A Song for the Asking

by Steve Gannon

  Arnie held up the bottle and glared sourly at the diminished contents. “Thanks a lot, dickheads. How am I supposed to get through one of Kane’s parties without any real medicine?”

  Kane studied his partner, noting the dark, puffy crescents, like inverse moons, shadowing the tissue under his eyes. “Damn, Mercer. You look like shit.”

  “It’s comforting to know I can always count on you to be tactful, ol’ buddy.”

  Kane shrugged. “I call ’em like I see ’em.”

  “Right,” said Arnie. “Well, as there’s no booze left to speak of—thanks to my two former friends here—I suggest we go grab some grub before it’s all gone.”

  “You don’t have to ask me twice,” said Banowski, heading for the food table. “Did you see that spread on the way in? I’m starving!”

  Over the years a potluck-style meal had become traditional at Kane’s annual beach parties, with everyone supplying a favorite salad, entrée, or dessert. This year someone had even brought a fully cooked turkey. Wearing hot-pad mittens, Allison and Nate were traveling back and forth from the kitchen carrying a seemingly endless supply of freshly heated casseroles, while Tommy and Travis manned two smoking barbecues at the end of the deck—tending sizzling rack of steaks, salmon, chicken breasts, and burgers. In addition, behind the entrée buffet stood a smaller dessert table loaded with a panoply of pies, cheesecakes, cookies, brownies, and tarts.

  While Banowski and Deluca shouldered their way to the head of the buffet and began loading their plates, Kane hung back with Arnie, concerned about his partner’s appearance and intending to ask him about it. Before he had a chance, Milt Wallace came up behind them. “Good to see you boys,” he said. “At least now I know I won’t be last in the chow line.”

  Kane smiled. “Hey, skipper. You remember Arnie?”

  “Of course,” said Milt, pumping Arnie’s hand. “I rarely forget a face, and the sight of you diving for deep water when the raft flipped is something I’m never going to forget.”

  “Me, neither,” said Arnie. “Much as I’d like to. How’re those kids of yours? McKenzie and the little one—Nancy?”

  “Fine. They’re around here somewhere.”

  “What’s the holdup?” Kane called good naturedly to a knot of diners, including Banowski and Deluca, who were blocking the head of the food table. “You guys aren’t painting a picture up there, you know.” No one paid the least attention whatsoever except for Deluca, who winged a dinner roll in Kane’s direction.

  “Hear about the breakins last night?” Milt asked. “Almost every car at my end of the beach got hit.”

  “What’d they take?” asked Kane. “Stereos?”

  “Yeah. I lost my fuzz buster, too. Second time this year. What bothers me most is that they do more damage getting in and ripping up the dash than the damn stereo’s worth. I’d be better off just tying a ribbon around it and leaving it on the hood.”

  “They’d probably bust a window and customize your dash anyway, just for good measure,” Kane pointed out. “You report it?”

  “Yeah. For all the good it’ll do.”

  “I know some guys up at the Malibu sheriff’s department,” said Kane. “I’ll make a call—ask them to beef up patrols on our section of the highway for a while. Meantime, the best thing you can do is drive an old clunker nobody’ll mess with. Like Arnie’s,” he added with a grin. “Speaking of which, he might consider parting with it for the right price.”

  “Thanks,” laughed Milt. “I’ll think about it.”

  Hours later the party had swelled to over 350 guests, dissolving the invisible social boundaries that had previously prevailed. Earlier, disparate groups had been the rule, with clusters of people condensing in separate, well-defined enclaves: an unruly LAPD contingent monopolizing the beer kegs, Catheryn’s music associates sedately claiming the deck, Travis and Tommy’s confederates methodically decimating the dessert table, and various other groups gathering in convivial clumps of ten or fifteen beside the roped-off fireworks area, the seawall, and the still-unlit bonfire. But now, as the sun slipped into the ocean with a final flash of color, everyone stood shoulder to shoulder, melded into a single homogeneous organism by pure force of numbers and lack of space.

  After fighting through the crowd, Kane ducked under the fireworks barrier. There he conferred briefly with Wally Sullivan. Seconds later Wally lit a highway flare and touched off the traditional opening shot of the night. A salute rocketed high into the evening sky, exploding with a single flash followed by a sharp, deafening blast that sounded like a thousand cherry bombs going off at once.

  The sudden noise temporarily shocked the crowd to silence. Before the party sounds could resume, Kane stepped to the rope and raised his arms. “Okay, everybody listen up,” he shouted, his voice booming into the night. “Pretty soon Wally here’s going to do his thing and get the fireworks show under way, but before that I would like to ask you all to join me in a special toast—one that I mean from the bottom of my heart. I ask you all to raise your glasses with me to the finest son a father could ever want. Where’s Tom? Tommy, get up here.”

  “Yeah, Tommy!” someone cheered from the back, followed by a chant that quickly spread throughout the onlookers. “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy …”

  Surprised, Tommy abruptly found himself thrust into the fireworks area. “Now, you all know Tom here,” Kane continued, throwing his arm around his son when he arrived. “What you may not know is that for two straight years he’s led the Samo-High Vikings to the number-one spot in their division. This year they went undefeated, with Tommy getting voted All Western Offensive End by the Times.”

  Kane paused, allowing a barrage of whistles and cheers to die down. “Tom will be leaving home this fall,” he went on at last. “He’ll be attending the University of Arizona, where he’ll be playing scholarship ball for the Wildcats, one of the finest teams in the Pac-Ten—soon to be the finest. I’m sure you’ll all agree that with Tom on the squad, there’s no way in hell Arizona won’t be going to the Rose Bowl the next four years straight.”

  Again, Kane was forced to wait out renewed cheering from the crowd. Finally he lifted his hand for silence. Then, after giving Tommy’s shoulders a squeeze, he forged ahead, his voice ringing out strong and clear. “So I ask you now to raise your drinks and join me in wishing my son Tom a long and happy life, four victorious seasons with the Wildcats, and that someday he has a son who makes him as proud as I am of him.” Kane, who had abstained from drinking that evening, solemnly lifted a can of soda. “To my son.”

  In unison, everyone joined in Kane’s heartfelt toast. Tommy stood beside his father, for the second time that summer struggling against an unaccustomed stinging in his eyes. Grateful the dim light hid his face, he firmly shook Kane’s hand. “Thanks, Dad,” he said.

  A moment later Christy emerged from the crowd and stepped into the ring, handing Tommy a sudsy cup of beer. Tommy took it and raised it to Kane. “Cheers,” he said, proceeding to drain the contents in one prolonged gulp, following his intemperate guzzle with an extended and resonant belch.

  “You act like you’ve done that before,” said Kane, regarding him suspiciously.

  “Maybe once or twice,” conceded Tommy. “Don’t worry, Dad. I never drink when I’m in training.”

  “Good. See that you don’t.” Kane smiled and reached into his pocket. With a flourish, he pulled out a set of keys. “I got something for you, rookie,” he said quietly. “Sort of a going-away present. It’s parked out front, across the street.”

  Tommy’s mouth fell open in amazement. “That white Tahoe? It’s mine?”

  Kane grinned. “Yep,” he said. “Got more than a few miles on her, but she’s still in great shape.”

  “Gosh, Mr. Kane. What a swell present!” gushed Christy.

  “You understand you’re paying your own gas and insurance, right?” said Kane. “And no joyriding when you get to school. You’ll have to keep your grades up if you want to play football.”


  “Sure, Dad,” Tommy agreed, staring at the keys. “I … I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything, kid. You deserve it. Now, let’s get out of the way and let Wally get the show going.”

  “Dad? I hope … I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

  “You won’t, champ. You never have.”

  To a final round of cheers from the crowd, Kane, Tom, and Christy ducked under the rope barrier. Then, at a signal from Kane, Wally Sullivan sprang into action. Wearing ear protection and carrying his smoldering highway flare, he started lighting up the sky, moving from tube to tube touching off quick-burning fuses in rapid succession. Occasionally he referred to a flashlight-illuminated podium in the center of the ring that held a list of the evening’s prearranged sequence, but for the most part he worked from memory. His two assistants toiled behind him, running back and forth from the metal storage bin carrying grapefruit-sized fireworks with long protruding fuses and making certain the spent mortars were free of burning debris before reloading the next shot. All three worked as a close-knit team, moving through an increasing miasma of smoke made hellish by Wally’s flare, executing their program with a sure and practiced choreography.

  As the sky over the beach began to bloom with dazzling bursts of reds and greens and golds, most of the guests prudently withdrew to watch from a safer distance. Kane, as usual, sat close to ground zero, savoring the powerful, bone-jarring thump of the mortars. The concussion of the larger shots actually made his clothes jump against his skin, something he had never felt when watching a commercial show from hundreds of yards away, and as the fireworks program progressed, an odd and fanciful thought occurred to him. In the glare of Wally’s flare, the men working inside the ropes reminded him of an emergency crew sifting through the smoky remnants of some ongoing catastrophe, or possibly a military unit caught in a deadly artillery barrage and fighting for their lives. Enjoying himself immensely and grinning like a kid, Kane settled back on the sand and let his eyes drink in the searing magic of Wally’s ephemeral artistry.

  Anticipating the beginning of the show, all the Kane children except Tommy had taken their customary position on the roof outside Nate’s window. As their father had long ago forbidden them to be up there, their secret roost naturally seemed all the more enticing, and every year they assembled there, sitting silent as pigeons to avoid discovery.

  “Having fun?” Travis whispered, glancing over at his sister as the first shots of the evening rocketed into the sky.

  “Oh, sure. I just love having hundreds of strangers troop through my house.”

  “Where’s Tommy?” asked Nate. Sitting between Travis and Allison, he was hugging his knees and leaning against the wall beneath his window, his face illuminated by the fiery bursts blossoming like exotic flowers over the sand.

  “He’s probably down on the beach with Christy,” Travis answered, realizing this was the first time his older brother hadn’t joined them on the roof.

  “The chosen one’s more likely out front spit-shining his new car,” remarked Allison. “Just think, Trav. If you play your cards right, that could be you in a few years.”

  “Not likely.”

  “No, really. I can see it now,” Allison went on, conspiratorially lowering her voice. “I’m sure all you folks out there know my son Travis,” she growled, scowling fiercely and attempting to crack her knuckles. “What you may not know is that he’s just about the best goddamn little piano plinker you’d ever want to shake a stick at. Now don’t wet your pants, everybody, but if he does well at the Bronislaw competition this fall, there’s talk he may get to tickle the ivories at the Van Cliburn International next spring. So here’s to you, Travis. I wish you a long life somewhere you’re not an embarrassment to me, success in whatever profession you choose—assumin’ you quit fartin’ around long enough to find one—and that someday you have a daughter who makes you as proud of her as I am of you.”

  Travis watched the fireworks for several seconds without responding. “Screw you,” he said finally. “Why are you attacking me? It’s Tommy you’re jealous of tonight.”

  Allison smiled knowingly. “Don’t try to tell me you’re not jealous of the chosen one.”

  “Jesus, Allison, were you just born hurtful, or is it something you work at?”

  “It’s not me, it’s Dad. What are the chances he would haul me up in front of a crowd and make everyone toast my virtues?”

  “None, ’cause you don’t have any,” said Nate.

  “Shut up, wart,” Allison shot back. “You’re just starting out in this family. You have no idea what’s in store for you.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is stupid,” Travis intervened. “We shouldn’t be fighting among ourselves just because it’s Tommy’s night to shine. Let’s be happy for him and let it go at that.”

  “Thanks for the sermon, Saint Travis. You’re such a hypocrite, pretending you don’t care. You make me sick.”

  “Like I said before, screw you.”

  All three children lapsed into silence, watching the fireworks until the last shot of a mind-boggling sixty-second grand finale faded away. Following a concluding salute, the sky once more surrendered to darkness.

  “Dad will be lighting the bonfire soon,” Nate said quietly after Wally and crew had taken their final bows, and the paeans, hoots, and hollers from appreciative spectators had died away. “You gonna watch, Trav?”

  “Yeah,” Travis answered. “I helped build the damn thing; I sure as hell want to see it lit. Let’s head down.”

  “I’ll join you later,” said Allison.

  “Who asked you?” said Nate.

  Travis rose before Allison could respond. “Suit yourself, Ali,” he said, climbing through Nate’s window into the house. “C’mon, Nate. Let’s go.”

  The moon had just started to rise over the bay as Travis and Nate returned to the beach. By then Kane had already put a match to the mammoth, twenty-foot-high stack of scrap lumber and driftwood that the boys had assembled in a shallow pit above the high-tide line. Nate immediately scampered off to seek some of his friends; Travis headed for the fire looking for Tommy. Eventually deciding that his older brother was undoubtedly cloistered somewhere dark and private with Christy, he gave up and joined the circle surrounding the blaze, slowly backing away with the others as the fire climbed steadily into the night.

  Soon a roaring tower of flame danced over forty feet into the air. Driven back by the heat from the raging fire, the ring of spectators continued to widen, retreating more than a dozen paces from the pyre’s base. Before long the wood structure began to shift and settle, and then, with a series of creaks and pops, it embarked on an arthritic, inexorable collapse to the sand.

  Twenty minutes later, as many of the spectators began to lose interest and drift off for greener pastures—more food, another beer, a long-overdue trip to the head—Allison, accompanied by McKenzie and three other girls from school, joined the group around the blaze. Chatting happily, they seated themselves about eight feet from Travis. Allison caught her brother’s eye when her friends weren’t looking. With an arch, insouciant smile, she shot him the finger.

  Travis grinned and replied in kind. Then, ignoring his sister and her friends, he crossed his legs and watched as the flames gradually began to subside to a mountain of glowing coals. He had been staring into the hypnotic, ever-changing inferno for nearly a quarter hour when a portly form settled beside him.

  Travis turned. It was Petrinski, his expression unreadable in the flickering light.

  “Hello, Travis.”

  “Hi, Mr. Petrinski,” said Travis. He had been avoiding his music teacher all evening, dreading this confrontation. “I … I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Is that right?” said Petrinski, shaking his head. “How long have we known each other, Trav?”

  Travis thought back. “Uh, I had my first lesson with you when I was six. That makes it around ten
years, I guess.”

  “My friends call me Alex. After ten years I think it’s time you did, too. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, sir. Alex.”

  “Then why have you been avoiding me all night?”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “Travis, there’s one thing above all else that I expect of my friends.”

  “Sir?”

  “It’s that they don’t lie to me. Ever.”

  Travis stared into the fire. “I’m sorry. It’s just … I didn’t know what to say.”

  Absently, Petrinski picked up a small piece of driftwood and started drawing in the sand. “Listen, Trav. Whether or not we continue the didactic part of our relationship doesn’t change the fact that we’re friends. At least I hope not. Now, talk to me. I assume from your reticence that you haven’t made any progress with the Chopin étude.”

  Travis glanced away. “Shouldn’t I be preparing for the competition? Even for the first round I have pieces far more difficult than the étude.”

  “You think so? Well, that’s exactly why I gave it to you. I’ll tell you something, Travis. Right now I would much rather hear you play that étude with genuine feeling than see you win any contest I can think of, including the Bronislaw. How far have you managed to get?”

  “I … I’ve been working on it,” Travis stammered. “The technical part was easy. Well, not easy, but I think I have it—I just don’t know where to take it from there. I don’t know what you want.”

  “What I want is not the question. It’s what you want from your playing, and what you’re willing to do to achieve it.”

  Travis fell silent, dreading the lecture he knew was coming.

  “You haven’t told your mother you’ve reached a crisis in your music, have you?”

  Travis paled. “No. Did you … ?”

  “Of course not. That’s between you and her. But I think you should discuss it with Catheryn. You owe her that, Travis.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Petrinski sighed. He continued to draw with his stick, creating a complex series of ridges and swirls in the sand. Travis watched, not surprised to find an element of art even in his teacher’s unconscious doodling. A moment later both Travis and Petrinski looked up as they heard the sound of boisterous voices bellowing out an atonal bastardization of “The Farmer in the Dell.”