Justin Tussing - Vexation Lullaby

When he came to a corner store, he ducked inside and bought a premade latte. He expected to feel a hundred times worse, possibly at any moment.

In front of a deli lunch shop, there was a picnic table shaded by a blue-and-yellow-striped umbrella. He took out his phone and dialed Judith.

“Good morning, honey.”

“How is corporate life treating you?”

“I made a hundred pendants yesterday.”

“I don’t believe it.” Across the street a boy stood waiting for a bus. He was skipping flat rocks across the road, as though it were a pond.

“Actually, one hundred and three.”

“Are you going to jump right back into the harness today?”

“Where are you?”

It took Peter a moment to remember. “Lexington, Kentucky.”

“You and I visited there once when you were little.”

“We did?” Knowing that he’d been there with Judith made Peter feel better somehow.

“It was a long, long time ago.”

“Wait, so are you making more pedants today or not?”

“I’m done with pendants. I think I’m going to make cuffs.”

“Like cuff links?”

“No, like Wonder Woman.”

They’d watched the show together on their thirteen-inch television. “Cool.”

“That’s not a word I associate you with.”

“Thanks.”

“What I mean is that I don’t hear you use it much. You like precise words.”

“I think I have to ask you some questions.”

“Okay,” Judith said. “Give me a second while I go to my studio.”

From the little fragments of sound he could picture her whole journey, a stool scraping across the tile floor of the kitchen, the rattle as she opened the wonky front door. He heard her shoes scrape along flinty path that led to her studio — a gardening shed Rolf had fitted with a pair of salvaged windows.

“Go ahead, I guess.”

“Cross told me there was more than just one song about me.”

“I’m not hearing a question.”

“Did you know that there was more than one song?”

“Lots of my friends made things. You were also in paintings.”

“We’re not talking about someone from your painting club.”

“When I met him, he said he’d given up on music. He was going to be a gentleman farmer, or something like that. After you were born, he sort of appointed himself your guardian. He’d follow you around the yard. I remember he said you gave him new eyes. At some point he started writing songs again.”

A man stopped in front of Peter. “You can’t sit here. Customers only.” The deli was open now, apparently. Peter stood up and walked on.

“He told me he wants to make me successful.”

“If you only take one piece of advice from me, don’t accept anything from him.”

“You have to tell me why not.”

“I don’t think I do, honey.”

“What’s ‘Purple River Serenade’?”

“He promised he’d never bring that up with you. He gave me his word.”

“A fan asked me about it. I gather it’s a song.”

“We had a big fight about it. He didn’t think I’d recognize your initials in the title. I made him take it off the album. That was the end of our relationship.”

“You said ‘relationship.’”

Judith paused. Peter could hear her breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth. “I’m allowed some privacy.”

He’d expected to feel bad, but not like this.

“Honey, listen to me. Get away from him. If his fans put things together, there’ll be no end to it. You don’t understand how they feel about that song.”

“But there wasn’t a song.”

“He released it after Alistair was born, or, I guess, rereleased it. He only changed a line or two. Alistair has spent his whole life trying to live up to a song his father wrote about you.”

A cab cruised by on the other side of the street and Peter found himself flagging it down. “I quit last night.”

“That’s good, honey.”

At the end of the block, the cab did a U-turn and pulled up beside him.

“Where are you going to go?”

“Nobody here knows what it is a doctor does.”

“I’m telling you now, when I get off the phone with you, I’m calling him.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” Judith said, “but I still have to do it. I’m your parent.”

Peter got into the cab. The smell of barbeque was overwhelming, and it was coming off of him.

The cabbie said, “Where you going, big man?”

Peter found his room key and showed it to the driver.

He’d about finished gathering his things when someone knocked on the door. He looked through the peephole at Alistair.

“I can hear you in there. Let me in. I’m not going to assault you.”

Peter unlocked the door and went back to tidying the room.

Cross’s son opened the door halfway, sniffed the air, then stepped in. “Doesn’t smell like you slept here.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Alistair rolled his shoulders. “I’m having Wayne pack for me. I told him my back hurts too much.”

Peter didn’t look up. “If you’re looking for a doctor, you’ll have to find someone else. I quit the tour last night.”

“You don’t strike me as the quitting type.”

“This may be my first time.”

“Let me know if you need any pointers. I’ve got a fair bit of experience in the matter. I’ve quit Pop Warner football, pilot lessons, a handful of bands, rehab, mindfulness training, two master’s programs, and Spain.”

Peter felt sympathy for Cross’s son. “How do you quit a country?”

“I tried to live in Majorca, but it kept trying to kill me, so I quit. In Spanish you say ‘ lo dejo .’”

Alistair opened up the mini-bar, grabbed a candy bar and an orange juice, then made himself comfortable on Peter’s bed.

“You know they charge you for those.”

Alistair turned his head to the side. “I’m aware that my father’s corporation is picking up the treats, yes.”

Peter ducked into the bathroom, noted his swollen cheek in the mirror, his tired eyes. Still, he thought, he could have looked much worse. “Did you stop by for a reason?”

“What happened with the Kiwi?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Alistair finished the orange juice in one long pull. “I’m glad you decided to quit the tour.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I was going to try to convince you it was time to go.”

Peter looked up from his packing. Alistair’s face was set. He wasn’t kidding. “How were you going to do that?”

“I guess I was going to start hitting you.”

“When I answered the door, you said you weren’t going to assault me.”

Alistair took a bite from the candy bar.

“So,” Peter asked, “why do you want me to leave?”

“I was eight when the old man went back on tour full-time. At first my mother and I tagged along, but there were too many people demanding things from him. Now I have to share him with my nephews and nieces.”

“Did you think I was going to try to steal him from you?”

“You’re the son he wanted. Look at the trouble he went through to get you on tour.”

“Has he ever asked you to join him on the road?”

“Every time we talk.”

“So why have you stayed away?”

Alistair aimed his index finger at his own head. “Look what being around him does to me.”

Peter grabbed a cranberry juice from the mini-bar. “I think you’re missing my point.”

“That wouldn’t be the first time.”

Peter said, “I hope you get your life together.”

“I hope you get your life together, too.”

After we’d crossed into Tennessee, I asked Rosalyn a question. “What would you say if I told you I don’t want to go to tonight’s show?”