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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781491856505 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 11/04/2014 |
| Pages: | 254 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.58(d) |
About the Author
Paul Williams is an Oscar, Grammy, and Golden Globe winning Hall of Fame songwriter ("Rainbow Connection," "Evergreen," and "We've Only Just Begun") and President of the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers (ASCAP). He is a major public force in the recovery movement, a graduate of UCLA's Drug and Alcohol Counseling Certification Program and has served as a member of the National Council on Alcoholism and Drug Dependence Board of Directors. He was a founding board member and counselor for the Musicians Assistance Program (MAP), now the treatment wing of MusiCares.
Read an Excerpt
Magnolia Grove
By Paul Williams
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2014 Paul WilliamsAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4918-5650-5
CHAPTER 1
Easter New Orleans
The Citation jet veered off the runway of New Orleans International Airport and taxied to its parking spot some distance from the main commercial passenger terminal of, its sleek white fuselage glinting in the bright spring sunshine. As the plane bounced gently to a halt, the co-pilot made his way into the cabin and opened the hatched door, allowing the steps to deploy. As he did so, a large black limousine eased its way across the tarmac and stopped as close to the steps as possible. The driver, smartly dressed in a pale gray suit, jumped out and opened the rear door. Mary Levesque, Michael's mother, climbed out, crossed to the plane and hurried up the steps. She was petite and pretty, her youthful looks belying her forty-five years; so much so that many, on first acquaintance, assumed that she was Michael's sister. Her long dark hair was beautifully pinned into a French braid and she wore a neat hat of dark blue that matched her immaculately tailored suit and was tilted coquettishly towards the front and left. Mary hopped up the steps with the lightness of a ballerina, which was not surprising as she had trained at the Royal Ballet School in London. She barely ducked to enter the cabin and, despite the low headroom in the plane, she did not have to stoop as she made her way to where Michael was still seated. He reached for the pair of crutches he still carried with him, although now more out of habit.
"Hi, Mom," he said, as he caught sight of her. "You didn't need to come all the way out here."
Ignoring his remarks, she stooped to kiss Michael on his cheek.
"How is everything?" she asked, smiling, although a worried frown fleetingly creased her forehead.
"Getting better every day," he replied, smiling comfortably, "but not quite ready for the two hundred meters." He laughed, clambering awkwardly to his feet and giving his mother a warm and heartfelt hug. "How's Father?"
"Oh, fine," Mary replied, brusquely, a hint of exasperation in her voice. "He was hoping to come out here too, but something came up about the development on the river. He had to meet some people from.... um," she hesitated briefly, "the Corps of Engineers.... does that sound right?.... It's something to do with the levee, or levees. Anyway, he says he's sorry but will get home as soon as possible." She looked around the cabin with a trace of confusion. "But where's Nancy?" she continued, looking puzzled. "Wasn't she supposed to be coming?"
Michael smiled wryly. "It seems that a championship football quarterback is one thing, but a football wreck, another," he said sardonically. "With my prospects in the NFL draft now looking questionable, I guess I'm not quite as useful to her modeling career as I used to be."
"Oh Mickey, I'm sorry," Mary sounded upset. She looked into his eyes. "But you know," she added positively, "in all honesty, we were never that keen on her. Anyway," she added, "she's the one who'll lose out."
"Yeah, I guess," sighed Michael, determined not to get into protracted discussions about his former girlfriend. "Life's a bitch." He smiled a brief hard smile. "Let's get out of this flying cigar."
Carrying his crutches clumsily in his left hand, but without using them for support, Michael followed his mother and shuffled to the aircraft's hatch, encumbered by the short fiberglass cast that supported his knee. He let himself down the steps and headed for the limousine. "How are Billy and Susanne?" he asked his mother, tossing his crutches through the car's rear door and onto the floor. Billy and Susanne were his older brother and younger sister. "Are they home too?"
"Yes, they're here," replied Mary. "I'll tell you all about it on the way to town," she said, watching him shuffle through the door, before climbing in herself.
The limousine left the airport, eased onto Interstate 10 and headed east towards New Orleans. Michael quizzed his mother about his siblings. He was genuinely heartened to hear that they were both in town for the Easter celebrations and a long weekend. Billy had just joined a law firm in Atlanta and was on the fast track to a partnership, having passed out top of his class at Harvard. Susanne had just completed her first year at the University of Virginia, with an aim of becoming a doctor down the road:—at least, that was their father's intention, possibly fueled by Michael's own interest in the field of medicine. Michael knew his sister better, however, and despite her genuine warmth and love for humanity, he doubted her true commitment to a career, particularly one as onerous as medicine. Her romanticism, acquired from their mother, and a certain hard headedness and stubbornness, derived from their father, suggested to Michael that she might rebel against "those narrow minded bigots," as she called them, "who appear to dictate that a woman can only be 'truly fulfilled', by going out to work. What about being truly fulfilled by raising a decent and stable family, she had argued to Michael, who felt it was quite likely that she might just settle down to use her own genuine talents in bringing up a family: and who was he to argue? He had to admit that here were too many virtually parentless children in the country. Michael could almost visualize the battle of wills between his father and Susanne. He smiled inwardly at the prospect that in the end, and much to their father's chagrin, Susanne would likely prevail.
The road swung past the Metairie Cemetery and headed south towards the heart of the city. Michael approved the construction activity outside his window and the changes and improvements that were blossoming in the city. At last, there were heartwarming signs of revitalization after the assault of Hurricane Katrina in 2005. There was new construction springing up all around and the roads seemed as busy as they had been before the storm.
The limousine swept down the Poydras Street exit ramp off 1-10 passing the vast concrete hatbox that was the 'Superdome', now fully refurbished. Michael pursed his lips as they passed. "Well, I don't suppose I will be playing there anytime soon," he said out loud: "If at all," to himself, morosely. The Saints had expressed considerable interest in him prior to his injury.
"Don't say that Mickey," said Mary. "Dr. Gillespie said you still have a wonderful chance of making a full recovery."
Michael stared at the massive structure in silence. So many dreams and aspirations seemed to have been shattered in that last second of the Orange Bowl. Despite his Heisman trophy, his prospective number one draft ranking had taken a hammering and, to be fair, he could understand why. His knee injury had been devastating:—disrupted medial collateral ligament and anterior cruciate ligament; osteochondral fracture of the lateral femoral condyle, disrupted lateral meniscus and a compression fracture of his tibial plateau was the official diagnosis:—destroyed knee was the practicality. Although his surgeon was optimistic, the football scouts and NFL owners and coaches were cautious. One could hardly blame them. They were understandably wary of handing over countless millions of dollars for a player that might not survive the rigors of the NFL.
The car continued down Poydras and turned right onto St. Charles, heading for the Garden District. Within a few blocks, they left the commercial area and entered the residential neighborhoods with their magnificent mansions and antebellum period houses. The district was looking particularly spectacular, as it always did at this time of year, with a kaleidoscope of colors from the blooming azaleas set against a backdrop of pure white from flowering dogwoods at their peak. Dappled sunlight tumbled through the massive live oaks shimmering on their new, bright green foliage. A street car rumbled along the central street divider, its sash windows open to allow the breeze to pass through and framing the faces of the tourists who were enjoying the most perfect of spring mornings. Despite his inner despondency, Michael felt a wave of exhilaration at the scene that surrounded him, as indeed he had every spring that he could remember since his family had moved to the Garden District, fifteen years earlier.
They crossed Washington as another streetcar groaned its way along the tracks. A short distance further down the road, the limo turned into the driveway of "Beau Site," a substantial but unostentatious neoclassical house, bracketed by live oaks and smothered by azaleas ablaze with color. Gaston, the manservant, was standing on the covered porch at the top of the wide but short flight of brick steps. Michael's brother Billy, his wife Laura and his sister Susanne came through the front door as the limousine came smoothly to a halt. The reception party quickly descended the steps and Gaston threw open the rear door of the car. Michael's mother climbed out and stood back as Gaston and Billy attempted to help Michael through the car door. He waved them away.
"Thanks, but I've gotta get used to doing things for myself," he said in explanation, handing Billy his crutches.
"Welcome home Master Michael," said Gaston implacably. Michael smiled. Every time he saw Gaston, he seemed to become more and more like the impeccable, fictional Wodehouse character 'Jeaves'.
Susanne was less restrained and threw her arms around her brother in an emotional hug of joy and support. "Oh Mickey," she cried," it's so good to have you home. "How are you?" she enquired awkwardly. "I mean; oh, you know what I mean." She looked enquiringly into his eyes, hoping for some encouragement.
At twenty years of age, Susanne was astonishingly beautiful with her mother's neat figure, but standing a full 5' 8" in height. She had shoulder length auburn hair tied back with a pale blue ribbon, and large wide brown eyes above a perfect nose. Even in denim jeans and a sweatshirt, she had unbelievable poise.
Michael patted her head affectionately as he had when they were younger. Usually, this would have generated a swift and biting response about her not being a little girl anymore. But today, Susanne stood with tears welling up in her eyes, for once at a loss for words.
"I'll be fine," he smiled. "Just you wait and see."
Still holding Michael's crutches Billy put his arm around Michael's shoulder. Three years older than Michael, he was already an imposing and, in a way, awe inspiring figure. Michael was tall, but Billy was taller, standing 6' 5" in height and much broader, having acquired most of the genes from his father's side of the family, whereas Michael although well built, took more after his mother.
"Well," said Billy seriously, "I guess the good side of this is that you have had plenty of time to hit the books!"
Michael glanced at him quizzically, uncertain as to the sincerity of the remark and irked by the patronizing tone. Billy was in fact also an excellent athlete, but took his work extremely seriously. Even as a child, he would often stay at home reading while Michael was out climbing trees, paddling his canoe along the bayous, or practicing football, throwing long easy passes to friends. During college, Billy had excelled scholastically and, together with their father, had often chided Michael for his easygoing attitude and lack of dedication to the "drudgery of studying," as Michael regarded it. For his part however, Michael had done surprisingly well in class and had constantly irritated Billy and his father by always managing to achieve the necessary grades without apparently having done any studying. His sports, however, particularly football, were his priority in life and he had always been assured of sporting scholarships, even without his surprising academic success.
"Thanks Billy," said Michael affably, "but I've had enough of bookwork the last three months to last a lifetime!"
Billy's wife Laura stepped forward, an awkward wooden smile on her lips. She gave Michael a somewhat mechanical peck on his cheek. "It's good to see you again," she said unemotionally and without any true warmth in her voice. She was petite, like Michael's mother, but there the similarity ended. Her hair was dirty blonde, shoulder length and although expensively treated, hung uninterestingly in a lifeless bob. She had tried, rather unsuccessfully for Michael's taste, to highlight her face with imaginative makeup, but her lips were too red and her eyes too black. Michael wondered whether his impressions were biased by his feelings towards her and tried to be impartial. It was no good; he still could not imagine a single reason as to why Billy had married her and, for the umpteenth time came to the ungracious conclusion that, inexplicably, she must have been surprisingly good in bed. Still, that was Billy's affair and they both seemed happy enough.
"Where is Nancy?" asked Susanne puzzled.
"Missed the plane," replied Michael carelessly. Indeed, for the most part, he felt unemotional about her now. There was no bitterness: not that there hadn't been initially. After his injury, Michael had sensed the distance between them growing, but felt that it had probably been caused by his own preoccupation with his recovery. Two days earlier Nancy had left their pad in his parent's house in Boston saying that she needed to sort some things out at her own place, and that she would not be back for a few days. Being a model, employment was patchy and Michael was surprised, knowing that she had no definite bookings until May.
Then came the call.
"So sorry Michael, but I really think it would be a waste of our time if I went to New Orleans with you," etcetera, etcetera; "possible work trip to Aruba ... seem to be going in different directions.... now that you can get around, you don't really need me anymore.... hope we can still be friends.... see you around."
Despite his underlying concerns and doubts about the long-term strength of the relationship, Michael had been caught completely off guard. Through the emotional fog into which he had been thrown, he heard himself uttering a few phrases about good times together, understanding her motives and wishing her well, without really meaning any of it. When the phone went dead, he had sat on the bed for several minutes, his mind a confused blank. Finally he had grabbed his crutches, made his way to the kitchen, seized a six pack of beer from the refrigerator and, stuffing it into a tote back he slung around his neck, had gone into the sitting room where he had stared blankly at the ESPN sports network on TV until the six pack was gone. Finally, feeling not much better, he had made his way, rather unsteadily, to his bedroom and collapsed into an unforgiving sleep.
Susanne gave Michael a squeeze, but said nothing. Despite her mother's misgivings, she had liked Nancy. After her initial spontaneous reaction of surprise and her prejudices with regard to her brother dating a high profile model, she had soon changed her mind. Nancy was not the beautiful, cold and unimaginative dullard that Susanne had assumed all models to be, but was actually fun loving and outgoing, if a little materialistic—possibly too materialistic. As a football star in the media spotlight, Michael was clearly going to be a big help to her in her career, not to mention a financial support should her own star cease to shine.
Now, however, with his knee injury, the possibility of Michael giving up football and spending another four years in training to become a doctor and away from the football spotlight seemed quite likely. He would quite possibly drop out of public view, living in an apartment somewhere near the Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, and with even more years of residency, who knew where he might end up. For an aspiring model, a long-term relationship with Michael, the doctor, was clearly not very appealing. The practical side of Susanne saw immediately that this had been an understandable, if somewhat calculating decision on the part of Nancy.
The party made its way up the stairs to the enormous covered porch that surrounded the front half of the house, and crossed to the ornate double doors that opened into a spectacular two-story foyer. The room was at least thirty feet in length and twenty feet wide with large double doors at each side: to the left, giving entrance to the formal living room and to the right to the men's "smoking room," now used as a study by Michael's father. An ornate staircase gently curved up to the gallery above, which surrounded the foyer and gave access to several rooms. A vast intricate crystal chandelier hung down from the ceiling, which was intricately molded to follow the curvature of the gallery. As a child, Michael had always secretly wanted to emulate the swash buckling antics of Errol Flynn by swinging across the foyer on the chandelier, but had never quite overcome his fear of his father's wrath, should the structure crash to the floor.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Magnolia Grove by Paul Williams. Copyright © 2014 Paul Williams. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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