A Song for the Asking Read online

  Allison rolled her eyes. “Do I have to?”

  “Please, Ali. I don’t want the food to get cold.”

  “Oh, all right,” Allison groaned. Reluctantly, she started for the hall.

  Travis grabbed a plate and served himself a pile of sausage and eggs, covering them with a liberal dousing of ketchup. As he took his place at the table, Catheryn carried over the skillet and added a stack of steaming pancakes to his plate. “There’s something I want to discuss with you,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Despite your new job and whatever your father may have told you yesterday in the car, I expect you to keep up with your practicing this summer.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Trav. The Bronislaw is coming up in October,” she continued firmly, referring to the Bronislaw Kaper Awards—a prestigious, high-level competition sponsored each year by the Los Angeles Philharmonic for musicians seventeen years old and younger. Along with a cash prize of twenty-five hundred dollars, the winner would later appear in a special concert with the Philharmonic. “That’s less than four months away,” she added.

  “I know, Mom. I know.”

  “You realize that if you do well in the competition, it could bear favorably on your application to the USC School of Music.”

  “Thanks for the added pressure,” said Travis, concentrating on his breakfast. “But I’m not certain yet that’s what I want to do.”

  Catheryn sat across from her son. Travis squirmed under her gaze. “Trav, there are people who would give anything to have your musical ability,” she said.

  “So you’ve told me,” said Travis, shaking his head in exasperation. “Jesus, Mom.”

  “It’s just that I’d hate to see you waste it.”

  “Where have I heard this before?”

  “You can’t live your life for your father, Trav. You can’t live your life for anyone.”

  “Not even for you, Mom?”

  “That’s not fair,” said Catheryn, unsuccessfully attempting to mask the hurt in her voice. “I only want what’s best for you.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” said Travis quickly. “I’m sorry.”

  Just then Allison reentered, followed by Nate. “Sorry looking,” she quipped, smirking at Travis. “Hey, is that Arnie downstairs talking with Dadzilla?”

  “Yes, it is,” Catheryn answered. She rose, walked to the stove, and ladled batter for six more pancakes onto the skillet. “He came over to help your father, who, I might add, would not take kindly to your little nickname.”

  “He’ll never find out.”

  “Find out what?” Kane asked, appearing in the doorway.

  “Allison called you Dadzilla,” Nate shouted gleefully.

  “Is that right?” Kane said, turning it over in his mind and carefully weighing the gravity of Allison’s insubordination. “Hmmm. Dadzilla. The name strikes fear in the hearts of millions of our Asian trading partners, not to mention a few smart-mouthed kids who run like ants under my feet while I stomp ’em into greasy smears on the asphalt. I like it.”

  “Kinda suits you,” said Arnie, trailing Kane into the kitchen. “Morning, everyone.”

  “Hi, Arnie,” said Nate and Allison in unison.

  Allison breathed a sigh of relief. “Lucky for you he’s in a good mood, flea,” she whispered, glaring at Nate.

  “You mean lucky for you,” Nate retorted.

  Ignoring their banter, Kane grabbed two plates from the counter, handed one to Arnie, and scooped a monstrous serving of eggs and potatoes onto his own. “Where’s Tommy?”

  “I called him,” said Travis.

  “So did I,” added Allison. “He said he would be here in a minute.”

  “When he arrives, Allison has something to tell us,” Catheryn announced with a mysterious smile.

  “Aw, Mom,” moaned Allison, her face turning crimson.

  Kane sat across from Travis and forked a stack of pancakes atop the food already on his plate. “I can’t stand secrets,” he said. “Spill it, Allison.”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “Sure it is,” said Catheryn reassuringly. “Getting published for the first time is a big deal.”

  “One of your short stories got accepted?” asked Travis. “That’s great, Ali! Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “It just came in yesterday’s mail,” Allison explained shyly.

  “Well, congratulations,” said Arnie. “After reading that piece you wrote for your school paper, I knew you had what it takes.”

  “Tell us about it,” said Travis.

  “Asimov’s Science Fiction magazine bought a story I wrote last Christmas called ‘Daniel’s Song,’” Allison said, unable to hide the rush of pleasure she felt at her family’s praise. “It’s coming out in the July issue.”

  “‘Daniel’s Song,’ huh,” said Kane, drumming his fingers on the table. “You wrote a tribute to the ol’ dad here?”

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” Allison said quickly. “It’s not about you.”

  “Too bad. How much are they paying you?”

  “Three hundred and fifty-two dollars.”

  “Kate, book us a Caribbean vacation,” Kane joked.

  “They don’t ever pay much, at least not at first,” Allison went on, looking crestfallen.

  “Money isn’t the point,” Catheryn interjected. “Your father’s just teasing, Ali. He knows this is quite an accomplishment for a fifteen-year-old.”

  “Especially for a girl,” Kane agreed, shoveling in a forkful of eggs. “Before long we’ll be asking for your autograph.”

  Allison shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t worry, I won’t forget the little people I used to know on the way up. By the way, what was your name again?”

  “Dadzilla,” said Kane.

  “Why don’t you read it to us, Ali?” suggested Catheryn, shooting a look of irritation at Kane. “Do you have a copy of the manuscript?”

  “I would rather wait till the magazine comes out,” said Allison, staring at her plate.

  The table fell silent. Following a brief pause Travis spoke up, trying to fill the uncomfortable gap in the conversation. “What are you going to build with all that wood, Dad?”

  “A raft.”

  “A raft?” said Nate. “You mean something to swim to?”

  “Real good, kid,” Kane answered. “I’m glad to see all that dough we’ve been shelling out for Montessori school hasn’t been wasted.”

  “Of course it’s to swim to,” said Allison, thankful for a deflection in the conversation. “What do you think, Dad’s going to put a raft out there just so the birds have someplace new to crap?”

  “Watch your language, Ali,” admonished Catheryn.

  “Allison can’t help herself, Mom,” Travis teased. “She’s just trying to be one of the boys.”

  “That makes two of us, huh, Trav?”

  Ignoring his children, Kane turned to Arnie. “See that buoy out there?” he said, pointing with his fork to a small white shape bobbing several hundred yards offshore. “I got a line attached to the old train wheel. That’s what we’re going to use for the anchor. Might move it a little closer to shore, though.”

  “Move it? How?” asked Travis, who had inspected the massive relic a number of times in the past while swimming offshore.

  “You’ll see when the time comes. Right now I want that wood moved down to the beach as soon as you’re back from church. Go tell Tommy to get rolling.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Travis quickly finished his meal and carried his plate to the sink. Upon returning to his room, he found Tommy still in bed, talking on the phone. “Look, I have to go,” Tommy said into the receiver, lowering his voice as Travis entered. “You coming over today? Good. See you then.”

  “Christy?” Travis asked after Tommy hung up.

  “Yeah.” Tommy swung his feet to the floor and started pulling on his clothes. “What’s up?”

  “Dad wants all that wood out front brought do
wn to the beach right after Mass. We’re gonna build a raft.”

  “Shit.”

  An hour after returning from church, Travis and Tommy stood on the beach beside a large stack of beams, planks, six 55-gallon drums, a cardboard box filled with galvanized nails, and a sack of miscellaneous marine hardware that they had struggled to carry down from the street. During their efforts Kane had read the Sunday paper and idly supervised from the deck, shouting encouragement and an occasional exhortation to “get a move on.” Finally, impatient to begin, he had helped with the last of it, then paused to check the lumber and hardware against a list he withdrew from his pocket.

  “Yep, it’s all here,” he finally pronounced with a satisfied nod. “Arnie, come over and look at this.”

  Kane turned over his material list and spread it out on the lumber. Arnie and the boys crowded around, noticing that on the back of the crumpled paper was a rough pencil sketch of the finished raft, drawn in Kane’s hand. Peering down, they listened as Kane ran a thick finger over the details, giving them an overview of the project.

  The design was simple and utilitarian. A triple layer of 4x8 beams, spaced to cradle the flotation drums, would make up the main framework, with 16-inch galvanized bolts fastening them together at each junction. Nailed on top, 1x8 redwood planks would form the deck.

  “What’s gonna keep the drums from poppin’ out in a storm?” asked Arnie.

  “We’ll secure them to the underside with nylon rope,” Kane answered. “But that comes later. First thing we’re going to do is assemble the framework around the barrels. When we’ve got it right, we’ll tack them together with nails and drill the bolt holes. After it’s bolted come the barrels; then we’ll flip the whole thing over and nail on the deck.”

  “Looks easy enough,” said Arnie. “Let’s do it.”

  Although the work went quickly, the sun had climbed high into the sky by the time the framework stood assembled, drilled, and ready for bolting. As they’d labored, Arnie and Kane had made frequent pilgrimages to an ice chest on the deck, and a sizable collection of empty beer cans had accumulated against the seawall. Predictably, as the day progressed and the pile grew even higher, the construction site began to resemble a quickly degenerating party. Just as Travis had begun to wonder whether his father and Arnie were getting to the point of not being able to handle power tools safely, he heard his mother calling from the house.

  “Travis!” Ask your father whether he can manage without you for a while.”

  “Why?”

  “I want you to get in some practice.”

  Travis glanced at Kane, expecting a refusal. To his surprise, his father nodded. “Go. Make your mom happy. We’ll get this sucker done without you somehow.”

  “I can practice later, Dad. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to—”

  Kane interrupted with a brusque wave of his hand. “Go. We don’t need you. And take Sam up with you and give him some water. He’s baking out here in the sun.” The old Labrador had joined them earlier when it had been cool, watching as the curious new structure took shape on the sand. Later he’d been unable to climb back over the sea wall, and he now sat panting and exhausted beside the remaining stack of decking.

  “Okay,” Travis said, stinging at his abrupt dismissal. “Come on, boy.” He waited patiently as Sam made his way to the base of the wall, then knelt and lifted him to the upper level.

  “And check to see whether Nate gave him his pill today,” Kane yelled after him.

  After refilling Sam’s water bowl and dispensing the medicine that Nate had predictably forgotten, Travis left the old dog in the shade and made his way to a bright, beach-level chamber under the main floor of the house. Years back when Kane had constructed it, Catheryn had insisted he include as much glass on the beach side as possible. As a result, the room Travis now entered was one of the most pleasant in their home. A large bay window overlooked the ocean, with a pair of French doors on either side leading out to the redwood deck beyond, giving a cheery, roomy feeling of openness and light. Rustic Mexican tiles and throw rugs covered the floor, and against the back wall, dominating the otherwise sparsely furnished space, stood an old Baldwin upright piano. A sturdy oak chair, its surface smooth and polished from years of use, sat close by, along with a music stand and Catheryn’s cello case. Rounding out the furnishings, a couch, fireplace, and two wicker chairs formed a semicircle around an austere bar in the far corner—Catheryn’s single concession to her husband in the airy space that, upon completion, had been christened the music room.

  Reluctantly, Travis crossed to the piano, feeling a surge of resentment as he realized Catheryn was undoubtedly upstairs listening. With a sigh, he sat at the bench and wrung his hands to loosen them. Then, as a warm-up exercise, he embarked on Chopin’s Waltz in C-sharp Minor, Op. 64, No. 2. He played from memory, the complex melody seeming to flow effortlessly from his fingers. As usual, he let his mind wander as he played, paying little attention to the exercise that had become as automatic to him as brushing his teeth. A few minutes later, after cutting short the waltz in the lovely syncopated middle section, he thumbed through a sheaf of music above the keyboard, selected the fifth prelude from Rachmaninoff’s twenty-third opus, and began to practice in earnest.

  Rachmaninoff’s preludes, considered by many to include some of the most difficult works ever written for solo piano, abound with large finger stretches and enormous chordal sonorities, and have proved an exacting test of a pianist’s ability since their creation at the turn of the century. The prelude Travis selected was no exception, possessing tremendous technical challenges from beginning to end. The first section contained bombastic, off-beat chords punctuating a stately melody, with driving sixteenth-note rhythms and extreme dynamics that lent it a harsh, militant intensity. The resulting mood of severe and unbending anger was relieved only slightly in the more evocative second section, finally returning to a recapitulation of the fierce opening melody at the end. For the next hour Travis worked on the piece, the music matching his dark state of mind as he started and stopped in fits, repeating phrases over and over in an attempt to master particularly strenuous sections.

  Upstairs, alone in her room, Allison lay on her bed listening to Travis’s playing. Angrily, she slashed out the lines she had just written in her notebook, then tore out the page and crumpled it, letting it drop to the floor. She started to write again, then stopped. Finally she closed her notebook and tossed it onto the floor as well, and for the next twenty minutes, while Travis continued to practice, she listened in the secrecy of her room as she had for years—filled with bitter thoughts of her father’s dismissive attitude that morning regarding her story. At last, as Travis played the prelude uninterrupted from beginning to end and Allison’s emotions rose and swelled and soared against her will, she felt her eyes stinging with hatred for her smallness and the power her brother’s music held over her.

  “Ali?” Catheryn called through the door as the final furious chords died away.

  Allison quickly wiped her eyes. “Yeah, Mom?”

  Catheryn opened the door. She glanced curiously at her daughter. “You okay?”

  “Allergies,” said Allison.

  With a look of concern, Catheryn closed the door and moved to sit beside her on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s about your story, isn’t it? The way Dad acted?”

  “No.”

  “Ali, he was just kidding. You know that.”

  “No, I don’t,” said Allison.

  “Of course you do. Your father—”

  “What I know,” Allison interrupted, “is that Dad thinks nothing I could possibly do is worth his attention.”

  “That’s not true. Your father loves all you children equally, and he’s proud of all your accomplishments. Yours included.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Allison. “Just like you, Mom?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that you
would have never let him tease Travis like that about his music.”

  “If I defend Travis more than you, it’s because he needs it,” said Catheryn, her expression tightening. “It doesn’t mean I love you any less, or that I’m any less proud of you. I don’t think you realize how much more lenient your father is with you than the others, Ali. If any of your brothers said half the things you blurt out …”

  “… they’d be taking a one-way trip to the moon,” Allison finished.

  “Let’s just say that in some ways you’re your father’s favorite.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Oh, Allison …”

  “Never mind, Mom,” said Allison crankily. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  Catheryn put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Listen, Christy’s here,” she said, her voice lightening. “She brought over the rest of Nate’s birthday cake. Want to join us?”

  “Ugh. After Friday, I’m sick of cake.”

  “Why don’t you come out to the kitchen anyway?” Catheryn pulled her daughter up from the bed and pushed her firmly toward the door. “You can’t spend a beautiful day like this in your room.”

  “Watch me.”

  “Ali, please.”

  “Okay, Mom,” Allison groaned. “Let’s go eat cake.”

  When Catheryn and Allison arrived in the kitchen, they found Nate and Christy already settled like vultures around the battered remnants of Friday’s birthday castle, the carcass of which now sat in ruins atop a huge serving platter. Both of the cake’s turrets had slumped sadly on their sides, the thick inner walls were collapsed, and even the fudge-laden keep showed evidence of a terrible, prolonged siege. Nonetheless, there seemed adequate mass, however decimated, for at least one last chocolate binge.

  “Where are the plates?” asked Catheryn.

  “Don’t need ’em,” said Nate, handing everyone a fork. “We can eat off the platter. Save on dishes.”

  “Good idea,” said Allison approvingly, as it was her day to wash.

  “Think we should call the guys?” Catheryn asked, glancing out the window. The timbers of the raft’s framework had now been bolted together, the barrels lashed to the underside, and Tommy, Kane, Arnie, and a group of neighbors were struggling to flip it over to complete the deck. As she watched, she saw Travis joining to help.