Sonant

by A. Sparrow

  Aaron’s kept coming over, standing in front of her and clapping, urging her on, praising her. He probably didn’t realize that his actions had opposite the intended effect. They broke the spell of the music, ripping Aerie out of the trance she needed to create what this music demanded.

  That was okay with her, because Aerie could sense the improvisation nudging her towards a place she had no desire to go—a dark place like the opening above basement stairs, like the edge of a cliff—stepping back into the light was okay with her. Aaron’s interruptions kept things from getting too insane.

  “Enough!” Aaron shouted, drawing his finger across his throat. The improvisation trailed off with a whimper.

  The bell jar sat inert on the cherry wood table. Aerie had lost any desire to peek under its shroud, or make any ‘birdie’ sing. She was happy to let sleep whatever lurked inside. She felt queasy, glad to have the music stop.

  Disturbed as she was, her reaction didn’t seem as harsh this time. She felt none of the abject pee-your-pants fear, the impulse to run away and hide, that the first session had provoked. This time, the fingers of dread crept a respectful distance outside her skull.

  The harsher edges had worn off the music, perhaps because she was no longer experiencing the shock of hearing it for the first time, or maybe because she had remembered to take her pills on her lunch break. She would have to remember that trick for next time, and maybe pop another one or two for good measure.

  Even though they failed to make the bell jar hum, Aaron seemed satisfied with their effort. As he made the rounds with their pay, Aerie’s hand shook as she signed the contract and accepted an envelope of cash, to applause from Eleni and cheers from Mal and Ron.

  Sari sat in an armchair, sipping a glass of ginger ale on the rocks, glowering. She kept her gaze fixed at the wall when Aerie asked how she was feeling.

  “I’m fine.”

  Her aloofness made Aerie wonder is she had insulted her somehow. It made no sense. They barely knew each other. It wasn’t like Aerie would be competing with her for the lead vocals. Aerie never sang in public and for good reason. She had a voice like nails on a blackboard.

  Maybe Sari had a thing for Aaron and didn’t care for the way he fawned over Aerie’s bass playing? Even that seemed weird. Aerie didn’t normally care what people thought of her, but she wasn’t used to being despised right off the bat. She took it personally.

  Aaron called his hands. “Okay, listen up guys, I want you back here, same time tomorrow. We’ve got a full moon on Friday. I know this is pushing it, now that we have our bass, but I want to try for a Production. I’ll need you from four till midnight. That do-able?”

  “Sure,” said Ron. The other nodded.

  “Aerie? You’re the only one with a real job.”

  “I guess … I’m available,” she said. “I’ve got morning prep and lunches all this week.”

  Aaron nudged the bulging plastic bag that Aerie had brought with his toe. It clanked. “What the heck?” He peeked inside. “Oh my God. Is this your Prescott?”

  “What’s left of it,” said Aerie.

  “It’s in worse shape than I thought,” he pulled out the curved slab of ebony that had been a fingerboard. “Are all the parts here?”

  “Pretty much,” said Aerie. “I had to toss the bridge.”

  “That’s no big deal. We can carve you a new one. Mind if I take a shot at restoring it? I know this incredible luthier in New York, a veritable wizard of wood. He mainly does cellos, but only because that’s where the market takes him. I’ll pay for it.”

  “Um. Sure,” said Aerie. “I think it’s a waste of time, personally. I just hung onto it for sentimental reasons. I couldn’t bear to toss it in a dumpster.”

  “Oh no,” said Aaron. “That’d be a crime.”

  “Mind if I leave my Juzek?” she said. “Since … I don’t have my car.”

  “Need a ride?” said Eleni. “You can squeeze in with us.” Sari’s face puckered, but she said nothing. The Saab in the driveway was hers.

  “What exactly happened to car?” said Mal. “You said it blew up?”

  “Overheated, and then it wouldn’t start. Aaron’s neighbor gave me a ride.”

  “No shit?” said Aaron.

  “He’s a musician, too,” said Aerie. “Plays clarinet.”

  Without a word, Sari rose from her chair, key ring jangling from her elegant fingers, leading a motley parade out into the dusk.

  ***

  Route 13 was submerged in deep shadow when they reached Aerie’s Sentra. A bright orange state police citation emblazoned the corner of the windshield. Aerie stepped out of the Saab, disturbed to find that her cell phone not only had a weak signal, it was on the last dregs of battery.

  “Sorry, we can’t linger,” said Sari. “I have business in Ithaca.”

  Eleni leaned out the front window. “I’d stay with you Aerie, but—”

  “Eleni has a date,” said Sari, smirking. Eleni ducked her chin and forced a smile.

  “We can stay and help,” said Mal.

  “We?” said Ron.

  “Get your ass out there,” said Mal. “You know? Be a gentleman for once. What a concept.” He shoved Ron out the door.

  Sari and Eleni zoomed away in the Saab, the gears stepping up to overdrive like notes in a scale. Mal and Ron had the hood up and were staring at the glistening mass of cast metal, tubing and wires looking as confused as surgeons facing the open chest of some unearthly life form fallen from the sky.

  “Guys, if we can’t get it fixed let’s just hitch a ride back. I can call and have it towed.”

  Ron started pulling off wires and drying the contacts with his shirt. Mal followed suit with his bandanna, letting free the springy coils of his unbound hair.

  “You said it wouldn’t start?” said Mal.

  “Uh-uh,” said Aerie, topping off the radiator with the remainder of John’s Poland Spring bottle.

  “Could be the engine just got too hot,” said Ron. “Sometimes these things have a safety cutoff.” He laid the back of his hand against the block. “It’s cooled off now. Why don’t you give it another shot?”

  Aerie sat down and turned the key. The engine sputtered to life.

  “Who knew?” said Mal. “That Ronnie’s a mechanical genius.”

  ***

  Ron and Mal rode with Aerie to the next rehearsal. She hadn’t had time to get the radiator flushed, so Mal thought it prudent for them to tag along, just in case, Ron’s attempt to clear the blocked hose with a wire coat hanger didn’t work.

  She picked them up at the Cayuga end of the Commons where, in their flannel shirts, Ron’s watch cap and Mal’s bandanna, they were indistinguishable from the little gang of skater kids that hung out in the parking lots.

  Having these two rogues hop into her car sent a warm feeling buzzing through her. She barely knew these two, but they treated her like an old friend. She had no romantic inklings for either of these doofuses. But their presence and banter, with Mal in front, Ron in the back, made her feel part of the human race again.

  When they got to Aaron’s, Aerie fished through her purse for her pills, chugging them down with a swig of Gatorade, adding a couple from a previous prescription for good measure, before following Ron and Mal inside.

  Aaron had them go at the improvisations for two solid hours, building greater complexity and linkages between the parts than they had attempted before. The table holding the bell jar began to vibrate in fits and starts. Whenever it did, Aerie flinched. She tightened up, her playing suffered and the table’s shaking would recede.

  When the pills kicked in, she got lost in the music and stopped dwelling on the birdie. The cocktail of SSRIs and beta blockers and whatever those little pink ones were, calmed her heart and let her breathe without the sense that something was going to explode out of the jar and squash her like a fly.

  But the pills didn’t stop there. They made her lose track of her surroundings. For all she knew, she might
have been in some club in Vegas or her high school band room. In spells of clarity, she knew she had overdone it. Ron or Mal would have to do the driving back to Ithaca.

  She chugged along, the meat of her fingers digging into her strings, left hand navigating the fingerboard as effortlessly as a spider on her web, optimizing the pull and pressure to make her bass sing out with a hearty mwah with every note, until her bliss was interrupted by a shriek like the whistle of an oversized tea kettle building beneath the shroud.

  Aaron untucked his fiddle and waved his bow like a sword. “That’s a wrap, people.”

  A wave of nausea swept through Aerie. She laid her bass down and made for the bathroom, giving the bell jar a wide berth as she wobbled.

  ***

  The next day, at work, Aerie was feeling nervous, so she took her meds early, approximating whatever combination had worked so well the day before, washing them down with a glass of apple cider from the keg in the kitchen.

  An hour later, as she washed and trimmed a batch of baby beets, Reggie came up behind her. “Aerie, you’re cutting off too much of the tops. Are you feeling okay?” She looked into Aerie’s eyes. “I hate to ask this, but … have you been drinking?”

  Aerie wasn’t at all fazed by Reggie’s inquiry. The meds made certain of that. A gorilla could come storming through the scullery, smashing all the china, and it might have evoked a yawn. Without a word, she went and got her purse, pulled out three bottles of pills: Zoloft, Wellbutrin and Inderal.

  “Pesscripshin,” she blurted.

  “All of them?” said Reggie. “What kind of doctor is making you take all of those?”

  “Three doctors,” said Aerie, holding up three fingers in case Reggie wasn’t familiar with the numerical concept. “Tokyo. Baltimore. Ithaca.”

  “I don’t think you should be taking all of those at once,” said Reggie.

  “No it’s fine,” said Aerie. “They work great.”

  Reggie picked one up and read the label. “Are these for … depression?”

  Aerie nodded.

  Reggie’s face softened. “Oh hon. I had no idea. I didn’t mean to pry. I mean … it’s never affected your work before this, but … are you doing okay?”

  “I’m fine. As long as I take my pills.”

  Reggie bit her lip. “You know … there are other ways. Herbals. Acupuncture.”

  “No thanks,” said Aerie. “I’m happy with my little pills.”

  “Talk to your doctor,” said Reggie. “Make sure he or she knows about all of those? Okay? Promise me?”

  “Yeah.”

  ***

  After work, another rehearsal—their last before the production. Mal drove, Ron rode shotgun, while Aerie dozed in the back. She roused herself as they started up the bumpier roads leading into Connecticut Hill.

  Passing the half-built subdivision, she noticed some activity at John’s house—trucks and trailers and some guys laying wire.

  “What up with that?” said Mal. “Cable TV coming to Connecticut Hill?”

  “Civilization at last,” said Ron. “Aaron can get rid of his rabbit ears.”

  “Do you smell … barbecue?” said Mal.

  Aerie took up her bass as if she were slipping into an old, favorite sweater. She played automatically again, under the influence, letting her mind drift to more pleasant places where the music couldn’t intrude.

  But intrude, it did. Sari sounded particularly unearthly at this jam. Her voice climbed heights, penetrated barriers, pried around borders that heretofore had limited her. When the table holding the bell jar began to rattle, Aaron un-tucked his fiddle and whirled around to face them all. “Okay, that’s enough. Let’s save something for Production tomorrow. I’ve got a feeling, this one’s gonna be a doozy.”

  “Wow, Sari,” said Ron. “You sounded like you might be coming into heat.”

  “Plug it, Ron,” said Sari, lips askew in a sneer.

  “I meant that as a compliment.”

  “Such charm. No wonder you live in your Grandma’s basement.”

  “Now, now, kids,” said Aaron. “Where’s our camaraderie? Remember our team spirit.”

  “Rah rah,” said Eleni.

  “Oh, come on guys,” said Aaron. “Get over here. Everyone huddle up. I need to remind you what this is all about. Tomorrow’s the full moon. It’s production time. And this is gonna be a good one, and not just because we have a bass. You know that unified, single organism thing I’m always talking about? Well, we got it down cold, at times. Our sum gets greater than the sum of its parts. We get the synergy thing going on. We get spirit. Capeche?”

  “You mean … we got soul?” said Ron. Eleni giggled, and Aerie couldn’t help but snicker along.

  “No joke,” said Aaron. “That’s exactly it. At times we create a collective soul. I’m talking a real soul—the emergent complexity of an actual consciousness. None of that metaphorical Motown bullshit. We conjure a soul worth sending to Heaven, or wherever it is that souls dwell. Understand?”

  “No,” said Ron.

  “Ron, my boy. You wouldn’t know it if it bit you. But listen up, guys. I want you to all get your rest. You all look like you’re dragging. At least Aerie’s got an excuse. I don’t know what it is the rest of you do with yourselves all day, but tomorrow—don’t. I want you all here bright-eyed and well-fed no later than six. We’re gonna start at sundown and go as long as it takes to have a really great Production. And in case you’re wondering, Ron—double pay, like I promised. One k per person if we make the birdie sing. Got it?”

  “Oo-rah!” said Ron.

  “Make that birdie sang!” said Mal, his voice all warped and nasal.

  As they broke up and made their way out to the cars, Aerie gazed up at the sky. The moon was the tiniest sliver this side of full. Seven pinpoints of light formed a chain along the road – people, bearing candles, wearing robes of white.

  “What the fuck?” said Ron. “What’s this? The Ku Klux Klan?”

  Chapter 13: Candles

  John had mowed the lawn and run a vacuum across every carpet in the house. The guest rooms were airing; their beds fitted with fresh sheets.

  He took eggs and bacon and spinach out of the fridge and prepared to shred cheese for some quiches Lorraine. Nigel and Jason sat in their high chairs, pink strawberry yogurt smeared on their bibs and faces.

  “Momma!” said Nigel.

  John peeked out the window to see a convoy of vehicles pulling into the subdivision, led by Pastor Mac’s pearly platinum Lexus and Cindy’s Camry followed by another car that John didn’t recognize and a pickup truck pulling something that looked like the engine of a steam locomotive. Apparently, a rendezvous had been coordinated, but as usual, the last person to know about it was him.

  He scrambled to wipe the yogurt off the boys’ chins, wetting down Nigel’s hair with a dish cloth to get a cowlick to stay down. Jason was groggy and sucking on a sippy cup after a long nap, onesie unsnapped and riding up on his belly. His diaper felt like a sack of concrete. He probably could use a change. Would it have troubled Cindy to give him a head’s up?

  He plucked both boys out of their chairs and carried them to the door, one in each arm, backing through the screen door which was already ajar.

  The deliverance folks were stretching out in the driveway, slapping hands and hugging Pastor Mac, Cindy and a couple he recognized from their church. Other that the guy in the ZZ Top beard dressed like a bow hunter, they looked pretty normal for demon caster-outers. The lead guy had a booming voice that carried across the lawn. He wore a blue blazer and chinos and seemed to be about the same age as Pastor Mac, just a bit greyer at the temples and thicker at the waist. They had with them a preppy looking pair, a mousey-looking girl with a Baylor sweatshirt and a kid with lightly spiked hair whose freckled face looked too young for his full-grown body.

  “And these are my boys,” said Cindy. “Nigel’s going on three and Jason’s a year and a half.”

  “What about the
big one in the middle?” said the bearded one.

  “Oh,” said Cindy. “That’s John.”

  “Au pair?”

  Cindy smirked. “He’s my husband.” She giggled through her teeth.

  The man in the blazer strode towards the John on the front stoop like a big, friendly dog. They had an awkward moment when John couldn’t find a free hand to shake with without dropping one of the boys onto the walk. The man clapped his hand firmly on John’s back.

  “Reverend Donald Beasley, Last Hope Ministries. You can call me Donnie. This man here’s my associate, Jericho Winston, director of security.”

  “I go by Jerry.”

  “Randall and Tammie over there are our interns.”

  “John Paciorek. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Paciorek?” said the Reverend. “I thought your name was Swain.”

  “Cindy kind of … kept her name.”

  “Ah,” said Donnie.

  “For business reasons,” said Cindy. “Besides, nobody can pronounce Paciorek.” She crinkled her nose. “It just makes things easier.”

  “He’s got nothing on Tammie,” said Donnie. “Say your last name for us, Tam.”

  “Kolaszkiewicz,” said the intern, sighing.

  “That’s why we call her Tammie K,” said Donnie.

  “Tammie Kola is what I call her,” said Jerry, sharing his bad teeth with everyone.

  “Aw, Kolaszkiewicz is nothing,” said John, winking. “It’s phonetic.”

  “For you Slavs, maybe,” said the Reverend. He looked across the lawn towards all of the empty and unfinished houses in the subdivision. “So sad they never finished this place. All this emptiness might be part of your problem. Evil loves a vacuum. Having a quorum of Christian souls come together in a small area actually confers protection. It’s part of the power of faith, what they call herd immunity. If these houses were occupied, you would have that.”

  “Unless they were Jewish,” said Jerry.

  The Reverend shook his head ever so slightly. “Ignore him.”

  “The developer’s in receivership,” said Cindy. “But I hear they have a buyer. Once the paperwork clears I assume they’ll resume building. We can only hope.”