Balls (9 page)

Thank you. Thanks. Well, I'll talk to you later, Paula. He kissed her goodbye, he embraced Denise. He couldn't wait to get out the door, away from the Mills', and Andy Powell. It was where he'd find peace.

THREE

T
he sun had already set, and Henry, seated under lamp light at his piano, drank from a small glass bottle of whiskey. He was trying to write a new song, but the dark sky of evening had intensified his fears. He was sure he was dying. Through his lungs up into his brain the cancer had spread. With chemotherapy they'd try to save him, but there was no chance of it. Life was over. Or else he was going to lose both his testicles. He'd never ejaculate again.

With two fists he struck the keys of the piano. Discordant treble notes rung out and in the quality of their sound was something murderous. Sweaty, hot, trembling, he put his face flat to the keys. At the next moment he could feel from inside his pocket the vibrations of his phone. He dug it out. Paula was calling. He stood back from the piano. He was so grateful to hear from her. His whole body felt warm. She was still at the Carlyle. Her parents had returned to their room and she'd gone to the lobby for privacy.

I haven't told them anything about the
bulge
in your back. Just like you asked, she said, proudly.

Thank you, Paula.

But my stepmother was after me. She was saying, Is Henry doing all right? and I told her, He's great.
Why?
and she said, I don't know, just seems not himself and—well, anyway.

Yes. Anyway.

What else did they say about your
bulge
, Henry?

Nothing more, really. They'll do a minor procedure.

Will it be painful?

A little, I'm sure.

He didn't mean to add layers to his lie. However, tomorrow, he'd tell her the truth. That was it. And he felt certain that the matter had been decided. He said, Come over, would you?

Come
there?

Paula reminded him that it was the night of her graduation. She had plans to celebrate.

Right, said Henry. I don't know why I didn't think of that myself. His heartache returned.

Paula invited him to come out with her. Just to be asked made him feel better. Then she began to rescind her offer.

Or maybe I'll just come for breakfast tomorrow.

Tomorrow?

Maybe I should be alone with my friends tonight and I'll come in the morning and we can have a nice day. What do you think?

I don't know, said Henry.

Do you
want
to come tonight? If you want to, you should.

Walking his fingers along the black keys, he said, No. No, actually I don't think so. You go and have a good time. Come for breakfast in the morning.

Maybe around noon.

Sure. Come at noon, said Henry.

Okay. I'll see you then.

Putting down the phone, he lifted his head and saw his piano. My savior, he thought.

Playing did make him forget his sorrow. Soon his fingers took on great life, moving vigorously along the keys. Strong and loud, he felt every note in his chest. At one point his hands incidentally began to play the chorus to
Ms. Scandinavia.

But
no,
not that!
he shouted.
She crashed the stocks in Stockholm
.
She is the hell in Helsinki.
That's terrible. And it's over with. It never happened. You're not a jingle-writer.

He saw his own mad reflection in the long frame of the upright piano. With delirious eyes, he stared back at himself and said, Look forward. There'll be a future for you. You're not going to die. They'll cut it out and you'll walk away. Now put something down. Make some music. A song. A song for Walbaum.

Henry began to play, and within minutes he was lost in a new composition:

Faulk,
Old FRIEND,
Last month,
You called me,
Fifteen times,
In a single day.
Can't you take,
A hint?
I don't want anything,
More to do with,
You.

Faulk was not right in the head. He never had been. As recently as last month, messages, long, sentimental, remorseful, were coming to Henry via text at an alarming rate. It was not his first attempt to make amends for a particular misdeed. Undeniably, Faulk had wronged Henry, and he knew it. But he took offense when Henry didn't forgive him.

I don't care,
If it hurts,
I'm done,
With you,
For good.

Just shy of a year ago, Faulk appeared at Henry's door. Smelling oddly of gasoline and with dirt on his face, Faulk, once a handsome man, now bald and missing teeth, was agitated. Plastic bags full of junk encumbered his hands. He dropped them on the floor and went straight into the kitchen to make himself a vodka-soda.

Are you all right? Henry asked him.

All right? Henry, I'm on top of the world. Faulk, filling his glass with ice, said, I've got the
one.

You're in love? Henry asked him.

Faulk said, No. Not love, but it is about a girl. She's a singer. Sonya. What pipes, what legs, you're going to love her.

Oh, I see. That's great.

Henry thought Faulk had given up on managing talent. He'd said he was going to begin a house-painting business.

I believed you were onto something,
With that idea.
For my own sake,
I was relieved knowing,
I'd never have to hear you say,
This one's going to be a star,
Or, that one's going to the top,
Ever again.

Since
All the Crazies Love Me
debuted on the radio, Faulk had been after Henry for help. One singer, and then another, and another, he insisted they be brought before Walbaum for a meeting. Henry was skeptical. He didn't trust Faulk's judgment of talent, and he would not be made a fool of with Walbaum.

Listen Henry, Faulk was circling his glass in the air, you have to listen to her sing. She'll make you drop. You'll want to call up your guy, Walbaum, and get a little
convo
going.

If your father, Lawrence,
Hadn't taught me to play piano,
I'd have told you no,
Way.

The Faulks had lived around the corner from Henry's family on East 92nd. His father, Lawrence Faulk, was a musician, a tall, imposing man, who kept a full beard. He wore thin black cotton pants, but no shirt, his chest hair dark and copious. Sheet music to Bach's
Minuet in G
sat open on the worn grand piano. In red ink at the top of the page he had written:

Make the Art. Earn your Death
.

Henry and Faulk, both six years old, sat at the piano in the smoky room, the shades drawn. The furniture was all antique and stunk of mildew. Faulk's mother lived in Jersey. It was only he and his father there in the small apartment. Lawrence, lighting a cigarette, addressed them like prisoners.

Did you ingrates practice your scales?

We did, sir.

Don't lie to me.

It's the truth, Dad.

Lawrence smacked his son over the head. Henry, too. A couple of hopeless cases…how could I, just a man, make either of you any better? It's impossible. Agree or disagree?

Disagree, the boys said in unison.

Agree or disagree?

Disagree!

Lawrence would start the metronome at a slow tempo. For half an hour the boys would practice scales. Meanwhile, Lawrence would recline on a green divan by the window, smoking and reading the
Times
. Every so often his ear would tune into their playing.

Listen to the metronome.
Pah
…
pah
…
pah
…
pah
…
pah
…If you can't stay in time, you'll never be any good. For crying out loud, feel it…feel it. Can you do that?

I'm sorry to say it, Faulk,
It was YOU your dad,
Was talking to.
I felt it,
Then, while you were busy,
Picking your fucking nose.
Well, your girl Sonya,
She couldn't sing,
And a thimble full of feel,
In your belly,
Would have told you,
As much.

Faulk brought Henry to meet Sonya. They took the A train to 181st Street to an apartment where Faulk and she had been staying, a dim-lit squalid place crowded with people. Sonya, with a bloody nose, reposed on the floor, a raggedy, sallow-faced woman, her head back, pinching her nostrils. Henry had promised to listen to her sing. When the bleeding stopped, they went into the stairwell. Faulk came, too. She performed
Light My Fire
. Afterwards, Henry and Faulk went to stand under the George Washington Bridge. The sun was setting and the palisades were mollifying, a rich green color. On the cool river, with Sonya resting back at the apartment, Faulk nervously scratched at the many scabs on his forehead.

He said, You've got to help me, Henry. I need this. I know you could get her in front of Walbaum.

Henry thought Sonya's voice was only decent. He didn't see much hope for her. But he didn't say that.

My dad taught you how to play piano. We sat all those years in my apartment, like brothers. Now, what sweat is it off your back if nothing comes of this. What's it matter if Walbaum says, Nah, she's not the one. So what.

Faulk talked him into bringing Sonya by his apartment the next day to work on a song. They had stopped at a thrift-shop on 2nd Avenue and bought new outfits. Faulk had on a shabby black tuxedo with cummerbund and red bowtie, and a pair of patent leather shoes. He looked ready to tame a lion. Sonya, in a pink lace dress, her thin legs shaking, was so small and malnourished, all skin, bones. She was afraid that her nose would start bleeding, it had all morning. Faulk asked Henry if they could use one of his own songs.

You're such a great songwriter, Henry. We would be so honored if you let Sonya sing one of your own.

His old friend's compliments, manipulative and low-down, infuriated Henry. But he went into his songbook, anyhow. They worked all day. Sonya learned quickly. She had good energy. At least this was what Henry told Faulk when he was unable to find another positive remark to offer. Unfortunately, it encouraged him.

He said, So Walbaum, you'll give him a call and set up a meeting, right?

I can't believe I said,
Yes.

Before going up to Walbaum's office, Faulk told Sonya to take a walk around the corner to Bergdorf's and spray herself with some perfume.

You know how men get aroused on that stuff, he said.

Faulk should have gone with her. An inconsistent bather since childhood, he smelled awful, like b.o. In his black tuxedo, in front of F.A.O. Schwartz, he demanded Henry not back down easy with Walbaum. If necessary, he should put up a fight. He promised, if this worked out, he'd send at least $50,000 Henry's way.

Your mention,
Of 50 grand,
Exacerbated a feeling,
Of nausea,
Which only became,
Worse when we got,
Upstairs.

Walbaum, in a Mets cap and jersey, received them warmly. His assistant brought in espresso and croissants. On the leather sofa Faulk's legs were spread wide and his arm swung tragically around Sonya. Henry was in a chair in the corner. Walbaum, himself, stood behind his long glass desk, his hands on his waist, Trump Towers through the large window behind him. He discussed oral-hygiene. He said he was willing to do whatever it took to keep his teeth forever, pay whatever the dentist asked, stay off sugar, floss twelve times a day.

My grandfather's got these screw in incisors, see. I go to Queens to visit him last weekend, I find him on the floor with his head under a chair. I say, Papa, what are you doing down there? He says, I lost a tooth under the seat, a screw-in, it fell right out and rolled under here. It's caught in a dust bunny. I mean, forget it. I don't need that.

Faulk, chuckling insincerely, didn't know where to rest his hands. He moved them from his knees to his lap to behind his head. Walbaum saw all of his nervous motion. Henry was sure of it. The whole point of his dental claptrap was to give himself an opportunity to size up Faulk. No, the V.P. of Brass Records didn't waste a moment of his own time. Behind every action was a very real purpose.

Now what do you got for me? said Walbaum, turning a baseball in his right hand. This girl? We'd have to get you eating. The waif thing is out.

Faulk said, You can choose her diet, that's nothing to me. But we've had offers come in. Seven digits. Multi-record. You'd have to come forward with something big.

Walbaum set the baseball on his desk. Vivacious, happy, he winked at Henry. He said, It was a boring morning. Finally some entertainment. He took Sonya's hand, lifting her to her feet. Disconcerted, he looked her up and down. Baby doll, he said, let me ask you something…where do you see yourself in ten years?

Ten years? Sonya pulled on the hem of her skirt. Her smile was all-encompassing, her blue eyes vulnerable. She said, I don't know.

What she means to say is that life is unpredictable, Faulk interjected. His tux was newly pressed. However the red bowtie was crooked. He said, To answer your question, she sees herself at the top of the charts.

Hmm. Not a bad place to be, said Walbaum.

But then he made Sonya sing. And when she was through performing, not Henry's song, but Goodbye
Yellow Brick Road
—one of Faulk's last minute adjustments—Walbaum made everyone else leave. Adjusting his Mets cap, he thanked his old schoolmate for the pain he felt in his ass.

Every minute of my life is vital, you understand? This morning, you wasted my fucking time. Don't do it again.

Henry apologized to Walbaum.

Out on Fifth Avenue when he told Faulk and Sonya that Walbaum wasn't interested, a fight ensued. Faulk came at Henry, tackling him to the pavement. Henry was able to free himself. Faulk pursued him down the sidewalk. He was hysterical. He asked Henry how he could do this to his old friend.

You've been against me from the beginning. You don't want me to succeed.

That's not true.

It is,
too!
It is, Faulk insisted.

Henry let his hands up off the piano. Perhaps he
was
against Faulk succeeding. He really didn't know. He wouldn't think another second about it. The man repulsed him. He was a manipulator, a liar. Talk was all Henry ever got from him. Why would he want to keep their friendship going?