Cyril nodded.
The doctor crouched down, watched the naked man smoke, watched the slow way he blinked, how he couldn’t seem to keep his head up.
“You feeling okay?”
Alistair twisted the cigarette between his fingers, stubbed it out on the tiled wall. “My clothes are wet.”
“Did you throw up?”
Alistair licked his lips.
“He passed out on the throne,” Cyril said. “I couldn’t wake him.”
No wonder Maya hadn’t heard from him.
Alistair managed to climb halfway to vertical before one of his feet slipped. He went straight down, his head glancing off the toilet, his body slapping on the floor. He started snoring; he’d knocked himself out cold.
“Shit,” said Cyril. “That ain’t going to help.”
With his phone’s stopwatch, Peter checked Alistair’s pulse and respiration. “Do you know what he took?”
Cyril stood outside the bathroom door, so only his tilted forehead peeked in. “Wayne saw Allie getting up in Fletch’s grill earlier, but I don’t want to speculate.”
“So how long’s he been like this?”
“You believe me if I said his whole life?”
Peter turned, one shoe squeaking on the floor. “I mean today.”
“Maybe an hour or two.” Cyril stepped into the bathroom, opened the faucet and washed his hands. “You think he’ll be okay?”
When he rotated through the ER, Peter had dealt with every species of overdose: drug abusers, accidentals, suicides, and parasuicides. Before falling, Allie had seemed coherent enough. Puking was good. The ice water was good. He’d rather Cross’s son hadn’t hit his head, but with his vitals stable it wasn’t a huge concern. He’d probably have some bruising on his face, a headache, sure as hell.
Peter pointed toward the dressing room. “Can you find him some dry clothes?”
Cyril nodded. He touched a finger to his earpiece, had a short conversation with someone. “Wayne’s going to see what he can come up with.”
“Where’s Bluto?”
“He can’t be involved in this.”
Peter grabbed Allie’s ankles and dragged him away from the toilet. He rolled him onto his side, then pinching his ear, said, “Alistair, I need you to sit up for me.”
The naked man rubbed his cheek with his hand. “Did you punch me?”
“Nobody’s hitting anybody,” Cyril said.
Alistair picked a sodden cigarette off the floor and plugged it in his mouth.
Peter snatched the cigarette and tossed it in the toilet. “Do you know where you are?”
“Why’d you take my clothes?”
Peter checked Alistair’s pulse again. “How do you feel?”
“I feel fine.”
Peter used the light from his phone’s camera to check Alistair’s pupils.
“No pictures!” Alistair said. “My eyes are copyrighted.”
“What do you want to do with him?” asked Cyril.
Peter stood up, looked at the bodyguard. “Have him drink a quart of orange juice or Gatorade in the next hour.”
“Are you going somewhere?”
“I’m not going to sit here and hold his hand.”
“What if that’s what the Big Man wants?”
Peter watched Alistair unspool the toilet paper on the wall. “Tell him I’m not obliged to be convenient.”
“I’ll have Wayne play nurse. Promise you won’t go anywhere until he gets here.” Cyril put his hand on Peter’s chest. “Don’t test me.”
AFTER CYRIL LEFT, Allie sat up again. “Find me a towel.”
Peter grabbed a stack of towels from a dressing table. He handed them, one at a time, to Allie, who piled them over his lap.
“Is your back better?”
Allie could only manage to focus one eye at a time. “I’m you.”
“You’re me?”
Allie nodded.
“What did you take?”
Cross’s son pantomimed buttoning his lips.
“I saw Maya earlier. She was looking for you.”
Allie unbuttoned his lip. “She’s got a boyfriend.”
Peter believed him.
“You think you might be sick again?”
Allie slapped at the plunger and flushed the toilet again.
The dressing room door opened and Wayne walked in. He poked his head into the bathroom and made a quick assessment. “Have you met your spirit animal?”
“Shut up,” Peter said. “Did Cyril tell you what you’re supposed to do?”
“I have to get him to drink something and I can’t let him out of my sight.” Wayne shook his head. “My father wanted me to go pre-med.”
59
Columbus doesn’t hear the band that played in Pittsburgh. The setlist never deviates from the mean. Cross stays out in front of the guys, a tenth of a beat ahead, riding the brakes.
Maybe, for him, tonight is the ideal and last night the aberration. The songs unwind in a familiar way. He sounds like people expect him to sound. It’s rote entertainment.
Rosalyn looks pale. A purple scarf wraps around her neck. She’s not sleeping, though her eyes are closed. After “Blue Fancy,” she squeezes my hand and says, “That was pretty.” She’s not wrong, but I wonder if she’d be more comfortable in her bedroom. And then it occurs to me that I’m not afraid that Cross will have a bad show, but that I will — that when the show ends, I’ll find myself missing something I’d counted as mine at the start of the show.
Albert reaches out his hand and claps the cymbals with his palm. Cross releases a solitary chord. It reminds me how a breeze will sometimes announce the arrival of a summer storm. The crowd bolts up in their seats
I scan the wings, to see if Allie is standing there holding his four-string guitar.
Rosalyn leans over to speak into my ear. “What’s wrong, Arthur?”
They’re playing “Acrobat Daredevil Circus.” For eight years the crowd has chanted “A.D.C.” They’ve begged in Rome, in Denver, in Cairo, and everywhere else. The begging is a material part of the ritual of a show. Why would he quit the embargo?
“Listen.”
“It’s beautiful!”
But that’s no justification. After all, it’s always been beautiful.
When the song is over, the band walks off the stage. Really, what else can they do?
Rosalyn says, “What’s the deal with that song?”
“He’s not supposed to play it. It’s called ‘Acrobat Daredevil Circus.’ He’s not supposed to play it. It’s about his son.”
“Why wouldn’t he play it?”
I say, “It’s better when he doesn’t play it,” though I don’t know exactly what I mean. I waited eight years to hear that song and instead of having a memory of hearing it, I’m left with the sense I hallucinated it.
THE BAND STARTS the second set with “Absolutely Nowhere.” It’s a relief to be back on steady ground. Rosalyn kisses my fingers while Cross plays “Platte River”—as lackluster a song as he’s ever put his name to. And who’d imagine “Tycho Brahe” (played in 5/8 time!) might soothe me?
A body appears at the back of the stage, a guy in a dress shirt. A slim figure, so it can’t be Allie — unlike his scarecrow father, Allie’s always been generously proportioned, his gut more formidable than his chest. Hidden among the shadows, this person is perceivable only when he shifts his weight. His face may be unremarkable, but I recognize him all the same. It’s Dr. Silver. I try to will the doctor to look my way, to find my face in the crowd, but, like everyone else, he’s only got eyes for Jimmy.
And now the guys in the band step out from behind their instruments, they unplug, stow their instruments, leaving Cross alone on stage. He turns his back to the audience, crouching down near the drum riser.
When he stands, he’s wearing the Darth Vader armature that holds his harmonica.
IN THE GLOVE box of the Corolla, I keep a pocket-sized journal listing the 428 songs (originals and covers) Cross has played since I joined him on the road. Does he play “Wayward Satellite”? Does he dust off “Concrete and Carnations”? Alone on the stage, he steps into the hard white spot — the rest of the lights have cut out — and blows a quivering note that climbs toward the darkened ceiling of the hall. He brings the guitar in, a growling chord as solid as an anvil. And this time I’m the first one in the room to know what he’s up to. As inconceivable as it seems, he’s launched into “A.D.C.” again. “Launch” is the wrong word. It’s tentative; every note seems provisional. His voice is a whisper, a night voice. It sounds like the lights are off. And then, in the next moment, someone kills the spotlight.