Read an Excerpt
Song for Chance
A Novel
By John Van Kirk Red Hen Press
Copyright © 2013 John Van Kirk
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-59709-267-8
CHAPTER 1
July
Jack Voss heard the pitch change as the engines throttled back before he felt the aircraft decelerate and begin its descent into LaGuardia. He could see the ground now. After almost six hours above an unbroken layer of clouds, the plane was crossing the ragged edge of the undercast, and he took note of the East Coast geography as it came into view, sorting through the maps in his mind, until he caught sight of the Tappan Zee Bridge, and the mental images synced up with the landscape below. Over Manhattan, the afternoon sun glinted off the silvery top of the Chrysler Building, but what struck him, as it had every time he had flown into the city since 9/11, was the empty space in the skyline where the Twin Towers used to be, an ominous reminder that absence could be as powerful as presence, sometimes more so.
Once off the plane, Voss breezed through the airport carrying only his leather jacket and his briefcase. That was one of the advantages of keeping the Manhattan apartment, though he didn't go directly there. Instead he stuck his head into the first cab in line and said, "you know Woodside?"
The driver, tawny dreads spilling from a knit red and purple cap, nodded without turning around. Blasé. Voss climbed in and gave him the address.
"Hey, I know you," the driver said abruptly, having checked him out in the mirror and now turning to face him. "You're Voss. Keyboard man. Ride the Music, baby."
Voss smiled. "That's me," he said.
They pulled out into the flow of traffic.
"You want to listen to some jazz?"
"Sure," Voss said as he tuned in to the pulse of the city, so different from San Francisco, where he had boarded his plane in the gray dawn. He thought of Gershwin for a moment, the car horns in An American in Paris, and the Mondrian painting "Broadway Boogie Woogie," which always reminded him a little of a subway map. He watched the driver shuffle through his CDs, a bit apprehensive about what he might be about to hear. People threw the word jazz around these days without much care. The words "smooth jazz" from a radio announcer were enough to make Voss change the station, because he knew what was coming—something soupy and sentimental, Kenny G. or Spyro Gyra. But when the music started, it wasn't soupy at all, rather edgy, crisp, deeply intelligent. He sat back and listened.
"Monk," he said.
"The-lo-ni-us," the driver said, stretching out the syllables.
"Good choice," Voss said. "Very good choice."
* * *
Artie met him at the door with a familiar smirk and a bear hug, and Voss glimpsed C.C. in T-shirt and underpants scooting down the hall to the bedroom.
"Sorry, Jack," she called over her shoulder. "Still in my undies. Be out in a few minutes. Excuse the mess."
Voss felt immediately at home—his visits with Artie and C.C. always began with her apologizing for the mess, a mess he could never see.
"C'mon in, man," Artie said, stepping back to look him up and down. "God, it's good to see you."
"You, too, dude-san. It's been too long. You've lost weight."
"Yeah," Artie said, looking down at his own sinewy frame. "So I heard you got into Cleveland. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Damn, man." Artie clapped Voss on the shoulder. "Congratulations."
"I was just there to induct Hal," Voss said. "They're not gonna put me in there."
"Shit. Sorry, man. You deserve it, though. And Hal? Nobody would ever have heard of Hal Proteus if it wasn't for you. Vossimilitude put him on the map; everybody knows that."
"Thanks, but I'm not sure that's true. He was a killer bass player, and he could sing. He'd have been somebody whether I was there or not."
"I won't speak ill of the dead," Artie said, "but I never liked him as much as you did. Anyway, come in, sit down." He gestured toward the living room where the television was blaring CNN's coverage of the Democratic convention. "It's just the preliminaries. Shalikashvili's going to start things off. Can I get you a drink?"
"I could use a beer," Voss said. He had been looking forward to this, an ordinary evening, sitting around with old friends, watching TV, no business talk, no need to perform, entertain anybody. During the flight he'd gone over the charts for tomorrow's recording session. He was prepared. Tonight was a night to chill. And it was the last night of the convention—to watch that with Artie would be another treat. The most politically savvy of Voss's friends, Artie was a history buff and political junkie who had read everything from Herodotus to Simon Shama; even back when he and Voss were college roommates he had torn noisily through three newspapers a day, flapping the pages and muttering. He was always ahead of the curve when it came to breaking political news, had predicted Carter's nomination before Voss had heard of Carter, was up on the Contra scandal before it broke, was on to Ross Perot before the mainstream media, and foresaw that Clinton's bête noire would be his philandering. "What did I tell you?" he had said when the Lewinski affair came to light.
Artie ushered Voss through the dining room—where the table was piled high with unfolded laundry—into the living room. The low sun shone through the blinds onto the huge television screen, revealing a thick coating of dust. Stacks of books and magazines were heaped up on the end-tables and the floor; on the coffee table, a huge pewter ashtray overflowed with crushed cigarette butts.
"What happened to Frau Cecelia, the cleaning Nazi?" Voss said when Artie came back in with a bottle of Pilsner Urquel. "C.C.'s let you revert to your old habits. Place is starting to look like your room at the Lafayette house back when."
Artie tilted his head and raised his eyebrows as if to say, yeah, it's my mess. But there was something else going on beneath the surface that Voss wasn't sure of.
"Is everything okay?" he asked quietly. "Didn't you tell me something about C.C. last winter? Some kind of seizure?"
"Yeah. It's a long story. I'll fill you in later," Artie said. Then he pointed with his chin to the TV. "It's the night of the generals. Brilliant. Did you see Clinton the other night? Unbelievable speech. God, I miss him. If only he could have kept his dick in his pants."
Voss nodded. Somebody on the television said something he didn't catch, and Artie growled, "That's right. Red Meat." He turned back to Voss. "I want to see them go for the jugular," he said, "right for Bush himself. Make it personal, goddamnit."
"Isn't that what they are doing?" Voss said.
"Nah. Very few of them. They're going for the love-fest. John Kerry, war hero slash anti-war hero. Flashback to the hippie days, '68 and '72, and try to make us boomers feel like we've got one last chance to get it right. To change the world like we dreamed when we were kids. Not blow it this time like Humphrey and McGovern did."
C.C. came out about twenty minutes later, pale and older than Voss remembered her. Her hair was pulled back into a tight pony tail, but it looked limp and greasy. She bustled about, serving bowls of chips, plates of cheese and fruit, opening a bottle of pinot grigio. Dinner as such never materialized, but there was enough food that Voss didn't miss it. Artie and C.C. still got high, and joints went around along with the wine. Voss was a little out of practice, and there was no way he could keep up. Artie seemed to interact with the television more than he did with either Voss or C.C. anyway, and after a while Voss just settled back into the couch and let the whole scene wash over him.
"I'm going to go get some cigarettes," C.C. said. "You guys need anything?"
Artie sat up. "Sweetheart, it's late," he said. "Stay here. I'll go."
"No," she said, "you hang with Jack. You guys haven't seen each other in how long?"
"No, it's cool. I'll go. No problem. Back in ten minutes."
"No," C.C. said, "I'll go. It's just around the corner, for Christ's sake. I need the air."
Then Artie seemed to plead with her—Voss had never heard anything like it between them; maybe he was stoned, but he felt desperation, agony in his friend's voice: "Let me go, sweetheart, please? C'mon, honey; I'd really rather go myself—or else I'll go with you, okay?"
C.C. was having none of it. "That would be rude," she said. Then she turned toward Voss, trying to draw him in as an ally. "He's such a man." She turned again, mixing sweetness and recrimination. "Artie, baby, we can't just leave Jack here by himself. What's wrong with you, honey?"
Voss sensed vitriol under their endearments. Finally it emerged. "Okay, fuck it," Artie said. "You go. We'll wait here. Just go to Chino's, okay?"
"Yeah, Chino's," she said, conciliatory, now that she'd gotten her way. "I'll be right back, sweetie. Don't worry."
She closed the door behind her, and Voss heard the deadbolt slide in place. Artie started to roll another joint.
"What was all that about?" Voss asked.
Artie shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it right now, okay? I'm sorry, man."
And the two men sat in front of the blaring television. A half hour passed. The absurd hoopla of the Convention, with the synthetic theme music the network had manufactured for it, went on as before, but Artie made no comment, and Voss felt confused and a little hurt.
When C.C. finally did come back, almost an hour later, she was different—by turns emotional and out of it. She started crying during the short film about Kerry's Vietnam heroism. Artie was clearly disturbed.
Then it was time for Kerry's speech. C.C. teared up again at the salute and the corny "John Kerry, reporting for duty" opening.
"Good theater," Artie said, rousing a little from his funk. "If McGovern had played the war-hero card he might have been able to beat Nixon."
More than a little stoned, and still confused about what was going on between his friends, Voss was briefly distracted by a headline that went by on the crawl. At first all he caught were two words—Hoboken, where he was planning to go tomorrow to visit his daughter, Chance, and suicide. He waited for it to run by again so he could read the whole thing: Hoboken: two dead and one held for questioning in botched triple suicide. Now he fixated on the idea of a triple suicide, not something you heard about very often. Sure there were two-person suicides, doomed lovers usually, and mass events, like Jonestown or Halle-Bopp. It had been almost thirty years since he'd heard about a three-way suicide pact. Not a memory he wanted to pursue.
Then Kerry made his remark about wisdom and strength not having to be mutually exclusive.
"Good," Artie said, slamming his fist down on the table and upsetting the ashtray. "That's what he needs to say."
C.C.—weepy and slurring her words—said, "Thank God. I think he's going to win," then slumped over and passed out.
Artie woke her gently, got her to her feet. She whimpered as he helped her back into the bedroom.
"Is she all right?" Voss asked, when Artie came back.
"She's drunk," Artie said bitterly.
"But she didn't drink that much, did she?"
"Not here."
"What?"
"She didn't go out for cigarettes," Artie said. "She went out for a couple of shots. She might have even brought a bottle back in her purse. I'll have to check."
"But we were drinking here. Why would she go out?"
"It's not enough. You saw how she changed. She could sit and drink wine with us all night. She had to have a couple vodkas. It's what she does now. She's an alcoholic, Jack. A bad one."
"How long has it been like this?"
"Forever," Artie said, bitterly. "I mean ... you remember even back in the early days, she always drank a lot. You don't do that for twenty or thirty years without ... consequences." Then his voice changed. "She took a turn after 9/11. Before that, the drinking was pretty much limited to nighttime. Then there was the hysterectomy...."
"Jesus. And the seizure?"
"Seizures," Artie corrected. "She's had three that I know of."
Voss looked at Artie. "Do they know what's causing them?"
"It's the alcohol."
"Oh, God, Artie. I'm so sorry, man. Can you get her help?"
"You think I haven't tried? She won't go."
They sat in silence while the commentators told them what they had already seen and heard, as if it required interpreters.
"What about you?" Voss said. "You talking to anybody about this?"
"Who am I going to talk to?" Artie said.
"Well, me, for one."
"Fuck, man. There's nothing to say."
In the cab from Queens to Manhattan, Voss's head swam. He felt that dizzying perspective shift that happens when something dimly glimpsed in the background suddenly slides into the foreground, massive and looming. How many times had he seen C.C. nod off at the end of the night and thought nothing of it? How many times had Artie failed to show up for a dinner or drink in Manhattan with a vague excuse about C.C. feeling poorly? How could Voss have missed the now-obvious signs? He couldn't name all the fellow musicians he had seen destroyed by drink or drugs over the years, but Artie and C.C. had always seemed apart from that world, immune to those forces that took others down. But no one was immune, he knew that; his own escape from the pharmacopeia of oblivion, as he called it, had been narrow, and he still felt its seductive allure at times.
The doorman at his apartment greeted him warmly despite the lateness of the hour, and when he got out of the elevator and opened his door, he saw the unopened bags of books and clothing he had purchased on his last visit and knew he would open them tomorrow with surprise, like gifts he had left for himself. Perhaps there would be something he could give to his daughter. The answering machine on the telephone was winking eighty-eight.
"Shit," Voss said aloud. "Not here too." He unplugged the machine from the wall and threw it in the garbage.
Before he fell asleep, he thought once again of the headline on the crawl about the suicides in Hoboken and fervently hoped it wasn't going to be a replay of the last time. Though that was almost impossible. The record was out of print, all but forgotten.
* * *
The sound was as close to perfect as it was going to get. Gordon had got the buzz out of Javi's bass, Charley B.'s drums were tuned and the mikes adjusted, and Voss was beginning to get the feel of the piano, a well cared-for Baldwin with a light action and a warm tone. Through the window he could see Gordon sit back from the mixing board and just listen.
Voss leaned into the mike and began to sing. Almost immediately his voice went flat; then it cracked. He mashed both hands down on the piano keys and said, "Shit. Whose brilliant idea was it to record this song?"
"I'm pretty sure it was yours, Jack," Charley B. said, leaning his upright bass against its stand.
"Yeah, Jack," said Javier. "You said you liked the shoes thing."
"Right," Voss said. "I liked the shoes. But I guess I didn't really remember the rest of the song. I mean, it's got one great line—the rest, well, Springsteen can pull it off. He does that wailing thing; it's primal. But I'm not that kind of singer, and except for the chorus ... Jesus, the song is barely articulate. No wonder nobody covers Springsteen."
"Uh, yeah," Javi said, "except for Manfred Mann, and Patti Smith, and Cowboy Junkies ... who else? Charlie?"
"Stanley Clarke," Charlie said, "and Johnny Cash covered, what was it?
'I'm On Fire.'"
"Okay," Voss said, "but it's not like other people make hits out of them."
"Except for Manfred Mann," they said together.
"C'mon, guys," Gordon cut in from the booth. "Why don't you try it again. If you're worried about the wailing we can dub in a sax later...."
"Yeah, Clarence Clemmons, right?" Voss said. "Give me a break, Gordo. If we need a sax when I'm done, we might as well hang it up."
"Okay, Jack. Bad idea. But you've got to stay with this. Just sing it straight, quiet, whispery, close to the mike. Tom Waits, but melodic. The boys are with you all the way. Javi, even softer with the brushes."
"All right," Voss said. "One more time, but then we move on. If we don't get it this time, we'll come back to it tomorrow." He started the count. Charlie's clear, slow bass line and Javi's laid-back brushwork on the drums seemed to say, listen close. Voss came in, his voice low:
When I lost you, honey, sometimes I think I lost my guts, too ...
Then he filled in the gaps with piano chords, thoughtful, as if he were composing them on the spot.
And I wish God would send me a word, Send me something I'm afraid to lose ...
He worked himself into it, still soft on the piano, and let the music carry him into the chorus:
Baby, I swear I'd drive all night again, just to buy you some shoes....
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Song for Chance by John Van Kirk. Copyright © 2013 John Van Kirk. Excerpted by permission of Red Hen Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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