Hide and Seek Read Free

would be all right again. I knew Jennie would be okay, or at least as okay as you can be if, at age three, you've witnessed horrible mayhem in your own house.
    My sisters traveled from upstate New York, and took turns watching her. The hospital let Jennie visit as often as they could bring her. She was fascinated by my wheelchair and the electric bed. And she could thrill me whenever she hugged me and pleaded, “Sing me a song, Mommy. No. Make up a new song, and sing it.”
    I sang to Jennie often. I sang for both of us. I wrote a new song a day.
    Then, an amazing thing happened. A miracle. A letter arrived for me at West Point Hospital.
    Dear Maggie
, the letter said.
    Okay, okay, you win. I've no idea why I'm answering you, but I guess I'm an easy mark even though I don't like to think so and if you tell anybody else, that'll be it for us forever
.
    In fact, your letters moved me. I get lots of mail, most of which my secretary throws away without showing to me. And the letters she does give me I throw away
.
    But you
—
you're different. You remind me that there are real people out there, not just sycophants wanting to get into my studio. I feel I've actually come to know you a little bit, and that says a whole lot about what you've written so far
.
    I was impressed with some of the lyrics you sent me. Amateur stuff—you need a songwriting education
—
but powerful all the same because they say something. None of this means that (a) the education will do you any good; or (b) you can write music for a living, but okay, okay. I'll give you the half hour of my time you asked for “to find out once and for all if I've got a talent for songwriting or not.”
    When you get out of the hospital, call Lynn Needham, my secretary, to set up an appointment. But in the meantime, please don't write me any more letters. You've taken up enough of my time already. Don't write to me
—
write more songs!

CHAPTER 3
    H E SIGNED THE letter “Barry,” and now here I was and he was looking at me, and I felt hopelessly out of place, one of those “sycophants” he had grumbled about. I definitely hadn't overdressed—that wasn't my style. I had on a white peasant's blouse, pink camisole, a long black skirt, flat shoes.
    But at least I was here. I was going for it.
    I was trying so hard not to have any negative thoughts … but things like this, really good things, never happen to people like me. They just
don't
.
    “Do you sing your songs, or do you just write them?” he asked.
    “I sing them too, at least I hope you'll call it singing.”
Stop apologizing, Maggie. You don't have to apologize for anything
.
    “Ever performed professionally?”
    “I did some backup singing in clubs around West Point, Newburgh. But my husband didn't like it when I did.”
    “He didn't like much, did he?”
    “He thought I was exposing myself. Couldn't stand other men looking at me.”
So I shot him
—
three times
.
    “But you'd be willing to try it now? Sing in public? You could do that?”
    My heart raced at the thought. “Yes, I could.” It seemed the right thing to say.
    “Good answer.” He gestured toward a beautiful, shining black Steinway at the far end of his office. “But your first test's in private. Did you bring anything?”
    I picked up my briefcase. “Lots. Do you want to hear ballads? Blues?”
    He winced. “No, Maggie. Just one. This is an audition, not a gig.”
    One song?
I thought. My heart sank.
    I had no idea which song to pick.
One
song? I had brought at least two dozen, and now I stood rattled and confused, as though I were standing naked in front of him.
    Put it in gear. He's human. He just doesn't act like it. You've sung these songs a thousand times before
.
    “Go on,” he said, looking at his watch.
“Please
, Maggie.”
    I sucked in a deep breath and sat down at the piano. I'm fairly tall, self-conscious about it, so I prefer to sit. From the seat I could see the silent chaos of Broadway through his