The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

  Ethan smiled at the irony. Without turning his head, he could see his father continuing to shake his. They bumped over some broken asphalt upon exiting the parking lot and then were homeward bound.

  “What’re ya reading?” he father asked, calm returning to his voice. They were ten minutes from the house.

  “Browning Station,” Ethan answered.

  His father didn’t reply. It was as if he’d asked the question as part of making professional conversation, not really interested in the answer.

  “Isn’t that the book you had in the hospital?” His father was listening.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You found it?”

  “Not exactly,” Ethan said, knowing his father was trying. “I found it in a bookstore.”

  “That book has a mind of its own.”

  “You could say that,” Ethan replied, closing the book. He wasn’t going to get any more read now. “The hospital copy doesn’t want to be found, so I bought my own.”

  They stopped for a red light.

  “I figured I should read it now that we’ve recorded songs for the soundtrack.”

  “The soundtrack?” his father asked, the pitch of his voice rising. “What’s that about?”

  “It’s what we recorded.”

  “You recorded songs for a soundtrack?” His father’s right hand came off the steering wheel. He opened it as if he were letting a bird fly away. “Why don’t I know this?” The calm was fading from his father’s voice.

  “I told you about it on my last visit. Mom knows.”

  His father’s hand returned to the wheel in an apparent exchange with his head, which was again shaking. “Fill me in. I don’t remember, and it appears your mother doesn’t think it important enough to tell me.”

  Ethan didn’t like his father’s disrespecting his mother. She had likely tried, as he had, and been crowded out by something else on his father’s mind.

  “Sure,” he said. He could try to steer the conversation away from his mother—that would be easier than what saying nothing would result in. He explained again what he thought he’d said before: Randolph was working on an animated feature of Browning Station and had given the Release a shot at recording a few songs for it.

  “Ah, now I do remember something about you recording,” his father said.

  They turned left off Highway 7 and onto McCowan Road. The field where Ethan used to ride his bike was full of bulldozers and dump trucks.

  “Isn’t recording a rite of passage for a musician?” his father said. “Like ‘publish or perish’ for an author. A soundtrack sounds pretty major.”

  Ethan couldn’t help feeling that his father still viewed him as the kid who’d ridden his bike in the then-empty field they were passing.

  “It’s pretty big,” Ethan said, “and why I figure I should read the book.”

  Then, as was his annoying habit, his father abruptly changed the subject, as if he were watching television and had decided to change the channel.

  “Still taking your medication?”

  CHAPTER 47

  Monday, December 24, 1984

  They were on the doorstep; Ethan had the handle straps of his hockey bag slung over his shoulder. Five minutes had elapsed since his father had asked the question. They were still talking about it.

  “Why would you think I’d stop taking my meds?” Ethan asked, feeling his father was questioning his personal integrity. He was living on his own, asking them for almost nothing, yet it was as if his father still wanted to know whether he made his bed every day.

  “Because you think you don’t need them anymore.”

  “Maybe I don’t!”

  “Okay, okay,” his father said, turning about-face. He was about to push the door open.

  Ethan was standing beside the painted wood cutout of Santa Claus that had been beside the front door every Christmas for as long as Ethan could remember.

  “Sorry,” his father said. “I didn’t mean to pry. Don’t forget: this is your mother’s night.”

  When Ethan visited his parents’ house now, it was like returning to his childhood and who he’d been when he lived there. Everything, including the neighborhood, seemed smaller, something he’d noticed the first time he’d come back from Ottawa. But things had changed. For example, the black wrought-iron railing he’d painted one summer—his first paid work—was gone, replaced by landscaping and brickwork his parents had done while he was away at university. It was as if his departure had prompted the change. The new door, with etched-glass panels, held a large Christmas wreath, and an evergreen garland decorated the doorframe. As he reached for the door latch, the door opened. His mother was there, her bright, smiling eyes looking over the top of reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

  “Ethan,” she said, her arms opening wide to give him a welcome hug.

  He set down his bag and hugged her. He gave her a kiss on the cheek as he felt her arms wrap around him.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said.

  “Me too,” he said. He liked her hugs.

  “Okay, okay,” his father said behind him. “I’m here too and would like to get in.”

  His mother stepped back. She was wearing her traditional red-and-green Christmas Eve cardigan she’d worn for years. Her graying hair was all fixed up, no doubt from her trip to the hair salon earlier that day. She was still smiling.

  The house smelled incredible. The aroma of her homemade buns, which could have been a meal by themselves, filled the air. No one would leave the table hungry that night.

  Ethan pulled his hockey bag inside and set it down beside a new antique desk that sat where the old shoe rack had always been in the small foyer. Above the desk was a new mirror framed in wood that matched the desk. Before he got his coat off, Carlyn came in, wearing what looked like new jeans and a red blouse. Her hair was wrapped in a matching band.

  “Hello, Brother,” she said, beaming.

  “Hello, Sis,” he answered. He was feeling a little underdressed in his day-old jeans and gray university sweatshirt. It hadn’t occurred to him that his mother and sister would dress up for the occasion. Realizing his faux pas, he was about to make a comment when Carlyn stepped forward; she was a little taller than their mother.

  “Do I get a hug?”

  Something seemed a little awkward in hugging Carlyn. They’d hugged at Tormo too, but he couldn’t remember ever hugging her before that. She was his kid sister and had been just entering high school when he’d left for university almost a year and a half ago. They had never had much of a relationship after he’d started high school, outside of her being the annoying little sister who messed with his things. She’d accompanied their father only once to Ottawa that Ethan knew of. He’d already come out of wherever his mind had taken him. Their mother hadn’t thought it wise for her to visit when he wasn’t the Ethan she knew. The gig at Tormo had been the last time he’d seen her; that had been three weeks ago.

  Brenda Lee’s famous “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” was coming from the living room.

  “What’s been going on?” Carlyn asked, barely able to contain her excitement, as if she were ready to jump in the air at any second. She made everyone else look slow and old, including Ethan.

  “A few things,” Ethan said. He’d planned not to say anything until dinner. Keep a level head, he’d told himself. No big excitement. Full Clint Eastwood. But of course, that didn’t happen. He was talking before he had his jacket off.

  “Why didn’t I hear any of this?” his father said as Ethan talked, although he didn’t seem too perturbed.

  “I was saving the news,” Ethan said, knowing it was partly the truth. His father would likely have competed unknowingly with his own news and heard little, just like when he’d told him about recording for the soundtrack.

  “Tell
us more,” Carlyn said, “so I can tell my friends. They love the Release.”

  They were in the living room. Ethan looked at the Christmas tree, which was in front of the large bay window instead of in its traditional place in the corner, where his mother sat alone in their new love seat; her smile had faded a little. His father was sitting in his leather lounge chair. Ethan and Carlyn had moved to the new couch; Carlyn was still grinning like a puppy anxious for attention. Ethan had looked forward to reminiscing about the many Christmases at home. He knew those days were gone and not repeatable, but it was still nice to think about those nights before Christmas and the excitement of wondering whether Santa would bring him the new Johnny West Ranch or the Tyco slot-car racing set. Would Kenner’s Easy-Bake Oven—the item pictured in the ad Carlyn had cut from the Eatons’ Christmas catalog, much to their mother’s chagrin, and sent to Santa—magically appear under the tree in front of the other presents? They were memories from another time, not about to be found under the artificial tree in its new location.

  Ethan looked at his father in his chair. He appeared unchanged from past Christmases. But in his mother, he saw something else—a now weak smile and an unfamiliar quietness.

  “This guy Jonah, who’s our new manager, has a lot of contacts,” Ethan said, looking at Carlyn. He paused and looked again at the unreal Christmas tree. His mother had adorned it with gold and silver decorations to coordinate with the gold window drapes that blocked their inside world from the outside. “He seems to think I can act.”

  He glanced again at his mother. Her expression remained unchanged. Ethan wasn’t about to tell them the deal he’d agreed to with Jonah but went on with his story.

  “I auditioned downtown yesterday afternoon,” he said, and Carlyn sucked in her breath but didn’t say anything. “They want me to come back on Wednesday.”

  Carlyn touched his forearm. Her excitement was contagious.

  “You’re going to audition on Boxing Day?” their father asked before Carlyn could speak, his voice low and stern, as if Ethan had crossed a line he wasn’t supposed to.

  Ethan looked at his father. “Yeah,” he replied, his tone indicating there was no question that he was going.

  “But it’s a holiday.”

  “For some.”

  “Ethan, I can’t believe it!” Carlyn interrupted, unable to contain herself. “You’re going to be a movie star too?”

  Bothered by his father’s reaction but unwilling to fall into its play, he turned to Carlyn, who was now sitting on the edge of the sofa’s cushion.

  “I don’t know about that,” he said, smiling, pleased that at least someone was excited about what he was doing, “but I am auditioning.”

  “What’s it for?” she asked.

  “Don’t know that either,” Ethan said, “but I expect to soon.”

  “My brother’s going to be in the movies,” Carlyn said, standing up.

  Ethan looked at his father, who was rubbing his face as if he were afraid it might not be there in a while. He was looking not at Ethan but at his socked feet on the ottoman.

  Their mother spoke next. “Let’s eat.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Monday, December 24, 1984

  If there was one thing that was the same as Ethan remembered, it was the place setting for dinner. There was nothing new about the dining room. His mother’s idea to replace the table with a baby grand piano had not materialized. While their father’s adage “You can’t eat on a piano” might have been true, Ethan thought time favored his mother. But he did wonder whether the idea was more wishful thinking than something she really wanted. That obviously hadn’t been the case with the living room furniture. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten at the dining room table.

  Johnny Mathias singing “Winter Wonderland” on the stereo reinforced the Christmas ambience.

  Just as he had pictured, two fondue pots were in the middle of the table, one with hot oil and the other with molten cheese. The long barbed prongs with multicolored handles they’d used for years sat at each place setting, ready to skewer the chunks of meat and crusty bread. He was sure chocolate cheesecake was hidden in the fridge.

  The mixed smells of gruyère cheese and their mother’s homemade buns brought back the Christmas Eves of yesteryear.

  “Remember the Christmas when you looked under our bed?” his mother said in concert with his reminiscences. “You knew you were getting Hot Wheels but couldn’t say anything. You were so disappointed. You loved surprises.”

  “You knew?” Ethan said half in jest, remembering their parents’ bedroom was out of bounds during the weeks approaching Christmas Day.

  “Of course. We’re parents. How do you think we got here?”

  Their mother was smiling again, inserting a pronged piece of chicken into the hot oil of the fondue pot. Her baby finger was raised in a daintiness she rarely displayed as she positioned her long fork among the others. Ethan knew this wasn’t her preferred way to cook, but it was tradition.

  The dipping, frying, and eating went on, as did reminiscing to Christmas tunes, from Perry Como’s “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” to Andy Williams’s “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” It was as if the combination of music, food, and family were a secret time machine to past Christmases. Ethan remembered the Kodak Pocket Instamatic camera he’d dropped in the toilet and their mother’s sugarless date squares. One night, the Christmas tree had fallen over while their father read The Night Before Christmas, bringing certainty that a ghost was in the room. Carlyn admitted how overwrought she’d been in asking Santa for Lego, knowing it was supposed to be a toy for boys. Even Spirograph and Pop-o-Matic Trouble came up in the conversation. Toys had a way of defining a generation. This year, it was an obnoxious cube of small, rotatable colored cubes—the Rubik’s Cube.

  “Have you got one, Ethan?” Carlyn asked.

  “That’s a revealing question on Christmas Eve,” their father said.

  “No,” he replied, ignoring their father and thinking of Greg’s frustration with the “fucking cube.” “Greg has one, along with some special words for it.”

  “One of the girls at school can solve it in less than two minutes,” Carlyn said. “I hope I get one.”

  Ethan skewered another chunk of beef, amazed at how quickly the little pieces had filled him up. The meal always left him stuffed, and dessert was still to come.

  “We’re slowing down,” their mother said. Both her forks lay across her plate.

  The only smart one, Ethan thought. She knew when to stop.

  “One more’s enough for me,” their father said, leaning back in his chair with both hands on the edge of the faded red, white, and green tablecloth. “Gotta leave room for dessert.”

  Ethan pulled his cooked chunk of beef out of the pot and set it on his plate. Carlyn pulled out her fork with a piece of cooked chicken on the end. Their mother turned off the burner. Unable to resist, Ethan dipped another piece of the crusty french stick into what little cheese remained in the bottom of the other pot.

  “Darren, can you turn off the other burner?” their mother asked their father. “Or does anyone want more?”

  “Nah,” Ethan mumbled, stuffing the bread smothered in the still-molten cheese into his mouth. Their mother left with the plates the meat had been served on.

  Why did he continue to eat when he was already stuffed?

  He wondered where Christa might be and what she was doing.

  “Aren’t you excited about your audition?” Carlyn said, interrupting his thought, putting the last piece of chicken into her mouth.

  “A little,” Ethan replied, not ready to leave his thoughts of Christa. He wondered if she might have gone to Ottawa. He knew so little about her.

  “A little?” Carlyn said, sounding surprised, her voice rising in concert with her eyebrows. “I d
on’t believe you. You were doing that in Ottawa.”

  Her voice trailed off, but her comment was enough to shift his thoughts from Christa to Mila, as if one could play tag with the other.

  “I’m so sorry, Ethan,” Carlyn said, realizing too late what she’d said. “I didn’t mean to.”

  Carlyn had never met Mila. He wondered if she’d even seen pictures of her. The padlocked-door feeling was again in his midst.

  In a way, it was as if they’d all been tiptoeing around the obvious. He was about to leave her comment alone and reply to her first question when what he’d thought about earlier came to his lips.

  “What’d ya do last Christmas?” he asked, turning around what Carlyn had stumbled onto to find out what he’d thought about earlier. “Did you have fondue?”

  Their mother reentered the dining room and stood behind Carlyn’s chair. “I’d rather not talk about it, Ethan,” she said.

  Ethan looked at her. Not only had her smile disappeared, but she also looked withdrawn. The shadows around her eyes had darkened. The skin on her forehead flattened as the corners of her eyes drooped in a frown.

  “I know, Ma, but we’re all here now. We’re all together.” His hands came together, fingers spread. “We should be happy and celebrating, not hiding and pretending it never happened.”

  He watched as their mother’s hand tightened on the back of Carlyn’s chair.

  “Every time I think about it, I’m afraid—so I don’t,” she said, grimacing and looking away.

  “But I’m here now,” he said. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want to let go. They were too close to something. “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through, but you made it.”

  Ethan looked to their father. Their father’s eyes said it all—“Remember what I told you”—but he didn’t utter a word. Ethan looked back at their mother.

  “It happened, Mom. Not thinking about it won’t make it go away.” Ethan paused, but his words wouldn’t stop. “It won’t stop it from happening again either.” He leaned forward, his stomach against the edge of the table. “I’m scared all the time.” He looked at Carlyn. Her eyes were downcast, looking at the tabletop. No doubt she’d been coached not to bring up the subject, and now she’d instigated it. By will or by accident—it didn’t matter. When one was told not to do something, it often was difficult to think of anything else.