Randi and the Maestro: Book Three, Chapter Two

Just two days after being taken to Aunt Donna’s house, Jennifer was already starting to recover. She wasn’t at a hundred percent, not even close, but she was able to have coherent conversations and well enough to get herself around, eat, pee and shower without help.

Her body was on the mend, but her mind was turning in on itself. The more clearheaded she became, the more she blamed herself for everything. Jennifer Harrington was never kind to herself, but now she was beating herself up inside with the same resolve as her father when he used to beat her with his belt.

It made her think about her Daddy, and the things he used to say.

A woman’s place is in the home.

Feminism is the other F-word.

Two women should never lie together.

God hates homosexuals.

Perhaps it was all true. Jennifer was feeling as though God hated her guts. And guilty that her behavior caused so much harm to so many. And what about her half-brother, Billy? God was so angry with him being gay, he got AIDS and died a long, miserable death with nothing and no one at his side except a beeping heart monitor and a saline drip.

Would Jennifer suffer the same fate if she kept on her course of selfish indulgence?

She was starting to wonder.

“Jennifer.” Aunt Donna’s voice echoed from the living room. “It’s three o’clock. Time for Donahue!”

At first, she was looking forward to seeing Randi on Donahue. She had become such a good and competent representative of the band, comfortable speaking to audiences and relishing every minute of it. Witty and charming. She was fun to watch.

But now Jennifer was less enthused. As she was thinking of ways to reconcile herself with The Almighty, having Randi talking about their lesbian relationship on a national TV show didn’t seem like the kind of thing that would please Him. She didn’t want Aunt Donna to suspect anything, though, so she sat and watched with a forced grin.

The show started as it always did. Phil gave his opening spiel, then introduced Randi Johannes, lead singer for Dark Artemis!

Randi stepped onto the stage with a big smile and hearty arm wave to the audience and sat on the loveseat. She looked great. Sexy.

Jennifer should’ve been there with her. She felt a stab of jealousy, watching Randi having so much fun and accepting all the accolades. She was hating herself for being a junky and admonishing herself for ever having sexual thoughts and feelings about Randi.

And women in general.

Lead guitarist, Jennifer Harrington, was scheduled to be here but couldn’t make it today. We hope everything is okay.

Jennifer is dealing with some personal issues, but she regrets not being here today, and would like to thank all our fans for your love and continued support.

Jennifer’s heart sank, hearing Randi recite it for the umpteenth time.

The conversation was small talk for the first fifteen minutes. How was your flight? Have you seen the sights? Visit Times Square? I understand you’re a terrific surfer. What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?

Then they talked about Randi’s addiction and recovery. It was hard to see it through Jennifer’s tainted perspective, but Randi’s story was very inspiring. Victim of racism, parental neglect, sexual abuse, substance abuse, and now she was clean and sober for a whole year, holding her NA chip for the audience to see and the cameras to zoom in on.

Jennifer started to feel a pang of resentment. Why was she suffering God’s wrath while Randi was living high on the hog like a rich, feminist lesbian queen? Randi’s sins were every bit as unforgivable as her own. Even worse, in Jennifer’s judgment.

Halfway into the show, Jennifer faked a tummy ache and went back to bed. She just couldn’t bear to watch anymore. Feelings of jealousy and resentment were clashing with her self-loathing and she couldn’t contain the emotional flood. She had to go cry it out.

#

By day four, the doctor said Jennifer needed exercise and fresh air, so she started taking walks around the neighborhood. Aunt Donna lent her some sweats, a scarf and sunglasses to wear for disguise. So long as her face was covered, no one in town would recognize her.

She didn’t like one bit being stuck at Aunt Donna’s. They were nice and all, Aunt Donna and Carl. Kind as they could be. And they weren’t all goo-goo-ga-ga about her fame the way most people were, which was kind of nice. But there were so many memories attached to that house. Anytime she was in the living room, it was like she could hear faint echoes of Daddy’s shotgun and the sound of his lifeless body falling to the floor in front of her. She could almost smell the gunpowder and see her Mama lying on the carpet in a puddle of blood. In the den, she could hear the ghosts of demos past, where she, Randi and Scotty recorded “Breaking the Law” and “Beth” on Carl’s four-track. And in the bedroom, sleeping in that same bed, she couldn’t stop thinking about those first few times she and Randi had sex. So ecstatic at the time, but now it felt shameful and dirty.

So many memories. Mostly horrific, but even the ones that used to be joyful now left a sour taste in her mouth.

As she walked through the neighborhood, she longed for the days before Dark Artemis. Before Randi. Before anyone knew her as Maestro. Back when she was just a clean-cut, little teenybopper winning choir trophies for Mrs. Reynolds at Dugan High.

She found herself longing for her days in the church. Back when everybody loved her, and nobody knew she was gay. Back when God blessed her with tremendous musical talent that was meant for His glory, not her own. She missed the food, fellowship, and sense of belonging. And it was nice to feel like her eternal soul was safe.

Jennifer didn’t feel that way anymore. If hell was real, and God was real, she felt like she was destined for an eternity in the flames for sure, and well beyond redemption.

And she missed her old friends.

She missed Sarah Foster most of all. She was like her sister. They did everything together. Sarah’s parents were Jennifer’s godparents. They were like her second family.

Jennifer hated herself for ever having impure thoughts about Sarah.

She wondered if Sarah was still working at the Biggie Burger. She’d not heard anything about her since moving to California. The poor girl was probably married and had a kid or two by now. That’s how it was for most girls in Dugan.

As much as Jennifer was now tormenting herself for her past choices, she still didn’t regret not having children. She couldn’t even take care of herself. Trying to raise a child would have been impossible on top of everything else she was doing.

But on the other hand, being anchored down with a rug-rat might have been the right path to take. With a baby to worry about and a husband to keep her in check, she could have avoided the miseries and heartaches of the past few years. Jason Stoddard and Carlos Beltran might still be alive. Scotty Andrews wouldn’t be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. And Jennifer wouldn’t be a strung-out whore, wandering the streets of Dugan, Oklahoma, ashamed and without a friend in the world.

Jennifer’s mind was a mess. A whirlwind of regrets and sorrows. She was desperate to find answers. She couldn’t just wipe away her memories of the last three years. She couldn’t remove Dark Artemis from the hearts, minds, radios and record players of America. There was no way to undo what was done.

Wallowing in her shame and self-pity, the only thing that seemed right was to walk away, give it all up, repent and start her life over.

A few days ago, she couldn’t see any identity for herself beyond Dark Artemis. She was Dark Artemis.

But now, she was wondering if she wanted to be associated with the band at all. It wasn’t fun anymore. The music, fame, money and dope were all great for a while, but now they were leaving her empty, uninspired and angry with herself.

Being Dark Artemis had lost its luster.

Maybe it was time to just be…Jennifer again.

If she could remember how.

#

Randi hailed a taxi outside the television studio at Rockefeller Plaza. New York City was crazy. She wasn’t a fan. It was always cold, cloudy, and it smelled funny. She much preferred the warm, sunny climate of Southern California. But there were a lot of cool things to do and see in the Big Apple.

And now that she was famous, she could hobnob with some of the biggest names on the planet. Last time she was in town, she met David Bowie, Mick Jagger, Lou Reed, Joey Ramone and Andy Warhol.

“To the Hit Factory on Broadway, please,” Randi said to the cab driver up front.

She’d heard a lot about the Hit Factory. Another famous New York recording studio where loads of big hits were made. A friend invited her to drop by after her appearance on Donahue.

Randi didn’t care too much for recording studios in general. In her experience, there were two types. The smelly shitboxes, like Sound City back in LA, were the most laid back but you didn’t dare go in without a few trash bags and a can of Lysol. The nice places, like Capitol Studios in Hollywood, were like museums where you couldn’t smoke and they didn’t want you to touch anything.

It wasn’t so much the studios themselves. One studio was as good or bad as the next, as far as she was concerned. Randi just wasn’t fond of the record making process. Jennifer was into complicated arrangements and big, heavy production. Randi liked things simple and straightforward. And she preferred singing to live audiences. It was hard to get pumped up singing for a tape machine, especially now that she wasn’t using coke anymore. Being onstage was fun. An adrenaline rush. Being in the studio was mind-numbing, particularly so with Jennifer at the helm.

Goddamn Jennifer!

Randi loved her too much to not think about her all the time. But thinking about the little bitch made her boil with fury.

Jennifer Harrington had everything going for her. Insane musical talent. A Platinum album with three top-forty singles. Legions of adoring fans.

When the royalties started rolling in, being the band’s songwriter and owning half the publishing rights, the lion’s share went straight into Jennifer’s bank account. She was frigging loaded. She had a small mansion in the hills just outside Hollywood. Randi was renting a condo in Glendale. Jennifer had a brand-new Porsche 911. Paid cash and drove it right off the showroom floor. Randi was making payments on a ’82 Datsun pickup.

Jennifer had it made in the shade, and all she had to do was make music, travel the world first-class and smile for the fans. How hard could that be? It just didn’t make any sense.

And on top of all that, Randi and Jennifer were still upholding the public image of a super happy, lesbian power couple. Their tabloid relationship was a bigger boost to the band’s success than the music. Everyone in America, Europe and Australia either loved them or hated them. Either way, it didn’t matter. Everybody was talking about them. And the more they talked, the more concert tickets, records and t-shirts they sold.

It wasn’t just the band, label, distributors, promotors, venues and so on. Dark Artemis and the lesbian freakshow therein was selling newspapers, magazines and tabloids out the ying-yang. They were like 24-karat media gold. Every talk show they appeared on had high ratings. Companies wanted to slap the band’s name and image on their products.

Dark Artemis was making a lot of rich people richer, and everyone wanted their slice of the pie.

Only the band and a handful of insiders knew that Randi Johannes and Jennifer Harrington had not been any kind of a real couple in over a year. They didn’t even live in the same zip code or work together in the studio anymore. Jennifer wanted Randi to move into her mansion, but Randi was sober by then and Jennifer was partying more and more.

Never mind the whole spiraling into addiction thing, which was hard enough to watch. Truth be told, Jennifer was a real cunt when she was loaded.

However difficult it was to maintain, preserving and propagating the lie was everyone’s top priority.

“This way, Miss Johannes,” the Hit Factory receptionist said. Then she escorted Randi down the hallway towards Studio A3.

As they walked past Studio A1, Randi peeked through the door window and caught a glimpse of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band working on their upcoming new record.

No matter how many big-name people Randi saw, it always felt like such an honor and privilege to eye a celeb, even if she didn’t meet them face-to-face. She wasn’t over the moon about his music, but she admired The Boss just the same. She thought “Born to Run” was an okay song.

“Over ‘ere, love,” Nigel Sandels said, leaning out the control room door and waving his hand. He had a thick, East End of London accent. “I saw you on the telly. You were great.”

“Hey, Nige,” she answered. “Thanks, man! Hey, did you know Bruce Springsteen is over in A1?” Randi pointed down the hall like a giddy fan.

Randi met Nigel in Manchester when Dark Artemis was on tour in the UK. They stayed in-touch. At the time, he was the assistant promoter helping book their gigs. But now he was branching out on his own, managing new acts and always on the lookout for new talent and fresh ideas.

Randi stepped into the Studio A3 control room and heard a song with a gnarly guitar riff blaring from the monitors. It sounded killer. Raw, like it was being performed live, but thick and heavy. No singing, just drums, bass and overdubbed guitars. Her eyes popped open with wonder. She kept listening. “Who is this?”

“Devilshire. The next great heavy metal act, love,” he said with a proud grin. “The only thing missing is a blazing-hot vocal.”

Randi looked at him with her eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Now, I know you’re not asking me to sing on your record, right? You know I’m under contract. I can’t afford a one-way ticket to Lawsuit City.”

Randi and Jennifer had both been offered plenty of one-time collaborations. Before being signed to the label, Jennifer used to moonlight as a session musician in LA. Her anonymous/uncredited guitar playing could be heard on other bands’ records. But Runway Records was stingy and would never grant the permission.

And that was a shame. The world would have enjoyed seeing musical pairings like Dark Artemis featuring Ozzy Osbourne, or a rocked-up version of “Dueling Banjos” for guitar with Jennifer Harrington and Lita Ford.

“Of course, I know I can’t put you on the record, love,” Nigel said. “But I was hoping I could talk you into laying down scratch tracks for a couple of songs. The band is auditioning singers soon, and we need a demo with the right type of voice.”

Sounded like a fun little session, so Randi agreed. She was digging the music. One song was an original with no name or lyrics, and the other was a revved-up cover of “Art of Dying” by George Harrison. Both were great.

She stepped into the vocal booth and put on the headphones. They did some soundchecks while Randi warmed up her voice. Eee-aay-oh. Mee-mah-moo. La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-laaaa. She asked Nigel for a A4 note, then broke into the opening lines of Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog,” which was one of her warmup standards. She found her pipes to be a bit rusty, having not performed in several weeks. But her vocal cords were well rested and had a powerful punch.

They worked on the Harrison cover first. Randi listened and sang along to the original record a few times. She didn’t care much for The Beatles and never heard any George Harrison solo records, except maybe “My Sweet Lord,” and she wasn’t very impressed with it. But she got into this metal version of “Art of Dying,” and tracked a stellar vocal in just four takes.

Then Nigel gave her the chore and privilege of writing lyrics and creating a melody for the original song. It didn’t have to be great, he insisted, but Randi gave it her all. It was refreshing to not have Jennifer there, dictating every word and note that came out of her mouth. Randi was a decent songwriter, she thought, and she was stoked at the chance to prove it that evening at The Hit Factory on Broadway.

The Hit Factory on Broadway. It sounded so posh and high-end.

Unlike what Randi was accustomed to back in California; Sound City on Cabrito Road.

Cabrito is Spanish for goat meat.

Not so classy.

The session ended at ten o’clock. Both songs sounded great. The original, now called “Ministry of Sinistry,” showcased Randi’s songwriting and vocal skills.

You can’t see through your hypocrisy

You’re the Ministry of Sinistry

Your misery is your destiny

You’re the Ministry of Sinistry

It was edgy and unrefined by Dark Artemis standards, but that’s what she liked most about it. It didn’t sound at all like a DA record. She knew her vocals would be redone by another singer, but that was cool. She still had a blast. It was the most fun she’d had in a recording studio in a long time.

Nigel and the engineer were very pleased. The three of them sat and listened to the playback several times before Randi tuckered out and went back to her hotel.

She was flying back to LA in the morning.

#

“I don’t think this is wise,” Aunt Donna said.

Jennifer wasn’t hearing it. She was getting ready to attend the Wednesday evening service at Calvary Baptist Church. She was desperate to taste her innocent past once again, and nothing represented that more than worshiping God at her family church. Whatever else may have changed over the past three years, the church was bound to be the same as it always was.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jennifer said, slipping into the dress she left at Aunt Donna’s three years ago after running away from home. She was skinnier now than she was then, but the old frock looked perfectly appropriate for a Southern Baptist church service. “I’ll keep to myself. Nobody will recognize me.”

“But why? You said you didn’t even believe in God.”

“I’ve said lots of things,” Jennifer said, more to herself. “Nothing’s gotten me into more trouble in my life than my big mouth. Maybe I need to quit talking so much and start listening for a change.”

“Well, then I’m going with you!”

The church bells rang, and everyone filed inside the sanctuary as the service began. The whole building reverberated from the sounds of the big pipe organ inside. And with it, a sense of peace and comfort unlike anything Jennifer had felt in a long time. Like the past was already being erased and her soul rinsed clean of the muck. A sort of spiritual reset. It was wonderful.

She expected the mid-week service to have light attendance, like in the old days. But the place was packed. Close to a hundred-and-fifty, she guessed.

She and Aunt Donna sat on the back row of pews as the worship service commenced. They were singing This is My Father’s World. A worship service staple. It summed up the church’s philosophy and was the playbook for a godly, Christian home. Jennifer could have picked up a guitar and sang it word-for-word, note-for-note in her sleep.

She cringed every time the organist played a wrong note, then admonished herself for being a prideful perfectionist who would notice it in the first place.

Church was supposed to be about God’s perfection, not the organist’s. For His glory, not hers.

She realized that that was her problem. All those times when Jennifer performed special music and sang in the church choir, she was doing it for the attention. She wasn’t there to praise God. She was there for people to praise her. And when the church’s praise was no longer adequate, she set out to get it from the whole damn world.

Jennifer Harrington, one of the biggest names in popular music, was suddenly feeling very small.

As she stood and sang those familiar verses, in that familiar place, with those familiar faces, she forgot all about things like Dark Artemis and lesbians, bus crashes and drug overdoses. It was like she was whisked back in time. A time when her only worries were school, choir, and being an obedient daughter.

As horrible as all that seemed at the time, being so controlled by her parents and all, it was paradise compared to what her life had become left to her own devices and selfishness. She disobeyed her Daddy at every possible turn. And look what happened.

Jennifer had been harboring huge amounts of hatred for her father. Even before he killed Mama. But now she found herself feeling remorseful for the things she said and did to him. She was seeing through his eyes for the first time, putting herself in his shoes. Daddy was strict and could be a little unkind at times, sure, but he was a good, dependable man doing what he felt God wanted him to do. A fine father. She needed for nothing, and all she ever did was test and defy him.

She sat and started sobbing, feeling the full weight of the guilt she’d been trying to outrun for the last three years. Hating her Daddy was easier than accepting the fact that she was the one who instigated the series of events that killed both her parents. Without that hatred in her heart, the sorrow was now as deep as if she had aimed the gun and pulled the trigger herself.

Jennifer’s wailing started to attract attention. People in the nearby pews were gawking. She was inconsolable.

The music ended with the abruptness of a stylus lifted from a vinyl record, and the whole church turned towards them. Jennifer’s sobs echoed throughout the hushed sanctuary.

Pastor Bob Landon closed his hymnal, then stepped off the pulpit and started walking towards the back. He was an older man, not very tall, but stocky and muscular looking. The congregation watched.

“Bless you, my child,” he said as he approached.

Jennifer remembered Brother Landon with fondness. His deep, strong Southern voice was familiar and soothing. Her crying abated a bit. One of the ushers brought a box of tissues.

Aunt Donna took Jennifer’s hand and tried to get her up and walk her to the door, but she wasn’t budging.

The pastor sat beside Jennifer. “What burden are you carrying, child, to be here in God’s house in such a state? Would you like to come up and give your testimony and cleanse your soul?”

Without hesitation, Jennifer took his hand, nodded, and up they went, straight to the pulpit. The congregation sat, smiled and said encouraging things as she walked by, still unaware of who she was.

This was a normal thing to happen at Calvary. The preacher was big on people giving testimony. Jennifer never understood the point of it.

Until now.

Aunt Donna was flabbergasted, and a little frightened. She couldn’t decide whether to stay or book it for the door before the shit hit the fan. Most folks would know who she was as well. But she took a seat and waited with nervous hands for whatever three-ring circus might be about to happen, prepared to step in if need be.

“Come, child,” Brother Landon said, leading Jennifer to the microphone. “Lay your burdens down at the altar of God Almighty and feel His forgiveness flow.”

She stepped up to the mic, lowered the stand and tapped to be sure it was on. A quick routine she did many times on that very stage. Usually to sing, but she gave testimony a few times, too. She knew the routine.

“Hi,” she said into the mic. She was still crying, but able to speak.

“I come before you today, a wrecked soul. My sins are many, and my transgressions severe. I’ve sinned in the eyes of God, and the eyes of man. I’ve sinned in pride. In gluttony. In sexual perversion. In greed. I’ve disobeyed and dishonored my Heavenly Father…”

She broke into sobs. “… and my earthly father.”

The pastor put a hand on Jennifer’s shoulder. “Be brave, child. Share your burden. God is waiting with open arms to forgive you your sins and set you back on the path of righteousness.”

Jennifer was terrified, more so than she could remember while standing at that microphone. Part of her was already regretting this. She thought about bolting down the aisle and out the door before anyone could tell it was her. Confessing her life’s sins to the congregation was not what she had in mind for that evening.

But the Holy Spirit compelled her to stay and face the music. She felt it in her heart. Like all those years of sermons and Sunday School lessons finally clicked in her mind, and she was doing what had to be done. Owning up to her sins against God and praying for forgiveness.

There was no turning back now. She lowered her head, removed her sunglasses, brushed the hair from her face and looked back up at the congregation.

Gasps, then silence. So quiet, you could hear the air pump that powered the pipe organ. People started picking up their things, gathering their families and walking out.

Brother Landon put his arm around Jennifer and pleaded with his departing parishioners. “Folks! This broken child of God has come to bear her soul and repent of her wicked ways. She was baptized into this church body. We mustn’t turn our backs on her!”

But they did. Row by row, family by family, the sanctuary emptied out to a chorus of muffled chatter and condescending glares.

Jennifer collapsed to the floor, wailing with despair. Crushed. Shattered. Beyond redemption.

After a few minutes, the only people left in the pews were the preacher’s wife, and Aunt Donna, who was now sitting up in the front pews.

The pastor helped Jennifer back to her feet and sat her down on the bench behind the pulpit.

“Everybody hates me!” Jennifer said. “I’m gonna burn in hell!”

“No one is beyond saving. The devil tempts us all, my child. Each of us has sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.”

“But my sins are unforgiveable.”

“Sin is sin,” he said, taking hold of her hands. “People rate sin by man’s laws, but God does not. And the church doesn’t hate you, sweetheart. They hate your sin. But we needn’t be defined by our sins. You are a child of God. If you repent and denounce your wicked ways, atone for your transgressions, your sins will be forgiven, and your soul washed clean by the blood of Jesus.”

The preacher’s words were comforting, but Jennifer didn’t believe them. In her mind, she was just too far gone. She was weak, and powerless against the sins of the flesh.

“But I’m…gay,” she said in a shameful whisper, then started sobbing again. “I don’t wanna be gay anymore. Please help me.”

“Shhhh, there there.” He held Jennifer as she bawled. “Homosexuality is one of Satan’s biggest deceptions. But I know someone who can help.”

“Really?”

“He’s with an organization that specializes in helping people give up the gay lifestyle and denounce the gay agenda. Would you like me to call him and set up a meeting?”

“Yes, please. I can’t live this way anymore.”

“I know,” he said. “You don’t have to face this mountain alone. You will meet wonderful people, just like yourself, who were once homosexual but have fought and conquered their inner demons. If they can do it, so can you.”

Jennifer blew her nose, then looked up and glared at Aunt Donna with anger in her eyes. In her new mindset, Jennifer felt as though Aunt Donna was to blame for everything. At least in part. If it wasn’t for her, Randi would never have come to town and Jennifer would never have strayed so far from God’s graces.

Jennifer turned and whispered something to the preacher, gave Aunt Donna a cold stare, then stood and walked off the stage to the rear.

“Jennifer?”

The pastor stood and approached Aunt Donna. “Miss Jennifer has asked not to return to your home this evening.”

“I see.” Aunt Donna was puzzled but not shaken. “But, I’ve been named Jennifer’s temporary custodian by Sheriff Thompson. I couldn’t leave her here if I wanted to.”

“The sheriff and I are good friends.” He gave her a patronizing smirk. “I’ll give him a call, and we’ll get this mess all settled.”

“I’m not leaving here without her.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Jennifer didn’t know what she was doing. Her mind was a hurricane of horrible thoughts and feelings. Despair and confusion. Shame and guilt. All she knew was that being back at Calvary Baptist Church that evening gave her a strong sense of inner peace, while everything else in her life gave her nothing but stress and anxiety. All the fame, money, drugs and lesbians in the world couldn’t fill the gaping hole in her heart or ease the shame in her troubled soul.

She tried living her life on her own terms, according to her own desires, ignoring God’s will and resisting the teachings of her Christian upbringing. And as a result, her parents were dead, and her life was a complete mess.

Despite being one of the most successful musicians in the world, she felt like such a failure in the eyes of God. So misled. Guilty and exhausted.

She didn’t want to feel that way anymore.

Whatever it took.