Desert Discord Read online

  “Andy threw his violin over the fence somewhere around here,” he said. “I suppose it’s still there, unless the people who live there found it.”

  “That was quick thinking,” said Saskia.

  “I wish I’d had the same idea,” said Simon. “That oboe was the best instrument I’ve ever owned. It cost more than my piano. They just smashed it to pieces.” He walked back to an area beside the sidewalk and found a few more fragments.

  “Assholes,” he muttered.

  “There were three of them?” asked Ramona.

  “Yeah. I wish I could have gotten a better look at them. They weren’t even very old, but they were bigger than both of us. The tallest one was the leader, I think. He’s the one who kicked Andy in the head when he fell. I can’t believe it. Makes me sick to think about. Andy did get off one good punch, though. That’s probably what made them mad, that and not being able to smash his violin.”

  “Andy hit one of them?” said Saskia. “That seems out of character. I can’t imagine Andy hitting anybody.”

  “They were taunting him,” said Simon. “The tall guy just stood right in front of him and kept saying, ‘Hey, queer, punch me in the nose. I’ll give you one shot. I’ll even shut my eyes. Just punch me in the face, queer. I’m gonna give you five seconds to punch me in the face.’ Andy punched him in the stomach. It really surprised the guy. It must have hurt. Andy hit him hard. That’s when the three of them jumped on him. He tried to fight them off, but they were all over him. That’s when I took off running, and one of the guys went after me.”

  Simon returned to the chain-link fence and walked along it slowly, trying to see through breaks in the foliage. Ramona and Saskia followed along, searching along the fence line. After Simon had walked twenty feet, he suddenly stopped and pointed up.

  “I think that’s it,” he said. “Does that look like a violin case?”

  Ramona crouched down to look through a low break in the leaves.

  “Yeah, I think so,” she said. “About ten feet up in that crape myrtle. Right there. Andy must have thrown it hard.” She stepped back and looked back and forth. “This is about the center of the block. Let’s go around and see if we can figure out which house it is.”

  They returned to Ramona’s car and drove around the block. On that side were five large ranch-style houses. This had been rich Duro in the 1950s, back before many of the well-heeled moved east. Ramona parked in front of the large front yard of the center house.

  “Hey, I think I know these people!” she said. “They’re patrons of the theater. I’ve been here.”

  The three of them walked up to the double front door and rang the bell. After a minute, a portly gray-haired woman answered, smiling pleasantly.

  “Yes?”

  “Frieda! I thought this was your house.”

  “Ramona Piedman!” said the old woman. “How lovely! I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I’m so sorry to just pop in like this,” said Ramona. “This is going to seem like a very strange request, but could we have a look in your backyard?”

  “Uh … certainly. Please, come in.” She held the door wide, puzzled.

  Fifteen minutes later, as it was starting to get dark, Frieda’s husband descended an aluminum ladder he had propped against a crape myrtle in the enormous backyard. Under his arm was a violin case, and inside was the undamaged Dodge.

  “Well, that’s a small bit of good news,” said Saskia. “I wish I could tell Andy. I hope he’s waking up. If they would just let me see him!”

  “I understand the hospital’s policy,” said Ramona, “but I wish they could be a little bit flexible. At least they let his family be with him, though I’m not sure his father is any help. Poor old man is a mess.”

  “I’ll come tomorrow morning,” said Saskia. “I’m kind of glad they wouldn’t let Doug see him today. He’s such a hothead. I’m afraid that when they find out who’s responsible, Doug will do something stupid. Mom, let’s take Simon home. Simon, do you want to keep Andy’s violin for him?”

  “You can keep it,” said Simon. “You’ll see him before I will. I need to go home. Tomorrow I’m going to try and find somebody who can lend me an oboe before Tuesday night’s rehearsal.”

  “Poor thing, you go get some sleep,” said Ramona.

  “I hurt too much to sleep. But thanks.”

  Ramona drove Simon home, then headed back to the Piedman house, where an irritated Apollo wondered where his supper was coming from. As they pulled into the driveway, Saskia saw her Mustang, with its long hood and stubby trunk, and remembered what was in it.

  “Oh … shit,” she said.

  – 13 –

  Chris Rhodes Needs Scratch

  The Ford F-100 drank gas like a hungover wino guzzles tap water. Even back when Chris’s father bought it new, back in 1961, the truck was no tea-sipper. Now that the engine was old, and especially after his daddy and uncle bored out the block two years ago, Chris had to refuel every other day, or close to it. It didn’t help that he typically put only one or two dollars’ worth into the tank each time. Just a year ago, two bucks could get him six gallons, enough for a few days if he didn’t go crazy driving around town. But the last time he checked the signs on the gas stations out on Dobbins Highway, premium gas was selling for 40.9 cents, and Chris nearly choked. Premium was the only thing the old truck could run on without stalling at every stoplight.

  It was 7:30 Tuesday morning, and Chris had to be at the auto parts store by 7:45 or get yelled at. He’d only had the job a week, and he was already on the boss’s bad side. He glanced down at the gas gauge. The needle sat right against the top of the E. As soon as it got to the middle of the E, the engine would die. It was the rare gas gauge that wasn’t kidding. Chris had to get gas.

  He pulled into Dago’s Pride Station and rolled up to the pump. He wished there was a self-service station on the way to work, because gas was usually two cents cheaper and he didn’t suffer the embarrassment of telling the attendant to give him a dollar’s worth. Chris checked his wallet. Shit. Three dollars. He wondered how much he should spare for fuel, because that money, plus a little pocket change, was all the scratch he had till Friday.

  Suddenly, he remembered something and smiled to himself. The wallet! The one they’d taken from the queer in the park. Of course! He looked in the glove compartment, and there it was. In the thrill of the fight and the fast getaway, Joe Gittelman had tossed the wallet into the compartment without checking it. Now Chris took it out and laughed out loud. Forty-five dollars! Woo-hoo!

  There was a tap at the window, and Chris rolled it down.

  “Fill ’er up with ethyl,” he told the attendant.

  As the sleepy guy in coveralls gassed up the truck, Chris looked through the wallet. No charge cards, but he couldn’t have used those anyway. He paused when he found the guy’s driver’s license. The queer had shorter hair when the picture was taken. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, really. The name on the license was Andrew Deutsch Zamara. Chris felt a little bit bad about what had happened to him. At least he hadn’t kicked the guy when he was on the ground. Chris had just thrown a couple of punches and then chased the other queer across the street.

  Well, those guys were the ones who decided to be queer. Maybe the whole experience had learned them some manhood. That’s what Chris’s daddy would say when he thought some guy was being a wimp: “Somebody needs to take him out back and learn him some manhood.”

  Chris paid the attendant, put the change in his pocket, and flipped the billfold back into the glove compartment. No more worries about gas for at least the rest of the week.

  – 14 –

  Continuo

  There are cellos, or they might be double basses playing in a higher register. There are notes, but they seem to go nowhere. Is the orchestra warming up? If so, why are there only cellos? How many instruments? Dozens? Thousands? There is no music because there is no structure, and with no structure there’s no song, just notes, notes,
and more notes, here, there, up, down. Always low and mournful, climbing sometimes but always coming back down.

  I’m going to cover your right eye, and I want you to follow the light. Don’t move your head.

  The light is a small point at the end of a small pen, and as it moves, the eye moves with it, trying to keep it in the center. The notes fade but are still there, idling, waiting. Warming up.

  Very good. Let’s do the same thing with the other eye. Again, try not to move your head.

  The small light moves and the eye follows.

  A soft touch. Don’t move your head. Just your eye. Follow the light now. Very good. You did a great job. You can rest now.

  The light goes away, the eye shuts, and the notes rise.

  But now there is a tonic, a floor note. It’s G. The open G from the third string on a cello, or maybe the highest string on the double bass. Other notes come, rising and fading above the G, but nothing ever goes below.

  And there is rhythm. The G doesn’t play a steady tone but modulates into a slow, repetitive ascent—G, then B flat, then C, A, and return to G. After this pattern repeats several times, the renegade notes of the other cellos and double basses fall into line, and order is achieved. G, B flat, C, A, G, B flat, C, A, over and over and over, slowly, slowly. Behind the notes are the beeps and clicks and whooshes of strange percussion instruments.

  A continuo.

  Order follows disorder. It’s a relief, but it’s boring. It’s music, but it’s not a song. Music must have variation and tension to be a song. It must start somewhere and go somewhere. Something else is needed, a note to assert a direction and signal a beginning and a break from the endless repetition of the continuo.

  The required note is E, but not the open high E of the violin, but the E played with the second finger on the second string, in third position to allow a rich and slow vibrato to cut through the slow traffic of the low notes and stand out from the beeps and clicks and whooshes. But how to create the E? That’s the question. The note won’t come on its own.

  There is a violin. The left hand rises and the middle finger comes down and the hand rocks back and forth, the bow draws slowly across the string, and a sweet high E emerges like a blooming flower. But it’s still not a song. Other fingers move, and slow notes pour out like paint onto a canvas, dabbing here and there. The continuo never changes, but the sweet notes sing above it, pulling it along, hurrying, urging it forward.

  Gradually, the rhythm quickens. Now there is a song.

  – 15 –

  Apollo Feeds the Dogs

  There were no art classes to teach on Wednesdays. Apollo usually spent that day grading papers or planning lessons. Sometimes, less and less frequently it seemed, he worked on his own art.

  There were three art studios at DCC, one primarily for freshman and novice artists, and another, called “the little studio,” for second-year art students and the more experienced. The third studio was called the “fire room” because it once was the place for welding and brazing, and it also held a large kiln for ceramics. At the Fire Safety Inspector’s insistence, all those activities were moved to a separate concrete-floored metal structure behind the main art building, and the fire room became less utilized. Apollo preferred to work there, because he was seldom interrupted. A couple of years ago, he’d dragged a castoff couch into the room and sometimes took naps on it.

  Today, he planned to do some more work on his latest project, which he had shown no one. It was a self-portrait. He only worked on it when he was alone, and put the canvas away in a locked cabinet when he wasn’t there. Apollo set up his paints and stool, and positioned the easel. He also adjusted the large mirror, which measured two feet by three feet and could be rotated or tilted into any position. He moved it so his head and torso were centered. When he was finally ready, he unlocked the cabinet and took out the portrait.

  He was not happy with it. The picture still lacked any interesting depth, though that would come as he developed the background. What really was not working was the face. He was going for a certain, one might say, ferocity, capturing the anger he felt inside. But what was emerging was more along the lines of a sad homeless person.

  Apollo looked at the portrait a long time. He saw it better than he had in months, because of his new glasses and 20/20 vision, and with this sharp clarity the eyes looked wrong, the cheeks sagged, the whole face appeared to be in the early stages of rot.

  “I look like a dead hobo,” said Apollo. He had drawn himself as an old man. What was he trying to find? His future?

  He did not want to work on this wayward portrait, not today. But he told himself what he told his students, which he called the Feeding the Dogs lecture:

  You cannot say, “Today I don’t feel like practicing my art,” any more than you can say, “Today I don’t feel like feeding my dogs.” You might get away with not feeding them for a day or two, and then the dogs will be weaker and more desperate. If you are not really an artist, then you might decide you can stop doing your art, stop feeding the dogs, for months. Then one day you decide to pick up your brush or pencil, and there will be nothing there. The art is gone. The dogs have run away, or died.

  If, however, you are a real artist, then when you neglect your art and your dogs, you may discover one day they have become feral, like wolves. They may abandon you forever, or they might just decide to turn around and kill you.

  Apollo opened a tube of lamp black, peeled the top sheet off the paper palette to expose a fresh one, and squirted out a dollop of paint. He set the palette on a stool positioned to one side, then turned to the mirror and raised his left hand. In the mirror’s image, it appeared to be his right arm. He wanted to get the angle of the arm exactly right, so he tried several different positions. No matter what he did, he still looked like an old man with glasses holding his arm up in a funny way.

  Apollo sighed and started trying to feed the dogs.

  Tina was the day manager three days a week at the Diamond-Eight store on Hamilton Avenue in east Duro, and often worked the night shift on weekdays at the other store on 23rd Street. She hated weekend duty. She usually worked alone, and four months ago she had been robbed at gunpoint as she was closing the store at one fifteen a.m. The police had caught the guy a few blocks away, but the experience still rattled her.

  One good thing was that she always made sure there was fresh coffee in the pot, plus available goodies like chocolate-chip cookies or homemade donuts. It was bait for the night-duty cops, and it worked. The Duro police and county deputies stopped by with reassuring frequency.

  Her shift started at seven, but she usually tried to overlap with the day manager by at least fifteen minutes. Today, however, she had to buy a used tire for her old car, and so Farzad had to work a few minutes past his normal relief time. At least he was one of the clerks who would be cheerful about it and not hold a grudge.

  When Tina finally hurried in to the store at 7:20, a box of peanut butter cookies under her arm, Farzad greeted her with a wide smile. It was not his style to make facetious remarks like, “Well, look who decided to show up.” He just said, “Hi, Tina!”

  “I’m so sorry, Farzad,” she said. “My spare tire was not as tough as I thought it was. Fortunately, I was right in front of the Enco station when it went flat, and they had an old one to sell me. It was my fault for riding around on it for a week.”

  “It’s okay,” said Farzad, and he meant it. “Hey, there was a policeman looking for you. Officer Miller. He came by just a few minutes ago.”

  “Oh yeah, I know him. Cam Miller. He stops by at least once a night, but usually not this early. Did you have fresh coffee for him?”

  “No, he wasn’t here for coffee,” said Farzad. “He wanted to ask you some questions about those boys who got beaten in the park last weekend.”

  “Okay, I was wondering when the cops were gonna talk to me,” said Tina. “I didn’t see much from here, but one of the boys ran over here to get away, and I saw the boy who wa
s chasing him.”

  “Did you get a good look? You could give them a description.”

  “I did more than that. I recognized him. His name is Chris, and I know his mother. I always thought he was a nice kid. I don’t know why he did it.”

  “Maybe he just got caught up in it, trying to show off for his friends. Boys do that when they get to be teenagers. Have to prove they’re tough.”

  “I suppose,” said Tina. “I hate to think he’s going the wrong way. He needs better friends. Things are getting crazier. When I was in junior high, sometimes me and my friends would borrow my dad’s tent and sleeping bags and have a campout right in Murchison Park, and nobody would think anything about it. Now it’s not safe to even take a walk over there after dark.”

  Farzad folded his apron and clocked out. “All right, Tina. Hey, be safe tonight.”

  “I will,” she said. “I have my secret police magnet.”

  She opened the glass lid on the display beside the counter and spread out the four dozen peanut butter cookies she had made, then taped a little handmade sign to the front, FRESH COOKIES 25¢. That was the price for walk-in customers. For cops, they were always free.

  – 16 –

  The View from the Eleventh Floor

  The halls describe a big circle, or more accurately, a rectangle with curved sides. He walks that circle, over and over, as music plays in his head. Walk slowly on the slick floor, wearing slippers with rubber soles, down the long white hall. Turn left. Walk. Sounds come and go, fading in and out like the transitory parts of a Charles Ives symphony. Turn left. Beep beep beep, low voices, swoosh-swoosh, more beeps, the tinny sound from a television game show, coming and fading.