by Edgardo Vega
“I know,” Billy said. “I’ve read the papers a hundred times.”
“When I went in, Kevin was still breathing a little bit, but the life was gone out of his eyes,” Rafferty said. He ran a hand through his graying hair, his eyes bloodshot from drinking. “God, I hate telling you this. You shouldn’t have to hear this stuff, Billy. Let him rest, son. Let him rest. He was a good man and I’m sorry he’s gone, but it doesn’t do any good for you to know, and I’ll probably lose sleep over telling you. I’ve gone over it a thousand times since it happened, thinking what the hell I could’ve done to stop him, and I can’t think of anything other than maybe if I hadn’t gone to work that night, he wouldn’t have felt so confident going in like that with me as backup.”
He lay on the roof, as he often did in the summer, staring at the black vastness of the sky, and realized that he was in the year 1988, reminding himself that he was in the present. And as he was thinking of this with everything in his mind dark and somber, he recalled standing in his cheap church suit next to his mother and the camera lights going off and the next day in the papers seeing himself on the front page, holding his mother’s hand and standing tall like his grandma Brigid had said, but knowing he had wanted to cry, and the headlines saying HERO COP BURIED.
His only respite eventually had been to lose himself in Lurleen, night after night feeling her drawing closer to the core of him; taking his hand and placing it on her breast so that her wish to have him trust her made his heart expand each time and take her deeper into his life until one night, when Cliff was almost six months old, at the mere touch of her softness he was suddenly sobbing violently, this time not for Joey but for his father. She held him and in the darkness he heard himself howling as if he were a wounded animal, hearing a primitive pain emanating from his soul, so that he got a glimpse of himself alive and saw young Billy Farrell at age eight, again walking with his father, hand in hand as they entered Yankee Stadium with the crowd; everyone talking and moving purposefully, not shoving but aggressively, as New Yorkers do, not meaning any harm but sometimes getting on your nerves, like Grandpa Buck said; walking up the long ramp and then heading for their seats, entering the walkway to their box seat on the mezzanine and hearing the sharp crack of a bat as it struck the ball, a sound so distinctive that Billy, possessing perfect pitch, heard notes, and eventually he evolved a system that was almost foolproof for determining how hard a ball was hit from the sound it made on the bat—the sharper and higher it was on the scale, the harder and deeper it had been hit—so that later on when coaches found out that besides being able to pitch well he could also hit, they wanted him in the lineup and put him in center field, where he employed his theory with considerable success; later on hearing television commentators talk about Duke Snider, Mickey Mantle, and Willie Mays, and indeed all great center fielders being able to take off after a ball at the crack of the bat. He recalled going up the ramp to their seats and seeing just the sky and then the beautifully trimmed grass and red clay field and the players on it; standing spellbound, yelling, “Daddy, Mickey, Mickey, number seven, Daddy!” so loud that people turned to them and laughed and the great Mantle even looked up and smiled that big Oklahoma-country-boy smile and waved at him so that his father just shook his head and lifted him up and he felt safe and strong in his father’s arms as he took off his Yankee cap and waved it at Mantle, who tipped his cap to him.
And then the sobbing subsided and for the first time since he had been wounded in Nam he saw a melody line traveling from his soul, deep inside his being, through his veins, and to his hands and fingers; running around the melody, repeating the phrases up and down the keyboard and far away, his left hand, almost as if it were separate from him, chording the blues, “You was my baby, but you ain’t my baby no more; you was my baby, but you ain’t my baby no more; you cheated me and left me at the door.”
It was like he was walking around dead inside, waiting for death to find him, to call him and say, “Bill, you got to go now. Grab your coat and get your hat, leave your worries on the doorstep.” And you saying, “Man, I ain’t going yet. Let me play one more tune, man.” And death saying, “Shit, man! Quit jiving around and let’s go. We sposed to be out the city before dawn.” And you sitting down at the piano and playing the first few bars and then running through the changes, letting the piano sing, “It’s quarter to three, there’s no one in the place except you and me.” And death bugging you like you’re supposed to listen and you say “Fuck it” and just sit there and play the blues.
Mrs. Wilkerson always told him not to let anybody tell him he couldn’t play the blues cause he was white.
“They tell you that, just laugh at them. Just laugh easy like and tell ’em, ‘Man, it ain’t about if I can play the blues. I be the blues and when you hear me play you gonna wish pain had stayed home and not visited your sorry ass.’ You understand what I’m saying, son?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he’d say, knowing he could trust her and she wanted him to do well.
But the blues had come, and he just lay there wishing he were not alive; not that he was dead but that he didn’t have to face life every day and that he had never gone to Nam and seen all that he saw because now all he could think about was his poor father and Joey, all shot up, the life gone out of them, their bodies broken and useless and there he was, alive but equally useless. And it had been all his fault. There was no getting away from that.
Seeing Butterworth earlier in the week had opened him up even more to remembering. And as he strummed the guitar, and the children and Lurleen were into the music, he recalled being back in the hills in Tennessee again when he’d gone to court Lurleen and he remembered that in the enormous darkness of his despair he understood faintly that Lurleen had been sent to him by God even if she said she didn’t believe or wasn’t sure about His existence; understood that she was like a safety line to life and he was suddenly kissing her fiercely, passionately wanting her from the depth of his life so that in the cold mountain air she helped him undo his belt and guided him ever so gently, sensing that this first time he would be violent out of his anguish; already caring deeply for him and unconcerned that her first time with a man would be out in the woods under the stars and as a matter of fact being thankful that it had been so romantic so that when they were joined and he was lost in the pleasure, she experienced a strange sort of satisfaction that wasn’t sexual but more akin to the maternal emotions she was to feel later on from giving birth to his children. When it was all over and they lay huddled in the cold he thanked her and ran his hand through her hair and then asked her if she’d like to come and live in New York.
“It’s real strange but I think you’ll like it. It’s tough and beautiful, like you.”
That remark made Lurleen laugh and she snuggled closer to him. That was the extent of the proposal. Three days later, with Lurleen’s family coming over from Claymore, they were married by a preacher, who was also a cousin; the next day, carrying in two suitcases her clothing and books, and under her arm a dulcimer; and he carrying his own suitcase and a small accordion and a fiddle in its case, which Lurleen also played; his cousin Frank drove them all the way to Chattanooga, where they got on a Trailways bus and began their trek back to New York, staying the first month at his grandparents’ and then finding their first little apartment with the bathtub in the kitchen, down on the Lower East Side.
Down there no one bothered him. With his disability check he was able to pay the rent and buy some groceries and once Lurleen was settled in and found out New York City had a shortage of teachers, she went and took her examination and was able to substitute in a junior high school in Brooklyn, but after a few weeks returned home crushed by the condition of the children, telling him they had been so damaged that she felt helpless trying to teach them.
“Billy, they hate so much,” she’d said. But she hung on for a while, eventually getting transferred to a school in the neighborhood, doing what she loved most, which was teaching music
to children, but unable to work too long because Horty was due.
Saturdays they’d ride the subway way up to the Bronx and then cross over into Yonkers to visit Grandpa Buck and Grandma Brigid, and his mother, Maud, would come over and they’d have a cookout in the back, and neighbors would come over and Grandpa got out his banjo and Lurleen her fiddle and he had no choice but to tune up the Gibson and off they’d go playing bluegrass and the neighbors, New Yorkers through and through, laughing, whooping it up, and dancing like they was mountain folk, instinctively recognizing the strains of the pieces from old Irish tunes, their subconscious carrying centuries of ancient music.
He thought again of seeing Butterworth the previous week and knew there was something wrong with him. As the band wound up their rendition of “Bill Bailey,” he reached into the front pocket of his bib overalls and removed the address Butterworth had given him and looked at it. He was no longer on 145th and Riverside Drive. He was down near the north end of Central Park, in Harlem. He’d have to go and see him, even if it was dangerous for white people, as everybody said. He hadn’t seen him for nearly twenty years and remembered him as old but healthy. The man who had embraced him sounded sick. Whatever it was, it had to be serious for Butterworth’s voice to be so raspy.
21. Conjuring
Alfred Butterworth walked feeling two kinds of pain. One was the same dull pain that followed him from the time he rose early in the morning until he could again lie down. He knew the pain was there, but the medication deadened it and he was able to function, to travel downtown and put on his uniform and listen politely as the students and professors and administrators asked for their floors and he delivered them, up and down, listening to them talk about literature, history, philosophy, science, mathematics, psychology, sociology, and anthropology, which made him think of Charlie Parker, who had wanted him to score for him up in Harlem. He’d told him he wasn’t going to do it because horse was fucking up Bird’s life and Charlie had that young white girl, Candy, who sang a little bit, to score for him. Once in a while the students talked about music, all different kinds of music, but very seldom about jazz. When one did, he’d smile inwardly and look at the young man or the young woman and, if there weren’t too many people in the elevator, he’d ask politely if they played music. No was usually the answer, but they said they collected records or tapes and were able to talk about different musicians and their recordings. And then once in a very great while one of the students said he played and if he wanted to come down and hear him jam with the other students, he was welcome to drop in. Twice, by chance, he’d been asked if he played and each time he’d said, “No, I just like listening to the music.”
There were times when he’d go to lunch and he’d pass Folk City when it was on Greene Street and there was a blues player appearing there, people like Lightnin’ Hopkins or Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee and he’d tell himself that he’d like to go see them, but at the end of the day he’d get on the train and get back up to Harlem. Once home he didn’t feel like going back downtown to watch people listening to music after what happened with Billy Farrell before he went off to the war. He felt responsible for the boy’s decision, remembering his subsequent embarrassment and Miles not saying anything, but basically turning his back on him; and then when the record was released, hearing the pianist Miles had finally chosen when Billy didn’t show up for rehearsal because it was his duty to serve the country—Chick Corea or Joe Zawinul, he wasn’t sure, but both fine pianists who did great work with Miles, but maybe Billy would’ve been just as good, maybe even a little better. He wanted to explain that Billy had been drafted, but Miles wasn’t having any of it, muttering things like “dumb mothafocka” and “white fool” and now Billy’s daughter called him up and wanted to know what had happened to her father. She was sure a good-looking girl, sharp, and it was obvious that she loved Billy. She looked a little bit like him around the eyes and mouth, but she wasn’t from the same mother as the other ones, that was obvious. She told him that her mother was Puerto Rican, and he’d started telling her about playing down on the island with Machito but figured she wouldn’t know what he was talking about. He agreed to meet her, and she got to the school just as he was coming out of the building.
“I’m sorry to take up your time, Mr. Butterworth,” she said.
“That’s all right, miss.”
“Vidamía.”
“Oh, yes. Vidamía,” he said, savoring the way she pronounced it. “Vidamía Farrell. That’s sure a catchy name.”
“Thank you. Do you want to sit in the park?”
“That’d be fine,” he said, feeling the pain but not wanting to let on or inconvenience her.
They sat on a bench and talked. He told her how talented her father was, how truly impressive he was at playing jazz, but that he was also a very moral young man, very strict about duty and that even though he’d had an opportunity to play with the great Miles Davis, he’d gone into the Marine Corps and had been wounded in Vietnam.
“I know it might be difficult for him to play now, but he could at least teach people,” she said, desperately. “He won’t even talk about it and gets very nervous if even the word ‘piano’ is mentioned in a film or television. Sometimes he’ll hear a piano in a film and just get up from his chair and go out. When Mama—when Lurleen … his wife …”
“I understand.”
“When Mama plays her accordion he refuses to look at the keys. That’s what she told me. And I watched him and it’s true. Even pictures of pianos make him nervous. I read somewhere that when somebody’s had a shock, things related to the shock trigger memories and flashbacks and it makes the person remember the experience that caused the shock.”
“That’s what we used to call being shell-shocked.”
“They call it post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“Sounds more serious than just shell-shocked,” he said, honestly.
He apologized for not being able to help her more and said the person she ought to ask was Billy’s grandpa, Buck Sanderson. She shook her head and said that he’d been very helpful. Butterworth coughed, feeling the awful rattle in his chest and stood up, almost bending over from the pain. She asked if he was all right and if she could do anything, but he said he was fine and they walked out of the park. He turned to go west to the Sheridan Square station, and she once again thanked him. He nodded and continued walking.
White people had hurt him and disappointed him a whole lot but he didn’t hate them, just couldn’t understand them real well. Their attitudes made him uncomfortable. Not every white person was this way—certainly not the people around the music. This girl was certainly no problem. Just like Candy Donovan, who was sweet and kind, poor thing. Billy’s mother and grandmother were certainly fine white people.
He wondered why he didn’t feel rancor against white people as others did. His other pain had to do with his failure in the music that he loved so much, but he couldn’t blame white people for that. Thirty years he had worked at the university, running the elevators in the Main Building, seeing students come and go, their faces bright and eager, their eyes filled with that wonderful light of youth. Some even returned and taught there, and others passed into memory.
These days it took him forever to walk from one end of the park to the other, and as he waited for the light he wondered how many years he had left. He should’ve gone to the hospital before now, and he should’ve stopped smoking the damn cigarettes and cigars a long time ago.
“How long have you had this cough, Mr. Butterworth?”
“Oh, a week or so,” he’d said, lying, not wanting to admit that it had been nearly three months.
“Well, you have a very bad case of bronchitis. I’m going to write out a prescription, but I suggest you quit smoking.”
“Not even a cigar, doctor?”
“No, not even a cigar.”
He reached into his pocket and lit a cigarette as the light changed.
They all knew him. All the
professors and the deans. And each of the presidents.
“Good morning, Dr. Oliva.”
“Good morning, Alfred.”
“How’s it going, Dr. Peters?”
“Very well, Alfred. How are you?”
“Pretty good, sir. Thank you very much.”
And none of them knew about his connection to the music. None of them knew that he had played with the greats, had stood with Paul Gonsalves and Clark Terry going over charts at rehearsals with Ellington’s band, had played with Lionel Hampton and Count Basie and Fletcher Henderson’s band in the thirties. He and Russell Procope and Ben Webster.
