They rode into the sock chorus like a storm cloud of marauders on strong black horses, riding high up in the sky there, following that Gabriel horn, letting it become a part of them. They heard the blasting back there, and the blasting was a wild kind of unleashed thing that lapped nervously at their roots, a restless kind of music that reached up and kept reaching, and always reached for more, but never quite got there until they wanted to reach up with it, wanted to give it a boost, wanted to play harder, and better, and get up there with that horn, away up there where the horn was, where it was clean and clear and pure and sweet and where their lungs were washed with dry ice and fire. They were in the same kind of vacuum Vic had been in earlier that day, but this was a different vacuum, this was a vacuum they all created, this was their baby, like a real baby squeezed from a woman’s loins, only the woman was a horn, and the baby was a big golden bubble that burst from the bell of that horn, and rose swiftly, and touched the ceiling, and then shattered there into a million golden bubbles that knocked each other around and sped around the room in a dizzying swirl, gleaming hotly, gleaming with the taste of gold-brass, slapping the walls, and then bursting again into millions and millions of bubbles that enveloped them, and floated and rose and descended and rose again, carrying the boys, all around them, inside them. Bud wanted to keep listening to that trumpet, wanted to keep feeling the music as a part of him, feeling it vibrate around the room, showering golden bubbles on him, showering all that restless brassy searching feeling on him, that high shrill climbing, that straining yearning reaching.
But the bubble burst for the last time, and then it was all over, like it’s all over with a girl, and there was a curious emptiness inside Bud, of something that had been almost touched but not quite, something that had been a part of him for just a very little while, and was no more. There were only the echoes around him now, and then even the echoes disappeared, dissipated on the air, leaving only a vast, empty silence, a speechless, wondrous silence.
Reen’s applause came from the back of the room: not the shallow, mocking applause he reserved for Tony Banner’s clowning. Not that at all. It burst from those big hands of his, filling the empty stillness the music had left.
Bud felt tired and weak. He sat at the piano, and he looked at Frank, and the wise-guy smirk was gone from Frank’s face. He was staring at Andy, and Andy sat in his chair with the horn in his lap, out of breath, looking down at the horn and not looking at any of the boys. And Vic sat beside him, the solemn eyes sad now because he was reading the big writing on the wall.
There was another long silence after Reen stopped clapping. Bud could hear his own breathing at the piano, and then Tony stood up and unhooked his sax from the strap, and then he put the sax down across the seat of his chair, and he lifted one leg, resting his foot alongside the sax, leaning over and elbowing his weight onto his knee. He looked at Andy, and he wet his lips, and he asked, “How would you... how would you like to play with us, Andy?”
He said it softly and nervously, his anger all gone now, that harried look on his face, as if he had touched greatness, as if he wanted this kid to play with them very badly, and as if he were afraid the kid would say no.
Andy looked at him, and there was no smile on his face, no apparent knowledge there of what he’d just done. He nodded slowly, and then he said, “All right, I think so.”
5
first chorus ii
FEBRUARY, 1944
The rehearsal had been called for seven o’clock sharp on that February eighteenth.
There was a dance every Friday night at Our Merciful Father on Brooklyn Avenue, and Bud and Frank had got into the habit of attending it, along with Reen and the other boys in the clique before those boys were drafted. Tony hadn’t liked the idea of a too-early rehearsal, but Bud and Frank pounded at his ear, telling him they were going to rehearse tomorrow anyway, weren’t they, so what difference would it make if they started a little earlier and knocked off in time to make the dance?
Tony reluctantly conceded — reluctantly, because he didn’t like to dance himself, even though they’d dragged him along several times. Actually, he wasn’t a very good dancer, having learned from his mother, who’d taught him all the old-fashioned curlicues and none of the basic rhythm.
Bud and Frank went to rehearsal in suits that night, figuring they’d go directly to the dance afterward, saving the time of a trip home for changing clothes. Reen, who’d rather have been shot than appear at any public function alone, went to the rehearsal with them, also wearing a suit. They arrived at Club Stardust at about a quarter to seven, figuring they’d set up the drums and be ready to go at seven on the dot. Vic and Tony were already there, and Ox drifted in at five to seven. Mike came in at about a minute after seven, and by the time everyone warmed up and tuned up the band was ready to start playing at seven-ten. But Andy hadn’t arrived yet.
Bud sat at the piano in his blue suit, feeling strangely resplendent. Frank was on his left, looking very dressed up, looking as strange as Bud felt. They usually rehearsed in sports shirts or collars-unbuttoned, sleeves-rolled-up dress shirts, and Bud felt very stiff and formal sitting at the piano with pressed pants, and tie, and jacket.
Tony was wearing a suit, too. Bud did a little fast calculation and gathered Tony was going to the dance with them — either that or a-funeral or wedding. They hung around making small talk, almost afraid to move because they were dressed to the teeth and they’d never dressed for Club Stardust before, except at the Christmas party, and even then they’d only worn sports jackets.
Frank glanced at his watch, and then Reen glanced at his watch, and then everyone who owned a watch glanced at it, the movement having become as contagious as a yawn. Ox asked, “What are we waiting for?” and Tony said, “We’re waiting for Andy,” and then Tony looked at his watch.
Bud turned on the bench, and his elbow accidentally struck the keyboard, and everyone in the band turned to look at him, as if he’d burped.
“You know, they still haven’t cleared the snow on my street,” Ox said.
“Take that up with the D.S.C.,” Frank said.
“I think my father already has,” Ox said, the surprised expression on his face.
“He’s an upstanding citizen,” Reen said from the back of the room.
Normally, Reen’s comment would have presented an opening for some banter at Ox’s expense. Tonight it was greeted with silence. The silence mushroomed in on itself. In the bathroom the toilet tank gurgled in unusually loud voice.
“It’s hot as hell in here,” Frank said.
“Take off your jacket.”
“And get my shirt dirty? Not a chance.”
“What time is it?” Mike, who did not own a watch, asked.
“Seven-fifteen,” Bud answered. “No, seven-sixteen.”
“Well, we’ve got time yet,” Frank said.