Sherman Alexie - War Dances

“I chose all those songs for you,” he said. “They’re specifically for you.”

“But all these songs are your songs,” she said. “They’re not mine.”

“But if you listen to them,” he said, “if you learn them, then maybe they can become our songs.”

“We don’t have to love the same things,” she said.

“But I want you to love what I love.”

Did I say that? Paul asked himself. Did I just sound that love starved and socially inept? Am I intimidated by my own daughter? In place of romantic love for my wife, am I trying to feel romantic love for my daughters? No, no, no, no, Paul thought. But he wasn’t sure. How could he be sure? He was surrounded by women he did not understand.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” she said. “I can just load my music over your music. Thank you for the iPod.”

She shook her head — a dismissive gesture she’d learned from her mother — kissed her incompetent father on the cheek, and left the room.

Three years after his divorce had finalized, after two of his daughters had gone off to college, one to Brown and the other to Oberlin, and his third daughter had disowned him, Paul saw Sara Smile again in the Detroit Airport. They saw each other at the same time, both walking toward a coffee kiosk.

“Sara Smile,” he said.

“Excuse me?” the woman said.

“It’s me,” he said. “Paul Nonetheless.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Do I know you?”

He realized this woman only looked like his Sara Smile. It would have been too much to ask for a third chance meeting. If he’d run into Sara Smile again, they would have had to make their way over to the airport hotel — the Hyatt or Hilton or whatever it was — and get a room. He could imagine them barely making it inside the door before their hands were down each other’s pants. God, he’d drop to his knees, unbutton her pants, pull them down to her ankles, and kiss her thighs. He’d pull aside her panties and push his mouth against her crotch and she’d want it for a few moments — she’d moan her approvals — and then she’d remember her husband and her life — substantial — and she’d push Paul away. She’d pull up her pants and apologize and rush out of the room. And Paul would be there, alone again, on his knees again, in a room where thousands of people had slept, eaten, fucked, and made lonely phone calls home. And who would Paul call? Who was waiting for his voice on the line? But wait, none of this had happened. It wasn’t real. Paul was still standing in the Detroit Airport next to a woman — a stranger — who only strongly resembled Sara Smile.

“Are you going to call this coincidental now?” he asked this stranger.

“You have me confused with somebody else,” she said. She was smiling. She was enjoying this odd and humorous interaction with the eccentric man in his old-fashioned suit.

“Can I buy you a coffee?” he asked. He knew she was the wrong woman. But he wasn’t going to let that become an impediment.

“Sir,” she said. “I’m not who you think I am.”

She wasn’t smiling now. She realized that something was wrong with this man. Yes, she was in an airport, surrounded by people — by security — but she was still a little afraid.

“How’s your marriage?” he asked.

“Sir, please,” she said. “Stop bothering me.”

She walked away, but Paul followed her. He couldn’t stop himself. He needed her. He walked a few feet behind her.

“Me asking about your marriage is just a way of talking about my marriage,” he said. “But you knew that, right? Anyway, I’m divorced now.”

“Sir, if you don’t leave me alone, I am going to find a cop.”

She stopped and put her hands up as if to ward off a punch.

“My wife left me,” Paul said. “Or I left her. We left each other. It’s hard to say who left first.”

Paul shrugged his shoulders. And then he sang the first few bars of “She’s Gone.” But he couldn’t quite hit Daryl Hall’s falsetto notes.

“I can’t hit those high notes,” Paul said. “But it’s not about the notes, is it? It’s about the heat behind the notes.”

“What’s wrong with you?” the woman asked.

Two hours later, Paul sat in a simple room at a simple table while two men in suits leaned against the far wall and studied him.

“I’m not a terrorist,” Paul said. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

The men didn’t speak. Maybe they couldn’t speak. Maybe there were rules against speaking. Maybe this was some advanced interrogation technique. Maybe they were silent because they knew Paul would want to fill the room with his voice.

“Come on, guys,” he said. “I got a little carried away. I knew it wasn’t her. I knew it wasn’t Sara. I just needed to pretend for a while. Just a few moments. If she’d let me buy her some coffee or something. If she’d talked to me, everything would have been okay.”

The men whispered to each other.

Paul decided it might be best if he stopped talking, if he stopped trying to explain himself.

Instead he would sing. Yes, he would find the perfect song for this situation and he would sing it. And these men — police officers, federal agents, mysterious suits — would recognize the song. They certainly wouldn’t (or couldn’t) sing along, but they’d smile and nod their heads in recognition. They’d share a moment with Paul. They’d have a common history, maybe even a common destiny. Rock music had that kind of power. But what song? What song would do?

And Paul knew — understood with a bracing clarity — that he must sing Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On.” And so he began to hum at first, finding the tune, before he sang the first few lyrics — mumbled them, really, because he couldn’t quite remember them — but when he came to the chorus, Paul belted it out. He sang loudly, and his imperfect, ragged vocals echoed in that small and simple room.

What’s going on?

What’s going on?

What’s going on?

And, yes, Paul recognized that his singing — his spontaneous talent show — could easily be seen as troublesome. It could even be seen as crazy. Paul knew he wasn’t crazy. He was just sad, very sad. And he was trying to sing his way out of the sadness.

What’s going on?

What’s going on?

What’s going on?

The men kept staring at Paul. They wouldn’t smile. They wouldn’t even acknowledge the song. Why not? But then Paul remembered what had happened to Marvin Gaye. Broken, depressed, alcoholic, drug-addicted, Marvin had ended up living back home with his parents. Even as his last hit, “Sexual Healing,” was selling millions of copies, Marvin was sleeping in his parents’ house.

And, oh, how Marvin fought with his father. Day after day, Marvin Gaye Sr. and Marvin Gaye Jr. screamed at each other.

“What happened to you?”

“It’s all your fault.”

“You had it all and you lost it.”

“You’re wasting your life.”

“Where’s my money?”

“You have stolen from me.”

“You owe me.”

“I don’t owe you shit.”

Had any father and son ever disappointed each other so completely? But Paul couldn’t stop singing. Even as he remembered that Marvin Gaye Sr. had shot and killed his son — killed his song.

What’s going on?

What’s going on?

What’s going on?

And then it was over. Paul stopped singing. This was the wrong song. Yes, it was the worst possible song to be singing at this moment. There had to be a better one, but Paul couldn’t think of it, couldn’t even think of another inappropriate song. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I remember? Paul laughed at himself as he sat in the airport interrogation room. How had he come to this? Wasn’t Paul a great man who lived in a great country? Hadn’t he succeeded? Jesus, he was good at everything he had ever attempted. Well, he had failed at marriage, but couldn’t he be good at grief? Couldn’t he be an all-star griever? Couldn’t he, through his own fierce tears, tell his captors that he wasn’t going to die? Couldn’t he survive? Couldn’t he pause now and rest his voice — rest his soul — and then start singing again when he felt strong enough? Could he do that? Was he ever going to be that strong?