Justin Tussing - Vexation Lullaby

Allie shambles onto the stage, glossy with sweat. His fat face is loose in the jowls, his pretty blue eyes dart about. When he places a hand on his father’s shoulder, the crowd erupts.

Why bring Allie out now, in the middle of a throwaway set, on a calamitous night?

THE GIRL THEY picked up from Cirque du Soleil, the new Kev, prances out holding Allie’s four-string guitar; she waves to the audience, like she’s part of the show. The dumb crowd eats her up, her ironical curtsy.

“This is my son. He and I—” Cross’s voice cuts out, like he’s unplugged himself.

When Alistair stoops to speak into the microphone, a spasm runs through his body, as if someone has buried an axe in his spine. “We’ll play a little song for you.”

Will Jimmy, in deference to his son, reprise one of the five forgettable tracks that appeared on Alistair’s EP? 44Or maybe one of the songs about Alistair’s mother, either “Diamonds (for Breakfast)” or “Slender 11”?

“Stop!” I yell. Or I want to. And I suppose I want to remain in this state of not knowing what they’re about to do. That must be part of it. I have no clue what they’re about to play — and I know I don’t know better than everyone else.

Cross and Alistair are alone on stage, though I don’t remember the band leaving.

With one tremulous hand, Cross keys some bright, jumping notes. Alistair provides only the most minimal accompaniment, as though he held a triangle instead of a guitar.

When Alistair’s voice comes in, so low and pure, I forgive him for everything.

He sings:

Way up yonder,

Above the moon,

A blue jay nests

In a silver spoon.

The song evaporates in front of us, but Alistair leans down until his cheek must be touching his father’s:

Buckeye Jim,

You can’t go,

Go weave an’ spin,

You can’t go,

Buckeye Jim.

It’s a traditional tune, the sort of thing Cross cut his teeth on. But why “Buckeye Jim”? And why now? Sometimes it seems as though Allie lives without a thought to any past or future. Is Cross reminding his son that he, too, is connected to history? And maybe, by playing something off the book, Cross is reminding all of us to listen.

In Paradise,

The white bird sings,

Touch your face

With tender wings.

And maybe the point isn’t the number of questions one thinking person can generate. Maybe the point is what we can feel. Maybe the point is that the song is spare and beautiful. I think, here, of Rosalyn, who is, in her own way, spare and beautiful.

Buckeye Jim,

You’ll go, go

Weave an’ spin,

You’ll go,

Buckeye Jim.

The stage lights cut out.

I say, “That’s going to be the end of that. Saner minds have prevailed.”

“Look,” Rosalyn tells me.

What she’s noticed — what I see now — is that Cross hasn’t left the stage. The lighting person combs the crowd with a blinding laser array, and somewhere above us fog cascades down, but amid all this hubbub, at the center of all the noise and confusion, Cross is waiting us out in plain sight — not exactly plain sight, the floor lights are down. A large form crouches beside him — it’s impossible to tell who it is, but I’d put my money on Cyril Coleman.

Rosalyn squeezes my hand. I can remember joining hands with Patricia and, of course, with Gabby — if Gabby asks, I will “give her hand” to the person she loves. I never expected I would hold hands with someone again.

The lights come back on, and now Alistair is propped in a chair beside his father. 45

Cross plays his standard three-song encore with his son by his side, but it’s hard for me to pay much attention because twice Rosalyn launches into these coughing fits that she can’t seem to control; and, though she waves me away, I get the sense that these attacks have unnerved her as much as they have me.

I want to get her out of this place, but as soon as the houselights come up, there’s a crush for the doors. The two of us sit, Rosalyn’s head pressed against my shoulder.

The pig finally arrived, one more unnecessary intoxicant. The chef stood beside the table, doling out treats she trimmed from the carcass, strips of crackling, the succulent, silver-dollar cheeks. She removed the loins, each as slender as a child’s forearm, sliced them into medallions to serve with crab-apple chutney and crème fraîche. Chafing dishes piled with herb-speckled fingerling potatoes served to soak up the drippings and the booze. Peter picked at a bitter salad of collard greens, shredded brussels sprouts, and jade-green tomatoes.

Flecks of charred meat glistened on Maya’s teeth. Peter wanted a picture of her, but he seemed to have misplaced his phone.

A waiter delivered more cocktails; each carried a provenance — had been developed by a Civil War coward, had been the favorite poison of a city founder, had been blamed for the crash of a paddle-wheel steamboat.

Peter felt Cross’s eyes resting on him, like a neglected dog. When he couldn’t take the scrutiny a moment longer, he headed to the bathroom; he needed the privacy.

The urinals contained shining mountains of ice — he wondered why anyone would want to chill his pee. His shirt started to ring. Though he never put his phone in his shirt pocket, that’s where he found it. It was Martin.

“He’s waiting for you out front.”

“Who is?”

“The guy I told you about. He says he can’t come in.”

Maya stood leaning against a column clad in white-enamel tile. She took out a tiny brush and dabbed red paint on her puckered lips. Her teeth peeked through, looking a little yellow, like a dog’s.

Peter pocketed his phone; he pressed his lips against her cheek.

“Cross said you saved his life.”

“He told you that?”

She nodded as he kissed her lower lip.

She kissed his cheek, his ear.

He listened to her hot breath.

Alistair walked in, stopping in front of the sink; he caught Peter’s eyes in the mirror. They stood like that, it seemed to the doctor, for quite a while.

“Did I just whizz in the sink?”

Maya laughed.

“Why do they put ice in the urinals?”

Peter said, “Because it sounds like money when you pee.”

Maya stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.

“We shouldn’t stay in here,” Alistair said, “my father gets lonely.”

RATHER THAN HEAD back to the table, Peter needed to find who Martin was trying to connect him with. Through the front door, Peter spotted Cyril, looking as stolid as a lighthouse, waiting beneath the restaurant’s fabric canopy.

Peter stepped outside and joined the bodyguard at the top of the stairs. “Am I supposed to talk with you?”

Cyril seized Peter by the base of the skull and aimed his head across the street. There, beneath a magnolia, Peter recognized the photographer he’d seen in Rochester, the Wild West consumptive, Cross’s thirsty man.

“You have any idea how he found us?”

Peter didn’t answer.

Cyril twisted Peter’s head from side to side “No? Or”—he made Peter’s head tip up and down—“yes?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do I need to explain why it’s a bad idea to tell strangers the whereabouts of an elderly man with a nine-figure net worth?”

Peter stared at Pennyman. “I think I’ll go back inside.”

Cyril handed Peter a slip of paper. “First, give him this.”

It was a ticket. “You’re giving him a ticket to the show?”

“Tell him if I catch him anywhere but the venue, I’ll take his shadow next.”

“You’ll take his shadow?”

Cyril didn’t respond. How had Peter failed to register what a threatening presence the man could be?