The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

  He put on the only pair of jeans he’d brought, along with his Carleton sweatshirt, and then packed the rest of his stuff in his hockey bag. He pulled the covers on his bed up to the pillow and looked around the room for anything else he’d brought. He wasn’t coming back.

  He heard a knock on his bedroom door. He didn’t say anything.

  “It’s me,” Carlyn said, her voice trembling.

  He turned the knob and opened the door. Carlyn was leaning against the doorframe. The expression on her face broke his heart.

  “Ethan, you can’t leave,” she said, her cheeks wet and shiny with tears. “I can’t bear being alone for Christmas.”

  “Call up one of your friends,” he said. He wasn’t staying. He couldn’t.

  “We’re supposed to be a family, Ethan,” she said. More tears rolled down her already flushed cheeks.

  “I know,” he answered, rage and sadness mixing into an empty sense of unfeeling. He wanted to care, but caring was breaking him in two. He thought of Christa. He needed her. “But it can’t happen right now. There’s too much hurt going on. Love has its ugly side too.”

  He gave his sister a hug. “We’ve been given a second chance that we simply can’t accept for some fucked-up reason,” he said.

  Carlyn didn’t say anything; her earlier energy was spent. He grabbed his ski coat slung over the back of the desk chair, put it on, and picked up his hockey bag.

  “Something has to change, Carlyn. Go set up your stereo, and listen to something.”

  He then remembered the cassette in his bag of what the Release had recorded. It was the only one he had. He unzipped the bag and rummaged around until he found it. Carlyn needed it more than he did.

  “It’s the only one I have, so don’t lose it.” He handed her the tape.

  She smiled. Her cheeks glistened. “This is you, isn’t it?” she asked, her eyes widening.

  “You betcha,” he said, rezipping his bag. “I gotta go.”

  Carlyn moved back to let him pass. He stopped and put his forehead against hers.

  “Play it fuckin’ loud,” he whispered.

  He headed upstairs to the front door. His mother was still in her chair. She was sitting forward as if she might get up. He hoped she wouldn’t. If it hadn’t been for his shoes at the front door, he would have gone out the back. As he slipped on his Converse sneakers, he glanced in the living room. His mother had leaned back, sitting like the matriarch she had become.

  He pulled open the front door.

  “Not even going to say goodbye?” she said. She was still trying to make her point, whatever it was. He wondered where the person who’d come to visit him in the hospital had gone.

  “Goodbye,” he said loudly enough for the only person in the living room to hear.

  He closed the door behind him and walked down the front walkway. His father was coming out of the garage. He’d removed the red ribbon and bow from the hood of the new blue Civic.

  “Ethan—”

  “I can’t, Dad. I’m going. Don’t even try.”

  “I’m driving this back to the dealership,” he said, as if it were just another day and the car needed an oil change. “Drop you at Finch?”

  Ethan nodded and climbed in.

  Christmas Day 1984 was over.

  PART 4

  CON SENTIMENTO

  I like it when somebody gets excited about something. It’s nice.

  —J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

  All our discontents for what we want appear to me to spring from want of thankfulness for what we have.

  —Daniel Dafoe, Robinson Crusoe

  Where the sky begins, the horizon ends.

  —Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers,

  “All the Wrong Reasons”

  CHAPTER 53

  Wednesday, December 26, 1984, 2:05 p.m.

  Do you know Frederick Craig?

  It was July 1, 2025, when those words flashed across his Wristec, technology that five years ago had replaced his wristwatch. The note was from Francis, his young wife, in London. It was a strange transmission, as her messages usually started with Hi or Hon.

  He paused for a moment and then thought-messaged back.

  No, never heard of him.

  He took a step forward, squeezing the grip of his black sixth-generation Glock 17. He could feel the weight of its power in his hand.

  You have now.

  He took another step forward.

  “End it,” Command One advised.

  Abram was sure One knew what he was thinking before he did. Abram blinked his left eye to indicate a negative to the advice he’d been given.

  What’s up, hon? Abram messaged back.

  He took another step forward. All signals were green in his contacts behind his standard-issue protective eyewear.

  Sweetie, I’m fucking with you was the reply.

  Abram couldn’t remember Francis ever swearing over Messagenet. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time Francis had used a swear word at all.

  Fuck! his brain screamed.

  “Shut it down, Lieutenant,” demanded Command One.

  Abram’s mind was in full gear. According to his military tests prior to enlistment, his mind worked at twice the speed of the average human’s.

  Abram blinked his left eye again. Negative. He took another step forward. All green.

  Joke? I get it—ha-ha, he thought-messaged back.

  How the hell could they have her? he thought. How many levels of protection was she under—four?

  Ha-ha yourself—’cause I fucked her already.

  Abram could picture Francis, the love of his life, facedown on a bed, both wrists handcuffed to the posts of a wrought-iron headboard and both ankles handcuffed the same way to the matching footboard. They’d left her bra on, but that was all.

  “Don’t take another step, Lieutenant,” Command One said, “until your Wristec is down.”

  “Fuck you, One,” Abram whispered under his breath.

  They were in the breach. Abram was a capable tactician, but as talented as he was, he still couldn’t be in two places at the same time. He’d intended to turn his Wristec off prior to the operation. It was part of how he worked—standard operating procedure. But he also believed things happened for a reason—always. This time, he’d left it on. His wife would have been dead now if he hadn’t. She was still alive, because he was talking to her Wristec.

  He motioned forward with his left foot as a light in his left contact went red.

  “Fall back,” Abram demanded. There were two other officers in the adjacent hallway. He watched them on the screens in his goggles. They stopped and then stepped back.

  He’d barely spoken the command before the door they were approaching disappeared.

  “Fuck!” Command One screamed into Abram’s commpiece.

  They knew. He didn’t know how, but they knew. The compression of the blast would have blown out his eardrums if he’d not stepped back. As it was, he could feel fluid oozing from his left ear; the eardrum was no doubt perforated. The pain was staggering.

  “What’s your problem?” he hissed into his commpiece. “You’re behind a fucking console.”

  His helmet cameras showed both soldiers down. He bent his head forward and saw his men. They lay on the ground, their severed legs stretched in front of them; they looked like puppet pieces in Geppetto’s workshop. They were in shock but alive.

  The sound that came next was beyond anything recognizable as human. After a hissing like the sizzle of a steak on a hot grill and the bursting crack of tree trunks exploding came the insane shrieks of soldiers having their thighs pulled apart while still conscious. Abram’s eyes were seized by the instant catastrophe. Boiling crimson liquid—human blood—burned into the walls. Chunks of flesh appeared to devour thems
elves on the floor below the waists of his bonded brothers. The training films that were to prepare them for these annihilating attacks were of little use to what took hold of his mind as he watched his fighting brothers-in-arms—the two he’d just had smokes with—dissolve in front of him.

  You have no idea. The message flashed across his Wristec and subsequently through his mind. Who you’ve fucked with.

  Abram glanced in the now open doorway. He’d led his men right to the enemy.

  “Take the shot,” demanded Command One.

  You don’t want to do that, Mr. Banks, said the message from his Wristec.

  He thought-texted back, No? And why not?

  “Take the shot!” shouted One. Command One could see exactly where Abrams had his Glock pointed.

  Because the saw—

  “Take the fuckin’ shot!” One yelled into Abram’s commpiece.

  Is going to cut your wife in half!

  Something else cut into Abram’s communication.

  That will be fine, young man.

  “I can’t fuckin’ take it!” Abram said into the commpiece. “We have to get them out! I’m not fucking leaving without them.” As he spoke, his finger squeezed the trigger of his Glock. The gun bucked in his hand as he gripped it tighter.

  Beautiful man!

  “They have Francis.”

  CHAPTER 54

  Wednesday, December 26, 1984, 2:12 p.m.

  “Ethan Jones.”

  “Francis?”

  “That’ll be fine,” said a graying man in front of him.

  Ethan recognized his name. Wherever he’d been was gone; he found himself standing in front of a man and woman now. He recognized them.

  “We didn’t expect you to have the lines memorized,” said the woman in a blue turtleneck sweater, “but that’s okay.”

  Ethan sat down on the black folding chair beside him. He felt a little light-headed. He remembered his father dropping him off at a bus stop near their house the day before. As he’d opened the door and set his foot on the asphalt, his father had spoken after driving there in silence.

  “Break a leg, Son,” he’d said, sticking out his hand. “It’ll get better.”

  Ethan had replied, “I know,” but his true feelings had been miles away from thinking it would.

  He’d closed the car door while wondering just how awful his father really felt.

  “We start shooting next week,” the gray-haired man said, bringing Ethan back to the audition. “Are you available?”

  Ethan nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  “If, of course, you’re selected,” the man added, as if suddenly remembering protocol after giving away what he really thought. Ethan was excited despite the heaviness of the fatigue that had settled upon him.

  “We’ll be in touch through your agent,” said the woman, “but nice job.”

  Ethan didn’t like how the woman stared at him, as if she were sizing up a dog to buy on display in the window of a pet store. His audition was over.

  He was at the house when Jonah called. “You’re going to be a busy man.”

  “I guess you heard,” Ethan said, popping an Orap tablet into his mouth. He’d waited until after the audition to take one, as he hadn’t wanted it to affect his performance. The audition had exhausted him. Alone, he’d felt a melancholy pall settle over him upon his return to the house.

  “They’re drawing up the contract,” Jonah said as Ethan swallowed his medication with a mouthful of water.

  “That’s cool.”

  “Cool is a word for it,” Jonah said, “but fucking fantastic is more like it. You’re gonna be in the movies, my man!”

  “Really!” Ethan said as new excitement eroded his Christmas letdown. More than ever, he wished Christa were around to share his crazy news. “It’s kinda hard to believe.”

  “No, it’s not,” Jonah said. “You’ve got something rare, man, that only comes around once in a while—once in a long while.”

  Ethan didn’t know how to respond. He kept trying to think that this development wouldn’t mean what Syd had predicted; the Release would continue.

  Jonah also troubled him. Jonah was in this for himself. Ethan knew that. The deal he’d made was evidence enough. But what bothered him most was that he was of the same ilk. He justified his actions, thinking he was more empathetic, but really, he wanted the same things. He’d agreed to go to the audition while knowing the likelihood of the outcome, but he wanted the part. Jonah knew it too, but Jonah had the edge; he could take Ethan there. Now that it seemed to be happening, what did he expect?

  With his back against the yellow kitchen wall the phone was mounted to, he slid down to sit on the discolored cushion floor, his knees level with his chest. He picked at the frayed hole in the knee of his jeans.

  “They start shooting next week,” Jonah was saying as Ethan returned to their conversation. “I’ve some more dates for the Release in January, which we’ll have to work around. Have you told anyone yet?”

  “Just my family,” Ethan replied, knowing that wasn’t whom Jonah had meant. He had no plans to tell Syd, Greg, or Gus until something was really happening. “It’ll come out sooner or later.”

  He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips, his elbow on his knee. He didn’t want to think about it.

  “It’s your decision, mate,” Jonah said, “but incredible things are about to happen.”

  As if in sync with Jonah finishing his sentence, the front door opened. Ethan expected to see Syd step into the kitchen, but instead, Gus ducked his head in.

  “Howdy,” he said. He waved and disappeared.

  Ethan waved back, relieved. If it had been Syd, he’d have told her.

  “Well, Dad,” Ethan said into the phone, not wanting Gus to know he was talking to Jonah, “I’d better go. Gus just walked in.”

  “Gus is there?” Jonah asked.

  Ethan nodded as if Jonah could see him.

  “Put him on,” Jonah said, and Ethan could hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll tell him the whole story.”

  “Not a chance, Dad,” Ethan said. He wasn’t about to let Jonah say anything to Gus. Let’s not just ruin Christmas; let’s destroy my life. “Talk to you later. Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas, Ethan,” Jonah said, and he hung up.

  Ethan stood up and hung the phone on its shiny metal yoke.

  “What’s going on?” Ethan asked, raising his voice so Gus could hear him outside of the kitchen. “What are you doin’ here?”

  Gus came into their yellow kitchen. “Wasn’t much doing at my parents’,” he said, pulling down one of two glasses in the cupboard above the sink. He turned on the kitchen faucet. “I was missing my bass. Shoulda taken it with me. And you? You were pretty excited about Christmas.” He filled his glass and took a gulp.

  “Didn’t quite turn out the way I’d figured,” Ethan replied. “Too much bullshit going on.” He curled the phone cord around his finger. “Christmas is a fucked-up time of year. Seems to bring out the best and worst in everyone.”

  “Tell me about it,” Gus agreed, shaking his head. He took another drink. “I’m supposed to be fucking married with a couple of kids, like it’s all I’m here to do. Christmas isn’t much fun with three adults and a sick mother.”

  “I hear ya,” Ethan said, thinking of his mother. “Your mom okay?”

  Their parents didn’t socialize, even though they lived only a few houses away from one another.

  “Yeah, she’ll be fine. Touch of the flu is all. But she couldn’t go to her sister’s. Old man didn’t want to leave her alone, as its Christmas and all. Said I could go. I came here.”

  “Too bad for you.”

  “No way,” Gus said, heading toward the living room. “I’d rather spend time with Fender Jazz any day.”

  He air-g
uitar-plucked his bass strings with his right hand while his left hand went into the air as if his fingers were already on the fret board.

  Ethan smiled, thinking of the new mike at his parents’. It was nice but nothing like the feel of holding a guitar. He missed making music with his hands.

  “Things must’ve been bad to come here,” Gus said as they left the kitchen.

  “Yeah, my mom’s struggling with this—” Ethan stopped, realizing he was about to talk about the audition. He was almost ready to tell Gus but decided to leave it alone. “Me coming back. She can’t stop worrying about me fucking relapsing.”

  Gus didn’t reply and picked up his bass. He turned on his amp; the electric hum found his cabinet speakers.

  “Whaddaya say we forget the shit for a bit?” Gus said, looking at Ethan. He started to play the opening to “Don’t Tell Me.”

  Ethan started to sing. “You can’t know what I’m feeling. You can’t know who I am …”

  CHAPTERS 55

  Wednesday, January 16, 1985

  One week turned into three before the movie started shooting. The Release was into a full schedule of shows. Jonah had them booked four nights of seven.

  “I don’t know how this is going to work,” Ethan said to Jonah on the phone after Syd, Gus, and Greg had left for Windsor, Ontario, with their gear. They’d been invited to a party with the band they’d shared the stage with the previous weekend. Ethan had made up a story about having to see his parents about their will, so he couldn’t go early. He would need the time to work on his lines. No one had questioned him, except to ask about his parents’ well-being. He suspected Syd’s intuition was up and on alert. She hadn’t questioned any of his work-arounds, but he didn’t expect that to last much longer.

  “What do you mean? It always works out, Ethan,” Jonah replied. He was talking fast, likely with half a dozen things on the go in addition to talking to his newest recruit. “It just doesn’t go the way we expect it to. What did McArthur say? I think it was McArthur. All plans end when the first soldier sets foot on the battlefield. It’s a good motto if you can ever get used to it.”