Ethan suddenly remembered that his six-month appointment with Dr. Katharine was coming up. He was taking the Orap pills she’d prescribed but had reduced the dosage—under his own guidance. It was something he’d become comfortable adjusting. Orap made him feel drowsy, withdrawn, and distant. It still scared him to think of disappearing into one of his episodes and never coming back, like an ocean wave sweeping him out to sea forever. Maybe Dr. Katharine could help him locate Christa.
“You know, it’s like writing a song,” Ethan said after taking a sip of his tea, an unusual drink selection, as he usually preferred coffee. He had ordered something different because he wasn’t with Christa. “You get a tune in your head that won’t go away. You grasp for notes that just aren’t there.” He held his mug of tea with both hands.
“Let’s write a song,” Syd suggested, smiling. “Find the notes that are hiding. Maybe she’ll come back too.”
Ethan looked back at Syd. He knew this situation was not easy for her, despite how she talked. He should have been more aware of her feelings, especially after what she’d done to get there. Before he could think of what to say, like planned choreography, Randolph walked into the restaurant, wearing his usual smile.
“Raj said I might find you here,” he said, pulling up a chair from the empty table next to them. “You sure have Raj fired up; that’s not easy to do. Believe me, I know. Things seem different from two days ago. You know, he was ready to drop you guys. He was fucking fed up.”
Randolph looked at Ethan, then at Syd, and then back at Ethan. Neither said a thing. Even without talking, they knew. What happened in the Release stayed there. Differences of opinion were never easy to deal with among those who really cared about the never-ending pursuit of a vision. If the dream of their vision was strong enough and they could find whatever special glue kept them together, they could achieve anything. The converse could also happen; they could explode and come apart. Odds favored the latter; history demonstrated it. Syd and Ethan weren’t about to expose any of it to anyone.
“Did you like what you heard?” Ethan asked, knowing the answer from what his own ears had told him. It mattered what Randolph thought, but his opinion wouldn’t change what they’d created. It was their best, and they loved it.
“Like?” Randolph replied, his eyes widening. “It’s perfect. I haven’t heard everything, but the song ‘Don’t Tell Me’ is something else.”
Ethan watched as Randolph signaled the waitress behind the counter for a tea, pointing to Ethan’s cup.
“It’s perfect for the end of the movie,” Randolph said.
Ethan nodded, not sure what to say. He didn’t remember how the book ended.
“But that’s not why I’m here.”
Ethan turned and noticed how sunny it was outside.
“You guys need a manager,” Randolph said, “and visibility. Your songs need to be heard and promoted. You need exposure. So here’s my pitch.”
As if imitating Ethan, Randolph turned and looked out the window. He turned back as the waitress brought his tea. “We’ll use at least two of your songs,” he said, looking at Syd. “You’ll get lots of PR as part of the movie’s promotion. You can even use it to help launch the Release. But you need your own.”
Randolph paused and leaned forward, his forearms supporting his growing bulk on the table. He took a sip of his tea. “I’m no expert,” he said, looking again at Syd and then back at Ethan. “Raj has a recommendation you should consider. You’re ready.”
Ethan looked at Syd. The band had talked many times about hiring a manager but had never come to a decision. Early on, one of Gus’s friends had helped out, but that had ended after they didn’t get paid for a high school dance. The guy had seemed to make up problems that didn’t exist and then explain how he’d solved them. They had seen him as the problem and decided to handle things themselves—Gus primarily—until they really needed outside management. Ethan was hearing that that time had come.
“How come Raj never said anything?” Ethan asked.
“Don’t know,” Randolph replied. “He seemed a little unsure of what to make of you guys as a band until yesterday.”
Randolph’s right eyebrow rose. He was seemingly curious as to what had gone on. Ethan was sure Randolph knew a lot more than he let on.
“We grew up a lot,” Ethan said, trying his best to sound confident that everything was now good, knowing it really wasn’t.
Syd didn’t say a word. Ethan knew her response. She’d been against dropping Gus’s guy, simply because they’d had no one else. Gus wasn’t a manager—an amazing bass player, yes, but not a businessman. They needed someone to manage them. Syd brushed away something on her forehead Ethan didn’t see.
“Is Raj still around?” Ethan asked.
“Yeah, he’ll be around for a while. He claims the real work is just starting.” Randolph pulled a card out of his shirt pocket. “The guy’s name is Jonah Vetch,” he said, passing the card to Ethan. “He’ll hear your songs tonight. He’ll want to see you play. Got anything in the works?”
Ethan nodded and thought for a moment. They were back at Tormo again on Tuesday for a couple of nights and then downtown at the Gasworks on Friday and Saturday. Nothing more was confirmed, though he’d made countless unreturned phone calls.
“Call him,” Randolph said, pointing at the card Ethan held in his hand. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll like him. I’m headed back to Ottawa tonight. I can’t thank you enough for doing this. I picked the right band.”
“Fucking right you did,” Ethan said, smiling and looking at Syd, “but we need to thank you. We’ve finally recorded some material.”
“Yeah, thanks, Randolph,” Syd said as Randolph stood up.
“You really have to stop this Randolph stuff,” he replied, smiling at her. “Ethan’s started something that seems contagious, but I prefer Randy. Randolph sounds like a stuffed shirt.”
Syd smiled.
“You’re one amazing guitar player, Sydney,” he said. “Your guitar work makes ‘Don’t Tell Me’ something extraordinary.”
“Thank you,” Syd said, shaking his hand. Ethan was sure he saw the look of a young girl’s crush in her reaction to Randolph’s compliment.
“See you, man,” he said to Ethan, shaking his hand.
Ethan nodded as Randolph turned and left as quickly as he’d arrived.
“I don’t think I’m going to stop calling him Randolph,” Ethan said. “It seems to be working just fine.”
CHAPTER 38
Friday, November 30, 1984
“Okay” was all Jonah Vetch said before he hung up. They’d talked for less than five minutes.
Jonah was professionally polite after his assistant finally connected Ethan, who had pleaded with her regarding how important it was that he talk to Mr. Vetch. Ethan’s confusion started shortly thereafter. Jonah said he’d not spoken to Raj, which caused Ethan to wonder what he’d missed in talking to Randolph. He almost thought he needed to explain who Raj was. Jonah was forthright in indicating he didn’t think he had time to handle another client but said he’d try to stop by the Markham gig. He knew the place. Ethan couldn’t help but sense the man’s disinterest, which was different from what he’d anticipated after Randolph’s recommendation. But he trusted Randolph. He hadn’t steered him wrong yet.
After wrapping up with Raj at Focus Sound, the band agreed to take the night off and take a break from one another. Syd drove Ethan back to the house and went to visit her aunt. Gus headed to his parents’ for dinner. Greg was out with a girl he’d met at Tormo. Ethan stayed at the house, wanting to make the call to Jonah alone, but he wished he’d taken Syd up on her offer of dropping him at his parents’ place instead.
Amid the excitement of recording, Ethan was ready to sign with Jonah Vetch, but the call deflated that enthusiasm. After the call, he didn’t want to spend the night a
lone. He wanted to talk to Christa but had failed to find her after several attempts with the operator. He decided to call his folks.
His father surprised him, agreeing to meet halfway. Ethan took the bus to Finch Station.
He’d been there all of five minutes before his father drove up in his Accord.
“Hey, young fella!” his father shouted out the open passenger window. “Lookin’ for a ride?”
“Yeah, mister.” Ethan laughed and tried to hold his own with his father’s humor. “So I can steal your car and wreak havoc on your house and family.”
The joke was weak; comedians they weren’t. He pulled the handle on the passenger door.
“Maybe, on second thought,” his father said as Ethan climbed into the car. His father’s hand was already out. “Long time no see.”
“It has been a while,” Ethan replied, shaking his father’s hand.
“You know your mother and sister are fussing together a special dinner for you,” he said. “Your sister’s pretty excited to hear what you’ve been up to. She might be your biggest fan, next to me and your mom.”
Ethan smiled. It sounded odd hearing excitement in his father’s voice about what he had chosen to do. The music world was not one his father had encouraged but likely was an easy alternative to losing his son to an institution.
“We’re playing Tormo next week. You should come by one night.”
“Maybe we will,” his father answered, surprising Ethan. Ethan caught his father’s side glance; his father was smiling. Maybe he liked his son’s earnestness in pursing at least something, Ethan thought.
“We’re hoping to show a potential manager our stuff,” Ethan said, encouraged by his father’s interest. “We’ll be playing the songs we recorded this week.”
“Recorded?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve recorded songs?” his father said, sounding astounded.
“Yeah, that’s where I was this week. We just finished.” Ethan found himself excited and decided to go on. “A couple of the songs will be part of a project Randolph’s working on. Remember Randolph? He came by as we were leaving the hospital.”
“I remember Randolph,” his father said. “Had a girl with him that day.”
“Yeah, Rachel,” Ethan replied, thinking Randolph hadn’t mentioned her on his visits.
“Randolph—as you call him—spoke to us a lot while you were in the hospital,” his father said. “I could never quite understand why he was there. He seemed more sad than ill, but I guess that’s sometimes the same thing.”
Ethan shrugged. “I don’t know, but he’s got things going on now.”
“Like?”
“The songs we recorded are for his movie.”
“His movie?” his father said, his voice rising, sounding incredulous.
“Yeah, his movie, an animated film based on Browning Station.”
“Why do I know that name?”
“’Cause it was in my room at the hospital,” Ethan said, looking over at his father. “You know, the book I couldn’t find when we got back. I was sure we packed it. But I’ve never seen it. I’ve been meaning to pick up a copy.”
“You know, I do remember it,” his father said, rubbing the side of his jaw.
“That’s what his movie’s based on,” Ethan said. “I guess I performed a lot of it on our floor, not that I remember.”
They were close to the house now. Ethan looked out the window. Someone was walking a black dog on the sidewalk. Ethan looked back at his father. “I gotta get a copy.”
“I’ve never seen it here,” his father said, turning into the driveway.
It had been a while since Ethan had been to his parents’ house, despite his living less than an hour away. Proximity had no bearing on frequency, his grandma—God rest her soul—had once told him. She’d lived three hours from them, in the country near Long Point Bay. When he was a kid, she had told him she saw his family more often than his aunt’s family, who lived three concessions away. Geographical proximity might have carried the sense of always being together, but reality often showed that closeness not to be true.
“You got a new front door,” Ethan remarked, looking up at the house.
“Yeah,” his father replied, “a month ago. Your mother’s idea.”
“Nice,” Ethan replied, wondering what had been wrong with the old one but knowing better than to ask. The door probably had cost more than the rent the Release had paid in November.
In less than a minute, he stepped into the aroma of his mother’s pepperoni and anchovy pizza, which carried with it reminiscences of good memories and happiness. Carlyn was standing in the living room. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his little sister. She’d not been there on his previous visits. Her social calendar was full, leaving her little time for school or home, as their mother was quick to mention during his occasional call home.
He gave his sister a hug. “How’s Sis?” he asked.
Her blonde hair was pulled up and tied on top of her head, resembling a fountain. Everything about Carlyn pointed to her being a sports jock; spandex pants, a sweat top, and running shoes adorned her athletic physique. She had more energy than two people combined, and the times he’d seen her, she’d never stopped moving. He sometimes wondered how his ordeal had impacted her. He figured parents in constant worry over her brother’s uncertain prognosis would have taken a toll, not to mention wondering herself whether her brother would ever return to his former self—not that they were close. It seemed to have shrunk the five-year difference in their ages; she seemed older.
“Sis is good,” Carlyn said with spunk in her tone. “How’s Bro?”
“I guess I deserve that,” he said, walking over to give his mother a kiss on the cheek. “It smells delicious in here. What’s the occasion?”
“Oh, come now,” their mother said. “When’s the last time we were all together?”
Ethan’s eyebrows rose as he looked at her. Strangely, he hadn’t thought of it that way, but he wasn’t surprised that she did. It had been a long time.
“Glad to see you’re as excited about it as we are,” Carlyn said, putting a hand on her hip, unimpressed.
“You know, all you have to say is ‘Mom is cooking pizza,’” Ethan replied, “and I’ll be here.”
“Yeah, right. Well, I made your favorite dessert.”
“Apple crisp,” Ethan said, his hazel eyes lighting up. “Now, you wanna talk about the last time for something? I don’t even remember what it tastes like.”
“Oh, come on, you two,” their mother said. “You’d think you didn’t know each other.”
Ethan hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he sat down in front of two steaming slices of his mother’s pizza. In years past, he’d joked that his mother’s Italian heritage ran deeper than she let on.
“You look like you’ve lost weight,” his mother said as they started to eat. His diet at the house was that of a student and consisted mostly of popcorn, hot dogs, and macaroni and cheese—staples of a low-income lifestyle.
“A little maybe,” he replied after swallowing a mouthful of pizza. “It kind of goes with the territory.”
“How so?” she asked, staring at him, a furrow of concern in her brow. He hated to think of what she’d gone through and was still going through because of him.
“The artist’s life. Doing what you love but really can’t afford,” Ethan replied, smiling, liking what he’d said and wanting to write it down.
“What was it like recording?” Carlyn asked, her green eyes as vibrant as ever. Ethan wondered if he might draw energy just by looking into them.
“How did you know?” asked their father.
“Mom told me.”
Their father looked at their mother, who shrugged and raised an eyebrow. Ethan went on before they could say any
more.
“Most of the time, it was kinda like a storm,” he said, thinking of Syd destroying the Martin outside of Focus Sound and then Christa. It was the last time he’d seen her. It jarred him to think he still couldn’t contact her. “But then it clears, and you find a treasure.”
“Oh, come on,” Carlyn replied, an earnestness coming through her tightened facial expression as she leaned over the table across from him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s what seems to happen,” he said, shrugging, remembering his moment with Syd and his fight with Greg. “We all play our parts of the songs. The engineer records them; Raj was our engineer. Then he goes away and puts it all together.”
“When can I hear it?”
“How about Tuesday night?” Ethan said, looking at his mother as if for approval. He didn’t know why; it was as if he had a need to get her buy-in. “I was telling Dad. We’re at Tormo for a couple of nights next week.”
“No way!” Carlyn shouted, having left the table to take her plate to the kitchen. “I was just there!”
“You were?” their mother asked, the pitch of her voice rising.
“Yeah,” Carlyn said from the kitchen, her voice losing its excitement.
Ethan figured she’d let slip more than she’d intended. He knew the feeling.
She stepped back into the dining room. “Jocelyn’s brother’s friend was in the band who was playing.”
Ethan watched as his sister looked to their mother for acceptance of her story. He was aware of where things could go if she didn’t accept it. To Ethan, Carlyn was growing up faster than their mother was willing to accept. He watched as his sister played to their mother’s reaction.
“We were there to help carry equipment,” she added, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “We can’t get in a bar.”
Carlyn looked at Ethan. There was no indication in her face that she had been trying to hide something.
“Blaze was their name, but they were shit,” she said, her language getting away from her. Ethan couldn’t tell whether the cursing had been intentional or not, but she quickly corrected herself. “I mean terrible.”
The Musician Page 19
