“Your dad always said Salt Lake was the most beautiful city to fly into at night.”
“I got in this afternoon. It took me all day to find you.”
“I don’t consider myself easy to find.” He’d used a stage name for thirty years. As much as he enjoyed the spotlight, he also greatly valued his privacy. Being able to disappear into unknown, unimportant Tom DuBelle was nice sometimes.
“You’re not. When you didn’t answer my calls, I went to the attorney’s office on the other side of the business card Jake had. I had to beg them for information, but they took pity on me and gave me the last address of Mr. Harland’s companion. They weren’t sure it was you, but I guess it is.”
“It was. For twenty-five years.” Tom grimaced. Twenty-five long, irritating years. Thank God for performances. For long tours in remote lands. For an agent who understood he’d take anything, anything to escape. He could sell out in the music capitals of any country, but he’d gratefully play at a sleazy piano bar in Mozambique.
Jay was actually the reason Leo had come into the picture. Jay and the piano—the two things he cared about most had placed Tom with the person who’d driven him insane for a quarter of a century. Jay’s father had died in a most opportune manner, resulting in his ability to file a large neglect lawsuit, which had brought them to Attorney Harland’s Salt Lake office.
✩✩✩
Tom had accompanied Jay for emotional support. As usual, he’d come back to Utah without Jackie. He was always expected to handle the most difficult situations alone. Not that Jay seemed to resent being by himself. He told Tom that his presence wasn’t necessary, and he’d be bored in the lobby for an hour.
I’d gladly be bored for you. In case you need me.
But when they walked into the ritzy building, Tom knew he’d be happy to wait as long as required. It was a huge office that echoed like a museum. The ends of his shoelaces clicked on the slick marble floor, and from the open lobby, he could tilt his head and see at least six levels. There was a wide, crescent-shaped bar at the end where three receptionists sat, and a trickling fountain near the entrance. But what drew Tom’s eye was the mahogany grand piano near the left wall. It was corded off by a braided-rope barrier and five chrome posts, but the majestic creature looked sad at being neglected.
“I guess I didn’t need to bring you a coloring book.” Jay smirked and gave the name of the attorney he was meeting.
“Does anyone play your piano?” Tom asked the other free receptionist.
“No. The fourth floor doctors had someone come in and play, but it broke and they moved.”
“So now it just sits there? Like a piece of furniture?”
“Isn’t that what it is?” She gawked blankly.
“God, no.” Tom couldn’t believe people thought of grand pianos as just furniture. He didn’t yet have one of his own, but he saw his upright as a living entity.
“He’ll try to fix it, if you’ll let him. And if you’ll allow him to play it afterward,” Jay said with a smile. In reply, the receptionist shrugged. “Go ahead. Apparently Mr. Harland is late anyway.”
Tom had flown out the door and across the street to retrieve his tool bag from the car. He carried the kit everywhere since any instrument he played was likely in need of a little maintenance. When he returned, his hands quivered with excitement as he unhooked one end of the barrier and stepped inside the piano’s cage. He struck each key separately and was delighted that no strings were broken. The hammers were only misaligned, a few were too high and hitting the stretch; and of course, it was out of tune.
Easy cheese.
Tom was pulling the action from the key frame the first time he heard that obnoxious voice.
“You got someone to fix this piece of shit?” A man said behind him.
Don’t listen, sweetheart. He removed straws and wrappers that’d been squirreled underneath the action and dropped them to the floor, not bothering to look at the Neanderthal.
“What a waste of time. It’s a nice ornament, sitting there and looking expensive. But what a fucking waste of time. Therese, I’m not paying a cent for this. Not a single, fucking red cent.”
Tom had been glad when Leo Harland went to his office, even if he’d taken Jay. That douche bag didn’t deserve to be in the presence of a grand piano.
“A nice ornament, sitting there and looking expensive?” Ridiculous. Tom worked his screwdriver between the hammer flanges to space them, tightening the screws in their proper position. You might as well have a dead body lying at the side of your vestibule, asshole.
It hadn’t taken long before he slid the action into place and proceeded to tune it. It’d been tragic that the instrument had been condemned to sit idle over simple adjustments.
I’m so sorry you have to live with a man who doesn’t understand you. Tom leaned over the rim with his hammer and rubber mute. He touched the keys he’d identified as being out of tune and brought them in line one by one. A permit should be required to own a piano. There should be a vigorous background check and references provided.
Jay had been away for half an hour when Tom screwed the key frame into the key bed and sat on the bench. As he always did, he laced his fingers together and turned his locked hands toward himself to crack his wrists. And the piano was so grateful to have the chance to breathe again, it answered his touch with a strong, beautiful tone. Tom sank wholly into the music.
He was playing Liebestraum when Jay returned. Or he thought that’s what he’d been playing. As tended to happen, he’d vanished into himself until he was interrupted. But what better disruption than Jay’s hand on his shoulder?
“He’d play for hours.”
Tom glanced up. It’d been Jay’s voice, but an unfamiliar hand patted his shoulder.
“You can stay. I wouldn’t object.”
The troll hadn’t yet crawled under his bridge. He grinned at Tom. And touched him.
“No, thank you.” Tom shrugged away the man’s hand and pulled the fall over the keyboard. As he stood and pushed in the bench, he searched for Jay, who’d returned to the receptionists’ desk.
“There’s no need to rush.”
“You were late for my friend’s appointment, so you’re probably late for the next,” Tom said. “Time is money. You wouldn’t want to waste any time.”
“I get cranky in the morning,” the attorney replied, though it was two in the afternoon. The man smiled, which irritated Tom as much as the excuse in lieu of an apology, and stuck out his hand. “Leo Harland. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Tom DuBelle.” He reluctantly took the hand. “It’s a pleasure to have played your piano.”
“I like that.” Leo laughed and held his hand longer than necessary. “I’ve never been one for classical music, but maybe I haven’t given it a chance.”
“Hardly surprising.” Tom nodded to Jay, who was now standing beside the attorney. “Can we go?”
“Sure, I—”
“Do you like concerts?” Leo interrupted Jay; another strike against him. “I’m sure there are some around here. This can’t be the only fucking piano in Salt Lake.”
“I prefer playing to listening.” Tom didn’t look at him and kept silently begging his friend to please, for the love of God, make a move to leave. But no such luck.
“Tom just got back from Boston. He played the full Opus clavicembalisticum at Symphony Hall. Not many people are capable of doing that.” Jay nodded and his praise brought a flush to Tom’s cheeks.
He’d played the Opus clavicembalisticum multiple times, but two days prior, Jay had been in the audience. Tom imagined he’d never performed as well. He played as if all the seats weren’t full, and it was just Jay.
“What’s that?” The attorney asked.
“What’s what? Boston? It’s the capital of Massachusetts. Surely they cover that in law school?” Tom said.
“No the Opus clav—whatever. The thing you played.”
“It’s a piano piece. It ta
kes over four hours to play. You wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“Four fucking hours? Don’t you have to get up and take a piss?”
“I’m quite capable of holding my bladder, thank you. Again, I’d think they’d discuss not pissing your pants in law school. Can we go, Jay?” Tom wanted to take his arm and pull him to the exit. If this torture went on much longer he’d have to.
“I don’t know much about this stuff, but I could learn.” Leo took a business card and pen from his suit coat. He turned the card over in the palm of his hand, wrote on it, and handed it to Tom. “Here’s my personal cell. You could call me the next time you play someplace. Whether it’s here or in Boston. If it’s four hours, I can bring a diaper.”
“Charming.” Tom shoved the card in his tool bag.
“I’m not graceful about these things. But still, I hope you call.” The attorney rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’m a busy man. I don’t like wasting time.” Tom took a step nearer to Jay and touched his sleeve. Thankfully, this got him to move.
“Don’t I owe you anything for fixing it?”
“Not a ‘single, fucking red cent,’” he said loudly without looking back.
“It was nice to meet you, Tommy!”
Tom grimaced. He hated being called “Tommy.”
“I hope you had nothing whatsoever to do with that,” he whispered to Jay as they exited the building.
Jay hadn’t had anything to do with that particular event. He assured Tom that the most he’d done was confirm to Leo that no, he and Tom weren’t a couple. And that might’ve been all, had Jay not answered honestly the questions Leo posed to him about Tom during their next appointment. Which is how the ultimate guilt trip arrived at his front door two weeks later.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Tom yelled into the phone. Four men had shown up and were asking where he wanted his grand piano unloaded.
“I knew that would get you to call me.”
“Fuck you. I’m a concert pianist. Don’t you think I have a fucking piano?”
“Your friend said you had an upright, but you prefer playing a grand. These are two different things. I found that out myself. And I researched the Opus clavicembalisticum. I downloaded a recording and listened to it.” Leo slaughtered the pronunciation of the piece. “And I located a piano bar on State Street. They prefer contemporary to classical, but you could play whatever you wanted. I’d see to it.”
Only Jay had ever shown this level of attentiveness to Tom, and that’d never been a romantic interest, as Leo’s plainly was.
“You really wouldn’t have a drink with a guy who gave you a piano?”
No, he really wouldn’t. He had no intention of accepting the piano. What made him refrain from an outright rejection was a combination of Leo’s effort and Jay.
Tom wasn’t familiar with lawsuits, but it seemed the case would be clear cut. There’d be a substantial settlement, and he knew what Jay would do with it. It could be useful to be on close terms with an attorney. Based on Leo’s crass behavior, he might be adept and amiable with shady dealings. Acquiring his help might play right into Tom’s hand to get what he wanted.
“Come on, Tommy. Please?”
“Fine, but my name is Tom.”
“I call you Tommy. That’s my special name for you.”
It’d been a grueling twenty-five years. Leo hadn’t changed, but neither had Tom. Leo’s devotion to him and his endeavors to understand and appreciate what Tom loved were occasionally endearing, but by and large insufferable. The well-intentioned, persistent undertakings had been in vain. Tom had never loved him back.
Ah, unrequited love, you fucking bitch.
✩✩✩
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Luke said, bringing Tom from his memories.
I told you. No one should have to bury anyone until they’re so fucking sick of them that they’d sooner kill them personally than have to spend another second sharing the same air. I was so ready to bury Leo. Thank God he was older than me.
“Thank you.”
“I don’t care that you’re gay.” Luke still looked out the window, but he’d let his bag drop to the floor.
“I wouldn’t give a fuck if you did. It’s none of your business,” Tom snapped. “And I should sue that law firm for releasing my information.”
“No one is hiding anything from me anymore.” Luke turned to him with a smile. Tom didn’t want to care, but he was glad the boy appeared to be feeling better, even as he felt himself deteriorating. He knew he wasn’t hiding the pain effectively when Luke’s expression became one of alarm. “Are you okay, Tom?”
“I’m fine.” He covered his mouth. “I just need a glass of water.”
“I can get it for you. Point me to your kitchen, and you can relax.”
“No.” Tom felt the hand over his mouth was the only thing keeping down his stomach contents, and he moved from the door. “Enjoy the view. You won’t be staying long.”
Tom walked to the kitchen, bracing his shoulder along the wall for stability.
I’ll try to take the nausea meds. Maybe I can keep them down long enough to play twenty questions and get him out.
He made it to the sink without collapsing in a puddle of vomit. And when he brought up the granola bar and sour acid, it wasn’t as bad as it usually was. He had to clutch the counter and shake, but he maintained the strength to stand.
Tom stared into the sink, and recognized the white OxyContin pills amid the tan oatmeal flakes and other crunchies. They were partially digested, which explained why the pain had eased.
“Are you okay?”
He jumped at Luke’s question and turned to glare at the boy, keeping his grip on the counter.
“Is it customary in Pennsylvania to wander a person’s house without their permission?”
“I’m sorry. I was worried.”
The concern in the boy’s eyes allayed Tom’s annoyance. At least the actual throwing up hadn’t been interrupted, and he felt more under control at present.
“I’m fine. Sit there.” He motioned to a row of stools in front of the kitchen bar. When he returned to the sink, he heard the squeak of a stool. “Now tell me what you want.”
“I want to know everything.”
“Narrow down ‘everything.’ I’m not a fucking yogi on a Himalayan mountaintop.”
“Tell me where I came from.”
“I’m not a priest either. However, there’s no shortage of religions that would love to answer that question for you.” Tom flinched and eyed the pills nestled in the gruel. “The Mormons are on every corner. Go ask them.”
“No, I want to know how I personally, physically got here.”
Oh, what the fuck? When you die, you’re just going to shit your pants.
Tom dug the two partially digested pills from the vomit with his fingertip. He placed them back in his mouth and swallowed.
It’s not like you don’t know where they’ve been.
“If you want to know how you physically got here, visit any elementary class.” He straightened his shoulders and turned on the sink and garbage disposal. “They’ll give you a nice pamphlet. Be aware there are a lot of ‘icky’ pictures.”
“Are you my real father?”
For twenty-six years, Tom had never wavered in how he’d respond to this question, were it ever asked of him.
“Nope.” He flipped off the disposal and faced Luke.
“Fine.” Irritation flashed across the boy’s eyes. “Are you my biological father? Did you sleep with my mother?”
The amusing way Luke phrased his question made Tom chuckle.
“Speaking of icky things.”
“Did you?”
“I always pictured that having sex with your mom would be a praying mantis transaction. And I still have my head.” Tom smiled. “So the answer is no. I didn’t have sex with your mother. Now, did I have a contribution in your creation? That may be true. Trivial, but true.”
He went b
ack to the sink. He shouldn’t talk so much. It was easier to keep the nausea at bay if he didn’t waste his breath with words.
“It’s not trivial. Not to me.”
“Well, to me it is. I obviously haven’t wanted anything to do with you, have I?”
Tom considered adding that neither of the children had needed him. They had the two parents Jay wanted them to have. What purpose was there for him or to be served by him?
“Maybe he wouldn’t let you. He was jealous of you. He kept you away.”
Tom had to laugh.
“Don’t try to demonize your dad with me, Luke. I knew him better than anyone else, and you have no concept of how close we were. If I’d wanted to see you, it wouldn’t have been an issue. I didn’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t care!” Tom glanced over his shoulder and tried to appear appalled that anyone would assume otherwise. “Why would I? You’re not my son. I jacked off in a tube. For all you know, I’ve jacked off in hundreds of tubes. All the thought I’ve put into you in the past twenty-six years was that initial five minutes with a porno mag. And it wasn’t even a good porno.”
Again he’d spoken too much, too fast, and he began to cough. His stomach contents smoldered and writhed to come up. Keep it together, Tom. You’re being too much of an asshole for him to want to stay much longer.
When he felt Luke next to him, Tom was relieved he’d had the foresight to wash the vomit down the sink. The boy turned on the faucet and filled a glass. He offered it, waiting until Tom could remove a hand from his mouth and take it.
“Then why did he talk to you about us?”
“I couldn’t get him to shut up about you.” He took a sip of the water.
“Why did you ask me about New York?”
“I like New York. I lived there, remember?”
“Why did you want a sonogram picture?”
Tom knew he shouldn’t, but he took two large mouthfuls of water to buy himself time to think.
“Morbid curiosity.” He set the glass on the counter. “Are we finished here? You said that’s all you wanted to know.”
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