Vexation Lullaby (33 page)

“Listen to your body,” Carrie says.

Rosalyn nods her head.

“She will.” I wave as we drive off.

W
HEN ROSALYN PUSHES
the button to lower her window, my foot lifts off the throttle. I expect her to be sick, but with a flick of her wrist, Carrie's sandwich goes Frisbeeing out of the car.

I think of sweet Carrie, getting up early to make her responsible sandwich, slicing the tomato, tearing the lettuce, just a touch of mayo, only a hint. Bringing the healthy sandwich to the donut shop only to give it away to a stranger. That sandwich had so much hope invested in it.

“Thanks, Carrie,” I say, mimicking Rosalyn's wrist toss.

Rosalyn laughs.

I conjure up scenes from the girl's life: Carrie giving her boyfriend a gift. “Oh, a sweater. Thanks, Carrie,” then the flick of the wrist. At Christmas, she gives her mother a snow globe. “Thanks, Carrie,” then the flick of the wrist. Five years from now, Carrie gives birth to a beautiful baby girl. She kisses the infant's squished little nose, then passes the child to her husband.

Laughter carries us through Cincinnati and over the Ohio River. Rosalyn and I are laughing as we arrive in Kentucky.

B
Y THE TIME
we reach Lexington, we're both exhausted. We check into the hotel. Rosalyn curls up on the bed while I set up my laptop.

“Sit next to me while I fall asleep.”

I do.

Nestling her head against my hip, she says, “You're a bit of a porcupine today, Arthur.”

“I had a bit of a revelation. I've been distracted.”

“It's okay.”

“I should have come looking for you earlier.”

“You were giving me privacy.”

What she said echoes. “Say that again.”

“You were giving me privacy.” Her eyes stay closed.

“I think that's the answer to a riddle.”

“Arthur, you're being impossible.”

“Why would he pull a song off an album? To give someone privacy.”

“We're talking about Mr. Cross again?”

I kiss her forehead.

“Who's privacy is he protecting, Arthur?”

“His son's.”

“Lot of good it's done.”

“I'm not talking about Alistair.”

She looks up at me. “He has another son?”

“It's a theory.”

Rosalyn pulls my hand to her mouth and kisses it.

“It's more than another son. There's a song, too, a bastard song.”

“Don't use that word,” she says.

“You're right.” It's so hard to explain. “I think he snuck it past us last night.”

Rosalyn sits up. “If you're not going to let me nap, you could at least talk to me in a way I can understand.”

“I don't think he played ‘A.D.C.' twice last night. I think he played it and the song it's based on.”

“Who can you ask?” She raps me with her knuckles. “Don't laugh
at me.”

“That's just it: I'm the person that you ask.”

It's my turn to close my eyes, and when I do I feel that I'm in a moving car. And for some reason, because I know I'm not in a car, because I know that I'm in a hotel with Rosalyn, I find the feeling of being in a car to be incredibly soothing. I've always loved to be going anywhere at all.

70

Peter watched a nature show that explored the astounding variety of life-forms living deep in the ocean. Then he watched adrenaline junkies pilot wingsuits through a red-walled canyon.

A chime let him know he had a text.

The message was from Cyril:
Bourbon is being consumed. Your presence is required. Do not delay.
The bodyguard included a street address.

Peter didn't feel like drinking and he certainly didn't feel like watching Cross drink, lest anyone view his presence as tacit approval (he did not approve). Peter decided to go all the same. If he went, Martin couldn't call him a square, Martin couldn't say,
Good for you, Silver, someone has to have the stones to stand up for orthopedic shoes and middle-class responsibility
.

During his interim as a touring physician, Peter had discovered that time moved like an avalanche, not at all and then all at once. He showered, pulled on jeans and a polo shirt, what he imagined to be appropriate bourbon attire. He wasn't much of a drinker, but he'd give it a shot. What was the point of being a rock-and-roll physician if he didn't indulge in the lifestyle? It occurred to him that he might get wasted.

T
HE CAB STOPPED
in front of a limestone mansion. A dark green awning tented the entranceway; burgundy carpet cascaded down the stairs. Was he wrong to think it resembled a funeral home?

At the top of the stairs an engraved brass sign:
We Request Gentlemen Wear Jackets and Ties
.

A tall woman in a slim gray dress intercepted Peter. She belonged to that tribe of people whose beauty is so compelling that it serves as a sort of wit. “Are you meeting a party?”

Peter gave Cross's name. “They didn't tell me about the dress code.”

“You must be Dr. Silver.” With a narrowed glance, she appraised him from head to toe. “And, I think you look fantastic.”

Lying is erotic because if a person can say anything, then anything is possible.

A really dumb thing to do, Peter decided, would be to send Lucy a picture of him drinking bourbon with Cross.

Peter trailed the hostess through a dining room, focusing all of his attention on a square button a few inches above the small of her back, which appeared to mark the precise point where her hips pivoted.

When they reached the table, Alistair lifted a pair of empty glasses to his eyes, twisting them as though focusing binoculars. “Ah,” he said, “it's the man of the hour.” Bluto sat beside him, stone-faced.

“I've found your doctor,” the hostess said, slipping away.

Maya was there! She turned to him and smiled; she had a notebook open before her on the table. A pair of bifocals perched on her nose. He decided that Alistair had been lying about her having a boyfriend. He simply chose not to believe it.

Where was Cross? He turned around in time to watch the singer return from the restroom. As he traversed the dining room, Cross drifted off course, as though at the mercy of an invisible current.

When he reached the table, he clapped Peter on the back of the neck. “You've met Helen of Lexington?”

Peter said he had.

“We're all a bit in love with her,” Maya admitted, “except for Bluto.”

“Don't drag me into this,” said Cyril. “You'll get me in trouble.”

Cross took his seat. “We're waiting for our final guest, a cherry-and-bourbon-glazed innocent with green pecans and black truffles under his skin.”

“The wait will be protracted,” Cyril said, picking up a pint glass with a straw in it. He took a long sip.

“Welcome to the party,” said Alistair.

A husky waiter set a flight of bourbons before Peter. Four stone cups, each containing an ice cube the size of a golf ball and, perhaps, an ounce of booze.

“Take your medicine,” Cross said.

F
OR THE BETTER
part of an hour, Peter played catch-up with the table. Alistair would not be caught.

Meanwhile, Maya continued to interview Cross. “Do you ever consider the experience of your audience?”

“You mean do I worry if they're comfortable?”

“I'd be interested if you did, but I meant the question in a broader sense. How aware of them are you?”

“I can see them if I'm playing outside, like at a festival.”

“You don't play many festivals in the States,” Cyril added.

Cross said, “We need more European festivals in the U.S.”

Maya reached out and rubbed the forearm of Cross's sweatshirt between her finger and thumb. “The fabric is so thick.”

“It's cashmere and Kevlar,” said Alistair.

Cyril leaned toward the woman. “Don't write that down.”

Maya scratched out a line in her notebook. “What do you think about while you're performing?”

Cross turned toward Cyril. “That's a good question.”

The bodyguard kept his eyes on the front of the restaurant. “You think about movies.”

“Sure. I think about movies I want to see.”

“What's a movie you want to see?”

“Any movie where Emma Thompson swims laps in a pool.”

Maya said, “She's lovely.”

“She's always so quiet. Even if she's yelling, she does it at a whisper.”

“What about that dog?” asked Cyril.

“When Allie was young, we had this Bernese mountain dog. I think about that dog sometimes.”

Alistair leaned across the table. “I don't know what he's talking about.”

Cross took another sip of his drink. “Yes you do. If you were sitting down, it would put its head on your knee and stare at you.”

“I take it back,” said Alistair, “I remember him.”

“You loved that dog.”

“I stand corrected.”

“What was its name?” Maya asked.

“Black Dog.”

Alistair lifted his glass. “To Black Dog.”

Everyone drank.

“I'll give you three more answers,” Cross said. “Gina Lollobrigida, an espaliered pear tree, and—”

“The Pottsville Maroons,” Maya said.

Cross sipped his drink. “I repeat myself sometimes. It's an occupational hazard.”

Maya put her notebook away. “I didn't mean to cut you off.”

Cross emptied the glass in front of him.

“Don't forget,” Bluto said, “you still have a show tonight.”

“I know what I have.”

The dining room had cleared out. It reminded Peter of those scenes in a disaster film where stillness is used to show disarray.

Bluto waved to the hostess, who breezed over to the table.

“We need to get some food in these people.”

“I'm on it,” she said.

“This whole town is horse mad,” said Cross. “I'd like to come here sometime and order a roast horse.”

“You'll get us arrested talking that way,” Cyril pointed out. “Probably get me lynched.”

“The next time we're down here, Bluto, I want the whole band in silks.”

Alistair said, “Dom would look like a jockey with a thyroid problem.”

“I'll carry a little whip and I'll walk around and pretend to hit them.”

“Nobody whips the jockeys,” Bluto pointed out.

Cross nodded. “Why am I talking so much?”

“It's unusual,” said Cyril.

The chef, an older woman with frosted white hair and wearing a fuchsia jacket, delivered to the table a platter of delicate horn spoons that held spheres of an emerald mousse topped with caviar.

Peter couldn't imagine putting either substance in contact with the well of booze macerating in his stomach.

Bluto smacked his lips. “This is good stuff,” he said. “Everyone's got to try a couple of these.”

Peter's phone buzzed. It was Martin. He got up from the table to take the call.

“You still think he's going to play tonight?”

“I think so. We're drinking bourbon.” He'd wandered into an arched hallway. The walls were made of white bricks that felt cool to the touch.

“The setlists the last couple nights have been out of this world.”

“Remember, I'm not a fan.”

As his eyes started to adjust, Peter realized that he'd stumbled into the wine cellar. He was surrounded by bottles. He turned around and saw the door he'd come through. There was a sign—it couldn't have been clearer—Staff Only.

“Listen, tell me where you're at. I've got a surprise for you.”

Peter felt a jolt of anger. “Did you fly out?” This was his thing. He didn't want to share it with Martin.

“Believe me, I looked into it, but I couldn't pull the trigger. Nobody's willing to cover my shift tomorrow. Besides, I'm not a neurosurgeon.”

“We're at a delicate balance.”

“You sound wasted.”

Peter reached out and grabbed a curtain to steady himself. “Promise me I'm not in trouble.”

“You're the goose that laid the golden egg. But tell me where you are. I've got a friend there who you need to talk to.”

Peter found Cyril's text and forwarded it to Martin.

•••

B
Y THE TIME
he got back to the dining room, the table had been invaded by an armada of endive boats. Some transported dirty rice, some smoked trout, others featured little balls of blue cheese that had been rolled in candied walnuts.

Maya asked the table to excuse her.

When she was out of earshot, Alistair said, “I hope you plan on sleeping with her.”

“Be decent,” said Peter—there'd been women Peter had wanted to sleep with whom he ended up sleeping with, but in his whole life nothing ever reached the level of a plan.

Cross, who had been staring into a tumbler of bourbon and stretching his lower lip with his tongue, said, “I need to talk to the doctor.”

Cyril stood up. “Bluto, how about you and I take Allie out for some fresh air?”

Bluto scooted out from behind the table. “Sounds like a plan.”

Alistair shook a napkin in front of his face, said, “Abracadabra,” then he slid under the table. A moment later he crawled out from beneath the tablecloth. “A great magician never reveals his tricks.”

Watching Alistair and Cyril walk toward the front of the restaurant, Peter wished he'd gone with them.

“You didn't have to save my life,” Cross said.

“You're not saved yet.”

“The treatment's the easy part.”

Peter hoped so, though what Cross called “the easy part” was more commonly referred to as brain surgery.

Cross reached a finger out and poked Peter in his chest. “You're still magic, you know.”