Beautiful Music for Ugly Children

by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

  By the time I’m halfway home, I can’t do it anymore. I pull over and let the tears destroy me. Half an hour later, I can finally see again.

  When I get back to the hospital, it’s three a.m. Paige is asleep on my bench, phone in her hand. When I shake her shoulder, she starts. “You dumbshit! Why haven’t you answered your phone?”

  “My phone hasn’t rung.”

  “Yes it has! Look at it!”

  When I check it, there are three missed calls and five texts. I’d put it on silent right before I went on the air and forgot to change it. I call my voicemail.

  Paige swats my phone away from my ear. “I’m right here, fool. He woke up!”

  “He did?”

  “He asked for you.”

  My brain’s on fire. “Were you there? He asked for me?”

  “How the hell do you think I know he woke up? I went in for my five minutes and was talking to him about your Vibe show, that it was tonight, and he opened his eyes and mumbled ‘Where’s Gabe?’ At least that’s what I thought he said. Then he passed out.”

  I’m crying again. “How long until we can go in?”

  She checks the clock. “Ten minutes. How did it go, by the way?”

  “John in his coma could have done better.”

  “No way.” She pats my back until I stop crying. Then it’s time for me to go into his room. When I creep up to his bed, his eyes are shut.

  “John?”

  No movement, no eye flickers.

  I tell him how bad I was at the Vibe, just so he knows, and I talk to him about what I’m planning for Friday, which is complete bullshit, because I have no idea what I’m planning for Friday. Still no response.

  When my five minutes are up, I go back out to Paige. “You must have imagined it.”

  “I promise you, I heard it.” She can see I’m almost in tears again. “You realize all this weeping isn’t very manly.”

  I know she’s trying to lighten the moment, but it’s not the right thing to say.

  “If he woke up once, he’ll do it again.” She’s got her hand on my knee. “You know I’m just joking about the crying.”

  “Not a single thing in the universe is funny right now.”

  She jumps up and stands in front of me like a drill sergeant, hands on her hips. “I’ve got something. You’ll be in hysterics.”

  “Let me guess—you’re really a man. And was that you in bed with me the other night?”

  “I’m not a man, and yes it was. Get over it.” She frowns. “In the interest of making you laugh, I’m gonna show you something.”

  Paige puts her hand down her shirt and does something, then pulls it back out and opens her fingers very slowly. In her palm is a piece of flannel, white and maybe two inches square.

  I lean a little bit off the bench so I can see. “What is it?”

  “Part of my wubbie.”

  “Your wubbie?”

  “Do you remember, when we were in kindergarten, I sometimes brought my wubbie to school?”

  In my mind I see a girl with a pink blanket over her shoulder. “Your baby blanket is your secret?”

  “The secret is that I wear it in my bra every day. On the left side, close to my heart.”

  It works. I laugh. “Why do you need your baby blanket close to your heart?”

  “It makes me feel safe.”

  “Like my Mango. Shall I show it to you?” I start to unzip.

  Her mouth is hanging wide open.

  “I know you want to see it again.”

  “Not now!” Paige recovers and tucks the flannel back into her bra. “So what if my big secret isn’t as big as yours. It’s big to me.” I think I might have hurt her feelings.

  “I will keep it close to my own heart. I promise.”

  She comes back to the bench and I pick up her hand and hold it. Then Paige clears her throat. “I have one more secret.”

  “What’s that?” Nothing could surprise me.

  “I wear butt-lifter jeans.”

  Except that. I laugh so hard I fall off the bench. When I recover myself enough to talk, I realize Paige has stood up. “That’ll teach you to read Vogue, won’t it? They probably have the same thing for men, and you might want them someday.” Paige walks off. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  She gives me the finger. “Not your kind of bathroom anymore.”

  “But I’m your BFF! And your boy FF, too!” Three nurses look up from the desk and give me three separate glares.

  At least Paige doesn’t contradict me.

  When the next five minutes comes up, nothing’s changed. It’s 4:30 on Tuesday morning. We go home to get some sleep.

  Tuesday afternoon. They move him to a regular room, since he seems to be out of danger. Dr. Anderson tells us it’s a waiting game from now on, so I pull a chair next to John’s bed and wait. What else do I have to do? I call Margaret to tell her I’m waiting. I’ve called her every day, like she asked.

  The rest of Tuesday goes by. Chris tells me I can take time off, all I need.

  Then it’s Wednesday. Then it’s Thursday.

  Friday morning. I’m finally brave enough to check the UCB’s Facebook page before I go to the hospital.

  There’s a photo of a big black banner that says HATE SUCKS, and the banner is draped on the B side wall. Then there’s a photo of John at the party and the caption reads, Get well, Mr. Guy We Think Is Named John. Then there’s a photo of me, laughing at something before Paul and Kyle crashed the party, and the caption says, We still love you, Gabe.

  I leave a post: Thanks, you guys. I’ll tell you more about John on the air. Talk to you tonight.

  No change at the hospital. Margaret thanks me for keeping in touch.

  Friday night. I’ve decided on a Beatles show, in honor of John’s claim that they changed the entire world. I’m sitting by the side of his bed, chatting on about what I plan to play and how I broke into his house to swipe a few Beatles albums I don’t have, and a nurse sticks her head in.

  “I need to give him a sponge bath, so you’ll have to step outside for a while.”

  “He … stay.” Barely a whisper from the bed.

  I look at the nurse. “Did you hear that?” I jump up to get closer to John. “Did I imagine it?”

  His eyes aren’t open, but he smiles. “No.”

  “Oh my fucking hell, John, it’s about time you came back to us.” I burst into tears.

  He opens his eyes a tiny slit. “Been here … all along. Your show … not suck.”

  “Oh yes it did! You have no idea.”

  “Don’t … cry.” He smiles again, but it’s weak.

  “I’m so sorry. I can’t even tell you how sorry.”

  “ … Okay … it’s … okay.”

  “It can’t be okay!”

  He takes a couple breaths. “Not … your fault.”

  The nurse is watching us. She’s new, so she doesn’t know me yet. “Is this your grandpa, young man?”

  “Close enough.” John tries to smile again, but he’s already drifting.

  The nurse sets up for the sponge bath, and I decide to leave because I have no desire to see old-man flesh, even if it’s this old man. Before I go, I lean close to John. “Tonight’s show is for you.”

  “Okay.” The smile flickers in again.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  If I could turn cartwheels all the way to the car, I would. I call Paige on my way to the station. “John woke up.”

  “You knew he would.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “Don’t cry, silly boy.”

  “These are happy tears.” I’ve cried mo
re in the last week than I have in my entire life.

  I make a quick detour back to John’s house and swipe the key. In the corner of the farthest music room, there’s a box with the label OUR FAVORITES. I grab it and run back to the car.

  “Welcome, friends and neighbors, to Beautiful Music for Ugly Children. I’m Gabe, your most unusual host, as you know, and today’s show is for John, my musical mentor. These songs are our favorites, so get prepared for some zany sounds. Let’s start the show with a Rolling Stones track, and I want you to turn it up really loud in his honor. Every song’s better when it’s loud, but this one needs top volume. Here’s ‘Gimme Shelter,’ right here on 90.3, KZUK. It’s beautiful music just for you, Ugly Children.”

  I put the earphones on and slide the volume up as high as I can take it. Get well soon, friend.

  Then it’s time for more chat. “So, Ugly Children, how’s your night? Hope you’re hanging at the B side wall, having some chips and contemplating the world. As we know, last week’s lovely get-together was rudely interrupted, and I’m sorry about that. I understand those asshats are being charged with first-degree assault, whoops, ‘asshat’ is a probably a FCC violation, but so what. And before I explain about John, the man who was with me, here’s another song in his honor. Let’s check out the Beatles and ‘All You Need Is Love.’ ”

  Maybe love brought John back to life.

  When the song’s over, I’m on. “All right, UCB, here’s who John is. First, you need to know he’s alive, though he’s been in a coma, which isn’t good. I don’t think he’ll die, but nobody really knows.” My heart does a little jump at hearing the words out loud, but I keep going. “He woke up tonight and talked to me, so that’s a good sign. Second, he’s my neighbor. He moved in next door when I was ten, so I’ve known him a while. And that leads me to my action request for the night: could you please decorate his house and lawn? 1845 Roosevelt Avenue. Be Minnesota nice, okay? No stealing, and nothing gaudy or gross, just get-well wishes, something I can take pictures of. We both thank you. And third, John’s my mentor. He’s a DJ from way back, the first man to play Elvis on the air if you can believe it. I know I told you that fact a long time ago, but it bears repeating because it’s so amazing. He knows more about music than any other soul on the planet, so you can see why I like him so much.”

  I can hear Elvis whispering in my brain: See? It’s really, truly all right.

  I have to breathe deeply to keep going, because the tears are there. “Fourth, he’s my family. John loves me for who I am, and that’s a rare thing. He landed in the hospital because of me, and he seems okay with it. I’m not, but he is, and I love him for it.”

  I’m biting my lip in half trying not to cry. “How about some really lovely pop music? Here’s ‘1, 2, 3, 4’ from the Plain White Ts, on community radio 90.3, KZUK. It’s a little mushy, which I’m generally not, and I know it’s about a romantic relationship, but listen close—the words could apply to anyone. So this one’s for you, John, and you too, Paige, because I love you as much as I love him. Thanks for saving my ass, you guys. And thank you, Ugly Children Brigade, for accepting me. I can never tell you how much that means.”

  The song spills into the dark air. Nothing wrong with pop-y sunshine music, even in the middle of the night.

  He’s gonna get better.

  Thank you, Universe.

  Thank you so much.

  Gabe Williams is the new Elvis

  because … Why Not?

  Mid-August.

  I go next door and knock the knock we agreed on, then let myself in. John’s not so fast with his cane, so answering the door is a problem, but he’s smiling in the chair when I come in.

  “What’s new today, my friend? You look a little like the cat who swallowed a bird.”

  “I’ve got a surprise.” I drag the footstool next to his chair.

  Two weeks ago I had a surprise, too: an email from the Vibe saying I was their fourth choice. Not quite the suckiest, but close enough. The dude who won was the guy who knows Prince.

  I felt like someone had kicked me in the gut. I didn’t leave my room except to pee. I knew I’d sucked, but I wanted it so bad. After twenty-four hours, John came over and climbed the stairs. It took him half an hour, but he did it, cane and all. Once I cussed him out for climbing the stairs, I told him I wouldn’t listen to him, even though I knew I had to since he worked so hard to get to my room. He told me he was sorry, and it was sad, but I couldn’t let the bastards get me down. I was still me, and I’d waited eighteen years to be myself, and the Vibe wasn’t going to take that away from me.

  After his lecture, it took him another half hour to get back downstairs. I thought about it for another three hours, but I knew he was right. And I was hungry, so I came out.

  John frowns. “I remember that last surprise. You were better than him, I know it, and I bet Prince pulled some strings. This surprise is better?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m gonna guess, so don’t tell me.” He still looks rickety—he lost thirty pounds while he was in the hospital, plus his coordination’s way off and his right arm is almost useless—but the spark’s in his eye, and that’s what matters. Now that he’s not leaving the house except for his radio show, his pastime is to surf the Net and look for vintage 45s and one-hit wonders.

  He grins. “You found a long-lost original pressing of ‘Hot Pants.’ ”

  “Nope. Guess again.”

  “You and Paige are having a baby.”

  “I’m not even sure how to answer that.”

  He chuckles. “I’m out of guesses.”

  “I’m going to the community college this fall. Orientation is tomorrow.”

  John sighs. “Well, it’s not a guest spot on a cool radio station, but it’s a step toward the future. Bring me the computer, will you?”

  I go to the music room and get the laptop. John flips the screen up slowly, taking his time so he doesn’t drop it. “Check it out. I think they put it up today.” Then he turns the screen to me.

  There’s a new sign on the B side wall. TIME FOR COLLEGE, it says. GABE, DON’T GO!

  John looks at me. “They’ll be happy you’re staying in town.”

  They won’t be as happy as my mom, who will tap dance when she finds out. My parents finally figured out that college wasn’t happening—no mail, no forms, no packing, no buying little fridges—and they flipped out when I told them about the Vibe show, especially after I told them I was moving anyway, to find a job and save money. They said they were used to Gabe and weren’t ready to see him go, so what about the community college? They looked so sad I had to give it a shot.

  “When is Margaret coming back?”

  “Next week.” John smiles. “Who knew a bat to the head could be a good thing? When is Paige leaving?”

  “Next week.”

  “Sad about that?”

  “Yup.”

  My phone vibrates.

  Be there in 10.

  Speak of the devil. We’re going shopping for crap for her dorm room. Boring, but I’ll take what I can get. Six days and she’s gone.

  He sighs. “Wish I’d gone to college.”

  “You can come with me. I saw an old guy there when I got my registration info.”

  “Who you calling old, sonny boy?” His eyes twinkle again.

  “You, old man.”

  “Help me outside. I need to get some air.” He shakes his cane at me.

  “You got it.” We get him out of the chair, and he shuffles to the door. Once he gets there, he steps slowly over the doorjamb, then leans heavy on his cane to go the rest of the way.

  Once he’s outside and settled into his new chair on the porch, he waves me back inside. “Go turn on some music.” I find us the recording of Elvis’s 1968 comeback show and put the speakers c
lose to the windows. Then I grab us some Pepsis and head out to join him.

  “It’s an Elvis kind of day.” He takes the can from me. “Did you tell your mom what you’re doing?”

  “Nobody’s home. And I wanted to tell you first.”

  “When are you gonna legally be Gabe?” He takes a swig of Pepsi. “Isn’t that important for something like a degree?”

  “I’ve got a semester to get all the name stuff straightened out.” Community colleges will take anyone, thank god, even a guy with a girl’s first name.

  “Here’s to the future and the Department of Vital Statistics.” He holds out his can, and I clink it with mine, then we drink. “Go see what’s on the kitchen table.”

  “What is it?”

  “Another surprise.”

  I go back inside and find an envelope on the table, with my old name on the front of it.

  John calls from the porch. “Bring it out here before you open it.”

  So I go back out and sit down and open my envelope. Inside is a cashier’s check from a bank, made out to Elizabeth Williams, for twenty-five thousand dollars.

  I drop it.

  “Pick it up! Don’t let the wind catch it!” John’s hollering, so I grab it quick. But I can’t talk.

  “Better than the Vibe surprise, huh? I made it to your legal name so you could cash it now. Sorry about that.”

  I can barely get the words out. “Where did this come from?”

  “It’s part of the Tupelo guitar. The hospital wants to bleed me dry, so I had Margaret send it to New York for auction. I really wanted to save it all for you.” He genuinely looks sorry, like a twenty-five thousand dollar check isn’t enough.