Sweeter Life (36 page)

Eura poked at the food on her plate—she did not understand this cuisine, more suitable for cows and pigs—and said, “He has always been crazy. I do not see that this could be different.”

Ronnie spoke with the utmost gravity. “There is so much difference I hardly know where to begin,” he said. “When I think of what he has given the world, what he still has to give, and to hear him go on this way.” He leaned forward confidentially. “It is hard to believe it is the same man making these radio broadcasts. He speaks like the living dead. And the way they parade him around those open-air meetings like some wild-eyed John the Baptist—it’s absolutely shameful. Something dreadful has happened to him. I wonder at times if he has been brainwashed.”

Cyrus poured himself some green tea and said, “Did anyone
ever
understand what he was talking about?”

“Not fully, of course, but in part. The questing soul, my friend. Whether he applied his talents to the language of music or the music of language, he brought joy to the world. Now he has turned everything upside down. Instead of filling life with magic and miracle, he empties it. At these open-air meetings, which are terribly well-attended, people gather with records and tapes, which they pile into a mound and set ablaze. Did you see the article in
Time
magazine? Jim has been taken up by the Bible thumpers, calling for an end to ‘godless rock and roll.’ ”

“He said that?”

“Not in so many words. His ways have always been hard to decipher. I believe he is talking about a more general proscription. In his own words, ‘a time of terrifying silence’ that he hopes to usher in.”

“Whoa,” Cyrus said with a mock shudder. “Heavy.”

Ronnie twisted his mouth into a frown. “I am afraid I find this too upsetting to make light of it.”

“Then why waste your time with us?” Eura asked, not at all kindly.

“I have called and left messages. They won’t even let him speak on the phone. And honestly, what I have observed on TV is not encouraging. Even if I had a few hours alone with him, I doubt I could reach him.”

He waved his hands in the air and said he would talk no more about Jimmy Waters. Then he spoke of people he had met in New York, in particular a set designer named Raoul Dupree. The idea, Ronnie explained, was to make Madison Square Garden feel as intimate as a theatre. The hard part would be to create a few icons that were larger than life, both physically and emotionally. To that end, Raoul would need a tape. Ronnie suggested it was time to record a demo, which pleased Cyrus a great deal.

As they left the restaurant, Cyrus suddenly remembered Janice’s sculpture. “I have a friend,” he said, “an artist. I forget how you just put it, how we need something big and weird. Her statues sure are that.”

Ronnie laughed. “Tomorrow promises to be a delightful day. We will find ourselves a cozy little demo studio in the A.M., and in the P.M., we will set off in search of these big weird statues your friend has made, shall we?”

PETE’S BROTHER-IN-LAW
had a studio called High Fidelity, on Queen Street West near the psychiatric hospital. It didn’t have the best gear or the most welcoming space, but the price was right. From there it was a short drive past Portuguese grocery stores and restaurant supply depots until they came to the Art Cave, where Ronnie immediately cornered the gallery owner. “My good fellow, you had a show not too long ago that featured a piece by Janice Young. I don’t suppose you’d have the number of the artist’s agent.”

The man was short and plump, with beady eyes and a handlebar moustache. “Acts as her own agent,” he said.

“Well, then, how might we reach her about a commission?”

The man disappeared into his office and returned with a telephone number and an address. “I wouldn’t bother phoning,” he said. “She never answers. And even if she did, she’d make some excuse not to see you. If I were you, I’d just drop by the studio. But don’t tell her I said so.”

Janice rented space in a warehouse on King Street. Ronnie and Cyrus tried several doors before they found one that would open—and stepped directly into her workroom. She was hunched over a marble sculpture that looked to Cyrus like a big, warped slingshot. She wore plastic goggles and a small white mask over her mouth. She was holding a chisel.

In one series of movements she straightened, flipped up the goggles and pulled off her mask. She was dressed in white coveralls, which accentuated the red of her hair. “Can I help you?”

Cyrus still had her picture in his wallet, the one he’d clipped from a magazine; but he wasn’t prepared for the sight of her. The last time he’d seen her, her face was rounder and fleshier and not as finely articulated, as though she’d been sculpting it herself and was only half finished. This face, with its more prominent cheekbones and jawline, the hair chopped to a graceless tangle of orange spikes, was one he didn’t know, one that had lived and worked without him. Looking at her now, he felt a kind of panic, as if he had returned from a decade of travel to discover he had left a tap running or the stove on or the door unlocked.

Recognition dawned in her face, the flicker of surprise that in an earlier time would have become a headlong rush into his arms. Instead she merely raised an eyebrow and said, “It’s you.”

“It’s me. Been a long time.” He hugged her and breathed in her smell, all dusty and warm and slightly sweet, like a gravel road in summer. Her awkwardness in his arms made him feel sad and nervous. Remembering himself, he backed away and said, “This is my friend Ronnie. We were just at the Art Cave.”

“And Bernie told you where to find me.”

“We promised we wouldn’t rat on him.”

She made tea, but the presence of her unexpected guests shone an unforgiving light on each step of this familiar process. Her kettle was
covered in dust and paint flecks and bits of solder; her cups and teapot were chipped and stained. She was afraid to think what she must look like. She’d been working since eight that morning without a break and could feel the dust coating her face. She could taste her own empty stomach.

More than once she had imagined seeing Cyrus again and how she would present herself—and it was never like a scatterbrain. She hated the act that some artists used to avoid responsibility, claiming they didn’t understand taxes, say, or politics, or how to cook or clean or perform any of the daily duties that constituted a normal life. She was suspicious of those who retreated into the world of their creations and let everything else slide. That wasn’t being creative but immature. Now she was afraid that she was no better than the rest.

She might have relaxed a little if she had seen herself from Cyrus’s point of view. He noticed nothing about the kettle or teapot. In regard to her physical appearance, he was thrilled to have had the opportunity to see her at work, if only for a moment. Granted, that first glimpse of her face had filled him with loss, but the picture of her bending over her marble, goggles on, a fine mist of perspiration on her forehead, made up for that. It was all he needed to know about her past, an image so real and full of implications that it easily filled the gap inside him labelled “Janice.”

They stood around her workbench, chatting awkwardly about old names, old faces. He told her that he’d been to one of her shows and had followed her career as best he could. She’d seen him play, she said, years ago. “With that guy who told the weird stories. In San Francisco, of all places. Jonathan and I had flown out for my first show in the United States. It was like a sign, you know? Both there at the same time. Long way from Wilbury.”

It hurt to think she had come to hear him play but not to say hello. Worse, he couldn’t bear to think about this other man. He wanted her to be happy, and to all appearances she was. But he didn’t want to know about anyone called Jonathan. She, too, shied away from more personal questions, and they soon ran out of easy things to say. That’s when Ronnie stepped forward. “You are no doubt asking yourself why we would drop by so unexpectedly.” He explained to her what they were planning and that they would like to commission a few pieces for the show.

She listened attentively, occasionally shifting her gaze to Cyrus. When Ronnie finished talking, she touched Cyrus’s arm. “I can’t tell you how thrilled I am that you would ask. You know, I generally don’t give much thought to my audience. I don’t know who they are or what they like, and I don’t want to know. But secretly, I’ve always wanted
you
to like my work, Cy. I wanted you to think it worthwhile. So it means a lot.”

“You’ll do it then?” Ronnie said. “You’ll design our icons?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I couldn’t. I don’t take specific commissions. I just do what I do. If any of my existing pieces are suitable, we might arrange something, but otherwise …”

Ronnie became brisk and businesslike. “Thank you, no. Our requirements are very particular. Best of luck to you in your endeavours.” He took Cyrus by the arm and ushered him toward the door.

Before they could escape, Janice said, “Thanks, Cyrus. For coming here, I mean. It was good to see you.”

He pulled free of Ronnie’s grip and turned to face her. There was so much he wanted to say, but every time he found a few suitable words, his feelings rose up and washed them away. She was waiting, looking lovelier than he could ever remember, and he dragged his hand through his hair and said, “It’s good to see you, too, Janice. I’m real proud of you.” Then he turned and walked away.

That night Ronnie drove back to New York, and Eura made dinner, a rich and fiery goulash, served with heavy rye bread and Pilsner Urquell. It was the first meal she had prepared in weeks, and Cyrus wondered what was wrong. He found out later when she brought him
palacsinta
and coffee. “I have decided,” she said, “that I must find my husband.”

She had delivered this news, or news very much like it, several times before, and over the years he had learned not to take it too seriously. No one had seen or heard from her husband since 1968 and, like many young men of his education and political affiliation, he was probably dead. Cyrus knew better than to express his opinion on the matter, so he concentrated on his coffee and dessert. She would feel better in a day or two, he figured.

After dinner, Eura kept to the bedroom, and Cyrus slouched on the sofa with his guitar cradled in his lap. He had hoped to work on one of his tunes
but couldn’t stop thinking about Janice, how great she looked, how much she’d changed. He remembered the way they used to snuggle beneath an afghan and watch TV. She had an opinion on everything and could talk non-stop about any show that was on. She sometimes kept talking even when they made love, teasing, coaxing, instructing until the moment came (and he learned to wait for it) when she would say, “Oh,” her voice low and hushed as though she had stumbled on something profound, that single syllable followed by long moments of breathy silence that he always equated with joy.

Work was out of the question now, so Cyrus laid aside his guitar and drank a beer, then another, listening to music by Howlin’ Wolf, Paul Butterfield and Taj Mahal. It was well after midnight when he tiptoed to the bedroom. Eura’s eyes were closed, but she was only pretending to sleep. He perched on the edge of the mattress and said, “I’m doing this for you, too, you know. I don’t understand why you’re acting this way, as if wanting to be successful makes me a bad person.”

“I am not acting at all. This is the only way I know how to be.”

“Well, this is the only way that I know how to be, too. At least I’m trying to be happy. I mean, let it go, Eura. Your husband is dead.”

She opened her eyes to look at him and said, “Maybe so, but sometimes he is more alive to me than you are.”

T
he band recorded a three-song demo in the first week of September, and Cyrus immediately sent a copy to Ronnie in New York. The minute it was in the mail, however, he began to have second thoughts. In the studio, the tunes had sounded good; but to hear the stark reality from a couple of stereo speakers in his living room made him cringe. Within two days he had found a thousand things he wanted to change. He was so upset that he phoned Ronnie in the middle of the night.

Ronnie clucked his tongue and said, “It is a demo, Cyrus. A chance to step back and listen to what you have done. The gap between what you intended and what you achieved is the gap between a great artist and a nobody. Move forward, my friend. Move forward.”

For the next month the band rehearsed eight hours a day, often stripping the tunes down to the simplest elements then putting them back together. They listened to a lot of music, too, critiquing their favourite recordings, finding out what made them tick. The first week of October, they went back into the studio and recorded the same three tracks, plus a new one Cyrus had written. This time everyone felt better about the result; this time Ronnie phoned to praise the work they had done. It still wasn’t perfect, he said, but it was something to be proud of.

A few days after Ronnie’s call, Isabel rang up. They had spoken about
once a month since the spring, always the same conversation: she was fine; Hank was on the mend and fine; Ruby and Clarence were fine; everything was fine. But the sound of her voice this time told him they wouldn’t be having one of those chats. From the initial sigh and the weariness in her tone, he knew there would be a higher truth quotient.

“Hank’s birthday’s on Saturday,” she said. “Four-oh. I was hoping you could make it down. He could use a little cheering up.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Well, what do you think is wrong?”

He was so surprised by her sarcasm that he stammered. “I thought, I mean, every time I called, you said he was fine.”

“How fine could he be? I mean, okay, the tubes are out of his nose and he’s off the painkillers, but what’s he got? His little sister breathing down his neck, a nurse who treats him like a retard, and TV around the clock. Come and talk to him. He won’t listen to me anymore.”

He tried to get Eura to go with him, but she’d already seen enough of Wilbury, she said. So he set off on his own and arrived the next day around lunchtime, a glorious afternoon with the trees in full colour and the temperature an unseasonable eighty degrees. He let himself into Izzy’s house, but there was no one inside. Out back, through the patio doors, he saw the nurse sitting in the middle of the lawn on a kitchen chair, dangling her bare feet in a child’s wading pool. Hank was slumped in his wheelchair on the edge of the driveway. He was listening to a Walkman, the sun beating down on him. He looked like he had a burn.