A Million Heavens (5 page)

When Soren had played that music and fallen into his coma, his father, along with his piano teacher, had been attacked as frauds. Among the attackers were the Catholic Church and also a big atheist who had a show on cable TV. Neither party had heard the music, but instead of tempering their positions, that fact only made them more vociferous. They said the fact that the music had not been released to the public was more proof that a scam had been perpetrated. The Catholics had released a tougher-than-usual statement that referred to Soren's case specifically and then went on to condemn all false miracles. The atheist, who always had sweat on his brow and called himself a
humanist
, implored Soren's father to come clean, implored him to admit Soren didn't write the music, to admit that Soren's father and the piano teacher had seen an opportunity when Soren had fallen unconscious and had swiftly, ruthlessly capitalized on it. Soren's father had never done anything ruthless in his whole life, and had
rarely done anything swift. And he'd said about a dozen words total to that piano teacher. He'd seen her briefly at the hospital when Soren was brought in and hadn't heard a peep from her since—probably scared into hiding by that first rush of media harassment. They'd been gone a long time now, the news people, and Soren's father hoped the piano teacher was okay. He remembered her clothes, a dressy kind of T-shirt and slacks that didn't go all the way down to her ankles. She'd seemed frustrated, angry even.

The piano teacher taped all her sessions and she'd turned the tape of Soren's session over to Soren's father and to the authorities. The music was sixteen seconds long and then you could hear Soren falling and the piano teacher catching him. All that fuss over sixteen seconds of music. There'd been a meeting where three experts offered up their opinions. Only one believed it was possible that Soren had written the music, but all three agreed they'd never heard it before. Soren's father had let it be known that he would not be selling the music or allowing it to be used for any commercial purpose, that it was Soren's music and he could decide what to do with it when he woke up, and this was viewed by Soren's father's detractors as a strategy, a way to build mystery and hold out for a higher price when he finally did sell the music. Soren's father was not going to sell the music. He hadn't even listened to it but once. There wasn't a whole lot to it. It was certainly sad, but most slow piano music was. He had the original tape somewhere safe and he tried not to think about whether or not his son was a genius. He didn't know him as a genius. He knew him as his son, whose favorite food was olives, who couldn't stand having a comb run through his hair, who enjoyed folding the laundry and making perfect squares out of T-shirts.

In the weeks following the lesson, about a dozen lawyers called Soren's father. They called wanting him to reconsider his position regarding the music, wanting him to entertain offers, wanting to represent him if he was going to do any television appearances, wanting to know if he felt he was being slandered.

Thankfully, because Soren's father had
not
gone on TV, had
not
accused
anyone of slandering him, because he had stayed in the clinic and mostly out of view and in his worn jeans and windbreaker didn't impress anyone as a mastermind, the media hoopla had died down. In place of attention from reporters, the weekly vigil had emerged. Soren's father was not comfortable being the object of attention, whether the attention came from churches or TV hosts or anonymous Albuquerqueans, and he'd hoped the vigil would be a one-time thing, then a two-time thing, three-time, but it had been going for a month now and the attendees had grown from half a dozen the first night to close to a hundred. These people seemed to be on Soren's side, but still they made Soren's father self-conscious, down there peering six stories up. They made him feel there were things he ought to be doing that he wasn't. On one level they were simply well-wishers, but they also had wishes for themselves that probably weren't simple at all, hopes to
get
something out of Soren, and Soren didn't seem to have anything to give. Apparently Soren had turned over everything when he wrote that music, music the vigilers had of course not even heard. The vigilers were shivering campers, and Soren was their fire. These people were cold in their souls, and if being near Soren offered them comfort then Soren's father supposed that was okay. The vigils only meant Soren's father had to close the blinds each Wednesday evening and that for a few hours he couldn't go out to the landing and smoke. Soren's father felt bad for the vigilers, really. They were waiting and didn't know what for. Soren's father knew what he was waiting for. He was waiting to get his son back.

Arn's night off, and no vigil. Dannie was sitting with him at the kitchen table, the oven light casting shadows. Dannie had a bowl of cut fruit out, picking at it.

“I'm not going to start sleeping all day like you do.”

“I don't think you should,” said Arn.

“Then how are we going to see each other more?”

“Quality, right?” said Arn. “Not quantity.”

“I want you to go to sleep right now. I don't care if you're not tired. Tomorrow we're spending the entire day together. We're going around doing normal-people activities in the sunshine.”

“Like what?”

“The zoo, for one. And we're going to happy hour.”

“What if I don't feel happy?”

“You go to happy hour to
get
happy,” Dannie said.

“Oh, I see.”

“Eat some of this fruit.”

“No way.”

“It'll go bad.”

“You can say the word ‘fruit' all you want. Those are still just sugar-veggies.”

Dannie didn't laugh. She gently chewed a grape. “I was lying when I said I was twenty-seven.”

Arn stuck his chin out.

“I didn't want you to think I was old. I'm really twenty-nine.”

“Okay,” Arn said. “Lying doesn't bother me. It's not a pet peeve of mine.”

“The idea of dating an older woman. I was letting you…”

“You didn't need to, but it's okay you did.”

“Not a pet peeve?”

“Lies. The truth. What's the big difference, really?”

Arn's face was sober and untroubled.

“You're not going to be mad at me, not even for thirty seconds?”

“The issue's dead as Doris Day. Whoever that is. Or was.”

“But I was dishonest. It's a betrayal.”

“You weren't honest, but I don't feel betrayed. Takes more than that to make me feel like someone betrayed me.”

“So you accept my apology?”

Arn nodded. “Twenty-seven, twenty-nine—either way you're a broken-down old lady.”

A guitar materialized, leaning in a stand right next to the piano. Reggie picked the guitar up and it felt at home in his hands, but he didn't play it. He put it back on the stand. Whoever was running this show knew he was a musician, and maybe was trying to be hospitable to Reggie, giving him a way to pacify himself, but he didn't want pacification. He hoped he wasn't offending anyone—it was a gorgeous guitar, made of unstained white oak that smelled of broken nutshells—but in his predicament happy music seemed mocking and unhappy music indulgent. And writing music, making something out of nothing in the context of this void, would require optimism that Reggie did not at the moment possess. Reggie wasn't ignorant anymore. There was plenty that was being kept from him, but he wasn't ignorant enough to believe that writing a song had any point.

The guitar appeared, and then sometime after that, down at the dimmest end of the main hall, Reggie found a bar—a full bar with stools and all the paddles jutting up that showed what beers you could choose from. The liquor bottles were a wave of color against the back wall. There was a bowl of lemons and a bowl of limes and a cutting board and paring knife. All the little tools and shakers and specially shaped glasses. Reggie had never been behind a bar, and he stood back there but didn't touch anything. He leaned with this hip against the back counter. Tending bar had always looked pleasant to him, a job that required practice but not originality, much like tending yards. The beer paddles were arresting in their variety but Reggie wasn't thirsty for a beer. He'd never been much of a drinker. At parties he'd nurse from the same plastic cup for hours, and he'd rarely tried hard liquor. He slid open the drawers one by one and in the very last drawer found a baggie of marijuana and a small, heavy pipe. Like alcohol, Reggie partook in pot now and then but didn't much enjoy it. It made him more talkative, he supposed, but that was about it. He slid the drawer closed. Reggie turned and looked the bottles over. Many of the brands he'd never heard of. There was a mirror on the wall behind the bottles and for the first time since he'd arrived in this place he saw his face. It was the same. It was an empty street that could've been either lazy or desolate.

Reggie went and stood in the center of the main hall and peered up into the perpetual dusk, or maybe it was dawn. It was like looking into a weak headlight on a foggy night. Reggie kept doing his laps, trying not to pay attention to the speed at which he walked. He was barefoot and the floor was perfectly clean.

He tried to piece together his accident, but could not remember what might have caused it. He had a quick clip of the moment after, the tart smells of the wrecked truck, the glare of the sun off the scattered glass, his blood leaking out of him onto the seat. And he had the moment just before. He'd been humming a new song, had felt excited like always, and calm, and there'd been no one in his mirrors, not one car up ahead. He couldn't call up one note of that song now, like it had been stolen. Not one note.

Reggie thought of women, and it felt different than when he thought about food. Food gave him no feeling at all, which wound up making him frustrated, but imagining women gave him solace. The feeling was simpler than when he'd fantasized in the living world, because now there was no pressure. There were no women around. He could think of them as a benevolent, plural entity. He wouldn't have to approach a particular girl and say the correct thing. He didn't have to feel hollow about the countless women he would never possess. Thinking of women was like thinking of sunny prairies. The backs of their knees. The tops of their feet. Reggie didn't have to worry that he was wasting time with his reveries. Both waste and time were dead notions.

Cecelia agreed to meet Nate, the drummer, for dinner. He'd wanted to pick up sandwiches and eat in the barn behind his house, but that was where they used to hold band practice and Cecelia didn't care to ever enter that barn again. It wasn't really a barn. It was a spiffy backyard cabin. A brand new hot tub hung from its rafters on ropes because Nate's dad hadn't gotten around to having the thing installed. Whenever they'd played loudly, the hot tub would sway above them.

Cecelia met Nate at a diner on Route 66, his backup idea. The only people who enjoyed the whole Route 66 thing were rich people who didn't
have
to stay in seedy hotels and eat at crappy diners, people like Nate who found the idea of migrating because you were down on your luck quaint. Nate had a thirty-year-old car that was in gorgeous condition and Cecelia had a thirteen-year-old car that was an absolute piece of shit, and they both fit right in on Route 66.

Nate was waiting for Cecelia when she got there, out in front of the diner, leaning against a phone booth. Cecelia felt like Nate was already a complete stranger. They'd spoken only once since Reggie died. Nate had tried to explain why he wasn't going to the funeral, and Cecelia had explained why she was. Nate didn't know Cecelia had chickened out and sat in her car in the parking lot.

They went in and ordered burgers with green chiles. The table had a dozen condiments on it, a huddle of syrups and hot sauces. Nate looked cheated. The band had been his project. Reggie had been about as close to a friend as Nate could come.

“I wanted to meet because I need to know what your thoughts are concerning the band.” Nate struggled to get his straw out of its paper tube.

“Meaning what?”

“We need a new member. You got any ideas?”

Cecelia drew an impatient breath.

“You heard me,” said Nate. “This is what bands do. They reconstitute.”

“Another one-of-a-kind songwriter?”

“They're around.”

“Reggie
was
the band. He was the architect and we were bricklayers.”

“You were his apprentice. Maybe it's time to ply the trade. Maybe you're the answer, right here under our noses.”

This was how Nate's mind worked. Everything could be fixed by hustling. Nate had booked all the gigs and gotten local critics to review the band and had bought a bunch of equipment with his own money.

“I'm presently not touching my guitar,” Cecelia said. “That'll make things tricky.”

“You're going to stop playing music?” Nate asked. “You're going to take up jogging or collect stamps? Just keep going to those vigil things and waste away? That's what Reggie would want?”