LAST WEEK: We met Gayle and her son Jeremy, who has a great talent for the violin, although his music causes only heartache.
Read last week’s installment here. See all installments here. Read the next installment here.
Chapter 116
River
San Francisco — 1986
A New Year
New Year’s. River sits in his kitchen alone with Huck. Outside, the sky explodes with fragments of color. They drop like hopes, extinguishing before they reach the ground. River tries to bake, but his cakes will not rise, his cookies clump together in unappetizing lumps. Even his brownies, usually fail-proof, burn, scenting the house with sorrow and disappointment. Huck crows and flaps his wings disconsolately.
“I know boy,” River sighs. “I know.” He wishes Pamela was beside him, watching the colors dissolve into obscurity, making his darkness light. He wants to understand her truth, but he is afraid. He knows that a thing is not untrue just because it’s unimaginable. History, if it teaches nothing else, teaches that.
Chapter 117
Jeremy
San Rafael, 1862
Orpheus Undone
“I stand in the stream of time, unaffected and unaffecting. Watching what has been and seeing what will be. It’s not a bad way to be, but it’s lonely. I wish I could share it with you, wish that you would listen again. Listen and learn from my life. Mine and all those I’m sharing with you.”
But River is looking out his window onto the dirty street below. He has wrapped himself in sorrow so tightly that he hears and sees nothing, not trash rustling, not leaves blowing, not the soft despair on Ryo’s face. Ryo wishes he could shake River out of his reverie. He wants to grab him and awaken him, but he has only words to alter destiny, words softer than wind, and River is not listening.
“I know you, River. Your heart is big enough to embrace the circle of being, even though it contains destruction and creation in equal measure. You will not find peace by closing your senses, any more than you will find love through hatred or fear. You can only find peace through understanding—understanding and empathy.” Ryo watches River’s face, half in darkness and half lit by the streetlamps.
Huck flaps his wings and caws encouragingly. He flutters over and tries to perch on Ryo’s shoulder, but although he can see the disturbance of molecules where Ryo flickers, there’s not enough substance to rest on. He squawks and flutters regaining altitude. Ryo chuckles.
“Okay, Huck,” he says. “I get it. You want to hear the rest of the story, even if River doesn’t.
“It’s an exciting time: the country is exploding with growth and vigor. Railroads are expanding, connecting coast to coast. Eucalyptus saplings are imported from Australia to supply lumber for the rails. After all, wood cut from the ancient forests of Australia are strong and pliable, perfect for railroad ties. And they grow rapidly.
“Within a year, seedlings line the hills of Marin and flats of Oakland, tall and thin. But young wood is not the same as old. The sap runs fresh as hot blood. Instead of drying straight, they twist like writhing bodies as they desiccate. They are so tough it’s impossible to hammer spikes through their hearts. So other trees, native trees, are felled, and the eucalyptus remains. They still tower there today, stunting and supplanting the native oaks.
“The only place they do not flourish is near Jeremy’s house. Tough as they are, saplings subjected to Jeremy’s sonatas wither and die. A gift, when nurtured, grows naturally toward the light. But a gift when forced, when pulled almost to breaking, becomes corrupt. Music, as necessary to Jeremy as food, has been poisoned, his natural inclination deformed. He is a redwood dwarfed into a bonsai.
“When he plays, harmonies sweet and notes pure, flowers wither and plants die. His mother’s African violets, which have come all the way from Boston, turn brown and limp, their roots rot, their leaves fall like damp mouse ears to the floor. The hardy Iceberg roses lining the pathway to the house develop blight. All the trees within a mile radius are coated with white fly.
Chapter 118
Jeremy
San Francisco — 1870
Salt Sonatas
“When Jeremy is ten, Gayle takes him to San Francisco to play in the American’s Young Musicians Competition – for Protégés. It’s being held to inaugurate the newly constructed San Francisco Opera House. Dozens arrive from all over the country, traveling the new railroad, some come from as far away as Boston, bearing musical dreams and well-fingered sonatas.”
Ryo stands in the light of the past, watching Jeremy and Gayle travel across the Bay toward victory. Seagulls fly overhead, appearing and disappearing in clouds of steam from the boat. The sea and air are alive. Jeremy leans over the rail, delighting in the spray that runs salt fingers through his hair. Gayle does not notice the white birds or the contrasting blue of water and sky. She is seeing Jeremy winning first place, claiming the prize, shaming those from more civilized shores.
Upon landing at the dock, shadowed by the tall masts of boats, surrounded by men in top hats and women in long bustle dresses, Jeremy falls immediately, madly in love with the cool gray city. A single foggy embrace, and he is lost. Gayle is impervious to the city’s charms. She’s hungry for vindication, the triumph of her progeny, her conquest over fate.
“Although Jeremy’s technique and precision garner high scores, he never wins,” Ryo says. “When he plays, children get nose bleeds, ulcers rupture, toenails blacken and later, when stockings and boots are removed, tumble like bloody beetles onto the floor. The judges, haunted by nightmares and indigestion, always find some reason to award less perfect children the top prize.
“‘How can you not give him first place?’ Gayle rails. ‘You know he played the allegro faster than anyone, and with nary a flaw. His adagio is smoother, his fingering more perfect. You are all biased. You only want to give your big-city prizes to your San Francisco babies. You are bought! I know how it works. I’m no rube. I’m from Boston.’
Ryo smiles, “Even in her rage, Gayle refuses to acknowledge that she lives in Marin. Soon, when judges spot her entering a rehearsal room or auditorium, they develop head colds, or suddenly remember they have forgotten to sign important papers that can’t wait another minute. When mothers see her, they depart in haste to pick up babies, or dampen forgotten fires. More than one competition is canceled due to the sudden exodus of experts, or the withdrawal of contestants. When the week is over, Jeremy has received prizes only for technique. Gayle is livid.
“When they return to Marin, Dean, lost in an analysis of silver ions, doesn’t even notice.”
Chapter 119
River
San Francisco — 1986
Cat House
Ryo pauses, watching Jeremy and Gayle on the boat traveling homeward. Jeremy’s on the highest desk, leaning over the railing, captivated by the foaming waves. Gayle’s downstairs, sipping tea and bitterness.
Huck pecks River delicately on the cheek. River doesn’t seem to feel his touch. He is standing limply before the open window, letting the charred remains of burnt bread escape into the night like fleeing spirits. Huck flies after it.
“Huck!” River cries, leaning out into the night. The scent of sorrow lingers, but Huck has vanished. A few sparks fall from the sky like colored rain.
“Damn.” River runs into the street. Ryo, caught up in the slipstream of history, doesn’t follow.
Crows are not nocturnal. Like most diurnal birds, they cannot see without light. Of course, cities are never wholly dark, even on a night that isn’t exploding with fireworks. And for a crow, Huck has fairly keen night vision. River knows this. He knows it is a common mistake to consider only the biology of a species when every creature is unique.
But he can’t help worrying. It’s true, he thinks, individuals are distinctive as snowflakes; yet all snow melts. Snowflakes, after all, are as common as dirt, as ephemeral as life.
“Huck,” he calls again.
Huck is nowhere to be seen. As River’s eyes grow accustomed to the night, he sees a cat emerge from around a corner and disappear down a narrow alleyway. Another follows, and another. Cats pad the windy streets, shadows of darkness, silent as smoke. They dash through cobblestone alleyways, lit by occasional flashes of light, ghosts in feline disguise.
Surely, River thinks, there must be some meaning in all of these cats drifting toward a single destiny, their eyes glowing like secrets?
River wonders if he will ever comprehend even the smallest piece of life’s tapestry. Realities shift during the time it takes to wish on a falling star. The whole world can tilt as you turn to watch the random movement of a stranger. Something you’d thought was solid might be just a façade, its foundation built on quicksand.
It seems as if someone or something is summoning these cats. River follows the small, graceful shapes that appear and disappear out of the shadows, as silent as if they were shadows themselves. At the end of a cul-de-sac, a Victorian rises, its gingerbread windows dark. It’s empty. Deserted, except for the numerous felines gathering on the porch.
Chapter 120
Jeremy
San Rafael — 1875
Beethoven
Ryo watches history roll over him, images flickering with light from the past. He listens to Jeremy’s fiddle playing on strings of memory.
It’s a gray winter day. A small midnight-black cat emerges from the woods, one ear torn and caked with blood. He crouches on the lawn outside Jeremy’s window, leaping to happily bite the tails off the lizards who lie frozen, listening to the sounds of their hearts pulsing in slow rhythm to Jeremy’s adagios.
Jeremy has never before seen a creature unaffected by his melodies. After he finishes his eight hours of practice, Jeremy washes face and hands and changes for dinner.
“Mother,” he says, entering the drawing room. “There’s a cat outside. May I keep it, please?”
Gayle looks out onto the lawn. The cat waves its tail with fluid grace, staring at her with unwavering eyes, greener even than Jeremy’s.
“We can’t,” she says. “He may belong to someone.”
“He’s hurt, Mother, and he’s hungry. I’m sure he’s lost. May I have him, please?”
“No, I’m afraid we can’t. Cats are unclean.”
“Look, Mother, look!”
Outside the window, never taking his eyes off of Gayle’s, the cat lifts a paw and slowly licks.
“See, Mother? He’s cleaning himself! He knows that you will take him if he’s clean! May I have him, Mother please, please, please? I’ve never had a pet… or anything that’s mine.”
Gayle’s lips tighten.
“Except of course my violin. I’ll practice more, I practice harder, if only I can?”
“No, Jeremy. I said no.”
“Please,” Jeremy cries. “He has nowhere to go. He’ll be killed. He’ll be eaten by bears. I promise I’ll take care of him. You’ll never even know…”
Gayle sneezes. “It’s impossible,” she says. “I have allergies. Now come to the table for supper.”
“I’m not hungry,” says Jeremy, even though he has not eaten since practice began.
Gayle looks at him coldly. “Very well then. You are excused. You may go to bed.”
Jeremy leaves and goes to his room. Once inside, he pries open his window, calling to the little black cat who waits patiently, a shadow on the grass. The cat, full from lizard tails, jumps onto the ledge.
“Beethoven,” Jeremy whispers. “I shall call you Beethoven.”
The next morning, when Gayle opens the door, she sees two tiny black ears nestled against Jeremy’s face.
“Out,” she says. “I told you cats are dirty and carry disease.” She sneezes, grabbing at the cat as it rushes to the window, pushes at the frame, and leaps into the day.
“No,” wails Jeremy. “I love him. He loves me. He needs me.”
“Nonsense,” Gayle says. “Come to breakfast.
“I won’t,” says Jeremy. He is queasy, he needs food, but he needs love more, love without practice, love without conditions.
Gayle examines him out of cool blue eyes.
“Very well then,” she says, “If you aren’t hungry, I won’t make you. Get dressed and begin your practice.”
Jeremy cries. He has never before defied his mother. One might as well try to lasso the wind.
“Up,” she says, and leaves. Jeremy runs after her. He grabs the violin from its case and raises it high over his head. Gayle gasps. Her arm shoots out toward the instrument.
“Very well then,” she breathes.
Jeremy freezes. Green eyes look into blue, locked in battle, discovery, and understanding. This is the cost for obedience, the price for prodigy.
“We can try,” she says. “But mind your word to keep him neat and clean, and out of sight. Remember he’s your responsibility.”
“Oh, thank you, Mother, thank you. I will, I will.” Jeremy rushes at her, arms open, face lit with joy. He wraps his small thin arms around her. Gayle stands uncomfortably, then stiffly pats his back.
“There, there,” she says. “Now go have breakfast and you can get your… kitty… some milk.”
“Beethoven, his name is Beethoven,” Jeremy says.
“Well, good.” She smiles brittlely. “I’m certain he’ll enjoy your practice then.”
And Beethoven does. He’s grateful when Jeremy’s sonatas drive the mice from their holes and stun birds in mid-flight. He enjoys dismembering the butterflies that drop from the sky and tumble out of flowers, leaving nectar un-sampled. At night, sphinx moths fall into his open mouth like lime green tears. Not that Beethoven needs help to hunt in the night. Except for the glow of his eyes, Beethoven is invisible in the darkness.
No one knows it, but Beethoven is deaf. He covers well, his sharp eyes and long whiskers taking in the world through sight, scent, and feel. Jeremy loves his soft kitten scent, his green, slowly blinking eyes, his cold, kissing, wet nose, and his rough tongue. He curls against Jeremy’s chest when he sleeps, warming him with the loud rumble of his purr. It is the most beautiful sound Jeremy has ever heard. It’s the music of love.
Watch the author read this week’s installment in the video below:
NEXT WEEK: “I know you’ll not believe me. But I swear to you, and I am sober as a babe, tonight I saw four cats carrying a coffin, and on top was a small golden crown.”
Edited by Mitchelle Lumumba and Sophie Gorjance.
E.E. King is cohost of the MetaStellar YouTube channel's Long Lost Friends segment. She is also a painter, performer, writer, and naturalist. She’ll do anything that won’t pay the bills, especially if it involves animals. Ray Bradbury called her stories “marvelously inventive, wildly funny and deeply thought-provoking. I cannot recommend them highly enough.” She’s been published widely, including Clarkesworld and Flametree. She also co-hosts The Long Lost Friends Show on MetaStellar's YouTube channel. Check out paintings, writing, musings, and books at ElizabethEveKing.com and visit her author page on Amazon.