Black and Blue Ivy

Black and Blue

"Wait," Bentley said. His voice was low, textured like sandpaper. "Try it in this key." He started the intro again in a high octave, and I began again. The higher register ideally suited my soprano voice. I belted out the lyrics I knew so well, and with my eyes closed, I could see Morningstar on those rare occasions when she would clean our apartment wearing her pink Juicy Couture sweatpants and a man's undershirt with no bra. Her breasts would swing, all her tattoos would show, and she'd sing out in a voice ravaged by cigarettes and alcohol but still holding lots of soul. That's one thing you say about her; she had soul. I wondered if prison had taken it out of her. I felt emotion swell in me like a rising tide, and I threw it behind my voice when I sang out the words:

Let me leave here, eyes of blue, cause I lied when I said it was only you,

Wrap those tears up in your pack and watch that sky turn from blue to black

The echo of the last sad chords faded inside the room. When I opened my eyes, I felt hot tears running down my cheeks. Bentley was staring at me, his hands frozen on the piano keys.

"Jesus, Ivy," he whispered. "I didn't know you could sing like that."

The sobs I had been holding in for God knows how long exploded from me at last. I hitched forward, but Bentley was on his feet in a flash to catch me.

"Shhh," he said, folding me into his chest. His arms were strong, and when I knees weakened, I knew he wouldn't let me fall, even though all my strength had left me and a tsunami of tears had taken over my body. I drew strength from his solid wall of muscles, his beating heart, and the piney scent of his cologne and wool sweater I was drooling all over. He didn't seem to mind but kept repeating in a hushed whisper, "I'm sorry, Ivy. I'm sorry."

He led me to the piano bench and sat me down like a child.

"I'll be right back," he said, kissing the top of my head. "Don't fly away." He was out the door and back with a can of coke in a moment. "Sorry, it's all I could steal from Charlie's refrigerator. Drink it." He got down on one knee before me and popped the top of the soda can.

"Why?" I hitched, wiping the snot from my nose with the back of my hand.

"The sugar, the caffeine, the distraction, all good for you."

I drank while he got up to find some tissues. He came back with a roll of toilet paper, and I laughed.

"Good. You're feeling better." He plopped the toilet paper on my lap and sat on the piano bench next to me.

"Thank you," I said. "You're very nice." A hitch still lingered in my voice, but I had it under control now. I felt tons better for having released the pent-up emotions. I guess that is the power of music.

"I'm not that nice," Bentley said reflectively. He leaned over and rested his elbows on his knees. "In fact, I can be a real prick sometimes. Just ask my ex-girlfriend."

I laughed.

"And the one before that."

"So, why are you so nice to me?"

"Why wouldn't I be nice to you, Ivy?" He locked his gaze with mine. "I don't know what horrors you've experienced in your young life, but I hope people didn't hurt you...." He reached out and clasped my hand. "You're an artist. And artists are fragile people." He squeezed my hand. "And my God, Ivy, your voice." He shook his head as if he didn't have the words.

"Thank you." I felt my cheeks redden. I loved singing, but it always embarrassed me when anyone made a big deal about it. Was it shame I felt?

"Feel better?" He let go of my hand and gave my knee a brotherly pat.