Read Online I'll Sing for my Dinner by BR Kingsolver - Free Book Online
Authors: BR Kingsolver
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it, and she never mentioned it. She always took it off when she entered our bedroom, and left it by the door.
I knew that she had dreams, nightmares. She didn’t thrash around or scream or anything like that, but I could tell when she was having one. Her body would stiffen, and she would whimper. I interpreted the expressions on her face at those times as being those of terror or pain. I didn’t know if I should wake her up, so I would just hold her, stroke her hair, and whisper over and over that I would take care of her and it would be all right. Sometimes it seemed to quiet her.
Jeri took Cecily over to Fort Collins and she found a violin in a pawnshop. It was only fair quality, but she said it was fine for her purposes. I had never heard her play violin before, and sat in awe listening as she played. I was considered good enough, perhaps, to apply to some orchestras before my injury. The difference between me as a third seat in a medium-level symphony and her, was the difference between Bob Dylan and Pavarotti.
Cursing myself for a fool, I crawled up in the attic and found my violin. When I gave it to her, she lit up like a lightning bug. But she kept the pawnshop instrument. She took it down to a music shop and had a pickup put in it. Then she tuned it to play bluegrass fiddle.
Shortly before Halloween, Jared brought the band’s agent, David Thomas, to the bar to hear Cicely. The band was doing well. Dave was booking them all over the Rockies and putting them in some large venues. They were out of town most weekends now, and I could only get them into the Roadhouse on Thursdays, if at all.
Her performances varied widely, not the quality of the performance, but what she played and sang. It was her first performance after she got the fiddle and she played it a good deal, dancing around the stage to her own music. The band that night had a mandolin player, and she borrowed his instrument for a few songs. The variety put her in a lively mood, and she was much more animated than usual.
The mandolin player came over to the bar for a beer, and then leaned back and watched her. Shaking his head, he said, “Have you ever felt totally inadequate? How in the hell am I ever going to play that instrument again, knowing that it can sound like that?”
She also sang a couple of songs I’d never heard before. When she came over to get a drink on her break, I asked, “Are you singing your own compositions?”
“Yeah. Do you like them?” Her smile brightened.
“I like them a lot. I didn’t know you wrote songs.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve got a couple of hundred I’ve written over the years. Do you want to hear some more?”
She didn’t know the agent was there. He was sitting behind her, and I saw his ears perk up.
“Yes, do you think you could do a whole set of them to finish the night?”
Smiling, she said, “Anything for you,” and kissed me.
She sang nine songs over the next hour. Ballads and love songs, and a song that would make a good dance number. At the end, she motioned me up to the stage, and using me as her foil, sang a hilarious song, making fun of herself by pointing out all of her supposed faults and foibles. It went on for thirty verses and included every supposed female fault that had ever been cataloged. The chorus at the end of each stanza was, “But the joke’s on you, because you think I’m perfect. Oh, how wonderfully blind love is.” She punctuated the end of the song by kissing me.
The audience loved it, laughing and joining her to sing the chorus.
She sang one encore, then turned the stage over to the band. Skipping across the bar, she threw herself into my arms, kissed me, and sang, “Oh, how wonderfully blind love is.”
“Cicely, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine and Jared’s. This is Dave Thomas. He’s the agent who books Jared’s band.”
She stuck her tongue out at him and gave him a fake pout. “So, you’re the one who’s responsible for taking Jared away from
I knew that she had dreams, nightmares. She didn’t thrash around or scream or anything like that, but I could tell when she was having one. Her body would stiffen, and she would whimper. I interpreted the expressions on her face at those times as being those of terror or pain. I didn’t know if I should wake her up, so I would just hold her, stroke her hair, and whisper over and over that I would take care of her and it would be all right. Sometimes it seemed to quiet her.
Jeri took Cecily over to Fort Collins and she found a violin in a pawnshop. It was only fair quality, but she said it was fine for her purposes. I had never heard her play violin before, and sat in awe listening as she played. I was considered good enough, perhaps, to apply to some orchestras before my injury. The difference between me as a third seat in a medium-level symphony and her, was the difference between Bob Dylan and Pavarotti.
Cursing myself for a fool, I crawled up in the attic and found my violin. When I gave it to her, she lit up like a lightning bug. But she kept the pawnshop instrument. She took it down to a music shop and had a pickup put in it. Then she tuned it to play bluegrass fiddle.
Shortly before Halloween, Jared brought the band’s agent, David Thomas, to the bar to hear Cicely. The band was doing well. Dave was booking them all over the Rockies and putting them in some large venues. They were out of town most weekends now, and I could only get them into the Roadhouse on Thursdays, if at all.
Her performances varied widely, not the quality of the performance, but what she played and sang. It was her first performance after she got the fiddle and she played it a good deal, dancing around the stage to her own music. The band that night had a mandolin player, and she borrowed his instrument for a few songs. The variety put her in a lively mood, and she was much more animated than usual.
The mandolin player came over to the bar for a beer, and then leaned back and watched her. Shaking his head, he said, “Have you ever felt totally inadequate? How in the hell am I ever going to play that instrument again, knowing that it can sound like that?”
She also sang a couple of songs I’d never heard before. When she came over to get a drink on her break, I asked, “Are you singing your own compositions?”
“Yeah. Do you like them?” Her smile brightened.
“I like them a lot. I didn’t know you wrote songs.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve got a couple of hundred I’ve written over the years. Do you want to hear some more?”
She didn’t know the agent was there. He was sitting behind her, and I saw his ears perk up.
“Yes, do you think you could do a whole set of them to finish the night?”
Smiling, she said, “Anything for you,” and kissed me.
She sang nine songs over the next hour. Ballads and love songs, and a song that would make a good dance number. At the end, she motioned me up to the stage, and using me as her foil, sang a hilarious song, making fun of herself by pointing out all of her supposed faults and foibles. It went on for thirty verses and included every supposed female fault that had ever been cataloged. The chorus at the end of each stanza was, “But the joke’s on you, because you think I’m perfect. Oh, how wonderfully blind love is.” She punctuated the end of the song by kissing me.
The audience loved it, laughing and joining her to sing the chorus.
She sang one encore, then turned the stage over to the band. Skipping across the bar, she threw herself into my arms, kissed me, and sang, “Oh, how wonderfully blind love is.”
“Cicely, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine and Jared’s. This is Dave Thomas. He’s the agent who books Jared’s band.”
She stuck her tongue out at him and gave him a fake pout. “So, you’re the one who’s responsible for taking Jared away from
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