Captain Quad

Sean Costello

This one's for my mom,

Mary Elizabeth

Acknowledgments

I'd like to thank a few patient listeners: Carole, who endures the worst of it—and whose unerring eye makes it almost impossible for me to fib. My friends Jake Abourbih and Lita McDonald, who secretly believe I'm crazed. Candace, my littlest treasure, who wrinkles her nose at the mere mention of writing and says, "Let's go to Burger King instead." Ely Kish, a gifted artist who reminds me time and again that the fires of the imagination burn brightest. Uncle Dave and Uncle Ike, for providing me with precious time. And Steve Mydonyk, my paper-punchin' pal, who sat with me in the dead of winter in a frozen, snow-blown shack in the Garson outback. . . and listened.

But I'd also like to thank a host of gracious individuals who contributed their expertise in fields as varied as ice fishing, neurosurgery, and teaching high school. Robin "Robby Naish" Laking, who filled me in on the not-so-gentle art of ice hockey. Robin is a man to be reckoned with, believe me. He's got a heart of gold and a quality of spirit that touches everyone he meets. . . but stay out of his way on the rink. You're the best, Robby. Cathy "Smitty" Smith, a longtime friend who reminded me about high school from both points of view. José Blanco and his son Max for reasons they know. Ron, Guy, and Yvon, the "Castologists" at Laurentian. I've never been ice fishing, lads, and now I never want to go. Terry Proulx, the most courageous man I've ever met, who gave me insights into a condition the rest of us can only imagine; I admire you, old horse. Dr. Jacques Carrière, for his thoughts on the hurting mind. Dr. Brian Sherman, for his advice.

And finally, as always, Richard Curtis, Paul McCarthy, Eric Tobias, and Charles and MaryAnn de Lint.

If I've forgotten anyone. . . well, I'm getting old.

That which does not kill us makes us stronger.

—NIETZSCHE

ONE

THE LAST SONATA

ONE

There was a moment in the dark of the wing, a startling moment that was part optical illusion and part raw nerves—but for the space of an eyeblink, it appeared to Kelly Wheeler as if Peter Gardner was headless. His body stood erect beside her, caught in an oblong of stage light, and there was nothing above the neat line of his collar but air, black air. It was absurd. She knew it was only a trick of the light. . . but for that eerie, spun-out first second she was convinced that someone had lopped off his head.

Then he shifted a half step toward her, and that same oblong of light found his face, and he was grinning at her nervously, fingering the tight loop of his collar, looking like the groom at a shotgun wedding.

Chuckling at her bizarre misperception—one that had carried with it an alarming force—Kelly drew him back into the dark and hugged him. He was rigid with apprehension, and she tried to reassure him.

"Don't panic," she coached him. "You're going to play just like you always do—flawlessly." She kissed him lightly on the chin, her hand on the back of his neck feeling his tension.

Peter's eyes, the color of sandstone, settled over the top of Kelly's head on the gleaming baby grand that stood waiting for him at center stage.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "Flawlessly. If only I could find my fingers." He poked his hands into the light with the fingers bent at the middle knuckles, creating the illusion that the distal segments had been neatly amputated.

Kelly, who was almost as nervous as Peter, jabbed him playfully in the ribs. Though eager to show him off, she felt guilty about putting him through all of this. He'd never played in public before—his music, he'd told her, was for himself and the people he loved—and it had taken all of her wiles to persuade him to appear at this final assembly. But he was good, maybe even great, and she wanted people to know it. She was proud of him.

Taking Peter's hand, Kelly returned her attention to the stage, where the principal, Mr. Laughren, stood reciting his annual address. It was the last day of school, June 28, 1983.

"As your principal," Laughren boomed, his round face the color of brick, "I consider it my duty to prepare each and every Laurentian High graduate
for the fickle and often treacherous road ahead. . .”

"Aw, gimme a break," Peter grumbled. "Same old bullshit only deeper."

Kelly kissed him again, letting her hand slip to the sculpted small of his back. "Relax, will you?"

"Relax," Peter mimicked. "Uh-huh. Right. Relax." He shifted the curtain a few inches, enough to allow Kelly a glimpse of all those impatient faces out there. "Just look at those animals. The minute Laughren steps down they're going to eat me. They're going to eat me alive. They'll wolf down the tender bits, then take turns gnawing on my skull." He noticed his mother and kid brother seated near the front, eyes expectant and bright, then let the curtain fall closed again.

Kelly giggled, only now beginning to appreciate how petrified Peter was. "This has really got you going, hasn't it?"

"Look," Peter said in his most reasonable tone. "Why don't we just skip this whole dopey deal? Hop on the bike and zip down to the DQ for a Dilly bar? I mean, no one's going to care—"

"I'm going to care," Kelly objected, cutting him off with her words and the wounded look in her eyes. "And your mother's going to care. And Sam."

"But—"

Both fell mute as Laughren's amplified voice swung toward them. "It gives me pleasure to introduce to you now a graduating student whom most of you
know from his prowess on the football field."

"Oh, shit."

"Knock 'em dead," Kelly said, squeezing his hand. Then she was gone, down the steps and out through the stage-left exit.

"What most of you don't know about Peter Gardner," Laughren said, "is that academically he ranks among the finest students to have passed through Laurentian's hallowed halls."

In the decidedly unhallowed womb of the wing, Peter felt his face flush with blood.

"On top of all that, a certain Kelly Wheeler informs me that his musical talent approaches the level of genius."

"I'll kill her," Peter muttered harmlessly. "I'll—" Laughren glanced toward the wing, and Peter shrank into the shadows again. "Somehow, Mr. Gardner has managed to escape us until now—but now we've got him! So before we at this final assembly bid him luck and adieu, let us welcome him, and lend him our keenest attention as he performs one of my own personal favorites, Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata.'"

A scattering of unenthusiastic applause tinkled through the hall's big belly, and that made Peter even more nervous. It was hot, it was late, and it was the last day of school. Summer waited outside like an acres-big carnival where all the rides are free. And in the face of all that, he was supposed to capture and hold the keenest attention of some twelve hundred hyped-up teenagers?

No small feat.

Grinning like a used-car salesman, Laughren waved him onstage. Reluctantly, Peter stepped into view, almost overcome by the urge to look down and see if his fly was done up. . . or if his pants were on at all.

The lights went down. A dramatically muted spot picked him up and followed him toward the piano. A fresh flourish of applause, punctuated by high hoots and happy hollers, swept against him from the orchestra seats, where the entire football team slouched in grinning disarray. Risking a sideward glance, Peter spotted his three best buddies, Rhett Kiley, Mike Gore, and Jerry Jeter, frenziedly clapping their hands. Kiley's dark eyes were bloodshot, and Jerry's long, horsey face gleamed with a telltale beery flush.

"'Stairway to Heaven'!" Rhett bellowed, then shrank in his seat as Laughren's predatory gaze settled directly upon him.

Peter's knees turned to Silly Putty. Maddeningly, the piano seemed to glide away as he approached it. His tie—he almost never wore a tie—felt like a gradually tightening noose around his neck.

Somehow he reached the stool. He sat. His fingers brushed the keys and he felt better, more confident. He waited for silence, his soft brown eyes fixed on the alternating pattern of keys.

From her seat near the front Kelly looked on, her excitement contaminated now by a new emotion. Tiptoeing down from the wing a half-minute earlier, she had met eyes with Peter's mother and had been struck by a glare of resentment; brief but shockingly potent, it had rocked her like a savage backhand. And it had occurred to her then that she had seen that look before—glancing idly around while Peter played for her and finding those slate-colored eyes fixed on her back from the adjacent kitchen, lingering an instant too long before shifting away; turning on the moonlit front porch in time to see the living room curtain snap shut behind them while she and Peter sat chatting on the steps. And yet, when she spoke to Kelly, Mrs. Gardner was always pleasant, gracious, and kind. Before today, Kelly had always managed to explain that look away, putting it down to her imagination or to some innocent quirk in a decidedly quirky lady. But on this occasion there had been no mistaking its authenticity—Kelly had felt something go slack inside of her in its force. She had dropped her gaze immediately, feeling sweaty, guilty, and afraid, but angry, too. She knew what that look meant, and its very senselessness infuriated her. Jealousy was for other girls, not for mothers. The woman just wouldn't give her a chance.

Kelly cast these thoughts aside, deciding to deal with them later. She refused to let a single nasty glance spoil her enjoyment of Peter's first public recital. Besides, by this time tomorrow they'd be free of all their accustomed restraints, parental and academic alike. By this time tomorrow they'd be rolling west on Highway 17, embarking on the adventure of their lives.

Kelly settled back in her seat. Onstage, Peter sat hunched over the keys, eyes closed, a small muscle in his jaw working rhythmically. Waiting for silence.

Come on, everyone, Kelly thought, her excitement returning. Shut up and let him play.

As if privy to her thoughts, Laughren strafed the assembly with his most menacing glare. A reluctant, blemished hush wound its way through the aisles.

And Peter began to play.

And suddenly, as if compelled by some unseen force, the hush grew solemn and profound, becoming so total that within minutes the unlit hall seemed empty of any living soul. No seat creaked, no page was riffled, no whispered phrase was uttered.

For a while there was only the music, untarnished and sweet, as at the best of times seeming to flow through him, as if apart from his own volition. It evoked within him a state akin to magic, and he allowed it to fetch him away.

In the audience, Kelly felt her heart swell with pride. She'd chosen her seat carefully, so she could see Peter's face, and when his mouth widened into that funny, lopsided grin he got when he played, she knew she'd done the right thing. In the years to come this day would be a cherished memory for them both.

When it was done, when the last audible vibration perished on the air, Peter wondered for a moment if everyone hadn't just up and left, so perfect was the silence. Then a single pair of hands rang out (My mother, Peter thought ruefully, I bet that was my mother), and were immediately joined by another, and another, until soon, the crisp, clean roar of applause filled the hall.

The lights came up then, giving Peter that naked feeling again, and he stood, bowing modestly. For as far back as he could see, the eyes of his audience looked misty and dazed. Even the jocks he called his friends wore expressions of mingled wonder, admiration, and surprise. He scanned the crowd for his girl. Where was she, anyway?

Now they were giving him a standing ovation. With the house lights up, Peter could see his mother out there, dabbing at her eyes with a hankie. And his kid brother, Sam, hoisting the family reel-to-reel aloft like a trophy, an admiring grin splitting his zit-ravaged face. Spilling into the aisles, his teammates waved their arms like overgrown two-year-olds.