I.
When Ricky opened his eyes the next morning, the sun was streaming in through the window and the sounds of the traffic below threw him immediately into the memory of all the mornings he woke up in the New York apartment he'd shared with Lucy before they moved to Connecticut.
He sat up slowly and looked out the window, seeing the towering World Trade Center not too far off.
Ricky rose from bed, pulled a robe around himself, stepped into his slippers and walked out into the hall. Rick's bedroom door was open and Ricky heard sounds in the kitchen. He found his son sitting at the kitchen table, looking at a newspaper and eating cereal out of a small bowl.
Rick looked up. "Morning!"
Ricky smiled. "Good mornin'. Anythin' in the paper?"
Rick shook his head and started to stand. "The usual. Hungry?"
Ricky shrugged. He wasn't particularly hungry, although he knew he should eat. "Do you have any orange juice?"
Rick looked at his father before turning to open the refrigerator. "Yeah, I do, but I think you should have some actual food."
Ricky began looking in the cabinets to find a glass for his juice. "I'm not hungry, son. I just wanna put somethin' in my stomach. I'll eat some lunch later when we're out at the club, I promise."
Rick handed him the carton of juice, heartened that at least his father was talking about eating a future meal. It was progress. "Alright. I'm going to take a shower."
Ricky nodded as he poured some juice into the glass he'd found. He looked up to watch his son leave the kitchen. He turned around to look out the kitchen window, getting a view of the back porch and the alley below them. He turned again to look around the room as he sipped the juice. There was a pad with some writing on it hanging next to the phone on the wall. He walked over to it and skimmed over the lines of his son's handwriting, seeing the names of a few women along with their phone numbers.
He chuckled, then sighed. His son had grown from a sweet, adorable little boy to a good looking, good natured teenager and finally to the handsome, talented man he was today. He was at the stage of his life where he should be having fun and maybe finding a nice girl to settle down with, Ricky thought to himself.
As he heard the shower turning on from the bathroom down the hall, Ricky wandered into the living room, which was flanked by two more windows overlooking the city. There was a couch and two chairs, a coffee table and a television. A desk was in the corner. Sheet music with scribbled writing papered the top of the coffee table while the desk remained fairly clear. "You always hated that I sat on the floor and wrote music on the coffee table. I'm sorry that little Ricky picked up the habit," Ricky said quietly.
Ricky looked toward another corner of the room and saw a small end table that held some framed pictures. He walked over to it and looked at them. They were happy pictures of Rick at varying ages with his parents, with Fred and Ethel and with school friends. Ricky smiled as he sipped his juice again.
He turned to look out one of the windows and watched the people and cars below. They seemed small from his perspective and Ricky became aware of the height they were at. Unlike the modest brownstone in which Ricky and Lucy resided as a young couple, Rick was living in a newer high rise building. Unlike Ricky, who built his life from the ground up, Rick was fortunate to have been the beneficiary of a successful club. But it was his own talent and business acumen that allowed it to continue to thrive, Ricky reflected. And so it was with no small amount of pride that Ricky realized that he had achieved the fabled 'American Dream.' He had come to this country as a poor immigrant, become successful and had a family, and now his son was better off than he had been at his age.
II.
Ricky sat at one of the tables at the club, having endured all the members of Rick's orchestra approaching him to offer condolences and let him know that they were glad he was there. It wasn't the first time he'd heard the sentiments from them, since they'd all come to the funeral, and he knew he should be grateful for their care and concern. But he tired of hearing how sorry everyone was. If their sympathy could've brought Lucy back, there'd have been ten of her in front of him. He shook his head slightly, annoyed with himself for having feelings of bitterness about the sincere wishes of others.
As he watched Rick coordinate with the young men he had selected to work for him, Ricky remembered the way his once little son sat here and watched as he rehearsed with his own orchestra. He had observed intently as Ricky danced, sang and conducted. He read the music as the orchestra played and he had watched his father write at home. Eventually, Ricky remembered the day he pulled the little boy into his lap as they sat on the floor in the living room of the apartment and began to teach him how to read and write in the language of song. And as the boy began to sing in the mostly Spanish lyrics that his father wrote, he gradually learned that language, as well.
After a while, as Rick continued to rehearse, Ricky got up and began to wander the way he had done that morning in Rick's apartment. He made his way to the office he'd used when the club was his. Rick used a different room to work in, wanting to preserve his father's space rather than feel he was replacing him.
When Ricky came upon the old door that still bore his name, he pushed it open gently and switched on the light. The bulb on the ceiling hummed in a way that strangely comforted him. The room was clean, much more so than it had been when Ricky was there daily. The desk was where he'd left it, as was a framed photo of his wife that sat upon it. He walked over to the brick wall that ran across one end of the room, touching his hand to the cool surface. "If the walls could talk," he said aloud, grinning mischievously. He looked at Lucy's picture; it felt as though it had been so long since he'd seen the sparkling eyes and smile that were immortalized in that frame. Beautiful, though the picture hardly did her justice, he thought. She had to be seen to be believed.
Ricky walked back out to the hallway and spotted the stairs that were nearby. He heard the sweet sounds of Rick's music as they continued to rehearse in the ballroom and he smiled as he went slowly up the stairs.
Summer would be arriving soon, but in the meantime, a cool spring breeze greeted Ricky when he emerged onto the rooftop. He had so many memories of Lucy here that they all seemed to run together in his mind like a fast moving reel of film. He walked to the edge and looked over. Life was moving below him, but up on that roof, time stood still. The first time he had kissed Lucy was right where he was standing, underneath the moon on a warm city night. He looked up at the clouds that passed overhead. "Oh, Lucy. If only you knew how close I was to askin' you to marry me that night. But I couldn't exactly bring you back to that one crummy room I was livin' in…" Ricky laughed to himself. "There was only one thin' that room was good for. Every single time I left you, I had to do somethin' with the desire you left me with."
He turned and sat on the small bench that rested nearby. He patted it. It, too, had seen many a romantic, moonlit moment between him and his wife.
Ricky's eyes widened and he turned to look at the stairway when he heard the sound of frantic footsteps rushing up to the roof.
"Dad!" Rick was breathless as he stood looking at his father sitting on the bench.
Ricky stood up quickly. "What?!"
Rick blinked, seeing now that his father was simply sitting quietly, likely reminiscing. "I…what…I couldn't find you and one of the guys said you came up here and…" He stopped talking when he saw the grin on his father's face, tinged with sadness.
"You thought I was gonna jump off the roof?" Ricky posed the question as a joke, but the probable reality of the situation stung him.
Rick ran a hand through his hair. "C'mon, let's get some lunch."
Ricky followed his son back down the stairs to the club and to the orchestra, his ears catching the caw of the blue jay that had been perched, unseen, on a ledge.