Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [6]
Nathan and I played for hours. Before we started, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I fell.”
He gave me a look over the top of his glasses—his truth-serum look.
“Ms. Beezemeyer talked about Truman. And closure. It all went wrong from there,” I said.
Nathan nodded, then he said, “This word closure … it is a stupid word, ja? Bach did not believe in closure. Handel did not. Beethoven did not. Only Americans believe in closure because Americans are like little children—easily swindled. Bach believed in making music, ja?”
He kept looking at me, waiting for a reply.
“Ja,” I said softly.
We played then. He cut me no slack for my injuries and swore like a pirate when I bungled a trill or rushed a phrase. It was eight o’clock by the time I left.
The winter streets are cold and dark as I walk down them now. Lights blink all around me for the gods of the holidays. Green and red for Santa. Blue for Judah Maccabee. White for Martha Stewart. The cold air on my face feels good. I am drained. I am calm. And I am not paying attention.
Because suddenly, there it is, right in front of me—the Templeton.
It’s an apartment building, built from what used to be the old Hotel St. Charles. It’s eighty stories high, two blocks square, and it throws its ugly shadow over everything, even at night. The stores on the ground floor are always lit up, even when they’re closed. They sell basil sorbet and quince paste and lots of other things nobody wants. The upper floors are condos. They start at half a million.
It’s been nearly two years since I’ve come this close to it. I stand still, staring at it but not seeing it. I see the Charles instead. Jimmy Shoes told me it was swanky once. Back in the thirties. He said it had a saltwater pool on its roof, and spotlights, too. The Dodgers ate there, gangsters strolled in with chorus girls on their arms, and swing bands played until dawn.
It wasn’t swanky two years ago. It was crumbling. Part of it had burned. What was left housed welfare cases and winos. Drug dealers hung out in the front. Muggers prowled the hallways. Its doors were always open, like a leering mouth, and I could smell its rank breath whenever I walked by—a mixture of mildew, cat piss, and sadness. I heard it, too. I heard angry music blaring from boom boxes, heard Mrs. Ortega screaming at her kids, heard the Yankees game on Mrs. Flynn’s ancient radio, and Max. I hear him still. He’s in my head and I can’t get him out.
“Maximilien R. Peters! Incorruptible, ineluctable, and indestructible!” he’d yell. “It’s time to start the revolution, baby!”
I stop dead and stare at the sidewalk. I don’t want to but I can’t help it. It was there, right there, about five yards in front of me, by that long, jagged crack, where Max stepped into the street. And took Truman with him.
Rain washed away the blood long ago but I still see it. Unfurling beneath my brother’s small, broken body like the red petals of a rose. And suddenly the pain that’s always inside me, tightly coiled, swells into something so big and so fierce it feels like it will burst my heart, split my skull, tear me apart.
“Make it stop,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.
When I open them again, I see my brother. He’s not dead. He’s standing in the street, watching me. It can’t be. But it is. My God, it is! I run into the street.
“Truman! I’m sorry, Tru! I’m so sorry!” I sob, reaching for him.
I want him to tell me that it’s okay, it was all just a dumb mistake and he’s fine. But instead of his voice, I hear tires screeching. I turn and see a car bearing down on me.
Everything inside me is screaming at me to run, but I don’t move. Because I want this. I want an end to the pain. The car swerves violently and screeches to a stop. I smell burned rubber. People are shouting.
The driver’s on me in an instant. She’s crying and trembling. She grabs the front of my jacket and shakes me. “You crazy bitch!” she screams. “I could have killed you!”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Sorry?”