THE SOUND OF LIGHT
CLAIRE WALLIS
The Sound of Light
Copyright © 2017 by Claire Wallis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the above author of this book, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ISBN 978-0-9988259-0-8
Editing by Jennifer Haymore
Cover design by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations
For my bassist, John
CONTENTS
K’acy’s Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
About the Author
Other Titles by Claire Wallis
K’ACY’S PROLOGUE
My daddy taught me how to break a mourning dove’s neck when I was five years old. He’d take me and Charlie to the quarry where he worked, and we’d run around collecting the birds after he’d filled them with birdshot. Sometimes, they’d still be alive. They’d have a broken wing or a missing foot, and they’d look up at you with their shiny, round, black eyes. Like they were just waiting to die.
“If they’re still alive,” Daddy would say, “you’ve got to break their neck real quick. No use letting ’em suffer.”
He showed us how to put their downy heads into the crook of skin between our first two fingers and flip their bodies backward until we heard the bones snap.
“Flick ’em fast,” he’d say, “like the tongue on a snake.”
By the time I was eight years old, I’d probably taken more lives than a poacher on the African savannah. They were good, too, those doves. My momma knew how to cook them so they tasted just like chicken.
In fact, the day I was born, the doctor asked my momma about the last thing she ate before labor came on. When she told him it was a dove sandwich, she said he looked right back at her like she was some kind of wild sinner, fresh outta the bayou.
So here I am, twenty-four years after my illustrious dove-fueled birth, sitting on a mattress with another living thing in my hands, just waiting to die.
Only this time, it’s different.
CHAPTER 1
Some people think funk is dead. They say it because you don’t hear funk on commercial radio anymore, unless you happen to catch “Super Freak” on the oldies station. But that’s bullshit, because in music, nothing dies. It just waits for rediscovery or reincarnation. Funk is very much alive. And, right now, I’m about to lay some down.
Jarrod steps up to the mic and lingers there, his stare cutting into the audience. His lips are silent, and his body is still. We’re all silent. No one on the stage moves a muscle.
But not them. They are wild. Bodies humming with expectation and alcohol. Their noises bounce around the room, amplifying the energy a thousand times over.
I can only see his profile from where I stand, but I know what Jarrod’s doing. He’s doing what he always does—he’s making them want. Making them need. Even before a single note escapes the stage, he makes them beg, just by looking at them and doing nothing. The waiting and the anticipation will eventually turn them into a frenzied wad of beer-infused humanity, willing to scream until their throats go hoarse. Because Jarrod makes it happen. He wills it to happen. Every time.
He doesn’t move. None of us do. And we won’t…until he’s ready.
Jarrod and I met six years ago, both of us fresh out of high school and desperate for something to resuscitate our rotting lives. I moved north after my father died because I needed to remove myself from the nightmare. I needed to get away from Louisiana and everything that reminded me of my daddy. Not because I didn’t love him, but rather because I probably loved him too much. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done what I did. But Jarrod, he’s a born-and-raised Philadelphian. He’s always known this was his place in the world. He loves it here. Back then, when we first met, he had yet to find his purpose. He needed to clean the shit out of his veins and figure out where he fit. Both literally and figuratively.
Turns out that when we found each other at that bus stop, we both found a home. Together. And we named it Crackerjack Townhouse.
Three full minutes pass before I see Jarrod’s chest fill with a surge of air. That’s my sign. That’s our sign. A split second later, the eight of us strike a single simultaneous note, loud and crisp. It echoes around the room and is immediately followed by more silence. Just a pause really, but the pulsing in the air makes it feel like an eternity. My thumb rests on the E-string while the remainder of my fingers hover below it, ready to go to work whenever Jarrod decides it’s time. The crowd flips their shit the instant they see his mouth open again.
This time, we don’t stop. Stevie, Marquis, and Bryson blast their horns, and my heart starts its poetic thumping, just like it does every time the calloused fingers of my left hand press against the frets. What all those white girls out there in the audience don’t know is that when they’re staring at Jarrod in his tight-as-sin jeans, thinking he’s the one giving them the panty-dropping feels, it’s really me. I’m the one vibrating through their guts, sending them a pulse-quickening message of love. Jarrod may be what they’re looking at, but once the music starts, I’m what they feel. My bass is what all those mascara-laden lovelies sense inside their chests. It’s what they feel echoing in their souls, anchoring them to the song. Not Calvin’s drums or Mark’s keyboard or Stevie’s sax or Jarrod’s gyrating ass. It’s my fingers dancing against this Music Man StingRay bass guitar that makes them want to stay.
Crackerjack Townhouse is funk personified. And it makes me happier than anything else in this world.
WHEN JARROD SINGS the last line of the night, “I am no man. I am dynamite,” his voice is as evocative as ever. Our final note hangs in the air around us like a cloud of pesticide, light as air but heavy with purpose. He wrote the song long before Crackerjack Townhouse fell into place, back when he was more interested in what went up his nose than what came out of his mouth. “Ecce Homo” is my favorite song; it has been since the first time he sang it to me, sitting on the curb in front of the McDonald’s on South Broad.
When Pontius Pilate presented Jesus, crowned with thorns and on the verge of crucifixion, to an unsympathetic horde, he said, “Ecce homo.” Behold the man! I know the story. I’ve known it since I was a little girl because my momma was overly fond of reading from the Bible, terrifying me and my sister with its stories of suffering and contradiction, always just before bedtime.
Jarrod’s lyrics, though, aren’t biblical. They’re a twisted
-up version of the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche’s identically titled book, Ecce Homo: How One Becomes What One Is. In fact, the song’s final lyrics, “I am no man. I am dynamite,” are words from Nietzsche himself. And just like Nietzsche’s book, all of Jarrod’s lyrics are self-serving yet self-deprecating. Cocky yet sardonic. Structured yet raw. It’s a funk song gone philosophical. My mother would have a nervous breakdown if she’d existed in my world long enough to hear the song’s heretical and sacrilegious message about the conceit of self-faith.
My father, on the other hand, would’ve loved it. And not just because of the trumpet solo.
When the set ends and the applause begins, a sweet, familiar ache settles into my hands. The bones and tendons there are tired from stretching over the strings. As the audience’s praise sinks into my heart, I rub the fingertips of my right hand across the cobweb painted on the StingRay’s pickguard, remembering the familiar sting of death and how little it changes, no matter how much time has passed. I lift the leather strap up over my head and put the StingRay on its stand. Jarrod raises the mic into the air and pokes it at the audience, before sliding it back into the stand while making eyes at the blonde whose breasts are pressed against the edge of the stage at his feet.
His gaze is not a secret signal. It’s a blatant invitation for her to stick around, and it’s the only one he ever needs. She’ll still be here when we come back out for the teardown. They always are. They wait for him, pretending to innocently chat with their girlfriends while we load everything into Calvin’s van and the sound guy shuts down the house. At some point in the process, Jarrod will flash a smile at the woman, whoever she is, and the deal will be sealed. She’ll be patient, lingering for as long as he needs her to. Then, when the teardown is complete, Jarrod and the woman du jour will walk out the back door hand in horny hand. He’s very unapologetic about the whole thing, as well he should be. They’re two consenting adults, after all, so there’s nothing to apologize for. Both are getting exactly what they want.
When we come out of the back room to start tearing down fifteen minutes after “Ecce Homo” ends, my predictions prove true yet again. As soon as most of the gear is loaded, Jarrod passes me, his arm around the blonde’s waist, guiding her toward the door. He gives me a half-smile and wiggles his eyebrows up and down. She’s too busy watching me to pay attention to the antics of his face. She wants to see if I’ll jump on her out of jealousy. ’Cause just like all the other women Jarrod takes home after a show, she assumes that since I’m the only female in the band, I either want to be his mother hen or his Saturday-night score.
Nothing could be further from the truth. We all keep it professional. Especially Jarrod and I. Because I know where he’s been, and there ain’t no way I’m falling down that rabbit hole.
My amp is the last thing to go into Calvin’s van, and when the doors swing closed, everyone says their goodbyes and heads off to their own worlds. I’m the only one that walks back into the bar. After I hit the restroom, I sling my gig bag over my shoulder and onto my back. The StingRay is nine pounds, five ounces of pure bliss. Twenty-one frets on a red maple neck, a Vintage Sunburst body with a white pearloid pickguard, a hardened steel bridge plate, a humbucking pickup, and stainless steel saddles. It’s my flawless baby. And I use it to forget about the rest of the world, if only temporarily.
I step out onto the street again and head for the bus stop. As the streetlamps buzz their electronic drone, my thoughts uncontrollably shift from the baby on my back to Miriam Hansen and the end of her life. In death, as in life, Miriam Hansen lingers. Her last breath has not yet dissolved into memory; her words have not been forgotten. Miriam Hansen’s death is fresh and painful. She is ratcheted to my heart.
The joy leaves me in an instant, and it’s replaced with uncontrollable sadness. I start sobbing just as the bus pulls up to the curb.
CHAPTER 2
At 7:49 in the morning I walk into Pine Manor Assisted Living for the 1,487th time. Sunday mornings are always the easiest because, unlike all the other days, there are smiling people everywhere. They sit in their wheelchairs or on the leather wingchairs in the lobby, waiting with a gentle smile. Sunday mornings hold so much promise. Promise that someone will visit them and make them feel important again. Make them feel loved. They’re hungry for their families, for stories of the outside world, for the sweet grip of a real and much-needed hug. And for most of them, Sundays are the only days it comes. If it comes at all.
You can tell the ones who don’t have any family left or family that lives far away. They seldom wear a smile. Not even on Sunday mornings. They know they’re going to have to sit here all day with nothing to do but watch. They’ll see all the visitors come and go, and it will make them feel like they’re a little less important than the ones that “get company.” But I know better. I know they’re all important to this world. They all matter. They all mean something. Even if it’s just to me.
I head through the lobby, past all the wrinkled faces, and give a bright hello to each and every one of them. I pat Mr. Rauch on the knee and ask him how his shoulder is feeling. I fix Mr. Toftree’s misbuttoned shirt. I straighten Mr. Ledbetter’s tie and remove Francis Boyer’s glasses to wipe the lenses clean. I do all this before my shift even starts. Then, I turn right, walk past the reception desk, and head down the hallway.
Ms. Sinclair is sitting there, her wheelchair parked just outside the door of her room. She’s smiling. But with her, it’s not because someone is coming to see her. It’s because she doesn’t know any better.
We have twenty-six residents, but Ms. Evelyn Sinclair is my favorite. Most days, she sits for hours at the picture window in the lobby, watching the birds at the feeder outside. I bought the feeder a few months ago, right after she moved in and told me about how she used to have pet birds when she was young. I buy the seed myself and refill the feeder whenever I’m scheduled to work. Sometimes Ms. Sinclair doesn’t know who I am, but she always knows the names of all the birds. She points out the cardinals and the chickadees, the nuthatches and the mourning doves. I don’t know about the other aides, but I always feign ignorance and pretend I’m hearing the information for the very first time. It makes her happy. And Ms. Sinclair needs that. Because she doesn’t “get company” on a Sunday, or any other day, for that matter. I’ve never seen anyone here to visit her. Not even once.
“Would you like to go out and see the birds this morning, Ms. Sinclair?”
Her eyes brighten at the suggestion, and her hands clasp in front of her chest. “Why, that would be lovely. Yes, dear.”
I release the brakes on her chair and wheel Ms. Sinclair out to the lobby. We pass Sondra on the way. She gives me a knowing little smirk and shakes her head.
Everyone knows that Evelyn Sinclair is my favorite. But Sondra is the only one who knows the reason why.
AS THE DAY PASSES, I enjoy seeing so many visitors walk in and out of Pine Manor, giving smiles and hugs as they promise to return again next Sunday. After dinner, I wheel several of the residents back to their rooms and turn on their TVs, tuning them to the local news or Wheel of Fortune reruns or ESPN. Just before my shift ends, I peek into Ms. Sinclair’s room one last time. She’s sitting in her recliner, watching a cooking show and unwrapping a peppermint candy with her slender white fingers. When she sees me standing in her doorway, she turns and smiles. It’s beautiful and warm and genuine. I smile back.
“Oh my,” she says, happiness filling her eyes, “you look lovely today. Your mother did such a nice job ironing your school jumper this morning. Do you happen to know when Bradley will be back?”
She’s doing it again, and it tugs at my heart. She’s forgetting I’m not one of her students. And that there’s no Bradley. At least not anymore.
“No, Ms. Sinclair, I don’t. I think he must have stepped out for a bit.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, if you see him, will you let him know I’m waiting?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you,
dear.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You go on and leave now. I’ve got things to do.” She waves her hand at me dismissively and goes back to unwrapping her peppermint candy.
WHEN I STEP off the bus, Jarrod is sitting on the steps of my apartment building, leaning back on his elbows, a cigarette pinched between the fingers of his right hand. He looks tired.
“Hey.” He straightens his back and sits up when I get to the bottom of the steps.
“Hey, Jar.” I sit down next to him, taking the cigarette out of his hand and sucking a flash of nicotine into my lungs. “So…how was blondie?”
He shrugs. “Half brilliant and half boring.”
Jarrod leans forward and rests his right elbow on his knee, dropping his chin onto the heel of his hand in a posture that screams resignation and monotony. I don’t understand why he keeps hitting repeat, screwing the-same-woman-with-a-different-face every weekend. It never gets him anywhere. It’s like his life is dissatisfaction replicated over and over again, only he can’t figure out why. But he’s not a stupid guy. Someday he’ll see it. Someday he’ll see that happiness doesn’t wear stilettos and leave with a stranger.
“Just like the rest of them, then?” I draw another breath of smoke into my body.
“Yeah. Pretty much.” He shrugs again and takes the cigarette back. I turn my head to look at him, and he immediately switches his line of sight in the opposite direction, looking down the street instead of at me. He’s avoiding eye contact, and that always means the same thing—he’s afraid of showing me too much. He would never admit it, nor would I ever point it out, but it happens a lot. I always pretend not to notice, because it’s easier that way. He doesn’t need to know I can read his emotions like a book, whether he’s looking at me or not.
“So, I guess you didn’t ask for her number then?”
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