The Removed(17)

He bit his lip. I wasn’t sure if he agreed or what he was thinking, but he remained quiet.

“Wyatt told me he does impersonations,” I said to Ernest. “He said he does a Frenchman.”

“A what?” Ernest said. “A Frenchman? You do impersonations, son?”

Wyatt leaned forward over his plate and glared at Ernest. “That is correct, monsieur,” he said in a French accent. “I can speak like Inspector Clouseau, monsieur. Tell me, what is it you do?”

Ernest brought a bite of chicken to his mouth and looked at Wyatt. I saw his face turn, and wondered if he caught the similarity to Ray-Ray’s impersonations.

“I’ve been all over the world,” Ernest said. “I was like a tawodi, a hawk. I traveled to Germany, Mexico, Canada. I’ve been to the West Coast and all the way up to Bangor, Maine. I was born in ’thirty-nine.”

“Trippy,” Wyatt said, nodding. “The good old days. The radio days. Some great music back then, eh?”

Ernest looked confused.

“Hey,” Wyatt said, “I’ll be right back, cool?”

He excused himself from the table, and I started taking the dishes into the kitchen. I rinsed them off in the sink and put them in the dishwasher. Back in the living room, Wyatt was showing Ernest a stack of records.

“My friends all like Scandinavian death metal,” Wyatt was saying. “It’s garbage, all modern music. I say to them, ‘You kids need to appreciate good music.’”

“What do they say?” Ernest asked.

“Nothing. I tell them to remember the roots. Muddy Waters, I say. Give me vintage jazz. Give me big band. Give me blues.”

Ernest took his hands out of his pockets. “And Sinatra?”

Wyatt puffed on an imaginary cigarette. “He swings, daddio. My favorite swinger.”

He was really warming up to us, becoming more talkative and comfortable, which was entertaining.

“I like your saddle shoes,” Ernest told him.

“Were you in the big war, sir?”

“The big war?”

“World War II.”

Ernest paused. “I was born in ’thirty-nine. I was too young.”

“What about Vietnam?”

“Vietnam? No, I was stationed overseas in Europe.”

“I want to hear all about it,” Wyatt said. “I want to hear everything.”

I was surprised at how quickly Ernest answered the questions, all from memory. Maybe I shouldn’t have been, since that was such a big part of Ernest’s life, but it was so long ago, and he rarely, if ever, mentioned it anymore. I felt a surge of hope.

For a while I listened to the two of them talk about old movies—Rio Bravo, The 39 Steps, East of Eden. They talked more about music. Wyatt said he had alphabetized his records by artist, including a set of old 45s, all of which he’d either found in record stores or antique shops or been given by grandparents. He mentioned some names that sounded familiar: Ella Fitzgerald, Dean Martin, Count Basie—the list went on. I found it all so strange, this obsession with these old records, and wondered why they were so important to him that he needed to show them to us.

“You like the oldies, cha-cha-cha?” he asked Ernest. “What about the hard stuff? The Jesus Lizard?”

“What the heck are you saying?” Ernest said.

“Rancid? Skunk Anansie?”

“What?”

“Okay, Pops, maybe mellow is your taste. I have Elliott Smith.”

Ernest stared at the album covers while Wyatt unpacked a spiral notebook that had all the records listed by artist, album, year, and record label, an entire catalogue he’d spent hours on, claiming he wanted to be a serious collector of vintage music.

“I only keep my top eight with me,” Wyatt said. “I have forty-three records total. The rest are at my aunt’s house in Kansas. She enrolled me in dance lessons last year, and I had to practice the Charleston with her while my cousins watched. They’re all squares.”

Ernest burst into laughter. It was the first time in months I had heard him laugh.

Ernest turned and looked at me, his eyes wide. “Is the record player working?” he asked. “Let’s give this a listen. What do you think?”

He handed me a Dean Martin album. For the first time in many years, I turned on the turntable, blew the dust from it, then removed the record from the sleeve and put it on the turntable. I put the needle on the record and heard the scratching sounds I hadn’t heard in many years. The music began playing.

We listened to it for a moment, the horns and piano. It made me think of Italian restaurants from many years ago.

Wyatt said, “Would you dance with me, Mr. Echota?”

Ernest looked at me possibly for help. I laughed a little.

“Dance?” Ernest said to him. “Right now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m old, son.”

“Age means nothing. I just want to dance with you, sir.”

“We’re both males.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“I’m in bad health,” Ernest said. “My back is sore. I’m sure my colon is ruptured.”

Wyatt looked at me, then began browsing through his records, rearranging them, showing them to Ernest, then organizing them in his sack. It was Wyatt’s vehemence, I think, that brought Ernest to fall into a type of trance, staring at the boy.