He heard from far below on the street the screech of brakes and the sound of a crash. He thought it must be a terrible one. He examined the box again. What is it? he wondered.
He retrieved his pocket knife and drew out the blade. He neatly slit the tape joining the cardboard and opened the box. Styrofoam chips tumbled out, littering his lap and the floor. Beneath the optical illusions of plastic bubble wrap, a long, narrow wooden box was visible. He unwound the bubble wrap carefully and held the object in his lap.
An enclosed folio identified it as an Aeolian harp. The text was long and detailed. For the moment he put it aside to examine another sheet of paper that had fluttered free from the styrofoam chips. It was an invoice from a company in California, and it was made out to Paul. He looked at the label on the package again. No, he hadn't been mistaken; it bore his name.
There was no card, no other message. He considered the Aeolian harp as a kind of artifact that Paul was tendering to him, and he was mystified, not knowing what to make of it. His thoughts wandered. He blamed Paul, and he was hurt. He felt more bitter than angry. He thought of his past, of how he had sensed his childhood dying again with Bill, and how it had in some way been reborn with his father. The trip to Sanibel Island had been a respite. He remembered tastes and textures: brewed iced tea, Coca-Cola in the old, beautiful green glass bottles that you rarely saw anymore in the North. He recalled how when it rains, seagulls perch on top of pilings in the Gulf, facing the wind, beaks up, and Little Blue Herons seek shelter in mangrove roots. He thought of his terrible dream of Paul dead, and he wondered again about the car door slamming and the spectral vision of its interior lit and empty which he had glimpsed in the storm's aftermath.
A tremor possessed him, an echo of the trepidation of that dream. The house was silent; it was his, empty and silent. He carefully studied the harp, which was now his, for the first time. He didn't know what an Aeolian harp was, or how one played it. He picked up the folio he had dropped, and read from it:
The harp can be attached to a tree, a building, or fitted along the length of a window ledge. The blowing of the wind vibrates the strings in such a way that the harmonics are heard rather than just the fundamental note. This gives a chorded impression. The exact means by which aeolian tones are generated is still not fully understood. Kircher in 1650, noticing that several notes may be heard from one string, suggested that the string was to the wind as a prism to light, separating component sounds from the single energy source. His colleague Bartoli poured scorn on this idea. Present theory suggests that it is the eddies creating a vortex pattern behind the string, like the small whirlpools visible when a stick is held in flowing water, which make the aeolian tone, which may occasionally be of the same pitch as the string's natural frequency, thus causing it to vibrate.
Bryce plucked one of the strings. It made a slight, dissipating ping. He had been eluded, but now a symbol occurred to him, at once suggestive and reductive, of a mute instrument that had to wait on the unpredictable wind to make it sing.
* * *
Althea and Jeanne entered St. Vincent's Hospital through the entrance marked "Emergency." It led to a new wing which was reassuringly clean, with light walls and shiny linoleum. The waiting area was furnished with chairs of molded plastic. They were only sparsely occupied.
"Mr. Carmichael was taken down to X-ray," the nurse informed Althea and Jeanne, glancing, as she spoke, at the nearly empty room. "He's lucky we weren't busy and were able to admit him right away. Sometimes it's like a war zone in here. But don't get me wrong, this isn't Bellevue. We're relatively small. Take a seat, and we'll call you when we have news."
The room was too new to exude the odor of long vigils. "I guess we're going to be here for a while," Althea sighed, as she removed her jacket and sat down, crossing her long legs so that the thick corduroy wales of her jeans made contrasting diagonals.
"I promised Paul I'd make phone calls for him, but I'd like to know the results of the X-rays first," Jeanne said. "He asked me to contact Kurt Matthews—and Bryce, too. It's odd; I didn't even know of Bryce's existence until this afternoon, and now I'm to speak with him."
"Do you want me to call for you?" Althea offered. Though she spoke calmly, she was conflicted. She wanted to be involved, yet she dreaded being the bearer of bad tidings—and to people she hardly knew.
"No, I'll do it. I don't mind."
In fact, Jeanne wanted to make the calls because Paul had asked her to. If only because she had been there when he needed her, he had given her permission to enter into his life, which until now he had denied her. She had hardly allowed herself to realize how much she had missed this access. Outwardly in possession of herself, she had suffered inside. While she had given Paul her love, she had kept her heart, but her heart was constrained in her. Her life had not become happier, nor had she become better, in her loves for Paul and for Althea. It had demanded another influence for her to truly let herself perceive this.
René Duval's gentle, polite attentions to her just five days earlier at the meeting of The Mount Restoration had revealed to her how sad she had become. The fact that she felt he understood this about her, as his interest discovered it in her, had enabled her to see it for herself. She had realized how far from what she truly wanted were the results that love had created in her, and she was able to broach the silence between herself and Althea. For this alone, she was already grateful to René. She thought that her silence must have been visible to him at once, when she had stood watching the swans floating in the dark pool at The Mount and felt so full an emptiness—how else could she describe it? René had spoken, startling her, and she had turned and found him. But in fact he had discovered her first.
She had felt an inspiration from him immediately, though he had not even touched her hand. As had been the case with Paul, preliminaries had been skipped, but they were different preliminaries. She sensed that René was both patient and impetuous. She wondered what it would be like to be cherished by him. Already she had begun to believe in him.
All this she kept from Althea. She didn't feel ready to tell her. Perhaps—the possibility existed—she was mistaken about René. She mulled over these thoughts as she sat with Althea in the emergency waiting room, an empty seat between them.
Leafing through a magazine, Althea appeared pale, quiet, composed. Yet, coming upon Paul's accident, she had fainted. Jeanne thought of how she had kissed Paul's cheek when he lay, his eyes closed, on the stretcher. And then his eyes had opened and he spoke her name. While her love for him was less than it had been, her heart went out to him. Now she thought that Paul was drawing her and Althea closer together as surely as he had kept them apart; he was the missing occupant of the seat between them.
A white-garbed doctor entered the room. The nurse called to Jeanne and Althea, who rose in unison and went over to her station. The doctor introduced himself: "I am Doctor McNab, an orthopedic surgeon." He looked young and serious.
He spoke to them without preamble. "Your friend has broken the long bones in his foot, involving joints connecting to the mid-portion of the foot. It's quite an uncommon fracture, but common or uncommon, it's serious enough for us to operate right away."
"What will you do?" Jeanne asked.
"The skin is broken. There is tissue damage. In cases like this, the immediate danger is from infection. The dead tissue must be cut away and the wound sterilized. As for the broken bones, it's more than likely they won't stay in place by themselves until they heal. The surgeon will have to insert pins to maintain the reduction."
"Insert pins," Althea repeated. "How long will the operation take?"
"It depends. About two hours. He'll be under general anesthesia. Oh yes," he continued, "Orthopedic surgery is like carpentry."
"You should know," Jeanne interjected, "you'll be operating on a dancer."
"I'll do the best I can," Dr. McNab replied.
"May we see him now?" Althea asked.
The doctor smiled the strain
ed, thin smile of refusal. "I'm afraid not. You can see him after the operation. He'll probably be in the recovery room for about an hour, until he comes out from the anesthesia, and then he'll be taken up to his room."
"Where can we wait for him?" asked Althea.
"In the cafeteria. Or, if you live nearby, you can go home, where you'll probably be more comfortable, and we can call you. Is that all?" He was already glancing at his chart. "You can tell the nurse what your plans are."
He was a flash of white, gone. This was his theater, Jeanne reflected, to which they weren't admitted. She thought of how he had too little time, and they had too much. They were all feeling time's weight, only the doctor couldn't stop to give time thought, for, compounding the pressure, he worked long hours. Jeanne pictured Paul lying helpless, alone among strangers to whom he must now commit his total trust.
"I better go make the telephone calls," she said.
Althea nodded. "I'm glad I'm not making them," she said. "What about his family?"
"I don't know. He didn't mention them to me. I only spoke to him for a second. I guess Bryce will know what to do."
"Do you need change?"
"No."
The first call Jeanne made was to the Kurt Matthews Dancers. She got the number from information and, dialing it, reached an answering service, but she didn't want to leave her news in a message. Next she called the office of the Joyce Theater. "Is Kurt Matthews there?" she asked. "I need to speak to him. It's an emergency."
"I believe so. Hold on, I'll have to find him."
Jeanne had to deposit more money in the telephone before Kurt arrived, but after his somewhat high-pitched, pleasant voice identified itself, it didn't take long for her to give her name, explain that she was Paul's friend, and tell him her news. "Paul's going into the operating room right now. He may be there already," she concluded.
"Oh my God, is he going to be all right?"
"I don't know. The doctor was in a hurry, and I didn't get to ask many questions." Jeanne related to Kurt all that Dr. McNab had told her.
"How devastating for him." There was a pause before Kurt continued. "And for us, too. I don't have much time to make a substitution for the performance tonight. We'll have to muddle through, I guess. And Paul will, too, poor guy."
"I can call you and let you know how Paul is after the operation's over," Jeanne offered.
"Will you? If it's during the performance, you can leave a message. I better think about changing the program now. I send Paul my best wishes. We'll be in touch."
"Absolutely," Jeanne promised.
She also had to get Paul's telephone number from information, not knowing it by heart. After she pressed in the digits, the phone rang and rang, seven or eight times, and then her patience was rewarded. "Hello."
"Is this Bryce?"
"Yes."
"My name is Jeanne Mann. We haven't met, but I'm a friend of Paul Carmichael. It's about Paul that I'm calling." Jeanne paused infinitesimally, and then went on. "Paul's had an accident and has broken his foot. It's serious, a multiple fracture. I'm at St. Vincent's Hospital, where he's currently undergoing surgery. They have to clean out the wound—it's open—and put in pins to hold the bones in place."
"Paul?" The tone was soft, incredulous. "What kind of accident?"
"Something fell on his foot. Actually it crashed to the ground and bounced off and then hit his foot. I didn't see it. It was a rear bumper that dropped off part of a car that was being hoisted up into the window of an apartment."
"What?"
"It sounds crazy, I know, but that's what happened."
"I had no idea where Paul was."
Jeanne heard twinned notes of complaint and distress in Bryce's voice and allowed a silence for them to sink into.
"Do you think he'll be all right?" Bryce continued.
"I don't know. I hope so. He asked me specifically to call you. I wasn't with him. I just happened to be walking by right after the accident."
"When and where was it?"
"In the Village, on Grove Street, near Hudson. Maybe an hour ago, maybe less. I'm not sure. I've lost track of the time. I've already spoken to Kurt Matthews. You know, Paul was supposed to dance tonight."
"Yes, I know. How long will he be in surgery?"
"They estimate a couple of hours. Then he'll have to recover from the anesthesia. Bryce, I have a favor to ask. I don't know Paul all that well. I suppose there are others who ought to be informed, his family, for instance. I don't know how to contact them. Can I count on you to do it? I don't even know where Paul's from."
"I understand you," said Bryce. "All right."
His stiff reply caused Jeanne some nervousness so that her next offer came out hesitantly. "Would you like to meet us? I say us—I'm with Althea Montgomery. She said she's met you."
"Althea. Yes, I've met her." Bryce sounded noncommittal.
"Would you like to come to my apartment until the operation is over, and Paul is awake? I live just a block from the hospital."
"It's kind of you to offer. I have to think about it. I only recently got in, and I'm feeling a little weak and dizzy."
"Is something wrong?"
"I'm not sure."
There was a pause, in which Jeanne sensed that Bryce was about to tell her something, and then he said it.
"I have a chronic illness. Recently I've been pretty well, but I don't feel great right now. I'm glad you called. I was expecting to find Paul here and was taken by surprise when I didn't. Was he in shock when you saw him?"
"I don't know. I'm not a doctor, but I think the shock was wearing off, and he was suffering."
"Poor Paul. I'd like to be by his side. I'll do my best. May I call you back later?"
"Of course. I'll give you the number. I'd like to meet you, and now that we've spoken, I expect that I will. One thing is for certain—right now Paul's not going anywhere."
* * *
When the phone rang in Bryce's apartment, he expected to hear Paul at the other end of the line, and his nerves, when he picked up the receiver, were sharp with frustration and hope. After the initial shock of encountering the voice of a woman he didn't know, he forced himself to listen closely to her while his mind still wandered. He had been thinking of betrayals and neglect, but not of accidents. He couldn't help the sudden, superstitious thrill when he considered his Florida dream as a kind of presentiment, if not of death, then at least of injury. It was because of that dream that he had telephoned Paul. He had allowed himself to be persuaded to return to New York almost immediately. His hopes of a happy reunion had foundered in disappointment. Jeanne's news, distressing as it was, allowed him to transform resentment to sympathy. He couldn't help but be grateful for learning, even at Paul's expense, that Paul had not abandoned him.
He'd sensed an edge in Jeanne's voice when she'd said, "One thing is for certain—right now Paul's not going anywhere." Even in her sympathy there was a sharpness that was almost a reproof or a sense of justification that Paul, who'd seemed to have gotten off for so long, had finally met his retribution. Though it was hardly the dominant note, Bryce knew that he hadn't imagined it. He understood all too well how Paul could inspire such a reaction.
It made him feel odd to realize that, even implicitly, he'd shared such a thought about Paul with a stranger, without Paul's knowing it. In part he felt ashamed and disloyal, and in part he felt vindicated and understood. He was tempted by Jeanne's invitation, and still he resisted: he didn't want to share Paul. But what, he thought, if Paul were already shared?
After an hour and a half he called Jeanne at her apartment. She said she was still waiting for news from the doctor.
"I think I'll go down to the hospital," he said.
"Shall we meet there?"
"If you like."
* * *
When Paul arrived at the hospital, he was awake and conscious, above all, of the pain. It was, as he would recall later, "pretty bad." Not until the Emergency Room doctor examined him
did Paul see his injured foot. It was horrible: a swollen, ugly red mess, the bones protruding—a mutilation. Yet he did not even think to turn away in disgust. He observed it with detachment down the length of his body. It was the new reality, and he was going to have to get used to it. The possibility flashed through his mind that the damage was permanent, and there was nothing that he could do but grin and bear it.
"Do your worst," he said to the doctor when he advocated surgery, and then hastily added, "By that I mean your best."
Time was of the essence, and he would obey. It's the easiest obedience in the world, he thought, it's entirely passive. He even looked forward to the anesthesia as a release. With a shrug, he dismissed the slight chance that he wouldn't wake up: it seemed a fate too abstract to be credible.
The orderlies wheeled him into the operating room on a gurney, naked under the surgical gown. Then the anesthesiologist gave him a shot of sodium pentothal, and he was out.
But just before he succumbed to the anesthesia, an exchange hovered over him. He thought it came from the doctors or the nurses, yet it was so strange that perhaps he'd dreamed it. "I recognize radical change is the law of life." "But you go too far." It was the words he remembered, not the voices. They were the last words he heard, drifting in his mind, before he went under.
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