AT 29 (25 page)

“So what did you do with the tape?”

“Never made one, but before we leave in the spring, me for good and you for the summer, we'll do it.”

“Then what?”

“All part of my plan.”

“Are you really going to leave?” Jimmy couldn't understand why Kevin wanted to flunk out.

“I'm outta here come May.”

“Then what will you do?”

“I'll go to New York and work for my uncle.”

“But you said he's a snake.”

“He is, but he knows the music business. I'll learn as much as I can for a year or two then go out on my own.”

“Seems like it could wait until you graduate.”

“You sound like my father.”

“Well?”

“My dad is old school. We've been knocking heads forever. He doesn't approve of my uncle, either. But they're brothers so they keep in touch. Mostly when my uncle gets caught cheating somebody, then he comes running back to Massena to hide out for a while in my dad's motel. We've talked for years about me coming down to work for him.
Point is, I don't need school to get where I want to go, but I do need time. Music is for the young. Ever heard of Aldon Music?”

“No.”

“It's in New York, a place called the Brill Building. Two guys started it, Don Kirshner and Al Nevins. They round up all these kids, most of them our age, some even younger. They stick them in a bunch of makeshift rooms and just let them make up songs on pianos, guitars whatever instruments they want. Obviously, these kids have talent, either as songwriters, performers or both. A lot of the stuff we hear comes out of that process. Here you are singing something by Sedaka a few weeks ago. You probably don't know he worked out of that building. That's okay, though. The average listener doesn't much care where the music comes from. Right now, a lot of good stuff is still coming out of New York, but the Brill Building isn't the place. The newer guys have migrated down the street to 1650 Broadway and a couple of other buildings. What they're doing is different, not the cute little ditties we used to get from Brill, but heavier stuff, jamming and drug rock. The same sort of process happened down south in the 50s at Sun Records.

“This guy, Sam Phillips, went around listening to all the great black singers and musicians just working the circuit for whatever they could get. He brought them into his two-bit studio and recorded them all. Then he drove around to every radio station he could find, pushing the music as hard as he could all the while selling records out of the trunk of his car. Elvis Presley followed the black guys around, too, sometimes sneaking onstage during their breaks just to copy what they were doing in front of small audiences. When the blacks came back they'd shoo him off the stage, wondering where this kid got the nerve. One day, Presley showed up at Phillips' studio, unannounced. He wanted to record a song for his mother. To read what Phillips thought about this naïve kid from nowhere is to understand the creative process. He said Presley was nothing but a nervous hillbilly, trying to copy the blacks. He spurned his attempts to mimic the blacks. He thought no whites could do it successfully. Still, he let him come around until he finally decided to work him hard. The rest is history. Presley got some confidence. Phillips said that all he needed was someone to let him air out his lungs and practice his moves without judging too harshly. As it turned out, Presley could mimic the blacks just fine, but Phillips saw that he had a charismatic style all his own. Carl Perkins, Johnny Cash and Jerry Lee Lewis followed in short order, making Phillips a legend.

“Out in Detroit, there's another music factory, Motown. All blacks this time, finally taking charge of their destiny. Yeah, it was all done before in Philly, but none of them got the money they deserved. It's like an assembly line, putting all the pieces together to produce one great song after another. I'm going to start a business like that. I'll take tapes of you and my band back in Massena. With luck, I'll parlay some of it into a little money and we'll be on our way.”

“We?”

“If you want in, you're in. By the time you finish here, my company will be on its feet. You'll have a little money from what I make for you from
Lulu
and we'll go on from there.”

“What will your father say when he finds out you flunked his money away?”

“I'll pay him back. He's a good guy. Just doesn't have any vision.”

Christmas break came and went. When he returned, Kevin shyly announced that he was on academic probation. The harsh Vermont winter took hold with a vengeance.
The first five days of February commenced with another two-foot snowstorm followed by several days of sub-zero temperatures accompanied by a persistent thirty-mile wind out of the north. Lake Champlain, at its widest point between Vermont and New York, froze over on February 18, much to the delight of the local snowmobilers and ice fishermen. The students hunkered down out of the cold and snow, waiting for something to break the frigid siege. As it turned out, the cold offered Jimmy and Kevin regular audiences for their jams in the basement of Regent Hall. Their reputation grew.

One Tuesday morning, during the second week of March, Jimmy returned from class to find his roommate hastily throwing clothes into a small bag. Kevin didn't look up when he entered and, surprisingly, there was no music coming from the stereo.

“What gives?”

“Going home. I have an issue to deal with.”

“Your father?”

“Will be when he finds out.”

Jimmy went over and sat on Kevin's unmade bunk. “Finds out what?”

“She's pregnant.” Kevin still did not look up from his task, but Jimmy detected worry in his friend's voice for the first time since he'd known him.

“Pregnant? Who?”

“My girlfriend.”

“I didn't know you had a girlfriend.”

“On the keyboards in my band, Ginger.”

“You never said.”

“Well, doesn't matter now. I need to go home.”

“I'll go with you.”

“No.”

“How are you getting there?”

“I'll catch a lift to Burlington. Then, once I get across the lake, I'll hitch.”

“You need some money?”

“Couple of bucks if you can spare it.”

Jimmy took everything he had out of his pockets, twenty dollars and some change. He handed it to Kevin. “What are you going to do?”

“I don't know yet. She's real upset. Our folks don't know, but we'll have to face them together. She's only sixteen. I'm in big trouble.”

Jimmy's jaw dropped. Kevin finished throwing some socks and underwear into his bag and crossed the room to get his coat. He opened the door then stopped momentarily and turned to look at Jimmy.

“I don't know when I'll be back.”

Two days later, the headline was emblazoned across the front page of the Burlington Free Press. Sick at heart, Jimmy spotted Kevin's name in the second paragraph in bold type. He was reading the story, tears coming to his eyes, when two men in suits came up to his table in the cafeteria. The conversation was brief. Jimmy answered their questions as best he could, detailing his relationship with Kevin and describing their last conversation, but excluding any reference to Ginger. He struggled to keep his composure as he led them to his room in Regent Hall where the two detectives sifted through Kevin's belongings. When they were finished, they thanked him for his cooperation, expressed their condolences and left. Pothead and Psycho stood in the
hallway, watching. Neither boy said anything to Jimmy, who, unable to restrain his emotions, retreated back into his room.

Confirmation that Lake Champlain is, indeed, frozen throughout its expanses can be elusive. Onlookers make the reports, unofficially, mostly fishermen who wander as far out as their nerve allows until, with luck, they venture onto the opposite shore. Through the years there are many incidents, tragic as well as miraculous, of people who fall through the ice or wander off its unseen end into the bitter waters. Those lucky enough to be rescued, live to give warning. Others, resting along the lake bottom with their snowmobiles or their ice-shacks, at depths from sixty to four hundred feet, give louder, unspoken warnings.

Kevin Royce's body was spotted from the air, floating face down in a narrow section of open water a quarter of a mile from the New York side. A small single engine plane, flown by an instructor and his student, swooped low over the widest section of the lake between Burlington and Port Kent. Despite the approaching spring, they were surprised to see the open water, the historically harsh winter had been that cold. Old time lake watchers didn't expect open water until April. Kevin's bright red parka, surrounded by the snow-covered ice, gave his body away in the sunlight. No one knew exactly what happened, but it was a safe conclusion that he tried to cross at night, saw little directly in his path and simply stepped into the water. If he cried out for help, none would have heard him so far from shore. The nearest ice shack was three hundred yards back toward the Vermont side.

Jimmy took a bus to Massena for the funeral. The Catholic Church was filled to capacity. He found a seat in a pew several rows back from the Royce family. He listened to the church choir as it sang heart wrenching hymns that he knew Kevin would have disdained, not because the songs were religious, but because they lacked the upbeat energy he loved in life.

When the eulogies were finished, the priest led a procession down the aisle, followed by Kevin's casket on rollers. Pallbearers walked on either side, ready to lift it when it reached the stairs to the sidewalk outside. The Royce family followed, including a young girl that Jimmy knew must be Ginger. He stood with the others to watch as they sadly passed then he waited as the pews in front of him emptied, one after another, until it was his turn to step into the aisle. The choir continued singing from the balcony above, a louder, more powerful hymn of solace. He did not go to the gravesite. No one knew who he was and he did not wish to intrude by introducing himself. Instead, he walked, with his hands in his pockets, back to the terminal and caught the next bus back to Burlington. He sat in the back and penned
Choral Guns
in tribute to his, all too brief, friendship with Kevin Royce.

Three weeks later, he received a note from the Dean's office advising him that Kevin's father would be coming by on Saturday to retrieve his son's belongings. The note asked that he be available to assist in any way possible.

The soft knock came at ten a.m. He had straightened the room and organized Kevin's things, careful not to disturb them from their places, but equally careful to remove any semblance of his roommate's slovenly habits. He opened the door, not sure if he should smile, even though he felt nothing like smiling since the day he learned of his friend's death. He was mildly relieved when the man who greeted him was straight faced. They shook hands as Jimmy held the door, almost missing the girl who followed behind.
The same sad eyed girl he'd seen at the funeral, Ginger. She looked at Jimmy with curiosity as she walked into the room. Both father and girlfriend stood awkwardly as if waiting for Jimmy to show them what to do. Kevin's father spoke first.

“I think I know Kevin's things. I'll take them down to the car and then we'll be out of your way.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Can I give you a hand?”

“No need,” came the curt reply as the man started for the bureau and opened the top drawer. “He always kept his underwear and shirts in the top, same here?”

Jimmy nodded. “I put his books and personal items on top of the desk next to his stereo.” He pointed.

Ginger's eyes drifted from wall to wall until they settled upon two posters above the desk. One was of a Rolling Stones concert, the other a picture of Etta James in silhouette. She nodded, knowingly. Kevin's father turned back from the bureau,

“Ginger, you can wait outside.”

It sounded like a command. She dropped her eyes from the posters and looked at Jimmy then she turned and headed for the door. Jimmy followed her down the stairs, thinking she shouldn't be alone. They walked into the quadrangle, each collecting their thoughts. Jimmy stole a glance at the pretty girl, wondering what she might be thinking. Her head was down, eyes focused on the ground.

“Kevin said you played together.” She spoke, but didn't look up.

“He was helping me get better.”

“That's Kevin.”

“He told me about you, too. I saw you at the funeral.”

“You were there?” She raised her eyes to look at him. “We didn't know.”

“I didn't want to intrude.”

“The family is having a hard time. You can probably tell from the way his dad is acting.”

“I'd like to help him with Kevin's things.”

“No, better to let him do it alone. He blames himself. Thinks it would never have happened if he didn't make Kevin come here.”

“How are you holding up?”

“About the same as the family.”

“Kevin told me why he had to go home.”

“You know I'm pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“We talked about getting an abortion, wavered between that and facing our parents. I was scared because I'm underage. Around Massena, no doctor would do it without permission from my parents. We thought about going to Canada.”

“How did your parents take it?”

“They're crushed. Kevin's family is a bit more understanding, but I think that's because they're still in shock over his death. The idea that he's leaving a baby behind hasn't sunk in yet.”

“Will you keep it?”

“That's my plan.” They walked on. Jimmy led the way out of the quad and into the main campus.

“He said you play the piano. Thought you might have Julliard in your future.”

“He said that?”

“He described you as the pretty girl in his band, straight A's, popular, the whole package.”