The Stolen Child(56)

My long-forgotten history peeked out from behind the curtains. The questions McInnes posed

during hypnosis had dredged up memories that had been repressed for more than a century, and

fragments of those subconscious recollections began intruding into my life. We would be per-forming our

second-rate imitation of Simon and Garfunkel when an unex-pected Germanism would leap out of my

mouth. The boys in the band thought I was tripping, and we'd have to start over after a brief apology to

the audience. Or I'd be seducing a young woman and find that her face had morphed into the visage of a

changeling. A baby would cry and I'd wonder if it was human or a bundle of holy terror that had been

left on the doorstep. A photograph of six-year-old Henry Day's first day of school would remind me of

all I was not. I'd see myself superimposed over the image, my face reflected in the glass, layered over his

face, and wonder what had become of him, what had become of me. No longer a monster, but not

Henry Day either. I suffered trying to remember my own name, but that German boy stole away every

time I drew near.

The only remedy for this obsession was to substitute another. Whenever my mind dwelled on the

distant past, I would force myself to think of music, running alternative fingerings and the cycle of fifths in

my mind, humming to myself, pushing dark thoughts away with a song. I flirted with the notion of

becoming a composer again even as college aspirations faded while another two years slipped by. In the

seemingly random sounds of everyday life, I began to abstract patterns, which grew to measures, which

became movements. Of-ten I would go back to Oscar's after a few hours' sleep, put on a pot of coffee,

and scribble the notations resonating in my head. With solely a piano available, I had to imagine an

orchestra in that empty barroom, and those early scores echo my chaotic confusion over who I am. The

unfinished compositions were tentative steps back to the past, to my true nature. I spent ages looking for

the sound, reshaping it, and tossing it away, for composition was as elusive at the time as my own name.

The bar was my studio most mornings. Oscar arrived around lunchtime, and George and Jimmy

usually showed up midafternoon for rehearsal and a few beers—barely enough time for me to cover up

my work. Halfheartedly, I plunked away at the piano before our practice was to begin on an early

sum-mer afternoon in '67. George, Jimmy, and Oscar experimented with a few chord changes and

rhythms, but they were mostly smoking and drinking. The area kids had been out of school for two

weeks and were already bored, riding their bicycles up and down Main Street. Their heads and

shoulders slid across the view through the windowpanes. Lewis Love's green pickup truck pulled up

outside, and a moment later the bar door swung open, sending in a crush of humid air. His shoulders

slumped with exhaustion, Lewis stopped in the threshold, numb and dumb. Setting down his horn, Oscar

walked over to talk with his brother. Their conversation was too soft to be overheard, but the body

gives away its sorrows. Lewis hung his head and brought his hand to the bridge of his nose as if to hold

back tears, and George and Jimmy and I watched from our chairs, not knowing quite what to say or do.

Oscar led his brother to the bar and poured him a tall shot, which Lewis downed in a single swig. He

wiped his mouth on his sleeve and bent over like a question mark, his forehead resting on the rail, so we

crowded around our friends.

"His son is missing," Oscar said. "Since last night. The police and fire and rescue are out looking for

him, but they haven't found him. He's only eight years old, man."

"What does he look like?" George asked. "What's his name? How long has he been gone? Where

did you last see him?"

Lewis straightened his shoulders. "His name is Oscar, after my brother here. About the

averagest-looking kid you could find. Brown hair, brown eyes, about so high." He held out his hand and

dropped it roughly four feet above the ground.

"When did he disappear?" I asked.

"He was wearing a baseball shirt and short pants, dark blue—his mother thinks. And high-top

Chuck Taylors. He was out back of the house, playing after dinner last night. It was still light out. And

then he vanished." He turned to his brother. "I tried calling you all over the place."

Oscar pursed his lips and shook his head. "I'm so sorry, man. I was out getting high."

George began walking to the door. "No time for recriminations. We've got a missing kid to find."

Off we went to the woods. Oscar and Lewis rode together in the cab of the pickup, and George,

Jimmy, and I sat in the bed, where there was the residual odor of manure baking in the heat. The truck