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Singing Boy

A Novel

Dennis McFarland

ONE SATURDAY AFTERNOON in August, after they’d been in the house for about three months, she lay on a quilt in the grass near the great old rose of Sharon, whose branches, as they climbed toward the roofline, brushed the sagging porch screens. It had been another fine day in a string of fine days, warm and breezy, the occasional cloud a comfort, tempering the vastness of the sky. Earlier, she’d tried arguing Harry into a nap, then bribed him with the promise of an Italian ice from the stand in town. In the unfinished end of the attic—where they’d put down a sisal mat, whitewashed the gables, and painted a flowering vine on the stair railing; the only part of the house in which Harry would sleep—she’d read to him for five minutes from The Jungle Books, an edgy little passage about the python Kaa’s turning his hypnotic circles in the sand, enticing monkeys to walk into his mouth. She thought she understood Harry’s fondness for the attic, with its low sturdy beams—enormous, like whole squared-off trees—and impossibly broad planks, some two and a half feet broad, dark brown, furry with age; it was something like camping under the inverted hold of an ancient schooner, cavelike, defensible. Before falling asleep, he’d complained that the tip of his penis hurt; he wouldn’t allow her to see for herself, so she asked him some detailed questions, and though he assured her that there was no redness of any kind, she suggested applying a dab of calendula.

“That would sting,” he’d responded, without too much expression but with a look from under his brow that said, Are you crazy?

“Oh,” she’d said, and almost added “sorry,” but stopped herself and then fetched him a cool cloth from the upstairs bathroom, which he accepted.

“Thanks,” he said, and in it she heard both a whisper of apology and a remnant of his former “sanks.” His th had been thoroughly in place for some time, except in “thanks,” and now, to her regret, even that was going.

Leaving him, she’d descended the back stairs, steep and narrow (like those of a ship), and before reaching the turn near the base, she’d begun to cry—not the runaway stagecoach crying with its ever-loosening wheel, but the quiet hopeless variety, blundering around the canyon floor. She’d found the quilt, found her book, and gone outside. Soon she too had fallen asleep, and a short time later she’d awakened into an odd increasing silence. She’d fallen asleep with her sunglasses on, which had dug into the bridge of her nose.

She sat up and looked at the glaring white sky, uniform overhead, through the locust trees, and all around. Then a sudden utter stillness hit, a strange conspiracy of wind and surf that nearly took her breath away. It lasted for only several seconds in real time, and seemingly from its core came a low approaching buzz, the crescendo of a small machine: a hummingbird visited the rose of Sharon, a blossom under the eaves of the porch and then another blossom not more than a foot from her right ear. She didn’t dare turn her head—whatever lull had come over things, she’d joined it—though she had a clear up-close view of the bird in the margin of her vision past the rim of her sunglasses. It was a male—iridescent ruby at the throat, tail downturned as if for balance—and tiny, the blurred triangles of its wings nearly menacing at this range. The bird backed out of the flower, hovered an instant, then cut an angle straight down to her face. It tapped three times on the left lens of her sunglasses with its needlelike beak and flew away, gone.

A breeze stirred the wind chime in the distant locust tree…one resonant clang of the vertical pipe, two…a red pickup truck gunned its engine high on Tom’s Hill. She’d been holding her breath, willing herself inert, a garden statue with living eyes. She thought of her grandfather, who’d planted the rose of Sharon decades ago as a gift to her grandmother, whose name was the same as this cultivar (white flowers with a reddish-purple base), Helene; she thought of the Doppler effect, recalling both the whir of wings and the receding truck engine; and she thought she’d glimpsed something—mysterious, for sure, and passing, surely—the faintest hint that she and Harry would be all right.

That hadn’t happened before, not even an inkling of a bearable future. This was a first, and she resolved to try to remember it.

PART I
The Hospital in the Dream

AS THEY CAME TO a stop at Walden and Huron, Malcolm said, “That’s my car,” referring to the old cream-colored Corvair in front of them. A moment later, he said, “Poor old Dad.” He drummed out some kind of transitional rhythm on the steering wheel, looked at her, smiled, reached for her hand, and said, “How are you feeling, Sarah Vaughn?”

“Whatever it was,” she said, “it went away. I think I just needed to eat something.”

He released her hand, lowered his head a bit, squinting through the windshield, and then absentmindedly began to sing the opening bars to an old song Sarah recognized as Gershwin but couldn’t quite name.

Harry, up way past his bedtime, bored with a long night of adult business, groaned, almost inaudibly, in the backseat, his plight now enlarged by his father’s singing. The traffic light changed from red to green, but the Corvair in front of them didn’t move, and that interrupted Malcolm’s song.

Sarah said, “I think he’s fallen asleep,” meaning the driver of the Corvair.

Harry, misinterpreting her, said, “I’m not asleep,” then sat forward, put his face between the two front seats, and said, “Why aren’t we going?”

Malcolm tapped the horn once, politely, but still the Corvair didn’t move. Sarah thought the driver was a teenage boy, though she couldn’t have said why she thought that; all she could actually see was the back of his head, in silhouette. They were in her Jeep wagon, as Malcolm’s car was in for a tune-up, and briefly, sitting high above the low-slung Corvair, Sarah wondered if they mightn’t just lurch over it, tanklike.

“Or dead drunk,” she added, and then, for no apparent reason, the Corvair slowly moved forward. Without signaling, the driver made a right turn, onto Huron.

“Oh, great,” said Harry, “he’s going the same way we’re going,” and Malcolm asked Harry to please sit back.

They crept along behind the Corvair at about fifteen miles an hour. It was a quarter to ten, and in this quiet residential district the Corvair and the Jeep were the only cars on the road. “Pass him,” said Harry. “We’re going too slow.”

Malcolm glanced in his rearview mirror and said, “Remember what we talked about, Harry…earlier this evening.”

As they came to another stop, Harry let out a dramatic sigh. This was the long traffic light at the parkway. When at last the signal changed to green, the Corvair did not move. Malcolm tapped the horn, to no response. “Here we go again,” he said and raised the parking brake.

“I’m going to see what’s up with this guy,” said Malcolm, opening the car door.

“Don’t, Malcolm,” she said. “Just pull around him. He’s probably stoned out of his mind.”

Malcolm, already out the door, leaned in and said, “Well, if he’s that stoned he’s liable to get somebody killed. Besides, he might be sick or something.”

“Can I come?” shouted Harry, but Malcolm had shut the door against the cold, and Sarah told Harry to stay put.

For a moment, she noticed how eerie Malcolm looked, lit by the Jeep’s headlights. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, she recalled the name of the Gershwin song, “Things Are Looking Up.” She watched as Malcolm rapped with his knuckles on the driver’s window.

Then Harry, who’d again slid forward between the seats for a better view, said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if that guy was going to our house…if we just followed him the whole way and he stopped in front of our house?”

Sarah turned and looked at him. His skin caught some of the green glow from the traffic light, and while she was looking at him the glow changed from green to yellow to red. Briefly, she worried about how tired he would be at school the next morning. She said, “That would be funny,” and started to lean toward him, intending to kiss his cheek, but something changed suddenly in his eyes. He said, “Mommy—”

Ever afterward, she would recall that she’d seen nothing like terror in Harry’s face. His expression was alarming only because it had gone so absolutely neutral, as if some vital force inside him had abruptly shut down—that and his using “Mommy” rather than the more usual “Mom.” He said it again, “Mommy—” and she thought she heard at the same instant another sound, from outside, a kind of popping noise, perhaps from under the hood of the car. When she turned to see what Harry was seeing, Malcolm was already moving slowly back toward them.

She thought Malcolm had been wearing his plaid cap with the earflaps, but now he was hatless, and there was something odd about his hair; it looked spiky, and some of it hung down over his forehead the way it did when he was just out of the shower. As he moved closer, into the direct blaze of the Jeep’s headlights, he caught her eye, through the windshield, and looked at her with a disappointment so enormous she thought her heart would break. For reasons she would never entirely understand, her second-grade teacher passed through her mind, a black-haired grumpy old woman named Mrs. Cole who’d fancied herself an artist. Sarah actually did feel something odd in her heart, a kind of rough single quake, and then a great scalding sensation in her ears. A druggy hum had started up inside her head; she whispered Malcolm’s name…or maybe his name was whispered by some other voice, deep inside the hum. And then she watched as Malcolm leaned against the front fender of the Jeep and slid down to the street out of sight.

Somewhere off in the vast wasteland of the future, Harry would ask her why she had shoved him so hard against the seat when he’d tried getting out of the Jeep, but she would not recall doing that; nor would she recall getting out of the Jeep herself, or telling Harry to climb up front and to keep blowing the horn until she told him to stop. She would recall Malcolm on the cold pavement, slumped against the front wheel of the car, one leg folded under the other. She would recall the surprising moment when the Corvair began to move idly away across the parkway, leaving Malcolm’s plaid hat lying precisely in the middle of the street’s double yellow line.

Then there was a woman in a motorcycle jacket, a tough-looking woman with a diamond stud in her nose and very short platinum hair, leaning over her and Malcolm. She told Sarah that somebody would be there in a minute—Sarah thought the woman said something about “empties,” which made her think, bewilderingly, of soda bottles—and then the woman opened the door to the Jeep and told Harry to stop blowing the horn. Oddly, she called Harry “honey” and “sweetie” and took him in her arms, not lifting him out of the car but only holding him there in the seat, and Sarah thought they must know the woman, though she couldn’t think how. Meanwhile, Sarah was now the one slumped against the front wheel of the Jeep. She held Malcolm’s head in her lap. There was a smudge on his white shirt, near the collar, put there earlier, before they’d left for the dinner, when he and Harry had done some roughhousing in the window seat at home. Sarah wanted to keep Malcolm warm and reached forward over him and struggled with the buttons of his coat. While she did this, she tried to prepare a statement in her mind, an explanation that began, My husband has been shot, but somehow shot had too many meanings, and she felt she needed to add, with a gun, which then seemed utterly foolish. She thought she could get the coat buttoned and keep Malcolm warm, and she could get her explanation right if she could only stop herself from shaking. A comprehensive sense of failure was overtaking her—she recalled a heat lamp she’d stupidly left burning in the lab at school two years earlier—and though she couldn’t stop herself from shaking, couldn’t control the horrible disjointed spasms in her arms and shoulders, and wasn’t able to manage the backward buttons on Malcolm’s coat, she was comforted by the thought that Malcolm wouldn’t mind, that he would forgive her, which was like him.

This occurred on the second day of March, a Sunday. Harry had recently returned to his second-grade year at school, following a ten-day February vacation. That night, they’d all attended an awards dinner at the Historical Commission, where Malcolm was honored for his restoration of the Planck Building. No one at the Historical Commission had expected Harry to come, and an extra chair and a place setting had to be squeezed in at their table. It was like Malcolm not to check with anyone about whether or not children were invited to the dinner, and it was like Sarah to be overly embarrassed. Harry wouldn’t eat anything that was served—Sarah thought the menu was meant to be historical: roasted squab, wild rice, spiced apples, bread pudding. Fortunately, he had managed to fill up on buttered rolls, and somewhere near the midpoint of the evening, it seemed to Sarah that spreading iced butter on spongy dinner rolls was what she’d come for, wife of the honoree, mother of his offspring. The thing had gone on longer than it should have, and it was nine-thirty by the time they got out.

All winter the weather had been warmer than usual, with little snow. While they’d been inside the Historical Commission, a brief rain shower had left a clear sheen outside on the streets. There were isolated, perfectly round dots of water, like tiny magnifying lenses, dotting the Jeep’s windshield. The night world had a hard edge to it somehow, and the air felt colder than it actually was.

When, at the intersection of Walden and Huron, Malcolm had said, “That’s my car,” he referred to the 1965 Corvair his father had given him on his sixteenth birthday—automatic transmission, new tires, six-cylinder engine, black interior, and only 38,000 miles on the odometer. In this car, Malcolm had taken Patti Bolling, vice president of the student council, to see Psycho at a drive-in theater. He’d put his arm around her, and after about ten seconds his whole life had become focused in his arm, what his arm was feeling, what it was causing Patti to feel, and he left it there, paralyzed, until it went numb. When he started smoking Pall Malls, he carried a bottle of Lavoris in the glove compartment of the car. He’d got his first speeding ticket doing thirty in a twenty-five-mile-an-hour zone in front of the junior high school. When Malcolm had become involved, as a high school senior, in some civil rights work in Baltimore, the car had been trashed by anonymous eggers. All this Sarah knew, all this was contained in “That’s my car.” Afterward, whenever she would recall the night of the shooting, she would sometimes think of young earnest Malcolm putting his arm around Patti Bolling’s shoulders, and it would make her cry.

Malcolm’s father, a career man in the navy, had been retired early from the service on account of some mysterious mental episodes that were eventually diagnosed as petit mal. Three years into his retirement, his wife, Malcolm’s mother, had died of a stroke, and he’d become increasingly fond of raking pine needles into small round piles in the backyard of their Maryland home; he would set them ablaze and then stand leaning on the rake handle, watching them smolder and smoke. In the Jeep, when Malcolm said, “Poor old Dad,” he meant too bad about how lost the man had become in his last years, too bad about how his life had gone off course and had never found a new footing, too bad about how he’d seemed to welter into his own grave at the age of sixty-three.

When they’d been stuck behind the Corvair the first time, at Walden and Huron, and Malcolm asked Sarah how she was feeling, it was because she’d complained during the dinner that she had a headache. And “Sarah Vaughn” was a kind of joke name for her. At the time of their marriage, eighteen years ago, she’d not taken his surname for the obvious reason—it would have made her Sarah Vaughn, and though she liked Sarah Vaughan, the singer, she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life being teased and asked to sing a few bars of Cole Porter. She’d remained Sarah Williams, and when Harry had come along he was christened Harry Vaughn-Williams—a name with a similar problem but involving a much smaller audience. As they waited for that first traffic light to change, Malcolm’s choice of song, his beginning the intro to “Things Are Looking Up,” most likely reflected his mood; though he’d pretended not to care about the Historical Commission’s award, Sarah knew it actually meant a lot to him.

When Malcolm said to Harry, “Remember what we talked about…” he referred to an exchange they’d had earlier that evening as they were getting dressed for the Historical Commission dinner. Harry had come into their bedroom for the third time in ten minutes to say in a whiny voice, “When are we leaving?”

Sarah, the only one of the three who wasn’t ready, had snapped at him, and Malcolm had taken him out of the bedroom, into the hallway, and sat him down in the window seat. “Harry,” he said. “Why are you always in a rush to get on to the next thing?”

This question was followed by a long silence, which meant that Harry was pondering it; Harry tended to view questions of this sort as puzzles to be solved, as something to be made into a game. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I guess I was born that way…it’s in my genes.”

In the bedroom, Sarah could hear this exchange. She thought, He’s understood the implied criticism in Malcolm’s question, turned it around, and made Malcolm responsible for it. Fourteen hours she’d been in labor with Harry, and it occurred to her to call out to them from the bedroom and remind them that Harry hadn’t been in any big rush in the delivery room.

But Malcolm said, “Well, Harry, I doubt that’s true, because you sure weren’t in a hurry to get born.”

That was funny, Sarah thought, the way Malcolm had spoken a version of what had just passed through her mind, but he’d phrased it so that it included not only the long hours of labor but also the six years of their trying to get pregnant.

“Do you remember when we were at the county fair last summer?” Malcolm said to Harry in the window seat. “Remember how, when we were on one ride, you’d be talking about what we were going to ride next? You see, you can’t enjoy where you are now if you’re always thinking about what’s next. I want you to try practicing a little patience and not always be thinking about what’s next. Okay? Also, when you rush other people, they tend to make mistakes.”

Another long silence. Then Sarah heard Harry say, “Can we go back to that same fair next summer?”

This made Malcolm laugh, and they’d done some roughhousing in the window seat that left a brown smudge from Harry’s shoe on Malcolm’s white dress shirt. Sarah had urged Malcolm to change the shirt before they left, but he pulled on his jacket and said it wouldn’t show. He’d returned to the bedroom and, briefly admiring himself in the wardrobe mirror, said something about not looking too bad for a forty-three-year-old man. She came and stood behind him, gazing over his shoulder, and with the impeccable timing he now and then managed, he turned and kissed her. He said that for a forty-three-year-old woman she didn’t look too bad herself. I’m forty-five, she told him, and he pretended, as he always did, to be surprised.

The afternoon of Malcolm’s funeral, Sarah will recall that she was irritated at Malcolm when he got out of the Jeep, deeply irritated by his decision to confront the driver of the Corvair. It will seem to her that Malcolm was always on some princely mission, always taking the high road. After the cemetery, back at the house, she’ll say to Malcolm’s best friend, Deckard, as Deckard sits in a chair in the corner of the living room, weeping, “Of course, we lesser beings would just blow our horns and drive around the fucking car, but not Malcolm….Malcolm was always looking for the nobler thing.” Harry, undetected at a nearby doorjamb, will overhear her say this, and then, despite all her penitential efforts, he’ll refuse to look at her or speak to her for hours. When finally he relents, he’ll speak only to tell her that she has bad breath.

And late at night, night after night, as she lies sleepless in bed, Harry’s face will float up out of the darkness, glowing green, then yellow, then red, and then go neutral, and she’ll hear his startling “Mommy—” first when he saw an arm extend from the Corvair’s window, an arm with a hand, a hand with a pistol; and again, “Mommy—” when he saw what looked like sparks fly out of the short barrel, when he saw his father turn and look back at the Jeep and put his hand first to his stomach—the way he did sometimes when he had indigestion—and then to his head, knocking his good cap off onto the street but not stopping to pick it up, as if, inexplicably, he no longer cared about it.

Most dreadfully, Sarah will hear again and again the popping noise—dreadfully because, when she hears it, she fears she’ll dream of it again: sometimes the sound is the branch of a tree, snapping in a storm. In this dream, she’s asleep in her bedroom, the howling of wind wakes her, and, surprised to find that Malcolm has left the bed, she walks to the window and looks out just in time to see the great tree limb crack in a sudden gust. Sometimes, in another dream, the sound is electrical. She and Harry are having dinner at home—alone, because Malcolm has mysteriously failed to show up—when suddenly all the lights go out; she finds a flashlight and goes down the stairs to the basement, where she opens the circuit box; when she flips a switch, there’s an electric pop, and sparks in the dark. And sometimes—this by far the worst one—she will dream of the murderer himself. She and Harry and Malcolm are walking on the beach near the summer house; Malcolm trots ahead of them and disappears over a dune between the beach and an immense parking lot; when she and Harry reach the parking lot, it’s empty except for a white Corvair, and there’s no sign of Malcolm; a man sits behind the wheel of the Corvair, apparently sleeping; they walk to the car, and when she asks the man whether he has seen her husband, he turns his face to her, a neon-white oval with a mouth, no eyes and no nose; he opens his mouth and makes a horrible clucking noise with his glossy pink tongue, the sound of the gunshot.

With each of these nightmares, Sarah will wake at the moment of the pop, and always with a burning in her ears. She’ll often think of Mrs. Cole, her second-grade teacher, a frightening witch of a woman who, whenever Sarah drew pictures of green trees, would come around with a yellow crayon and add sunlight to the topmost leaves, explaining that the topmost leaves always catch the sun. (The yellow looked stupid to Sarah, as if someone had broken a giant egg over her trees, and she hated Mrs. Cole.) Why the woman should have visited her that night when she turned and saw Malcolm’s face through the Jeep’s windshield, she will never entirely understand.

Malcolm’s face through the windshield, lit by the headlights: it said, Sorry, my love. Sorry about how long it took for Harry to come along, and sorry for everything….Sorry that, in a way, we were just getting started….I guess we won’t be…

Harry behind the steering wheel, blowing the horn to arouse the people in the houses, trying to stir up some help: another sound that will visit Sarah in her dreams, disguised as the air-raid alert in old British movies about the Second World War. She’ll recall the short-haired woman in the motorcycle jacket who was the first to reach them in the street, and she’ll regret not having got the woman’s name. Unexpectedly, forgotten details will ambush her. Pouring apple juice into a jelly glass for Harry, she’ll suddenly recall a uniformed policeman poking around the Jeep, a young man who looked like a movie star…but what movie star? And what had he been doing writing down the license plate numbers of all the cars that were parked on both sides of the avenue? Surely he could see that none of these was the white Corvair. Sorting through junk mail, she’ll suddenly think, for the first time, of a red-and-blue bumper sticker on the back of the Corvair…an ad for something, but an ad for what? Boarding the bus, she’ll drop quarters into the change post and think of a young Latino intern at the hospital—a kid, really, with gold hoop earrings in each ear—whom she’d seen holding Harry’s hand in a hallway somewhere, squatting down to Harry’s level and talking with him quietly; as she approached them, the intern glanced up at her before moving away down the hall, and she saw that he had been crying.

For a long time, Sarah will not button a coat without thinking of Malcolm, and though details of this sort will prompt her grief again and again, in a wider deeper way, the world itself, life itself, life’s plain refusal to brake, its idiotic scheme to proceed, will fan her sorrow. As she leaves Harry at school and descends a flight of stairs, something about the echo of her own footsteps in the stairwell fills her with remorse; outside, witchy Mrs. Cole’s sunshine swoops down, causing her to shield her eyes and dig into her pockets for sunglasses; on the lawn, she spots a Japanese magnolia, about to blossom, and thinks irrationally of Malcolm’s red-and-black plaid hat, chosen for him by Harry out of a mail-order catalog. Her grief will be too large somehow, larger than it ought to be, and she’ll feel indicted by others as inhumane for keeping such a large animal indoors. At every turn, everyone will encourage her to set it free, let it go, and to allow her feelings to change. She will, of course, also feel misunderstood—a kind of moist subterranean labyrinth beneath her loneliness. For what will seem an eternity, no one will quite see that she isn’t interested in having her feelings changed: not the head of her department, who’ll try urging her back to work before she is ready; not Malcolm’s friend Deckard, who’ll endlessly offer advice, telling her what’s best for her and best for Harry; not her own mother, Enid, the actress who can’t leave her play in New York to attend Malcolm’s funeral and who’ll try coercing Sarah into the offices of grief counselors she has found. No one will seem to understand that for nearly two decades Sarah envisioned her life only with Malcolm. No one will seem to grasp that Malcolm is actually dead, that he was shot, apparently freakishly, apparently at random, by a total stranger, and that he didn’t survive, that he truly died, that he was dying already as she sat in the cold street and held his head and struggled with the buttons to his overcoat. No one will understand that her grief is what she has left of him, and if she were to lose that, she would have nothing at all.

SOMETIME SHORTLY AFTER New Year’s, Deckard Jones had noticed something he wanted so strongly not to be true that he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, a modest change in his life that, once recognized, really began to get its legs: women no longer looked at him.

His birthday was coming up soon, a prime number breathing down the neck of fifty (forty-seven), and, six months separated from his girlfriend Lucy, he couldn’t remember the last good night’s sleep he’d had. After a single, childless marriage—ancient history—he’d had several girlfriends and, on the side and in between, enjoyed his share of recreational no-strings sex; “bopped a lot of babes” was how he put it not too long ago, a swaggering diction that embarrassed him to recall. (He’d been taking down some middle-aged guy’s data at the hospital when a white girl in a miniskirt walked by—possibly a college girl, for Christ’s sake—the guy said something about wishing he was twenty years younger, and somehow “bopped a lot of babes” worked its way in; as soon as these words were out of Deckard’s mouth, he experienced a terrible bird’s-eye view of himself and the other man as two old droolers talking shit at the VA because shit was all they had left to talk.) His observation that women no longer looked at him was at the heart of his raging insomnia, and it had a corollary, too: throughout his connections with women, long-term and short, he’d kept in the back of his mind the thought that there were several others waiting in the wings, and these ladies-in-waiting (as he’d thought of them) accounted in large part for his one-foot-out-the-door approach to coupling. The women, the ladies-in-waiting, were real, not illusion. They knitted their brows and chewed on pencil erasers in the Periodicals Room at the public library; careful not to chip a nail, they operated the registers at Tower Records; riding the T, they let one shoe dangle free from the toes of one foot. All over town, hesitant at the perfume counter in Lord & Taylor, restless in line at the P.O., bored on the Esplanade, bored to death in the Public Gardens and passing by in swan boats, they cast Deckard honest-to-goodness unimagined glances. The women were real.

Or had been real. Trouble was, Deckard had failed to note their departure, an insanely stupid oversight.

In the hour of deepest darkness, usually somewhere between 3 and 4 A.M., he would remind himself that he was lucky to be alive at all. He reminded himself of all he’d survived: a father whose idea of how to build a kid’s character was to send Deckard to an all-white school in the burbs, where he was routinely beaten to a pulp, and then, at home, to beat Deckard again for letting himself get beaten at school; a mother whose idea of how to make bad things go away was to ignore them absolutely; two years in reform school for chronic truancy and possession of marijuana; a month of solitary in a six-by-six box cell for trying to escape from reform school; forty-two months, one week, and three days of drug abuse and cosmic dementia in Vietnam; addiction to the buckets of diazepam and chloral hydrate regularly dispensed by the VA on his return, leading fairly quickly to bona fide junkiehood; two consecutive six-month prison sentences for drunk-and-disorderly and breaking parole; two attempts on his life by white supremacists, one in a parking lot in Scranton, P.A., one in prison; ironically, afterward, a suicide attempt; eight detoxes; and thirteen years, finally, of staying clean. Sometimes, when Deckard reviewed these difficulties, it had the intended effect—he was lucky to be alive. Sometimes, it had an unintended effect—he’d led a cursed, reckless life that had rendered him incompatible with women, and consumed by an abiding love-hate entanglement with his own solitude.

His one-bedroom apartment, on the fourth floor of a brick building in Jamaica Plain, had a small window behind the toilet in the bathroom, and from this window you could see the tops of the trees lining the Jamaicaway and, above the trees, the hospital. Deckard kept the shade pulled over this window at all times, not for reasons of privacy—it was too high up to matter—but because of the undesirable hospital view. Lucy, every morning when she’d slept over, would raise the shade, and he thought maybe it was a white thing; maybe white women liked a lot of light. He would feel her leave the bed, and then he would lie half awake in the dark, eyes closed, and listen—the squeaky floorboards in the hall, the lowered toilet seat, the pinched hose of her peeing, the flush, water in the sink, the fuzzy static of her toothbrushing. And then, just before leaving the bathroom, solely to drive him nuts, the snap of the window shade. Why? Because it was “too close” in there with the shade pulled all the time. And besides, why did he insist on having it down?

“You know why,” he would say for the hundredth time. “I don’t like to bring my work home with me.”

It was, they both knew, a ritual exchange serving the sweet cause of territory, and she would laugh, poke him or goose him, and sometimes they would make love.

Then there was the morning—how long ago, he couldn’t begin to say—when she’d returned to his side, placing her head next to his on the pillow; he’d said, There you go again, raising that goddamn shade, and she’d flounced back out of bed, whipping the sheet down behind her, and said, Oh, fuck you, Deckard.

Could that have been a direct expression of her unhappiness? A sign of things to come? Could she have meant, Fuck you, Deckard, and your set-in-your-ways bullshit, my place, my things, no I don’t want to get married, been there, done that, I like things the way they are, you’ve got your place, I’ve got mine, why rock the boat, we’re both a little old to start playing house anyway, Mama…and while we’re at it, Fuck your fire extinguishers in every room, fanny-pack pepper spray, retractable nightstick, be-prepared go-everywhere first-aid kit, and all your other big-bad-white-world, doom-around-every-corner, post-traumatic-stress idiosyncrasies?

And now where in the world was he supposed to find another good-looking woman who didn’t smoke, drink, or snort coke but loved to go fishing?

Spring was approaching, the start of the third season without her, and secretly he’d hoped the joy and complication of Christmas would have brought them back together. He’d thought the arrival of colored lights on the bare trees of the Common, memories of Christmases past, and the smell of wood smoke in the midnight clear would somehow reunite them. But it hadn’t. Apparently, it hadn’t. The particulars of the reunion were the problem. Somebody would have to call the other one, somebody would have to confess need and risk a turndown.

Except for a modest canister of pepper spray, he’d stopped carrying any kind of weapon in his waist pouch, and he’d had fantasies about calling Lucy and telling her about this change, but in his heart he knew it was too late now to make any difference. Long ago, he’d concluded about women that at any given moment, they usually had something very specific in mind, that they sat around crafting very specific expectations of men, right down to the word, the gesture, the breath. He imagined Lucy brushing her teeth at the bathroom sink, thinking of some very specific thing she wanted him to say or do when she returned to the bed and put her head next to his on the pillow. And whatever it was, it wasn’t There you go again….

The second day of March had been a magnificent, bright, heart-wrenching Sunday, the kind of day that inspired people to get off their duffs and do a good deed for humankind. Deckard had bundled up, biked down to the shelter, and put in a couple of hours in the soup kitchen. He knew that putting in a couple of hours at the shelter wasn’t really a good deed in the traditional sense, not unless you expanded good deeds to include doing something good for yourself. It was, for him, a there-but-for-the-grace-of-God thing. There were quite a few vets at the shelter (even, like himself, one ex-marine), and Deckard had discovered that whenever he took the time to observe the hangdog desperation behind the vets’ every small urgency—choosing a hook for their ratty coats, negotiating the silverware, bumming a cigarette, striking a match—it helped him, later, with counting his blessings.

After the shelter, during the warmest part of the afternoon, he’d biked forever, everywhere, way past reason and fatigue, with the goal of perhaps sleeping that night. Toward evening, he’d paused somewhere in Allston near the Charles River. Couples strolled along the bordering walkways, arm in arm, enjoying the weather’s intimations of spring, and mothers and fathers had brought their kids down to try out the bikes or blades they’d got two months earlier at Christmas. Upriver, there was a lovely bend where the water was busy changing colors, and Deckard let himself dwell on these brown-to-green, green-to-gold, gold-to-lilac adjustments of the light just long enough to get a clue about what kind of sunset it was going to be. Then he decided to head for the movies before the sun went down. Pouring sweat beneath his parka, unhappily alone, he figured a resplendent sunset was the last thing he needed.

That night, when he returned home—back to the apartment building after a disappointing Clint Eastwood double feature—it was a little after ten o’clock, and though he was plenty tired he’d already begun to worry about not sleeping. The weather had changed while he’d been at the movies; a rain shower had wet down the streets and left a cold bite in the air that made him feel, as he’d biked home, wide awake. He climbed the four flights of marble stairs to his floor, hauling the bike over his shoulder, and as he reached his landing he heard the telephone ringing inside the apartment. A weird surge of panic caused him to fumble with the door key. By the time he got to the phone, the answering machine was running, he had trouble finding the button that shut it off, and when he finally got the line clear, the caller was gone.

A knock came at the door, which, in his rush, he’d failed to close. It was shaggy old Mrs. Rothschild, his neighbor on the same landing, and she couldn’t have materialized at a worse moment. Easily two hundred years old, she was only about four feet tall and always appeared to Deckard to be needing someone to pick her up bodily and carry her from wherever she was to some other place. It was a mystifying temptation. Right now she stood trembling at the door like some kind of scandalized cat who’d fallen into a water ditch. Deckard—winded from the stairs, frustrated and disappointed about the telephone, and still a bit panic-surged—was more brusque than usual, when even at his kindest he surely scared her. “What can I do for you?” he said, lumbering to the door.

Visibly startled by the sound of his voice, she said, “Oh, Deckard, honey”—pleading way up at him with soggy eyes—“I hate to bother you, but do you think you could turn that music down just a bit? Mr. Rothschild is trying to sleep.”

There was, of course, no music playing, not that Deckard could hear, and there hadn’t been any Mr. Rothschild for at least a dozen years, but Deckard said, “Sure, I’ll turn it down. I’ll go do it right now.”

Deckard walked into his living room, out of the old woman’s view, twisted an invisible knob in the air, and returned to the door.

Mrs. Rothschild cocked her head. “Thank you so much,” she said. “That’s worlds better.”

Deckard’s telephone began to ring again. “That’s my phone,” he said quickly and told her to watch her step on the landing. (He knew it was only a matter of time before she pitched down the stairs or simply died climbing them.) But she didn’t move from her spot, and somehow Deckard couldn’t bring himself to shut the door in her face, so he simply said good-bye and moved away, leaving the door open about six inches.

When he’d answered the phone, he recognized Sarah’s voice immediately. “Deckard, is that you?” she said.

He was breathing hard, and something about the silence at the other end of the line, something about the sound of his own breath returning to him amplified by the receiver, frightened him. He noticed that the hand holding the telephone was trembling a little. As calmly as he could, he said, “What’s wrong, Sarah?”

“Oh, Deck,” she said, and then he noticed the jumble of background noises that meant she was calling from a public place.

He stretched the phone cord far enough down the hall so that he could whisper to the unwavered Mrs. Rothschild, “I’ve got to close this door now.”

“Deckard, honey, I can see you’re on the telephone,” she said, “busy as a bee, busy as a bee,” and began slowly to turn away.

As soon as Deckard saw the old woman pass into her own apartment, across the landing, he kicked the door shut, harder than he’d meant to, and left a scuff mark on the white paint. Then he pulled the cord around the doorjamb to the kitchen so he could reach one of the dinette chairs. His ear was away from the phone for a couple of seconds, and when he got situated back in the hall, he said Sarah’s name, but all she seemed able to say was, “I can’t…I can’t…”

“Come on, Sarah,” Deckard said, “talk to me. Tell me where you are. Tell me what’s happened. Is it Harry?”

“No, no,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m having some trouble with my voice. We’re at the hospital, Harry and me, and we need you to come over here, if that’s okay. Malcolm’s been hurt really badly. There’s a lot to do and a lot of people and—”

“What happened?” he asked, but she started that “I can’t…I can’t…” business again, so he said, “What hospital, Sarah? Where are you?”

He heard her asking someone, away from the phone, the name of the hospital, and then she said, “We’re at Mount Auburn….I couldn’t remember…I’ve been here dozens of times but I couldn’t remember—”

“I’ll get a cab,” he said. “It’ll probably take twenty minutes. You must be in the emergency room, right?”

“I’m here where the phones are,” she said. “Where the ambulances park. The automatic doors, and there’s a rest room here and, oh—some folded-up wheelchairs. The floor is dirty.”

He told her he’d be right there, and he was about to hang up when she said, “I’m sorry, Deck…I’m sorry…but could you please bring Harry something to eat?”

After he phoned for a taxi, he went to the kitchen and found a box of granola bars. He wasn’t sure which flavor to bring, so he stuffed the entire contents of the box into his coat pockets. When he returned to the hallway, he paused for a moment before a color photograph that hung on the wall—his best buddy, Malcolm, burned dark brown for a white guy—no shirt, khaki shorts, work boots, straw hat, riding a red tractor over a mound of tall beach grass, Harry wedged up between his legs, both of them grinning ear to ear and waving. Deckard moved closer to the picture. It was very dim in the hallway, and he thought he’d seen something in the picture he’d never noticed before: Malcolm and Harry each had a piece of straw stuck between their front teeth.

As he descended the stairs, he recalled the little surge of panic he’d felt as he’d fumbled with the door key a few minutes before on the landing. He wondered if it had been a premonition or if it was only some kind of special panic that lonely people often feel. He’d been around victims of psychogenic shock before. Sarah’s conduct on the telephone didn’t necessarily mean that Malcolm was dead. Smaller events, much less serious blows, could cause that kind of shock.

In the vestibule, zipping his coat and pulling his sock cap down over his ears, he feared he’d forgotten something important—a nearly physical sensation that had begun to hound him more and more frequently, sometimes for a reason, sometimes for no reason at all. As he opened the outside door and felt the cold night air on his face, a kind of weary grunt escaped his throat, a blip, he thought, of…what? Not despair, exactly. More like self-doubt, a deep, deep sense of unpreparedness.

On the steps, shivering for cold, sat ten-year-old Angela Abruzzi—half Italian, half Puerto Rican—from the second floor.

“What are you doing out here in the cold this time of night?” Deckard asked her. Beneath her, as protection from the rain-wet stoop, was the sports section of the Sunday paper. “Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

She looked up at him for a second, then back out at the street. “I’m waiting for my mama,” she said.

“She’s over there,” the girl said, not removing her hands from her coat pockets, pointing with her chin. “In that van.”

Deckard could see, across the avenue, a white Ford Econoline. “What’s she doing?” he asked.

“Talking to my daddy,” said the girl. “She said I was to sit and wait, and if she wasn’t back over here in ten minutes I was to go inside and call the police.”

“The police?” Deckard said. “What in the world is she talking to him about?”

The girl looked up at him again, as if she would ask him why he was so nosy, but then decided, instead, to confide. Her face, normally hard, went soft with shame, and she said, “She’s talking to him about my shoes.”

“Yeah,” Angela said. “I need new shoes for gym. Coach said I couldn’t come to P.E. anymore in these.”

Deckard looked down at the black leather boots the girl wore, one with a busted zipper.

Angela shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t have a watch,” she said. “I was counting before you came along and messed me up. One-mississippi, two-mississippi—”

Now Angela took her hands from her pockets and looked at her fingers, where, Deckard surmised, she’d been keeping track. “About eight minutes,” she said.

Deckard reached for the girl’s hand, tugged her up, and told her to go back inside where it was warm, that he would check on her mother and be sure she was safe. Just as the girl went reluctantly back into the building, Deckard’s taxi pulled to the curb. He told the driver to wait a minute and was about to cross the avenue when he saw Rosa step down out of the van and slam the door. The van sped away, peeling a modicum of rubber.

She met him behind the taxi, looking worried. “Deckard,” she said, “where’s Angela?”

He figured Rosa to be about half his own age—and already with a ten-year-old. She was wearing a big bulky sweater, no coat, some kind of heavy tights on her legs, and a pair of green suede boots that looked like they might have formerly belonged to an elf. Her eyes were dry but her nose was bright red, and he could see the clear delineation of finger marks on her right cheek. She noticed he’d seen this and put her hand to her face. He took out his wallet and gave her three twenty-dollar bills. “Don’t ask him for anything else, Rosa,” he said. “Just don’t ask the man. There are people who can help you in a situation like this. There are people whose job it is to help people in situations like this. It’s the only job they have. It’s what they get paid to do.”

She folded the money into her palm, utterly miserable, gave Deckard a quick hug, and started for the steps. At the door, she turned and pointed her finger at him. “I’m going to pay you back, I mean it,” she said, making it sound so much more like a threat than a promise that the cabbie greeted Deckard with a raised eyebrow.

In the warmth of the cab, in the dark, waiting for a light to change on the Jamaicaway, it suddenly came to Deckard what it was he’d forgotten. He’d closed his apartment door, failing in his rush to turn the dead bolt. Why had he not turned the dead bolt? Because, once again, he’d shut his keys inside the apartment, locking himself out, perhaps for the third time in a single month. Now, at God knows what hour, he would have to go down on his knees in the scrap of dirt behind his building and dig around in the dark for the spare key he kept buried back there beneath a brick.

Moments later, crossing the bridge over the river, he again confronted the specter of Lucy’s absence, this time in a particularly loathsome form: maybe whatever had happened to Malcolm would bring her back. Ashamed, he kept his eyes closed most of the rest of the trip and tried to pray.

THE MAN NAMED SANDERS had pulled some strings and found a room for Harry and Sarah to wait in, a sort of antechamber to a shutdown lab, and then asked Sarah if there was somebody she might call. She supposed she must have laughed, which clearly struck Sanders as odd, and, feeling really crazy, she said, “It’s just that the first person I thought to call was my husband.”

Singing Boy

A Novel

Dennis McFarland

Contents

PART IThe Hospital in the Dream

PART I
The Hospital in the Dream