven’t. Why are you so mad?” I implored.

He was getting more and more frustrated by that time, pacing back and forth, and then he came over to me once again, grabbed me by the shoulders, and exhaling swiftly like a whale through its blowhole, he shrieked,

”Damn!”

I looked right back at him and roared,

“Well, Damn, too!”

Now I had become upset. This rocked him completely off balance, taking him by surprise, as was indicated by the expression sweeping over his face, where upon he responded by yelling out,

“Why did you say, Damn?”

“Because you did!” I yelled back. He just gazed at me for a few seconds and then exploded with,

“Damnation, Ellee . . . you are SO infuriating!! You come into my world—uninvited, I might add. You then take over and proceed to dismantle everything about my life here, including my dog, my apartment and even my mother and Harriet . . . and . . . and . . . my life . . . and . . . me . . . I mean . . . and . . . and . . . EVERYTHING! Nothing is the same here since you came!”

He was completely beside himself now. He was pulling his hair, and gasping for air. I thought maybe he was going to have an asthma attack. Then after taking off his jacket, throwing it on the floor and stomping on it repeatedly, he yelled,

“Damn, Damn, Damn!!!!. Why did you ever come here!!!???”

I had never seen him so distraught. Not even when I trashed his kitchen and his mother simultaneously on Christmas Eve day. Not even when I nearly succeeded in burning down his kitchen. And I . . . I was so upset by now that I stood up on tip toes to get right in his face—nose to nose, and yelled,

“So why DID YOU NOT send me packing the other day when you had the chance? Huh? Huh?Why?”

My eyes were defiant and taunting, bating him to give me an answer to that question, because quite frankly I had been grappling with that myself for the two days I had been alone. He stopped then, as if slamming into a wall. I could tell he was struggling; once again he exhaled out the blowhole, and once again ran his fingers through his hair, and once again started pacing. But then he stopped, placed his hands on his temples, looked up at the ceiling, gave another whale snort and began to explain,

“Because . . . ” I could see it was very hard for him to say what he was about to say—he was gritting his teeth.“Because,” he began again, painfully, still stalling, “ . . . you’ve kinda . . . I mean . . . uhhh . . . well . . . ummmm . . . that is . . . grown on me . . . kinda like that mold in New Orleans.”

He quickly tacked on this last phrase, like it was an amendment—obviously hoping it would somehow diminish what he had just admitted.

“What????!!!” I screamed. “KINDA LIKE THAT MOLD IN NEW ORLEANS! What is THAT supposed to mean????!!! You are saying that I AM LIKE MOLD?!? I'll have you know . . . mold is toxic, and, and, and . . . ” I was having trouble now. “And destructive . . . a total nuisance, hard to get rid of !”

He looked me straight in the eye, and carefully enunciating every syllable declared,

“PRE-CISE-LY!”

We both just stood there, defiantly eyeing each other—tense, keyed up, neither of us backing down; neither of us daring to look away. Caught in a game of Stare Down. What was the outcome of this . . . this . . . fight? Urrr . . . spat? Or was it a quarrel? I mean, what WAS it? This that had just erupted between us? We were fighting like . . . like . . . I mean—I didn’t know.

I don’t think Andy knew either, because we remained motionless for what seemed like an eternity. The icy steel of his blue eyes was resolute and firm—unyielding. Except, as I was searching those eyes, something caught my attention—a slight glint flashing off that steel. As I looked closer, I noticed that glint became a gleam, which in turn gave way to a sparkle, finally edging into a full-fledged twinkle. His eyes were twinkling!

I could feel a smile starting to break away from the corners of my mouth in response to all that twinkling. Should I stop this smile, I wondered, or just let it happen? But then I noticed a similar smile being coaxed little by little from the corners of Andy’s mouth. And all at once we started laughing, no longer able to restrain our smiles from full development. Then the giggles took over. The kind which get out of control fast and cause tears to flow freely, and make the muscles in your stomach hurt. Thankfully relief was coming, and the intensity of the situation was being washed away by those laughing tears.

Finally, after several minutes, when we had regained control, and the fits of laughter subsided enough to speak, Andy asked,

“What was all that about?”

“Well, Andy, you tell me. You just said I was . . . mold.”

“No, not that . . . I mean that song you were . . . uhhhhhhh singing.”

Realizing he was referring to my ‘song’ and not to his admission that maybe somehow I had become important in his life, I became self-conscious and immediately felt a flood of warmth, as it started at my neck and made its way to my face in a matter of milliseconds, causing my whole face to flush wildly in embarrassment.

“Oh, that,” I answered. He had successfully side-stepped his admission altogether.

“Yes, that.”

His eyes were dancing with obvious enjoyment as they peered at the now very rosy glow of my face.

“Go on,” he continued, his arms folded across his chest, “enlighten me about your . . . song. I mean . . . you WERE singing it for me, right?”

“Why would you think that?"

“Well, it was about ME, wasn’t it?”

“It was just a song. I picked it from the songs you had in your music library.”

“So, you could have picked ANY song—right?”

“Right.”

“So, why DID you pick that one?” He really was enjoying pinning me down this way.

“Okay, I admit, it DID sound a lot like you.”

I was flushing even more now. Particularly when he reached over and let the back of his hand slide across my cheek.

“You feel feverish. Are you alright?” He could hardly contain the big grin blooming across his face.

“I’m fine!” I said indignantly, brushing his hand away.

But he wasn't about to let me off so easily; he was enjoying it waaay too much, so he pushed even further,

“And what about that part of the song which says,

Every time he says he loves me
Chills run down my spine
Every time he wants to kiss me oooooooooooh
He makes me feel so fine. Yeah

“I really liked the way you shimmied up and down as you sang those words. Well, actually I liked all of it, but, why don’t you perform that part again for me?”

I was almost ready to slump to the floor in feverish humiliation as his gaze indicated he was waiting for the show to begin.

“Well, I’m ready—waiting.”

As the twinkling electric blue of his eyes flashed on me—neon-like, it brought visions of Las Vegas—on the Strip—and I was on stage. I wanted to run. But, thankfully, just then, as if deus ex machina had arrived none too soon, his cell phone began singing. He reached into his pocket, opened the phone, checking first to see who was calling and then answered,

“Hey . . . yeah . . . okay . . . see you in a minute. Ellee, I’m sorry, I’ve gotta split. I only came home for a minute to pick up something I forgot. I can’t stay. Sorry I can’t see your performance.”

And with that he wheeled, and headed for the door, but suddenly stopped, spun around and said,

“Oh, by the way, just one word of advice, dance all you want but, Ellee, Honey . . . don’t sing! Really—just don’t sing!”

Bye for now
Love,

Ellee

Side Note: Did you notice how fast he got outta there? I think he was more than grateful to have a reason NOT to deal with that whole scenario, and how it was playing out. I don’t think he was really ready to accept his admission at that point.

Here’s what I think happened. He came back to get something he had forgotten, found me, and was over taken by everything, and just kinda got swept into that whole spinning vortex thing. You know, actually, I’m having a bit of trouble with his admission, too. I‘m not completely sure what he meant—I mean the whole MOLD analogy has me stumped. What’s your take on all this?