Veronica Perfect

1. January 1982, Toronto, Ontario, Canada

The Graces are back.

And the increasing number parading up the street and camping out in front of my home unsettles me.

I sit on the cedar chest, watching the fans from my second-floor apartment window of the Victorian duplex while smoking a cigarette and stroking my cat, Bertie. Young men and women lay marigolds against the building along with handmade cards and small gifts, blocking my store entrance—customers often having to sidestep or leap over them to get through the door.

I’ve accepted that my home has become a famous shrine to Jackie Chandler, lead singer for legendary sixties’ band, the Next. As his former muse, I’m resigned to my place in rock and roll history—his songs have fettered us together forever. So, I don’t want to discourage the Graces. That Jackie still inspires such devotion and loyalty fills me with joy…if I avoid overthinking it.

A nasally voice jolts me back to the task at hand.

“Doesn’t it irritate you, Veronica, all those kids hanging around your home and business, day and night?”

I’ve almost forgotten I have a guest—well, a journalist, hardly a “guest.” People magazine is interviewing me for a “Where Are They Now” retrospective of the Next upon the release of Directions 1962-1982, a 20th anniversary compilation album. Molly’s persuaded me to come out of seclusion, insisting the press coverage would be great publicity for our clothing boutique.

But it’s also been 10 years since I let Jackie walk away from a life he considered too complicated and painful. So I doubt this journalist is interested in vintage haute couture.

As it’s only 3:20 p.m. and dinner’s at six, I’ll humor the press for a bit to distract me from my spiraling thoughts. Giving the reporter my well-rehearsed Mona Lisa smile, I say, “I’m not bothered by the Graces. They mean no harm.”

At one time, I found them an annoyance, a threat to the serenity I craved. But I’ve since realized they come bearing love and hope—not to disrupt, but to keep Jackie’s spirit alive.

And, perhaps, his body.

Sometimes I wish I still had their youthful optimism. Then I remember its hidden dangers.

The gray skies outside my window cry with sleet, and the Graces resemble sad, wet puppies, staring at the flowers and sodden paper tributes. Three girls, wearing sopping parkas and soggy woolen toques, shiver as they link arms, sway, and croon an off-key rendition of the Next’s first North American hit, “Come Into My World.” A melancholic attempt to conjure him back to life, I guess. I admire their passion.

And deep down, I’ll always be one of them.

Swallowing can’t dislodge the swelling in my throat.

The journalist sets her tape recorder, pad and pencil on the table, and my lip curls at the sinister still life, like poisoned apples in a fruit bowl. I shift from the comfort of the cedar chest to the hardback chair across from her and stab out my cigarette in the ashtray, while Bertie remains at his perch, glowering at her with his yellow eyes.

She clears her throat. “I figured you’d be used to interviews. I guess it’s been a while?”

I shrug and light another cigarette. “And nobody cared what I thought before.”

“But you’re a legend, a survivor, and now, a businesswoman!”

“Back then, they said I was a slut and a groupie.”

“Veronica. Times were different. But today you’re considered a feminist icon!”

The reporter’s obviously trying to butter me up. I spit-laugh and bat away the compliment. “God, I’m a cautionary tale if anything.”

She reaches for my hand, but I don’t offer it, even if her concern appears genuine.

In the end, the press will get it wrong. They always do. She searches my face for the reaction I refuse to give her, then sighs.

“Look, I realize why you went into hiding back then. The public was cruel and unfair…” She presses the “record” and “play” buttons on the tape recorder. “But you can tell me…Are the rumors true? Is he still alive?”

I roll my eyes and motion with my hand for her to pause the machine. She blinks but obliges.

“I thought you were interviewing me about my life now.”

“It’s been 10 years since Jackie disappeared! He’s like Elvis or Jim Morrison—some believe he never died and will grasp at anything to prove it. Your word means a lot.” She depresses the pause button. With a click and a whirr, the machine resumes taping the awkward silence while I stare at the band of gold on the third finger of my left hand. Then I gaze out the window, considering my words.

“I don’t know if he’s alive.”

That confession provides no catharsis. Only guilt. But it silences the reporter as she waits for the clarification that never comes. Then she tightens her lips and clears her voice.

‟Okay, let’s start at the beginning…”

I relax my shoulders.

“You were a typical teen from an ordinary suburban Canadian family. How did you become the glamorous rock star muse and consort everyone called ‘Veronica Perfect’?”

After considering the answer, my mouth curls up into a genuine smile.

“From the moment I first heard Jackie Chandler sing, ‘Come Into My World.’ I took it as a literal invitation…”

.

2. February 1965, Port Arthur, Ontario, Canada

I’m dying of hypothermia. And it’s all Daddy’s fault.

Despite what he and Mom say, I’m not being overly dramatic—it’s a fact.

Last year, he forced our family to move 900 stupid miles away to Nowheresville just as I was about to tryout for the National Ballet School in Toronto. All because of his new job as an English professor at Lakehead University. “And cleaner air, more wholesome lifestyle,” he declared.

Mom said nothing, not that Daddy would listen to her. I protested, screamed and cried that he was destroying my life, but Daddy said I should stop daydreaming and prepare for “the real world.”

So instead of practicing pirouettes in a warm studio within a cosmopolitan city to prepare for my eventual career as a prima ballerina, I’m skidding home up a snow-encrusted road away from my new high school in a northern Ontario mill town while bitter, 30-below-zero wind chills burn my throat and lungs. My nostrils stick together, and the wind whips up my skirt, freezing my lady parts, not that I’ll ever use them now.

Eventually, I want to be a wife and mother, of course. But on my first day of school, I laid eyes on my potential husbands—knuckle-dragging, greasy-haired, pimply creeps driving pickup trucks—and knew I had to move back to Toronto immediately, or I’d be doomed.

Then, I grew five inches—Too tall and grotty to be a redneck’s wife, never mind a prima ballerina.

Now I’m just ginger, spotty, future old maid, Veronica Parfitt, age 16, the “Jolly Red Giant” of Hammarskjold High. I reside in one of 10 identical brick and stucco bungalows on Birch Court, a cul-de-sac within Forest Park, a subdivision named in honor of the trees they cut down to build it.

If not for rock and roll, I would never survive.

I hum “A World Without Love” as I peer at my feet lurching around the ice patches on the road, almost colliding with Mrs. Dekker in her red Cadillac. She may resemble Jayne Mansfield, but she had a country hit on the radio a gazillion years ago. Square. But I wave as she honks and drives by because Daddy says young ladies must be nice if they want nice things to happen to them.

When I remind him the popular girls at school aren’t, he says nice ladies don’t whine either.

I arrive at home, my legs aching from keeping my balance…my lungs in pain from breathing the frigid air…my heart hurting because I ache to move back to Toronto.

Mom’s voice echoes from the kitchen as I enter the house. “Veronica?”

“Yeah.” I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the tears, then drop my books, kick off my boots, and hang up my coat and fur hat.

She wipes her hands on an apron that covers her swollen belly and says, “Letter came,” gesturing toward an envelope on the coffee table.

I squeal as I snatch it up, clutch it to my bosom, and skip down the hallway to the bedroom. My transistor radio blares on the other side of the door.

Peegee, my four-year-old sister, looks up and grins as the door creaks open. She lies atop her pink canopy bed drawing while bobbing her red curly head and singing off-key along with “She’s A Woman.”

“‘Ronica! I’m drawing a picture of you and Paul ‘Cartney!” She waves a paper at me. After watching Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella on TV, she thinks she's my fairy godmother and her pen’s a magic wand that can give me my “happily ever after” through her pictures. She draws on the backs of shopping lists, the margins of her picture books, the insides of discarded envelopes—and I title each according to her description: “Princess ‘Ronica trapped in a tower”...“Princess ‘Ronica sleeps for 100 years”...“Princess ‘Ronica marries Prince Charming.”

I wave my envelope back. “And I got a letter from Carol McKee!”

Her eyes widen, and she leaps off her bed and onto mine, curling up under my arm. Ripping open the envelope, I unfold the paper, skim, and read aloud the g-rated version:

“‘Dear Ronnie, How are you? Any body parts frozen off yet? I’m okay…Barb and Dave broke up because…’ hmm…‘School is boring as always, but the cheerleaders had a party and Ken Squier drove me home and then…’ Uhhh…‘Anyway, here’s the plan—my folks…’”

I stop reading out loud, but sit up and scan the words:

…will be at the cottage most of the summer and I get to stay home! Dad bought me an old Beetle so we can drive to Bala and back on weekends! Please come to Toronto!!!

I groan, flopping back onto my pillow. My folks would never let me go if Carol’s parents weren’t home.

Peegee frowns. “What’s wrong?”

Wrinkling my nose, I stuff the letter back into the envelope and toss it onto my nightstand. “Nothing.”

In silence, Peegee and I spoon on the bed while staring at the pinups on my wall. The Beatles…Dave Clark Five…Herman’s Hermits…They smile at me like benevolent Prince Charmings, wanting to rescue me…

If only I had a magic wand. I choke back tears. Now even summer’s ruined. The radio plays “Mr. Lonely” and my body quakes. Peegee hugs me as the song fades out.

And then...

C-K-P-R Five-Eight-Ooooohhh!

Watch out, Fab Four, here comes the Next with “Come Into My World!”

A jangly guitar dances from the speaker. When I hear the singer’s smooth, masculine voice, I swallow and blink.

Come into my world, little girl,

Let me hold you, little girl,

I’ll kiss your pain away!

Peegee’s green eyes sparkle as we beam at each other.

...Take my hand and come into my world…

The song fades out, the DJ’s voice breaks in with news at the top of the hour, and Prince Charming gallops away with my heart…

#

“Oh my god, Ron. Do you have indoor plumbing and electricity up there?” Carol McKee snaps her bubble gum into the telephone receiver. “Of course, I’ve heard of the Next—only the most fab band ever! Jackie Chandler is even dreamier than Paul McCartney!”

My legs dangle over the arm of Mom’s easy chair, my foot keeping the beat to “Eight Days A Week” on the radio “Pfft. Prove it!”

“I will! Get your skinny ass down here in July and we’ll go to the Next concert together!”

Exhaling with resignation, I say, “Wish me luck talking my folks into that.”

Carol snorts. “Do I have to have a word with your mom?”

“No! You’ll lie to her like always!”

“Not ‘like always’. And they aren’t lies. Just…fibs. But your folks make me do it! They’re so square!”

I chew the inside of my cheek.

Carol sighs. “Look, you’re the only one I want to see the Next with! Auntie Barb was a drag when we went to the Beatles! She wouldn’t let me scream or stand or anything!”

I snicker. “If she didn’t sit on you, you would have jumped onto the stage!”

Carol ignores my crack. “Come on, Ron! There’s no way they’ll find out we’re home alone if you tell your parents we’re at Bala! There’s no phone up there so they can’t check up on you!”

I twist the telephone cord around my index finger. “Hmmm…”

“Look, the Next are on Hullabaloo tomorrow night. One look at Jackie Chandler and you’ll sell your baby sister to see him in concert!”

I laugh. “Call me next Sunday.” As I hang up, I overhear Peegee playing Barbies. Midge and Skipper are arguing.

“I want to go to the ball!”

“You can’t Cinderella!”

“But how will I meet the Prince?”

“Just wave your magic wand!”

Life’s so simple when you’re only four years old.

#

Monday night, our family gathers to watch Hullabaloo—Peegee and I curl up on the sofa, nine-year-old brother Willie watches from the rattan basket chair and the twins, Lance and Lucy, 12 but going on five, lie on the rug ready to make fun of the “long-haired weirdos.”

Fenella, my mother, sinks into her armchair with her tea and cigarette, legs crossed, and an ashtray balanced on her pregnant belly as her suspended foot keeps the beat of the music. Looking very much the boring English professor, my father, Zelophahad—known as “Zed” for obvious reasons—sits in his vinyl recliner, glasses on the tip of his nose, reading something dismal and dull. He detests the music but likes to peer over his spectacles, scowl and ask stupid questions:

“Why don’t young people touch when they’re dancing anymore?”

“Shouldn’t he wear a suit and tie if he’s performing for an audience?”

“Why is that young lady dancing in a cage?”

After Brenda Lee, “Hullabaloo À Gogo!” with the Hollies, and a commercial break from Clearasil, the Beatles’ manager, Brian Epstein, introduces the “Letter From London” segment. I sit up straighter.

Tonight on Hullabaloo I have the very great pleasure of presenting a band from Manchester who is England’s latest phenomenon. They’ll be singing their newest hit, “Come Into My World.” Ladies and gentlemen, I present Jackie, Christian, Nicky, and Roger—The Next!

Four boys with mop-top hairdos and matching dark suits appear on the screen. A guitar chimes and Willie topples out of the basket chair as he leans over to get a closer look.

I gurgle with laughter, then gasp, as the tall, dark-haired singer does a dance shuffle and seizes the microphone:

Come into my world, little girl.

Let me hold you, little girl…

He stares into the camera with his intense dark eyes, accented by sharply arched brows. I feel that he’s looking right at me. Into me.

Carol’s right! He’s so much dreamier than Paul McCartney!

As he dances, his wavy black hair bounces, falling back perfectly into place. The camera zooms in on his face as he gives a crooked ear-to-ear grin and points and winks at it, flirting with every girl in North America. He’s so perfect: that jawline, that dimple, the white teeth...

When the song ends, Peegee says, “You marry him, ‘Ronica, and I’ll marry Paul ‘Cartney, okay?”

I’m too speechless to respond. The voice in my head is screaming, I must go to Toronto. I must see the Next! I must marry Jackie Chandler!