Justin Tussing - Vexation Lullaby

Peter picked his way down the stairs, looked both ways, and crossed the street. He was probably fewer than a hundred yards removed from Cross’s table, yet it felt as though he were on the verge of leaving the tour.

Pennyman stepped off the curb to intercept him, but Peter waved him back onto the sidewalk with the ticket.

“Cyril doesn’t want you here.”

Pennyman pocketed the piece of paper. “So, are you Doctor Axe, or. .”

“My friend said you needed to talk with me.”

“Have you heard of a song called ‘Purple River Serenade’?”

“I’m not a fan.”

“You catch the initials? ‘P.R.S.’ I think it’s about you, or for you.”

He shouldn’t have let himself drink so much. “Where can I hear it?”

“You were by the side of the stage when he played it last night.” Pennyman reached up and laced his fingers over the crown of his head. “Before that, I’m not sure he’s ever played it, at least not for an audience.”

Peter looked over his shoulder. Cyril must have gone in. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“You can’t be his doctor.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s a conflict of interest.”

“I don’t think you know what that means.”

“He’s your father.”

“I’ve already got a father.” Was it strange that when Peter said the word “father,” he pictured Judith? Of course not.

Pennyman shook his head.

“You sound like a blackmailer.” Had Peter ever used that word before? “Blackmailer” belonged in a Hardy Boys mystery.

“When people find out ‘Purple River Serenade’ is about you, it’ll be a big deal. Magazines are going to want to interview you. Big magazines. You’re Cross’s Rosetta stone.”

Peter looked at his own feet. The ground turned beneath him. He had to close his eyes to keep from being sick.

“If he doesn’t want people to know about the song, how is it your business?”

“I’m Pennyman and he’s a public figure.”

“He’s the most private person I’ve ever met.”

Pennyman wrapped his coat around himself. “Tell me, am I the first person to figure this out?”

“Why? Do you think you deserve a prize?”

One of the man’s eyes twitched.

Later, backstage, Peter couldn’t escape the smell of the roasted pig. He couldn’t recall how he’d gotten to the concert hall. Out of the murkiness that passed for his sight, Cross emerged, black-hatted and in mirrored aviator shades. The singer grabbed Peter by the ears and mashed a kiss on his forehead. “Help me sober up.”

Peter spread his feet to keep from tipping over. “What’s ‘Purple River Serenade’?”

Cross threw a slow-motion jab that stopped an inch shy of Peter’s chin. No, it connected, a glancing blow. “Your mother put you up to this?”

“Pennyman asked me.”

Cross turned sideways and threw up on the black-planked floor. The sick made a sunburst shape. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I’ll protect you. We’ll set Kopp on him.”

“What’s so important about this song?”

Someone came over with a mop and started swabbing up the mess.

“I’ve been on the road for twenty-six years, but it’s not enough. They want everything. They dig through my trash,” Cross said. “You need to give me something to straighten me out.”

“What you need is time.”

“You don’t know the first thing about time.” Cross’s voice sizzled.

Making his way back to the security of a standpipe, Peter spotted Maya. She’d climbed halfway up one of the spiral staircases. She was talking to someone on her phone — she waved.

“Golden child,” Alistair said, “how’re you feeling?”

“I don’t know how I got so messed up.”

“I sabotaged you. That’s the who and the why.”

Peter blinked. He wanted to crawl into a dark hole.

Cyril interjected. “The Big Man needs one of those shots, the bee-sting shots.”

“An EpiPen?” Peter felt some of the fog blow away. “Did he get stung?”

“He’s got to clear the cobwebs.”

Nobody understood the least bit about medicine. “Epinephrine would increase his heart rate and raise his blood pressure. That’s the last thing he needs.” When Peter opened his eyes, he saw that he was talking to himself.

Rosalyn sits beside me in the car, forking cubes of cantaloupe from a clear plastic tub. After last night’s performance, she vowed to put only healthy things into her body. She wants sardines and olives. She wants leafy greens. The Holy Screw , she tells me, is also about the metaphor of diet. When people say that our bodies are temples, they only think about restrictions — thou shalt not eat processed sugar; thou shalt not eat trans fats. We need to consider what it is we choose to embrace. Embrace passion, she says. Embrace mindfulness.

THE HILLSIDES ARE covered in bluegrass or rye. Black four-board fences stretch for miles. We watch a white horse racing across a paddock, its tail flying like a pennon. It seems that a person could travel the world over and never spy a healthier creature.

When we cross into Tennessee, I call Gabby.

Rosalyn coached me a bit. “Smile when you speak — she’ll be able to tell. Tell her you’re excited to see her. Use your bright voice, your fun voice. Be more Arthur and less Pennyman.” Who knew I had access to a bright voice?

“Honey,” I say, my mouth so wide I could swallow my phone.

“Are you on your way?”

“I’m very close, Gabby. I’m in Tennessee.”

It’s not Rosalyn’s coaching: I’m looking forward to seeing her. I say, “I can’t wait to see you, baby.”

Rosalyn deposits a kiss on her fingertip, then delivers it to my cheek.

“Where do you want to meet? Do you want to meet at your house, or should we go somewhere?”

“I’m starving. Can we meet at the Waffle House?”

The town where she lives is little more than a few churches, the Waffle House, and the library, of course.

“Perfect,” I say.

“How soon will you be here?”

“We’ll be there in thirty minutes, tops.”

The vastness of the silence that springs up between us can’t be explained by the mundane fact that, in order to speak, our voices have to relay back and forth through satellites orbiting in space.

“Is someone with you, Daddy?”

I look at Rosalyn, but she can’t save me.

“Yes. I’m bringing a friend with me. She—”

“She? She , Daddy?”

“She’s really looking forward to meeting you. And we’re both looking forward to meeting your special friend.”

I can tell Gabby isn’t smiling when she says she’ll meet us at the Waffle House.

“Oh, Arthur,” Rosalyn says, but what she means is How could you?

Peter found his plundered backpack beside the curtain. The empty auto-injector of an EpiPen sat beside it on the floor.

IF THE STAGE was Cross’s home, then by walking through the curtains Peter made the second house call of his career.

With the lights down, it was less a stage than an obstacle course. There were seams in the floor, loose cords and cords that had been taped down. Peter walked slowly, careful not to trip over Albert’s drum kit or the monitors, all the various matte-black equipment that waited, poised like booby traps.

When he reached Cross, the singer’s head and shoulders were stuffed into a trash can. Cyril held him by the collar of his sweatshirt, presumably to keep him from toppling over.

“He’s fine,” Cyril said, turning his bull’s head toward the doctor.

Peter could hear the crowd gathered around them, the sound of the hushed anticipation.