The van passes her, racing around the curve and out of sight. Larken sits in her car, shaking and breathless, her body saturated with fight-or-flight chemicals.
She has never heard her mother’s voice as clearly as she now hears her father’s: Don’t stay here, sweetheart, he says. It’s too dangerous.
Larken pulls back onto the road. The city limit is marked by trees arising from the east side of a spring-fed ravine, which wraps around Emlyn Springs on three sides, and by the population sign, which is draped with a black cloth. The highway becomes Bridge Street as it crosses the ravine. It’s the only way in and the only way out.
Even though it’s Saturday, Emlyn Springs custom dictates that what few downtown businesses still operate hang CLOSED signs on their doors—all but one, and it is to McKeever’s Funeral Home that Larken drives now.
“Hello, Mr. McKeever.”
“Larken,” he says simply, enclosing one of her hands between his two big beefy ones. Like all children who grow up in Emlyn Springs, Larken identifies her fellow citizens as much by their singing voice—soprano, alto, tenor, bass—as by name. Mr. McKeever is a bass. “I’m so sorry. I’ll take you to see your dad.”
As she falls into step behind him, she realizes that she never really thought she’d be able to see her father, dead. The idea that he is dead is believable enough, but the thought that she will be able to see him dead is inconceivable.
Here he is though, dead without a doubt.
As she stares at the vessel that once held him, the emotion that finally ignites her tears is one she least expected. Thank you thank you thank you thank you she mouths silently, because it is easy to see that all his colors are gone, there are no more underground springs beneath his skin, and for these reasons Larken Jones knows that at least one of her parents is irrefutably gone.
Habeas corpus, as the lawyers say, is the thought that comes to Larken’s mind.
(The dead fathers have been conversing as they look on, and Larken has overheard a comment made by Fritz Bybee, Esq. Sudden, unaccounted-for thoughts in the minds of the living often arise in this way.)
Yes, Larken agrees, noting that Malwyn McKeever has lowered his gaze and is moving away in a show of respect, misinterpreting her tears as those of a grieving daughter instead of a grateful one.
You must have the body.
Chapter 7
Avocado Kitchen
There’s a conspicuous abundance of vehicles in front of Viney’s house: On the street and tail-to-nose are a light blue Cadillac and a Ford pickup. A chorus line of teddy bears—arranged to mimic the color order of a rainbow—face out the rear window of the Cadillac (their glass eyes make them look like they’ve been passing a joint and are still in the blithe, nonparanoid phase of being stoned) while the truck is liberally decorated with exclamatory decals and bumper stickers, all red and white: PROUD TO BE A CORNHUSKER! GO BIG RED! CROESCO I GYMRU! IECHYD DA! In the driveway, parked at a perilously close angle to Gaelan’s Jeep, is the white van. Larken isn’t sure how she feels about having a face-to-face confrontation with the lunatic who almost ran her off the road.
Making her way across the lawn, she tries to guess why the van is here, why the driver was in such a goddamn hurry to get to Viney’s, of all places, and who the van belongs to; as far as she can remember, none of the good folks of Emlyn Springs have ever showed any inclination toward vehicular homicide.
When Larken rounds the van and sees the painting on its side, all mysteries are solved.
The artist clearly owes a lot to Robert Crumb, the “Keep on Truckin’” creator of the 1970s. The van painting is an excellent example of imitation as homage; Crumb himself could have done it. A wild-haired, stubble-bearded man wearing gigantic dark sunglasses and swollen-toed, oversized boots is frozen mid-stride; leaning back in a gravity-defying posture, he holds a cane in one hand and a leash in the other; the leash is attached to a harness; the harness is attached to a shaggy dog—also wearing sunglasses and boots—who is a few steps ahead of his human.
Ah, Larken thinks, appreciating the artists’ sly humor and unique contribution to the “Keep on Truckin’” oeuvre. It’s the blind leading the blind.
The words Keep on Tunin’ meander over the top of the illustration (the letters are set at varying heights on music staves, as if they’re musical notes), while the caption beneath reads “Blind Tom’s Piano Service,” accompanied by an Emlyn Springs phone number and, to Larken’s surprise, a Web site address—proof positive that at least one business in Emlyn Springs (and one of the oldest businesses at that) has not only invested in creative advertising but joined the twenty-first century. Good for them, Larken thinks.
From inside Viney’s house comes the sound of single piano notes, so it’s clear that the current Blind Tom is already at work. Having an immaculately tuned piano is crucial to Emlyn Springs’ funeral traditions. Larken rightly assumes that the Closs spinet hasn’t been worked on by a Blind Tom since the Gymanfa for Viney’s son, way back in 1966.
The original Blind Tom, né Trebor Oronwen Mahynlleth, set up shop in Emlyn Springs in 1871 and died in 1897. He’s buried in the town cemetery and his headstone benefits from Bonnie’s regular attention; its shaded location makes it vulnerable to moss. A combination of deference and naïveté has moved the citizens of Emlyn Springs to address all subsequent piano tuners as “Blind Tom” ever since. Generations of Blind Toms have come and gone; not a one of them has ever complained.
“Oh, honey, oh sweetie!” Viney proclaims, leaping up from her chair as Larken comes into the kitchen, embracing her before she even has time to set down her purse.
No one hugs like Viney. She is so small, such a force, all muscle and sinew. A ball of fire is how Daddy described his nurse whenever he spoke of her. That Viney Closs, she’s a ball of fire, a real hard worker. Larken must outweigh Viney by at least sixty pounds but she feels as though Viney could still easily pick her up and swing her around. In contrast to Hope, Viney was a roughhousing sort of mother. It always seemed to Larken that Viney’s maternal instincts derived less from The Donna Reed Show and more from Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.
“Don’t you worry about being late,” Viney half-whispers, her face close to Larken’s. “I know you had to babysit that little girl you take care of on Fridays. You would’ve been here sooner if you could’ve. I know that.” Unique to midwesterners, Larken has observed over the years, is an uncanny ability to make a statement of absolution insinuate blame and incite guilt.
Viney hugs Larken once more in that fierce, protective way, at the same time rubbing the space between Larken’s shoulder blades in a circular, rhythmic manner that makes Larken feel as if she’s being primed for a nap in her bassinet.
Gaelan is coming toward them—his eyes haggard and rheumy, he looks terrible, as if he’s been crying for hours (which he probably has; of the three of them, he’s the most susceptible to tears), followed by Bonnie, whose face looks oddly two-dimensional and is as gray as shirt-box cardboard; she looks as if she’s forgotten how to breathe. Viney steps aside, still petting Larken’s back.
The children come together, arms looping around each other like garlands, swaying a little, unspeaking, holding each other up.
Larken becomes aware of the sound of octaves being played in the next room. The same note in different registers. Blind Tom has been at work since she arrived, the plunk, plunk, plunk of notes providing the sound track for her homecoming, but only now—in the silence surrounding this reunion—does she notice.
We’re like a tree, Larken thinks suddenly. It’s an uncharacteristically simple and sentimental thought from this girl who has never been prone to simplicity or sentiment. They grow like this sometimes, the ones planted too close together, their trunks butting up against one another over time as they grow, chafing, so that eventually there’s no space between them and they graft, become one tree instead of many. I’ve seen it.
But as Gaelan starts to sob and Bonnie holds her breath, Larken
realizes that that’s not quite right. Even in grief, she and her siblings are not so in sync as those old, conjoined trees, as much as she would wish it so. Larken feels caught between wanting to run to the bathroom for a box of tissues for her brother and wanting to perform CPR on her sister.
I should have been here sooner, she thinks, sensing the ache and fear in her siblings’ bodies. They don’t blame me now, they don’t feel angry, but they will. Bonnie will anyway. I’m the oldest and I should have been here first.
They pull apart. Gaelan wipes at his eyes and his sobs dissipate; Bonnie recovers her breath in one big, greedy gulp; and Larken finally takes note of the other people present.
Bud Humphries, the town council president, emerges from his place next to the coat tree; Estella Axthelm is seated at the kitchen table in front of a cup of coffee and a plate of cookies (What the hell is she doing here?); and a gentleman Larken doesn’t recognize is positioned on a folding chair at the other end of the kitchen, tucked between the entrance to the living room and the side of the fridge. His posture is slumped, chin to chest; the gap between the top of his socks and the cuff of his pants reveals legs that are white and smooth as candle wax; and his bald, age spot–speckled head has the appearance of a large, luminescent egg. He’s wearing spectacles and a KEEP ON TUNIN’ T-shirt and Larken isn’t entirely sure that he’s awake.
Viney’s kitchen hasn’t been remodeled since the 1970s. The avocado green and harvest gold color scheme has an unfortunate effect on everyone’s complexion, lending a bilious cast to the interior light and making them look like members of a club of liver transplant hopefuls.
“You know Bud, of course,” Viney says.
Mr. Humphries lumbers forward and takes Larken’s hands. “I am so sorry,” he says, his eyes tearing up. “We did everything we could for him.”
“I know you did. Thank you.”
Viney gestures toward the table. “You remember Estella?”
“I do.” The witch remains firmly affixed to her seat, feigning frailty and trying to simulate a compassionate expression. She must be ninety if she’s a day, Larken reflects. Why do the mean ones always live the longest? “Hello, Miss Axthelm.”
Miss A. holds out spidery, veined fingers in a formal manner, as if expecting Larken to kiss the papal ring. “I’m so very, very sorry about your father,” she says in velvety, articulated tones. “What a loss to our community.” Miss Axthelm used to make her living as an elocution teacher. She coached Hollywood movie starlets in the 1930s and ’40s, girls who came from places like Nebraska, sounded like it, and were taught to be ashamed of it, Larken is sure, by people perfectly suited by temperament to such work, people like Miss A. Being far too homely herself to appear on screen, Miss A.’s claim to fame is that she did the voice of one of the elephants in Dumbo. She works the muscles of her face to reflect an aggressive and heartfelt pity. “What. A. Shock,” she enunciates.
Larken hates her. She takes her hand briefly. If you’re waiting for me to fall apart, you can wait till hell freezes over. “It is, yes.”
Viney gestures toward the fridge and speaks loudly. “And this is Mr.—Oh, I’m so very sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”
“No problem at all,” the man says, craning his neck to the side and struggling to lift his head. “Completely understandable, given the circumstances.” Larken realizes that his hunched posture is due to terrible, deforming osteoporosis, and it’s a physical effort for him to look at anything besides the floor. He holds out a knobby, arthritic hand. “I’m Howie Barstow. How do you do, Missy?”
Mr. Barstow possesses a wide, friendly face, its friendliness magnified by spectacles with lenses thick as domed glass paperweights. His color (peach) has a translucency that Larken notices sometimes in elderly people. She walks closer and takes his hand.
“How do you do?” she says.
“I’m here with the piano tuner.”
“Of course you are.”
“This one’s very skilled,” Mr. Barstow whispers, “and believe me, I’ve seen a lot of Blind Toms come and go. He can tune five pianos in five hours. I’ve heard him do it.” His moist, magnified eyes grow even bigger, so that his pupils seem the size of chocolate-dipped Dilly Bars from the Dairy Queen. “Of course, I’m a little prejudiced,” he says confidentially. “He’s my great-nephew.”
“I see.”
“Don’t worry about a thing. Your mother’s piano is in excellent hands.”
Larken sometimes corrects people who assume that Viney is her mother: Stepmother, she’ll amend. But not today. “That’s a comfort,” she whispers back.
Given what must be a severe visual impairment, it’s hard to imagine Mr. Barstow being capable of operating a motorized vehicle, much less authorized to do so. Larken doesn’t have the heart to say anything about his recklessness on the highway, but she’s tempted to ask whether his license is up-to-date.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Mr. Barstow says, formally, loudly. Blind Tom clears his throat—he’s sitting at the piano with his back toward them—whereupon Mr. Barstow ducks his head and cringes in a cartoonish way, as if he’s a little boy who’s been reprimanded for something he doesn’t feel the least guilty about. He makes a key-turning gesture in front of his mouth and settles back in his chair.
It seems suddenly important to Larken that Mr. Barstow’s well wishes be acknowledged, so she mouths “Thank you” very broadly—a muscular exertion that for some reason causes her to cry. Embarrassed, she averts her eyes toward the piano.
There are two keyboards in Viney’s living room. Compared to the 1950s Wurlitzer, the spinet is new, but it hasn’t been played nearly as much; usually it’s draped with an afghan and serves less as a musical instrument than as a display unit for a select assortment of Viney’s handcrafted angels. She makes them out of old hymnals that have been fanned open, ingeniously scissored to form full paper skirts and paper wings, and affixed at the spine with a doll head.
There are brown-skinned, pigtailed Indian princess angels, black-skinned nappy-headed angels, Farrah Fawcett–style blonde angels—Charlie’s Angels angels!—frizzy redheaded angels, and on and on. Some are sweet-faced. Some look saucy and soubrettish. Some are downright homely. All are crowned with garlands of plastic pop beads and wear little outfits custom-tailored in color and design to go with whatever personalities Viney imagines them to possess.
Viney has been selling these angels at craft shows and county fairs and te bachs as long as Larken can remember. Larken used to help her make them; her job was hairstylist. “It’s so important that all people have an angel they can identify with,” Viney used to say. “That’s why I make them look so many different ways.” For a long time Viney’s angels flew—at least figuratively—off the shelves. Their popularity has declined in recent years, however. Today they are definitely not looking their best. To allow Blind Tom access to the spinet’s innards, the angels have been evicted from their usual place of prominence and relocated haphazardly throughout the room, stuffed hastily into darkened corner shelves and onto crowded tabletops, sharing the stage with knickknacks and books and family photos. Coifs askew, they regard Blind Tom with their fringed lids at half-mast, suspicious, miffed.
Blind Tom is still playing octaves. The sequence sounds familiar. Larken doesn’t have the musical ear of her parents—or even her brother—but like all children born in Emlyn Springs, she knows solfege and can identify the names of notes and the way they relate to one another when they’re strung together like this: Sol-mi-fa-sol-do, la-ti-do-sol …
Even sitting, Blind Tom is very tall. He must be quite thin as well: Beneath his white T-shirt, the tips of his shoulder blades are so fleshless and extruding that they form what look like teepees pitched side by side on the slope of his upper back.
Next to him on the floor is a black retriever—sans harness, boots, or sunglasses—forepaws crossed elegantly. The dog registers Larken’s presence and then resumes his study of Viney’s green shag carpet, wh
ich must have been recently raked, since nowhere does it seem to be flattened by footprints. Larken wonders how Blind Tom and his dog got in. They either entered through the front door and took huge, tiptoeing steps to get to the opposite side of the room, flew, or else Viney raked the carpet again after they arrived. Which isn’t out of the realm of possibility.
La-sol-mi-fa-sol-do, la-ti-do-do …
What is that? Larken continues to wonder. I know I’ve heard it before …
Blind Tom moves on to tuning fourths: Here Comes the Bride.
“It was nice to meet you,” Larken says quietly, turning to Mr. Barstow, but his head has slumped back onto his chest, and now he truly is asleep and snoring quietly. He has an impressive ability to produce two separate musical tones simultaneously. Larken wonders how this is physically possible.
“Are you okay, honey?” Viney asks.
Larken starts and turns around. Everyone is staring at her: Bud, Gaelan, Bonnie, the witch. How long has she been standing here, daydreaming?
“I’m fine.” She strides back into the middle of the kitchen, grateful for the way her heels sound on the linoleum: percussive and authoritative and completely unenchanting.
“Have you already gone to see him?” Bonnie asks.
“I did, yes.”
Viney murmurs, “He looks good, doesn’t he?”
His color is gone, Larken wants to say. His underground springs are all dried up. She takes Viney’s hand. “He looks fine.”
“Can I get you some coffee, honey? I’ve got some made. Oh, wait, this pot here is old. I’m gonna make another one before everybody starts coming.”
Sing Them Home Page 13