This is Not the End by Jesse Jordan

Author:Jesse Jordan [Jesse Jordan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Medallion Media Group
Published: 2016-05-31T04:00:00+00:00

11. The Magnificent Dorian Delaney

The alarm clock emitted its two-tone electronic grind and James swatted it, wondering why on earth he’d set the alarm and coming back with the Post-it note he’d applied two days ago: DORIAN—NPR—AROUND 10:45.

From ten o’clock on, he kept the radio tuned to National Public Radio, 91.5, afraid he’d miss it. He was wary of misunderstandings and mishearings and general mishaps.

James sat at his desk, doing something he’d found himself doing lately. He would draw a man—a young man—and then slowly, adding a few lines and hairs and folds at a time, make the man age, make him old and ugly.

Finally, at 10:47 that morning, as James slurped a mug of microwaved coffee he’d pilfered from the extinct pot in the kitchen, he heard the man with the soft, soft public radio voice say that next they would hear the singing of a very special young girl. What followed were three minutes of weather and traffic, then reports on a recently found mass grave of Tibetan monks and on two hundred dead dolphins that washed up in Malibu, followed by a request for pledges and then back to the show.

“I’m joined this morning by Dorian Delaney. So glad to have you here, Dorian.”

“Thank you.” Quiet: embarrassed and proud at the same time.

“Now, I have to tell our audience—”

James could picture her there, sitting in a cushy office chair, pushed up to the desk. Phones and computers abound, her feet barely touch the ground, and the headphones they put on her cover most of her head. Ankles crossed, right over left, uncrossed, then crossed again, left over right.

“—and that was when you were how old, now?”

“Fourteen, last year.”

“Fourteen. My word. And you’re scheduled to perform at the Civic Opera House, is that right?”

“Well, it’s not just me. A bunch of—”

Her parents must be there. James knew they were a small family, and when Dorian spoke of them it seemed to him to mirror some of the distance in his own family. Dorian was an only child, and her parents were separated. Still, they had to be there for this, didn’t they? Standing off to the side or behind a glass partition, beaming with pride like cliché happy families allegedly do?

“And you’re going to sing for us today. Do you want to get yourself situated?”

“Yes, thank you.” Rustling. James could see her as if he was in the room, bowing her back and then that shrug, one shoulder then the next, like a cat. One head roll, inhale through the nose, smile.

“And what will you be singing?”

“‘Habanera.’”

“Now is this Bizet or Carmen Jones?” The man with the soft voice chuckled, and Dorian followed suit. What the witticism had been, James had no idea. He made a mental note to look up Habanera, Beezay, and Carmen Jones.

“Bizet.”

“Ah,” he said, “L’amour est un oiseau rebelle. A beautiful aria. Please . . .”

And that was it. The man said, “Please . . .” and then waited, and for a moment or two the radio was nothing but that silence which isn’t.

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