The Opposite of Music (5 page)

“Cut it out,” Linda says.

“Don't make fun of the doctor, Billy,” Mom says. “Your father feels comfortable with him.”

“I'm not making fun of the doctor. I'm making fun of you!”

“That's enough, Billy,” Dad says.

It's hard to argue with him right now.

A group of men in heavy parkas cluster by a bench on our main street.

“I like your light!” one calls in accented English. The others guffaw. Well, you can't pay much attention to stupid comments. A headlight is practical when you do a lot of night riding. If they find me foolish, so be it. Some of the immigrants in town ride bikes too, but I get the impression it's because they can't afford cars yet, and as soon as they can buy a nice pickup it will be
adios, bicicleta
.

Everyone's in a rush to get a driver's license, but I'm in no hurry to get a car. You know those old movies, British mysteries or French classics, where you see a guy riding a bike in a tweed jacket and tie? That's very classy. Except that in the U.S. you would have to wear a helmet, which ruins the look.

Why hasn't anyone done a movie about a group of bicyclists? It would open with kind of a skittery theme on an electric fiddle, which gets louder as a dozen classic bikes appear, another dozen, forty in all. They burst into stunts: ramp jumps and wheelies. The scene looks like pandemonium but has been drilled to clockwork precision. It could be the story of outlaw bikers taking midnight rides on hacked bikes that defy safety laws, or musicians who work as bike messengers by day. Or an action movie about rival gangs, loaded with street-fighting scenes. I can picture the movie poster: “Spokes. What goes around comes around.” A closeup of a guy's face through the wheel he's repairing. His eye is circled with a gang tattoo.

Maybe if Dad rode a bike again, like he did as a kid, he could get his old energy back. It could be that easy: tire himself during the day, sleep better at night, and we all go back to normal. Maybe, maybe, maybe. I try not to think about it too much. But Mom and the doctors have to keep trying. If they weren't saying maybe, maybe, maybe they would just sit around asking why, why, why. As in a traditional blues song. Something like:

Studio? Radio?

I should be able to plug in that rhyme. I don't want to use a rhyming dictionary unless I'm absolutely, definitely stuck.

“Hey, Bicycle Boy!”

At the red light I feel something wet across my eyes and cheeks. Not blood? A Ford Explorer screeches forward, bolting from me as soon as the light turns green. Guys in the car are laughing, and one turns back to taunt me, holding a bottle out the window.

I pull the bike over to the curb and press my hand against my face. My heart is slamming. No, not blood. Something cool and clear. I sniff. Probably just water. He squirted me with a bottle of water. Could be worse. Could be bleach. Or urine.

Who would do a thing like that?

Probably frat boys from Hawthorne State, looking for a cheap laugh. If so, is there something about me that provoked this? Were they cruising for victims, or did my appearance make them want to humiliate me? Are they threatened by my challenge to automotive dominance?

Christ, I wish I had had something to throw into their car. Or at least that I recovered in time to say something back. “Bicycle Boy.” Really clever. Really humiliating. That put me in my place, all right. Oh my gosh, you're right, I am riding a bike! Thanks for pointing that out, I hadn't realized it! And now I realize how socially unacceptable that is! Idiot me! It's four wheels from now on!

Or was the “boy” part the big insult? Crap, I'm only fifteen! That makes me unfit to live! If only I could be a college guy like you, with nothing to do but drive around soaking people!

Now, what was I just thinking about?

Still, it could be worse. Awful things. Like bleach, right in the eyes. Or, I heard of somebody riding along when a car passenger smashed a glass bottle in front of him, probably hoping that broken glass would fly up into the cyclist's face. Or girls getting their rear ends grabbed. You could fall right into traffic after something like that. Why can't people just get along?

What could you say to those guys? “Bicycle Boy.” Why is that so clever? Is it the repetition of the
b
at the beginning of both words (i.e., alliteration) that they think is devastating? If so, would they be devastated if I alliterated them back? College Clowns? Water-Wielding Wusses?

Explorer…Excrementheads? But that's the thing about these incidents. You dwell on them too long, and you never do recoup. You think you'll get your own back, but you can't. It eats away at you. They've got you either way.

Okay, now I've completely lost my train of thought.

Dad has started a new med. Now, in addition to being worried, tired, malnourished, and sleep-deprived, his fear level seems to be rising. He looks like he would jump at the sight of a Fauvist painting. And once I saw his hand shake when he drank a glass of water.

I don't know if the pills are causing this or if Dad is simply getting worse, but I suspect the pills are at fault. If so, maybe Dr. Gupta attended the medical school at Paradox College, where in addition to learning things like (1) You have to be cruel to be kind, and (2) If you love something, let it go, she also learned (3) To calm someone down, scare them.

Of course, I don't know anything. Most likely Dad is 100 percent on track for where he needs to be.

At six p.m., it's already been dark for two hours. A thin layer of mixed rain and snow has come down, leaving the road tacky and hissing. After dinner we settle into the conversation area with Dad's brother Marty and watch the tree blink. Marty brought his camcorder so he can film us opening our gifts. He shoots Mom placing a turkey leg on a plate beside Dad's chair.

“He might want to pick at that,” she says.

Marty pans across the cards strung on ribbons above the fireplace, a combination of Merry Christmas and Get Well. Dad's office has sent a fruit basket wrapped in gold cellophane, with a note saying “An apple a day keeps the doctor away!”

“Gee, that's easy,” Linda said when she accepted the basket from the deliveryman. “Do they think he's suffering from irregularity?”

Marty sits beside Dad and rests his arm along the back of the couch. He was recently separated from Aunt Stephanie, who was, as Mom and Dad always said, a keeper. She traveled all over the world setting up computer systems for a big hotel chain. When she left Uncle Marty and took Marty Junior, the new baby cousin we never met, we couldn't help feeling, as a family, that she was just too good for us.

Now Marty always dresses as if he's out on a date. Pressed jeans, smooth mustache, styled hair. But he's getting that defeated look some divorced fathers have. The look that says they used to be part of something.

The phone rings in the kitchen. “That must be Sally and Adam,” Mom says, jumping up. There's no telling when she'll be back once she starts yakking with her sister.

“Go sit under the tree, Linda,” Marty says, hoisting the camera onto his shoulder. Linda poses like a little kid waiting for Santa. She's wearing a long pioneer skirt and a snowman sweater of Grandma Pearl's that she found in the attic.

It's odd having Christmas Eve without music. Normally Mom would be playing a Nat King Cole Christmas CD that someone copied for her, but out of respect for Dad, we're chestnut free. Marty begins to hum.

“Well? Can you make it?” Mom asks on the phone. “Why not? Well, what other plans? I thought you were coming
here
. I never told you we didn't feel up to company. We do feel up to company, very much so. We would have loved more company this year. I made cookies and eggnog and everything. Marty's here. No, just Marty. Well, do you want to drop the kids off here and I'll bring them back later?
Sally
…” Mom's voice sounds like it's wearing off. She takes a deep breath, the way the therapist told us to.

“Adele? Is everything okay?” Dad asks.

“Yes, fine.” Mom puts her hand over the phone and steps into the living room. “They're not coming.”

“Yes,” she says into the phone, “Bill received a box from you. He hasn't opened it yet. But he looks very pleased. Actually, to be honest, he doesn't look pleased, but if he were feeling better, I know he'd be extremely gratified to get the package. Call me tomorrow? What time? Okay. Merry Christmas. Yes, you too, 'bye.”

“Excuse me a minute.” Mom goes from the kitchen into the hall. She's rushing, almost like she has to go to the bathroom. She disappears for a while.

“Do you want to see what I got you?” Marty asks.

“We better wait for Mom to come back,” Linda says. She sorts the skimpy stash of presents, reading the name labels and tossing them into piles under the tree. She bumps a branch that holds an ornament with small sleigh bells. The bells jingle, and Dad winces.

“Sorry,” she says without looking at him.

Marty fiddles with the camera and hums to himself. Before the illness, Dad spent hours consoling Marty and giving him advice about the separation. Now it seems like Marty's trying to put a holiday face on and not mention his heartbreak.

“Well,” Linda says, “this is shaping up to be a Christmas for the record books, isn't it? At least Aunt Stephanie used to bring us decent presents.”

I crawl across the floor and drape tinsel on her head. “Cancel, cancel, Linda!”

“That's perfect, kids,” Marty says. “Do that again.”

Mom comes back, wiping her eyes and looking furious. “Who wants a cookie?” she commands, passing a plastic tray in the shape of a bell. Marty and I each take a couple of cookies. Dad takes one and promptly forgets about it, leaving it on the arm of his chair like a business card or other inedible.

Linda places an oversize box on Dad's lap. “Here's your present from Sally and Adam. Watch out, it's a heavy one.”

Marty sets up a shot over Dad's shoulder. “Three, two, one, action!”

“I might need help opening this,” says Dad. “It's taped up pretty tight.”

I crawl to the couch, feeling like a kid again, and sit next to Dad. I cut the brown paper flaps with my pocket knife. Inside is a corrugated cardboard box.

“Smile again, Billy,” says Uncle Marty. “You're helping your dad, huh?”

“Yep.”

“I hope they didn't get you anything too expensive,” Mom says. “I told them we were keeping it simple this year. I wasn't even expecting to exchange with them.”

“It's a fisherman's trophy of some kind,” Dad says. “A bass. Why would they send me this?”

“Isn't that handsome?” says Marty from behind the camera.

A large stuffed fish is attached to a wooden plaque. Pulling away the last piece of tissue, I see a switch on the plaque and turn it on. The fish twists its head and tail and begins to sing.

Dad covers his face with the box lid. “How horrible! Turn it off, Billy, turn it off!”

“It's just a toy, Dad. See?”

Marty drops his camera. “Are you all right, bro? It's okay. It's okay. It's over.”

“I can't believe it!” Mom says. “I can't believe they would send a grotesque gift like that instead of showing up. It's so insensitive. Good God, Sally.”

“I like it,” Linda says. “Can I have it? I'll play it in my room, very quietly.”

“Here,” Dad says, “you keep it.” His hands are shaking.

Linda takes the present to her room, laughing at me over her shoulder as if we had been competing for this piece of musical taxidermy. Sometimes I wonder if Linda would even know what she wanted if I weren't around.

“I can't believe Sally couldn't make it,” Mom says, biting into a cookie. “Or didn't want to make it. Do you know this is our first Christmas apart?”

“Shhh, Adele,” Dad says. “Don't even think about it.”

“Okay, now,” Marty says. “Ready for your close-ups. One at a time.”

“You're going to leave the camera on, Uncle Marty?” Linda asks when she comes back. “What if Dad gets something else that's freakish?”

“It's fine, Linda,” Mom says. “Have fun with it, Marty.”

Mom had announced that we should keep our gift buying fairly simple this Christmas. Now we go around the room opening one present apiece, expressing more fake delight than usual. It's hard to know whose benefit this is for—Dad's, Mom's, Marty's, or the camera's. Dad is the only person who isn't playacting, although he tries to say something appreciative each time. It must be good for him to keep busy—even with the bass incident, he hasn't had to get up and pace. Marty has given Linda a handheld video game console, Mom a personal digital assistant, and me a fancy electronic odometer I'll never use.

“Cool!” Linda shouts, winding her face into a grimace that she'll be embarrassed about five years from now.

“I haven't got your gift yet, Bill,” Marty tells Dad. “I need a little more time. I wanted it to be really, really special.”

Linda made friendship bracelets for everyone—plain ones for the men and a daisy-patterned one for Mom. I bought a small box of oil paints for Dad, soap for Mom, and socks for Linda. Nothing for Marty because I didn't know he was going to be here. “Don't give it another thought, buddy,” Marty says. “You're good to me all year round, right?” Mom gives each person thermal underwear and a box of hard candy.

“Now it's time for your father's presents,” Mom says.

“You had time to shop, Dad?” Linda asks. “You didn't have to get us anything.”

“Not exactly,” Mom says. She takes a handful of small envelopes from the top of the brick room divider and gives one to Marty, Linda, and me, and takes one for herself. “Let's open them all at once,” she says.

Inside the envelopes are note cards saying

WHEN I AM WELL

I WILL TAKE YOU

Mine says “to the Museum of Fine Arts.” Linda's says “on the Swan Boats.” Mom's says “to the North End.” Marty's says “to Fenway Park.”

“Fun!” Linda shouts.

“God, bro, that's so nice. I can't wait.”

“Adele helped me with them.”

Marty's chin begins to shake. “It's been such a tough year, with the separation and everything. You've been amazing. Everyone else got sick of hearing about it.”

“There goes another one,” Linda says.

“Excuse me,” Marty says. He goes to the hall bathroom, flushing the toilet as soon as he gets inside.

“I guess that's it, then,” Mom says, taking the big tray of cookies back to the kitchen.

Linda and I collect the wrapping paper and stuff it into bags. When Marty comes back, he takes Dad by the elbow.

“Let's go for a walk, bro,” he says, walking him to the coat closet. “We'll stroll up and down the street and see everybody's decorations. Let's get you good and bundled up.”

Once they leave, Mom retrieves the turkey leg from beside the armchair and wraps it in foil. She turns off the room lights. Only the tree is still glowing.

“That wasn't such a bad Christmas,” she says.