You never asked why I have not taken you sculling down the old blood stream in a little paper boat, and pointed out the heaps of skulls that shoal its banks, nor the vacant eyes of those who troll it, nor the pale viscid nature of the so-called life it supports.
And you never wanted to know why children come here as if drawn by that cheeky chequy chappie with the woodwind wail; you don't know that story, because in the commercial version the children arc a warrior and a wizard and a bard and a thief and a fledgling dragon, and they not only defeat the entrepreneur but get a bag of gold to boot; you never asked win the onl\ ones to leave this place can never, age regardless, again be called children.
And corollary to that, no letter has ever arrived from the World beyond inquiring of your correspondent why the only children left out there are the damaged, the crippled, the already too lost to find their way, who are now confronted with the unspeakable possibility that they may be the children of fortune after all.
Indeed you never demanded why I have told you of this and that but never the other thing, of the rainbow but not the pot of gold, the dance but not the steps, the singer but not the song.
In this great city, we are supposed to have made a river run against itself. Now, while the water does indeed counter the tendency of the Continental Divide, no such thing happened, nor has it ever happened. What we did, at great trouble and expense, was adjust the river's circumstances: to lay down a red carpet strewn with rose petals and good intentions, and hope the stream would choose to go our way. We didn't command the river, because one cannot tell water where to go, and if the attempt is made the torrent will take a revenge that is even more awful for being without passion.
Your faithful reporter has tried to coax a trickle in a thirsty land, but he knows better than to strike the rock.
I am leaving you now, for an uncertain while, and hope to get just a peek at the place I shall not be going.
Doc dressed, kissed Ginny, and drove to the club. Pavel took his coat. Stagger Lee was in the lobby as well.
"Sorry I'm so late."
"Almost the late," Stagger said. "Next time-" He shook his head. "Excuse me. I've got to get the show going."
Patrise was at his table with the regulars; everything seemed normal, except that Shaker was on the bar and Ginny was nowhere in sight. Neither was Lucius.
"Glad to see you, Doc," Shaker said, setting a dark beer down in front of him. "I'm sure they'll be glad to have you over at the table. Unless you'd rather sit here? Show's about to start."
What kind of question was that? Doc wondered. He went to Patrise's table. Patrise and Carmen stood. She hugged him, Patrise gestured toward an empty chair. McCain sat quite still. Then Carmen sat back down. The lights dimmed.
Doc said to Carmen, "Aren't you-"
"Not tonight. Sssh."
The spotlight hit the stage. Stagger's voice came over the speakers, spoke a name Doc didn't recognize.
It was Fay that came onstage. She was wearing a pearl-gray suit with long trousers and a low neckline. Doc swallowed, wiped his damp hands on a napkin.
She sang. With words: clear, intelligible, certain words.
The evening descends The radios on A voice in the air And solitudes gone But who have you got on That favorite spot on The dial
The next voice you hear
Whatever its source
Will be coming through clear
No static of course
Lets close the request lines
Since all of our best times
Are gone
She had a good voice, a very good voice, sweet and warm. Doc felt a warmth on his hand. Carmen was holding it. She was watching the woman on stage, and smiling.
The next voice you hear Will take you right back To flutter and wow
'l'hat our broadcasts lack
Its strange how the cold hands Warm up to the old bands Once more
"Alvah wrote it for me," Carmen whispered. "But I never could sing it. Nor ever can, now."
A wonderful voice. But it was just a song, after all.
We now leave the air Here's station ID We bid you good night With hopes that she'll be Forever the right choice Whoevers the next voice
… You hear
The patrons applauded. Someone called for an encore, but Fay had already vanished through the curtains; she did not reappear. The room was rather quiet after that, and table by table began to clear out.
Mr. Patrise said, "You'll have to excuse me, Hallow. It's been a long day." He stood up. "Coming, Lincoln?"
"Yeah," McCain said, but he just sat there staring at Doc.
Doc said, "Have you seen Lucius, Line?"
"I guess he's around," he said.
Slowly, quietly, Doc said, "If you'd rather not talk to me-"
"Anybody can talk" McCain said, in a dull, metallic voice. Then Doc understood, and knew there really wasn't anything to be said, not now, anyway. McCain got up and walked heavily out.
"I'd better go too, Doc," Carmen said. "Line-well, when he sees his lord survive this loss, he will forgive you."
"I suppose… I didn't think she'd leave."
Carmen looked at him, her face soft. "Do you think she could have known it herself?"
Doc said, "Wasn't it what everybody wanted?"
"Oh, no," she said. "You did what was right. Big difference." She stood up, looked after McCain. "But you did make her happy. Some of us have to work hard for a lot less. Good night, Doc."
He was alone at the table, looked up and saw he was alone in the room, except for Shaker industriously wiping a glass.
Doc went backstage. Stagger Lee was unplugging some cables. He looked up. "Evenin' Doc. What can I do for you?"
"Is… um… she still here?"