by Cary Fagan
These night travels continued for several months and made life bearable again. Over time I went farther, staying out almost all night. Below me I saw other towns, the escarpment, the lake, bonfires. But I always came back, always returned to my body before light. I still believed in duty.
And then for some reason he asked me to play the piano. He’d been commenting on the newspaper in his hands, telling me about neighbourhood disturbances and the deterioration of society. He put the paper down and asked if I would play something for him. He’d never had the slightest interest in music before except for the fees that I handed over. I wondered if my nightly excursions had changed me in some way, had given me a look or demeanour that roused his anxiety. Whatever the reason, he insisted I sit at the piano bench and play whatever happened to be open — Chopin, Brahms, Mozart, it was all the same to him. Perhaps he wanted to spoil music for me, to poison it as he had done with so much else. If so, he began to succeed, because I hated playing for him and that hatred began to seep into what I played. But I just couldn’t lose what music gave me. That’s when I decided to try and travel during the day.
But would it be possible to leave my body and yet continue to play? It required a tremendous mental effort even to try, but at last I rose up above myself at the piano. There was a slight hesitation, a sixteenth-note pause at most, before my hands continued. I saw that my body was working on pure muscle memory, playing the notes accurately but without the slightest feeling. He registered no change at all but merely stared sullenly into space. And so I left him there with the shell of me and went out into the world.
Travelling during the day meant light, meant there was so much to see. I found myself able to move over great distances. I saw ice floes. I saw beautiful cities. I discovered what a glorious place was the world.
And then I returned. Through the window, into the parlour, to drop gently back into my seated form. Immediately the music came back to life. One day even he noticed, turning his head to look at me. I finished the étude, and he muttered, “Yes, well, that’s enough,” and got up to put his hand heavily on my shoulder. And at that moment I told myself that my courage would grow, would eventually encompass my whole self, and that one day I would float out the door, taking my body with me.
WHO’S SORRY NOW?
MONDAY
A maggot in my porridge this morning. I didn’t see it until the thing was wiggling on my spoon. I dropped the spoon which splashed porridge on the inmate next to me and a second later the whole bench was on its feet. Then the guards came down on us, pulling out their nightsticks. A guy beside me got a stick in the ribs and another guard was about to come down hard over my lifted arms when the floor captain yelled, “Don’t hurt him, he’s in the band!”
I only had to scrub the showers, and when four o’clock came around I got called into rehearsal. We spent most of the hour working on “Sensation Rag.” Of course we don’t have a clarinet player so Siggins has to sub on sax. Three new fish are being transferred in tomorrow and we’re hoping for a recruit. The warden’s been trying to get us a clarinet or trombone player but we don’t know yet. A tenor banjo would certainly bolster the rhythm section.
TUESDAY
Another attempted suicide today. Old geezer named Juarez tried to hang himself with a bedsheet when his cellmate was in the library. A guard cut him down and the doc came running. Juarez got taken by wagon to the hospital where he’s alive but unconscious. Word is he’ll never wake up. Same old thing.
No luck with the greeners, not a musician among them. One played B-league baseball and immediately got recruited by the team, the lucky bastards. At rehearsal we worked on “Tico-Tico,” but ever since Cummings got early release it’s become a dog’s dinner. I hope we won’t have to drop it.
WEDNESDAY
Today there was an unexpected visit from the governor so we got served hamburgers for lunch, a genuine treat. The big shots walked through the dining hall and then went to eat on white tablecloths while Reiter played violin. At rehearsal we asked him how it went. “I started with some Mozart but it was putting them to sleep. So I lit into ‘Sally Goodin’ and woke ’em up. Got their feet tapping. We might even get some new strings.”
Everybody patted Reiter on the back and then we ran through “When the Saints Go Marching In.” I’m bored to tears with that old chestnut but somebody always requests it.
THURSDAY
Last night two inmates tried to escape in the back of the bread-delivery van. Brothers named Whitehead. Of course keeping brothers in the same cell block is against the rules and the governor is going to hear about it. The brothers pushed the driver out of the van and took off. They might have made it, at least for a while, if the one driving hadn’t tried to avoid a cat. Said later it was just sitting in the middle of the road looking up. The van smashed into a mailbox and turned over. The other brother was killed almost instantly. So ended their sibling rivalry.
In rehearsal we made another hash of “Tico-Tico.” I suggested we replace it with “Who’s Sorry Now?” with me taking the lead. They were skeptical that a mandolin solo could be heard above the horns but we gave it a try and it went pretty well. Must say, I felt pretty chuffed.
Half the block was up all night with bad stomach runs. You could hear the groans up and down the block and the smell was enough to make you gag. Didn’t get me, though. Some thought the culprit was the fish stew, others the butterscotch pudding. I traded my pudding for two cigarettes so I’m thinking that was it.
FRIDAY
Rained all day. They still made us go out in the yard. We came back soaked and shivering. An hour later Taskins was sent to the infirmary with a high fever.
I got put on library duty. A mere seven months after putting in the request. The library is in a space next to the laundry and the books get mouldy from the humidity. I went to pick up the cart and glimpsed two inmates, one with his pants around his ankles. Didn’t see who it was, or whether it was by consent or force. Not my business.
Time getting short, we decided to run through most of the set at rehearsal. “Sensation Rag,” “Jealous,” “Bei Mir Bist du Schön,” “Saints.” It’s official: “Who’s Sorry Now?” is on the set list, which is pretty swell. But even I have to admit the highlight was “Tiger Rag.” That tune is really starting to swing.
SATURDAY
Mail delivery today. Everyone waited in his cell, trying to look casual but actually tense as hell, not knowing if he was going to get a “Dear John” letter or find out that Mother has kicked the bucket. Me, I didn’t expect to get anything and I wasn’t disappointed. I just lay back on my bunk and read the book I took out of the library, Call of the Wild.
Full rehearsal tonight in preparation for tomorrow’s evening concert. Then our “good” clothes were taken from us to be cleaned and pressed. After that we got an hour of extra leisure before lights out. I lay on my bunk with my eyes closed but couldn’t stop playing my lead for “Who’s Sorry Now?” over and over in my head. I could feel my fingers moving under the thin blanket.
SUNDAY
Everyone in the band got a special breakfast — bacon, eggs, toast. We sat at a separate table and the other inmates shot daggers at us. Of course we gloated.
We were allowed to take our instruments into our cells. I gave my mandolin a good wipe-down. It’s got a nice bowl, alternating rosewood and maple strips. Just holding it always makes me feel good.
Somebody called my name and I looked up to see a guard opening the cell door. “You, get up,” he said.
“What did I do?” I asked.
“Come with me.”
I walked in front of him. He didn’t put cuffs on me, which meant it couldn’t be too serious. Another guard joined us at the end of the block. “You got a smart lawyer,” the new guard said.
“I don’t have a lawyer.”
“Then this is your lucky day.”
The first guard unlocked a heavy door and then another. We took a staircase and walked a long corridor. We reached an office where the warden himself was at his desk looking through a file. He picked a paper bag off the floor and pushed it into my arms.
“That’s your stuff,” he said. “You have to change.”
“Change?”
“You can’t take prison property with you.”
I looked in the bag and saw the clothes that had been taken from me twenty-three months ago. Also my wallet, watch, and cap.
“I’ve got the release order here. Hurry up, would you?”
They were expecting me to change right there so I did. When I put my trousers on they were too big in the waist.
“I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” I said, “but the concert is tonight and if there’s any way —”
Three minutes later I was standing outside the wall. Not far away a church bell started to sound. I just stood there, smelling the air. Two kids rode by on bicycles, turning their heads to look at me.
I wondered if that had really been me back there, asking if I could stay, or some dope who just looked like me. I started down the road. As I walked I began to hum “Who’s Sorry Now?”
THE SIX
The rift was a terrible thing. It wasn’t over something trivial and I didn’t think that anything would ever be the same.
Almost from the beginning, we called ourselves the Six. We weren’t the same age, didn’t have the same backgrounds, but we came together when the town needed us.
The occasion was a fire that burned down three houses by the railroad tracks; the cause never was discovered. Really, they weren’t much better than shacks but families lived in them — less fortunate, as my father said — with a bunch of kids in each. I was only sixteen when it happened but my mother had been urging me to get involved in the community, so when a notice went up for a woman’s committee, I joined.
Seeing as it was serious work, I didn’t expect to have such a good time. I remember how awkward I felt at that first meeting in the Methodist church basement, at least at the start. We were supposed to raise money for the lumber and shingles and nails and everything else the volunteer crew of men needed to build three new houses, and we agreed to hold a bunch of events — raffles, a cakewalk, a rummage sale.
After the big decisions were made the woman who was chairing the meeting, Harmony, said, “You all understand that this is just an excuse for us to eat sweets and dish the dirt.” Everyone laughed and then the girls — that’s what they always called themselves, never women — started chatting away. And somehow the work got finished, too.
Being the youngest, I didn’t have much to say, at least not until Edna, who ran the free lending library out of her front parlour, asked me about myself, and everybody turned to listen. I said that I had just finished school and was helping my mother with my younger brothers and that I had a beau named Bertrand Katridge who I thought was going to propose to me. “Oooh!” they all moaned and then laughed and I couldn’t tell if they were hopeful or sorry for me.
After the houses we took on other projects, such as distributing literature on milk homogenization, helping some of the widows in town, and sending parcels to the incarcerated. It was another year or two before we realized that we didn’t always need a cause to get together and enjoy each other’s company. We started to meet on Thursday evenings after chores, sometimes at Harmony’s house, sometimes at Edna’s or Alberta’s. Once in a blue moon we went to the Good Times Restaurant and filled two tables and made so much noise we sounded like a hen house, the cook said.
I’m sure that our group was important to all of us, but I was learning what it meant to be a grown woman, and their example had a real influence on me. I learned that there wasn’t just one way to think, or dress, or live. I saw what was needed to overcome tragedy, and that all of us were stronger than we thought. Like Lou-Anne, whose husband died cleaning his shotgun (or perhaps deliberately, it was whispered). Still, she needed us and the others showed me how to help. And as Alberta said, we’d all be in that position sooner or later, needing the others.
All of this is why the rift was so awful. Edna’s only son volunteered for the army and three months later was in France and three days after that was presumed dead, his body never found. Such a terrible time it was for her, and after the memorial service we all just kept on visiting. One afternoon we happened to all be there, crammed into Edna’s parlour, when Harmony said in almost an offhand way that it was a “stupid war” and a “waste of life.” Edna looked up, shocked, and accused Harmony of saying that her son had died for nothing. And Harmony — who’d always been stubborn — got defensive and heated up, and finally Edna told her to leave the house and never return.
Afterwards the rest of us argued about who was in the wrong, but I knew only that I needed these women in my life. The war went on and more boys from around here got killed, and Lou-Anne, who had nurse’s training, went overseas and worked in a hospital in England, and it seemed to me that the world was coming to an end.
Then came the armistice. Some of the young men came back, if not always whole, and Lou-Anne returned, too, looking older and sadder. We didn’t have each other like we used to, didn’t call ourselves the Six anymore. After a while I decided that maybe it was me who had to do something about it, rather than waiting for somebody else to fix things. I got the idea of doing something to remember Edna’s son. I called Lou-Anne and Alberta and Norma together and also Harmony, who I practically had to drag over to my house. I proposed that we get a real town library built and name it after Edna’s son, who used to help his mother lend out books when he was a boy. Everyone — even Harmony — thought it was a fine idea. Alberta took charge of procuring books while Lou-Anne and I would make a formal proposal to the town to donate the land. Alberta said that she would approach Mr. Carnegie, the millionaire, or rather his charitable organization, which funded library construction in cities all over.
But none of it could happen if Edna didn’t agree. I took it upon myself to visit her, and I asked Harmony to come. There was some debate about whether bringing Harmony was such a good idea — well, there was a lot of debate — but in the end everyone agreed.
The next morning we walked to Edna’s house and knocked on the door. I’d never seen Harmony look so nervous. Edna peeked at us through her curtains and then took her time letting us in. Two hours we sat with her, and more than half the time nobody said a word. But we got our idea across and finally Edna agreed to let us name the library after her son. That was really the hardest part. The town gave the land, not on the main street but a block north, and the Carnegie Foundation gave the funds. A two-storey library with a stone facade went up and it stands there today, still the most handsome building in town.
The building is used, for one reason or another, by just about everyone. On the second floor is a meeting room with lovely wainscotting and an arched window that is directly above the main entrance. Above the door to the meeting room is a small oak plaque with The Six carved in capital letters. That’s because all of us gave personally for the decoration of the room. Young people sometimes wonder what it means, and if I’m within hearing, you can be sure that I always tell them.
SUBVERSION
What do you suppose she’s thinking, sitting there?
How do I know? The best way to destroy this place, probably.
What are you talking about? She’s a child. These accusations against her have to be exaggerated.
You’ve read the reports?
I’ve only had a chance to glance at them. Where is her latest report card?
At the very front of the file. You’ll see —
Yes, yes, I can read perfectly well. What I see is that she got first in math, first in chemistry, first in biology. And she’s captain of the chess team. But of course I knew that. The chess team is the pride of your school.
She was th
e captain. She’s been removed from the team.
Why? Last year you won the provincials. The newspapers even wrote about her match. I remember something about sacrificing three pieces and deceiving her opponent.
A perfect example of her natural deviousness. In any case, I had no choice but to remove her. She was coaching the other teams.
I’m sorry?
Every Wednesday night. She organized it in some ice cream shop. Anyone could come and work through chess problems. The best players from the other schools were coming to learn from her.
And you asked her to stop?
Several times.
So?
She said that chess wasn’t about winning. That it was about problem solving or some nonsense like that. When I threatened her with expulsion from the team, she just shrugged and said that she would prefer to continue her Wednesday nights and that she could always play chess in the park on Saturdays.
Impudence, eh? But let’s not get sidetracked. Teaching chess isn’t why we’re here.
No, of course not. I hardly would have asked you to come from the board office for that.
Look how she sits without even fidgeting. I’d really like to know what’s going on in that brain of hers.
Don’t even try to figure her out. She’s not normal. She’s a freak — and a dangerous one.
All right, that’s enough. Just give me the details.
Fine. It started when the head of the history department decided to begin a new after-school club. He found it hard for a history club to compete with soccer, film appreciation, all that sort of thing. So he started a Patriotic Club where students could organize fireworks displays and skits about our great national events, etc. He had a good turnout at the first meeting, twenty-five kids or so.
