Theo

by Ed Taylor

  Gus hadn’t been in his room. It was starry outside but Theo ran back toward Adrian through the ballroom. The dogs had disappeared. They got shy sometimes. Maybe they were outside.

  Back in the room with all the people, the music was louder and people had dragged in cushions and cloths; Theo saw some towels and piles of clothes, pillows collected from other rooms. People scattered in the dark; he heard voices in different places along the halls. In the big room with the tree and the presents his dad now had a guitar, and there was Gus – sitting against a wall talking to a lady. Gus was smoking his pipe. He and the lady each had a bottle.

  Theo ran up to Gus. Will you help me open presents.

  Gus’s eyes were halfway open and slow, and it took him a second to swing around to Theo. Of course, son. Excuse me a second, darling.

  Theo waited while Gus slowly got his legs under him and stood, reaching out toward Theo, who grabbed Gus’s hard hand. Gus’s hands were different than anyone else in the house. Standing, Gus winked at the lady and let Theo lead him.

  A man aimed a microphone at Adrian, and another man Theo didn’t know had a guitar too. A lady was pouring her drink into her hand and a man was licking it from her palm. One lady had her shirt off now. Some of the people from the beach were sitting in a circle leaning over something Theo couldn’t see. The tree lit up backs and halos of hair; someone pounded on Colin’s congas, dragged in from Theo forgot where. Standing next to the tree, Theo sat down and stared up at Gus, who breathed deeply and lowered himself slowly, dropping hard the last few inches.

  Hard on the bum. What have we here.

  Presents from my dad. Help me open them.

  Theo picked a large box and pulled it toward him. Some man sprayed something up in the air from his mouth, and people were laughing or yelling. Somebody was mad. Somebody was telling Colin to put his fucking clothes on. Music was louder. Theo’s ears rang a little. Gus was holding a package, staring at it.

  Open it.

  Reminds me of holidays when your dad was a boy. A bright eyed little bugger. Just like you: Gus reached over to rub Theo’s head. Theo let him.

  What have we here, eh: Gus was ripping into paper, and Theo was too, then into a white box, inside of which were cars, electric cars for the electric track, like the one Theo played in the hotel room when his father had to go to court. One was a Batmobile, one a Ferrari, Theo knew, because of the black horse on the yellow shield on the car’s hood. Theo’s box said Macy’s. Gus’s said something in German. Gus struggled with the tape.

  Theo remembered the hotel when his father came back with toy doctor bags, a lot of them. Theo saw them in Adrian’s room. Adrian said he liked to play doctor, and laughed. Theo didn’t understand.

  There’s tape on it, Theo said to Gus still fussing with the same box.

  Right, Gus said, and stared at one end, then slipped a fingernail in and slid it. The tree shook. Someone fell or was pushed. Singing. Popping sounds Theo knew were champagne cognac, which his dad liked, and which sounded different than other pops. Adrian crosslegged held a dusty black bottle, his other arm protective around the guitar, Adrian’s hand on its neck, the way he had put his hand on the back of Shelley’s neck, light and warm, Theo knew, because he’d had the hand on his neck. Never cold. Adrian always had warm hands. Frieda called it one of his redeeming qualities. What’s a redeeming quality, Theo asked. A reason not to kill him, Frieda said.

  Gus held a mask, with horns and a snout like a dog or wolf – gold, snarling with red lips and white teeth. Hey, that’ll be great for Halloween, eh. Gus lifted the thing and put it on his face, holding a hand at the back of his head.

  Use that to keep the wolf from the door, fight fire with fire – Gus stared at the mask, said: from Tibet, probably a bloody antique, some kind of museum piece. Alright. Gus set it down: that just wet me whistle, now what else did Father Christmas bring.

  Someone had a camera: flashes. The man with the tape recorder walked now, looking down at his dials. Theo’s father was talking to a man in sunglasses and cowboy boots, who was laughing hard. Shelley sat between them, leaning on the other man. Theo saw his father, grinning, swivel around to the bottle and his eyes caught on the tree, then Theo. He grinned, blew a kiss at Theo, yelled: I’m glad you’re here, buddy.

  Theo waved across the floor and reached for a box; Gus bent for a package out of the landscape of presents, reminding Theo of his kindergarten, the blocks teaching shapes and colors. Some things here were wrapped but not in boxes. Who did all this, Theo wondered, looking around at the adults. Who wasn’t drunk. This was someone’s job.

  Music. Somebody slid on the wooden floor without a shirt, on his stomach, on something spilled. Got up with lines of dark on his chest, blood. From the edges of the wood tiles. Parquet, it was called; or nails. Theo turned to a box, ripped, opened. It looked like a necklace. Was that for him. He picked up something wrapped but not a square or rectangle, a big shape. He ripped: someone screamed. Theo peeled back the paper on a football, but it was too big to throw; it said New York Giants and had writing on it, names; signatures. Theo put it down and stood up. He wanted to feel happy. Adrian was playing the guitar with his eyes closed.

  Gus wore a black pirate hat and held a shiny metal folding telescope to his eye and squinted, swinging it around at the ceiling and the adults. Can’t tell if it’s a kaleidoscope or not: Gus laughed, swinging the thing toward Theo to look at him – now there’s a rum face if ever I saw one.

  I’m going to go to bed, Theo said.

  What.

  I’m going to my room.

  Gus focused on Theo through the telescope; Theo could see him wrinkling his face, really looking. You sure, mate. A lot of booty here. But alright, we can open more tomorrow.

  Gus tried to give a pirate salute, Theo thought, then Theo walked toward one of the hall entrances behind the adults, pushing his way through and away.

  Now, next morning, Theo is starving. He hears low sound getting louder as he goes down the waterfall of stairs. Real drums. Maybe someone’s playing his, in the ballroom. His dad’s making a record.

  He’s hopping down the stairs, passing upstairs halls, like a slow elevator moving through sounds on each floor now, voices, clanging, singing, rhythmic banging, some kind of whistle, and the music rising up through the well of space the staircases wrap around. Theo likes to drop things from the top floor and watch. Sometimes he spits. He tries to hit Colin’s chess pieces, a couple of which can be seen all the way from the top. Christmas. Theo’s head floods with last night – he wonders what else is under the tree. He wonders if there’s food. He wonders if his mother is okay. He wonders about the butterflies in his room. Will he have to see anybody before he sees Adrian. Did the man in the suit stay in the house. Did he sleep in his suit. Space – what would it be like to swim through stars. Why do adults drink so much coffee, or drink it at all. Why do adults like alcohol. Adrian and Frieda both have given him alcohol. And cigarettes, they let him try. Both things felt like torture, or a test. And dogs, school, boys like him, girls, about girls. His cheeks feel hot. Damn. He softly says the words sometimes, when no one can hear. Where does air come from. He wonders if dogs burp. Do girls burp. If spider silk is strong as steel how can he break a web with his hand. People say he’s lucky. If so, how can he tell.

  Theo’s almost at the bottom now and the music is loud. In the entrance hall Colin’s chess-men lie in pieces, jumbled. Theo wonders if Colin did this. Theo can’t see any people. Could he live outside and never have to come in. Is his dad okay. Can he find something to eat.

  Theo smells food. He moves toward music, which is where the smell’s also coming from. In the ballroom Adrian and three men Theo doesn’t know are playing, and there are microphones and a man with a beard and headphones. Adrian’s eyes are closed. The air is foggy and smoky, and there’s a cloud up at the ceiling. Theo feels the air in his lungs. All the men are smoking. On the other side of the room is a wooden picnic table Theo’s never seen wi
th alcohol bottles on it and trays of food, and a lady with pink spiky hair in an apron, dishing something out of cartons.

  Theo’s drums are moved, over to the side, everything draped with towels, his bass drum stuffed to keep from making noise on the tape, he knew. The drummer’s on a different kit, old and wood. The French doors are open. Adrian’s leaning now to say something to the other guitar player, and he looks mad. Both stop playing but the drummer and the bass player don’t, they just watch and bob, playing, both chewing gum. Vamping, it’s called, Theo knows, which makes him think of vampires.

  Adrian shoves the other guitar player with a hand to the chest. The bass player rolls his eyes. Come on, man.

  Adrian turns on him but sees Theo and his gray face lightens. He smiles: Hey mate, are you hungry. There’s dinner here.

  It’s morning.

  Well, it’s food anyway, tuck in. You are looking ribby. Is Colin not feeding you.

  Sometimes.

  Bloody hell.

  Theo walks to the table and the lady, who smiles at him: Hello. Would you like some couscous.

  We went Moroccan, Adrian is saying, a cigarette on his lip that he squints through. You remember when we stayed at the Mamounia. You liked the couscous, you couldn’t get enough.

  Morocco Theo remembered because of camels and people yelling at them, kids younger than Theo, outside staring up at the hotel windows and calling whenever anyone looked out of the suite windows or went on the balcony: asking for money, Theo could hear, in English. One of the adults threw coins. It’s a very poor country. The kids chased down the money and pushed and shoved over it, like seagulls fighting over food and men scrambling for foul balls at Yankee Stadium. Theo had seen five Yankees games and three games in Los Angeles. His dad bought him a hat and jersey each time, and they never stayed past the seventh inning. Theo wanted to see how the games ended, but Adrian couldn’t sit that long.

  In Morocco ladies ran next to the car and held up babies. Theo remembered a girl crawling, with sticks for legs. What’s wrong with her, he asked Adrian, who had his eyes closed and was leaning on his friend Rob. Theo’s dad didn’t open his eyes but Rob said, bad luck. She lives in Morocco.

  Why doesn’t anyone ever explain anything, Theo thinks now. Everyone always knows more than he does, and won’t tell, and he just has to live with it. Kids just have to. When do you get to know.

  Theo says, sure, to the pink-haired lady, and she takes a plate, a real plate not a paper one, and scoops out the couscous, which has chunks of meat in it and, Theo notices, yellow raisins. He hates raisins.

  Adrian’s drinking from a bottle, and he’s got sunglasses on now: What’s it sound like, Don.

  The man with headphones shrugs, smoking. It’s a warm room, not bad. Definitely need to close the doors. We might need to swap you and Kit.

  The drummer spits over his bass drum and onto the floor.

  Good christ, this is my home. You’re a goddamn manimal. Clean that up.

  The drummer stands up from his stool, stumbles, then walks around the kit and lowers himself onto his knees, and then onto his hands. Then he sticks out his tongue and licks the place where he spat.

  Thank you. We do need to maintain a modicum of decorum. There are children and ladies present.

  The woman is busy with the food, staring into a pot. Theo’s just staring at his father and the drummer.

  I’m going to go outside, Theo says, walks with his plate toward the doors and the bright outside. The drummer is now lying on the floor.

  Alright. There’s a sign from god. Let’s take five, Adrian calls and pitches his cigarette toward the food. Whose idea was Moroccan.

  Theo looks at the bass player as he passes him. The man’s gray, too, his face dotted with little hairs. It’s funny to think of hairs growing out of a face. Wolfman. Humans are animals but pretend they’re not. The man’s eyes are bright blue, and he’s wearing a shirt without sleeves, and his thin arms strain as he does something with his instrument, squatting, reaching to lock his hand around a bottle and bring it to his mouth. He has arms like a lady, Theo thinks. Theo is thirsty.

  Hey sport.

  Adrian’s voice, echoing a little: at the French doors, Theo turns to look back.

  Let’s have a little breakfast together, eh. Adrian’s grinning, the words a little slurry. Adrian’s wrestling out from under his strap and another man with a mustache is helping him. I’m going to do a fry-up. How about that.

  Theo stands, thinking it might upset the lady, who stirs vigorously with her back to the room, silent.

  This’ll just be another course. I need some grease.

  Theo hopes there isn’t a fire: he remembers last time. Adrian’s talking to the guy holding his guitar, and he’s lighting a new cigarette, and he’s barefoot in bell bottoms and walking across to the man in the headphones.

  Hey, pal, come here.

  Theo walks back from the outside door holding his plate and not wanting to hold it, but not wanting to be mean to the lady. Theo notices now, he hadn’t before, there are other ladies lying around in the dark corners, two asleep on each other, on piles of pillows and with one of the Oriental rugs over them.

  This is my friend Don. He’s the best sound man in the history of sound men. He is a very sound man. You’re adrift in the ocean and you need a solid bloke to hold onto, here’s the guy.

  Don is smiling, reaching a hand out toward Theo, which Theo holds and shakes.

  Good morning, Don says. But I can’t swim.

  Theo says, I got my certificate last summer: I’m a Dolphin.

  Theo took lessons at the 92nd Street Y, hating them, in a cold pool that burned and with a woman teacher who yelled, a short woman with short yellow hair. But Frieda had the driver take him every Saturday, and the driver sat at the pool edge, trying to smoke and being told he couldn’t by the instructor, every Saturday. You can’t smoke in here, sir. So he sat with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, staring at the instructor and the girls in the class. The instructor spent a lot of time talking about swimming for her college, and racing, and the Olympics. She seemed angry. There were four girls and four boys, and Theo saw other kids were shivering too while the lady stood on the pool edge and talked at them. Frieda asked Theo whether there were men in the changing room: They didn’t talk to you, did they. Nobody talked to him in the changing room, the men in there in the early mornings were old as turtles, with skin like wrinkled sheets and weird hair in weird places. He didn’t like to look but sometimes he couldn’t help it.

  A dolphin. I am sticking with you if we get shipwrecked.

  Come on, Don, I’m making breakfast. Sunnyside up. It’s a beautiful day, mate.

  Don stands from behind the table with the recording equipment as the lady puts aluminum foil over trays and containers, really fast and sharp, ripping the foil like she might be mad.

  Where did the lady come from.

  Adrian says, Manhattan. She’s staying with us. We need decent food. Colin’s useless. That’s a cool sound, Adrian says, turning to watch the lady rip sheets of aluminum foil from the roll. Darlin, would you mind if I taped that.

  The lady kept working but said, that’s fine. Todd Rundgren did it last.

  Oh well, forget it. Adrian grinned. Thanks, baby, we’ll need something later – can you set up a buffet.

  Certainly. How about pasta with an omelet option, spinach salad, baguettes. A tort.

  Pasta’s fine. Come on, Theo.

  Adrian’s sunglasses were on, and Don and Theo followed him toward the kitchen. Wind now blew through the open doors. Theo remembered the other guys and turned around. Now the drummer sat behind his kit again, draining a beer and squinting into the light from outside. The other guitar player sat on his case rubbing his eyes, yawning. He looked up and yelled.

  So what’s the plan, Adrian.

  Taking five, Adrian said, not turning around. First, sustenance. Should I make enough for you.

  No man.

  Later, then. Ad
rian put both hands on the door for a few seconds, standing still, shook his head. Whew. Okay. We’re open for business. I’m thinking bangers and whatever. Candy canes.

  Adrian’s at the refrigerator, and Theo’s now behind him, and it’s full of leafy things and fruit, and packages with meat. Potatoes, cheese. Colors invading that usually gray-white space like one of the empty rooms.

  Where did all this come from.

  Father Christmas, Adrian said, bending and squinting with a hand in the back. I talked to Colin about this. No more Wild West.

  What do you mean.

  Aha. Adrian’s pulling out a sealed package of meat. Sausage.

  It looks funny. Weird. Like the old men at the Y. Will Theo look like that.

  Brilliant. What would you like with them, son.

  Um. Nothing.

  How about toast.

  Okay.

  Don, can you see about toast.

  Sure.

  Don’s smoking and he’s just twisted open a beer. He’s looking around, Adam’s apple bobbing as he drinks. The bass player wanders in, sits, smoking. Tear me off a hunk of that beast, eh.

  Right. A successful hunt. The village will eat well tonight.

  Arista wants me.

  When.

  L.A. tomorrow.

  Fuckers. Blow them off.

  Can’t. They’re paying me better.

  I’ll top them.

  The bass player snorted, inhaled and exhaled cigarette. You’re cheaper than Bowie.

  Hey now. Them’s fightin words.

  Look, man. I don’t know what this gig is. I do know what Arista wants. Bird in the hand.

  Suit yourself. I won’t beg. Sausage.