The Montage

Middletown, New Jersey

November 2000

It’s 4:45, and she’s been awake since 3:17, listening to the voices on the TV downstairs. Every now and then, a word or a phrase sneaks through: “… recount … Florida … hanging chads … we still don’t know …”

She grabs the Book of Mysteries and sneaks down the stairs. The couch is a mess, but it’s an empty mess.

“… Supreme Court … go to our Washington correspondent … Florida …”

The basement door is open. She ducks her head under the three-quarters jamb.

“Mike?”

“… within the margin of error … absentee ballots … still no answers …”

The basement stairs squeak and groan. No sound from below except for the ever-present, high-voltage hum.

“Mike?”

“… butterfly ballots … no timetable …”

Mike is lying facedown on the basement floor, bathed in the pale blue light of the computer screen.

“MIKE!”

“… retracted his concession … results in the balance …”

She rolls him over. His eyes are open, but he is nonresponsive. Research for her novel leaps to mind. She hops to her feet—dropping his head harder than she’d intended—and grabs his ankles. Feet above heart level … now … shit! Restrictive clothing? No! Check for breathing!

Mike blinks and says, “Oh.”

“Tell me what happened. How long have you been like this? Do your clothes feel tight? DON’T! Don’t try to get up! Your lips look blue! Shit! We need to call an ambulance. That’s one of the signs!”

He rubs his eyes with both hands. “I’m okay, babe. My lips … my lips are fine. They’re blue because … everything is blue.”

“Are you having trouble breathing? Do you have chest pains? Are you sure your lips aren’t blue? They look really fucking blue!”

“I’m fine. Really. I just fell or something. Amy, seriously, I’m fine.”

She feels tears coming into her eyes, rage in her stomach. She slams his feet onto the floor.

“You are not fine! This is not fine! Something is wrong with you, and I can’t fucking figure it out and it is driving me—all of us!—fucking crazy!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … How did I get here?”

“Wild guess: maybe the stairs? Same way you always do, maybe?”

She can see that Mike is trying to be careful. He looks genuinely confused, which makes no sense, but she’s out of pity.

“I haven’t been down here since Caleb’s seizure,” he says. “Like we agreed.”

Amy retrieves the Book of Mysteries from the pocket of her robe, wields it like a priest with a holy symbol. “That is a goddamn lie. You’ve been down here”—she flips the book open—“sixty-five times, sixty-six times, counting tonight, since then. And that’s only the times Caleb and I know about!”

“Caleb?”

“He knows you come down here—he asks me why. So I turned it into a game for him. What the hell was I supposed to tell him? What would he think if he found his father like this: passed out on the basement floor?”

“Mom?” Caleb says from the doorway above. Amy’s eyes widen and she makes a motion with her head that says, case in point.

“Yeah, honey,” she says, as calmly as she can. “We’re down here. We’re okay. Go back to bed, okay?”

“Is Dad—is Dad there?”

“Yeah, buddy,” Mike says. “I’m here, I’m good. Go back to sleep, like Mom says, please.”

No movement from the top of the stairs. Amy can picture the pensive look on his face. Please don’t come down here. …

“… pendulum continues to swing … critical state … when will we know …”

“I’m scared,” Caleb says.

Amy pockets the Book of Mysteries and leaves Mike lying there. She finds Caleb at the top of the stairs, takes his hand, slams the basement door, and leads him to his room. He gives her a worried look. She squeezes his hand in a way that she hopes will give him comfort, not betray her own feelings.

###

Mike gets to his feet. His eyes, unfocused and bleary, drift around the humming, blinking, buzzing music room. Did I fall asleep?

He drops into the swivel chair. Am I still asleep?

There is a blurry icon in the middle of the computer screen. Must’ve hit the snooze button.

He focuses. The icon is a folder, and it’s labeled “Mike Monsoon’s Song Journal.”

Mike has never seen this folder before.

Click-click.

Inside are fourteen files. Music files. One is labeled “Basement Lullaby.”

Click-click.

A song plays, a song he played for Doreen on his bed in the Boylston Street apartment one May morning a long time ago. But that was the morning after they’d … been together—and that never happened. He feels a surge of guilt and remorse. For what, though? A fantasy? A dream

But that’s his voice on the track, and the track isn’t some rough demo; it’s finished: composed, arranged, performed, and mastered.

He rubs his eyes.

Blink.

He is rehearsing “When Will We Get There” with his band. He feels impatient, but maybe it’s just the song.

Blink.

Back on Boylston Street, and it’s snowing outside. He and Doreen are sharing headphones, listening to a song he’s just recorded about the day he met Sam in the Piano House. Doreen cocks her head and smiles. What’s JavaScript? Mike laughs. I have no idea!

Blink.

Sitting at a piano in the studio, playing a melody. A hand claps him on the shoulder. Without turning around, Mike knows it’s his manager. Mike laughs. Who is arranging all of this?

I’m your manager, says the voice behind him.

I know that voice.

Blink.

Basement again. Oscar the Grouch is lying at his feet, looking up at the darkness with fake plastic eyes.