Everything You Are(5)
Phee is a product of twentieth-century America, raised on practicality, responsibility, and hard work. She’s far removed from her Irish-born grandfather and the mythology and magic that he cloaked himself in. And yet, most of the time, she believes.
Musicians, and those who make instruments, are a superstitious lot. The tale of blues musician Robert Johnson and his meeting with the devil at the crossroads is a classic, but he’s not the only one. Similar stories are told about legends of rock and roll like Ozzy Osbourne and Keith Richards. Much farther back in history, violinists Tartini and Paganini were both rumored to have received their unbelievable dexterity from a deal with the devil.
Even musicians who would be appalled at the idea of selling their souls have odd little rituals they perform before every concert, ceremonies of candles and foods and music that closely resemble incantations.
When Phee was eighteen, brand new to her inherited position as luthier, she’d scoffed at the idea of a curse. It was only the oath she’d sworn to her grandfather that held her to the duties, and she bore them relatively lightly.
Until an incident that turned her blood to ice. Coincidence, Bridgette still insists, when she’ll discuss it at all. Phee is not so sure. And now, a new tragedy is connected to Braden and the cello, and Phee isn’t taking further chances. One way or another, she has to get him playing again.
She wraps the ledger book back up in the towel and returns it to its place. In her desk drawer are six hanging file folders, one for each of her musicians, full of news stories and clippings. Braden’s is anemic, full of a whole lot of nothing, but still she reviews what little she has, just in case she has somehow missed something.
The announcement of his engagement to Lilian Hayes. A wedding photo. Last known address. And a Seattle Times story with the headline “Seattle Symphony Loses First Chair Cellist.” There is a grainy photo of Braden, younger, clear eyed, unscarred, and smiling. One hand rests on the cello, the other holds a bow. Phee knows the story by heart.
Braden Healey, first-chair cellist for the Seattle Symphony Orchestra, announced his resignation this week following a tragedy that left his hands severely frostbitten and his brother-in-law dead.
Law enforcement reported that Mitchell Conroy, thirty-four, of Colville, Washington, died of a massive heart attack after falling through rotten lake ice at a remote hunting lodge near Colville. The damage to Healey’s hands occurred while attempting to rescue Conroy and administer CPR during subzero conditions.
“We are deeply saddened both for Mr. Healey and for this blow to the music world,” said Yolanda Blaisey, spokesperson for the Seattle Symphony Orchestra. “Braden was a stellar talent and is loved by all of us. We will miss him deeply.”
After that, there is nothing. Braden falls into complete internet oblivion. The orchestra hires a new cellist. There are no more recordings. No more stories. All she’d been able to elicit from his wife, Lilian, was a terse “He doesn’t live here anymore.”
Phee has in her possession CDs of all five of Braden’s recorded albums. She likes CDs better than online music, even though logic tells her it all sounds the same. Choosing the Bach Suites for Unaccompanied Cello, she presses play and moves to the bed, where she can lie down and stare at the ceiling while listening to the soul of a man who was unable to die at the same time as his music.
She finds herself weeping for him, for Allie, and for the abandoned cello with an intensity of grief that has hitherto passed her over, even at the time of her grandfather’s death.
Chapter Three
BRADEN
Braden Healey, unusually sober on a Thursday afternoon, looks around and wonders, not for the first time, how he managed to wash up here. The pile of dishes in the sink, the unmade bed, this dismal bachelor’s apartment shared with another washed-up loser, where the only thing to look forward to is a brand-new bottle of Jack and the delivery of yet another pizza.
He’s just hung up from the pizza order when the phone rings, loud and startling in the silence. Some question about the order, he thinks, and then he sees the caller ID.
Lilian.
Once his wife, still the mother of his children, Lilian hasn’t talked to him in years. She might as well be living in an alternate reality, even though he lives in a neighboring suburb.
His first, his very first, reaction is hope, because secretly he’s always waiting for the curse to be broken. Lilian will call, and all of the darkness of the last eleven years will be swept away. He’ll wake up to find himself home, with Lili and their kids and the cello, and she’ll have come to understand what music means and . . .
Reality reasserts its heavy-handed point of view.
Lilian is not going to forgive him. Ever. She already had religion in plenty, so it’s not that she’s suddenly found Jesus and is calling to share the love. Something must be wrong. One of the kids is sick, or she’s short on money.
God. Has he forgotten the child support? It’s the one element of human decency he still clings to. If he’s descended to the ranks of deadbeat dad, then it’s time to end his sorry life once and for all. He very nearly doesn’t answer the phone but picks up at the very last second before the call goes to voice mail.
“Lil? What’s wrong?”
The voice on the other end confuses him, pure brass where Lilian’s is reedy and low.
“Braden? Hello? Can you hear me?”