AT 29 (13 page)

“I was drinking too much. I told you.”

George continued, “You know me, I never took no sides. I liked to watch you in the gym. Didn't know too much about you in the classroom and now this music thing, but I heard a little bit. Brother Gabriel said you had no promise. Brother Patrick thought otherwise. Of course, he saw somethin' in all of you.”

“News to me, that bit from Brother Gabriel.”

George shook his head. “Still a kid. Did you ever show the man some respect?” Jimmy didn't answer. “Even with me, you come around once in a while lookin' for me to get you Cuban cigars. I'd get you talkin' and all's I'd hear was how much you hated Kendall. How you was stuck there. Nothin' you could do except quit from it all, put in the time until graduation. Here we sit, nothin's changed.”

“I didn't make waves. We were talking about my band, remember?”

“I'm talkin' about you. You wasted your talents when you coulda done Kendall proud. I think it's happenin' all over again.”

“This isn't about what happened at Kendall.”

“Sure it is, boy, you and Bucinski, quittin' on him like you done. The way I see it, you been quittin' ever since. There ain't no good reason for you sittin' here with me in a soup kitchen cept'n maybe to sort things out. You say you ain't drinkin' no more, good. Ain't gonna be enough ‘til you admit what you done to Bucinski. I been wonderin' bout that little episode for years. I'd like to know.”

When he set foot on the island of Nantucket, pockets jingling once again, Nathan Whitehurst headed straight for the dry goods store on Main Street. Standing an impressive six foot five, he had outgrown all of his clothes and looked comical in pants that barely covered his calves and shirts that no longer reached his waist. The shopkeeper, a friend of the captain's, was eager to guide the gangly youth in his purchases. Before long, he sent Nathan up the street laden with new clothes and a particularly fine pair of boots. Happily, Nathan traversed the cobblestones to find the captain's home. As he neared the corner where he had been directed to find the house he heard music. He followed the sound and saw that it came from the front room of the captain's majestic residence. Nathan knew the sound of a piano, but he had never been close enough to see one played or to touch its keys. This one was being played well. He stood at the foot of the granite steps, listening for a moment as the music drifted from the windows.

With the sound in his ears, he surveyed the house. It was bigger than any he had ever seen in Apollo Bay or even in Amsterdam, although he guessed there must be some like it there. And size was not its only attribute for it was stately with immaculately crafted doors and windows framed by carved wooden accents painted in the most attractive pale yellow and white, prosperous. As he climbed the stairs he ran his hands along his new clothes, smoothing the fabric wherever it might appear wrinkled. Then he ran his fingers through his hair, becoming aware for the first time that it was too long and mangy. He had never stayed in another person's home. Having the good opinion of the captain was one thing, having it from his wife was quite another.

Before he could reach for the ornate brass knocker the door opened, revealing the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She smiled graciously and reached for his hand, bringing him into the foyer where two small children, a boy and a girl, emerged from behind her long skirt.

“You must be Nathan,” she said, in a voice as welcoming as the smile on her face. If she was startled by his fair complexion, masking an indistinct aboriginal visage, she did not show it. All nervousness melted away as he felt her warmth. She took his packages, wrapped in coarse brown paper, and handed one each to the children who laughed and ran off into the cavernous house. “Let me show you our home.”

The following months were carefree and pleasant despite the notoriously harsh Nantucket weather in late fall and winter. He soon discovered that the music greeting him that first day came from the prized possession of the captain's oldest child, Melba, a vivacious twelve year old who shared her mother's beauty. She had long red hair and glistening white skin, spotted with occasional freckles that added to her loveliness. Melba was an outgoing girl, quick to laugh, and she took Nathan as her special friend immediately. She talked incessantly, sprinkling her declarations on a myriad of subjects with questions about whaling and especially about Australia, a continent she knew little about except its occasional mention by her father.

Nathan was happy to tell her about the land of his birth and everything he had learned about whaling during his two-year maiden voyage from the Southern Ocean. Careful not to be alone with Melba, he nevertheless was smitten from the very beginning. He knew nothing about women and even less about love, but he recognized something special in this bright, cheerful girl.

Despite the off months there was much work to do on the ship. Every morning he reported for duty, catching a small launch that ferried passengers and crew from the dock to the ships moored neatly in the harbor. He toiled below decks, learning to fit new timbers and secure others that had loosened during months at sea. Many hours were spent with hot tar, filling seams and caulking tiny holes caused by sea worms. When he was finished with those tasks he continued his studies with the captain, a master navigator who knew every passage to the best whaling grounds around the world. Nathan drank in the man's vast knowledge with fascination. In time, when the night was clear over Nantucket Island, not common during winter, he began to recognize the starry patterns the captain described. He could see the important constellations and mark their relationships to the North Star, the key that unlocked the position of the ship anywhere above the equator. Knowledge of the southern skies would have to come later.

In late afternoon, he returned to town and hurried along the cobblestones to the Captain's house and Melba who was waiting just for him. Music became their bond. Within days of his arrival, it was clear to the family that Nathan had a special gift. Of course, the captain's wife had been forewarned of this through letters from her husband prior to the ship's return. Melba came to recognize it in a different way.

One evening she heard beautiful music coming from Nathan's room in the attic, just above her own. Over an hour of listening she counted three different instruments played in succession, each carrying a new and, to her, beautiful melody that bore little resemblance to anything she had learned from her music books. The songs captivated her in a way she never felt from the lessons she had received from the music teachers on the island. She wondered if her parents and siblings could hear the same lovely sounds deeper in the house where they slept. In the nights that followed, she daringly left her room and quietly climbed to the top of the narrow inner stairs. There, she sat on the top step and listened intently just outside Nathan's door.

In time, she began to take each of the songs into her heart. Then each day, while he was away on the ship, she played them on her beloved piano. While the sound was different from the fiddle and flutes that first brought them to her ear, the melodies remained enchanting, almost magical in their rhythms and flowing notes. After a while, she did the one thing that the music's creator could not. She committed each song to paper, meticulously drawing notes along bars and lines as she had been taught to do while learning the piano.

Her efforts did not remain a secret from Nathan very long. One day when his work ended early, he returned to the house and, upon approaching, heard one of his melodies coming from the piano in the front room parlor. He was stunned. No one else had ever played his music. Not even on the ship where his fellow sailors often traded songs with one another. The beautiful sound, emanating from a new instrument, was riveting. In many respects he concluded that this song, at least, sounded richer than when he played it on his fiddle. When he collected himself, he rushed through the door. He wanted to hear them all, see them played on the piano.

The collaboration that developed from that moment blossomed into a bond between the youth and the young girl that her mother suspected would one day become permanent. In little more than a month Melba taught Nathan to play her piano. She was astonished at how fast he learned, and soon his skill was equal to her own. In return, he taught her every song he had created over the two years he had been at sea, dozens of
them, each unique and beautiful. To her surprise, she discovered that none had titles or lyrics, just melodies, yet wonderful, intricate to play and delightful to the ear. She asked him how he had learned to play his fiddle and refused to believe him, albeit playfully, when he said he taught himself. They sat together, playing duets for the whole family in the parlor, trying all manner of new twists to coax something better from what they all knew was already superior to anything that could be found on the shelves of music stores in Boston. Their mutual love for music burst forth into overwhelming joy.

When Melba tried to teach Nathan how to put his songs on paper he demurred. At first, she could not understand why anyone so talented and quick to learn would spurn this basic skill. She badgered him to sit with her and pay attention, but he always wandered back to the piano where he sat fingering the keys as he sounded out yet another beautiful song. For weeks, Melba remained frustrated in her attempts to make him learn until her mother set her straight.

“His mind moves too swiftly. You must do it for him.” Melba heeded her mother, accepting the role of scribe from then on.

As the weeks passed, the two spent as much time together as possible. Sometimes they tired of the music and looked for other ways to pass the day. Melba knew every inch of the island. So, when the weather permitted, the young couple hired horses from the livery and rode out to Siasconset and the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic. As they trotted through fields and woods they chatted endlessly, like two people who had known each other intimately for many years. Their tender ages could not mask their unification in mind and spirit. Melba at a mere twelve years and Nathan, now seventeen, had found each other. Neither would let go no matter how far he might travel.

Late February came sooner than either one of them wished. By then, Melba had put fifty of Nathan's creations on paper. On his last evening in port they bound them, secured them in oilcloth and safely placed them in a trunk in her room. He had no need of paper. His music was locked in his memory, easily summoned whenever he desired.

The whole family and much of the town came to the dock to see the whaler off. By late morning it slipped the protected harbor and moved into the sound, heading east to pick up the rest of the crew at New Bedford. Nathan stood at the stern as the island faded into the mist. He had mixed feelings, excited to be at sea once again, but already longing for the sweet sound of Melba's voice. He held a scented handkerchief that she pressed into his hand when they said their farewells. It remained on his person, never removed through gales, dangerous hunts and treacherous ports.

Mike Winfield, fresh from his second stint in rehab, was beginning life again. His wrenching divorce was also final. He tried hard to forget the holes it left in his wallet, and his heart. Now, the time he cherished with his two beloved daughters was limited to alternate weekends, and with supervision at that. Apart from the court ordered money set aside to cover child support and alimony, he was dead broke. He needed to work.

His only salvation was his star power as one of the most popular DJs in the U.S. When word got out that he was back in play the offers poured in from dozens of stations. Together with his on-air partner, Loren Phillips, he studied these offers, looking for one that would keep him in New York, close to his daughters.

WAGZ was in trouble. The gamble on a new format and broadcast medium was failing. The tiny FM station in Manhattan had a few things going for it though. For one, its coverage was excellent, ranging across the five boroughs and upstate. It could also be heard in Connecticut and down the Jersey shore. In addition, listeners were beginning to show a preference for static-free free radio with fewer commercial breaks.

WAGZ's issue was its progressive format. Surveys showed that listeners wanted deeper dives into the music of the popular artists that ruled the charts. Just what this meant was harder to discern. Merely playing entire albums, without interruption, which the polls suggested, produced little movement in the Arbitron ratings. Something was missing and with time and money running out, the station's owners desperately sought a big personality with established recognition to put WAGZ on the map.

Winfield, everyone agreed, was among the most respected aficionados of his generation. He knew everything about every rocker who ever picked at a guitar. He made it his business to study the music, not only making himself an expert on its sound, but also on its makers; who they loved, who they hated, where they came from and where they were going. No fluff ever came out of Mike's mouth. When he did on-air interviews in that signature voice instantly recognizable to his faithful fans, he took his listeners inside the lives of the rockers they adored. Loren played the perfect counterbalance, a woman with deep knowledge of her own, but willing to accede to Winfield's charismatic on-air enthusiasm. She seamlessly added to their, unusual for the time, tag team repartee. Agents clamored to book clients on their show.

The offer from WAGZ was a piece of the action. For every ten-point gain in the ratings, Winfield would get part ownership to a maximum of twenty percent. The catch? Make WAGZ profitable in a year. The risk was high, but the reward, together with the preferred location in New York, enticed them to sign.

Taking over the morning rush immediately brought a slew of advertisers who had enjoyed a long relationship with the Winfield-Phillips team. Certainly, this was good for the station's cash flow and it quickly raised the morale of its beleaguered sales staff. Still, Mike and Loren knew the real measure was the ratings. For a month they tinkered with different formats, always interspersing plays with studio interviews. Eventually, they settled upon a new alternative blues/rock genre that the bigger stations ignored. They were heartened when the ratings began to rise.