Public Secrets

shiny skin.
“All washed and ready for bed,” Alice put in. “They’ve just come to say good night before I tuck them up.”
“I’ll do that, Alice. With all the confusion today, I’ve hardly seen the children.”
“All right, ma’am. I’ll finish the packing.”

“Da.” Emma gave Brian her shy little smile. “Can we have a story? Please.”
What he’d planned to do was roll a joint of good grass and listen to music. But he had a hard time resisting that smile, or his son’s bright, bubbly laughter.
He went upstairs with his family, leaving Hendrix wailing.
It took two stories before Darren’s eyes began to droop. He fought sleep as he fought all sedentary activities. He wanted to be doing, to be running or laughing or turning somersaults. Most of all, he wanted to be the brave young knight his father spoke of. He wanted to take up the shining magic sword and slay dragons.
He yawned and, cozied between his mother’s breasts, began to doze. He could smell Emma, and went off to sleep happy that she was nearby.
He didn’t wake when Bev lifted him into his crib. Darren slept the way he did everything. With a full heart. She tucked the satin-bordered blue blanket around his shoulders and tried not to think that he would soon be too big for a crib.
“He’s so beautiful.” Unable to resist, Bev stroked her fingers across his warm cheek.
With Emma’s head resting on his shoulder, Brian looked down at his son. “When he’s like this, it’s hard to believe he can tear a room apart single-handed.”
With a soft laugh, Bev slipped an arm around Brian’s waist. “He uses both hands.”
“And his feet.”
“I’ve never known anyone who loves life as much. When I look at him, I realize I have everything I’ve ever wanted. I can see him a year from now, five years from now. It makes the idea of growing older pleasant somehow.”
“Rock stars don’t get old.” He frowned, and for the first time Bev heard a trace of sarcasm, or was it disillusionment, in his voice. “They OD or start playing Vegas in white suits.”
“Not you, Bri.” She tightened her arm around his waist. “Ten years from now, you’ll still be on top.”
“Yeah. Well, if I ever buy a white suit with sequins, kick me in the ass.”
“With the greatest pleasure.” She kissed him, lifting a hand to his cheek to soothe as she might with one of the children. “Let’s put Emma down.”

“I want to do right by them, Bev.” Shifting Emma, he started down the hall to her room. “By them, and you.”
“You are doing right.”
“The world’s so fucked up. I used to think if we made it, really made it, people would listen to what we had to say. That it would make a difference. Now I don’t know.”
“What’s wrong, Bri?”
“I don’t know.” He laid Emma down, wishing he could put his finger on the reason for the restless dissatisfaction he’d begun to feel. “A couple of years ago, when things really started to break for us, I thought it was fab. All those girls screaming, our pictures in all the mags, our music on every radio.”
“It’s what you wanted.”
“It was, is. I don’t know. How can they hear what we’re trying to say, what difference does it make how good we are, if they scream through every bloody concert? We’re just a commodity, an image Pete’s polished up to sell records. I hate that.” He stuffed his frustrated fists in his pockets. “Sometimes I think we should go back to where we started—the pubs where people listened or danced when we played. When we could reach them. I don’t know.” He passed a hand through his hair. “I guess I didn’t realize how much fun we were having then. But you can’t go back.”
“I didn’t know you felt this way. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know myself really. It’s just that I don’t feel like Brian McAvoy anymore.” How could he explain that the feeling he’d revived at Woodstock had stubbornly faded in the year following it? “I didn’t know how frustrating it would be not to be able to go out and have a drink with the lads, or sit on the beach without people swarming around, wanting a piece.”
“You could stop. You could pull back and write.”
“I can’t stop.” He looked down at Emma, sleeping peacefully. “I have to record, I have to perform. Every time I’m onstage or in the studio, I know, deep down, that this is what I want to do. Need to do. But the rest of it … The rest of it sucks, and I didn’t know it