The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

  “We won’t be terrible,” Ethan said, “but we will be loud.”

  Before their mother could say anything, he went on to explain what he’d told his father in the car about a potential manager coming to see them.

  Ethan could see Carlyn had already decided she was going, underage or not. Their mother then said she’d like to go too. It was hard to tell whether Carlyn liked the idea or not. Ethan was certain he saw a subtle frown cross his sister’s face.

  He’d not intended to stay overnight, but his father was driving in to his office in the morning—he often worked on Saturdays—and offered to drop him at a bus stop closer to home. It beat going back to an empty house that night.

  Ethan hadn’t slept in his old room in months. It brought back memories of a time when his world was smaller and less complicated—a time when all he had to worry about was what book to read next or what album to listen to. But he couldn’t go back; time was like that and only permitted memories backward. His mother kept his room much tidier than he remembered it. He looked at the few books she’d set neatly together on the bookshelf his father had mounted on the wall beside his bed. Serpico, one of the first books he’d ever read, sat beside Atlas Shrugged, one of his favorite books. His small collection of Hardy Boys and half a dozen Zane Grey paperbacks sat beside them. He’d read all of them growing up.

  He sat down on the corner of the new green duvet that covered his old bed. The bed was in the same place it had always been: along the wall opposite the door. The brown wallpaper, an imitation wood-paneling pattern, still covered the walls. He looked at the spot on the wall beside his bed he used to pick at when he couldn’t sleep at night. It had been glued flat but was still visible. He stared at the wallpaper, but his memory seemed to be after something else.

  He turned to the wood desk where he’d done much of his homework in high school. Many a late night, he’d sat there poring over calculus and physics, readying for a world that now seemed nothing more than a magician’s illusion.

  The desk was old. His mother had rolled her eyes when his father had brought the piece of junk, as she called it, home from an auction sale. But his father had refurbished it to uncover a beautiful cherry desk with a classic lift-top center section and drawers on both sides. It had found a home in Ethan’s room. He’d used it for more than homework; its hidden compartments had been ideal to stash cigarettes, adult magazines, and the occasional mickey bottle, now all but memories.

  Several of his record albums were neatly piled on the desktop. David Bowie’s Young Americans, one of his first albums, sat on top. Glenn Campbell’s A Satisfied Mind, a birthday gift, was underneath it, followed by Alice Cooper’s School’s Out, Kiss’s Destroyer, and Stevie Wonder’s Talking Book. He had listened to each one endlessly. They had made him feel invincible, as if anything were possible.

  He picked up and stared at the back cover of Young Americans, remembering the song “Fame.” It was a good song. He smiled, imagining the treatment Syd might give it. He put the album back on the pile and searched for a pen and paper. He’d forget to bring the idea to the band if he didn’t write it down. He pulled open the right-side desk drawer and found a pencil among a bunch of other things—a sparkly lime-green Hot Wheels car, several different-colored blocks of Lego, a miniature deck of cards—but no paper. He turned and looked back at the books on the shelf, reminded of Browning Station, half expecting to see the title on one of the spines. He had probably looked a hundred times for the book in the desk but couldn’t help looking once again. He pulled open the drawer on the left side and found the paper he was looking for. He pulled out a sheet of the lined binder paper and jotted down, “David Bowie—Fame.” He was about to shut the drawer when he saw the crumpled paper.

  He knew what it was before he grabbed it. Christa’s note! Elation lit up his heart.

  To Ethan:

  I’m not supposed to talk to you.

  He didn’t need to read it. He headed to his parents’ phone.

  Everyone else was in bed, which made him hesitate. It was past midnight, maybe too late, but he couldn’t wait.

  He dialed the number and wondered if she’d answer.

  After five rings, already disappointed, he hoped for an answering machine.

  “Hello?” answered a croaky voice he knew right away.

  His heart swelled with its sweetness.

  “H-hello?” he stammered, irritated by the sound of his voice cracking. He coughed, but it didn’t help. “Hello.”

  “Hi,” Christa replied in little more than a whisper.

  “Hi,” Ethan repeated, instantly at a loss for what to say. “Sorry to call so late. It’s Ethan.”

  “I know,” she said, her tone flat. “You found my number?”

  “You won’t believe what happened,” Ethan said, holding the crinkled paper in front of him. “I just got lucky.”

  “I can’t do this, Ethan.”

  He felt his heart pound upon hearing her words. What he couldn’t believe in the first place was quickly turning into what wasn’t going to happen anyway.

  “Please don’t hang up,” he pleaded.

  Silence was all he heard.

  “Christa?” he asked, praying she’d hold on and answer. He could feel the heavy door. “Please say something.”

  “Why?”

  In a fraction of a second, his mind scanned a thousand answers, none of which seemed right. “Because …”

  There was a lot that could follow the word, yet nothing did. A dead inertness enveloped him.

  “After all I’d said, Ethan,” she whispered, speaking a little louder. Emotion rattled her voice. Still, he loved the sound. “And you couldn’t even show up.”

  “But I did!” Ethan cried into the receiver, tightening his hold on the mouthpiece as if it had the power to bring her closer. “You were gone.”

  A longer pause followed. He tried to hear her breathing but couldn’t. The heavy door was in his midst.

  “I stayed for half an hour,” Christa said, the pain in her voice almost more than he could bear. It seemed to reach inside his chest and squeeze his heart, threatening to stop its beating.

  “Oh, Christa,” he said, “I was there. I promise you. Things got really messed up.”

  He stopped. This conversation wasn’t about what had happened. It was about what he wanted to happen.

  “Can I see you again?” he asked. He heard something rustle in the background. Christa was saying something, but he couldn’t make out what it was.

  “Ethan, I can’t do this,” she repeated.

  “Wait. Just—” He couldn’t think of what to say and then blurted out, “Come see us Tuesday at Tormo.”

  He waited to hear the click. It didn’t come. There was a chance she’d agree. A slim chance, but he was hopeful.

  “Ethan, I have to go.”

  She hung up. Ethan held the phone to his ear as if the sheer willpower of doing so would bring her back.

  Something felt different. The feeling of the heavy door was gone.

  She hadn’t said goodbye.

  CHAPTER 39

  Tuesday, December 4, 1984

  They were upstairs at Tormo. Their last rehearsals had left them feeling relaxed, and as a result, they were tighter than ever. They’d all returned to the house on Saturday afternoon. They’d rehearsed that night, hitting their cues and playing together as if everything were new again. The songs, perfected from the studio, seemed more alive each time they played them. Ethan didn’t get hung up on “The Angel.” Things felt good. They were a family again. If only the music didn’t have to stop. That night at Tormo would be a good night.

  “What time will he be here?” Greg asked, again adjusting the tension rods on his snare.

  “Didn’t say,” Ethan replied, “but likely early, before the club gets too full.”

  “Yeah, ri
ght. Ya think he’ll even fuckin’ show?”

  Ethan let Greg’s comment slide. Maybe he could keep peace a little longer. Their heads had to be in the game when Jonah arrived. They needed everything to come together, with both luck and hope working in their favor. They all had to be fully present, playing their best both singly and as a band. Performing in front of Jonah Vetch was a chance they’d only get one shot at.

  Ethan was anxious and knew it. Jonah Vetch was the person they thought could and would change their lives and possibly the break they needed to bigger and better things. Yet his call with Jonah had left him uneasy. Was Jonah really who they thought he was? But Jonah and performing well weren’t the only things on his mind.

  Over the last day, he’d been having trouble focusing. It wasn’t that he wasn’t excited for the Release; he was. But thoughts of Christa wouldn’t go away. She was there when he closed his eyes to sing. Now, minutes before he was to put on the performance of his life, he was all wrapped up in the hope that she would, by some miracle, show up. There was much between them he didn’t know. It was strange to feel deep love for someone without the memory to understand why he felt that way.

  Hearing Greg’s snare drum’s succinct pop from the strike of his drumstick brought him back. Not unlike Gus or Syd tuning their guitars, Greg had a tone and resonance he strived to achieve. As with tuning a stringed instrument, during which one string vibrated its sound while the next was stretched or loosened until it matched, a process repeated until all strings were in tune and ready for magic, Greg would adjust the tension on his snare until the pop was just right. Math and physics explained the science of how it worked, but hearing and feeling the vibrations brought the musical experience. The experience defied explanation; it spoke to the soul. Greg was ready.

  Ethan looked at Syd. He thought of Carlyn and his parents. Carlyn was coming for sure, but would his parents come? Maybe his mother would come with Carlyn; neither had seen him perform in years. He doubted his father would show. Would Christa show? Would they distract him? Syd would keep him in line.

  They started the set at eight o’clock. As with previous shows, only a few were in the audience; none were their guests. Ethan kept reminding himself it was Tuesday, not a big night. They finished their first song, a cover of the Beatles’ “I Feel Fine,” to a less-than-raucous response. They broke into their own “Don’t Tell Me,” which was now one of their favorites to perform.

  Ethan noticed a middle-aged man in a wrinkled white dress shirt alone at the bar and wondered if it might be Jonah. He closed his eyes. The music carried him off.

  Torches appeared to light his way in a forest cloaked in a heavy fog. He could only see a few feet ahead, but as he left one, another torch appeared to direct him. He kept walking. Time did not matter, nor did progress. Concerned he might be lost, he quickened his pace, though he did not know the way. The faster he walked, the less sure he was. He thought to turn back yet felt compelled to go on, closing on wherever he was destined to arrive. Whispers to turn back grew in his head, as did his anxiety, further speeding his step. He came to two torches showing separate paths. Not knowing which way to turn, he went right.

  “This is not the way.”

  He turned, shocked that someone could be talking just behind him yet be unseen.

  “Come this way,” said the sweet voice that comforted him. “This is the way; this is your hope and your truth.”

  Then he saw her standing there, just visible on the edge of the mist in front of him. Mila was directing him.

  A rod appeared in his hand. He was trying to speak. No, he was speaking—and then singing.

  “Don’t tell me.”

  He opened his eyes. People were standing and clapping, staring at him. A couple dozen people were standing up in front of him.

  There was no mistaking her. Standing near the end of the bar, where he’d seen the man in the wrinkled shirt, was Christa; she was clapping.

  Excitement was on him in a sudden burst of joy. He could barely breathe.

  He turned his head and nodded to Syd. She shrugged. They’d only started, but he wasn’t about to let Christa get away again. He turned back to his mike and said, “We’ll be back in a minute.”

  His eyes locked on her as she moved away from the bar. She knew he’d seen her. He didn’t wait. From the small stage, he crossed the floor. Most had returned to their seats. People were watching him. If Tormo had been more crowded, he wouldn’t have gotten there soon enough. Christa had left the room and was headed downstairs to the front entrance. Why was she leaving? By the time he reached the front and the top of the all-but-barren stairwell, the entrance door below was closing. He jumped down the steps two at a time, faster than his hands could grab the steel handrail. At the bottom, he jumped onto the black floor mat in front of the opaque glass entrance. Momentum took him to the door, which swung open, and he nearly collided with the couple coming in.

  “Sorry,” he said, his eyes searching for Christa.

  “Slow down there, buddy,” he heard the guy say behind him. Ethan ignored him. Christa was halfway down the sidewalk that fronted the plaza.

  He ran. There was no way he was letting her get away.

  It broke his heart to watch her run, her chestnut-brown hair streaming behind her. In the club, she’d stood out like a starlet in the dim desolation of the barroom. Now, seeing her in tight designer jeans and a waist-cut brown-leather jacket, he just wanted to stop and watch her slender form run. He was certain she knew he would chase her.

  “Christa!” he shouted forty feet behind her.

  She didn’t turn or do anything to indicate she’d heard him. It was impossible she hadn’t heard him.

  He caught up with her near the end of the strip plaza.

  “Christa, please,” he said, out of breath from his sprint.

  He ran in front of her and stopped. She didn’t try to maneuver around him.

  “Christa,” he said.

  Unable to say anything else, he leaned forward, put his hands on his knees, and, for a second, caught his breath. He then stood up and, without saying a word, brought his hands up to the sides of her face and kissed her. If a man could melt into the lips of the woman he loved, Ethan did. It was as if he’d kissed her a thousand times before, his lips finding their natural place against hers. Though new and electric, the kiss was like discovering something that had always been and was supposed to be. He didn’t want to let her go.

  When their lips parted, the first few moments seemed an eternity where time was not measured by human clocks. It was as if he’d left the world, had returned, and was unsure where he was. His eyes locked on hers.

  “Ethan?” Christa asked, seeming to look as hard into his eyes as he was into hers.

  “Yes,” he replied, forcing himself to concentrate on what she said.

  “Are you—” She stopped, as if rethinking what she wanted to say. “Do you know where we are?”

  Ethan heard her but didn’t want to break the moment by speaking; he wished for eternity.

  “Yes,” he answered, knowing he had to reassure her. “I’m with the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  He didn’t think it was the answer she wanted, but he wasn’t about to jeopardize the good fortune of being with her. He held her hand. She was a stranger yet seemingly much more than a friend.

  “Ethan,” she said, her body already less resistant.

  He could see she was trying to make a point. “Yes,” he said, feigning impatience for this woman he barely knew.

  “Where are we?” she asked with increasing earnestness in her voice. Her face was beautiful to look at—soft and understanding, like how he’d imagined an angel’s. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t soften either. It was as if he were holding on to his own life.

  “Why are you asking me that?” he asked, turning serious.

  “Becaus
e I have to know,” she said.

  He squeezed her hand as if to confirm he wasn’t dreaming. “We’re in Markham,” he answered, hoping to understand why she was asking. “The Release just played a couple of songs at Tormo. I’m standing with you on the sidewalk out front.”

  Christa kept staring into his eyes.

  “Christa,” he said, trying his best to find the right words, “why are you looking at me like you’re trying to find something?”

  Christa blinked and stepped back.

  He wanted to kiss her again.

  “Because I have to know,” she said, her eyes not wavering from his.

  “Have to know what?”

  “That you’re really here,” she replied, frowning, her eyes fixed on his.

  Ethan looked away. “Where else would I be?” he asked.

  “Los Angeles maybe?” she said matter-of-factly as he looked back at her. “Hollywood?”

  “Hollywood?” Ethan asked. “What do you …”

  His voice faded. Something felt different. He didn’t know why, but something was there. He could feel the heavy door and padlock looming again.

  “I can’t answer that right now,” she said.

  Ethan had moved back unknowingly. His eyes never left hers.

  “But I will,” she said.

  “Will?” Ethan asked. Now he was asking the questions.

  “Yes,” Christa replied, her hands stretched open in front of her. “I don’t know how to explain it yet. I didn’t think this would ever happen. I’m still not sure it is happening. You have to believe me.”

  Their kiss was fading like a sunset. Ethan couldn’t bear it. He didn’t think. He stepped forward and kissed her again. She kissed him back.

  “I love you, Ethan,” she said, pulling away, her eyes pouring into his. “Please trust me on that. I know things. But slow down. This is so hard.”

  Ethan’s head was spinning. He didn’t know what to think, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the woman standing in front of him. He loved her but didn’t know why. The feeling was like connecting with his soul.