The Secret North

by Ka Newborrn

  Someone would understand someday but not in her present circumstances. She brushed her teeth and changed into pajamas. Perhaps she would travel north, or west; who knew what the future held? She thought about it as she turned off her bedside lamp and nestled snugly beneath her cotton blanket, shutting her eyes to the coldness of the world until sleep removed her burdens.

  ANDOVER, MASSACHUSSETTS

  1990

  Calvin

  He was fueled by a compulsion to know what went on inside the ears of musicians since the beginning of time. Before he could know this, he needed to understand the history and evolution of musical trends. In order to understand these trends, he needed to understand the inner workings of government and economic systems throughout the span of history. Additionally, he yearned to understand the relationship between math and music and hoped to uncover hidden frequencies that would lead him deep within the inner ears of unsung artists. Regrettably, math was not his strongest subject.

  His teachers didn’t like him very much. He didn’t make them feel important, nor was he relatable. He never contributed to class, and hated being mentored. In short, they found him odd and annoying.

  He refused to participate in extracurricular activities or socialize with his classmates. He preferred to be left alone. When he wasn’t studying, he spent time alone watching music documentaries or teaching himself to play the guitar by listening to cassette tapes and mimicking the chords.

  Towards the middle of his senior year, the dean of students contacted his parents and told them that Calvin seemed unusually despondent and mumbled under his breath consistently. A school physician examined him and recommended medication for a chemical imbalance.

  Russell and Jana arranged a school visit immediately. They were alarmed by his skinny appearance and horrified when he told them that he wasn’t going to college and planned on becoming a musician instead. He finished the rest of the semester, graduated with little fanfare and flew back home for the summer.

  When his taxi stopped in front of the house, Calvin hopped out of the backseat and tightened the grip on his guitar strap. As he cowered in his tracks, he wondered why he never noticed that the leaded windows looked like prison bars.

  Aunt Alice rolled her wheelchair to the front door to greet him. When she saw him, her eyes widened to saucers and she reached for the crucifix above her bosom. “Christ have mercy,” she gasped. He kissed her cheek and disappeared up the stairs to the shelter of his attic bedroom.

  It was a small room with an adjoining bathroom. It was sparsely furnished with twin bunk beds, a record player and a walnut dresser that housed a collection of antique Hungarian puppets that Jana found at yard sale.

  At the record player, he placed the stylus at the edge of a record and curled into fetal position on the bottom bunk. Roy Ayer’s The Memory washed his anxieties away and lulled him to the outermost edges of consciousness.

  ✽✽✽

  “I’m a vegetarian,” he announced as Aunt Alice dangled a slice of pot roast over his plate. “And no potatoes. They’re swimming in meat juice.”

  “Can you eat the turnip greens?” Aunt Alice snapped.

  ”Did you cook them in pork?

  Aunt Alice scowled and set the bowl of greens on the table. She opened her mouth to reply. Jana interrupted.

  “Aunt Alice made some macaroni salad this morning.”

  “I made macaroni and cheese.” She pointed a fork at Jana. “You people make macaroni salad.”

  Jana threw down her napkin and stood up abruptly, eyes blazing in Russell’s direction. Russell glared at Aunt Alice.

  “Will you cut that out?”

  “That old grown gal knows I don’t mean any harm.”

  Aunt Alice shut her mouth and heaped her plate with second helpings. Jana sat back down and refilled her wine glass. Russell focused his attention on Calvin.

  “You remember my buddy, Tony? He wants to meet with you.”

  “Oh?” Calvin sniffed.

  “I told him you were deferring college for a year and he offered you an internship. Wasn’t that generous?” Russell dunked a biscuit into his gravy.

  Calvin’s eyes narrowed. “What about my music?”

  “I told him you already said yes, and that you’d meet him for lunch on Tuesday.” Russell dabbed his lips with his napkin. “So I strongly advise you call him on Monday to confirm.”

  He froze in the icy triumph of his father and glanced at his mother in desperation. She held Russell’s hand and finished her wine.

  ✽✽✽

  On Tuesday morning, Calvin stood in front of the mirror wearing his father’s old Kuppenheimer suit. It had since been altered to fit him but was still too boxy in the shoulders. He pulled back his locs with his left hand, turned to his side and practiced smiling.

  He took the R1 to City Hall to the Blue Line and casually glanced at the people on the subway. An old man sat across from him in a corner seat. He appeared to be a nonagenarian and wore a pinstriped zoot suit with a floor-length chain and a silver crown with red plastic gemstones. He wore open-toed sandals, and his nails were polished with a glittery shade of blue. His ebony cheeks were enhanced by a touch of fuchsia blusher. A trombone lay at his feet.

  He pointed to Calvin and giggled. Jewels sparkled on one side of his mouth.

  “Hey. Hey, wanderer!” the man shouted. ”Didn’t I just see you on Titan?”

  Calvin pulled his suit jacket closed. The man squinted and leaned in closer.

  “Yeah, it was you. So when you going back? When you coming home?”

  He fought hard to keep his voice from breaking. “Do I know you?”

  “Aww, now! You’re not gonna sit up here with your uptown self and diss H.B., are you?”

  The train stopped at Girard Station. The old man picked up his trombone and stood up to leave.

  “You know me! I’m H.B! And you need to come home!” He stepped off the train as the subway doors opened and disappeared into a sea of faceless bodies.

  He got off the train at Spring Garden and walked to Liberties Restaurant. He ordered a peppermint tea and played with the top of the French press. A few minutes later, Tony walked in. The host recognized him and pumped his hand vigorously. They exchanged a few words before turning in Calvin’s direction. Calvin nodded numbly and rose to his feet.

  “Hi, Calvin!” he smiled. “It’s good to see you.”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  “You look just like your Dad did when he was younger, except for the hair,” he said. He nodded at Calvin’s locs approvingly.

  “Dad hates them.”

  “What does he know? But don’t tell him I said that."

  They sat at a booth and talked over veggie burgers for the next hour. Tony told Calvin about his experiences growing up in West Virginia. Calvin told Tony about his experiences at Andover.

  “The key to overcoming adversity,” Tony explained, dipping a fry into ketchup, “is bouncing back. How you gonna tell a boy from West Virginia about some assholes at boarding school?”

  “But they hated me.”

  “They hated you. Oh, no.” Tony appeared bemused. He swallowed a fry and sipped his Pepsi.

  “They did.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Change your priorities.”

  Calvin put his elbow on the table and rested his head on his hand.

  “You’re smart,” Tony urged. “You’re a vegetarian, right? Help people make better choices."

  Calvin cleared his throat. “I like music. I was thinking about doing something with it, but I don’t know what yet.”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  Calvin straightened up as a server cleared their plates from the table. “Maybe like a program to show people how music can enrich their lives?”

  “Pitch. I’m listening.”

  Calvin’s voice took on a subtle trace of authority as he outlined a plan for an instrument drive for underprivileged children. He spoke of contacting music majors from Temple, Pen
n and LaSalle, and asking them to volunteer their services. He chattered excitedly about gymnasiums and community centers. Tony listened and smiled.

  At dinner, Calvin told his father that the meeting went well.

  “I’m proud of you,” Russell said. “You be sure to follow through and get to his studio this week.”

  The following morning, Calvin took the Orange Line to Village Thrift and purchased three guitars, two tambourines and a few wooden recorders. The cashier packed them up in a cardboard box and thanked him as he left the store.

  When he arrived at Tony’s studio, the woman at the reception booth raised a curious eyebrow at the box of instruments and informed him that interns checked in on the second floor.

  He rode the elevator to the second floor. The space was divided into cubicles, and the fluorescent lighting was harsh. Dusty rubber trees littered the corners. Stale coffee perfumed the air.

  A young woman in a cubicle near the door pointed to a pad of yellow notepaper. “Just sign in your hours here.” She glanced at the box of instruments. “What’s that for?”

  He smiled proudly. “It’s for the youth music program I’m in charge of.”

  “Oh?” She handed him a stack of papers bearing Tony’s logo. “Here's the intern schedule. Take whatever vacant seat you find.” She stared at the box.

  He stepped inside a cubicle, set the box down in the corner and glanced at the stack of papers:

  Call clients to confirm appointments.

  Deliver envelope to the tax accountant.

  Fax notes to affiliate station in Los Angeles.

  Clean the espresso machine.

  Vacuum the carpet.

  He sank into the chair and took one last look at the box of instruments that would remain untouched in the corner forever. He confirmed the client appointments, delivered the tax documents, faxed the notes to the affiliate channel, cleaned the espresso machine, and vacuumed the carpet. Twice. A few weeks passed before he began to hear the voices. Russell and Jana took Calvin back to the doctor. The doctor prescribed an antipsychotic medication.

  PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

  1991

  Bela

  Clutching a Goodwill bag in his hand and humming gallantly, he exited the Broad Street train at South Street and headed towards the dilapidated apartment atop the defunct dry cleaners at 13th. He walked up the steps to the front door, unlocked the four deadbolts and stepped inside, instantly greeted by the dank smell of settled dust and unwashed laundry. He locked the four deadbolts again and set down his backpack, beaming with grandeur as he carried the Goodwill bag to his bedroom. He set it down momentarily and sat on his bed to unlace the red canvas high top sneakers.

  Minutes later, he was in the shower scrubbing with Ivory soap and humming along to the Royal London Opera Company’s recording of Madama Butterfly. He was careful not to nick himself as he shaved. He put on his bathrobe, turned his body sideways and examined his silhouette.

  He opened the Goodwill bag and removed the dark blue brocade smoking jacket that he had purchased. Peeling off the price tag, he slipped it on and studied his reflection. He rolled up the length of the too-long sleeves and brushed undecidedly at the too broad shoulders. He walked over to the overcoat that he had strewn haphazardly on the bed and retrieved his pocket watch.

  The night air lingered with the scent promise as he thrust his hands into the pockets of his faded grey corduroy slacks and walked the five blocks to the Academy of Music. Gaslights set in cast-iron posts flickered along the length of Broad Street and illuminated the silhouettes of evening passersby. Brakes screeched, drivers cursed and horns blared belligerently as the last leg of rush hour traffic snaked its way around City Hall's façade.

  The sound of hoofbeats trotting atop cobblestone approached in the distance. Ester smiled with gratitude as the driver of the stagecoach walked over to the passenger side and offered his hand in assistance.

  Bloodstones and onyx flew into the night as she extended her lace clad hand, stepped carefully from the horse drawn carriage and smoothed down the boning of her dress. The Shire flushed with pride when she stroked its velvet nose.

  Her eyes reflected the gaslight flames and caught ablaze in amber fire. Bela was overwhelmed by the brilliance and blindly felt for the hollow of her waist. The driver tipped the brim of his top hat cordially and raised his reins as the Shire trotted away into the mist.

  Corinthian columns entwined with ivy curls looked onward as Ester and Bela glided in three quarter time beneath the sixteen foot chandelier in the lobby. Poetry and Music flirted at opposite sides of the proscenium, charging the air with lyrics.

  “The Grand Old Lady of Locust Street,” Bela bragged as they took their seats in the balcony. He proudly wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Built in 1857. Feast your eyes on the oldest opera house in the United States.”

  Ester sipped from a glass of champagne and politely ignored the mothball odor that emanated from Bela’s jacket. She adjusted the bridge of her rose gold opera glasses and leaned in for a closer look.

  “Why are you using those?” Bela baited.

  Ester smoothed down the length of her dress, straightened her spine and continued to press the glasses to her face. “I'd like to see the details.”

  “Well, you know that we’re here to listen to the symphony, not to see an opera,” he remarked, swelling with superiority. “It’s gauche to use opera glasses when listening to the symphony,” he said, huffing with self-importance. He regarded Ester pitifully and shook his head with exasperation. “When listening to the symphony,” he overemphasized, “one closes his eyes and allows the vocal and instrumental constituents to meld together into a unified voice. Silly nilly,” he sighed. “Whatever will I do with you? I can’t take you anywhere!”

  Ester lowered the glasses, raised an eyebrow and peered in closer to get a better look at the curiously horrid man seated beside her. Bela clasped his hands over his knee. He sighed deeply, smiled broadly at an elderly couple who took the vacant seats to his left.

  Annoyed eyes with feather lashes narrowed with irritation. The ceiling cherubs looked at Bela and laughed out loud, flying down from the ceiling to rest at Ester's side, play with her hair, and trace the outline of her earlobes with gentle words of assuagement.

  “I bet you don’t even know who painted the ceiling, do you?” he prattled. Ester clasped her hands in her lap and cocked an eyebrow to feign attention. “Karl Herman Schmolze,” he bubbled conceitedly. “Napoleon LeBrun and Gustavus Runge designed the layout of the building, and they commissioned him to paint it, did you know that? Huh? Don’t you read, Ester? Don’t you know anything?” He sighed again and shook his head.

  She felt a polite, yet firm tap at her shoulder and turned in the direction of its source. Two men in their early thirties wearing jeans and leather jackets smiled at her and nodded politely at Bela in acknowledgment.

  “Girlfriend,” the first one began, “I just had to compliment your outfit. Is that a vintage whalebone bodice?” he asked, taking in the double stitching of the lace inserts at the eye hooks. “It’s so beautiful! Are you a fashion major?”

  “Thank you,” Ester’s smile was gracious. “You are so kind.” Bela rolled his eyes, visibly upset that he was being upstaged.

  The second man looked at Bela and smiled respectfully. “You must be very proud to be with this beautiful lady. Is she your girlfriend?”

  Bela inhaled curtly and eyed him up and down, turning his nose up the meticulously polished finish of the man’s expensive Italian loafers. “I’m her probation officer,” he scoffed. The men took the cue to walk away as Bela turned abruptly in his seat, ignored Ester and fixated on the orchestra pit. The musicians took their places behind the instruments as the stage lights lowered.

  A solitary violin wept in the darkness. Two violas joined in sympathy. The bass stood tall and rich. Subtle. Supportive.

  “The Adagio for Strings is one of the most popular classical pieces of all time,” Be
la whispered furiously, intent on not being outdone. “Bet you don’t know what Samuel Barber’s inspiration was, do you?”

  Her eyes grew heavy with the weight of the strings. “Kaspare River," she whispered with a distant voice. Bela recoiled at the stupidity of her response and turned away in his seat to roll his eyes in mockery.

  She closed her eyes. Bows of crisp, fluted reed curved along the bass clef, rousing sleepy-eyed quarter notes from hibernation. Testing the vibrations, she wrapped herself around the gleaming wood of the viola, and sailed along the crescendo waves. She was soaked to the bone by the outpouring of music. Her nostrils reverberated with the sharp-scaled odor of amber resin.

  Ripples of arpeggio cast the viola into a tailspin. She tensed her muscles and clutched her hands tightly around its neck. They bottomed out as the viola picked up speed and distance. It barreled through an expanse of sky and funneled towards a vortex of light.

  Electric blue sparklers surged and crackled, filling the expanse with an acrid, burning scent. The sound of a wire coil sprung back upon itself. The viola chortled through a quark-induced chasm of time and space, its speed reducing into audible, half-life increment pops. The funnel narrowed significantly and the space grew tighter and blacker.

  Charred trees embowering the smoking lining of the funnel sneered derisively at Ester. They snatched at the delicate boning of her bodice and reduced it to tattered shreds. Bela screamed out in fright from the flat note recesses in the distance and lamely shielded his face with his hands. The trees whisked the watch from the folds of his pocket and scratched bloody welts into his cheeks.