Well, brace yourself for an Author's Note! First off, I just have to explain something. If you know music relatively well, you can skip this. Roger's a musician, no? Therefore, he'd know all sorts of stuff about musical theory. Or at least, he should. I know some musicians teach themselves, but let's just say Roger wasn't one of them. In the first section, he's a bit delirious and is finding his rhythm. What I was attempting to describe was the neat way eighth notes and triplets fit together. What he does, I can't do. I just can't. It's really, really hard to do. I've only seen two people who can do it and one can only do it on really good days. Also, an arpeggio is… Well, it kind of skips notes. I'm really bad at describing it. Just think of Pachelbel's Canon. All those notes that sort of skip. Eh, I can't explain…
Also, to Kelby: I get what you were thinking, but you read too deep. ::grin:: I just wanted to kind of extend the Wizard of Oz metaphor to the end. Since the poppies sort of represent an obstacle since they fell asleep and everything. They were just getting somewhere with that whole deep intimate conversation and little Marky was hoping to get laid. (Sorry if I'm not being very eloquent. I'm quite tired) However, I am planning to write a story about Roger that uses the Wizard of Oz metaphor in the way you were thinking. I was thinking about it the other day and had the idea. So, when this is finished, that probably will be the next thing I write.
Anyway, musical geniuses and non-Kelbys can just skip my long-windedness and read on. Enjoy!
Peace
-elodie
Wisp
Chapter 07
First there were a few carefully picked notes, then a chord or two. And then a small melody. Carefully, expert, albeit rusty, fingers plucked at the strings. And then there came a more complicated melody, an arpeggio. It sounded familiar.
Pachelbel's Canon? Perhaps. There were a few missed notes and an angry sigh, more like a growl than a sigh, was heard.
Then it was no more. Just a dissonant stroke at all the strings and a thunk. The guitar had been carelessly tossed to the floor.
There was pacing. Back and forth, back and forth. The sound of shuffling bare feet on the cold floor.
Then there came a drumming sound, made with the palm of a hand against a table. It sounded simple. Thunk thunk thunk. It was slow. More like thunk. thunk. thunk. Then it stopped and another sound came. It was quicker. Thunk thunk thunk. Thunk thunk thunk. Triplets as opposed to eighth notes. Trip-le-et trip-l-et trip-le-et. Trip-le-et two and trip-le-et four and. It combined, alternating beats.
Then one hand began tapping out eighth notes. It did this several times before the other hand joined in with triplets. It sounded a mess and there was an angry growl. But it started again, more confident this time. Closed eyes, deep breath. One and two and three and four and. Then the triplets. And for the first time in so long, there were wonderful rhythms opposing each other, yet still fitting together. Thunk tha-thunk tha-thunk.
"Yes!"
The rhythm had come back. Everything he'd learned about music, all rushing back to him. A death had sucked it away but he was beginning to get it back.
His head spun. He felt it and it felt like he'd touched a hot iron. He needed to go lie down…
* * *
"Mark, is Maureen here?" Joanne entered the room, clutching the small pouch containing the key in her hand.
Mark shook his head, concentration on the leg in front of him. "Nope. She came here looking for you about an hour ago."
Joanne stepped closed, squinting at the sight. "What are you doing?"
Winnie was sitting on the table, her skirt hitched up to her thighs with her legs coated in white foam.
"I'm shaving Winnie's legs for her." Mark ran the razor gently down her leg so as not to cut her, then dipped it in the cold water he'd let sit in the sink.
Joanne nodded, drifting over to the window to see if Maureen was on the street. "We've been playing phone tag for the last few days, Maureen and I. And I haven't been able to catch her and was hoping she was here."
"I think she might have gone to the Life Café to look for you," Winnie piped up, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "I heard that phone conversation you two had two weeks ago."
Joanne turned to look at her in surprise. "You did?"
Winnie shrugged. "Well, just Maureen's side. Can't help but hear her. You said you loved her."
"I do."
"How come you can't just get along?"
Joanne sighed and sank onto the couch. "Long story."
"I've got time."
"Maureen and I," Joanne began, "Well, we're different. She's very outgoing and unpredictable and well, a bit unapologetic. And I'm, well… You know, I'm reserved and organized and when I take drastic measures, I thoroughly research them first. Our personalities clash. She's so…alluring and I'm just plain old me. I'm surprised she's even attracted to me in the first place."
Winnie accepted the towel Mark held out to her and wiped down her leg, drying all the excess water off. "Before she called you, she was talking to herself about you. She was creating a pros and cons list. But she'd said to herself that there were too many pros to count."
Joanne stared at Winnie before smiling warmly. "You're an angel, Miss Winnie."
"No I'm not." She broke out into a grin. "I'm a knight in rusty armor." She grinned at Mark.
"I take it that it's an in-joke with you two."
Winnie nodded vigorously. "I'm his knight and he's my damsel. We're following the yellow brick road to get to our castle at the Emerald City."
"I promised her that I'd wear a princess dress," Mark added, rubbing down her other leg. "You're finished, Miss Winnie."
"Thanks Mark. I'm going to go take a nap. Joanne, good luck with Maureen. I think it will work out," Winnie said quietly, shooting her a shy grin. "Mark, are you coming with me?"
Mark nodded. "Yep, in a minute."
Joanne rained an eyebrow as soon as she'd disappeared from the room. "Going with her?"
Mark shrugged. "Well, she doesn't like to sleep alone. She gets scared and lonely. So I keep her company."
"Is that all?"
"Well, we talk a lot. Deep life conversations, you know?"
Joanne nodded. "I see. She seems like a great kid, Mark."
"She is," Mark agreed. "Really fucked up, but a great kid. Kind of like me, right?" He smiled at her cheekily.
"Go take a nap," She said, waving him towards the bedroom. "I guess I'll just go see if Maureen's at the Life."
"Why would I be there?"
"Hey Maureen," Mark said. "Good luck Joanne," He gave her a reassuring smile before leaving to join Winnie.
Joanne stuttered a bit at first, both of them feeling a bit awkward. "Maureen, I'm sorry we haven't been able to talk until now. I was trying to…collect my thoughts, I guess you could say."
Maureen stepped forward and without another word, kissed her soundly on the lips. "Pookie, let's never argue again."
"That sounds nice…" Joanne managed to get out between kisses. Feeling Maureen's hand traveling up her shirt, she pushed away. "Wait, Mark and Winnie are in the next room…"
"Let's go to my place."
"What's going on?"
They looked up to see Roger stumbling out of his bedroom, obviously just been woken up.
"Honey, you don't look so good…" Maureen helped him over to the couch and steadied him as he collapsed onto it. "Joanne, what do you think?"
Joanne felt his forehead. "Roger, you've had this fever forever. I think you should go. If you aren't getting better, that's a sign that there's something seriously wrong."
Roger shook his head. "No," He sucked in another breath. "Hospital… I just want to," Another breath. "Stay here…"
"We're getting you to the hospital and that's final," Maureen said firmly. "Joanne, you go tell Mark and Winnie. I'll call us a cab. Roger, just wait there. Don't move."
* * *
"February 3rd, three PM, Eastern Standard Time. Zoom in on the waiting room, filled with anxious and worried souls."
Winnie sat in the chair next to him. She'd brought her blanket and was shivering violently. "I hate hospitals," She murmured. "They give me the creeps."
Joanne nodded in agreement. "Too many bad memories."
Winnie pulled at Mark's sleeve. "Mark, can we go walk outside? Please? I hate it in here."
"But you'll catch cold."
"I have a warm blanket."
Mark sighed but took her hand and led her out. They walked outside the hospital by the sidewalks, Mark watching all the people through his camera lens. Sitting down on a bench, Winnie immediately snuggled against him, instantly cold.
"Are you sure you don't want to go back inside?"
"I hate hospitals." Winnie bit her lip before asking Mark tentatively, "Do you think he'll be OK?"
Mark shrugged, slipping an arm across her back. "I don't know. I wish I did. He's getting weaker, Winnie."
She shrugged off some of her blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. "He's in pain."
"I know…"
"He could make it."
"He might."
"But then there will be more times like this."
"There will," Winnie stared into Mark's face, her own face neutral. She looked neither sad, nor worried, just cold.
Mark's eyes were wet. "Winnie, I'm torn."
"I know."
She gently pulled his head down so he could lean on her shoulder as he began to cry. It had been years since he'd cried on someone's shoulder and it felt refreshing. But inside he was dying.
The same was with Roger. Mark had to face it. His best friend was dying. He was weak and sick and had been for weeks. If he got better, death would still be an inevitability. If he survived, there'd be more weakening colds or flu's or some other disease or virus, each time battering his body worse.
Winnie stroked his hair. She didn't want to say anything. He was realizing it on his own. She didn't want him to get mad at her if she said anything about Roger. She just pulled the blanket tighter around them and let him cry on her shoulder.
* * *
He was still awake, but barely. Everything swirled around him and voices sounded distant. It was almost as if he was underwater.
Attempting to suck in air was difficult. It really felt like he was drowning.
Everything was so woozy… There was no pain, but yet everything ached. Every breath burned, but he felt no heat. Every slight move screamed, but he heard no sound.
Somewhere, in a very distant place, he heard the oceans crash, but he felt no spray, smelled no salt.
Everything was white and oh so bright. But somewhere… Somewhere, he smelled something. What was it? Nutmeg? Ginger? No, cinnamon…