Story of a One-Hit Wonder
Whenever classic rock radio stations broadcast a salute to one-hit wonders, a band sure to be included in the lineup is Wolfbane whose only number-one hit "Sapphire Eyes" became one of the bestselling singles in rock 'n' roll history. Wolfbane's sole CD, Peacock Goddess, topped the charts for twelve weeks. After a sensational debut, however, Wolfbane vanished from the music scene, eventually joining the ranks of Soft Cell, Mungo Jerry, Baha Men, Blues Magoos and the Crash Test Dummies in the annals of the one-hit wonders.
There are several reasons why performers fade into obscurity after a fleeting taste of success. Some singers, songwriters and musicians have only one good song in them, and everything else pales by comparison. Others cannot handle success, which often leads to professional jealousy and arguments between band members. Many self-destruct, overindulging in booze or drugs. But very few people know what happened to Wolfbane. Their story has never appeared in the pages of The Rolling Stone, nor has it been told on VH-1. It is a story few people would believe if they heard it.
* * *
Jordan Elliott, the drummer for Wolfbane, left the stage feeling tired and sweaty. Given the night's grueling performance, even the cheap motel room in which he was staying would seem like paradise—at least it was air-conditioned. After a hot shower and a cold drink, he began to feel somewhat human again. He looked at his watch; it was after 2:00 a.m. Tiffany had probably fallen asleep hours ago.
That was the one thing he hated about the music business: the loneliness of going on tour. He could tolerate the tight schedules, lousy food, third-rate motel accommodations and seemingly never-ending succession of nameless small towns. He had even grown somewhat accustomed to performing under the hot lights in stifling venues like the one they had just played. But each night when the show was over and he returned to yet another lonely motel room, he longed to be home in his own bed, curled up next to Tiffany.
The other guys in the group, who, unlike Jordan, were still single, usually went out after the show. If there were no late-night bars nearby, they would congregate in one motel room and drink until dawn. The drummer was not interested in alcohol or in the young women who sought the company of the band members. There were two great loves in his life. One was music and the other was his wife, and he was determined to remain true to both of them.
Jordan lay awake on the hard motel mattress, unable to sleep. Finally, he turned on the bedside lamp and took a notebook out of his suitcase. On nights such as this one, he worked on his songs. The act of composing soothed him. Often, he would fall asleep while writing and wake the following morning with a pen still in his hand. Most of the songs he wrote, he had to admit, were not very good, and Wolfbane would never perform them. But what the hell? If it got him through the night, that was all that mattered.
As he struggled over the last verse of a song about America's dwindling woodlands, his mind kept straying to thoughts of Tiffany. He closed his eyes and pictured her soft black curls, her creamy complexion and her deep blue eyes. It was those incredible sapphire eyes that had first captured his heart. The more he thought about his wife, the harder it became for him to concentrate on disappearing trees. He turned the page in his notebook and began a new song. Its lyrics offered no social commentary. There was no reference to the environment, women's rights, discrimination or any other political issue. The song was merely an ode to Tiffany's beautiful blue eyes.
* * *
"Good Lord, these interstates are boring!" complained Cosmo Hartman, Wolfbane's keyboard artist. "Trees, trees and more trees. Not even so much as a billboard to break the monotony."
"That's why Henry Ford put radios in these things," replied Dale Anderson, the lead guitarist.
"You find a decent station around here, and I'll take your turn doing the laundry."
Unlike more successful entertainers, Wolfbane did not have a spacious, well-equipped tour bus and driver, nor did it have a team of roadies to take care of the equipment. Whenever Wolfbane went out on the road, the band members democratically divided all the responsibilities among themselves, from driving the van to doing the laundry.
"I told you so," Cosmo laughed when Dale, having scanned the full range of FM stations, turned the radio off.
"Hey, how about some live music?" lead singer Leroy Alverson asked. "Jordan, why don't you play something for us?"
Jordan, though primarily a percussion musician, could strum and pick as well as most guitarists. He reached over the seat and grabbed the old Fender that he purchased on eBay.
"What do you want to hear?"
"Something new," Keenan Montero, the bassist, replied. "Have you written anything lately?"
This question caused an eruption of laughter. Although his fellow band members loved Jordan as a friend and respected him as a musician, they were not impressed by his songwriting abilities.
"As a matter of fact, I have," Jordan answered, not in the least offended by their good-natured ribbing.
"What's this one about?" Dale joked. "The exploitation of child labor in Taiwan or the plight of the migratory birds of Bumblebee, North Dakota?"
"No, this one is a love song."
"A love song? You?" Cosmo asked.
"Why are you so surprised that I wrote a love song? I'm the incurable romantic in the group."
"Because when it comes to songwriting, you're an anachronism," Dale teased. "You may have been born in seventy-eight, but your songs are right out of the Sixties. Didn't anybody ever tell you protest songs are passé? Nobody gives a damn about the environment or the poor, downtrodden masses anymore."
"Okay, guys," Keenan said, interrupting the laughter. "Let's ease up on Mozart and listen to his latest opus. Play, maestro."
It was the first time Jordan played "Sapphire Eyes" from beginning to end; and when he was through, he turned sheepishly to his friends and declared, "I'm still working on it."
"That was beautiful!" Dale exclaimed, at a loss to think of a better word to describe Jordan's song.
"You really think so? You think it's good enough for us to perform sometime?"
"Are you kidding?" Leroy asked. "It's one of the best tunes I've ever heard."
"I think if we practice the song tonight, we can play it at tomorrow's show," Dale announced with great enthusiasm. "Leroy, why don't you start memorizing the lyrics?"
"No way," Leroy insisted. "I think Jordan should sing it himself."
"Me? You're the singer. My voice is too weak."
"You should have heard yourself just now; you were singing like Luciano Pavarotti."
* * *
After an encore of "Sapphire Eyes," the members of Wolfbane finally left the stage.
"I can't believe how well the song went over!" Jordan exclaimed.
"Didn't I tell you it was great?" Dale asked.
The drummer shrugged with modesty.
"But it's just a simple little song. Neither the lyrics nor the melody is very remarkable."
"Lennon and McCartney were the greatest songwriters of their day. Their songs influenced a generation and resulted in a cultural revolution, and what did The Rolling Stone and MTV consider their best song? The best pop song ever made, in fact? 'Yesterday.' A simple melody with simple lyrics."
Keenan came up behind his friends, putting his arms around their shoulders.
"Hey, did you guys see that blonde in the second row? The one wearing the low-cut tank top?"
"Are you serious?" Dale laughed. "Who could miss them—I mean her?"
"She invited us to her place for a party!"
"I wonder if there are any more at home like her."
"Let's go and find out," Keenan suggested. "How about you, Jordan? Why don't you loosen the apron strings for one night and come along with us?"
"Nah, you guys go on without me. I'll walk back to the motel; it's only a few blocks away, and it's a beautiful night."
Jordan waited until a group of young girls, seeing the others leave in the van, left the parking lot. Then he zipped up his jacket and walked out the door.
"Not one to window shop are you, son?" came a voice from behind him. "Can't say that I blame you. No use going to a party where there's bound to be a room full of good-looking women if you can't sample the merchandise."
"Excuse me," the drummer said, turning around to see who had addressed him. "Are you talking to me?"
"Don't see anybody else out here, do you?"
A man emerged from the shadows. He was short and stocky, had a full head of tightly curling black hair and looked as if he had not shaved for days.
"My name is Omar Applebee," he said, as he handed Jordan his business card. "I caught your act tonight. You're pretty good. In fact, I'd like to represent you."
"No offense, Mr. Applebee, but I've never heard of your agency."
Eyeing the man's wrinkled suit and stained tie, Jordan doubted Mr. Applebee was much of a success as an agent.
"Most people have never heard of Wolfbane either. I'd like to change that. I know a few people in the recording industry. You sign with me, and by this time next year, you could have a record on the charts. A year after that, Wolfbane could be a household name. You interested, kid?"
"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't. Why don't you stop by the motel tomorrow and talk to the guys?"
"Sure, I can do that. But why don't you and I talk first?"
"Mr. Applebee, the guys and I don't make decisions without consulting each other."
"I'm not asking you to make any decisions. I just want to talk to you. Come on, I'll give you a lift back to your motel." As they drove back to the Budget Inn in Omar Applebee's new Cadillac, the agent asked, "So, kid, when did you first decide to become a musician?"
"Seems like I've wanted it all my life. My parents hoped I'd go to college and get a steady job, but something in me wanted more than a biweekly paycheck and a house in the suburbs."
"You wanted to be famous, to sing to stadiums packed with screaming fans, to have your songs played on MTV."
Mr. Applebee had an odd way of making his words sound like thinly veiled sarcasm.
"Yeah, I guess I did," the musicians admitted defensively. "Why? Is there anything wrong with that?"
"Nothing at all. Ambition is a wonderful thing. Without it, where would this great country of ours be today? No. I like a man who's willing to bite and claw his way to the top."
"I don't know that I'd be willing to bite and claw, but I'd certainly work hard and be willing to make some sacrifices."
"Oh really? You were the one who wrote that song 'Blue Eyes,' weren't you?"
"It's 'Sapphire Eyes.' Yeah, I wrote it."
"Nice little song. The way you sing it, I have a feeling it has special meaning for you."
A smile spread across Jordan's face.
"I wrote it about my wife."
"I take it she's the reason you didn't accompany your friends to that party tonight."
"Tiffany is the most incredible woman, intelligent, beautiful, loving. She could probably have married any guy in the world, yet she chose me. I still don't know how I got to be so lucky."
"I'll bet you'd like to make her proud of you, wouldn't you? Not that she isn't already, but if you were to become rich and famous, have a half-dozen or so platinum records, drive an Italian sports car and live in a beach house in Malibu, think how much prouder she'd be."
"Tiffany doesn't care about houses or expensive cars," her husband said, jumping to her defense.
"She must be an unusual woman indeed if there's nothing she wants out of life."
"There is something she wants, but it's nothing money can buy. Tiffany wants a family. We both do—someday, once I'm making enough money to support us."
In the darkness of the car, Jordan could not see the smile on Omar Applebee's face.
* * *
"I admit the man isn't GQ material, but I, for one, think we should sign," Dale told the others when they were discussing the possibility of entering into a contract with Omar Applebee.
"Me, too," Leroy agreed. "Who cares if he dresses like a slob? He says he knows people in the recording industry. Maybe he can get us a record deal."
Cosmo and Keenan concurred.
"And you, Elliott?" the singer asked. "You want to make it unanimous?"
Jordan shook his head.
"I don't know, man. There's just something about the guy. He's so creepy, and I'm not just talking about the way he looks. Did you ever get the feeling when he's talking to you that, deep down, he's laughing at us? I do."
"You're too sensitive," Cosmo said. "Besides, who cares what he thinks about us, just as long as he makes us rich and famous!" The keyboard artist then broke into a parody of a Motley Crue song, "I wanna be like Tommy Lee, and get my picture on MTV. I'll give them something they won't forget when they see me and Pam on the Internet. Whew! Whew!"
All five musicians broke out in loud peals of laughter. When the merriment died down, Dale turned to Jordan.
"So?" he asked. "How do you vote?"
"What's there for me to say? Four out of five is a majority."
"Not in this case. Either we all agree, or we don't sign."
"I'll talk it over with Tiffany tonight and give you my answer tomorrow. I promise."
An hour later, the van pulled up in front of Jordan's apartment building. Tiffany ran out the front door and welcomed her husband home with a passionate embrace.
"I missed you so much!" she cried.
"I missed you, too," Jordan replied. "There's something important I want to discuss with you."
"Same here," his wife said, trembling slightly.
"Is something wrong, Tiff?"
The drummer quickly decided his career decisions could wait. His wife and any problems she might be having would always come first.
"No. My news is good. I'm pregnant."
A kaleidoscope of emotions played across her beautiful face: joy, fear, hope, wonder and, above all, love.
"I thought we agreed to wait," Jordan said, hating himself as he spoke the words.
"I didn't try to get pregnant. It was an accident. Honest."
"I know, honey," he said, trying to comfort her. "Come on, stop crying. You don't want those beautiful sapphire eyes of yours to get red and puffy, do you?"
"I know we can't afford a baby now, but I want it so much."
"If that's the way you feel, then go ahead and have it. I can get a job with my uncle's contracting company. Not only is the pay good, but they've got an excellent medical plan, too."
"But what about your music career?" she asked.
"I love you, Tiffany. As long as you're happy, nothing else matters."
The following morning Tiffany served Jordan his breakfast in bed.
"Better be careful. I could get used to this royal treatment very quickly," he laughed.
"I was up half the night thinking," she told him quietly, her eyes staring at the floor. "I've decided to have an abortion."
Jordan's immediate reaction was one of relief, but it quickly changed to regret. It was his baby, too. Under different circumstances, he would be overjoyed at Tiffany having his child. It was just such damned rotten timing!
"You know you don't have to. Whatever decision you make, I'll stand by you."
"I know," she said, looking up at him adoringly, her blue eyes brimming with tears. "I fell in love with a musician, not a bricklayer. I want you to pursue your dream. Give it all you've got. Besides, I'm only twenty-two. I still have a lot of childbearing years ahead of me."
The following day Tiffany checked into the women's center to end her pregnancy. At about the same time, twelve miles away, Jordan and the other members of Wolfbane signed a contract with Omar Applebee.
* * *
"This is J.J. Blocker here with you on WOAR, where the hits keep coming. I've got a new record I've been asked to play for you, and if I'm any judge of talent—and I must be or else I wouldn't have lasted this long on the air—you're going to hear a lot more of this group in the years to come. Here with their first single, 'Sapphire Eyes,' is Wolfbane."
"Hey, that's us!" Dale yelled. "We're on the radio!"
Leroy, Keenan and Cosmo stopped what they were doing and flocked around Dale's radio. Dale turned the volume up, and "Sapphire Eyes" blasted through the speakers. Jordan sat quietly at Dale's kitchen table, oblivious to his own song being played over the airwaves.
"Lighten up, man," Cosmo said, putting his arm around his bandmate. "We're on our way now."
Jordan merely nodded his head. He could not join in his friends' jubilation. Not now.
"Maybe our record being played on the radio will cheer Tiffany up," Cosmo said hopefully.
"I doubt it," the drummer replied, suffering from depression nearly as dark as that which engulfed his wife.
"Is she showing any signs at all of coming out of it?" Keenan inquired with concern.
Jordan shook his head, and there were tears in his eyes as he answered.
"If anything, she's getting worse. The other day when I got home, I found her sitting on the bed holding a baby doll. She was rocking it back and forth, singing a lullaby."
"Don't you think you ought to get her some help?" Leroy asked.
"I tried. She gets hysterical if I suggest she see a doctor. Now she's got it into her head that there's something physically wrong with her and that she'll never be able to conceive another child."
During the following weeks, Tiffany Elliott seemed to lose her tenuous grip on reality. She stopped going to work, cleaning the house, cooking meals and doing the laundry. She lost all interest in her personal hygiene as well. Unless her husband was there to remind her, she forgot to bathe, comb her hair and brush her teeth. Her weight had dropped at least twenty pounds, and she was dangerously thin and pale.
"What does she do all day?" Dale asked.
"She sits on the couch and stares out the window. I talk to her, and it's as if she doesn't hear me. Last week I decided to take her to the hospital."
"What did they say?"
"We never got there. I couldn't get her to leave the apartment. She held on to the doorjamb, crying like a little girl. I tried to pry her fingers loose, and she bit me and went after me with her nails like a cat. When I let go of her, she ran into the bedroom and locked the door."
"Then what happened?"
"About an hour later she unlocked the door, came out to the living room and took up her spot on the couch in front of the window. It was as though she'd forgotten I existed."
Jordan himself had lost weight, and dark circles formed under his eyes. He could barely manage to hold it together.
"Oh God, Dale! I know I've gotta get someone to examine her, and I will, soon. It's just that I'm so scared of what they'll find. What if they want to put her away? I don't know what I'd do."
"Maybe we should cancel our upcoming tour. It's probably not a good idea to leave her alone."
"That won't be necessary I've asked the neighbor to keep an eye on her. Besides, I doubt she even cares if I'm there anymore."
* * *
After the show ended, Jordan headed back to the motel. He was exhausted and longed to lie on the bed and sink into oblivion. When the van pulled into the motel parking lot, he spotted Omar Applebee's Cadillac parked outside the door to his room. The van pulled away, and the drummer was left to deal with the agent.
"What are you doing here?" Jordan asked. "I thought you were in New York."
As usual, Omar was wearing a wrinkled suit and a dirty tie, and the cuffs on his shirt were frayed.
"I've got some good news for you."
"You could have called. Even cheap motels have phones."
"I wanted to deliver it in person."
He handed Jordan a trade paper.
"Look at the latest chart. 'Sapphire Eyes' is number one. You're a hit, my boy. I told you I could do it."
"Don't go taking all the credit. The guys and I had something to do with it, too, you know."
"Especially you. It was your song that made it all possible."
Jordan sat on the bed, his fingers messaging his temples. He felt no surprise, no gratitude and no joy, just a cold numbing emptiness.
"You don't seem too pleased with your success," Omar said, with a hint of condescension creeping into his voice again.
"I just don't know if it's worth the sacrifices I've made."
Omar's cruel laughter chilled Jordan to the bone.
"What do you mean by the sacrifices you made? It was your wife who made the sacrifice. You knew how much she wanted that baby."
"I didn't tell her to have the abortion. It was her idea."
"You gutless coward. You left the decision up to her and put all the weight on her shoulders. Of course, she didn't want you to give up your music career to become a bricklayer. She loves you."
"Wait a minute. Only Tiffany and I ...."
Jordan stopped, a dawning fear breaking through his anger. He stared at the fat, little man with black curly hair and messy attire.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the man who gave you what you wanted: a number-one song."
"What are you? A witch or something?"
"Some people have called me that," Omar confessed. "I've also been called a god, an angel, a wizard, a muse, a sorcerer—you get the general idea. In truth, I'm all of these and yet none of them. It depends on your point of view."
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about, but I do know you're some kind of monster."
"No, that would imply an evil intent on my part, and I assure you I wish you no harm. I am one of a group of beings that has long inhabited this world. We are human in appearance, but we are immortal by nature. It is our lot in life to influence the lives of the humans around us. The things we do are often attributed to chance, fate, luck or destiny—call it what you will."
"What do you mean 'influence'? Did you try to influence my life in any way?"
"I merely gave you a choice: fame and fortune or your wife and child."
"You bastard! What right did you have to interfere in my life?"
"I told you. That's our sole purpose in this world. You see, life is like a game of backgammon. All we do is roll the dice. You humans decide what moves to make."
"Why me?"
"Something in your song touched me. When I heard it, I thought there is a man who truly loves his wife. I decided to take a look into your future to see if your love would last."
Omar shook his head.
"You and your friends were headed nowhere—no record contract, no number one hit, nothing but the same low-paying gigs year after year."
"But I was happy, damn you. Couldn't you have left well enough alone?"
"Sure, you were happy then because your wife was young and beautiful, and you had dreams for the future. But eventually, you would have both grown older, and your wife would have become less desirable. Soon you would have begun noticing the younger women in the audience and taking them back to your room. Your marriage was destined to suffer a slow, painful death. So, I stepped in."
"And ended it even sooner."
"Don't blame me. I only rolled the dice. You're the one who chose career over family."
"What was I supposed to have done, thrown it all away to lay bricks the rest of my life?"
"At least you would have had your wife and child by your side," Omar said, now showing more pity than contempt. "Goodbye, Jordan. The game is over. For whatever it's worth, I'm sorry things worked out the way they did."
"Thanks a lot," the drummer replied bitterly.
Omar Applebee walked out the motel door, and at that moment all memory of him was erased from Jordan's mind. Dale, Keenan, Cosmo and Leroy would not remember the unkempt agent either. It would be as if they had never met him. However, the choice had already been made, and the consequences remained.
The phone beside the bed rang, and Jordan, barely awake, answered it.
"Did you hear the good news?"
It was Dale, excited beyond words.
"'Sapphire Eyes' is number one."
"Great!" Jordan managed to say.
Maybe his luck was starting to change.
A few minutes later, the phone rang again. It was someone from Wolfbane's record label calling to offer him the same good news.
"Great!" Jordan said, beginning to sound like a recording himself. "If I don't get some sleep...," he grumbled, folding his pillow and rolling over onto his side. He was asleep before he could finish the sentence.
Again, the insistent ring of the phone woke him. He reached for the receiver, intending to take it off the hook rather than answer it.
A woman's voice was calling him, "Jordan? Are you there? It's Amanda."
A warning alarm went off in that undefined region between the conscious mind and the dream state. Amanda Perkins lived in the apartment next to his. Something must be wrong. His neighbor would not be calling to congratulate him on the success of his song. He reached for the receiver and put it to his ear.
"Amanda?"
"Jordan. I'm so glad I got you. There was a fire. The whole building went up. One of the firemen said it must have started in your apartment."
"Tiffany?"
"I haven't seen her. She wasn't outside with the rest of us. The firemen haven't begun to search the rubble yet." Amanda, realizing the terrible implication of her words, quickly added, "But, perhaps Tiffany wasn't home at the time. You know, I'll bet she went to her mother's house."
The distraught husband did not answer. He knew his wife had not left their apartment in over a month.
"Thank you for calling, Amanda. I'll get there as soon as I can."
Jordan got up, dressed and left the motel. He walked aimlessly along the dark streets, his thoughts lost in another time, another place. Memories of happier days kept grim reality at bay. That must be how people got through the tragedies in their lives, a part of his brain deduced. Why dwell on death and heartache? Just give your mind the day off. Send it on an all-expense-paid trip to Disneyland.
The morning was dawning, and the drummer had been walking throughout the night. On the brink of exhaustion, he approached the East Street Bridge. He stopped on the walkway and looked out at the town on the other side of the river. Lights were on in a handful of houses, and as he watched, more were lit. He wondered how many men in those houses were waking up next to their wives. For them, it would be just another day. They would get up, shower, shave, grab a quick cup of coffee, and then go to work.
Do they kiss their wives goodbye? he wondered. Do they think about them during the day? Do they ever take a few minutes out of their busy schedules and remember what it was like when they first fell in love? Do they ever consider the possibility that their wives might not be there when they get home at night?
Then the painful truth he had managed to avoid all night came crashing down on him. Tiffany was dead. It was all so unfair. She had deserved much more out of life and out of him. The pain of loss and the weight of guilt were unbearable; they ate at him like cancer. He should have been the one to die, not her.
A sad smile tugged at the corners of Jordan's mouth.
Funny thing about death, he thought.
Only seconds ago, he cursed it. It had robbed him of the woman he loved, yet now he saw it as a godsend. It would deliver him from the long, miserable, lonely years ahead. It would release him from a life he no longer held dear. Humming the melody of "Sapphire Eyes," Jordan Elliott climbed onto the handrail of the East Street Bridge and jumped into the river below.
* * *
"Jordan, can you hear me?"
He recognized the voice, but his mind was still wandering, trying to find some little niche in the corner of his brain in which it could hide.
"Hey, buddy, wake up. It's me, Dale."
The drummer's mind was surfacing, breaking through the layers of consciousness. Though he kept his eyes firmly closed, he could tell from the sounds around him that he was in a hospital.
"Hey, if I knew you wanted to go swimming so badly, we would have stayed at a motel with a pool."
There was a sound of laughter.
"Get out of here!" he managed to say.
How dare anyone joke and laugh when his world had come to an end.
Damn! I screwed up my life, and now I screwed up my death. How do you like that? I can't even commit suicide successfully.
"Come on, man. Things aren't that bad."
Jordan finally opened his eyes and stared in angry disbelief at the man he had thought was his best friend.
"Not that bad! What are you, some kind of a moron?"
"You had insurance, didn't you? They'll reimburse you for what you've lost. And until you find another place to live, you're more than welcome to stay with me."
"I don't believe you!" Jordan cried, appalled at his friend's callousness.
Unable to adequately express his outrage, he turned away in silence, presenting his back to the world, a world in which he no longer belonged. For several minutes he continued to ignore Dale's entreaties. Then, in the distance, he heard footsteps enter his room.
Dale breathed a sigh of relief.
"Thank God, you're here. He won't talk to me. I'll be down the hall in the waiting room if you need me."
"Thanks, Dale."
Jordan's heart stopped momentarily as a shock swept through his body. Was he dreaming? It was Tiffany's voice. He lay on the bed, tense, afraid to turn around, afraid to open his eyes. If he did, he might see an unknown woman in the room, a stranger. After all, it couldn't be Tiffany. She was dead.
"Jordan?" the voice called.
His heart beat faster; tears filled his eyes. Was he insane? If he was, what of it? Wasn't insanity preferable to facing harsh reality? Perhaps if his mind could so flawlessly recreate her voice, then maybe it could ....
"Jordan?"
He felt a hand touch him gently on the shoulder. His eyes looked at the hand and traveled to the diamond ring and the gold band that matched his own. He turned quickly and grabbed her arm, afraid she might vanish if he let go.
"Tiffany," he said, looking up into her sapphire eyes.
It was no dream. She was still quite thin, and her face bore the signs of her recent depression. But the vacant look that had been in her eyes was now gone. Her mind had come back from whatever place she had sent it.
"Amanda phoned me," he said. "She told me the apartment had burned down, that you ...."
"I know, darling. It was the most peculiar thing. I was just sitting there, looking out the window, not thinking of anything at all. Then—I know it must sound ridiculous—I thought I saw you outside on the lawn calling to me. I got up and went to the door, and you started to walk away, beckoning me to follow you. I ran after you, but I couldn't catch up. Then you suddenly disappeared. I sat down on a tree stump and cried for what seemed like hours. Then I began to feel better, even when I returned to the apartment and found it engulfed in flames. For the first time in months, I began to feel hope."
Jordan swallowed the lump in his throat and let the tears spill down his cheeks. At last, he knew what he wanted, and it was within his grasp. He hoped to wake up the following morning and every morning thereafter next to his wife. He had enough of lonely motel rooms. Now was the time to make a home, start a family and enjoy his life, even if it meant giving up music and working as a bricklayer.
I've been given a second chance, he thought, and I don't intend to blow it this time.
Out in the hallway, unnoticed by the doctors, nurses and patients passing by, a short, stout man with black curly hair and a thick growth of beard on his unshaven face looked in on the happy couple. After a few moments, he nodded his head, smiled and went about his business.
Salem loves music. This is one of his favorite CDs.
