“How’s that?”
“You just need to plug into yourself more. Find that thing in you which moves you. For some, it’s fear; for others, it’s love. But just tap into that, and you’ll inject passion into your singing.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t think I have that. I’m just an ordinary guy, nothing deep down.”
She snapped up her head and gave me a strange look. “Mind if I go on a mild spiel for a bit?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said warily.
“Something about you has always concerned me. It’s not obvious, it’s below the surface, but…” She smoothed her apron again. “But there’s anger in you. Huge amounts. Behind all your timidity, there’s something really teeming deep inside. I can’t quite pin it down, but you’re like this plush, well-made bed with something hidden underneath. Withdrawn, quiet on the outside, but inside…it’s quite unsettling sometimes.”
“Yeah, like that secret painting thing of yours,” I laughed, but then I stopped. She was being serious.
“Just saying that if you really want to sing with passion, just tap into that.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but then she stopped, shaking her head. “OK, that was weird,” she said, tsk tsking herself. “Don’t know what got a hold of me.”
“No, it’s OK. Thanks for dinner.”
“No need to thank me, Kris,” she said gently, smiling. She stood up, lifting the tray off my lap. Her kneecaps popped a little, and she tittered to herself. “Sitting too long again, I’m afraid.” She walked to the door, favoring her right leg as she hobbled away, then she turned back and smiled reassuringly. “You’ll be wonderful.” She turned to leave.
“Miss Durgenhoff?”
“Yes?”
“If you’re free, it’d be great if you could come to the performance. I have a few seats allotted to me—choice seats, mind you.”
“The perks of being a lead,” she said with a grin.
“Can you come? It’ll be great to have you there.”
“I’d love to. It would be nice to see you with a full orchestral accompaniment. In your costume and all that.”
I nodded quickly. “I’ll get you a ticket.”
She smiled at that. “That’s very thoughtful. But truthfully, I’ll have to see how my legs hold up. Weather’s doing them no favors, let me tell you. But thank you.” She winked at me as she hobbled out.
The room seemed very empty and very quiet after that. I thought to get out of bed and maybe help her with the dishes, but I soon found myself drowsy again. I drifted off to sleep.
Bad things always seem to happen in the middle of the night.
Miss Durgenhoff shook me awake. “It’s your mother” was all she said.
We drove to the hospital where my mother worked. The roads were deserted that time of night, as if holding a respectful silence. Miss Durgenhoff—driving as fast as she dared—told me what they’d told her on the phone. My mother had been carting away some laundry and collapsed. She’d lost consciousness.
My mother was sedated when we walked into her room, lit only by a dim, beeping monitor. Even with her eyes closed, her face was wrought with strain. “A very minor stroke,” the doctor informed us in a quiet voice. “The CAT scan shows no significant damage. She’ll make a full recovery.” He stared down at his notepad. “Staff here said she’s seemed tired of late. The stroke was probably brought on by physical and mental exhaustion. She needs her rest and…” I stopped listening.
They let me stay. Even after the sedation ran its course, she slept without stirring for twenty-four hours. I sat by her the whole time, melding my body into the unyielding corners of the plastic chair. It was mostly quiet. Occasionally the other patient in the room, a fragile woman as wrinkled as the bedsheets she tousled, would cry out with frightened, irrational words. But she’d always quickly fall back to sleep.
Mr. Matthewman was understanding on the phone. “Musical, schmusical,” he said. He told me to stay with my mother, to not worry about the rehearsals. “I’ll keep the dogs at bay,” he said. But I could sense uncertainty in his voice.
It was on the second night, while I was sitting half-asleep next to her, that my mother finally came to.
“He always wanted to come to America,” she suddenly said as if in mid-conversation, her voice surprisingly clear and strong in the opaque dark. “Even on our first date, chatting in the teahouse, he spoke of it. America. America. America. It was his dream. You should have seen him back then, the way his eyes would shine, the way he’d talk so excitedly, spit would fly out.” She stared at the ceiling, her eyes moist.
“It was all he talked about,” she continued. “America. I bought into it, eventually, of course. That kind of passion, it’s contagious, especially to an adoring wife. And on the day you were born, Xing, he made me two promises. First, he promised he would do everything humanly possible to take care of his family. And then, his second promise: he would bring us to America. Right there in the delivery room, you not even an hour old, he bent down and looked me in the eye and promised me. He was so serious, I laughed, tired as I was.” She smiled faintly, lost in the memories.
“It did not seem possible…it did not seem right that he would die here, and so soon.” She paused for a long time, as if catching her breath. “With him gone, I realized something I always knew deep down but never admitted: America was never my dream. It was never something I wanted for myself. And I realized how much I hated being here. America.” She spat out the last word. Her eyes fell down and met mine for just a moment, then they flicked back up as if she were repulsed. “He would never have thought that after so many years…this would be all we have to show for it.”
“It’s not so bad,” I lied.
She fell quiet as if done in. A line of tears fell from the corners of her eyelids, streaking down to her pillow. She thought I did not understand the level of her shame. She thought I did not know what she did at the massage parlor during the day. The men who came, the places she touched. She believed she held a secret too bitter, too shameful for me to ever know. But I did know.
“Why didn’t we go back to China after Father died?” I asked. “Why have we stayed here?”
Her voice, when it came, was sharp. “Do you remember the night we left China? When we swam to the ship?” She went on, not seeing my head nodding. “That night, once safely aboard, he made me promise. Made me. That we would never leave America. Ever.” She shook her head. “Maybe he sensed some hesitancy in me, even back then. He was so persistent. Gripped my hands until I promised.” She dried her tears with her wrist.
She was exhausted. I saw it in her motionless body, dead weight on gray bedsheets, weariness pressing upon her face. She would drift off now; I sensed that. She would retreat into her shell, the same way she had cocooned herself from me after his death.
“We should have gone back to China,” I said. “It would have been better for us.”
After a long moment, her mouth opened and she spoke words I have never forgotten.
“Your father believed you had a gift.”
I stared at her.
“And that America would give you the best chance to develop it,” she said. “I think that’s what made him so determined to stay here, mostly anyway. For your gift.”
“What gift?” I asked, my heart suddenly beating hard. She turned to look at me, surprise on her face. “Have you forgotten so quickly, Xing?” She shook her head slowly. “You once could really sing. You once had an amazing voice.” A sadness entered her eyes, but there was a hint of anger in her voice. “Your father thought puberty robbed you of your voice. But it wasn’t puberty, was it? It was America.”
I sat stunned. My father had never told me this. There were times when I had sensed his encouragement for me to sing and, in the latter years, his disappointment when I refused to. But I did not know my father had believed in me so. And this knowledge nearly overwhelmed me.
“I guess I have something to tell you,” I wh
ispered. When she didn’t respond, I told her. As simply as I could, my voice trembling at times with excitement, and with not a little fear. I could still sing. I had won the lead in the school musical. That the musical was in two nights, and I wanted her to be there.
For an agonizing, drawn-out moment, she did not say anything. Her face remained passive, unresponsive. “You said it was the lead?” she asked at last.
“Yes. It’s the lead. I have five solos. They’re beautiful songs, and my voice is getting better every day. My voice coach is terrific. I can really sing again.”
She nodded, then closed her eyes, pulling the blanket over her chest. She nodded again, softer this time, approvingly. “That is good,” she said. “Your father would be proud.” And then she gave in to fatigue. Sleep consumed her within seconds.
I did not sleep that night. I sat all night, my mind racing, my heart pounding. Something like hope stirred in me; something like joy kept me awake.
I sang softly to myself, my songs, until the dawn sun trimmed the dark drapes with light.
DECEMBER 22
I breathed in.
And when I exhaled, I felt the surge of my lungs, the power flowing out of them. I angled my larynx to bring out the desired sounds, tweaked miniscule muscles for the most dramatic of tonal fluctuations. I had total mastery of the sounds I sang: the pitch, the depth, the tonal base, the melodious warbles. I knew how to split nuances into vast ranges of feeling. There was a marked difference in my singing.
Mr. Matthewman, my audience of one that morning, was ecstatic. “I don’t know what you did at the hospital over the past two days, kid, but it’s brilliant.” He looked at me, every feature of his face seemingly accented with an exclamation mark. “Brilliant!”
I nodded. It was brilliant.
“Well,” he said, getting up from his piano and stool and walking over to me. “You’ve arrived, Kris. At the perfect moment, too. Not a day too soon.” He placed his hands on my shoulders. “Tonight, at the dress rehearsal, you’re going to shine. You’re going to shock the world,” he gushed. Then he sighed heavily. “Never,” he said, excitedly shaking his head from side to side, “never would I ever have wanted to wait so long to give you a chance to practice with the chorus. To sing before the teachers. But there were unforeseen, unfortunate circumstances…” He looked down at me. “Your mother doing all right then?”
I nodded. “Should be returning home later this morning. She’s promised to come to the show. She’s excited.”
He patted me hard on the shoulders again, almost thumping down on me. “You’ll show them, kid. You’ll show them all.”
“I’ll show them,” I said.
“That’s the spirit!” he added. He went to his piano and rummaged through some paper. “I thought I put it in here somewhere…” he muttered to himself. “Aha!” he said, bringing out a piece of paper. “You need to go to room five twenty-four at lunchtime today. Miss Jenkins will be there to give you your costume. She worked in overdrive mode over the weekend to finish it. Said she scrapped her original once she realized her work was probably going to be photographed and taped by the media.”
“Five twenty-four. Lunchtime. I’ll be there.”
“And be nice, Kris. You know what she can be like.” He rolled his eyes.
“Who? The dragon lady?”
He chuckled. “Now, before you go, some last words of advice. No hollering or screaming, no excessive talking, OK? We really need to protect your voice. OK? Basically, you really should keep to yourself today and tomorrow.”
That, I thought, would not be a problem. “Stay out of the cold—it’ll shred your voice to tatters if you don’t watch out. A long, hot bath tonight after the rehearsal. Soak in it for at least an hour. Plenty of sleep. Try to get at least nine hours tonight, if not more. What else am I forgetting? Oh, yes—an afternoon nap tomorrow if you can. Come in here, catch a few Zs at around four or five. You can sleep on the couch. Eat something before five but not after—it’ll pay hellfire to your butterflies if you do, and it might make you drowsy.”
“Mr. Matthewman?”
“Yes? What is it?”
“I was wondering about the tickets…”
He smacked his forehead. “But of course.” He fished into his inner pocket and took out ten tickets. “As promised. Your wish is my command,” he said in his best genie voice. “Do you know how expensive those tickets have become?” He shook his head. “With all the media coverage, this school’s making a windfall.”
“I’ll only be needing three tickets.”
“Three? But you’ve been allotted ten. You’re the lead, after all, Kris.”
“Even so, three’s enough for me.”
“Here, take all ten.” He handed me the tickets. “Sell the extras on eBay—you’ll make a killing.” He winked at me.
“You didn’t hear it from me, of course, right?”
“Who are you bringing?” I thought this was a safe way to ask about his personal life. He never alluded to any family or friends. He was guarded about his past.
“Oh, I have some old colleagues of mine driving up from the city. It’s a big event, this one.”
“Old friends?”
“I’m not sure I’d call them friends,” he said, raking back hair from his eyes. “Just people I knew when I was at Julliard.”
I packed my bag and zipped it up. Then something occurred to me.
“When we meet again tomorrow morning…will that be our last practice?”
The question caught him a little off guard. “Huh. I haven’t really thought about it. Well, I suppose it would be.” He shook his head. “But we can’t let things like that distract us right now. Tomorrow night, Kris. The big night is tomorrow night. Stay focused on that.”
“And there’s no chance of any last-minute cancellation?”
“What are you talking about? Of the performance?” He saw me nod at him. “Of course not.”
“It’s just that I thought…maybe Mr. Marsworth is facing a lot of public pressure to cancel the show. I can see him folding if he senses that public sentiment leaning that way.”
“There’s nothing to worry about, Kris,” he said. “In the end, everything will come together. You’ll see.”
“How can you be so sure? I mean, there’s no telling what might happen. There might even be another disappearance. Who knows when the guy might strike again? He’s been anything but predictable, after all.”
“No, that’s not going to happen.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I give you my assurance, Kris.” His voice was firm as he spoke; he stood up and walked over to me, placing his hand on the back of my neck. It was warm and sweaty, and I flinched at the touch.
“The show will go on.” There was a flinty glint in his eye. “I guarantee you this.” And his hand grew hot on my skin as if suddenly charged. His fingers twitched on the nape of my neck, energized by some sudden prospect. He shook his head as if clearing it. “Well, off you go,” he said.
I grabbed my backpack, nodded a quick good-bye, and left. The door closed with a thud behind me. And right outside the classroom, taped on the wall, was a Missing poster. The faces on the poster jumped out at me: Anthony Hasbourd. Winston Barnes. Trey Logan. Their smiles were accusatory, and their eyes, even through the black and white photocopy, were snappish and castigating.
I wondered where they were at that very moment. Imprisoned somewhere far away, in the dark basement of some weirdo, the unwilling participants to his psychosis? Or lying facedown in the woods somewhere, or face up drifting down the river, or stuffed into a refrigerator and dumped at a landfill? I stared at the three of them, trying to find some resemblance, some common trait that might have drawn the abductor to them in the first place. But where one was wimpy, another was filled with brawn. Where one lacked intelligence, another was filled with academic potential. Nothing seemed to tie the three together. Except their eyes, of course. With a singular feeling, they glared at me
. I hated the way they looked. They seemed to know something I didn’t.
DECEMBER 22, DRESS REHEARSAL
It was night, and the shepherds sat upon the fields. Sheep of varying sizes grazed under the pitted sky, their forms as stationary as the stars above. The shepherds rested easy, their calloused hands laid soft against the smooth bark of their rod and staff. A slight breeze blew across the land, drawing with it the musty smell of wet weeds and the dank odor of toil and sweat. It was a night like countless thousands.
Then the heads of the sheep suddenly lifted in unison, their noses pointed up and towards the northern mountains, their bodies stiffening ever so slightly. Under their hooded attire, the shepherds barely moved, but their eyes were alert now, their fingertips edging around the curves of their staffs. It was an angel. It started to float towards them, its arms raised in consoling fashion, its face a picture of chaste radiance, white wings sprouting from behind. It glided closer and closer, sailing across the terrain…then it tripped over its feet.
The speakers screeched with feedback. A stagehand turned the auditorium lights on.
“Oh, Samantha, I thought I told you to be careful about the wires. If you can’t remember to step over them in rehearsal, there’s no way you’re going to remember tomorrow night.”
“Sorry, Miss Jenkins,” Samantha said, picking herself up. As she patted down the front of her costume, a little plume of dust mushroomed out.
“Oh,” sighed Miss Jenkins tragically, “the wing is all bent out of shape now. Come here, let me fix it.”
The real world broke in. The glaring spotlights, the impatient, demanding teachers sipping from coffee cups. Wired models of sheep standing at bay, disheveled cotton wool shed on the floor beneath. The lingering smell of glue in the air, of varnish and fresh paint. Around me, tired students shifted in their costumes, weary from a dress rehearsal gone awry. After two hours of practice, we’d gotten only ten minutes into the show; I’d yet to sing even a note.
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