Hide and Seek Read Free Page A

window.
    Petrified wood
.
    Okay
, I thought.
You're here. You're actually auditioning for Barry Kahn. Now, knock his socks off. You … can … do … it
.
    “This is a song called ‘Woman in the Moon.’ It's about a … a woman who works nights cleaning buildings in a small town. How she always sees the moon from a certain window while she works. What she dreams about all night in the offices she cleans.”
    I looked over at Barry Kahn.
Jesus, I was in his office. I was the Woman in the Moon
. He was sitting back, feet on the bottom drawer of his desk, fingers steepled together, eyes closed. He didn't say a word.
    Musically, “Woman in the Moon” was like Barry's own “Light of Our Times.” I began to play, to sing in a soft, uncertain voice that suddenly seemed dreary and ordinary to me. As I sang, I sensed I was losing him.
    I finished. Silence. I finally dared to look at him. He hadn't changed position, hadn't moved. Finally he said, “Thank you.”
    I waited. Nothing more came from Barry Kahn.
    I put the music back in the briefcase. “Any criticism?” I asked, dreading his answer, but wanting to hear something more than “thank you.”
    He shrugged. “How can I criticize my own child? It's my music,” he said, “not yours. My voice, imitated by yours. I'm not interested.”
    I could feel a deep blush redden my face. I felt so humiliated, but also angry. “I thought maybe you'd be pleased. I wrote it in honor of you.” I wanted to run out of the room, but I forced myself to stay.
    “Fine. Okay, I'm honored. But I thought you were here to play
your
songs. If I want echoes, I'll sing in a subway tunnel. Are all your songs like mine?”
    No, goddamn you. They're not like anybody else's songs!
“You mean do I have something more original?”
    “Originality's what I'm looking for. Originality's a start.”
    I began leafing through my sheet music. My fingers felt numb and unsure. A full marching band was stomping around inside my head. “Would you listen to one more?”
    He stood up. He was shaking his head, trying to stop me from going on. “Really, Maggie. I don't think—”
    “I do have one. Many. My own, not yours.” I had promised myself I wouldn't be embarrassed.
    He sighed, having already given up on me. “Since you're here …
one
more song. One song, Maggie.”
    I plucked out “Cornflower Blue.” It was a little like an old Carole King hit. Maybe not original enough.
Too precious. Too clever. More bullshit
. The noise inside my brain had become a loud roar like the sound of an approaching subway train. I felt as though I were about to be run over.
    I stuffed “Cornflower” back in the briefcase and chose another song—”Loss of Grace.” Yes. This was a better choice. I had written it recently, since I had come to New York.
    One song
.
    I could feel Barry Kahn's eyes on me, feel his growing impatience. The room felt hot. I didn't look at him. Just at the music for “Loss of Grace.”
    The song was about my marriage to Phillip. It was deeply personal. The initial ecstasy, the love I'd felt, or thought that I did. Then the mounting terror. The horror of that first fall from grace … and never being able to stop falling.
    One song
.
    I turned to the piano, took one deep breath, and began to play.
    I sang very softly at first, then with mounting passion as the song gripped me and I remembered exactly what had inspired it.
Phillip, Jennie, myself, our house near West Point
.
    I could sense something new in the room as I sang, a kinship and understanding I had longed for in my letters, a bond between me and the man sitting silently at the other side of the room.
    I finished, and waited for what seemed like forever for him to say something. Finally, I turned around. His eyes were closed. He looked as though he had a headache. Barry Kahn opened his eyes.
    “You shouldn't rhyme ‘time’ with ‘mine,’“ he said. “It's a false rhyme, and while you might get away with it in a country song