American Music

by Jane Mendelsohn

  And now here he was, passed out from a concussion. Pearl sat with him for over an hour, her hand resting on his. She talked to him about the infirmary. She told him that the nurses were taking good care of him. She brushed the hair out of his face.

  That night, she went to hear Joe play saxophone with the thirty-piece Palm Court Orchestra of the Ritz-Carlton in New York. The band had been brought to the desert by DeMille for the purpose of inspiring the Israelites and the charioted army of Egypt during the Exodus. When it came time for the actual chase, a span of black thoroughbreds imported from Kansas City stampeded from the rear. Riderless horses headed for the band, which went on playing in evening dress until the moment they were ambushed, leaving broken instruments and shredded tuxedos scattered across the dunes. Sand swirled in the wreckage. Joe was unscathed, but Pearl always wondered if the same horse that had thrown Solomon had led the stampede. She never did get to see those green eyes.

  Honor

  You’re scaring me with those boots, she said.

  He was wearing them every day now.

  They’re just boots, Milo said.

  Bloodstained boots, you said. The boots of a dead man. Two dead men.

  He paused a moment.

  I don’t believe you’re scared of anything, he said.

  Honor was turning off the lights. She stopped, her hand on the switch.

  What makes you say that?

  Because you don’t flinch.

  What are you talking about?

  You know what I’m talking about.

  She didn’t say anything.

  Are you going to make me say it?

  She couldn’t say anything.

  His hands were clenched now. His eyes were shut.

  No, she said. No I’m not.

  She turned off the light.

  1923

  Joe was able to visit her by night. In the evenings, the school was converted into a location for vaudeville acts and jazz and after he finished his last set, he would pack up his saxophone and walk with Pearl down the avenue of sphinxes, or along the well-patrolled but not completely policed beach. The moon was slender and shrouded in fog. They held hands in the darkness. They watched the black celluloid ripplings of the nearly invisible ocean. Joe pulled Pearl close to him to keep her warm.

  In her tent, he scolded her for going to meet Solomon. What was she doing, he said, waiting at sunrise for a man she didn’t know? He might have been dangerous.

  If I hadn’t gone to meet that man, she reminded him, I would never have met you.

  After the parting of the Red Sea, during which Pearl had followed Mr. DeMille’s strict instructions and rushed headlong into the waves with hundreds of others in order to retrieve seaweed and spread it around on dry sand so that it would look as if the ocean had just separated, Pearl agreed to go to New York with Joe. They stopped briefly in Los Angeles to tell her parents, who were relieved at the thought of their daughter settling down and getting out of the picture business, and who arranged the wedding quickly and modestly. They had a small house in a flat part of the city. The reception was held in their minuscule yard. Pearl later remembered her wedding day as the image of a palm shadow on a tablecloth. The image was captured for eternity in the background of the picture in her living room. Their honeymoon was a ride on a comfortable train east. By the time The Ten Commandments opened at the George M. Cohan theater in New York that December, Pearl could navigate her new city like a native, and she and Joe were expecting their first child.

  •

  The doctors didn’t have any answers, he said.

  What? Honor said.

  Milo’s eyes were closed. He had a look on his face, even with his eyes closed, like he was trying to remain calm, as though he were keeping some great pain at bay. It reminded her of an animal working away at a wound with a perfectly composed expression.

  They never figured out what was wrong, he said.

  The doctors here? What are you talking about?

  Every year for five years Pearl lost a baby.

  Honor stopped asking questions.

  I’m sorry, she said.

  There was always a lot of blood.

  I’m very sorry, she said.

  He was still talking with his eyes closed. Now it was like a statue talking, or a ghost.

  We wanted a child so much, he said. It was hard to see her sad. She was very brave.

  Very brave, Honor said.

  You have to understand, he said, there was a lot of blood.

  Then his face twisted into a horrible mask, like one of those monstrous inflatable Halloween masks, and then as if someone had pulled a string, the face folded and slowly collapsed into itself like some airless and decomposing plant.

  I understand, she said.

  She couldn’t tell him that she didn’t understand. That she wanted desperately to know if his pain was for the story he was telling her or for his own hidden story, which he wouldn’t tell her.

  Either way, she supposed it didn’t really matter. She felt the sadness in him and it hung around her shoulders and when she left he was resting and calm again and she very quietly closed the door.

  At the nurses’ station they were talking about recipes and global warming. The lights were low and on a desk there were cups of soda and a sandwich. Honor recognized most of the nurses by now, some of them she had come to know a little. She looked over at them while she waited for the elevator. Then one of them said, What is it? You don’t look so good. Honor came over and sat down.

  She took off her bag. Her long hair swung. Her coat grazed the linoleum floor.

  He seems like he’s getting worse, she said.

  They all get worse, one of them said. Then sometimes they get better. She put her cup down and turned a page of the newspaper.

  I’m not sure I’m helping him.

  Can’t be sure, another one said. Even if you think you are helping, it could just be God’s work.

  Three of the four of them nodded.

  But sometimes I think I’m even hurting him, that the work I do causes him pain.

  That can happen. Nothing so bad about pain.

  Honor’s eyes widened a tiny amount at this remark as she took it in. The nurse who said it glanced back down at her newspaper, with a shadow of a smile that showed that she was pleased to share some of her wisdom.

  Do any of you ever see things when you take care of patients? Or hear things?

  Everyone has stories.

  He seems to have a lot of stories, Honor said.

  She was leaning forward now, searching for help.

  He’s been through a lot, one of the nurses said.

  Honor leaned forward more.

  Do you know what? she asked them, scanning their faces. I mean, do you know what he’s been through?

  They were quiet for a moment and then one of them said:

  You look like you’ve seen something.

  I have.

  She sat there in her coat and scarf, looking at them. She had the distant benevolent gaze of an angel in a painting. But her skin was ashen and it looked like it had been stretched across her skull. Her hair was unwashed. Her hands were bones.

  Try not to let it frighten you.

  Okay, she said.

  You should get home and get some rest.

  Okay.

  One of them walked her back to the elevator and pressed the button. Honor looked at the oily smears of fingerprints on the metal plate around the buttons and thought that she might be sick. Inside while she was making the short descent, she had to sit down on the floor of the elevator so that she wouldn’t fall down.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  They met on the steps of the Museum of Natural History. Vivian had never been there and Joe was stunned when she told him because he knew that she had grown up in New York City. I like looking at art not at animals, she had said. He had told her that these animals were works of art, or interesting specimens anyway, and it was a good place to meet. He waited in the w
ind. He sat down on a step. He thought she might not come. He wouldn’t blame her for not coming. He shouldn’t be there himself. He should be studying in the library. People walked up and down the steps with intention and meaning. Children ran. It was late October and the sky was darkening over the park, quickly, like a bright face turning away to show only a head of falling tresses. The orange and yellow leaves on the trees were shadowed and what had looked golden in the sun now seemed thinner and more tissue-like, papery, not as real although actually more so. He had the newspaper with him but he didn’t read it. It stuck straight up out of his jacket pocket. He decided to stand. He stretched his legs. He walked to the top of the stairs. He gazed north.

  She surprised him from the other direction. She came up behind him and said his name. It sounded different when she said his name because now she knew him and he could hear it in her voice.

  In the Akeley Hall of African Mammals, which had just recently opened, people stood rapt in front of the dioramas of bongos and mandrills and impalas. They peered into the meticulously reconstructed alternate worlds and seemed to be transported through space. They were still wearing their hats and gloves. Children pressed their hot faces against the glass and the guards kindly told them to step back but it was hard for the children to understand why they could not walk inside, in the wild. Joe identified with the children; he wished he could enter other worlds. Vivian stopped and dutifully admired the taxidermy and detail but she could not pretend that she felt anything. Joe looked at her while she looked at the rain forests and savannahs and he thought that it would be beautiful to see her in those locations under a real moon, a living sun. He could sense that she didn’t really care for any of it, but she was not unkind and said that he was right, it was interesting. They walked around and around the elephants.

  I can picture you in any of these places, he said. India, Burma, Siam.

  I’d love to go, she said. But I can’t say I feel like I’ve been there from coming here.

  I can tell.

  I’m sorry.

  Don’t be sorry. I thought you would like it but I was wrong. I’m wrong about a lot of things.

  He dug his hands into his pockets and looked down at the shiny marble floor.

  Like what? she asked.

  Hmm, he thought. He lifted his head and gazed up at the ceiling. When he had come up with an answer he brought his head down, quickly glanced at her with a brief smile, and then looked straight ahead.

  Like how to earn a living, he said. I don’t want to be a lawyer. You know that.

  But you’re being practical. That’s not wrong.

  You don’t seem concerned about being practical.

  That doesn’t make me right.

  You seem right to me.

  They had walked out of the hall and were heading down a dim corridor. She had a little bounce in her gait that he hadn’t noticed before, like a tiny dance step in between strides. It was graceful and somewhat aristocratic. Her long coat was cinched at the waist and it swayed a bit with every step.

  Are you at all practical? he asked. I mean, do you worry about everyday things? You seem so calm and unconcerned.

  Of course I worry. My father is at home dying.

  Now it was her turn to gaze downward, at the shiny floors, the places where their feet clicked and sent out echoes.

  I’m sorry. That’s very difficult. I know you worry about him. I meant little things. The details of life.

  She stopped and looked at him.

  There’s not much I can do about them, is there?

  Her eyes were forming a question and he wanted her to ask it but she didn’t. When she started walking again she said:

  You said Pearl might be joining us. Is she coming?

  No, no she couldn’t.

  I see.

  They were entering the Hall of Asian Mammals. The hall had been open for several years and he knew it well. He had liked to come here and stroll around with Pearl. They had stopped doing it after a while because it was a place filled with children. Now he didn’t notice the children. He and Vivian stood in front of the water buffalo not looking at it.

  This used to be a special place for me and Pearl.

  That must be nice, to share special places.

  It is. It was.

  At one time he would have rattled off all of his thoughts to Pearl about the buffalo, the water, the filigreed fish he thought he could see in the stream, the pitch of the cries of the children when they stopped and laughed in front of the gorilla diorama, the tragicomic echoing sound of those cries bursting into the otherwise hushed atmosphere like sounds heard in a real forest, a real desert. But now he did not say just anything.

  Is there anyone, anyone special in your life right now? He was gazing intently at the buffalo’s habitat.

  That’s a hard question, she said. Yes and no.

  When she said yes and no he heard yes.

  Pearl and I would love to meet him, he said.

  There was a stillness between them.

  You know him, she said.

  He understood what she meant.

  In front of the Siberian tiger he took her hand. Her face was suspended in the window glass and it looked like the tiger was crying.

  Honor

  I’m sorry I couldn’t talk about it the other day.

  Talk about what? Milo said.

  Talk about this, about what happens here.

  I forgive you, he said. I don’t want to talk about it either.

  He clenched and unclenched his fist. Then he said: You might have heard from the people around here, I don’t really want to talk about anything.

  But you talk to me.

  Not much.

  Sometimes in your sleep.

  He twisted his head as far as he could and cocked an eyebrow at her from the table.

  Is that right?

  Yes, that’s right.

  I thought it was all … unspoken.

  Not completely.

  So what do I say?

  Crazy stuff. Some scary things. Some things that make no sense.

  Sounds like me.

  But it doesn’t sound like you. It’s your voice but it’s like you’re in character, someone else. You talk about things like you’re there. In the past.

  You must think I’m a lunatic.

  I don’t.

  She rubbed more oil into her hands and put her fingers on his neck.

  I like it, she said. I like your stories.

  His head shook a little in her hands when he laughed.

  Well that makes you the lunatic.

  Maybe, she said.

  We both are, he said.

  That sounds about right.

  Have you told anyone about any of this?

  No, not anyone.

  Don’t. They’ll either put me on a shitload more medication or they’ll say you’ve lost your mind and fire you.

  You wouldn’t like that.

  No, I wouldn’t like that.

  Then I won’t tell anyone.

  Thanks.

  She had her hands on his arm.

  So, no stories today? she asked.

  Nope. Why don’t you tell me one? You never tell me anything about yourself.

  You never ask.

  That’s not true. I did once.

  She thought of what she might tell him and then decided against it. They were quiet for a long time.

  You know, you’re helping me, he said.

  How can you tell?

  Because I want to know what’s going to happen next.

  I guess that’s called having something to live for, she said. I’m glad to hear it.

  And she was. She was smiling.

  Maybe one of these days you’ll tell me something about yourself.

  Maybe, she said.

  She would sit and think about whatever she had seen with him as she rode home on the subway. Sometimes she listened to her iPod while she thought. This was the time in her life when she listened to music to sa
ve herself. Her music and her soldier’s stories, they kept her from falling apart. The sounds wound around her like gauze. She’d had a friend, someone she didn’t talk to anymore, and he had given her a book by Ralph Ellison about jazz. It said: In those days, we could either live with music or die with noise, and we chose, somewhat desperately, to live.

  The iPod sat in her lap. She realized that the music had stopped some time ago and that she had just been sitting with the earphones in and no sound. At her stop she got out and walked home down the uncrowded streets to her walk-up. She felt less and less as though she lived in her small apartment and more as if the hospital uptown were her home. The time between her visits to her soldier seemed as though it was not her real life. She saw other clients, worked some days in a doctor’s office, took classes, had her friends. But she found that she had to remind herself of who she was and sometimes riding on the train or walking down the street she would tell herself: You are Honor. You are twenty-one. You are not a dancer, anymore. You live alone.

  The time she spent with Milo was now becoming something of its own secret. At first she told some friends about him, the mysterious soldier who wouldn’t lie on his back. But why not? they would ask. What’s wrong with him? What happened to him? Why didn’t she know? Why didn’t she ask him? Then they became bored and talked of other things. There were relationships, films, jobs, people moving in different directions, changing lives. But she was not concerned with any of those things anymore. Some of her friends were worried about her. She had changed. Was she doing okay? She said she was but really being okay or not okay was not important to her anymore. Being okay seemed like a state of mind from another life. Her old life was as insignificant to her now as a passing shadow she had stepped across yesterday, or a lost scrap of conversation overheard. She could not remember her old life. She could not think about the person she had been. She was thinking about her soldier.