The Song Remains the Same Read Online Free PDF Page B

discerning between tabloid reporters and not, between different and not. But Anderson did, and he liked him, too. Something wholesome, welcoming about him. “I don’t know, he feels like he’d be easy to talk to.”
    “Funny, he stopped me outside—there’s an entire mass of reporters out there—and asked if you were up for an interview. I told him to stop being such a leech, feeding on catastrophe.” She crosses her six-inches-longer-than-mine legs. “Please tell me you’re not going to think about talking to him. That would just be so entirely out of character.”
    “I don’t know,” I say. “Who knows what my character is anyway?”
    “Well, I do, for one. I’ve lived with you for twenty-seven years. And you were never one to seek publicity. I practically had to beg you to agree to help me promote the gallery, consider anything out of the straight and narrow. That you agreed to consider Hope Kingsley—the artist you were going out to see in San Francisco—was no small miracle. She was from the slush pile and, oh man, were you a bitch about the slush pile.”
    “The slush pile?”
    “The commoners, as you said. The un-agented. In theory, you’d think you of all people would want to nurture untapped talent, but it was just the opposite.”
    This does not at all sound like the fabulous me !
    “Why me of all people?”
    “Because you had more talent in your left toe than just about anyone I know. Maybe other than Dad. But maybe even more than him. It made me crazy as a kid.”
    “Painting?” I ask, surprised.
    “Music,” she says, like I should have already known.
    I chew on this, and then, apropos of nothing but because I no longer have a filter, I say, “Did you know that I was pregnant?”
    “Oh god.” Her lower lip starts to tremble.
    “No, that’s not what I meant. I wasn’t blaming you. I meant, since I can’t remember it, did you know that I was pregnant?”
    She shakes her head, composing herself. “No. I’m surprised, actually.” She considers it. “What does Peter say about it?”
    “We haven’t talked much about it yet. It feels weird—having a husband who I don’t remember.”
    “You have a sister who you don’t remember, either.”
    “True,” I say. “But he’s always darting around, sort of skulking in the corner. It just feels…different. He’s seen me naked, seen my orgasm face, you know, stuff like that. I know that for all intents and purposes you and I don’t know each other, either…but it feels like we do, it feels like we’re family.” I laugh. “Though maybe I shouldn’t be talking about my orgasm face to you, either.”
    “Well, it’s an adjustment period for all of us,” she says, firming her jaw, closing the subject.
    “I know.” I exhale. “Maybe I’m the one who’s being weird, not him.”
    She wipes her hands on her jeans and stands to go.
    “Oh, I forgot, one more thing.” She reaches into her bag and yanks out a stack of DVDs. “Here. Your favorite movies, TV shows, whatever, from when we were kids. I thought it might help.” She fingers something else and pulls it out. “And this—here’s an iPod, a music player. I put together all of the bands that I could remember that you loved, that meant something to you. I had Hugh search your closet for the box of mix tapes that you kept.”
    “Hugh?”
    “My boyfriend?” she says, and I detect a flash of annoyance, that the detail has slipped my mind, when so many details have slipped my mind.
    “Yes, yes, I’m sorry. I lose track of things.”
    “Well, I asked him to get the box from your apartment, and he did, and I made what I think is The Best of Nell Slattery . It’s all onthere, hundreds of songs—everything from, I don’t know, your wedding song…”
    “My wedding song? Which was?”
    “Joe Cocker—‘Have a Little Faith in Me,’” she says, like that means anything to me. “To the Beatles to the Smiths to, well, just listen to it. You’ll get the idea.” She