Chapter 9 CHAPTER 9

"Listen to this." My friend Oscar put a record on the turntable and set down the needle with care. The 45 popped and hissed; then the melody line rose, followed by the four-part doo-wop, "Earth Angel" by The Penguins or "Gee" by The Crows, and hed sit back on the edge of the bed, close his eyes, and pull apart those different harmonies, first singing tenor and so on through the bass. Or hed put on a new jazz riff by Miles or maybe Dave Brubeck and pick out the counterpoint, cocking his ear to the nearly inaudible piano underneath the horns. All through high school wed spend hours in his room, idly listening to his vast eclectic record collection, analyzing and arguing over the more subtle points of the compositions. Oscar Loves passion for music put my ambitions to shame. In high school, he was nicknamed "The White Negro," as he was so alien from the rest of the crowd, so cool, so in his head all the time. Oscar was such an outsider, he made me feel normal by comparison. And even thoug h he was a year ahead of me, he welcomed me into his life. My father thought Oscar wilder than Brando, but my mother saw beneath the facade and loved him like a son. He was the first person I approached about forming a band.

Oscar stuck with me from its beginning as The Henry Day Five through every version: The Henry Day Four, The Four Horsemen, Henry and the Daylights, The Daydreamers, and lastly, simply Henry Day. Unfortunately, we could not keep the same group together for more than a few months at a time: Our first drummer dropped out of high school and enlisted in the MarineCorps; our best guitarist moved away when his father was transferred to Davenport, Iowa. Most of the guys quit because they couldn't cut it as musicians. Only Oscar and his clarinet persisted. We stayed together for two reasons: one, he could play a mean lick on any horn, particularly his beloved stick; two, he was old enough to drive and had his own car—a pristine 54 red and white Bel Air. We played everything from high school dances to weddings and the occasional night at a club. Discriminating by ear and not by any preconceived notion of cool, we could play any kind of music for any crowd.

After a jazz performance where we particularly killed the crowd, Oscar drove us home, radio blaring, the boys in a great mood. He dropped off the others, and late that summer night we parked in front of my parents house. Moths danced crazily in the headlights, and the rhythmic cricket song underscored the silence. The stars and a half-moon dotted the languid sky. We got out and sat on the hood of the Bel Air, looking out into the darkness, not wanting the night to end. "Man, we were gas," he said. "We slayed them. Did you see that guy when we did Hey Now, like he never heard a sound like that before?"

"I'm bout worn-out, man." "Oh, you were so cool, so cool." "Youre not bad yourself." I hitched myself farther up on the car to stop skidding off the hood. My feet did not quite reach the ground, so I swung them in time to a tune in my head. Oscar removed the cigarette he had stashed behind his ear, and with a snap from his lighter he lit it, and into the night sky he blew smoke rings, each one breaking its predecessor. "Where did you learn to play, Day? I mean, you're still a kid. Only fifteen, right?" "Practice, man, practice."

He quit looking at the stars and turned to face me. "You can practice all you want. Practice dont give you soul." "Ive been taking lessons for the past few years. In the city. With a guy named Martin who used to play with the Phil. The classics and all. It makes it easier to understand the music beneath it all." "I can dig that." He handed me the cigarette, and I took a deep drag, knowing he had laced it with marijuana. "But sometimes I feel like Im being torn in two. My mom and dad want me to keep going to lessons with Mr. Martin. You know, the symphony or a soloist."

"Like Liberace." Oscar giggled. "Shut up." "Fairy." "Shut up." I punched him on the shoulder. "Easy, man." He rubbed his arm. "You could do it, though, whatever you want. Im good, but you are out of this world. Like you've been at it all your life or you were born that way." Maybe the dope made me say it, or maybe it was the combination of the summer night, the post-performance high, or the fact that Oscar was my first true friend. Or maybe I was dying to tell someone, anyone. "Ive got a confession, Oscar. Im not Henry Day at all, but a hobgoblin that lived in the woods for a long, long time."

He giggled so hard, a stream of smoke poured out of his nostrils. "Seriously, man, we stole the real Henry Day, kidnapped him, and I changed into him. We switched places, but nobody knows. Im living his life, and I guess hes living mine. And once upon a time, I was somebody else, before I became a changeling. I was a boy in Germany or somewhere where they spoke German. I dont remember, but it comes back to me in bits and pieces. And I played piano there a long time ago, until the changelings came and stole me. And now Im back among the humans, and I hardly remember anything about the past, but its like Im part Henry Day and part who I used to be. And I must have been one cool musician way back when, because thats the only explanation."

"That's pretty good, man. So where's the real Henry?" "Out in the woods somewhere. Or dead maybe. He could be dead; it happens sometimes. But probably hiding out in the woods." "Like he could be watchin us right now?" He jumped off the car and whispered into the darkness. "Henry? Is that you?" "Shut up, man. It's possible. But they're afraid of people, that much I know." "The whosits?" "The changelings. Thats why you never see them." "Why they so afraid of us? Seems like we should be afraid of them."

"Used to be that way, man, but people stopped believing in myths and fairy tales." "But what if Henrys out there, watching us right now, wanting to get his body back, and hes creeping up, man, to get you?" And he reached out quickly and snatched my ankle. I screamed, embarrassed to be fooled by such a simple joke. Oscar sprawled on the hood of the car, laughing at me. "You've been watching too many horror movies, man." "No, the truth is..." I socked him on the arm. "And there's pods in your cellar, right?" I wanted to punch him again, but then I realized how ridiculous my story sounded, and I started laughing, too. If he remembered that night at all, Oscar never again brought up the matter, and maybe he thought I was hallucinating. off, cackling to himself, and I felt empty after the truth had been told. My impersonation of Henry Day had succeeded so well that no one suspected the real story. Even my father, a natural skeptic, believed in me, or at least kept his doubts hidden deep in his soul.

The ground floor of our house was as dark and silent as a cave. Upstairs everyone slept soundly. I turned on the kitchen light and poured a drink of water. Attracted to the brightness, moths crashed and flapped up against the window screen. up and down, a sound menacing and foreboding. I turned off the lights, and they flew away. In the new darkness, I searched for a moving shadow, listened for footsteps among the trees, but nothing stirred. I crept upstairs to check on my sisters. When the girls were young children, I often feared that Mary and Elizabeth would be snatched away by the hobgoblins and two changelings would be left in their place. I knew their ways, their tricks and deceptions, and also knew they could strike the same family twice, or, indeed, three times. Not far from here, the story goes, back in the 1770s, the Church family had seven children stolen and replaced by changelings, one by one, each at age seven, until there were no Churches at all, only simulacra, and pity those poor parents with an alien brood. My sisters were as susceptible, and I watched for the telltale changes in behavior or appearance—a sudden winsomeness, a certain detachment from life—that would reveal a possible switch.

I warned the twins to stay out of the woods or any shadowy places. "Dangerous snakes and bears and wildcats wait near our patch of land. Do not talk to strangers. Why go out to play," I ask, "when there is something perfectly good and interesting on television?" "But I like exploring," Elizabeth said. "How will we ever find our way back home if we never leave home?" Mary added. "Did you ever see a timber rattler? Well, I have, and copperheads and water moccasins. One bite and you paralyzed, your limbs go black, then you dead. Do you think you can outrun or outclimb a bear? They climb trees better than cats, and they would grab your leg and gobble you up. Have you ever seen a raccoon foaming at the mouth?" "I never get to see anything," Elizabeth cried. "How can we ever avoid danger if we dont know what danger is?" Mary asked. "Its out there. You could trip and fall over an old log and break your leg and nobody would ever find you. Or you could be caught in a blizzard with the wind blowing every which way until you cant find your own front door, and then they'd find you the next morning, frozen like a Popsicle, not ten feet from home." "Enough!" They shouted in unison and went off to watch Howdy Doody or Romper Room. I knew, however, that while I was at school or rehearsing with the band, they would ignore my cautions. Theyd come home with grass stains on their knees and bottoms, ticks on their bare skin, twigs in their curls, frogs in their overalls, and the smell of danger on their breath. But that night they were sleeping lambs, and two doors down my parents snored. My father called out my name in his sleep, but I dared not answer at such a late hour. The house grew preternaturally still. no consequences, so I went to bed, safe as ever. They say that one never forgets ones first love, but I am chagrined to admit that I do not remember her name or much else about her—other than the fact that she was the first girl I saw naked. For the sake of the story, Ill call her Sally. Maybe that actually was her name. After the summer of my confession to Oscar, I resumed my lessons with Mr. Martin, and there she was. She had departed at the end of the school year and returned a different creature — someone to be desired, a fetish, an obsession. I am as guilty of anonymous lust as anyone, but it was she who chose me. Her affections I gratefully accepted without pause. I had been noticing her curves for months, before she gathered the courage to speak to me at the winter recital. We stood together backstage in our formal wear, enduring the wait for our individual turns at the piano. The youngest kids went first, for agony is best served as an appetizer. "Where did you learn to play?" Sally whispered over an achingly slow minuet. "Right here. I mean with Mr. Martin." "You play out of this world." She smiled, and, buoyed by her remarks, I gave my most inspired recital. In the weeks and months that followed, we slowly got to know each other. She would hang around the studio listening to me play the same piece over and over, Mr. Martin whispering gruffly, "Adagio, adagio." We arranged to have lunch together on Saturdays. Over sandwiches spread out on waxed paper, wed chat about that days lessons. dollars in my pocket from performances, so we could go to a show or stop for an ice cream or a soda. Our conversations centered around the kinds of subjects fifteen-year-olds talk about: school, friends, unbelievable parents, and, in our case, the piano. Or rather, I talked about music: composers, Mr. Martin, records, the affinities of jazz with the classics, and all sorts of nattering theories of mine. It was not a conversation, more like a monologue. I did not know how to listen, how to draw her out, or how to be quiet and enjoy her comp any. She may well have been a lovely person. When the sun began to heat up the spring air, we took a stroll to the park, a place I normally avoided because of its resemblance to the forest. But the daffodils were in flower, and it seemed perfectly romantic. The city had turned on the fountain, another sign of spring, and we sat by the waters edge, watching the cascade for a long time. I did not know how to do what I wanted to do, how to ask, what to say, in what manner even to broach the subject. Sally saved me. "Henry?" she asked, her voice rising an octave. "Henry, we've been taking walks and having lunch together and going to the movies for over three months, and in all that time, Ive wondered: Do you like me?" "Of course I do." "If you like me, like you say, how come you never try to hold my hand?" I took her hand in mine, surprised by the heat in her fingers, the perspiration in her palm. "And how come you've never tried to kiss me?" For the first time, I stared her straight in the eyes. She looked as if she were trying to express some metaphysical question. Not knowing how to kiss, I did so in haste, and regret now not having lingered awhile, if only to remember the sensation. She ran her fingers through my brilliantined hair, which produced an unexpected reaction, and I copied her, but a riddle percolated through my mind. I had no idea what to do next. Without her sudden discovery of a need to catch a streetcar, we might still be sitting there, stupidly staring into each others faces. On the way back to meet my father, I took apart my emotions. While I "loved" my family by this point in my human life, I had never " loved" a stranger. Its voluntary and a tremendous risk. The emotion is further confused by the matter of lust. I counted the hours between Saturdays, anxious to see her. Thank goodness she took the initiative. While we were necking in the dark balcony of the Penn Theater, she grabbed my hand and placed it on her breast, and her whole body fluttered at my touch. She was the one who suggested everything, who thought to nibble ears, who rubbed the first thigh. We rarely spoke when we were together anymore, and I did not know what Sally was scheming or, for that matter, if she was thinking at all. No wonder I loved the girl, whatever her name was, and when she suggested that I feign an illness to get out of Mr. Martins class, I gladly complied. We rode the streetcar to her parents home on the South Side. Climbing the hill to her house in the bright sunshine, I started to sweat, but Sally, who was used to the hike, skipped up the sidewalk, teasing that I could not keep up. Her home was a tiny perch, clinging to the side of a rock. Her parents were gone, she assured me, for the whole day on a drive out to the country. "We have the place to ourselves. Would you like a lemonade?" She might as well have been wearing an apron, and I smoking a pipe. She brought the drinks and sat on the couch. I drank mine in a single swig and sat on her fathers easy chair. We sat; crash of cymbals in my minds ear. "Why don't you come sit beside me, Henry?" Obedient pup, I trotted over with a wagging tail and lolling tongue. Our fingers interlocked. I smiled. She smiled. A long kiss—how long can you kiss? My hand on her bare stomach beneath her blouse triggered a pent-up primal urge .I circled my way north. She grabbed my wrist. "Henry, Henry. This is all too much." Sally panted and fanned herself with her fluttering hands. I rolled away, pursued my lips, and blew. How could I have misinterpreted her signals? Sally undressed so quickly that I almost failed to notice the transition. As if pushing a button, off came her blouse and bra, her skirt, slip, socks, and underwear. Through the whole act, she brazenly faced me, smiling beatifically. did love her. Of course, I had seen pictures in the museum, Bettie Page pinups and French postcards, but images lack breadth and depth, and art isnt life. Part of me pulled forward, desperate to lay my hands upon her skin, but the mere possibility held me back. I took a step in her direction. "No, no, no. I've shown you mine; now you have to show me yours." Not since a young boy at the swimming hole had I taken off my clothes in front of anyone else, much less a stranger, and I was embarrassed at the prospect. But it is hard to refuse when a naked girl makes the request. So I stripped, the whole time watching her watching me. I had progressed as far as my boxers when I noticed that she had a small triangle of hair at the notch of her, and I was completely bare. Hoping that this condition was peculiar to the female species, I pulled down my shorts, and a look of horror and dismay crossed her face. She gasped and put her hand in front of her mouth. I looked down and then looked back up at her, deeply perplexed. "Oh my God, Henry," she said, "you look like a little boy." I covered up. "That's the smallest one I've ever seen." I angrily retrieved my clothes from the floor. "I'm sorry but you look like my eight-year-old cousin." Sally began to pick up her clothes off the floor. "Henry, don't be mad." But I was mad, not so much at her as at myself. I knew from the moment she spoke what I had forgotten. In most respects, I appeared all of fifteen, but I had neglected one of the more important parts. , humiliated, I thought of all the pain and suffering of the past few years. The baby teeth I wrenched out of my mouth, the stretching and pulling and pushing of bones and muscle and skin to grow into adolescent. But I had forgotten about puberty . She pleaded with me to stay, apologized for laughing at me, even saying at one point that size didnt matter, that it was actually kind of cute, but nothing she could have said or done would have relieved my shame. I never spoke to her again, except for the most basic greetings. She disappeared from my life, as if stolen away, and I wonder now if she ever forgave me or forgot that afternoon. Stretching relieved my situation, but the exercise pained me and caused unexpected consequences. The first was the curious sensation that typically ended in the same messy way, but, more interestingly, I found that by imagining Sally or any other alluring thing, the re results we a foregone conclusion. But thinking on unpleasant things—the forest, baseball, arpeggios—I could postpone, or avoid altogether, the denouement. The second outcome is somewhat more disconcerting to report. father burst into my room and caught me one night, red-handed so to speak, although I was completely under cover. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Henry, what are you doing?" I stopped. There was an innocent explanation, which I could not reveal. "Don't think I don't know." Know what? I wanted to ask. "You will go blind if you keep at it." I blinked my eyes. He left the room and I rolled over, pressing my face against the cool pillow. My powers were diminishing over time. Farsightedness, distance hearing, speed of foot—all had virtually disappeared, and my ability to manipulate my appearance had deteriorated. more, I was becoming the human I had wanted to be, but instead of rejoicing in the situation, I sagged into the mattress, hid beneath the sheets. I punched my pillow and tortured the coven in a vain effort to get comfortable. for pleasure subsided along with my erection. In pleasures place, a ragged loneliness ebbed. I felt stuck in a never-ending childhood, doomed to living under their control, a dozen suspicious scowls each day from my false parents. had to mark time and take my turn as a changeling, but the years had seemed like days. In the anxiety of adolescence, the days were like years. And nights could be endless. Several hours later, I woke in a sweat and threw off the covers. Going to the window to let in the fresh air, I spotted out on the lawn, in the dead of night, the red ash of a cigarette, and picked out the dark figure of my father, staring into the dark wood, as if waiting for something to spring out from the shadows between trees. When he turned to come back inside, Dad looked up at my room and saw me framed in the windowpanes, watching him , but he never said a word about it.