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Jacob Singing
Copyright 2006 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
None
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
I wondered what it would be like
to be married to a professional singer.
ABOUT THE DRAFTS
Nothing yet.
Jacob is kissing my forehead as I wake up.
“Eden,” he murmurs in a sing-song way. His pleasant, professionally-trained tenor voice makes my eardrums vibrate.
I can tell from the way he is touching me, what kind of day it will be. He won’t have much to say, but he’ll come around frequently for hugs and maybe a few kisses.
“Morning,” I mumble.
He squeezes my right shoulder, then gets up without responding, confirming my diagnosis. His naked lean frame rises from the bed. On him, forty-seven looks fantastic: decent muscles over a set of slender bones; fairly wide in the shoulders, narrow in the waist and hips; a bit thin in the legs that take him to the full-length mirror in our bedroom.
He flings back his long dark auburn hair, which is artificially tinted with strawberry-blond highlights -- one of his few vanities.
He starts his facial exercises: Big Scary Face, Tiny Squished Face. Back and forth, back and forth.
I close my eyes, hoping the concert won’t start until I fall asleep, but he begins the voice exercises too soon.
“La, la, la,” he sings; sixteen notes total; eight up the scale; eight down the scale; perfectly, without the hoarseness of sleep, without the thick sounds of overnight accumulation of mucus; no signs of weakness. Although he is barely raising his voice, the singing makes my ears ring again.
“Seriously?” I complain. “How can you sound so good this early in the morning?” I glare at the clock. It’s only 6:05.”
Jacob wiggles two dark auburn eyebrows, which frame his deep blue eyes. He grins. “All that heavy rhythmic breathing last night kept my lungs in shape. Plus a good night’s sleep contributes to a strong and pure singing voice.”
The scales start again. He finishes one, raises his voice a half or whole step, depending on his mood, and repeats the “las” over and over.
My imagination discovers the “las” floating around the room with no way out, dropping to the floor, piling up, swarming over me.
I’m about to fall asleep inside a warm cocoon of “las” when Jacob bursts into a loud version of Journey’s “Open Arms.”
“Jacob!” I protest. But he rarely stops when his eyes are closed.
I’d like to feel emotionally moved, but it’s hard when your husband is standing stark nakes in front of a mirror as he serenades himself with his eyes shut.
Jacob continues to sing; as he reaches the chorus of the song he bends his arms and lifts his elbows perpendicular to the floor.
“Why do you do that?” I asked once.
“It opens up the diaphragm.”
Beige skin tightens around Jacob’s rib cage. The bones protrude.
“Jacob!” I yell through the noise. “Gain some weight! I hate skinny guys! They’re all mean!”
He sings the entire song, ignoring me; going from the gentle verses to the triumphant chorus, back to the verses, back to the chorus, and ending in a gentle yet resonating voice.
“Beautiful,” I say. “Now--”
“Not all skinny men are mean,” Jacob says as he scratches his left buttock. He also examines his face.
I close my eyes, wondering if I’m wrong about my initial impression of the day, wondering if he’ll continue talking and ruining my chances of sleeping in on a Saturday.
“Eden?”
Maybe it will be a “I like to hear the sound of my voice day,” when he talks nonstop and occasionally ignores my responses. Sometimes those days end with a long romantic dinner followed by an early night.
“What?” I ask sweetly, hoping this will contribute toward a superb culinary and romantic experience.
“That bump is still on my back. If it’s cancer, and if I die ... will you miss me?” He asks me this as he continues to scratch.
“I won’t miss the butt-scratching.”
“Hey. My mom says I’ve done this ... when I wake up ... since I was two. Don’t make fun of me.”
He enters the bathroom and leaves the door open. “Eden--”
“Could you close the door, please?”
“I have to talk to you.”
“Are you dying?”
“No.”
“Then it can wait.”
“No. Remember that month we paid for that family’s medical expenses?”
“Yeah.”
“Did we save the gas station receipts? From all that driving around?”
“I thought you did.”
“No.”
A disagreeable odor fills the air.
“Jacob! That stinks!”
“Eden, you did save the receipts?”
“Jacob, the family was and is poor. We’re doing well enough that we can afford to overlook a few receipts.”
“But the price of gas was astronomical back then,” he whines.
I open my mouth, then think twice about responding. He is still healing from childhood trauma, and sometimes has abrupt changes in mood. Sometimes it is best to just let him speak.
I decide on, “You okay, Jake?”
“I hate that nickname,” he says as the toilet paper dispenser rolls around and around.
“But are you okay? Feeling unusually irritated or depressed?”
“No.”
“Then why the preoccupation with a few dollars?”
“More like about fifty.”
“Give up the hair color for a few months.” I get out of bed, go to the bathroom doorway and examine him. He is grinning as he finishes his business. Good: He looks happy.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“Had you worried there for a moment.” He looks me over, then sings in a Broadway-musical style, “Nothing like the sight of a naked blonde Eden in the moooooorning--
I shut the door then dive back into bed, curling up.
A few seconds later Jacob’s voice fills the bathroom, pops through the doorway cracks and stalks its way across the bedroom to my ears. This time it’s a 1940s song: “I’ll Be Seeing You.” Back then, the most popular version was performed by a woman named Jo Stafford.
Jacob sings throughout a quick shower, but chokes at the end of the tune. I realize that he started too high, and could not hit the final note, not even using his falsetto.
When the coughing stops, I call out, “Paging Miss Stafford. Miss Stafford.”
I hear Jacob gargling. A few seconds later, he bursts out of the bathroom, his long hair ridiculously parted on one side as he sings the late 1950s song “Venus,” substituting my name for the title word.
He’s still naked. Now he is glistening from the shower.
I lie back, still feeling tired.
He moves to my right side and leans over, still singing. He kisses my face, sits down and undoes his side part. Droplets of water mixed with hair gel sprinkle onto my chest.
I touch his back. His skin is vibrating from the force of his voice. My fingertips buzz.
When the vibrations stop, I put my hands and squeal, “Oh, Frankie! Frankie Avalon!”
“You know that song?”
“Of course.”
“Somehow you don’t look forty-one, and able to remember back that far.
“Aw. Thanks.”
The energy dies down. He studies something on the armoire; his eyes are now a deep dark midnight blue, almost black.
“This is a good day?” I ask.
“It’s not a bad day.”
“Not quite the same thing.”
“Well ... I ... um. I’m performing for charity in three weeks.”
“And?”
He gives me a wry smile. “It’s on our anniversary.”
“Hm. It’s a real charity, not a wealthy socialite?” My eyes narrow as I remember a stout homely woman who showered him with thanks, gifts and more than his usual fee in exchange for his performance at her birthday party.
“Hey. She had macular degeneration. She’s blind now.”
“She also had you laughing, which not a lot of people can do.”
“I love it when you’re jealous.”
“NO socialites on OUR anniversary. What kind of charity?”
“A fundraiser for children in the L.A. area who have mental illnesses.”
“Hm. I want to go.”
“I sat you at the five-hundred-dollar-a-plate table. The invitation is in the study.”
“I promise to keep the receipt.”
Jacob continues to stare at the armoire. As I wonder if he has more bad news he moves quickly, pulling me close, tickling me anywhere he can find bare skin.
The Frankie Avalon song starts again.
“Hey, Eden,” Jacob hums against my neck ... near my ears ... down my arms ... on my waist. “Hey, Eden.”
I muse as Jacob hums all over my bod. This is a different type of day. He wakes up, sings, acts like a little kid, sings some more, causes a little bit of trouble, sings some more.
Yeah, it’s a type of day that deserves its own name: a “Jacob Singing” day.
* ~* END *~*
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