Justin Tussing

Vexation Lullaby

For

A.J.T. and R.A.Z.

If you’re hired, then they want you

To do what they don’t want to.

— from “Bucolic Song” (1965)

That tow-headed tyrant marched into my shin.

He was pretending I’m invisible,

Or maybe it’s him.

— from “Best Enemy” (1977)

In the center ring the murderous cats

Pirouette on their perches.

I saw you holding your breath

While high up, near the canvas ceiling,

A family performs perilous reunions.

We were all holding our breath.

— from “Acrobat Daredevil Circus” (1979)

1

See the man on stage. He’s been called a genius, a lovable misanthrope, a national treasure, a fraud. The backlights make a halo of his famously unruly hair — a well-known poet, his former lover, called it “a pubic pompadour.” For five decades he played the enfant terrible; now, at seventy, he is suddenly ancient. While the final note of “Last Second Coming” snakes through the crowd, he steps forward. The upturned toe of a cowboy boot juts over the black edge. He’s a statue begging to be toppled.

The audience members — he calls them his “bloodthirsty attendants”—try to steady him with their piercing concentration. They owe him everything. After all, he’s the one who urged them to leave the dead-end towns where their parents raised them. When they drove from here to there, he rode shotgun, through the purple night, beneath the magnesium sun. When they were careful, when they were conventional, he sang to the reckless selves inside them. If not for him, would they have believed in the righteous joy of heartache? Never. His lyrics and his likeness are inked beneath their skin. Clever allusions serve as the basis for their children’s names and the passwords on their Roth IRAs. Their wills instruct that “Wayward Satellite”1 play as their bodies are lowered into the raw earth.

Look, he’s not even playing. He’s staring into the audience, or through them. Can he perceive anything beyond the spotlight’s white amnesia? Another inch forward and he’ll fall. No one has ever looked so alone as he does when he’s surrounded by people who love him.

Curls of steam rise from his head. He’s a candlewick. He’s a fuse.

A woman in the front row stretches out her hand and (no!) touches the slim ankle of his boot. His lip curls as he yanks the plug from his battered blue guitar. And then he’s gone.

Even after the houselights come up, the audience keeps chanting his name. They can beg all they want, but he’s not coming back.

2

Peter Silver sat in his living room watching Swim, Bike, Die, a movie about a female serial killer who targeted triathletes. The lead actress had a rather large and angular nose, not unlike Peter’s ex-girlfriend’s. He might share his observation with Lucy, if only they were still speaking. Like the killer, Lucy excelled at compartmentalization. She had broken up with him in May, despite a tacit understanding that they were nearly engaged. All summer he’d anticipated their reconciliation. More recently, he felt a kinship with the solemn folks who stood in front of the Unitarian church holding signs no one bothered to read. What Peter needed now was an exit strategy, a way to stop waiting that wouldn’t feel like he’d given up on waiting.

His phone rang. Peter felt a twinge of shame. The caller ID showed a blocked number, which meant he couldn’t rule out that it was Lucy. He willed himself to answer, lest she assume he was depressed. If she wanted to talk, he could tell her he had company. He wasn’t exceptionally depressed.

An older male voice said, “I’m trying to reach Judith Silver’s son.”

Peter was Judith’s only child; all his most effective nightmares began with an unexpected phone call. It served him right for thinking about Lucy — Judith would probably call it karma.

Judith cohabited (her word) with Rolf Stieger. The two of them shared an old prospector’s cabin in an arid canyon twenty minutes above Boulder, Colorado. They’d been together for a decade. Judith didn’t believe in marriage; she believed in coconut oil and probiotics. Rolf was Austrian — he believed in himself.

Perhaps something happened to both of them? Driving those narrow roads, a house-sized chunk of rock might flatten their car. Or they could miss a turn and wind up in that icy cataract someone named Catastrophe Creek. During Peter’s last visit, Judith’s smoke detector emitted those cricket chirps that signaled the batteries needed changing; how long had that been going? Rolf spent his days around table saws and nail guns — he couldn’t discern anything quieter than an explosion. What was Judith’s excuse? She’d always been able to shut things out. Why hadn’t Peter replaced the batteries? If his mother died in a house fire, his cheap heart would be to blame.

“Is my mother okay?” Peter had already concluded that Judith was not okay — people didn’t call about your mother when she was okay. The airport was closed for the night, but as soon as it opened he would beg the booking agent to show him mercy and put him on a plane. On the television, the killer prepared to transition onto her bike.

The caller coughed. When he spoke again, his voice sounded smaller, tentative. “Is this Peter?”

“Speaking.”

“You’re the one I’m looking for,” the man said.

Peter walked to his sink. Earlier, he’d poured a whiskey and Coke, but the drink wasn’t sitting right. He felt jittery. “Are you with a collection agency?” This wouldn’t have been the first time someone called asking him to square his mother’s debt.

“I’m a friend of Judith’s. She told me you’re a doctor.”

Peter looked back to where he’d been sitting. His wallet and his drink kept each other company on the coffee table — the caller would make him reach for one or the other.

“Who am I talking to?”

“This is Jimmy.”

The name meant nothing, but Judith subscribed to an inclusive definition of “friend”—a friend could be an intimate confidant or a person she’d spoken with at the grocery.

“Is there something I can do for you, Jimmy?” Practicing medicine conditioned a person to ask lots of obvious, almost imbecilic questions. If Peter didn’t ask the most basic questions, his patients assumed he could read their minds.

“I’m in Rochester,” said Judith’s friend Jimmy. “I was wondering if, maybe, you could set me up with a house call.”

“Did you say ‘a house call’?” Peter had never done anything of the sort, but he didn’t want to embarrass Judith’s friend.

“What’s your time worth?”

“Five thousand dollars.” In the movie, a forensic expert had just told the lead detective that the killer rode a five-thousand-dollar bike. The nightcap had been quite strong.

“Tony Ogata doesn’t charge that much.”

Tony Ogata did health segments for one of the morning shows, plus he had a call-in program on cable. His books—30 Second Cure and the one about sex, Passionate Lifing—were perennial best sellers.

Before he’d noticed the actress’s nose, he’d barely thought about Lucy all day. It was hard for a woman to pull off an angular nose, but when it worked. . Peter said, “I don’t think Tony Ogata makes house calls either.”

“I met him in Berkeley, back when he was dosing Red Rose with amphetamines and packaging it as Focus Tea.”

“I thought you meant Tony Ogata the doctor.”

“Enough about him. You’re the guy I’m speaking to.”

“If this is because you don’t have insurance, you should know the hospital won’t turn you away.”

“I’ve got too much insurance.” Jimmy cleared his throat. “What do you say? Can we do this face-to-face? This feels a bit too Catholic for me.”

The green LED on his microwave told Peter it was nearly midnight. “I’m just trying to save us both some time.”

“Me, too. Here’s my offer: come see me and I’ll pay you Ogata’s rate. I’d consider it a personal favor.”

If Jimmy was willing to pay him, what was the purpose of the favor? And if he wanted a favor, why had he offered to pay? “How do you know my mother?”

“You could say personally and historically.”

It was not the answer Peter expected, but it was the sort of answer a friend of Judith might give. Another thing: Peter felt elated. Despite the threat of rockslide, runaway trucks, and the improperly vented kerosene space heater that glowed all night in her kitchen, his mother was almost certainly okay.

Peter had been home since six with nothing to show for it except a dent in the sofa cushion, a sofa — tufted, tan leather — he’d selected because it resembled one he recalled Lucy pointing out in a catalog. “Okay.”

“Don’t stand me up.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m on my way.”

The hotel’s glowing white marquee read: Welcome 14th Annual Helping Peoples Conference.

Neon letters inside a neon arrow spelled Garage. Peter followed the sign around a corner and down an alley. A white gate barred the entrance. Beside the control box, a big guy in a yellow Windbreaker, a lineman gone to seed, stood sentinel. One of his giant hands pinched a walkie-talkie and a D-cell flashlight.

Peter opened his window. “I’m here to see a guest. I’m a doctor.” He patted a backpack on the passenger seat — its contents: a first-aid kit Peter had put together years earlier in preparation for a hike through Wyoming’s Wind River valley. That trip, a reward for finishing medical school, was to have involved white-water rafting, packhorses, and a bear-proof plastic barrel he would suspend from a tree each night. Planning the trip had been the most adventurous thing he’d ever done. In his closet Peter kept a pair of glossy Italian hiking boots that had only known tile and carpet.

The guard barked something into his walkie-talkie. “They’re expecting you on the top floor,” he said, turning to feed a card into the machine.

A ball of light exploded against the passenger-side window. Peter’s attention jumped to a gaunt figure in an ankle-length duster approaching his car; the man held a camera out before him like a dowsing rod. The flash detonated again.

“I told you to get lost,” barked the watchman.

The camera lens clacked against the window, like a lover’s teeth. A capacitor released its charge and the xenon gas painted the doctor with white light.

“Somebody about to get a camera up his ass,” said the guard.

When the gate lifted, Peter goosed the throttle. Checking his rearview mirror, he expected the photographer to chase after him, but the man was nowhere.

He corkscrewed his way up the structure. Fluorescent bulbs gave off a jaundiced light. Emerging from beneath the low ceiling, Peter reached the top of the garage and parked.

A small glass atrium, like a miniature greenhouse, connected the garage to the hotel. Inside, a man in a black-satin bomber jacket frowned at Peter’s fifteen-year-old Subaru.

The man slapped a blue pad on the wall, causing the atrium door to yawn open.

“You Peter?” The man was short, oval-shaped. An overturned bowl of black hair (or was it a toupee?) cupped the top of his head. He had to be sixty.

“I am,” Peter said, grabbing his backpack. “Some weirdo took my picture.”

“That’d be Pennyman. You know ‘Jerkwater Blues,’ the ‘tangle of Coney Island jetsam’? Supposedly that’s Pennyman. He thinks he’s Jimmy’s biographer.”

“You’re not Jimmy.”

“I’m Bluto,” the man said. “Pennyman’s at every show. It’s not clear if he’s following us or if we’re following him.”

Bluto pushed open a fire door, into a quiet hallway where a custodian in a blue jumpsuit agitated a section of carpet with a steam cleaner.

Peter sifted through what the man had said. Only after a solution occurred to him did he realize he’d been trying to solve a riddle. The answer was absurd, but acknowledging the absurdity didn’t dismiss it. “The person who called me, that wasn’t the singer Jimmy Cross.”

“Folks don’t usually accuse him of singing.”

“But, that was him?”

“Did you think you were going to see some regular shmuck? ”

“What’s he doing in Rochester?”

“Shit, Jimmy loves this place. He’s crazy about your cinnamon rolls, middle-brow architecture, and perchy tap water.” Bluto reached up and patted his own hair, as though soothing a pet. “Why do you think he’s here? He played a show.”

Up ahead, a door opened and a guy emerged wearing a narrow tank top, leather shorts, and a neoprene knee brace. “Bluto, don’t forget I need a king bed in Bowling Green. Moira’s meeting me there.”

Bluto held his BlackBerry out, tapped a finger on the screen. “King-sized bed for king-sized appetites. I sent you a confirmation half an hour ago.”

The man assessed Peter. “You the new Kev?”

“The new Kev’s meeting us in Buffalo. This is a friend of the Big Man.”

“I thought you were someone else,” the man said, retreating into his room. “I’m Fletcher. I’m in charge of sound.”

“Be sure Moira leaves that dog at home,” Bluto said, sliding his phone back in his pocket.

The guy responsible for sound looked stricken. “She can’t go anywhere without that dog; it’s for her anxiety.”

“Not my problem,” Bluto said. “No pets. No companions with pets. It’s in your contract.”

“She won’t come without that dog. You never heard of the Americans with Disabilities Act?”

“We’re not going down the pet road, Fletch,” Bluto said, dragging Peter away.

When the two men had turned a corner, Bluto said, “Fletch is sober now, but he’s the only guy Black Sabbath ever fired for partying too hard. One time he passed out in the monkey enclosure at the Berlin Zoo.”

Bluto stopped next to a door and held up a finger. He knocked. The door opened partway and an Asian guy in a yellow knit hat stuck his head out. “I need you to pull Fletch’s contract and make sure we put in a ‘no pet’ clause. If there isn’t one, add it and backdate it.”

“You got a baby in there?” the man asked, pointing at Peter’s backpack.

Peter hugged his bag. “Diagnostic tools.”

“Excuse Wayne,” Bluto said, “he doesn’t have a filter.”

Wayne said, “I’m just pointing out how he’s carrying it in front of him instead of, like, on his shoulders. You know those fathers in Brooklyn who bring their babies to a bar, order Belgian beer, and play Dolly Parton on the jukebox? That’s the way you’re presenting yourself.”

Bluto shook his head. “Dr. Silver is here to see the Big Man.”

“No offense meant,” Wayne said, tugging his hat down over his eyebrows. “I figured you were someone else.”

Bluto repeated that the new Kev would be joining them in Buffalo.

They passed another elevator, turned a corner, and ran into a giant, pumpkin-faced man in a navy pinstriped suit.

“Cyril, meet our mystery guest.”

The large man stepped toward them, eclipsing the overhead lights.

“You the doctor?” Cyril asked.

Peter said he was.

Cyril sucked on a lower lip as dark and plump as a plum. “I still got to wand you and look in that bag.”

Bluto clasped Peter’s hand. “If you need anything, let me know.”

A white plastic paddle maneuvered up the inseam of Peter’s pant leg, tapped his left testicle, retreated.

“Sorry ’bout that,” Cyril said, peering in the front of the doctor’s backpack. “Follow me.”

Bluto had disappeared, but Peter discovered he was holding the man’s business card:

BLUTO GILHOOLEY

Logisticals

“Mr. Cross knows your mom,” Cyril said, heading down the hall. He didn’t turn around; he might as well have been talking to the fire sprinklers in the ceiling.

Peter meant to say, “There’s been a misunderstanding.” Instead, he said, “I think there might be a misunderstanding.” “Might” was the strongest resistance he could muster.

Cyril stopped and tapped a key card against a door frame. A lock clunked open. Pushing the door in, Cyril said, “Wait in the back bedroom. The Big Man will find you.”

Peter ducked beneath the arbor of Cyril’s arm.

3

I have an ex-wife in California and a daughter in Tennessee, but for more than twenty years I’ve been without a home. In that time I’ve traveled to thirty-nine countries. I’ve slept in five-star hotels and on park benches. I’ve squandered two fortunes and I’ve let myself go. I’m not a great man, but I possess a greatness of determination. My name is Arthur Pennyman and what sets me apart from the other seven billion souls on this earth is this: since July 27, 1988, I’ve attended every one of Jim Cross’s public performances.

Dominick Moretti, Jimmy’s bassist, has been with the tour since it started in 1986, but I’ve seen more shows than he has, thanks to two protracted leaves of absence. No one else has even lasted a decade. Dwight Sutliff and Albert Blunt, Jimmy’s current instrumentalist and percussionist, have only been around for a couple of years.

Some fans consider the shifting shape of the band to be the central narrative of the tour.2 To that end, distinct periods have been identified and ranked. Among the cognoscenti, the hard-driving guitar work of the late C. L. Boyd is held in the highest esteem; meanwhile, defending Junior Pearl’s dirty southern twang only invites ridicule. The significance of March 7, 1996, the date Frederick Tate replaced Gracie Dean on drums, has been debated exhaustively. While I have been fonder of certain players than others (good riddance, Gary Woodman), on balance I find the band to be a tolerable distraction. I’d much prefer Jimmy appear on stage alone.

4

Peter turned a corner and found himself in a sitting room. A man with a shaved head reclined on a sectional sofa, Celtic green basketball sneakers peeking out from beneath the hem of a mustard-colored robe. Beside him, a pasty dude in a leather biker jacket, eyes hidden behind a zebra-striped mask, snored with his arms folded over his gut. SportsCenter flashed on a muted TV. On the other side of a half-wall, a grizzled roadie in headphones sat at a black lacquer table; the man wrote in a ledger, ignoring the fruit salad that overflowed from a watermelon carved to resemble a swan.

The monk aimed a remote at the TV and Peter saw the serial killer unzip the front of her wet suit.

“Such big breasts for an athlete,” the monk said.

The biker lifted the corner of his sleep mask.

Peter continued down a dim hallway, past an inflated balance ball, a coiled jump rope, two sets of dumbbells, and a tangle of giant elastic bands. Half a dozen identical black roller bags lined up like dominoes.

At the end of the hall he found a bedroom. A middle-aged woman, her long gray hair spun into a cotton-candy tower, sat at the edge of the mattress reading a magazine. Beside her, a black cowboy hat sat on a pillow.

“You’re the doctor,” the woman announced, her face hidden behind the phone-book-thick fashion magazine.

Peter introduced himself.

With an index finger, she folded down a corner of the magazine, made eye contact. “I’m Kiki Beals.”

Peter knew the name was supposed to mean something to him. He said, “Ah.”

“The photographer. I did the Abu Ghraib re-creations in McDonald’s bathrooms.”

That was it. He’d read about her in Time.

On the other side of a door someone coughed and a toilet flushed. Peter heard water splash into a sink.

“Billions Served, that’s the title.” The woman dropped the magazine on the bed. “Jimmy and I are writing an opera.”

Did people still write operas? Peter wasn’t sure.

“Have you been to the Arctic?” Kiki asked, hopefully.

The bathroom door opened and out walked a compact man in a shiny gray suit, his head covered in silver stubble. Heavy-lidded squinting eyes looked out from above a pair of frameless bifocals.

Peter had twice before had brushes with celebrity. In the fourth grade, Randy Owen, from the band Alabama, came into his mother’s store and bought a jelly-bean-sized emerald, peeling seven hundred-dollar bills from a roll as thick as a soda can. Later, during his residency, Peter ducked into an examination room and came face-to-face with a television actress. In her intake report, she complained of soreness in an elbow she’d had scoped two months earlier. “I’ve been playing tennis against doctor orders.” She turned her lip down in an exaggerated pout. In the closeness of the examination room, her beauty made him feel goofy. He started to write a codeine scrip. “Also,” she said, “I may have contracted gonorrhea.” “The risks of tennis,” Peter said. He was relieved when she laughed. He’d thought of her last fall, when she was nominated for an Emmy for her portrayal of a fertility surrogate who learns that the child she’s carrying is the genetic clone of an eccentric billionaire.

Unsure of protocol, Peter found himself bowing to the man in the suit. “It’s an honor to meet you,” he said to a pair of burgundy wing tips.

“Honey,” Kiki said, “this is Peter.”

“I’m Mr. Kiki Beals.”

“I don’t like that joke, Nicholas.”

Peter felt sure he’d embarrassed himself, but the couple didn’t seem to notice.

“Are you a musician?” Nicholas asked, pursing his lips.

“He’s Jimmy’s doctor.”

“You’re a psychiatrist, Peter?”

“I’m a hospitalist.”

Nicholas turned to his wife. “Do you know what that means?”

“I studied the delivery of medicine in a hospital setting.”

“I was just telling Peter about the opera.”

“Do you know Charles Leale?” Nicholas asked.

Peter recognized that eternal cocktail party game of establishing common ties. Unfortunately, the name didn’t ring a bell. Which milieu was the man reaching out to? Was Leale from Rochester? A friend of Cross? “Remind me.”

“Leale was the first physician on the scene when Lincoln was shot. He published a book about his experience.”

“The opera concerns Lincoln’s assassination,” Kiki explained.

“Oh,” Peter said. He wanted to ask what the Arctic had to do with anything.

Kiki stood up from the bed. “We really ought to get going. It was nice meeting you.”

This time Nicholas bowed.

AFTER THE COUPLE walked out, Peter checked in with his apprehension. He found it substantially increased. He’d left his condo intending to engage in a little noblesse oblige, but circumstances had changed in a way he didn’t fully understand. He wanted to slip out, but how does one slip past a bodyguard? He imagined himself getting tackled, tasered. He’d wait.

Almost silently, hidden machines recycled the air.

The room phone rang twice, quit. Peter read a laminated card detailing instructions for operating the suite’s electronic blinds. At some point, Peter realized, he would need to use a bathroom. He set his backpack down on a dark wood card table, beside a tray of Jordan almonds. He picked one of the candies up and popped it in his mouth.

“You got a sweet tooth?”

The speaker’s heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes peered out from behind a pair of thick-framed reading glasses. Peter thought he recognized the roadie he’d spotted writing at the table when he’d first entered the suite.

“I just ate the one.”

“Anybody hassle you?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” It sounded like a reasonable approximation of what Martin Vinoray might say. During the week Martin headed Internal Medicine at Rochester Memorial, but on the weekends he served as the front man for a seven-piece surf band called the Steel Retractors. Peter considered Martin his best friend.

“Do you need anything? You want a something to eat, maybe a drink?”

“Have you seen Mr. Cross?”

The roadie smiled, a smirk of a smile, as thin and as crooked as an earthworm. “Man, you’re looking at him.”

A switch flipped and everything about the man’s face became familiar, the palest blue eyes, the downturned corners of his mouth, that battering ram of a nose. The glasses were the thinnest of disguises, standard reading glasses from a drugstore spinner. A sentence wedged itself in Peter’s throat. If he so much as breathed, “You’re Jimmy fucking Cross” would come spouting from his mouth.

“You’ve got your mother’s eyebrows,” Cross said. “She was like a Jewish Frida Kahlo.”

Judith had finally started trimming her eyebrows. The last time Peter was in Boulder, his mother had dragged him into a little shop off Pearl Street so he could watch an aesthetician tame her brows with a loop of thread.

Sticking his hand out, Peter said, “It’s an honor to meet you.”

Cross clasped his hand as though he were trapping a butterfly. “We’ve met before.”

It was a ludicrous idea, but Peter decided it would be easiest to play along. He retrieved his stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff. He plucked a pair of examination gloves from a crumpled box. “Do you mind opening your shirt?”

“Right to business.” Cross sounded relaxed, but Peter noticed that the singer kept opening and closing his right hand.

“Did you meet Judith in Colorado?”

“Not Colorado.”

“Not Colorado?”

“She turned up at my farm.”

“Where’s your farm?”

Cross, who had started to unbutton his shirt, paused. “Someone told me it’s under a Lowe’s parking lot, but I haven’t been back to check.”

Here was something: a purple scar started at Cross’s suprasternal notch and ran down past the xiphoid process, bisecting his sternum.

“Someone crack you open?”

Instead of looking at his chest, Cross kept his eyes on Peter. “Down in Baja I flew a three-wheeler off a limestone cliff. Busted four ribs and punctured a lung. I wound up in this whitewashed adobe hospital that looked like a Spanish mission. This Swedish doctor who’d gone down there to catch black marlin saved my life.”

Hospitals maintained flowcharts to steer patients through their visits. Physicians and nurses gathered information according to prescribed channels; sometimes a headache pointed to dehydration and sometimes it pointed to a medulloblastoma. Medicine required structure. Doctors Without Borders was something of a misnomer — every time they helicoptered into a remote disaster, they brought borders with them, Tyvek-walled field hospitals, blue wrap, mosquito netting, even triage cards were a kind of border.

“What else should I know about your medical history?”

Cross pulled an electronic cigarette from his shirt pocket and set it in the bowl among the candied almonds. “I’m an open book.”

“Are you on any medication?”

“You mean prescription medicine?”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t think so.”

Peter pointed to the vaporizer. “How long have you smoked?”

“I don’t.” Cross centered the candy bowl on the table. “Someone handed me that backstage.”

“Maybe we should start with why you wanted to see a doctor.”

“What do people usually say?”

Peter took a deep breath. “They usually tell me what’s been bothering them.”

“Last week,” Cross began, “I met a friend in Quebec City. He used to deal antique books but he’s in power now, transmission lines, turbine generators. We’ve been going to this Italian place since forever. As soon as I walk inside it’s 1978—this Romanian heartbreaker I used to know is sitting at the bar chewing on her thumb. Next to her is Bobby Swain, my first manager. Bobby’s heart killed him in Toronto fifteen years ago.”

“You were hallucinating.”

“Last I heard the girl had a bunch of Romanian babies with a French duke. I ducked into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. When I finished, I found my old friend at a table popping some pill that allows him to eat dairy.”

“Did you speak with a doctor?”

“You’re a doctor.”

“Have there been other incidents?”

Cross slumped into a chair beside the card table. “I spent half my life trying to give people the slip, and now I’m scared some vital part of me will split without leaving a forwarding address.”

Peter didn’t like standing while his patient sat, but neither did he want to sit down across the table from Cross. Instead, he got down on a knee, like a quarterback or as if he were about to ask for Cross’s hand. “Have you considered speaking with a mental health professional? A psychiatrist or a psychologist?”

“I see Ari Mendelsohn, on the Upper East Side. He lets me do phone sessions while I’m on the road. When we started I paid him less than my dog walker, but I made the mistake of mentioning that to him. Now he charges me the same as White and Case bills for lead counsel.”

“And he knows about this episode?”

“Ari keeps all my secrets.” Cross got up and walked to the bed. From beneath the black hat he retrieved a small manila envelope. “This is for you.”

Peter set his stethoscope down and extracted a single 3-by-5-inch photo from the envelope. The picture’s subject, half-veiled beneath the branches of a willow tree, a squat sports car with round headlights and an open grille — Peter thought the car resembled a kid sucking on a bar of soap.

“You recognize it?”

“Is that a Fiat or something?”

“That’s a Sunbeam Tiger. They bolted a small-block Chevy to a British frame with drum brakes and bad wiring. Your mother drove that car through snowstorms. She was fearless.”

Fearless. That was Judith in a nutshell.

“I should have sent you tickets,” Cross said.

“Tickets?”

“For tonight’s show. I take it you weren’t there.”

The room phone rang again, an expensive, dulcimer sound.

“Do you want to get that?”

“I’m not obliged to be convenient.” Cross settled into a chair and rebuttoned his shirt.

Peter got the feeling he wasn’t there to deliver medicine; at best, he could advocate for it.

There was a knock as the door cracked open. Cyril said, “Bluto wants you to know the plane cleared Teterboro. We should leave for the airport in thirty.” With his message delivered, the large man retreated.

Peter said, “I’d imagine losing track of time is an occupational hazard.”

“Did your mother tell you how we met?”

Was it possible Judith hadn’t realized that her friend Jimmy happened to be one of the most famous recording artists on the planet? “Tell me.”

“I went out to pick up the newspaper and found her sitting on my porch with a sleeping bag wrapped around her shoulders.”

“Judith?”

“I asked if she needed to use the phone. She said she didn’t have anyone to call, so I brought her some coffee. She wouldn’t drink it, so I brought her a glass of milk. She finished it in one gulp. She was just a kid.”

The world had to be full of bushy-browed Judiths.

“You know why she wouldn’t drink the coffee?”

Cross stared at Peter hard, tried to will an idea into his head.

It worked. “She was pregnant.”

Cross leveled a finger at Peter’s heart. Bingo.

Peter didn’t feel like he’d hit a jackpot. “Did you call me out here because you weren’t feeling well, or. .”

The singer patted the air in front of him. “Maybe I went about this the wrong way.”

“I don’t know what this is,” Peter said. “I should have sent you straight to the hospital.”

“I’ve never been a big fan of those places.”

Peter held the long end of the lever. He’d gained the upper hand. “Those places happen to be where we keep the cool machines. If you’re having cognitive lapses, you need to get that looked at. Bluto mentioned you were off for a few days.”

“He was talking about the tour, not about me. The roadies don’t pack me with the gear.”

“You can’t spare an hour to get checked out?”

“We just spent my last free hour talking.”

Had an hour passed?

“If you were my patient, I’d tell you to make it a priority.”

Cross said, “There’s room on the bird. When I first started, the label paid a voice coach to shadow me. A doctor would probably be more valuable now.”

Had Cross asked if a doctor was more valuable than a voice coach? Was that a question? “What bird?”

“The plane, man. What do you think I’m talking about?”

It was an unanswerable question. Their conversation didn’t make any sense. “Are you offering me a job?”

“Maybe I am.”

Peter wasn’t some shade-tree mechanic. He had a mortgage to service and a ficus that needed watering. Would anyone drop everything to hop on a plane with a hallucinating recording star? “I’ve already got a job.”

Cross smiled. How would Peter describe the expression to Martin? A fox’s smile? A pickpocket’s? “It was nice seeing you again.”

He’d been dismissed. Peter tucked the photo into his backpack — he needed a proper bag, something dignified. He tried to come up with something else to say; he wanted to have the last word, but Cross already held the room phone to his ear and was stabbing buttons with the middle finger of his left hand.

5

The major rock magazines used to send someone out every year to take Cross’s pulse, but he’s fallen out of fashion or outlived it. The baby-faced smart aleck with the shoelace guitar strap is gone. At best, he’s a haggard stand-in for the counterculture icon who melded Nostradamus and James Dean.

Plus, Cross has a track record of making those magazines look foolish.

In ’76, after he’d stopped performing music for almost a decade, Rock Fan decided to poke his corpse with a stick. They gave their lead critic twenty thousand words to bury Cross. He challenged the myth that Cross was “the poet of his generation” or the “Bard of Greenwich Village.” If Cross is lucky, the writer predicted, he’d wind up in Vegas, doing two-a-days at the Golden Nugget, blowing an oversize chrome harmonica that would dazzle like the crown jewels. In a final insult, the article concluded with one of Cross’s lyrics: “the dirty pigeons whisper / on the shoulders of the general / that his past is but a wasteland / and his name is lost to history.”3

Eight months later Cross released Midnight at the Bazaar^4 to universal acclaim. The critics crawled all over one another trying to praise him — they said he’d put away his childish things and finally found a canvas vast enough for his prodigious talents. Cross ended his exile and went back on tour. He played sold-out shows at Wrigley Field on back-to-back nights in October, a feat that the hapless Cubs hadn’t managed since the 1940s. In the next three years, he would marry the eldest daughter of a Sacramento artichoke king, father a son, Alistair Doyle Cross, and release two more iconic albums.

Then he disappeared, again.

WHEN ROLLING STONE sent a stringer out to Cross’s Texas ranch in ’83, it was clear that they weren’t interested in rescuing him. The profile opened: “For two hours I sat on a silk damask sofa beside Jim Cross and watched TV while the legend sipped RC Cola from a can. I had a speech prepared for the occasion. I wanted to tell him that I believed Midnight at the Bazaar and Double Ditz to be more important than the Declaration of Independence and the Wright Brothers at Kitty Hawk, combined. At some point — we were watching St. Elsewhere—he began to snore. A woman who may have been his wife came into the room and removed his crocodile boots. She carried the boots upstairs. His feet smelled like rotting meat. It occurred to me 1.) I might snuff him with a throw pillow and 2.) that he might want me to.”

In ’86, with his fan base dwindling and without a new album to promote, Cross announced his plans to play sixty-three dates with a newly formed band. Critics likened the tour to the public viewing of a funeral; promoters guaranteed that the math wouldn’t add up. Before the tour launched, The Atlantic ran a story called “Jimmy’s Bad Idea.”

After twenty-four years and twenty-three hundred performances, the “public viewing” continues. Magazine editors believe he’s only got one more good story in him and they’re going to wait until his body is cold before they stuff him in a box of words.

Maybe they’re right. Then again, people have underestimated him his entire life.

Though it’s getting late, I decide to drive on to Buffalo. It’s only an hour farther west and I have a friend there who’s offered to let me stay in an empty apartment above his garage. “Stay as long as you want,” my friend said, knowing perfectly well that I can’t stay later than Thursday — since after Buffalo, Jimmy hops down to Pittsburgh, then there’s a quick detour into the South before the tour plays connect-the-dots with capital cities and university towns across the Midwest.

On my way to my car, I receive a text from a source on the tour.

The Big Man has a visitor!

Tell me.

He replies almost immediately: +:-)

A priest?!

LOL doctor

My heart is a fist. He’s seeing a doctor?

IDK.

It’s hard to make a big deal about one doctor. The tour attracts all sorts of hangers-on — when Cross hit Europe in ’93 he brought three semis’ worth of gear, fifteen roadies, two makeup people, a stylist, a personal trainer, and a twelve-person gospel choir. It was less a tour than an occupation.

IT FEELS GOOD to be on the road, especially in the fall. In these moments, when winter seems to be lurking over the next hill, I sense the real end of the tour is inevitable and nigh. I especially like it when the tour takes a jog across the upper Midwest, after the combines have trimmed the fields and the winds have stripped the leaves from the trees. Out there it’s hard to forget that when Jimmy sings “the grain elevators stand / prouder than our churches,” he’s talking about his home.

6

No one kept vigil outside Cross’s room. Peter padded down the dim and empty hallway. He found his way back to the parking garage and his crappy car. Numbers stenciled on the parking garage columns counted down: 4, 3, 2, 1. At the entrance to the garage, the endomorph in the yellow Windbreaker held a phone in front of his face; the light of the screen made it appear as though the man was peering through a peephole at a sunny day.

The spectral photographer had disappeared.

7

Even without an encore, Rochester was a satisfying show. People didn’t stand around shrugging their shoulders once the lights came up, something I saw a few times this spring.

The setlist focused heavily on the middle third of his discography, but I can’t tell you what that means. I found the show reflective rather than pandering. There are people out there who try to read something into every song and sequence. I’m a witness, not a scholar. I have more in common with a person who’s seen three shows than with some doctoral student who spent a year chasing Cross through a library. Cross has been deconstructed by Marxists, by feminists, by folklorists and psychoanalysts, but that’s not where my interest lies. Most of those books offer nothing more than recycled mythology, misconstrued reasoning, and bad reporting. I don’t want a writer to spend fifty pages explaining how Jimmy fashioned his stage act on Charlie Chaplin, when they can’t prove he’s ever seen a Chaplin film. Most writers are afraid of facts, because facts can’t be argued.

I’m awash in facts.

I know the roadies call their 45-foot eight-bunk motor coach the Trojan Horse. The band rides in the Toolshed. An acoustic guitar is a Thick One. A keyboard is a Zebra. Cords are Snakes. Amps are Boxes. Crates are Coffins. Jimmy’s harmonica is the Tin Whistle. A backup singer is a Rented Dress. The setlist is the Secret Formula. Security is Necks. The guys call their record label Box Top. Whenever the band plays overseas, the label sends a publicist to tag along; the crew refers to that person as the Box Top’s Eugene, after a real Eugene who locked himself inside a hotel bathroom in Luxembourg and refused to come out. An ex-wife is Lost Baggage. A blowjob is a Mic Check. Phone sex is a 900. Jerking off is Jerking Off. The guy driving the Toolshed they call the Arbiter. Aisha Moon steers the Trojan Horse. When he’s not on tour, Bluto Gilhooley lives in Huntington Beach, California. The venue is the Joint. Journalists are Inventors. Large headphones are Leias. Xanax is Don’t Nod. An Ambien is a Dreamcatcher. Dawn is Vampire Medicine. Traffic delays are LA Weather, as in “We were late getting to the joint because of LA Weather.” A jet plane is a Cigar. A propeller plane is a Buddy Holly. If you want Cyril Coleman to dislocate your elbow, call him “Champ.” Jimmy stands five feet eight in his stocking feet, but he wears boots with stacked heels. The guys call him Hizzoner or Paycheck or the Big Man.

8

Peter headed back to the condo where he never expected to live alone, another story he didn’t quite understand. The facts were clear: Lucy left, despite seven years of shared history, despite his uncontested decency and a universally lauded tandoori chicken, and despite the fact that every three months he took home an amount equivalent to her annual salary (Lucy tutored special needs students at an elementary school).

They’d been together long enough that after she moved out he had to go to a box store to buy replacements for all the things she’d taken. When he returned with his brand-new coffeemaker, spatula, hair dryer, mixing bowls, and an unconscionably expensive vacuum, all he’d wanted was to show her those things.

For months a single thought echoed in his head: if he was ever going to have kids, it would have to be with a stranger.

•••

THE BREAKUP HAD triggered a flurry of social activities, the relationship’s postmortem tour. As a rule, when he explained the split to their friends, the women nodded while the men shook their heads. Nobody ever asked what had gone wrong, which caused Peter to suspect that Lucy had already disseminated her version of events. Her version, the best that he could tell, was that he wasn’t in love with her — one of the reasons he’d waited so long for her to change her mind was that he thought that his waiting weakened her argument.

When talking with their mutual friends, he made a point to never disparage Lucy. He wanted to appear positive. When a starfish loses an arm, the starfish grows a replacement, but the lost arm doesn’t regenerate a starfish. Their friends would determine who’d come out the wounded starfish and who’d come out the dismembered arm.

He conceded city blocks to her. He vowed not to visit Rochester’s art museum, because Lucy knew everyone there from the security guards to the head of acquisitions. He stopped buying the amazing, eggy challah from the bakery across the street, because he never would have discovered it if not for Lucy; his whole life, he’d been under the impression that challah was tasteless, like matzo or communion wafers. Judith Silver had grown up Jewish, but she’d raised Peter on a hybrid faith that borrowed equally from Carl Sagan and Chief Seattle.

When he shaved and especially when he didn’t shave, Peter stared at his face in the mirror and wondered if he wasn’t looking at a depressed person.

Lucy was the starfish.

THE ONLY SOUL who cared enough to keep him from going off the deep end was Martin Vinoray. The Friday after Lucy moved out, Martin showed up with a case of beer and a sausage calzone. “I’m here for the wake,” he said, walking into the condo.

“It’s not that bad.”

Martin handed Peter a beer. “Take a shower, then put on a suit.”

When Peter returned, there were two empty cans on the kitchen island.

“Who buys gray seersucker?”

“Lucy liked it.”

“Where do I start with that?”

“I’ll change.”

“Forget it. I can’t let you out of this place anyways, you’re a public health risk.”

“Why’d you make me get dressed up?”

“Trust me.”

They drank as though the beer was evidence they needed to destroy.

At some point Martin said, “She took all the art?”

Peter spun a finger in the air.

“I know a designer. He’ll take care of you.”

“I’m not worried about the art.”

“You’ll get laid again.”

“Thanks.”

“I promise.”

Tears were sort of happening.

“You’re a good doctor.”

“I’m okay.”

“Remember those arrowheads you made?”

Early in their acquaintance Peter had mentioned how, as a boy, he used to knap flint and obsidian arrowheads in front of the TV. Judith would sell them to tourists.

“Are you suggesting I’m methodical?”

“You’re self-sufficient. Like me, you didn’t grow up expecting too much from the world. If the UPS truck drives by my house without making a delivery, my kids are apoplectic.”

Peter had a long pull of his beer. “Your kids are fine.”

“They can’t grasp that I grew up sharing a mattress with my two sisters. They think I’m a savage. Sometimes, when we’re down at the lake house, I go poo in the woods. If they knew that they’d never talk to me again.”

“Wait, why would you poo in the woods?”

Martin finished off another beer. He tossed the empty into the sink. “Try it first, then we can talk.”

The setting sun filled the condo with champagne-colored light.

Late in the evening, Martin made a bed for himself on the sofa. “You’ve got enough abandonment issues.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY, while Martin played “Free Bird” on Guitar Hero, someone knocked at the door. Had Lucy returned to marvel at the mess Peter had become? No, it was a guy in a crossing guard’s vest carrying two bags of Indian takeout.

After the beer was gone, they moved on to the Malbec Lucy liked.

“We need to drink it now,” Martin said, “or it’ll get the upper hand.”

On Sunday, Martin announced that he was leaving. Peter sat still, reactionless — he’d managed to balance his hangover on a point above his left eye, but the slightest movement would send it crashing upon him. After calling a cab, Martin wandered into the master bathroom, yanked the shower curtain from the rod, and vomited into the tub.

In his final act of kindness, he snatched a bouquet of dried flowers from a vase in the entranceway and fed them into the garbage disposal.

“My mother gave me those.”

Martin turned on the faucet. “You’re welcome.”

The visit had been a tremendous gift.

9

I’m not sure what made me think Buffalo was only an hour from Rochester. It’s probably closer to a two-hour trip. Or it would have been if the DOT didn’t have a dozen crews out installing shiny new guardrails. The construction zones were lit like operating rooms.

My mind plays tricks on me at night. After the radio stations power down, I start to feel as isolated as an astronaut. It takes a little self-mortification to maintain any faith. Why else would Cross accept the lifetime achievement award at the Kennedy Center wearing a “World’s Greatest Grandpa” T-shirt? It was a hair shirt. What sort of family man stays out on the road a hundred and fifty days a year?

At least Cross can fall back on his legacy: nine studio albums, seven live albums, all those irrefutable songs, not to mention the royalty checks, the publishing rights, and his unimpeachable reputation. I’ve made similar sacrifices, yet I live in obscurity. Still, I can’t shake the sense that my fate is owed a cosmic reaccounting. How can I explain that I feel special in my skin?

I come to another work site — flatbed trucks support giant lights that resemble an insect’s eyes. Little oases of movement and life, then it’s back into the dark.

IT’S ALMOST SIX by the time I get to Buffalo. There’s some sort of precipitation: the streetlights have haloes, and the roads appear greasy. Following the directions emailed to me by my host, I drive past a used car lot, Denny’s, Dollar Store, Great Wall of China: Chinese Food and Sushi, PetWorld, Guitar Center, another used car lot, and then the Denny’s again. It’s a Möbius strip mall. Somehow I end up in the overflow lot of a McDonald’s. Chalking it up to destiny, I park and go inside.

A PRETTY GIRL, her hair pulled in plastic-looking marcel waves, wearing gold dollar-sign earrings as big as playing cards, stares at me openly. I’m the only customer. Her skin looks like a Hershey’s bar and her eyelids are painted Easter egg blue. Standing next to her, with his back to me, is a stout man in a cornmeal suit. He turns just enough that he can pick me up on his peripheral vision.

“You gots a customer, Laverne.”

The girl pokes at the register. “Welcome to McDonald’s. Can I take your order?”

“Good,” says the suit.

I ask for an orange juice and an Egg McMuffin without cheese.

“Where it say ‘no cheese’?” asks the girl.

“Don’t agitate,” the man coos. “You got to consider it logically.”

The girl frowns for a moment before punching a key.

“For a dollar more you want a Newman coffee?”

I say no thanks.

The boss turns to look at me. “I bet you on your way to bed.”

“Shortly,” I say.

“This job certifies you an expert in people,” the boss says to the girl. “Everybody come to Donnie Mack. Rich or poor, sooner or later a person gets hungry in his car. Stare at those golden arches for a while and you going to see some spread legs. That’s subliminal. And people think they’re looking at a giant M.”

The girl covers her mouth with one hand as the other takes my credit card and runs it through the machine.

“He know what I’m talking about. Those legs means this business recession-proof. Now hold up a second,” the man says. He walks over to the ice-milk machine and lifts a stack of papers off the top. He pulls a FedEx envelope out of the mix and sets it on the counter. “What you see here?” he asks, staking his finger to the logo:

The girl and I stare at the envelope.

“What we looking for?” she asks.

“That’s going to give it away.”

My sandwich slides down a stainless steel gutter.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Oh, I gots it, I think,” Laverne says.

The boss shakes out a paper bag, walks over to my sandwich, and drops it inside. “Tell our customer what he’s missing.”

She sets her fingernail where the E meets the X. “They put an arrow in there.”

Her boss snakes an orange juice out of a cooler and sets it inside the bag. He reaches my breakfast toward me, then pulls it back. “Tells you they’re in the business of going places.”

“That’s my business, too,” I say, snatching the bag from him.

“But FedEx be recognized around the world and don’t nobody know you.”

I’m pushing through the doors when I hear the girl say, “You have a day.”

10

Back at his place, Peter popped 5 mg of melatonin and queued the triathlon movie on his DVR. As the killer unzipped her wet suit Peter thought of Cross’s bird-boned chest. When she bent to roll the suit off her hips, Peter focused on the actress’s plump ass; he jerked off, brushed his teeth, and got in bed. Staring at the ceiling, he discovered he could recall partial lyrics to no fewer than five Jim Cross songs, “No Evil Star,” “Long Gone,” “Wayward Satellite,” “Absolutely Nowhere,” and one about prohibition. He couldn’t recall the lyrics to “Jerkwater Blues,” but he remembered there had been a controversy after one of the pharmaceutical companies used the tune in a commercial for an acid-reflux remedy. Somehow, that Cross would accept the same dollars the Stones and R.E.M. stuffed their mattresses with proved nothing was sacred anymore. On TV a pundit suggested Virgin paint its logo on the tail of the Spirit of St. Louis.

•••

PETER WOKE TO one of those arid days where the atmosphere acts like a magnifying glass and even the farthest landmarks appear in hyperdetail. He had the sense that he’d survived a brush with danger or else passed a trial.

He checked his email while sitting on the throne.

In preparation for an upcoming board meeting, everyone was scrambling to generate enough paperwork to justify how they spent their days. He ignored report drafts from the committees he sat on, clicked through announcements from the vision center (they were relocating) and the flu clinic (welcoming a new RN). The Wound Care Clinic had produced an Excel sheet that demonstrated that they — and not Physical Therapy — were next in line for new furniture. Pediatrics was collecting board games.

Peter stepped into the shower.

At some point he would tell Martin about his evening, about meeting the tour manager and the sound guy’s weird getup and the polite giant with the metal detector. He would tell Martin about Kiki Beals, about mistaking her husband for Cross and then mistaking Cross for a roadie. He’d tell Martin the whole story and when he got to the punch line — when Cross invited him to get on his plane — Martin would say, “You should have gotten on the plane.” Or, worse, he’d say, “I would have gotten on the plane.” Just like that, the story wouldn’t be about Peter’s adventure, but about Peter squandering an adventure.

As he shut the water off, Peter heard his phone vibrate on the vanity. The screen listed three missed calls and two voice mails. Every number appeared as “Unavailable.”

While his post-Lucy coffeemaker hiccupped and hissed, he checked his messages: the head of patient care requested Peter stop by before his shift; Bluto said, Shoot me your address and social, doc, so I can cut you a check.

The phone buzzed again, another unavailable number. Peter answered; he would always be convenient.

“It occurred to me you wouldn’t know it was a Sunbeam Tiger,” Cross said. “You used to call it the Go-Go Car.”

No, Peter thought, the Go-Go Car overheated on the DC Beltway — he and Judith had walked to a gas station and hired a tow truck to retrieve it, but by the time they returned to where they’d left the car there was only a wet spot on the pavement. The Go-Go Car, he knew for a fact, had been a Plymouth Volare.

“Forget it,” said Cross. “So why didn’t you check my blood pressure?”

“I didn’t?” Peter remembered getting the cuff out, but after that. . little details came to mind, the gold fleur-de-lis pattern on the carpet, Cross’s yellow-blue eyes, the satin edging on the brim of the cowboy hat.

“Don’t be surprised if Tony gives you an earful.”

“Are you talking about Tony Ogata?”

“Just giving you a heads-up.”

“Tony Ogata doesn’t know who I am.”

“He’s learning. He’s talking to people.”

From his living room window, Peter watched the white roof of a city bus as it pulled away from the curb. “Wait, who is he talking to?”

“Your references.”

“Excuse me?”

“He likes doing favors for me. I’m sure he’ll be discreet.”

“I thought I was the one doing the favor.” The words spilled out.

Cross was silent.

Peter plugged a finger in his ear so that he could hear better, but there was no one there.

11

It feels like someone is rapping their knuckle inside my head. The McDonald’s manager stands there, fussing with the blue tongue of his pocket square. He signals me to roll down my window.

“A person can’t sleep here,” he says.

I blink. Past my windshield, a breathing V of birds arrows out of town.

Sitting up, I pat my pockets. “I guess I nodded off.”

“Keys are in the ignition.”

I start the car, then look over my shoulder to back out.

The man puts his hand on my forearm and leans down so I can see his face. He’s got a trim little mustache, like a patch of Velcro. “You’re a long way from home.”

The Corolla^5 has Texas tags.

“Then,” I say, “I have a long way to go.”

•••

WHEN I FIRST joined the tour, I would scribble the setlists on 3-by-5 cards — listening to the shows felt like trying to learn a foreign language, so I made myself take notes. I stored the cards in a shoe box that I wedged under the passenger seat. In the afternoon, I’d take the cards out and flip through them. When the shoe box started to fall apart, I replaced it with a little red toolbox.

My mother’s sister, Aunt Liddy, my chief patron, bought me a laptop computer to help me track my expenses. Overnight my 3-by-5 cards looked as ancient as cuneiform tablets, so I collated my setlists into a single, searchable spreadsheet.6

The laptop came with a trial membership to AOL, which is how I stumbled onto the Internet. Cross’s fans kept a newsgroup (rec.music.cross), but the content skewed to the emotional rather than the empirical. It wasn’t my thing. On a whim I registered the domain name JimCrossCompendium.org and designed the most basic of websites (a splash page that read, “Click HERE to see the Big List,” which linked to my updated file). The whole thing took me a few hours. When it was completed, I posted a plug for my site on the newsgroup, then I went for a long walk.

The next time I logged in, there were three replies to my thread:

Can someone check to see if this is legit?

and

This reeks of one of the labels. They’re probably ramping up to release some epic box set.

and

If Cross really played “Cherry Wine” and “Poseidon Gets the Blues” in Lisbon, Portugal, on 6/8/94, then I need to build a time machine.

The concept for my site has always been very simple: I attend the show, then I post my setlist. Sometimes I write a bit more and sometimes I write less.7 If a visitor learns about me in the process, that’s unavoidable. Take June 13, 2000:

The band jumps on “Tennis Shoe Blues” like it owed them money. I don’t know why they were late going on, but I get the feeling they aren’t happy about it.8 A. J. Wyatt punishes his drum kit. The band follows with the slowest rendition of “Long Gone” I’ve heard in years — I wish they played it like this all the time. How does JC know so much about betrayal? For the fifth time in eight shows, the encore went “Sally (& Gin),” “Pleiades for Breakfast,” and “Last Bus from Mexicali.” It’s certainly a melancholy way to close. Finally, a lot of you have been asking after my aunt Liddy. It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve had anything to report. However, sometime late last night she passed away — of course JC played “Lovely Tia Morena” to close yesterday’s show. Faithful readers know Liddy has helped me out from time to time (easing my financial responsibilities^9 and, thus, ensuring that I could continue with this project). She remained upbeat and encouraging until the end. I will be flying out to pay my respects tomorrow morning, but will make it back before the opening act (the Nose Candies?!) complete their set.

Depending where you look, JCC can appear like a virtual library or a corner bar. Thanks to the site, I’ve been able to connect with fans all around the globe.10 JCC is like that character from “Aphids on Apples,” the one who “keeps a Rolodex file for the addresses of every dog’s door.”

Gene’s driveway is empty, but I still park on the street. A white envelope flags out from the railing of the raw wood staircase that leads up the side of the garage to the new apartment. It’s addressed to me:

Oh, Restless One,11

Sorry I’m not here to welcome you. I had to get to work early and Cory was called out of town (let’s not talk about it). In the meantime, make yourself at home. I’ll be back around six.

Gene

P.S. I won’t bother you in case you’re sleeping. Come down when you want company.

12

During his residency, Peter and Lucy shared a tidy one-bedroom apartment — formerly service quarters — in a mansard-roofed Victorian. The house was ringed by a hedge, which the owner trimmed with the aid of a laser level. Lucy kept hinting that she wanted out of the suburbs, so when the hospital offered him a salaried position Peter got in touch with a Realtor. The stability of a mortgage excited Peter. Besides, he always needed a goal to work toward — he’d always been that way.

THE REALTOR’S NAME was Margo Benedict. Peter would confess to Martin that talking with her reminded him of how, in the movies, a shy kid will hire a prostitute to take his virginity. (Martin said, “That’s not a film genre I recognize.”)

Margo didn’t care for conversation. Her favorite expression was “Tell me I’m wrong.” She specialized in pronouncements. “Young people don’t want a lawn,” Margo said. “You want your kitchen island and a discreet place to put a huge TV.” She said, “You want the openness of a loft, but you don’t want people staring at your bed during a dinner party.” She took him all over the city. When viewing a property, Margo had a tendency to clasp Peter by the biceps. She always wore red lipstick and heels. She had to be sixty.

Margo professed to be an expert on Peter’s “lifestyle.” He needed twenty-four-hour access to a gym. He wanted concierge service and the convenience of attached parking, but he wouldn’t feel comfortable with a doorman.

Peter trusted her, though he didn’t always recognize the qualities she attributed to him. In order to become the person Margo saw in him, he’d have to let her find him a home.

She asked him to meet her at the Cavanaugh Dry Goods building — he’d never heard of it. There were contractors in the lobby, piles of rubble. Someone gave them hard hats to wear — Peter put his on, but Margo held hers a few inches above her head, like a parasol. As they rode a padded freight elevator upstairs, she told him about the building’s provenance. Cavanaugh Dry Goods had been a leader in the region, but the Depression decimated the company and they were bought out. An accounting firm occupied the building in the ’50s; despite having ties to Kodak and IBM, they still went belly-up. Peter wondered if the building had bad luck. “You love the chalky brick,” Margo said. “They don’t make buildings like this anymore. The walls are two feet thick.”

The developer had finished a model unit on the fourth floor. The water didn’t work and the appliances were still clad in their protective film, but couldn’t Peter see Lucy emerging from the elevator after a hard day’s work? On the counter, a three-ring binder contained an artist’s interpretation of what the building would look like once the renovation was complete. Women in cocktail dresses and guys wearing suits without ties mingled in a stark lobby. Sparkling drinks balanced on a railing overlooking the city. Germanish cars stabled in the basement garage. The setting sun painting gold reflections on the triple-pane, LEED-certified windows.

One of the builders stopped by to introduce himself. He greeted Peter with a handshake. He said, “Do you know about customizing?”

If Peter bought early, he’d be able to select certain features — bathroom fixtures, kitchen cabinetry, the backsplash, sink, and counters.

“Which floor are you thinking about?” the man asked.

“Fifth,” said Margo.

“That’s good. You see everything from there, but you don’t have to pay a premium for a penthouse.”

“He’s a shrewd buyer.”

“Internet money?”

“He’s a doctor.”

“Hey, good for you.”

Why hadn’t Lucy come with him? Had she known they were running out of time? Maybe she thought she was doing him a favor by moving him downtown, that it would make things easier when the time came for them to start seeing other people. He wanted to believe their breakup had surprised her, too.

IN THE MOST mundane sequence of meetings, Peter acquired an attorney, a mortgage broker, a mortgage, and, finally, a 1,600-square-foot condo outfitted with a suite of appliances, a parking spot, and a locking storage space. From beginning to end, the whole process took less than three months.

He and Lucy gave notice to their landlord, then waited while the construction crew put the finishing touches on their new condo. They moved in on a raw day in March and two months later she left, taking with her the espresso machine that the property management group had thrown in as a housewarming gift. Peter assured her he had no patience for the temperamental machine, but they both knew she’d become addicted to steamed milk chai.

FIRST MARGO DISAPPEARED, then Lucy, then the contractors. Now, Peter was alone in the building. Not alone, exactly. Though owner occupancy hovered around 30 percent, the developers had started renting units on every floor. Nobody talked to anyone else. Selling wasn’t an option. Depending on whom he talked with, the market had either corrected or retracted or collapsed. If he tried to walk away, the loss, at least on paper, would have been an obscenity. The graphite-colored cement kitchen island consoled him. The precision of his recessed cabinet hinges consoled him. The view from his bedroom consoled him. He tried not to consider the rest. The lap pool never materialized, nor the sauna, nor the concierge, nor the women in their cocktail dresses.

PETER RODE THE shuddering elevator down to the garage. When the doors opened, he looked at the same maroon Subaru he’d been driving since before he started med school. It wasn’t one of those aggressive rally-cars with the wing on back or one of those overbuilt wagons that seemed designed to shuttle kayaks and mountain bikes into remote places so their owners could have sex in tents or while dangling from a rope off a cliff face. He had the one that resembled an early Camry — Martin had urged him to buy a new car, telling him, “A car is like a suit. The right one can enhance your best attributes and conceal your shortcomings.”

Well, Peter never needed a luxury condo and look where that had landed him. No, he’d drive his car until it died. That would teach him a lesson. The car would probably run for another ten years to spite him.

AS SOON AS he pulled out of the building, his phone rang again.

A woman’s voice asked if he would please hold. Tremulous flute music filled his ear, reminding him of the dusty tape player Judith kept behind the counter in the gem shop. He could picture the electrical cords taped to the carpet and the little strongbox bolted to the floor of her closet.

“Dr. Silver?”

Peter had heard Tony Ogata deliver the keynote for the National Association of Inpatient Physicians and at a three-day affair in Reno called ReThinking Wellness. And, of course, Peter recognized Ogata’s voice from the Ken Burns specials (he’d described field amputation in lurid detail for The Civil War and in Baseball he outlined the advantages of Tommy John surgery). In his mind’s eye, Peter saw Ogata, that shock of white hair, the hair of an artist. “Yes?”

“Hey, I’m glad to get you on the line. It’s been a crazy morning. ABC sent a crew over so I could explain polyps — supposed to be a two-minute segment, but they wound up shooting an hour’s worth of tape. You still there?”

“Is this Dr. Ogata?”

“Listen, Peter, I know your blood type, your credit score, and what you missed on the MCATs. You’re the man of the hour. What I don’t understand is why an accredited professional would agree to see a patient and then not even attempt a proper examination? Are you some kind of faith healer? Did you compare his aura to Benjamin Moore paint swatches? That’s a joke. At least faith healers lay hands on their patients. I’m kidding. You there?”

“I’m here,” Peter choked out. Could Ogata have seen his MCAT scores?

“So, what’s the deal? Jimmy hasn’t pulled this sort of stunt before. Not that I’m calling it a stunt.”

Peter pulled up on the hard shoulder of the road, his tires squealing against the curb. “I met him at his hotel last night.”

“You can’t get him in a hospital. I should know — he’s been my patient for forty years. It’s easier giving a cat a bubble bath. My question is did you see anything?”

At first, Peter thought of the blinds and the candied almonds. No, there was more. “He reported some cognitive issues, memory problems. He mentioned having some lapses.”

“Help me out. Are we talking catatonia? Fugue states?”

Somehow Peter was shocked that the guy sounded the same on the telephone as he did on TV. “He said time seemed ‘slippery.’ He mentioned a hallucination.”

“Does that sound serious to you? Because where I’m sitting, the hairs are sticking up on my arms. So why didn’t you check his b.p.?”

Though Ogata’s voice maintained its unshakable optimism, his question landed like a body blow. What was Peter’s excuse? That he’d been blinded by fame? Could Tony Ogata understand what fame did to an outsider? Peter would have better luck explaining wet to water.

“Our meeting got cut short — he had a plane to catch.”

“He came down to see me in Costa Rica this spring; I gave him a ride in this souped-up CAT scan I’ve got down there. It’s an amazing machine, but the FDA won’t allow it into this country.” Ogata sounded incensed.

“Why not?”

“It has nothing to do with gamma rays. It’s a political thing.”

“I told him he needed to take these symptoms seriously.”

“Jim and I visited Fermi Labs once; he talked theoretical particles with those eggheads. He made an observation. He said that once they found the smallest thing, if they looked inside it they’d find a mirror! I don’t know where he came up with it, but it blew everyone away, Italians, French, Russians. Those guys couldn’t get enough of him. Hold for a second.”

The flute music came back on. Was Ogata closing the distance between them? Were they repairing a rift? And, if so, who had caused it and how?

“He said you wanted to bring him to the hospital. Maybe you’re on to something with these cognitive issues. I’m sure you considered TIAs. He can’t have a stroke. I’ll try to get him on low-dose aspirin. Maybe we can get him to submit to an MRA. Baby steps. He’s under a lot of stress with Allie showing up.”

“I’m not sure who that is.”

“Of course you do, Alistair, his kid.”

Ogata was right. Peter knew something about Alistair. There had been a grainy video of Cross’s son being escorted off a flight at LAX. Maybe Alistair had thrown his shoes at someone or he’d refused to come out of the bathroom — Peter wasn’t sure if he was remembering one incident or two. Alistair had been one of the trailblazers who established public fuckup as a viable form of celebrity. But he wasn’t some kid anymore; he had to be close to Peter’s age.

Ogata exhaled. “We need to talk about your exposure.”

“Exposure?”

“If you witness a person hit by a car, then you’re obligated to give aid, but you went over there on your own. You agreed to see a patient outside of the medical facility where you’re employed. Whether you realize it or not, you opened that hospital of yours to a huge liability. Can you imagine the kinds of damages Jimmy’s people would seek if he keeled over? Do you have a copy of your contract?”

“There wasn’t any contract. He knows my mother.”

“I’m talking about your employment contract. The hospital sure as hell had you sign some paper. Typically they stipulate that you can’t practice medicine outside of their facilities, not without informing a supervisor. Have they called you yet, probably someone senior, someone who you didn’t think knew your name?”

“They don’t know I saw him.”

“They know. I spoke with the director this morning.”

“You spoke with the hospital’s director?”

“If you want to get to the bottom of something, you have to start at the top. I’ve got her name here somewhere. You absolutely had to call someone before you went over.”

“You spoke with Dr. Larsen.”

“We kept it short because of the TV people.”

How could the hospital expect Peter to know the protocol for something unprecedented? Was he, as Lucy had intimated, a person who succeeded despite a crippling inability to read the writing on the wall?

Ogata was going on about attorneys. “These people,” he said, “are the stones that grind the wheat.”

Peter rolled his window down. How could the air feel so humid and so cold? The wind was an eel on the bottom of a pond. “Is the hospital mad at me?”

“A hospital cannot be mad,” Ogata said, unhelpfully. “And Jim seems to think you’re pretty special.”

“I did him a favor.” Peter closed his car window. “He could have just said thanks and left it at that.”

“You want to lecture him on manners? He’s Jimmy Cross.”

It was all true. Ogata probably knew his MCAT scores, his shoe size, and what he’d eat for lunch.

13

Gene had built a little deck at the top of the stairs. A pair of vintage aluminum chairs bookended a glass-topped café table. A maple hung over the place, lending it a tree-house feel.

Inside I find a cramped kitchenette with a Formica table; beneath a skylight, a plush armchair sits on a knotted rug. In the corner, a farm quilt drapes over an iron-framed bed. The place makes me feel docile in my bones.

After filling a water glass, I go outside to sit. A breeze twists leaves on their stems. Lawn mowers drone in the distance and for a few minutes I entertain the idea of checking the garage to see if Gene has a mower — I haven’t done yard work in so long that I almost forgot I despise it.

In my previous life, Patricia and I shared a two-story colonial in a similar neighborhood. At night she and I had the conversations indigenous to those sorts of places. We talked about our aging parents, our disappointing friends, and whether Gabby deserved a sibling — she was a happy enough kid, but she used to follow us around the house as though we were her source of oxygen. We ended up getting her a yappy dog from the pound, a little dog with a curly red coat and a tail that appeared blurry in every photograph. Cherokee, that’s what we named him.

Every chance he got, the dog would bolt outside to chase his sworn enemies: squirrels, kids on skateboards, and cars. We were perpetually bracing for some swift and final accident, but it never came.

And the dog loved eating. Despite the vet’s admonishing, we fed him snacks at the table. By the time I went on the road, Cherokee was slowing down, though he was only three or so.

I jump when I hear a jet roar overhead.

Gene’s right: I’m still the Restless One.

14

Peter was a regional doctor at a regional hospital. He didn’t attend to internationally recognized recording stars and he didn’t consult with medical personalities who had their own cable shows.

He’d grown up in North Carolina, in a tourist-trap town just outside a National Forest. Judith owned a store called Natural Wonders, where she sold nugget gold, raw emeralds, and geodes. The store sat wedged between a seasonal ice cream parlor and a damp nightmare called Snake World. A Pentecostal church faced them across the street.

He and Judith lived in an apartment above the store. At night, after finishing his homework, Peter would sit in front of the TV and split geodes that they bought in bulk from an outfit in Chihuahua.

Where was his father?

Judith called him the Scientist. She said he worked on magnets in New Mexico. The way she said it made Peter suspicious of magnets, of New Mexico, of the whole desert Southwest. He pictured scorpions and rattlesnakes, though the Scientist probably worked in a lab. His given name was Lawrence Brand.

IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, Peter played little league. He liked the compression of the stirrup socks and those warm summer nights when the spotlights grew furry with insects. At the plate, he swung at everything; when he connected, the sound of the ball coming off the bat almost stopped his heart. Sometimes, in his excitement, he’d slide into first or else he’d leg out a blooper only to meet a teammate camped out at second. He was uncoachable. He preferred soccer, because at halftime the whole team sat together to eat orange sections.

In middle school Peter caught someone’s attention with his score on a standardized test. He was invited to spend a week at a community college, dissecting fetal pigs and learning the math that saved the lives of the Apollo 13 astronauts.

In high school, Peter and a kid named Anatoly Tcherepnin had the privilege of eating lunch with the AP Math teacher.

Mrs. Bertini had been accepted into the aeronautics program at Cal Tech, but she hadn’t enrolled because her husband didn’t want her turning into an egghead or hanging out with astronauts. Peter would have preferred to eat in the cafeteria, but it didn’t seem fair to leave Mrs. B. alone with the other boy. If you gave him a four-digit number, Anatoly knew, to the second decimal place, the number’s square and cube roots. He’d also memorized the armor class and hit points of every creature in the Dungeons and Dragons Monster Manual. Staring at the pink creases in Anatoly’s neck, Peter wondered if the boy’s head weighed more for the things it contained.

Sometimes Mrs. B. would give the boys brainteasers from a pulpy workbook, but she preferred to talk about personal stuff: where did Peter go to church; what had Anatoly’s parents done in Russia (when the boy appeared to hesitate, she said, “Starve, I suppose”); if they had girlfriends; if Peter’s mother had a boyfriend; what they liked to watch on TV — TV gave Anatoly migraines. The questions never felt invasive to Peter because Mrs. B. always managed to turn the answer back to herself. One time she asked Anatoly if there were lots of orphaned children in Russia, but before he could answer she told him there were, that she’d been dreaming about them. When she told her dream to Mr. B., he’d cried, despite the fact that Italian men don’t cry, as a rule.

Peter didn’t laugh when Anatoly got in trouble for rollerblading between classes, or when the boy recited pi at the talent show (the anti-valedictorians at the back of the auditorium cough-shouted, “Sixty-nine”). Peter respected Anatoly, how the boy always carried a book, and not a textbook but something from the town’s library, maybe a history of the French and Indian War or a guide to martingale betting.

Every day Anatoly brought the same lunch, always one hard-boiled egg, a boiled potato, and pencil-thin pickled carrots; his mother packed his food in a heavy plastic bag from RadioShack — instead of blue gel packs, she kept his lunch cold with balls of wet newspaper that she refroze each night.

It was Anatoly who pushed Peter toward medicine. One day, while Mrs. B. reheated her lunch in the teachers’ lounge, Anatoly said, “You’re not as good at math as she pretends.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter knew exactly what Anatoly meant.

“I think you should consider making a doctor. People want to please you — because of your face.”

Peter tried to give the boy a hard look.

“I don’t mean that homosexually.”

“What are you going to do?”

Anatoly smiled. “I am always doing.”

“Thanks for clearing that up.”

“I will make big sums of money and have intercourse with models and women newscasters.”

WITH HIS CAR idling by the curb, Peter needed a plan. He thought about contacting someone in Human Resources, but he also thought that might be the worst thing he could do. Would they be on his side? The hospital’s side? Were he and the hospital at odds?

If he needed to prostrate himself before the powers that be, he wanted to know what he was up against. He paged Martin, who called back immediately. “They’re waiting for you in the conference room on Six West.”

“They?”

“Peg, Bucky Katz from H.R., Martinez, Ray Cooper. I usually attend these sorts of things, but I asked to sit this one out.”

“Which department is Cooper in?”

“Don’t ask. Did you really auction your services to a certain Grammy Award winner?”

“This is all a big misunderstanding.”

“So Tony Ogata blew up the switchboard over a misunderstanding?”

“Don’t kid.”

“One of his assistants left a message on my machine at a quarter of five. He spoke with Peg.”

Exposure, Peter thought. “I was told Ogata might make some ‘discreet inquiries.’ That’s a quote.”

“Who told you that?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“The Japanese don’t fuck around with sneak attacks.”

“I get it.”

“You get it! I’m Filipino — my people lived it.”

“Are you trying to scare me?”

“I’m not sure what’s going on, but Ogata lit a fire under Peg’s ass. For your sake, I hope you’re already scared.”

“This is all about Judith somehow.”

“Do me a favor, take a look around when you get to Six West. I don’t think Judith’s going to be there.”

WHEN HE PULLED up to the gate, the parking attendant stuck his head out of his kiosk. “Morning, Dr. Silver.”

“Hi,” Peter said, resisting the urge to stomp on the gas.

The attendant pointed a finger at an elderly man bent over the steering wheel of a golf cart. “Buzz will give you a ride to your meeting.”

As Peter got out of his car, the cart glided up — behind the driver an orange dome light flashed on and off on a long stalk.

“You must be Buzz?”

The man patted the bench seat next to him.

They zipped through the parking garage and inside the main entrance, past the billing center, past scheduling, past the gift shop and Friendly’s, past Physical Therapy and the pharmacy. Buzz nosed the cart against the west bank of elevators, where, without leaving his seat, he leaned forward and pushed the up button; turning to Peter, he said, “They’re waiting for you on six.”

What would happen if Peter walked away? He was still a doctor after all. That ought to mean something. But the hospital had protocols in place to deal with the noncompliant. Things could escalate quickly. Should a staff member get on the intercom and announce, “Dr. Brown is needed by the West Elevator,” the orderlies were trained to respond en masse. In a matter of moments the lobby would look like a tryout for Rochester’s arena football team.

The elevator door yawned open and Peter stepped inside. The doors closed. He felt his body get heavy as the steel room started its ascent.

ON THE FOURTH floor, a bell chimed. The elevator stopped, and the door opened.

A small man, probably in his early fifties, reached inside the elevator and barred the door from closing. “Dr. Silver?”

He wore a loose-fitting gray suit jacket, tan slacks, and black dress shoes. An orange bow tie made him appear gift-wrapped. His hair was dark, parted near the top of his head, and combed straight back. His upper lip was invisible beneath the overhang of his mustache. He reached into an open briefcase. “I’ve got some things for you to sign before we head up there.”

“Are you Cooper?” Peter asked.

“I’ve left half a dozen messages on your phone, Dr. Silver. I’m Leo Kopp.” The little man blinked, “Mr. Cross sent me. I’m your attorney.”

15

Gene introduced himself to me six years ago in Syracuse. According to my ticket, I had a seat reserved in the front row, but the show was on the university campus and the students had decided that anyone who could afford a seat up close didn’t deserve it. All of us gray hairs were huddled in the back of the hall watching the kids. Most of us had children their age and so we didn’t entertain thoughts that we’d be welcome up front.

The kids cheered while Cross played “Green Dandy,” which, among other things, is about the treachery of youth. I watched the crowd as much as I watched the performance. Maybe I was wondering if the kids were there to bask in the music or the fame. At this point in his career, Cross could probably get away with putting a wax dummy on stage, since being able to say you saw him seemed to have supplanted the act of hearing the music. Basically, I was at the back of the room, surrounded by old people and having old people thoughts.

A beer sort of floated in front of me. I turned and there was this guy holding it out. He had a second beer in his other hand.

“I bought you a beer,” he said. He had a big oval face and these dark, deep-set eyes.

We tapped our plastic cups together and drank.

“You’re Pennyman,” he said. He pointed his thumb at his chest. “We’ve emailed before. I’m Badmonkeyfunker.”

We were virtual acquaintances. Sometimes he would send a note of encouragement after I’d encountered a challenge on the road. He came across as perpetually enthusiastic: “Great write-up!” or “Feels like I was there.”

He told me to call him Gene.

I thanked him for the beer and we listened to a few songs together. Up near the stage, the kids were batting a beach ball around. It annoyed me.

“Fucking college kids,” Gene said.

I nodded.

“They come into your church and act like it’s a basement kegger. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

I said I got his point.

“Someone should go down there and pop that fucking ball.”

“Be my guest,” I said.

Gene laughed. “I’m all talk.”

“Well, I’m no talk.”

I meant it as a joke, but Gene said, “I’m bothering you.”

“No,” I said, tapping cups with him again.

Gene drained his beer. “I’m going to get us two more.”

I like meeting fans, but it doesn’t always go so well. Sometimes when people recognize me, they assume that I don’t want to be interrupted, that I enjoy the music on some different level (like I’m comparing that night’s version of “Shitheel” with the version Cross played in Oakland ten years before), so they watch me from a distance. It’s even more awkward when they don’t introduce themselves, but step up to me and blurt out an arcane trivia question: Name the only two drummers to earn writing credits on Cross albums? When that happens, I offer my hand and tell them I’m there for the show.12

Gene came back with our beers.

Between sets the two of us found a couple of empty seats and I asked him to tell me about his life. He’d married his high school sweetheart. They didn’t have kids, but they both came from big families, there were lots of nieces and nephews, so they didn’t think they’d missed out on much. He’d gotten turned on to Cross by a much older brother — the brother had gone to Vietnam, come back, gotten messed up on drugs, made some bad decisions, etc., etc. “I like hearing the old songs,” Gene said. “How about you?”

I said I stood behind everything I posted on JCC.

“You like that gospely stuff?”

“Even that.”

Cross came back on stage. Maybe the kids had exhausted themselves; in any case they were better behaved. The second set came and went. Gene offered to get me another beer, but I was done.

After the encore, I leaned over and told Gene that I was sorry about his brother. He nodded his big round head.

“Cross lost a brother, too.”

He said, “I know.”

I patted him on the back.

He gave me this goofy smile. “Here,” he said, handing me something.

It was plastic and rumpled. I teased it into shape; it was the beach ball.

16

When they got to six, the doors opened and a woman in a moss-colored knit dress said, “Right this way, Dr. Silver.” Her heels made dime-sized dimples in the Berber carpet. Without turning around, she said, “There’s coffee and muffins in the room. If you want anything else, let me know.”

She knocked on a frosted glass door before pushing it open. “Here you are.”

Peter walked into the room.

Leo Kopp stopped at the threshold to the conference room and handed the woman a few binder-clipped pages. “If you don’t mind, I need you to make copies of these materials.”

The assistant glanced at the papers before turning her attention back to Kopp. “And who are you?”

“He’s with me,” Peter said, adding for the benefit of the others gathered in the room, “he’s my attorney.”

At the far end of the room, the hospital’s director stood up. Peg was one of those Nordic giantesses who look like they ought to be accompanied by a wolfhound. “Thanks for coming in, Peter, but I don’t expect you’ll require counsel. This is only an information-gathering meeting.”

Peter looked toward Kopp.

The strange little man had stopped at the buffet and was crowding mini-muffins onto a saucer.

“I think I’d feel more comfortable with him here.”

“It’s fine with me, so long as there’s no rule expressly forbidding it. Cooper? Is there a policy?”

Leaning back in his chair, a large man in a tight blue dress shirt said, “That’s H.R.’s territory, I suspect. What’s policy, Bucky?”

A younger man hefted a black three-ring binder onto the table. He began shuffling through the pages. Stopping, he read a passage aloud, “Professional staff are permitted legal representation during disciplinary hearings.”

Rick Martinez, from Geriatrics, shut his laptop before speaking. “I didn’t think this was a disciplinary hearing.”

The director smiled at Peter. “And it’s not.”

“I think what concerns Dr. Larsen,” Cooper said, “is that once you have two attorneys in a room things have a way of deteriorating.”

“I promise to be on my best behavior,” Kopp said.

Rick said, “I think that’s a sentiment we all ought to bear in mind.” Peter was glad to see him in the room — the year before they’d been on a marathon relay team that raised $7,000 for the fight against childhood obesity.

Before sitting back down, Peg thanked everyone for coming in. “As you’re aware,” she said, “there’ve been a number of rumors circulating regarding the professional conduct of one of our colleagues, and I convened this meeting so that we might head things off before—”

Leo interrupted her to ask if they might go around the table and introduce themselves.

Peg said that sounded like a good idea. She identified herself. The younger guy in the Mickey Mouse tie was Bucky Katz from H.R. Next to him, Rick Martinez volunteered that he had been on the committee that hired Peter, then, placing a hand on the empty seat beside him, he said, “Dr. Vinoray recused himself.” The door opened and an older, potbellied man in a camel overcoat came in, apologizing. Dr. Larsen stood again. She said, “Mr. Oblitz, thanks for being here,” then, looking to Kopp, she added, “Mr. Oblitz chairs the hospital’s board.” At the other end of the table, the man in the blue shirt stood. “I’m Ray Cooper, lead counsel at the hospital; I advise Peg and the board on a myriad of issues including contracts, tort, and labor relations.”

While the principals spoke, Kopp managed to eat two of the muffins on his plate. Seeing that it was his turn to speak, he held a finger up while he finished chewing. Then he rubbed his hands over the saucer. “I assume everyone knows Dr. Silver,” he said, extending a hand toward Peter. “He asked me to be here today. My name is Leonard Kopp.”

Cooper leaned across the table to study the man. “There’s a Leo Kopp at Columbia.”

Kopp nodded his head. “I teach at Columbia, yes.”

Cooper rooted his tongue around in his cheek, like he’d lost something. “Don’t you live in the city, Mr. Kopp?”

“I do,” Kopp said. “Do you need the address?”

The hospital’s counsel turned to Peg. “When did this meeting get called?”

The director glanced at her papers. “A little after eight, I think.”

Cooper smiled and then, as if addressing the conference table, he asked, “Mr. Kopp, by what strange coincidence did you happen to be in town?”

Kopp brushed his mustache with a napkin. “You are aware of a conveyance called an airplane?”

At that point the door opened and the assistant delivered the packets to Peter’s attorney. It wasn’t clear if Peg was addressing her assistant when she asked, “What are those?”

Kopp flipped through the pages, before dealing them out to the others. “I didn’t know what sort of disposition you folks would be in, so I asked my associates to put together a handout.”

Cooper stared at the papers. Then he took off his glasses and set them on the table before him. “Dr. Larsen and I need to have a conversation. Mr. Oblitz, you probably want to stay. Bucky, too. If the rest of you would please excuse us for a moment.”

Kopp carried his plate back to the buffet, refilled his coffee, and then he and the rest filed out of the room.

BACK IN THE hall, Martinez sidled up to Peter. “Can you tell me why Tony Ogata would call Emergency Care at a quarter of five?”

“What did he say?”

“Colston hung up on him. She figured he was some tweaker playing a prank.”

“It’s all a big misunderstanding,” Peter said.

The head of Geriatrics winked at Peter. “Martin will give me the real story soon enough.”

That Martin would talk was inevitable; he didn’t know how to shut up. And another thing, whatever Martin said would become the sanctioned version of events. The future waited to define you.

•••

AFTER TEN MINUTES, Peg stuck her head out. First she thanked Dr. Martinez for his time and his discretion. She reminded him that the meeting — which, she repeated, had been a part of an information-gathering process and not a disciplinary hearing — was confidential. Then she requested that Peter and Kopp return to the conference room.

Down the hall, Kopp stood before a shadow box filled with the jewel-like carapaces of Japanese beetles. He started when Peter tapped him on the shoulder. “Are they ready for us?” They were.

BACK IN THE conference room, Cooper held up a copy of Kopp’s handout. “There’s no precedent for viewing medical practice as a form of free speech. I mean, it’s brilliant, but I don’t think you want to run with this.”

Kopp paused at the coffee urns. “Are either of these decaf?”

Peg brushed her hair away from her face with a palm. “They should be marked.”

“Never mind,” the attorney said. He lifted another muffin from the tray and ate it as he returned to his seat.

Peter felt completely superfluous.

“We’ve been playing catch-up all morning,” Peg said.

Oblitz held a gold pen between his hands, as though it were the reins to a show horse. “I find this very troubling. The board does not approve.”

“Perhaps,” Kopp said, “if someone could outline what’s being disapproved of, we might make some progress.”

Cooper leaned forward in his chair. “Would you like me to explain the hospital’s grievance?”

“Dr. Silver and I might find that helpful.”

“On January 7, 2008, more than two years ago, Dr. Silver entered into his current employment contract with this hospital.”

“That contract,” added Oblitz, “has stood up in previous litigations, if that’s your strategy.”

“Contracts are always blameless,” Kopp said. “If I may borrow a metaphor from woodworking, one must never select a glue that is stronger than the materials you intend to bind. I digress. Please continue, Mr. Cooper.”

The hospital’s lawyer leafed through a pad of paper in front of him. “Dr. Silver, an employee of this hospital, did willingly arrange to see a patient outside of this hospital, thus violating the terms of his contract, and, in the process, did expose this institution to considerable financial liability. Further, by failing to perform his duties in a professional manner, Dr. Silver damaged the reputation of this institution. And, finally, though his contract requires that he speak to a supervisor before accepting work outside of his duties at this hospital, he agreed to be compensated for his improper and unprofessional care.” Cooper flipped through a few more pieces of paper. “That about covers it.”

Everything the man said was true: Peter had gone to see Cross at his hotel; he’d neglected to even take the man’s pulse; and, for his incompetent aid, the singer had agreed to pay him whatever Ogata billed. While Peter was glad that Martinez had been spared an accounting of his uselessness, he felt certain these facts would make the rounds.

“You didn’t stipulate the punishment the hospital is seeking,” said Kopp.

“It’s not punishment,” said Dr. Larsen.

“The board is going to recommend Dr. Silver’s position be terminated,” Oblitz explained. “The hospital will determine at a later date whether it needs to seek damages.”

Peter wanted to slide under the table and hide. Seek damages! It sounded barbaric. And what would they seek damages for?

If he couldn’t be a doctor, how would he pay his mortgage? How would he get out of bed? His friendship with Martin would be doomed. He’d have to go somewhere far away. Maybe he’d find a desert all to himself. The Arctic was a desert, or so people claimed, a desert of frozen water. He stared at the backs of his hands. Was he looking at a doctor’s hands?

“I think what Dr. Larsen meant,” Cooper added, “is that there is no intention to be vindictive.”

Kopp stood up and buttoned his suit coat. “It’s fortunate, no, it’s miraculous that you managed to withhold those allegations while Dr. Silver’s colleagues sat in this room. Because if you had aired those sorts of mendacities in front of the people he works with, in front of the very people who sit on promotion boards and peer review committees, then we would have no choice but to sue this hospital for character defamation and slander, a suit which I would be eager to try personally.

“But rather than wrestle with fabrications, let’s look at the facts at hand. It is true that my client is an employee of this hospital. It is also true that last night Dr. Silver was contacted by an individual needing care. It is true that my client, a medical professional, did meet with that individual. However, at no point did he provide care. In fact he urged that individual to seek help at this medical facility. Your allegation that Dr. Silver was paid, or otherwise compensated for his actions, is patently false. Further, at my office I have signed affidavits supporting everything I just told you.”

“Our information comes from a very good source, an unimpeachable source,” said Oblitz. “You can have all the affidavits in the world, but that hardly makes your version true.”

Kopp said, “If I was sitting where you are, I’d be upset, too. But while I understand your frustration, I don’t allow people not acquainted with law to lecture me on her rules. For now, I’ll take it on faith that Mr. Cooper is still lead counsel for this hospital, and that Mr. Oblitz’s little homily is unrelated to our common business.”

The board member jerked to his feet, causing his chair to fall over. “I don’t think you need me here anymore,” he announced. “Peg, I’ll be expecting a call later today.”

Only after Oblitz left was Peter able to raise his head.

Kopp poured two sugar packets in his coffee. “That’s a great example of the Dark Ages mentality. ‘What I see is what there is,’ very anti-Enlightenment, very flat Earth.”

Cooper said, “Maybe you can tell us what we’re missing.”

“The elephant in the room is that the individual that Dr. Silver saw last night is none other than the musician Jimmy Cross. If it had been someone else, a person on the street, you would have spoken with them directly. However, fame is its own kind of shield. Am I right to assume no one here has spoken with Mr. Cross?”

“It’s not as though he’s in the phone book,” Cooper said.

“Everything you’ve alleged is hearsay. Now Mr. Oblitz claimed your information came from ‘an unimpeachable source.’ Let’s play a parlor game: I’ll see if I can’t use deductive reasoning to determine the identity of that source.”

Peter listened to the people around him talking about his life as though he wasn’t the chief expert in his affairs. In the movie of his life, Peter had been cast as an extra, a piece of breathing scenery. No one trusted him with a speaking role.

Kopp cleared his throat. “I want to point out something Mr. Oblitz said. What sort of person does a hospital view as ‘unimpeachable’? Don’t say ‘a doctor.’ Dr. Silver’s experience clearly refutes that. When we look to others, nothing is more reassuring than seeing ourselves. So I assume he was referring to another hospital or, more specifically, to a hospital founder.

“Now, another thing, this person needs to be famous, because how else could they be trusted to testify about the experience of someone as famous as Mr. Cross? So, I ask myself, is there a famous hospital founder, I mean other than Tony Ogata and his Total Wellness Clinic?”

Cooper’s head flopped onto his shoulder, as though his neck had broken.

“I hope you’re taking notes, Ray,” Peg said, “because I’m going to have to speak with the board and I want to make sure everything is clear.”

Kopp said, “I’ll give you the bullet points. First, Mr. Cross, an eleven-time Grammy winner, member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, with more than ninety million records sold, contacted a doctor in your employ. That doctor urged Mr. Cross to seek medical care at your hospital. Mr. Cross was so impressed with the way this young doctor carried himself that he offered him a job. But this doctor, despite lavish promises, elected to remain loyal to his original employer. How’s that for a start?”

Cooper chewed on his thumb. “I hoped you might explain Ogata’s role in this mess.”

Peter’s attorney dipped a mini-muffin into his coffee, popped the darkened pastry into his mouth, held a finger up. “After meeting with my client, Mr. Cross, convinced he needed to take his care more seriously, called his former physician. When Ogata asked what precipitated the call, Cross gave my client’s name. I’d imagine Dr. Ogata could anticipate the effect of a few well-placed phone calls. Apparently the temptation to meddle proved irresistible.”

“You think this was intentional?” Cooper asked.

“The way things were presented,” Peg said, “well, it was very damning. A staff member violating his contract and risking the hospital’s reputation. It didn’t look good.”

“I would love to argue appearances,” said Kopp, “because it appears to me that my client, a model employee, has had his career threatened over a phone call.”

Peg turned to Peter. “This wasn’t personal. Put yourself in my shoes. . Tony Ogata calls me with a concern about a staff member.”

“We’ll need to discuss this internally,” added Cooper.

“Does this mean that I’m not losing my job?” Peter asked.

Kopp patted Peter on the shoulder, “I’d like to speak with my client, if you two wouldn’t mind.”

Peg looked at her watch.

“Would you excuse yourselves for a moment?”

Cooper stood up. Then, turning to Kopp, he dropped his voice. “So, do you know Dr. Vinoray?”

Peter’s attorney pulled a pen from his jacket pocket. “I don’t think so, but I’m better with faces than names.”

Cooper set his business card in front of Kopp. “I don’t understand how you wound up here, but it’s an honor to meet you.”

“I always urge my students to focus on the questions they can answer.”

AFTER THE DOOR closed and they were alone, Kopp got up and refilled his coffee mug. “That went fairly well.”

Peter had a sip of water. “They wanted to fire me.”

“No, the purpose of the meeting was to embarrass you enough that you’d see the wisdom in resigning. Well, we’ve managed to reapportion the embarrassment.”

“How does it help me to embarrass the president of the board and the hospital’s director? I’ve never worked anywhere else.”

Kopp tore a sheet of paper from Cooper’s notepad and began to scribble something:

This morning. . You’re fired.

This morning. .?

There was an old timeline, Kopp explained, and a new timeline.

“If they’d been a bit more circumspect, maybe they could have built a case against you. Despite what I told them, I don’t have any affidavits exonerating you.” With one finger, Kopp drew an imaginary line connecting Peter’s nose to the piece of paper on the table. “This morning they called a meeting. The next time we call the meeting. This is a step in the right direction.”

“Call a meeting for what?” Peter had lost the script.

“We’ll need to give them a chance to save face.”

“Okay.”

“Did Mr. Cross offer you a job last night?”

Peter tried to remember what had been said. “He offered me a plane ride.”

“What reason did you give for refusing that ride?”

Something large was staring Peter in the face. He could feel its hot breath.

“I have a job.”

Kopp tapped a finger on his diagram. “And which timeline do you think that statement belongs on?”

“But I still have a job, don’t I?” He admired but didn’t understand the mechanism by which he’d been transformed into a pawn.

“Does it help if I assure you that I have your best interests in mind?”

“But you don’t know me.”

Kopp offered his hand. “The people you know are waiting in the hall.”

There was nothing more to be said.

•••

WHEN THEY EXITED the conference room, Peg grabbed Peter by his shoulders. “I’m giving you my word, we’ll make this up to you.”

“I don’t blame you,” Peter said.

“Tony Flipping Ogata,” Peg said.

Kopp pulled Peter into the elevator. “My office will be in touch.”

As the doors closed, Peter felt a stone expanding in his throat.

He swallowed.

In the lobby, sunlight reflected off the polished floor, threw shadows on the ceiling.

“Can I give you a lift to the airport?”

“Go back to work. As far as you are concerned, this is a normal day.” Kopp ruffled his mustache with a fingertip. “Give me twenty-four hours and I promise we’ll sort this out.”

The men shook hands for the third time.

Peter followed the attorney through the revolving door and into that cool, damp air. “What do I do if someone wants to talk with me?”

“What do you think you should do?”

“Tell them to talk with you.”

“Perfect.” The attorney tilted his head toward a black town car idling at the curb. “That’s me.”

17

I’m sitting on the porch when Gene pulls in.

He aims a finger pistol at me. Bang!

“Gene Machine!” I say. He’s put on weight. It’s the first thing I notice. He must have packed on fifty pounds. He’s fat!

He grabs the rail and climbs a few stairs, but then he stops. “Get down here,” he says, “you skinny fuck.”

We hug and he pounds me on the back. His soft body is warm and moist. It’s kind of shocking.

I tell him I like the new apartment.

“We haven’t seen each other in a while,” he says. “I don’t want you to think I’m depressed. Corinne got fat, too. Last winter we went on this cruise. It was ten days and they treat you like veal calves. They don’t let you do anything for yourselves and they stuff you with food. But, frankly, we’re a lot happier. We’re middle-aged and it was getting to be such a battle to count calories and work out. Anyway it’s a big change — har har — and I don’t want you to feel like you have to ignore it. If anything, you might have to tell me to stop talking about it, because I’m sort of evangelical.”

I tell him I think it’s great — what else can I say?

“And don’t think I eat out of a trough now. I don’t stuff myself, just a lot of smaller meals and snacks. Here’s my deal — if I’m hungry for something or, you know, curious, I don’t worry about it. You and I haven’t talked about our parents much, but mine did a job on me. I internalized a lot of that Calvinist shit our generation was weaned on: clean your plate, babies are starving in Africa, no peas, no dessert. Cory and I had enough of it.”

“Well, there you have it,” I say.

He wraps me in his arms again and almost lifts me off the ground. He tells me how happy he is to see me. “Let’s go inside,” he says. “I want to sit down.”

When I turn to climb the stairs, Gene says, “I invited you into my home. Where are you going? You’re like a stray that doesn’t think it belongs inside.”

Maybe there’s some truth to what he said. I can feel a bit trapped inside a house.

Gene takes a casserole out of the fridge and slides it in the oven, then he pours a bag of chips into a bowl. It feels like school just got out and I rode the bus to a friend’s.

Gene hands me a bottle of wine and asks me what I think. For a moment I’m afraid that he’s mistaken me for one of those people who can’t let a penny pass between their fingers without pronouncing it good or bad. I confess that I don’t know much about wine.

He spins the bottle in my hand and taps a finger on the label: Bottled in Chaseburg, Wisconsin.

Chaseburg’s most famous export is a five-foot-eight musical genius.

“I’ve never seen this before.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Gene says. “It’s terrible. I saw it online and bought two bottles. Cory and I drank a little from the first bottle before tossing it, but I saved this. I wanted to drink it with you.”

“You think it’ll give us special powers?”

Gene takes the bottle from me, cuts the foil, and uncorks it. He splashes a little into two glasses. “Is a wrinkled nose a special power?”

I make a toast to thoughtful gestures. We drink. We laugh some. The wine is terrible. We ought to pour it out, but we drink some more.

Gene explains that the Greeks believed wine helped artists get in touch with the muse.

“The muse of hangovers,” I say.

“The muse of living the life you want to live.”

“The muse of getting fat and happy.”

“Speaking of. .” Gene pulls an ice cream sandwich out of the freezer. “Care to join me?”

I say, “I get my sustenance from music and conversation.”

“Spreading it on thick.”

“And love.”

Gene wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “Since you brought it up, is that what keeps you out there? Are you boffing groupies?”

“Most of Jimmy’s groupies are past their boffing days.”

“Cory has a whole theory worked out.”

“Don’t tell me your wife wonders about my love life?”

Gene walks over to the counter and tosses out the wrapper from his ice cream sandwich. “Forget I said anything.”

Here’s the thing: even with the wine and the food, there’s a voice telling me to get back in my car and drive. There’s nowhere for me to go, but I feel the urge all the same. “Where is Cory?”

“I’m the one that brought her up, but let’s not talk about her.” He turns to fiddle with the oven.

I say, “If you wanted to talk about something, I’m just saying. .”

He raises a hand to let me know I’ve said enough.

“You okay?”

He presses the palms of his hands against his eyes and holds them there. “I’m good. I’m okay.” After a moment, he says, “You found the place all right.”

We stand at the kitchen counter, drinking the miserable wine. A timer goes off and Gene smacks his hand to turn it off. “Shit,” he says, “I think I broke it.” He pulls out a trash bin and drops the alarm in. “Chinese piece of crap,” he says. “Tell me about last night’s show. You said he looked lost.”

“It happens. He retreats into himself sometimes.”

“I heard he stopped playing — he was sort of catatonic.”

I close my eyes and try to remember. Cross had worn the narrow black suit with silver cord embroidered on the lapels.13 He’d opened playing keyboards on “Big River” and “Crow Alley,” then he’d covered “Jolene” and “When I’m Sixty-four.” He strapped on his battered Gibson to lead the band on a quick shuffle through “Rumpelstiltskin Delicatessen Blues.” Then the boys sat on their hands while he plumbed the depths of “Delilah on 7th Avenue.”14 He’d wavered at the edge of the stage. His harmonica hung around his neck like a millstone. How long had he stood there?

“Did I say he stopped playing?”

“That’s what they said on CrossTracks.”

Maybe Gene read the look on my face. “I go there for a different perspective,” he said.

I don’t ask how some kid pasting Jimmy’s face onto a llama is a “perspective.”

“Don’t take it personal.”

Some people, if a red car drives by they say, “Red car.” They can’t help themselves. It’s always taken me a long time to cut one idea from the herd. Maybe that’s why Gene looks surprised when I blurt out that a doctor visited Jimmy’s hotel last night.

“You serious?”

I aim a finger at my face.

He pours the last of the wine into my glass. “You think it could be related to that business on stage?”

Is this the question I’ve been avoiding? All day I’d assumed my uneasiness was rooted in the break in the tour, but maybe it was the specter of the tour reaching an absolute end. “You want to see his picture?”

Gene points a finger at his own face and winks.

I get my camera, then we sit on the living room sofa, studying the images on the camera’s three-inch screen.

“You’re certain he’s a doctor?”

“That’s what I was told.”

Gene has me zoom in on the knapsack sitting on the passenger seat. He pulls up a browser on his phone and does a quick search. “That’s a European backpack,” he confirms. “You think he’s European doctor?”

I finish my wine. “Like a specialist?”

“He looks a bit like Jimmy.”

“At one time or another Jimmy has looked like everyone.”

“You got more pictures on that camera?”

“A man needs to have secrets.”

The oven beeps.

“I hope you’re hungry.”

I tell Gene I’m always hungry.

“Yet you never eat.”

“Maybe I like to stay hungry.” I never talk this much. It must be the wine.

18

Peg had specified that the meeting was to remain confidential, but if it was a secret, then it was an open secret. When Peter came around a corner the staff dispersed; he felt as popular as a shark. Even Martin kept his distance. The only person to address him was Eduardo, from housekeeping, who saw everything and nothing. Eduardo said, “You looking a little worn out today, Dr. Peter.”

At six, after spending five hours ordering X-rays and blood work, prescribing antibiotics and ibuprofen, Peter visited his last patient: a blank-faced fifteen-year-old boy with crispy blond hair. Though the boy sat next to his mother, his whole body curved away from her, like a parenthesis. The mother said the boy had been experiencing vertigo — the kid’s loose jaw looked incapable of forming words.

Peter noted the gray sweatshirt that identified the boy as a varsity swimmer. He spoke to the kid, “You have an ear infection.”

The mother growled.

“I never get ear infections,” mumbled the boy.

“He doesn’t get ear infections.” The mother’s voice built upon itself. Something inside her, a governor, had snapped. “We waited an hour to see you. You didn’t even look at his ear.”

Peter imagined Ogata shaking his head. Tsk, tsk.

With one hand holding the boy’s leaden chin, Peter grabbed his otoscope and thumbed on the light. He checked the tympanic membranes. Both sides were red and irritated. He asked the mother to take a peek.

“It’s not about me looking,” she said, shaking her phone from her purse — was she going to call someone, the boy’s father, the police? “It’s about you looking.”

Even after Peter assured her that they could treat the condition, that her son would feel better, probably within twenty-four hours, the boy’s mother managed to stay furious.

AS SOON AS he was safely in his car, he dialed Judith.

When his mother answered, Peter said, “You almost got me fired.”

“Just ‘almost.’ I’ll try harder next time.” There was no echo to her voice; he’d probably caught her fussing in the terraced garden Rolf built for her fiftieth.

“I was with lawyers all morning.”

“Don’t kid your mother.”

He told her he wasn’t, that the hospital had wanted to fire him, but it was all a big misunderstanding; his lawyer was in the process of clearing things up. Peter would know more tomorrow.

“Since when do you have a lawyer?” Her voice let him know that she’d become “concerned.” Was that the reason he’d called? Did he want her to worry about him? If anything, he was supposed to worry about her, his aging, hippie mother.

“I met Jim Cross last night.”

Judith’s silence (she usually hemorrhaged words) caught him by surprise.

“The musician,” he added.

He thought he heard songbirds and the whining big rigs worming their way down those steep canyon roads.

“I don’t understand. Did he come into the hospital?”

“He played a show here last night. Afterward, he called me and asked me to stop by his hotel.” Peter said, “You gave him my number.”

He heard a door close. Judith had gone inside. “Why would I give him your number?”

Peter wasn’t sure if he understood the story he was telling. “I guess because I’m a doctor. He is a friend of yours, right?”

“You’ve caught me a bit off guard.”

“Tony Ogata is his personal doctor. Do you have any idea how famous he is?”

“Your mother isn’t a rube, honey.”

“So why didn’t you tell me you knew Cross? He said you stayed at his farm.”

“Don’t call it a farm.”

It sounded like Judith was trying to trap him. She should have been a spy. “He called it a farm.”

“Farms raise food, Peter. There was a blue Rolls-Royce in the driveway, which someone had encircled with a moat. I don’t mean the moat went around the driveway, I mean it went around the car, all the way around it.”

“He gave me a picture of your Sunbeam Tiger.”

Judith laughed. “Where would I have gotten the money for a British sports car?”

“He implied it was your car.”

“What’s going on with him? Is he dying, or something?”

“Why would he be dying?”

“I got an email from him this spring. I guess he tracked me down through my website — he asked me what I’d been up to for the past thirty years. Rolf got a kick out of it, but it left me sort of sad. The guy’s got all the money in the world, all that fame and success, and he’s tracking down women he knew half a lifetime ago. I didn’t want to seem impolite or bitter, so I wrote back. He asked what you were up to. He was impressed that you’d become a doctor. ‘William Carlos Williams was a doctor,’ he said. ‘And Chekhov.’ I told him about my garden. I told him Rolf was a carpenter. I said, ‘Like Jesus.’ I was trying to be funny. He said he’d been to Jerusalem and it was full of masons, but he hadn’t seen any carpenters. I ought to forward you the messages. I wouldn’t have given him your number.”

“He called my cell.”

“He has people whose job is to bring him what he wants. It’s always been that way.”

“He offered me a job.”

“I guess you weren’t kidding about the lawyers.”

A black truck crowded Peter’s tail, but even when he slowed the truck wouldn’t pass. It loomed there, filling his rearview mirror.

“When I met him, he’d quit music. Did he mention that?”

When Peter stopped for a light, the guy in the pickup revved his engine until Peter’s car shook.

“How long did you stick around for?”

“The only reason he let me use that car was because you liked to sleep with your bassinet wedged between the seats.”

“He said he’d met me before.”

“He was fascinated with you, honey.”

The traffic light was taking forever.

“Then what happened?”

“He became a musician again. He released that album and then he was gone.”

“Which album?”

“I don’t know the name. You’d recognize it. There’s a picture of him sitting behind a table covered with junk, like a yard sale.”

Peter knew which album she was talking about — the table was beneath a streetlamp. Pinched between his thumb and forefinger, Cross held a doll-sized American flag.

Peter’s jealousy returned. “Were you in love with him?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“An obvious one.”

“I was in awe of him. I used to like his music, but being around him spoiled it. All those songs about women with perfect flaws are really about him. He’s always only been in love with some version of himself.”

When the stoplight turned green, the truck shot past. Peter felt spared.

“He might be a good person for me to know. He’s friends with Tony Ogata.”

His mother’s silence made Peter check the connection; the call counter kept tallying the seconds.

Finally Judith spoke: “You sound excited; I can hear it in your voice. I certainly don’t want to take that away from you.”

“But?”

“Don’t expect him to be human.”

Peter laughed, though he knew Judith wasn’t joking.

“It’s a shame that I’m a human doctor.”

“Maybe he’s not looking for a doctor. The important question is, What are you looking for?”

The truth: he hadn’t been looking; he’d been waiting. He’d been waiting so long he wasn’t sure if he was waiting for Lucy or if he was waiting to feel again like he had before she left.

Peter said, “I’ve got everything I want.” He didn’t see the point in upsetting his mother.

19

Gene has set the dining room table with cloth napkins, two forks, a knife, and a spoon. A photograph of a three-masted schooner hangs beside the table — it’s the sort of thing one encounters in the bathroom of a naval history museum. While I look around the room, Gene opens another bottle of wine, a red from California, swapping out our old glasses so the Wisconsin wine won’t contaminate the good stuff. The new bottle doesn’t seem to have anything to do with Jimmy.

He delivers the casserole to the table.

“What do you think,” Gene says, “shall we do this?”

It’s been months since I had a home-cooked meal. I eat beyond all reason.

When I push back from the table, Gene asks, “You ready for the salad?”

“I never would have pegged you as one of those salad-after-dinner kind of guys.”

As he heads back to the kitchen, he says, “It cleans the palate.”

When he returns, I stare at the salad: red lettuce, sliced red cabbage, paper-thin radish discs, and pomegranate seeds, all dressed with balsamic vinaigrette. “Is it an allusion to some lyric or something?”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything’s pink. Is that on purpose?”

“Hmm,” he says. “Did I tell you I’m color-blind?”

I feel embarrassed for both of us — me, because I’d tried to read meaning into a salad, and, in Gene’s case, that he can’t tell red from green.

Gene asks if I want to stick with wine or if I’d prefer fifteen-year-old scotch. I say he’s the boss. He comes back with a crystal decanter and two Baccarat rocks glasses.

“No cigars?” I ask.

He winks at me and disappears into the family room. When he comes back he’s carrying two aluminum cigar tubes.

I feel a guest’s responsibility to play along with him.

I start gathering the dirty dishes. I pile the plates and forks and knives, leaving the clean spoons on the table.

Gene looks at me. “There’s an apple and raisin tart in the fridge. That’s what the spoons are for.”

“I can’t do it.”

“You give up?” My friend puts his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. I told you, this is a guilt-free house.”

WE CARRY THE scotch and the cigars outside. The autumn air is brisk, and after the food and the wine, I’m grateful. We climb the stairs to the little porch off the garage. He reaches a hand inside the apartment and flicks on the porch light, then turns it off again.

“You okay with the dark?”

I tell him I am.

He finishes his drink and pours another. “My head isn’t here.” He pats his pockets down, finds a lighter, and fires up the cigars. He hands me one.

“Care to talk about it?” All I want is to do is brush my teeth, slip into my borrowed bed — it’s almost a carnal urge.

At the end of his driveway a neighbor walks past with a dog.

Gene tilts his head back so that the cigar points directly above us. “Cory’s staying at a hotel.”

“Oh,” I say. “Is she alone?”

Gene leans over and spills more booze into my glass.

“She’s my wife. Of course she’s alone.”

“She could be with a sister. That’s all I meant.”

He drinks a little more from his glass. “We never went to bed angry — that’s the kiss of death.”

I make some supportive sounds.

Gene lifts his drink to his lips, then puts it down again. “Did you and your ex ever go to bed angry?”

If Patricia and I kept score, I’ve forgotten. I say, “Maybe.”

Gene taps me on the knee with the toe of his shoe. “It’s the kiss of death.”

“Maybe.”

He kicks me a little harder. “You look like you’re falling asleep.”

I force myself to sit up straight. “I was relaxing.”

He sips from his glass, but it’s empty. “Let’s play a prank.”

“On Cory?”

He shakes his head and the cigar’s ember leaves a zigzag trail in the air. “You’re not allowed to say her name again. Get your laptop.”

•••

I believe in proper manners. Manners represent a contract between the individual and society. They shouldn’t be ignored for the sake of convenience. So I set my cigar on the edge of the table, walk into the apartment, turn the lights on, stare at the bed, then grab my computer and go back outside.

“We’re going to put together an ultimate setlist.”

“Okay.” Anyone who has ever loved a band has played this game. The obvious solution is to list your fifteen favorite songs in ascending order, so that each number is slightly better than the one preceding it.

“‘Queen of Kansas’ has to be on it, right?” Gene said.

While poking fun at Cross’s voice is something of a competitive sport (Willie Nelson said he had a voice like “a yard-sale caulk gun”), the truth is that Cross is a fine singer but he hardly ever sings (on the albums or on stage). For whatever reason, “Queen of Kansas” is one of the songs he trusts enough to let his real voice emerge, deep and vulnerable and pure.

“‘Grease Fire’?”

“You’re two for two,” I said.

“Crank your little computer up and write them down.”

“You want to see my dream set?”

I see Gene’s white teeth. “You son of a bitch, of course you’ve already got one.”

When I first joined the tour, I would compose a setlist before each show. Like catching a fly with chopsticks, I figured if I kept trying, then one day I’d get it right. I’d carry my setlist inside — throughout the show, I’d worry the paper with my thumb, as though it were a lottery ticket. Once, in East Lansing, Michigan, my list paced Cross for the first five songs, until he played “Whistle Hound” instead of “Toast and Sorrow.”

“Are you going to let me see it or not?” Gene asks.

I tell him how, while stopped in gridlock outside Little Rock, a list came to me that I recognized immediately as perfect.

“Enough stalling. Give it to the old Gene Machine.”

It takes a second for me to locate the file. I double-click and it pops open on the screen.

Gene lifts the computer out of my hands. He squints at the list. Looks down at the keyboard to figure out how to scroll. “This is your list?”

“That’s it.”

He reaches over and lifts my cigar off the table and places it beside his own in his mouth. He draws on both and they pulse like brake lights.

Finally, he says, “I guess it’s okay. There’s nothing recent on here. You have to have ‘The Lake Song,’ or ‘Fifth of April.’”

I explain that the dream setlist is fifteen years old.

“So it’s time for a new one.”

I take the laptop back from him and look at it again. It still seems perfect to me.

Gene flips one of the cigars over the railing; it falls in a long arc, down to his yard. “He has to close with ‘Purple River Serenade.’”

When Cross released Midnight at the Bazaar there were eleven cuts on the album, but the liner notes on the first printing listed a twelfth track, titled “Purple River Serenade.” Some of Cross’s fans claim that song — the theoretical song, since Cross has never played anything called “Purple River Serenade”—represents some Platonic ideal of music. They regard “P.R.S.” as a masterpiece.

“It’s time for me to hit the hay.”

“We’re not done yet,” Gene says. He splashes two more fingers of scotch into his glass.

When he reaches the decanter toward me, I cover the glass with my free hand, but he pours the booze so it runs through my fingers.

“Post the list,” Gene says. “Say he played a private show. It’ll drive people nuts.”

“I don’t do that sort of thing. JCC is the site of record.”

“That’s what makes it’s a prank!” He says this loud enough that I’m afraid his neighbors will hear.

I open my laptop and press a few keys.

“You do it?”

I shake my head.

Gene snatches the computer from me. “Where is it?”

“Sorry.”

He grabs the collar of my coat. I feel his hand at my neck. “Where’d you put it, Arthur?”

“I erased it.”

Now he’s shaking his head. “Why would you erase it?”

“I’m going to go to sleep now.” I hold my hand out toward him.

“You’re a sociopath, Arthur, seriously.”

Carefully, I put both hands on the laptop. He releases it to me.

“Do you remember what was on there?”

“You were probably right. It was dated.”

Gene is raking the top of his head with his fingers, scratching furrows into his scalp. “You’re a fucking loon.”

I thank him for dinner.

“I wanted to hit you in the worst way.”

“Because I wouldn’t go along with some asinine prank?”

Gene grabs the decanter and lurches toward the stairs.

I see him start to fall forward, but he seizes the railing with both hands, catching himself. There’s a high and final noise as the vessel detonates on the garage’s cement apron.

“You okay?”

He looks over his shoulder at me. “I didn’t mean I wanted to hit you tonight. I wanted to hit you when we first met.”

How can anyone understand another person? I go into the apartment, locking the door behind me. I fill a glass with water that smells like rubber cement, then I lay on top of the bed, feeling horrible, and knowing I’ll feel much worse.

20

Peter had almost reached home when he received a text from Martin Vinoray inviting him to get a burger near the hospital.

The economic shift that eliminated so many of Rochester’s working-class jobs had failed to shutter the working-class bars. In their humble design, those squat brick structures seemed the perfect counterpoint to the gothic churches that were their ubiquitous neighbors. The bars had names like Oasis, the Wet Lounge, and Mitch’s Tap. Whenever Peter ventured into these places, he felt like he was going undercover.

Inside, half the TVs showed the Yankees battling Tampa Bay, while on the other sets stone-faced college dropouts in sunglasses and Ed Hardy shirts sat around a poker table bluffing away millions. The green of the infield and the green of the felt were indistinguishable.

Martin sat at the end of the bar. He wore blue scrubs. With his index finger he stirred a highball glass while with his other hand he picked over a plate of calamari. The key fob to his ninety-thousand-dollar Mercedes glittered on top of a stack of small bills. The only clue that he played rock and roll: the midnight-black ponytail that nearly reached his belt.

Peter mounted the adjacent stool.

“Hail the conqueror.”

“It was a big misunderstanding, that’s all.”

“Well, that was a neat little trick you pulled this morning. I wish I could have been in the room.”

Peter said, “What trick?”

“First Ogata crawled up the administration’s ass. Then, when they squirmed, Cross’s attorney threw a haymaker—”

“Kopp is my attorney.”

“You don’t have the juice to put that homunculus on a plane.” Vinoray made an upside-down V with his fingers and staked them to the bar, signaling the bartender to deliver two more drinks.

“‘Homunculus’?”

“That’s what Cooper called him. He said sitting across from that midget made his balls retract so far he had to stick a finger in his navel to scratch them.”

Why did Peter feel such satisfaction? He’d almost walked into that room alone. Even if Peter had managed to keep his job, he’d have been branded a fool.

“Cross has a big following in the Philippines. A couple years ago he filled the national soccer stadium — fifty thousand seats and twice as many people hanging around outside.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Every Filipino man believes he has four talents: a great lover, a great boxer, an outlaw, and a singer.”

“And that’s Jimmy Cross.”

“Exactly.”

The bartender delivered the next round.

“Were you at the concert last night?”

“Sheila and I had tickets, but we got stuck at home. I heard he seemed spacey.”

Two women who seemed to have taken great pains to appear to be in their thirties, tanned, their hair blown out, their assets stuffed into strapless dresses, wedged between the men.

“Are you doctors?” asked the one closer to Peter.

Martin said he was a mechanic.

“I’ve never met an honest mechanic,” said the second woman.

“He’s kidding,” Peter said.

The women fixed their eyes on Martin.

“At the moment I’m trying to repair this young man’s heart, but I don’t have the right tools.”

When the women stared at his chest, Peter pulled his shoulders back.

The woman nearer Peter leaned toward him and asked, “What happened to your heart? Someone break it?”

“Crushed it,” said Martin.

“Poor baby.” Specks of mascara had settled on her cheeks, like cinders.

He pushed his lip down, pouting. When she turned to repeat herself to her friend, he noticed a pink weal half an inch above the upper edge of her dress.

Martin ordered a round for the women. The whisperer was a Katie; her friend was Jillian with a J.

The bartender delivered drinks to the women.

“What are these?” asked Jillian.

“It’s what the doctor ordered,” Peter said. His little joke seemed to sail over the women’s heads. Martin gave him a look that Peter translated as Cut the shit.

“Is it a White Russian?” Katie asked.

Martin curled a finger to draw them close. “It’s an Anchors Aweigh: bourbon, peach and cherry brandy, triple sec, and cream.”

The women frowned, but sipped their drinks.

“It tastes like poisoned candy,” Jillian said.

Martin reached over and took the woman’s drink away.

Laughing, Katie added, “Or like something my grandfather drinks in his basement.”

Martin said, “I doubt either of you has a living grandparent.”

Peter had warmed to Katie. She had a flirty habit of bumping her bare shoulder against him, and it had gotten so he’d started to anticipate the next collision.

But Martin’s comment hit its mark.

“What!” squawked Katie.

“Nasty,” Jillian said.

The women stood there sizzling like fuses, before storming off.

Peter said, “We should probably relocate before they enlist someone to teach us a lesson.”

Martin looked toward the door. “I won’t let anyone mess up your face before you’ve had a chance to take advantage of your station.”

“What station is that?”

“You’re going on tour.” Martin took a long sip of his drink. “Peg will tell you in the morning. Act surprised.”

Peter pulled his phone out of his pocket. No voice mails. No texts.

“You guys didn’t even call me.”

“I called as soon as we’d sorted out the details.”

That’s not what he’d meant. Why hadn’t anyone called him while his future was still being decided? “Thanks.”

“If someone gave me the choice between watching my kids graduate college or hearing Cross play ‘Sin Perdido’ live, I’m not sure which I’d pick.”

“You’d pick your kids.”

Martin tapped his glass against Peter’s. “I’ve never dreamed of watching my kids graduate.”

Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” played on the TV as Mariano Rivera walked from the bullpen to the mound.

A pair of large guys squeezed between the doctors and ordered four pitchers of beer — they wore matching T-shirts and goatees.

Peter glanced at the back of the room — maybe ten more men in goatees and T-shirts circled a table. A wave of laughter rippled through the group, and as it did Peter realized that they weren’t gathered around a table at all, but around Katie, his favorite shoulder bumper.

When the men carried the pitchers to the back of the room, Peter told his colleague they needed to leave.

“Not before Mo strikes out these cocksucking Rays.” Martin glanced at the back of the room. “Silver Surfer, you ever been in a fight?”

Peter understood he wasn’t talking over drinks with Dr. Vinoray — he was out with the Steel Retractors’ impulsive front man. A sour taste blossomed in Peter’s mouth. “In fourth grade.”

“How’d it start?”

On the TV, the batter took a defensive swing at an inside pitch. One out.

“This kid in my gym class pulled his arms in his sleeves so his elbows poked against the front of his shirt and he sort of made them go in every direction—”

“Like boobs.”

“Like Judith’s boobs.”

“I take it Judith wasn’t a fan of bras.”

Peter glanced at the back of the room. Nobody paid any attention to them. “His whole impression hinged on that fact.”

“You remember the kid’s name?”

Peter could picture him, his face as round as a pie. “Danny Macanudo.”

“And you defended Judith’s honor.”

“Something like that. Then he clobbered me with a rubber horseshoe.”

“Where’d he get a rubber horseshoe?”

“They were just there. Someone in the superintendent’s office probably bought a crate of them, figuring they’d be safe.”

On the TV, the batter sent a pitch bouncing to the second baseman, who relayed the ball to first in time. A base runner scampered to second.

The horseshoe had caught Peter in the side of the neck and dropped him as clean as a gunshot. The gym teacher, who’d been supervising the kids from his glass-walled office on the other side of the gym, had come loping over, pulled Peter to his feet, and told him to “walk it off.”

“You want to get in a fight now?” Martin asked.

“Why would I want that?”

“It’s hard to be depressed while someone’s kicking your ass.”

“You think I’m depressed?”

“How are you feeling about Lucy moving to Albany?”

“When did I tell you that?”

Martin pinned three twenties beneath his empty glass, pocketed the rest of the bills, and stood up. “You didn’t. She stopped by the house last weekend to say good-bye to Sheila and the kids.”

After watching two cutters almost bounce off the plate, the next batter camped out on a fastball and launched it out, out, into the October night, where it died, just short of the warning track, in the left fielder’s glove.

At the back of the room, the beer drinkers cheered.

“That’s the game,” Martin said. “Let’s get out of here before we get Macanudo’ed.”

21

When I open my eyes I see a lightbulb burning in a tulip-shaped glass fixture beneath the ceiling fan. A white dwarf of a headache throbs at the base of my skull. The bed is beside me. At some point in the night, after dreaming I was suffocating, I relocated to the braided rug.

My tongue is a fossil. I pull myself to the sink, where nausea shakes me. I shuck my clothes and climb into the shower, but though I turn the handles like an Etch A Sketch, the water doesn’t come. I make a rude orchestration on the toilet.

EMERGING FROM THE bathroom, I gather up my few things, my camera, a duffle of clothes I had hoped to launder, and my Dopp kit. I leave the spare key on the counter where Gene can’t miss it.

I slink down the stairs.

Gene’s car isn’t in the driveway, which is a relief.

Then I notice something strange about the Corolla. Gene let the air out of all four tires; it’s down on its rims. I’ve got a portable compressor that runs off the cigarette light, but it takes me almost an hour to get the tires filled. In that time three different women, all out walking dogs, make a point of crossing to the other side of the street, as though I’m some sort of criminal.

After I put the compressor away, I drive back to McDonald’s. There I order an Egg McMuffin and an orange juice. When I unwrap the sandwich, the smell is so strong I have to roll the windows down and hold the steaming parcel outside the car. The orange juice does its job — the citric acid cauterizes my mouth.

After the sandwich has cooled, threads of waxy cheese hang down, like barbels on a catfish. I take one bite, feel the bile rise in my throat, and spit it out. A seagull swoops over and chokes the piece down.

I tell myself that last night is behind me. The secret to staying on the tour (the secret to anything) is to keep moving forward.

My phone vibrates. It’s Gabby! I’m not in the mood to talk, but she doesn’t call often and almost never in the morning. Like her mother, she’s terrible at getting up. At thirty, she needs two alarm clocks and a programmable coffeemaker to spur her along.

Before I even say “hello” or “good morning,” my daughter says, “Daddy, I’m so mad at you.”

“If you need to yell at me, could you please use a soft and soothing voice, because I got poisoned last night.”

What does she do? She screams. “Listen to me, Daddy. You lied to me. You lied to your own daughter.”

That’s inconceivable. Gabby and I talk about twice a month, and always about her. Could I lie to her about her?

“Sweetie,” I say, “I want to meet your special friend, but you know there are places I have to be.” She knows that the tour goes on hiatus in early November.

Gabby says, “Even when I told you how disappointed I was, you repeated yourself: ‘There’s no way, sweetie.’ You made a big point about the tour skipping Tennessee because of all the bitter songwriters in Nashville. Well, I just learned he’s playing in Bowling Green, Daddy! Bowling Green!” Her voice drills into my tender head.

“It’s a fund-raiser for Mammoth Cave National Park. You don’t need to tell me his itinerary—”

“Bowling Green is ninety minutes from my house, Daddy!”

“It’s not in Tennessee, Gabby.”

“It’s an hour and a half from my house! Did you forget where I live?”

In some ways her anger, like the unforgiving braided rug I slept on last night, gives me comfort. Her anger reminds me where we stand in relationship to each other.

“Sweetie,” I say, “I didn’t realize you’re that close to Bowling Green.”

With her silence, Gabby makes it clear that she is calling to deliver a lecture, not to initiate a conversation.

I say, “After Lexington, maybe I can drive down to your place and meet this special person — we could have breakfast together. That would make me happy, Gabby.”

She says, “Mother calls you a sick old bat, and that’s exactly what you are.”

I wait for her to say more, but she knows she’s said enough.

“Are you still listening, sweetie?”

I hear her glowering.

I ask again if she is still on the line.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Daddy?”

I think about her question for a long time. I think and think some more. “What is it you want me to say?” But Gabby doesn’t hear my question. She’s hung up.

22

Kopp called in the morning and confirmed what Martin had said: the hospital’s administration planned to grant Peter a leave of absence to travel as Cross’s physician.

“You’re going to be the first physician to embed with a touring rock band.”

Peter stood in his kitchen, watching his coffeemaker create concentric ripples in the glass carafe. Tour, Peter thought — not like a scenic tour, but like a tour of duty.

“Everyone is very excited.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“They want to call you the Rochester Memorial/Tony Ogata Ambassador for Wellness.”

“But what would I do?”

“You’ll be available.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter noticed a dark form move in the window of his microwave; it was his own reflection. “Is this considered a promotion?”

“I believe it’s an appointment.”

An appointment, as far as Peter could tell, was an arrangement where a person received nonnegotiable currency — typically, prestige — in exchange for assuming additional responsibilities. “And this is official? Everyone assumed I’d do this?”

Peter thought he heard Kopp sigh.

“Remember how I said we had to find a way for people to save face? I think this plan represents a fairly elegant solution. Your director gets to tell her board that they’re partnering with Tony Ogata. Your hospital gets to look. . well, not innovative, but contemporary. And Mr. Cross gets someone to look after him.”

“What do I get?”

“You’ll get to practice medicine on a rock-and-roll tour.”

A word appeared in Peter’s head. That word was “boondoggle.”

“I still haven’t signed anything.”

“That’s correct. And we need to get everything in writing today. Mr. Cross will be in Buffalo tomorrow night and he expects you to be there.”

Peter had the sense that his calculations were merely repeating work done by someone else before him. And if that was the case, if someone else had bothered to follow this thread to its natural conclusion, then he didn’t have anything to worry about. His fate was cast.

“Don’t worry,” Peter said, “I’ll sign whatever they want me to sign.”

23

I’ve never grasped why anyone would call Jimmy’s performances the Endless Tour. His music will never go away. Fans will never stop decoding his lyrics. But his knock-kneed scarecrow stance won’t survive. How can anyone watch his silhouette follow the glow tape off the darkened stage and imagine the tour is endless?

I started taking pictures as a way to preserve the aspects of Cross’s life that aren’t captured in concert videos and on his albums. I’ve got pictures of the tour bus, of Jimmy getting into town cars and deplaning, passing through customs, the view through my windshield, Jimmy Cross impersonators, the tables selling merchandise, the meals I’ve eaten, the beds I’ve slept in, the faces of the crowds, the lighting schemes, Cross’s name spelled with black plastic letters, with lightbulbs, with LEDs, with lasers, on homemade signs, stenciled on the guitar cases and monitors, on bathroom walls and backstage passes.15 The only thing I won’t photograph is Cross on the stage.

Except for the pictures I showed Gene, no one else has seen my photographs — when your whole life is public, it’s a luxury to keep a few secrets.

I text my source on the tour: Can you get me the doctor’s name?

He responds almost instantly: Favors aren’t free.

$20? (I don’t know why I included a question mark.)

Hahaha.

I attempt to negotiate, but he tells me, basically, to stop wasting his time. The price of a name is fifty dollars. So I wire the money to his PayPal account. Five minutes later my phone beeps, a two-word message: Peter Silver. Just a name, no context, no mention of where he’s from or who he knows.

A Google search for a Peter Silver in Rochester helps to sketch things out. A Peter Silver finished in the middle of the pack of a First Responders 5K outside Rochester. Two years ago, a Peter Silver, M.D., spoke at a Boys and Girls Club banquet. And last fall Peter Silver, M.D., took part in a walkathon that raised $135,000 to fight pediatric obesity. Finally I find a picture cached, of all places, at a salsa dance studio — he’s got one hand on the waist of a spinning woman; her head is tilted back, and her hair flies out like a dervish. He bites his lower lip, he’s focused, you can hear him counting in his mind. It’s him, Cross’s late-night visitor. Rochester Memorial lists him as a “hospitalist.” What sort of business would bring a “hospitalist” to a hotel?

I feel hopeful. Despite a lingering hangover, I decide to drive to the lakeshore and look at the water.

You don’t need a map to find the lake in Buffalo. Follow your nose. The lake smells like ozone and, beneath that, orange soda — if you mention this to people in town they’ll argue, but that’s because they’ve grown accustomed to it. I drive around with my window cracked and pretty soon I arrive at a lakeside park.

On a day like this, when the wind teases the water into rows of teeth, it’s easy to think you’re looking at an ocean. Gulls perch on rotting pilings, facing into the wind; when they extend their wings, they don’t fly so much as levitate.

Another car pulls into the lot. The driver glances at me — she says something to me! No, she’s talking to someone on her phone. She leans across the passenger seat, lifts something, and stuffs it in her mouth. She’s eating french fries. She looks at me again and laughs. She’s about Gabby’s age.

Just like that, I’m thinking about my daughter. Why does she get angry so easily? She’s healthy. She’s not destitute. She has a job that she says she finds rewarding.16 And now there’s this person she wants me to meet. She’s found love! Does she live in a place where her friends are being murdered in the streets? Does she live in a place where her religion is mandated? Is the climate inhospitable? Is she told who she can and can’t associate with? No. No. No. No. She lives in America! Some women get used to sadness in the same way some men get used to having a mustache — they think it is part of who they are and forget that it’s a choice.17 Heaven forbid a father try to impart this wisdom to his daughter. Gabby tells me to worry about myself. But I have nothing to worry about. I’m perfectly happy, most of the time.

I spot a bicycle path alongside the lakefront and, despite the weather, I decide to go for a walk. I don’t want to get wet, but neither do I want to sit in the car just because there’s a chance I might get wet.

Also, in the back of my head, it occurs to me that both Gabby and Gene would opt to stay in the car. Since neither of them seems particularly happy, I elect to do the opposite.

There’s enough of a wind coming off the lake that I have to brace myself against it. I cinch my duster around my waist. Another car pulls into the lot. The driver’s hair is razored close to his scalp. He nods to me, another wandering soul.

I follow the path, which is dotted with puddles.

A duster is a very practical coat, especially a leather one such as mine. I got it in Australia in 1992. It’s both a simple jacket and, at the same time, dramatic. Mine’s got a flying yoke, which means that the back is shingled in a way that allows it to breathe. It keeps me dry from my neck to my ankles; I’ve slept in it more than once. On tour, people know me as the guy in the duster. The other thing I appreciate about a duster is that it’s a crime deterrent. Everyone’s seen the movie where the bad guy hides a shotgun in the folds of his coat. The duster is an unknown quantity, likewise its wearer.

•••

ON THE FAR side of a meadow, the path enters a stand of birch trees and I lose track of the lake. The blustery wind sets the white trunks of the trees swaying; I feel like a child lost in a crowd. How many people have lived in Buffalo all their lives and never visited this place? Even those who know about it probably blow right past on their bicycles or while jogging.

When the path emerges on the other side of the trees, it borders a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Inside the fence there’s a windowless factory. The wall of the building is a maze of pipes, holding tanks, and relief valves. A dozen aluminum chimneys jut into the sky.

A gust of wind catches the collar of my coat, causing it to slap my cheek. My hair is damp and cold droplets run down my neck. I turn around and start back. For the first time, I notice the grass is thatched with soda bottles and paper napkins, every kind of trash. How had I missed it before?

And then, coming up the path, I spot my kindred spirit, the driver from the other car. Like me, he’d rather engage with the world than sit in a hermetic bubble. He’s not a sad person; he’s smiling.

“I wondered where you went,” he says.

I say, “Great minds think alike,” meaning, I guess, that we haven’t been deterred by the weather.

He steps off the path and onto a trail that wends through the narrow trunks, toward the lake.

I ask if there’s a view that way. He says, See for yourself, or something to that effect. And because I have nowhere to be, nothing keeping me on the path, I follow him.

He wears those ankle-high rubber shoes, which I think are called duck boots. As the path gets spongier, the birch trees give way to these head-high reeds. The wind pushing through the brown stalks makes a sound like a thousand fingers counting money.

Somewhere close by the choppy water polishes the shore, but we haven’t reached there yet. My guide turns to me; I read a mixture of hope and embarrassment on his face. Sometimes I make the mistake of assigning my motivations to other people.

The stranger looks down and my eyes follow his. His penis has popped through the fly of his pants.

I spin around and make long, purposeful strides back toward my car. I glance over my shoulder to make sure he isn’t following me. The stranger stands there in his state.

“I have a wife,” I yell.

“Honey,” he says, “we all have wives.”

WHEN I GET back to the parking lot, the fry eater is still laughing on her phone.

24

At a little before nine, Peter found himself on Six West signing papers Peg Larsen had spread across her desk. One document released him from care delivery duties while another excused him from committee work. Each time she put a sheet of paper in front of him, she asked if he had any questions. He had lots of questions, but none he deemed worth asking. By the time they’d finished, he’d earned the right to add inaugural Rochester Memorial/Tony Ogata Ambassador for Wellness to his c.v.

“If he coughs,” Dr. Larsen said, looking Peter in the eye, “order a chest X-ray. If he gets a splinter, call a surgeon. Remember, just because you’re the only doctor in the room doesn’t mean you’re the only doctor.”

“I wouldn’t think that.”

Peg nodded. “The full support and resources of this institution are available to you around the clock. Identify yourself to the switchboard and they’ll patch you through to anyone on staff. If you need to fly someone out to consult, say the word.”

Despite Dr. Larsen’s lecture, Peter felt nothing less than hope.

There was a knock. Peg got up, paused with her hand on the doorknob. “You’re a good doctor, Peter. I shouldn’t have let things go as far as they did. Please understand this was never personal.”

Peter said, “Of course not.”

Peg sighed, turned the knob, and opened the door.

In walked Martin, carrying a tote bag from the hospital’s gift shop.

“Dr. Vinoray volunteered to serve as your supervisor.” Peg didn’t return to her chair, but stood behind it. “Since we haven’t done anything like this before, I thought you two should sit down for a few minutes and discuss how you can partner. And, I believe, Martin prepared a little kit.”

Martin lifted the tote like a watchman’s lamp. “It’s mostly stuff I want Cross to autograph.”

Peg took a step toward Peter, who pushed himself back from the table. “Please, don’t get up. I have to rush off to update the board. Keep him rocking, Dr. Silver.” She paused at the door. “I feel terrible about yesterday,” she said before excusing herself.

MARTIN HELD UP a thin plastic case. “She thinks I was kidding about the autographs. There’s a double-pressed forty-five of ‘Sunlight for Smoking’ in here. . if he signs it, it’s worth three grand.”

“Did she seem odd to you?”

Martin lowered himself into the director’s chair. “Peg’s got two responsibilities: avoid making the board look bad and protect her staff. Well, first Oblitz got his hat handed to him, and then she made it clear that anyone can get shitcanned if some snake-oil salesman takes an unhealthy interest in you. This hasn’t been her best week.”

“Do you think she’s mad at me?”

“Listen,” Martin said, stirring his arm in the bag, “somewhere in here there’s a first edition of a chapbook Cross published under the name Caesar Bonaparte — get him to sign it and I’ll make sure all your interns look like the weather girls on Spanish TV.”

“First, can you walk me through my responsibilities?”

Martin set the bag in front of Peter. “As far as the administration is concerned, this is just a big marketing gimmick — in a couple weeks there’ll be a billboard downtown featuring a resident in a black leather lab coat. Just keep him upright and don’t panic.”

“Why would I panic?”

“You’re a homebody, Silver. Shit, you’re the only person I’ve ever met who unboxes his eggs and puts them away in one of those egg shelves. It’s hard to picture you living out of a suitcase.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t bother you.”

Setting his heels on the edge of the desk, Martin leaned back in the chair and gave his hips a few slow pumps. “I’d manage.”

Peter took a deep breath. “I want to do this.”

“Yeah? You going to have fun?”

“Who can tell?”

Martin checked his phone. “Do me a favor, gin up an excuse to bring me out for the Green Bay show.”

“Is there a Packers game or something?

“The last time Cross performed in Green Bay, he was playing alto sax for the James Polk Purple Martins.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“They’re his high school marching band.”

“I had no idea you were such a fan.”

Martin dropped his feet to the floor. “I’m a fan of cheesecake and Julia Louis-Dreyfus. I’m a fan of the Knicks. Jimmy Cross is my hero.”

25

Dear Mr. Pennyman,

Please be more circumspect about what you write. You make it sound like JC is suffering from dementia! That is irresponsible of you. Maybe he had a senior moment. Or maybe he thought the crowd wasn’t paying attention. Regardless, you of all people need to stay positive.

Yours,

Ophelia in a spider wedding dress

(4/16/90, 6/02/95, 9/22/95, 8/01/99, 8/02/99, 10/05/06, 5/30/08, 6/01/08, 8/27/09, 9/08/10)

Dear Ophelia,

I’m sensitive to your concerns. If I can read between the lines here, you might be assuming that what happened in Rochester did in some way resemble his stumble in Stamford (10/05/06) — which (check the archives) I didn’t report. These were very different incidents, which is why I reported (I did not sensationalize) what happened in Rochester. Trust me when I say that you and I are on the same side.

Best,

Arthur Pennyman

I have a friend at a recording studio in Austin, TX. They were told to reserve the studio for a three-week period starting the second week of January! Any chance that Cross might be recording a new album?

Hi.

He’s certainly due for a new album (overdue, really). And mid-January would make sense, since he likes to spend holidays with his grandkids. That said, as far as I know he’s never recorded in Texas. In recent years he’s favored studios in the UK (Off the Map and Later than That were both recorded outside Glasgow). But he’s expressed his fondness for SXSW (he called it “Woodstock with better weather”18). Still, I’d characterize this as a long shot. I know some of the aliases his people use when they’re doing things on the sly. If your friend tells me “who” reserved the studio, I might be able to give you more information.

Best,

Arthur Pennyman

Sir,

I’ve been a big fan since ’65. My wife and I saw the second show in Boston. Let me tell you, as a person who knew him when, it’s over. He was terrible, incoherent. It was, at best, passable country-western. Sure, he played a few classics, but I’ve heard better renditions in an elevator!

Maybe you know the anecdote about the frog and the skillet. You drop a frog in a hot pan it jumps out. But you put a frog in a cold pan and then put a fire under it. . frog cooks. I’m telling you, it’s time to JUMP!

Aggrieved,

Matt Powell

Dear Matt,

Great artists reinvent themselves. Do they do this in order to disorient their fans? No. They do it so that they don’t die. They do it to keep their eyes and ears open. Why do so many great bands emerge when the members are in their early twenties? Because the musicians have just invented themselves. Why do so few of those bands endure? Because they try to maintain the status quo.

I am not the frog in your analogy. I am the pan. Cross is the fire. Think about it.

Best,

Arthur Pennyman

Pennymaker,

What are the chances he’ll play “Fountain-Headed Mistress” again? You said he played the opening bars last year in Savannah. Do you think that was a mistake or a tease? I’ve been eyeing the Ann Arbor stop. I keep thinking about that line, “she twisted her neck on Minerva Street.” There’s a Minerva Road in Ann Arbor! I used to live right around the corner. If I can swing a cheap flight I might go. Your thoughts?

Your friend,

A. R. Muniz

Dear A. R. Muniz,

I don’t think anyone expects him to play “F.H.M.” again. Before Savannah, he stopped midway through at the Vancouver Music Fest (8/12/95). Some people think he finds the song too painful to play. But he plays “Hours of Trespass” all the time and that’s about his brother’s death. I tend to think he doesn’t trust the song. I haven’t heard anyone place the song anywhere before, so I suppose Ann Arbor’s a possibility. If he plays it and you’re not there, you’ll kick yourself.

Best,

Arthur Pennyman

Fellow Traveler,

When will Mr. Cross come back Japan? It has been a very long time.

Sincerely,

Yukio

Dear Yukio,

You’re right. It’s been too long. I don’t follow the Japanese economy very closely, but hasn’t there been a recession? Perhaps the Powers That Be are waiting for the economy to rebound.

Best,

Arthur Pennyman

Dear Mr. Pennyman,

My name is Teresa South. I’m doing Performance Studies in the Anthropology Department at the University of Utah. Currently I am conducting research on fanatics (fans). A colleague directed me to your site. If you have a few moments, would you please answer the following questions? Your answers, unless you specify otherwise, will be anonymous. Thank you in advance:

How long have you been a fan of Jim Cross?

How many hours a week do you spend on activities related to Jim Cross?

Are you personally acquainted with Jim Cross?

Has your fandom affected your personal relationships?

Do you follow sports?

Do you think Jim Cross would recognize you on the street?

Can you imagine a circumstance that would cause you to stop being a fan? Describe.

About what percentage of your income do you spend on Jim Cross- related activities?

(Optional) Have you ever been treated for or diagnosed with a mental illness?

If you have any questions or concerns, I would be glad to answer them. If you wish to speak with my faculty advisor, I’m happy to put you in touch with them.

Thank you.

Teresa South

P.S. My middle name is Calico. And, yes, after “Calico Floozy”! My parents didn’t realize that most people know the song title, but aren’t aware that Calico is not a floozy, but very chaste.

Dear Teresa,

What an interesting subject. I am more than happy to respond to your questionnaire.

Like most people, I can’t really identify a time before I knew Cross’s music — it might surprise you to know that I haven’t always been a fan. In fact, I didn’t connect to his music until I saw him perform a live show.

The short answer is that I spend all of my hours on Cross, easily seventy to eighty hours each week.

I met Cross for the first time on 4/26/91, at a Mexican restaurant called La Noche in San Antonio. Sadly the restaurant has since been renovated into a cat hospital. He was having dinner with his stage manager and a woman I didn’t recognize. He was very friendly.

I don’t have space (and you don’t have time) for me to answer this question. The short answer is: profoundly.

I watch football games on occasion, but I would not say I follow the sport.

On the street? How about from a few blocks away. As of today I have seen Jimmy perform 2317 live concerts. He would probably recognize me even if I wore a disguise.

In 1996, I was in a car accident outside of Flagstaff, Arizona, that fractured my left tibia. I saw the show that night and the next day I drove a rental car to Las Vegas. Not to be insensitive, but the closest I’ve come to missing a show was after 9/11. Cross played Chicago on 9/10 and flew to Miami that night. I was scheduled to fly at midday the next day, but, of course, the flights were canceled. I would have missed that show, but Cross didn’t perform — there was a feeling that six thousand people under one roof for a concert would be disrespectful; plus we’d be sitting ducks for the terrorists.

I spent 100 % of my personal wealth following his tour. More recently, I have spent approximately 60 % of an inheritance to continue this project. Should Cross tour into his eighties, I will almost certainly be destitute.

I think you should reconsider whether you want to ask this question of your subjects. For one thing, if a certain number of people happen to answer in the positive, then you will find yourself in the position of reinforcing what I think to be a rather hurtful stereotype (that fans are nuts). Second, I don’t see how it relates to the other questions. It comes out of the blue. Has your advisor looked at this questionnaire? Does he or she approve? And why, if you’re going to bother asking, do you say it’s “Optional”?

Sorry if that the last question triggered such a strong response. Please don’t get the impression that I resented your email. This was a lot of fun!

Best,

Arthur Pennyman

There are also a number of emails that I do not respond to. I’ve included some below:

Jimmy smokes dog cock. Neil Young Rules.

(A bully, my father used to say, is a person who punches someone when they want to punch themselves. Neil Young Guy is a man in Oklahoma.19 He emails at least once a week. “Don’t point at the monkeys in the zoo,” was the advice offered by Captain Bisquick,20 my informal tour mentor during my first year on the road. In CB’s formulation, a “monkey” was anybody not on tour, while the “zoo” was the cage everyone’s life tended toward. One didn’t point because reminding the monkeys they were caged only inflamed them.)

Dear Mr. Pennyman,

We are writing to update you on our continued search for Kathleen Potts, our only daughter. As you may remember, she has not been seen nor heard from since July 8, 2002. Credit card records show she purchased a ticket for the Jim Cross concert that night (like you, she is a big fan of the musician). We know also that she had rented a hotel room within walking distance of the concert hall.

My husband and I have attached a picture of Kathleen to this email. If you see her, please call us immediately. There is a $15,000 reward for information that leads us to her. If you’d be willing, we’d like to send you more copies of the Missing Person poster.

Thank you again for your time,

Ellen and Dale Potts

(Maybe something terrible happened. Or maybe she doesn’t want to be found. I’ve looked at the picture many times. If I saw her, I believe I’d recognize her. But what I’d do then, I can’t say. Though they don’t mention it in their note, Kathleen was twenty-five when she disappeared. She’d be thirty-three now. I don’t reply because I’ve got no news for them and the last thing they need is for me to feed them hope.)

26

At ten the next morning, Peter said good-bye to his condo and his charmless car and took a cab to the Regency. He brought a large roller suitcase stuffed with clothes and personal effects. A smaller carry-on contained — in addition to the memorabilia — basic medical supplies: nitrile exam gloves, gauze and tape, burn dressing, two compressions bandage, a glucose meter, an IV kit, one bag of glucose, one bag of sodium chloride, one bag of Hespan, one bag of sterile water, a blood pressure cuff, a penlight, two insulin pens and two epinephrine pens, heat packs and cold packs, an intubation kit, a suture kit, a portable pulse oximeter, a stethoscope, a CPR mask, Ativan and tramadol, ibuprofen and Ambien, an infrared thermometer. He had enough space left over for the portable defibrillator that the band’s insurance rider required travel with Cross.

Peter had agreed to meet Bluto in the hotel’s lobby at ten-thirty, but the manager was nowhere to be seen. The elevators kept burping out people in suits and ties.

A few minutes after eleven, the elevator shuddered to a stop and a bellhop wrestled two overloaded brass carts into the lobby. He towed the luggage past the front desk, out a side door, and parked it beside the valet station.

“You been here long?” Bluto wore a maroon tracksuit that made him look like a tick. His smooth cheeks looked slapped.

“Not too long,” Peter said.

“You ready to get your cherry popped?”

“Something like that.”

“I’ll tell you when we’re ready to go.”

Peter looked toward the hotel’s entrance. A glossy black bus had pulled up to the curb. As he watched, the driver went around unlatching the side compartments.

“You want a hand?”

“Don’t be a Boy Scout.” The tour manager rolled Peter’s luggage outside, shaking his head.

At eleven-thirty Peter’s phone buzzed. Bluto asked, “Where are you?”

The driver waited by the door of the bus, gray curls stuck out beneath a Greek fisherman’s cap. Peter introduced himself. “Okay,” the man said, “don’t make us late.”

Two booths and a deep leather sofa constituted a little lounge at the front of the coach. Bluto sat in the second booth, a sheaf of spreadsheets and a laptop in front of him. A heavy blue curtain blocked off the rest of the bus

“Is it just us?” Peter asked.

Bluto hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “The rest of the inmates are getting some undeserved rest.”

“Should I say hello to Mr. Cross?”

Bluto checked his watch. “Mr. Cross is in California.”

Peter wished he’d brought a magazine.

The driver took his seat and closed the front door. “We clear for takeoff?” he asked.

Without looking up, Bluto said, “Kick it.”

A few miles outside of Buffalo, a barefoot kid in a chef’s hounds- tooth slacks and a black T-shirt emerged from behind the curtain. He slid into the booth across from Bluto.

“You need something?” the road manager asked, still tapping away at his computer.

The kid pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and flattened it on the table.

“I’m not reading that,” Bluto said.

“Björk’s percussionist has a donkey jawbone. I want one.”

“Where do I find something like that?”

“I don’t know. Iceland?”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, who’s the golfer?”

The manager cleared his throat, turned ever so slightly toward Peter. “Dr. Silver is a friend of Jimmy’s.”

Peter said, “Hello.”

“Is he cool?”

“He’s a board-certified doctor, if that’s what you mean.”

The kid pulled at his lip. “You’re not a journalist?”

“I’m a hospitalist.”

“I sit behind the plates,” the kid said. “Name’s Albert.”

Bluto took the kid’s note and shoved it in his pocket. “If you show the doctor around when we get to the joint, I’ll have Wayne track down your thing.”

Albert slid out from the booth, stopping in front of Peter. “I’ll see you later, donkey bone.”

•••

Bluto said, “His girlfriend is a famous Polish conceptual artist.”

“I don’t know any Polish conceptual artists.”

“I’ve met her a few times. She looks about fifty because she was born under communism.”

“How old is he?”

“Albert turns twenty next month.” Bluto looked up and smiled. “Not bad for a kid who was homeschooled in a van.”

The bus started to rattle as the driver swung them toward an exit ramp.

“Should we talk about your expectations for my role on the tour?”

Bluto closed his laptop. “Let’s be clear, I don’t have any expectations. I do, however, have a rule: don’t make us late. I’m paid to babysit the band. People not in the band need to be self-sufficient. Wayne will give you a copy of the itinerary each morning. Don’t lose it.”

“Is there an itinerary for today?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but we sort of overlooked you.”

Martin had warned Peter that the music industry was, in many ways, the inverse of the health care industry. While the health care industry valued order and discipline, the music world revered disorder and risk. When he was on his way to a gig with the Steel Retractors, Martin made it a point not to wear his seat belt; he believed that acts of self-preservation were fundamentally antithetical to strapping on a guitar. Of course, Martin’s car weighed five thousand pounds and, in the event of an accident, he’d find himself cocooned in ten Teutonic air bags. If Martin wanted to embrace the rock-and-roll spirit, Peter thought, he ought to buy a motorcycle.

“Do me a favor,” Bluto said, “don’t tell Jimmy that we forgot about you.”

Peter asked when he might see the musician.

“You’re having dinner with him.”

The bus shuddered to a halt alongside a row of hooded parking meters. The driver turned on the intercom: “Welcome to Buffalo, Lake Erie’s asshole.”

27

I’ve been looking forward to Buffalo ever since the show was announced. Cross is appearing at the Stanley Opera Center, a refurbished Beaux Arts showplace.21 The building has a great story. In the sixties, in disrepair, the original Wurlitzer organ was entombed in a plywood box, while the stage (where Caruso sang!) was walled off to create a movie screen. But a few years ago a new ownership group set about restoring the place. They brought in artisans to repaint the house-sized frescoes that bracket the stage. From the crimson velvet wallpaper to the soap powder dispensers in the washrooms, the place is period correct. The brass pipes of the organ give off a nautical gleam.

The Stanley seats only 3,200 people, making it one of the most intimate venues Cross plays. The space is renowned for how it showcases the human voice.22 That matters, because when the sound is good Cross can loosen the reins and allow nuance to sneak into the songs. For example, I had no idea “Fatty Arbuckle” was a song about moral turpitude in Vietnam until I heard him sing it at the Metropolitan Opera House.

I’m feeling quite optimistic, in part because this morning, in room 11 of the Barge Inn — I wouldn’t have been there if not for Gene — I realized that if I’m ever going to read the book about Cross’s life on the road, I’m going to have to write it myself.

Imagine: the day has already been auspicious, and there’s still a show to attend.

28

People started to gather on the sidewalk as soon as the bus stopped. But for the fact that they weren’t carrying signs, they resembled the sort of folks one might see protesting a nuclear reactor or genetically modified foods. The women, Peter noticed, preened as though the bus were a full-length mirror. They tilted their heads so that their necks appeared elongated, vulnerable. The men leaned against the building, as remote as cowboys.

A woman wearing a gray linen dress walked over to the bus, kissed her fingers, and touched them to the window, leaving a damp smudge on the glass.

Albert appeared next to Peter. “Watch this,” the drummer said, pressing the palm of his hand against the glass.

The crowd surged forward, phones waving like cilia. Peter recalled reading that in medieval times, a castle only raised its flag when the king was present.

“My hand is all over the Internet.”

Bluto said, “That’s something you can tell your grandkids.” A line of text bounced inside the border of his laptop’s screen. Rendered in fuchsia, the screen saver read, “Why Are You Looking at This?”

“Should we sally forth?” Albert asked.

The obvious answer was no.

But when they stepped off the bus, the crowd parted to let the men through. Peter could sense that people scanned his face, but his face didn’t hold their attention. What surprised him was that they didn’t seem to give much notice to Albert either.

Once they’d cleared the block, Peter said, “The fans don’t bother you.”

“Most can’t even see me,” the drummer said, tapping a new pack of cigarettes against the palm of his hand. “They figure I’m delivering pizzas. I’ll take indifference over the stickheads who want to know what brand of stool I ride.”

They turned a corner, ducked under a strand of yellow caution tape, and squeezed between an eighteen-wheeler and another custom motor coach.

Albert nodded toward the bus. “This is the Trojan Horse. Late tonight, while you and I are catching Zs in our hotel, the roadies will crate things up and head off to the next stop.”

“What do you call the bus we were on?”

“I think it’s just the bus.”

They came to a wide steel door set in a featureless brick wall. Albert tried to pull it open, but it was locked. He pushed a buzzer.

A damp wind funneled past the building; Peter, in a thin corduroy jacket, dress shirt, and khakis, shivered. He hoped someone would answer so they could get inside.

“They might be taking lunch,” the drummer said.

“Should we try another door?”

Albert shook his head. He plugged a cigarette into his mouth and lit it. “I tried quitting,” he said, “but my girlfriend smokes and if I stop I can’t stand the way she smells. Now I have one a day, like a vitamin.”

“Bluto said she’s Polish.”

With the same hand that held the burning cigarette, Albert reached out and straightened the lapels of the doctor’s jacket. “Is there a part of the body you favor?”

It took Peter a moment to untangle the question. “I’m not a specialist, if that’s what you mean.”

The kid turned and beat his fist against the door. “So what’s wrong with him?”

“I can’t discuss a patient’s health. It’s against the law.”

Albert dropped his cigarette and ground it under the sole of his shoe. “So he’s your patient.”

Peter heard a bolt slam, then the door swung outward.

A doughy guy, dressed in filthy black clothes and dark aviator sunglasses, smiled at Albert. Except for his forehead and two semicircles beneath his eyes, the man’s whole head was covered uniformly with salt and pepper stubble. “Who’s your boyfriend?”

“This is the Big Man’s doctor,” the drummer said. “Bluto’s paying me to show him around.”

The man raised a pink, tender-looking hand in greeting. “Welcome to our corner of the quotidian. I’m the Blister.”

Peter introduced himself.

“Is there a name for the band’s bus?” Albert asked.

“You guys stay in the Toolshed, the gear rides in the Attic, and the Big Man rides in the Taj.”

“Where is the Taj?” Albert asked.

“It’s being converting to run on fry-oil,” said the Blister, “because of all the carbon-footprint Bolsheviks.”

“We fly most of the time,” added Albert.

“That’s what they call the royal we,” the Blister said. “Now, if you gentlemen don’t mind, I have to get back to work.”

PETER FOLLOWED ALBERT across a cement-floored staging area. They pushed through a curtain of heavy translucent plastic, past crates and boxes, and onto a black-planked stage. The houselights were off. Peter could make out only the first few rows of seats, but the sound of their echoing footsteps gave him a sense of the space. On a battered plywood riser, tilted cymbals, tom-toms, and a bass drum crowded around a yellow leather stool; the arrangement reminded Peter of a device his middle-school science teacher had used to demonstrate the orbits of the planets. Albert picked a yardstick off the stage and went about measuring the height of the leading edge of the drumheads, the separation between the hi-hats, the distance between the pedals on the floor. Then, after making some minute adjustments to the setup, he mounted the stool and measured everything again, this time with a pair of drumsticks in his hands.

At any moment, Peter expected the kid to uncork a little flourish, but he didn’t play.

“I imagine this is a dream job, playing with Jimmy.”

Albert squinted. “You see my name on the tickets?”

“Point taken,” said the Rochester Memorial/Tony Ogata Ambassador for Wellness.

Albert pointed his toe at a metal-reinforced box sitting on the corner of the riser. “Take a peek in there.”

Peter was reminded of those black-box data recorders designed to survive plane crashes. He flipped a pair of chrome latches and lifted the lid.

“It’s like seeing Dorothy’s ruby slippers, huh?”

Peter activated his phone’s camera. Clasping his wrist with his free hand, like a pistol marksman, he took a picture and forwarded it to Martin.

A moment later, Peter’s phone rang.

“I’m with a patient,” Martin said.

“You called me.”

“She has a question for you.”

A woman’s voice came over the line. “Are those Jimmy Cross’s harmonicas?”

“They are.”

“That’s so cool.”

Martin got back on the line. “If you didn’t need this so bad, I’d probably be jealous.”

Peter thanked his friend before hanging up. He felt as though someone had breathed on a coal inside his chest, as though some dull and ashy part of himself suddenly gave off light.

His phone vibrated as a text came in: Asshole.

29

Some people kill time, but I prefer to fill time. That’s why, instead of reading the newspaper or ducking into a bar, I choose to head over to Buffalo Airfield.

Before 9/11,23 a person could drive right onto the runway at most executive airports. Airstrips were tranquil, dreamy places; I never had any trouble getting copies of flight plans or manifests. I’d eat my lunch and watch a local orthodontist practice touch-and-goes in a kit plane he’d assembled in his garage.

Now there are gates and guardhouses. If I park outside the perimeter fence, sooner or later someone will come by to make sure I’m not part of a sleeper cell.

DRIVING AROUND THE airfield, every dirt turnout has a sign reminding me that the area is under surveillance and I need to keep moving. I wind up a quarter mile away, in the parking lot of a Jo-Ann Fabrics. It’s farther away than I’d like, but it’s under the approach path and no one is going to give me trouble for being there.

Cross is just one person, but he’s surrounded by a huge, grinding machine and that machine sometimes telegraphs its intentions. I think that’s why, some nights, I can guess which song he’ll play next — it doesn’t happen often, but when it comes to me I’m never wrong.

Sitting in the parking lot, I get the feeling that Jimmy is about to appear.

I glass the runway with my binoculars; my eyes pass over the Cessnas guy-wired to the ground, the tiny little control tower studded with radio antennae, and one of those whirligigs they use to gauge the wind. A man stands beside a Piper Cub; the engine cowling is folded back. An orange pickup makes a slow circuit inside the control fence. Near the tower, an old-timer astride a girl’s bike rides circles around a tied-up mutt. I check my watch. It’s a little after six. The doors open in less than an hour.

MY PHONE RINGS. It’s Patricia. She knows I have to answer because we have a child together.

“Hello, Arthur.”

“Did you have another dream?” Back in August she called to tell me that she’d dreamed that I’d died “alone in a hotel room” and she wanted me to make arrangements so, if I did pass away, Gabby wouldn’t be the one to be notified by the police — in Patricia’s dream, the police had called our daughter at work.

“Don’t be a curmudgeon. Are you in Buffalo?”

“Is that why you called, to ask where I was?”

“Promise me you’re going to see Gabrielle when you get down to Kentucky.”

“I talked with Gabby yesterday.”

“I know that. Why do you think I called you? I want you to promise me that you will see her. Don’t screw this up.”

Two blocks away, I spot a black limousine waiting at a traffic light.

I promise her that I’ll see Gabby.

“It appears you were off for a couple days. How’d that go?”

She’s needling me.

“Yesterday I told someone I was married.”

I have her attention, because all of a sudden she’s quiet.

“It was a slipup.”

“I hope you’re not losing your marbles.”

The limousine pulls up in front of the airfield’s gate. I watch the gatekeeper pedal over.

“Is there anything else?”

“Give Gabrielle your approval.”

“Don’t I need to know what I’m approving?”

“No,” Patricia says, almost yelling.

The orange truck jounces across the infield.

“Repeat after me: I will give her my approval.”

“I will give her my approval.”

“You sound distracted.”

I recite my line again.

“I got my hair cut last week,” Patricia says. “I’m too old to wear it long. Maybe if I were a public intellectual.”24

I tell her she’s not that old.

“You’d probably say I look like a lesbian.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.”

A small jet roars overhead. The tires kiss the runway and leave a puff of white smoke. I tell Patricia I have to go.

“For a person who does nothing, you stay awfully busy. Aunt Liddy would be so proud.”

Patricia specializes in the parting shot. Sometimes it feels as though she’s giving herself an alibi in case anyone ever accuses her of caring about me. It doesn’t escape me that she knew I was in Buffalo — she bothered to check.

30

Albert and Peter had taken up seats in the front row of the auditorium. Tilting their heads back, they watched the new Kev as she crawled around the catwalks above the stage.

“What happened to the old Kev?” Peter asked.

Albert shook his head. “Vertigo. He couldn’t climb a stepladder.”

“Did he see a doctor?”

“Bluto diagnosed him as unemployable. We left him in Boston. You don’t know how to play mah-jongg, do you?”

Peter conceded that he didn’t.

“He and Sutliff used to play before we’d go on.”

“Figuring out things to do with your downtime must be a challenge.”

“You’re talking to a musician. Downtime is my preferred medium.”

People walked across the stage, flaking out coils of electrical cable, arranging guitars like weapons in an armory. A guy in camouflage cached water bottles beside every piece of stationary equipment.

FLETCHER TAPPED PETER on the shoulder and asked if he wanted to sit behind the boards while the band ran through their sound check.

If he stayed where he was, Peter thought he would feel a lot like an audience member, so he followed the technician to a control booth at the back of the room.

“Welcome to the doghouse,” Fletcher said, holding the door for the doctor.

The room reminded Peter of a poster that had hung on the wall of his boyhood home, a fish-eye perspective of the space shuttle’s cockpit. But while the space shuttle required a pilot and copilot, Fletcher flew solo.

Judith had given Peter the poster as a birthday gift and then hung it in their living room among her things. Judith didn’t care about boundaries. All their clothes shared a closet, for example. And she refused to close the door to her bedroom, because she thought that on some level he would perceive that as a rejection. They’d been inseparable. Judith had always been his best friend, even when it was embarrassing. She let him know that his favorite things to do were her favorite things. On spring days, while the whole town smelled of ferns, she would take him down to a stream where they’d turn over rocks and hunt for salamanders. He remembered summer afternoons in the town’s arcade, the parquet floor slippery with sawdust from the tabletop shuffleboard, his mother bumping her hip against a pinball machine. He’d been seven and ten and fourteen and Judith was always there. She used to wear a leather bracelet with his name tooled in red. No museum is better guarded than the human heart.

•••

WHEN THE SOUND check started, the band played on top of one another, a tangled dissonance. Fletcher moved over the board, tweaking the settings on his switches, slides, and dials. At times he’d ask the band to take five while he investigated the source of a particular buzz or echo. When they weren’t playing, the musicians basked in the stage lights, as cold-blooded as lizards.

Fletcher wore a pair of headphones around his neck, not unlike a stethoscope. Every so often he’d lift them to his ears.

He made a hundred inscrutable adjustments to the board before asking the band to move on to another song. The musicians barked requests in jargon: cool it down, less edge, drop the ceiling, add some rust. After repeating the opening, they lifted their thumbs. The guys swapped guitars before repeating the process.

“How do you know what to adjust?”

“Before this gig, I ran the boards for a Monsters of Metal tour,” Fletcher said. “Back then I had to reinvent the wheel every night, but these guys are professionals. If I’m feeling bored I’ll tweak one of the midrange frequencies and we’ll play our version of Battleship. Dom can usually pinpoint the issue after two or three notes.”

Peter confessed that Albert was the only band member he knew.

“Don’t sweat it,” Fletcher said. “I ran the board for fifteen months before anyone bothered to learn my name.” He pointed to a thickset man wearing a brown, flat-brimmed fedora. “Dom’s the one who looks like a Cuban exile. The skinny tree next to him is Sutliff.”

At the back of the stage there was a guy wearing two guitars, one almost up to his armpits and the other down over his knees. “Who’s that?”

“James Blonde is a tech. He stands in for Jimmy during sound checks.”

“Mr. Cross doesn’t do sound checks?”

Fletcher reached under the soundboard and grabbed a soda fountain drink. He had a long pull on the straw. “Are you asking me as a doctor or as a curious person?”

“As a doctor, I guess.”

“The doctor is in,” said Wayne Shiga. Bluto’s assistant must have joined them while Peter was watching the band.

Peter couldn’t remember what he’d been talking about.

Wayne bumped fists with Fletcher, then, looking at Peter, he said, “You ready for your date?”

People like Wayne, the perpetually blasé, annoyed Peter. It wasn’t enough that they thought he was square, they wanted everyone else to think so as well.

“Ready and raring,” Peter said.

“Try not to get wood.”

Act dignified, thought Peter.

Wayne led him through the lobby, out the front of the hall, and helped him into a waiting cab. “When you get to the restaurant, make sure your phone is off. Listen to Cyril.”

Peter said he understood.

“Good cowboy,” Wayne said, like an asshole.

The cabbie pulled away from the curb. Where, Peter wondered, was he going to meet Cross? He imagined a private dining room, a dim enclave where surfaces were walnut or leather. He took his phone out. No calls. No messages. Anyone who emailed him would receive an autoreply explaining that he was unavailable. He’d been on the tour for seven hours, but it felt like he’d slipped the bonds of time.

•••

THE CAR STOPPED in front of a red vinyl banner announcing “New India Palace Takeout/Delivery.” A yellow Heineken sign blinked in the window.

“This is it,” said the cabbie, an otherwise unremarkable man who had the Union Jack tattooed on his forehead.

“What do I owe?”

The driver shook a hand in front of the rearview mirror. “It’s been taken care of.” Peter was relieved — he needed to stop by an ATM and get some cash.

Cyril waited beside the door to the restaurant. “This way, doc.”

As he jogged toward the bodyguard, Peter noticed his reflection in the restaurant’s plate-glass window was bent over like a person getting out of a helicopter.

Cyril set a hand as heavy as a saddle on the Peter’s shoulder. “The Big Man’s waiting for you in back.”

Peter walked past a gilded Ganesh and a stone pagoda studded with silk flowers, past empty two-tops and four-tops, to a booth near the bathroom. The table was set for four, but Cross was by himself. He wore a white cowboy hat and a shirt as pale as a winter sky.

Cross smiled, extending a hand toward the empty spot opposite him. “Grab a seat.”

Peter slid onto the bench.

“You been to Buffalo before?”

“Once or twice.” Peter looked around the empty restaurant. “Is the food good?” The question glittered in its stupidity. How much would Martin pay for the chance to eat bad Indian food with his hero? Five grand? Ten?

Cross locked his fingers together and set them on the table. “It’s going to be good for me to have you out here. I can feel it.”

“You’ll have to let me know what I can do to help.”

The singer sucked in a deep breath. “See, you’re already helping.”

“Have you had any more problems with slippery time?”

Leaning forward, Cross said, “Hey, I hope Tony didn’t cause you too much of a headache.”

Peter sipped his water. “It’s all cleared up.”

Cross set his hat down beside him. “I wanted to introduce you to someone, but it looks like we’ve been stood up.”

Who would have the nerve to stand Cross up? Maybe the singer meant something else.

Two waiters burst out of the kitchen carrying crowded trays, the food hidden beneath aluminum domes. The waiters lifted the lids, releasing puffs of cottony steam. Potatoes, lentils, and curry in every combination. Green beans and golden onions. One of the waiters set two sweating bottles of Kingfisher beer on the table, then poured them silently into the tilted necks of pilsner glasses. Peter had shared a Kingfisher with Lucy once, at a Malaysian place where the waiters whispered around in slippers.

Cross ladled things onto his plate. “I can never remember what I like, so I got us a bit of everything.” He pointed at a sauce. “Watch out for that stuff. India’s full of contradictions — they make red food that tastes cool and green stuff that can strip paint.”

Though he couldn’t imagine eating, Peter loaded his plate.

“So, what made you decide you wanted to be a doctor?”

Most of the people Peter met in med school had familial connections in the profession — medicine happens behind closed doors, and the same mechanisms that protect the privacy of the patient protect the privacy of the practice. For Peter, becoming a doctor wasn’t the fulfillment of a dream, so much as the culmination of a process. He said, “People kept telling me I ought to look into medicine. Eventually, I listened.”

“Was Judith one of those people?”

Peter shook his head.

“Is there something funny about that?”

“She doesn’t care what I do. She just wants me to be happy.”

Cross said, “I always figured my son would make a good healer.”

“Healer” had to be Peter’s least favorite euphemism. Doctors treated and prescribed. They operated and they educated. Doctors didn’t heal.

“What does your son do?”

“Alistair Cross? He’s a musician.”

“I think I knew that.”

“Small Ideas, that’s his band.” Cross took a sip of his beer.

“Right,” Peter said. “Do you have other kids?”

“Allie’s got a younger sister, Bea, and two half-sisters, Rebekah and Ludella. I’ve got five grandkids, too.” Cross leaned back in the booth. “Do you, maybe, play an instrument or make art or something?”

“I don’t. I do not.”

The waiters had disappeared somewhere; they never returned to the table. The two men ate in almost perfect silence. Peter stuffed his mouth with food; it seemed safer than speaking.

“I’m grateful that you came out.”

Was Cross talking about dinner or the tour? The ambiguity made responding a challenge. Peter said, “I’m looking forward to the show.”

“I never talk about a performance beforehand. It helps to cultivate a little mystery.”

Peter noticed the lights at the front of the restaurant had been turned off.

“Did Judith have anything to say about you coming out on the tour?”

“She said the Sunbeam belonged to you, but you let her borrow it.”

“Did I tell you it was her car?”

Peter wasn’t certain what he remembered from that night. And now they were eating Indian food in Buffalo. What would he remember from tonight? “Thanks for this opportunity.”

“If anything, I should be the one thanking you.”

“Well, thanks for dinner,” Peter said.

Cross raised his hand, signaling Cyril. “See, there you go again.”

31

After the opening act takes their bow, a fan walks up to me in black, double-knit pants, and a skinny red dress shirt with mother-of-pearl snaps. Ostrich boots peek out from under the wide cuffs of his pants. He’s young, barely out of his twenties. The first thing he says is “Have you been to CrossTracks today?”

I say, “I try to stay off the websites.”

“But you’re Pennyman, right?”

I tell him I am Arthur Pennyman.

He scuffs his feet on the floor, giving me every opportunity to walk away.

“You know there’s a thread about you?”

There are no fewer than three threads about me, which is what I intend to tell the kid, when I notice that the conversations around us have ceased and that all these silent people are sort of discreetly moving toward us.

“Are you talking about a new thread?”

“Supposedly Cross saw a doctor in Rochester. Right? You took a picture of him.”

The kid seems to be after a reaction quote. A house burns down and they shove a microphone in the owner’s face. After a school gets shot up, they ask a victim’s parent how they’re coping.

I say exactly what’s on my mind. I say, “Wow.”

“It seems plausible after how weird that show was.”

I nod my head, not like I’m agreeing with him, but to confirm that I’m listening.

“Weird, how?”

“Like, right, he almost fell down.”

“So, were you at the show in Rochester?”

The kid blinks. We both know he’s done.

“Because, right, I was actually at the show,” I say.

One of the eavesdroppers, a guy about my age with hairy nostrils — it looks like he’s been snorting woolly bear caterpillars — abandons the pretext that he’s not paying attention and asks me, “Is it true? Is he seeing a doctor?”

I say, “I’ll find out.” Which is the sort of thing people say when testifying before Congress — it sounds like a strong answer, though it’s a coward’s gambit.

The interlopers stare at me. Maybe they expect me to confess.

“What sort of doctor was he supposed to have met with?” I ask, trying to go on the offensive. “Because there are all kinds of doctors.”

This guy I can’t even see, someone hidden in the second rank, chimes in, “So now you’re an expert on doctors, too?”

One can’t forget that it’s a fine line between an audience and a mob.

32

A limousine idled in front of the restaurant. Cyril opened the door, grabbed Peter by the wrist, and in one fluid motion incorporating elements of civility and judo, planted him on a rear-facing seat.

They were off.

Watching the road recede though the rear window reminded Peter that he was rushing blindly into the unknown. Cross didn’t need a doctor; he needed a barber (his ears were hidden beneath the curly wings of his hair) and a shave.

Cross lifted a bottle of water from a pocket on the door, checked the label, then cracked the seal and took a long drink. Sitting beside Cyril, the singer looked no bigger than a fifth grader. “Any word on Allie?”

“Not yet,” Cyril said.

The limo surged forward as the driver pulled onto an elevated roadway. Peter felt his body being sucked toward the rear of the car.

Cross was quiet for a moment. “Try to reserve judgment.”

“I don’t judge anybody,” Cyril said.

“You know, animals love him.”

Cyril thumbed his phone. “What sorts of animals are we talking about?”

“You remember those mutts that followed him around Paris.”

“Weren’t those his dogs?”

Cross took another sip of water.

“What am I supposed to be doing?” Peter asked.

Cross looked as though he didn’t quite understand Peter’s question. He turned to Cyril. “Is there somewhere he can watch the show?”

“We’ll find a place for you,” Cyril said.

“Good,” said Peter, though he felt guilty that the bodyguard would have to find a spot for him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Cross said, his attention somewhere outside the car. “It’s another circle. . ”

“Two minutes,” Cyril said.

The singer took a big sip of water, rolled down his window and spit.

Peter wondered if he ought to offer words of encouragement, but decided he was better off saying nothing.

“I’ll get out of the vehicle first,” Cyril announced. “Then the Big Man gets out. You follow him, doc. Be his shadow, just don’t clip his heels. Got it?”

Peter said he did.

AS THEY PULLED behind the Stanley Opera Center, a floodlight cut across Cross’s face and revealed a changed man — his jaw hung loose, his eyes dull and hooded.

A uniformed cop stood by the stage door, his head swiveling like a room fan. The driver opened the door for Cyril, who stepped out of the car, looked around, then reached a hand in to help Cross out. Peter scrambled out of the car. When the limo’s door thumped shut, he nearly climbed up Cross’s back.

And then they were inside.

Bodies moved aside to let them through. Cross stopped and reached his arms above his head while someone lifted off his sweatshirt. A woman ran her fingers through his hair, tilted his head back, and drew lines beneath his eyes. Thirty feet away a wedge of white light split a heavy curtain; in the middle of this opening a crew member stood holding a steel guitar.

Peter perceived that this choreography was taking place in utter silence, in monastic quiet. He couldn’t hear what Bluto shouted into Cross’s ear or what the makeup artist said as she brushed color across Cross’s cheeks. He couldn’t even hear the thoughts in his own head. Everything was obliterated by the deafening silence, which, Peter noticed, seemed to cycle and hum, seemed to reach him through the air and through the floor, seemed to emanate from someplace inside his body.

Cross walked over to the curtain and took the guitar from the tech. His left hand held a bullwhip — no, it was a coiled black cord.

Peter noticed a pale woman, a pale, freckled woman, her orange, Pre-Raphaelite hair held in place by an elastic cord. She held her hands over her ears. She might have been laughing. Or screaming.

She leaned toward Peter suddenly, as though trying to bite him. Her nose brushed against his ear.

“Pinchme!”

He squeezed her elbow.

Her eyes, he would swear, shot green sparks.

Bluto’s assistant, Wayne, appeared before him holding a laminated pass for Peter’s inspection. Cross’s name flashed across the top in silver, beneath it, in blaze orange, the word “crew.” Wayne looped the lanyard over Peter’s head.

As Peter watched, Cross shoved the neck of his guitar toward the floor — the body of the instrument swung up to cover his back like a shield. He strode through the curtains, while above the roar an omnipotent voice announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, please help me welcome eleven-time Grammy-winner, Kellogg recording artist Jim Cross.”

PETER HAD NO musical aptitude. He’d never picked up a cheap guitar in order to impress a girl. While he recognized the names of the bands that were supposed to mean something to him, he couldn’t recall what made them important. In high school he’d preferred to listen to musical parodies. Standing at the side of the stage, his defenses were overrun. The music invaded him. Was it possible he’d never heard music before?

Jimmy stood both at the center of the stage and at the center of the music. Now and again he’d turn to one of the guys in his band and let his guitar say something quick and sharp. When Jimmy sang, he didn’t lean into the mic — he came at it sidelong, as though he had to get in the last word. Peter noticed how Albert built a floor for the others to play on, that Dom delineated vertical spaces with the bass, or so it seemed. People called Jimmy “the Court Jester,” but onstage Sutliff filled that role: he prodded his lap steel like a boy teasing a snake with a stick — every so often he’d throw his shoulders back, as though the instrument had taken a swipe at him. Peter wanted to share these observations with someone. But who? Not Bluto, who, even when he stood still, managed to convey that his attention lay elsewhere, that he shouldn’t be bothered. And Cyril? The bodyguard stood still, one hand cupped over the microphone on his headset, his eyes never still, always roving.

When Peter searched for the orange-haired woman, she was gone.

IN THE MIDDLE of a song, a crowd of people materialized around the doctor. Among these people — no, not among, at their nucleus — stood Cross.

Cross hooked a damp hand around Peter’s neck, drawing their heads together, a clinch. “You need to meet someone.” The singer had a distinct, iron smell, like something wrapped in butcher paper.

Peter fell in step with Cross. The singer’s attendants trailed behind them, crows chasing a hawk. A door opened before them and they entered an intimate domestic space, like the parlor of a winterized Victorian mansion, a loveseat, a few armchairs, all draped in white sheets. Cross’s entourage had disappeared.

“Who goes there?” said the loveseat.

A man in canvas pants, an untucked oxford tented over his stomach, lay diagonally across the cushions so that his knees dangled off one side. He had on beetle-black sunglasses; a series of rubber bands trained a full beard into something like a pharaoh would wear. A thread of smoke rose from the ebony cigarette holder staked in the corner of his mouth.

“Peter,” Cross said, “I’d like you to meet my son, Alistair.”

Cross’s son pulled his sunglasses down his nose, then tilted his head back so he was looking at Peter. “Excuse me if I don’t get up.”

“Allie’s back is bothering him,” explained Cross.

“It’s attacking me,” said Alistair.

“Do you want me to take a look?” Peter addressed his question to the room.

At the end of the cigarette holder, a twist of paper sizzled.

“I ought to get back to the office,” said Cross, putting his hand on the door. “Take Peter up on his offer. Maybe he can help.”

“Go make your widgets.”

Cross said, “We’re both terrible patients,” before opening the door.

Music raced into the room, but when the door latched the sound that had been trapped in the room collapsed.

Alistair extended a hand toward Peter and the doctor pulled him to his feet. “Where’d you do med school?”

“North Carolina.”

“Is that code for Duke?”

“No.”

“UNC?”

“Nope.”

Alistair shuffled over to a banquet table piled with cellophane-coned bouquets, twelve cans of Diet Coke, an ice bucket, a tower of clear plastic cups, a stack of white towels, and an unopened box of tissues. The singer’s son scooped ice into a cup. Turning, he said, “You haven’t spied a refrigerator, have you?”

Peter pointed to where an extension cord snaked under the table.

Gripping the table’s edge, Cross’s son lowered himself, a geriatric swimmer descending into a pool. When he was kneeling, he pushed aside the table’s skirting, revealing a mini-fridge. “Bingo!” He retrieved a Snickers bar and a liter of Smirnoff vodka, setting them on the table.

“What’d you do to yourself?”

A bloom of perspiration appeared on Alistair’s forehead. He filled his cup halfway with vodka. “I fell out of a samlor on my way to the Phulay Bay Ritz, where a friend awaited me in La Perla and coconut oil.”

“Are you taking anything for the pain?”

Cross’s son raised his glass. “It’s not usually this bad. I caught a flight out of Charles de Gaulle this morning, which was tolerable, but to get here I hopped one of those rectal thermometers the regional carriers use.”

Peter kept his face expressionless. “So you self-medicate.”

Cross’s son lowered himself onto the loveseat. “I used to work with this physical therapist who overhauled my diet. Rye bread instead of rye whiskey. Bananas without whipped cream. Coffee without Percocet. Real ‘Eye of the Tiger’ shit.”

The story was designed to get Peter to ask what had happened — Alistair would offer either a humorous or a tragic explanation for why a thirty-year-old man had the muscle tone of a paté. Rather than play his assigned role, Peter said, “Did your father expect you at dinner tonight?”

Alistair unwrapped the Snickers bar and bit it in half. He chewed. “What did you talk about?”

“He said he thought you could have been a doctor.”

Cross’s son started coughing. He held his cup at arm’s length, but there was a damp stain on his shirt. “You’re messing with me. He told you I could have been a doctor? That’s crazy. I guess he forgot how I barely finished high school.”

Outside the room, the band picked up their tempo. A bass line rattled the door.

“He said you were good with animals.”

Alistair took another sip from his cup. “How did he rope you into being his doctor?”

“It’s an opportunity. They named me the Rochester Memorial/Tony Ogata Ambassador for Wellness.”

Alistair reached for the candy bar. “What was wrong with your old name?”

The dressing room door opened and the orange-haired woman leaned her head in. A dark tendril of hair stuck to her cheek.

Peter said hello.

“Maya,” Alistair said, addressing the ceiling, “this is Peter, the guy I was telling you about.”

She closed the door behind her.

“Maya’s going to be a doctor,” Alistair said.

“In Performance Studies.” She brushed her wonderful hair back from her face.

“Peter’s an ambassador.”

“I thought ambassadors wore sashes.”

Peter looked at her again. She was funny. So what if Alistair had beautiful eyes and an accountant who paid his credit cards in full — Peter would not concede this woman. “What’s your research in?”

“The short answer? I study forfeiture of the self in music and religious rites.”

Alistair said, “You called yourself an expert on ecstasy.”

Maya said, “I know my audience.” Turning to Peter, “Technically, I research ecstatics. What does a medical ambassador do?”

“It’s a pilot program.”

With a flick of his hand, Alistair sent his empty cup spinning across the floor. “Let’s go see some live music, before it’s too late.”

33

Back at the Barge Inn, I log on to CrossTracks to see what Gene has been up to. The site attracts the kinds of people who are willing to believe that Cross would show up unannounced at a grange hall, play ten gems, and leave with Mrs. South Dakota. The top two threads listed in the general discussion area:

What Arthur Pennyman Doesn’t Want You to Know

Boycott JimCrossCompendium!

This is the thanks I get for refusing to post a CrossTracks-style Penthouse letter on JCC.

I check out the proposed boycott first. The thread is six pages long! “Let’s shut him down,” writes Fingerpicker. FlowerGrrl writes, “Wake up and smell the coffee. Pennyforger is an eccentric cog in the industrial entertainment business.” (I mean, really!) Someone quotes “Testimony of Pilot”: “If you cast out the money changer loitering in your temple / how come you let him sit at your breakfast table?”25

I read every post. The few people who don’t slander me say things like “Someone ought to back up his archive” and “Totally shocked!”

Then I open the thread that purports to address what I don’t want people to know. It begins with a post from someone (Gene!) calling himself HonestFolk. HonestFolk identifies himself as a longtime acquaintance of mine, a person who has known me for many years and who, in that time, has made some “startling discoveries” that he (HonestFolk) can no longer keep to himself, because he cares too much about the regular fans to let them get taken in by a “supposed expert.” Then he lists my faults, which I’ve transcribed below, in their entirety, because 1) I believe, to quote someone other than Cross for a change, “the truth will set me free”; and 2) the things HonestFolk said are now in the public record and it seems cowardly to cherry-pick those charges that are easily dismissed. Here is what he wrote:

Though Arthur Pennyman claims to have “lots” of contacts on the tour, he only knows a few people. Most refuse to talk to him because they know doing so would get them fired.

Arthur’s favorite topic of conversation is not Jimmy Cross, but himself.

He originated the rumor that the “tangle of Coney Island jetsam” from “Jerkwater Blues” is somehow a reference to him, when it clearly represents the Cyclone roller coaster.

Cross never initiated a restraining order against him. This is another rumor circulated by Pennyman in order to increase his profile!

Records show that between 1990 and 1997, Arthur Pennyman failed to pay court-ordered child support. As a result, his child endured hardships such as going without heat and/or staple foodstuffs.

In the divorce papers his ex-wife filed, she listed sexual incompatibility and abandonment as the two primary reasons for ending their union.

The U.S. government is trying to recoup a large tax debt, which Pennyman has refused to pay.

The accuracy of his setlists has been greatly overstated. A cursory examination of his archives turned up more than sixty likely errors.

The website and the things he writes there are part of an elaborate strategy to establish himself as an expert on Cross so that he can sign a lucrative book deal about Cross’s life.

He has not shared any of the tens of thousands of photographs he has taken of Cross, but intends to sell exclusive rights to those photographs at some future date.

Numerous law enforcement agencies have investigated him on suspicion of pedophilia and endangering children.

First, I acknowledge there is truth in everything he alleges. However, the manner in which he presents his “facts” is prejudicial. For instance, if an older man is observed wearing a duster and carrying a camera in a school zone, he can expect to be approached by a member of the school staff and/or the local constabulary (as he should be, I think); this has happened to me on a couple occasions. In each case the “investigation” was concluded with a handshake and an apology — I only mentioned it to Gene to emphasize my own estrangement from society. As for the meaning of those enigmatic lyrics in “Jerkwater Blues,” Cross pointed directly at me while singing those lines.26 In the period mentioned (1990–1997), I did not always meet my court-ordered responsibility to Gabby. Yes, she suffered. There is no excuse for what happened. I have NO PLANS TO PROFIT, not today, nor in the future; profiting is the antithesis of my project. Like I’ve said before, I consider following Cross to be an artistic performance (and, as a piece of art, I expect its value as art to be determined by those people who observe it).27 I’m not aware of any errors in my database — identifying “Painted Horses” as “Painted Hoses” does not, to my mind, qualify as an error (even if such errors could be found, in an archive of more than 22,000 song performances, 60 errors would represent less than 0.3 percent of my entries).

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.

TWENTY 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.

IN 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.

All of Peter’s friends had the same complaint: their mothers had no idea how to write a proper hundred-word email. A bunch of inveterate letter writers, their mothers composed essays. Reading her message on his phone was like viewing a mural through a loupe.

Judith’s mention of a time machine seemed prophetic: her email had taken him back. When had he last thought about science camp? He remembered shaving a plantar wart off a kid’s heel with a plastic-handled scalpel; he’d performed the surgery for the same reason the patient agreed to it — to attract the attention of a home-schooled Amazonian named Lauren Platz, the only girl at the camp.

This email had shocked him. Why would she have let Cross loan her money? Loans produced debt. Peter’s sense of Judith’s untarnished self-sufficiency took a hit. Plus, he felt retroactively wounded — he’d always imagined that he and Judith were equal partners in the store.

When Cross first called, Peter had wondered if he wasn’t trying to collect a debt. Was it possible that his instinct had been correct?

37

I refuse to let myself be dragged down by a few anonymous voices on the Internet, and certainly not while driving to a great American city to see a great American performer, Live and In Person.

Is Pittsburgh^28 a great American city? I suppose some people still think of it as Steel Town, USA, but it’s remade itself into a great technological city, a great medical research city, as well as a cultural hub. Is anything more American than our right to reinvent ourselves? A collection of colonies became an independent country. We ended slavery and gave women the vote. Samuel Langhorne Clemens, Norma Jeane Mortenson, and Caryn Elaine Johnson became Mark Twain, Marilyn Monroe, and Whoopi Goldberg. The folk-song/protest singer became the rock rebel, became the born-again prophet, became the rockabilly/two-step/western/world musician. A by-the-books small-business owner, husband, and father walked away from everything in order to chronicle something larger than his lawn. Look what happens to those people and places that don’t reinvent themselves: Detroit. Buffalo Springfield. People like my ex-wife.

IT SHOULD HAVE occurred to me that Gabby lived near Bowling Green. It’s strange that I didn’t notice while I was planning my itinerary. For the most part, I’m very thorough, but our minds will play tricks on us. At this point, nothing I can say will convince Gabby that my oversight wasn’t intentional.

Once, when Gabby was sixteen, she surprised me by showing up at the MCI Center (now the Verizon Center) in Washington, D.C. I was watching the show when she clapped her hands over my eyes and said, “Guess who?” Finally, I thought, we could see a concert together.

It wasn’t until after the show that she told me Patricia didn’t know where she was; she’d run away from home!

We went back to my hotel, and while I got the sofa bed set up she called her mother. Then Gabby handed the phone to me so Patricia could explain how our daughter had put herself at risk because of me, and that if I hadn’t made a habit of running away from my problems, then Gabby. . But I didn’t feel that bad because I had my daughter with me and, on top of that, Cross had given a really solid show.

Gabby fell asleep almost instantly — I can’t imagine how hectic her day had been — but I found it harder to quiet my head. I listened to Gabby snore and wondered if she and I might have had a breakthrough, if we might be emerging on the other side of something.

In the morning, I should have bought her pancakes and listened while she talked. Instead, as a surprise, I drove us to the National Zoo. I guess I assumed every teenaged girl was crazy about animals. As it turned out, Gabby only had eyes for the cages — she wasn’t satisfied until she’d pointed out the camouflaged electric fences that ringed each enclosure. I thought she’d run away in order to see me, but after a while it became clear that she needed some space from her mother.

NOW THAT WE’re both adults we get along better. But why does she insist on calling me Daddy? And why, when her friends know her as Gabrielle, do I call her Gabby?

38

Peter passed the morning in his room, waiting for someone to call on him. No one called on him. Instead, he’d watched a show called Yukon Tech about sixteen IT engineers who get airlifted into a remote Alaskan wilderness. A little before noon, he ventured into the hotel’s restaurant, hoping to avoid eating alone. Around the room, solitary businessmen camped out at tables — with their bright neckties the men reminded Peter of betta fish.

Bluto sat at the bar, jabbing a toast point into an egg cup. Two black cell phones, identical but for a red rubber band that encircled one, sat atop a stack of paper. A glass of tomato juice sweated onto a paper doily.

“Great show last night.”

Bluto looked up. Blinked. “You need something?”

“Just lunch.”

The tour manager pointed across the room. “Sutliff’s over there. Why don’t you sit with him?”

The musician sat bent over in a booth, his hands doing some delicate task not related to eating.

“Sutliff’s the guitarist, right?”

“A tampon is the only stringed instrument he can’t play.”

Peter would use that line on Martin sometime.

“You need a formal introduction?” Bluto asked, holding the red-banded phone to his ear.

IN THE MIDDLE of the table, the guitarist had a small plastic tool caddy stocked with a spool of fine gauge copper wire, hemostats, and needle-nose pliers. In contrast to the bright particularity of those objects, a clump of silver lozenges appeared to have melted together.

Peter said, “Bluto sent me over.”

“Then take a seat.” Sutliff’s attention stayed on a small object right in front of his nose, with the effect that he resembled a praying mantis.

“Are you making jewelry?”

“Is that what it looks like?”

Peter explained that his mother designed jewelry.

Sutliff pried one of the lozenges off the pile and slid it across the table to Peter. The metal felt oily to touch.

“That’s samarium-cobalt. It’s a rare-earth magnet.”

“For arthritis?” Peter had patients who swore by the palliative power of magnets. That blood contained iron served as the shaky linchpin of their argument.

“I make pickups with them.”

“What do you pick up?”

“Sound, man.” Sutliff replaced his tools in the caddy.

Peter said he was unaware that people made their own pickups. It’s possible that Sutliff thought he said, “I’ve always wanted to know everything about pickups.” The guitarist explained electronic interference, magnetic resonance, and eddy currents. He outlined the intricacies of single, double, and stacked coils, shielding, and humbuckers. Peter felt certain that Bluto had set him up.

A waitress — her uniform read as sexy football referee — came over to take their orders, interrupting Sutliff’s dissertation. When she’d finished, Peter took the opportunity to ask Sutliff how he’d wound up in the band.

“Jimmy heard a two-minute track I did, called me up, and offered me a job.”

“Just like that.”

“Well, before I became an overnight success I spent twenty years as a session musician in basement studios.” Sutliff raised his long face. “What about you? Someone told me you’re Tony Ogata’s protégé.”

“I’ve talked to him on the phone once.”

“You must have connections somewhere.”

“Cross used to be friends with my mother.”

Sutliff shook his head.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t believe the Big Man has friends.”

39

Each day offers a choice: either you ride out to meet your destiny or wait for it to overtake you.29 After checking out of the hotel, I fit the 600mm lens to the body of my camera — JCC readers know I call the lens my “Pringles can” and that it was a gift from Aunt Liddy on my fiftieth — before heading back to the Jo-Ann Fabrics parking lot.

At a little after two, a pair of passenger vans turn onto the airport access road. I stop the Corolla just outside the fence, get out, and stabilize the camera on the roof of my car.

I’m still playing with the focus when Cyril spots me and flips me off. Though our relationship can appear adversarial, I don’t take the gesture personally. And I can’t help but think he has to be a little relieved that it’s me out here and not some stranger.

Next I spot the hospitalist from Rochester, Peter Silver, M.D. — he looks collegial and out of place, in khakis and a Windbreaker. I snap a dozen pictures before the group disappears into an open hangar.

When they’re out of sight, I review the shots on my camera’s tiny screen. Something catches my eye. A paunchy guy with a Rasputin beard hides behind Dom in the second photograph I took. It’s hard to be sure — he’s wearing huge sunglasses like some Miami socialite — but I’m fairly certain it’s Alistair Cross. I scroll through the other images looking for something. And there it is: in my last picture (!) the mystery man reaches up to pull his hair away from his eyes. A distinct shadow appears on the inside of his wrist — it’s Alistair’s ace of spades tattoo. No wonder Cyril gave me the bird.

I listen as the engines scroll up. The noise builds into a ferocious scream as Cross’s plane lifts off above the golden trees at the end of the runway.

I spend a few minutes composing a note for JCC. Then I post it:

The Prodigal Son returns! Alistair Doyle Cross was seen boarding a jet whisking you-know-who out of Buffalo. ADC hasn’t been on tour since 2002, when he had a very public struggle with substance abuse. Will Cross finally give the audience what it asks for and dust off “Acrobat Daredevil Circus”? It’s been eight years since he’s played it, but seeing Alistair has to be a hopeful sign.30 Pittsburgh is shaping up to be a can’t-miss show.

The fans may not always trust me, but they need me.

IN THIRTY MINUTES, Cross will arrive in Pittsburgh. I still have a four-hour drive. I pray it’s boring. If something exciting happens on the road, it’s almost always bad excitement, a dog darts into the road, the “check engine” light blinks on, a tire pops, a wrench falls off the back of a flatbed and comes helicoptering at you. Spare me the heat lightning and sunsets that glow like Tiffany glass — the first lesson of driving is you’ll wind up where you look.

40

The hotel shuttled them to the airport. Peter rode with Jimmy, Alistair, Bluto, and Cyril, while Dom, Albert, Sutliff, and Wayne Shiga shared the second van. Except for Bluto, everyone wore those oversized headphones that Peter associated with club DJs and helicopter pilots. Bluto spent the whole drive on the phone with Wayne, which made Peter wonder why they hadn’t arranged to ride in the same vehicle.

At the airport, the vans drove past a chain-link security fence and across the runway before stopping beside a large aluminum hangar.

Inside, a twin-jet airplane, as glossy and immaculate as a drop of Wite-Out, waited for them. A pair of pilots, handsome and cocksure, with regulation military haircuts and amber Ray-Bans, greeted the group and welcomed them aboard.

•••

PETER HAD NEVER ridden in a chartered plane. Ten plush leather chairs were spaced about the cabin. If the burl-wood veneer had been a few shades darker, the plane’s interior might have recalled the library of a Tudor mansion.

A pretty hostess with shellacked blond hair took drink orders and stowed jackets. She showed Peter how to open the tray table recessed in the arm of his chair.

After closing the hatch, the captain paused in front of the cockpit door to address the men. “I just spoke with Pittsburgh. They’ve got a twenty-thousand-foot ceiling, five miles of visibility, winds light and variable. As soon as your baggage is stowed, we’ll crank this bird up. Flight time will be about thirty-seven minutes. So, kick back and relax. Jessica will do your bidding, within FAA-mandated guidelines. I promise it won’t be a long, strange trip.” Though his eyes remained hidden behind his sunglasses, he managed to convey a wink.

Alistair said, “‘Long, Strange Trip’ is the Dead, man.”

His smile stretching thinner, the captain ducked into the cockpit.

Jessica went through the cabin dealing out a stack of pillows.

The plane shuddered as the engines cranked up. Soon they bumped along a taxiway.

“Prepare for takeoff,” the pilot’s voice announced over the intercom. “It won’t be ‘Long Gone’ before we’re in Pittsburgh.”

Sitting across the aisle from Alistair, Wayne Shiga said, “I prefer a pilot who can’t properly attribute Dead songs.”

“At least he’s not quoting Cat Stevens,” said Bluto.

“You mean because he’s Muslim?” asked Dom.

“It’s a joke,” said Bluto.

“My beef with Cat Stevens,” said Alistair, “is his songs are interminable.”

Wayne said, “Instead of ‘beef,’ shouldn’t we say ‘pork’? Lots of groups have a beef with pork.”

Sutliff said, “You know who has a beef with beef? Al Gore.” When no one responded, he added, “Cows produce millions of tons of methane each year.”

At the front of the cabin, Cross appeared to be sleeping. A throw blanket covered the singer’s legs; the hood of his sweatshirt shrouded his eyes. In the seat next to him, Cyril cleaned his cuticles with a bone-handled penknife.

The plane pivoted at the end of the taxiway. “We’re clear,” the captain announced. The engines roared, and they shot down the runway. Before Peter thought it possible, the aircraft punched into the sky.

Bluto typed away on his laptop. Albert had cracked the spine of a book titled Zombie Dragons. Dom worked on a crossword he’d clamped to a clipboard while Sutliff — Peter had to look twice to be sure — crotcheted the arm of a sweater.

The stewardess handed him something, “For you, sir.”

It was Bluto’s rubber-banded phone. The screen tallied the seconds on an active call.

“Hello?”

“Why was your phone off?” It was Tony Ogata.

“We’re on a plane.” Peter turned in his chair; Alistair stared at him, chewing on another Snickers bar.

“That explains it. Speak up then.”

“Maybe I should call you back.”

“I can hardly hear you.”

Peter could feel his throat tighten. He unlatched his seat belt and stood up. At the back of the plane, the stewardess squared her shoulders to him, assessed his intention, then looked away.

With five quick steps, Peter slipped into the lavatory and closed the door behind him. “I didn’t realize you’d be checking up on me.”

“Who’s checking up on you? I’m calling to offer my assistance.”

The bathroom had a granite-topped sink and a vanity. Did Peter need assistance?

“I expect something from you,” Ogata said. “Do you know what it is?”

Peter had no idea, but the other doctor seemed to be waiting for an answer. He almost said “Updates,” but he thought some more and a better answer came to him: “Transparency.”

And now he heard Ogata’s squeaky laugh, the sort of laugh that announced the laugher’s whole philosophy on how important laughter was and how there was no such thing as a terrible laugh, because. . Ogata said, “I expect greatness.”

Right, Peter thought, Expect greatness. It was one of Ogata’s maxims.

Someone knocked on the bathroom door. Peter said, “I’m afraid I have to go.”

“You don’t need my permission,” Ogata said.

There was another knock.

Peter ended the call. As he opened the bathroom door, something caught his eye.

“There’s a shower in here.”

Alistair looked over Peter’s shoulder. “What about it?”

Could this be what Ogata meant when he said “Expect greatness”? “Nothing.”

“Listen,” Alistair said, his body still blocking the doorway, “when we were first talking, I hope I didn’t come across as brusque.”

Peter said he hadn’t noticed.

Alistair flashed his uncanny eyes. “I don’t like meeting people if I’m in that sort of state. I can feel vulnerable.”

“Of course.”

“Put yourself in my shoes. I was jetlagged. My back was in knots and my father marches this skinny doctor in like his prize pig. You’re not drunk or high. You’re not even hungry, and I’m supposed to let you cure me? No thanks.”

Peter felt disarmed. He said, “It was my fault. I guess I let your father steer me.”

“We have to work together,” said Alistair.

“Sure,” Peter said, though he was not sure how or why he needed to work with Cross’s son.

Alistair didn’t move his body, but he turned his head to check out the rest of the cabin. “What do you think of Maya?”

She was smart and attractive. He could probably fall in love with her. “She seems great.”

“You want me to put a word in for you?”

“I get it,” Peter said. “You’re trying to do to me what I did to you, or something.”

Dom, whose seat was closest to the bathroom, said, “Allie, how about you let the doctor out of the john?”

“Was I talking to you?”

Beneath the bassist’s eyes, deltas of busted capillaries. “Let the guy go back to his seat.”

When Peter moved to exit the bathroom, Alistair stepped aside.

“See, I wasn’t blocking him.” Alistair said, “Dom, how’d that solo album do?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“The next time you’re in your basement, do me a favor and grab one of those CDs for me. I want to be able to say I heard it.”

•••

THE WHINE OF the jets changed and a moment later the angle of the aircraft shifted. The stewardess came around to inform them that the pilot had begun their descent.

“Hey, Albert,” Alistair called across the cabin, “what are a couple of swinging dicks like us supposed to do in Pittsburgh?”

The drummer held a finger up: Wait. He only brought the hand down to turn the page of his book.

“I’ve got a zombie dragon in my pants,” Alistair said.

41

If St. Louis is the Gateway to the West, then Pittsburgh is the Gateway to the Midwest. It’s the westernmost Eastern City. Old families with old money have left their mark all over town. Once you come off the bluffs, you’re on the ground floor. Heading west, the landscape doesn’t have any tricks to play until Colorado.

I used to know the city, but developers have been tearing down postwar buildings and replacing them with facsimiles of prewar architecture — as a result, everyday Pittsburgh looks more like a fantasy of the past.

On the edge of the Carnegie Mellon campus, I duck into a café. Inside, young people are sprawled out over the furniture as though they’d been gassed. I’m older than any three of them combined.

A plump girl with short blue hair — it’s styled in a severe manner that no one of my generation could look at without thinking of Adolf Hitler — says, “What do you want?” Reading the written-in-chalk menu on the wall, I realize that they don’t sell food. It’s all juices! I ask for their most substantial juice. “You want meat and potatoes, huh?” She calls something to a skinny boy wearing what looks like a woman’s blouse, who mashes a bunch of things into a howling contraption. He hands me a pint glass full of bruised liquid that’s the consistency of cream of wheat.

“What’s in here?”

“Beets, carrots, potatoes, spirulina, kale. . and red grapes.”

Exactly what I deserve for trying to revisit the past. I fork over nine dollars, pinch my nose, and drink it down.

THE GARAGE NEXT to the Peabody Center wants ten dollars. Since I know my way around, I drive until I find a free place on the street. Walking to the venue, the clouds spit rain, but I stay dry from my neck to my ankles. A lot of people believe you have to coddle leather goods, but nothing could be further from the truth. When properly treated (with waxes and plant oils), leather excels in inclement weather.

When I get to Will Call I shake my jacket and the raindrops fly away! But my smile disappears when the high school kid manning the booth says he has no record of my ticket. I tell him to look again, so he turns around and spends ten seconds pretending to check other places.

“I’m not finding a ticket,” he says, not looking me in the eyes.

I see a hundred and fifty dates a year, I see shows in Panama, I see shows in Moscow, in Oakland, in Latvia. In each of those places I’m able to walk up to Will Call and collect my ticket, but in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, there’s a problem. If I went back to my car, I’d be able find a copy of my receipt in the plastic accordion file where I keep my expenses, but it wouldn’t do me any good. I know exactly where my ticket is: it’s in Cyril’s pocket — this is how he punishes me for me shooting Alistair at the airport.

42

The jet sat parked on an empty corner of the runway. Cross had slept through the landing, through the cabin door being opened and the brisk Pittsburgh air rushing in. He’d slept while the rest of the band, Bluto, Wayne, and Alistair deplaned, cramming into a passenger van en route to the Warhol Museum for a VIP tour. The musician snored through his overlong nose, while someone from the ground crew snapped plastic covers over the engine intakes and exhausts. He slept while Cyril ducked outside to take advantage of a break in the clouds to stretch his legs.

Though Peter had been curious about the museum, he was happy to be on the plane. He finally had a job to do. Even if babysitting underutilized his skill set, Peter liked having expectations that he could meet.

To entertain himself, he sent two picture messages to Martin. The first shot, a fish-eye portrait of the plane’s interior, failed to illicit a response from Vinoray. Upping the stakes, Peter sent a close-up of the singer’s monogrammed kangaroo-leather cowboy boots.

Bring me those boots, Martin replied, and I’ll make you the hospital’s liaison to Rochester’s Junior League.

Peter lifted his phone to capture the coup de grâce, a photo of the sleeping singer. But, though Cross still snored, his eyes had opened.

The singer wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Were you taking a picture?”

Peter waved the phone around. “I was checking my reception.”

“People used to say hi. Now they just shove a phone in my face. When I have to piss, I make Cyril clear the place out first.” Cross swiveled his head. “Where’d everyone vanish to?”

Peter explained about the Warhol Museum.

“Maybe thirty years ago I got invited to this party in a warehouse on the East River. The warehouse didn’t have rats because the rats expected the place to fall into the water. But the place was infested with artists. The owner was a Getty and he had ten million reasons to hate his family.

“This woman and I were dropping hot dogs through a hole in the floor, trying to get a seal to eat them. Someone came over and told me Andy wanted to say hi. I’d met him a couple of times, so I said, Send him over. Andy was pink in real life, not gray like his estate would have you believe. He came over accompanied by this cosmonaut — his friend’s wearing the full getup, boots, gloves, helmet, those crazy Cyrillic letters on everything. The guy inside the suit is sweating so much it looks like he’s having an attack of malaria. There’s condensation on the inside of the face mask. I said, Andy, who’s your friend? You know who it was?”

Peter couldn’t have imagined a name that wouldn’t sound ridiculous.

“It was Rocky! Sylvester Stallone.” Cross kicked off the blanket, walked to the back of the plane, and ducked into the restroom.

Peter checked his phone. Martin hadn’t texted back.

When Cross returned, he said, “How does Allie seem to you?”

The singer wanted a first impression? A diagnosis? The truth: Alistair looked like a candidate for coronary artery disease. In another ten years he might give himself a heart attack by shoveling snow, or sleeping with a twenty-year-old. “I offered to look at his back, but he seemed a little suspicious of me.”

“He’s suspicious of people in general and you in particular.” Cross pressed his hands up against the ceiling of the plane, stretched. “Of all my kids, Allie’s the only one I worry about. His sisters call him ‘Baby Allie,’ even though he’s the oldest. And he’s the only one who calls me Dad; everyone else calls me Gramps.”

Peter said, “He’s made it this far.”

“That’s what I tell myself. At some point the numbers start to mean something. Maybe he’ll read a book, or get his heart broken by a dog, and everything will start to click.” Cross scratched the loose skin under his neck.

“I heard he’s been away for a while.”

Cross turned his head snake-fast. “Who told you that?”

Peter had been under the impression that it was something of an open secret. Ogata had said something the first time they’d spoken. “Is that not the case?”

“I see all my kids. We talk on the phone, do the video thing, get together for holidays. I guess Allie hasn’t been on the tour for a little while, but he’s been holed up overseas. He’s got his own life to lead.”

“That must be it.”

“That must be what?”

“I guess I’d heard he’d been overseas.”

“Well, he’s here now.”

Peter had waited for a plane to get clearance and he’d waited while a plane got de-iced, but he’d never waited like this. All Cross needed to do was snap his fingers and they could be off for Toronto or Rome. It wasn’t the freedom that appealed to Peter as much as the sense of exclusivity, being inside this little bubble. Judith had raised her son to be suspicious of privilege. She believed in waiting in line, in being part of the multitude. Just beyond the jet’s wing a town car waited to take Cross wherever he wanted to go. That idling car would have sent Judith around the bend — something like that would be enough to trigger one of her spontaneous migraines.

Cross opened a bulkhead and retrieved a coat. “Allie wanted to see you for himself.”

“He wanted to see your doctor?”

“Do you feel like you’re my doctor?” The singer still had his back to Peter.

Their conversation had reached a level place. They could leave things as they were and trust that they wouldn’t shift. Cross turned around. He’d wrapped a scarf around his throat.

“The other night, when you mentioned Judith, I assumed she owed you money. Then, after I realized who you were, it seemed funny that I’d mistaken you for a collection agent.” Peter glanced out at the idling car. “It’s weird that she does kind of owe you money.”

Cross’s face became serious. “Look around. Do you really believe I’m owed anything?”

The jet shifted.

“That’s going to be Cyril hurrying us along.”

The bodyguard ducked into the cabin. One of his pant legs had gotten bunched up on the shaft of his boot. “Bluto called to tell you the people of Pittsburgh don’t deserve any mercy.”

Cross smiled.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter asked.

The bodyguard bent over and dressed his pant cuff. “It means the people of Pittsburgh don’t deserve any mercy.”

43

Fuck Cyril Coleman. Fuck his Brioni suits and his calfskin gloves. Fuck his nineteen-inch neck and his sweet voice announcing “Big man coming through.”31 He didn’t take my ticket in order to keep me out of the show. If that had been his goal there’d be attorneys involved and court orders, the folks scanning tickets would have a color-copy photograph of my driver’s license taped to the backs of their stations and in the break rooms.

Cyril took my ticket to let me know he knows my habits, too. Ours is not a cat and mouse game. It’s cat and cat.

SINCE SCALPERS DON’t take credit cards, I head off in search of an ATM. A few blocks away, I spot one in a Subway restaurant. After grabbing some cash, I decide to get a sandwich, since the juice wasn’t exactly filling.

I always get the same thing at Subway, a turkey sub on whole wheat with spinach, tomatoes, green peppers, black olives; I avoid salt, mayo, and cheese because coronary disease killed my father and, indirectly, my uncle. I ask for olive oil and vinegar (every so often my body craves vinegar). The sandwich artist hands me my bagged food and I carry it over to one of their anti-ergonomic booths — they could make the seats more comfortable, but they don’t want people to loiter.

I start feeling blue, which could be the booth design’s real intention, since so many people use food to self-soothe. If I wasn’t so aware, I might try to comfort myself with one of their peanut butter cookies.

When Gabby felt down — the smallest things used to set her off, a shoelace breaking, if you put catsup on her fries as opposed to next to them — Patricia used to throw a pity party. We’d make a box cake and sing “It’s a pity for you” to the tune of “Happy Birthday.” It worked like a charm. I’m not sure what Patricia did as Gabby got older. A pity party probably wouldn’t help ease heartbreak or being ostracized, or feeling like you’d been abandoned.

This woman comes over and puts her hands on the edge of my table, like she wants to borrow the last chair at my table. She smiles, but there’s a general thinness to her face, lips, and fingers, like she’s never eaten dessert. The roots of her hair are darker than the tips, but in a way that looks intentional. I can’t decide if she looks good for sixty, or if she’s seen forty rough years.

“Artie?”

I shake my head.

“I can’t believe it,” she says. “Artie, it’s me, Mindy Vinter.”

Both of our mouths hang open.

Mindy Vinter! She’d been a neighbor when we were both sophomores at a yellow-brick high school in Thornbrook, Illinois. Sometimes at night, I would take the screen out of my window so I could stick my head out and stare at the pink curtain of her bedroom window. Forty years ago I had vivid fantasies where her house caught on fire and I saved her. One day, watching her practice with a hula hoop in her yard, I got up the courage and kissed her. When I stopped, Mindy stood there looking at me, the hula hoop on the ground, and said, “Artie, I thought you were going to punch me.” For a few weeks, whenever she went outside to walk her parents’ dog we’d rendezvous at the center of a cluster of pine trees and kiss until the dog (Rascal, I remember!) began to whimper.

“How’d you ever recognize me?”

She shakes her head. “You still do that thing where you loom over your food. Right, you basically eat down.”

“I eat ‘down’?”

“Wait,” Mindy says, “are you in Pittsburgh?”

“I am tonight,” I say, which sounds preposterous coming out of my mouth, so I add, “Remember Rascal?”

“Poor Rascal.” She pouts. “Not a dignified end.”

“Are you married?” I ask.

Mindy says she’s married, which surprises me because she’s not wearing a ring. Not wearing a ring seems to suggest that, at the very least, she’s not entirely married.

“How long?” I ask, which comes out sounding a bit aggressive, like I’m trying to catch her in a lie.

She says, “It seems like forever.” Really, what kind of answer is that? “And you?”

I tell her I’ve been divorced for almost twenty years and that I have a thirty-year-old daughter. Mindy tells me that she has three sons and two daughters. Five kids with this invisible husband! I say how that’s fantastic and how no one would ever guess (which is an acceptable thing to say to a woman, but has always seemed really odd to me).

“Are you here on business?”

I say, “Business and pleasure.” And then I tell her, as briefly as possible, about JimCrossCompendium. Sometimes when I start talking about JCC (and this is especially true when I’m talking with a woman), I fail to recognize the point at which real interest is replaced by rote nodding.

Mindy punches me in the shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re a blogger,” she says. “My girlfriend and I are going to his show.”

Just when it seems we’ve run out of things to catch up on, a woman walks up to us, a fleshier version of Mindy — the same under-siege blond hair, but face, lips, and fingers all buttery. “Min, honey,” she says, shaking a ticket in the air, “I can’t sell it. I feel too conspicuous.”

They’ve got an extra ticket! I mean it’s right out of “Paris in Winter.”32

Mindy’s friend goes by Robinson. And, when I tell them my problem, they insist I join them for the show. Mindy and Robinson used to work together, along with a Claire, and the three of them still try to get together once a month. Luckily for me, Claire twisted her ankle on an escalator and didn’t feel like coming out.

I say, “It looks like my luck is turning.”

And Robinson, who is also not wearing a wedding band, pinches the lapel of my coat and says, “Are you a bad boy, Artie?”

And Mindy says, “We have time to get a drink, don’t we?”

THE THREE OF us go across the street to one of those faux Irish bars where everything is authentic, mullioned glass, dark wood, and brass, but inside it’s lit like a museum. My companions don’t seem to mind. They get white wines while I have a Guinness. Robinson lifts her glass and says, “I never drink.”

“You never drink a little,” Mindy laughs.

These two women put on a play for me: they are attention-starved sisters and I’m the traveling salesman who’s been invited to supper. Robinson says she can’t believe Mindy never mentioned me before. And Mindy tells her friend that I used to throw stones at her bedroom window (I have no recollection of this).

“How come we never slept together?” Mindy asks me.

It’s like asking Wilbur Wright why he never flew to the moon.

“You wanted to,” Mindy says, “so bad.”

I pick up the bill. “Ladies,” I say, “the concert awaits.”

As we’re leaving the bar, Robinson turns to me and says, “I hear this could be his last tour.”

I could tell her that it’s all one tour, but I’m smart enough to keep my trap shut.

44

Lucy used to call Peter “mama’s boy,” when he rolled his socks into tidy balls, for instance. She’d wander into the kitchen, naked, stand before the open refrigerator, and retrieve one of “his” yogurts from the bottom row. “I’m stealing this,” she’d say, peeling back the foil, still not closing the door, her skin goosebumping. “You’re letting all the cold air out.” “Mama’s boy,” she said, licking the spoon. It happened more than once.

They met in a Laundromat during his first year of medical school. He’d gone to study while his clothes drowned. She’d wandered in to get change to feed a parking meter. She interrupted him, asked him what he was reading. He showed her the cover of his workbook. She said, “Is that any good?” then winked. Women didn’t usually approach him — he was long-limbed, gawky, too tall to be slight, but too thin to have presence. They never winked. He had the presence of mind to ask for her number. For their first date, he took her to an Italian place that someone had claimed was romantic. He discovered she was earning her master’s in early childhood development. “You must have lots of patience,” he said. She said, “Try me.”

He told Lucy he didn’t have time to date. Then he said he didn’t have time for a girlfriend. In both cases, he may have been giving himself an alibi for when she lost interest in him. He fell for her quickly and completely.

After a month, she suggested he invite her to move in. Not only would they save money, but he’d get to see her every night. He asked and she told him she’d have to think about it. She waited two months before she agreed.

It was heaven. They liked to lie in bed and scan catalogs together. They were both gung ho on the future. She said he was the first serious person she’d dated, not the first person she’d dated seriously. He kept a Formica table at the foot of his bed and oftentimes he’d be at the table studying when she woke. He loved hearing her breathing change as she awoke.

She had a younger brother, a laid-back tech rep who lived an hour north of Miami; Peter marveled at their easy friendship, their chummy affection. Peter realized he wanted to have two kids with her, which was not a rejection of his own childhood, or not simply. They visited her brother a few times, usually when winters in Rochester got to be too much. The brother had a condo that looked west, across a brown-black canal, toward the Everglades and the setting sun.

And later, yes, Peter caught Lucy browsing studio apartments online. That was what led him to talk with a real estate agent and a mortgage broker, brought him to the place he was now, an accidental property owner.

“Mama’s boy,” Lucy said, when he insisted she separate the salad forks from the dinner forks. But hadn’t it been affectionate?

45

Countless times, I’ve found myself sandwiched between the unusually large, the drunk, the belligerent, the unwashed. Those sorts of indignities are easy to forget when I am near the stage, when I can see, for example, a dry cleaner’s tag on the hem of Cross’s pant leg. The only nice thing I can say about Claire’s seat is that it’s close to the exit.

The difference between seats and great seats is almost not worth mentioning, but since I’ve given the subject some thought, I’ll say a bit more. A competent sound guy^33 will monitor the levels throughout the hall. However, since an empty hall and a hall packed with sound-absorbing bodies are entirely different things, there are really only two places to sit. You should either be close to the stage, to hear what the performers hear, or sit near the soundboard, since the sound engineer will tweak the levels so that things sound right to him or her.

Everyone knows that sound and light travel at different speeds, but that’s not something one is usually reminded of while at a concert. Yet, in Pittsburgh, I can see Jimmy’s fingers make a run on the keyboard before I hear that run. And when he tilts his head back and belts out something heartfelt, I have to wait an eternity before I find out where he’s taking us.

At least the company is excellent! Mindy and Robinson both seize my arm when Jimmy first walks on stage (what had they expected?). Likewise, when he launches into a rote version of “Long Gone,” they’re in awe. They sing along when they know the tune, and when Cross plays something more obscure I feed them the title and locate it in his discography. “You could rent yourself out,” Mindy says. “A concert gigolo,” Robinson says. My stock peaks when I correctly predict Cross will follow “Alabaster Ragout” with “Tennis Shoe Blues.”

It feels like a magical night. Cross tears through “Ripcord”(!), jumps into “Bomb Shelter Romance” (!!), reassures the casual fans with “Absolutely Nowhere,” before covering the Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer” (@?$%), doing that whole ba-ba-ba-baaaa-ba, ba-ba-ba-baaaa-ba on the harp! Robinson grips my thigh, which is thrilling, and then she moves her hand and — it’s probably an accident — squeezes my penis through the fabric of my pants (my decorum is protected by my duster).

But I am eternally Arthur Pennyman — which means that nothing can go right unless something else goes wrong. My brain receives an urgent message from my gut: that horrid juice is wrecking havoc on my gastrointestinal system.

I unlatch Robinson’s electrifying grip to slide past Mindy. As I turn up the aisle, I want to shoot Robinson a look to let her know I’ll be back, but she’s following me! Does she think that we’re making our escape, that I’ll ravish her in the parking lot? I wait for her, trying to think of a quick excuse. Then she says, “I have to tinkle.” Which is a relief, obviously.

We reach the lobby and I dart off to the men’s room.

THERE ARE A limited number of situations where a duster causes an inconvenience; the restroom is undoubtedly the chief example. My fingers have to do the fine work with my belt and zipper, while my core muscles clench. I’m praying that I can complete the operation and only suffer a close call as opposed to a humiliation. When my pants puddle around my legs, I flip the tail of my coat over my head and drop onto the seat. In short order, internal pressure and external pressure equalize. Like a summer storm, there is thunder and wind; the temperature in the stall drops twenty degrees in about five seconds — or so it seems. I don’t remember sweating, yet all at once I’m aware of sweat cooling, on my scalp, near my kidneys, behind my knees.

I stagger to the sink. I want torrents of glacial runoff, but the faucet is one of those water misers; I have to punch it a hundred times. As soon as I’m clean, it’s time for round two. At last, hollowed out like a flute, I leave the stall. Rip Van Winkle stares back at me from the mirror.

Impossibly, I find Robinson waiting for me in the lobby.

“I was beginning to think you’d gone out a window.”

I don’t say, “I nearly went down the drain.”

She hands me a scrap of paper. Snippets of lyrics from four songs: “Minister of Moonshine” (!!), “Rothko’s Circus” (!!), “Evaline,” and “When You Wash (Your Hair)” (!).34

It’s an amazingly thoughtful gesture and I tell her so.

“You want to get out of here?” she asks.

I do. But wanting is fleeting. Besides, leaving early — regardless of the circumstances — would only feed ammunition to my detractors. A life is defined through a million opportunities to abandon principles.

WE STAND AT the back of the hall (I don’t for a moment entertain returning to our seats) while the crowd pleads for its encore.35 Robinson leans against me so that her head touches my shoulder, but while it appears that she is resting on me, the effect is that I feel propped up.

The boys put it on autopilot for the encore, marching through “Low, Lower Down,” “Luster,” and “Broom Job.” Three classics, but played back-to-back-to-back the effect is less than the sum of their parts, like Neapolitan ice cream.

When the lights come up, Mindy finds us. She looks exhausted (I guess her five kids have caught up with her). She tells me how nice it was to run into me, but I suspect she’s upset that I monopolized her friend.

“Should we get a coffee?” she asks, yawning.

“It’s late,” Robinson says. “I’m going to give Artie a ride to his car.”

The two women share a hug, while I pretend to be distracted.

“Good night, Artie.” Mindy makes a kissing face; my past disappears into the crowd.

•••

I post the setlist while Robinson drives me (in a late-model Volvo wagon) to my car. As I shift to get out, she grabs my fingers. “I want you to follow me back to my place, but I understand if you can’t.”

“We’ll see,” this bad boy says.

HOPPING FROM ONE interchange to another, we make our way north of the city and into a picket-fence neighborhood of oversized colonials. A moat of security lights ring her house. She docks her car in the glowing maw of an automatic garage door. An immaculate John Deere riding mower occupies the adjacent space. She gets out of her car and tells me she can move the mower if I want to garage my car; I tell her that both the car and its owner are accustomed to sleeping under the stars. She says, “That sounds so pitiful.”

I wonder if the drive hasn’t dampened her enthusiasm. Once the musicians unplug and the houselights go up, the magic starts to dissipate. Robinson smiles at me. “Lucky for you, my father bred in me an unquenchable appetite for pity.”

I say, “It’s nice to be appreciated.”

SHE GOES INTO the house first and deactivates an alarm. Then she leads me to a bathroom off the kitchen. There’s a shower. She hands me a towel.

“I’ll see you when you get cleaned up,” she says, closing the door.

Beneath the sink I find a caddy loaded with two unopened toothbrushes, a floss dispenser, a pump bottle of toothpaste, a coral-colored scrubby, and a selection of body washes, shampoos, and conditioners, plus body lotion, face lotion, and a ceramic cube holding a few dozen cotton swabs. Stepping into the shower, I systematically attack each appendage with the appropriate product. I lather and scrub, rinse and condition, gargle and floss, dry and moisturize. Once again, I’m gone too long. I emerge, wrapped in a towel, my body glowing like a feverish child.

Robinson is not waiting for me.

I climb the stairs. Her bedroom — her bed is a fluffy white confection — is empty. I find her in a second bedroom (a real estate agent would call it a “home office”). She’s changed into these flouncy strawberry shorts and a heather-gray T-shirt: the shorts suggest sex, but the shirt suggests television. She’s staring into a computer monitor—arghh, she’s logged into CrossTracks. Before I can see what she’s reading, she turns the monitor off. She takes my hand and leads me back downstairs. The guest room is a still life — a bed, a ladder-back chair, a spray of dried flowers erupting from a vase that sits on a Federal-style desk. Robinson draws back the top sheet.

She says, “In the morning I’ll feed you.”

Had a person spent as much time on the road as I had, had he walked away from half the things I’d walked away from, had he come to believe it was his lot in life to be a constant stranger, that man could understand my gratitude. I thank her.

“You called me Robinson,” she says.

“Robinson.”

As she draws the door closed between us, she says, “It’s Rosalyn.”

46

Cross planted himself at the head of the stage and thrashed his guitar. He and his men had the high ground. They used their strategic advantage to punish the crowd. What, Peter wondered, had the city of Pittsburgh done to deserve this? Peter wasn’t sure he liked what they were up to, but he couldn’t help but feel awed that a seventy-year-old man could be responsible for such noise.

He watched the faces in the first rows — it was impossible to tell whether they were singing or screaming.

Wayne cupped a hand around Peter’s shoulder. Then, leaning close, he said, “Allie wants an adjustment.”

“I’m not a chiropractor,” Peter shouted

Taking a step back, Wayne raised his hands, a mock surrender. His body said, Don’t shoot the messenger! “He’s waiting for you downstairs.”

“Fine,” Peter said, though not loud enough to be heard. He’d been wishing that he could have gone out into the audience. He wanted to be able to see Cross’s face instead of the audience’s.

•••

Peter followed a set of stairs beneath the stage and under the orchestra pit. Near the end of a concrete hallway, he discovered the cramped, subbasement dressing room that Alistair had commandeered. Cross’s son sat on the makeup table, his back against a large mirror, a ring of frosted bulbs haloed his body. His bare feet hung off the edge of the table, as white as peeled potatoes. Maya sat in front of him shredding buds of pot on the face of an ebook reader. Both occupants looked like they’d been teargassed.

“Herr Doktor,” Alistair said, “welcome to our salon.”

As Peter watched, Maya pinched the weed into a corncob pipe, licked a finger, and swept the gizmo’s screen clean.

“I think I’ll come back later.”

Alistair said, “But you’re the missing ingredient.”

“When’s the show start?” Maya asked.

Peter was sure he could still hear the music. “He’s already playing. Listen.”

“That’s the radio,” Alistair insisted.

“It’s not.” Peter would stand for reason, hopelessly square reason.

“Are you avoiding him?” Maya asked, sucking the lighter’s flame into the bowl.

When she’d finished, Alistair grabbed the pipe and held it, ready, in front of his mouth. “I’m not avoiding anyone.”

“Says the guy in the basement.” A thread of smoke spun up from the corner of her lips.

Peter still couldn’t pin down her accent, some remote British colony. He refused to ask her where she came from. He didn’t want to seem interested; that strategy had worked for him in the past. “I should go,” he said, not moving.

Alistair took another hit. “This is just laundry-folding pot.”

Maya shook her head. “It’s weaponized.”

Alistair tapped the pipe on the table before shoving it and the lighter into his pants pocket. “Do you ascribe to doctor-patient confidentiality?”

“Do I ascribe to it?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Wayne said you wanted me to take a look at your back.”

“Fine,” Alistair said, scooting off his perch.

Peter glanced at Maya; at that moment, it appeared she was trying to read her own bare hand.

“She can stay.”

“So we’re clear, I’m not a chiropractor.”

Alistair took a sip from a plastic cup. “Good, I’m not a patient.”

Peter found his stethoscope, pressed the diaphragm against Alistair’s damp and pale wrist. The man’s heart cantered along at 80 bpm. His blood pressure registered on the high side, though within range.

When he palpated Alistair’s lower back, the man winced. Peter lifted the hem of his shirt — the skin around the lumbar vertebrae appeared mottled. “Is this where it hurts?”

“You’ve found the Forbidden City.”

Peter had Alistair do some basic stretches to gauge his flexibility. “It’s probably a mild muscle strain. You should take Advil and try not to irritate it.”

“Do you think I have to be told not to irritate it?”

Peter suggested he try alternating warm and cold compresses.

Alistair rolled his eyes. “I assume that’s if I want to feel more uncomfortable.”

It seemed that Alistair had sent for Peter because he’d wanted to be entertained. This suspicion was strengthened when Alistair suggested that the three of them find a restaurant.

“That’s exactly what I want to do,” said Maya.

“Perfect,” Alistair said. “I saw a pierogi place nearby. We’ll drink vodka and have donuts for dessert. It’ll be an all-potato meal.”

Peter couldn’t sneak out. He wasn’t merely on call — he’d agreed to be embedded and he needed to stay embedded. “I can’t leave the building.”

“My father won’t fire his new pet for insubordination.”

Peter decided to take the high road — he’d seen what happened when Dom had tried to quarrel with Alistair. He didn’t want to be humiliated in front of Maya.

“We can bring something back for you,” she said, which he found encouraging.

And he really was hungry. Since lunch, all he’d had was an oatmeal cookie. “It’s up to you,” he said, “I guess I’ll be backstage.”

“We’ll bring you something,” Alistair said, “but wait here. If you head upstairs, I’ll have to deal with people and I’m not in the mood for that sort of hassle. The place is only a block away.” With the pipe staked in the corner of his mouth, Cross’s son looked like the love child of General MacArthur and Genghis Khan.

“What can we get you?” asked Maya.

“Surprise me.”

Maya said, “We’ll be quick.”

“He literally said, ‘Surprise me,’” Alistair was talking to the girl.

WHEN PETER LEANED his head against the wall he could hear something, but he was no longer sure if he was listening to the band or the audience or the building itself.

He hoped Alistair had given up on the pierogi place and brought him back a cheeseburger. If he was getting into shape, then his muscles needed protein. Not if he was getting into shape — it was happening. He’d never been able to stick with an exercise program; he’d always found it a little vain, like tanning. He suspected Lucy had slipped that notion into his head. Or, who knows, maybe Judith had made some offhand remark that stuck with him. How much of who he was had he cribbed from other people?

Up on the ceiling a red light flashed intermittently; Peter kept losing it and finding it again. He couldn’t be sure if it belonged to a smoke detector or a camera.

Maya had practically begged him to come along, and he’d let her walk off with Alistair because of some sense of responsibility. Going forward, he would give a little more thought to the consequences of his principles.

Ten minutes passed, or an hour. Now he was sick with hunger. When Alistair returned, he’d say something about being considerate to others. Or, maybe, they’d bring him two hamburgers.

The Blister poked his head into the dressing room. He had an open can of beer in one hand, and bundled electrical cords hung on his shoulders like bandoliers. “You hot-boxing motherfucker.”

“Alistair went out to get some food.”

“We thought you were AWOL.”

Peter took his phone out — a message blinked across his screen: Searching for signal.

“They’re already at the airport.” The Blister shook his head, reached a phone toward Peter’s face. “Bluto wants to speak with you.”

He’d gotten a contact high, Peter realized. He was stoned. He held the phone to his ear.

“Marco?”

“This is Peter.”

“The response I’m looking for is ‘Polo.’ You want to try again?”

“There was a miscommunication.”

“Wayne says he texted you, but you didn’t get back to him. He feels bad, but not seppuku bad.”

“Alistair knew where I was.”

“Well, that’s all milk under the bridge. We’re already on the bird, which means you’re humping the dog tonight. That’s the situation. Pretend you’re Dian Fossey or something and we’ll see you in Columbus.”

The Blister finished his beer and dropped the empty can on the floor. Putting a hand on the wall, he bent over and retrieved another beer from a pocket near his knee. He cracked the top, sipping the foam from the mouth. “You enjoy medicine?”

“I do, Mr. Blister.”

“Mr. Blister was my father.” The man laughed at the ceiling; then he dropped his eyes to Peter’s. “Let me give you a little background: I was a guidance counselor with a mortgage and a Volks-wagen. However, due to social anxiety, I now carry a walkie-talkie and sleep in a berth. A few dozen Valium left in a paper sack would be a godsend, or we could forgo the whole cloak-and-dagger business and you could lay the stuff on me.”

“That’s a nice speech, but I’m not a pharmacy.”

The Blister rubbed his bristly head with a dirty hand, smiling, “You need me to walk you to the bus?”

Peter said he could find his way.

The driver, a walnut-skinned woman with a high forehead and a stud in her nose as big as a cuff link, introduced herself as Aisha Moon. She wore steel-toed engineer boots and denim overalls on top of a thermal undershirt, a style that the doctor thought of as rural butch.

He had spent some time on buses. As a boy, he and his mother used to take Greyhounds to see his grandparents on the gulf coast of Florida. Judith insisted they leave their car at home, because a woman traveling alone with a child made an easy mark.

Inside the crew’s bus, Peter was aware of scents on top of scents, lemon on sage on Lysol on bleach; it reminded him of the carnival game where you had to cover a larger yellow circle with five red disks. Beneath all of the clean smells lurked something fetid, something swampy, like a dead turtle.

Peter was getting settled in a seat at the front of the bus when a bearded dude in a kilt climbed aboard.

Aisha said, “Heads up, Lumpy, Bluto asked the doctor to grab a urine sample from you.”

The man stopped in his tracks. “If Bluto wants my pee, he can shake it out himself.”

“She’s joking,” Peter said.

Lumpy scraped a toe on the carpet. “Sorry if I escalated that.”

“Get some rest, sugar,” said Aisha.

“I need to take the edge off with some RollerCoaster Tycoon,” Lumpy said, pushing through the curtain.

Peter’s phone buzzed as the missed texts finally caught up with him.

Head 2 stage door when encore starts.

Paging Dr. Silver. STAT.

Enjoy Pittsburgh.

“Someone checking up on you?” Aisha asked.

“Sort of.”

“Wife or girlfriend?”

Peter turned his phone toward her. “Wayne.”

Fletcher boarded, followed by a guy dressed head to toe in brown tree-bark camouflage.

Cross’s soundman looked at Peter. “Shouldn’t you be on the plane?”

“I’m collecting urine samples.” Peter meant to be playful, but the way the guy flinched told him his aim was off. Then he remembered Bluto telling him Fletcher was in recovery.

“He’s messing with you,” said Aisha.

“An attempt at humor,” said Peter.

“I get it.” Fletcher turned to his companion. “Brucie, have you met the doctor yet?”

The man stuck a hand out. “Charmed.”

“Brucie’s got webbed toes,” Fletcher said. “You ever see that before?”

“It’s called syndactyly.”

Aisha spoke up. “So, while I’m driving, am I to assume you guys are giving each other pedicures?”

Brucie stooped and pulled a plastic pint of orange juice from a refrigerator mounted in a cabinet beneath the television. “It helps pass time between the handjobs.”

“The new Kevin is going to be a little late,” Fletcher said. “The intern wound up pulling all the tape off the floor, including the blocking cues for a Halloween pageant. Kev is trying to fix things.”

“Why would anyone bother pulling tape?” Aisha asked.

“Because he’s the worst intern ever,” said Brucie.

Fletcher said, “Let’s not fault the guy for showing initiative.”

“He’s lucky Kev is a fucking communalist,” Brucie said. “She’s okay.”

Aisha said, “Someday it’s going to dawn on that girl that she’s no longer surrounded by French-Canadian acrobats and she’s going to need a shoulder to cry on.”

“And then you’re going to scissor her raw,” said Brucie.

“Speaking of,” said Fletcher.

A stocky woman, the sides of her head shaved, her yellow hair in dreadlocks, climbed onboard. Tattooed along her carotid artery: Focus. She smiled at Peter. “You’re the doctor.” She leaned over and hugged him. “In the circus, I knew a juggler who was a doctor.”

Peter noted that she hadn’t said “a doctor who juggled.”

“Somebody fetch the doctor a clean blanket and a pillow,” instructed Aisha. “We want him to make himself comfortable.”

“Can’t he crash in your berth?” asked Kev.

“Indeed he cannot,” said Aisha.

AS SOON AS the intern boarded (despite the fact that he appeared to be in his middle forties, he wore cargo shorts and a Chicago Bulls game jersey), Aisha got them on the road.

Curled up on the bench seat, Peter’s mind hummed along with the tires. By his calculation, Cross and the band were already in their hotel rooms. He’d forfeited the comfort of the hospital, the comfort of his condo, of routine and habit, for what? To be forgotten in a basement. To be shoehorned on a bus.

Peter had assumed, as the only doctor, he’d have some power, but the only power he’d ever had was the power to practice medicine and no one seemed especially interested in medicine. What they wanted was medication.

He quit pretending to sleep and sat up.

In the opposite lane, the rising sun glared in the windshields of oncoming semis

“Are you some sort of hotshot?” Aisha flipped a switch and a map light illuminated half her face. “I mean, how come it’s you here and not somebody else?”

Peter found her eyes in a mirror mounted above the stairwell. “He and my mother used to be friends a long time ago.”

Aisha chewed on this for a second. “As a rule, his friends don’t usually end up on the bus.”

Peter moved across the aisle, so he could see her more directly. “I’m not his friend — I’m his doctor.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“It must be serious if it caused Alistair to fly out.”

The bus’s shadow stretched so far ahead Peter couldn’t tell where it ended, but in another hour the sun would rise high enough that things would again resemble what they were.

“So, this is Ohio?”

“It better be.”

47

I will say a few things about women of a certain age and their breakfasts.

They can function all day on a single hard-boiled egg speckled with cracked pepper, but they prefer Greek yogurt and granola. They like blueberries. They will eat half a grapefruit, but they would never eat a whole grapefruit. When they eat a banana in front of a stranger, they use a knife and fork. A package of toaster waffles might last them a month.

They drink coffee from oversized earthenware mugs.

If there is a glass of water in the sink, it’s to aid them in swallowing their Fosamax pill — I’ve learned to recognize the stylized bone embossed on each white tablet.

Patricia, my ex, is one of these women. I’ve met a few more over the years. These women of a certain age are the same whether they live in Tokyo (despite Aunt Liddy’s largesse, I couldn’t bear to pay $500 a night for a room) or Seattle or Lyon (in Europe, the toaster waffle is replaced with a croissant or sweet roll; they tear the bread to pieces before brushing the crumbs into the sink — these women of a certain age have meager appetites and unyielding wills).

On their kitchen table, the local paper occupies a place of honor — when these women die they will take newspapers with them, meaning newspapers have no hope beyond these women. If their husbands are gone, to death, to younger women, they may pass the Sports section to the man sharing their breakfast, but if they are living in the same town where they raised children they will check the high school scores first.

These women appreciate it when you to carry your dishes to the sink, but do not try to load their dishwashers. Never load their dishwashers.

When breakfast is done, they will look at your empty plate and say, “I should have given you more” or “I guess you liked it” or (if they don’t trust their English) “Good. Good.” They will ask where you have to be — and they will generate enthusiasm for your answer (“Dearborn is very nice” or “Lucky you”). It is time to go. They have no patience for dawdling. They will watch you carry your bags out to your car, or a cab, or the subway, T, Metro, Tube, BART, Transit Authority, etc.

Do I think I understand these women of a certain age? I have never understood women of any age, and these women have had their entire lives to make themselves unfathomable.

Take Rosalyn: last night she seemed on the verge of sleeping with me, a complete stranger, but when I find her this morning she has already dressed in slacks, a modest blouse, and a cardigan. She is arranged so neatly that any fantasy I might have nurtured goes right out the window.

She says, “I said I would feed you,” making it sound like the fine print of a contract.

I tell her it’s no trouble, that I’m happy to get out of her hair.

She leads me to her breakfast bar. Side by side: two plates with half-moons of cantaloupe, currant scones. She lifts a thermal carafe and spills coffee into thick, homely mugs.

Shoulders nearly touching, we sip our coffees.

Her right leg jiggles like a sewing machine. Is she nervous? Impatient? Ashamed?

I say, “I’m sure you have to be somewhere.”

I receive a demure smile. No, I read it as demure, but it is guarded.

“Are you familiar with The Holy Screw?”

For a moment I wonder if she’s not trying to stump me with an obscure lyric.

“It’s a book.”

I tell her I can’t keep up with the publishing world.36

“It’s about a woman’s midlife crisis.”

I say I wasn’t aware that women had midlife crises.

“We do. We do, Arthur. In the book the woman goes on an adventure in search of the divine inside her. She doesn’t necessarily believe there is anything divine inside her, but she remembers feeling there was when she was a girl. The book is about returning to her girlhood. She embarks on a trip to a place she’s never visited and, on the way, she meets her soul mate. The book is about how the journey is more important than the destination. It’s an incredibly powerful book. They’re adapting it for Broadway because the only way to convey that sort of emotion to an audience is with music — even though there’s almost no music in the book because she spends so much of her time in silent meditation.”

Rosalyn has my attention.

She continues, “Music emanates from our bodies and it also passes through our bodies. If you look at a great painting you experience it in your eyes and in your brain. Your body is cut off at the neck. The ancient peoples who taught us to locate the soul in the chest weren’t being naïve. Our bodies are important. The book is about that, our sacred bodies.

“I’m not trying to be provocative, Arthur. I thought about you a lot last night. You may not have read The Holy Screw, but you manage to live your life in harmony with its principles. The writer had to go halfway around the world to discover what you know. We can’t waste opportunities, and we can’t be frightened when opportunities present themselves. That’s what the book is about.”

I watch her slice the orange-pink fruit from the rind.

“You’re very passionate.” I’m sober now, so I feel I see her with clear eyes.

She leans over so our shoulders kiss. “Please don’t tease me.”

The scone tastes of baking soda, turns to dust in my mouth. I sip more coffee. I tell her I’m not teasing.

“Last night helped me realize that I need music in my life. It also reminded me to do new things.” She centers her cup in its saucer. “I have a proposition for you, Arthur.”

What does it mean that my chest feels tight? That I have to bite my lip and that, while I feel her eyes on the side of my face, I won’t turn to her.

“After you went to bed I reread the scene in The Holy Screw where the author first meets her spiritual guide and lover, Ruben. Something stood out to me: Ruben is Spanish, but she meets him in Venice. Do you know where I’m going with this?”

It seems that maybe I don’t.

“I looked at Jimmy Cross’s tour schedule and saw he’s playing in Columbus, Ohio, tonight. Columbus, which takes its name from Christopher Columbus, an Italian explorer who sailed under the Spanish flag.”

Rosalyn turns and faces me head-on. “I know it’s a big favor, Arthur, but I want you to take me with you.”

48

Aisha tapped Peter on the shoulder. “This is your stop.”

They were pulled up to a curb. On the sidewalk a pair of fluffy dogs towed a man in an overcoat, pajama pants, and fleece slippers. A greenway bordered the sidewalk, then the land fell away, hiding something, a highway, a hole.

“Meaning: get out,” Aisha said, clarifying.

Peter stood up, checked to make sure he wasn’t leaving anything behind.

Aisha returned to her seat, pressing a button that caused the bus to kneel. She opened the door.

“Where am I supposed to go?”

She directed his attention across the street, to the glass façade of a hotel. “I’m not sure you have the temperament for bus travel. A person can rise above a crisis, but you can’t rise above a bus.”

Peter paused at the top of the stairs. He searched for something to say. Whatever that might be, a response or a counter, it eluded him. Instead he made his face into a smile, descending to the street.

He said, “Thank you,” but the door was shut and the bus was already on its way.

A desk clerk slid Peter a key card and directed him to a bank of elevators. He walked past a continental breakfast buffet that looked pillaged. Someone had affixed a name tag to the self-serve waffle maker: Hello, My Name Is Out of Order. Glutenous Danishes sweated in individual cellophane pouches. Half a dozen peeled eggs stewed in a punch bowl filled with cloudy water.

His suitcase waited at the foot of the bed, like some obedient dog. Sleep seemed unearned, so Peter changed and headed to the gym. He churned a recumbent bicycle while a flat-screen television hung above his head like a guillotine’s blade. The cramped, antiseptic space reminded him of his condo’s promised gym. He was lucky they’d never built it. The last thing Peter needed was another excuse to stay inside. Five days a week he commuted from one parking garage to another. His life was hermetic, boxes inside boxes. Sometimes when he was on duty he would take catnaps in a windowless cube stuffed with boxes of supplies.

Going on the tour should have been exciting, yet so far he’d spent most of his time waiting, in hotel rooms and backstage. It wasn’t enough to go on an adventure — one needed to be adventurous. In his heart, Peter knew he was not adventurous.

He forced himself do biceps curls and seated rows, now that he was single. Prior to moving out, Lucy had joined a gym downtown — which had surprised him, because he thought that they weren’t the sort of people to join a gym. Lucy had been so proud of the hard-soled sneakers she wore to her spin class. Now she was taking her round ass to Albany. Not to mention her presence, the way she made the place smell. He had no interest in living alone. When he got back to his life, maybe he’d get a dog. At least with a dog, he’d be forced outside a few times each day. Plus, women trusted men with dogs — it was biological, if you could take care of a dog, they extrapolated, you could take care of a child; a cat proved nothing.

Peter stepped onto the treadmill. He wanted to get his head out of his head. The machine accelerated to a comfortable pace, but he didn’t want to be comfortable. He bumped up the belt’s speed. The sound of his pounding feet made him feel like he was being chased. Had he always been such a loud runner? Perhaps something was wrong with his running stride, something fundamental. Wouldn’t someone have said something, probably when he was a schoolkid? Boom. Boom. Boom. Another hotel guest came in and took her place on the farthest machine. She had to be seventy; she wore white linen pants. Peter mashed the Increase Speed button. What did it take to be a runner? A little athleticism helped, but discipline was the key. He’d run 10Ks. The hardest part of training for a marathon is telling everyone that you’re training for a marathon. That cracked him up. It was impossible to laugh and run at the same time. He focused on his breathing. He was getting after it.

Sweat quivered at the end of his nose before splashing onto the electronic display. Without stopping, he clung on to the polished grips and waited for the machine to read his pulse. The red flashing heart blipped and blipped. The machine didn’t want to give him a number; he had to will it to read his pulse. Then he saw it, 193. Holy shit, he thought. Holy shit, your heart’s going to explode. He slapped at the machine and the treadmill ground to a halt. The screen told him he’d run 0.89 miles.

Ms. Linen Pants kept on walking; in each hand she held a tiny yellow dumbbell no larger than a hot dog roll.

Peter picked up the spray bottle of disinfectant and a paper towel and wiped down the machine. He would run every day, he decided. Maybe more moderately. Or not. What had moderation ever done for him? He saw his flushed face reflected in the elevator doors. He’d name his dog Boomer or Whiskey.

BY THE TIME he reached his room he almost felt well. Almost, though he needed a shower, though he needed some sleep. And then the surprise of finding the TV on, making him, for a moment, question if he hadn’t, somehow, entered the wrong room. But, no, there was his suitcase. Perhaps some lonely chambermaid, in the middle of freshening his unused room, had been summonsed to some housekeeping emergency and forgot to turn off the tube.

The channel changed.

Peter edged farther into his room.

A pair of charcoal-colored cowboy boots perched on the under-window climate-control unit. He saw the satin-seamed tuxedo pants, the shapeless sweatshirt, then, beneath the battered brim of a cowboy hat, the singer’s unforgettable profile.

“You some sort of health nut?” Cross asked. His heels skated across the metal venting before dropping to the carpet.

“Did I leave my door open?”

Cross aimed the remote at the television and turned it off. “Get dressed. You and I have an appointment at this German place around the corner. I’m mostly vegetarian, but Tony granted me a special dispensation.”

Peter said he needed to shower first.

“You’re fine. I’m not taking you to a wine bar.”

Peter’s cell rang.

Cross said, “That might be Cyril.”

When Peter answered, the bodyguard said, “Is he with you?”

Peter looked at Cross, who nodded.

“He is.”

“You guys at the hospital?”

“Why would we be at the hospital?”

Cyril said, “Tell him either he comes clean or I’m on the next plane to Arizona.” The line went dead.

Cross didn’t look surprised when Peter relayed the message.

“Throw on some pants,” said Cross. “We can talk on the way.”

Opening the lid of his suitcase, Peter exposed Martin’s memorabilia, the albums, the 45, the cellophane pouch with the yellowing chapbook.

“I hadn’t pegged you for a fan.” Cross picked up the collection and carried the items back over to the window to take a closer look. He slid the records out of their sleeves, turning them to sight along their edges. “This is some rare vinyl.”

Correcting the singer’s assumption seemed counterproductive; instead, Peter handed Cross a permanent marker. And, while he pulled on a pair of pants and dress shirt, Cross signed Martin’s treasures, fanning them out on the dresser so the ink could dry.

On the 45, Cross wrote, “Fuck Marty Diamond.”

“Is that a lyric?”

“Ha. Marty’s a collector. He’s the reason I’m the only person to ever pay three million for a split ranch in Wisconsin.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because it was the house I grew up in,” said Cross, heading out into the hall.

Peter caught up with the singer by the elevator.

“Cyril can make all the threats he wants, he’s not going anywhere. His wife’s a Chinese girl from Queens who wants their four kids to go to a Waldorf school. You have any idea what those places charge these days?”

Peter shook his head.

The elevator delivered them to a white service tunnel beneath the hotel.

Cross’s boot heels sounded like hammer blows. “I avoid lobbies. There’s always some thirsty soul waiting to latch on to me.”

Peter recalled the photographer who’d ambushed him in Rochester; certainly that man had looked thirsty.

After hiking up a parking ramp, they emerged onto a shaded side street. The air smelled of baked goods and dry-cleaning chemicals.

None of the people they passed gave Cross a second glance. Peter suspected that the contrast in their manner of dress served to conceal the singer. Cross looked like he’d fished his clothes from a charity box, while in his button-down and khakis, Peter resembled a caseworker out with a client.

“Are you going to tell me why Cyril thought we might be at a hospital?”

For two blocks Peter kept abreast of Cross, waiting for the singer to acknowledge the question. Finally he stuffed his hands in his pockets and froze.

Jimmy took two steps, stopped, went back, and, grabbing Peter by the elbow, towed the doctor across the street. Even after they’d reached the other sidewalk, Cross didn’t release his grasp on Peter’s arm.

“I used to have a talent for pissing people off, but these days I’m better at generating worry.”

They were on the shaded side of the street — Peter felt the cold cut through his shirt, except where Cross’s hand hung on him.

Cross stopped in front of a damp-looking wood door that was held together with wrought-iron strapping.

“You okay with a German place?”

Peter wasn’t certain he understood the question. Was he being asked about Germans or German cuisine? “I’ll give it a shot,” he said.

Inside, a heavyset woman in a dirndl led them to a table with a little placard that read Reserved.

“So,” Cross said, sitting down, “I was behind Allie getting off the plane. He’s got this patch on top of his head — I guess I’d never noticed it before — where his hair is starting to thin. It looks sort of like Antarctica. I leaned forward to tease him about it when I missed a step.”

“Did you fall?”

Before Cross answered, their waitress arrived to take their orders.

“He and I tumbled down together,” Cross continued. “Allie got the worst of it. Trouble always lands on top of him.”

Peter reached across the table and grabbed Cross’s wrists. He turned the singer’s hands.

“How far did you fall?”

The waitress delivered mugs of coffee and a little painted pitcher of cream.

Cross reached a finger up and tested a spot above his ear. “I’ve got a bit of a bump.”

“You hit your head?” Peter reached out his hand. “Show me.”

Cross guided Peter’s finger to the spot.

“That’s a real goose egg.”

Pushing back from the table, Cross escaped the doctor’s touch.

Questions lined up in Peter’s mind. “Are you having headaches? Blurry vision?”

“I’m just a bit sore.”

Peter filed the answers, moved on. “Any dizziness?”

“No.”

“How far did you fall?”

“Does it matter?”

Peter looked around the restaurant, as if searching for questions he’d misplaced. Across the room, a busboy paused while wiping down and stared at Cross. After a moment, he returned to his task.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this?”

“Remember, you weren’t there.”

“Did Alistair tell you how I ended up on the bus in the first place?”

Cross waved his hand. He was having none of it.

“Have there been any other issues?”

“Cyril stopped by my room this morning to check up on me.” Cross leaned forward, his voice a mere whisper. “He asked what I was up to and I said I was watching the spoon.”

“What’s the spoon?”

“I don’t know. It just came out of my mouth. I had the television on.”

Peter checked the time on his phone. It had been about seven hours since Cross fell. There were tasks he needed to complete, an optimal order in which to proceed. He felt calm. He hardly had to think. Ohio State’s hospital was nearby. They could walk, but a cab ride would be better. Peter needed to speak with Martin; someone from neurology should meet them at the hospital, the best guy in Ohio.

“We have to get you checked out,” said Peter, “but you know that. That’s why you were in my room.”

Cross shook his head.

The waitress delivered their plates, deli meats rolled into scrolls, a fanned-out stack of tomato slices, a jumble of charred sausage links, triangles of hard cheese, and, at the center of the plate, on a bed of romaine, a deviled egg.

“You can’t eat any of this,” Peter said.

The waitress seemed to consider whether it was worth her time to drag him out of the restaurant.

“Excuse us for a moment,” Cross said, his voice as cold and rigid as a tire iron.

The waitress left the food and walked away.

Peter shook his head. “You might need surgery.”

Cross picked up his fork, rolled it between his fingers so the tines flashed. The fork did a slow swan dive, burying itself in a sausage. Cross lifted the food to his mouth and delicately bit off the end.

“Maybe you think I’m being too cautions, but these sorts of things can deteriorate quickly.”

Cross finished chewing. Swallowed. “Believe it or not, I went to your room to get away from the people who want to help me.”

“If I don’t get you in a tube, I’m staring at a slam-dunk malpractice case.”

“I’m not going to sue you.”

Peter set his hands on the table. “In the scenario I’m worried about, you won’t be around to call the shots.”

Patients knew all sorts of things, but they didn’t know what they didn’t know.

“What sorts of ghouls would you be looking for?”

“Sometimes ‘senior moments’ prefigure something much more destructive. It can be like the difference between a tremor and an earthquake.”

Cross stood up. “Don’t smile when you tell a person about earthquakes in his head. You think I want my memories trapped beneath mud walls? Tony isn’t perfect, but he never gives me a shot without telling me it’s going to sting.”

Peter raised his palms as high as his shoulders, patted the air.

“I’m just trying to help you,” Peter said.

“Then get Cyril off my back. He and Bluto look at me like I’m about to whisper ‘Rosebud.’”

“I can’t do that until we know everything is okay. It’ll only take an hour. You can spare an hour.”

“Listen. Right now I’m going back to my room to work on a libretto. After that, I’m taking Allie out for an early dinner and try my best to make him happy. Finally, tonight, I’m playing a show for a bunch of hardworking people who’ve scrimped and saved, swapped shifts, arranged babysitters, all so I can have the privilege of performing songs written by a young man I barely remember. So, what makes you think you know what I can and can’t spare?”

Would Peter ever utter a sentence with that much conviction?

“I thought I was your doctor.”

“Sure you are, but I never asked you to save my life.” Cross stuffed his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. “You’ll have to get the bill. I don’t have any money on me, or cards.”

Before Peter could find the words to respond, the singer walked out.

THE WAITRESS SET the bill facedown on the table. “He’s famous, yes, your friend?”

Peter said he was.

A man wearing a white paper hat and a damp, short-sleeved shirt joined them. “I told her. That was Robert Reich, Clinton’s labor secretary.”

Peter corrected them.

The couple exchanged a look.

“‘Long Gone,’” Peter said. “‘Absolutely Nowhere.’”

“What’s he doing in Columbus?” the waitress asked.

“He’s playing here tonight.”

“He still plays?” the man asked.

49

Even though we are divorced and not on the best of terms, Patricia and I have continued to sleep together from time to time. This is not something that happens monthly, or even yearly, but every so often we’ll find ourselves together and sometimes when we’re together we have sex — it’s nothing I’m proud of. When we have sex, part of me is with the young woman she was when we met. And I feel like she is with the young man I was. It’s not that I want to be that person again, but I also don’t want to turn my back on that person, who, after all, was me.

If Patricia’s husband, Mike, ever found out, he’d probably put me in the hospital. He calls Patricia his “partner in crime” and his “songbird.” Last year, on their fifteenth anniversary, he took her to Tahoe for a week and gave her a fox coat — her “foxy coat.” He calls Gabby “Abba-Gabba.” He calls me “A.P.,” which are my initials, though Mike likes to claim they stand for Absent Parent.

Mike wears Hawaiian shirts, never takes off his sunglasses, and he addresses strangers as “Bud-O.” He’s a Jimmy Buffett fan.

WHEN I TELL Rosalyn she’s welcome to join me, she tilts her head toward a small roller bag waiting by the back door. She’d packed the night before.

“I’m not usually an impulsive person,” she says.

Since the Corolla was sort of my bachelor pad, I ask Rosalyn if I should vacuum it first. She says, “In for a penny, in for a pound.”37

I move my executive organizer into the back and stow her bag.

As we buckle in, I feel a twinge of dread. What if the adventure I can offer isn’t what she’s seeking? The nicest thing about traveling alone is not having to worry about witnesses. “Here we go,” I say, as much for my benefit as for hers.

She reaches over and cups the back of my skull. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

I drive.

BILLBOARDS LORDED OVER empty fields, advertising mortgage refinancing and worship services. America, like a tree’s canopy or a balloon, is a thing composed mostly of nothing. We sail along.

“Do whatever you usually do,” Rosalyn says. “Pretend I’m not here.”

I reach behind my seat and fish out my collection of books on tape.38 I’d been listening to a Ken Follett for the second or third time, but it seemed impolite to ask Rosalyn to pick up halfway through a book. I pop in Pride and Prejudice, a book I’ve always intended to read, but never gotten around to — Gabby gave it to me years ago.

A guy announces that we’re about to hear some famous actress read Jane Austen’s “classic novel of manners.” Then the woman begins, “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” Rosalyn reaches over and pokes me in the arm.

“I assure you, I don’t have a good fortune.”

I can’t pay attention to the book — my mind is clouded with feeling. There’s the irony that on the best night of the tour — maybe the best show in a decade — I spent a third of the time indisposed. There’s the fact that my daughter, it appears, is poised to embark on her own remarkable journey — Patricia sort of tipped her hand when she called. If Gabby asks me to give her away, it won’t mean that everything is okay between us; and if she doesn’t want me to give her away, then I’ll have to pretend that doesn’t hurt (it would hurt).

Rosalyn swings her head left and right, as though she expects to see a sign from God.

And then a sign appears before us: Ohio Welcomes You.

50

In Peter’s mind, Columbus was four-story redbrick halls, a football stadium, and a marching band. Craning his neck, he found himself surrounded by glass-skinned office towers. Where had they come from?

Instead of getting tangled up with that question, he called Martin and told him about Cross’s accident.

“Please tell me you’ve scanned him.”

“We’re negotiating.”

“This isn’t negotiable. You’re in Columbus; their medical center just picked up a new Siemens machine. I’ll call the head of imaging and have him meet you there.”

Peter knew all of this; he’d called Martin for reinforcement. “I’ll go find Cross.”

“Find him? Don’t tell me you let him walk off, a guy who’d reported cognitive lapses, a guy who recently fell down a flight of stairs.”

An image played in Peter’s mind: Cross sprawled on the damp cement of the hotel’s garage, drumming his heels between the parked cars, and when Peter pried open the singer’s eyelids, staring up, two empty black pupils.

“I’ll take care of this.”

“Hear me out, Peter. All you’re asking is for him to lie still in a bed. Too bad if he doesn’t like it. It’s his fault he’s got a doctor tagging along. If he tries to stonewall us, we’ll make him sign a release so cold-blooded he’ll beg you to pack him in bubble wrap. Cooper would love to put something like that together, as payback for that Perry Mason stunt.”

At their core, hospitals had more in common with a police station than with a university. To a hospital, health wasn’t an ideal to be pursued, but a law to be enforced. If Peter wasn’t the bully, he was the bully’s flunky.

“I can’t scare him into a hospital,” Peter said. “He isn’t some guy with a couple college-age kids and a second mortgage.”

“In the end, it doesn’t matter if you scare him or seduce him or trick him. What matters is that you examine him.” Martin said, “Wait until his generation dies off. Medicine is going to get much easier.”

At least Cross’s generation didn’t show up for their appointments with printouts from WebMD, with questions compiled by the know-it-alls at the Mayo Clinic. Peter’s older patients never asked to consult with homeopaths or herbalists or Reiki healers. They didn’t expect him to forward their X-rays to their phones or ask Peter to wait while they completed a text message. His older patients never invited him to “join” them on LinkedIn.

“You’re not going to want to hear this,” Martin said, “but you really ought to call Ogata. If he hears about Cross’s fall from someone else, it’s going to look bad. Remember, Ogata and Cross have a relationship. You can exploit that.”

“I don’t want to exploit anything.”

“Lighten up on the semantics. Am I talking about child labor? No, I’m talking about basic preventative care. Stop stalling and do what you’d do if you were here.”

Peter’s phone felt like a brick in his hand. He sat down on a cement bench, caught his breath, and dialed Ogata’s number.

He expected to be intercepted by a secretary or transferred to a mailbox. Instead, a cheery, up-speaking voice asked Peter a question: “Are you well?”

Peter identified himself. “I’m trying to reach Dr. Ogata.”

“And you’ve reached him, but are you well?”

Leaning forward, Peter pinched his eyes closed. “I’m okay.”

“And how’s our friend?”

Taciturn. Slippery. Guarded. Probably not a friend. “He tripped coming off the jet last night. He claims Alistair broke his fall, but he wound up with a decent lump on the side of his head. I want to scan him, but he’s not taking my concerns very seriously.”

“You sure Allie didn’t push him?”

“I wasn’t there.”

“I was making a small joke.”

Did Ogata realize Peter didn’t have the freedom to joke?

Ogata continued, “Do you know the first rule of parenting?”

Peter heard people walking past, but he kept his eyes shut. “I don’t have kids.”

“It doesn’t matter. Anyway, Show up is the first rule. The second is Shut up and listen. If a parent follows both rules she’ll look like a genius. The reason I bring it up, they’re also great guidelines for patient care. Show up, then shut up and listen.”

“Not to sound unappreciative, but I didn’t call looking for advice about medicine. I was hoping you could help me deal with your friend.”

When he responded, Ogata spoke from a lower register. “I just offered you everything I know about how to look after a patient.”

Peter was tired of stroking everyone’s ego. He was tired. “I need to get him into the hospital. Neither one of us is going to look very good if something happens to him while he’s under the care of the Rochester Memorial/Tony Ogata Ambassador for Wellness.”

“Is that actually your title?”

“That’s what they’re calling me.”

“I don’t recall signing off on that.” The tenor of the conversation had changed somehow. “Besides the fall, have there been any other problems?”

“This morning he called his television ‘the spoon.’”

“Fuck me,” Ogata said. “Where is he now?”

Peter opened his eyes. He was staring at a round trash can tiled with small river stones. “We’re in Columbus, Ohio.”

“Show up, then shut up and listen.”

“Please, no more maxims.”

“You’ve got more power than you know.”

Peter wasn’t talking with Ogata. He was listening to a recording.

51

Rosalyn doesn’t have any patience for Jane Austen. She wants to hear my story. It turns out I have a story. Rosalyn’s amazed that I’ve cruised on the Yellow River, spent a night in a favela in Rio, been detained by the Berlin Polizie after they mistook me for a vagrant. When I tell her about the time a pack of coyotes took shelter beneath my truck — I miss the image a truck projects — she sees evidence that I live in harmony with nature (in The Holy Screw, a pack of dolphins join Ruben when he goes for a swim in the Mediterranean). I tell her that I once got lost outside Milan and woke up in an orchard of blossoming lemon trees, and Rosalyn makes me touch the goose bumps on her arms.

“I can’t believe Mindy never mentioned you before.”

I say, “I guess she wanted to keep me to herself.” I’m not joking — I’m flirting.

Rosalyn traps her skirt against her legs, then she lifts her toes to the dash and wiggles them. “I almost moved to India to be with a man.”

“When was this?”

She accuses me of trying to determine her age.

Because I’d met her with Mindy, I’d assumed we were contemporaries, but I realize the flaw in my logic. “I don’t care how old you are now, but how old were you ten years ago?”

Rosalyn laughs.

“Tell me a secret.”

“I used to ride a motorcycle.”

I glance over to see if she’s lying.

“A different man. We rode around Los Angeles in leather pants. It was exciting until I discovered he was married.”

I tell Rosalyn I used to be married.

“What do you miss about it?”

“What makes you think I miss anything?”

She rolls her window down, sticks her head out the window, and spits. When the window closes, she says, “You must have missed something.”

“We always did laundry on Sundays. I liked folding our clothes, the three piles — my stuff, Patricia’s smaller things, and, finally, our daughter Gabby’s tiny things. I liked putting everything away.”

“That’s a much better answer.”

“I haven’t thought about that in a long time.”

“We contain multitudes, Arthur.”

Rosalyn has put her finger on the problem with the book I want to write. How can one book ever contain Cross’s multitudes? The performer I followed in ’90 is not the same man I followed in ’97 or in ’03 or today. How can I convey Cross’s central enigma: that he is an ever-evolving musician who never abandons the past or stops looking toward the future (imagine, for example, his Tex-Mex band playing a rockabilly version of a folk song he wrote fifty years ago).

I tell Rosalyn a story. On June 4, 2004, Cross delivered a somnambulant performance at Sacramento’s Memorial Auditorium. For two dreary hours he shuffled through B-sides, silenced applause with feedback, and turned his back on the audience. It took him most of the show to earn the crowd’s antipathy, but after he’d turned us against him he played the most sublime rendition of “Proud Beatrice.” When the houselights came up, the crowd poured into the streets wearing red-rimmed eyes like badges of honor. I wanted to get some water, so I ducked into the first bodega I came to. Inside I find Cross; he’s staring into a cardboard box of green mangoes. He still had on the yellow shirt he’d worn on stage. Though the place was crowded with people who’d come from the show, nobody recognized him, not the other shoppers nor the clerk, whose attention kept darting to the front door as if anticipating a holdup.

“And it really was him?” Rosalyn asks.

“Sometimes I tell myself I’d see him everywhere, if I could train myself to recognize his different forms.”

In the distance, Columbus rises from the earth. It’s just a city, yes, but it’s a city named after a man who discovered a new world where he’d expected to find the old world. Could a similar miracle happen to me? Might I find a new Arthur Pennyman where I expect the old Arthur Pennyman to be?

Rosalyn says, “I’ve had a rough few months.”

I place my hand on hers.

“I was diagnosed with stage 2 ovarian cancer.”

“You’ll be okay.”

She takes a deep breath. Lets it out. “Well, right now, I’m sick. And neither of us can see the future.”

•••

High above, turkey vultures sail on invisible thermals. The road we’re on is as straight as intention. A tongue of green reveals where groundwater seeps across a brown field.

I say, “My daughter is engaged to someone I haven’t even met.”

Rosalyn turns to me, “Oh, happiness.”

52

With Ogata’s voice still echoing in his head, Peter called Judith. Lucy was right — he was a mama’s boy to his core.

“Do you have a moment?” It was almost a joke — she was a self-employed jeweler.

“Actually,” she said, “I am a little busy. I may have had a breakthrough.”

He could hear a disquieting excitement in her voice. “A breakthrough?”

“I’d been thinking about scarabs. They’re hot again. . well, really, insects in general. I wanted to do my own take on them, but I don’t like bugs. Then I noticed the wheat heads in the yard. When I cast them, they looked like a cross between an ear of corn and a caterpillar. I brought a dozen pendants to the farmers’ market and they sold out in an hour.”

“Do you think you’ll make more?” He wanted to keep her talking. Her voice calmed him.

“That’s just it — one of the buyers owns a yoga catalog. He asked if I had a distributor. I guess he thinks he can sell them. It could be real money. There’s a guy in Oregon who’s sold eight thousand scented river stones.”

Peter knew his mother had an artist’s soul, which meant, well, it meant she couldn’t make fifty identical necklaces, let alone five thousand.

Judith said, “I promised Rolf I’d pour another batch today and see if I enjoy making them.”

“Could you license the idea and have someone else cast them?”

She let out a sighing syllable. The topic was closed for discussion. “How are you? Are you happy?”

“I’m not unhappy.” Then he said, “You and Rolf should come out.”

He listened to her silence as his suggestion echoed on the line.

“That’s a nice offer,” Judith said. “I think we’ll pass.”

“I’d pay.” He was playing chicken with her, though he wasn’t sure why.

“It’s not a good idea right now.”

“Because of the pendants?”

“What has he told you?”

A tan dog with a smushed face stopped to sniff Peter’s ankles before scampering away.

“What sort of friends were you?”

“I never said we were friends.” Her voice had gone flat.

“I guess it’s none of my business.”

“That’s not what I was getting at. What did he tell you about meeting me?”

Cross had said something about her eyebrows and he’d remembered her height. He called her fearless.

“Did he tell you that when we met I’d just run away from home?”

Of course she’d run away. But for their eyebrows, they were nothing alike.

“Did he tell you that I related everything back to The Tempest? It was the only thing I’d read in junior English.”

Now Peter felt bad that he’d tricked her into telling this squalid story.

“I’m sorry.”

“We’re not done,” Judith said. “What did he tell you?”

“You were skinny.”

“And?”

“You didn’t want coffee. He brought you milk.”

Judith didn’t say anything to encourage him.

“I didn’t know you’d run away.”

“I was pregnant.”

“He told me.”

“How many mornings do you think he’s found a girl waiting on his steps?” Judith clucked her tongue. “I should get to work. The morning’s half gone and I promised Rolf I’d have fifty pendants done before he got home for lunch.”

Peter glanced at his watch; it was still a few minutes before noon. He wondered if all of Ohio smelled like smoked meat.

53

If I open my book about Cross with him staring at produce, the next chapter mustn’t follow him outside to the car waiting across the street. You can’t tell a story the way it happened; you’ve got to manipulate things so the reader finds entertainment in the untangling. For whatever reason, a story needs to be folded and flipped, like how an atlas will reorder the world so that adjoining states appear unrelated, or so a river concludes at the side of a page.

The reader needs to feel involved in the sense making of a story, or they’re not involved in the book. A book is a negotiation between what a reader wants to see and what the writer wants to show. Songs must satisfy and resist in a similar way. Cross’s voice isn’t seductive, but there’s a pleasure to be had in submitting to it. If a singer can get away with reading the phone book,39 what’s to stop them?

So the second chapter in the book about Jimmy’s life on the road will focus on me. Should my story not prove as interesting as the parts about Jimmy, that’s not such a big problem. That’s sort of the point.

So I will step away from a bodega and the threat of crime, away from an international recording star hiding in plain sight. I will open, instead, on July 27, 1988. I will open with a perfect kelly green square of lawn, a lush island bordered by two blue-black, almost iridescent driveways, bordered on another side by a freshly paved road, bordered on the last side by a 1,600-square-foot colonial. And attached to that house: a two-car garage. Inside of that garage: two cars (a nearly new Honda and a ruby-red Mercury), plus a push mower with a 5-hp Briggs & Stratton engine. Peering behind the house, the reader will see a shaded rectangle of lawn with an aluminum swing set painted like a maypole and, in the shade of an oak tree, a square sandbox ringed with sand, which if viewed from above might recall da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man.

And who lives in this house? Why, this nice couple named Arthur and Patricia, and their beautiful daughter, Gabrielle. And with them a dog, a tubby beast that likes to curl up beneath the kitchen table and nips at their feet if they accidentally step on him. A big farter, this dog; they are constantly saying “Oh, Cherokee” and “Not again, Cherokee.” The girl, especially, loves the dog. They’re not embarrassed by the dog’s name, won’t be for years and years, and by then there will be so much more they’re embarrassed by it will hardly matter.

On every side of this 1,600-square-foot colonial lurk other 1,600-square-foot colonials. In all, fifty-six houses on a cross-hatching of roads branching off a much, much older road, a road that, because it’s in Virginia, once hosted a battle that claimed 3,100 American lives. When boredom settles on the minds of the boys and girls living in the colonial houses, they dig in their yards and recover things that might have been horse tack or belt buckles or brass buttons. A junior-high boy from across the street, playing in the tangled roots of a white cedar — one of Hurricane Gloria’s many casualties — discovered the curving blade of a cutlass, which time and moisture had eaten until it was as brown and fragile as a dog turd.

The twenty-seventh is a Wednesday, so, if both cars are in the garage, it must be quite early. Think of morning light; think dew on the grass and stillness. In fact, Arthur is up. He is drinking instant coffee from an aluminum mug. Before him he holds a copy of one of the various mimeographed newsletters that he’s been contracted to print — catching typos reminds his clients that he cares. Gabrielle is at the kitchen table slotting checkers in a Connect Four game while her cornflakes disintegrate in their milk bath — she has taught her parents to appreciate this quiet interlude while she waits for the cereal to turn into a yellow slurry; the girl hates scratchy foods. Cherokee nuzzles his owners’ ankles.

Arthur’s thoughts drift from the document before him to the things he needs to do when he gets to the store. He’ll have to make room for their paper delivery. The shuffling wouldn’t be so problematic, but they’d given over half the back room to a large-format printer — they didn’t want to be caught flat-footed if, as seems inevitable, one of the national office-supply chains enters the market.

Using the checkers, Gabby constructs a red house with a yellow door on the Connect Four grid. She shrieks when she finishes, then tilts the grid so the pieces splash in the tray. “House,” she yells, but by then, of course, the house is gone.

With a blue pencil, Arthur makes a check on the top of the page to indicate that he’s looked it through.

Patricia comes in, her eyes half closed with sleep; she’s wearing striped pajama pants and a Van Halen concert tee, gifts from her stupid — as in, soon to be convicted of mail fraud and sentenced to three years in a federal penitentiary — brother.

Arthur pats the dog under the table, stands, kisses Patricia and Gabrielle good-bye, heads into the dark garage — how those unpainted rafters suggest a barn, how the line of windows in the garage door suggest a church. He thumbs the garage door opener, which causes the whole house to shudder — it’s a fine house, respectable, upright, but it doesn’t necessarily feel permanent, as though it might sail away in a strong breeze. Their first winter in the place, after a blizzard dumped a foot of snow, Arthur hadn’t been able to sleep for fear that the roof would collapse and bury the three of them; Cherokee, of course, would survive, would wind up in some clinic for tragic pets, abandoned, farting away his numbered days.

HE PARKS BEHIND the store, unlocks the back door, deactivates the alarm with the weird O-shaped key that reminds him, always, of a smallpox vaccination scar. The photocopiers hum and shake when he flips the main power. He goes through the orders awaiting pickup. Checks to see when their sole employee — what will they do if he decides to enroll full-time at the community college, or if his girlfriend infects him with ambition? — punched out, reads the kid’s entries in the job log.

This essential employee arrives before lunch, bringing with him, from the place near his house, two sandwiches, two sodas, two bags of chips. Then, while the kid watches the counter, Arthur wanders out back to consolidate paper stock, to break down boxes, to stack and shift. A few items for which Patricia had sought amnesty wind up in the Dumpster.

He hears the buzzer that means a customer has come in, figures the kid can take care of it. Arthur looks at his watch, knows the paper truck will be by soon, and pulls the chain to open the loading dock’s roller door. Scalded air rushes in, snatches up a cloud of dust as well as the confetti scraps from the binding puncher.

Dangling his feet off the dock, Arthur eats his lunch.

The delivery arrives: two pallets of boxed paper bound with plastic wrap. Arthur helps the driver wrestle the load across the stamped tongue, off the truck. The driver won’t stick around to check the invoice, even after Arthur reminds him of the time he accidentally delivered 140-lb deckle-edged card stock.

Arthur slices the plastic with a box knife, disposes the wrap out back.

He winds up with an extra box of canary and no fuchsia; he files this fact away — he is very good at remembering facts. Then he washes his hands because the formaldehyde they treat the paper boxes with irritates his skin.

The kid comes back, looking bored. He’s waving an envelope. “Someone left you a present.”

Small businesses run on relationships. You can’t do a corporation a favor, but you can do a person a favor. You can remember a person’s name, ask them how a project went, know something of their days, etc.

The envelope bears the logo of the local TV station. Arthur and Patricia print up their quarterly newsletter. A short sentence in cursive: “Thanks for all your help.”

Inside Arthur finds two slips of perforated 65-lb card stock, tickets to see Jim Cross that night in Richmond.

Arthur holds them before the kid. “You want them?”

“Maybe,” the kid says, “if it was fifteen years ago.”

Arthur slips the tickets back into the envelope.

“Or if like, I don’t know, I didn’t have a TV.”

“Fair enough.”

“Or a girlfriend.” The kid is chasing the joke around the room. “Or a dog.”

Arthur picks up the phone.

“Or if I only had one day to live—”

“I get it.”

“And I wanted for the time I had left to seem much longer than it actually was.”

“Funny,” Arthur says, dialing Patricia.

HIS WIFE IS excited about the tickets. “You know, I thought I saw him once, jaywalking in Fredericksburg. He had on those black Wayfarers and an orange turtleneck sweater.”

“What was he doing there?”

He can hear her flip her wrists the way she does.

“Do you want to go?”

“I wish it wasn’t tonight.” She’s really trying to be disciplined about her eight hours of sleep. She feels better able to cope with things when she’s well rested. “And it’s hard to get a sitter midweek.”

“I know.”

“You should go,” she says.

He says he’s undecided.

“You should.”

WHY AM I writing in the third person? Who am I trying to fool? The answer: I’m trying to fool myself. Because that person who owned a printing shop is a stranger to me; I barely remember living in that house. I certainly don’t remember what it felt like to anticipate seeing Cross play for the first time.

•••

At six, I found myself changed out of my work clothes, in my car, headed to Richmond. I’d been to the theater once, with Gabrielle: a puppet troupe performed Little Red Riding Hood and Jack and the Beanstalk. Gabby spent the whole show hiding behind my coat, unable to watch and unwilling to leave.

An older crowd had assembled for Cross’s concert. Most of the people could have kids in high school. A few college kids, the anti-fraternity crowd, tossed a Frisbee in the parking lot. I regretted that I hadn’t called a friend. If someone asked me if I had tickets to sell, I might have driven home with cash in my pocket. If someone asked, I might have given the tickets away. Nobody bothered asking.

So I headed inside, the spare ticket alone in my pocket.

I walked across the lobby, pushed through the double doors with their porthole windows. My eyes adjusted to that cool darkness — the place looked half full. Bells on women’s anklets tinkled. I watched people smoke marijuana in tight little knots, the twisted cigarettes held backward to ease passing, the way Russians smoke in movies.

After the houselights cut out, the red lights of the Exit signs asserted themselves.

A tall man with a guitar stood beside a pretty woman who appeared to be hiding behind an accordion, the opening act. The duo ran through four or five songs without ever really engaging the audience, as though they had only stopped by on their way somewhere else. They walked off to a smattering of applause. As the curtain glided closed, men in dark clothes shifted equipment on the dimmed stage.

I knew the lights wouldn’t stay down forever. On the other side of the curtain, someone brushed past, sending a ripple across the stage. The crowd yipped and yelped. Feet stomped against the floor, an agreed-upon cadence, a universal rhythm. Over the PA system, a voice like a game-show host’s announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, please help me welcome five-time Grammy winner and Kellogg recording artist. .” The unmistakable whanging of an electric guitar sent the crowd around the bend. Someone gave the signal, made the curtain fly.

NINETY MINUTES LATER, soaked in perspiration, trembling, I called Patricia from the lobby. I told her I didn’t think I was meant to be running a printing company. Where’s this coming from? she asked. I’d discovered something intimate, something intrinsic, that connected me to the other concertgoers. “Come home,” Patricia said. “I’ll make you a drink.”

I said, “What if I’ve found my people?”

“What are you talking about, ‘your people’?” Her patience evaporated. “Stop playing around, Arthur.”

But I was going to Baltimore. I didn’t know anything beyond that.

“Don’t hang up,” she shouted. A thought flashed through my mind — she wasn’t mad at me; she was mad that I’d escaped first. “I’m going to go wake Gabby; I want you to say good night to your daughter.”

Two teenagers stood close by — they were probably waiting to call their parents for a ride.

I told her I had to go.

“Have you lost your mind, Arthur?”

Years would pass before I understood what happened that night. Patricia wanted Arthur back, but he never got her message. She was speaking to the Restless One.

54

Just off the lobby, the hotel had converted a coatroom into a business center. Peter sat down at one of the workstations and ran a search for Lawrence Brand, the Scientist.

The few stories Judith had told about his father were so familiar that they’d assumed the texture of memory. Peter could see the index cards the Scientist taped to things in order to teach himself German. When a summer storm dampened a book that Peter had left beside an open window, he recalled the swollen textbooks the Scientist had abandoned on the lip of a tub. Nobody but Peter’s long-gone father would read by the light of a glove box. For that matter, nothing was more repellent than the Scientist’s habit of starting his day with canned tuna. . and his inexcusable practice of drinking the water the fish had been packed in. Peter’s favorite quasi-memory: a mathematical equation, scribbled on the back of a paper plate, describing the fate of a tadpole’s tail.

During the second year of his residency, Peter had scoured the web for information about his father. His professional training almost behind him, his life partner selected, a family, perhaps, on the not too distant horizon, he felt prepared to dig into the past. It had taken him only a few minutes to identify a prime suspect. A company called Parallax Circuit Design listed a Lawrence Brand as the head technology researcher. Downloading Brand’s c.v. off the company’s website, Peter had been able to confirm the few biographical details Judith shared: a BS from Rutgers, an outside interest in astrology, some knowledge of German. She’d told Peter that the Scientist studied magnets. Brand held a PhD in electromagnetic engineering from Kansas State.

SINCE THE LAST time Peter peeked in on him, Brand had added two lines to his c.v. In 2008, the Western Apicultural Society certified him a Master Beekeeper; he’d also attached a link to a locked thread from a beekeeping board where a moderator identified as LarryBee, in one huge, blocky paragraph, debunked the myth of a connection between Colony Collapse Disorder and the proliferation of microwave transmission towers. The tone of Larry’s post, a paternalistic lecture, left Peter feeling condescended to.

Using Google Earth, Peter spied on Parallax’s headquarters, a gray-white rectangle marooned in a pink sandscape dotted with sagebrush. In a dirt parking lot, three pickups and a white sedan crouched over their shadows; Peter wondered if one of the cars might belong to his father. With a few mouse clicks, he found himself staring at a glass door set in a taupe building. A figure in white appeared to stare back from the glass — a person in a lab coat? When Peter zoomed in, any sense of form disintegrated.

Outlaws and mystics escaped to the desert, artists in search of a particular strain of nothing. It certainly wasn’t where a person went if he wanted to be found.

Peter searched his father’s name again, this time putting Lawrence Brand, PhD, in quotes. The search engine returned three hits, two from the Parallax website and the third an apparent misspelling of a Lawrence Band, PhD. Then Peter searched Peter Silver and tried to comprehend the rather unmanageable number of 38,000; the total was, in part, due to what Wikipedia called “disambiguation.” But even if only a thirtieth of those hits referred to him, he was a thousand times more renowned than his father. This quantitative superiority felt like a bloodless patricide. No matter if he felt timid or retiring, he was not his father; he hadn’t buried his head in the sand.

On a whim, Peter executed another search. He typed “Jimmy Cross,” then hit Enter. What did 65 million hits even mean? There was a sponsored link: Funniest Jimmy Cross Jokes. Peter clicked it.

Q: What’s the difference between Jimmy Cross’s band and the band on the Titanic?

A: One band played on a sinking ship. The other drowned in the North Atlantic.

And on the following page:

Jimmy Cross walks into a bar. He’s wearing a bowler hat and he’s got a pair of shih tzus on leashes. He orders a bottle of champagne, pours the champagne into his hat, places the hat on the floor. The dogs drink the champagne. Then Jimmy orders a hamburger. “The kitchen’s closed,” says the bartender. “That’s okay,” says Jimmy, “I don’t need it cooked.” The bartender heads out to the kitchen and comes back with a raw hamburger on a plate. Jimmy sets the hamburger on the floor and the two dogs leave the hat and eat the burger. Next, he asks the bartender to make “the world’s biggest Shirley Temple.” The bartender fills a pitcher with ice, mixes in grenadine, 7Up, pours a bottle of maraschino cherries on top. Jimmy picks up the pitcher, leans over the bar, and dumps the drink into the sink. “Is there a problem?” the bartender asks. “No, I just wanted to see it.” The bartender then writes out a check and sets it down in front of Jimmy. “What’s that supposed to be?” Jimmy asks. “It’s your bill.” Jimmy stands up, ties the dogs to the stool, says, “I dispute it.” “Is this some sort of a joke?” asks the bartender. Turning to head out the door, Jimmy says, “How would I know?”

(Buffalo Bar, Riverhead, NY, August 6, 1974. A true story.)

For perspective, Peter did a search on Bill Clinton. Despite the blue dress and troopergate, despite the impeachment and “what the meaning of ‘is’ is,” Clinton returned only half as many hits.

“Sorry about the confusion last night.”

Turning away from the computer, Peter found Wayne standing in the doorway.

“I got here okay.”

Wayne unzipped a nylon folder, retrieved a sheet of paper, and handed it to the doctor: Peter’s itinerary. “I saw you looking up Clinton. Someone tell you about the Kennedy Center fracas?”

Peter shook his head.

“Clinton’s people let it be known that he wanted to play with Jimmy. Well, Cross got word to Clinton’s people that the president could play his horn if Leonard Peltier played tambourine.” Wayne raised his fist.

“Peltier isn’t a Black Panther.”

“You sure?”

“He’s American Indian Movement.” A Peltier bumper sticker featured prominently on Judith and Rolf’s refrigerator.

Wayne opened his hand. “How!”

“That’s not the preferred greeting.”

“It’s a postracial world, doc.” No, Peter thought, it was a hybrid world. Someone named Wayne Shiga ought to realize that. Analog faces on digital watches. Gas-electric cars. Casual business attire. Jimmy was folk rock or western blues, a throwback and the avant-garde. For crying out loud, “cross” was a synonym for hybrid.

“Do you know where I can find Bluto?”

“He and I are meeting on the bus at five. It’s on your sheet.”

“What if I need to see him before then?”

“I could call him, but that would piss him off.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re meeting at five.”

“Well, I need to talk to him now.”

“Two minutes ago you were googling Bill Clinton. What’s changed since then?”

55

As we drive into Columbus the patchy clouds that dogged the morning have vanished; instead, we have one of those perfect fall days that outshine anything summer can offer. The sky is as deep and blue as the Caribbean.

“Do you know what a wedding costs?”

“You’re not thinking about getting married again, are you?”

“I was thinking about Gabby.”

She punches me lightly on the arm. “I realize that.”

“It would be nice if I could help out. She wouldn’t expect that.”

“Make sure you like the guy.”

“I haven’t even met him.”

“You told me.”

The streets are crowded with people basking in the weather.

I spot the sign for a DoubleTree hotel. Whenever I see the logo I can’t help but see an endorsement of lesbianism (they’re supposed to be trees, I realize):

What would the McDonald’s manager say about that?

“Look, it’s my hotel,” Rosalyn says.

It turns out she booked a room last night; she had Hilton points, or whatever they’re called, because of her job. That I’d driven us right to the place, Rosalyn believes, is further evidence of our fated journey. After parking, I carry her bag in.

At the desk, Rosalyn turns to me and asks, “Arthur, do you need to use the bathroom, or the Ethernet connection?”

In fact I could use both — but my most pressing need is for a little bit of space. She probably feels the same. So, after making dinner plans, I drive around the corner to a café that offers decaf and free Internet.

Last night’s show has the online world in a tizzy. On CrossTracks someone started a thread: Pittsburgh: Best. Set. Ever. A guy claiming to have a recording from the soundboard is soliciting bids: he’s been offered a case of Burgundy as well as the right to choose the middle name of a girl due in November. LapisAzuli complains that ever since the show she hasn’t been able to tolerate any sort of noise — her cat’s purring, cars driving past her house, her husband’s voice.

But was it an extraordinary show? ActuaryGary insists that the setlist was only one deviation from standard mean. That leads Gumbosian, a consumer-habits pollster, to take issue with Gary’s methodology — ActuaryGary computed the frequency of the various songs, but failed to factor in the likelihood that they’d be played together. By Gumbosian’s calculations, Pittsburgh represented a 1 in 16,238 event — Gary then concedes that he might have oversimplified the math, possibly to take the sting out of the fact that he wouldn’t be seeing Cross until Chicago and he didn’t want disappointment to be a foregone conclusion.

More than fifteen hours have passed since anyone has added anything to the threads about me. The last entry, posted right before Cross took the stage: “Either these are the trippiest mushrooms I’ve ever eaten, or Pennyforger has a couple women hanging on him.”

I GO THROUGH my emails.

Neil Young Guy checked in: “Did you hear? Neil Young has a tour bus that runs on methane; it gets 500 miles on one Cross CD.” Plus, “Neil Young inspired Pearl Jam; Jimmy Cross inspired the ‘pearl necklace.’”

An acquaintance in Chile, claiming to have contacts in the entertainment industry there, tells me that Cross’s management is planning to be in South America next July, more or less on schedule. According to his sources, Cross has tentative dates in Santiago, Lima, Córdoba, Buenos Aires, Santa Cruz de la Sierra, and Caracas. Nothing in Brazil, supposedly, but one can’t read too far into rumors. If Cross will be in South America next summer, I should probably bone up on my Spanish.

Dear Mr. Pennyman,

My name is Jay’Den Delacroix. I am a student in Ms. Weatherby’s 7th-grade World History class in Passaic, New Jersey. We have been learning about how we communicate today and what gets taken for granted. There’s a project paper we got to write. My original idea was Morse Code, but Ms. Weatherby said no.

She thought I should write you because you are supposed to be some expert on Jim Cross and he is a historical figure who lived through big changes in tech. Please answer these questions or I’ll fail.

How has technology changed Jim Cross?

Are these changes for the good or bad?

What would Jim Cross say about the Internet?

Thank you SO much.

Your friend,

Jay’Den

Dear Jay’Den,

First: Cross is still very much living, and, like all of us, he continues to adapt to changes in technology.

When I first started following Cross, the CD was new — people thought it might be a fad. The only people I knew with cell phones were doctors! If I wanted to make plane reservations, I needed to contact a travel agent. Oops, you asked how technology has changed Jimmy and I’ve gone off talking about myself. I guess the best answer is that technology has changed him completely and not at all. So far, his lyrics haven’t mentioned Google, iPods, the Walkman, laptops, cell phones, Facebook, or anything else that seems especially current. He does mention records (like vinyl LPs and EPs — ask Ms. Weatherby), radio, rockets, electric keyboards, biplanes (in an ironic context; he’s not that old), and television (if yours is the computer generation, mine was the TV generation).

This is a tricky question. You called me an expert on the musician, but I think the truth is that I’m expert at listening to his music and, maybe to a lesser degree, at being a fan of his music. So what do I think? I think that those of us who listen to his music probably have ambivalent feelings about changes in tech. For one thing, change is always bittersweet. The world doesn’t change without changing us. I drove a car with a 4-speed manual transmission and a tape deck to the hospital where my daughter was born; I called my parents collect on a pay phone (again, ask Ms. Weatherby) to let them know they had become grandparents. Bittersweet. Can you imagine that one day you’ll have similar feelings for your cell phone or whathaveyou?!

Here, finally, I can offer you something concrete. In 2002 Der Spiegel (a famous German newspaper — ask Ms. Weatherby about newspapers. . just kidding) asked Cross if he used the Internet. The interview, unfortunately, is in German, but I’ve seen a translated version. Cross said that he traveled with a portable computer (for a lot of people, one of the lessons of September 11 was the importance of staying connected). He mentioned watching Kurosawa films and that on the odd occasion when he finds himself cooking — can you imagine him cooking?! — he’ll look up recipes. I’ve heard rumors that he maintains a private Facebook profile to get in touch with his far-flung friends, though I can’t confirm this. So far, the few aliases I suspected have refused my friend requests.

Good luck with your paper! I hope this helps.

Best,

Arthur Pennyman

SteeltownLarry writes, “Is something going on between Jimmy and the band? Besides introducing them during ‘Loss of Pressure’ he hardly seemed to acknowledge anyone the whole night. Did you notice that he exited the stage on the opposite side from the rest of the guys? It’s been a while since he cleaned house — even the kid has been with him for a few years now. Do you expect we’ll see new faces come spring?”

Dear SteeltownLarry,

In my tenure I’ve seen eleven guitarists, nine percussionists, three bassists (people ignore Tony’s mysterious^40 leave of absence at the end of ’97 and his brief illness in ’08), two keyboardists, and one erratic mandolin player (William Styles’s one-night stand in Seattle). I won’t mention all the special guests, both headliners and has-beens, who’ve dropped in for a set.

To quote Heraclitus: Change is the only constant.

As for his relationship with the band, all I can say is that I haven’t seen or heard anything unusual. This has been a pretty stable era, all in all. However, that’s not to say he couldn’t pull a Springfield Armory^41 tomorrow.

The bigger question, it seems to me: How much longer do WE expect this to go on? I’m not the only one to think Cross has seemed a bit erratic this fall. He put on a hell of a show last night, so why did it leave me feeling uneasy? Why did it leave you uneasy? These are the sorts of questions that make the winter so long and lonely.

Yours,

Arthur Pennyman

Mr. Pennyman,

My name is Raven Warren. I am writing you in my capacity as a curator for the Center for American Music and Folk Art in Los Angeles. If you’re not familiar with CAMFA, let me catch you up to speed. We are a 501(c)(3) nonprofit committed to preserving and protecting the rich heritage of American art makers. As you may know, the center is in the process of creating a digital archive. I would be very interested in talking with you about your Jimmy Cross project. If you would have time to meet with me, I could tell you why CAMFA can offer an ideal repository for your records. As you know, the University of Wisconsin and the Smithsonian have already secured, respectively, Cross’s papers and existent recordings; I also know, from conversations with board members, that neither institution envisions acquiring secondary materials.

When you have a chance, I hope we can discuss how CAMFA might protect your significant legacy.

Warmly,

Raven Warren

Director of Digital Media Archives, CAMFA

Dear Raven,

Thank you for your interest in my project. You’ve reached me at a good time, as I’ve been wondering what shall become of this material once I can no longer take care of it. Future Cross scholars — as well as sociologists, musicians, cultural historians, etc. — will want access to my materials. JimCrossCompendium is very much an active community: last month the site had more than eighty thousand page views!

Perhaps CAMFA would be interested in cosponsoring next year’s leg of the tour?! Or maybe there are other models of support that might serve both of our interests. I’d be very interested in having that discussion with you.

And, yes, I’ve followed the jousting between UWisconsin and the Smithsonian. However, I’m surprised you didn’t mention the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. They’re the ones I’ve always expected would come calling — they’re certainly aware of me: my server regularly records visitors from their ISP. Considering Paul Allen’s financial resources and his background with computers, they would be a natural match. And don’t forget: Cross was inducted into the Hall of Fame in ’88!

Ultimately, I want my project to land with an organization that appreciates my efforts and recognizes the significance of the materials. Let’s talk soon. In the meantime, the road calls.

Yours,

Arthur

Arthur,

I’m sorry if my behavior got out of hand the other night. I should have told you the timing wasn’t ideal. I’ve had a lot of things on my plate (har har), but I knew you were looking forward to seeing me and I didn’t want to let you down. Do you know anything about People-Pleasers? Basically it boils down to me constantly asking myself if the people around me are happy? If the people around me are happy, then my life has value and I don’t ask myself the dark questions (Are you happy, Gene?). People take advantage of me sometimes. In the winter my neighbors will ask if they can borrow my snowblower, knowing that instead of letting them borrow my snowblower I’ll probably get up thirty minutes early and clear their driveway before I clear my own. Are they bad people for asking? They don’t think so. If they ask me, I tell them I’m glad to drive them to the airport or watch their cat.

I guess at some point I started seeing Cory as an extension of me, and therefore I didn’t stop to ask, Are you happy, Cory? I don’t know how that happened, but I can see now that it did. And I’ve been drinking more than I should too (instead of “Are you happy, Gene?” I can ask “How about a drink, Gene?”). There are a lot of people who are willing to let you sacrifice yourself trying to make them happy. Many of these people, obviously, are women. Should I be trying to make them happy? I know better, sure, but how much harm is there if I take a woman to lunch and nothing else?

It probably would have been better if I didn’t have you over, but, hey, I wanted to make you happy. And we were having a good time. Did I feed you? I did. Were you entertained? See what I’m saying? But then, after I’d had a few drinks, my mind said, How can I make Gene happy? That’s how I came up with the idea for a fake posting. Was it the cleverest thing I ever came up with? I’m not saying it was. When you said no, I felt like, once again, everyone was taking, taking, taking from Gene. And then you went inside (into the garage apartment I built). Did I overreact? Of course I did.

As you can see, it wasn’t really so much about what you did or didn’t do, but more of a cumulative thing that had been building up for a while. If you spent anything reinflating your tires, please let me know. I’m happy to pay for any damages I did to your property. And, as for your friendship, I’m sorry for any damage I may have done to that, too. Though I realize it may take longer for me to fix that.

Sincerely,

Gene

Dear Gene,

I’m sorry for your troubles and I’m sorry if I inadvertently made more troubles for you. I think it takes a lot of character to sit down and write a letter like that. Most people would pretend it didn’t happen.

While you don’t explicitly ask me to defend my choice of not publishing a fake report, I wanted to point out that the thing that makes JCC different from CrossTracks (or any of the other boards) is that I make a point not to blur those lines between what is good for me and what is good for the fans.

In friendship,

Arthur

I wash my face in the café’s bathroom. Then I swap the yellow button-down shirt I wore this morning for a laundered shirt that Patricia claimed brought out the green in my eyes, my lucky shirt. The shirt was hidden in the most inaccessible compartment of my car, along with a few other things I didn’t expect to need: a sewing kit, a snakebite kit, Gabby’s baby book (not the original one — Patricia has that — but one I put together as a high school graduation gift, though, so far, I’ve failed to give it to her).

Back at the DoubleTree, I stand watching the elevator deliver people and carry them away. Waiting there, I can recall what it was like to anticipate a prom date descending shag-carpeted stairs. I stretch my arms and twist my neck. I never took a date to the prom.

Rosalyn’s not down at five, or ten after. The elevators keep disgorging the wrong people. At twenty past, I assume she’s running a little late. I check with the desk clerk: no messages for Arthur or Artie. I choose not to call her room. I don’t have a reason; I just choose not to.

At six the desk clerk comes over and asks whether I’ve heard from my friend. She seems worried for me, maybe about me. She’s very young, with curly black hair held close to her skull with pins. Perhaps I remind her of a grandparent.

I do not allow my concerns to multiply. I force myself to take a seat on the sofa. I do not allow that I have concerns. Rosalyn will come.

“Ar-thur,” a voice whispers in my ear. “Ar-thur.” Rosalyn stands behind me, her hands resting on my shoulders.

I’d fallen asleep. “Are we ready?”

“In The Holy Screw the narrator and Ruben charter a sailboat on the Aegean. When a storm kicks up — she calls it a tempest — she starts to get seasick, so Ruben tells her to imagine she’s a fish.”

“And that helps?” I pat my pockets; constant traveling has made me conscientious about leaving things behind. I can’t afford to scatter bread crumbs.

“She can’t imagine being a fish, so she cheats and imagines she’s Ruben.”

“She does?”

Rosalyn kisses my ear. “Then she falls asleep.”

“Whisper my name again.”

She says, “Horrible Arthur.” Her lips are wet with gloss.

“Hungry?”

“Do we have time?”

“There’s always time.” I hardly recognize my own voice.

56

At five, Peter found himself on the band’s bus with the silent driver — the crooked little man with the Greek fisherman’s cap whom Peter had heard people refer to as the Arbiter. The doctor had spent most of his afternoon watching the bus’s satellite television and trying to come up with scenarios that would result in Cross’s consenting to a hospital visit. Peter’s only hope, he concluded, was a miracle.

The driver turned in his seat. “Hey, doc, you know this lady?”

Maya stood in front of the bus, peering into the windshield.

Peter went outside to speak with her.

She was looking for Alistair. The night before, he’d promised her an interview with Cross and she’d spent the whole day waiting for her phone to ring.

Her eyes were even greener in the daylight.

“When did you last see Alistair?” Peter knew he was prying.

“I dropped him at the airport last night.”

Peter wanted to tell her that he’d missed the flight because he’d been waiting in the basement for Alistair (for her!). Would the truth make him seem pathetic? Incompetent? “He didn’t offer you a seat on the plane?”

She looked over her shoulder. “No, he did. He told me to leave my rental in the parking lot; he said he’d take care it.”

“You turned him down?”

“Should I have taken him at his word? He’s famously irresponsible.”

“Well, primarily with his own health.”

She reached up and pulled her hair back. “Besides, I like driving. I grew up watching American TV, Miami Vice, Magnum, P.I. I wanted to rent a Ferrari, but my research stipend wouldn’t cover it.”

If Martin had been there, he’d have taken the opportunity to tease Peter about his unsexy car. If Alistair were there, he’d rent her a Ferrari.

“I need this interview,” Maya said, “but I’m afraid if I go behind Alistair’s back he’ll be vindictive. Is that like him?”

Peter said he didn’t have much to go on.

“Aren’t you friends?”

“I met him two days ago.”

Maya rubbed her forehead. “Why did I think you’d known each other longer?”

Concerned that their conversation could be on the verge of ending, Peter changed subjects. “I’ve got a question for you: Why, when I’ve never really cared for Cross’s music, do I suddenly feel like I’m becoming a fan?”

Maya looked at him, smiled. “Had you ever watched him play before?”

“Does that matter?”

“Hugely. I have a whole chapter on the power of the stage. We’re social animals. Put us in a crowd and we fall in line. The expression ‘Preaching to the converted’ is misleading. The audience, not the preaching, is the real agent of conversion.”

“How does that work?”

“You must have studied the autonomic nervous system in medical school. That’s the mechanism.”

“Are you associating musical tastes with perspiration, respiration, heart rate, and reflexes?”

“You left out sexual arousal. Sometimes I tell people that my research focuses on how and why we fall in love.”

“As a physician,” Peter said, “it’s fascinating to hear how a sociologist understands the autonomic nervous system.”

“Maybe I’m a metaphysician.” Maya smiled. “Did you talk about the soul in med school?”

“I don’t recall studying the soul.”

“If I were to go looking for one, the autonomic nervous system is the first place I’d check.”

“Where are you from and are there more people like you there?”

She blushed. “I’m a Kiwi.”

“That’s funny.”

“Why?”

“Your eyes are kiwi-colored.”

She shook her springy hair. “Would you want to get something to eat?”

He’d put on his serious-business face, a guy who’d been watching television on a bus. “I’m waiting for Bluto.”

“But you do eat food sometimes, don’t you?”

“You’ve got very bad timing.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do I?”

What he’d meant to say was that her timing was bad for him, but he didn’t trust that he could explain the difference. “I would like to eat with you at some point.”

“At some point,” she parroted him. “If you see Alistair, tell him I was looking for him. Don’t tell him that I’m getting frustrated.” She turned and started to walk off.

He called after her. “Enjoy your food.” He deserved nothing.

WAYNE AND BLUTO didn’t show up at five. Or five-thirty. Peter flipped the channels on the TV, but nothing held his attention. He tried closing his eyes for a few minutes, which, instead of relaxing him, made him feel like a blind idiot. The only person he’d ever met from New Zealand was off exploring Columbus while he sat waiting on a bus. Time passed right through him. He couldn’t sit another moment. He needed to do something.

He walked to the front of the bus and asked the driver to let him off.

The evening had carried a damp earthy smell into the city. Where, he wondered, did the cornstalks start, or the wheat? He’d barely given Ohio a thought since fifth-grade geography.

He came across a two-way pedestrian path. Just beyond the path a big, slow river shone metallic pink. Peter was constantly being overtaken by a parade of joggers, the occasional bicyclist knifing through their ranks. Since when had women’s shorts become so, well, short? The jog bra craze had caught him off guard a few years ago, but now he was seeing hamstrings. Those teeny fucking black shorts. He’d just made peace with yoga pants.

Plump songbirds flitted about the underbrush bordering the path. He scanned the bobbing, hypoxic faces in the oncoming lane. A skiff gouged a white line up the river, disappeared beneath an overpass. Wasn’t it weird, Peter thought, that the same rivers that once enabled cities now girded them. That sort of penetrating intelligence would have knocked Maya’s knickers off. Watching the water corrugate around the cement pilings of a bridge, the doctor took out his phone and paged Martin.

A few seconds later, his phone shook.

“Tell me you’ve got good news.”

“I’m ninety-nine percent certain nothing’s wrong with him.”

The joggers kept brushing past Peter, pushing him aside. There must have been some innovation in Lycra, some breakthrough.

“We’re not having a conversation about your instincts. I’m drawing a line in the sand here. Either you get him in the tube tonight, or I tell Peg about his fall and she’ll do that thing where her mouth looks like a cat’s asshole.”

Who was being bullied now?

“I’ll get him to the hospital.”

“Seriously? You’ll bring him to Wexner Medical Center?”

“Right after the show.”

“Silver, you and I are a couple of forward-looking motherfuckers. Don’t jerk me around.”

“Make sure that tube is empty. He won’t hang out in a waiting room.”

On the opposite bank, a huge bird glided along the tree line trailing a gang of crows.

57

While we wait for our food Rosalyn tells me more about her tumor, which is slow-growing and about the size of a cocktail olive. I ask if there’s anything doctors can do. She says her oncologist recommends “snipping out all my plumbing.” While she’s sleeping on the operating table, the surgeon will evaluate tissue samples and decide if anything else needs to be done.

“But?” I say.

There’s a small white vase on our table and Rosalyn reaches out and touches it. “I like my plumbing. If I were younger, they might consider an alternative course of treatment.”

“Are you thinking about the alternative treatment?”

She shakes her head. “Not at all. Bring on mainstream medicine.”

“It’s nice that you’ve got that guest bed,” I say.

Such an odd look flashes across her face. “What do you mean, Arthur?”

“If you’re not feeling up to the stairs.”

“People usually feel okay by the time they leave the hospital. That’s what they told me.”

“Well, it’s got to be better than chemotherapy.”

But it turns out she’s going to have chemotherapy, too; it’s part of her treatment plan. This news is a flapping malevolence I’ve released into the room.

The waitress delivers our food. She wears a fabric wrist brace on her left hand, which makes me think that she’s been at this a long time. Who does she see when she looks at us: me in my blasted duster and Rosalyn cocooned in cashmere? Could she mistake us for one of those couples who, despite decades of domesticity, still manage to differentiate? Or, as I suspect, are we Lady and the Tramp? I fold the hem of my shirt to conceal a jagged line of ink, like a seismograph’s record of a catastrophe.

Neither Rosalyn nor I have much of an appetite. We pick at our food in silence. Though I feel responsible for the quiet, I can’t figure out how to change anything.

When the waitress delivers our bill, Rosalyn has her credit card out.

Finally I ask her, “When do you think you’ll have the surgery?”

“In ten days. Ten days from today.”

INSTEAD OF GOING to our seats, I pull Rosalyn into the LeVeque Tower lobby. As a rule, I don’t like frescoes, but the vaulted ceilings in the LeVeque Tower lobby offer a different sort of fresco. The blue, cloud-dappled heavens and pink gods have been replaced with art deco designs rendered in real American colors — clay browns and yolky yellow.

While I’ve wandered through the Louvre and stood in the shadow of the Great Pyramid, neither of those places speak to me like Tacoma’s waterfront or Chicago’s Carbon and Carbide Building.42 I’m an American. This country is my only home.

ROSALYN STOPS WALKING, which, because we’re holding hands, stops me.

“Was I going too fast?” I ask her.

She bites her lips, shaking her head.

I kiss her. I kiss her on the edge of this vaulted space. Then this unexpected woman stares up at the ceiling with me, Arthur Pennyman.

I want to be alone with her and so I tow her toward a bank of elevators — the elevator’s doors are another miracle, a tangle of astrological symbols and industrial motifs, everything rendered in filigreed brass. The doors are counterpoints and peers to the frescoes. Each one must weigh a thousand pounds. And there, above the door, I spot a single word brazed upon the lintel, a single, extraordinary word. I lift our clasped hands so that we point at it together.

Here’s one more indisputable fact: that word is Health.

We step into the elevator. I press the button for the top floor, but the doors don’t close. My galloping heart knows this is a very bad sign. It’s as if the elevator has judged us to be missing something essential.

A black man with a thin (there’s no other way to say this) Jimmy-esque mustache, wearing a blue-gray security uniform, stops in front of the elevator. “Folks, you need a key to go up.”

“Busted,” Rosalyn says.

I say, “It’s her birthday.”

“Is it your birthday, ma’am?”

Rosalyn scrunches up her face.

He leans into the elevator, smiles at Rosalyn. “Promise you’ll come back down in ten minutes?”

“Absolutely,” she says.

The guard slots a key in the elevator’s override and presses the top floor. “Don’t do anything up there unless you want to be on the ten o’clock news. They got cameras everywhere.”

The doors pinch shut. In the next moment we feel ourselves being hoisted up.

“Let me guess,” I say. “There’s an elevator scene in The Holy Screw.”

Rosalyn presses her shoulder against mine, squeezes my hand.

After the surgeons do their job, what would become of the new space inside her? What happens when they take something like that out? Should a person be heartened to learn she can survive without all her original parts, or will it remind her that everything we love is on loan?

Our windowless box creeps higher, chiming each time it brushes past a hidden floor.

“I have a favor to ask,” I say.

“A favor?”

“The day after tomorrow, I’m meeting Gabby’s friend.”

Rosalyn takes a step back, shaking her head, as though I’m some misguided pet bringing her a dead mouse.

Her reaction triggers sparks of panic inside me.

The elevator halts. Like china in a cupboard, we shake a little, settle. The doors open and we step onto the forty-seventh floor. The bare concrete floor is laced with dried adhesive. To our left, sheets of plywood make a crude wall. On our right, behind glass doors, a bright reception area with austere, blocky furniture and matching filing cabinets; everything is taupe, except for a potted orchid.

Why had I whisked Rosalyn away from the lobby to show her this?

Rosalyn pushes against a section of plywood. It scrapes across the floor. She looks over her shoulder at me and winks.

The space is cavernous, empty but for a few stark columns. Coils of telephone wire dangle between panels of the drop ceiling.

Standing by the windows, we look out over Columbus, over the constellation of streetlights and house lights, headlights and stoplights extending out of the city. At the horizon the sky smolders, a thin ribbon of electric blue. I can imagine we are seeing the curvature of the Earth. It feels as though we’ve left Earth, like we’re aboard some spaceship.

I kiss Rosalyn, again. I kiss her soft cheek. I kiss the corner of her mouth. I kiss her parting lips. I kiss her teeth.

“God, Arthur. You’re making me light-headed.”

I kiss her twisted neck.

“Okay. Okay.” She doesn’t kiss me back, but she says, “I’ll go with you to see your daughter.”

58

Peter walked around the downtown for more than an hour. The sidewalks were crowded with people enjoying the day. He didn’t come across Maya or Alistair. The faces he saw didn’t recognize his face.

He ate a grilled chicken sandwich and a side salad in a restaurant attached to a middle-tier hotel. To keep busy, he pulled up the Ohio Theater’s website on his phone. Apparently the space had been designed in the Spanish Baroque style; Peter wondered if Cross had chosen the venue for how it would complement his black bullfighter getup. He paid his bill and took a cab to the theater.

When he knocked on the stage door, Lumpy let him in without comment. The backstage was indistinguishable from Buffalo or Pittsburgh: standpipes and electrical panels, circular staircases and catwalks, everything painted matte black. Endomorphs in boxy T-shirts emblazoned “Security” checked his credentials again and again, reinforcing his suspicion that he was forgettable.

He found a quiet spot near the curtain that permitted him to look into the hall. Every surface was either red or gold. Depending on a person’s self-regard, one would feel like either a head of state or else a peasant, drunk on stolen wine, lost in a castle.

The opening act, a couple guys with banjos and a woman with a quivering voice, did their thing as the crowd filed in.

The Blister walked past, saluted Peter with two fingers splinted together with duct tape. Peter wanted to ask what had happened, but the roadie vanished somewhere.

While the opening act were taking their bows, Sutliff sidled up beside Peter. “Alistair didn’t push him down the stairs.”

“Did someone say he did?”

“He was trying to catch his old man.” Though they were talking, Sutliff didn’t look at Peter. The whole time he kept playing his unplugged guitar.

“You’re saying Cross stumbled first.”

Sutliff pointed a finger at the ceiling.

High above, the lights dropped away until just a few cans glowed like cats’ eyes. In the artificial twilight, a stream of stagehands bumped past, as though Peter were an uncharted island.

When the lights blazed on, Cross and the band had already taken their places. A roar from the crowd rushed the stage, but the guys mounted a quick counterattack, releasing a squall that overwhelmed the audience, setting them on their heels. And then the noise became music.

Some of the songs were so familiar it seemed easier to attribute them to a civilization than to a single human mind. It hardly mattered that Cross didn’t have the greatest singing voice; someone else could make the songs pretty.

A hand clamped on the doctor’s elbow, pulling him backward. Had he been on the stage? As he backpedaled, it seemed that a few faces in the audience turned to watch him withdraw.

Cyril said, “I need you.”

Peter chased after Cyril to avoid being dragged. Unlike the irresistible forces he’d encountered in physics textbooks, Cyril wasn’t hypothetical.

The music filtered through the building — the walls buzzed as they charged into the basement.

Cyril unlocked the door to an empty dressing room and pushed Peter inside. “He’s in the bathroom.”

“He” was Alistair.

Despite a whirring ceiling fan, the room smelled of puke and cigarette smoke. Cross’s son sat, naked, in a pool of urine; his sodden clothes scattered across the floor. His elbow rested on the rim of the toilet. He was smoking.

Peter noticed little shards of glass shining in the piss. No, they weren’t glass.

“You throw ice water on him?”

Cyril nodded.

The doctor crouched down, watched the naked man smoke, watched the slow way he blinked, how he couldn’t seem to keep his head up.

“You feeling okay?”

Alistair twisted the cigarette between his fingers, stubbed it out on the tiled wall. “My clothes are wet.”

“Did you throw up?”

Alistair licked his lips.

“He passed out on the throne,” Cyril said. “I couldn’t wake him.”

No wonder Maya hadn’t heard from him.

Alistair managed to climb halfway to vertical before one of his feet slipped. He went straight down, his head glancing off the toilet, his body slapping on the floor. He started snoring; he’d knocked himself out cold.

“Shit,” said Cyril. “That ain’t going to help.”

With his phone’s stopwatch, Peter checked Alistair’s pulse and respiration. “Do you know what he took?”

Cyril stood outside the bathroom door, so only his tilted forehead peeked in. “Wayne saw Allie getting up in Fletch’s grill earlier, but I don’t want to speculate.”

“So how long’s he been like this?”

“You believe me if I said his whole life?”

Peter turned, one shoe squeaking on the floor. “I mean today.”

“Maybe an hour or two.” Cyril stepped into the bathroom, opened the faucet and washed his hands. “You think he’ll be okay?”

When he rotated through the ER, Peter had dealt with every species of overdose: drug abusers, accidentals, suicides, and parasuicides. Before falling, Allie had seemed coherent enough. Puking was good. The ice water was good. He’d rather Cross’s son hadn’t hit his head, but with his vitals stable it wasn’t a huge concern. He’d probably have some bruising on his face, a headache, sure as hell.

Peter pointed toward the dressing room. “Can you find him some dry clothes?”

Cyril nodded. He touched a finger to his earpiece, had a short conversation with someone. “Wayne’s going to see what he can come up with.”

“Where’s Bluto?”

“He can’t be involved in this.”

Peter grabbed Allie’s ankles and dragged him away from the toilet. He rolled him onto his side, then pinching his ear, said, “Alistair, I need you to sit up for me.”

The naked man rubbed his cheek with his hand. “Did you punch me?”

“Nobody’s hitting anybody,” Cyril said.

Alistair picked a sodden cigarette off the floor and plugged it in his mouth.

Peter snatched the cigarette and tossed it in the toilet. “Do you know where you are?”

“Why’d you take my clothes?”

Peter checked Alistair’s pulse again. “How do you feel?”

“I feel fine.”

Peter used the light from his phone’s camera to check Alistair’s pupils.

“No pictures!” Alistair said. “My eyes are copyrighted.”

“What do you want to do with him?” asked Cyril.

Peter stood up, looked at the bodyguard. “Have him drink a quart of orange juice or Gatorade in the next hour.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“I’m not going to sit here and hold his hand.”

“What if that’s what the Big Man wants?”

Peter watched Alistair unspool the toilet paper on the wall. “Tell him I’m not obliged to be convenient.”

“I’ll have Wayne play nurse. Promise you won’t go anywhere until he gets here.” Cyril put his hand on Peter’s chest. “Don’t test me.”

AFTER CYRIL LEFT, Allie sat up again. “Find me a towel.”

Peter grabbed a stack of towels from a dressing table. He handed them, one at a time, to Allie, who piled them over his lap.

“Is your back better?”

Allie could only manage to focus one eye at a time. “I’m you.”

“You’re me?”

Allie nodded.

“What did you take?”

Cross’s son pantomimed buttoning his lips.

“I saw Maya earlier. She was looking for you.”

Allie unbuttoned his lip. “She’s got a boyfriend.”

Peter believed him.

“You think you might be sick again?”

Allie slapped at the plunger and flushed the toilet again.

The dressing room door opened and Wayne walked in. He poked his head into the bathroom and made a quick assessment. “Have you met your spirit animal?”

“Shut up,” Peter said. “Did Cyril tell you what you’re supposed to do?”

“I have to get him to drink something and I can’t let him out of my sight.” Wayne shook his head. “My father wanted me to go pre-med.”

59

Columbus doesn’t hear the band that played in Pittsburgh. The setlist never deviates from the mean. Cross stays out in front of the guys, a tenth of a beat ahead, riding the brakes.

Maybe, for him, tonight is the ideal and last night the aberration. The songs unwind in a familiar way. He sounds like people expect him to sound. It’s rote entertainment.

Rosalyn looks pale. A purple scarf wraps around her neck. She’s not sleeping, though her eyes are closed. After “Blue Fancy,” she squeezes my hand and says, “That was pretty.” She’s not wrong, but I wonder if she’d be more comfortable in her bedroom. And then it occurs to me that I’m not afraid that Cross will have a bad show, but that I will — that when the show ends, I’ll find myself missing something I’d counted as mine at the start of the show.

Albert reaches out his hand and claps the cymbals with his palm. Cross releases a solitary chord. It reminds me how a breeze will sometimes announce the arrival of a summer storm. The crowd bolts up in their seats

I scan the wings, to see if Allie is standing there holding his four-string guitar.

Rosalyn leans over to speak into my ear. “What’s wrong, Arthur?”

They’re playing “Acrobat Daredevil Circus.” For eight years the crowd has chanted “A.D.C.” They’ve begged in Rome, in Denver, in Cairo, and everywhere else. The begging is a material part of the ritual of a show. Why would he quit the embargo?

“Listen.”

“It’s beautiful!”

But that’s no justification. After all, it’s always been beautiful.

When the song is over, the band walks off the stage. Really, what else can they do?

Rosalyn says, “What’s the deal with that song?”

“He’s not supposed to play it. It’s called ‘Acrobat Daredevil Circus.’ He’s not supposed to play it. It’s about his son.”

“Why wouldn’t he play it?”

I say, “It’s better when he doesn’t play it,” though I don’t know exactly what I mean. I waited eight years to hear that song and instead of having a memory of hearing it, I’m left with the sense I hallucinated it.

THE BAND STARTS the second set with “Absolutely Nowhere.” It’s a relief to be back on steady ground. Rosalyn kisses my fingers while Cross plays “Platte River”—as lackluster a song as he’s ever put his name to. And who’d imagine “Tycho Brahe” (played in 5/8 time!) might soothe me?

A body appears at the back of the stage, a guy in a dress shirt. A slim figure, so it can’t be Allie — unlike his scarecrow father, Allie’s always been generously proportioned, his gut more formidable than his chest. Hidden among the shadows, this person is perceivable only when he shifts his weight. His face may be unremarkable, but I recognize him all the same. It’s Dr. Silver. I try to will the doctor to look my way, to find my face in the crowd, but, like everyone else, he’s only got eyes for Jimmy.

And now the guys in the band step out from behind their instruments, they unplug, stow their instruments, leaving Cross alone on stage. He turns his back to the audience, crouching down near the drum riser.

When he stands, he’s wearing the Darth Vader armature that holds his harmonica.

IN THE GLOVE box of the Corolla, I keep a pocket-sized journal listing the 428 songs (originals and covers) Cross has played since I joined him on the road. Does he play “Wayward Satellite”? Does he dust off “Concrete and Carnations”? Alone on the stage, he steps into the hard white spot — the rest of the lights have cut out — and blows a quivering note that climbs toward the darkened ceiling of the hall. He brings the guitar in, a growling chord as solid as an anvil. And this time I’m the first one in the room to know what he’s up to. As inconceivable as it seems, he’s launched into “A.D.C.” again. “Launch” is the wrong word. It’s tentative; every note seems provisional. His voice is a whisper, a night voice. It sounds like the lights are off. And then, in the next moment, someone kills the spotlight.

In the sudden black, I feel the world wobble, the way a spinning top will shake and right itself as it slows. Did I see something before the lights quit? The way he moves his plodding feet, his listless hands, the shapes his lazy mouth will make, this is the scope of my hard-earned authority. Really, he’s a stranger. Really, we’re all strangers. Gabby is a stranger to me, and Patricia, too. Rosalyn is a stranger. Who is Arthur Jacob Pennyman? A person could follow me for years and never find an answer.

Cross’s voice still warbles in the darkness.

Is this it? I wonder. And I tell myself I don’t know what that question means.

60

Peter knows about festivals in India where paper flotillas are set alight on holy rivers. The ships contain offerings to the dead. He hasn’t seen the festivals in person — he learned about them watching Globe Trekker; after Lucy moved out, he watched the show a lot. Despite the fact that they traveled with a cameraperson, the show’s hosts always manage to seem alone — walking across desolate beaches, hiking into rain forests, riding trains beside shockingly poor natives. Peter liked that the hosts didn’t resemble other women on TV; each had some obvious flaw, a crooked tooth, a heavy bottom, a too-round face. They favored hiking boots and knee socks — sometimes you’d spot a zit.

What reminded him of the burning ships was something he saw at the end of the show. Cross dismissed his band to play a slow and halting song. Peter wondered if the audience found it indulgent, the inwardness of the music, but they looked mesmerized. A ramp of light connected Cross to the rafters. Then the light quit him. That’s when it happened. Like those burning envoys, a swaying constellation appeared. It wasn’t like concert footage a person might see from the ’70s; these weren’t lighters. It was strange and beautiful. He was looking at cell phones.

As Peter watched, a dark hole appeared in the fabric of light. It grew larger, eclipsing the audience. Coming off the stage, Cross walked smack into Peter, put his arm around the doctor’s shoulder, and said, “Get me out of here.”

The singer’s clawlike hand stayed fast to the collar of the Peter’s shirt. People crushed against them. Where, Peter wondered, was Cyril? He pressed on, towing Cross behind him, the general of a retreating army. Where was Bluto? Following a fissure in the crowd, Peter headed down a set of stairs, through a hallway choked with gear and bodies.

Cyril, with his extraordinary timing, stuck his head out a doorway. “Big Man coming through,” he said.

But when Peter tried to squeeze in, Cyril’s hand found his center of gravity, freezing him.

“It’s okay,” Cross said.

Cyril pulled the doctor in, shut the door behind him.

They were back in the dressing room. The singer paused before a buffet table draped with white linen; he lifted a bottle of water from an ice bucket, then pointed it toward the bathroom. “Is he still in there?”

“The band sounded good tonight,” Cyril said. “You about tore the place down.”

Peter checked the bathroom — Allie was gone.

Cross must have read Peter’s face. “Does anyone know where he’s off to or did he just split?”

“He went out to get a bite,” Cyril said. “Wayne’s tagging along.”

Cross nodded at trays of fruit and sandwiches waiting beneath cellophane. “So I guess this isn’t food. And who the fuck is Wayne?”

“You know Wayne.”

“Are you feeling all right?” Peter asked.

“He’s okay. Aren’t you, boss?”

Cross toweled his hair, then headed into the bathroom; he didn’t bother to close the door. The sound of halting splashes hinted at an enlarged prostate, par for the course.

When Cross returned, his face appeared scrubbed. “Is Bluto avoiding me?”

“He went to fire Fletch.”

Peter heard his own voice ask, “Why?”

Cross poked at the sandwiches under the plastic. “Do we have a replacement lined up?”

“Bluto always has a plan,” Cyril said. “He won’t play chess because he knows how it ends.”

Cross picked his baggy sweatshirt off the back of a chair and threaded his head through the neck hole, tugged it on. “What about the French guy? He’s run the boards before.”

“Patrice left last summer.”

“Do either of you have any idea where Allie is?” Cross barked.

“Give me a second,” the bodyguard said, heading out the door.

“Lock it,” Cross said.

Peter went over and shot the bolt. When he turned around, Cross was pressing the palms of his hand into the tray of sandwiches, mashing them down.

“I was hoping you’d hear those songs tonight, but I guess you were down here looking at Allie.”

Peter remembered Ogata’s advice, Shut up and listen.

“The problem with a Hippocratic oath is it can be used against you.”

“How can it be against me?”

“If a person wants your attention, all they have to do is hurt themselves.”

“Luckily, people don’t do that.”

Cross lifted a bunch of green grapes. “Do you think I was the only audience Allie had in mind for his little command performance? You’re the reason he’s here.”

Someone knocked on the door, three quick knuckle raps.

“Is that Cyril?” asked Peter.

“It could be anyone. Let’s see if they go away.”

“Why am I the reason Allie’s here?”

“I mean here on Earth and here on tour.” Cross dropped the grapes back on the platter. “When I told him you were coming on tour, he caught a flight that day. He hadn’t left Paris in six years.”

“How did he know who I was?”

“You were his prototype. When I was in the studio recording Midnight at the Bazaar, the working title was Me and the Boy.”

“Are you saying I was ‘the Boy’?”

“The songs are about childhood, about getting lost in the woods and my competing desires to settle down with a family and to sleep with strangers on the road. They’re my songs, but I didn’t know I could write them before I met you.”

“How old was I when you knew me?”

“You’d just turned three the last time I saw you.”

“I was just some kid.”

“And now you’re just some doctor.”

Peter walked to the wall and rubbed his forehead against the cool concrete.

“You’re not going to throw up, too, are you?”

The knocker had returned.

“That’s Cyril. Let him in.”

Peter didn’t move.

Cross cleared his throat, then walked to the door and opened it.

Cyril said, “Allie’s bingeing on sushi a couple blocks away.”

“We need to go to the hospital tonight,” Peter said, surprising himself.

“There’s no rush,” said Cross.

Peter turned from the wall. “Did Dr. Ogata call you earlier?”

“Tony’s more concerned about his good name than he is about me.” Cross picked a napkin off the table and blew his nose. “I told him nothing can hurt me. I’m a cockroach.”

“It ain’t like cockroaches is immortal,” said Cyril, philosophically.

“I need you to come to the hospital with me,” Peter said. “It’s important.”

“Important for whom?”

Peter told the truth. “It’s important for me.”

“You think that’s a good enough reason?”

Peter waited for Cross to look at him. “If you don’t like what I’m telling you, the only person you have to blame is yourself. I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t plotted with Ogata and your lawyer friend.”

“How about we listen to the doctor,” Cyril said.

Cross turned his head so the words seemed to spill from his mouth. “I didn’t see this coming.”

“Neither you nor Allie has the slightest idea who I am.”

“Earth to Peter,” Cross said, “you don’t know who you are either.”

61

After the show, while Rosalyn visits the lavatory, I upload the setlist, so that Cross’s fans in Brisbane, in St. Petersburg, in Seoul, and in Bangkok can find out what they missed.

As I’m finishing, Rosalyn slides up next to me.

“You ready?” I ask, double-checking to make sure the page updated.

She doesn’t answer.

I turn to her, but instead of Rosalyn, I see a skinny kid with a railroad engineer’s cap pulled down to his ears. Maybe he’s twenty. His head looks like it’s resting directly on his shoulders. “Are you Pennyman?”

The way he twitches — his mouth going flat, then jagged — bothers me. His eyes dart around, settling on my face like a fly.

He jams his hands into the pockets of his coat.

On a different night, I might see him as a kindred spirit. But in this moment, I want to be away from him. He gives me the creeps.

“Pennyman?” he repeats. He’s looking at the face of my phone.

People mill around. Where is Rosalyn?

“No,” I say.

He seems to be wondering if my divergence from our script isn’t some kind of test. His eyes narrow and then, I swear, he sort of growls at me.

Rosalyn returns, plants a kiss on my lips. I clutch her warm fingers as she pulls me away. It almost feels true, that I’m not Arthur Pennyman.

There’s a bottleneck where we have to pause to squeeze through the doors. When I look over my shoulder, the kid is still watching me. He reaches his hand out to me, then, with a twist of his wrist, gives me the bird.

It’s cold outside. I grab Rosalyn’s small shoulder to keep her close. She says, “You’re staying with me.”

My phone chirps, notifying me that a text has come in, but I only have eyes and ears for Rosalyn. It will be eight hours before I learn that Milton Fletcher, Cross’s sound guy, after seven years of exemplary service and with fewer than a dozen dates to go on the fall leg, has been fired. By tomorrow morning the news will be all over CrossTracks and the other boards as people speculate what it might mean.

62

While Bluto and the rest of the band loaded onto the tour bus and departed for Lexington, Cross and his retinue took a van to the hospital.

Alistair rode in the front seat, next to the driver, his head hanging out the window like a dog. He threw up silently, as if pouring his guts out of a bucket.

Wayne said, “There’s a reason you never find bubble tea and salmon sashimi on the same menu.”

“Shut it,” said Cyril.

Wayne said, “You’re talking to the wrong guy.”

Sitting next to Peter, Cross asked, “How is Judith’s health?”

“She’s great.”

“What is she, about fifty-eight?”

“Fifty-three.”

Cross looked outside the van. “I guess she hasn’t retired yet.”

“No, and that’s not on the horizon.”

“If you’re not working, what are you doing?”

WHEN THE VAN stopped in front of the hospital, two figures emerged from a darkened kiosk, a crooked tree of a security guard and a stout woman whose short hair curled like cake frosting. Peter introduced himself. The woman, a nurse, explained that Martin’s friend, the imaging technician, was waiting for them in his lab. The security guard never lifted his eyes from the ground; he didn’t speak.

After whispering something in Cyril’s ear, Cross said, “Should we go inside?”

“Of course,” said the nurse, giving the security guard a gentle push toward the building.

WHEN THEY RECONVENED inside the lobby they were six: the nurse, the guard, Peter, Cross, Cyril, and Alistair.

“Did we lose the Asian fellow?” asked the nurse.

Cyril said, “He decided to stay with the van.”

The place felt shuttered. According to a sandwich board, visiting hours had ended at eight. A pregnant woman paused on a ramp to stretch her calves, while a slight man in cutoff shorts trailed behind her, whispering into a cell. In the middle of the lobby, like an animal gone to pasture, an enormous vacuum sat idle.

Peter approached Alistair and asked him how he felt.

“If you’re offering to help me feel better, I accept.”

“Tell me if you start to feel dizzy.”

“You mean dizzier?”

The group piled into an elevator.

Even with his folded posture, the security guard towered over Cyril.

The nurse pressed a button and the doors closed.

“So what’s this movie about anyway?” Alistair asked.

Nobody took the bait. The nurse stared at the digital readout above the door. “Almost there,” she said.

When the doors opened, the group poured out.

Peter turned to make sure Cross was following. What he saw surprised him. Cross had seized his son about the shoulders. The younger man, his arms pinned to his sides, looked stricken. Father and son stood rooted in the threshold.

“Where are we headed?” asked Cyril, his voice a hammer, striking everyone.

The group resumed their journey. Around the next corner, the ceiling dropped down more than a foot to display, in brushed-steel institutional lettering, David L. Ward Center for Imaging. Peter wondered if the hall’s design wasn’t intentional, a nod to the looming claustrophobia of the MRA machine.

THE GROUP PASSED through two more double doors without any sense that they might be nearing their destination. Then, miraculously, they stood staring at the scanner.

“What a fastidious meat grinder,” Cross said.

The machine suggested an artifact from an alien world.

Cyril, whose vocation involved transporting and insuring the irreplaceable, asked, “How’d they get it in here?”

“It’s modular,” the nurse said. “It was assembled on site.”

“It’s a sugar cube,” said Alistair.

A man appeared from behind the machine. He had a close-trimmed white beard and a face as pink as bubble gum. “Bill Winchester, sir,” he said, sticking his hand out to Cross. “Always been a big admirer.”

Cyril tapped Peter’s arm. “We waiting for anyone else?”

Winchester clapped his hands. “Let’s rock and roll. Ha ha.”

“Do you need me to put on a gown or something?” asked Cross.

Winchester set the blade of his hand level with the singer’s collarbone. “We’re only looking from here up, the prime real estate.”

“Only,” Cross repeated.

“You ready?”

Cross looked at Peter. “Am I ready?”

Peter nodded his head.

Winchester helped Cross sit on the machine’s bed. He put a hand at the base of the singer’s neck and lowered him with a gentle grace.

Once he was situated, Cross said, “The rest of you going to mill around while they zap me?”

Winchester explained that, for safety reasons, everyone needed to wait in the control room. He said, “There’s a camera and a microphone inside the tube, Mr. Cross, so we’ll be able to monitor you.”

A motor whirred and the bed lifted the singer, until his body aligned with the hollowed center of the device. The toes of his boots tapped together: click, click, click.

Winchester touched Cross’s shin. “Please, try to keep as still as possible.”

Cross cleared his throat. Swallowed.

THE NURSE LED the rest of them around a corner into an annex. A row of molded-plastic chairs faced a little control center with stacked computer displays. A large rectangular window set into the wall allowed them to see where Cross’s torso extended from the machine.

“You’re the doctor?” the woman asked Peter.

Nurses were like Congress; they saw themselves as a check and balance to the physician’s executive powers.

“I am,” Peter said.

She pulled out a seat close to the technician’s chair.

That done, her attention drifted to Alistair. “I recognize you. You’re his son.”

Alistair said, “You think you could get me a Coke with a leetle bit of rum?”

THROUGH THE WINDOW, the men watched Winchester make final adjustments to Cross’s posture. Even people who weren’t susceptible to claustrophobia had an issue with being stuffed in a tube. It wasn’t simply the enclosed space that bothered folks — they didn’t appreciate knowing that the machine would turn the walls of their skulls into windowpanes. Peter had offered Cross a Xanax, but the singer had turned it down. On the bed, Cross kept his hands clasped over his sternum; one thumbnail sliced beneath the other as regularly as a metronome.

Winchester popped into the control room. Squeezing past Cyril, he took his place behind the machine’s display.

“This place remind you guys of anything?”

“It could almost be a recording studio,” said Alistair.

“In a way, it is a recording studio,” said Peter.

Winchester said, “I need to find a leather sofa and some old magazines.”

“Maybe a potted palm,” said Cyril.

Peter asked, “Do you play any instruments?”

Winchester hunched his shoulders together, as though he were buttoning a coat. “A little mandolin.”

“Is there another kind?” asked Alistair.

The nurse announced she was heading downstairs.

One of the monitors blinked on: it offered a fish-eye-lens view of Cross’s head as he was fed into the tube. Winchester scrolled through a few screens, inputting codes from a binder propped open on the table before him.

Cross spoke to them from a speaker on the wall. “You guys watching me on the TV?”

Winchester reached a hand out, toggled a button. “You doing okay in there?”

Cross didn’t respond right away.

“You still with us?”

“I’ve never been a torpedo before.”

“Remember what I told you: relaxed breaths.”

“Allie, could you sing something?”

Winchester pulled an auxiliary microphone from a cubby and passed it to Cross’s son.

Allie pressed a red button marked talk: “You want to make a request?”

“Knock me out.”

“I could recite my sins?”

Cross shook his head.

Winchester said, “Please try not to move, Mr. Cross.”

“Distract me,” Cross said.

Alistair dropped his voice into a sweet purr:

Well, the doves are in their beds.

Dogs chase rabbits in their dreams.

Rest your head, old man,

I’ll take care of anything.

The torpedo tube is loaded

The gunpowder smartly stacked

Agents for the government

Will take your money back.

Shut your eyes, old man,

And settle in your gurney.

Don’t worry ’bout a thing

I’ll have power of attorney.

See, I’ve been blessed with bad ideas,

Plus cash enough to see them through.

I’ll father lots of kids and name them after you.

Cyril pointed to Cross’s face on the screen. “You got him to smile.”

“I’ll be here all week, ladies and gentlemen,” Alistair said, “playing your favorite golden oldies as well as topical songs with timely messages.”

“That wasn’t off your album, was it?” asked Winchester.

“It’s a new number.”

“Call it ‘Torpedo Tube,’” said Cyril.

Alistair leaned into the mic. “I hope you enjoyed the world premiere of ‘Torpedo Tube.’”

Cross cleared his voice. “‘Vexation Lullaby.’”

“That’s better,” said Winchester.

“I still like ‘Torpedo Tube,’” said Cyril.

Leaning back in his chair, Alistair said, “When I was a kid, he set up a studio in this castle near Prague. Two important things happened: I taught myself how to play guitar on an abandoned Martin Dreadnought, and I reached the erotic summit of my life, when these twin Czech girls in yellow tights pulled me into the pantry and the two of them sucked on my middle fingers at the same time. I didn’t tell anyone about the guitar because it seemed like insubordination. And I didn’t tell anyone about the finger-sucking, because it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with my old man.

“In the mornings he’d invite me to tag along on his walks around these medieval villages where no one recognized him. I had to stay a step behind him. It was a rule or something. If my mother came along, that didn’t change anything — he still had to be out front.”

“He’ll let you walk next to him now,” Cyril said.

“Oh, I read the papers,” Alistair said. “I know we’re becoming better people all the time.”

Cross’s disembodied voice asked, “You see anything?”

Winchester looked toward Peter, depressed the talk button. “It takes the machine a while to crunch the data.”

In the video feed, Cross sucked on his lips. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath.

Peter looked over Winchester’s shoulder as the technician highlighted areas for review, added tracking marks, and flipped through scans like a solitaire player who needed, perhaps, a black queen and wouldn’t spare a red queen a second glance.

Though Peter knew — at least in theory — what they were looking for, each machine spoke its own vernacular. He couldn’t translate the changing screens fast enough. As soon as he got oriented, a new image would replace the one he’d been studying — it wasn’t dissimilar from that children’s game where you stared at a pair of drawings to detect where the copy deviated from the original.

And then the exam was over.

Winchester asked Cyril and Alistair to make sure Cross sat up for a few minutes before they let him off the bed.

ONCE THE TWO other men left, Winchester scratched his upper lip before addressing Peter with a careful whisper, “When I first started training on this machine, I found all sorts of treasures lurking inside people, microcysts and tumors, but the more I see. . the less I see. There’s a problem arises when we try to name everything.”

“What’s that?”

“Responsibility.” Winchester peeked out the window at the men waiting beside the machine. “Let me show you a few things.”

Peter felt a twinge of apprehension — for Cross or for himself?

“First the edema.”

The machine divided Cross’s head into slices, which they riffled through like pages in a book.

“I’m not seeing any fluid,” Peter said.

“No, there’s good attenuation.” Another image popped up. Winchester highlighted a section on the outside of the singer’s skull. “Notice the superficial swelling. Nothing to be alarmed about, it’s just a goose egg. I’m guessing this is from his fall.”

Peter found himself nodding.

The next scan had three small areas fenced off.

“What am I looking at now?”

“They’re minor lesions. Call them rock-and-roll memorabilia. I’ve seen high school kids who looked worse, but, still, you can tell he’s no Mormon.”

“What about TIAs?”

Winchester pushed a button. “Mr. Cross, if you wouldn’t mind waiting there for another minute or two while you get your sea legs, Dr. Silver will be with you momentarily.”

The technician ran his finger against the screen. “Occasionally you land a spot that shouts at you, or maybe there’s something that doesn’t feel right. I’m not seeing that here. I’ll send the scans to your brain guy. Maybe he can ferret out something I missed.”

Peter rubbed his eyes. The hour had gotten late all of a sudden. “So he looks good, for the most part?”

“He looks great.”

A series of images cycled on the monitor.

“What are we looking at right now?”

Winchester switched to another screen. Inside a 3-D rendering of Cross’s skull glowed a latitudinal scan of the singer’s brain.

“Go back a few scans,” Peter said.

The men stared at something resembling a burl on a tree trunk.

“There,” Peter said.

“Shit,” said Winchester.

“That’s the basilar artery, right?”

Winchester hit a few keys and image rotated on the screen. “It’s not obvious.”

“But what does it look like to you?”

“You need to have a vascular surgeon to take a peek, but I think it’s presenting as a saccular aneurysm.”

Peter stared at the frog shape of the basilar artery at the base of Cross’s skull.

“It may have been there for years. Maybe all his life.”

What had Winchester said was the problem with naming everything?

“Typically the only time you find these things is after they burst.”

63

For too long, I’ve limited my passions to the arts and, yes, the intellect. In the process, I sort of cut myself off at the neck. Rosalyn says she took one look at my duster — the way it covers me from my ankles to my chin — and diagnosed the problem.

And, sure, at my age, even in the best of circumstances, these things can be touchy. Sometimes you don’t want to court failure. But if you don’t court failure, can you succeed?

Well, in the Columbus DoubleTree, Rosalyn helped me out of my duster. In the Columbus DoubleTree, she and I went on stage together — I’d forgotten, somehow, that a bed is a stage. She and I played both roles, performer and audience. We sang together. Yes, it was tentative, and we were not always in the same key, but it was full-bodied singing. And I felt — we felt — transported, which is what music promises.

Afterward, we were neither sad nor solemn. I moved to the second bed, because she and I are both creatures of habit — neither of us knew how to get comfortable beside another body.

64

Peter’s left leg had fallen asleep, but rather than wait for it to clear, he stumbled over to the scanner like some tin soldier. Before he could find the words he needed or could arrange them into a sentence, Cross read the look on his face.

“That bad?”

Had he ever been taught how to tell a person there was a bomb in their head? “Were you comfortable?”

Cyril moved close to Cross. “He’s doing all right, aren’t you, boss?”

The singer took a deep breath, scooted forward, and set his feet on the floor.

“We free to vamoose?” Alistair asked.

“Your father and I should probably have a discussion.” Peter’s voice sounded as dull and empty as his sleeping leg.

“I’m tapped out of words,” Cross said, waving a hand in front of his face. “Try me tomorrow.”

“It’s getting late,” said Cyril. “We need to get everybody on that plane.”

“Mr. Cross can’t fly.”

“You bullshitting me?” Cyril asked.

Cross nodded his head slowly, as though it were made of meringue. “He called me Mr. Cross.”

Winchester came out of the control room and stood beside Peter.

Alistair said, “You’re not suggesting we stay in Columbus?”

All along, Peter had assumed that if he could get Cross into a hospital, then order would assert itself.

Peter said, “You and I ought to discuss this in private.”

“This is as private as it gets.”

Chaos had proven itself more resilient than order. The tour had conquered the hospital.

“I can’t have you in a pressurized cabin,” Peter said.

Alistair put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “What’s this about?”

“Have I had a stroke?”

Winchester said, “Dr. Silver found a suspicious bulge in your basilar artery; it appears to be a saccular aneurysm.”

“Wait, he had an aneurysm?” Alistar asked.

“Not had, has.” Peter addressed Cross, “I don’t want you in a pressurized cabin until an expert looks at it.”

“Mud walls?” asked Cross.

“There could be unfavorable outcomes.”

“What if they didn’t pressurize the cabin?” Cyril asked. “Could he fly then?”

WHILE CYRIL CONSULTED with Bluto, Peter called the switchboard in Rochester and had them patch him through to Ann Chen, the hospital’s senior vascularist. She picked up on the third ring. Peter handed her off to Winchester, who fed her measurements. The two of them talked for ten minutes before Winchester returned Peter his phone.

“What do you think?”

“The files are too big for me to review them at home. From what I’m being told, there’s not a lot of redundancy in the vasculature, which is unfortunate. The biggest issue is we don’t have any growth trends.”

“He wants to get on an airplane. Do you think that’s risky?”

“It’s certainly riskier than not getting on a plane.”

Peter looked at Cross: the singer was sitting on a chair and nodding while Alistair toyed with a balance scale. “But if we stayed below five thousand feet and didn’t pressurize the cabin?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. Not if he was my patient.”

Peter said he understood.

“Then again,” Ann said, “he’s not my patient.”

If Peter had learned anything it was this: the point of a tour is to keep moving.

NO ONE SAID a word at takeoff. The plane climbed and climbed. Peter had put his career on the line, and he wasn’t sure why. It had to be the most rock-and-roll thing he’d ever done.

The mood lightened some once the pilots announced that they’d reached their cruising height.

“Here’s the takeaway,” Cyril said, “the man would rather die on a plane than live in Ohio.”

“You ever have any close calls?” Wayne asked.

“Nobody’s reminiscing,” said Cyril.

Peter could feel Alistair’s eyes boring into him; slumped in his club chair, Cross’s son looked like a stoned toad.

“What if I have to sneeze?” Cross asked.

“Don’t fight it,” Peter said.

Tomorrow morning, Martin would commandeer one of the hospital’s conference rooms, draw the shades, turn off the lights, and, with the aid of a ten-thousand-dollar HD projector, throw Cross’s scans on the wall. Then he and George Milakis, the hospital’s chief of surgery, would lean back in their chairs and wiggle their laser pointers at a six-foot slice of the singer’s brain. They might make small talk about the relative merits of the Siemens scanners, about resolution and detail and crispness as pertaining to, say, the singer’s nasal cavitation, the resonant cathedral that gave Cross’s voice its inimitable character. And after a few minutes, because they were professionals, they would get down to the business at hand. Ogata would probably teleconference in.

TILTING HIS HEAD back to bounce his voice off the ceiling of the cabin, Alistair said, “Can we have some fun in Lexington?”

“Anything you want,” his father said.

“We need an animal sacrifice to please the gods.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“And bourbon.”

“Rum is the new bourbon,” offered Wayne.

Cross chuckled.

“I’m not joking,” said Wayne.

Cyril said, “That’s why he’s laughing.”

“I don’t get it.”

Cross said, “Cyril, what was the name of that guy?”

“Malcolm Littlefield.”

“I can’t remember what he said.”

“He said, ‘Cats are more empathic than dogs.’”

Alistair started laughing, too.

Cross said, “I fired him on the spot.”

“You’d been wanting to let him go for a while,” Cyril added.

Cross flashed all his teeth in a vicious smile. “But he didn’t know that. To this day he believes he got fired for sticking up for felines.”

Wayne said, “Forget what I said about rum.”

They all laughed, even Peter. For a minute or more, it seemed like the funniest thing anyone had ever said.

The pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “That, folks, was the gentlest landing in the history of aeronautics.”

It was true — the plane was already on the ground.

65

Rosalyn purrs in her bed.

I won’t let myself watch her sleep. For one thing, I wouldn’t want anyone to watch me sleep. The other reason is, I’m afraid that if I watch her some petty part of me might start to pick her apart.

I walk to the window.

Her room overlooks the Supreme Court of Ohio; a giant steel gavel rests in a rectangular reflecting pool by the south entrance to the building. The scale of the hammer — I can see it from the window of Rosalyn’s room — suggests that it belongs to God, since only a hand descending from a cloud might wield it.

On CrossTalk, I can assume, people are floating theories to explain why Cross chose tonight to play “A.D.C.” But that’s not what I’m caught up on. One can’t know another person’s intentions unless he’s willing to share (and even if he’s willing to share them, it’s still not that simple.) I’m not thinking about intentions. The question that keeps me up is this: why did the song sound different the second time he played it.

I have been called a hopeless romantic and a hopeless loser, but neither of these charges is true. I am always full of hope.

I close my eyes and listen to Rosalyn sleeping.

66

Peter dreamed of horses: horses that looked as wise as judges; horses with faces like graven ancestors; horses in white lab coats, their lacquered hooves clacking on hospital corridor floors.

When he woke, it seemed he was already sitting up in the middle of a bed. The sun streamed in — Martin’s tinny voice said, “. . you know what you’ve done, don’t you? You saved his fucking life.” He sounded giddy.

“You saw the scans? It’s not even remotely what we were looking for.”

“That’s the beauty of it. Preventative medicine, Peter. Repeat after me: pre-ven-ta-tive medicine. Ogata claims he cut Cross into a million slices this spring and there was no indication of anything. Trust me, we hit the lottery with this. We’re just spitballing here, but what do you think about a Tony Ogata Center for Preventative Medicine at Rochester Memorial.”

Peter could tell Martin had him on speaker.

“Is someone else in the room with you?”

“We’re all very proud of you,” Peg said. “Grand slam.”

Martin said, “You think Cross would give us a testimonial? Marketing is going to eat this up.”

“This is going to be very big for you,” Peg said. “For all of us.”

Martin said, “I wanted to send a bottle of champagne to your room, but we didn’t want to send the wrong message.”

“I vetoed that idea,” said Peg.

It seemed to Peter that they were waiting for him to say some code phrase, or for an apology. “Thanks for this opportunity.”

“You’re our man in Saipan,” Martin said.

“What should I do now?”

“Do?” Martin repeated.

“There’s really not much more you can do,” Peg said

Martin said, “I guess if he wants you to stick around the hospital for a day or two. .”

“Sure,” said Peg. “Obviously, he trusts you.”

“Nobody’s at the hospital.”

Martin said, “I bet Alistair will stop by.”

Peter swung his feet off the bed and stood up. “That’s not what I meant. I mean Cross isn’t in the hospital.” He looked over a wooded park the approximate size and shape of a baseball diamond. “We’re not even in Columbus.”

Martin said, “Don’t tell me you’re in Lexington.”

“Why would he be in Lexington?” Peg asked.

“He’s got a show here tonight.”

“Motherfucker,” Martin said, “I really want to be at that show.”

PETER PUSHED A button and waited for the phone to ring.

Judith answered. “Hello?” She and Rolf used an old RadioShack portable phone — they greeted everyone the same since it didn’t have caller ID.

“What happened to the Scientist?”

“Well, good morning.”

“I’m sorry. I had a late night.”

“He would have been a useless father. You have to trust me.”

“Did he just leave one day? ”

“You’re asking me to remember something that happened more than thirty years ago.”

Instead of quibbling, Peter said, “Thank you.”

“I’d been sleeping on a cot in a tent. Cross offered me a spare guest room with a queen-sized bed and matching sheets. I told the Scientist we were through.”

“You didn’t call him the Scientist.”

“I called him Lawrence.”

“You asked him to leave and he left?”

“He hung around for a week or two. I’m not sure if he was hoping I’d change my mind, or what. Then one morning his truck was gone.”

“Was I really born in Virginia?”

“Of course.”

“But after I was born, you went back to the farm.”

“You know your grandparents. If we stayed with them, neither of us would have had any freedom.”

“Why didn’t you get a job?”

As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he knew he’d gone too far. He thought he could hear her heading outside. Was she leaving the house? Her studio? A thought crossed his mind: she was on her way to him.

“Can you understand that before you were born, I didn’t think about you? When I say that, I mean I didn’t think about you at all.”

What he understood was that Judith was always Judith.

67

Rosalyn and I forgo the hotel’s complimentary breakfast in favor of a French place a few blocks away that serves granola and fruit atop yogurt in cut-glass bowls — they squeeze their orange juice right before your eyes, in a device that might be the twin to a machine Patricia and I used at the print shop to punch three-inch-round campaign pins.

Funny how the past waits to greet you everywhere you go.

After our waitress buses the table, Rosalyn lifts a pill minder out of her purse, sets three tablets on the lip of the table, then replaces it. She picks up her water glass and washes the medications down with three quick gulps. I don’t ask what the pills are for. When she finishes, she says, “I reserved us a room in Lexington. I hope I’m not being too presumptuous.”

“So, I drive and you book the room, is that our arrangement?”

She makes me look at her. “Do we have an arrangement?”

“How long can you stick around?”

Her eyes drop. I suspect she heard a big question where I intended a smaller one.

When the check arrives, I slide a few bills under my coffee cup.

“You promised you’d meet my daughter.”

“In a moment of weakness,” she says, rising halfway from her seat. Then she sinks back down. When she reaches up to touch her forehead, I see her hand tremble.

I ask her if she’s feeling all right.

“I stood up too quickly.”

“Do you want to go back to our room?”

Rosalyn blushes.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“In The Holy Screw,” Rosalyn says, “the narrator is surprised to find hickeys on her thighs and in the creases beneath her breasts. She accuses Ruben of being insatiable, but he explains that the marks are from bedbugs.” Rosalyn takes another sip of water. “Later, she calls him ‘Bedbug.’”

I offer to bring the car around and she doesn’t protest. As I jog back to the hotel, I’m reminded what a blessing it is to have a healthy body; I mustn’t forget that.

Rosalyn’s waiting at the curb when I pull up.

I roll down the passenger window. “Want a ride?”

“I’ve been warned about guys like you.”

“There aren’t any guys like me,” I say, shaking my head. We’re playing a game, but it’s not just a game. I lean over and open the door for her. “Get in.”

Merging onto I-71, the tractor trailers blasting past buffet my small car. Rosalyn reaches over and pats my thigh.

“Without giving too much away, could you explain how the The Holy Screw gets its title?” I ask.

“Of all people, you should know what a tricky business it is to decode a title.”

“It makes me think of those tamper-proof screws you find in airplanes or fastening bathroom stalls. Does the author believe that Ruben has some special attribute that enables him to move her, bind her, or free her, when other men couldn’t? If the author is the Holy Screw, I guess that would make Ruben the Holy Screwdriver.”

“I can’t tell if you’re serious,” she says, crooking her neck to look at me. “The book’s about sex. Ruben screws her and she awakens to the world and to herself.”

“Got it.”

Rosalyn laughs. “It’s not a meditation on Home Depot.”

A funny thing occurs to me: all this time, Gabby has been thinking her special friend is going to be the big surprise. She’s never going to forgive me.

“Now you’re laughing,” Rosalyn says, leaning over to grind her forehead into my shoulder.

Gabby is going to explode!

68

Peter decided to watch TV in his room. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to congratulate him on saving Cross’s life. The dark berry still pulsed inside Cross’s head. Assuming the world contained a premier basilar-artery specialist, Peter felt confident that he or she would hear from Ogata directly.

On the TV a guy with a skull as smooth as an artillery shell screamed at a smirking teenager. Peter had watched the show before; he’d seen the episode where the screamer’s wife, oldest daughter, and physician staged an intervention in the cardiac unit where he’d wound up after his third heart attack. Peter couldn’t recall where this particular episode fell in terms of the larger chronology. What he knew was that the teenager getting yelled at was the man’s son. The camera panned away from the action, to a poster behind the screamer, a picture of a donkey with its ears pulled back, its yellow teeth showing; the caption read, I Don’t Get Headaches, I GIVE Them!

Something thumped against Peter’s door. When he investigated, he found Bluto standing in the hall, in sweatpants, T-shirt, and a black blazer.

“You going to invite me in?”

Peter opened the door wide.

The tour manager came in. “Close the door, huh?”

“I can’t discuss anything without Cross’s permission.”

Bluto paused by the television. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Why did Fletcher get fired?”

“Who you think scored the dope for Allie? Now, I like Fletcher. I’ve worked with the guy for almost ten years, but he should have known better. As soon as the show was over, I told him there was a ticket waiting for him at the airport. He didn’t get upset; he’s a professional.” Bluto pulled out a tin of breath mints; he popped one, then put the container back in his pocket. “I need a favor.”

Peter put his hands up. “I’m fresh out.”

“Listen to what I have to say. That was a nice trick you pulled off last night, but it’s not like you can go around saving his life every day.”

“I haven’t saved his life.”

“If a person claims you saved his life, then it’s at least partially true.”

“Not when one of you has the least idea what doctors do.”

“You mean besides hiding in their room and watching Motorcycle Humpers?”

Peter clicked the TV off.

“I want you out of here,” Bluto said. “It’s nothing personal, but the sooner you leave, the sooner Allie’s liable to get bored and fly off.”

“So why don’t you talk to Allie?”

Bluto shook his head. “If you give the Big Man a wallet, he’s liable to lose it or throw it away. He can’t be bothered to hold on to a phone. The only thing he carries is this battered little address book he picked up in Marrakech forty years ago. That’s how he knows the addresses for his kids and his grandkids’ birthdays. That tattered book is how he can get in touch with Ogata and that shrimp lawyer.

“Four years ago he’s out taking a constitutional in Wyoming when some hick deputy picks him up for vagrancy. Cross doesn’t carry ID and they don’t believe him when he tells them who he is. They take him to the station and let him make a call. He pulls out that little book and he calls me. That’s how I found out I’d made it into his book. There aren’t fifty names in there and mine’s among them. Long after I’m dead and forgotten, that book will be in the Smithsonian. But if I pick a fight with Alistair, Cross will take out the nub of a pencil he carries, lick the tip, then scratch off my name. The next thing I know I’ll find myself in the Delta terminal with a one-way ticket home.”

Peter pulled open his room door.

Bluto walked out to the hall. “Did you forget that the only reason you’re here is he used to put the boots to your mother?”

69

Before we reach Cincinnati, Rosalyn has to use the facilities. I pull off at a truck stop. While Rosalyn goes inside, I stretch out on the hood of my car and let the heat of the engine warm my back. If I were by myself, I would never allow myself to feel so languid.

I haven’t been able to let go of last night, how the world seemed to wobble and catch the first time Cross played “A.D.C.” The echo of that feeling still troubles me. I’d assumed he’d played it twice because he wasn’t satisfied with how it sounded, but another explanation occurs to me. What if he’d been playing a different song? What if he cloaked another song underneath “A.D.C.”?

There’s only one ghost in the whole of Cross’s catalog, one song that, so far, has evaded the lyric detectives and ivory tower sleuths.

I pull up the website for the hospital where Dr. Silver works and dial the switchboard. A woman answers in a patient, matter-of-fact voice.

“Is there a doctor named Peter Silver working there?”

“He’s unavailable. Would you like me to transfer you to his voice mail?”

I have to think on my feet. “It’s a common name,” I say. “You don’t know his middle initial, do you?”

“Please hold.”

I wish Rosalyn were with me. It’s not an odd feeling, so much as an unprecedented one. Looking toward the truck stop, I will her back. I am a fountain of hope.

“Sir,” the woman says, “it’s Peter R. Silver. Can I transfer you?”

I hang up.

Twenty-six letters in the alphabet allow for 17,576 possible initials—26 x 26 x 26. Coincidences are facts masquerading as meaning, but is it a coincidence that Cross’s inexplicable physician shares his initials with his most inexplicable song?

And where is my Rosalyn?

AT THE BANK of pumps, interchangeable cars arrive, fill up, depart. I head inside. She’s not in the convenience store. And I don’t see her in the donut and coffee place. Ditto the little annex that sells merchandise for truckers: mud flaps, wallet chains, pocketknives, paperback thrillers. I don’t find her loitering in the hallway crammed with pay phones, which leads to the back entrance (there’s a back entrance!). I look for her in the dim “arcade,” by the deer-hunting game and the pinball machine. I stand beside the ladies’ room door and listen. Then I head back outside, in case she has, somehow, circled back to the Corolla — she hasn’t.

Why would she leave me? Half a dozen reasons pop into my head, including my selfishness, my general appearance, the fact that I don’t have a source of income, her health, the dawning realization that we are not acting our ages. Finally, I ask one of the young women at the donut store if she’d mind checking the bathroom for me. The girl can tell I don’t believe there’s anyone in there, but she comes out from behind the counter all the same. She freezes me with this look, like she thinks I might try to follow her.

But when she returns she asks, “You’re Arthur?” The import of this question doesn’t register. “It’s okay,” she says, “come in.”

There’s both an outer and an inner door — concert halls often employ the same airlock type of setup — and when I push past them I find Rosalyn sitting on the floor.

I squat down and put my hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I got so dizzy.” She shows me her phone. “I wanted to call you, but I don’t have your number.”

The girl says, “Do you folks need me to call an ambulance?”

Rosalyn lifts a shaky hand, draws it across her brow. “I’ll be fine in a second.”

The girl — her name is Carrie — and I stand on either side and help Rosalyn to her feet. The three of us shuffle into the donut place. Carrie uncaps an orange juice, hands it to Rosalyn, while her co-worker handles the drive-thru duties.

“I guess I overdid it last night,” Rosalyn says, swiping the back of her hard across her mouth.

“I know that feeling,” Carrie says. “Bleh.”

Minutes pass.

The other girl chews gum and stares at us. “You have to listen to your body,” Carrie says.

Rosalyn slowly closes her eyes. For a moment I think she might be falling asleep, but then a smile works across her face. When she opens her eyes, she’s looking right at me. “We can go now.”

Carrie won’t accept money for the juice. “You didn’t order it,” she says. She presses a sandwich into Rosalyn’s hand — it’s not something they sell; she’d brought it from home, it’s her lunch. She insists on walking Rosalyn to the car.

“Listen to your body,” Carrie says.

Rosalyn nods her head.

“She will.” I wave as we drive off.

WHEN 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.

BY 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.

THE 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.

FOR 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.

•••

BY 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.”

“Bluto’s right. You need to eat something.”

“I’m going to help you be successful.”

Peter threw his hands in the air. “What makes you think I’m not successful?”

Cross shot a finger up toward the ceiling, then had it do a swan dive into the table.

“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean?”

The singer tapped his finger on the table. “If your life was where you wanted it to be, there’s no way you’d have wound up here with me.”

“For your information, I have a colleague who’d kill for the chance to switch places with me.”

“You’re talking about his dream. It’s not yours. Besides, you didn’t make this happen. Right? I did.”

Sure, he could be happier. But what was he supposed to do? Did a person become the changes he wanted? The voice in his head sounded a lot like Tony Ogata.

“Remember what I said earlier? I owe you a lot. I owed you before you found a time bomb in my head.”

“Everybody’s drunk,” Peter said.

“Promise you’ll let me help you.”

Deep inside, Peter could feel himself resisting. Why? Wasn’t it possible that his resistance was the thing holding him back all along? If ever there was an offer one couldn’t refuse, this had to be it.

Cross bent over and fussed with something under the table. In the next moment he reached his cowboy boots out to Peter. “I saw you looking at these earlier. Take them as a token of my feelings.”

“You can’t sit in a restaurant with bare feet.”

“Correction. You can’t sit in a restaurant with bare feet.”

71

When Rosalyn wakes from her nap, I’m sitting at the edge of her bed.

“Did you get any rest at all?”

I shake my head.

“Have you been here the whole time?”

“Almost. I needed to run out to do an errand.”

“Mission accomplished?”

“Notice any changes?”

“Did you get your hair cut?”

“No, but thanks for reminding me.”

She scrunches up her face. “You’re being mysterious.”

“I’ve got a secret.”

“I know.”

•••

ROSALYN FEELS THAT she needs to conserve her energy, so we order room service. She has a Cobb salad and a skinless chicken breast, while I eat half a rack of ribs. We sip sweet ice tea with mint and lemon wedges; we watch the currents of syrup folding in the liquid. Rosalyn tells me she enjoys watching me eat. She can’t help but see my thinness as evidence of neglect. She cares and cares.

I tell her Cross’s entourage has been drinking all day, and that if she needs to miss a show, tonight wouldn’t be the worst one to miss. The odds of another Pittsburgh aren’t very good. My voice echoes in my head, The odds of another Pittsburgh aren’t very good.

Rosalyn says she doesn’t want me going alone, so we trade my front-row ticket for a pair of seats near the back of the room. The opening act plays and plays. Either they’re trying to milk the opportunity for all it’s worth, or someone has asked them to stall. The lead guitarist and singer make banter between each number. It goes on too long, but nobody boos, the crowd stays civil. After an hour and a half they quit the stage. The lights drop.

I check out the soundboard. Instead of the steady calm of Milton Fletcher, Brucie Tzizek sits at the table. At first I wonder if he’s the source of the delay, but then I see him cover the mouthpiece of his headset and yawn. He’s not even looking at the board. The holdup isn’t on his end.

Rosalyn prods me with her elbow.

In the twilight darkness, a knot of bodies stumbles among the instruments. It’s like watching security footage of clumsy thieves. Only, the thieves aren’t taking anything. When they retreat, they leave a dark form in front of Albert’s drum kit.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please help me welcome. .”

The band takes their places as the stage lights pop on. Cross sits, marooned on a white folding chair, his charcoal cowboy hat pulled down to his brow, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Instead of his honey-colored Gibson, he’s behind his Nord electric organ — he rests his hands on the keyboard. It’s unfortunate that the instrument’s stand so closely resembles those aluminum walkers you find clogging the halls of every convalescent home.

The band plays the melody to “Long Gone” but Jimmy never moves his hands, never leans toward the microphone. I know the audience will applaud when the song finishes, yet I’m still disheartened when they do. Cross rouses himself enough to play keyboard on “Wayward Satellite,” yet Dom (!) handles the vocals.43 The band waltzes through “St. Sebastian,” while Cross, looking crumpled, does his best imitation of a martyred saint.

Rosalyn turns to me. “And I thought I had a rough day.”

Cross grabs the microphone and bends it to him. “Got a special guest.” The singer stirs his hand in the air, as though he’s corralling a soap bubble or a feather. “Get out here. Come on. I’m big proud.” The other guys look to Dom. “My inspiration. Okay. . big hand.”

Allie shambles onto the stage, glossy with sweat. His fat face is loose in the jowls, his pretty blue eyes dart about. When he places a hand on his father’s shoulder, the crowd erupts.

Why bring Allie out now, in the middle of a throwaway set, on a calamitous night?

THE GIRL THEY picked up from Cirque du Soleil, the new Kev, prances out holding Allie’s four-string guitar; she waves to the audience, like she’s part of the show. The dumb crowd eats her up, her ironical curtsy.

“This is my son. He and I—” Cross’s voice cuts out, like he’s unplugged himself.

When Alistair stoops to speak into the microphone, a spasm runs through his body, as if someone has buried an axe in his spine. “We’ll play a little song for you.”

Will Jimmy, in deference to his son, reprise one of the five forgettable tracks that appeared on Alistair’s EP?44 Or maybe one of the songs about Alistair’s mother, either “Diamonds (for Breakfast)” or “Slender 11”?

“Stop!” I yell. Or I want to. And I suppose I want to remain in this state of not knowing what they’re about to do. That must be part of it. I have no clue what they’re about to play — and I know I don’t know better than everyone else.

Cross and Alistair are alone on stage, though I don’t remember the band leaving.

With one tremulous hand, Cross keys some bright, jumping notes. Alistair provides only the most minimal accompaniment, as though he held a triangle instead of a guitar.

When Alistair’s voice comes in, so low and pure, I forgive him for everything.

He sings:

Way up yonder,

Above the moon,

A blue jay nests

In a silver spoon.

The song evaporates in front of us, but Alistair leans down until his cheek must be touching his father’s:

Buckeye Jim,

You can’t go,

Go weave an’ spin,

You can’t go,

Buckeye Jim.

It’s a traditional tune, the sort of thing Cross cut his teeth on. But why “Buckeye Jim”? And why now? Sometimes it seems as though Allie lives without a thought to any past or future. Is Cross reminding his son that he, too, is connected to history? And maybe, by playing something off the book, Cross is reminding all of us to listen.

In Paradise,

The white bird sings,

Touch your face

With tender wings.

And maybe the point isn’t the number of questions one thinking person can generate. Maybe the point is what we can feel. Maybe the point is that the song is spare and beautiful. I think, here, of Rosalyn, who is, in her own way, spare and beautiful.

Buckeye Jim,

You’ll go, go

Weave an’ spin,

You’ll go,

Buckeye Jim.

The stage lights cut out.

I say, “That’s going to be the end of that. Saner minds have prevailed.”

“Look,” Rosalyn tells me.

What she’s noticed — what I see now — is that Cross hasn’t left the stage. The lighting person combs the crowd with a blinding laser array, and somewhere above us fog cascades down, but amid all this hubbub, at the center of all the noise and confusion, Cross is waiting us out in plain sight — not exactly plain sight, the floor lights are down. A large form crouches beside him — it’s impossible to tell who it is, but I’d put my money on Cyril Coleman.

Rosalyn squeezes my hand. I can remember joining hands with Patricia and, of course, with Gabby — if Gabby asks, I will “give her hand” to the person she loves. I never expected I would hold hands with someone again.

The lights come back on, and now Alistair is propped in a chair beside his father.45

Cross plays his standard three-song encore with his son by his side, but it’s hard for me to pay much attention because twice Rosalyn launches into these coughing fits that she can’t seem to control; and, though she waves me away, I get the sense that these attacks have unnerved her as much as they have me.

I want to get her out of this place, but as soon as the houselights come up, there’s a crush for the doors. The two of us sit, Rosalyn’s head pressed against my shoulder.

72

The pig finally arrived, one more unnecessary intoxicant. The chef stood beside the table, doling out treats she trimmed from the carcass, strips of crackling, the succulent, silver-dollar cheeks. She removed the loins, each as slender as a child’s forearm, sliced them into medallions to serve with crab-apple chutney and crème fraîche. Chafing dishes piled with herb-speckled fingerling potatoes served to soak up the drippings and the booze. Peter picked at a bitter salad of collard greens, shredded brussels sprouts, and jade-green tomatoes.

Flecks of charred meat glistened on Maya’s teeth. Peter wanted a picture of her, but he seemed to have misplaced his phone.

A waiter delivered more cocktails; each carried a provenance — had been developed by a Civil War coward, had been the favorite poison of a city founder, had been blamed for the crash of a paddle-wheel steamboat.

Peter felt Cross’s eyes resting on him, like a neglected dog. When he couldn’t take the scrutiny a moment longer, he headed to the bathroom; he needed the privacy.

The urinals contained shining mountains of ice — he wondered why anyone would want to chill his pee. His shirt started to ring. Though he never put his phone in his shirt pocket, that’s where he found it. It was Martin.

“He’s waiting for you out front.”

“Who is?”

“The guy I told you about. He says he can’t come in.”

Maya stood leaning against a column clad in white-enamel tile. She took out a tiny brush and dabbed red paint on her puckered lips. Her teeth peeked through, looking a little yellow, like a dog’s.

Peter pocketed his phone; he pressed his lips against her cheek.

“Cross said you saved his life.”

“He told you that?”

She nodded as he kissed her lower lip.

She kissed his cheek, his ear.

He listened to her hot breath.

Alistair walked in, stopping in front of the sink; he caught Peter’s eyes in the mirror. They stood like that, it seemed to the doctor, for quite a while.

“Did I just whizz in the sink?”

Maya laughed.

“Why do they put ice in the urinals?”

Peter said, “Because it sounds like money when you pee.”

Maya stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.

“We shouldn’t stay in here,” Alistair said, “my father gets lonely.”

RATHER THAN HEAD back to the table, Peter needed to find who Martin was trying to connect him with. Through the front door, Peter spotted Cyril, looking as stolid as a lighthouse, waiting beneath the restaurant’s fabric canopy.

Peter stepped outside and joined the bodyguard at the top of the stairs. “Am I supposed to talk with you?”

Cyril seized Peter by the base of the skull and aimed his head across the street. There, beneath a magnolia, Peter recognized the photographer he’d seen in Rochester, the Wild West consumptive, Cross’s thirsty man.

“You have any idea how he found us?”

Peter didn’t answer.

Cyril twisted Peter’s head from side to side “No? Or”—he made Peter’s head tip up and down—“yes?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do I need to explain why it’s a bad idea to tell strangers the whereabouts of an elderly man with a nine-figure net worth?”

Peter stared at Pennyman. “I think I’ll go back inside.”

Cyril handed Peter a slip of paper. “First, give him this.”

It was a ticket. “You’re giving him a ticket to the show?”

“Tell him if I catch him anywhere but the venue, I’ll take his shadow next.”

“You’ll take his shadow?”

Cyril didn’t respond. How had Peter failed to register what a threatening presence the man could be?

Peter picked his way down the stairs, looked both ways, and crossed the street. He was probably fewer than a hundred yards removed from Cross’s table, yet it felt as though he were on the verge of leaving the tour.

Pennyman stepped off the curb to intercept him, but Peter waved him back onto the sidewalk with the ticket.

“Cyril doesn’t want you here.”

Pennyman pocketed the piece of paper. “So, are you Doctor Axe, or. .”

“My friend said you needed to talk with me.”

“Have you heard of a song called ‘Purple River Serenade’?”

“I’m not a fan.”

“You catch the initials? ‘P.R.S.’ I think it’s about you, or for you.”

He shouldn’t have let himself drink so much. “Where can I hear it?”

“You were by the side of the stage when he played it last night.” Pennyman reached up and laced his fingers over the crown of his head. “Before that, I’m not sure he’s ever played it, at least not for an audience.”

Peter looked over his shoulder. Cyril must have gone in. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“You can’t be his doctor.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s a conflict of interest.”

“I don’t think you know what that means.”

“He’s your father.”

“I’ve already got a father.” Was it strange that when Peter said the word “father,” he pictured Judith? Of course not.

Pennyman shook his head.

“You sound like a blackmailer.” Had Peter ever used that word before? “Blackmailer” belonged in a Hardy Boys mystery.

“When people find out ‘Purple River Serenade’ is about you, it’ll be a big deal. Magazines are going to want to interview you. Big magazines. You’re Cross’s Rosetta stone.”

Peter looked at his own feet. The ground turned beneath him. He had to close his eyes to keep from being sick.

“If he doesn’t want people to know about the song, how is it your business?”

“I’m Pennyman and he’s a public figure.”

“He’s the most private person I’ve ever met.”

Pennyman wrapped his coat around himself. “Tell me, am I the first person to figure this out?”

“Why? Do you think you deserve a prize?”

One of the man’s eyes twitched.

Later, backstage, Peter couldn’t escape the smell of the roasted pig. He couldn’t recall how he’d gotten to the concert hall. Out of the murkiness that passed for his sight, Cross emerged, black-hatted and in mirrored aviator shades. The singer grabbed Peter by the ears and mashed a kiss on his forehead. “Help me sober up.”

Peter spread his feet to keep from tipping over. “What’s ‘Purple River Serenade’?”

Cross threw a slow-motion jab that stopped an inch shy of Peter’s chin. No, it connected, a glancing blow. “Your mother put you up to this?”

“Pennyman asked me.”

Cross turned sideways and threw up on the black-planked floor. The sick made a sunburst shape. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I’ll protect you. We’ll set Kopp on him.”

“What’s so important about this song?”

Someone came over with a mop and started swabbing up the mess.

“I’ve been on the road for twenty-six years, but it’s not enough. They want everything. They dig through my trash,” Cross said. “You need to give me something to straighten me out.”

“What you need is time.”

“You don’t know the first thing about time.” Cross’s voice sizzled.

Making his way back to the security of a standpipe, Peter spotted Maya. She’d climbed halfway up one of the spiral staircases. She was talking to someone on her phone — she waved.

“Golden child,” Alistair said, “how’re you feeling?”

“I don’t know how I got so messed up.”

“I sabotaged you. That’s the who and the why.”

Peter blinked. He wanted to crawl into a dark hole.

Cyril interjected. “The Big Man needs one of those shots, the bee-sting shots.”

“An EpiPen?” Peter felt some of the fog blow away. “Did he get stung?”

“He’s got to clear the cobwebs.”

Nobody understood the least bit about medicine. “Epinephrine would increase his heart rate and raise his blood pressure. That’s the last thing he needs.” When Peter opened his eyes, he saw that he was talking to himself.

73

Rosalyn sits beside me in the car, forking cubes of cantaloupe from a clear plastic tub. After last night’s performance, she vowed to put only healthy things into her body. She wants sardines and olives. She wants leafy greens. The Holy Screw, she tells me, is also about the metaphor of diet. When people say that our bodies are temples, they only think about restrictions — thou shalt not eat processed sugar; thou shalt not eat trans fats. We need to consider what it is we choose to embrace. Embrace passion, she says. Embrace mindfulness.

THE HILLSIDES ARE covered in bluegrass or rye. Black four-board fences stretch for miles. We watch a white horse racing across a paddock, its tail flying like a pennon. It seems that a person could travel the world over and never spy a healthier creature.

When we cross into Tennessee, I call Gabby.

Rosalyn coached me a bit. “Smile when you speak — she’ll be able to tell. Tell her you’re excited to see her. Use your bright voice, your fun voice. Be more Arthur and less Pennyman.” Who knew I had access to a bright voice?

“Honey,” I say, my mouth so wide I could swallow my phone.

“Are you on your way?”

“I’m very close, Gabby. I’m in Tennessee.”

It’s not Rosalyn’s coaching: I’m looking forward to seeing her. I say, “I can’t wait to see you, baby.”

Rosalyn deposits a kiss on her fingertip, then delivers it to my cheek.

“Where do you want to meet? Do you want to meet at your house, or should we go somewhere?”

“I’m starving. Can we meet at the Waffle House?”

The town where she lives is little more than a few churches, the Waffle House, and the library, of course.

“Perfect,” I say.

“How soon will you be here?”

“We’ll be there in thirty minutes, tops.”

The vastness of the silence that springs up between us can’t be explained by the mundane fact that, in order to speak, our voices have to relay back and forth through satellites orbiting in space.

“Is someone with you, Daddy?”

I look at Rosalyn, but she can’t save me.

“Yes. I’m bringing a friend with me. She—”

“She? She, Daddy?”

“She’s really looking forward to meeting you. And we’re both looking forward to meeting your special friend.”

I can tell Gabby isn’t smiling when she says she’ll meet us at the Waffle House.

“Oh, Arthur,” Rosalyn says, but what she means is How could you?

74

Peter found his plundered backpack beside the curtain. The empty auto-injector of an EpiPen sat beside it on the floor.

IF THE STAGE was Cross’s home, then by walking through the curtains Peter made the second house call of his career.

With the lights down, it was less a stage than an obstacle course. There were seams in the floor, loose cords and cords that had been taped down. Peter walked slowly, careful not to trip over Albert’s drum kit or the monitors, all the various matte-black equipment that waited, poised like booby traps.

When he reached Cross, the singer’s head and shoulders were stuffed into a trash can. Cyril held him by the collar of his sweatshirt, presumably to keep him from toppling over.

“He’s fine,” Cyril said, turning his bull’s head toward the doctor.

Peter could hear the crowd gathered around them, the sound of the hushed anticipation.

“Tell me he didn’t give himself a shot,” Peter said.

“You feel okay, boss?”

Cross put a finger to his nostril and blew, shooting mucus into the trash. Then he cleared the other side.

“If your blood pressure gets too high, the artery wall will rupture.”

“Cyril, have Bluto bring up the lights,” Cross said.

Peter stood his ground. “You’re making a mistake.”

“You can’t get anywhere if you’re afraid of mistakes.”

The lights blazed on.

Cross growled into a shotgun microphone, “Hand me the patch cord.” The singer’s voice broadcasted throughout the hall.

Peter picked up the quarter-inch chrome-tipped plug and handed it to Cross. “I quit.”

“Thank you, doctor. Now get off my fucking stage.”

ALISTAIR AND MAYA stood by the edge of the curtain. Peter grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him. “Follow me,” he said, but he didn’t give her a choice.

He dragged her past all the hangers-on, the VIP guests and radio contest winners, past the hired security, past Lumpy, who was clapping while the new Kev walked across the bare concrete on her hands. Peter pulled Maya down an empty, echoing hallway. He wasn’t even dragging her; she was coming along willingly. It almost looked like he was rescuing her. They slammed through some double doors and found themselves, all at once, outside. The Blister and Aisha Moon saluted him with their cigarettes.

He towed her past the Toolshed and the Trojan Horse, past the hollowed-out tractor trailer the roadies would soon be repacking.

“Where are you taking me?” Maya asked.

Peter didn’t know.

She shook off his hand and started running, not back toward the concert hall and not in the direction he’d been leading her — he didn’t know where he’d been leading her.

He chased after her. He felt like a wolf.

When he caught her, neither of them could breathe.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” she said, panting. “I’ve got a boyfriend.”

They walked together. The air smelled of fall and, still, the smoldering pig. They passed other couples out in the evening air.

Maya stopped in front of a bar.

She nodded. “You want to come in?”

Peter couldn’t imagine drinking anymore. He told her so.

She pulled him through the bar, into the lobby of a hotel. “It’s okay,” she said. They stepped into an elevator.

Halfway down a whisper-quiet hallway, she dipped her key card into a lock.

The curtains were open and the night sky caused the window to behave like a mirror.

Maya retrieved two orange juices from the mini-bar. She handed one to Peter.

“What now?” he asked

“You want to watch TV?”

“Sure.”

They sat on top of the covers and watched a show about how the Incas built Machu Picchu. The host explained that archaeologists had uncovered more than two hundred terraces and an ingenious drainage system that prevented the place from washing away in heavy rains.

A commercial interrupted the program.

Maya turned to him, “Do you mind if I change?”

He watched her head into the bathroom, and then he forgot about her for a while.

He considered texting Martin to let his friend know that the Rochester Memorial/Tony Ogata Ambassador for Wellness had tendered his resignation on stage.

The bathroom door opened and Maya came out in gym shorts and a thin T-shirt that fell straight down from the points of her breasts. A towel cycloned around her head. She flipped off the bathroom light and, for a moment, it was as though she’d been disappeared from the room.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here when I got out.”

“Should I have left?”

She reached her hands up and squeezed the towel. “I had to get that smell off me. It was too much.”

He got up from the bed and walked toward her. She let herself be trapped against the wall.

He kissed her neck. Her skin pinked where he touched her. She was so clean, it was like licking a balloon. She didn’t resist him. She could be a Buddhist submitting to a mosquito. She seemed to understand that he needed this and that, as long as it didn’t last too long, as long as he didn’t insist that it be fun, she would let him take her. He understood this and, even though he felt a bit shattered, it soothed him.

He stopped. “Did you get your interview?”

She retrieved her notebook and muted the TV. “Listen to this stuff: ‘Performers are more primitive than fans. Everyone is born a performer. Our parents are our first audience; they’re our fans.’ He has this idea that being a fan is how we teach ourselves to love.”

“More autonomic nervous system?”

“Exactly. He said it’s something you taught him.”

“He’s given me credit for a lot of things I’ve had almost nothing to do with.”

Her fingers glided across his cheekbone. She found a tender spot. “What happened here?”

“I think he punched me.”

“Some thanks.”

She pressed her lips to the spot. “Better?”

“It’s a good story, at least.”

Maya put her notebook down. “Do you want to watch TV again?”

Peter said that he did.

Maya got under the covers.

On the television, solemn-looking actors pretended to be the slaves who’d built the Egyptian pyramids.

Peter took his shoes off and lay back on the bed.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I am.”

“Somebody is going to have a lot of fun nursing you back to health.”

It was a very nice thing for her to say. He said, “That’s a nice thing to say.”

She had her phone out again.

“Are you texting your boyfriend?”

“Do you mind?”

It turned out that he didn’t.

75

When we returned to Pittsburgh, one of Rosalyn’s oldest friends felt it necessary to confide in me that “Rosalyn’s having a midlife crisis.”

Maybe she hoped I’d be repulsed. “I know,” I said. “We’re having one together.”

Rosalyn asked me to be there in the recovery room after her surgery — it was a big success; the surgeon was optimistic he’d removed all the cancer.

When she went through chemo, I cleaned and cooked for her. It had been ages since I’d cared for anyone other than myself. Eventually I won her friends over.

AFTER HER SIX-month PET scan came back clear, we allowed ourselves to imagine that we could have a life together. She returned to her job. I’ve been volunteering for the local historical society — I’m helping them build a database.

A few weeks after her oncologist pronounced Rosalyn in remission, I logged in to JimCrossCompendium. It felt odd at first, but the website had always been about my experience of the world. I posted a new message: Rosalyn and I Have Decided to Share Our Lives with Each Other. I suppose I was writing to myself; after I left the tour, the site had become something of a mausoleum.

It came as a surprise when people wrote me back to congratulate us. The other day I got a message that said: Oh, my! The Restless One is finally settling down. We printed it out and taped it to the refrigerator door. It reminds me of Rosalyn’s reaction when, after telling me about her cancer, I told her that I’d found out that Gabby had gotten engaged. She’d said, “Oh, happiness.”

76

Maya was snoring when Peter awoke. He sat up in installments, afraid he’d wake his hangover. He pulled on his shoes, then slipped out of her room.

How much time would pass before he woke up beside someone again?

Out on the street, people were already going about their days. He caught himself glancing back the way he’d come, as though he expected someone might be following him. His hotel lay in a particular direction, but for the time being he was just glad to be walking.

When he came to a corner store, he ducked inside and bought a premade latte. He expected to feel a hundred times worse, possibly at any moment.

In front of a deli lunch shop, there was a picnic table shaded by a blue-and-yellow-striped umbrella. He took out his phone and dialed Judith.

“Good morning, honey.”

“How is corporate life treating you?”

“I made a hundred pendants yesterday.”

“I don’t believe it.” Across the street a boy stood waiting for a bus. He was skipping flat rocks across the road, as though it were a pond.

“Actually, one hundred and three.”

“Are you going to jump right back into the harness today?”

“Where are you?”

It took Peter a moment to remember. “Lexington, Kentucky.”

“You and I visited there once when you were little.”

“We did?” Knowing that he’d been there with Judith made Peter feel better somehow.

“It was a long, long time ago.”

“Wait, so are you making more pedants today or not?”

“I’m done with pendants. I think I’m going to make cuffs.”

“Like cuff links?”

“No, like Wonder Woman.”

They’d watched the show together on their thirteen-inch television. “Cool.”

“That’s not a word I associate you with.”

“Thanks.”

“What I mean is that I don’t hear you use it much. You like precise words.”

“I think I have to ask you some questions.”

“Okay,” Judith said. “Give me a second while I go to my studio.”

From the little fragments of sound he could picture her whole journey, a stool scraping across the tile floor of the kitchen, the rattle as she opened the wonky front door. He heard her shoes scrape along flinty path that led to her studio — a gardening shed Rolf had fitted with a pair of salvaged windows.

“Go ahead, I guess.”

“Cross told me there was more than just one song about me.”

“I’m not hearing a question.”

“Did you know that there was more than one song?”

“Lots of my friends made things. You were also in paintings.”

“We’re not talking about someone from your painting club.”

“When I met him, he said he’d given up on music. He was going to be a gentleman farmer, or something like that. After you were born, he sort of appointed himself your guardian. He’d follow you around the yard. I remember he said you gave him new eyes. At some point he started writing songs again.”

A man stopped in front of Peter. “You can’t sit here. Customers only.” The deli was open now, apparently. Peter stood up and walked on.

“He told me he wants to make me successful.”

“If you only take one piece of advice from me, don’t accept anything from him.”

“You have to tell me why not.”

“I don’t think I do, honey.”

“What’s ‘Purple River Serenade’?”

“He promised he’d never bring that up with you. He gave me his word.”

“A fan asked me about it. I gather it’s a song.”

“We had a big fight about it. He didn’t think I’d recognize your initials in the title. I made him take it off the album. That was the end of our relationship.”

“You said ‘relationship.’”

Judith paused. Peter could hear her breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth. “I’m allowed some privacy.”

He’d expected to feel bad, but not like this.

“Honey, listen to me. Get away from him. If his fans put things together, there’ll be no end to it. You don’t understand how they feel about that song.”

“But there wasn’t a song.”

“He released it after Alistair was born, or, I guess, rereleased it. He only changed a line or two. Alistair has spent his whole life trying to live up to a song his father wrote about you.”

A cab cruised by on the other side of the street and Peter found himself flagging it down. “I quit last night.”

“That’s good, honey.”

At the end of the block, the cab did a U-turn and pulled up beside him.

“Where are you going to go?”

“Nobody here knows what it is a doctor does.”

“I’m telling you now, when I get off the phone with you, I’m calling him.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” Judith said, “but I still have to do it. I’m your parent.”

Peter got into the cab. The smell of barbeque was overwhelming, and it was coming off of him.

The cabbie said, “Where you going, big man?”

Peter found his room key and showed it to the driver.

He’d about finished gathering his things when someone knocked on the door. He looked through the peephole at Alistair.

“I can hear you in there. Let me in. I’m not going to assault you.”

Peter unlocked the door and went back to tidying the room.

Cross’s son opened the door halfway, sniffed the air, then stepped in. “Doesn’t smell like you slept here.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Alistair rolled his shoulders. “I’m having Wayne pack for me. I told him my back hurts too much.”

Peter didn’t look up. “If you’re looking for a doctor, you’ll have to find someone else. I quit the tour last night.”

“You don’t strike me as the quitting type.”

“This may be my first time.”

“Let me know if you need any pointers. I’ve got a fair bit of experience in the matter. I’ve quit Pop Warner football, pilot lessons, a handful of bands, rehab, mindfulness training, two master’s programs, and Spain.”

Peter felt sympathy for Cross’s son. “How do you quit a country?”

“I tried to live in Majorca, but it kept trying to kill me, so I quit. In Spanish you say ‘lo dejo.’”

Alistair opened up the mini-bar, grabbed a candy bar and an orange juice, then made himself comfortable on Peter’s bed.

“You know they charge you for those.”

Alistair turned his head to the side. “I’m aware that my father’s corporation is picking up the treats, yes.”

Peter ducked into the bathroom, noted his swollen cheek in the mirror, his tired eyes. Still, he thought, he could have looked much worse. “Did you stop by for a reason?”

“What happened with the Kiwi?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Alistair finished the orange juice in one long pull. “I’m glad you decided to quit the tour.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I was going to try to convince you it was time to go.”

Peter looked up from his packing. Alistair’s face was set. He wasn’t kidding. “How were you going to do that?”

“I guess I was going to start hitting you.”

“When I answered the door, you said you weren’t going to assault me.”

Alistair took a bite from the candy bar.

“So,” Peter asked, “why do you want me to leave?”

“I was eight when the old man went back on tour full-time. At first my mother and I tagged along, but there were too many people demanding things from him. Now I have to share him with my nephews and nieces.”

“Did you think I was going to try to steal him from you?”

“You’re the son he wanted. Look at the trouble he went through to get you on tour.”

“Has he ever asked you to join him on the road?”

“Every time we talk.”

“So why have you stayed away?”

Alistair aimed his index finger at his own head. “Look what being around him does to me.”

Peter grabbed a cranberry juice from the mini-bar. “I think you’re missing my point.”

“That wouldn’t be the first time.”

Peter said, “I hope you get your life together.”

“I hope you get your life together, too.”

77

After we’d crossed into Tennessee, I asked Rosalyn a question. “What would you say if I told you I don’t want to go to tonight’s show?”

She didn’t turn toward me, but I watched her lips pucker.

“I’m not kidding.”

“Stop,” she said.

“You mean stop the car?”

“No, stop saying impulsive things.”

We were west of the Appalachians. A band of maples and small oaks crowded the highway. Every so often there’d be a break in the trees and we could glimpse the patchwork of fields around us. The landscape was neither grand nor inspiring, but it was pretty enough. I tried to make a point to take it in, to be open to it.

Had I been saying impulsive things? Perhaps, like Cross, I contained myriad selves.

“What if I’m serious?”

“That’s not fair to me, Arthur. If you don’t go, you’ll probably regret it, then you’ll regret meeting me. I don’t want that responsibility.”

I drove another mile.

“You asked me to take you to a show, and I did, as a favor.”

“Don’t make everything into commerce.”

I would bleed before I knew I was cut; that’s how sharp she was.

“For a while now I’ve felt as though the world owed me a reversal of fate, yet I’ve been the one unwilling to accommodate change.”

“Arthur, are you trying to make me dizzy again?”

The highway unfolded before us, the laziest of rivers.

“I guess I need to ask you a question.”

I turned to catch her face. I’d seen her excited before and, because of her health problems, I’d seen her scared, but I’m not sure I’d yet spotted happiness.

Rosalyn turned up the car’s fan. “Don’t drag this on forever. Enough preamble.”

“Tonight, would you not go to the show with me?”

She bit her finger. “Wait! Do you mean you don’t want me to go, or you don’t want either of us to go?”

We flew over a little creek and the glimpse of moving water spurred me on.

“Neither of us goes.”

Rosalyn reached over and squeezed my forearm. “Promise you’re not trying to make yourself into a martyr.”

“Martyrs are selfless. That’s not my modus operandi. I’m fundamentally selfish.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Arthur.”

“How does The Holy Screw end?”

She turned her face from me. “You can never read that book. I forbid you.”

I held up my phone. “Tell me or I’ll look it up right now, while exceeding the speed limit.”

“You’re bluffing.”

I started typing into the search bar.

Rosalyn snatched my phone. “Ruben goes into cardiac arrest and dies in her bed. It’s very sad.”

“Oh.”

“Plus there are complications.”

“Meaning?”

“She’d snuck him into a convent.”

“I believe I’ve been waiting to meet you for a long time.”

We traveled two more miles into Tennessee.

“That’s a very nice thing to hear.”

“Can I say something else?”

“You may.”

“I think I needed to meet you more than you needed to meet me.”

“Oh, Arthur, that’s your narcissism talking.”

“But still.”

78

Peter took a shower. He washed his hair twice to try to get rid of the smell. He dressed in his boring clothes, brushed his boring teeth. Looked around the room twice to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind.

There was another knock on the door.

Peter undid the bolt and Cross walked in, shaking his head. “In the fall of ’75, someone drove a plumbing-supply van into one of my old cow pastures. He set up an orange pup tent and this chimney-looking thing he claimed was a telescope. For the most part, he kept to himself. Sometimes he’d come over to the house and ask to borrow my phone. He wore his hair slicked back with Vaseline and parted just above his right ear. He looked like an IBM engineer in the midst of a bender. He was always carrying some Edgar Rice Burroughs paperback — judging by the covers they might have been titled Nympho on Mars.”

The amateur stargazer, Peter knew, was none other than his own absent progenitor, the guy his mother referred to as the Scientist. Peter had first uncovered his name flipping through a calculus workbook Judith was using to shim up a wobbly electric range.

“When someone told me there was a girl in his tent, my first thought was she must be a robot.”

“Where was your farm?

“New York. A place called Round Hill.”

“The guy with the telescope was Lawrence Brand.”

“You resemble him a little bit. You’re both. .” Cross made his hand into a fist.

“Violent?”

“Tight.”

“I’m working on that.”

Cross leaned his hip against the edge of the dresser. “I’m not your father.”

“I never thought you were.”

“Alistair has never quite believed me.”

“He thinks you went to a lot of trouble getting me out here.”

“And how do you see it?”

“Maybe you were curious about me, but I think I was bait.”

“I used to love you.”

Peter felt his heart grow heavy. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“I was lost when I first met you. Music didn’t make sense to me. I had too much money and too many friends. You would go on these pointless walks and I’d tag along for something to do.” Cross bent over and lifted Peter’s bag. “Most people think that if you save a person’s life, then that person is indebted to you forever, but in some cultures if you save someone’s life, you become responsible for them, like their guardian. Isn’t that interesting?”

“I didn’t save your life.”

“You didn’t save my life when?”

Peter reached out a hand and took back his bag. He pushed past the singer and out into the hall. The doors of the elevator yawned open in perfect choreography and he stepped inside. He felt free.

Before the doors closed, Cross slid in beside him. “Are you just going to go back to Buffalo?”

“Rochester.”

The car descended in its track.

“Did you ever love Judith?” Peter asked.

Cross paused. “That’s harder to say.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“It’s strange how I can remember you, but you can’t remember me. I wish I could give you something that could make you remember.”

“I promised someone I wouldn’t take anything from you.”

The trip was nearly over.

Cross said, “Why are you smiling?”

The elevator halted. A chime sounded in the ceiling, then the doors slid open.

At a glance Peter saw twenty or thirty people, ordinary folks who wore faces that were rarely recognized. They’d reached the lobby.

Cross said, “It was nice seeing you again.”

Peter didn’t even turn around.

79

The Waffle House sign looms above the downtown.

I get out of the car and wait for Rosalyn. When she gets out, I take her hand and we walk, our fingers interlaced, across the parking lot. I feel knitted together, and not merely with her — I feel more resilient and engaged than I have in a long time. I raise my chin and Rosalyn and I march toward our reflection in the plate-glass picture window. Between our growing faces, on the other side of the glass, I see a hand shaking — my daughter’s waving to us. I see myself smiling as I wave back.

When we get inside, Gabby stands beside her booth, waiting. Her hair is long and pulled back behind her shoulders. Her face is pink — she looks tentatively happy. We hug. I kiss her ear. Then, letting go with one hand, I introduce Rosalyn.

Gabby steps forward.

Rosalyn says, “I hope you don’t mind my tagging along.”

“I dragged her here,” I say. “I’m sorry we’re late.”

“No. No.”

Rosalyn and I slide in on one side of the booth.

“You’re beautiful,” Rosalyn says, to Gabby, and I think, Yes, she is and, yes, it’s a surprise that I have a beautiful daughter.

“So,” I say, “where’s this fellow?”

Gabby actually blushes. “It’s going to be a while,” she says.

“You look great,” I tell her.

A waitress comes by and takes our drink orders.

Gabby turns in the booth and roots through her pocketbook. She hands over a banded-together sheaf of white office paper.

The first thing I think of is Patricia serving me with divorce papers when I was sitting poolside at a motel in Mexico City and happy, it seemed, for the first time in my life. That’s what I told myself then, but there was another voice inside me telling me that I’d been happy before. I wouldn’t have felt conflicted about getting served if I’d never been happy with Patricia. In fact, if I was unhappy about anything, it was that the divorce was real and the marriage, such as it was, was done.

Rosalyn flips through the pages, which, to me, look like a series of Rorschach tests. “Oh my god, Arthur, you’re going to be a grandfather.”

I am.

Deeper in the stacks we find pictures that show his ancient scrunched face, his bandy frog legs.

“How far along are you?” Rosalyn asks.

“I’m at seventeen weeks. I just finished my first trimester.” Gabby stands up again, pulls her shirt above her smooth stomach. “Can you even tell? I’ve still got six months to go. The doctor says April 6, that’s my due date.”

“It’ll be over before you know it,” Rosalyn says.

The waitress delivers a tall orange juice for Gabby. She fills our coffee cups. We’re all too excited to eat, even Gabby, who tells us she’s been hungry all the time.

“Have you been feeling okay, honey?” I ask.

I’m not sure I’ve ever heard Gabby talk with such enthusiasm about anything. She tells us that peaches make her salivate and raisins make her gag. For a month, she says, she had to avoid the dairy case at the grocery because some of the smells put her over the edge. No pickles, but she can’t get enough sauerkraut. She’s eating smoked kipper snacks that she gets from the Walmart twenty miles away.

“What about peanut butter?” Rosalyn asks.

“I can’t get it down. It makes me gag.”

“I’ve had friends who say that.”

“Do you have kids?” Gabby asks.

“No, no kids.”

“So when do I get to meet the father?”

“He’s a pre-med student,” Gabby says. “And tall. Get this: he’s a runner.”

I look over my shoulder, because it seems like she’s saying these things for someone else’s benefit.

“Sounds like quite a catch,” Rosalyn says.

Gabby shuffles through the pictures.

“So, is he coming here?” I ask.

“We’re not really. .” It takes her a couple tries to get the words out. “We’re not really talking.”

I reach out and put my hand on top of hers. I will myself to do what Rosalyn did for me, to give her strength. “That sounds hard. Are you doing okay, baby?”

Gabby sucks on her lips.

I feel sad, for Gabby, for her baby — even, I guess, for this missing guy. I can’t help it. “Things will work out.”

First Gabby pulls her hand from under mine, then she rolls her shoulders back. “I’m doing okay.”

“I wish you’d let me help.”

She lifts her chin and locks her eyes on me, putting me in her crosshairs. “You haven’t offered to help. I had to beg you to see me.”

I hold her eyes. “That’s true, but I can do better.”

Gabby blinks a few times before looking away. She lifts her juice and takes a sip.

“This is very exciting,” Rosalyn says.

“I’m proud of you,” I say.

For a moment I think Gabby is going to be mad at me. It feels like we’re on the verge of a fight.

“Why?” she asks me.

“Why?” I don’t have to backpedal or buy time. I know why. “First of all because you’ve made a life for yourself here. You have a place of your own. You have a job. You pay taxes, don’t you.”

Maybe she doesn’t know me as well as she thinks she does.

“And now you’re going to have this beautiful, healthy baby. You’re going to make such a good mother.” I could say more, but I stop there, which is probably a good thing.

Rosalyn waves the waitress over so Gabby can order. She gets a waffle, hash browns, and a sausage egg and cheese melt. When she asks us if we’re going to get anything, Rosalyn and I shake our heads.

The waitress walks off.

“Okay,” Gabby says.

That’s enough. It’s probably more than I deserve.

“Have you thought about names?” Rosalyn asks.

“I think I have to meet him first.”

“You have to meet them first, you’re right.”

“I can’t wait to meet him,” I say.

My daughter looks me straight in the face. “I know.”

Acknowledgments

I never would have finished this book if not for the early support of the Lannan Foundation. Thanks to Tim Johnson at the Marfa Book Company. Thanks to Dr. John Hatzenbuehler and Dr. Ross Wadland for their medical expertise — everything I got right is because of them, while any mistakes are due to my own malpractice.

Thanks to Bill Clegg, Pat Strachan, Jennifer Abel Kovitz, Trent Duffy, and everyone at Catapult.

This is as close as I’ll come to writing an album. My parents got me a recorder when I was eight, but I never figured out how to play it.

About the Author

Justin Tussing is the author of the Ken Kesey Award — winning novel The Best People in the World, and his short fiction has appeared in The New Yorker, TriQuarterly, and A Public Space, among other periodicals. He is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and currently directs the University of Southern Maine’s Stonecoast MFA Program in Portland, Maine.

Notes

1 “In a sky as dark as a new parking lot / I’m a tin can zinging / past places and people. / This pinging heart is my Sputnik signal. / I’m a run-down robot. / I’m pirate radio. / Press me to your warm ear. / Whisper ‘Hello.’”

2 Despite changes to musical direction and personnel, and despite the fact that he usually takes four or five months off each winter, Cross insists that all of these dates be viewed not as a series of annual tours, but as one continuous tour, his Guernica, his Lord of the Rings.

3 From “Bronze.”

4 Fans tend to refer to three stages of Cross’s career as the Early Work (Byway Rumors—’62; Runaway—’63; and Knock Out—’67); the Renaissance (Midnight at the Bazaar—’77; Hit and Run—’77; and Double Ditz—’79); and the last thirty years are referred to as his Christ and Cowboy era or, less respectfully, his Moses period. Many argue the last thirty years of Cross’s career have been misguided and misdirected, but I believe time will vindicate him (and me).

5 I drive a ’96 Toyota Corolla Wagon. I’m closing in on three hundred thousand miles on the original engine. Besides regular oil changes and brake pads, the only maintenance the car requires is an occasional Freon shot for the air conditioner. Previous to this car, I had a Ford Ranger with a fiberglass camper trailer — if you’re in a camper when some drunk kids start pelting the cap with beer bottles the only thing you can do is wait them out, but in a wagon you can slide into the front seat and drive off. I’ve made a few modifications to my vehicle. I picked up a portable desk (they’re marketed ambitiously as “executive travel organizers”), which usually rides in the passenger seat. I also paid a cabinetmaker to build a flat storage unit in back that doubles as a platform for my air mattress — when I need to, I fill the mattress with a compressor that plugs into the cigarette lighter. My build thread on CarCamping.org earned 5 stars.

6 Credit goes to Greg Harvey’s Excel for Windows 95 for Dummies.

7 With my annotations (at first, I called them “reports”), I try to capture the mood of the show. Sometimes I engage in the very sort of interpretation and theorizing that I condemned earlier.

8 It wasn’t as sinister as I imagined: Cross had dined with NYT columnist (and notorious glutton) R. W. Apple Jr. (now deceased).

9 So that you don’t imagine a schoolteacher forgoing a hot breakfast so that she can send her ne’er-do-well nephew a few nickels, my aunt Liddy’s biggest challenge was trying to spend the dividend checks from her second husband’s holdings in Goodyear, Coca-Cola, and GE. (I have been much more successful with this task, unfortunately.)

10 I’ve discovered that I have better memory for email addresses than for faces.

11 When JCC first took off, I was uncomfortable with strangers knowing my name, so I signed everything “Restless One.” There’s a precedent for choosing a tour name. Your old name, your original name, was a gift from your parents, but the tour is a choice, so it only makes sense that you choose a name to represent who you really are. People assumed I lifted “Restless One” from a lyric, but I came up with it on my own. “Restless One” has a couple of meanings. First, a tour is restless, and therefore, as a follower of the tour, I am restless. And then, taking a step back, there’s the Oneness of the tour and also the Oneness of the individual. I was part of the Restless One and I was the Restless One. More recently I’ve been signing everything Arthur Pennyman.

12 Frederick Tate and Moses Colchester.

13 Like a cross between a bullfighter’s traje de luces and a Nudie suit. He gets them from a Mexican tailor in LA.

14 How does a man who has everything know so much about a person who has nothing, a girl who “divided by zero the sum of her days / in cardboard high heels and a petroleum dress”?

15 When I used to go backstage, I didn’t need a pass. I had something better than a pass, a familiar face. Security and roadies recognized me and I recognized them. I used to tell Jimmy to break a leg when he was making his way to the stage. “Break a leg” is a traditional way to wish a performer well. Everyone knows that, but in Toronto I said, “Break a leg, Jimmy,” and he stopped in his tracks and said, “You’d like that!” It was only the second time he’s ever spoken to me. Then he said, “Get this old goat out of my sight.” Old goat! And he’s more than ten years my senior! I haven’t been backstage since. Everyone knows I’m blackballed.

16 She’s a librarian. Though she would never admit it, no occupation has more in common with what I do.

17 I think women are sadder than men because the world is harder for women. Their bodies, which, like uranium, have a half-life, are valued more than their minds, which, like cement, continue to grow stronger.

18 I think women are sadder than men because the world is harder for women. Their bodies, which, like uranium, have a half-life, are valued more than their minds, which, like cement, continue to grow stronger.

19 Or so I believe. Over the years (yes, years) that he’s been writing, certain facts have slipped out. Besides Neil Young, he also likes Nina Simone, Paul Butterfield, and a band called Goldenfloss. He’s left-handed. Like me, he eats frequently at Subway restaurants.

20 After the protagonist of “Provisional Sunday”: “Captain Bisquick sicced his black dogs / upon the suet necks of the geese.”

21 Typically, Cross has appeared at the Kleinhans Music Hall, a slightly larger and (I’ve always felt) colder space.

22 Some of the multiuse halls Cross plays are little more than food courts with stadium seating — they’ll squeeze him in between a weekend of monster trucks and a home and garden show.

23 While Cross’s earliest albums addressed political issues, his recent work has been almost obsessively personal. This shift has not gone unnoticed. A segment of his audience (as well as many critics) believe Cross owes them a post-9/11-Patriot-Act album. In ’06 Cross went on CNN to promote a nonprofit that had started rebuilding parts of the Lower Ninth after Katrina:

ANDERSON COOPER: You’ve been oddly silent about the war on terror. Is there something you want to say about that?

JIMMY CROSS: Oddly silent?

A.C.: For a person who got their start as a protest singer.

J.C.: I got my start as an apple polisher.

A.C.: You heard it here first, America.

J.C.: Apple polishing used to be an honest job, but now they won’t hire you unless you’re a machine.

A.C.: Let me back up a second. . you first gained attention as a protest singer.

J.C.: That’s what I’m protesting.

A.C.: Some people say that, like a politician, you’ve moved toward the middle, that you’re afraid of offending your audience.

J.C.: Who are these people?

A.C.: Well, obviously, your critics.

J.C.: My critics say I don’t want to offend people?

A.C.: What’s your response to that?

J.C.: A bumper sticker.

A.C. (nervous laughter): Do you think we should end the war on terror?

J.C.: I think we should escalate it.

A.C.: Really?

J.C.: Absolutely. Let’s get to the end.

A.C.: And how would you like it to end?

J.C.: With a marriage.

24 She may be alluding to Mary Santos, Jimmy’s second wife. Santos is an essayist and Eileen Fisher model.

25 The actual line is “How come you let him stew at. .”

26 5/17/94 (Denver, Colorado). He never points into the audience. Most of the time, Cross hardly seems aware that he has an audience.

27 Which is why it hurts to see the CrossTracks community turn so quickly. At the same time, perhaps their anger should be viewed as a yardstick of the project’s success. There is so much anger directed toward me because I have done so much! As Gabby says: Haters going to hate. If I were a purely rational person I might allow myself to view their response as a testament to my success, but it still stings.

28 Full disclosure: I am an alumnus of Carnegie Mellon, and when I was twenty-two I couldn’t get out of Pittsburgh fast enough! The city has improved mightily in the last forty years.

29 From “Painted Horses”: “The mastermind of petty crime retires to his desolate oasis / after his second wife shacked up with his Minister of Finance. / Well the boundary of his realm retreats until he’s no longer sovereign of his body. / And the Texas Rangers, on their painted horses, do vow to cross the river. / Yes they vow to wow the river on their lathered ponies.”

30 Cross released “A.D.C.” before Allie’s first birthday. He stopped playing it around the time Allie had his first run-in with the court. Maybe it seemed hubristic to celebrate Allie’s recklessness in a song. Especially when songs are immortal, but people aren’t.

31 That’s what he says when he’s pushing through a crowd. Is he the “big man” or is he referring to Cross? The ambiguity confuses people, which may be the point.

32 I’m thinking specifically of the opening verse: “Sleeping on the Avenue de Montaigne in my borrowed mourner’s suit / you pranced in with your motley crew and returned me what I’d lost.”

33 Cross relies on Milton Fletcher, a mild-mannered Buddhist who, in his wilder days, reputedly rode a stolen pony into a Kroger grocery.

34 Pittsburgh might be his best show in a decade. And I was in the bathroom listening to Muzak.

35 He owes them precisely nothing.

36 With the exception, of course, of books on Cross — which is no small task. Last year there were five monographs, a new anthology of scholarly essays, a revised edition of his complete lyrics, and a two-volume graphic novel inspired by his seminal Double Ditz.

37 I don’t think she was making a pun with my name.

38 I almost never listen to music, since a car stereo isn’t so appealing when you’re accustomed to a concert hall crammed with living sound.

39 The ones with the most remarkable voices, almost universally, have terrible personal histories that lend their voices a battered weight. I’m thinking of Etta James, Roy Orbison, Sarah Vaughan, maybe, to a lesser extent, Dolly Parton. Pretty people with pretty voices end up on Broadway.

40 It seemed a mystery at the time: later it came out in GuitarStar that he’d had surgery for a bone spur.

41 When Cross took the stage at the Springfield Armory on September 16, 1994, Mark Washington sat behind Jeff Hickok’s drum set. Deke Purcell replaced Owen Soppe at rhythm guitar and Fat Ronnie Hood — the Gospel Don — didn’t return after the first set.

42 That majestic building now houses the utterly soulless Hard Rock Hotel.

43 Sutliff has a real voice and Albert can sing. Dom, on the other hand, sounds like he’s testifying in a deposition — it’s joyless.

44 The nicest thing any reviewer said: No one will ever allege the younger Cross had help writing these songs.

45 That no one thought to bring out a chair earlier suggests to me that the whole appearance is unscripted.

Content

Justin Tussing
Vexation Lullaby

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Acknowledgments

About the Author

Notes