Page 31 of If Not for My Baby
Man, if I’d been a high school girl learning guitar and gotto spend my afternoons under the careful tutelage of Tom Halloran…He’s watching me intently as my chest flushes at the thought. I look away from the simmering potency of his stare.
The respite only offers me a chance to study his outfit. Navy slacks, brown tweed coat with elbow patches, a white button-down beneath. My eyes travel down the length of his arm and find him casually toying with a loose thread on his pants. No sleeve has ever been too long on this man.
“I like your literature professor clothes.”
“My God.” Halloran swipes a hand down his face. “Is that what I dress like?”
“Yes, but it’s great. Never change.”Never change?What am I, signing his yearbook?
“I won’t,” he murmurs, “just for you.” He’s begun to lean toward me, and I realize I’m doing the same. Both of us sinking into the comfortable intimacy of this car ride. Before I can catch my breath, we pull into the parking garage and our driver opens Halloran’s door.
“See ya,” he says, and then he’s ushered into an elevator by aMorning ShowPA.
The pre-show buzz around the studio is familiar and energizing me. I can hear a comic warming up the studio audience on the other side of the wall. I’m brought into the fitting room first for hair and makeup, both of which I find oddly soothing. It’s almost showtime—a space I feel most like myself.
When the lovely hair and makeup team is finished with me—and I look less like I rolled out of bed and more like I sing professionally for a living—I’m brought into a viewingroom with a beige couch and some refreshments. Lionel, Jen, and Indy are in here, too.
“Holy hell,” Indy chirps. “You lookgorgeous.”
I peer into a framed mirror on one of the walls. She’s not entirely wrong: the professional winged eyeliner has made my round eyes mesmerizing. And surely my skin has never looked this dewy or clear.
“Pretty,” Jen says, eyes on her phone. “And I like the black, very slimming.”
“Camera does add ten pounds,” Lionel says, as if letting me down gently. I don’t allow myself to hiss at him.
The flowing black dress they put me in has a sort of mournfully folksy vibe, which is only improved upon by the dangling earrings and black cowboy boots. As an ashy blonde I don’t wear a lot of black unless I’ve got a decent tan going in the summer, otherwise I can veer into ghoul territory. But this lace dress is dramatic and gothic, and if I were the stealing type I might just take it home with me.
“Shh, they’re starting,” Indy announces.
Joe Jennings is a clean-cut, well-manicured TV man. The kind of person you can’t imagine being six years old. He was born in a suit and tie, and his first words were“We’re live.”
“So please give a warm welcome to our guest,” Joe says, wrapping up his introduction, “Halloran!”
The crowd cheers and Halloran lopes out from behind a curtain, waving to the audience and pressing his palms together in a show of gratitude. He sits across from Joe and crosses, then uncrosses his legs. He’s too long for the chair and it’s painfully cute.
It dawns on me that the brooding, intimidating Halloran that sings about devils and crones and corpses in bogs is at almost inextricable odds with the kind, gentle man I’m currently watching through the monitor.
“We’re thrilled to have you,” Joe says to him.
“I’m feckin’ delighted to be here.”
“Fuck,” Jen says. “Already?”
Lionel groans and begins feverishly texting someone. “I’m on it.”
Halloran doesn’t seem to realize he’s cursed on live network television, and Joe moves past the gaffe like a pro. “It’s been five years since your first album,To the End, was released. The hiatus beforeKingfisherseemed to only fuel the mystery that surrounds you and your music. Is that why you made your fans wait?”
“I— Sometimes songwriting can have a timetable of its own, and for me, as an artist, I think—”
“Well, to your fans, you’re less of an artist and more of an ethereal bog creature.” Joe pauses so the audience can laugh and cheer. “Where do you think this lore stems from?”
Halloran chuckles, bracing his hands on his knees. “Yeah, my spectral form and Druid’s cloak aren’t doin’ me any favors, are they?”
The audience roars their laughter but Joe doesn’t appear too amused.
“Well.” Halloran scratches his beard softly. “Ireland is unlike many other places. We’ve got these mirrored lakes and forests thicker than a blanket. It’s very old land. Haunting. Mystical…I employ a fair bit of that imagery in my music.”
The way Halloran’s eyes light up when he talks about home is at diametric odds with how hideously bored Joe looks. It makes me want to backhand him.
