The Rebuilding Year (22 page)

“Sure,” Calvin said. “I’m serious.” He pulled out a battered case and tenderly stowed the guitar away.

They found a table just being vacated and sat. Onstage, the violins were playing something spiky and dissonant. Calvin pulled out a card and passed it to Mark. “That’s us. CrossCut. Although we’re thinking about a new name, because the cross part makes some people think religion, or anti-religion and we’re not. Patrick plays flute and recorder and harmonica and some sax, Gordon is our actual drummer, I’m more of a bass but I’ve been playing lead since our last guitar guy quit.”

“Have you played any actual gigs?” Ryan asked.

“A few. We’ve been kind of changing since Joe quit. He was the one who fronted the band and picked the music before, but the rest of us want to go a little edgier, maybe write more of our own songs.”

“I write, a little,” Mark said. “I’m better with the music than the lyrics.”

“We practice around four, most days,” Calvin said. “Except Thursdays, because Patrick has philosophy.” He made a face at the blond, and then turned to Mark. “If that fits your class schedule, it would be cool if you could come by this afternoon, and meet Gordon and jam with us, see how it goes.”

“Um, I don’t really have a schedule,” Mark said. “I mean, I just moved here.”

“And he’s still in high school,” John said, biting back the
“he’s only fifteen”
because he figured it might make Mark want to kill him. “Although four in the afternoons might be workable, even when he starts school again.”

“We use a practice room in Kline Hall,” Calvin said. “Whichever one we can snag. Whoever arrives first signs us in with the band name. You can look at the sheet. You should really come by.” He glanced at his watch. “Shit. Calculus.” He got up and tilted his head toward Mark. “See you later?”

“Yeah.” Mark’s face was bright. “Later.”

Patrick nodded to them and followed Calvin out of the café.

Mark turned to his father. “Can you believe that? I was just hanging out, and the guitar was so sweet. I asked if he would play a few notes, to hear the tone, and then he asked if I played, and then…wow. That was just cool.” He hesitated. “Would you let me join the band, if they ask me? I mean, when they all hear me they’ll probably want someone older and better, but if they do?”

“I suppose so.” John would have to be an ogre to squash his son’s enthusiasm. Even if things rarely worked out that easily. “You know, they might find someone else, or you might not like the music they play. You shouldn’t count on it.”

“But you should go for it,” Ryan put in. “You’ll never know until you try.”

“Right,” Mark said. “That’s what I think. I’ve got to try.”

“Right now you’ve got to eat,” John told him. “You can’t audition on an empty stomach, especially after two hours of hard labor.”

Mark pressed a fist against his stomach. “I don’t think I can eat. I’m so freaking nervous. What if they don’t like me? What if they do like me and I can’t measure up? What if I screw up the audition?”

John got to his feet. “You have four hours to work yourself up over it. I’m getting food. Ryan?”

“Bring me a sandwich? Roast beef on rye?”

“You asking me to buy it as well as carry it?” Carrying a tray of food in a crowded café was not one of Ryan’s favorite activities. He’d taken to hijacking space on John’s tray. John was more than willing to carry his food. He just liked giving the guy a hard time about it.

“Cheapskate.” Ryan passed over a couple of bills. “Keep the change. Tip for delivery.”

“Out of three bucks. I’m overwhelmed. Mark? Anything for you?”

His son looked up at him, face anxious and pale. “What if I can’t find Kline Hall and I miss the audition completely?”

John laughed. “I think you’ll manage.” He left his son to his quiet panicking, and headed over to the food.

Ryan eyed the steps up to Kline Hall’s glass doors with disfavor. It had been a long week. At least the sun had melted the last ice off things today. He wouldn’t have to watch the footing. But Anatomy lab at the end of the day on Fridays was someone’s idea of sadistic scheduling. Three hours standing and bending, and no hope of using a lab stool when you had to reach the whole cadaver. On the plus side, he had traded Kaitlyn for Greg as a lab partner this term, so labs no longer took four and a half hours. He shifted his cane to the other hand and took a firm grip on the railing to climb the steps. He’d learned his lesson about the choice between pride and flat on his ass.

Kline Hall was one of the newest buildings on campus. Named after an alum in the recording industry, it housed the music faculty and the arts. The lobby was all glass windows and white tile. It made Ryan think of a hospital. Without the smells.
And with John, which made it one of the nicest sights all day.
A week and a half since Mark had come to stay, and the sight of John still hit Ryan right in the gut. Maybe more now that he couldn’t do anything about it.

“Hey, big guy,” he said warmly. “I didn’t figure you’d wait for me. Didn’t you want to hear the kid practice?”

“Mark doesn’t really want me around,” John said. “You can back me up.” They didn’t touch, but Ryan felt the warmth of that slow smile. “Finally done taking corpses apart?”

“Just call me a zombie.
Want brains, braaains.
” Ryan shrugged. “One of the girls had to go puke when they demo’d how to open the skull.”

“How sexist of you to notice.” John led the way to the elevator. “Practice rooms are in the basement.”

“So, you’re going to be nice to the band guys, right?” Ryan said as they waited.

“I just want to meet these people. Is it overprotective to want to meet the twenty-year-old guys who are spending hours a week with my teenager?”

The elevator doors opened and they stepped in. “Of course not.” Ryan took advantage of the small private space to kiss John’s jaw. “You want to make sure they’re not smoking pot or drunk or whatever you’re imagining. Although for what it’s worth, Mark talks about the music a lot more than about the guys. I think they really practice, not socialize. It’s been a week and a half, and he’s playing more obsessively than ever.”

The doors dinged open as John turned, and a return kiss was aborted. “Right,” John said. “And it’s reasonable for me to want cell phone numbers and stuff, like to call them if Mark’s out sick or something.”

“That’s your story. Stick to it.”

The basement continued the white-tile, white-wall theme, but without the windows. A row of closed doors with numbers marked the practice rooms.
Like the mental ward of a hospital.
Ryan bit his tongue and tried to get his tired brain looking on the positive side.

There was a sign-up list posted on a bulletin board. John stepped over and checked it. “CrossCut, room eleven.”

Eleven was the last room on the right. As they passed the doors, the faintest trickle of sound was heard from other rooms—here a piano, there something in a brass instrument. It was hard to pick out the actual music though.

“Good soundproofing,” Ryan commented. He knocked firmly on door eleven.

After a moment it was pulled open by an unfamiliar Asian boy six inches shorter than Ryan. “We have ten more minutes…” he began, but from behind him Mark said, “Dad?”

“Can we come in?” John asked.

“Um, sure.” Mark took the other boy’s place and pulled the door open. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem.”

Ryan leaned against wall beside the door and let John explain himself.

“I just wanted to meet the guys in the band, get some contact info and such. You start school next week. I wanted to have a better idea how it’s all going to work with homework and practice.”

Ryan saw the pained look on Mark’s face.
Doesn’t like the guys reminded of the difference between them and him.
He spoke up, “And we wanted to hear you play. I’m just curious, so I butted in.” He held out a hand to the Asian boy. “You must be Gordon. I’m Ryan. I rent a room in Mark’s house.”

The boy hesitated as if the gesture was unfamiliar, but then smiled wider and shook hands. “Oh yeah. Mark says you play guitar too. I’m the drummer.”

John said, “I’m Mark’s dad.”

“Hey.” The drummer walked back to his kit, and eyed Ryan. “Do you guys really want to hear us? Because we should run through this new piece a couple of times before we lose the room, so we don’t forget it. But it’s pretty rough.”

“Go for it,” Ryan said. Beside him, John reached out, snagged a tall stool out of the corner and shoved it at him. Ryan perched his butt on it gratefully.

The boys turned back to their instruments, with a brief discussion about an acoustic bridge. Mark was clearly self-conscious, glancing their way. But when the others got set, he picked up an old electric guitar and took his place.

The song was…interesting. At first Ryan kind of squinted his ears, but as they went on, the eerie sound of the flute wound through the guitar line in closer harmony, like it was creeping up on true music. The short, brown-haired boy, Calvin, began to sing in a voice that combined true pitch with a breathy rasp. The words were plaintive. When they reached the end, Ryan was caught up in the sound.

“Wow,” he said into the silence. “That sounds like it won’t work, and then it does. You guys aren’t just derivative off-the-shelf, are you?”

The tall kid, Patrick, flushed with obvious pleasure. “Thanks. Mark did a lot of the music for that. I mean, I had the tune and words but it was just flat and Mark, like, found the hook with the flute that pulls it together.”

“Nice work,” Ryan told them. “Not gonna bring you success as a dance band though.”

“I think we’ll pass on the dance-band thing,” Calvin said. “One more time, guys?”

It was even better the second time. Mark’s playing was more fluid, and the song grew on you with familiarity. Ryan glanced at John, whose eyes were glued to Mark’s flying fingers.
Must be odd to see your kid grow up in front of you.

Calvin nodded when they were done. “Nice work, Patrick. And Mark, you nailed it. Let’s pack it in on a high note.” Patrick blew a tweet at the top of the flute’s range, and Ryan laughed.

The boys began stowing away their instruments.

“You don’t have to lug that drum kit back and forth, do you?” Ryan asked Gordon.

“Nah.” He pulled on a cover and patted the snare. “This isn’t mine. A bunch of the rooms here have resident instruments, like the drums or a piano. Makes practice easier. And there are lockers for guitars and shit.”

“When you get a gig somewhere,” Ryan volunteered, “I’ll play roadie, if you need the hands. And John has a truck.”

Calvin looked over. “Hey, thanks. And thanks for saying when, not if.”

“Gonna happen.”

“Ryan,” Calvin said. “Mark says you play. Wanna show us?”

“Not tonight. I’m not in Mark’s league, and anyway, I’d leave your guitar smelling like formaldehyde. I just got done with three hours of dissection. I’m wiped.”

“You’re a med student?” Patrick said. “Oh, hey, you’re that med student with the cane.”

Ryan kept his voice steady. “Didn’t realize I stand out that much.”
Dammit.

“No. It’s just, I knew Alice. You’re the one who went up the tree after her.” Patrick came over and held out a hand. “I always meant to say thanks.”

Ryan took it as briefly as possible, with his odiferous fingers. “No offense but…I didn’t save her.”

“Yeah, but you tried.” Patrick’s blue eyes were steady. “Alice was good people. I don’t know what the fuck happened with her, but you were the one who went out on a limb to try and save her.”

Ryan relaxed. “Kind of literally.”

“Yeah. And I figured, you know, she died, so probably no one said thanks. I heard you were, like, forty feet up and almost fell trying to grab her.”

“Something like that.” Ryan could see Mark staring at him. “It was no big,” he minimized. “I was a firefighter once and you don’t forget the moves.” Change the subject. “How did you know Alice? Did you know her roommate, Kristin?”

“I work in Dr. Crosby’s lab, like Alice did,” Patrick told him. “We hung out some. I didn’t really know her roommate, though.”

“Have you talked with Detective Carstairs yet?” John asked.

“Oh yeah.” Patrick raised his tone. “What drugs did you give Alice? Who was her supplier? Musicians all do drugs. You must know where she got them.”

“He’s definitely met Carstairs,” Ryan told John. He turned to the boys. “The detective implied John bought his house with drug money.”

“It’s so whacked, though,” Patrick said. “Because Alice didn’t do drugs. I mean, medicine, sure, but never recreationally. She was pre-med and serious about classes. She would barely drink a beer.”

“She was high that day,” Ryan said cautiously.

“I know. I talked to Laura and Mandy. They were there and they said the same thing. She was tripping. But I knew Alice. Maybe someone slipped her something.”

“It wasn’t the first time,” John said. “I met her at the beginning of term, walking around with a candle, really out of it.”

“I don’t know,” Patrick muttered irritably. “I mean sure, you can never tell. But Alice was almost anal about doing things right, recording results, no spills, no mess, no flexibility. It just doesn’t sound like her. I almost wonder if her roommate was giving her stuff, trying to get her to loosen up, you know. And then maybe she felt guilty when Alice died, and she killed herself.”