“We’ve had a gracious fall,” she said, “but it is definitely over.” They went into the warm little room where Jimmy Brand was sitting in the green easy chair in the lamplight. Beside him on the bed was his red Fender guitar. He leaned back watching the plastic ceiling as it billowed and then suddenly drew up against the rafters, the corrugated valleys looking like ribs. He wasn’t dreaming, but it was easy to drift now, a short step from any light in the window to his rich compendium of memory. There’d been a lot of sweet quiet in his apartment with Daniel, their ritual reading with popcorn after ten o’clock at night. Popcorn. He smiled with his head against the chair, watching the clear plastic struggle against the staples. It made a muted flapping sound that was soothing and somehow domestic, and he thought: This would make anyone hallucinate. He breathed as the image drew air, and he was aware of his lungs in their workings.
“You’ll need this,” his mother said to him, holding open a brown car coat. It had faux wooden toggles for buttons. Still sitting, he leaned forward while she helped him into it. “Thank you, Mother,” he said. Larry gave his arm, and Jimmy pulled himself up and straightened the coat. “Well,” he said to Larry. “Standing up in real clothes. Who would have thought?”
“How do you feel, dear?” his mother asked.
He reached his hand and took hers. “I love you, Mother,” he said. “Larry. Always, always, every chance you get, tell your mother you love her. It’s always true, and it’s the kind of fact that just improves everything, the room, the furniture, the task at hand.”
“Yes, sir,” Larry said. “I’ll try it.”
“And there ends the advice,” Jimmy said. Outside, after they’d helped Jimmy into the big automobile, Mrs. Brand came around to Larry with a bag of vegetables and then another. “I know your mother doesn’t have time for a garden now with her work at the museum. Your dad likes his squash.”
“He does, Mrs. Brand. Thank you.”
Jimmy Brand felt electric. The medicines Kathleen Gunderson had arranged for him were powerful; there was no way to take them and keep a balance. Some days he’d sleep for hours, a thin, almost waking sleep in which he could not move. Some days he’d speed, too wired to even write, and that’s when the guitar was a blessing, and he’d pick it until his legs—under two pillows—could no longer stand the pain. He was giving Larry lessons. Now, he felt awake but off center. He was used to this feeling of being tilted, not quite sure he was standing straight and facing forward; and he was glad, as Larry drove them slowly in the large vehicle through the village and up Oakpine Mountain, past the strange yellow windows in the thick undergrowth, to be out in the night. To Jimmy, all the lights appeared to be sparkling ferries in the glowing harbor, ships coming, sailing for the sea.
There were four other cars in the Ralstons’ big circular driveway, and when Larry Ralston helped him down from the car, they stood a moment, and Jimmy again pulled at the big coat to straighten it. The toggle buttons in his fingers sent him back forty years. “This is my father’s dress coat,” he told the young man. “If he knew I was wearing it, he’d burn it tomorrow.” Seeing Larry’s confusion at such a confession, he added, “Forget I said that. What I meant was, add your dad to the list—tell him you love him too, early and often. He’s a big man and needs a double dose.”
“That’s going to come a little harder.”
“Absolutely,” Jimmy said. “But you’re a strong guy and young—you can learn it.”
Larry looked at Jimmy, and Jimmy added. “I know I can’t walk, but I know who I’m talking to. We’re friends now, like it or not, and you listen to me.”
“You have my best interests in mind.”
“You know I do.”