Songs for the End of the World

by Saleema Nawaz

  There was a picture of Sarah doing a one-legged yoga pose on some rocky ledge. Stu leaned in and saw mountains in the background, a fringe of sky, her hair burnished to gold and red where it caught the sunlight. Someone had written CHOOSE across the bottom in silver marker.

  “My brother took that photo,” she said. “On a family trip.”

  “Did he write that at the bottom?” asked Stu. “Or you?”

  “I did. I just thought…” She paused so long that at first Stu thought she had finished, until he turned and saw that she was staring off into the distance. At length, she sat down on the bedspread and said, “How do you know you’re living the life you were meant to be living? You have to choose it for yourself, if you can.” Her pupils were looming large as she pressed her lips together. “Think how many people never even get the chance.”

  When the tea was ready, they studied and ate rice crackers. Every hour or so, Sarah boiled more water while Stu went through her CD collection. They stayed up until two-thirty in the morning, quizzing each other and listening to music. After Sarah dozed off mid-conversation, Stu lay down on her couch and fell into a deep, undisturbed sleep.

  * * *

  —

  The phone was ringing when Stu returned to his room the next morning, but Jericho wasn’t there. It was Stu’s mother.

  “Where’s Jericho? Karen couldn’t get a hold of him last night for their usual call.”

  “Ma, I know that you wanted me to—”

  “Look out for him,” his mother finished. “You said you would.”

  Stu could picture his mother’s honey-coloured hair and the way she sat when she talked on the phone, with her legs crossed at the ankle, leaning an elbow on the kitchen counter. She kept a pad of paper where she doodled triangles and daisies. The daisies always reminded him of squashed spiders.

  “Yes, okay. I will. I promise.”

  Stu checked the lounge, the dining hall, the library. He headed over to the philosophy department and poked around the hallways and offices. Truscott had pinned up lime green notices for their first show on all the departmental bulletin boards: GREEN SCREEN / BIRDY’S / TONIGHT 9 P.M.: FREE YOUR MIND.

  * * *

  —

  Finally, he went to class, hoping Jericho would show up for the midterm exam. Hunched over her test, Sarah caught his eye and nodded at Jericho’s empty seat. Stu shrugged.

  He lingered after class, shouldering his bag only once he was the last student left in the room. He approached the front as Rachel finished stacking the tests.

  “Where’s your friend Jericho today?” she said, slipping the pile into her satchel. He snuck a glance at its contents: a turquoise wallet, Totality and Infinity by Emmanuel Levinas, a Twix bar.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I hope everything’s okay with him.”

  Stu wondered why all the women he knew interpreted Jericho’s silence as weakness and sensitivity, rather than indifference. It wasn’t so long ago that men were praised for being strong and silent.

  “Me too.” Stu took a step forward and his sneaker squeaked on the floor. “By the way, my new band is playing a show tonight. At Birdy’s.” He grinned. “Maybe you saw the posters.”

  Rachel ducked her head as she zipped up her bag. “Oh, I think I’ll be busy marking,” she said. “But thanks.” Her voice was light and friendly but frosted with professional distance. Stu realized in a rush of humiliation that Rachel had zero interest in seeing his band.

  “You know, I notice your husband there a lot,” he said. “With other women.” He left before he could take in her reaction.

  * * *

  Truscott’s bizarre posters seemed to have worked. Birdy’s was packed with his classmates. As usual, Owen was there, lingering at the back of the room with a beer in his hand. When Stu joined Truscott on stage to set up, he spotted Jericho standing in the crowd. He raised a hand in greeting but Jericho didn’t acknowledge it. His friend was focused on Sarah, who was laughing at something with some girls Stu didn’t know.

  Stu plugged in his guitar, already feeling electric with anticipation. This time, he was only nervous that they might blow a speaker. They had practised until they had all the formations—Truscott refused to call them songs—flawlessly memorized.

  Truscott counted them in, cuing his electronic drum track, and Stu scanned people’s faces as they played their opening bars, as loud and discordant as a mistake. But as he and Truscott hit their stride, it became obvious that they were tight—tight and relentless and unpredictable. People were nodding their heads and rocking out to the music. Only a few people had their fingers in their ears. But everyone was watching them. Whether or not Green Screen were any good, they were at least too loud to ignore.

  As they moved into the second half of the set, he saw Sarah standing with Owen at the very back of the room. Everyone had their eyes on the band, so Stu was the only one who could see that the writer’s hand was on her waist.

  During their second-last song, their chord progressions became more and more elaborate, multiplying and turning back on themselves like a fugue on acid. As Truscott flailed rhythmically, his red locks thrown forward in an orange blur, Stu noticed Rachel enter the bar, locate Owen, and use her tiny frame to slip through the crowd. When Rachel arrived at her husband’s elbow, Owen extracted his arm in a swift movement and angled his body away from Sarah, who spotted Rachel at the same moment. Shame and disappointment flashed across his friend’s face.

  As they began to decrescendo the song in its extended, teasing, stutter-stop rhythm towards silence, Stu saw people turning around to stare as Rachel and Owen faced off, voices raised. Eventually, the writer pulled her away from the crowd and out of Stu’s sightline. Sarah had already disappeared.

  When the set was over, people clapped and whistled. Stu packed up his guitar, wiped the sweat from his forehead with the towel he’d brought, and pushed his way towards the bar for some water.

  Sarah ran up to him, her face pale. She clutched at his T-shirt as though he might slip away. “Have you seen Jericho?”

  “Yes, earlier. Why?”

  Sarah was looking around the room as though still hoping to catch sight of Stu’s roommate. “He came up to me just after your set ended and said something about the river.” She was distraught. “I think he might try to hurt himself.”

  * * *

  —

  They ran down the dark path that Sarah said was the fastest route to the river, through a treed area where students liked to make out when the weather was nice. Further along, there were streetlamps where the path came closest to the river bend.

  “If anything happens,” said Sarah, sounding close to tears, “will it be my fault?” She raked her fingers through her hair in a nervous motion. “I know I was drunk, but I swear I thought I was doing a good thing. Like, maybe a little make-out session would build up his confidence, you know?”

  “Tell me you didn’t say that to him.” As far as Stu knew, it had been Jericho’s first and only kiss. “What, did you think it was going to change him into a prince or something?”

  “I didn’t want to lie to him.” She seemed shaken by Stu’s anger. “He’s my friend.”

  “No, he’s my friend.” It came out cold. In a sick shift, Stu felt the gravity of the situation come into focus. He swallowed back the taste of bile rising in his throat. It had been hours since he’d eaten anything. “I shouldn’t have stayed over at your place. That’s the real problem.”

  He wasn’t sure if Sarah had heard him. “There!” she said, pointing. In the glow of the streetlamp, they could see where the reeds had been trampled.

  Stu clambered down the slope, his sneakers sliding in the mud until his feet were in the river, his socks and shoes soaked. The water was freezing. Sarah followed more slowly, picking her way from rock to rock.

  The moon was u
p and the water reflected its light. A few yards away, Jericho was standing in the current, just a thin shadow holding his arms up to the sky. He was still a few feet away from where the river ran deepest, but the water was already up to his waist.

  Stu cupped his hands. “Jericho!” he called.

  His friend turned to face him, his eyes wide and wild, his glasses missing. “We both step and do not step in the same rivers,” he shouted, quoting Heraclitus. His face was twisted in anguish, stark white in the light of the moon. “We are and are not.”

  The river rushing past made Stu dizzy. The current was known to be swift—signs posted along the banks warned off swimmers. He took another step in and braced himself as the freezing water hit his calves, the cold registering as sharp pain shooting up and down his legs. He grabbed the branch of an overhanging tree and inched closer to Jericho.

  “How long have you been standing there?” he yelled.

  Jericho’s teeth were chattering. “How long does it take to become a different person?”

  “Jericho,” Sarah yelled. “Stop scaring the shit out of us!” She had now reached the edge of the water but was facing the riverbank. “You two!” she shouted then. “Go get help!”

  Stu turned and saw Owen standing on the bank, with Rachel beside him. They had come to the river path to continue their argument.

  Sarah gasped as she stepped fully into the water and made her way towards Stu. “Here,” she said. She’d taken off her scarf and was passing it to him, her upper body hunching convulsively against the cold. “Throw the end to him so he’s got something to hold on to.”

  The stabbing pain in Stu’s legs had already begun to subside into a dull ache. He wondered how he would keep his footing once his legs went numb. He moved further into the river’s depths, keeping one hand on a branch that narrowed to not much more than a twig—a reassurance, more than a safeguard. His heart was racing, and with every step he offered up a prayer to adrenaline, hoping it would give him enough strength to reach his friend. When he thought he was close enough, he threw one end of the scarf towards him, and Jericho caught it.

  Sarah screamed in exultation, and the piercing sound seemed to rouse Jericho. A sob broke from him. Hand over hand, they drew him closer to the bank, encouraging each stumbling, unwilling step back to safety.

  When they got him out of the river, Jericho’s clothes were dripping muddy water and his whole body was quaking. Stu gave him his jacket, and Sarah rubbed his back. By then, Rachel and Owen had returned to the riverbank with campus security and the medics.

  “Thinking is a sacred disease,” said Jericho, as he sat in the back of the ambulance. He was wrapped in a silvery emergency blanket and his lips were bluish. His head wobbled back and forth as he stared beyond them at something neither of them could see. “And there’s no cure.”

  “It’s a little cold for a swim.” Sarah’s voice was stiff and barely audible. “Why were you trying to hurt yourself?” The medics passed her an emergency blanket, and another to Stu.

  “I wasn’t doing anything, really,” said Jericho, his gaze still wandering high above their heads, somewhere beyond them.

  “You could have died,” said Stu. A tremor in his own legs began as he said it. He didn’t know if it was the river or fear that had turned his limbs to ice. If anything had happened to Jericho, their mothers would never forgive him. “You fucking idiot.” He kicked a rock off the path and it landed in the river. “Fucking Heraclitus!” Sarah put a hand on his arm.

  When he turned around, Rachel was staring at him with a pained expression. Owen’s arm was around her, protective and possessive, as though there had been no fight, no flirtation, no room for doubt. The way she leaned into him, Stu realized that marriage had strength embedded in its very architecture, a resilience that beat back the usual threats. Given his parents’ union, he’d always thought of marriage as something more like resignation, a contractual obligation of last resort. But he now saw the hope of it, the faith in the promise itself.

  “Is he going to be all right?” asked Rachel.

  “We’re going to take him to the hospital,” said the medic. “Make sure everything’s okay. He was in there for a while.”

  “But was it me in there?” Jericho asked. “Or the person I used to be?”

  * * *

  —

  Stu brought Sarah back to his dorm room, where they changed into dry clothes. She perched on the very edge of Jericho’s bed, wrapped in Stu’s comforter.

  “You can lie down,” he said, and Sarah inched back on the mattress. She had gone oddly quiet. “You must be tired.”

  When his mother answered the phone, the eagerness in her voice gave him a pang.

  “Mom, call Karen.”

  “I’ll tell her,” said his mother, after he explained what had happened. “Maybe it wasn’t the right time for him.”

  Stu said his goodbyes and hung up. “So that’s done,” he said. He collapsed back onto his unmade bed and slipped between the sheets. “I’ve never felt so exhausted.”

  “Would you come with me to visit him tomorrow?” said Sarah. She was still sitting up, a twitchy, staring huddle. “Maybe we could bring him something to read.”

  “That’s a nice idea,” he said, flexing his thawing feet. “You’re a good friend.” But when he looked back at Sarah, her cheeks were wet.

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “He nearly died. And it’s all my fault.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “And weirdly I almost get it now. What are you supposed to do with all these feelings? It’s unbearable. I wish I could just clobber myself until they go away. Or, say, jump in the river.”

  “Don’t joke about that.” Stu was unnerved by the way she was rhythmically clenching her fingers into her palms. “Anyway, it’s not your fault.”

  “How can I be sure? How can I ever be sure that something I do isn’t going to turn out to be a terrible mistake? I’ve been so focused on my own choices, I never stopped to think about what they might mean for other people. What if I hurt someone else?” She swallowed, her eyes still closed. “Would you play something? I think it would help me calm down.”

  “If you like.” He got out of bed and reached for his guitar. When he finished, she opened her eyes.

  “Can you keep going?” She flipped up the hood on the sweatshirt she’d borrowed and leaned back on Jericho’s pillows. Tears were still leaking down her face. “You know, that’s the kind of thing you should play. Not like that stuff with Trus before.”

  “Oh?” The Green Screen set already felt like another night. “How so?”

  “It’s very…proficient.” Diplomacy lingered like a stray hair on her brow. “But I couldn’t really get into it. I guess I prefer songs with lyrics.”

  Sarah’s gaze was too tender for Stu’s taste. It hinted of pity. He felt a tremulousness building in his gut, the tension of an unresolved chord. He smiled so brightly that it almost felt real. “Fair enough.”

  “You know that stuff you played at Birdy’s by yourself that first time? That was good.” Sarah sat up again and used her sleeve to wipe her eyes. “It reminded me of Neil Young a little bit, the way you had songs in the voices of specific characters. Though I think you could try writing in your own voice, just about normal things, and that would be pretty interesting, too.”

  He felt the truth of what she said. After the events in the river, the night had taken on a new vibrancy. “Everything is a song in one way or another,” he said.

  Sarah nodded. “Just play. Please. It helps.” Her eyes were closing.

  A melody was starting to tease the back of his mind, as he thought about a girl’s jangly laugh echoing across an alley. The patterns of frost on his bedroom window. The strong, blunt fingers of his father, shared by Stu himself. And just sitting there in quiet camaraderie with Sarah after midnight, wondering if having no map might be fine after all.
<
br />   Excerpt from “Empty Grave”

  Lyrics by Dove Suite

  No one cares what they know

  They just try to behave

  Till the day they catch sight of

  An empty grave

  And that river rose

  Oh, my river rose

  And no one remembers

  The promise I gave to

  Keep you one step away

  From your empty grave

  Keep it waiting

  Keep it waiting

  OWEN

  AUGUST 2020

  The restaurant is a mix of diner and bistro, kitsch and chic, French and American, old and new—and at all hours of the day they serve eggs and burgers, waffles and salads, nibbles and entrees, and, from time to time, the occasional four-course tasting menu. It is all things to all people, at a low-to-medium price point. Harriet’s casts a net wide enough to catch Owen, the early-morning corporate crowd, the mid-morning grannies, the old men with non-ironic moustaches, the young mums and babies, and the rest of the neighbourhood hipsters who are already more conversant with Arabica growing altitudes and avocado varietals at the age of twenty-one than Owen will ever be. Every so often, he considers finding another breakfast place that is more authentic, that is less obviously pandering. But the restaurant can only survive for so long, with its foie gras toast triangles and its greasy grilled cheeses, so he might as well enjoy it while he can. Though there are always lineups now.

  Once he’s seated, Owen awaits the server with an impatience that nettles him all the more for being unexpressed. He straightens a crease in his paper placemat, noticing at the same time that there are words on the back. He flips it over. The reverse of the placemat is for kids: a picture to colour, a maze, a tic-tac-toe grid, and a connect-the-dots puzzle with so many dots crowded together he can make out the image at once—a grinning fish with a bow tie.