Vexation Lullaby (17 page)

Rather than post a defense, I decide to take the high road. My father used to say, “There's nothing wrong with forgiving people their stupidity, but don't try to absolve them of it either.”

I refresh the boycott thread. From Moscow and Baghdad and Vero Beach, anonymous strangers pile on their scorn. Halfway down the last page, I read a comment from Grimple68. He writes:

Greetings from Buffalo. You'll never guess who I spoke with. That's right, the grand ghoul himself. I spotted Pennyman lurking near the back of the auditorium having a powwow with the faithful. I headed over to see what they were going on about. Sure enough, someone brought up this teacup tempest. Pennyman seemed blindsided (I guess he doesn't hang out much with the virtual hoi polloi). He asked what was being said. When someone told him, you could see he was shocked. For my $.02, he seemed a decent enough guy. Whoever is trying to assassinate his character has done a pretty expert job. I'm not joining any boycott, because I'm not a sheep. . . . Oh, and Cross put on a fine show. I won't bother with the setlist since Pennyman posted it an hour ago. Flame on.

Tears roll down my cheeks and splash on an imitation-leather desk blotter. I am grateful for Grimple68's defense, but the truth is that I'm alone on the road and it's hard, on a night like this, to get revved up for Pittsburgh.

34

Peter watched the rest of show while standing beside Cross's son. Instead of watching the spectacle of his father on stage, Alistair kept himself busy fiddling with his phone. Maya, who had edged closer to the action, bounced on the balls of her feet and applauded whenever the mood struck her. Peter had heard somewhere that sports reporters were forbidden from rooting for a team while sitting in the press box, and he wondered if a similar rule might be in effect backstage. Between songs he clapped in a noncommittal way.

At one point, Cross posted up next to Dom so they could trade riffs. The audience ate it up, the pulsing lights, Albert whomping on the bass drum, Sutliff sawing away on a contraption that looked like a piece of string art. The whole hall was on its feet. And in the middle of this, this event, Alistair leaned over to Peter and said, “I need to get something to eat. You want to come?”

Peter didn't understand how anyone could walk away just then.

Alistair tapped Maya on the shoulder. When she gave him her attention, he pointed a thumb at the back of the hall. Just like that, they were gone.

T
WENTY MINUTES LATER
, after the band had left the stage, and after the audience had managed to call them back for an encore, Cyril squeezed Peter's shoulder and said, “Follow me.”

The bodyguard led Peter outside, to a narrow alleyway buzzing with a frantic, sickly light. A pair of black town cars idled.

Cyril opened the front door and pushed the doctor inside.

“Wait,” the bodyguard said, either to Peter or the driver.

The two men waited in silence.

The next thing Peter knew, Jimmy was inside the car, the bodyguard beside him.

“Whenever you're ready,” Cyril said.

The driver rolled out of the alley, merging with traffic. As they passed the front of the concert hall, Peter could see bodies filing into the lobby.

By tilting his head, Peter was able to catch Cross's face in the driver's rearview mirror—Jimmy had a towel around his neck, his face shined with sweat. Thirty-five years before, had Judith watched him onstage? Had she tried to catch his eye?

Jimmy pinched the towel over his nose and blew. “Where's Allie?”

It seemed to Peter that the question had been directed at him.

Cyril said, “He and the girl split. He was worried about finding a place with an open kitchen.”

“Maya,” Peter said.

Cross took another sip of water. “You fixed his back pretty fast.”

“He didn't let me touch him.”

The driver took a sharp turn and the car dove underground. They came to a stop in front of a pair of yawning elevator doors. A bellboy stood there, waiting for them. Peter, Jimmy, and Cyril boarded the waiting elevator.

“Did Allie invite you to tag along?”

Peter turned around so he was facing Cross. “He did.”

When the doors opened, Bluto stood before them, a friendly frown stamped across his face. He handed Peter a key card before walking Jimmy and Cyril down the hall.

I
N HIS ROOM
, Peter removed his tour pass and lay it on top of the dresser. On its back, in a rectangular space where a photograph might have gone, someone had written, “Short brown hair / buggy eyes / probably in Dockers.”

Peter missed his own bed. He was susceptible to homesickness. His first semester in college he'd considered dropping out because he couldn't stop imagining Judith sitting alone at their kitchen table. He'd been happy otherwise and didn't have trouble making friends.

Medical school hadn't been as rough. Right after Peter entered the program, Judith sold the store and moved away. After the fledgling flies away, does the mother bird dismantle her nest? He might have taken it personally, if he hadn't been so preoccupied with not failing out. Who changes careers and time zones when they're forty? Judith Silver, that's who. Compared to her, Peter was gutless.

He didn't drift to sleep; he plummeted.

35

Dear Mr. Pennyman,

Did you notice that on 10/10/2010 the tenth song Mr. Cross played, “Blackstrap,” was also the 10th song on his 10th album (counting LPs and EPs together). I thought it was interesting. I checked out 7/7/07, 8/8/08, and 9/9/09 (he didn't play that night) and didn't see any patterns. It was probably a coincidence. I only noticed because 10 is my favorite number.

What if he plays “Linda of Fort Orange” on November 11, next year? That would be so great!

The reason my email address uses a woman's name is because it's my mom's. I'm not old enough to have my own email. I'm twelve!

Sincerely,

Aidan

Dear Aidan,

Thanks for your letter. I hadn't noticed the 10s and now you've got me excited about next November—can you believe we have to wait a year to test “Aidan's Hypothesis”? I hope you're right.

Your friend,

Arthur

Dear Disgusting,

My boyfriend got us tickets to the Providence show. It was a present for our six-month anniversary. Both of us volunteer as community activists and agents of change; we don't have a lot of extra $$ for things like concerts. I was really excited for the show. And then I saw you, two rows in front of us, wearing the flesh of a once beautiful animal. Have you ever thought about the sentient being that was tortured and murdered for your “fashion” sense? I could smell the suffering coming off that hideous coat. I started crying and then my boyfriend started crying, too. I wanted to say something to you, but the thought of standing any closer to you made me physically ill.

Later my boyfriend realized who you were and showed me this site. If you are a human being, do me a favor and imagine this: right before you die, someone sticks a steel hook through your ankles, hangs you upside down, and peels your skin off your body.

Alyssa

Dear Alyssa,

I'm sorry that I ruined the concert for you. In my defense, I've had the coat for a long, long time. By now I would probably have gone through five or six or more synthetic coats—produced by processing oil, the application of poisonous chemicals, dyes, solvents. Once those coats outlived their use, they would probably wind up in a landfill somewhere.

I will try to be more mindful in the future. I hope you get a chance to see another show.

Arthur

Mr. Pennyman,

This past spring, my wife and I celebrated our forty-second anniversary. She liked to tell people that we would have been high school sweethearts if only I hadn't been so shy. She had just started phased retirement at the freight company where she'd worked her whole life and was volunteering for a local women's shelter. On July 16th, on her way home from the shelter, she fell asleep at the wheel and her car drifted into the oncoming lane. The surgeon who worked on her when she came in said he didn't understand how she could be alive. He told me she must have had a lot of love connecting her to the world. For three days our sons and I sat beside her and urged her to keep on fighting. When the boys and I woke up on the fourth day, the hospital's PA was playing Cross's “Mourning Psalm” and we knew the time had come to say our good-byes. She passed that afternoon, having never regained consciousness after the crash.

I'm writing to you in hopes that you might consider adding her story to your archives. My wife's name was Della Anne Mason.

In gratitude,

Gregory, Patrick, and Owen Mason

Dear Gregory, Patrick, and Owen,

I am very sorry for your loss and I am humbled to receive your letter. I will not forget Della.

In friendship,

Arthur Pennyman

Dear Pennyman,

Longtime fan here. I've been reading you since your newsgroup infancy. Up until now I haven't had a reason to write, but you were correct about Rochester. Cross hasn't been feeling like himself. Don't ask how I know ;-)

Respectfully,

Doctor Axe

(My heart almost stops. Is Dr. Silver writing to me? If he read my old newsgroup posts, he must have been a teenager.)

Dear Doctor Axe,

I know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, but maybe you would be willing to share some more. If you've been following me as long as you say, then you know I never reveal my sources.

In the spirit of reciprocity, I have a question for you: What does Silver mean to you?

In good faith,

Arthur

36

In the morning, Peter put on shorts and a T-shirt and followed the signs to the hotel's gym. If he didn't burn some energy, he was fairly certain he'd drive himself crazy.

Near the back of the room, Cross and Cyril jogged side by side on a bank of treadmills. The bodyguard wasn't wearing shoes—he ran in a pair of black, ankle-length socks. The treadmill was cranked up at an angle and he ran fast. Cross had on basketball sneakers and he stayed up on his toes, like a boxer. Next to the men, two women who might have been Peter's age, in yoga pants and light cotton jackets, took long strides, as though walking on railroad ties—they worked on their butts while, three feet away, one of the most iconic entertainers on the planet shuffled in oversized sneakers.

Peter claimed a recumbent bicycle in the corner. He flipped through a celebrity magazine while a jagged red LED landscape scrolled across the bicycle's display.

“You know these machines are terrible for your knees.” Cyril stood next to Peter, his crotch a foot from the doctor's head. “It's not a natural motion for a biped.”

Leaning away from the bodyguard, Peter shook the magazine. “Just doing a little multitasking.”

“You read anything in there about a doctor winding up on a rock tour?”

Maybe it was only the power of suggestion, but Peter's left knee started to ache. “I don't think so.”

“Wait. They're already talking about you on the fan sites.” Cyril didn't appear to be joking.

People were talking about
him.
But he was boring; he knew that about himself. “What about me?”

Cyril looked toward Cross—the singer had moved to the exercise mats, where he did push-ups off his knees. “Word is the Big Man's got a doctor with him, and they're extrapolating from there.”

Even when people were talking about him, Cross was their true subject. “What should I do?”

Cyril wiped his brow with the ham he called his forearm. “Don't go thinking you can steer the conversation. On those boards, we're the tail and they're the dog.”

Peter decided there was a lot he needed to learn about this organism everyone called the Tour.

“You know we're meeting in the lobby at one?”

“At one?” How could he fill five empty hours?

Cyril reached down and poked the button that increased the bicycle's resistance. “One-thirty at the latest, doc.” Peter watched Cross follow the bodyguard out of the gym.

The women on the treadmill looked like they could keep it up all day.

Peter's phone beeped. Judith had sent him an email with the subject line: “Rock Star.”

Do you remember the letters I wrote while you were at science camp? The camp director had told all the parents that writing would help ward off homesickness, but when I picked you up you said the letters made things worse. You told me, “Most moms sent care packages, but you only sent words.” It seems we really are doomed to repeat history.

You asked me what I thought about you going on tour with him. In part, it feels like you've discovered a time machine. I imagine you turning a corner and running into the person I was at twenty—I suppose that the fear of running into one's mother must be among the chief deterrents to time travel. The bottom line: you have as good a chance of running into the person I used to be as you do of running into the person Cross was back then. He wasn't a musician when I knew him—he'd been a musician, but it was as if he and music had had a falling-out.

I was as shocked as anyone when he released that album. Suddenly he was nowhere and everywhere.

He gave us the money to open Natural Wonders. It was sort of like a settlement. I planned to repay him, but when I wrote him to set up a payment schedule one of his attorneys told me the money should go into an account for your education. I probably should have told you that before, but he's always had too much money to care about it and I never cared to have any.

I may have given you the impression that I don't like Cross's music. That's not the case. The first time I heard “Pleiades for Breakfast,” it spoke to me on a molecular level—I wanted to pretend he'd written it for me (he didn't!). He always seemed more interested in you.