Richard Powers - The Time of Our Singing

Take care of yourself and we’ll do the same. Who knows? We all might live long enough to share more clams.

Blood’s blood, huh, blood?

You’d better pitch this note when you’re done with it.

She didn’t sign it. But at the bottom, as an afterthought, she’d added, “Work on your brother for us, will you?”

As I held the note, it burned into me. I didn’t throw it away when I was done. I left it out on the front table. Blood is blood. If any law-enforcement agents broke into my apartment, I wanted the words somewhere easy to find. I refused to think about what those two had done, what would-be crime, what trouble they’d fallen into. We’d been born illegal. Just demanding that the law change was a crime. All I could do was wait to hear from them, whenever and wherever they surfaced. It wouldn’t be soon.

I never told Teresa about the visit. I’d never have managed to introduce them. I’d have bounced between them, sheltering one from the other, the way Jonah once tried to deceive both his voice teachers. I’d never be whole. My parts didn’t fit. I didn’t want them to.

Right after the visit — soon enough for my knot-tying brain to imagine a link — Da forwarded a letter from Jonah, the first I’d heard from him since Magdeburg. The luster of communism had worn off. He’d made his way through East Germany—“Did the Leipzig pilgrimage without you, Mule”—performed concerted music in Berlin—“No lieder, though; who’s loyal to you?”—then went back west to do Das Lied von der Erde in Cologne. He then crossed over into Holland and walked away with a plum prize at the ’sHertogenbosch competition.

Not sure what happens next. The world seems to be my oyster at present, or at least my Zeeland mussel. Nobody has restricted my voice to any category short of music, although I confess I’m only understanding about 40 percent of anything anyone says, so they may be calling me the Prince of Darkness, as far as I know. I’m telling you, Mule, you’re a prisoner in the States. Still a slave, a century after the fact. You can’t even know what you’re under until you’re out from under it. You want to feel what it means to be without leg irons for the first time in your life? Come on over, before the global spread of American culture turns us into darkies, even out here.

He gave the address of a management firm in Amsterdam where he could always be reached. “Always” had a rather narrow range for my brother.

Tucked into the note he forwarded from Jonah, Da included one from himself. He hadn’t been down from the city to hear me play, and I’d discouraged him from thinking about coming. He had no sense of the stuff I played each night — the surfing anthems, the thinly veiled drug celebrations, the love songs to automobiles, hair dryers, and other motorized devices. In Da’s mind, I was a concert pianist who made a living performing. His letter to me was short and fact-filled. He was advancing in his work, the problem he’d worried for three decades. “Where Mach meets the quantum, it must be timeless!” Crazy things were happening in physics again, the crazy things he’d predicted thirty years before. Multiple splintering universes. Wormholes. Nothing, of course, about the crazy things bringing this world down around his ears.

In the last paragraph of the note, almost an afterthought, to pad the letter out to respectable length, he added, “I am going to the hospital in two days for exploratory surgery. You aren’t to worry. My symptoms are too unpleasant to describe on paper. The doctors just need to see what’s going on inside, and for that, they need to crack me open!”

I got the packet the day after the surgery. I called home, but no one was there. He’d listed no other contact, not even the hospital where he was to be operated on. I called Mrs. Samuels, who gave me a hospital number. I knew from her voice that she was trying not to be the one to break the news. I went to Mr. Silber and asked for two days off.

“Who’s supposed to play for my guests? You want me, maybe, to be the jazzman? You want me to pretend I can play like Satchmo Paige?”

I didn’t tell Mr. Silber about my father. My father’s in the hospital would mean Big black buck dying of complications from type II diabetes. If I told him pancreatic cancer, he’d want to know details. I couldn’t go through that with Mr. Silber. Your father, a Jew? I couldn’t force kinship on this man.

I did tell Teresa. She wanted to go with me, even on that first trip. “You don’t need to,” I told her. “But I might need you down the line.” I didn’t need to ask her to pace herself. She knew how long time was. She’d spent her own life waiting it out.

At the hospital, I suffered the usual farce. His son? The surgeon at Mount Sinai didn’t bother disguising his shock. His disbelief had started long before, at the moment of incision. “This cancer has been working a long time. Years, perhaps.” That sounded about right. “I can’t see how anyone could have lived with this for so long and only now—”

“He’s a scientist,” I explained. “He’s not from around here.”

I found Da sitting up in bed, apologetic smile welcoming me. “You didn’t need to come all this way!” He waved his palm at me, dismissing all diagnoses. “You have a life to lead! You have your job, out in Ocean City! Who’s going to make music for your listeners?”

I spent two days with him. I returned the following week, this time with Teresa. She was a saint. She made half a dozen trips with me over the next four months. For that alone, I should have married her. Crisis brought out her art. She handled everything — all the routine realities I used to handle for Jonah when we toured and that I couldn’t handle now. She didn’t have to go with me. Didn’t have to stand at my side and watch me watch my father disappear. I’d already cost her hers. It only crippled me worse, her insisting so gladly on helping me lose mine.

Da delighted in her. He loved the idea of my having found someone, this shining someone in particular. At first, our visits made him feel guilty. But he grew to depend on them. Da went home from the hospital, and Mrs. Samuels moved into the Fort Lee house, as she had in spirit many years before. Whenever Teresa and I showed up there, she made herself scarce. I never knew the woman. Perhaps my father and Mrs. Samuels might have gotten married, had any of his children given them the least encouragement. But I didn’t want a white stepmother. And Da, too, could never have jumped off the world line that he’d drawn himself. How could he have explained to his second wife that he still held nightly conversations with his first?

Terrie and I sat with him as he went down. He must have felt the vigil as a sentence. I waited until I couldn’t delay in good faith anymore. Then I wrote Jonah, care of the management agency in Amsterdam. I couldn’t say “dying” in the letter, but I said as strongly as I could that Jonah might want to come home. With the letter chasing him around the stages of Europe, I figured it might be weeks before we’d hear. I had no way to contact Ruth, or any sense of how she might receive the news.

Da enjoyed our company, as far as it went. The fact is, we didn’t spend much time together when Teresa and I visited. He grew furious with preoccupation, in the homestretch. He continued to work all the way to the end, more fiercely than I can remember him ever working. Science was his way of lengthening his shortened days. He worked until he was so drugged with palliative medication, he didn’t even know he was working anymore. He tried to explain to me what was at stake. Some weeks, he seemed desperate. He needed to prove that the universe had a preferred rotation. I couldn’t even wrap my head around what such a thing might mean.