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"What?" she demanded.

"I'm here . . . we're here to see Michael Sutton," I explained.

"Are you the one who called a while ago?" she asked, stepping back with a look of annoyance. "Yes Ma'am."

"I told you . . ."

"Who the hell is it?" we heard a man call.

"One of your prodigies, so anxious to become a star she has to wake us up," the woman replied. "Come on in," she said. She first seemed to notice Jefferson. "You brought your little brother?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Baby-sitting, huh? What's with the suitcases?"

"Can we see Michael?" I asked. Jefferson was glaring up at her in awe. She gazed down at him, looked at me, shook her head and went into another room. I looked around the living room. Clothes were strewn about the sofa and chairs and there were dirty cups on the coffee table and some dirty dishes on a side table as well. The carpet was a faded brown with many stains and spots in it that looked like holes burned by cigarette ashes. Of to the right was an old piano, the stool so worn that it had lost most of its color. Sheet music was opened on the top of the piano and there was a glass with some liquid still in it on the piano as well. The yellow window shades were drawn almost to the bottom, permitting only a bit of gray light to enter.

Wearing a pair of old jeans and buttoning his shirt as he came out, my real father appeared. He was barefoot and looked like he had just rolled out of bed, too. His graying dark hair was long and wild, the strands pouring over his eyebrows and down his temples. His unshaven face was ashen and thin, almost gaunt, with his blue eyes dull from sleep. He slumped a bit so that his narrow shoulders turned slightly inward. As he stared at us, he tucked in his shirt.

My heart sank. This was far from the way I had imagined the mysterious man of my dreams. This man did not look like a debonair musical star. It was impossible to imagine him ever a celebrity. There was no strength in this face, no confidence and hope. This man looked drained, lost, empty. I couldn't believe those fingers would play piano or that weak mouth with the lips turned down in the corners could make pleasing musical sounds.

Where was the dark, silky hair and the elegant sapphire eyes my mother said would sparkle with an impish glint? Where were those broad shoulders?

He shifted his eyes from Jefferson to me and then put his hands on his hips.

"So?" he said. "What do you want?"

"This is Jefferson," I said, nodding at my little brother, "and my name is Christie." I waited a moment to see his reaction, but there was none.

"Yeah, so?" he said. "Someone sent you here for lessons?"

"No sir. I'm Christie Longchamp."

"Longchamp?" His eyes widened a bit and he scratched the back of his head. "Longchamp?"

"Yes sir. My mother's name was Dawn."

The woman who had greeted us at the door came up behind my father and leaned against the wall.

She was still smoking her cigarette.

"Dawn? You're . . ."

"Yes. I'm your daughter," I finally declared. How strange it sounded and how odd it felt to tell this man he was my father. His eyes widened even more.

"Who'd she say she was?" the woman behind him asked with a tone of laughter in her voice.

"Quiet," he replied without looking back. "You're little Christie? Sure, sure," he said, nodding and finally smiling. "One good look at you tells it. You've got her face, all right. Well, well, well . . ." He straightened up a bit and brushed his hair back with the palms of his hands. "And this is your brother, eh?"

"Yes."

"I can't believe it. Wow." He shook his head and smiled. "Wow." He spun around on the woman behind him. "My daughter," he declared. "Not bad, eh?"

"Terrific," she said and flicked her cigarette ash to the floor.

"Well, what are you two doing here? I mean . . . how did you get here?" he asked.

"We took the bus," I said.