I’m not comfortable with this, he said.
With what?
With your always paying for things and saying, oh, don’t worry . . . I know, you’ve explained it. Sort of.
Please, Roy. I really am sharing my good luck with other people. Not just you.
He shook his head.
I don’t feel short on luck, Ellen. And I can pay my bills. But it’s obvious my bank balance doesn’t match yours. I can’t be generous with you in the same way you’re being with me. This probably isn’t the time to be talking about money, but the situation makes me uncomfortable. And since I’m about to benefit—or rather, Ennio is—I’d like to know where this windfall of yours is coming from. I don’t see how we can go forward if we’re not honest with each other about this stuff.
I agree. And I’ll tell you all about it, I promise. Can you wait til the twenty-fourth? Just a week, okay? Things will be clearer then.
He nodded.
Okay. Now let’s go eat.
8
They walked. He reached for her hand, his thumb pressing the center of her palm.
Oh, I didn’t get a chance to tell you about Ennio’s first therapy appointment. We went with him yesterday morning, before the accident. Which reminds me, I need to reschedule the next visit.
You’ll tell me about the appointment while we eat?
Sure. Listen, I’m glad you’re with me, dove, with all this stuff going on . . . it’s not a lot of fun for you, I know.
I don’t need fun, Roy. I want to be here with you, with all this stuff. You know, when I’m alone, it’s often like I’m standing at a window, staring in. At what?
At my life. As though it were somebody else’s.
Still holding her hand, he swung her arm back and forth.
You could always open the window and climb in, he said.
You’ve no idea of the mess in there.
Is the mess recent?
Yes and no. About the recent part, I’ll know more in a week. I can’t predict how things will play out—too many variables.
Hm . . . mysterious. Meantime, I’ve lobbed a pretty big mess at you.
All that matters now is Ennio’s health.
He’ll heal up fine physically. But he needs a distraction to get him out of his thoughts—all this stuff about trains . . . he’s got to let it go. He needs some other story to focus on.
Maybe I should write him a poem? A story-poem. With dogs or cats, maybe.
I bet he’d love that. Or something with birds, he’s big on birds these days. Oh—as if yesterday weren’t a long enough day, do you know what else happened when I got home from the hospital? Some woman rang my bell, wanting to take a look at Nadine’s painting.
Huh? How’d she know you had it?
She’d seen it at the gallery in Park Slope. Someone there must’ve given her my address. I’ll call them and tell them not to do that again.
Did she want to buy the painting?
Nope, just take a picture of it with her cellphone. She didn’t talk, just stared at the painting and snapped a couple of photos. The whole thing took less than five minutes. A weird ending to a helluva day.
Among Animals
1
The parents were leaving phone messages. Having tried and given up on the cellphone, now they were using her landline. For a solid week, one message every day.
Blair, their voices said in unison, call us.
They were literally together when calling her. As if that would make a difference. As if it’d jolt her into responding to them. They probably wanted to know if she’d renewed the health insurance policy they’d each pushed on her, the year before. They’d offered to front the cost of the premiums; she could pay it back whenever, they’d said. They kept nagging her about it. No doubt because they didn’t want to get stuck with big medical bills if something were to happen to her.
Forget it.
She hit delete on her landline’s answering machine.
The real reason they were contacting her now was obvious: to make themselves feel better.
They’d say it was because they were worried she still didn’t have insurance, but that wasn’t why. They were calling so they’d feel less guilty about lying about Keith. They lied to save face with their friends. To gain sympathy with those women her mother played tennis with, the fake blondes with too much time on their hands. And the guys her mother’s new husband worked with—investment bankers who bought five-hundred-dollar bottles of wine when they went out to eat, and flipped coins to see who’d pick up the check.
Now and then one of the blondes would come into the store, sent on a mission by her mother. Once, a woman pretended to be an artist and asked for help choosing stuff—the wrong stuff, like cheap acrylic gesso unsuited for oils. In the aisle she’d mumbled something like sorry about your brother. Trying to get a reaction, something to report back.
Foot-soldiers, Keith used to called the parents. Off to fight for merch at the mall.
In high school he’d been in a Marxist phase.
There’d been a teacher in junior year, an older man who’d taught Keith about Marxism. Keith had flunked that history class, but he’d talked about it with her. Only with her, because by that point he didn’t have any friends. He wasn’t political, but he liked Marx because Marx said animals too had become property, and all creatures had to be set free.
Animals didn’t buy and sell, Keith said. They didn’t wage wars. They made no pretense of family love; they just pushed their babies out of the nest when it was time. Some cats killed their babies if they were weaklings. That was better than allowing them to die slowly. Animals knew not to mewl about love.
Wherever he was now, Keith was alone. But there’d be animals around him, and he’d be taking care of them. It wasn’t possible for a street artist to live like that, as he did, either in total solitude or with animals. She’d need to remain in the city. Alone as much as possible, visible yet invisible. An absurd creator.
2
That kid in the gym should’ve known better than to act like that balcony space was all his. He should’ve left when she told him it’s my turn.
He’d taken her for a girl, easily scared off. He was one of those boys who had to learn, and she’d had to teach him the hard way. Keith would’ve taught the boy like that, as she did. Making him pay for it.
Keith had always known who she really was. His sister, but not really; in name only—a boy in a girl’s body. He’d shown her he knew. This is how we do it, he’d said, and by we he’d meant we boys. My pup, he said, that’s what you are. It hurt, she’d told him, but he said it had to, hurting was part of doing it. So she had to stay quiet, he said, and not tell the parents or anyone else. They wouldn’t understand.
Of course they wouldn’t. Only the two of them, Keith and herself, understood. Animals did whatever they wanted, with their sisters or brothers, whoever. To them it didn’t matter. Animals didn’t label each other’s bodies. People were animals yet weren’t allowed to be, and if they rebelled they were likely to get beaten up, or jailed. Or they silenced themselves.
That first time Keith was thirteen or so, and she was around nine. Afterward he told her he’d be leaving, as soon as he could. He’d already realized he had to go far away. And now he was by himself, among animals, where he needed to be. But what about her, his pup?
That kid at the gym was one of those boys who think they understand when they really don’t.
She’d gotten out of there before anyone saw her. But she’d have to be more careful next time. The kid had fallen—she’d heard it—but he didn’t seem badly hurt. He’d provoked it, anyhow. Asking what’s wrong like that. Staring at her like he understood.
3
The parents were switching strategies now. A mailman had come to the door that morning, requesting her signature for a certified envelope. It’d been sent to the parents. They’d opened it, then resealed it. They’d crossed out their names and address and substituted hers. She recogni
zed her mother’s handwriting.
The envelope was official, from an office of the state. The Registry Office, whatever that was. Inside was a death certificate, dated six months earlier. Cause of death: heroin overdose. It was a faked document, for sure—the kind of bullshit they’d do. Their phone messages weren’t working, so the parents were trying something else to get her attention. Trying to rouse her. No doubt they were lying to their friends about her, too—telling them their daughter was wasting her time working in some arts-supply store. They’d say she hadn’t gotten closure yet, and would have to be straightened out somehow. So she’d accept the truth about her brother.
But it wasn’t true, any of it—couldn’t be true.
If he knew what they were up to, Keith would laugh.
It’d help if he would get in touch.
But apparently there was nothing he could do. He’d had to choose silence. There had to be a reason for it.
Be the animal you are, he’d tell her if he were there. A pup.
Art’s lonely, get used to it.
She had work to do. She’d have to lift another X-Acto knife from her workplace.
Nutshell
1
Win was swiveling back and forth on his bar-stool. There were dark half-moons under his eyes; his complexion was sallow. Had Maria given up on feeding him? For that matter, was she still living with him?
Hey.
He downed half his drink before speaking again.
Thought you’d forgotten our date.
No, of course not, Win. Sorry I’m late, the subways are a mess.
Wouldn’t know, never take ’em. So I’ll cut to the chase. I think you should go collect your money and travel around the world. I think you should toss dollar bills onto the street. Or open a publishing house, if you’re not gonna write poems of your own. Publish other poets, at least. I think you should do anything but what you’re doing.
Which is?
Waiting. For who knows what.
Uh, hello, it’s nice to see you too, bro.
Come on.
No, really. Isn’t waiting exactly what you’ve been doing ever since Mel died?
He turned away, silent.
How come you’ve thrown away your career as a composer, Win? How come you won’t leave your apartment for anything but vodka? How come you won’t take any money from me?
I’m fine with things as they are. I’ve been composing in my own way, but you haven’t. You’re a poet who isn’t writing poems—all you do is read them. That doesn’t feel too good, am I right?
Has Maria moved in with you? Does she pay rent, or just keep you in vodka?
Pulling out his wallet, he put a twenty on the bar.
I don’t need to listen to this, he said quietly.
Don’t leave. I shouldn’t have said what I just said.
Yeah, you shouldn’t. Take in your ticket, El—turn on the faucet and let things flow. Not just the money . . . because you never know when it’ll all be cut off.
He stood and started for the door.
Hang on, Win. Please, I have to ask you something. Is Maria a decent person? I’m asking seriously.
He turned back.
Yes. She’s Maria, not Mel; I’m not mixing them up. But yes, she’s a decent person.
Okay then. I needed to hear it from you. Thank you for answering.
2
He took his keys from his pocket, rattling them in his hand.
Stop fretting about me, he said. All I need to do is keep sketching. The other day I thought to myself, I bet I could sketch that composition of Walter’s—you know, the one he claimed I destroyed.
What brought that to mind?
I was thinking about Mendelssohn’s lost cello concerto. He made just one copy of the score, and it fell off the stagecoach carrying it to the man who’d commissioned it. I used to wonder why Mendelssohn didn’t just rewrite as much of the concerto as he could recall, and then re-score it. I know a composer who deliberately chucked a very long score and started over. It’s a valid way of working.
Writers do that too, sometimes. Visual artists as well. They paint or draw over their work, knock down sculptures . . .
Right. The thing is, composition never really mattered to Walter. He didn’t give a shit about process. When I lost that score of his, he couldn’t reconstruct it or start over, because it hadn’t ever mattered to him—not in itself. Just as a flag waved by his ego. I took down the flag by mistake, so I had to be taken down, too.
You read the score, but can you really recall it? You were only ten . . . Was it truly terrible? Or was it just that you didn’t like it?
He shifted his keys from one hand to the other.
Yeah, I recall some of it. Walter wrote a lousy imitation of a song cycle by Poulenc. I remember the first song.
Poulenc, the French composer?
Uh-huh. Poulenc wrote a cycle for an excellent baritone named Pierre Bernac. I bet Walter wanted to prove he was better than Bernac. Like, not only could he sing, he could write his own songs, too.
If you were sketching Walter’s music, would you use charcoal?
No, pencil.
Describe it—your sketch.
I’d scribble all over the paper til no white was left. Like one of those Ad Reinhardt paintings from the Sixties, remember, the color-field ones? Reinhardt did a canvas that looks all-black at first, til gradually you realize you’re looking at a very subtle spectrum of tones. The canvas reflects the light and makes the black come alive, like it’s moving. But with Walter’s score I’d do something different—I’d make the black totally motionless. When you looked at it, you wouldn’t hear a thing; the black would absorb all the sound. There’d be no music.
He stepped closer to the door, then spoke again.
You know, I always used to believe Walter had a terrific voice. Then one day Mel went to the public library and checked out a few of his recordings. She’d never heard him sing. When she came home, she told me I’d been listening to Walter’s voice without really hearing it. Your father must’ve boxed your ears, she said.
He mimed the action, his keychain tinkling as he clapped his palms together.
If you do it hard enough, you can burst someone’s eardrums. Of course Walter didn’t literally box my ears, that’s not what Mel meant. She meant he’d boxed my belief in myself. When I lost that score, you know what he said to me? He told me I had perfect pitch but would never write anything good, because I had no feeling for music.
Christ, Win . . .
Yeah. You and Nola weren’t around to hear that. It was just the two of us, a quiet little father-son moment.
Do you really believe musicians will be able to read your tinnitus sketches?
No one can play the music my tinnitus makes. My head’s the instrument. My tinnitus sketches are variations on a theme.
Admit it—you’re no longer composing. Not with those sketches, anyway.
With those sketches I’m no longer notating, El. I’m always composing.
Now he was right by the bar’s front door, readying to leave. Yet still talking.
My tinnitus is getting more . . . insistent. I don’t listen to music on my headphones anymore; I can’t hear it clearly.
That’s not good. What about your fugues, can you still hear them in your head?
Of course—I hear everything in my head. The fugues will be done soon, and they’ll be played. I started out notating them, so I won’t do sketches. I’ll keep notating. But I’ve realized I couldn’t finish the fugues til I met Maria. I had to hear from her first. About what she heard that morning, at the station.
What do you mean?
She told me that after the bomb exploded, Mel was able to speak. Only for a few moments, but she spoke. Maria told me what she remembers . . . I’ll have to fill in the rest myself.
3
He gave his keys a toss, then another, juggling them.
Know what? In the sixteenth century, an Italian composer named Vicen
tino built a keyboard with thirty-six keys to the octave. It’s called a microtonal keyboard; it lets you play intervals in any key. That keyboard freed him, like my sketching frees me. It’s not that I think notating is pointless. It’s just that I’ve needed another way of composing, a way that’s new. New for me.
Again he rattled his keys.
You’ve been a deer in headlights ever since you heard the lottery news, haven’t you? Afraid you’ll be turned into a different person, and nobody will know who the old Ellen used to be—nobody will give a shit. You’re worried this new super-rich person doing all sorts of new stuff will push you aside and take your place. But you’re missing the point. Putting on a new identity will be as easy for you as writing a silly jingle is for me. Or as writing dumb lyrics for an ad would be for you. After all, you’ve spent years putting other people’s thoughts into words. That’s a cinch. It’s your own words you can’t spit out.
He pocketed his keys.
You know, not long after we met, Mel told me if I really wanted to keep composing, I’d have to do it without a parachute. She loved my work but always felt I could do more. She was the one who pushed me to sketch; she said whatever I heard shouldn’t be limited by notation. And Mel talked with Maria about that, in Madrid—about my sketches—on that morning . . .
He paused, then added: And now I’m going home.
Is Maria waiting for you?
Waiting? No. But she cares what I think and do. She tugs on the string now and then—she says stop drinking, you’ve had enough. I think you should find someone who’ll tug on your string, El. Or someone who’ll play out the line and let you drift. That’s what you need to do, but you’ve never let yourself do it. You’re like Walter that way.
He put a hand on the door, his body pivoting as he added: Be more like Nola. Sing for yourself, even if you think no one’s listening, or cares.
Blue Fairy
1
Ennio opened the door and grinned.
It’s you! Hi!
Buy Me Love Page 21
