The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto

  But I’ve been walking through the night and the day

  Till my eyes get weary and my head turns grey

  And sometimes it seems maybe God’s gone away . . .

  And we’re lost out here in the stars.

  He hit the final chord, and I saw tears roll down his face. Even the stagehands clapped. I said, “That was nice.” I didn’t want to embarrass him. But I was lying. It was more than nice. It was spectacular.

  At the end of that summer, I decided to return to the States. The car came to get me, and there was Francisco, as usual, sitting on his bench. I told the driver to wait and I went over and sat down next to him.

  “I’m going,” I said.

  “Where?”

  “Home.”

  “Thanks for taking me to your shows, Mr. Benedetto.”

  “How long are you going to wait here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What if your wife doesn’t come back?”

  “She will.”

  “Well, if you ever feel like it, I would be honored to record with you someday.”

  He almost laughed. “I can’t play anymore.”

  “You can. You did.”

  “Just some chords.”

  “Not chords. Music.”

  I told him that as long as he had that kind of music inside him, nothing could keep it from coming out. I meant it.

  And then I asked, “When was the last time you were home?”

  And he said, “I don’t really have one.”

  And I said, “Everyone has someplace they call home.”

  He held up his guitar.

  “All I ever had was this,” he said, “and her.”

  48

  ONE OF FRANKIE’S FAVORITE SONGS WAS THE DRIFTERS’ “SAVE THE LAST DANCE FOR ME.” The lyrics—­which tell a woman it’s all right for her to dance with others, as long as she remembers who is taking her home—­were written by Doc Pomus, a polio victim. He wrote it recalling the night of his wedding, when other men danced with his bride, while he had to watch from a wheelchair. He scribbled the words on the back of their wedding invitation.

  I have told you all love stories are symphonies, and the final movement is the rondo, repeated themes with episodes intervening. Frankie and Aurora, with their rondo of arrivals and departures, had saved their last dances long enough. Finally, in the calendar year 1974, they were reunited for good—­thanks to, of all things, a radio program.

  Yes. A radio program. Mr. Tony Bennett (or Benedetto) did one final favor for the wounded Mr. Presto. Departing from London that day, he’d shared his limousine with another passenger, a presenter from the BBC. The two men conversed en route to the airport, and Mr. Bennett recounted some of Frankie’s story, omitting his name, but mentioning that every morning, this man waited for his wife with his guitar in his lap.

  “Isn’t that something?” Bennett said.

  “Extraordinary,” the presenter agreed.

  Moved by the sad tale, the BBC man told it himself on his radio program that week. The program was heard on the drive to work by Cecile (York) Peterson who, upon reaching her office at the London School of Economics, phoned her sister, Aurora, and said, “I think your husband is back in town.”

  The following morning, in a steady rain, Aurora York stepped off a bus and walked toward the park. She spotted Frankie and ducked behind a post, waiting for an hour, watching him get wet. She counted the raindrops hitting her umbrella, and assigned to each one a reason that she should not go to him. When she ran out of reasons, she closed the umbrella and let herself get soaked.

  Then she crossed the street.

  Frankie looked up as she approached, the rain dripping down her face. She moved his guitar and lowered into his lap.

  “Will you stay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Music can soothe a soul. The body is another story. Aurora York spent months seeking the finest specialists for Frankie’s wounded hand. For this, I am most grateful. She used her sister’s connections. She paid for another surgery. She made him do rehabilitation exercises every day. She nursed my beloved disciple back to the point of utility, after which, my allure rekindled in him.

  Meanwhile, returning to their affections (the rondo, remember?), Frankie and Aurora pleasantly discovered the barriers between them had melted away. Fame was no longer an issue, nor was traveling, late nights, or other women. Aurora discarded all remnants of narcotics or alcohol in Frankie’s life.

  Then she set out to find a home.

  “Do you want to stay in London?” Frankie asked.

  “Absolutely not,” she said.

  “Where then?”

  “Someplace far away,” she said. “And quiet.”

  They drove to various outposts in England. None of them pleased her.

  “Farther,” she said. “Quieter.”

  They flew to New York, where Frankie retrieved two guitars.

  “Farther,” she said. “Quieter.”

  They flew to Los Angeles, where Frankie retrieved money from a bank and Aurora refused to even leave the airport.

  “Farther,” she said. “Quieter.”

  They flew to Australia.

  “Farther. Quieter.”

  They took a boat to New Zealand. Spending the night by the Auckland harbor, she saw an old ferry sailing off in the moonlight. When she asked where it was going, a clerk told her a place called “Waiheke,” whose Maori name, “Te Motu-­arai-­roa,” meant “long and sheltering island.”

  The next morning, she and Frankie were on that ferry with all their possessions. An hour later, when they reached the docks and saw the high green cliffs and heard the quiet lapping of water, Aurora turned to the love of her life and looked him in the eyes.

  “Here,” she said.

  49

  1981

  * * *

  THE TEXAS BOYS HAD DRAWN STRAWS. ONE OF THEM WOULD TRY AGAIN. (The three of them together, they decided, was too intimidating.) Lyle drew the shortest straw, and the following evening, with the sun setting, he walked through the brush and trees, and edged out alone onto the beach. Frankie was sitting with his shirt off, the guitar strap around his bare, tanned skin, playing scales in the key of F: major scale, minor scale, Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian, ascending, descending.

  “You can come around,” he said, not looking back.

  Lyle edged forward, hands shoved in his pockets.

  “Hello, sir.”

  “My wife said you’d be back.”

  “Sorry about last time. . . .”

  Frankie kept playing the scales, slowly, deliberately.

  “I just . . . I never thought I’d actually meet you, Mr. Presto. My name is Lyle.”

  Frankie moved to the F sharp scales.

  “I play guitar, too.”

  Frankie nodded.

  “Not like you, of course.”

  Frankie nodded.

  “Was that you playing the famous solo at Woodstock?”

  Frankie nodded.

  “Really? Because nobody could confirm you were there.”

  Frankie kept nodding until Lyle realized he was not responding to his questions, but rather moving with the rhythm of the breaking waves, as if following a drummer.

  “Are you practicing? I mean. Sorry. Dumb question. Why scales? Why are you practicing scales?”

  Frankie stopped playing.

  “Huh?”

  “Why scales?”

  “Retraining.”

  “Retraining?”

  “My fingers. My ears. It’s a long process.”

  Lyle wanted to ask a hundred questions, but as Frankie resumed, he stayed quiet and listened. When Frankie completed the B flat and B natural rotation, he stopped again.

  “I messed up my hand. I’m worki
ng on finding it.”

  “Finding what?”

  “The beauty. Left hand finds the beauty.”

  He held out his palm and Lyle noticed the scars.

  “Oh, man.”

  “Not much beauty.”

  “What happened?”

  “Not sure I remember.”

  “An accident?”

  “Can’t say that.”

  “When?”

  “In ’69.”

  “That’s Woodstock. So you were at Woodstock?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Was that you playing?”

  “Playing what?”

  “The solo. The one I just asked you about.”

  “Sorry. I wasn’t listening.”

  “It’s famous. I mean, with bootlegs, it’s famous.”

  Frankie stared at the young man.

  “Bootlegs?”

  “Recordings. You can get them if you ask around.”

  “Of a solo?”

  “It’s the most amazing solo ever. I couldn’t play it if I tried. Nobody can.”

  Frankie’s breathing seemed to accelerate.

  “It wasn’t me.”

  He looked down at his feet.

  “You should go now. I have a lot of practicing to do.”

  Several days passed. Lyle and his bandmates tried three more visits, but the beach was empty each time.

  “Maybe we scared him off,” Eddie said.

  “He said it wasn’t him,” Lyle said.

  “You believe that?”

  “I don’t know. He plays pretty slowly.”

  “How’d he hurt himself?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  “What should we do now?”

  They looked at each other.

  “Drink,” Cluck said.

  Ten minutes later, they entered a pub called McGinty’s and ordered beers. They found a table.

  “Is that the Yankee rock and rollers?”

  They looked up to see Kevin, the driver, grinning from behind the bar.

  “You’re a bartender, too?” Eddie asked.

  “Aw, no, just helping myself. So. How’s the adventure going?”

  “It’s not,” Lyle said glumly.

  “He’s disappeared,” Cluck added.

  Kevin pulled up a chair. “You know, mates, ­people usually move to an island to be left alone. If they wanted to be found, they wouldn’t pick Waiheke, that’s for bloody sure.”

  “Then why did you take us to him?”

  “Dunno. He’s been here a long time. I thought he might like knowing there were ­people who hadn’t forgotten him.”

  “You knew who he was? That he was famous in the sixties?”

  “Aw, sure. ‘I Want To Love You’? We heard that song in the army. Whoo-­hoo! Makes you shake your hips, eh?”

  “Then why did you say you never heard of him?”

  “First rule of friendship, mates. Learn how to keep a secret.”

  The three boys slumped. They sipped their beers.

  “That’s why I went by his place that night. To make sure it was all right.”

  “Wait,” Lyle said. “He gave you permission to bring us?”

  “Not him, mate. Her.”

  “His wife?”

  “Aurora. She’s lovely. She thought it was a good idea.”

  Bolstered by this news, the Texas boys decided to stay on the island through the weekend, which featured an annual tradition known as Race Day. Horses, ponies, and tractors all competed on a large beach, while the islanders gathered in the sun, eating steaks from McGinty’s and drinking beer from barrels. Music was part of the festivities, and it took very little for the Clever Yells to arrange to play a few songs in the late afternoon. (The other musicians were a small brass band and a man with an accordion.) The stage had a crude arrangement, with an old drum set in the center, and small amplifiers and microphones that were used for council meetings. But Lyle, Eddie, and Cluck were anxious to play—­bands that get together after an absence are as giddy as lovers at an airport—­and once they’d plugged in their guitars and offered a quick greeting, they opened with a country song, written by Lyle, which was met with robust applause. They did “Jambalaya” by Hank Williams and a version of “Twist and Shout,” all of which seemed to mix well with the sun and the beer and the general noise of children squealing and drunken men laughing.

  “We’d like to do one more,” Lyle said. “An old one, but a good one for sure.”

  Cluck pounded the drums, and, with the guitar playing an old familiar line, Lyle broke into the opening verse of Frankie Presto’s biggest hit:

  I want to love you,

  I will be true,

  No one will love you

  The way I do.

  The crowd immediately clapped along, as ­people do on songs they recognize. Lyle looked at Eddie, who smiled as he sang background. Their affection for this music was apparent. But a quick glance over the crowd took the smile off Lyle’s face.

  In the back stood Frankie, with the little girl on his shoulders.

  In the middle of the song, he turned and walked away.

  I should explain about the child.

  Frankie and Aurora had found the peace they were searching for on the island. Land was cheap and they purchased a small plot on the beach and built a tidy home from local materials with a deck that overlooked the water. In the mornings they walked the shoreline and in the evenings Aurora barbecued fresh fish while Frankie practiced scales and arpeggios to regain his dexterity. They dressed in shorts and old cotton shirts and found the island residents to be a collection of artists, drifters, and colorful characters, none of whom cared about Frankie’s former celebrity.

  About a year after their arrival, Frankie and Aurora were returning from a walk when they heard an animal crying. In the brush, they saw a stray dog. It had white fur and was hunched low, staring at them. When they approached, the animal whimpered and backed up a few steps. Behind it, they discovered, wrapped in a gray blanket, a tiny baby girl, no more than three months old.

  “Who are you, sweetheart?” Aurora whispered, gently lifting her.

  Frankie watched. The child made no sound. Aurora held her against her chest, but the baby’s eyes remained open, looking at Frankie.

  “Someone left her to die,” he said. The words just came out. Inside all humans is the entirety of your memories, the ones you can access and the ones you cannot. Somewhere in the deep of Frankie’s mind was his own abandonment, his own gray blanket, his own whimpering dog.

  “We need to get her someplace safe,” Aurora said.

  They hurried to their car, and never saw a heavily clothed figure, hiding in the woods.

  They took the child to the nearest church, a small, single-­level building. The attending nun, a thick-­necked woman with a stern expression, seemed surprised by their arrival, and she took the child and told them to wait. Soon a police officer arrived. He grilled them about the details. Where? How? When? Who were they?

  “Why are you asking us so many questions?” Frankie said.

  “Because that baby was left here two days ago, mate,” the officer replied. “Someone abandoned her in the vestibule, with a note asking that the church take care of her. And then, this morning . . .”

  He paused. “She vanished.”

  Frankie looked at Aurora.

  “We didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “We told you what happened.”

  “We just found her.”

  “That’s the truth. In the woods. A dog was guarding her.”

  Since the baby was unharmed, the officer eventually accepted their story. He allowed them to go home. But that night Aurora dreamed about the child. And the next day, she insisted Frankie go with her to the church
.

  “Hello, precious,” Aurora cooed, leaning over the crib.

  “Don’t expect no response from that one,” the nun said.

  “Why not?”

  “Something wrong with her.”

  “What?”

  “Can’t make a peep. Just grunts a little. May be deaf. That’s usually the reason. Poor thing. We’re taking her to the mainland tomorrow.”

  Aurora looked at Frankie.

  “Get your guitar,” she said.

  Frankie returned with his acoustic. He strummed the open strings. The child did not react.

  “Play her a song,” Aurora said.

  Frankie played the elementary notes of “Hush Little Baby.”

  “Sing,” Aurora whispered. So he did.

  Hush little baby, don’t say a word,

  Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

  The child looked over. Aurora sang the next line.

  And if that mockingbird don’t sing,

  Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.

  The child opened its mouth.

  The adults sang together.

  And if that diamond turns to brass,

  Mama’s gonna buy you a looking glass.

  They stopped. The child turned her head. She started to cry, her eyes squeezed tight. But hardly a sound came forth. Just small, muted grunts, almost painful to hear from such a tiny creature.

  Frankie started playing again.

  And she stopped crying.

  “You see?” Aurora said to the nun. “She’s not deaf. She can hear.” She turned to Frankie. “And she likes it when you play.”

  “Well, I don’t know . . . ,” he said, smiling.

  But I knew. I knew exactly what was happening. I see the future of all my children, and I saw in this future a discussion, a decision, an adoption, and the clearing of space for a small crib in their tidy house. A new band was forming with Frankie Presto at its center.