Until I Find You (116 page)

“That’s pretty good,” he told her, looking into her brown eyes.

“This isn’t a very safe place to stop,” Heather said, just the way he’d said it in
My Last Hitchhiker.
“I’m sorry for the trouble, but I catch more rides as a girl,” she went on. “I try not to buy my own dinner,” Heather said, with a shrug; she had Jack’s shrug down pat, too.

“How about Melody in
The Tour Guide
?” he asked her.

Heather cleared her throat. “It’s a good job to lose,” she said perfectly.

“How about Johnny-as-a-hooker in
Normal and Nice
?” (
No girl can get that right,
Jack was thinking.)

“There’s something you should know,” his sister said, in that hooker’s husky voice. “Lester Billings has checked out. I’m afraid he’s really left his room a
mess.
”

“Put your glasses back on,” Jack told her, getting up from the bed. He went to her closet and opened the door. Jack picked out a salmon-pink camisole and held it up by the hanger, against his chest.

“Boy, I’ll bet this looks great on you,” Heather said, just the way Jack-as-a-thief had said it to Jessica Lee.

He hung up the camisole in her closet, and they went into the kitchen and washed and dried their teacups and put them away in the cupboard. To someone like Jack, the five-roommates idea was unthinkable.

“It must be like living on a ship,” he said to Heather.

“I’m moving out soon,” she told him, laughing.

They walked back the way they had come, through the Meadows. Jack carried the small photo album in one hand, although Heather had volunteered to carry it in her backpack.

Just before they got to George Square, they saw an old man with snow-white hair playing a guitar and whistling. He was always there, every day, Heather told Jack—even in the winter. The old man was often there at eight o’clock in the morning and would stay the whole day.

“Is he
crazy
?” Jack asked her.

“
Crazy
is a relative word,” his sister said.

She talked about playing squash, which she seemed to take very seriously. (The music department had a squash team, and she was one of the better players on it.) She also spoke of “a plague of urban seagulls.”

“
Urban
seagulls?” Jack said.

“They’re all over Edinburgh—they attacked one man so badly, he had to go to hospital!” Heather told him.

They came along South Bridge to where it intersected with the Royal Mile. Jack was not aware that he had looked the wrong way, but as they started to cross the street, Heather took his hand and spoke sharply to him: “Look
right,
Jack. I don’t want to lose you.”

“I don’t want to lose
you,
” he told her.

“I mean crossing the street,” she said.

Jack doubted that he could have found Old St. Paul’s without a map and some detailed directions. The church was built into a steep hill between the Royal Mile and Jeffrey Street, where the main entrance was. There was a side entrance off Carruber’s Close, a narrow alley—and an even narrower alley called North Gray’s Close, where there was no entrance to the church.

Jack began to tell Heather the story his mom had told him. One night, shortly before midnight, William was playing the organ in Old St. Paul’s—a so-called organ marathon, a twenty-four-hour concert, with a different organist playing every hour or half hour—and their dad’s playing had roused a drunk sleeping in one of the narrow alleys alongside the church. The foul-mouthed down-and-out had complained about the sound of the organ.

That was as far as Jack got before Heather said: “I know the story. The drunk said something like ‘that fucking racket—that fucking bloody fuck of a fucking organ making a sound that would wake the fucking dead.’ Isn’t that the story?”

“Yes, something like that,” Jack said.

“I’ll play that piece for you,” Heather told him. “You can’t hear much outside the walls of this church. Either the story is exaggerated, or that drunk was asleep in a
pew.
Not even Boellmann’s Toccata could wake a drunk in Carruber’s or North Gray’s Close.”

While the side door to Old St. Paul’s, on Carruber’s Close, was locked, the front entrance on Jeffrey Street was open. The church was empty, but the oil lamps by the altar were lit. They were always lit, Heather told Jack—even when she played the organ very late at night. “It’s a bit spooky here at night,” she confessed. “But you have to practice playing in the dark.”

“Why?” he asked her.

“Lots of interesting things begin in darkness,” his sister told him. “The Easter vigil service, for example. You can learn to play in the dark, provided you’ve memorized the music.”

From the nave of the church, looking toward the high altar, the organ pipes stood nearly as tall as the stained-glass windows. The church was not vast, but dark and contained. One had no sense of the season outside, and—except for the muted light that made its way through the stained-glass windows and portals—no real sense of day or night, either.

Heather saw Jack looking at the Latin inscription on the altar. As Mr. Ramsey had observed, Jack struggled with Latin.

VENITE

EXULTEMUS

DOMINO

“ ‘Come let us praise the Lord,’ ” his sister said.

“Oh, right,” he said.

“You’ll get used to it,” she told him.

Heather crossed herself at the altar and took off her backpack. Jack sat on one end of the bench beside her.

“I’ll play something softer for you later,” Heather said, “but Boellmann’s Toccata isn’t supposed to be quiet. And when you hear
him
play it, it’ll be louder. A different church,” she said softly, shaking her head.

Jack wasn’t prepared for the way her hands pounced on the keyboard, transforming her. It was the loudest, most strident piece of music he’d ever heard inside a church. As the new chords marched forth, the old chords kept reverberating; the organ bench trembled under them. It was the soundtrack to a vampire movie—a Gothic chase scene.

“Jesus!” Jack said, forgetting he was in a church.

“That’s the idea,” Heather said; she had stopped playing, but Old St. Paul’s was still reverberating. “Now go outside and tell me if you can hear it.” She began the Boellmann again; it made his heart race to hear it.

Jack went out the Jeffrey Street door to the church and walked up North Gray’s Close, toward the Royal Mile. The alley was dirty and smelled of urine and beer; there were broken pieces of glass where bottles had been smashed against the church, and empty cigarette packages and chewing-gum wrappers were littered everywhere. Halfway up the alley, Jack pressed his ear to the stone wall of the church; he could barely hear the Boellmann, just enough to follow the tune.

On the Royal Mile, you couldn’t hear the organ at all—probably because of the traffic, or the other street sounds—and in Carruber’s Close, either a restaurant’s air conditioner or a kitchen’s exhaust fan made too much noise in the alley for the toccata to be followable. The organ was a distant, intermittent murmur. But when Jack went back inside Old St. Paul’s, the sound of the Father Willis was deafening. His sister was really putting herself into it.

As Heather said, the story about the drunk had been exaggerated—or the down-and-out must have been sleeping in a pew when the Boellmann came crashing down on him. The more important part of the story, Heather decided, was that William Burns had played the toccata so loudly that
everyone
inside the church—including Alice and the organist who was waiting his turn to play—had been forced to flee from the nave and stand outside in the rain.

“It was one of Daddy’s bipolar moments,” Jack’s sister said. “I think that’s what the story is really about. He drove your mother out in the rain, so to speak—didn’t he?”

“He’s bipolar?” Jack asked.

“No, he’s obsessive-compulsive,” Heather said, “but he has his bipolar moments. Don’t
you,
Jack?”

“I suppose so,” he said.

Heather was playing more softly now—she had moved on from the Boellmann. “This is from an aria in Handel’s
Solomon,
” she said, as softly as she was playing.

“Do you have bipolar moments, too?” Jack asked her.

“The desire to never leave your side, the desire to never see you again,” his sister said. “The desire to see your face asleep on the pillow beside my face, and to see your eyes open in the morning when I lie next to you—just watching you, waiting for you to wake up. I’m not talking about
sex.
”

“I know,” he told her.

“The desire to live with you, to never be separated from you again,” Heather went on.

“I get it,” he said.

“The constant wish that I never knew of your existence, and that our father had never said a word to me about my having a brother—this in tandem with the desire to never see another Jack Burns movie, and that every scene in every film you were ever in, which I have committed to memory, would vanish from my mind as if those movies had never been made.”

She had not stopped playing, but her pace had quickened. The organ’s volume was increasing, too; Heather was almost shouting to be heard over the reverberations.

“We just need to spend more time together,” Jack told her.

She brought both hands down on the keyboard, which made a harsh, discordant sound. She slid toward her brother on the organ bench and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him to her.

“If you see him once, you have to keep seeing him, Jack. You can’t suddenly appear in his life and then go away again. He loves you,” Heather said. “If you love him back, I’ll love you, too. If you can’t bear to be with him, I’ll despise you forever.”

“That’s pretty clear,” he told her.

She pushed herself away from him so violently that Jack thought she was going to hit him. “If you’re
not
Billy Rainbow, don’t give me his lines,” she snapped.

“Okay,” he said, holding his arms out to her. When she let him take her in his arms, he kissed her cheek.

“No, not like that—that’s not how you kiss your sister,” Heather said. “You should kiss me on the lips, but not the way you kiss a girl—not with your lips parted. Like
this,
” she said, kissing him—her dry lips brushing Jack’s, their lips tightly closed.

Who would have thought that Jack Burns could ever love kissing someone as chastely as that? But he was thirty-eight and had never kissed a sister.

They spent the night together in Jack’s suite at the Balmoral. They ordered dinner from room service and watched a bad movie on television. In the backpack, Heather had brought her toothbrush and an extra-large T-shirt, which she wore as a nightgown, and a change of clothes for the morning. They would be getting up early, she’d warned Jack.

She had planned everything, including the reenactment of what she’d told Jack in Old St. Paul’s: that desire to see his face asleep on the pillow beside her face, and to see his eyes open in the morning when she was lying next to him—just watching him, waiting for him to wake up.

Heather told Jack that the Irish boyfriend was no one special; the love of her life, so far, had been one of her professors in Belfast. She’d known he was married, but he told her he was leaving his wife; he left Heather instead.

Jack told his sister about Mrs. Machado—and Mrs. Adkins, and Leah Rosen, and Mrs. Stackpole. (They were the early casualties; they were among the first to mark him and disappoint him in himself.) He told Heather about Emma and Mrs. Oastler, and Claudia and her daughter—and all the rest. Even that crazy woman in Benedict Canyon—the one who was driven mad by the screams and moans of the Manson murder victims whenever the Santa Anas were blowing.

Heather told Jack that she’d lost her virginity to one of William’s music students, someone who was in university when she was still in secondary school. As she put it: “We had comparable keyboard skills at the time, but I’m much better than he is now.”

Jack told Heather that, for the past five years, Dr. García had been the most important woman in his life.

Heather said that she was spending almost as much time improving her German as she was playing the organ—or the piano, or her wooden flute. She’d spoken a child’s German with her mother, and had originally studied German because of her interest in Brahms; now she had an additional reason to learn the language. If she taught in Edinburgh for another two or three years, her teaching credentials would greatly enhance her résumé. By apprenticing herself to John Kitchen at Old St. Paul’s, she was already a better organist. In two or three years’ time, if her German was good enough, she could move to Zurich and get a job there.

“Why Zurich?” Jack asked.

“Well, there’s a university, and a music conservatory, and a disproportionate number of churches for such a small city—in other words,
lots
of organs. And then I could visit Daddy every day, instead of only once a month or every six weeks.”

“He’s in
Zurich
?”

“I never said he was in Edinburgh, Jack. I just said you had to see me first.”

Jack propped himself up in bed on his elbows and looked down at his sister’s face on the pillow; she was smiling up at him, her golden hair pushed back from her forehead and tucked behind her small ears. She cupped the back of Jack’s neck and pulled his face closer to hers. He’d forgotten that she couldn’t be more than a few inches away from his face—not if she wanted to see him clearly without her glasses.

“So we’re going to Zurich?” he asked her.

“You’re going alone, this trip,” Heather told him. “You should see him alone, the first time.”

“How can you afford to go to Zurich once a month, or every six weeks?” he asked her. “You should let me pay for that.”

“The sanatorium costs three hundred and fifty thousand Swiss francs a year—that’s two hundred and twelve thousand U.S. dollars—to keep him in the private section of the clinic. If you pay for that, I can pay for my own travel.” She pulled his head down to the pillow beside her. “If you want to buy me a flat, why don’t you buy something big enough for both of us—in Zurich,” she suggested. “I was born in Edinburgh. I don’t need your help here.”