Into the Night

“Call me Dell,” she told Madeline early on. “What’s Adelaide, anyway? A city in Australia. I bet you’ve never been to Australia.”

“You’re right.”

“Neither have I, but I’ve been enough places to know I don’t have to go there. You know why? Because all places are the same. Or, even if they’re different, I’m the same person wherever I go. And the life I’d find there would be the same life I fall into wherever I go. There’d be the same kind of men, even if they spoke with different accents. They’d want the same thing from a girl and offer the same thing in return as they do here. I’d be singing the same songs and hearing the same line of crap from everybody I met.”

“You sound bitter,” Madeline offered.

“Do I? That’s good news. You’re better off being bitter than sweet. If you’re sweet, the world’s full of people looking to eat you up. When you’re bitter enough, they take one taste and walk away.”

“And that’s what you want?”

“That’s how I stay alive,” Dell said.

While friendship softened Dell’s attitude toward Madeline, it didn’t make her change her mind about the music Madeline had written. “These aren’t songs,” she said flatly. “From the looks of what you’ve done, you don’t know anything about putting a melody line together, let alone figuring out the chords. If you had a great sense of melody, you could get somebody else to work out the chords and do up a lead sheet, but I don’t see any of that here. Why are you so hipped on writing songs, anyway?”

“It just feels like something I have to do.”

“Yeah,” Dell said. “Well, I can understand what that feels like. Anything that gets in your blood that way, it’s hard to find a way to say no to it. If you’re lucky, the desire and the talent come in the same package. But some unlucky people get the one without the other. Of course, if you get the talent and not the desire, it’s not necessarily the worst thing in the world. I knew a girl, I swear she had a voice like an angel. Unbelievable pipes. And not just the raw material. Her phrasing, her timing, everything was right about her. Everything but one thing.”

“What was that?”

“She didn’t have the desire. She didn’t care about it. She could have been a headliner right off the bat, and she probably could have made it big. Records, television, maybe even the movies. She had that kind of talent. But without the drive she didn’t put up with the crap that’s part of the business, and you know what happened to her?”

“What?”

“She met a real nice guy and married him, and the only singing she does now is to her husband and her kids, and she’s living in a house in the suburbs and happy as a clam. Doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”

“I guess not.”

“That’s what happens when you got the talent and not the drive. When it’s the other way around, you got a lifetime of disappointment. Well, what the hell — that’s what you get when you’ve got the drive and the talent, too, because this is a business where even the winners lose most of the time. But at least there are a few victories along the way, something to keep your hopes up.”

“And I don’t have any talent?”

“Not in the music department. But I’ll tell you something, much as I hate to encourage you—”

“What?”

“Some of your lyrics aren’t so bad. None of ’em really work, because a lyric can’t exist in a vacuum. A lyric’s not a poem, it’s the verbal part of a song, and it has to be suited to a melody. A really good lyric, even when it’s all by itself, has a melody locked up inside it waiting for a composer to find it and yank it out. You don’t have lyrics in that sense, but you’ve got bits and pieces that show a certain flair.”

“Like what?”

Dell thumbed through Madeline’s papers. “Well, like this,” she said. “‘You and I together all alone, in a little country of our own, where the population’s only two.’ That’s just a fragment, but there’s something about it I like. But that doesn’t mean it’s a lyric yet.”

“Maybe I can work on it.”

“Maybe you can, but I don’t know why you’d want to bother. When you stop to think about it, all songs say the same thing. They all tell you love’s wonderful, one way or another. Some say it hurts and some say it’s a picnic, but they all think it’s what makes the world go round. You think the world needs to hear that message again?”

It was funny, she thought, how quickly Dell sought to erase the sensitive side of herself. She couldn’t say a nice word about a partial lyric without wiping it out with a bitter sarcastic comment in the next breath. What Madeline came to realize was that there were two Dells. The worldly cynical brassy Dell was onstage most of the time, but there was always the other Dell waiting in the wings.

The other Dell was quieter, less forceful. And this other Dell spoke so seldom, spoke so little, that you wanted to hear every word she said. She was dead, had been killed off, would never be alive, and you wanted to know as much about her as you could.