The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto (35 page)

“Then why did you take us to him?”

“Dunno. He’s been here a long time. I thought he might like knowing there were people who hadn’t forgotten him.”

“You knew who he was? That he was famous in the sixties?”

“Aw, sure. ‘I Want To Love You’? We heard that song in the army. Whoo-hoo! Makes you shake your hips, eh?”

“Then why did you say you never heard of him?”

“First rule of friendship, mates. Learn how to keep a secret.”

The three boys slumped. They sipped their beers.

“That’s why I went by his place that night. To make sure it was all right.”

“Wait,” Lyle said. “He gave you
permission
to bring us?”

“Not him, mate. Her.”

“His wife?”

“Aurora. She’s lovely. She thought it was a good idea.”

Bolstered by this news, the Texas boys decided to stay on the island through the weekend, which featured an annual tradition known as Race Day. Horses, ponies, and tractors all competed on a large beach, while the islanders gathered in the sun, eating steaks from McGinty’s and drinking beer from barrels. Music was part of the festivities, and it took very little for the Clever Yells to arrange to play a few songs in the late afternoon. (The other musicians were a small brass band and a man with an accordion.) The stage had a crude arrangement, with an old drum set in the center, and small amplifiers and microphones that were used for council meetings. But Lyle, Eddie, and Cluck were anxious to play—bands that get together after an absence are as giddy as lovers at an airport—and once they’d plugged in their guitars and offered a quick greeting, they opened with a country song, written by Lyle, which was met with robust applause. They did “Jambalaya” by Hank Williams and a version of “Twist and Shout,” all of which seemed to mix well with the sun and the beer and the general noise of children squealing and drunken men laughing.

“We’d like to do one more,” Lyle said. “An old one, but a good one for sure.”

Cluck pounded the drums, and, with the guitar playing an old familiar line, Lyle broke into the opening verse of Frankie Presto’s biggest hit:

I want to love you,

I will be true,

No one will love you

The way I do.

The crowd immediately clapped along, as people do on songs they recognize. Lyle looked at Eddie, who smiled as he sang background. Their affection for this music was apparent. But a quick glance over the crowd took the smile off Lyle’s face.

In the back stood Frankie, with the little girl on his shoulders.

In the middle of the song, he turned and walked away.

I should explain about the child.

Frankie and Aurora had found the peace they were searching for on the island. Land was cheap and they purchased a small plot on the beach and built a tidy home from local materials with a deck that overlooked the water. In the mornings they walked the shoreline and in the evenings Aurora barbecued fresh fish while Frankie practiced scales and arpeggios to regain his dexterity. They dressed in shorts and old cotton shirts and found the island residents to be a collection of artists, drifters, and colorful characters, none of whom cared about Frankie’s former celebrity.

About a year after their arrival, Frankie and Aurora were returning from a walk when they heard an animal crying. In the brush, they saw a stray dog. It had white fur and was hunched low, staring at them. When they approached, the animal whimpered and backed up a few steps. Behind it, they discovered, wrapped in a gray blanket, a tiny baby girl, no more than three months old.

“Who are
you
, sweetheart?” Aurora whispered, gently lifting her.

Frankie watched. The child made no sound. Aurora held her against her chest, but the baby’s eyes remained open, looking at Frankie.

“Someone left her to die,” he said. The words just came out. Inside all humans is the entirety of your memories, the ones you can access and the ones you cannot. Somewhere in the deep of Frankie’s mind was his own abandonment, his own gray blanket, his own whimpering dog.

“We need to get her someplace safe,” Aurora said.

They hurried to their car, and never saw a heavily clothed figure, hiding in the woods.

They took the child to the nearest church, a small, single-level building. The attending nun, a thick-necked woman with a stern expression, seemed surprised by their arrival, and she took the child and told them to wait. Soon a police officer arrived. He grilled them about the details. Where? How? When? Who were they?

“Why are you asking us so many questions?” Frankie said.

“Because that baby was left here two days ago, mate,” the officer replied. “Someone abandoned her in the vestibule, with a note asking that the church take care of her. And then, this morning . . .”

He paused. “She vanished.”

Frankie looked at Aurora.

“We didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“We told you what happened.”

“We just found her.”

“That’s the truth. In the woods. A dog was guarding her.”

Since the baby was unharmed, the officer eventually accepted their story. He allowed them to go home. But that night Aurora dreamed about the child. And the next day, she insisted Frankie go with her to the church.

“Hello, precious,” Aurora cooed, leaning over the crib.

“Don’t expect no response from that one,” the nun said.

“Why not?”

“Something wrong with her.”

“What?”

“Can’t make a peep. Just grunts a little. May be deaf. That’s usually the reason. Poor thing. We’re taking her to the mainland tomorrow.”

Aurora looked at Frankie.

“Get your guitar,” she said.

Frankie returned with his acoustic. He strummed the open strings. The child did not react.

“Play her a song,” Aurora said.

Frankie played the elementary notes of “Hush Little Baby.”

“Sing,” Aurora whispered. So he did.

Hush little baby, don’t say a word,

Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

The child looked over. Aurora sang the next line.

And if that mockingbird don’t sing,

Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.

The child opened its mouth.

The adults sang together.

And if that diamond turns to brass,

Mama’s gonna buy you a looking glass.

They stopped. The child turned her head. She started to cry, her eyes squeezed tight. But hardly a sound came forth. Just small, muted grunts, almost painful to hear from such a tiny creature.

Frankie started playing again.

And she stopped crying.

“You see?” Aurora said to the nun. “She’s not deaf. She can hear.” She turned to Frankie. “And she likes it when you play.”

“Well, I don’t know . . . ,” he said, smiling.

But I knew. I knew exactly what was happening. I see the future of all my children, and I saw in this future a discussion, a decision, an adoption, and the clearing of space for a small crib in their tidy house. A new band was forming with Frankie Presto at its center.

This one was a family.

50

BUT TO FINISH WITH THE BOYS FROM TEXAS.

Frankie and Aurora had named the baby girl Kai and they raised her with love, sand, seawater, and music. As near as the doctors could tell, she was mute, a congenital malfunction in her vocal cord development. But her hearing was sharp, and so were her eyes, and those eyes followed Frankie as he walked around a room. When he sat down with his guitar, she clapped the base of her palms together.

Kai provided inspiration for Frankie’s recovery. She was there when he finally played a Giuliani piece without error. She was there when he mastered (for the second time in his life) the twelve études of Heitor Villa-Lobos. And she was on Frankie’s shoulders when the Clever Yells did their version of “I Want To Love You” at the beach races.

She was also there, two weeks later, holding Frankie’s and Aurora’s hands, when they entered a cramped recording studio in downtown Auckland called the Last Laugh, Frankie carrying his old guitar. At Aurora’s urging, he had agreed to record a song with the young men from Texas, in exchange for their departing the island and leaving him alone.

“It won’t hurt you to play with them,” Aurora had said.

“I’m not looking to play with anyone.”

“But it’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“To grow your audience beyond your wife and daughter.”

Lyle had been so excited, he wasn’t able to sleep the night before. He wrote out charts for the song they would record, a rock composition that he felt was his most commercial.

“Sorry, I know this isn’t the greatest studio,” he said to Frankie, “but the equipment is good. And they’re only charging us fifteen dollars an hour.”

“No names,” Frankie said.

“Sorry?”

“I don’t want my name anywhere. Not on the tracks or the credits or anything.”

Lyle was disappointed, as he had hoped that telling people Frankie Presto was on his record would make it more marketable.