Salt of the king, p.25
Salt of the King, page 25
Holly, who had waited up with him much of the night, said nothing, not even a Listen to your father, young lady. She’d just sat with her hands folded in her lap.
Rebekah had simply said, “I’m sorry I didn’t call, Father. I had a lot to discuss with Mr. Johns. We can talk about it in a couple of days when everything is finished.”
That had been too much defiance for Grover. “It’s finished now!” he’d yelled. “And so is college! Now, go to your room!” It was the same tone he’d used when she was eleven years old.
Becky had retreated into her childhood bedroom without further comment. Grover had paced the kitchen and fumed, then finally said, “Let’s go to bed, Dear.”
Grover and Holly retired to their bedroom, but of course Grover couldn’t sleep. He relished his role as king of the household but hated being dictator. The Bible had nothing good to say about them: “The Lord has broken the staff of the wicked, the scepter of the tyrants.” That was in Isaiah. But as father and husband, he was the ruler over his own house, his wife, and his children, no matter their age.
Tired as he was, he stewed. Finally, as he resolved to put the matter out of his mind until morning and drifted toward sleep, Holly had gotten out of bed.
“I need to check the stove,” she’d muttered. That woke him up. Did Holly always have to do that? He got mad about Rebekah all over again and didn’t get back to sleep for a long time.
IN THE MORNING, when she came out at breakfast, Rebekah, who had never held a grudge in her life, was effervescent and cheerful.
“Good morning,” she said. “Is there any coffee left?”
“Of course,” said Holly. “I’ll get you a cup. Milk, right?”
“I can get it, Mother,” said Becky. She poured herself a cup from the Presto percolator, which swished as steam vented out the top.
Grover nursed the last of his second cup. He had to get the situation settled and wasn’t sure where to start.
“Rebekah, I apologize for last night,” he said finally. “I had no business yelling. I don’t put up with that kind of behavior in my salesmen, and I don’t like it in myself. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay, Father,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. The film is really eating up my time. It won’t happen again.”
“Very good,” said Grover.
Martha’s voice came from the other room. “Mother! I can’t find my Big Chief tablet. It’s not here!”
“It’s in the drawer of your desk!” called Holly.
Martha walked into the kitchen. “No it’s not! I’ve looked everywhere.” She hovered on the verge of tears.
“Let’s look together,” said Holly. “School starts in half an hour. You need to finish getting dressed. Now, hurry.” She rose from the kitchen table and followed her youngest daughter out of the room.
Becky peeled a banana and popped a slice of bread into the toaster.
“I hope you understand I’m not being a monster,” said Grover. “I just care about you and about the rest of my family. It’s the job that the Lord gave me, and I take it deadly seriously.”
“Of course, Father,” said Becky. “You’re a great provider. You’re the rock we all depend on.”
“I didn’t mean what I said about college. That’s something you’ve put a lot into, and I want you to see it through.”
“I knew you were just mad,” said Becky.
“I’m glad we understand each other,” said Grover. “It’s just this … film … and those men … especially that man. You know why I can’t let it continue. I’m protecting you.”
The toast popped up, and Becky slathered it in margarine. She remained standing at the kitchen counter, crunching the toast, taking small bites of banana, sipping her coffee.
“Come sit down,” said Grover. “Even at breakfast, we sit together in this family.”
“I need to watch for Danfour,” said Becky. “He’ll be here in a minute.”
“Well, when he comes, we’ll tell him why you won’t be helping with his film anymore. If you want, I’ll explain that it was my decision. He’ll understand.”
Becky drained the last of her coffee. She didn’t sit down, didn’t seem all that interested in what Grover had to say. Her thoughts were somewhere else. There was the sound of a car engine, and she glanced out the window.
“Here he is,” said Becky. She set her cup in the sink, tossed the banana peel and toast remnants in the trash, and headed for the front door.
“Wait!” yelled Grover. “I said it was over. You go out there and tell him you can no longer participate!”
Becky paused at the door. “This has nothing to do with you, Father,” she said. She headed out the door, Grover close behind. Dan was in the car, idling by the curb.
“Wait!” said Grover. “Let me speak to him!”
“I’m leaving!” said Becky. “I’ll see you tonight.” She opened the car door and climbed in, pulling the door shut just as Grover reached for it. He got his hand on the handle, but Dan’s car drove away, almost pulling Grover off his feet.
Grover’s chest throbbed. Never had he seen such disrespect. He struggled to process it.
“Grover, let her go.” It was Holly. She had come out of the house and stood behind him. “She is her own person now. She’s lost to us. She’s part of the world.”
“She is NOT OF THE WORLD!” screamed Grover. “She is MY CHILD!”
“Grover, the neighbors will see you,” said Holly. “Settle down. Come inside, and finish your breakfast.”
More defiance, this time from his helpmate. Grover watched Dan’s car disappear around the corner. He breathed hard. He had a sudden notion to jump into his own car and pursue, maybe try to drive them off the road, like in an old police-chase movie.
He had to collect himself. Okay, stop, he thought. You’re being ridiculous. She’s right. It’s time to settle down. Breathe. He stood for a few moments, fuming with helplessness, then went back inside. Holly followed silently.
Well, he had been right the first time. Not only would he have to stop Rebekah’s participation in this film, but college had to end as well. Now. Starting today. It was the worst decision of his life, letting the world take his firstborn. She was coming back home.
“I have to get ready for school,” said Holly. “Rachel will be here soon. I think you should go to work. You’ve been missing a lot lately.” She disappeared toward the back of the house.
Grover looked at his watch. Holly was right again. He had missed significant time at work this week. His colleagues had noticed, and probably his boss. Today, they planned to reprice the cars for the big end-of-year sale, when the ’73 models would start arriving. Whatever he did, what decisions he made, whatever choices he would force on Rebekah would have to wait for his lunch break.
Grover returned to the bedroom, put on a blood-red tie, and left for the dealership. At the end of the street, he came to a complete stop and signaled before turning, though there was no one behind him.
CHAPTER 34
Sweet Repose
Air molecules hummed against JJ’s eardrums, and he heard the thud of his own heartbeat. Harold had switched off the air blowers so that a cold silence descended at World Famous Best Studios. On the floor, Allen Wallace looked peaceful, comfortable even. Harold knelt over him.
“I don’t want to touch him,” said JJ.
“I know. I get it,” said Harold. “But I need your help. Please do this. Just touch his neck right here, gently, below his ear. Use your middle two fingers.”
“Can’t we just call an ambulance?”
“The man is dead, JJ. I’m almost a hundred percent sure. I just need somebody to back me up. My hands are too shaky.”
JJ knelt down and placed his middle and ring fingers against the cool skin of Allen Wallace’s neck, on the left side.
“Use just a little pressure,” said Harold. “There’s this artery that runs beside the throat. Don’t remember what it’s called. They taught us in the army. It’s the biggest pulse on the body. Feel around for it.”
JJ shifted his position, paused, then moved his fingers an inch to the right. He held his breath.
“Nothing.” He looked up at Harold. “Now what do we do? Call somebody?”
“Help me roll him over,” said Harold. “I want to listen to his chest.”
They had found Wallace face down, next to the open door of the echo chamber. A couple of feet away, there were three tape reels in boxes. They were stacked neatly on the floor, as if he had carefully set them down before lying on the floor.
“Here, let me show you how to do this,” said Harold. He pulled Wallace’s right arm up so it was straight out from his body above his head. Then he took his right foot up and crossed it over the left ankle. Harold reached under his left shoulder while JJ put both his hands under Wallace’s left thigh.
“On three,” said Harold. “One … two … three.” They rolled the man’s thin body easily.
“I think I heard him breathe,” said JJ.
“I’m pretty sure it was just air coming out of his body,” said Harold. “Now, be completely quiet. I need to listen.” Harold knelt down and put his head in the middle of Wallace’s chest.
JJ’s heart thumped as he held his breath.
Harold raised himself up again, put his hand on Wallace’s forehead, and pulled up an eyelid with his thumb. The eye stared straight ahead. Harold closed it again and stood up. “That’s it. He’s dead.”
“I think we should let somebody else decide that,” said JJ.
“His heart has stopped. He’s cool to the touch,” said Harold. “There’s nothing anybody can do for him.”
“Ah, Jesus, Jesus,” said JJ. “We can’t just leave him here.”
Harold rubbed his neck, dusted off the knees of his pants, and sighed. “Let’s not get crazy.” He looked at up at the studio clock. 8:40 a.m. “In about three hours, we’re going to have ten people showing up and crowding into this little place.”
“Twelve,” said JJ. “There’s Becky and that cameraman.”
“Oh, God, I forgot about them,” said Harold.
“That’s why we need to take care of this,” said JJ. “Call an ambulance. Get them to take him away.”
Harold reached down and picked up the tape boxes from the floor. Not knowing what else to do, he carried them into the control room and placed them on a stack of five other tape boxes. Two tape reels were lying naked in front of the soundboard, leader tape hanging loose. Another tape was threaded onto the four-track recorder.
“He was listening to old tapes last night,” said Harold. He examined an empty box. H. Green and M. White, 7-18-62.
“Poor old guy,” said JJ. “I wonder what he was doing by the echo chamber?”
“That’s where he kept his most important recordings,” said Harold. “Because it’s so cold and dry in there.”
A water glass sat on the desk beside the console. JJ picked it up and sniffed. “Booze,” he said, and set it back down.
In the trash can beside the chair they found a dozen wadded-up paper towels and a fifth of Kentucky whiskey. Two inches of liquor remained in the bottom. On the desk in the office, they found Allen’s porkpie hat and a prescription bottle marked Equanil 500. There were four pills left.
Harold sat down in Wallace’s office chair and folded his hands.
“So?” said JJ. “What now?”
Harold looked up at the office clock. “We can’t call anybody,” he said. “Not yet.”
“We have to get him out of here.”
“Wait,” said Harold. “Think about it. As soon as we bring in the cops and the ambulance, this studio shuts down. Closed. That’s it. Gig is over. Everybody goes home, and you and me will probably go downtown for questioning. The one thing that definitely won’t happen is a recording session.”
“But … we can’t leave him lying there.”
“You’re right. We can’t.”
Harold walked back into the little studio. Allen Wallace lay with one arm up as if he were waiting to ask a question.
“Okay, let’s think a minute,” said Harold. “Here’s what happened. You and I came in this morning, and we didn’t see Wallace. We didn’t think anything was weird, because he said he might stay home today, because he felt sick.”
“He did?”
“No, of course not, but he could have said that. So when we got here this morning, we didn’t think anything was weird. Everybody shows up, we record the song in as few takes as possible. I’ll be the engineer. Then everybody leaves.”
“Can you handle the sixteen-track by yourself?”
“I hope so. We don’t have a choice.”
“Oh man,” sighed JJ. He looked around the room. “So … what do we … do with him?”
Harold stooped and peered inside the echo chamber, which was lit by one yellow light bulb in a protective cage. He looked at the body on the floor, then back to the low door. “We can put him in there.”
“We’re gonna hide his body?”
“No … no, we’re going to find his body later on today. In the echo chamber. After the session’s finished and everybody leaves.”
“We won’t get away with it,” said JJ. “The cops won’t believe he just happened to be in there when he collapsed.”
“Why not? That’s where he kept his old tapes.” Harold stuck his head inside the small room again. “We put him there, by the back wall. Face down just like we found him. Take a couple of those old tapes, and put them on the floor.”
“I don’t like this,” said JJ. “It’s just not right.”
“We have no choice,” said Harold. “Not if we want ‘Earth Is Crying’ to happen. But … hey, it’s your record. You wrote the song, you’re the singer. Seriously, my friend, if you want to call the cops and say goodbye to the song, I’ll go along with it. We’ll pay everybody off, go back home, and try again another day. I really will leave it up to you. But think about it, man. We’re ten feet from the goal line. This is probably the last song that will ever be recorded at Best Studios. This place won’t continue without Allen Wallace. He was sole owner. His relatives will probably just sell the gear and close it down. The building will get turned into a liquor store.”
“Oh, man, don’t make me decide,” said JJ. He forced himself to look at Allen Wallace’s body, so sad and skinny on the floor. The scars on his wrist stood out plainly against his crepey skin. JJ stooped down and looked inside the echo chamber. “All right,” he said. “I guess … if we could ask Allen, I think I know what he’d say.”
“Yep,” said Harold. “He’d say, ‘Record the song.’ You know he would. It’ll be part of his legacy.”
Harold took him by the wrists, and JJ got his feet. Grunting and tugging, they dragged the sad form of Allen Wallace, owner and engineer of World Famous Best Studios, into the cold room and rolled him over face down. Harold retrieved the old tapes from the control room, including the one that was wound onto the machine, put the boxes back onto the low shelf in the echo chamber, and put one of the boxes on the floor near Wallace’s head. For good measure, he opened it and tossed the lid close by and pulled the reel partway out of the box, as if Wallace had dropped it there as he was stricken. Harold went back into the office and retrieved Allen’s porkpie hat, which he placed on the floor next to body. Finally, he flipped off the light and closed the door.
The two stood there, and their gazes met.
“I think we’re fuckin’ crazy,” said JJ.
“Yep,” said Harold.
“Do you have to get the drummer at the airport?”
“He’s supposed to take a cab. I’ll reimburse him. Right now, we need to make sure all the channels work and the mics are set up right. I was counting on Allen to do that. We just have to wing it.”
“At least we have a couple of hours before—”
A sudden tapping on the outside metal door made them both jump.
“What!?” said Harold. “Nobody is supposed to be here yet.”
“What do we do?”
“Answer it, of course.” Harold took a deep breath to collect himself, looked around the room to see if they had missed anything, and walked back through the office to the outer room with its dusty filing cabinets and derelict tape recorder. He opened the door.
It was Dan Park, standing there with the bulky camera case in one hand and a tripod under his arm.
“Y’all ready for us?” asked Dan. Behind him stood Becky Paulson, carrying the field recorder. She smiled brightly.
“Come on in,” said Harold. “Watch musical history being made.”
CHAPTER 35
The World v. Holly Paulson
School had not yet begun. As soon as little Rachel arrived every morning, Holly liked to put the three children through simple exercises to stimulate their circulation and start the day in energetic moods.
“All stand!” she said. The three children stood, along with Lucille, the teaching assistant. Peter stood up, favoring his bad foot but standing straight.
“Hands up, reach toward God,” Holly said. They all reached. Together, they sang:
“Reach up for the hand
Reach up for the hand
Reach up for the hand of God”
“Bend over, knees straight!” Holly called, and they bent down. Peter had trouble with this one, but he tried.
“Push the Devil right down
Push the Devil right down
Push the Devil right down in the sod”
They sang all six verses, variously reaching, pushing, twisting, and stretching, until the song ended, and they sat.
“Get out your tablets,” said Holly. “Time for writing practice.”
The doorbell rang. Without being prompted, Lucille hopped up and left the room to send away whatever salesman or neighbor was disturbing their school day.
Holly picked up a piece of chalk and wrote on the board in circular cursive:
