The Freewayfayers' Book of the Dead

by John Okas

  Mrs Melanzano winces at anything colloquial. The term Gloria coined for the man her mother married sits no better with her than “jazz.” “My dear Miss Black, what an odd way you have of putting things! Whom I think whom you mean is ‘my stepfather’.”

  “No, Mrs Melanzano, I didn’t mean your Daddy-o I meant mine.” Gloria tries to get friendly by making a corny Daddy-o-like joke. When Melanzano does not seem amused, she decides to amuse herself by volunteering some unsolicited personal information to really jazz the priggish teacher’s ears. “I didn’t know my real daddy. But my Daddy-o’s a billionaire who got a bug for educated class music up his behind, especially when my Mummy puts on airs of it for him.”

  “What?” Mrs Melanzano recoils at what she thinks she has heard. “My dear, I’m sure you didn’t mean what I think you did.” She sees she must be willing to overlook certain things about Miss Black. She reminds herself: Irene, the child’s interest does seem genuine. It’s that that counts. “Do you read music at all, my dear?”

  “Some,” says Gloria.

  “Do you understand what this says?” says the teacher pointing to the sheet of Kreuszer music, the slow soft moody minor theme of the adagio.

  Gloria is no prodigy, but because of the explanations she has had from her mother she can get by the key signature and knows what most of the details on the notes mean. Compared to the rags and rambles her mother has shown her, where the bass follows simple progressions, Kreuszer’s music seems like complexity itself. As she expected, it’s a real challenge. Her eyes hurt and her fingers, long though they be, are stumped.

  The teacher goes through it a measure at a time, over and over again, phrase by phrase, until Gloria thinks she understands it well enough to take it home and practice. To supplement it, Melanzano gives her sheets with elementary exercises of scales, chords, and arpeggios.

  After a week the student returns to recite for the teacher. She is far from having the Kreuszer down pat. Unable to sustain the tempo with her left hand, she bounces it in a rag time. Her right hand deviates from the wholeness of the melody too. Like corruption, heretical syncopations creep in, a flat note here, a sharp one there, then her mother’s influence shows up whole. What she doesn’t know she fakes by inserting a fistfull of phrases out of the blues, and—

  “Enough! Enough! This is not Kreuszer!” The teacher screams, waving her baton. “Stick to what Kreuszer wrote.” She softens her voice to a plea. “My dear, you have talent, but talent is not enough. You must have discipline. The more discipline you have the more you will appreciate the difference between what is art and what is base.”

  “You mean improvisation is out entirely?”

  “Not entirely, Miss Black. But it’s a cultivated subtlety which marks one player’s inventiveness and uniqueness from another, not his brash depravity.”

  Gloria starts to study with Melanzano three times a week and every evening sits at the piano, a serious practitioner. Let the other music in the house play on, the swing in the children’s wing, the amorous strings from her Mummy’s bedroom, she doesn’t let it mix her up, but uses the distractions to help her sharpen her wits on what she’s about: playing note for note, in the proper time, what is written on the sheet in front of her, and only what is on that sheet, as close to the ideal virgin interpretation as she can come. And while her back is straight, her mind is bent on transmitting the nuances to her fingers, the things that sheet music can’t express and what she might be permitted to spell out between the lines.

  The First Saturday Night in December

  The first Friday meeting in December of nineteen forty-one is a blast. Altogether fifty-two show up to wish the worst on Herr Rednose. Mostly they are women, but there is the usual smattering of husbands and boyfriends dragged along. Sarah, under the influence of Double F, plays a recording of Brahman’s Reichrepublikan Requiem on the phonograph in her room over and over again, loud as it will go. Loud as the record is, the shrieking and cackling, the wiggling and giggling, the rhythmic shouting from the circle is louder, enough to raise the dead. The household staff as well as Harry, Laudette, and Gloria all raise their brows when they hear the din. The next day Pearly has to cart out four large trash cans of empty beer bottles.

  On the first Saturday night in December, itching for world peace, Sarah invites her husband to bed and prods him to try and try again, but after one man-oeuvre he doesn’t feel like marching any more. Set-in-his-way Harry wants her to put down his gun, at least until he can get it fully loaded again. Qualmish, half-cocked, he puts on his robe and goes down to the back parlor, where Gloria has been staying up to all hours, practicing her Kreuszer. He pours himself a stiff glass of eighty-six proof ammunition, and settles into his chair to listen.

  “Hey, Gee Bee, you’re getting better all the time,” he says when she pauses. “It sounds as if we might have a real musician in the family.”

  The beautiful dreamer is a realist. She knows it best to take proud parental opinion with open eyes and ears. “Oh, Daddy-o, be serious! You just say I’m good because I’m in your family.”

  “No, Gee Bee, honestly. Considering it’s only been a month that you’ve been taking lessons, I think you’re coming along splendidly. And I think you’re being falsely modest. You might be able to go all the way to the top.”

  Using this past six weeks’ effort as a yardstick Gloria figures what it would take to go the miles down the road to be a foolproof player. “The top” is a long way off, and she’s a lazy Bee, given only to spurts of energy. “I’ve already decided to take after you, Daddy-o, spare the world my genius, and play just for the fun of it.” She gives Harry a picky and choosy flip of her head that lets him know she knows that being rich means you have the luxury and freedom not to settle on a career. “I just want to see what music is made of and get an idea of what the discipline is all about. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I can understand that one hundred percent, Gee Bee,” says the man who never worked a day in his life. “It’s no fun once you turn it into work.”

  The playboy and the playgirl shake on it. The creamy coffee-skinned girl yawns. “Enough practice for tonight. Nightie-night, Dad, I love you.”

  “Sleep tight, Gee Bee. I love you too.”

  Long-legged Glory skips stairs to her rooms, doing the hippity hippitin’ hop up the notes of a jive bee minor scale. As she passes through the second story she hears the Requiem again, now coming softly from her mother’s room. Without the overlying noise and racket of last night, she hears this chanting, high and deep and full, as an imitation of angels welcoming a soul to the joys of everlasting life. She doesn’t understand the words, but the syllables, held long over many notes by the voices, have at their core a monkish harmony. The beauty of it cuts her to the heart.

  She is aware of her Mummy’s signals to her Daddy-o: records, opera or chamber music, have been her mating calls all along, and her stepfather’s commands when he hears them. Now, with the recent hubbub over the war, the Requiem serves as her summons.

  The girl pauses a moment in the shadows of the cloister on the third story to see if her stepfather, down in the great hall drinking, making the stations of Saint Stanislaus, does as she expects him to. When he hears the music, he tugs at his crotch, pours down the rest of his drink, and makes for the stairs. From her dark corner Gloria watches him come up the flight and enter her mother’s suite. She is curious and is tempted to slip into the Parlor of Roses and peek, but the good Bee reminds herself to mind her own beeswax, and use it to close her eyes and ears. She is promptly filled with healthy indifference. A sleepy feeling overtakes her and she goes up to her room, pulls back the flap on her tent and tumbles into dreams, lustrous as pearls, sweet as old songs, blissfully unaware of the adults playing downstairs.

  Harry’s refractory period comes to a prompt end, thanks to both the nerves alcohol gives him and the music. Fueled, furled, he follows the many voices in the sound back to his wife’s bedroom. When he enters he f
inds it lit with a dozen candles. In support of the rich tones of the music the air is full of frankincense and several torn old thaumatalogs full of spells and strange signs are open, like gospels, on the night table. But no stage set, no sound track, can take the place of his wife for beauty and mystery. Dressed in high gear—heels and a lace dalmatic, a fine open network of black silk—she is holding back the curtains, inviting him into her bed. In the transfiguring glow of the candlelight, the weave of her holey regalia italicizes her whiteness with filigrees of black roses.

  Of course Harry has no idea what went on in the hour of his absence. But through Art in Heaven we can be in two places at the same time.

  Full of enmity for Reichmann, feeling itchy and unsatisfied with the way Harry has been slowing down lately, Sarah feels atingle: is that My Bonny Lord I sense sailing on the airwaves? But I recited no couplet.

  Then Sarah hears a little voice. Without having Keinar and her sisters present, it’s unauthorized. And that in itself is a thrill. Who goes there?

  Take my advice, don’t be slow.

  Make the sacrifice, call Ram Beau.

  It’s Mother Goose honking faintly within, urging her to disregard Keinar’s warning never to traffic with magic bodies outside of the group. She is just about to go to hell with herself when she hears another little voice. The sharp, light blue tone of Double F comes through. “Not yet, Sister Bharani-Sarah. Our all-natural Mother G means well, but she’s a bit hasty.”

  “Remember, Father,” Mother Goose crosstalks on the fruited plane, “haste makes waste and waste is our cannon fodder.”

  “Waste can be a powerful weapon, Mother,” says Double F, “and so can turning oneself into a symbol of loving self-sacrifice. But the timing must be right. Don’t jump the gun, Sister Bharani-Sarah. Save your power. Your call might be what it takes to save a life later.”

  Then Sarah sees: Reichmann’s evil masterminds are performing a magic ritual to weaken the free world’s hold on the Higher Ground, just as Kimrakazi Bombers are on their way to say “Aloha” to the Freeway naval base in Coral Bay. Lord Bharavi is deep in meditation staring down the evil eyes, and at the same time seeing double, trying to send a warning message that there’s trouble in Paradise.

  “So the Lord’s mission is physical. I thought I could feel Z’s Hot Rod heating up. Ooh!” Sarah gets the tingles again, but at the same time has the disconcerting feeling that the fate of the world is on her shoulders. The mystical sphere is never easy to understand; the workings of the gears of cause and effect are too intricate for her human mind to fully fathom. But with medium-power, she finds she can select the channel. She chooses to be patient, lie by, wait for further briefings from Double F, and take her pleasure where she can find it.

  She lets the little voices fade. Tonight her Lord’s life, her own, and many others depend on her making love like never before. Can old Harry rise to the occasion? She dresses to kill in her prettiest black shoes and nightie and gives the recording of the high Requiem another whirl. Then, kicking up her ritual high heels, she waits for the Lord’s stand-in to stand in.

  When her husband sees her, she shifts her shift, parts the black rose curtains of the tabernacle, offering him her overflowing loving cup.

  Come on, Harry, quake me,

  take me up and shake me.

  Can’t you hear me calling?

  I’m begging for a balling!

  While he swears he hates her otherworldly connections and her adventures on the fruited plane, nevertheless the dark psychological trappings of the black art fuel his urges, drive him mad for the woman. However, as excited as he is, he is puzzled that, for once, she calls specifically for him. Over the years he has come to understand that, regardless of what name-calling she does, her soul is solely for the Hero with a Thousand Nicknames. Does “Harry” just happen to be another name for her God? He guesses so. Then, like all true irony, the switch works both ways. A light goes on in the playboy’s head. He sees what she means when she tells him it is no insult that in this rite of hers he is like a vessel incidental to the ceremony, a tool for sprinkling holy water. By using him as a representative of some unfathomable metaphysical fancy, she is indeed honoring the highest and most potent part of him.

  Aspergillus Harry feels the love bug bite him hard. He is on her, hell-bound, feverish, a moth consecrated to a flame. So full of fluid, so taken by her sweet soft body he doesn’t care whether her mind is on him or the thing he stands for.

  In the afterglow, Sarah feels as usual, that she would rather be alone, but for once she doesn’t shoo him out of bed. If he wants to sleep, she thinks, let him lie. She pushes him off to the one o’clock side, lies still as midnight herself, and waits for another message from Double F, Mother Goose, or, best of all, Lord Z himself. With none coming, she believes that the only thing she can do to combat the death in the world is make more love. On each and every wee hour of the morning she wakes Harry up for service. Miraculously, the old playboy is not played out, but always good for one more. Yes! Just when she, and the cause, need him most.

  For the first time in their married life, she keeps Harry in her bed for the entire night. The playboy beams with happiness when he sees the first light of dawn outlining the shades. He was beginning to think he didn’t have it in him any longer, but now no longer himself, but an instrument in the ritual, he feels as if he could spout forever. After another rise and another shine, Sarah treats him like king for a day. She has Shepp send up Sunday morning breakfast, bacon and eggs with all the trimmings and even suggests they pop the cork on a bottle of champagne to freshen up their orange juice. Harry has his jollies, eating and drinking, and holds his own in yet another storm of intercourse with her.

  As midday approaches he sleeps peacefully again with a satisfied grin and one arm draped over Sarah’s soft sweet breasts. Sarah breathes quietly, in deep concern for Lord Bharavi. What about this mission Double F talked about? She pours herself a glass of the sparkling white wine, takes a sip, and, out of the blue, suddenly, hears the little voice of Mother Goose honking.

  Call Dancer, call Prancer, call Donder, call Blitzen.

  Call, Bharani-Sarah, be a new-world citizen.

  She understands that she can wait no longer. The time has come for her to do her part. With Harry in peaceful slumber next to her, she takes three deep breaths, and slips into a light trance-pose. Then she belly flops on a clear stretch of mattress, rears her buttocks, and calls the dogs, loudly, clearly, articulating every syllable, underscoring it with heavy breathing:

  Come Pinscher, come Badger, come Boxer, come Nipper,

  light up my life with the whole Big Dipper.

  Come Shepherd, come Setter, come Pointer, come Springer,

  bring me the lay with the infrared stinger.

  She puckers her lips, lets loose a series of soft high tones, and waits, trembling for the penetrating warmth, the impact of the lightning hammer, ready and eager for the sizzling hot Big Z to come to her on the air. But something is wrong. The doggeral rhymes and this body language always worked before. Instead of the Lord of Death there comes a sharp, piercing cry in her heart of hearts. The gist of it is pain, a distressed signal. Then nothing, silence.

  The new medium prays for news, and gets a message. The little voice of Double F Fife returns to speak to her. “I’m sorry to say, Sister Bharani-Sarah, I am the bringer of bad tidings. It’s time to say ‘aloha’ to the Freeway Fleet at Coral Bay. And, well, Lord Z is down, lost at sea. The Dark Side has the upper hand on him.’

  The bad news she most feared!

  “But this is not your fault,” says Father Fife, seeing the mark on her soul left by the Corn Dog tragedy. “You’ve been a big help. Z needed your love to make it. He sent Mother Goose to tell you to call him. And this time the Sage is down but is not out entirely. He has done damage to himself, but you can save him. A body might be sacrificed to redeem a body. Will you sacrifice your life to redeem the Lord’s? If you surrender to the dogs, they will ta
ke your soul and replace his back on the Magic Mountain.”

  Can devotion to God conquer all? Can love save the day? Sarah rises to the occasion to find out. It’s the opportunity she’s been waiting for all these years: to do a good deed and to die. She feels she deserves it. She needs the rest. Looking at jovial Harry, she see no reason to wake him. In fact, she actually feels comfortable having the old lump in bed with her. She kisses him goodbye and rolls over. In his sleep, as lovers will do, he rolls over, and slides up behind her, close as spoons in a drawer.

  Another little voice comes to her, this from Harry. He communicates that he is volunteering his body. He would gladly give his all for the sweet love of her.

  The fruit in her womb lets her know exactly what to do. She twists her neck, and whispers in his ear.

  The dogs of the dead have the keys to the treasure.

  Death is the last word in love’s giving pleasure.

  The dogs of war will carry you from here to eternity,

  may you rest in peace, a ward of maternity …

  She bumps her rump against him. His smile deepens as his prick stiffens. She rolls on her back, and takes him home, mashing him in her softness with all her heart.

  Harry, so blindly happy to have another full head of steam, ignores her muttering. Blissfully deaf, he blesses her beautiful body for making his manhood feel so true and natural, in tune with the universe. She whimpers excitedly, “This’ll be the ninth time tonight! You big studbuck!”

  Indeed Harry is proud of himself. At fifty-two I can still fire with any man around, he thinks. I’m just glad I don’t live in these delusions the way the little woman does.

  One body, in and out, they come together in spirit. Inside of him is inside of her. Then he sees it coming: the Brilliance he came from, the Light inside of him, the Warmth of a thousand summers, his real nature, his own true love, his mistress, his being, and his destiny rolled into one. The ball of fire explodes as his bones jerk and his muscles clench in climax. Then, with a big smile on his face, his every cell radiating happiness, he releases his embrace of Sarah, rolls off her, lies back and settles down for another after-Sunday-morning-sex nap. As he does, his soul unfolds its petals in the dazzle of Wisdom, and he falls to the light work of sawing the wood of forever.