During the shaking, he’d passed out for a moment. Dizzy when he came around. Complained of a headache for the rest of the evening. But he’d understood: his only option was silence. For a six-year-old, he was smart. A few days later he’d been taken to the hospital, stayed there for several days—some sort of difficulty with balance . . . his parents weren’t sure what caused his symptoms, maybe a fall from the jungle gym at school? They’d never questioned her about it, though.
The kid was basically okay, it seemed.
A close call.
8
Exiting the station, Blair walked to Grand Army Plaza, turning into the park. A few hundred feet in, she stood and listened.
Middle of the night, and not even a bird’s rustle.
Continuing along the park’s ring-road, she turned right at Center Drive. Soon she stood on the Nethermead Arches: a stone bridge spanning a low, rocky stream that descended from the Ravine. Chain-link fencing ran the length of the bridge. Squared off at both ends, the fence created a narrow, rectangular work-area whose fourth side was the bridge’s parapet. Caged inside were sections of stone under reconstruction.
No clip of horse’s hooves, no whir of bike-wheels. Good: no park police.
She walked beneath the bridge, where the darkness magnified the water’s burbling. Emerging on the other side, she clambered up a steep incline, then slipped through a small gap between the fencing and the parapet.
The stonemasons had been at work. The parapet’s arabesque was badly chipped, and the masons’ plan (posted at one end of the fence) was to maintain and repair the original structure. The apertures were evenly spaced, shaped like three-leaf clovers. A good design, elegant and spare. Not trying too hard.
From her backpack she pulled out what she needed: a retractable tape-measure, a roll of butcher paper, several pieces of charcoal. A bottle of water.
The park was much cooler than the streets. A relief to be away from the Gowanus’s fetid air, from her apartment, the streets, the workplace. Other people.
The indifference of the world, Camus called it. Everyone babbled about connectivity, but that was a mirage. Indifference was real.
Massaging her hands to warm them up, she set to work.
Birdsong
1
Ellen shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other. Which one bore the weight better, the right or the left? Hard to say: both ached.
At Eighth Avenue the light turned red. She shifted the bag again, then let its strap slide off her shoulder and into her hand. Time for a knapsack? Like Lena Horne said—it’s not the load that wears you down, baby, it’s how you carry it.
Stand up straight! Pretend there’s a string attached to your breastbone, tugging lightly upward.
To think it was only June, and well over ninety degrees already. Could the soles of sandals melt?
Imagine how much worse it’d be, commuting daily by subway instead of on foot. At least there was Prospect Park to walk through each day. It was always cooler under the trees’ canopy. Deep in the park every sound traveled differently; you could go there, close your eyes, and things would sound softer—not muffled but gentler. Even with planes overhead, what you’d mainly hear would be wind and water. A woodpecker tapping, now and then. Squirrels, their manic chatter. Doves in the morning. Somebody’s dog carousing.
Best sound ever in the park? That light thwap-thwap of snowflakes falling slant-wise through the trees.
Ah well—six more months or so til snow-time. And maybe by then Win would be better. If not, how to get him into some sort of counseling? Christ, was he even paying his bills? And did he think she could, if he wasn’t? That wouldn’t be like him. He’d get himself into trouble, but never put her at risk. And he wouldn’t take any money from her, even if she had it. Which of course only increased the pressure to help, though he’d keep resisting her. Total cross-purposes.
A heavy truck rattled by.
She shut her eyes for a beat or two, then opened them. Blinked a few more times. Dark, light, dark, light: the mind’s theater, with eyelashes for curtains.
Another truck. Dear potholed Park Slope, dear Brooklyn, dear NYC. This intense affection for the city, when’d it begun? Must’ve been the late seventies, while sharing that tiny two-bedroom in the West Village with Dale. That was right after NYU, when she’d worked as a copy editor for Macmillan. Anne had already moved to France to be with Giselle, yes? And Sophie and Hank were on the Upper East Side. Earning good money, too, right from the start.
Housing chronology was the only way New Yorkers knew how to narrate their lives. So: first, that little place with Dale; then a bigger apartment on Thompson, also with Dale, along with his serial girlfriends—Kim, Ruth, Jean, Sue, those one-syllable women. Then that dump of a studio on the Upper West Side. Then Arnie’d become the boyfriend in 1979, and wow, what a nice place he’d had. On Hicks Street, with a view of the Twin Towers. Brooklyn Heights had been heaven, til it could no longer be denied that life with Arnie was tedious.
Then solo to Park Slope after that breakup. Her first apartment on Carroll Street, back in the mid-eighties—lovely view, leaky windows, the pleasures of solitude. And then the move to Sixth Avenue, with Paul.
Paul-and-El . . . like a pair of old shoes, loose and comfy, yet each day losing more traction.
It’d been easy to live together, yet as a couple they’d been doomed. The problem wasn’t dullness. It was quietness tipping into silence tipping into a stalemate over mutually canceling desires: Paul’s for a family, hers for a marriage sans kids. No wonder Paul’d recoupled within a few months of the divorce. Such a sense of failure she’d had, after that split—waking up each morning thinking, what the hell’d you do with those years, girl?
Not a fair question, Dale said. You’re discounting the value of the experience.
True, sure, but so what? The marriage had bombed.
Though not like in Madrid. So: don’t look back.
2
A train rumbled belowground; the sidewalk vibrated in response.
Her forehead felt slick. Another hot flash, the humidity, both?
Several yards down, a heavyset man waited as his gray-whiskered dog urinated on a lamppost. The man checked his cell phone, squinting at its tiny screen. Only connect, eh? Or disconnect, in Win’s case. Sometimes he’d take himself to a hole-in-the-wall bar in Sunset Park, a dive where no one would look for him. Otherwise he’d sit at home with headphones and a bottle of Stoli. The only person he was regularly in touch with was the delivery guy from the local liquor store. Now and then he’d have a drink with some musician in town for a gig. But he’d dropped whatever friends he’d had, pre-Madrid, or they’d fallen away. What were they supposed to do—wait for years til he’d passed through all five stages of grief? Til he stopped dicking around and resumed his career as a composer?
He’d call soon, though; it’d been two weeks. Not to seek aid or comfort, merely to tug on the string. Useless to ask how he was; he’d just say something barbed to throw her off. Don’t worry, El, I’m dumping all my toxic waste into my music.
The heavyset man lumbered down the street, dog in tow.
Who knew, maybe the dog suffered from depression and the man was grouchy. Perhaps they were able to put up with each other only while walking outdoors. Still, neither canine nor human spent his days digging out from under heaps of rubble . . .
For God’s sake. Flags would surely fly at half-mast every March 11, in Madrid if not in New York. What had happened there wouldn’t be forgotten, so why did Win keep obsessing over it?
Because of the nails stuck into the dynamite, to inflict greater damage when the bombs went off.
Because not obsessing over it would be tantamount to denying Mel’s existence.
As if that were possible.
As-if-as-if-as-if-as-if. Say it fast and it’s almost like crazy.
3
Cellphone burping again . . . Dale was probably thumbing a message while sprinting to work. One of
these days, the guy would fall down an open manhole.
Daley, the dearest of the nearest-and-dearest. Without a partner or kids, but awfully good at concealing his sorrow. Never letting himself grow bitter or discouraged. A stellar guy. He was acting a bit nutty these days, though. First-time buyers of real estate tended to go bonkers for a while. Well, a mortgage must be terrifying. Renting was easy, and having no money was easy, too. Only one thing to worry about: getting some more—not what to do with it, since that was obvious: pay the bills, buy food, and fantasize about putting something aside for retirement.
Another text from Dale. How about we watch something cozy & domestic? Like maybe Fatal Attraction? At least he hadn’t lost his sense of humor. Or how about Pacific Heights, that one w/Michael Keaton where the couple buys a house and their tenant destroys their lives?
Too bad Dale’s romantic life was a series of tragicomic train wrecks. If ever a guy deserved a break! Ah, Daley-Dale . . . Why did fat chance and slim chance mean the same thing?
Oh wait, El, I just realized I can’t do Tuesday, I’ve got another date . . . Sorry. Wednesday, maybe?
Nope, that’s my Co-op shift. Lemme know when the dating dust settles.
OK. Til soon.
4
Ascending Ninth Street, coffee nearing. Just another block . . .
Her current abode was pretty much perfect. Close to the F and the R; small but not cramped, and serene, with good light. Top floor, hence quiet. And (value added!) the other tenants were willing to take care of Girl-Cat and Boy-Cat for a few days.
The apartment had been her home for almost twenty years now. Far longer than anywhere else—including the childhood manse, that clapboard house on King Street in Morristown with its morose gray shutters, those opaque panes of etched glass in the front door . . . Walter’s parents’ place, once upon a time. Rather Addams Family–ish, except for those massive rhododendrons out front. Each May they’d sprouted enormous purple flowers that the first strong rain turned to vivid mush.
Those bushes made music, Win used to say. Like a cornet pitched at B-flat. And what exactly did a cornet sound like, Win? Like a trumpet, but mellower. Did anyone actually play the thing? Yep, Bix Biederbecke used to play it. He made music like those bushes, only better. And was his first name really Bix? Nope, it was Leon.
How many other sixth-graders had even heard of Bix Biederbecke, let alone known his real name?
Underfoot now, a slight trembling. A very mild earthquake, or someone with a jackhammer? Neither. Merely the F train hauling up Ninth Street.
5
Ellen paused for breath. Someone was warbling from a second-story window, off-key but loud. Whoever whistled Bach these days?
Walter used to sing Mozart arias while cooking. Then he’d whistle Bach after dinner as he walked from the dining room to his study, leaving the cleanup to the kids—Edwin the dishes, Ellen the trash. Can one of you remember to feed Clef, since your mother will surely forget? And change his litter, too, or am I the only one offended by the stench?
Beautiful baritone birdsong.
Occasionally on the radio he’d be singing Schubert lieder, some Deutsche Gramophone recording from the early seventies. Most likely “Die Forelle,” that chilling little caprice: So lang dem Wasser Helle, nicht gebricht . . . or a few minutes of Wagner, perhaps Tristan’s duet with Isolde in Act Two: wie sie Fassen, wie sie Lassen, how to grasp it, how to leave it, this bliss?
Walter, Walter—like the call of a vireo: listen now listen, listen now listen . . . in the house on King Street he’d flit from room to room, singing. Had the man ever done anything but sing while living there? Ever treated the house as anything other than his own private birdcage? Indeed he had. Each night in the kitchen, he’d donned an apron and executed his cooking rites as though they were holy acts. Not that he’d ever ventured to church. Really, he asked once, you want to go someplace to listen to God? You can hear God in the living room—just turn on the stereo. One night he’d hummed some Bach while Win tapped his fingers on the table in soft accompaniment. Then he’d issued one of his pronouncements: God is Bach, the guy who wrote that music. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
Walter cooking, Nola drinking. Domestic sounds, scrape-scrape, clink-clink: eine kleine Nachtmusik.
At the table, Walter would hold court. What have you been up to? Ah, I see. And this will be confirmed by your report cards? Supervisory daddy, laying down the law. Last month’s bill from Epstein’s was ridiculous, Nola. Did you simply stand aside while these two heaped clothing into shopping carts? Scornful daddy, rebuking the spouse. You don’t run a tab at a department store, my dear. That’s for bars.
Win’s fingers drumming the table.
And yet: on the wall by the kitchen door hung an old-fashioned telephone. So weren’t the four of them part of the outside world, too? Yes, of course. Across that phone’s rotary dial were seven digits, the household phone number, which did get called regularly—by conductors, accompanists, musicians and musical directors; by the occasional journalist or music critic; by one of the taxi services that ferried Walter to and from JFK or Newark; by the dry cleaners, reminding Nola to pick up one of Walter’s tuxes; by the liquor store, asking when to deliver.
And by Nola’s parents, once in a blue moon. The sole grandparents—Walter’s progenitors having been long gone by that time. What a pair, Nola’s! Living like moles in the shabby apartment in Cleveland where they’d raised their only child. Poppa Herb was a mechanic, Momma Tillie a Higbee’s saleswoman; neither of them could tell Bach from Bacharach. Yet they’d always called on Christmas and July Fourth, inquiring when Nola was coming to visit so they could meet the grandchildren.
They’re demented, Nola would announce after each call. For they had met their grandchildren—just once, at Easter-time, when Edwin was nine and his sister five. Win had vomited across Pennsylvania. Nola’s parents had forgotten to reserve rooms for them in some cheap motel in their neighborhood, so upon their arrival in Cleveland, they’d had to decamp to the only hotel available on a holiday weekend, the ultra-pricey Renaissance. Walter knew it well; he always stayed there when performing at Severance Hall. The hotel’s massive lobby had enchanted Win, at least til he managed to get both hands stuck in the grand staircase’s fretwork. The concierge had to grease Win’s wrists in order to yank them free.
Walter hadn’t been around to witness that. He’d gone to the room of some good-looking male musician he’d encountered in the lobby. To talk shop, he’d said. Be back in a bit, he’d added as he sauntered off. Right, Win had muttered. Back soon, sure thing.
Things one recalled of childhood, shards of a mosaic: Win’s reddened wrists, Nola’s silences . . .
So. If all you know of your father, whom you haven’t seen since you were eight, is his disembodied voice on the radio or CD player; if you’ve forsworn all videos or YouTube clips of his performances; if you’ve elected not to show up on his Italian doorstep because you know you’d be rebuffed (else wouldn’t he have shown up on your Brooklyn doorstep by now?); if you lack concrete proof of his ongoing existence, not having validated it in a whole bunch of years; and if, in any case, you long ago took your few tactile memories of him (his hand around yours while crossing King Street, his palm on your forehead that time your fever spiked) and squeezed the juice out of them—if all this is as it is, then whenever you hear a recording of Walter Portinari singing, is it really your father you’re hearing, or just some guy who happens to bear his name?
6
Glistening on the ground: an old subway token. Worth nothing, of course. Although perhaps a token found on the street was a good luck charm?
Pick it up, then, and rub it between thumb and forefinger. For what, precisely, was luck needed? Well, getting Win into either therapy or AA would require a great deal of luck. So would snagging a decent freelance gig for September. Summer was taken care of, but autumn and winter were looking pretty barren. Two of her regular clients had just hired in-house edi
tors; another, a nonprofit arts school, had recently lost its main donor. New trees would have to be shaken.
Dale might have some contacts. He knew the think tank world really well; maybe he could set her up with something temporary. But that’d probably mean having to commute weekly to DC for project meetings, and Washington was loathsome—crawling with Bush sycophants and war supporters. And who’d feed Girl-Cat and Boy-Cat for a whole week? That’d be asking way too much of a neighbor.
The best luck of all would be getting tapped on the head by a poetry-wand.
A pathetic wish, that.
Real poets wrote poetry, period. They didn’t need tapping or prodding, didn’t let the failure of a first book knock them sideways, didn’t fall into endless funks. Real poets went back in the ring and threw some more word-punches til something happened—the bell rang, a new poem was won, that bout was over, another could start.
Consider the bro. He was always composing; nothing stopped him—not booze, not even Mel’s death. He did it differently now, but he was still at it. In that sense, he was just like Walter. The two of them never left the ring.
As for herself? Like Nola, only without the drinking. Sitting on her hands.
Nola was the one who’d turned Win on to booze.
Each late afternoon, the waning daylight used to lure Clef the cat to the living room. He’d stretch out beneath the Steinway and knead the rug with his claws, and as evening advanced, Nola would join him. They’d sit there—Clef with his paws tucked neatly under him, Nola with her bottle of gin at her side—and as dusk fell, la mamma would start singing to herself. Just in time . . .
She’d known the lyrics of an awful lot of songs. Her voice was like Judy Garland’s, with less kitsch in the vibrato. Now and then she’d snap out of it, notice her son and daughter, attempt a bit of encouragement. Go ahead and write a sonnet, Ellen, why don’t you? Edwin, go compose a sonata. When you’re done, put them in the kitchen drawer. I’ll look at them when I have time.
Buy Me Love Page 3
