The End of Music

by Jamie Fitzpatrick

  “Really?”

  “We’re looking at cameos for the unfinished tracks. I’ve asked around and groups like Snowblink, Lowell, they’re like, yeah, let’s do it. I’ve got feelers out for Doug Paisley, which would be huge. Just feelers right now.”

  “These are big bands?”

  “These are first-line, second-line names at indie festivals. You could drive a tribute show with these names. Maybe festival slots.” Jordan pauses while something scrapes across the floor. “You play at all now?”

  “Guitar? It’s been ten years or more.”

  “I think Uncle Will would be game.”

  “I don’t…I have no feel for it anymore.”

  “We can cover for you. Surround you guys with a nice little band, like a trio. It’ll be a tribute to Leah. With some of the girl singers, especially, it’s a feminist thing. Like, she didn’t do the diva thing. Didn’t do tits and ass.”

  “Everybody wanted her,” says Carter.

  “Wanted her?”

  “Everyone at our shows.” He shouldn’t be talking about sex. Jordan, with those pipe-cleaner legs, probably can’t fuck. “They all wanted…to be with her, I mean. The guys and girls both.”

  “Okay,” says Jordan, and laughs. “We can work that angle too. That’s feminist too, right? But I’m being serious, man. This is a chance for you guys. This is validation.”

  //////

  It’s his turn to put Sam to bed. After his bath and an episode of Bubble Guppies, Sam asks for the Zamboni game.

  “Ten minutes, that’s it,” says Carter.

  Zamboni was a stocking stuffer last Christmas. A sturdy block of die-cast metal with smooth rubber tires. Its driver grips the steering wheel with both hands, though his head cracked off a long time ago. A fine head it was, too. Dark eyes and a curling brown moustache. An officious blue cap to match his overalls.

  Initially, the Zamboni game served as a framework for the usual mayhem. Sam raced the vehicle around the floor of his room, resulting in delightful disaster at every turn. But the game evolved, with the Zamboni taking on a deeper purpose. It is a seeker. Sometimes it wants to find someone—usually a stuffed toy—who will be the driver’s companion, to ride shotgun and be the eyes and ears he once had. More often, Zamboni sets out on a melancholy search for the missing head.

  This is new, this inner life. Zamboni never used to be troubled by the missing head. It just disappeared, attracting little notice. But now the head is a phantom limb. Zamboni gets frustrated, discouraged, despairs of ever finding it.

  At least he isn’t fighting stuffed toys anymore. He got past that.

  Sam sits his father on the bed. He kneels and brings his face to the carpet and whispers to Zamboni, encouraging, nurturing hope. Almost kissing it with his perfect red lips. Carter knows how this will play out. So he stops Sam and asks whether there is any point in continuing, when every search for the head ends the same.

  “He’ll find it someday,” says Sam. “I know he will.” He starts Zamboni on its journey. They’re headed for the ruins of a Lego castle behind the bedroom door.

  “I don’t think so, Sammy. It’s been gone a long time. I think it’s gone.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad. It’s just a pretend game.”

  Sam is old enough to know that not every kid has to see a special doctor in Toronto twice a year. When he confronted his parents last year, they tried telling him that it’s a privilege, that he’s very lucky to see such an important doctor. Then they said, we’re just taking extra-special care of you because you’re an extra-special boy. This made Sam angry. He picked up the false cheer in their voices, knew he was getting the brush-off, and responded by shutting down, refusing to talk or eat.

  Finally they explained that his heart is different, so different that it needs regular check-ups to make sure it’s working the way a heart should. This rang true, because it is true, and he accepted it with minimal fuss and worry.

  “Okay,” calls Isabelle over the stairs. “Time for story and lights out.”

  Sam pushes the door shut. “Come on, Zamboni. Dad. Come on.” With his feathery new haircut and roguish pyjamas—crimson with white piping—he’s too cute to be trusted. A playboy, a smooth operator.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The ocean.” He sweeps his arm. “Let’s pretend all this is a big ocean. I think his head got in the ocean.”

  //////

  That night, Carter and Shanna are back on Skype. Shanna appears in a T-shirt with a frayed collar. It could well be a bedtime shirt, given that it’s nearly eleven in Newfoundland. A strange woman giving Carter a glimpse of her pyjamas while Isabelle pads around upstairs, the path of her footsteps marking her end-of-day routine.

  “I owe you an apology for any trouble I caused your mother,” says Shanna, her face ringed by a fuzzy blue border. “I apologized to her as well.”

  “But you were great with her when we talked.”

  “But before, when she was on the phone with you. That’s me she was complaining about. The one asking too many questions.”

  “Oh. Well, she’s prone to getting aggravated. Seems like the two of you are good now.”

  Shanna’s minimal hair and watchful eyes suggest an unadorned life, intensely focused. “But I wanted you to see that we’ve made progress. I’m not putting any pressure on her or anything.”

  “I know,” says Carter. But Shanna is still talking.

  “—sharp, because of the argument.”

  “What argument?”

  “When she and Mrs. Vincent went at it about poached eggs. The way it engaged her. It was wonderful to see. And arguing with Mr. Johnson about Confederation. Mr. Johnson is from Ferryland, and I guess they were all for independence down there years ago. You’d know better than I.”

  “Of course.” Carter doesn’t even know where Ferryland is, though the name rings a bell. He studiously ignores Newfoundland, not wanting to be associated with its idiosyncrasies and foibles, or the tiresome expectations that come with being ID’d as a Newfoundlander in Ontario.

  “Mr. Johnson started in on his case, about a nation throwing itself away in 1949, and Joyce wasn’t having any of it. ‘Your crowd would still be living on hard tack and tea. Misery and poverty,’ she said. That got Mr. Johnson going. He says, ‘There was never a harder-working man than my father.’ And Joyce says, ‘Any fool can work hard to no purpose and no gain.’” Shanna laughs. “The whole room came to life. It was wonderful.”

  Carter recognizes Mr. Johnson’s argument and its sour vanity. He recalls the preening Newfoundland nationalists encountered during his one year at university in St. John’s. Their cultivated savagery and exaggerated accents, faces pinched and lips pursed, as if union with Canada made everything smell bad.

  Isabelle has descended the stairs, the floss popping as she runs it in and out of her molars. She glances Carter’s way, in the direction of Shanna’s delighted cackle, and carries on into the kitchen.

  “Well, thanks for the update,” says Carter. He didn’t tell Isabelle that he had arranged another Skype with Shanna.

  “The specific method I work with is called narrative care,” says Shanna. “It’s storytelling therapy, basically.”

  “Storytelling?”

  “Too often the system treats the nursing home as a holding pen. We just watch over them until the body shuts down. Is it any wonder that the elderly become depressed, when we treat them like they’re dead already?”

  “Yes, I see.” Her argument demands agreement.

  “By inviting them to share life stories, we’re engaging them and valuing their experiences.”

  “Mom was never much for talking about the old days. That was more my dad’s thing.”

  “That’s completely understandable. So I let it be. But I take her outside for a cigarette sometimes. I’ve got the habit mysel
f, I’m sorry to say.”

  “That will make you comrades in arms for sure,” says Carter.

  “Then she started coming to our storytelling group on Mondays. I didn’t ask her. She just came along. I want you to know that.”

  “Is that where the Confederation argument happened?”

  “Yes, and the eggs.” Shanna pokes at her glasses. “I have to say, Howley Corp is a bit suspicious of my methods.”

  “What’s Howley Corp?”

  “They run the home. They have nursing homes all over the continent.”

  “I could put a call in, or an email. I actually know one of the management people from years back.”

  “That would be great. Thanks. You know, we’re not supposed to let the residents get upset or agitated. But if they’re engaged, a little disagreement can’t do any harm. Just to see them light up.”

  His mother lighting up. He’d like to see that.

  //////

  Isabelle goes to bed with an Advil for her throbbing ankles, and half an Imovane. “You had your guitar out.”

  “Just for a look,” says Carter. He had pulled it from behind a chair in the spare room and held it in his lap. There wasn’t much point bloodying his soft fingers on the dead strings. “Have I played since we met?”

  “Not that I’ve seen. But I thought you might at some point. Are you going to have a band again?”

  “No. But I might end up playing a bit. With a band. For a short while.”

  “I honestly think Sam is going to be fine,” says Isabelle. She pushes up on her elbows and turns on the lamp.

  “Me too,” says Carter, looking up from his pillow.

  “No, it’s not just being hopeful. It’s a feeling I got from watching Dr. Kim. So with this thing you’ve got going, okay, you get the leeway you need. One of the cardinal rules with teenagers is you let them sleep as much as they want and eat whenever they want, insofar as that’s possible. So that’s the model I’ll use here, with you and this music thing. Insofar as it’s possible. That’s more than fair, right?”

  //////

  The lamp is still on when Sam wakes them from the foot of the bed.

  “Will I know if my heart don’t go right?”

  “Jesus, Sammy.” Isabelle shields her eyes against the lamplight, and strains as if trying to recognize him. “Come up.”

  He wedges between them, and reaches to pull Carter’s arm around his waist. “Is it working now?”

  “Show me your belly.” His mother shifts down the bed and puts an ear to his chest. “It’s perfect, Sammy, and we’re going to make sure it stays that way.”

  “Not perfect.” He frowns.

  “But almost perfect, Sam. Give me your hand.” She presses his palm where her ear was. “Feel that? Thump-thump, thump-thump. So strong.”

  “Keep going, heart!” calls Sam.

  Moments later he’s asleep, leaving his parents wide-awake, their worst fears indecently exposed.

  12

  Joyce thought it might be more than just a headache. More than just the humidity. She waited, wiping down the baseboards and putting a wash through. A mild cramp sent her to the bathroom and she thought, “That’s it.” Stood up from the toilet to see the red cloud in the water, circling the paper.

  “Alright then,” she said out loud, dabbing herself. “Alright then.”

  She sat in the kitchen to think about it. Instead of thinking she looked out the window to the tops of the birch trees, watching the light change as clouds raced past the sun. Watching the birds flit in and out. The pace outside seemed too quick.

  //////

  It’s true that she missed mass from time to time. Working, or stuck somewhere with the band, waiting out a snowstorm or a late train. She didn’t sing in the choir. Had told Maeve Vardy she’d drop by for Wednesday rehearsal but never did. Father Kiloran didn’t seem the kind of man to keep account of such things. But what else would bring him up her front step? And what was Gordon doing at his side? She wasn’t about to take any lectures from him. Not on matters of worship.

  Joyce started to remove her apron, then left it. How else should they expect her at eleven o’clock in the morning? She glanced in the mirror and tucked a lock of hair back under her scarf. It fell out again.

  Through the front door window, both men seemed to examine their shoes. Joyce put a hand to her stomach to settle a gentle stirring inside, like a spoon turning in a teacup. Her lunch was ready, just laid out on the table when she had caught sight of them walking up to the house. One knee began to shake.

  At the creak of the hinges both faces looked up and filled the doorway. The whole town smelled like tar from the paving crews and she nearly shut the door again to lock it all out. Nobody said anything and she was sure she would slam the door if one of them didn’t talk soon. Gordon put two damp hands on her, one holding each bicep. She hated that.

  “Joyce,” he said. “There’s word from the airport.” He faltered, throat growling.

  “An accident,” said the priest. “That is…Can we talk inside?”

  Just last weekend, Eric and Gordon had talked of the trapper who found the B-25 that went down north of Deadman’s Pond; how he stuck a frozen arm in his backpack and took it to the airport as proof. It was the sleeve on the arm that confirmed it. Only American pilots had leather jackets. He found the tobacco too, and kept it. Tobacco was scarce during the war, after all. It was a well-worn anecdote, recounted this time for the benefit of the new drummer, a fellow who had arrived from Winnipeg to help plan the new town site. He had been duly impressed and horrified.

  Joyce tried to concentrate as Father Kiloran parsed the useless details. A homily, delivered in his gravelled monotone. “Eric left this morning, you see. Flying Maritime Central Airways to Labrador.” Why would this priest come around assuming he knew something she didn’t? Then he said, No survivors. She heard that part, and stopped listening. Pictured the trapper and the frozen arm.

  When he said something about God’s mercy she knew he was finally done.

  She said, “I was poaching an egg for lunch.”

  She let them lead her into the kitchen, as if she had to show proof of the egg, sitting on its square of toast, perfectly cupped. She had found the poacher in the back of a cupboard a few weeks before, when Eric took possession of the house, and had called Gloria to ask how it worked. It was awfully clever, the way the water bubbled in the bottom of the pan, cooking the eggs from below. She had been eating poached eggs just so she could watch the process.

  Joyce sat at the kitchen table. If she felt anything, it was more like foreboding. Like the story was incomplete. Like there had been a crash and Eric might or might not be alive, pending further news. Joyce had been denied the moment when hope still nags. The disaster was confirmed before she understood it, before Gordon and Father were in through the door.

  Gordon brought her a folded strip of toilet paper.

  “Can’t find a tissue,” he said. “Sorry.”

  Joyce held the paper tight, turning and twisting it. It was so much more substantial than the crumpling, flaking stuff her father kept in the outhouse. On a summer morning like this, her father’s voice would carry from behind the door, humming a tune. If he wasn’t anxious about work he might be in there half an hour or more.

  A fat teardrop landed on the back of her hand, another hit her thumbnail. She was crying, after all. Still she held the paper. Turning and twisting. Someone shut off the stove, where water still bubbled in the poacher.

  Gordon hovered like an obstruction. He was by her side, one knee on the floor. She got a whiff of the whiskey smell before he placed a drink in her hand. It smelled like that song about wanting rain but getting only sun, and being blue like the sky.

  Her throat felt thick. It didn’t want to let the whiskey pass.

  “She’s not breathing so well,” sa
id Gordon. “Do you want a doctor, Joyce?”

  “No,” she whispered. Perhaps she did. She turned to Gordon and said, “What are you doing here?”

  Father Kiloran must have still been there as well. But later she would have no recollection of him in the house. Just a grim, cassocked figure ascending the steps, his shiny red cincture whipping in the breeze.

  Gloria arrived at the back door and Joyce was there to meet her. Apparently expecting her. She’d brought Anthony, asleep in his stroller, and left him on the back step.

  “Dear God, Joyce,” she said. “We never know. We can’t possibly know.”

  Know what?

  Gloria stood away from Joyce, and circled her waist with her arms to untie the apron. Then she gently lifted it over Joyce’s head, barely touching the hair, and tossed it on a chair. It would stay with her, the burnt cotton smell of the apron.

  Joyce opened her dry mouth and lifted her chest, seeking a good breath of air. Gloria’s breath came in big, convulsive gulps. She was red and hot and swollen, teary-eyed even at the best of times now that she was pregnant again.

  “Remember how beautiful he looked?” Gloria’s words garbled through her tears. “That night at the Allied party?”

  Joyce didn’t share the memory, but felt the power of it. Eric at some party. Playing the fool. All the girls wide-eyed. (“Any one of them would snap him up in a second,” Rachel had warned her.) An essential part of the man had been unavailable to her. The part of him that turned up at these parties.

  The sky was blue outside the kitchen window, and she didn’t think she could stand that anymore. Or the egg and toast, cold on the plate with knife and fork on either side. Joyce walked down the hall to the bedroom, shut the blind and sat on the bed.

  “I’m sweating,” she said, and pushed a hand into her blouse to lift it from her skin.

  “The baby. Your poor baby.” Gloria sat next to her. “Father Kiloran will pray for your baby.”

  “There’s no baby,” said Joyce. “I was late, that’s all.” She kicked her slippers off and kneaded her toes into the rug.