Public Secrets

also stayed behind to see if I could deal with this business on my own.”
He stopped near the rear of the theater, just to listen.
“And can you?”

“It’s runny, all those years I took drugs because I wanted to feel good. There were some things I wanted to forget.” He thought of Sylvie, and sighed. “But mostly because I wanted to feel good. They never made me feel good, but I kept right on taking them. In the past couple of years, I’ve started to realize what life can be like when you face it straight.” He laughed, his shoulders moving restlessly. “I sound like a bloody public service announcement.”
“No. You sound like someone who’s happy.”
He grinned. It was true, he was happy. More, he’d begun to believe he deserved to be. “I’m still the best,” he told her as they walked toward the stage. “Only now I can enjoy it.”
She saw her father being interviewed offstage. He was happy too, she thought. Johnno was stage right harassing P.M., who was trying to show off baby pictures to any technician he could collar.
The group onstage had broken off rehearsing. They were young, Emma noted. Six smooth young faces, under masses of hair, who were up for Best New Group. She could feel the nerves from them, and she could see, with a sense of pride, the way they glanced toward her father from time to time.
Would they last so long? she imagined them asking themselves. Would they make so deep a mark? Would another generation be touched, and moved by their music?
“You’re right,” she said to Stevie. “You are the best. All of you.
She didn’t think of Blackpool again. She didn’t look over her shoulder. For hours she indulged herself, taking pictures, talking music, laughing at old stories. It didn’t even bother her to make an entrance, and stand at the podium reciting her lines to a near-empty theater. She sat, sipping a lukewarm Coke, as some of the musicians jammed centerstage on old Chuck Berry tunes.
Only P.M. left early, anxious to get back to his wife and baby.
“He’s getting old,” Johnno decided, plopping down beside her to play some blues on a harmonica. He glanced back to study the seventeen-year-old vocalist who was already an established star. “Christ, we’re all getting old. Before long, you’ll commit the ultimate insult and make us grandfathers.”
“We’ll just push your rocking chair up to a mike.” She tipped up the bottle.
“You’re a nasty one, Emma.”

“I learned from the best.” Chuckling, she draped an arm around his shoulders. “Look at it this way, there hasn’t been anyone else onstage today who’s lived through two decades of rock-and-roll hell. You’re practically a monument.”
“Truly nasty,” he decided and cupped the harmonica. “All this talk about lifetime achievement awards,” he muttered between chords. “Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”
“They have their nerve, don’t they?” She laughed and hugged him. “Johnno, you’re not really worried about age.”
He scowled and began to blow more blues. Behind him, someone picked up the rhythm on bass. “See how you like it when you’re cruising toward fucking fifty.”
“Jagger’s older.”
He shrugged. The drums had fallen in, a brush on the snare. “Not good enough,” he told her and continued to play.
“You’re better looking.”
He considered that. “True.”
“And I’ve never had a crush on him.”
He grinned. “Never got over me, did you?”
“Never.” Then she spoiled the solemn look with a chuckle. She began to sing, improvising lyrics as she went. “I’ve got those rock-and-roll blues. Those old, old, rocking blues. When my hair is gray, and you ask me to play, I say don’t bug me, Momma, my bones they’re aching today. I got them rock-and-roll blues. Them old man rocking blues.”
She grinned at him. “Did I pass the audition?”
“Pretty bloody clever, aren’t you?”
“Like I said, I learned from the best.”
While he continued to play, she slid off the edge of the stage and framed him in. “One last shot before I go.” She snapped, changed the angle, and snapped again. “I’ll call it Rock Icon” She laughed when he called her a nasty name, then packed the camera in her case. “Shall I tell you what rock and roll is, Johnno, from someone who doesn’t perform, but observes?”
He gestured with the harmonica, then cupped it again to play softly as he watched her.
“It’s restless and rude.” Walking back, she laid a hand on his knee.