Marie-Helene Bertino - 2 A.M. at The Cat's Pajamas

“I didn’t know that.” Madeleine’s eyes widen. “I do that, too.”

Principal Randles taps the steering wheel. “There you go.”

“Count to seven,” Sarina says. “Then stop because we’re here.”

“Merry Christmas.” The principal brakes. “See you after the holiday.”

“Madeleine is expelled,” Sarina reminds her.

The principal activates the emergency brake. Her voice is punctured. “Come in after the holiday,” she says. “I’ll unexpel you.” She swerves trimly into the street and drives away. Sarina and Madeleine watch her, breath pillowing in front of them.

“I guess that’s a happy ending,” Sarina says.

“I guess.”

Sarina pauses at her door. “Good night, Madeleine. I expect I’ll have to tell Mrs. Santiago about this in the morning.”

“Good night, Miss Greene. I expect she’ll blow her fucking lid.”

Madeleine climbs into her window. She counts thirty beats, then runs the stairs to the roof. The cars on the Second Street Bridge launch over the river, blowing their staccato horns. The rush of the El, a swelling of cymbals. The big sky over the stadium is lit by morning stars. The shivering hump on the wire becomes a glissando of crows that fly toward the statue of Saint Anthony. There they part into three flapping factions: one takes the alleys on Ninth, one heads toward the river, one goes west to hop the El. Who can be certain which way is faster? You can’t say you know a city unless you know three ways to everywhere.

Madeleine swings her legs over the edge of the roof. I sang on a stage . She is close enough to high-five Saint Anthony but doesn’t because no matter what kind of thrilling night you’ve had, you do not bother saints this way.

Sarina, it’s Georgie. You’re probably sleeping. I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to say … Pepper, get down! I’m happy you came over tonight. And. I realize you’ve had a rough time but … you seem great. I’d like to go to that crochet class you mentioned. We could have dinner. Stop eating that, Pepper. I won’t be good at it, but I’d like to go. The last thing I made was a birdhouse and the hole was so small birds couldn’t fit. They’d stick their beaks in and try to wiggle through but they couldn’t. It broke my heart. Not even those tiny birds. The ones that hop all over the sand at the shore. What are they called? Sparrows!

“Age?” Len’s pen is poised over his notebook.

Alex chews gum, his expression blank. “Twenty-one.”

“Come on,” Len sighs, looking at Lorca.

“Twenty-one,” Lorca says.

Len lets Alex go and he and Aruna Sha sit cross-legged on the club’s floor surrounded by their attending pack of jawing teenagers. Alex preens amid their compliments. The Main Line kid yammers about a show at Ortlieb’s when John Coltrane literally set the house on fire. He uses a tone that implies Alex will never be as good as Coltrane, to temper the effect Alex is having on their friends. Lorca has been around guys like him for years. The jawing gives him away. It’s the mark of someone who can’t play. No one with chops yaps about it. They’re humble because they’re in service. They know they have to practice when they are filled with love. When they are filled with bile. When the sun is out and everyone with a palpably alive soul is on the beach, they are in wood-paneled dumps, practicing. Until they ruin any chance at being substantial and there is no soul on earth who will have them.

Through that, you practice. What hurts most, you do again. Away from the living people you practice for. Toward the shaking, fleeting thing you only let yourself half-believe in. Most times you do not find it but in search of it, you practice, scared of your ability to be so wholly alone. You don’t have time to boast or judge.

If this is the life his son wants, Lorca can at least help him as much as he can. He stands above the group and addresses the Main Line kid. “Literally?” he says. “Burned the house down?”

The kid’s smirk recedes. “Not literally.”

“You were good tonight,” Lorca says to his son.

“I showboated Emo’s solo.”

The kid pipes up, but Lorca interrupts. “You didn’t showboat.”

“Well, I did.”

“I’d tell you,” Lorca says, “if you did.”

“Can I play here again then?”

Len calls another witness to the back room. “Probably not here,” Lorca says.

“Jazz is a dying art form anyway.” The Main Line kid makes this statement to the screen of his phone as his thumb jabs the keyboard.

Lorca ignores him. “Mongoose is going to take you. It’ll be weekends to start. Friday and Saturday nights and Sunday brunch. Rehearsals once a week. You won’t have time to hang out with …” He looks at the kid. “You won’t have time for much else besides school. If this is okay with you, I’ll tell Mongoose.”

“It’s okay with me,” Alex says.

“You were good tonight,” Lorca says. “But you have to get healthy.”

Alex beams. He tells his father he will.

Lorca turns to the Main Line kid. “John Coltrane never played Ortlieb’s. He was dead for a million years by the time that joint opened. He did play here, though. Plenty of times.”

The kid’s face falls off a cliff.

Len is finished with his interviews. It is time for the club to clear out.

“Get what’s important to you,” Lorca says.

The boys shoulder their guitars, Max grabs his hair grease, Gus carries the model airplane, finished except for the racing stripes. They smoke outside while Lorca and Len finish up in the bar. Lorca turns off the overhead lamp and closes the door to the back. He still wears the T-shirt and jeans from the day before when all he had to worry about was replacing a drum set.

“It hasn’t even been a day.” Len rips a new citation from his pad. He seems in awe of Lorca’s inability to keep himself straight for twenty-four hours. “I was just here this morning. Did I not make it clear?”

“You did everything you could,” Lorca says, locking the back room. He kills the lights in the hallways and bathrooms, the wall lights, the bar lights. He lowers the heat. The floor will have to stay a mess until whatever day he is allowed back in. He hoists the broken Snakehead over his shoulder, wincing at its upsetting, multiple sounds, and joins the others outside.

“The Daphne girl has moved on.” From Max to Gus. Sonny points to where the girl in yellow heels is huddled over the model plane with Gus — Gus explaining something as she nods, intently.

“That’s what they call a safe bet,” Lorca says.

Len and the officers nail the doors shut. The last of the witnesses turn back when they hear the splitting wood echo against the corroded windows on the street. Len hammers a nail into the door while clenching the next one in his teeth. Lorca stands to the side. He has time to consider what is happening, to repent or beg or search for loopholes. But instead he thinks about the way Louisa says the word experiment . Ex-spear-iment. He watches his son whisper into Aruna’s ear. In the darkness, the river gasps.

CLOSED DUE TO VIOLATION OF CITY LAW .

Len pockets the hammer and motions for the officers to leave. “Take care, Mr. Lorca.” He walks toward his car and pauses. “I’m sorry you lost your club.” The back of his collar is still not fully folded over his tie. Lorca wants to reach out and fix it. Len checks his seat belt twice before pulling out and swerving around Gray Gus, who is reasoning with the airplane’s finicky remote control. The blue switches and red knobs that should convince the plane into the air fail to get a response. Gus raps on it.