Kristin Hersh - Rat Girl

“Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s, you know… pregnancy’s very beautiful,” he adds, distracted, sucking down another cup of tea. Then the phone rings and Gil does nearly jump out of his skin, shuddering impressively. When the phone is answered and no one tells him to get on a plane, he exhales and replaces his cup on its saucer with a sigh. “Do I seem nervous to you ? I mean, exceptionally so?”

“Well, I don’t really know you. You do seem a little… caffeinated, I guess.”

He stares into the distance again. “Yeah,” then pours another cup of tea.

The chef races into the room and stands at the table, staring at us. When we look up, she asks us if we’d like another pot of tea. She stresses the word “another” as if we’d already drunk enough for ten people because Gil has drunk enough for ten people this morning. “Yes, please!” Gil answers, a little too loudly.

“Maybe if you didn’t drink so much tea, you wouldn’t feel so tense,” I suggest.

“Huh?” He looks into his cup. “Tea calms me down.”

“It does?”

Gil thinks. “Maybe that’s just in England.”

“I hear tea’s better there.”

He squeezes some pale brown liquid out of a tea bag and frowns. “Yes,” he sighs. “Yes, it is.”

I walk into the Chattanooga church holding my grandmother’s hand. The building is cavernous, echoing with loud organ music. The people around us are dressed up: the women wear pearls and diamond pins and smell like hair spray, the men wear suits and string ties and smell like mouthwash.

My hair is always down, my mother makes all my clothes and I’m usually allowed to go barefoot. This morning, though, I’m wearing a starched, store-bought dress and tight, hard, unyielding shoes. My hair is pulled back so tight my eyebrows are on wrong. I’ve been pressed and primped to the point of immobility because I have to go to church.

I want desperately to leave. Outside is right outside and I can’t get there.

Jesus would hate this place, I think bitterly.

I can’t scream anymore. In these headphones, a real lung-ripping scream would sound like an explosion. I mean, if you just stand in front of the microphone not making a sound, you can hear your clothes . Singing is like a freight train running through your head, and screaming is just… out of the question; it can’t happen.

Back in my real life, when evil would kick in, it wanted the explosion, wanted my lungs ripped open and I did, too. Screams’d just fly out of my mouth then, but right now, I’m wasting everybody’s time, singing as if the words and notes were dead. Expensive hours are going by while I… I don’t know, my version of humming along. I sound like anybody. I fake scream: a tame yelling that sounds like loud singing—just stupid.

But I don’t care, because it’s safe. The song can’t get me or the baby if I fake it. It reaches for me when it races past and I lightly step out of the way, watch the roller coaster from a distance. No heat, no pain, no nothing. I’ve shaken off the witch’s curse and the Doghouse.

Last night, after the tattoos went spinning down the drain, there was nothing left underneath but some girl wrapped in a towel.

Standing in front of the mic, useless, I realize I no longer think like a musician. I try to remember what that was like. What did I used to say?

That I had a calling, I was on a mission.

That music is beautiful math, that it’s owning violence.

Songs are electricity, my religion.

Music is how we respect hurt and happiness.

Hmmm… nope. I feel like I could just wander off.

firepile

So we move from take to take, erasing every vocal I put down. It’s Gil’s job to coax an authentic performance out of me and instead, we’re just taking a lot of walks. Gil’s going quietly crazy. “Take five,” he says cheerfully, through gritted teeth. “Come outside with me, Kris. Let’s take a walk.”

I swore I wouldn’t waddle like the married professionals when my middle got this big, so I use these walks to practice my Not Waddling. One foot in front of the other. We always take the same route down a rural lane, past farm houses, orchards and lime green hills, then along a dirt road that ends in the petting zoo barn full of lambs and calves and bales of hay. It really is pretty here.

I know I should be more frustrated than this, but I’m feeling vague, enjoying the view. I never wanted that horrible voice to happen in the first place—it’s hard to be upset about it not happening. And I don’t want yesterday to repeat itself; I really don’t think I have it in me. Giving up feels so much better. So I lost music. Big deal. It was never very nice to me anyway.

Gil, however, is not feeling vague, is not enjoying the view. He looks pained. “You don’t sound like you when you sing. What is it, Kris?” Putting an arm around my shoulders, he asks sweetly, “Are you not angry enough? You want me to say something insulting?” He pushes his glasses up his nose and squints into the bright blue New England sky as we trudge down the road yet again.

I grin. “You could try. I’m not easily insulted. I’d probably just agree with you.”

“What would make you angry?” he asks.

“I don’t know. You just made me sing the same song all day; I should be pretty pissed off right now. I don’t think that’s it, though. The songs aren’t angry ; they’re intense . A song doesn’t have to be dopey to be happy.”

He stops and looks at me. “You think your songs are happy ? ”

“Well, maybe not ‘happy.’ Celebratory .”

“So why don’t you sound like yourself?” He squints into the sky. “What’d make you sound celebratory ?”

“I do sound like myself. That’s the problem. This is my voice. The songs’ voice is the one you’re looking for and I honestly don’t know where it is.”

Gil’s eyes widen. “The songs’ voice?”

“Yeah.”

“The song isn’t Kristin?”

“Oh god, no.” Geez, that’d be awful. “It’s best if I’m not feeling anything. Otherwise, I crawl into the song and start messing it up. Like I just did.” He stares at me for a second, then starts walking again.

I catch up as best I can without waddling. One foot in front of the other . “You can still say something insulting, if you want, Gil. I deserve it.”

He can only come up with a half smile. “Would you like to talk to Ivo? We could call him when we get back to the studio.”

“You mean for a pep talk?”

“Input,” he answers.

“Sure,” I say, “but I don’t know if it’ll help.”

“Are you sure the song isn’t you, Kris?” asks Gil.

“Well, if it is , then it’s evil me.”

He looks very sad. I don’t know if he’s feeling sorry for me, for Ivo or for himself. Maybe he’s feeling sorry for our doomed record. “So why isn’t she here?” he asked.

“Evil me? I’m kind of relieved she isn’t here. I don’t like her very much. She’s not a good babysitter.”

He stops walking and brightens. “You’re worried about the baby?”

“Yeah. Duh-uh. Evil Kristin screams pretty loud.”

“Right.” He rubs his hands together, looking busy again. “Evil Kristin is supposed to scream loud. I could take your vocal out of the cans; then you wouldn’t be so loud in your own head. You could really let go. I reckon you know the feel of the notes by now, so your tuning’ll be okay.” He looks excited.