Whistling in the Dark (3 page)

Ducking past the wings of a stuffed owl, Sutton walked until the aisle ended. There, beside a cluttered workbench in the corner, stood the piano--a handsome, older upright with a fresco of doves carved in the front panels. Persian carpets in need of a beating covered the back wall and he realized they muted the sound or he would have heard the music much more clearly from the street. Taking up most of the space on the workbench, amid coils of wire and scattered tools, sat two varnished boxes faced with knobs and switches, the whole contraption attached to the horn from a phonograph. A radio set, he realized. He'd seen one before, in a magazine. This one was not as sleek, but looked far more complex with its numerous dials, bulbs, and the wire running everywhere. He thought the pianist was sending out music--but the bulbs were not lit and Sutton had an idea they should be, in order for the thing to work.

If the pianist did intend to play on the radio, it was surely not any time soon. He hunched over the keys, hands poised with aching uncertainty as he squinted at the sheet music. Reluctant to interrupt him in the midst of a piece, Sutton looked around for a place to sit and noticed the light coming through the pebble glass of a door to his right. He knocked politely and when there was no answer, tried again a little more urgently.

In mid-knock, the door swung open, putting him nearly nose to hawkish nose with a man who reeked of cigar smoke and impatience. Wiry of hair and of figure, he had eyes so dark brown Sutton thought at first they were black. They sparkled out of a face with sharp corners that nonetheless looked capable of good humor. At the moment, a frown twisted the mouth, the initial hope in the dark eyes fading to frustration. "We're closed--" He noticed the basket. "Oh. From next door?"

"Yes, sir. I think Esther's only packed enough for one."

"That's what I asked for." He turned back to his pile of paperwork while he puffed his cigar, thoughts clearly elsewhere.

In the amber glow of light through the lampshade, Sutton took in the old oak desk with its multitude of drawers, the leather sofa scattered with pillows, and a haphazardly stuffed bookshelf behind the desk. He quietly cleared his throat. "Is the dinner for the gentleman playing the piano?"

"What?" The man squinted at him, puffed on the cigar, and then waved away the smoke. "No, it's for the gentleman pounding the life out of the damned thing." He picked up a half-full bottle of scotch and poured some into the glass. Already a damp ring surrounded it on the blotter. "Good God, give it to him, already. I can't take much more of this." He swung another look at Sutton. "Where's Esther?"

"She's doing the washing up." Sutton extended a hand. "I'm Sutton Albright. Mrs. Carlisle's just hired me."

"Yeah?" He seemed dubious, but shook Sutton's hand. "Harry Warner. And the gentleman playing the piano," he said with a wryly mocking emphasis, "is Ox."

"Ox?" Well, it did suit. "Just Ox?"

"Vivian Oxtoby. But I'd stick with Ox, if I was you." He went out and Sutton followed. Ox struggled his way through the same piece, still coming too jarringly with the chords. Harry winced and wrapped a hand around Ox's wrist. "You keep hitting them like that and they'll start hitting back. Take a break and have some supper."

Ox let his hands slide to his lap. "Doing my best."

"I know." Harry clapped a broad shoulder. "Jack does, too."

"He ain't back?"

"Not yet."

Sutton sensed the worry passing between them and wondered if he should just put down the basket and go. But then Ox raised his head and, pushing a shaggy fall of brown hair out of his eyes, smiled shyly at Sutton. "That's for me?" He rose from the bench to tower close to half a foot over Sutton's five eleven. "Esther didn't want to come over?"

Harry dismissed the question with a shake of his head. "It's Ida, looking after Esther's virtue. Or keeping track of the time she wastes here."

None too sure about the former statement, Sutton was at least able to reassure on the latter. "Ida mentioned lollygagging."

"She would, the old--" The telephone interrupted, making Harry jump. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he snapped and spun on his heel to hustle back to the office. Ox hurried after him and Sutton followed with the basket. He reached the doorway as Harry picked up the receiver. "Yeah? Yeah, that's me. Go ahead and put him through."

Ox hovered over the desk. "It's Jack?"

Harry hushed him with an agitated wave. "Hey, are you all right?" he said into the telephone. "Where are you? Oh, hell. Jack, I swear to God--yeah, yeah. We'll be there in a little while." He hung up and sank into the chair with a groan.

Ox sank into the chair opposite. "How much does he need?"

"Twenty-five. He's scraped together fourteen. You coming with me?"

"Sure." Ox handed over six dollars. "That's all I got. Including the dollar in my sock."

"Your socks are better off than I am." Harry counted out four dollars and change. "Goddamnit. Ten lousy cents."

"I've got that bond," Ox said. "And some thrift stamps at home."

"Keep your stamps. Maybe Esther's got some change--"

"Wait a minute," Sutton said, remembering. "I've got a dime." He tossed it onto the pile and both men turned their heads to stare at him.

"Who's he?" Ox whispered.

"Ida's new errand boy." Harry jabbed the cigar in Sutton's direction. "Albright, ain't it? Thanks, kid. I owe you."

On his way out, Sutton stole a glance at the piano. He could stay away from concert halls and band pavilions, but he apparently couldn't avoid music the rest of his days. It found him even in this rough and tumble corner of New York. He supposed even a simple tune whistled on the street would make his heart ache for a long time to come.

But there was nothing to do for it. Six doctors had confirmed that the damage to his hand was permanent. He had refused to accept it until the cast came off and he'd played again, to find the pain had not faded with the knitting of bones. When his technique deteriorated with subsequent practice, his parents had relegated the piano to the back parlor. The plan to permit him to study abroad after college was forgotten, and the conservatory teacher his father had hired returned to Kansas City for good.

In the months afterward, Sutton had toughened his spine with the knowledge that others had come home from the war in far worse shape--or hadn't come home at all. If some of the spark had gone from life, at least he was alive to grieve.

With a piano just next door, he'd have to toughen his heart. New York was home now and here he would find new dreams to replace the old. Looking forward was the only thing to do. If his hand wouldn't heal, his heart would. Until then, he could find books at the library and he hadn't the pocketbook for novelties--and if Bailey's Emporium offered anything else of interest, he was probably better off remaining in serene ignorance.

- Four -

There were idiots and then there were idiots. Jack, according to Harry, had achieved a standing heretofore unknown to ordinary men. And Harry meant it, judging by the glum silence which had replaced most of the usual exasperated muttering. Though he had pretended otherwise to his fellow jailbirds, Jack was battling enough guilt over his arrest. Having Harry sore at him on top of that was a feeling he wouldn't have wished on old Fritz himself.

Other than the initial grumbling, not a word did Harry say to him until they'd bid Ox good night and trudged out of the shop and upstairs to Jack's apartment. Harry appeared intent on making sure he was all but tucked in before daring to leave him alone again. Jack didn't know whether to be annoyed by it, or relieved that Harry gave enough of a damn to bother. Settling for a mix of the two, he dropped onto the sofa and rested an aching head on the pillows.

"Going to give me hell now or in the morning?" He tried for light, but it came out weary.

"Nice to know you expect me to return the favor." Harry switched on a lamp and looked around. "Don't you ever clean this place?"

"I said I was sorry. I wanted to ring you earlier. They wouldn't let me."

"If I was the cop hauling in that rowdy crowd, I wouldn't have let you out five minutes, either. You find what you were looking for?"

Surprise took the edge off Jack's sleepiness. "First time you've ever asked for details."

"Jesus. I ain't now." Harry sat across from him and leaned elbows on knees. "I just wanted to know if it was worth it."

"You're asking if I had a good time?" Jack shrugged. "I didn't have a bad one."

"Yeah? You like getting yourself tossed into jail with a bunch of deviants?"

Jack looked at him steadily. "If they're deviants, so am I."

Harry, as usual, refused to be fazed. "You have to go around with those low class types?"

Jack pulled off his coat, tossing it to a chair, and lit a cigarette. "We were just out for some fun." He decided not to mention the side trip to the baths. "You know the crowd at the 'mat. They cut up, sure, but they're good as gold, underneath."

"Yeah, if only the cops could see it that way. I'm just glad you rung me up instead of Chase."

"Well, maybe I shouldn't have." He knew Harry was tired, because Harry wasn't the sort to throw another fellow's mistakes in his face. Godawful tired, himself, Jack couldn't help taking him to task. "You aren't my dad--"

"Thank God for that." Harry pushed out of the chair with a grunt. "It's turning me prematurely gray just being your friend."

"Let me live my life." Jack snubbed out the cigarette. "I survived a goddamned war--"

"So you can throw yourself into any trouble you want? Is that what you're trying to prove?"

Jack pushed his fingers through his hair, cradling his head in his hands. Harry had gotten used to his sojourns but this was the first time that night had turned into a long day without any sign from Jack that he hadn't been robbed, drowned, or shanghaied.

So maybe Harry had every right to be sore. But Jack was too tired to argue and too out of sorts to concede that Harry might have a point.

Harry seemed to realize it. "Get some sleep," he said. Still gruff, but weary, too.

Then the door closed and Jack was alone, with just the night left to face.

The apartment was cold but Jack didn't feel like wrestling with the radiator. Switching on the kitchen light, he eased the milk bottle from the back of the icebox and poured himself a gin, neat. He considered the bottle for a long minute before taking it with him down the hall to the front bedroom, where he kept his old radio receiver. It remained a work in progress he liked to tinker with, spread over two tables bathed now in the moonlight of a clear night that promised the sort of reception any sane man would trade sleep for in a heartbeat. It looked like it belonged on the table beside his mother's sewing machine, where it had sat since he'd built it his last year at school. If his mother had liked listening to music over the radio, maybe everyone would. Dreaming of the possibilities made life worthwhile again.

It seemed too much to hope that a little music on the radio could lure customers into the emporium. The parade of imports from all over had been a constant delight to Jack while he was growing up. His dad had always said they peddled a necessity; a little fun to nourish the soul. But curiosities were pricier and more difficult to come by in a war-ravaged world. The emporium had become a rundown shop in need of repair, in need of more inventory--in need, really, of one James Bailey, Sr.

Jack's heart shrank in his chest at the thought. His dad wouldn't have been happy to know about the frequent trips to the pawnshop these days, nor the money borrowed from people who would do a whole lot worse than throw him in jail if he didn't pay it back. Harry had been none too pleased about the latter. Sure, it hadn't been the brightest notion to borrow from Marshall Chase, but with the ban on transmitting lifted, Jack couldn't bear to wait. A hundred had shored up the month, assuring the cash to cover living expenses and providing him the opportunity to build a new transmitter, buy more vacuum tubes, and barter for the parts to cobble together a microphone. That had inspired him to enlist a reluctant Ox to play piano--and as skeptical as Harry was over the whole idea, he had to realize it was their last hope.

Sleep didn't encroach again until well past midnight, letting loose of him before any nightmares could gain momentum. Jack lay in the early light and wallowed in the happy possibility that every sleep from now on could be as sane and uncorrupted as it had been before he'd gone globe-trotting at President Wilson's invitation. He'd always wanted to see the world--but snaps of charred fields and broken bodies were not scrapbook material. Still, he had survived that hell on earth and he could remember his elation on the ship to New York. It was as vivid as his memory of a grim-faced Harry and teary-eyed Ox waiting at the gate, with news they hadn't been able to put in a letter.

How fresh and full life had seemed, up till that moment. All through the voyage home, he'd imagined the pride in his dad's eyes, the joy in his mother's. He still tried to imagine it whenever he had a bad night. It didn't help as much as the gin.

- Five -

Sloughing off the clothes he'd slept in, Jack immersed himself in a tubful of warm water, a small pleasure he had learned never to take for granted again. When he was clean and dry, he stood over the kitchen sink and emptied the remaining gin. The liquid slipped away down the drain and he watched with a regret that was mild for the moment. Breakfast had a greater appeal. He went across to Ida's, hoping to wheedle at least some toast and coffee from Esther, and maybe pie. He had already run a tab as long as Ida allowed and if she was around this morning, he could forget even the coffee.