by Dean Koontz
Never in my life until then had I heard my grandfather raise his voice in rage, but when he charged into the room, swinging a baseball bat as if Babe Ruth had nothing on him, he bellowed like an angry bull, a raging bear. Drackman turned and fired and missed. Grandpa Teddy broke the creep’s right arm, and the pistol that had seemed to be my fate clattered across the floor, rattling to a stop against the left wheel of my chair. Howling in pain, Drackman slipped on the wet floor and fell, and in spite of his arm, he scrambled toward the weapon.
A paraplegic in a wheelchair can’t reach objects on the floor to pick them up, which is why a lot of us acquire assistance dogs, not only for companionship but also to retrieve objects we’ve dropped and to call elevators for us, open doors. The pistol was beyond my grasp, but I let go of the Lucite heart and with both hands spun my chair 180 degrees, getting the gun behind the right wheel and under the chair as Drackman reached for it, trying to move it with me and keep it away from him.
Grandpa swung at the good hand with which Drackman sought the pistol, missed when the killer snatched his hand back, and struck the floor a blow that must have resonated through the bat and for a moment numbed his hands, weakened his grip.
Switchblade sprung, Fiona rushed at Grandpa in his one weak moment. I grabbed the heart pendant again, jerked it hard enough to snap the fine silver chain around my neck, and threw it at her face. It was the only thing I had to throw, nothing more than a chunk of Lucite, weighing a few ounces, but it hit her in the eye, and as she reeled past my grandfather, missing him with the blade, she squealed perhaps more in surprise than pain.
Grandpa swung the bat again, fractured Drackman’s other arm, and turned to Fiona. I think it might have been a close thing as she slashed at Grandpa again, but her blade missed and his bat connected. Suddenly she had a handful of shattered and bleeding fingers, the pain apparently so bad that she staggered toward the front door, fell to her knees, and vomited.
For a moment, my grandfather’s face was such a mask of wrath that I thought he might continue to swing the bat until he broke down Fiona and Lucas so completely that they would never walk again or have the power in their hands to hold a gun. Instead, he put the bat in his armchair. He picked up the knife, folded the blade into the handle, and dropped it in a pants pocket. He took Tilton’s gun from the piano and tucked it in his waistband, scooped Drackman’s pistol off the floor and held it.
“You okay, son?” he asked.
I let out my breath in a whoosh, and I nodded.
“Mrs. Lorenzo,” he said, “our phone lines have been cut. Will you go next door and wake the Velakovskis and use their phone to call the police?”
Curled in the fetal position, Fiona sobbed and begged someone to help, her hand a basket of exposed and splintered bones that probably could never be put back together properly. Lucas Drackman was another portrait in misery, both arms useless.
Looking bewildered, shaking violently, Mrs. Lorenzo rose from the sofa and stood there as if uncertain what she’d been asked to do.
Grandpa said, “Are you able to do that for me, Donata? Go next door? I’d be most grateful if you could.”
“Absolutely,” she said, “I’ll do it right away.”
“Better put on your raincoat,” he said. “It’s nasty out there.”
She carefully stepped over the puddle of vomit, retrieved her raincoat from the closet by the front door, and went out into the storm.
Tilton got up from the piano bench. “Mr. Bledsoe, I’m no threat to you or to anyone. Let me go. You’ll never see me again, I swear. You know you never will. You know.”
After regarding Tilton in silence for a long moment, Grandpa said, “Sit down,” and Tilton sat.
105
When Mr. Smaller stepped close to the bed and shot Mr. Yoshioka, something about the reaction of the body wasn’t right. He threw back the light blanket—and found only more blankets shaped into a human form.
I never knew that in addition to tailoring and Asian art and haiku, Mr. Yoshioka was interested in martial arts. Neither did Mr. Smaller. Later, my friend explained it to me: “I introduced Mr. Smaller to my apartment. I introduced him to one wall and then to another. I showed him the door and then another door and then the floor. We took a tour, and though he knew the apartment from his years as the building superintendent, he seemed to be repeatedly surprised by what he encountered.”
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Next door at our neighbor’s house, after Mrs. Lorenzo called the police, she was sufficiently self-possessed to ring Diamond Dust and have my mother brought to the telephone immediately at the end of the number that she was performing. By the time Mom could make her way home through the storm-washed city, police cars cluttered our street, their emergency beacons flashing red and blue, so that the falling raindrops almost looked like showers of sequins. Drackman had been loaded into an ambulance and taken away. Policemen had succeeded in subduing Fiona, who became dangerous again when she saw them arrive; though in great pain and bleeding from her shattered hand, she nonetheless shrieked and kicked and bit with all the ferocity of a wildcat. As my mother hurried up the walkway, the paramedics were conveying a bound and bitter Fiona to the second ambulance.
In the living room, two plainclothes detectives had sorted out things with Tilton, who remained as docile as Fiona Cassidy had been obstinate. They cuffed him, and a uniformed officer escorted him toward the front door. Just then my mother entered, a vision if ever there was one, her hair diamonded with rain, as lovely as a princess in a fairy tale, raincoat flaring like a royal’s cape. Tilton looked up, met her eyes, and seemed to be surprised, not only that they should encounter each other at this last possible moment, but as if he both knew her and did not know her, as if he might be seeing the real and complete Sylvia Bledsoe for the first time, because among the other emotions kaleidoscopic in his face, the most striking was a look of wonder. In her face, by contrast, there was neither anger nor pity, nor contempt; she would not give him the satisfaction of an emotional response, but regarded him as she might have any piece of furniture, and after a moment she stepped aside, out of the way, so that he might be moved elsewhere.
She came to me and dropped to her knees on the rain-slick floor and took my face in both of her hands and kissed my forehead. For the longest moment then, we stared into each other’s eyes, neither of us capable of speech even if there had been anything we needed to say. Grandpa stood over us, smiling and, I think, a little bit bewildered by what he’d been called upon to do and by what he’d done. Finally she said, “You know you’re up way past bedtime,” and I said, “Yes, ma’am, but it won’t happen again.” She said, “It better not,” and I knew then that we were at last safe.
107
We had some fine years after that. Oh, in the wider world, there were wars and more wars, riots upon riots, murder and mayhem and much hatred and the threat of nuclear annihilation. But in the gentler and more contained world of the Bledsoe family, we had much for which to be thankful. Mr. Yoshioka bought a car, a 1956 Packard Executive, yellow-and-white and in good repair, and Grandpa Teddy taught him to drive it, whereafter he could come more often for dinner. Mrs. Lorenzo remained with us, and although she didn’t get her weight under control, it was all sanctified fat. My mother packed them in at Diamond Dust, and she got some offers to sing backup on records by recording artists whose names just about everybody knows. I kept at the songwriting thing, and when I was fifteen, my mother liked one of them so much—I called it “One Sweet Forever”—that she had an arrangement of it done for the Diamond Dust band, and they played it regularly. One night, this executive from a record company had dinner there with friends, and he went wild for the song. I wish he would have signed up my mother, but he didn’t. If you don’t follow pop music enough to know, I’ll just say he signed me, and he placed the song with a pretty big star, and it topped out on the Billboard chart at number four. That released something in me, and what had been difficult before became easy. Like they say, the hits just kept on
coming. Eventually we could buy a better house, but we didn’t want to leave the neighborhood, which no one would mistake for Beverly Hills but which suited us just fine. When the house next door came up for sale, we purchased it, remodeled it to accommodate one wheelchair and one clumsy saxophonist. When Malcolm turned eighteen and went to work in the Diamond Dust band, he moved across the street with me and never had to take it to the garage again. Amalia always haunted him, but he let despair lead him wrong only that once, when he was twenty-two and left the city and saved himself with banish-the-devil music. I won’t read this sentence to him, in case he really doesn’t know the reason for some of his obsessive-compulsive behavior, in case to understand would rob him of the power of these rituals to soothe his sorrow, but here’s what is clear to me: He hates mushrooms, will go to any length to avoid the sight of one, because the morning that Amalia died, he watched her anxiously cleaning a large pile of them, reduced to a scullery maid by their parents; he will neither buy nor borrow a newspaper on Tuesday because she died on Monday, and the news was in print the next day; the night of the day she died, there was a full moon, and so he goes to a church the first night of every full moon to light seventeen candles, one for every year she lived. I love you, Malcolm. So now to Lucas Drackman. His arms in casts, he had chattered nonstop to the police, recounting his every act and thought and feeling, as if he believed that he had triumphed and that they were disciples transported by his tale of glory; he and my father and Fiona and Smaller were convicted of their many crimes and sent away for life. Aurora Delvane? She turned state’s evidence and got a two-year sentence. In prison she wrote a novel. It never sold. At the start of this, I said my first and last names were Jonah Kirk, with seven others in between. But if you know my music, you know that my legal name, since I was eleven, is Jonah Bledsoe, with eight other names in between. I kept Kirk in there because he was my father, even if he never wanted to be, even though he had no use for me; my mother loved him once, after all, even if she was young and naïve at the time, and were it not for that love, I would not exist.
After nine years of good times, we had a bad patch. Life doesn’t run smooth your whole life, and no one ever promised that it would. One day, Mr. Yoshioka didn’t feel right, and the problem turned out to be cancer, a particularly quick-moving one. The last two months, when he was weakest and the hospital could do nothing more for him, we moved him in with Grandpa Teddy, so all of us could be close to visit with him and care for him. The night he died, I sat bedside, reading haiku to him, and sometimes he would recite them back to me in Japanese. Near the end, he asked me to put the book of poetry aside and listen closely to something he needed to say. He told me that he liked my pop songs, which he had told me before, but he believed that I had a greater destiny than that. He told me what he had once told Mary O’Toole, that in the days when I could play the piano at my full strength, God walked into the room every time He heard my music. Mr. Yoshioka said that I was earning a good living at such a young age but there was more to life than earning a living. In his gentle way, he insisted I should, as soon as possible, devote myself to writing grander things, so that when other people played my music in the years to come, God would walk into the room again. I was holding his hand when he died, and for the longest time I could not let it go. We were surprised how many came to his funeral, surely everybody at Metropolitan Suits but a great many others besides, and when I insisted that I must go not just to the church but also to the grave, across cemetery grounds that a wheelchair could not navigate, Grandpa and Malcolm took turns carrying me, and I am pleased to say that I didn’t give my grandfather a heart attack and that Malcolm did not drop me.
Two days after the funeral, when Omi Kobayashi, Mr. Yoshioka’s attorney, visited us, I discovered that in my friend’s will, he left everything to me. The pair of tiger screens were reproductions of those by the Meiji master Takeuchi Seiho. Because he could not have afforded the real thing, he commissioned the copies as a gift to his father, who had once owned the originals before Manzanar. His father had lived seven years with those reproductions before he passed. I was given, as well, the ivory carving of the court lady, which was dated 1898 and signed by the Meiji master Asahi Gyokusan and which Mr. Kobayashi said was of great value. Mr. Yoshioka’s father had owned that piece, too, before Manzanar; when his son could eventually track it down and could afford to purchase it years after Manzanar, the father had been overjoyed. But then the father died and Mr. Yoshioka no longer felt motivated to seek other items the family had once owned. To my surprise, I also inherited Diamond Dust. Johnson Oliver, the manager, only claimed to be the owner at the direction of his boss, Mr. Yoshioka. I inherited, too, Metropolitan Suits, where Mr. Yoshioka punched a time clock, just like all of his employees.
In our lives, we come to moments of great significance that we fail to recognize, the meaning of which does not occur to us for many years. Each of us has his agenda and focuses on it, and therefore we are often blind to what is before our eyes. That day so long ago, when Mr. Yoshioka opened his door and found me waiting with a plate of cookies, all I saw was a neighbor, a shy man, who even at home was dressed in a suit and tie.
And so at the tender age of twenty, I no longer had to work for a living. I could devote myself to the creation that he had asked me to pursue. His request seemed now to be a sacred obligation. As time passed, there were years when I thought he overestimated me and that I would disappoint him in the end. But then came the movie scores, the Oscar, and then another Oscar and a third. Broadway and the Tony Award. Broadway again and again. They say a Pulitzer this year for the lyrics and libretto of the current play, but I don’t think so. A bridge too far, perhaps. Funny thing is, the awards are no more what it’s about than is the money. Though I’ll keep both, thank you.
What it’s about is the music itself, that moment when I’m hearing it in my head for the first time, as I’m trying to get it down on paper, and it’s like hearing something from another, better world. It’s about the music and the people, and it’s about the street where we live even now that my beloved Grandpa Teddy is long gone, a street on which we’ve bought and remodeled every house on both sides of that special block, that sacred piece of earth where Amalia walked and where Anita lived, where my mother, now seventy-five, still lives three doors down from me, and Mrs. Lorenzo in her own place with her second husband, and so many others. Not least of all, this is the street where my wife, Jasmine, lives with me and our three children. The ability to pee presumes the ability to perform otherwise.
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Miss Pearl, who said she was the city, the soul of the city, gave me a piano when I desperately needed one, and she gave me warnings and advice that proved of great value. She gave me back my life, too, after Lucas Drackman took it, after he shot me that night and I fell into death. Otherwise, something would have gone much differently than it did, and Fiona would have been killed as well, perhaps by Drackman, and my body and hers would have been put in the trunk of her car, to be driven away in the rain and perhaps left in some parking lot to be found as the body of Dr. Mace-Maskil’s wife had been found. The dream I was given was not predictive; it was only the way things might have gone, a warning. That’s what I think, anyway. Miss Pearl said we have free will, that what happens next is up to all the people who live along her streets, that my part of it is up to me. The next to the last time I saw her, she said that she had already done more for me than she should, that I was on my own thereafter, and yet she caught me in that long dark fall and brought me back into the world, from death to life. As you might imagine, I have thought about that a lot over the years, and about her claim to be the city.
When I was twenty-one, I sought out Albert Solomon Gluck, the taxi driver who had given the Lucite heart to my mother when I was eight years old. He never became a famous comedian. He still drove a taxi when I found him, and shortly thereafter he moved into a house in our neighborhood and became my driver. Back in the day, he had assured us that a woman
, a passenger, had given him the pendant six months earlier and had told him that she wanted him to pass it along to someone. When he asked who, she said he would know who when that person crossed his path. The second time that I saw Albert, thirteen years after our first encounter, he told me more about that woman. He remembered her vividly. She was tall and beautiful and moved with the grace of a dancer. The outfit she wore was not like anything Miss Pearl had worn, but it did include a feathered hat. She favored a light rose-scented perfume. She called him Ducks. But here’s the thing: Her skin was not mahogany, not any shade of black or brown. She was a Jewish lady, no one he knew and yet so reminiscent of some of the women in his family that he felt akin to her the moment she got into his cab.
If you recall, when I was in that dying fall and lifted by her, just before she breathed upon my face and brought me back to life, I met her eyes, felt a chill. The character of that chill was like unto what I felt in the Kalomirakis Pinakotheke, when I stood before the painting by Fabritius, The Goldfinch, and looked into the masterfully illumined right eye of the little bird and understood what the artist might have meant, understood that not only one cruelly treated bird watched me through that eye, but also all of nature watched, and not only all of nature. When I looked into Miss Pearl’s eyes just before I woke from death to life, I saw a rush of images, more than I could count, passing in mere seconds, a few of which were: my dear mother kissing my fingers, one at a time, as she had done that night soon after we moved in with Grandpa Teddy; Grandpa sitting bedside in the hospital, his fingers moving bead to bead as he kept watch over me; Grandma Anita giving me a silver dollar to spend only on the day that I was confirmed; the faces of Mr. Yoshioka’s mother and sister, not the internment-camp photos from the book, but those framed in silver, which he had kept always lighted, which he also had left to me, and which he had asked me to keep lighted as well; and the eternity of candles, the small flickering lights, that were part of what I’d seen in that big black purse.… And there as I rose with Miss Pearl out of death, just as I passed back to life, I knew that she was not the soul of the city made flesh, or at least that she was not only the city, that she was not just black, as she appeared to me, that she was of all races and continents and times, that she wore no rose perfume but was herself the embodiment of the rose, that she was the mother of the ancient story, that I had known her not just since I was eight, but always.