“We came,” Mary Anne said, her heart aching to see him there, big and sturdy, his sleeves rolled up, his arms thick and heavy and powerful. “We brought what’s-his-name along.”
Nitz materialized in the doorway. “Get ready to be showed up,” he announced, and then vanished back into the hall. The others, Beth and Lemming and Coombs, followed him into the disorderly living room, leaving Mary Anne and Tweany alone.
“He’s no good,” Mary Anne said loyally. “All he does is talk.”
A placid superiority spread across the man’s features. He shrugged and resumed his reading. “Help yourself. You know where the refrigerator is.”
“I’m not hungry,” Mary Anne said. “Tweany—”
Beaming, Chad Lemming entered the kitchen carrying his guitar. “Mr. Tweany, I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time. I’ve heard a lot about your style.”
Untouched by the young man’s flattery, Tweany looked slowly up. “You’re Chad Lemming?”
Self-consciously, Lemming fingered his guitar. “I do a sort of political monologue.”
Tweany studied him. Lemming, still grinning with embarrassment, started to speak and then changed his mind. A few plaintive squawks drifted from his guitar, as if it were getting away from him.
“Go ahead,” Tweany said.
“Sir?”
Tweany inclined his head toward the guitar. “Go on. I’m listening.”
Completely ill at ease, Chad Lemming began to tell the stories and sing the ballads he had produced at the Coombses’ apartment. “Well,” he croaked halfheartedly, “I suppose you read in the newspapers the other day about President Eisenhower going to cut taxes. That caused me to do some thinking.” Stammering, his voice faint, he began to sing.
Tweany, after watching a moment, imperceptibly returned to his magazine. There was no particular instant when he did so; the change was so gradual that Mary Anne could not follow it. Suddenly there was Tweany eating his sardine sandwich and studying an article on big-league baseball.
The others, filling up the doorway, listened and peeped into the kitchen. Lemming, with a shudder of abandon, knowing that he had failed, did a final raucous number about a library that either burned all its books or never had any books—Mary Anne couldn’t tell. She wished he would stop; she wished he would go. He was making a fool of himself and it goaded her to a fever pitch. By the time he had finished she wanted to scream aloud.
The silence that followed Lemming’s performance was total. In the sink the monotonous dripping of a leaky faucet increased the sense of futility that hung over the room. Finally, with a grunt, Coombs elbowed his way in, swinging his flash camera.
“What’s that?” Tweany asked, taking an interest.
“I want to get some pictures.”
“Of what?” Tweany’s voice took on a formal edge. “Of myself and Mr. Lemming?”
“That’s correct,” Coombs said. “Chad, get over beside him. Tweany, or whatever your name is, get up so you’re both in the picture.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t oblige,” Tweany said. “My agent won’t permit me to pose for publicity shots without his consent.”
“What the hell agent is that?” Nitz demanded.
There was an uncomfortable pause, while Tweany went on with his meal and Chad Lemming stood unhappily beside the table.
“Forget it,” Beth said to her husband. “Do as Mr. Tweany says.”
Coombs, staring down at Tweany, suddenly complied. He flipped the lens cover over his camera, turned his back, and walked off. “The hell with it,” he said, and mumbled a few words that nobody caught.
Hoisting up his guitar, Lemming departed from the room. Presently they heard the mournful noises from a long way off; he was curled up in the living room, playing to himself.
“Tweany,” Mary Anne said, exasperated. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
Tweany raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and finished the remains of his sandwich. Brushing crumbs from his trousers, he arose and went over to the sink to rinse his hands. “What would you people care to drink? Beer? Scotch?”
They accepted scotch and, with their drinks, joined Lemming in the living room. The young man didn’t look up; absorbed in his playing, he continued to crouch over his guitar.
“You play that pretty good,” Nitz said sympathetically.
Lemming muttered a grateful, “Thanks.”
“Maybe you ought to concentrate on that,” Beth said, having ingested her cue from Tweany. “Maybe just the guitar would be better.”
“I like that a lot better,” Mary Anne said. “I can’t see that talking.”
In a quandary, Lemming protested: “But that’s the whole point.”
“Let it go,” Beth said. Stalking around the untidy living room, she came upon the piano. No larger than a spinet, the piano was lost under heaps of magazines and clothing. “Do you play?” she asked Tweany.
“No. Sometimes Paul accompanies me. Practice.”
“Not very often,” Nitz said, wiping dust from the keyboard with his handkerchief. He struck a chord, expertly diminished it, and then lost interest. “You’re going to have trouble getting this out of here,” he remarked.
Instantly Mary Anne said: “Tweany isn’t going anywhere.”
“We got it up with ropes,” Tweany said. “And we can get it down the same way. Through the kitchen window, if we have to.”
“Where are you going?” Mary Anne demanded, panic-stricken.
“Nowhere,” Tweany answered.
“Tell her,” Nitz said.
“There’s nothing to tell. It’s just an…idea.”
“Tweany’s planning his big-time,” Nitz said to the petrified girl. “He’s moving along to L.A. Got an offer from Heimy Feld, the character who handles those jump concerts. Trial run at a bunch of test spots on Heimy’s circuit.”
“The word ‘trial’ never came up,” Tweany corrected.
Seating herself at the piano, Beth started tapping out the G minor scale. A little island of sound came into being around her. “Tweany,” she said, with a toss of her hair, “I used to write songs. Did you know that?”
“No,” Tweany said.
“She brought one along,” Coombs said sourly. “She’s going to trot it out and ask you to sing it.”
At this, Tweany puffed up until he was even larger than usual. A bluish, steely nimbus shone out: a massive conceit. “Well,” he said, “I’m always interested in new material.”
Nitz belched.
As the sheet music was brought out of Beth’s giant bag, Mary. Anne said to Nitz: “You should have told me.”
“I waited.”
“What for?” She couldn’t understand.
“Until he was here. So he could answer.”
“But,” she said helplessly, “he didn’t answer.” She felt swamped by what was happening; her reality was drifting and she was unable to stop it. “He didn’t say anything.”
“That’s what I mean,” Nitz said. His voice sank down as Beth began to play. Tweany, standing behind her, leaned forward to catch the words. He had already entered a stage of rigid concentration; to him, music was a serious matter. Whatever trifle Beth had concocted was going to receive his full attention. There was an, innate grace that Mary Anne could not forget or ignore; belief in what he was doing added measure to the man’s style.
“This song,” Tweany intoned, “is called, ‘Where We Sat Down,’ and tells the story of a young woman walking through the countryside in autumn, remembering and visiting the places where she and her lover—now dead, killed in foreign lands—had been together. It is a simple song.” And, taking a deep, meaningful breath, he sang the simple song.
“He doesn’t usually do that,” Nitz murmured as the song came to a finish. Beth began rippling out arpeggios and Tweany meditated over the enigma of existence. “It’s hard to get him to do stuff on sight…he likes to give it the once-over.”
Beth was saying to the man standing beside her:
“You felt it, didn’t you?” Her playing took on volume and emotion. “You felt what I meant, in that.”
“Yes,” Tweany agreed, eyes half-shut, swaying with the music.
“And you brought it over. You realized it.”
“It was a beautiful song,” Tweany said, in a trance.
“Yes,” Beth murmured, “it takes on a beauty. An almost terrifying beauty.”
“‘White Christmas,’” Nitz said, “that’s the end of you. You’re finished.”
For the briefest interval Tweany wrestled with his composure. Then passion overcame him, and he turned from the piano. “Paul,” he said, “a casual cruelty can do great harm.”
“Only to a, sensitive soul,” Nitz reminded him.
“This is my house. You’re a guest in my house, at my invitation.”
“Only the top floor.” Nitz was pale and tense; he was no longer joking.
The strained silence grew until Mary Anne at last went over to Tweany and said: “We all should go.”
“No,” Tweany answered, his geniality returning.
“Paul,” Mary Anne said to Nitz, “let’s get out of here.”
“Whatever you want,” Nitz said.
At the piano, Beth played a series of runs. “Don’t you want to wait for us? We’ll give you a ride back.”
“I meant,” Mary Anne said to her, realizing that it was hopeless, “if we all left. All five of us together.”
“That would be nice,” Beth agreed. “Gosh, I can’t imagine anything nicer.” She made no move to get up, and her playing continued. In the corner, his legs drawn under him, Chad Lemming sorrowfully picked at his guitar, ignored by the rest of the group. His sounds, drowned out by the overpowering piano, dissolved and were lost.
“You won’t get her to go,” Danny Coombs said to Mary Anne in a fit of excitement. “She’s got herself planted; she’s set.”
“Shut up, Danny,” Beth said good-naturedly, beginning a progression that formed into a Fauré ballade. “Listen to this,” she said to Tweany. “Ever heard it? It’s one of my favorites.”
“I’ve never heard it,” Tweany said. “Is it one of yours?”
Beth created a great shower of musical sparks: a Chopin prelude, followed at once by the opening of the Liszt B-flat sonata. Tweany, caught in the wind blazing around him, stood fast and survived, even managing to smile as the piece ended.
“I love good music,” he declared, and Mary Anne, embarrassed, looked away. “I wish I had more time for it.”
“Do you know Schubert’s ‘Erlkönig’?” Beth asked, playing furiously. “How wonderfully you could render it.”
Lifting his camera, Coombs snapped a shot of the two of them at the piano. Tweany seemed not even to notice; he continued breathing in the music, eyes shut now, hands clasped together before him. Laughing, Coombs popped the exhausted bulb onto the floor and fitted in a fresh one from the leather pouch at his waist.
“Jesus,” he said to Nitz, “he’s completely left us.”
“He does that,” Nitz said, standing by Mary Anne, his hand on her shoulder. The friendly pressure made her feel a little better, but not much. “I’m afraid that’s his way.”
Suddenly Beth leaped from the piano. In ecstasy she seized Lemming by the hand and dragged him to his feet. “You too,” she cried in his astonished ear. “All of us; join in!”
Gratified to find himself noticed, Lemming began playing wildly. Beth hurried back to the piano and struck up the opening chords of a Chopin “Polonaise.” Lemming, over-powered, danced around the room; throwing his guitar onto the couch, he jumped high in the air, whacked the ceiling with the palms of his hands, descended, caught hold of Mary Anne, and spun her about. At the piano, rocking back and forth, Tweany roared out the lyrics:
“…Til the end of time…”
Miserable and ashamed, Mary Anne struggled out of Lemming’s embrace. She reached the safety of the corner and again stood beside Paul Nitz, collecting herself and smoothing down her coat.
“They’re nuts,” Nitz said. “They’re hopped in another dimension.”
Giggling, Coombs crept past them with his camera and stole a covert shot of Beth’s emotion-contorted face. The dead bulb disappeared under Tweany’s foot; Coombs crept on, past the Negro, over to the spot where Lemming was sprinting through his dance. Again a flash of light blinded them all; when Mary Anne could see again she found Coombs climbing up onto the piano to photograph the group from above.
“God,” she said, shivering. “There’s something wrong with him.”
Nitz, withdrawn and bitter, said: “This is bad stuff, Mary. I should take you home. You don’t deserve it.”
“No,” she said. “I’m not going.”
“Why not? What do you want here?” His gaunt frame trembled; nauseated, he bent his head. “Him, still?”
“It’s not his fault.”
“You never give up, do you?” Nitz’s voice cracked apart and he swallowed creakily. “I can’t stand any more of this jumping; I’m leaving.”
“Don’t,” Mary Anne said quickly. “Please, Paul, don’t leave.”
“Christ,” Nitz implored, “I’m sick.” He handed her his glass and, crouching over, hobbled out of the room and down the hall. Coombs, like some bony spider, gleefully took a picture of him as he passed.
“Look at me!” Lemming shouted, waving his arms and panting for breath. “What am I? Tell me what I am!”
Beth began to play “Poor Butterfly.”
“No!” Lemming shrieked. “You’re wrong!” He threw himself onto the floor and rolled under the piano; only his twitching legs were visible. “What am I now?”
Scuttling from the corner, Coombs squatted down and took a photograph of him. Eyes distorted, Coombs popped dead bulbs from his camera and fumbled new ones from his pouch. His skin had turned from white to a mottled red; his hair, disarranged and shiny, oozed down his temples.
Feeling ill herself, Mary Anne retreated into the kitchen, her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the noise. But it forced itself through the walls and floor; transmitted as vibration, it hammered around her. She could hear Nitz being sick in the bathroom, a tearing sound as if his body were being dragged apart.
Poor Nitz, she thought. Uncovering her ears, she stood listening to his agony and wondering what she could do. Nothing, apparently. And he was suffering for her, too. Behind her, in the living room, the delirium went on; Lemming appeared in the doorway, his face flooded with joy, held out his arms to her, and then vanished. The bull rumble of Carleton Tweany never abated, rising and falling, but contained within the frenzy of the little old piano.
To her, the sound of the piano was a friendly and familiar noise gone wrong. Sometimes, sitting alone in the apartment waiting for Tweany to appear—he seldom did—she had pecked out a few weak themes, jukebox melodies from her meager years. Now, the din of the piano was terrific; played by professionals, the racket grew in volume until the cups and plates in the cupboard above her vibrated.
At the moment they were playing “John Henry.” Tweany was going into a routine: he stood beating his hands on the piano, eyes shut, head thrown back, body agitated with ecstasy. Coombs, sneaking around, took a picture of him and then one of Lemming, who was huddled over Beth, reaching past her to join with her on the keys of the piano. Four hands pounding…the enormous passion shook the house.
“Up!” Coombs’s voice sounded in her ear. Startled, Mary Anne opened her eyes to find him leering at her from the doorway; he was trying to take her picture. She grabbed a plate from the drainboard and hurled it at him; the plate burst against the wall above his head. He blinked and withdrew.
Shaking, she buried her face in her hands and took a labored breath. Now she wished she had gone; she shouldn’t have stayed. In the living room, Lemming had swept Beth up from the piano; the two of them were leaping about the room, chanting meaninglessly, incoherent in their abandon. For Tweany it was still “John Henry”; the piano had ceased but he
roared on. Around and around went the dancing couple; halting, Beth tore off her shoes, kicked them out of the way, and hurried on. Mary Anne closed her eyes and leaned wearily against the sink.
She was there, rubbing her eyes and trying to last, when she heard the crash in the bathroom.
Fully awake, she jumped randomly forward and stood in the center of the kitchen, listening, trying to hear above the din. There was no further sound; the bathroom, at the end of the hall, was silent. With a gasp of intuition she ran to the closed door, seized the knob, and rattled it. The bathroom door was locked.
“Paul!” she called.
There was no response. She kicked at the door with her toe; the sound echoed back to her, but still there was nothing from inside. Letting go of the knob, she turned and raced up the hallway to the living room.
“Tweany, for God’s sake,” she grated, catching hold of him as he stood leaning happily on the piano. No one paid any attention. Coombs was reloading his camera, his face blank with excitement; Lemming and Beth had whirled their way over to the corner and Lemming was now pushing her away and grabbing up his guitar.
Beating on Tweany’s unresponsive shoulder, Mary Anne screamed: “Something’s happened to Paul Nitz! He’s killed himself!” Tweany stirred a little under the pressure of her fists; she caught hold of his shirt and tugged at him. “Tweany!” she wailed. “Help me!”
Gradually, with massive reluctance, Tweany awoke from his trance. “What?” he mumbled, blinking and focusing. “Where? The bathroom?”
Then she was scampering back down the hall; behind her Tweany strode along, collecting his wits. The door was still locked. She stepped aside as Tweany reached for the knob, turned it, and then hammered.
“Come on, Nitz,” he bellowed, his cheek against the wood. There was no answer.
“He’s dead,” Mary Anne said.
“Christ,” Tweany muttered, glancing around him. He made his way to the kitchen and returned with a key. The lock responded and the door fell open.
Stretched out on the bathroom floor lay Paul Nitz, but he was not dead. He had passed out and hit his head on the side of the toilet. There he lay, his eyes closed, arms outstretched, a puddle of vomit around him. He had been sitting on the rim of the bathtub, being sick into the toilet; the white porcelain was still streaked where he had clung to it.