Pretend She's Here(45)
“That’s one way to put it. Haven’t you ever heard of Dylan Thomas Revisited? Their song ‘Do Not Go Gentle’?”
The tune came into my head. Both Mick and our dad loved the band DTR, and “Do Not Go Gentle” was one of the first songs Mick had taught Dad to play on his fiftieth-birthday Stratocaster. Mick always said the band’s front man was a genius guitar player and he was our dad’s favorite songwriter. Dad said it was a sin that musical tastes had changed and the band had fallen off the charts. That songwriter was obviously Mr. Donoghue. And Casey had mentioned how the family finances had changed when his success had faded. I wished so badly that I could tell my family about meeting Mr. Donoghue. They would have thought it was amazing.
One by one, we dropped everyone off. Mark got out first, walking down a long drive lined with snow-frosted spruce trees and marked with a banner: BENJAMIN FAMILY CHRISTMAS TREE FARM.
Hideki and Carole both lived about a mile away, on a street lined with Victorian houses. When they got out, I noticed a small sign in front of one beautiful blue house with a steep roof and ornate gingerbread cutouts around the eaves: PAMELA R. DEAN, MD, FAMILY PRACTICE. So, Carole’s mother had her office in their home. It felt weird to know she was the Porters’ doctor—and therefore mine. I had never loved my pediatrician before—I had mainly thought of him as the man who gave me shots—but in that moment, I felt a pang. Everything from my old life was gone, even Dr. Croft.
When the car stopped next, Angelique didn’t get out. She stayed cuddled against Casey, whispering in his ear, letting out that trilling little laugh of hers. Her gaze slid my way, and I reddened, positive her whispers were about me. Or maybe she just wanted me to see that she was close to Casey. Finally, she got up to leave.
Once she did, Casey half turned toward me.
“C’mon up here,” he said. “You don’t have to sit all the way in back.”
“I like keeping the guitars company,” I said.
“My kind of person,” Mr. Donoghue said, driving off again. “She doesn’t want the equipment to be lonely.” His brogue reminded me of Glen Hansard’s—Bea and I were obsessed with the movie Once, about street musicians in Dublin, and it comforted me to hear Mr. Donoghue talk. But it was killing me not to be able to tell my family about him, not to be able to imitate his voice to Bea.
He tuned the radio to a bluegrass station, and we listened the rest of the way home. Outside the car, snow began to come down heavily again. His headlights were on; I saw their bright reflection in the driving flakes. We turned onto Passamaquoddy Road, where our houses were. Before he could stop and drop me off at the Porters’ driveway, I spoke up quickly.
“I’ll get off at yours,” I said. “That way you won’t have to pull in twice, and it’s right next door.”
Mr. Donoghue did what I asked, driving through deep, not-yet-plowed snow, ice chunks crunching beneath the tires. We stopped at the side of the Donoghues’s house. When he and Casey started to unload his suitcase, the guitars, amps, and bags of gear, I helped.
Up close, I saw how run-down the house really was. The porch roof sagged, the concrete step was cracked, the paint had almost completely peeled off the shingles. Casey’s mother’s empty beehives ran in a row along a garden mounded with snow. Again, I felt a jolt to see them—they reminded me of the apiary at school. Mr. Donoghue unlocked the front door, and when we stepped inside, it felt almost as cold as outside. I saw my breath in the air.
Casey walked over to a thermostat; he turned it up, and I heard the furnace click on.
“Good job saving on heat,” his dad said. “But keep it up a few extra degrees when it’s this cold. Remember the pipes last year?”
“Okay, Dad,” Casey said. He went to a cast-iron stove standing in front of a big stone fireplace. He opened the door, stacked a pile of sticks and logs, and lit the pile with a match. The kindling caught and crackled.
I looked around. The room was full of furniture, paintings, books, thick wool rugs, and a long rustic pine bar. There was a stand-up piano in the corner, surrounded by a trumpet, a mandolin, two acoustic guitars, and one electric guitar, all set up on stands and ready to be played. Things were a little shabby, but in a cozy, well-loved way.
“Thanks,” Mr. Donoghue said, gesturing for me to put the guitar cases near the other instruments. “Not a bad week in New York, but it’s great to be home.”
“How’d it go, Dad?” Casey asked.
“Pretty good. We sold out the pub half the nights. Not the biggest take we’ve ever had, but better luck next time. We sure could have used a good mando player, though. Jamie is retiring, and I swear, in his heart he’s halfway left the band. You know what that means,” he said to Casey. “There’ll be a spot for you.”
“After I graduate,” Casey said. “I’m joining for sure.”
“Well, two and a half years till then. Four years of college after that. But I’ll wait, buddy. That’s the reason I do these gigs.”
“I know, to pay for my college. I’d rather have you home,” Casey said.
“Well, then think of the electric bill, and the heat, and …”
“I get it, Dad,” Casey said. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Mr. Donoghue said, and I thought I saw strain in his face. Were they really hard up for money? He turned to me then, and smiled. “How about you? Are you a musician?”