The Leavers(115)

At the ferry terminal I bought a ticket, then found a place on the upper deck. The boat rocked in the waves, and as I saw the lights of Kowloon come through the fog, I held the railing, breathless with laughter. How wrong I had been to assume this feeling had been lost forever. This lightheaded uncertainty, all my fear and joy—I could return here, punching the sky. Because I had found her: Polly Guo. Wherever I went next, I would never let her go again.

The breeze my hair blew back, then forward. The water was Minjiang, New York, Fuzhou, but most of all it was you. I thought of the last time you and I had gone to the water together in New York, the summer before I was taken to Ardsleyville. Late August, afternoon edging into evening, the heat lessening its grip, we had walked to a bridge over the Harlem River, spanning the Bronx and Manhattan. The air was soft and thick, and the walkway swayed as cars drove past. The river below was brown and muddy.

We’d stood in the middle of the bridge. You were ten, almost eleven; already you preferred your friends’ company to mine. I’d had to bribe you with a candy bar to get you away from the TV.

I pointed to a building on the Manhattan side. “Can you see who lives there?” I asked, remembering one of our old games.

You shook your head and rolled your eyes.

“Maybe it’s a mother and son,” I said.

Finally, you said, “No, a baseball team.”

“The whole team? Or just a few of them.”

“Everyone lives together in the same apartment. It’s a big apartment.”

“They play at night,” I said. “They sleep during the day.”

You broke into a smile. “They eat french fries. Play catch on the roof.”

“But they never fall off.”

Far below us, the water moved, revealing an umbrella, a mass of plastic bags. The river looked tough, decisive, but it always gave up its secrets.

Now the ferry engine slowed as it approached the dock. A man tossed a rope overboard. “This is Kowloon,” I heard a woman say. We floated to a stop, and I lifted the handle of my suitcase, letting myself be pushed along with the crowd. Soon I would be walking onshore to a new place. The beginning, I knew, was always the best part.

On the bridge above the Harlem River, an ice cream truck had tinkled its song, followed by the snort and stop of a bus. A car had rolled down its window, music pouring out, a woman singing, Some people want it all . . .

We had stood and listened on the verge of a summer night. Then you’d cupped your hands around your mouth and leaned over the railing, shouted your name into the air. I joined you, shouting mine, and we let our voices rise, leaping and echoing, flying over the city. My heart unclenched. You were growing fast, and soon you would be taller than me, but there was always this game, this song.

We started toward home, the sun coming over the rooftops, and when you began to run I followed, feet pounding the sidewalk, only a moment behind.





Twenty-One



The third time he played was on a Tuesday night. The opening act out of four, he sat onstage with his acoustic guitar and looper station, which had the back-up tracks he’d recorded at home in his room. Outside, what seemed like the twentieth snowstorm of the season was grinding up to its chorus, and inside, only one of the tables was occupied, and by members of the next band. A couple had wandered in from the main bar in search of the bathroom and left ten seconds into Daniel’s first song. He’d heard them talking during his short introduction (his name, a hello; he nixed the obligatory quip about the weather), and when they walked out he had wanted to run off stage after them.

He hadn’t invited anyone to his shows, though the last time he played, two weeks ago, Roland had happened to be walking past the bar and had noticed Daniel’s name on the blackboard outside, alarming him by shouting “Daniel Fucking Wilkinson!” after the last song. “Why’re you being so secretive?” Roland had said afterwards. “We hung out two days ago and you didn’t say anything about playing.” It wasn’t about being secretive; it was about self-protection. “Just say the word and I’ll let Thad know and you can put this out. But don’t wait too long. No one else is doing stuff like this.”

Christmas lights were strung up along the bar’s walls, points of blues and yellows and reds. Daniel heard the guys from the next band talking to one another, caught a glimpse of the bartender playing with her phone.

The first two songs came out wobbly, his voice still froggy, the pacing rushed, but by the third song, the one about Deming and his doppelg?nger, the initial terror had mostly burned off and his playing was steadier, his voice stronger, and he started to feel the words he was singing. Between songs, he paused for enough time to elicit a trace of dry applause from the next band, which made up in enthusiasm what it lacked in volume.

What was the compulsion to expose himself so fully, to keep doing something that scared the shit out of him? It hadn’t been scary when he’d been playing other people’s music, or performing with other people. This was different. Roland had called his songs fresh, crazy honest, the real deal, and after each gig Daniel thought, May I never do have to do that again. But a few days later he’d be sending out links to his webpage, trying to book the next one.

He made it to the final verse when he looked up at the near-empty room, the fear barging in. Do the audience a favor, he thought. Cut the set short. He stumbled, forgetting the next line. The song hung in freefall. He wanted to flee, to safety and also to humiliation, but knew these were good songs, that he was worthy of being heard, and he hated, more than anything, not being listened to. He remembered the line and the song righted itself, regained its balance.