Justin Tussing - Vexation Lullaby

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.

In the sudden black, I feel the world wobble, the way a spinning top will shake and right itself as it slows. Did I see something before the lights quit? The way he moves his plodding feet, his listless hands, the shapes his lazy mouth will make, this is the scope of my hard-earned authority. Really, he’s a stranger. Really, we’re all strangers. Gabby is a stranger to me, and Patricia, too. Rosalyn is a stranger. Who is Arthur Jacob Pennyman? A person could follow me for years and never find an answer.

Cross’s voice still warbles in the darkness.

Is this it? I wonder. And I tell myself I don’t know what that question means.

Peter knows about festivals in India where paper flotillas are set alight on holy rivers. The ships contain offerings to the dead. He hasn’t seen the festivals in person — he learned about them watching Globe Trekker ; after Lucy moved out, he watched the show a lot. Despite the fact that they traveled with a cameraperson, the show’s hosts always manage to seem alone — walking across desolate beaches, hiking into rain forests, riding trains beside shockingly poor natives. Peter liked that the hosts didn’t resemble other women on TV; each had some obvious flaw, a crooked tooth, a heavy bottom, a too-round face. They favored hiking boots and knee socks — sometimes you’d spot a zit.

What reminded him of the burning ships was something he saw at the end of the show. Cross dismissed his band to play a slow and halting song. Peter wondered if the audience found it indulgent, the inwardness of the music, but they looked mesmerized. A ramp of light connected Cross to the rafters. Then the light quit him. That’s when it happened. Like those burning envoys, a swaying constellation appeared. It wasn’t like concert footage a person might see from the ’70s; these weren’t lighters. It was strange and beautiful. He was looking at cell phones.

As Peter watched, a dark hole appeared in the fabric of light. It grew larger, eclipsing the audience. Coming off the stage, Cross walked smack into Peter, put his arm around the doctor’s shoulder, and said, “Get me out of here.”

The singer’s clawlike hand stayed fast to the collar of the Peter’s shirt. People crushed against them. Where, Peter wondered, was Cyril? He pressed on, towing Cross behind him, the general of a retreating army. Where was Bluto? Following a fissure in the crowd, Peter headed down a set of stairs, through a hallway choked with gear and bodies.

Cyril, with his extraordinary timing, stuck his head out a doorway. “Big Man coming through,” he said.

But when Peter tried to squeeze in, Cyril’s hand found his center of gravity, freezing him.

“It’s okay,” Cross said.

Cyril pulled the doctor in, shut the door behind him.

They were back in the dressing room. The singer paused before a buffet table draped with white linen; he lifted a bottle of water from an ice bucket, then pointed it toward the bathroom. “Is he still in there?”

“The band sounded good tonight,” Cyril said. “You about tore the place down.”

Peter checked the bathroom — Allie was gone.

Cross must have read Peter’s face. “Does anyone know where he’s off to or did he just split?”

“He went out to get a bite,” Cyril said. “Wayne’s tagging along.”

Cross nodded at trays of fruit and sandwiches waiting beneath cellophane. “So I guess this isn’t food. And who the fuck is Wayne?”

“You know Wayne.”

“Are you feeling all right?” Peter asked.

“He’s okay. Aren’t you, boss?”

Cross toweled his hair, then headed into the bathroom; he didn’t bother to close the door. The sound of halting splashes hinted at an enlarged prostate, par for the course.

When Cross returned, his face appeared scrubbed. “Is Bluto avoiding me?”

“He went to fire Fletch.”

Peter heard his own voice ask, “Why?”

Cross poked at the sandwiches under the plastic. “Do we have a replacement lined up?”

“Bluto always has a plan,” Cyril said. “He won’t play chess because he knows how it ends.”

Cross picked his baggy sweatshirt off the back of a chair and threaded his head through the neck hole, tugged it on. “What about the French guy? He’s run the boards before.”

“Patrice left last summer.”

“Do either of you have any idea where Allie is?” Cross barked.

“Give me a second,” the bodyguard said, heading out the door.

“Lock it,” Cross said.

Peter went over and shot the bolt. When he turned around, Cross was pressing the palms of his hand into the tray of sandwiches, mashing them down.

“I was hoping you’d hear those songs tonight, but I guess you were down here looking at Allie.”

Peter remembered Ogata’s advice, Shut up and listen .

“The problem with a Hippocratic oath is it can be used against you.”