The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

  But the love they shared was music and its creation.

  His mouth opened, permitting her entry and succor, her hungry tongue matched only by his own yearning. Her musical hand moved to his boxers, touching his body’s anxious, willing hardness—he was beyond ready, beyond need. Sydney stood as Ethan shifted on the bench, moving closer. Her chest was against his; their lips were inseparable. Her petite size was perfect for his seated height. His fingers slipped between her thighs; her loose underwear allowed his fingers to slide between her sweet folds into the liquid smoothness inside, exciting him to near bursting, her inner secret no longer veiled to imagination and infatuation.

  Ethan closed his eyes.

  He was again coupled with his beloved Mila, but something was wrong—something he couldn’t stop. How could something so beautiful be wrong? His Mila, her forever-deep brown eyes that took him to a place he never wanted to leave. Her gentle, loving fingers that discovered an exquisiteness he never knew existed. Her mesmerizing body that when entwined with his was the embodiment of heaven itself.

  His eyes opened—another vanishing act.

  Sydney pulled down his boxers as he lifted himself off the bench. Her underwear slid to the floor. She raised her leg over his and straddled him, her lightness unimaginable as she sat on top of him. He entered her effortlessly; the feeling was nearly enough to make him ejaculate upon penetrating her. Their mouths remained locked, their tongues, like their hands, searching for more. As his fingers moved, they discovered a lovely newness in her breasts, her chest rising to his touch. She sucked his tongue between her lips. For a moment, they were inseparable, locked together on the edge of eternity.

  “Ah, fuck!” a voice said behind them.

  Greg walked into the living room. He was barely awake but awake enough to see them together and know.

  It was their common room, like the kitchen. It was their rehearsal space.

  “Shit!” Sydney said, leaping off Ethan like a jack-in-the-box. She swept up her underwear and dashed to the couch. Ethan stood up pulling up his boxers.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” she repeated, her words fast and furious.

  “Fuck you guys,” Greg said. “You could at least go to a bedroom.”

  “Shut up!” Sydney shouted, pulling on her underwear and grabbing the gray blanket off the arm of the couch. “Fucking shut up. Don’t say another word!” She wrapped the blanket around herself.

  But it wasn’t Greg’s fault. It was Ethan’s, and he knew it. He’d put the band together and broken the solemn promise he’d made to himself and the band—there could be a female member, but there would be no messing around. It would break the band’s democracy, change the dynamics, and end in disaster, he’d said. Now he was the hypocrite.

  He was disgusted with himself after feeling incredible only moments before.

  Too angry to say anything, he turned and adjusted his boxers. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way, and he’d allowed it to. It had taken an instant, but the Release would now be different. What doesn’t kill you …

  “Christa,” Ethan said, immediately confused as to why that name had come out of his mouth.

  “What!” Sydney cried. “What did you say?”

  “Syd—I said Syd,” he replied, as surprised as Sydney was but for different reasons.

  “No, you didn’t,” she said. “Who the fuck is Christa?”

  Hearing the name Christa said out loud alarmed him. The living room seemed to tilt as his head spun with a rush of different images—his hospital bed, gold hoop earrings, a toe ring. He sat back down on the shaky piano bench.

  “Somebody,” he said, hesitating as his memory pleaded to take him deeper. The presence of the heavy wood door was beside him. He couldn’t recall how the name meant anything.

  “What?” Sydney sneered.

  He couldn’t say any more. A door opened in the hallway. Sydney seemed to sink farther into the couch as Gus, pulling back his long hair, came into the living room.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Just some fuckin’ sex,” Greg said. He grinned, looking at Gus and then at Ethan. “That I interrupted.”

  “Fuck off, Greg,” Ethan said, his anger helping him to think quickly and push away the looming door. He had to confront what had just happened and get it out in the open before it festered and grew into the end.

  In a split second, he decided, intuition telling him to go on.

  “Okay,” he said, “group meeting. Now! Sydney, that means you too.”

  He hated himself as soon as he said it.

  CHAPTER 27

  Tuesday, November 27, 1984

  “I’ve broken my rule, our rule,” he said, his heart shrinking as he looked at Sydney curled up on the couch. There was nothing in her eyes. “Syd and I had a moment a few minutes ago.”

  He couldn’t remember calling her Syd before.

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he said, looking from Sydney to Greg and then to Gus, “but it was my mistake.”

  He was sure Sydney cringed as he spoke.

  “We’re a band—the Release. We’re a fucking good—no, a fucking great band. And now we’re going to find out how great. What just happened between Sydney and me wasn’t right. I’m sorry, Sydney. This band is why we’re here—the only reason why we’re here.”

  Surprising Ethan, Sydney spoke next. She spoke as if she’d prepared for it.

  “I’m sorry, Ethan,” she said, staring first at him and then at the floor. Her voice cracked. There were no tears; Sydney wasn’t one to cry. “I love this band. It’s why I’m here. We—I—had a fucking weak moment. That’s all. I am fucking human. It won’t happen again.”

  Greg was silent and nodded.

  Gus, his black hair now tied back, barely had his eyes open. “Interesting way to wake up.”

  His comment broke the moment. They all laughed. It was a serious laugh.

  “We’ve a lot of work to do,” Ethan said, “and a long night ahead of us.”

  He waited to see if anyone would say anything, but no one did. They all looked at him. He needed to say something.

  “Okay, group hug.”

  They all came together, with Sydney on his right, Greg on his left, and Gus in between.

  “What doesn’t kill us,” he said, trying to think of what to say next. He felt Sydney’s hand on his back. He closed his eyes. “Allows us to live another day.”

  Gus was first to break from the hug. “I gotta take a piss.”

  Greg and Sydney headed to their rooms. They still needed sleep, even a little.

  Ethan knew sleep was over for his day. He headed back to the piano. He had to figure out “The Angel” before they went back to Focus Sound.

  He sat down, but all he could think of was the name Christa. It wouldn’t go away. The name meant something—he was sure of it—but why? He would have understood if he’d blurted out the name Mila, not that her name would have been any less hurtful, but Sydney at least knew that name. But Christa? He couldn’t connect the name to anyone, but he didn’t like how it made him feel either.

  He sat down and looked at the keys on the piano. It was a place he’d gone to for years. In high school, he’d sat at his parents’ old Heintzman upright and played when he needed to clear his head. It seemed to bring order to whatever disorder was disrupting his life. He’d play notes that became melodies, which pleased him and made what didn’t please him go away.

  He put on the headphones and started to play “The Angel,” but the name Christa wouldn’t go away. He tried the notes Sydney had played, hoping they were still there, but only the name kept coming back. After half an hour, he was closer but still not there. He couldn’t get it. He dropped the headphones, stood up, stretched his arms out, and cracked his knuckles. He couldn’t wait any longer. The name and the melody—one was there, and one
wasn’t.

  He took a step from the piano, and it suddenly came to him: Christa was the nurse, his nurse. Randolph had mentioned her in Ottawa. Ethan had never met her after returning, but that was her name. He didn’t like how it made him feel. The heavy door was in his midst, but there was something else, something warm, inviting, and gentle, as if he were being wooed. He shook his head. He didn’t know why he would have said that name, but now he had the answer. He still needed the notes.

  He headed to Sydney’s room. Whether asking Sydney was a mistake or not, he had to get the song figured out—chase it out of hiding. Sydney could do that.

  Approaching Sydney’s door, he could hear her playing “Never Say Never” on her acoustic. He wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep. He knocked. Nothing varied in her guitar playing. He knocked again, a little harder. The music stopped. He heard nothing for a few seconds. Then the guitar started again. He knocked again.

  “Go away!” she said over the music she was playing.

  “No,” Ethan replied. “I’m sorry, but ‘The Angel’ needs your notes.”

  He leaned his head against the door and stared at the white paint on the doorframe. Its many coats had rounded the sharp edges of the frame. The doorknob needed painting. None of the bedroom doors had locks. They had respected each other’s privacy.

  “I don’t have them. They fucked off.”

  “I need your fingers,” he said, but as soon as he said it, he wanted to take it back. In trying to be cool, he was anything but.

  “Really? It didn’t seem that way half an hour ago.”

  “You know what I mean,” he said. “I need the parts you added.”

  Sydney didn’t say anything. He heard a couple of final strums of the guitar. “Give me a sec,” she said finally.

  “I’ll be at the piano,” he said. He walked back to the living room. Their music stuff was strewn everywhere, yet there was comfort in the mess.

  He was playing “The Angel” when Sydney joined him. Gray sweatpants and a black-and-white Lycra top had replaced the nightclothes she’d been wearing before.

  “I liked you calling me Syd,” she said quietly.

  He stopped playing. “Okay.”

  “My mother calls me that most of the time.” She was behind him to his right. She rarely mentioned her family. “So what are you missing?”

  “Your notes,” he said, and he played the two bars leading up to the part he was searching for. “Right here.”

  He stopped and moved his hands back from the keyboard.

  Sydney leaned over and, without hesitating, played the notes she had played before—without touching his hand.

  “So why can’t I get that?” he said, his hands returning to the keys. His right hand brushed against hers. Her warm skin was tempting, like Eve’s forbidden fruit, sweet but prohibited. She moved her hand away.

  “You’ll have to figure that out,” she replied, lingering for a moment longer at his side. Uncomfortable yet wanting, Ethan straightened up from his slouched position over the keyboard. He arched his back, his hands on the keys.

  “I’ll get the Martin,” she said, and she left while Ethan played the exact short phrase she had just shown him. Finally, he had it.

  He played it twice more before starting over.

  Sydney returned with the rented twelve-string.

  “Thanks, Syd,” he said, and for the first time, he saw her as Syd.

  “We have to get this right before we leave,” she said, moving the card-table chair closer to the piano.

  “Tell me about it,” Ethan replied, realizing he was playing without the headphones. He stopped.

  “Keep playing,” Syd said, sitting down.

  “We’ll wake Gus and Greg.”

  “It’s fucking time they got up.”

  Ethan started playing, working his way up to the new part. He came into the first notes only to miss the beat.

  “Shit!” he said, splaying his fingers across the keys. “I thought I had it.”

  “Play it again, Eth,” she said. She chuckled at her joke as Ethan rolled his eyes. “I’ll help you through it. I won’t play.”

  He started again. Syd’s right hand moved to the music as if she were holding a magic wand. She, if anyone, knew the notes weren’t what he was having difficulty with. The song changed time signature, though the change was subtle and easy to miss. Learning it wrong had made it doubly hard to correct. He watched Syd’s hand and used its rhythm to cue him. That time, the awkward part vanished.

  “I got it!” he cried. “I fucking got it! Stay there. Do that thing again with your hand.”

  He played it half a dozen times more. Each time was better. Syd joined him on guitar for the last two.

  “Okay,” Syd said, adjusting the guitar on her lap, “let’s do it from the start and sing this time.”

  Ethan started, each part like an artist adding new color to a painting. He loved the song. The new arrangement and words were much better. Syd came in on cue. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gus come into the room. He kept playing. Syd played the final riff, synchronizing perfectly with the notes he played on the piano.

  “That was great,” Gus said. “It’s a beautiful song.”

  “It is,” Greg added, surprising Ethan from behind. “Let’s hope you can get it fucking right tonight.”

  His words sounded less than genuine.

  CHAPTER 28

  Wednesday, November 28, 1984

  They all arrived at Focus Sound just past two o’clock in the morning.

  The first thing Raj had Ethan do was sing “Never Say Never.” It was a repeat of the night’s performance. Ethan sang easily, adjusting his tone and volume like an actor modulating his lines onstage. Raj was smiling. Ethan didn’t think he could sing it any better. The others clapped when he finished. It was a good place to start the session. He hoped it wouldn’t be a repeat of the previous day’s futile efforts. It was also a good sign that they had moved on from the incident at the house, at least for the time being.

  They spent the next four hours putting together “Don’t Tell Me.” Ethan didn’t think it was their best song, but Raj really liked it. It pushed their musicianship to the limit.

  By seven o’clock, Ethan was repeating his previous pattern again with “The Angel” for the fourth time. Again, he couldn’t bring the piano and vocal together the way he had at the house. Frustration was taking him on a downward spiral he couldn’t seem to stop. Nothing sounded right.

  “Leave it!” Raj shouted over the intercom. “Fucking leave it. Now!”

  “I can’t leave it!” Ethan shouted back.

  “You leave it if I tell you to!” Raj exploded over the speaker. “We’ll come back later. Next song.”

  “I need a fucking break,” Syd said, and she disappeared out the door.

  After waiting a bit, Ethan stood up, an unexpected rage upon him as if he’d taken a punch to the nose.

  “Fuck!” he screamed, clenching his fists in front of his face. Blood rushed to his head, as if his body were trying to squeeze out his anger. He went to the door. How many times was he going to get it wrong? They didn’t have time for that. They had a deadline. He was supposed to be leading the way, not slowing them down. He yanked open the door.

  “I don’t give a fuck!” Syd shouted. Greg was standing in front of her with the hint of a smirk on his face. “You’re such an asshole!”

  Gus was sitting on the worn leather couch in the lobby. His head was back against the wall. He was staring at the ceiling.

  Raj came in from the control booth at the same time as Ethan.

  “Okay!” Raj shouted, splitting the tension in the room wide open. “Enough, enough. Enough! If you want me here, you fix this. I’m taking ten!”

  He turned and left out the street entrance.

  Ethan loo
ked at Greg. Greg’s eyes were red; his pupils were pinpricks. He turned as Syd picked up the black case that held her white ES and her small Pignose amp beside the couch Gus was on. She didn’t say a word, but Ethan knew where she was going. Syd played her frustrations out.

  “Take a tape recorder,” he said. Even in his angered state, he knew she was about to play stuff they would never get to hear.

  “Fuck off!” she snarled, and she backed out the door.

  Ethan headed to the back door. He could only think to walk. He had to get away. A coffee would help too. He was ready to blow up. Outside, he was surprised how warm and sunny it was for late November. Snow easily could have been on the ground at that time of year.

  The walk did him good, as did the coffee. He picked up coffees for everyone from a little place around the corner.

  On his way back, he found Gus in the front seat of the van with his eyes closed. Ethan didn’t disturb him. When he opened the back door to the studio, he found Greg flopped on the couch. He was out. He wondered if Greg had slept at all before their show. Syd wasn’t there. He hadn’t expected her to be.

  “Where’s Sydney?” Raj asked, coming out of the recording booth. He stared at Ethan as a parent might stare down a kid who’d missed curfew.

  “Dunno,” Greg grumbled more to himself than in answer to Raj’s question. He turned into the couch.

  “Give me a few minutes,” Ethan said, putting down the cardboard tray of coffees in his hand. He had a feeling he knew where he’d find Syd and was surprised Raj hadn’t run into her. He went out the front door, which faced St. Clair Avenue. It was almost eight o’clock.

  Across the street, a few doors down, a small crowd was gathered near a place called Nancy’s Restaurant. As he crossed, he could hear the sound of Syd’s playing. She was winding through “You Don’t Know What You’re Saying.” The group seemed captivated by the magic taking place in front of them. Nobody was moving past.