THE
MUSICIAN
The Sequel to The Actor
DOUGLAS GARDHAM
THE MUSICIAN
Copyright © 2018 Douglas Gardham.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
iUniverse
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.iuniverse.com
1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
ISBN: 978-1-5320-4633-9 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-5320-4634-6 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-5320-4632-2 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018906447
iUniverse rev. date: 07/21/2018
CONTENTS
Prologue
Part 1 Prelude
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part 2 Portamento
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
Part 3 Affannato
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
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapters 52
Part 4 Con Sentimento
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapters 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Part 5 Battaglia
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Epilogue
To Patricia Lynne and James Philip—no matter how bright the sun shines or how hard the storm blows, you will always be my beloved sister and brother.
PROLOGUE
Neither a lofty degree of intelligence nor imagination nor both together go to the making of genius. Love, love, love, that is the soul of genius.
—Mozart
Thursday, February 7, 1985
As he returned, his mike was in his hand, its round metal weave pressed against his lips. He was singing the last line of the song. His hair hung in front of his eyes.
“Realize, sweet babe, we ain’t never gonna part!”
Led Zeppelin was hard to play and even harder to play right, but the Release had found a way to nail it. Ethan loved the last line of the song they closed their show with. It made him think of Christa, though they always seemed to be apart.
It was Thursday, the last of their three nights at Bogart’s. If he hadn’t seen the name Bogart’s lit up on the marquee that faced Bank Street, Ethan wouldn’t have remembered they were in Ottawa—or, for that matter, any other place. There’d simply been too much going on in his world. The Release was near the end of a short span of gigs throughout southwestern Ontario, after which they would head back to Toronto and another couple of shows. Ethan wondered how much further they could go. The band wasn’t the only thing he had in the works.
He’d just flown back from Los Angeles, a trip he’d taken without the band’s knowledge. Upon learning where he’d been, Syd had shouted, “Are we a band?” from the doorway of her motel room. Furious, she’d threatened to leave again. She’d changed her mind about leaving once before, following their show a month earlier in Windsor, Ontario, after catching Ethan rehearsing lines at the house. Ethan thought she might have been serious if she’d had an alternative, but he knew she didn’t.
His trip had affected the band in other ways. Syd was higher strung than usual, likely because he’d not been present to arbitrate the band’s never-ending bickering, which went hand in hand with living with one another all the time. Ethan had wanted the band to live together in one house—for creative reasons—to live and write their emotions in song. But his intensifying personal schedule did not allow him to be in with the band and elsewhere at the same time.
They left the small stage and ran down the club’s aged hallway, which led to the small back room that served as their makeshift dressing room. Worn-out carpet covered the cement floor, and torn posters of acts that had played there in the past lined the scuffed walls. Ethan shouted, “I fuckin’ love that song! I wish I’d written it.”
“You could have!” Syd shouted back. “Standing on the shoulders of fucking giants!” Ethan looked back at her as she added, “You killed it!”
He wanted a beer in the worst way. Nights like these were unforgettable. He was on fire; the Release was on fire. Fuck, the whole world was on fire.
Greg, their drummer, followed them into the room bent forward, his long brown hair hanging down, covering his face. His left hand, closed except for the long-nailed baby finger sticking out, came away from his face. In his right hand, as if paired with his drumsticks, was a small chrome cylinder.
“That crowd is fucked up!” Greg yelled, dropping his now open left hand to his side. His hands were large, and his skinny, sinewy arms made them appear even larger.
Ethan hated what had been happening to his friend since hi
gh school but felt helpless to do anything about it.
“It’s you who’s fucked up, my friend!” Ethan replied, close to the truth but choosing to ignore it. He raised his hand for a high five.
“Leave it alone, Eth,” Syd said, surprising him with a stance he hadn’t heard her take before. “He was awesome tonight. He’s hangin’ tough.”
Gus, who looked as if he’d just come out of the shower as sweat beaded in his black beard, was behind Greg, carrying two bottles of Budweiser in each hand.
“Give me one of those,” Ethan said, grabbing one of the bottles. He popped the cap off on the edge of an ancient oak desk against the wall, handed the bottle to Syd, grabbed another, and repeated the same trick.
“To the Release!” Ethan shouted, unable to restrain himself. “May the world ready itself for the music it is about to receive.”
They raised their bottles. The glass necks clinked together.
“It’s our time,” Gus said in the lull between gulps of beer.
“You’ve got that fucking right!” Greg cried, his words a little slow but not slurred, enunciating fucking as though just saying the word made him feel better. “The Release is coming—lock your doors, and hide your women!”
“Really?” Syd grimaced.
Nothing beat the exquisiteness of performing well and receiving an audience’s appreciative response. It put them all on top of the world. The four of them seemed to absorb the energy of those watching and listening. Time had no place when they were this together.
“There’s close to five hundred people here tonight,” Gus said, his hand stroking his black beard as if he were trying to squeeze the water out of it. “It’s fucking packed.”
“We’re jammin’,” Greg said, smiling. He thrust his fist holding his drumsticks into the air. “Nothing can stop us!”
Ethan took another gulp of his Budweiser. Nothing hit the spot like a beer after a show, but one wasn’t going to be enough. Tomorrow was a day off; they could afford to party tonight. Greg was already there.
“We need more fucking beer,” Syd announced, looking at Ethan. Her dark eyes seemed to have lost the glint he’d seen seconds before. She still had on the heels that diminished her petiteness.
He leaned his head back and drained his bottle. “Right on, sister.”
“Then get that ass moving!” she shouted, opening the door.
“Right behind you,” Greg added, nodding at Gus. He raised the red-white-and-blue-labeled bottle as if toasting them. “But don’t wait up.”
Ethan closed the door and followed Syd down the narrow hallway they’d just run down at the back of the building, which connected with a hallway on the north side that led up to the main hall. As they approached the corner, Ethan saw two guys in zipper jackets standing in front of them. He hadn’t noticed them earlier. They were positioned on opposite sides of one of the exit doors. They nodded as Syd passed with Ethan close behind. He couldn’t help feeling the two were up to something. Drugs, he thought, quick to anger, as that was likely the reason Greg had stayed behind with Gus.
As he passed the two, his anger changed to apprehension. He’d walked down that hallway several times during their stay without a thought to safety, but it felt different now. Syd was only a few steps ahead, but their vulnerability seemed suddenly in his face.
Syd turned the corner, closer to the loudness of the club. The hallway ahead of them was empty. Maybe he should say something to break the moment and his tension. Then, in an instant, he felt the heavy door. Why now? They were just going for beers. But the feeling of the door didn’t fade, as if it were daring him, as it had before, to open it.
He stopped. “Syd?”
A hand was on his right elbow before he could say more. A split second later, a monstrous grip covered his face. He tried to pull his arm free but was too late. The attackers’ hands were quick and overpowering. Ethan didn’t have a chance and knew it. As he fought, another hand, stronger than his own, locked around his left elbow. Without thinking, he thrust his right foot backward, connecting with a leg that seemed to fold on impact.
“Fuck,” a gruff voice said behind him.
Before he could pull his leg back, hands seized his ankle.
Ethan’s face came close to the pair of overhead fluorescent tubes that lit the hallway as he was lifted and pulled backward. Pain lit up his knee as it bent awkwardly sideways. The hand that squeezed his face muted his scream.
“Syd!” he yelled as a hard hand mashed some kind of damp fabric over his face. Even if she heard him, there was little she could do. He bit into the cloth covering his mouth, hoping for flesh, writhing with everything he had, but he was helpless against the brute strength of his attackers. He was simply overpowered. He inhaled the sweet, pungent smell of decay that covered his face. He tried to hold his breath, but the exertion of fighting back left him gasping, and he gulped in air and whatever the cloth was soaked with. His head was swimming. He tried to scream again, but the sound amounted to little more than a muffled grunt.
This couldn’t be real.
The light from the overhead fluorescents faded, as did everything else.
The club music played on.
PART 1
PRELUDE
What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.
—Victor Hugo
CHAPTER 1
Monday, May 21, 1984
The window blinds split the sunshine into separate bars of light on the brown blanket at the end of his bed. They helped brighten the room and his mood. Every day revealed a little more of what had happened. He had no recollection of where he’d been for five months, and he was constantly checking for what was real. It was difficult because he had no way of really telling the difference, except he could remember real things.
“Where’s Kenzie?” his mother asked, passing the empty bed his roommate had vacated.
“Left this morning,” Ethan replied.
“Did you know?”
“Not until this morning.”
Kenzie shared the room with him. Ethan didn’t think much would change. Kenzie never spoke. Ethan had never heard him say a word.
“Are you okay with it?” his mother asked.
“It’s not much different and just as quiet.”
He wasn’t about to miss the person who occasionally stared at him but otherwise paid him no attention.
“I suppose,” his mother replied, setting her purse on the chair by the window. “So what did you mean by what you said to Dr. Katharine?”
Usually pleased to see his mother, he couldn’t explain why he felt a distance had grown between them in the last week or so. Something was missing. She looked older. The gray bags under her eyes seemed puffier; her eyes, always watery, were often brimming with tears when she looked into his.
He smiled as she leaned over his bed and kissed him on the forehead.
“Welcome back” was the first thing she’d said when she came through the doorway of his room after his return. That had been weeks ago now. It was often what she said when giving him a kiss on the cheek, when emotion allowed her only a whisper. She had taken an apartment near Merivale Road following his admission to the Royal Ottawa Hospital in December. She was there now for her afternoon visit.
“I don’t know,” he said, searching her eyes for a clue as to what she was referring to. “Why?”
“Well, it was enough to make her question your progress,” his mother said. Concern lined her forehead, which he remembered being smooth. She continued in a low, serious tone. “She mentioned having you assessed again.”
“Really?” he replied as much to himself as to his mother. “And what’s the harm in doing that?”
Ethan rubbed his forehead with his fingertips and brushed his light brown hair back. It was longer than he remembered and a little darker. Everything seemed to worry his mother now. Her anxiety made him nervous. Then he remembered.
“It was something about needing a doctor, I think.”
His mother’s eyes opened wider. “Why’d you say that to the doctor?”
A faint smile crossed his lips. There was something pleasurable in the memory, but he could recall nothing of the actual circumstances. Dr. Katharine had been at his bedside when he’d opened his eyes, and the words “I don’t need a break; I need a doctor” had come out of his mouth.
“What was that?” she’d asked, wanting him to repeat himself, scrutinizing him as if she could discern what he was thinking through his open eyes. He had no recollection of anything prior to opening his eyes and seeing her. Wherever his mind had taken him had vanished.
“Yeah, I was kinda dozing. Half asleep.”
He didn’t know—or care—why he had said what he had to Dr. Katharine.
His eyes returned to the sun’s rays on the blanket at the foot of his hospital bed.
“How are you feeling today, sweetie?” his mother asked, passing through the sunlight coming through the blinds, causing the lines Ethan was looking at to disappear momentarily. It was her usual course of conversation, which had become as tiresome as the hospital and its tedious routines. He didn’t want to be there anymore—didn’t need to be. He wanted to get back to real life.
“Good,” he replied, giving his usual answer, slipping his legs off the bed. He didn’t like lying in bed, but it was often where he ended up out of sheer boredom. “Up for a walk?”
“I was hoping you’d ask,” she answered, looking toward her purse on the chair. His asking her to go for a walk had become routine too. He relished being outside when the sun was out.
Ethan stood up, stepped forward, and gave her a hug.
“My patience is dwindling,” he said as they left the room. He didn’t like to think of the room as his, as it implied he was there to stay. They headed down the all-too-familiar hallway. The gray tile floor, the fluorescents that lit the opaque ceiling panels, and the colorless walls dulled his feelings and senses. The hospital no longer served him as a place of healing. It was captivity. He needed the freedom to move on.
The Musician Page 1
