I finished and theyclapped. I thanked them and the nursing home’s event organizer for all comingout to see me play, and I stood to bow graciously. Chair legs screeched alongthe floor, feet and walkers shuffled to the door, and I gathered my sheets ofpaper and waited for the next round of listeners to arrive.
***
“Six requests for ‘Piano Man,’” Imentioned smugly, sauntering toward the bar. “Didn’t I tell yousomeonewould want me to play ‘PianoMan?’”
“Okay, wiseass,” Jeffgrumbled, pouring me my nightly beer and sliding it into my open palm. “Howabout you don’t accept requests and just play your damn set?” His tauntingglare couldn’t hide the laughter crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and Ishook my head.
“I have to ask forrequests,” I insisted, tipping the glass to my lips. “If I didn’t, I’d run outof stuff to play.”
“Yeah, about that,” hementioned hesitantly, turning away to face the mirrored wall of varied liquorsand taps.
“What?”
He lifted a rag andmopped up some spillage underneath the row of taps, keeping himself occupiedand unable to look my way. “I was just thinking … you need some new material.”
My mouth dried up in aninstant and the beer went sour on my tongue. “New material?”
“Yeah.” His head bobbednonchalantly. “You know, maybe it would, uh, help to freshen your act a littleto have some new songs.”
I forced my throat toswallow the beer down and scoffed defensively. “OrI could just play Billy Joel covers for the rest of my life.”
With an aggravatedhuff, my brother turned on his heel and eyed me with a heathy dose of worrieddisdain. “You don’t mean that.”
My head tipped with myfeigned indifference. “It wouldn’t be so bad.”
Jeff’s eyes dulled withevery unsaid comment he knew would flatten my spirit just a little bit more.Like a reminder that I used to live for my songs. How two years ago, nothinghad made me feel more alive than spilling my abundant feelings into lyrics andmelody and the fluidity of dancing my fingers over the keys.
But we both knew thatguy was gone.
I figured he just missedhis brother.
The seconds ticked byand my beer grew warm. Jeff’s eyes flicked toward me every couple of moments,the way he always did. To make sure I was still breathing, to make sure Ihadn’t slinked away into the shadows to let them swallow me whole. Deep down, Ibelieved he knew I’d never let that happen, though. Notaslong asthe girls were around. But he watched nevertheless, until hesaid, “It might help you, you know.”
I lifted my tired eyesto his. “What?”
Jeff shrugged in a waythat suggested he was weary. That he was tired of putting up with me and mynever-ending tug of war with life and death. “Writing your songs,” heclarified. “It might help.”
My shoulders lifted ina half-hearted shrug and I took another pull from the glass before sliding offthe stool. I kept my face neutral, settled and nonchalant, as I grabbed mybackpack and unzipped to slip my music in. My heart tripped over itself in thefrenzied way it did whenever someone came close to mentioning my lack of work.I knew they’d expect an explanation, but to give them one meant to acknowledgeit. The gaping, blackened hole in myheart. The endless stretch of shadow I had found myself in, without any attemptto find a shred of light.
How was I supposed towrite my songs when I’ve lost my muse?
I took a glance back atJeff, to find him shaking his head and lowering his gaze, emphasizing thesympathetic downturn of his lips.
“Jon …”
“Jeff,” I mocked,forcefully adding an airiness to my tone. I pushed myself further and shot him witha smile, but he wasn’t biting, and I relented. “Look, I know what you’rethinking, okay? I don’t need to hear it.”
“And what doyouthinkI’m thinking?”
My exhausted gaze methis. “That it’s been two years. That it’s been too long. That it’s been … Idon’t know. Longenough, I guess.”
But Jeff shook hishead. “That’s not at all what I was going to say, actually.”
With a tip of my head,I eyed him curiously. “Oh, no?”
“Man …” He sighed as ahand smoothed over his beard. His gaze diverted from mine and dropped to thebar and my warm beer. “Nobody expected this was going to be easy, and we allmiss her, okay? You don’t have to act like you’re the only—”
“She w—” My lipspinched as I stumbled on the word that never got easier to say with time. “Shewas mywife.” Tremored breathstripped through my nose. My jaw clamped shut, my teeth ground together. “Don’tact like it’s the same for you.”
