by Dean Mayes
“Yeah. I think. Beck, you’re stalling,” Andy fixed his gaze directly at his friend. “You wanna tell me what’s up?”
Finally, Beck looked up at Andy and his expression became serious. He rubbed his mouth with his hand nervously.
“I got some bad news today, Dev. There’s a whole mess of trouble brewing between the financiers and the project heads on the building site. The money has dried up. There’s gonna be a court case, but for the time being, they’re shutting us down.”
Andy stopped what he was doing and focused his attention fully on Beck.
“That’s shitty, man. When are they...”
“End of next week,” Beck finished for him. “Unless they can work their shit out - and I’m pretty sure they won’t - I’ll be out of a job.”
“What are you going to do?”
Beck swilled his beer and set his glass down. He spoke hesitantly.
“Well, a few of the guys have been talking already, and Killgallon’s uncle has got some contacts on a site in New York. He’s got me a position out there already. I can start pretty much right away.”
Beck paused, knowing already that Andy was struggling to digest the news. He felt awful. He seemed to be developing a habit of bearing bad news lately.
“I gotta take it, man. I gotta leave Chicago.”
Andy smiled broadly, feigning relief for his friend while a feeling of dread rippled through him. He poured himself a beer and held his glass out towards Beck.
“Of course you do, Beck. You’ve got to take the job. I mean, it’s New York. That’s awesome!”
Beck hadn’t anticipated Andy’s response. He smiled awkwardly and clinked his glass with Andy.
“You’re not pissed?”
“Why would I be pissed?” Andy asked. “You’ve gotta do what’s best for you. Take the job, for god’s sake. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.”
“But - what about the apartment?” Beck asked, still not entirely convinced by Andy’s reaction. “The rent’s gonna be too much to carry on your own.”
Andy brushed it aside.
“Don’t worry about it, Beck. It’ll work out. Something will work out.”
In truth, much as Beck had suspected, Andy’s heart was sinking and he was barely able to maintain the happy facade for his friend. They had shared the apartment for almost two years. It had been a comfortable arrangement for the both of them. In fact, it had been one of the rare constants when everything else was out of control. Andy had come to realize that Beck was, quite possibly, the only true friend he really had. Deep down, Beck sensed what Andy’s real feelings towards his news were, but he didn’t call him out on it.
“I’ll stick around, man,” Beck reassured him. “I don’t have to leave for a week or so, so I’ll keep up my end until ... you know.”
“Beck, Don’t worry about it. It will be all right.”
“So you - uhh - talked to Samantha?” Beck asked in a rather ham-fisted attempt at changing the subject again.
“I tried,” Andy responded simply. “But she’s not real happy right now. You were right, man. She - uhh - well, you know.”
Beck smiled triumphantly, raising his glass once more.
“I’m not a pretty face for the hell of it, Dev. Any idiot could see it,” he said dryly.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do about it, Beck.”
“Just tell her the truth: that you’re a total whack job and far too unstable to get involved with.”
Andy managed a half-hearted grin.
“Hey, I was just kidding, Dev,” Beck suddenly felt awful about his joke.
“I know. I guess that it’s just more complicated than I want it to be right now.”
Beck nodded in understanding.
“You’ve gotta feel right within yourself,” he said. “And when you’re searching, the way you are, you won’t rest until you find what you’re looking for.”
“Sometimes I wonder what the fuck I’m looking for, Beck,” Andy replied wearily, leaning over the bar and cupping his hands together.
“Well,” Beck sat up straight on his bar stool as if stretching. “I can guess at what it is. And it’s not Samantha.”
Beck finished off his beer and set the glass down on its side on the bar.
***
Andy lay on the sofa bed later that night unable to sleep. In the darkness of the living room, the blankets drawn up under his arms, he stared at the ceiling, unable to escape the enveloping sadness that had settled over him. He had no idea what he was going to do. Even with his regular playing at The Pub on top of his bar duties - which gave him quite a bit more in tips - he would still have to move on from this place eventually.
But where would he go?
Although he was grateful for their recent significant breakthrough, Andy was under no illusions about the significant gulf that remained between him and his father. The years of neglect in their relationship, the sadness and hurt, wouldn’t necessarily be all patched up after a single positive conversation.
One bright spark punctuated his gloom, however. He had received a message on his cell earlier in the afternoon. It was from Sorrel Veldtman, advising him that he had been selected for an interview pursuant to his application for a place at the Melbourne International Festival for the Guitar.
He still regarded his chances of being selected as fairly slim. The selection committee was populated by the people who were determined to expel him just a few months ago, so he’d already convinced himself his fate was sealed. He considered not attending the interview at all, but he knew that would be a slap in the face to Veldtman. He owed her a lot.
The first part of the application had seemed straightforward enough. Aside from some standard form work Andy was required to write a thousand words on why this opportunity would be important for him - what inspired his passion for the guitar. And although he regarded his final submission as a somewhat rushed effort given the short lead time he’d had, Andy actually felt proud of what he’d written.
Somewhere in the earliest hours of the morning, still troubled by his thoughts and unable to sleep, Andy flipped on a nearby lamp. He reached down, feeling for a piece of paper on the coffee table beside him. He raised the photo of Denny and Sonya posing together and held it in the soft light.
He dared not allow himself to hope too much. This opportunity was his only chance to find her. Andy squeezed his eyes shut and drew the photo close to him, touching it to his forehead.
“C’mon, Denny. Give me whatever strength you can,” he whispered.
He closed his eyes and drifted. He dreamed of her again, of being with her. Her presence was warm and soft. He imagined holding her hand, the way they had always done. He imagined their peace.
***
The next morning, Andy crossed the grounds of the Conservatory precinct, making his way towards the Administration Building. He was humming with nervous energy that was partially the fault of the several cups of coffee he had plied himself with after a restless night. He was still smoothing out the creases of the cream-colored shirt he had bought on the way here, having decided that none of the shirts he owned would suffice in making him look presentable for the interview. He didn’t want to admit he was really nervous now, since he had set his expectations so low.
He passed by a window and glimpsed his reflection. Andy was taken aback by what he saw. He was healthy. He looked healthy. So different from the sallow youth with the black eyeliner and nail polish, the appetite for destruction. That persona was a ghost now, and Andy smiled at the irony, for it was a ghost who’d banished his old self.
Andy sat and waited outside the conference room where the interviews were taking place. A curious calm had come over him. Michyko, the pretty young Japanese student, sat across from him and they nodded respectfully at each other. He wanted to say something to her, but he was too nervous to think of anything.
She went in before him, summoned by Veldtman, who appeared in the doorway to the conference room fle
etingly. Andy waited in silence, lost in thought for seemed like hours. He had no idea what they had thought of his written submission, or how they would react to him. He went over the little speech in his mind and started to panic, thinking that it all sounded too contrived. It was little more than a standard line, he thought, the kind of “I’d really like the opportunity to represent this school,” and “the opportunity to travel overseas is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” There was nothing in it that sounded really impressive, really unique.
The door to the conference room opened, and Michyko emerged accompanied by Veldtman. Michyko was smiling, and the two women were chatting in a relaxed manner. They shook hands warmly. Then Veldtman turned towards Andy and extended her arm to him. Her smile did not fade; she projected her warmth towards him. Andy still felt as nervous as he did in class, when he was expecting to be pilloried by her.
“Come on through, Andrew,” she greeted. “Thank you for coming.”
She squeezed his elbow gently and met his eyes with hers and nodded silently, as if to offer some wordless encouragement.
Andy stepped into the conference room to find four faculty staff - two men and two women - sitting around a horseshoe table. Andrew noted that Veldtman’s colleague Grantley Casper was one of the panelists. Andy’s heart sank. He had run up against Casper in the past, and he knew the man disliked him intensely.
“Have a seat, Andrew,” Veldtman directed as she sat down among the other panelists.
Andy nodded and sat down in the chair facing them. He suddenly felt like a prisoner sitting before a parole board.
“Andrew DeVries,” one of the women panelists began. “The panel has had an opportunity to review your application and your overall student record. I must say that you have had a rather checkered history up until now.”
Andy said nothing. He was unsure of what to say. He could feel fingers of tension pressing at his temples.
“Despite your academic achievement, which is sound, you have come very close to being disqualified from the program on a number of occasions. Your record indicates a pattern of nonattendance at examinations, a poor attendance at lectures and numerous warnings and penalties concerning the nonpayment of tuition fees.”
Andy listened as his entire tawdry record was laid out in front of him and the panel. He cheeks flushed hotly and he squirmed uncomfortably.
“And now you are sitting before us hoping to represent this Conservatory at an international festival, among some of the finest students in the world.”
“Yes, I am,” Andy answered, nodding, his voice soft but firm. When he looked up, he met Casper’s gaze with an intensity that caused the older man to blink.
Casper sat forward in his seat. “Why, then, do you think that we should consider you at all, Mr. DeVries?” he said.
“Because I am sitting here now,” Andy said. “Because despite my record, you - this panel - saw fit to invite me here to consider me.”
Veldtman and the second male panelist managed to stifle a satisfied grin at his quick fire answer, which left Casper fumbling for a follow-up question.
“I know I have not been the model student,” Andy continued, feeling a sudden rush of adrenaline. “I haven’t even been a good student. I haven’t treated my place here with respect and I have - for the want of a better phrase - been quite happy to fly by the seat of my pants. You are right to question my suitability for this delegation.”
Veldtman spoke up. “You say in your written submission that you have played the guitar since you were six years old,” she said, trying to steer the conversation away from the tension she could sense in the room. “And that it was your father who inspired you to play. Can you elaborate on that for us?”
Andy relaxed back in his seat and bowed his head in thought.
His father...
Two men, father and son, sit at a kitchen table. Years of misunderstanding and regret.
The rehearsed speech Andy had prepared slowly left the center of his mind, and instead, another speech took its place.
“My father was a soldier in the U.S. Army,” he began carefully, considering his words. “During the first Gulf War. He was away for a long time - I think. I was only six when he returned home.”
Andy paused, looking down at his hands in his lap, then continued:
“He suffered badly from his experience. My family suffered as a result, and it wasn’t long before we fell apart. I went to live with my grandmother, and while I was there, I found a guitar in her attic that my father had brought back from Iraq. That was when I first began to play. For years I learned and learned. I played and played, hoping that my father would notice me - take an interest. But he never did. I never understood why it was that he would never listen to me play or encourage me. Well… maybe I did know deep down, but I lived in the hope that one day he would notice. I gave up trying, after a long time. But recently I -”
Andy’s voice caught in his throat and he looked up to find the panel completely riveted - even Casper.
Veldtman nodded at him encouragingly.
“Go on,” she said.
“While my father was in the desert he met a young man - who was about my age then. He played the guitar like no one my father had ever heard. My father told me that this man played for the troops and hoped to study in Europe one day. But during a battle, the young man was caught in the crossfire and was shot and killed. It was my father’s fault; he was the one who had pulled the trigger. He never forgave himself for it, and couldn’t bear to listen to the sound of a guitar for years. He told me this account just a few days ago. I played, never knowing the truth of why he had shunned me for so long. Eventually I played because it became my only anchor in life. Now I play because I love it more than anything. I have learned to respect the craft, and I have learned to respect myself. It has been only recently that I have come to understand that. My father understands it now, too.”
The panel sat silently as Andy finished speaking. One or two of them nodded, clearly impressed by what he had just told them. Casper appeared unmoved - not that Andy expected anything more from him - while Veldtman and the other man whispered to each other.
Finally Veldtman turned to Andy.
“Thank you for coming, Andrew. We will consider your application and advise you of the outcome.”
Andy stood. His legs felt as though they might give way under him, but he quickly steadied himself and nodded respectfully to the panel before exiting the conference room.
He went straight to a nearby bathroom and splashed water on his face. He felt exhilarated and terrified all at the same time, having delivered something so unprepared. But it felt right - it felt more truthful than anything else he could have spoken. Looking into the mirror, Andy saw his eyes had changed color completely now. They were no longer the brown that he had been born with. Instead they were now a vivid, almost intense green.
Andy took off his backpack and searched inside it for the folded photograph of Denny and Sonya. He gazed at her image again.
“God, I hope it was enough,” he whispered.
***
Sonya relaxed on the sofa in the living room of the beach house, glad that a long week was finally over. The doors to the balcony were open, allowing a light evening breeze to waft in off the ocean. She could hear the waves breaking gently on the shore and it soothed her. Soft jazz played in the background and she sipped a glass of Cabernet. She’d been on the go since early morning, and though she was grateful for the momentum of work, she savored the end of the day more than ever.
Sonya had showered, put on one of Denny’s old business shirts - which was big enough for her that she could wear it alone - and turned off her BlackBerry. Simon lay at her feet sound asleep, grateful for Sonya’s company again.
Sonya craved these moments of solitude when she could close out the world and relax in the comforting familiarity of the house. She had come to welcome the peace of her own company; indeed, she craved it, even though she suspected it was
not entirely healthy. Sonya ignored her doubts, ignored the constant “helpful suggestions” from Lionel and Ruth and chose just to be. She couldn’t bear the thought of exploring a new relationship. It would feel wrong, as though she were cheating on Denny. The grief counselor had told her to expect feelings like these, that they were perfectly normal, but the thought of considering another...
It made her feel awful.
She swirled the silky liquid around inside the wine glass, allowing its aroma to touch her nostrils. Denny had loved wine. He loved tasting it, pairing it with cooking, or just selecting a bottle to have with some cheeses and crackers while music played ... or he played. He wasn’t at all snobbish about it, in the way some wine enthusiasts got. It was just another of those things that he genuinely loved.
He would certainly have loved to be here now, sharing this bottle, listening to the ocean and the music with her.
Familiar tendrils of grief grew inside Sonya, and she felt herself falling towards the edge once more. She pulled herself back and stifled her tears by biting the inside of her lip. She had become so accustomed to this internal emotional battle she had almost mastered “patching the wall,” as she called it. The “wall” was her security blanket, within which she could wrap herself and avoid the emotions, avoid the world, avoid people, avoid attachment.
She polished off what remained in the glass and poured herself another. Her struggle gradually became diluted by the effects of the wine, and before too long, she was drifting off to sleep where she lay.
And in the spaces between her awake and asleep states, Sonya dreamed once more.
Where was she?
A beach near a city. An esplanade, a market, perhaps. There are people all about enjoying a beautiful, cosmopolitan day.
She strolls along the beach, the sand beneath her bare feet, the water lapping at her ankles. It is pretty here and she feels calm.
She feels a presence close by: a familiar presence, a familiar warmth.
Who is it? She wonders. She looks up and searches around her, then in front of her. She lifts her hand, shielding her eyes from the sun. Everything and everyone around her is blurry, out of focus. A dog barks nearby.