The Song of David

by Amy Harmon

  Leo had fallen asleep in the waiting room, and I didn’t want to put him out any more than I already had. Plus, Millie was the only one I was interested in spending the night with, even the few hours of the night remaining. Leo dropped me off at home and I took a bath, carefully washing the blood out of my hair, and made it to Millie’s at about four a.m.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have been driving, but I felt fine and I didn’t want to stay away any longer. I knew where the spare key to Millie’s front door was stashed, the key Henry had shown me with all the seriousness of a man with a highly important secret. He kept it tucked inside a latticework curlicue, directly across from the door, and I felt for it in the darkness, finding it easily and mentally thanking Henry for entrusting me with the keys to the house.

  I opened the door and put the key back in Henry’s spot before I slid into the dark foyer and tiptoed up the staircase.

  I turned on the light in her room, a definite perk of loving a blind girl, and found her sprawled across her bed, her phone by her head, her arms wrapped around a pillow like she didn’t want to be alone. I flipped the light back off, pulled off my shoes, and padded to her side in the darkness. I laid down beside her, pulled the spare pillow from her arms and stuck it beneath my head, and rolled her into me, settling her on my chest to compensate for the theft of her pillow.

  “Hey,” she said sleepily, but the pleasure in her voice warmed me.

  “Hey. Go back to sleep. I didn’t want to wake you. I just wanted to see you.”

  “I want to see you too,” she mumbled, and her hands immediately began exploring, making me feel immediately less sleepy. This was a first for us, sleeping side by side, and that was as far as it was going to go, though her sleepy sighs and roving hands had me considering options. I should have known she would discover my bandage immediately.

  “What’s this?” she asked, her fingers cradling my head.

  “That’s a few stitches I got when a drunk heckler decided to smack me in the forehead with his beer bottle.”

  She sat up immediately.

  “My drunk heckler?” she asked, incredulous.

  I didn’t answer.

  “So that’s where you were? The hospital? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “But . . . but . . . I’m your girl, right? So that’s my job. That’s what people do when they care about each other. They worry!” Her voice rose, and I shushed her immediately, smoothing her hair. We’d had this argument before.

  “People that care about each other don’t cause unnecessary worry. I’m fine. I’m here. And I’m going to have an awesome scar for you to trace when it’s all healed up.”

  Millie pushed my hand away and rose from the bed, retreating to the bathroom without a word. She shut the door a little harder than necessary, and I tried not to laugh. Millie was a typical female when it came to showing her displeasure. She wasn’t happy I’d kept her in the dark. I heard her flush the toilet and listened as she slammed around for several minutes. When she finally clomped out of the bathroom and laid down beside me once more, I feigned sleep just to see what she would do. She lay stiffly beside me for several minutes and then turned into me, wrapping her arm around my waist.

  “I know you’re not asleep,” she whispered.

  “How can you tell?”

  “You’re too still and you’re listening too hard.”

  “You can hear me listening?”

  “People take very shallow breaths or they don’t breathe at all when they are really listening.”

  “I’m trying to hear your thoughts.”

  “I’m mad.”

  “You must not be too mad. You brushed your teeth even though you didn’t need to. Which means you want to kiss me. Which means you are planning on forgiving me.”

  “I’m mad because I really like you. And I want to kiss you because I really like you.”

  “You’re mad because you like me?

  “I’m mad because I love you,” she confessed with a sigh. “And you didn’t let me know you were hurt.”

  “Well, I love you too, Millie. And I’m always going to try to protect you. That’s who I am. That’s what I do. If you knew I was getting a few stitches in my head, you wouldn’t have been laying here fast asleep, so sweet and so soft I could eat you. You would have been chewing on this lip, worrying, instead of dreaming about me.” I leaned in and tugged on her lower lip with my teeth, gently mimicking her tendency to bite her lip when she was concerned. I kissed her pouting mouth and felt her anger slip away as I slid my tongue beneath her lips.

  Our breaths grew short and our bodies restless, and it was Millie who pulled away first, clearly not quite ready to extend this night of firsts. I closed my eyes and willed my heart to still as she stroked my head, her fingers slipping through my hair and easing the dull ache still lurking behind my eyes.

  “David?” she whispered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Sing me a song.”

  “What kind of song, baby?”

  “A love song.”

  “Millie, Millie, You’re so silly. I’m so glad your name’s not Willy,” I sang in my best country twang.

  “Willy?”

  “Let me rephrase.” I cleared my throat and began again. “Millie, Millie, you’re so silly, I’m sure glad you don’t have a willy.”

  “That’s not a love song,” she giggled.

  “Okay. How about this? I love your legs. I love your chest, but this spot here, I love the best.” I tickled her smooth stomach and she squirmed against me.

  “Keep singing!” she demanded, swatting my hand away.

  “I love your chin and your funny grin, I love your hair and that spot there.” I tickled her beneath her right rib and she grabbed my fingers, laughing.

  “I love it! Second verse, please.”

  “I love the way you shake your booty, I love the way you smell so fruity! I love the way you call me David, and . . . . la la la nothing rhymes with David.”

  “That was beautiful,” she giggled. “What’s it called?”

  “It’s called ‘Nothing Rhymes with David.’”

  “Nothing rhymes with David?” Her voice was disbelieving, and she was quiet for several seconds, as if trying to find a word that rhymed to prove me wrong. Then she stroked the side of my face, her fingers tracing my jawline, and when she spoke again her voice was as earnest as her touch.

  “It makes me feel close to you, listening to you.”

  “Is that why you always want me to sing? I thought it was my honeyed tones.” I joked, but my throat was suddenly tight, too tight to sing.

  “It’s more than that. You can’t see a song. You feel a song, you hear a song, you move to it. Just like I can’t see you, but I feel you, and I move toward you. When you’re with me, I feel like I glimpse a David nobody else knows is there. It’s the Song of David, and nobody else can hear it but me.”

  My heart shuddered and then grew twice its size, a Hulk-like shredding and popping sensation filling my chest, and I wrapped her in my arms and buried my face in her neck.

  “Nah. That’s not me. That’s the ode, Millie. I feel it too, every single time you’re close to me.”

  “The ode, huh? That’s what you call it?”

  “That’s what I call it.”

  “I think I’ll stick with the Song of David. It’s my favorite,” she said, speaking the words against my cheek.

  “If I sing, you have to dance,” I whispered, and my mouth found hers, and the music between us became an urgent hum, a rhythmic pulse, and we danced around the fires between us until sleep slowed our steps and muted our song and softly pulled us under.

  (End of cassette)

  Moses

  MILLIE STOOD AND with no warning, lifted the tape recorder above her head and threw it to the ground as if she couldn’t bear to hear another word. The back of the tape recorder sprang off when it hit the ground, and the fat D batteri
es rolled out like wounded soldiers, their tank disabled, their weapons depleted.

  Georgia and I stood watching, unable to form a coherent response. Millie was shaking with fury, and her eyes were bright with tears.

  “I don’t know what to think, anymore. I don’t know what to do! We’re sitting here listening to him tell us a story that I wholeheartedly believed two weeks ago. But he’s gone. I’m actually . . . embarrassed. I’ve called you, interrupted your lives, and made a big deal about the fact that he’s gone. But he obviously chose to leave!” Millie took several ragged breaths, but then her chin hit her chest, and the rage seemed to leave her as quickly as it had come.

  “The worst part is . . . I actually hope it’s just that he doesn’t know how to tell me he changed his mind. I actually hope he woke up and realized he wasn’t in love with me after all. I hope that’s it. Because I can’t think of an alternative that isn’t a hundred times worse. And I’d rather lose him than lose him.”

  I knew exactly what she meant.

  My phone pealed out mercifully, and Georgia knelt to put the batteries back in the tape recorder as I excused myself to take the call.

  “Mikey,” I greeted, slipping out the front door.

  “Moses,” he said in reply. “I’ve got news.”

  My heart did a belly flop.

  “Tag is fighting in Vegas tomorrow. At the MGM. Cory caught the weigh-in on ESPN this morning. Apparently he’s a last minute substitution. It’s a big fight, Moses. A huge fight. It’s the Terry Shaw versus Jordan Jones match-up. But now it’s Terry Shaw versus Tag Taggert.”

  My mouth fell open, and I actually pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it, as if Mikey wasn’t really Mikey and my phone wasn’t really a phone.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” I hissed, and pressed the phone against my ear once more.

  “That’s what I said. We’re all reeling. We don’t know what to think, man. He’s fighting, and none of us knew. We’re his team. What the hell is he doing, Moses?”

  “I have no idea, Mikey,” I breathed. I felt lightheaded with relief that we’d found him, and sick with dread about what was coming next.

  “Should we go? Should we drive to Vegas and just confront him?”

  I could tell Mikey was pissed. And confused.

  “How hard is it to get close to a fighter at the MGM if you don’t have a pass, if you don’t have clearance?” I asked doubtfully.

  Mikey swore, and I nodded to myself. That wasn’t going to work. If Tag didn’t want his team there, they weren’t going to get to him.

  “Is everyone there, Mikey, all the guys?” I asked.

  “Yeah, everybody but Paulo. But the rest of us are here, Moses.”

  “Hang tight. I’ll be there in five.”

  I called into the house, letting Georgia know I was heading out for a minute. I wasn’t ready to tell Millie what I’d just learned. I needed to know more. Judging from her attempt to smash the tape recorder, she had reached an emotional peak. Even still, the tape recorder was back on, clearly none the worse for wear. I could hear Tag speaking like he’d never left, and my anger spiked again.

  I walked through the doors of the training gym four minutes later and headed for the office. As Mikey had promised, all the guys were assembled, and the footage was cued. It was a media zoo, just like all weigh-ins. The scale was center stage and one by one, each fighter took his position.

  I watched as Tag stripped down with none of his usual smirk and swag. He was hard-faced and serious. No flashing dimples, no chest pounding, no nonsense. He stepped onto the scale in nothing but a Tag Team ball cap and a matching pair of fitted nylon shorts with Tag Team emblazoned in yellow across the butt. He stood as his weight was announced and then flexed his arms for the pictures. He looked lean and cut—thin—though that could be from cutting weight to hit the required 205.

  “He looks skinny.” Axel confirmed what I was thinking, although skinny was relative. Tag was big and muscular, ridiculously so, but there was something gaunt and hollowed out about his cheeks and hip bones. “His walking-around weight is easily 220 and he’s at 203. What’s he thinking, sucking off an extra two pounds?”

  “He hasn’t been in the gym for three weeks, that’s why!” Cory exclaimed.

  “And he’s fighting freakin’ Terry Shaw. This could be a bloodbath,” Mikey moaned as we watched Shotgun Terry Shaw step onto the scale, looking surly and sour and cocky as hell. He shot Tag a look of disdain. Tag just ignored him altogether.

  “No.” Andy shook his head stubbornly. “Tag knows what he’s doing.” He folded his arms and stared us all down. “We just don’t know what he’s doin’. But I know one thing. I’m goin’ to Vegas.”

  “Me too,” Cory said.

  “Count me in,” Mikey agreed.

  “I’ll drive.” Axel took out his phone as if the decision was made and reservations were in order.

  “I gotta tell Millie,” I sighed.

  “What you gonna tell her, Moses?” Andy asked.

  “Maybe we should go, see what’s up, before you say anything,” Axel suggested. His face was creased with concern and his big arms were folded across his chest. I had noticed that Axel was pretty protective of Millie, and Henry too, and I was pretty sure all the guys were thinking what I was thinking. Tag had run out on Millie. For whatever reason, he’d split, and now I had to tell her.

  I shook my head slowly. “No, I can’t do that. I have to tell her we found him.”

  Axel shook his head adamantly, like he couldn’t believe any of it, and the rest of the guys kept their eyes trained on the floor.

  My phone bleeped, indicating a text message, and I glanced down at it.

  Georgia: Call me.

  “Give me a second, guys,” I said, excusing myself. Georgia picked up on the first ring.

  “Moses?” Georgia’s voice was tight.

  “Yeah?”

  “I think we know why he left. Come back to Millie’s. You need to hear this for yourself.”

  I AWOKE TO a killer headache and a sense of well-being that completely belied the pain. Millie had let me sleep, though she’d gotten up with Henry for school and had been awake for hours, just waiting for me to roll out of bed. I liked the way it felt, coming awake in Millie’s bed, listening for her in the house. I thought of the ring in my glove box and wondered if today wasn’t as good a day as any to extend an official invitation to join Tag Team.

  I staggered into her bathroom, considering how I would pop the question. One look at my reflection—both eyes black, my head swollen and ugly, the stitches across my forehead garish and spikey—and I decided it could wait until I felt a little better.

  After a few kisses, a couple of pain killers, and a pile of fluffy eggs that Millie had expertly prepared, I was finally ready to start my workday, though it was almost noon. Millie had a full day too, and we parted at her front door, Millie going one way, me going another. She didn’t want me to drive her to the blind center. She wanted to walk. Surprise, surprise. So I watched her walk away, enjoying the view enormously.

  Millie didn’t drag her stick from side to side when she walked. She tapped it, rapping it against the concrete, left foot forward, stick goes right. Right foot forward, stick goes left. Click, clack, click, clack. Maybe it was the dancer in her, but she liked creating a rhythm when she walked. Sometimes she bobbed her head, and wiggled her hips, even though anyone looking on would probably wonder at the blind girl shaking her butt to the rhythm of her walking stick. But she said she couldn’t see them staring, she couldn’t see them laughing, so she didn’t care. Perks of being a blind girl.

  “Hey, Silly Millie!” I called after her.

  She stopped and turned around.

  “Yeah, big guy?”

  “What song you dancin’ to?”

  “It’s a new one. Maybe you’ve heard it. It’s called ‘Nothing Rhymes with David.’”

  I threw back my head, laughing at her quick wit and bellowing the song I’d compo
sed the night before as she continued on her way. “I love the way you smell so fruity, I love the way you shake your booty!”

  “That’s the song!” she called out and wiggled a little more as she waved and continued down the sidewalk. My phone vibrated in my back pocket, and I answered it, still laughing at my girl.

  “Mr. Taggert, this is Doctor Stein at LDS hospital. I had a chance to look over your MRI test results with radiology.”

  “Don’t tell me. My brain is abnormally small,” I teased, my mind not really on the conversation at all, but on Millie’s retreating form. She made it hard for me to concentrate on anything else.

  The doctor didn’t laugh. That should have been my first clue. That and the fact that I’d left the hospital less than eight hours before and he was calling me himself. But in that moment, the moment before the news left the doctor’s lips and my eyes left Millie, I was completely, perfectly happy. Life isn’t perfect, people aren’t perfect, but there are moments that are. And that was one of them. That moment was a bright red balloon filled with anticipation of what life would bring, of Millie and me and a million tomorrows. And then it ended. It popped with a loud crack, and the rubbery remnants of my perfect moment lay at my feet.

  “I would like you to come back in. I want to run another test, focusing on the area of concern. There are some abnormalities, a shadow that needs some further investigation. This is not my area of expertise, so I’ve consulted a specialist, and he is actually available this afternoon. Could you come in an hour?”

  I KNEW I was a little claustrophobic. I was claustrophobic for the same reason I was afraid of the dark. I had always attributed it to the asthma I’d had as a kid. Waking up in the middle of the night gasping for air, the feeling of being closed in, of not being able to take a deep breath. Of knowing you had to breathe or you would die, and not being able to. Claustrophobia was just another word for helplessness. I hated feeling helpless.