Boy

by James Stryker

  You were there every night. You reserved that seat in the front row for each performance. Beau came once. Mom came once. But you were there every night!

  “I was so proud of you.” His father had reached over and patted his arm. “I am proud of you.”

  But Luke had shrugged off the touch and said nothing.

  I’d give anything to feel you touch me again. I promise I wouldn’t turn you away. He clutched the blanket to his face and tried to pretend it was Jay petting his hair, not Tom. Why didn’t you take the long way? Why didn’t you get gas on the way down? Or at any other place. Any other fucking one!

  He remembered the van pulling into the gas station.

  “I’ll be right back. Do you want anything?”

  “Not from you.”

  Luke felt lightheaded, and his throat ached from gasps of air erratically taken between sobs.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t cry. I understand,” Tom said and found Luke’s hand. “I understand why.”

  He couldn’t know what was going through Luke’s thoughts, and no one could understand why. Even he didn’t.

  “What?” Luke rasped.

  “I understand why. It’s not your fault.”

  But it is my fault. It’s all my fault.

  “I have to go sometime.”

  But not at fifty. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready for you to die.

  “I know why you’re sad that you can’t do anything about it. But it’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay! It’s not!” Luke said aloud.

  “No, it’s not okay. But I’m okay. I. Am. Okay.” Tom spoke the last three words slowly. Deliberately. As if each was its own sentence. “I understand why you couldn’t kill it, Jay.”

  Tom’s last statement was overpowered by what he’d said before it.

  “I am okay.” Luke replayed the phrase as he lifted his face. His cheeks and temples tingled like the skin had fallen asleep. He looked at Tom, who’d been tranquil and unaware of his hallucination’s impact.

  “I am okay.” “I” as in “you.” You are okay.

  The situation wasn’t okay. Luke may not be okay. But Tom was okay. And that mattered to him…deeply. Waves of emotional pain crested and fell within him, but hearing that Tom was no longer suffering comforted Luke.

  The same could be said of his father’s death. It was a horrible circumstance. Fucked-up, in no small part thanks to Luke, and he was devastated. Perhaps he hadn’t understood how upset he was until right then. He’d been deflecting and redirecting his attention since the accident happened. Returning to the fight with Jay, his rivalry with Jake, the Tom DuBelle mystery. He’d been so eager to feed into these things and avoid his grief.

  Dad is dead.

  Luke was far from okay. But wherever Jay was, nothing could hurt him any longer. His father was okay. It didn’t erase the shame, but somehow, the burden lifted an inch or two from his shoulders.

  But what did you even think when this delirium and sickness started? You thanked God for sparing Tom, but why?

  For what reason did he want Tom to live? He didn’t want him to die, but why did he want him to live when he was in such pain? He’d told God it wasn’t to indulge himself, but had he thrown that out because it was actually the primary motive? He wanted answers. It was fairness again—it wouldn’t be fair to make this journey and have his well of knowledge die on him.

  I wanted him kept alive for me. To give me what I want. I thank God for bringing him through only for myself. It had nothing to do with his welfare.

  Of all the many terrible things Luke had ever thought, he knew the gratitude for keeping Tom alive to serve his selfishness was the worst. Tom was a human being with a greater purpose than being Luke’s encyclopedia.

  Being okay with living or dying transcended his personal goals and agenda. Acceptance of whatever happened. And it wasn’t him being okay.

  There are more important things than me and doing what I want. I can be okay—eventually, I can get there. If others are okay, everything will be all right.

  ✩✩✩

  As he stood inside the doorframe the next morning watching Tom at the piano, it occurred to him he’d finally been pushed toward growing up. The point where he’d decided that he could only focus on the present moment and calmly, selflessly accept a situation had been when Luke stopped being “boy.”

  He wasn’t sure if he should be happy about this. Grief sounded overdramatic, but it didn’t feel like a misplaced emotion. Being “boy” had been easy. It was a volatile rollercoaster, but he got his way. Everyone cut him slack, and he rarely had to make excuses for his behavior—they were made for him. He did whatever he wanted, he was free to always back out or pass the buck. But now he felt the concrete, which had been poured around him in the night, starting to set. “Boy” was gone. Another thing he couldn’t reclaim.

  Further indication of the changeover was how Luke didn’t dwell long on his loss. His concentration turned to Tom, who still didn’t seem aware of his presence, although his playing had become different. He’d transitioned from mellow, familiar pieces that Luke assumed reminded him of Jay and instead struck the keys with a frenzied speed that made him think of fast-falling sleet in a blizzard. An anxious feeling hung in the air until Tom ran the side of his right hand across the keyboard.

  After Tom performed this move twice, he returned to the delicate notes that weren’t as distracting to think over. But even though he’d stood there for several minutes rehashing the confused and painful events of last night, Luke still had much to sort out. Chief among his problems being that Tom’s grudging invitation had been for one night only.

  How will I convince him to let me stay? It wasn’t just for himself that Luke wanted to stay, though he was terrified to call his mother and sister. Tom needed someone to be with him. That might as well be me. It should be me.

  He remembered parts of Tom’s initial cries to Jay—he was supposed to “drop everything and come.” Had Jay known Tom was dying? Was he planning on “dropping everything” and going to his friend’s side? Would he have done this?

  Yes. Luke decided he must not have known about Tom’s condition.

  If you had, you’d have been here. You would’ve classified it as a “good deed of truth.” Luke shifted from one foot to the other.

  “Someday, this will be you…doing what I’m doing… Eventually, you’ll be where I am.” It was like his father stood in front of him. Here I am. Where you should’ve been. This is me. And I have to do this. But how?

  Tom didn’t seem the type who’d welcome the insinuation that he needed taking care of by anyone. He had too much pride and independence to own up to caring about Luke at all. He’d be adamant that he didn’t need help. Maybe Jay could’ve swayed him, but aside from Tom’s picture stash, there was no indication that Luke held any influence.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to invest more in strategizing the right approach. There was a pause in the piano music, and before Tom spoke, the first five notes of the next piece arrested him. Luke would have to wing his request to stay and hope he could be more persuasive than he felt he was.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In the middle of the “Revolutionary Etude,” Tom became conscious of Luke’s presence. How long he’d been there was impossible to know. There was nothing Tom loved more than losing himself and letting his mind wander, fusing piece into piece, guided by what he was thinking or feeling. All his surroundings washed out, and when he emerged from this trance, he’d have no idea what he’d played or how much time had passed. Luke could’ve been standing in the doorway for hours or minutes.

  He continued playing and peered between the grand’s open lid at the window. Through the glass, he saw the reflection of the room behind him.

  Another great thing about these windows.

  Luke’s eyes were lowered to the floor, and Tom didn’t feel any waves of anxiety, which was fine, as Tom was pleased to continue playing
. However, now that he was cognizant of an audience, the reverie of playing for only himself slipped away, and nagging showmanship asserted itself.

  Tom let Chopin fade into his favorite piece to perform, Carl Vine’s “Sonata No. 1.” He loved how the first slow, dissonant measures skyrocketed to a lightning fast, invigorating tempo. It was as enjoyable to watch as to hear. There were electrifying spots where he had to hit treble keys, or play a quick, high octave, and instead of moving his right hand up, he’d dart his left over to strike what he needed. He had to be quick to not create a gap and accurate enough to hit the keys he was going for.

  But it’s right on the money. He grinned. And next I do this.

  Tom placed the side of his right pinky and ring finger on the low A next to the keyblock and swiped his hand across the length of the keyboard in a dazzling glissando. He’d done it hundreds of times, but it was still thrilling.

  As freeing as it was to play his personal repertoire, a close second was the pleasure of being an entertainer.

  I know the draw it has on you. I understand wanting to do nothing else, and being swept away by what you love.

  Tom followed the notes in his head as they decelerated. There could be several minutes of glittering melodies, but it was a good time to pull back.

  For the first time in what may’ve been hours, Tom stopped and removed his hands from the keys. He then replaced his right and played five slow notes.

  “You’ll know this one,” Tom said. He needlessly adjusted one of the photographs he’d replaced on the piano, before putting his left hand on the keyboard and resuming his performance.

  He glanced at Luke’s reflection and was satisfied to see the boy’s discomfort as he struggled with a response.

  It’s embarrassing to have been caught invading someone’s privacy, isn’t it? Though no less humiliating than being sick in front of a stranger. Wailing, or psychotic, or whatever happened last night. Still, you shouldn’t have been prodding into anything. Tom sighed. Since there’d been only one picture left on the piano bench, he knew what was going through Luke’s mind.

  “The answer to your question is yes.”

  “What question?”

  “The one you’re thinking. Yes, I was there. And I’ve been to other things. That wasn’t the first time I’d seen you in person. For the first several months of your life, I saw you every day, actually.”

  “I was wondering that last night, but it wasn’t what I was going to ask you now.”

  “Ask away. We’ll see how inclined I am to answer.”

  “I wanted to ask how you were feeling this morning.”

  “Afternoon.”

  “Afternoon. You seem better.”

  It surprised Tom that Luke’s attention hadn’t been diverted. He’d wagered on easily manipulating the conversation to avoid an awkward discussion of last night. Admitting he cared for Luke was the lesser of the two evils.

  “I am. But don’t even try thinking it’s because of you. That you’ve given me a ‘reason to live’ or some bullshit. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “What is it then?”

  “It’s because of the fucking pills I assume you shoved down my throat.”

  “If they make you feel better, why don’t you take them?”

  “Whether, or how often, I take my medication is no concern of yours. You don’t know I didn’t take them, and those are strong meds. You might’ve killed me with an overdose. Is that what you were trying to do?”

  “I… I didn’t know what else to do, Tom.”

  Tom shifted on the bench to face Luke. The reflection in the window had hidden the exhaustion in Luke’s face, the worry in his eyes. But while Tom felt kindhearted in a way, and sorry for giving him a hard time, he didn’t feel grateful. Luke had been kind and hadn’t left him last night. But Tom wouldn’t have even been in that situation had Luke not interrupted his suicide.

  “You look worse than I do, but I don’t think the pills would help you much. Sit down.”

  “I’m sorry if that’s not what I should’ve done. I didn’t know what else to do.” Luke repeated. He flopped onto the couch, and leaned his elbow on the arm, cradling his forehead in his hand. “You were in so much pain.”

  “Having one’s insides eaten away isn’t something I’d highly recommend.”

  Luke opened one eye. “My two grandmas had cancer. It was horrible.”

  “There are more centenarians today than there have ever been. I could’ve lived another fifty years. It’s stealing half my life from me.” Tom leaned back against the keyslip and folded his arms. “At my age, your grandmothers were still happy, healthy, independent people. Did the cancer kill them when they were forty-eight? No. That is horrible.”

  “Dad was only fifty.”

  “Also horrible.”

  “Barely fifty,” Luke said as if Tom hadn’t spoken. “I didn’t come home for his fiftieth birthday. I was in New York. I knew it was his birthday, but I didn’t care. I assumed he’d have more. I didn’t send a card. I didn’t call. Beau called me and tried to put Dad on the line. I hung up as soon as I heard his voice.”

  “He told me about that. It really upset him. You were a fucking asshole.” Tom was glad this topic had surfaced. If there was one subject that’d provoke Luke to the rage that would culminate in him leaving, this was it.

  “You don’t know the things he said to me.” Luke said the words in an attitude of weary defeat.

  “I know exactly what he said.”

  “You know what he said he said to me.”

  “Wrong. I was there.” Tom smiled slowly when Luke lifted his head. “I was at your last performance, and Jay wanted to have a drink with me after he talked to you. Coincidentally, I happened to be in the same restaurant.” He shrugged. There wasn’t much point in petty lies. “Well, not coincidentally, but I was there at the bar. I heard everything.”

  “So how can you possibly defend him?”

  There’s the flame. There it is.

  “I feel guilty about how I treated him, I admit that,” Luke said. “I didn’t expect him to die before I could prove him wrong, or apologize for my piece. But he shouldn’t have bashed my dream. He should’ve believed in me and been proud of me for my accomplishments.” He gestured toward Tom. “I mean, you’re a performer, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve played the piano for thousands of people in concert halls all over the world.”

  “And I’m sure there are those who’d dare to call that a waste of time. To call that ‘shit’ because it’s different from their opinion of success.”

  Tom chuckled, Leo’s voice echoing in his mind.

  “That isn’t what your dad said, but I’ll play along since your argument is flawed anyway. No one would call what I do a waste of time, or ‘shit’ even if they didn’t understand it. Do you know why?”

  “That is what—”

  “You’re a revisionist. I get that. Or have selective hearing, whatever. But shut up and listen for a change. No one would say those things about me. As I told you, I’ve played the piano for thousands of people in concert halls all over the world.”

  “So I just hadn’t done more yet, and—”

  “Not ‘yet’. Never. You had no intention of leaving to try for anything larger, Luke. And though, again, it isn’t what Jay said, it’s true that you were ‘wasting your time’ on ‘shit’ by not pursuing your goals. I don’t need to defend him. He was right.”

  He could tell Luke was fuming as he stared at his knees. But he still didn’t leave. If Tom pushed harder he could succeed; however, he paused from grinding his heel in that sore spot.

  “You don’t understand how hard it was for him to talk to you,” Tom said.

  “Everyone always says that. You don’t understand how hard it was for him. Why don’t people understand how hard it was for me to hear that?”

  “Oh, I understand how hard it was for you to hear. Could he have said it differently and added things you wanted to hear, so you wo
uldn’t throw a tantrum? I believe so. But I try not to judge. I don’t know what it’s like to be a father and have to tell a son I’m proud of that he’s stagnant and could do better. Yes, it was hard for you to hear. You’re such a narcissist.”

  “He wasn’t proud of me.”

  “Then you’re a stupid narcissist.”

  Tom turned to watch Luke through the window reflection as he started to play again. The “Intermezzo” from Cavalleria Rusticana rushed from his fingertips. It reminded him of Jay, and he didn’t have to think through any portion. He could have a conversation, made easier with his back to Luke.

  “I know you have this competitiveness, this jealousy between you, Ginger, and Beau. Your father had a problem with his brother too. He—”

  “Jake is not my brother,” the boy snapped.

  “Did you fly two thousand miles to be a jackass? You should refrain from interrupting me. You never know when I might tire of you and throw you out of my house.” In the shadowed reflection in the window, Tom saw Luke freeze, and concealed a smile. “As I was saying, Jay had a problem with his brother. Gordy was a pile of trash. Did you have the misfortune to meet him?”

  “No, we were only seven when he died. Meecie had moved in a couple years prior, and she was really upset.”

  “I imagine she was, but Jay was on the opposite end of the spectrum.”

  “He was professional,” Luke said. “He was as collected about Gordy as he was about Meecie. Even when Beau lost her baby. Nothing could shake him. He went to Chicago, took care of things, and brought Gordy’s ashes back. Like he would for anyone else.”

  “You should take a lesson from your dad. He was a great actor. When he called to tell me Gordy had died he said, ‘That asshole rotted in his apartment for a week. Ruined a perfectly decent couch.’ Jay was a good man to most people, but he had zero tolerance for Gordy. He hated his brother.”

  “I don’t hate Jake. I hate that Dad loved him more than me.”

  “That is far from accurate. Jay loved Ginger as a son, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t like you. You were always…” Tom searched for the right words. Once found, he was silent, wondering if he should say them. Would Jay want him to say it? But he might as well. “He favored you, to be honest. Not just above Ginger, but your sister too. He said that to me on more than one occasion. The only reason you wouldn’t recognize the partiality was that he also worried the most about you.”