The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

  “Let it go, Son,” his father whispered. “Let her go.”

  Ethan raised his head and sat back on the grass, sitting with his arm across his knee, regaining his whereabouts. He turned and looked at the engraving on Mila’s gravestone:

  Here lies an angel

  with broken wings.

  Her eyes still watch;

  her voice still sings.

  His father’s hand gripped his shoulder.

  “Ethan,” he said, his voice quiet, “can you hear me?”

  Ethan nodded, trying to assure himself he was back. The stone and grass felt real enough. A large nearby maple provided them shade. Shade for the buried and gravestone sentries for the trees, each unknowing of the other’s charge, he thought. It seemed odd that such a thing would come to his mind.

  “You wrote that,” his father said.

  Ethan was facing Mila’s headstone. He smiled. “I like it,” he said, not remembering but finding the verse fitting for his love. “It’s beautiful.”

  His father didn’t reply. His hand remained on Ethan’s shoulder.

  “Were you really invited to the Maple Leafs’ training camp?” Ethan asked, his question coming out of nowhere.

  “What?”

  Ethan was about to ask the question again when they were interrupted.

  “Ethan?”

  Ethan abruptly stood up, bumping into his father.

  In front of them stood a man about his age, dressed in a navy jacket with a white-and-burgundy-striped necktie. His hair was bleached blond, cut short, and spiky on top. A small gold ring hung from his right earlobe. He did not smile.

  Surprised, Ethan responded in the same way he’d been addressed. “Sean?”

  “Yeah,” Sean replied. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

  “Feeling’s mutual, man,” Ethan said, his eyes opening wider as if to better believe who stood before him. “Where did you come from? We didn’t see anyone here.”

  Ethan looked at his father, whose eyes had narrowed in a “What’s this about?” expression.

  “I come out here once in a while,” Sean replied. His jacket was open. His hands were in the pockets of his gray trousers. He nodded at Mila’s gravestone. “So tragic and unnecessary.”

  Ethan turned and looked back at the words engraved in the granite of Mila’s gravestone. He didn’t like that their visit had been interrupted, but he didn’t say so.

  “What are you up to these days?” he asked, forcing himself to sound polite.

  Sean looked down at his polished black dress shoes. His right foot moved as if he were nudging something forward with the toe of his shoe. “Working in a bar on Bank Street, not far from Lansdowne,” he answered. Then, raising his head, he looked at Ethan. “Bogart’s.”

  Ethan nodded but didn’t reply. He didn’t know the place. A long pause followed. His father stepped back.

  “Sorry, Sean,” Ethan said, motioning with his hand. “This is my father, Darren Jones. Dad, this is Sean.”

  The awkwardness Ethan remembered of Sean around Mila was gone. He appeared more relaxed as the two men—young and old—shook hands.

  “Nice to meet you, Sean,” Ethan’s father said in his professional business voice.

  “Good to meet you, Mr. Jones,” Sean replied, his smile revealing braces-straightened white teeth. Ethan couldn’t recall Sean’s perfect teeth. Before, he’d only seen Mila.

  “Do you like it?” Ethan asked as his eyes moved back to Mila’s headstone.

  “I suppose,” Sean answered.

  “Something else’ll come up, I’m sure,” Ethan said, trying to sound upbeat.

  “Come again?” Sean asked, his voice changing pitch, causing Ethan to turn and look at him.

  “I’m sure you’ll find something else,” Ethan added to clarify what he’d just said.

  Sean squinted, a half smile redisplaying his white teeth. “I thought you were talking about the headstone.” Sean laughed, breaking the solemn tone that had settled around the three men.

  Ethan smiled, realizing that what he’d said had been disconnected. His father shook his head.

  “Do you like bartending? That’s what I meant,” Ethan said, correcting himself.

  “It’s okay. Keeps my mind off things.”

  Sean didn’t say any more, which gave Ethan time to reflect on when he’d last seen Sean. The police had been involved. Sean had been questioned about Mila’s murder.

  “Sean,” Ethan said, breaking their silence, “I don’t even know your last name.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Friday, May 25, 1984

  “Wayland,” Ethan said as he pulled open the passenger door of the Honda. “It’s amazing I didn’t know that.”

  The three of them had left the gravesite together. Ethan wanted to stay longer but now feared being alone at the grave. Sean must have seen he’d thrown up on the grass, but he didn’t say anything.

  On the walk back to his father’s car, Ethan saw a new silver Mustang a distance away. Bartending must pay pretty well, he thought. Sean must have come in another way.

  “I don’t remember meeting Sean before,” his father said as he turned the car around in the long driveway. “I don’t recall seeing him at the hospital.”

  Ethan fastened his seat belt and stared at the gravel drive ahead.

  “Sean was with Mila when we first met,” Ethan said, thinking about how different Sean looked from how he remembered him on that first night in Charly’s: days-worn jeans, sweatshirt, and worn-out sneakers. He’d never pictured Sean dressed up. “Outside of a couple of brief encounters, I never saw him much.”

  The Accord moved slowly along the cemetery road, jostling them in their seats. It was a route not traveled often, and for those buried, it was their last, Ethan thought bitterly.

  “Were they a couple?” his father asked as they approached the road.

  Ethan heard his father’s question, but he was remembering Mila. He thought of her long brown hair pulled back into a quick ponytail. She would work her hair into a colored band and then position the ponytail at different angles about her head. Any angle seemed to suit her. He only had to look into her brown eyes, and any thought in his head would disappear like water down a drain. Mila had held a power over him like no other—and she still did. He could do nothing but acquiesce to her wishes, yet she loved to please him. He never tired of her company. Tight jeans showed off her lean legs, which never lacked for energy or his attention. Even now, it was as if he could reach out and touch her. Her energy was almost tangible. It seemed impossible that he would never feel her again.

  He saw Sean standing at her side, holding a half-full glass of beer.

  His father’s question—“Were they a couple?”—beckoned.

  “I don’t think so,” Ethan said after his long pause. “Mila said they were just friends, but I did wonder whether Sean saw it the same way. Seeing him here today, I think he probably didn’t. It made no difference to me.” Ethan looked over at his father. “You know us guys—we never admit more than the girl. If she says we’re friends, we’re friends. It’s all part of the game, no matter how much it hurts.”

  His father nodded.

  They were now on the road, facing the four-hour drive back to Toronto. It would be a long ride.

  The car was confining and uncomfortable despite the leather seats and air-conditioning. Sitting in one place without the ability to move around was nearly impossible. He’d been freer in the hospital. After the first hour, he wanted to stop—he needed to. They pulled into the dirt parking lot of a small roadside restaurant. Ethan opened his door before the car had stopped.

  “You okay?” his father asked.

  “Not really,” Ethan replied, standing on the red-and-white patio stones that lined the front of the restaurant. “That was a long time to sit.”r />
  His father nodded as Ethan stood at the front of the car.

  “It’ll take time, Ethan,” his father said, nodding. “We went too long. Old habits, you know. Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Ethan turned before his father could say more.

  The place wasn’t much to look at from the outside, but Griffin’s Stop had enough food, drink, and conveniences to satisfy most travelers. They entered through an aluminum screen door. A small bell at the top of the door announced their arrival but seemed redundant to the screech the door made when Ethan pulled it open. Like the horrid sound of fingernails across a blackboard, the noise did nothing to ease Ethan’s already anxious nerves. He’d managed to keep a lid on his disquiet inside the car, but the urge to lash out was edging closer.

  He remembered Dr. Katharine’s warning about claustrophobia.

  “The feeling of anxiousness will come unexpectedly. Maybe in an elevator, maybe a car,” she’d told him. “Focus on breathing. In and out. Slowly from your diaphragm.” She’d demonstrated how in her office.

  This was a new sensation for Ethan and not a comfortable one. Controlled breathing helped, if he could only remember.

  Inside, his father headed to the restrooms. Ethan wasn’t really hungry but bought two cans of Coke and two bags of Fritos corn chips from the young Asian girl behind the counter. An older gray-haired couple sat at one of the tables covered in red-and-white-checkerboard tablecloths, but otherwise, the place was empty. The glum-faced teen raised her eyes only once to Ethan, when she handed back his change. Her only words were “Thank you.” Ethan walked back to the small front foyer to wait for his father. His nerves had calmed.

  In the tiny alcove between the entrance and the restaurant was a magazine rack Ethan had glanced at upon entering. He’d forgotten his excitement when standing in front of a display of new magazines. The assortment was small by convenience store standards but big enough to kindle his interest and anticipation. As was commonplace, the metal rack had the adult magazines at the top. Before looking, he glanced back at the counter in time to see the girl avert her eyes. He was being watched. He was about to move on when he saw the glossy cover of Guitar Gear. He didn’t hesitate and pulled the magazine from the rack. The guitar on the cover was a black Rickenbacker 4001 standing upright. It was that month’s featured guitar. Ethan was in love. He’d forgotten how much music mattered. He returned to the cashier and bought the magazine.

  “Whatchya got there?” his father asked after exiting the washroom, pointing at the brown paper bag in Ethan’s hand.

  “A magazine,” Ethan answered, stating what he thought was obvious. “I bought Cokes and Fritos too.”

  “Thanks,” his father said as Ethan pushed open the screeching screen door. “I’m gonna grab a newspaper. You wanna drive?”

  Ethan stopped. He hadn’t given driving another thought since his father had first asked. He was about to reply with the same answer, anxious to read about the new Rickenbacker, but changed his mind. Maybe he should try. It might make the car feel less confining.

  “Sure, why not?” he said, thinking his father might renege on his offer. Offering to let Ethan drive was remarkable, but allowing him to drive his new car was astounding, considering his father’s usual possessiveness.

  “I’ll only be a minute.”

  As he settled behind the leather-wrapped steering wheel, Ethan went from an initial sense of apprehension to feeling renewed. It had been the previous September, coming to Ottawa, when he’d last driven a car. It seemed an eternity ago. He placed the Coke cans in the cup holders. This was the first car he’d been in that had them. They were convenient. He dropped the chips on the small shelf between the seats. He relaxed, surprised at how much he liked the luxurious comfort of the car.

  While he waited for his father, he flipped through the pages of his new magazine until he found the Rickenbacker. It had been the bass of his dreams since he’d played one back when his band rented equipment at Coll’s Music in high school. The red sunburst paint job of that guitar did nothing for him, but he loved the shape and sound of the guitar. He had a new obsession.

  His father came back with his paper.

  “She’s all yours, Son,” he said, seeming as eager to dive into the paper as Ethan was his magazine. Ethan set his magazine on the tray in the center of the dashboard.

  He used the electric controls to adjust his seat and moved the side mirror into place with the small inside lever. As he glanced in the rearview mirror, he caught sight of the cashier leaving the restaurant, heading to a rusty Datsun behind them. Something about her intrigued him as he started the Accord. Could he have met her somewhere before? Or was he feeling something else, something more nefarious? Was he sensing something his sister, Carlyn, might have called her aura?

  “Are you about ready?” his father asked, prompting Ethan out of his reverie. His father had been folding his paper and seemed to be paying little attention to his son’s activities. Ethan figured he should have known better than to think his father wouldn’t be watching; after all, this was his father’s new car.

  He did seem to be procrastinating his moment of truth, which seemed strange, as he loved to drive. At sixteen, he couldn’t wait to get his license. But the excitement of driving had been replaced with a beginner’s indecision.

  “Yeah,” he said finally.

  He shifted into reverse and eased his foot off the brake. They eased backward. He stopped and shifted to drive. Now more confident, he stepped on the accelerator. The car responded instantly, lurching forward, sending them both back against their seats and sending his magazine to the floor. On reflex, his right foot overcompensated and came down hard on the brake pedal, jarring them both forward. Their seat belts locked, which saved them from smashing their heads into the steering wheel and dashboard. Flustered, Ethan reached for his magazine, threw it into the back seat, and then grabbed the steering wheel with both hands.

  He could feel his father’s stare. He didn’t dare turn his head.

  “Relax,” his father said in the professional, patronizing tone Ethan knew and hated. “Just take it slow.”

  Ethan pursed his lips tightly. He was mad at himself and his incompetence and was sure his father thought the same. He hated making the foolish mistakes a pimply faced teenager would have made when getting behind the wheel of the family station wagon for the first time. Maybe he wasn’t ready, but he wasn’t about to admit it.

  Easing into the highway traffic, Ethan was in awe of how different the Honda was to drive compared to his father’s last car. When he so much as nudged the steering wheel, the car reacted. In his father’s Chevy Caprice, the steering wheel could float an inch or more before there was any movement in the front end. The engine sounded different too. The roar of the Chevy’s V8 was replaced by a sound akin to an industrial sewing machine. There was no less zip from pressing the accelerator, but the response was instantaneous. There was a feeling of intent with the new car. Ethan liked it.

  As he settled in behind the wheel, a Dodge pickup came up behind them. They were no longer the last car in the train. Ethan noticed little after that. He slowed and accelerated in sync with the car ahead. The Honda drove like a dream, following the curves in the road as if on rails, begging him to go faster.

  They’d been on the road for about half an hour when his right hand dropped to his thigh and his left slid to the bottom of the steering wheel. He rested his elbow on the driver’s-door armrest. It was wonderful to be driving again on such a nice day. For the first time, the fears he had of leaving the hospital and reentering the real world were second to the joy of his freedom. The confines of the hospital faded as the outside world took over. A smile shaped his lips. The sunshine made everything a little better.

  “Okay if I turn on the radio?” he asked, his hand already in motion. He hadn’t listened to any music in a long time.
It wasn’t encouraged in the hospital.

  “Sure,” his father answered without raising his head from his newspaper.

  He didn’t know the song that was playing, but what followed carried a longing he’d thought forgotten. Bob Dylan was singing “Like a Rolling Stone.” It was as if the song spoke only to him.

  After Dylan finished, the disc jockey came on. Ethan didn’t want to hear any more. Something in the song had affected him. He couldn’t help but think about his band in high school. He turned off the radio. As his hand came back from the radio, he touched a piece of paper stuck between his seat and the center console.

  He pulled it out. Doing his best to keep watching the road, he looked at the piece of paper. It appeared to have been torn from a coil-ringed notepad. He turned the paper over to find a neat handwritten note:

  I’m older than I look. If you have a band and need a guitar player, call me. Sydney.

  He saw a phone number just before the shocking blast of a car horn blared by.

  The Accord was riding the double yellow line down the center of the highway.

  CHAPTER 8

  Friday, May 25, 1984

  The steering wheel turned in his hand. Though the reaction time of a twenty-year-old was quick, it wouldn’t have been quick enough to save them from colliding head-on with the passing car. Unbeknownst to Ethan, his father had reached across the center console, put his hand on the wheel, and steered them back into the right lane and out of harm’s way. Ethan thought he was lucky to get off with only the blast of an angry motorist’s horn.

  He saw the dust cloud from the other car’s ride on the gravel shoulder in his side mirror. With both hands tight on the steering wheel, he slowed. The distance between him and the car traveling ahead of them lengthened. He started to shake, envisioning the accident they’d narrowly missed.

  He directed the car toward the shoulder, wanting out.

  “No,” his father said, his tone sharp, as the passenger-side tires popped and crackled in the gravel of the shoulder. “Keep going.”