The Last Song Page 22

  "We were just kissing!"

  "No, I don't think so. You were definitely making out," Jonah said with conviction.

  "Have you had any dinner yet?" she asked, eager to change the subject.

  "I was waiting for Dad."

  "Do you want me to make you a couple of hot dogs?"

  "With ketchup only?" he pressed.

  She sighed. "Sure."

  "I thought you didn't even like to touch them."

  "You know, it's funny, but I've been handling a lot of dead fish lately, so a hot dog doesn't strike me as all that disgusting anymore."

  He smiled. "Will you bring me to the aquarium one time so I can watch you feed the otters?"

  "If you want, I might even be able to let you feed them."

  "Really?" Jonah's voice rose with excitement.

  "I think so. I'll have to ask, of course, but they let some of the student groups do it, so I don't think it would be a problem."

  His little face lit up. "Wow. Thanks." Then, getting up from the rocking chair, he added, "Oh, by the way, you owe me ten bucks."

  "For what?"

  "Hello? For not telling Dad about what Will and you were doing. Duh."

  "Are you serious? Even though I'm going to make you dinner?"

  "Come on. You work and I'm poor."

  "You obviously think I earn far more than I do. I don't have ten dollars. Everything I've earned has gone to help pay for my lawyer."

  He thought about that. "How about five, then?"

  "You'd take five dollars from me even though I just told you I don't even have ten dollars to my name?" Ronnie feigned outrage.

  He thought about that. "How about two?"

  "How about one?"

  He smiled. "Deal."

  After making Jonah his dinner--he wanted the hot dogs boiled, not microwaved--Ronnie headed down the beach, toward the church. It wasn't far, but it lay in the opposite direction from the route she usually walked, and she'd barely noticed it the few times she'd passed it.

  As she approached, she saw the outlines of the spire silhouetted against the evening sky. Other than that, the church disappeared into its surroundings, mostly because it was so much smaller than either of the homes flanking it and had none of the expensive details. The walls were made of clapboard siding, and despite the new construction, the place already looked weathered.

  She had to climb over the dune to reach the parking lot on the street side, and here there was more evidence of recent activity: an overflowing Dumpster, a fresh stack of plywood by the door, and a large work van parked near the entrance. The front door was propped open, illuminated by a soft cone of light, though the rest of the building looked dark.

  She walked toward the entrance and stepped inside. Looking around, she could see that the place had a long way to go. The floor was concrete, the drywall looked only half-complete, and there were no seats or pews. Dust coated every exposed two-by-four, yet straight ahead, where Ronnie could imagine Pastor Harris preaching on Sundays, her father was sitting behind a new piano that looked utterly out of place. An old aluminum lamp attached to an extension cord provided the only illumination.

  He hadn't heard her come in, and he continued to play, though she didn't recognize the song. It seemed almost contemporary, unlike the music he usually played, but even to her ears it sounded... unfinished somehow. Her dad seemed to realize the same thing because he stopped for a moment, appeared to think of something new, and started over from the beginning.

  This time, she heard the subtle variations he made. They were an improvement, but the melody still wasn't right. She felt a rush of pride that she still had the ability not only to interpret music, but to imagine possible variations. When she was younger, it was this talent above all else that had amazed her father.

  He started over again, making further changes, and as she watched him, she knew he was happy. Though music wasn't part of her life anymore, it had always been part of his, and she suddenly felt guilty for taking that away from him. Looking back, she remembered being angry at the thought that he was trying to get her to play, but had he really been trying to do that? Had it really been about her? Or had he played because it was an essential aspect of who he was?

  She wasn't sure, but watching him, she felt moved by what he'd done. The serious way he considered every note and the ease with which he made changes made her realize how much he'd given up as a result of her childish demand.

  As he played, he coughed once, then again, before stopping the song. He coughed some more, the sound thick and mucousy, and when it continued unabated, she broke into a run to reach him.

  "Dad?" she cried. "Are you okay?"

  He looked up, and for some reason, the coughing began to subside. By the time she bent down next to him, he was only wheezing slightly.

  "I'm okay," he said, his voice weak. "There's so much dust in here--it just gets to me after a while. It happens every time."

  She stared at him, thinking he looked a little pale. "Are you sure that's it?"

  "Yeah, I'm sure." He patted her hand. "What are you doing here?"

  "Jonah told me you were here."

  "I guess you caught me, huh?"

  She waved it off. "It's okay, Dad. It's a gift, right?"

  When he didn't respond, she motioned to the keyboard, remembering all the songs they'd written together. "What was that you were playing? Are you writing a new song?"

  "Oh, that," he said. "Trying to write one is more like it. It's just something I've been working on. No big deal."

  "It was good..."

  "No, it wasn't. I don't know what's wrong with it. You might--you were always better at composing than I was--but I just can't seem to get it right. It's like I'm doing everything backwards."

  "It was good," she insisted. "And it was... more modern than what you usually play."

  He smiled. "You noticed that, huh? It didn't start out that way. To be honest, I don't know what's happening to me."

  "Maybe you've been listening to my iPod."

  He smiled. "No, I can assure you that I haven't."

  She looked around her. "So when's the church going to be finished?"

  "I don't know. I think I told you that the insurance didn't cover all the damage--it's stalled for the time being."

  "What about the window?"

  "I'm still going to finish it." He pointed to a plywood-covered opening in the wall behind him. "That's where it'll go, even if I have to install it myself."

  "You know how to do that?" Ronnie asked in disbelief.

  "Not yet."

  She smiled. "Why is there a piano here? If the church isn't finished? Aren't you worried it's going to get stolen?"

  "It wasn't supposed to be delivered until the church was finished, and technically, it's not supposed to be in here. Pastor Harris hopes to find someone who's willing to store it, but with no completion date in sight, it's not as easy as it sounds." He turned to peek out the doorway and seemed surprised that night had fallen. "What time is it?"

  "It's a little after nine."

  "Oh, geez," he said, starting to rise. "I didn't realize the time. I'm supposed to camp out with Jonah tonight. And I should probably get him something to eat."

  "Already taken care of."

  He smiled, but as he gathered up his sheet music and turned out the light in the church, she was struck by how tired and frail he looked.

  25

  Steve

  Ronnie was right, he thought. The song was definitely modern.

  He hadn't been lying when he'd told her that it hadn't started out that way. In the first week, he'd tried to approximate something by Schumann; for a few days after that, he'd been inspired more by Grieg. After that, it was Saint-Saens he heard in his head. But in the end nothing felt right; nothing he did captured the same feeling he'd had when he'd recorded those first simple notes on a scrap of paper.

  In the past, he worked to create music that he fantasized would live for generations. This time, he didn't
. Instead, he experimented. He tried to let the music present itself, and little by little, he realized he'd stopped trying to echo the great composers and was content to finally trust himself. Not that he was there yet, because he wasn't. It wasn't right and there was a possibility that it would never be right, but somehow this felt okay to him.

  He wondered if this had been his problem all along--that he'd spent his life emulating what had worked for others. He played music written by others hundreds of years earlier; he searched for God during his walks on the beach because it had worked for Pastor Harris. Here and now, with his son sitting beside him on a dune outside his house and staring through a pair of binoculars, despite the fact he most likely wouldn't see a thing, he wondered if he'd made those choices less because he thought others had the answers and more because he was afraid to trust his own instincts. Perhaps his teachers had become his crutch, and in the end, he had been afraid to be himself.

  "Hey, Dad?"

  "Yeah, Jonah."

  "Are you going to come visit us in New York?"

  "Nothing would make me happier."

  "Because I think Ronnie will talk to you now."

  "I would hope so."

  "She's changed a lot, don't you think?"

  Steve put down the binoculars. "I think we've all changed a lot this summer."

  "Yeah," he said. "I think I've gotten taller, for one thing."

  "You definitely have. And you've learned how to make a stained-glass window."

  He seemed to think about that. "Hey, Dad?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I think I want to learn to stand on my head."

  Steve hesitated, wondering where on earth that came from. "Can I ask why?"

  "I like being upside down. I don't know why. But I think I'll need you to hold my legs. At least in the beginning."

  "I'd be glad to."

  They were silent for a long time. It was a balmy, starlit night, and as he reflected on the beauty of his surroundings, Steve felt a sudden rush of contentment. About spending the summer with his kids, about sitting on the dune with his son and talking about nothing important. He'd gotten used to days like these and dreaded the thought that they would soon be ending.

  "Hey, Dad?"

  "Yeah, Jonah?"

  "It's kind of boring out here."

  "I think it's peaceful," Steve responded.

  "But I can barely see anything."

  "You can see the stars. And hear the waves."

  "I hear them all the time. They sound the same every day."

  "When do you want to start practicing standing on your head?"

  "Maybe tomorrow."

  Steve put his arm around his son. "What's wrong? You sound kind of sad."

  "Nothing." Jonah's voice was barely audible.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Can I go to school here?" he asked. "And live with you?"

  Steve knew he'd have to tread carefully. "What about your mom?"

  "I love Mom. And I miss her, too. But I like it here. I like spending time with you. You know, making the window, flying kites. Just hanging out. I've had so much fun. I don't want it to end."

  Steve drew him close. "I love being with you, too. The best summer of my life. But if you're in school, it's not as if we'd be together like we are now."

  "Maybe you could homeschool me."

  Jonah's voice was soft, almost scared, and to Steve, he actually sounded his age. The realization made his throat tighten. He hated what he had to say next, even though he had no choice. "I think your mom would miss you if you stayed with me."

  "Maybe you could move back. Maybe you and Mom could get married again."

  Steve took a deep breath, hating this. "I know this is hard and doesn't seem fair. I wish there were a way I could change that, but I can't. You need to be with your mom. She loves you so much, and she wouldn't know what to do without you. But I love you, too. I never want you to forget that."

  Jonah nodded as though he'd expected Steve's response. "Are we still going to Fort Fisher tomorrow?"

  "If you want to. And afterwards, maybe we can go to the waterslides."

  "There are waterslides there?"

  "No. But there's a place not too far from there. We just have to remember to bring our suits."

  "Okay," Jonah said, sounding more animated.

  "Maybe we'll go to Chuck E. Cheese's, too."

  "Really?"

  "If you want to. We can make it happen."

  "Okay," he said. "I want to."

  Jonah was quiet again before finally reaching for the cooler. When he pulled out a plastic bag of cookies, Steve knew enough not to say anything.

  "Hey, Dad?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Do you think the turtles will hatch tonight?"

  "I don't think they're quite ready yet, but it shouldn't be long."

  Jonah brought his lips together but said nothing, and Steve knew his son was thinking about leaving again. He squeezed him a little closer, but inside he felt something break, something he knew would never quite heal.

  Early the next morning, Steve stared down the beach, knowing that if he walked, he would do so simply to enjoy the morning.

  God, he came to realize, wasn't there. At least for him, anyway. But that made sense, now that he thought about it. If pinpointing God's presence were really that simple, then he supposed the beaches would be more crowded in the mornings. They would be filled with people on their own quests, instead of people jogging or walking their dogs or fishing in the surf.

  The search for God's presence, he understood now, was as much of a mystery as God himself, and what was God, if not mystery?

  Funny, though, that it took him so long to see it that way.

  *

  He spent the day with Jonah, just as they'd planned the night before. The fort was probably more interesting to him than Jonah, since he understood some of the history of the War Between the States and knew that Wilmington was the last major functioning port in the Confederacy. The waterslides, however, were far more exciting for Jonah than they were for Steve. Everyone was responsible for carrying his own mat up to the top, and while Jonah was strong enough the first couple of times, Steve soon had to take over.

  He honestly felt as though he were going to die.

  Chuck E. Cheese's, a pizza parlor with dozens of video games, kept Jonah occupied for another couple of hours. They played three games of air hockey, accumulated a few hundred game tickets, and, after cashing in the tickets, walked out with two squirt guns, three bouncy balls, a packet of colored pencils, and two erasers. He didn't even want to think about how much it had cost him.

  It was a good day, a day of laughter, but wearying. After spending some time with Ronnie, he went to bed. Exhausted, he fell asleep within minutes.

  26

  Ronnie

  After her dad and Jonah had taken off for the day, Ronnie went to look for Blaze, hoping to catch her before she was due at the aquarium. She figured she had nothing to lose. The worst that could happen was that Blaze would blow her off or reject her out of hand, which would leave her in the same position she was already in. She didn't expect Blaze to suddenly change her mind and didn't want to get her hopes up, but it was hard not to. Will had a point: Blaze wasn't anything like Marcus, who had no conscience at all, and she had to be feeling just a little guilty, right?

  It didn't take long to find her. Blaze was sitting on the dune near the pier, watching the surfers. She said nothing as Ronnie walked up.

  Ronnie wasn't even sure where to start, so she began with the obvious.

  "Hi, Blaze," she said.

  Blaze said nothing, and Ronnie collected herself before going on.

  "I know you probably don't want to talk to me..."

  "You look like an Easter egg."

  Ronnie glanced at the outfit she was required to wear at the aquarium: turquoise shirt with the aquarium logo, white shorts, and white shoes.

  "I tried to get them to change the uniform to black, but they woul
dn't let me."

  "Too bad. Black's your color." Blaze flashed a quick smile. "What do you want?"

  Ronnie swallowed. "I wasn't trying to pick up Marcus that night. He came on to me, and I don't know why he said what he did, other than because he wanted to make you jealous. I'm sure you don't believe me, but I want to let you know I never would have done something like that to you. I'm not that kind of person." It had all come out in a rush, but she had said it now.

  Blaze paused, then said, "I know."

  It wasn't the answer Ronnie had expected. "Then why did you put those things in my bag?" she blurted out.

  Blaze squinted up at her. "I was mad at you. Because it was obvious he liked you."

  Ronnie bit back a response that would have put an immediate end to the conversation, giving Blaze the opportunity to go on. Blaze focused on the surfers again. "I see you've been spending a lot of time with Will this summer."

  "He said the two of you used to be friends."

  "Yeah, we were," she said. "A long time ago. He's nice. You're lucky." She wiped her hands on her pants. "My mom's going to marry her boyfriend. After she told me, we got in this really big fight and she kicked me out of the house. She changed the locks and everything."

  "I'm sorry to hear that," Ronnie said, and she was.

  "I'll survive."

  Her comment made Ronnie think about the similarities in their lives--divorce, anger, and rebellion, a parent's remarriage--yet despite those things, they were no longer the same at all. Blaze had changed since the beginning of the summer. Gone was the zest for life Ronnie had noticed when they first met, and Blaze seemed older, too, as if she'd aged years instead of weeks. But not in a good way. There were bags under her eyes, and her skin was sallow. She'd lost weight, too. A lot of weight. In a strange way, it was as if Ronnie were seeing the person she might have become, and she didn't like what she saw.

  "What you did to me was wrong," Ronnie said. "But you can still make it right."

  Blaze shook her head slowly. "Marcus won't let me. He said he wouldn't talk to me again."

  Listening to her robotic tone made Ronnie want to shake her. Blaze seemed to sense what Ronnie was thinking, and she sighed before going on.

  "I don't have anywhere else to go. My mom called all the relatives and told them not to take me in. She told them that it's hard for her, but what I need is 'tough love' right now. But I don't have any money to eat, and unless I want to sleep on the beach every night for the rest of my life, I have to do what Marcus tells me. When he's mad at me, he won't even let me shower at his place. And he won't give me any money from the shows we do, so I can't eat, either. He treats me like a dog sometimes, and I hate it. But who else do I have?"