Moving fast beside a row of palatial limestone townhouses, and closing in on the man, Henry’s nerves were an accident waiting to happen. His scalp prickled hot. Fifteen feet from his target, he cried, Hey, you!
The man didn’t stop but turned into a building. Henry advanced quickly and was facing in at the doors a moment later, looking in through an austere marble lobby. The man was gone. Blood rose into Henry’s cheeks. Holding his head, he asked the doorman if he could tell him the name of the person who’d just passed through the lobby. The doorman, a wide, beaver-ish-looking fellow, said he couldn’t give out that information. Henry, his head hanging, retreated back to the hotel.
He called Edgar.
You sound all of out breath, Hank. You all right?
I’m fine.
What’s the matter?
It’s nothing. Nothing at all. I’m hoping to be back at work soon.
You’ll see how you’re feeling.
Maybe a week. Ten days, said Henry, still not listening to Edgar.
Just tell me if you need anything. Your job will be waiting for you.
Thank you, Edgar.
Off the phone and standing under the awning of the Carlyle, through his whole face, his forehead and cheeks, around the mouth and chin, were the creased lines of inner-turmoil. With his hand set on the back of his head, he began to feel great disappointment. To himself, he was saying, Probably wasn’t really Dad. If only it had been. I’d have fallen on his shoulder and sobbed. Could use him more than ever.
It was as far he’d let his own heart swell. At once he corrected his overly curved posture, lifted his head, his neck and spine.
I become tired of myself when I think like this. You’ll be fine. Just pull it together.
Adjusting from the sun on Madison to the low light of Bemelman’s caused his eyes to make out dark amorphous spots which floated to the ceiling then disappeared. Paula welcomed Henry back. The martini had taken hold of her and she was sitting slumped-drunk in her chair. Marcel, big and cheerful, his shiny bald head teeming sweat, cried out for Henry to sit beside him, asking his wife to make room in the booth. Denise staggered into an adjacent chair.
Powell was onto I’ve Got Rhythm. Henry couldn’t bear to listen. Christ, he could play it ten times better. He tried tuning out the instrument.
Marcel said, So Henry, how are you?
I’m great. Thank you. Really very well.
Paula’s father was a chemist. Usually his time with Henry was spent encouraging him to think beyond his small world, to make sure not a single day passed without his considering the lifespan of a star, for instance, or the earth’s boiling inner-core. It was tiresome. During their last dinner roughly three month ago, the extinction of bees had formed the basis of Marcel’s speech. Dead bees, dead plants, dead people, he kept saying this over and over again. He’d spoken for an hour about the need for humans to regard bees with the same deference that they would their own gods, because without them there was no life, no us, no single human consciousness. Henry had left the dinner table that night with a crippling headache. The next day he’d written a song called, Dead Bees. Dead Plants. Dead people. Those were its only lyrics. It was another throw-away. Nothing for Zachary Walbaum.
However now, and for the first time, Marcel wanted to discuss Henry’s songwriting. He even admitted to a kind of shame. His face a drunken red, he said he always talked about his own ideas with Henry.
Dating my daughter so long without my knowing what you really do, it’s not right, is it? Tell me, Henry.
Tell you what?
Tell me how you write a song? How do you begin?
How do I begin?
Please, tell me what that entails?
Henry’s cheeks went slack. He didn’t want to talk about this. It wasn’t the time. He said, Marcel, you just do it. The more thinking, the more discussion, the worse off you are.
A look of confusion formed on Marcel’s face, and he said, So, you just begin? That’s it? How do you know if something’s done if you don’t know where it’s supposed to go in the first place?
Henry told him, It’s just a feeling, Marcel. That’s all.
Just a feeling?
Correct.
I see. I see. His brow furrowed. Paula told me you almost sold a jingle to a Swedish clothing company.
Well, ye-es, he said. But really that was nothing.
Not nothing, insisted Marcel. I would love to hear what this jingle sounds like. Perhaps you’d sing it for me.
Sing it?
Sure. Is that uncomfortable for you? Because if you’d just sing a part of it…that would be…just grand, Henry, grand.
Powell had gone on break. Henry’s voice wouldn’t have to compete with the piano. But this was ludicrous. He wasn’t going to sing this dead jingle for Marcel. And to do it a cappella. No. Marcel was practically begging him, though. He said how much it upset him that he’d never heard Henry sing, not once.
I should be more supportive of you. I’m sorry I haven’t been.
Henry, breaking up inside, looked at his martini. Taking a long sip, he said, Fine. You want to hear Miss…Scan…dinavia—he marked each syllable in the air with his hand—I’ll sing it for you.
Marcel, using a cocktail napkin to wipe sweat off his neck, said, Please. Sing away.
You’re ready?
I’m ready.
So here it goes:
Sexier than a California girl,
More luster than a Japanese Pearl,
With ooh-la-la above the Parisenne,
And any gal in the West End.
She’s a six foot two, blond and busty,
Scandinavian.
But watch out.
She put the low,
In Oslo.
She crashed the stocks,
In Stockholm.
She killed all hope,
In Copenhagen.
She is the hell,
In Helsinki.
Henry stopped. His head lifted and he saw Paula and Denise were staring at him, amused. Then to Marcel, he said, That’s it. What do you think?
Oh, well, yeah, Henry. I love it.
You do?
Marcel’s head fell back, joyfully. He said, Good for you, son, and he smiled so that the corners of his mouth rose high to the middle of his cheeks. That song almost played on televisions around the world?
Henry blew air through his nostrils. He was tugging on his ear. He said, Almost, and stood straight up from his seat. Paula’s graduation program, an anxious roll of paper, had escaped his jacket pocket, and lay on the floor. Henry stooped down for it and came up red-faced and off-kilter. He said, Everyone, I’m sorry, I have to go home.
From down low in the booth Paula stared at him. She looked like a child, the way she sat, of no more than twelve. She said, You’re leaving, Henry?
I have to. Shaking with Marcel, he said, Nice to see you, sir.
Marcel clapped both his hands around Henry’s. A superb piece of music, he said.
Thank you. Thanks. Well, I’ll talk to you later, Paula. He kissed her goodbye, he embraced Denise. He couldn’t wait to get out the door, away from the Mills’, and Andy Powell. It was where he’d find peace.
THREE
The sun had already set, and Henry, seated under lamp light at his piano, drank from a small glass bottle of whiskey. He was trying to write a new song, but the dark sky of evening had intensified his fears. He was sure he was dying. Through his lungs up into his brain the cancer had spread. With chemotherapy they’d try to save him, but there was no chance of it. Life was over. Or else he was going to lose both his testicles. He’d never ejaculate again.
With two fists he struck the keys of the piano. Discordant treble notes rung out and in the quality of their sound was something murderous. Sweaty, hot, trembling, he put his face flat to the keys. At the next
moment he could feel from inside his pocket the vibrations of his phone. He dug it out. Paula was calling. He stood back from the piano. He was so grateful to hear from her. His whole body felt warm. She was still at the Carlyle. Her parents had returned to their room and she’d gone to the lobby for privacy.
I haven’t told them anything about the bulge in your back. Just like you asked, she said, proudly.
Thank you, Paula.
But my stepmother was after me. She was saying, Is Henry doing all right? and I told her, He’s great. Why? and she said, I don’t know, just seems not himself and—well, anyway.
Yes. Anyway.
What else did they say about your bulge, Henry?
Nothing more, really. They’ll do a minor procedure.
Will it be painful?
A little, I’m sure.
He didn’t mean to add layers to his lie. However, tomorrow, he’d tell her the truth. That was it. And he felt certain that the matter had been decided. He said, Come over, would you?
Come there?
Paula reminded him that it was the night of her graduation. She had plans to celebrate.
Right, said Henry. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that myself. His heartache returned.
Paula invited him to come out with her. Just to be asked made him feel better. Then she began to rescind her offer.
Or maybe I’ll just come for breakfast tomorrow.
Tomorrow?
Maybe I should be alone with my friends tonight and I’ll come in the morning and we can have a nice day. What do you think?
I don’t know, said Henry.
Do you want to come tonight? If you want to, you should.
Walking his fingers along the black keys, he said, No. No, actually I don’t think so. You go and have a good time. Come for breakfast in the morning.
Maybe around noon.
Sure. Come at noon, said Henry.
Okay. I’ll see you then.
Putting down the phone, he lifted his head and saw his piano. My savior, he thought.
Playing did make him forget his sorrow. Soon his fingers took on great life, moving vigorously along the keys. Strong and loud, he felt every note in his chest. At one point his hands incidentally began to play the chorus to Ms. Scandinavia.
But no, not that! he shouted. She crashed the stocks in Stockholm. She is the hell in Helsinki. That’s terrible. And it’s over with. It never happened. You’re not a jingle-writer.
He saw his own mad reflection in the long frame of the upright piano. With delirious eyes, he stared back at himself and said, Look forward. There’ll be a future for you. You’re not going to die. They’ll cut it out and you’ll walk away. Now put something down. Make some music. A song. A song for Walbaum.
Henry began to play, and within minutes he was lost in a new composition:
Faulk,
Old FRIEND,
Last month,
You called me,
Fifteen times,
In a single day.
Can’t you take,
A hint?
I don’t want anything,
More to do with,
You.
Faulk was not right in the head. He never had been. As recently as last month, messages, long, sentimental, remorseful, were coming to Henry via text at an alarming rate. It was not his first attempt to make amends for a particular misdeed. Undeniably, Faulk had wronged Henry, and he knew it. But he took offense when Henry didn’t forgive him.
I don’t care,
If it hurts,
I’m done,
With you,
For good.
Just shy of a year ago, Faulk appeared at Henry’s door. Smelling oddly of gasoline and with dirt on his face, Faulk, once a handsome man, now bald and missing teeth, was agitated. Plastic bags full of junk encumbered his hands. He dropped them on the floor and went straight into the kitchen to make himself a vodka-soda.
Are you all right? Henry asked him.
All right? Henry, I’m on top of the world. Faulk, filling his glass with ice, said, I’ve got the one.
You’re in love? Henry asked him.
Faulk said, No. Not love, but it is about a girl. She’s a singer. Sonya. What pipes, what legs, you’re going to love her.
Oh, I see. That’s great.
Henry thought Faulk had given up on managing talent. He’d said he was going to begin a house-painting business.
I believed you were onto something,
With that idea.
For my own sake,
I was relieved knowing,
I’d never have to hear you say,
This one’s going to be a star,
Or, that one’s going to the top,
Ever again.
Since All the Crazies Love Me debuted on the radio, Faulk had been after Henry for help. One singer, and then another, and another, he insisted they be brought before Walbaum for a meeting. Henry was skeptical. He didn’t trust Faulk’s judgment of talent, and he would not be made a fool of with Walbaum.
Listen Henry, Faulk was circling his glass in the air, you have to listen to her sing. She’ll make you drop. You’ll want to call up your guy, Walbaum, and get a little convo going.
If your father, Lawrence,
Hadn’t taught me to play piano,
I’d have told you no,
Way.
The Faulks had lived around the corner from Henry’s family on East 92nd. His father, Lawrence Faulk, was a musician, a tall, imposing man, who kept a full beard. He wore thin black cotton pants, but no shirt, his chest hair dark and copious. Sheet music to Bach’s Minuet in G sat open on the worn grand piano. In red ink at the top of the page he had written:
Make the Art. Earn your Death.
Henry and Faulk, both six years old, sat at the piano in the smoky room, the shades drawn. The furniture was all antique and stunk of mildew. Faulk’s mother lived in Jersey. It was only he and his father there in the small apartment. Lawrence, lighting a cigarette, addressed them like prisoners.
Did you ingrates practice your scales?
We did, sir.
Don’t lie to me.
It’s the truth, Dad.
Lawrence smacked his son over the head. Henry, too. A couple of hopeless cases…how could I, just a man, make either of you any better? It’s impossible. Agree or disagree?
Disagree, the boys said in unison.
Agree or disagree?
Disagree!
Lawrence would start the metronome at a slow tempo. For half an hour the boys would practice scales. Meanwhile, Lawrence would recline on a green divan by the window, smoking and reading the Times. Every so often his ear would tune into their playing.
Listen to the metronome. Pah…pah…pah…pah…pah…If you can’t stay in time, you’ll never be any good. For crying out loud, feel it…feel it. Can you do that?
I’m sorry to say it, Faulk,
It was YOU your dad,
Was talking to.
I felt it,
Then, while you were busy,
Picking your fucking nose.
Well, your girl Sonya,
She couldn’t sing,
And a thimble full of feel,
In your belly,
Would have told you,
As much.
Faulk brought Henry to meet Sonya. They took the A train to 181st Street to an apartment where Faulk and she had been staying, a dim-lit squalid place crowded with people. Sonya, with a bloody nose, reposed on the floor, a raggedy, sallow-faced woman, her head back, pinching her nostrils. Henry had promised to listen to her sing. When the bleeding stopped, they went into the stairwell. Faulk came, too. She performed Light My Fire. Afterwards, Henry and Faulk went to stand under the George Washington Bridge. The sun was setting and the palisades were mollifying, a rich green color. On the cool river, with Sonya re
sting back at the apartment, Faulk nervously scratched at the many scabs on his forehead.
He said, You’ve got to help me, Henry. I need this. I know you could get her in front of Walbaum.
Henry thought Sonya’s voice was only decent. He didn’t see much hope for her. But he didn’t say that.
My dad taught you how to play piano. We sat all those years in my apartment, like brothers. Now, what sweat is it off your back if nothing comes of this. What’s it matter if Walbaum says, Nah, she’s not the one. So what.
Faulk talked him into bringing Sonya by his apartment the next day to work on a song. They had stopped at a thrift-shop on 2nd Avenue and bought new outfits. Faulk had on a shabby black tuxedo with cummerbund and red bowtie, and a pair of patent leather shoes. He looked ready to tame a lion. Sonya, in a pink lace dress, her thin legs shaking, was so small and malnourished, all skin, bones. She was afraid that her nose would start bleeding, it had all morning. Faulk asked Henry if they could use one of his own songs.
You’re such a great songwriter, Henry. We would be so honored if you let Sonya sing one of your own.
His old friend’s compliments, manipulative and low-down, infuriated Henry. But he went into his songbook, anyhow. They worked all day. Sonya learned quickly. She had good energy. At least this was what Henry told Faulk when he was unable to find another positive remark to offer. Unfortunately, it encouraged him.
He said, So Walbaum, you’ll give him a call and set up a meeting, right?
I can’t believe I said,
Yes.
Before going up to Walbaum’s office, Faulk told Sonya to take a walk around the corner to Bergdorf’s and spray herself with some perfume.
You know how men get aroused on that stuff, he said.
Faulk should have gone with her. An inconsistent bather since childhood, he smelled awful, like b.o. In his black tuxedo, in front of F.A.O. Schwartz, he demanded Henry not back down easy with Walbaum. If necessary, he should put up a fight. He promised, if this worked out, he’d send at least $50,000 Henry’s way.
Your mention,
Of 50 grand,
Exacerbated a feeling,
Of nausea,
Which only became,
Worse when we got,
Upstairs.
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