Part 28 (1/2)

Time: 8:00 p.m.

Date: Sat.u.r.day, May 1

Cello: James Cyrus Martin, IV

Piano: To be announced

”What is this?” she asked. ”This is two days from now. Who gave you permission?”

”Ellen spoke to the board; they thought it was a good idea.”

Barrett found it hard to breathe, why hadn't anyone told her, and what the h.e.l.l was Ellen doing going behind her back? And why did the invitation remind her of the ones that she and Ralph had sent out for their wedding?

A hard knock came at the library doors.

Barrett startled and turned her head.

”You seem jumpy, Dr. Conyors. I hope it's nothing I said. That's just your detective,” Jimmy commented getting to his feet. ”But he's not invited ... You know, I do feel refreshed.” Halfway to the door he stopped and turned, ”But I don't think you got what you came for today ... pity. Maybe next time you'll do better ... or maybe I will.”

TWENTY-TWO.

Jimmy watched as the door shut on Detective Hobbs and Barrett Conyors. His temples pounded and saliva flooded his mouth. He heard them on the other side, their voices lowered. His stomach ached and the image of Maylene's bleeding head swinging from father's hand still burned in his mind.

He peered through the peephole. She was flirting with Hobbs, he could see it in her hand as it whipped back through her short hair and in the way she tilted her chin on that wonderfully long neck. ”The head bone's connected to the neck bone,” Father sang.

The b.l.o.o.d.y cleaver high in the air, catching the reflection of the orange flames and then it comes down, chop, chop, chop-three times. ”Too old for nannies.”

Jimmy blinked, struggling for control. Father was itching to come up, and then there were all the others, some with names and others who swam about in the soup of his insides, constantly reliving their bits and pieces of his past. And it appeared that Dr. Conyors knew this; why else would she have used hypnosis, or brought up why his medications didn't work? She knew.

”She wants to trick you, Jimbo,” Father cackled.

”No, but at least she sees me for who I am, and not some schizophrenic.”

”She'll send you back, Jimbo. And where's the fun in that?”

”I'm not going anywhere,” he headed back into the library and picked up his cello.

Father continued to prattle as Jimmy tried to focus on the music. It was an easy Debussy, but his fingers seemed fat and slow and he couldn't control the lithium tremor. His intonation soured and jarred in his ear. The longer he played, the worse it got, missing notes by a blackboard-screeching eighth tone, and losing the delicacy of the pa.s.sages with fingers robbed of their usual dexterity.

And Father wouldn't shut up, ”It was a happy day, wasn't it?” father prattled. ”So many good things all at once. It was your eighth birthday.” He sang, ”Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you ...”

”Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Jimmy. Happy birthday to you.” Father was drunk and drinking more while Jimmy and Ellen played duets in the library. Usually they'd run upstairs when they heard him come in, but this time they were too caught up in the back-and-forth fun of the Beethoven duos.

Jimmy smells whiskey and knows that tonight he'll get a visit from Father. His stomach churns and he hears Ellen pull the keyboard closed on the Bosendorfer. He wants to hide, but knows that only makes things worse.

”Come on Jimmy,” Ellen says, pretending that everything is fine. ”Let's go upstairs.”

”Yes, little doves,” Father teases, ”fly away, fly away. But I do have a present for Jimbo.”

Jimmy looks at Ellen, she shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head. There's no escape. Father disappears and there's a clanging of doors and distant footsteps clomping down into the bas.e.m.e.nt and the cellar below that. And then the steps reverse and with them come an inconsistent thumping, as though some hobbled creature is rising up from the bowels of the earth. The kitchen door closes and Father sings, his squeaky voice rattling through the walls, ”Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you ...”

Jimmy sees the black wooden case first, it's covered with colored stickers and custom's stamps, some in English some in other languages from places like La Scala, The Tchaikovsky Festival, and the London Philharmonic. Father places the cello case in the center of the Sarouk. ”Want to see?” he asks.

Jimmy nods, and cautiously approaches.

Father's fingers work at the case's snaps, clicking them open one by one.

Jimmy feels a hand on his shoulder as Ellen stands beside him. There's no present for her, on this their shared birthday, just the black cello case for Jimmy.

Father opens the case and in the soft evening light Jimmy sees Allegra. Her dark body lies nestled in a bed of black velvet with two securing bands strapped across her graceful curves.

”She's over three hundred years old,” Father says, taking out one of the two ivory-tipped bows and handing it to Jimmy. ”I thought you'd like her.”

Jimmy walks up to the cello, not even caring that Father is so close. His hand reaches out and strokes the gleaming surface.

Father smiles and shakes his head, ”It's okay, she's yours. Take her out.”

Reverentially Jimmy liberates the Amati from its cradle. He pulls out the endpin and holding it by the gracefully scrolled neck he turns the instrument in the light. It feels light, and makes his own instrument seem clumsy.

”They say he crushed rubies and diamonds and mixed them into the varnish,” Father says. ”There were big secrets as to what went into the varnish, it was all about blood, and magic and s.e.x. She's been owned by some of the world's greatest cellists, son-her name is Allegra- and now she's yours.”

Jimmy carries his prize back to his chair and plucks the A string. It was in perfect pitch. Running a bow across the strings, the room fills with Allegra's warm throaty song.

Ellen walks back to the piano and lays into the opening runs of the Chopin. The music flows, as he and Ellen fill the room with glorious sound, shutting out the world in a blissful sea.

They play straight through. He forgets that father is in the room, until a harsh clap reminds him.

”You like the cello, Jimbo?” Father asks.

Jimmy fears a trick; there's always a trick. ”Yes,” he answers, hoping that Father wouldn't rip Allegra from his hands.

”I'm glad, I have another gift for you,” he says.