Balls (8 page)

They sat down in a booth. A round of martinis were ordered. The darkened room was almost at capacity, the lights, soft bursts of gold along the walls. Paula and Marcel sunk into private conversation. Powell was onto
Ain't Misbehavin'.
Denise, swaying side to side, told Henry she loved this song, it reminded her of dancing with her father as a child. Henry, who played it most nights at the Beekman—and did a much better rendition than Powell ever could—said, Well that's great, Denise. Please, excuse me a moment.

Henry went to stand out on Madison. The sun was still strong in the sky. He stared long at his phone. That he felt anxious about making this call struck him as odd. What was the feeling about, anyway? He hadn't done anything wrong. He was sick. Perhaps dying. Anyway, he and Edgar Diaz got on well together. (If he wasn't his boss, he might even call him a friend.) It was one and a half years ago that Henry had tried out for the job and Edgar had hired Henry on the spot. He'd even called him
the one
. (Nobody had ever called Henry that.) For eighteen months Henry had showed up on time. Never once had he called out sick. There'd been the incident with John Grover, but Edgar couldn't still hold that against him, could he? Besides Grover was a nasty old drunk, and
he'd
been the one to accost Henry and not the other way around.

It had been his second month on the job. Grover, a
rapporteur
for the U.N. on sex crimes against children in sub-Saharan Africa, had come in from a full day of addressing the General Assembly. That frail but hostile curmudgeon Grover with his blue metallic eyes and the long white hairs growing out his nose and his habit of throwing around his weight and telling you what to do and then criticizing you for it afterwards:

Kid, play some Tatum.
Ahhh
, you'll stink it up. You can't do speed
and
style. So do some Fats. No, never mind. You're no good.

Edgar had warned Henry about Grover. Ignore his bad manners, he'd said.

Grover was a troubled man, broken by visions of deprivation and bloodshed and mass graves during five decades of service in Africa. He could not take this world of New York City and the Beekman Hotel seriously, said Edgar. But nevertheless he came in to get drunk, and when he drank he was hostile, at times plain violent.

Just let him be. You think you can do that? Edgar had asked him.

Won't be a problem, sir.

Don't engage.

I won't.

Perhaps Grover had put back six or seven old-fashioneds that fateful evening. It was late, almost eleven-thirty. Grover, seated in the lounge over four hours, from nowhere approached the piano. Henry didn't see him coming, his attention was on playing. He'd never have anticipated Grover dumping a mixture of bourbon and muddled fruit into his lap. But he did. Henry jumped to his feet. He was horrified, incensed. Somehow he recalled Edgar's instructions and quickly gathered his emotions, sweeping them back into his heart, and did nothing but ask Grover to leave.

Leave?
You
leave, the old man had shouted.

I work here.

Ahh, screw
you.
Grover stood with his forefinger aimed at Henry. In a gray double-breasted suit, he was so frail. He told Henry he wasn't a man, that he knew it just by looking at him. I could eat you alive.

Henry had no idea what Grover had against him. He gave other employees at the Beekman a hard time, but with him he was especially cruel.

Just go home, said Henry.

In response, Grover shouted, Let's go. Outside. Me and you.

He'd been looking for a fight, to roll up his sleeves and go toe to toe with the piano player. Henry could kill him with a single punch. And he was
not
going to hurt an old man. Even after Grover came at his throat all Henry did was to hold him back. Grover would not acquiesce, he was vicious. At some point in restraining him, however, Henry used too much force and accidentally pushed Grover to the floor. Crowds gathered around them. Edgar wasn't happy that Grover, having thrown out his back, had to be wheeled from the lounge on a gurney. There'd been a small piece about it in the
Post
the next morning. The headline read:

Beekman Piano Player
K.O.'s Member of U.N.

Henry was sure he'd get fired. There'd been witnesses to the scene, though, those who saw Grover go after him. So they cut him a break. All the same, Henry knew the hotel management had their eye on him. Even one year later the incident had left Henry second-guessing his job security.

But that's just in your head, Henry told himself. Dial Edgar. Do it.

On his phone he pressed
talk.
In three rings Edgar answered. The sound of him pulling on a cigarette was a soft pop in Henry's ear. He said, What's happening, Hank? You've got problems?

Edgar was the only person who called Henry
Hank
. Henry didn't mind. In fact, he enjoyed it. It partly soothed the strained feeling in his chest now. He said, I'm sick, Edgar. I've got something bad.

What is it? Edgar's tone was severe. He was concerned.

Henry thought he'd tell him the truth. However, he became anxious and said, It's mono, Edgar.

Mono?
Hmm, that can be tough, Hank. You must be laid up in bed?

I am.

You sound like you're on the street.

Actually, I'm heading back from the doctor's, said Henry, his voice unsteady. I've been in bed for days.

Sorry to hear that. I take it you'll be out a couple weeks. You'll want to get a lot of rest. Don't push yourself.

That's what the doctor told me.

He's right, Hank.

Edgar began speaking of his own experience with mononucleosis. His case had lasted over four months. Unable to work, he'd run into financial trouble. His wife had had to take a second job. He could hardly remember seeing her during that time. Edgar talked about the fatigue, the problems eating, but Henry wasn't listening. A man on the opposite side of the street, tall, about sixty-years-of-age, with short gray hair, had caught his attention. In blue jeans and a navy dress jacket the stranger's attire seemed distinctly of the West Coast. His gait was all sun and palm trees, ocean air. The man proceeded up 76th Street towards Fifth Avenue, Central Park.

Henry, his heart rate increased, said, I'm sorry, Edgar. I'll call you back.

He hung up. Crossing the street, the light already changing, Henry ran fast, sliding in his dress shoes. A taxi screamed towards him, but he gained the curb with an inch to spare. Past a roasted nut dealer he hurried. Was it really his father just up ahead? Art Schiller? Would Art come to New York and not tell him? Rushing up the sidewalk, his testicle was in pain. But what did that matter? Ten feet ahead of him was a man, his father. It did look like him. And Henry would never forgive him for this.

Sonovabitch.
How could he. To come to New York and not tell me.

Moving fast beside a row of palatial limestone townhouses, and closing in on the man, Henry's nerves were an accident waiting to happen. His scalp prickled hot. Fifteen feet from his target, he cried, Hey,
you!

The man didn't stop but turned into a building. Henry advanced quickly and was facing in at the doors a moment later, looking in through an austere marble lobby. The man was gone. Blood rose into Henry's cheeks. Holding his head, he asked the doorman if he could tell him the name of the person who'd just passed through the lobby. The doorman, a wide, beaver-ish-looking fellow, said he couldn't give out that information. Henry, his head hanging, retreated back to the hotel.

He called Edgar.

You sound all of out breath, Hank. You all right?

I'm fine.

What's the matter?

It's nothing. Nothing at all. I'm hoping to be back at work soon.

You'll see how you're feeling
.

Maybe a week. Ten days, said Henry, still not listening to Edgar.

Just tell me if you need anything. Your job will be waiting for you.

Thank you, Edgar.

Off the phone and standing under the awning of the Carlyle, through his whole face, his forehead and cheeks, around the mouth and chin, were the creased lines of inner-turmoil. With his hand set on the back of his head, he began to feel great disappointment. To himself, he was saying, Probably wasn't really Dad. If only it had been. I'd have fallen on his shoulder and sobbed. Could use him more than ever.

It was as far he'd let his own heart swell. At once he corrected his overly curved posture, lifted his head, his neck and spine.

I become tired of myself when I think like this. You'll be fine. Just pull it together.

Adjusting from the sun on Madison to the low light of Bemelman's caused his eyes to make out dark amorphous spots which floated to the ceiling then disappeared. Paula welcomed Henry back. The martini had taken hold of her and she was sitting slumped-drunk in her chair. Marcel, big and cheerful, his shiny bald head teeming sweat, cried out for Henry to sit beside him, asking his wife to make room in the booth. Denise staggered into an adjacent chair.

Powell was onto
I've Got Rhythm
. Henry couldn't bear to listen. Christ, he could play it ten times better. He tried tuning out the instrument.

Marcel said, So Henry, how are you?

I'm great. Thank you. Really very well.

Paula's father was a chemist. Usually his time with Henry was spent encouraging him to think beyond his small world, to make sure not a single day passed without his considering the lifespan of a star, for instance, or the earth's boiling inner-core. It was tiresome. During their last dinner roughly three month ago, the extinction of bees had formed the basis of Marcel's speech. Dead bees, dead plants, dead people, he kept saying this over and over again. He'd spoken for an hour about the need for humans to regard bees with the same deference that they would their own gods, because without them there was no life, no us, no single human consciousness. Henry had left the dinner table that night with a crippling headache. The next day he'd written a song called,
Dead Bees. Dead Plants. Dead people
. Those were its only lyrics. It was another throw-away. Nothing for Zachary Walbaum.

However now, and for the first time, Marcel wanted to discuss Henry's songwriting. He even admitted to a kind of shame. His face a drunken red, he said he always talked about his own ideas with Henry.

Dating my daughter so long without my knowing what you really do, it's not right, is it? Tell me, Henry.

Tell you
what?

Tell me how you write a song? How do you begin?

How do I
begin?

Please, tell me what that entails?

Henry's cheeks went slack. He didn't want to talk about this. It wasn't the time. He said, Marcel, you just do it. The more thinking, the more discussion, the worse off you are.

A look of confusion formed on Marcel's face, and he said, So, you just begin? That's it? How do you know if something's done if you don't know where it's supposed to go in the first place?

Henry told him, It's just a feeling, Marcel. That's all.

Just a feeling?

Correct.

I see. I see. His brow furrowed. Paula told me you almost sold a jingle to a Swedish clothing company.

Well,
ye-es
, he said. But really that was nothing.

Not nothing, insisted Marcel. I would love to hear what this jingle sounds like. Perhaps you'd sing it for me.

Sing it?

Sure. Is that uncomfortable for you? Because if you'd just sing a part of it…that would be…just grand, Henry, grand.

Powell had gone on break. Henry's voice wouldn't have to compete with the piano. But this was ludicrous. He wasn't going to sing this
dead
jingle for Marcel. And to do it a cappella.
No.
Marcel was practically begging him, though. He said how much it upset him that he'd never heard Henry sing, not once.

I should be more supportive of you. I'm sorry I haven't been.

Henry, breaking up inside, looked at his martini. Taking a long sip, he said, Fine. You want to hear
Miss…Scan…dinavia
—he marked each syllable in the air with his hand—I'll sing it for you.

Marcel, using a cocktail napkin to wipe sweat off his neck, said, Please. Sing away.

You're ready?

I'm ready.

So here it goes:

Sexier than a California girl,
More luster than a Japanese Pearl,
With ooh-la-la above the Parisenne,
And any gal in the West End.
She's a six foot two, blond and busty,
Scandinavian.
But watch out.
She put the low,
In Oslo.
She crashed the stocks,
In Stockholm.
She killed all hope,
In Copenhagen.
She is the hell,
In Helsinki.

Henry stopped. His head lifted and he saw Paula and Denise were staring at him, amused. Then to Marcel, he said, That's it. What do you think?

Oh, well, yeah, Henry. I love it.

You
do?

Marcel's head fell back, joyfully. He said, Good for you, son, and he smiled so that the corners of his mouth rose high to the middle of his cheeks. That song almost played on televisions around the world?

Henry blew air through his nostrils. He was tugging on his ear. He said,
Almost
, and stood straight up from his seat. Paula's graduation program, an anxious roll of paper, had escaped his jacket pocket, and lay on the floor. Henry stooped down for it and came up red-faced and off-kilter. He said, Everyone, I'm sorry, I have to go home.

From down low in the booth Paula stared at him. She looked like a child, the way she sat, of no more than twelve. She said, You're leaving, Henry?

I have to. Shaking with Marcel, he said, Nice to see you, sir.

Marcel clapped both his hands around Henry's. A superb piece of music, he said.