may not be gentle, but she was genuine. I found her frankness a relief. No sad eyes and sympathy from Esther Mine, and I was suddenly glad.
“I thought you were here to make me feel better,” I said, admitting nothing.
“I never said I was here to make you feel better. I said I needed you. I’m here for myself.”
I chuckled again, and this time it was easier. “You really need to work on your compassion, Baby Ruth.”
“Do you want me to sing? I seem to recall that working the last time you tried to get me to leave when I wanted to stay,” she said, laughing with me, the sound so rich and warm I almost moaned with pleasure.
“Oh, you mean the time you offered to sleep with me if you had to?” I teased.
“I was just testing you,” she said, but the color deepened in her cheeks, and she lifted her hair from her neck like she’d grown a little warm.
“Well, I definitely want you to sing,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “I can’t just sing a song at the drop of a hat.”
“Sure you can. You have. You did!”
“I was desperate. I’m not desperate anymore. Can you write a song on demand?” she huffed.
“Songwriting is easy,” I said, shrugging.
She scoffed and rolled her eyes.
“Give me a word. I’ll show you.”
She screwed up her nose and pursed her glossy lips.
“Chicken.”
I grimaced. “What kind of word is that?”
She snickered. “Sorry. I’m hungry.” Her stomach growled, underlining her claim.
“All right,” I said, cracking my knuckles. “Let’s write a song about a chicken.”
“I can’t wait to hear this.”
“Key of E maybe? E for ‘Esther’? Or C for ‘chicken’?”
“How about G . . . for ‘good chicken,’” she said, laughing. “I want some good chicken.”
“Nah. You’re not gonna like this chicken. He’s scared.” I played a few chords and decided on a rhythm. “Here we go. I got it.” I cleared my throat and started the way Ray Charles began “I Got a Woman,” where the piano answered the lines.
“You strut all over town,” I sang and then let my fingers strut across the keys in reply. “But girl, I know the truth.” Bum ba di dum.
“You’re afraid of me, it’s plain to see. You’re chicken.”
Esther whooped, and I sent my fingers scurrying from black to white like a fox in the henhouse, feathers flying everywhere.
“Yeah, you’re scared. You’re lonely. And you’re chicken,” I growled, and Esther threw her head back, laughing.
“Get low. Get way down low and flap your chicken wings,” I demanded, picking up the speed. “Get high, get way up high, and swing now, baby, swing. I know you won’t admit it. You’d rather dance and sing. But you’re afraid of me, it’s plain to see. You’re chicken.”
I finished with a bluesy flourish, another bum ba di dum, and a small bow.
“Good Lord, Benny Lament,” Esther said, shaking her head. “You did it. You just wrote a song about a chicken.”
“Songwriting is easy,” I said again. And suddenly the pain was back, pressing on my chest and sinking down into the pit of my stomach. That was the problem with forgetting, even for a moment, that Pop was gone. I always remembered again.
Esther’s laughter was suddenly gone too, like she felt the moment Pop returned.
“Is that why you do it?” Esther asked.
I shrugged. “Why do any of us do what we do? I can’t help myself. Never could.”
She took a deep breath. “Are women easy for you too, Benny?”
“Now where did that come from?” I said, scowling at her. She stared back, dark eyes searching.
“Sometimes I think you feel something for me,” she said slowly. “You are kind in a way that makes me think you care. But you . . . you can’t wait to get rid of me half the time. I can’t figure you out. You tease me. You even tease me about sleeping with you. But you’ve never even tried to kiss me.”
“It’s easy to get entangled. I never get entangled,” I said.
“Why?”
“I don’t dare. The minute you start relying on something to make you feel better—smokes, alcohol, junk—is the moment you lose your power. Everything feels like a trap. Even people. Especially people.”
“So you avoid everything that makes you feel good?” she asked.
“Music makes me feel good. Writing makes me feel good. Working . . . that makes me feel good.”
“I’m going to start calling you Benny the Saint. Saint Benedict,” she muttered.
“When I was little, I learned that wanting was better than having,” I