We watch him warily, all of us, trying not to look apprehensive. We watch him and Henry. Henry sitting politely, smiling a little. The Doctor was smiling too, but it was the toothy grin of the vulture, and we all vibrate with tension. I glance over at Ubie, and he flashes his bright blue eyes at me for just a second, but for Ubie to show any hint of weakness meant he was tremendously upset. He glances back at me again and shook his head just a little bit, telling me, telling us all to hang back.
“Good morning, Mr. Bodkin,” the doctor said cheerily, pulling Henry’s chart off the bed and glancing at it with a fussy expression. “How are we today?”
Henry offers him his brave smile, but his eyes fly around to all of us.
I try to will all of us to stay quiet, for once. I shut my eyes and will it. Then Lil’s voice, high-pitched and tremulous.
“You’re okay, Henry. Okay!”
And that was it, everyone starts talking at once. All of us, shouting at Henry. He tries to ignore us for a while, smiling at the doctor, and then he shuts his eyes and cocks his head. I open my eyes in time to see him shiver a little.
“Shut up!” he shouts. “Shut up all of you!!!”
The Doctor, damn him, looks up sharply. Henry stares back at him in sudden terror. He knows he’s made a mistake. I look at Ubie, but he’s slumped on the window sill in his tweeds; he has no bright ideas either. I glare around at the rest of them, and they all look at their shoes in guilt.
The Doctor, who was shrewd, I had to admit, glances back down at his chart as if nothing had happened. “A little agitated, perhaps, Mr. Bodkin? Let me see what your meds are like these days . . . ”
Henry licks his lips, but bravely kept his eyes on the Doctor. “Actually, I’m feeling better. I have, heh, my moments, Doc, but – ”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Bodkin,” The Doctor interrupts distractedly. “I readily admit that your behavior has improved greatly in recent weeks. But I am concerned that your improved behavior is simply a cunning realization that with improved behavior comes loosened rules and lessened medication.” He smiles softly. “You are not our first patient, Mr. Bodkin. We have seen the tricks. You are calmer, less agitated than when we first saw you here, certainly. But you still obviously benefit from regular therapy and medication regimens.”
“God-dammit,” Ubie mutters. “Goddammit, Henry.”
Henry ignores him.
“Leave him alone now, Ubie,” Pa says sternly. Ubie glances at him, but says nothing.
We stand around dispiritedly then, while the doctor finishes his interview. Henry, free from our distraction, finishes up strong, charming and showing everyone that he was okay, that we all deserved to get out someday, see the sun, wander, free. And this motherfucker stood in our way. Ubie stands by the window, the light covering him like a nimbus, an aura. He is tall and blond and handsome, Ubie, and he stands with quiet strength, quiet confidence. Lil sits on the floor, nervously twisting his hair around one little finger, trying to keep quiet. Twitching with the effort of staying still. Pa, smoking his pipe, his gray hair almost silver in the bright light. And then me, in black, sunglasses, cigarette, patent loafers. Apart from everyone. Slouching a little.
The doctor leaves, some meaningless words of encouragement hanging in the air, and for a moment, we all just stand in place and bask in the silence of another day of defeat.
And then Henry asks us to sing.
Lil starts off, from his seat on the floor, a high, pure voice, carrying impossible notes, clear but without meaning, just notes. Wind moving through his voice box, filling the room. Then Ubie and me, him deep but smooth, me gruff from booze and cigarettes, a strangely pleasing combination. We weave between each other, and Lil pokes in with moments of breathtaking clarity. We’re still warming up, no words, just sound, and we weave it into a wall of sound, a rhythmic carefree melody suddenly solidifying right there in the air, invisible but obvious once you notice it. The melody weaves around Henry, who smiles and nods his head, tapping a foot. It’s one of his favorites. Pa starts to sing, then, words, stanzas, an old traditional piece Henry likes.
“Look at the coffin . . . something something something . . . .isn’t it grand, boys? . . . to be bloody well dead.”
Henry nods slightly in time, smiling. Henry’s smile is glorious, a thing of beauty, really.
“Let’s not have a sniffle . . . let’s have a bloody good cry! And always remember the longer you live, the sooner you bloody well die.”
Pa’s singing is wonderful, it wraps around us and makes us Brothers again. Even Ubie loses his arrogant look, condescends to be one of us, and good for him, the pretty bastard.
“What should we do, then, Hank?”
Ubie doesn’t often ask advice, but the drugs have us rattled. Lil is rocking back and forth, staring, his little body curled up. Pa is just sitting at the window behind Henry, puffing his pipe and watching the time go by. Ubie and I have been watching each other warily, but because he’s Ubie he’s managed to overcome his dislike for me, his distrust for me. I’m not Ubie, so I’m still seething. But it’s a good question.
Henry has a line of drool running from his lower lip, soaking into the lapel of his robe. He stares out the window, too, but I doubt he’s seeing anything. He’s a blank, and he can’t hear us, even at top volume. We sang for an hour all morning, powerful and passionate, but Henry just stared, and rocked. Without Henry we all feel lost, even Pa. Even Ubie, though he would never admit it. I light a cigarette and consider, making a show of it, but there aren’t any options, and we all know it. We’re going to be stuck in this room with Henry forever, and now we can’t even talk to him.
“I don’t know, Ubie, I don’t know,” I admit.
Ubie looks around, his perfect face troubled for a change, which I secretly enjoy. Since we’d been born I’d been torturing Ubie, and why not?
“I think we should break him out.”
I blink. My cigarette, stuck to my lower lip, hangs there forgotten. “Excuse me?”
Ubie draws himself up, tall and muscular. “Break Henry out. Let’s get out of here. Why wait for Dr. Motherfucker to allow us out? Why not just walk out?”
I consider. “What does Pa say?”
Ubie looks away. “I haven’t asked him yet.”
“We’d better.”
He nods, suddenly sure of himself again, which is Ubie’s main strength. We both glance down at the same time, to find Lil glaring up at us.
“What are you two doing over here?” Lil demands in his shrill little voice.
Ubie sneers down at the little body. “Scram, Tiny Tim.”
Lil jabs a finger up at us. “You’re plotting. You’re going to get us all into trouble. When Pa here’s about this, you’re both going to be in big trouble!”
“We were just about to talk to Pa,” Ubie says smoothly. “Now scram, like I said. Go hum for Henry. See if you can get something out of him.”
Lil glares up at us for a while longer and then scampers off. He kneels down at Henry’s feet and begins a simple, sad song. Henry doesn’t react, though, and I grimace, but Ubie doesn’t notice. He’s already over by Pa.
“Can we talk for a moment?”
Pa turns his steely gaze on Ubie, then over his shoulders at me, and I resist the urge to hide. Pa scares all of us, of course, but me most of all – well, maybe Lil. But he scares me plenty. Only Ubie isn’t afraid of him at all. Ubie puts his arm around Pa and leads him over to me, talking low into his ear. I can see Lil tracking them with his scared little eyes, but Lil keeps singing.
“Hang down your head Tom Dooley . . . Hang down your head and cry . . . ”
“Well? What are you boys plotting then?” Pa demands as he approaches. “Our Henry’s not well, you know; we don’t have time for this foolishness!”
I’m nervous, and clear my throat. “Pa, Ubie and me,” I hate feeling like I need to mention Ubie’s name, but Pa won’t take it seriously unless he thinks Ubie’s involved. If it’s just me, it just means trouble to Pa. “Ubie and me think we can’t wait for them to release Henry. The program he’s on . . . it’s just drugs, Pa. He can’t hear us. He doesn’t respond.”
Pa looks from me to Ubie. “What is he talking about?”
I clench my teeth. I hate that he gives Ubie all the credit. It makes sense, of course . . . but I hate it. I answer before Ubie can.
“We think we ought to break him out.”
Pa looks back at me, his eyes wide in astonishment. He looks back at Ubie. “You agree with this, then?”
Ubie nods. Lil is still singing, and in the silence his little voice is unsullied.
“This time tomorrow . . . reckon where I’ll be . . . down in some lonesome valley . . . hanging from a white oak tree . . . Hang down your head Tom . . . ”
“No,” Pa finally says. “I forbid this foolishness. It would be too dangerous, to him and to us.”
Ubie and I look at each other. I bite my lip and clench my fists, resist talking. Pa will only listen to Ubie once he’s made up his mind. I am bad news. I’m the black sheep of the family. I let Ubie lead Pa away and I wander closer to Henry, light a cigarette, look out the window. I long to be outside again, but until Henry escapes, we’re all stuck. I start to hum absently along with Lil, and then instinctively break into a deep counterpoint to his light, dancing melody, cutting directly across it.
“Hang down your head, Tom . . . Dooley . . . Hang down your head . . . and cry”
Someone taps my shoulder. I turn to find Ubie, who gestures over his shoulder. I look, and there’s Henry, still sitting, still unmoving, but now with tears flowing down his face.
“He hears us,” Ubie says, his voice manly but raw with emotion – perfect as always. “He hears you. Can’t they see? Why don’t they understand?”
I don’t respond. Pa crosses the room and we all stand there, and now its all of us singing, blending together again. We blow the roof off. Without any trace of arrogance I can say that we’re incredible, when we put our voices together. We’re angelic, perfect. Nothing like it has ever been heard on Earth.
Around us, everyone on the ward – crazy people, mostly, but nurses and orderlies and visitors too – ignores us. Goes about their business. Chatter on rudely.
At the end, we drop away one by one until it’s just Lil again, his high voice and nothing else.
“Poor boy, you’re bound to . . . die.”
And then silence. Until, unexpected, Henry puts his hands together, shaking and groggy from the drugs, and applauds weakly. A staccato slapping of flesh. Clap. Clap. Clap.
Ubie wells up in tears. Pa looks close. Only I resist, lighting a cigarette and standing apart as the rest of us bow, joining hands and bending before Henry.
I smoke and look out the window.
The nights are the worst. It’s lonely, and quiet, and we can’t sing because Henry is sleeping. All there is to do is smoke and talk, look out the window. I sit up with Ubie, who doesn’t smoke, and we discuss our situation.
“It was bad enough back home, with the Old Bat watching out for us every moment, and throwing a fit if we dared to sing a note for the poor guy. This is intolerable, though. I’d give anything to have the Old Bat back,” I say.
Ubie nodded sadly, thinking perhaps of our unkind celebration when the Old Bat had died. We’d thought we were free. It had only taken a month for Henry to end up here, and us with him. I didn’t miss the Old Bat, none of us did, but we all wished we still had her to dislike. Henry’d needed her, we realized now. She’d been his insulation.
“It’s partly our fault, if you think about it.”
I look at him. “What do you mean?”
Ubie looks nobly pained, a common enough expression for him, and not one of my favorites. “We haven’t exactly been circumspect, have we? We know our singing works him up, gets him into his moods. We know his moods get him into trouble. But we do it anyway.”
I shake my head at him. “Because Henry wants us to, Ubie.”
“Bull. Because we want to.”
He was right about that, I realized. We enjoyed it. We enjoyed it so much, and Henry’s appreciation of it, that we just sang whenever we wanted to. And here we were.
I looked down at my shoes. “Ah, shit.”
He put a manly hand on my shoulder, and I resented it. I resented Ubie, and his perfect balance, his precisely etched eyebrows, his fucking Windsor knot. Ubie always knew what to say. I hated that.
“All right, so it’s up to us to put it all right, eh?” he said. “We’ll get him out. And once he’s out, we’ll keep him out of trouble.”
I frowned. “How? He can’t help himself.”
Ubie was confident, of course. “We’ll explain it to him. Henry doesn’t want to be here any more than we do.”
I considered, looking at Henry as he dozed placidly. “How will we get him out? Pa ordered us – ”
“Not break him out,” Ubie said immediately. “Pa’s right, I guess. And even if we could manage it, the problem is what happens once we’re outside? They’d look for Henry. I don’t relish hiding all the time. No, we’ll get him out the hard way: We’ll play that fucker’s game.”
I blinked. “The Doctor?”
Ubie nodded. “Sure. He asks questions, and Henry doesn’t give the right answers – partly because we’re always singing into his ears. So, we shut up.”
An icy ball formed in my stomach. “Shut up?” I managed.
Ubie was solemn. “I know it sounds impossible, and it will be hard. But we need to stop singing. We need to stop singing for Henry so he can think, so he can answer the questions. And we need to stop singing so we can talk to Henry, coach him, guide him.” He sighed wearily. “If we’re careful, we’ll play the Doctor’s game and Henry will be released properly. And then we’ll be free with him. And then we’ll just have to be careful – we’ll have to manage the situation.”
“The situation,” I muttered. “You mean Henry. Manage Henry.”
“Well, yes.”
I looked over at our charge, who was sleeping soundly, his face ecstatic as if he were dreaming wonderful things. “Stop singing?”
“Just for a time. Until we’re free again. Then, it’s just a matter of restraining ourselves, so we don’t end up here again.”
It sounded sensible. But I felt like throwing up. To not sing. I looked at Ubie, stared at him until he looked at me. He jumped a little.
“Ubie,” I said wretchedly, “if we don’t sing, what do we do?”
He nodded. “We survive.”
The next day, we put the plan into motion. Henry woke up and looked around at us. Groggy from the drugs, he looked around, waiting for us to greet him. I just sat on the window sill, smoking, feeling dejected. Ubie stood up from one of the plush chairs, straightened his tie, and went up to Henry confidently.
“Good morning, Henry.”
Henry stares at him blankly, then lets his watery eyes slide away. It was disconcerting, and we all shuffle a little in silent unease. Henry did not usually ignore us, unless he was deep into medication.
“Henry?” Ubie pressed, leaning down so they were more or less on the same level. “Good morning.”
Henry raises his watery eyes, but only to look around the room at us, one at a time. I meet his gaze, but say nothing. Pa and Lil just look down at the floor. Henry lingers again on Ubie, and then sags a little. Ubie looks over at me, and I just turn away, look out the window. None of us ever disagree with Ubie, it feels obscene, wrong, but we can’t help it. This plan isn’t going to work. I glance over my shoulder.
Ubie is kneeling in front of Henry with his hands on Henry’s shoulders, talking earnestly. Behind him, The Doctor walks briskly into the ward, cup of coffee in one hand, smug expression on his face. He was a man who had never heard music in his life. Ubie stepped aside smoothly as The Doctor stopped in front of Henry, plucking his chart from the bed and glancing at it.
“How are we today, Henry? The nurses tell me you’ve been responding to the medication.”
Henry glances up at The Doctor as if he was seeing him for the first time. “Good morning, Doc,” He says, his voice tremulous and gritty.
The Doctor looks down at him for a moment. “That’s very good to hear, Henry. Very good to hear.”
I glance at Ubie, and he nods at me.
The Doctor makes a few notes on the chart, and then replaces it on its hooks. He sets his coffee on the window sill, and, surprisingly, he sits next to Henry on the bed.
“Can I ask you a few questions, Henry?”
Henry pauses, cocks his head a little, but none of us say anything. He shifts a little, and then says “Go ahead.”
“Tell me about the singing, again, please.”
Henry visibly struggles. I watch the heartwrenching performance, Henry’s face rippling with emotion. Finally, he gathers himself, sighs deeply, and says to The Doctor
“I haven’t heard any since yesterday.”
His voice is dismal. Even The Doctor can feel his loss. He places a hand on Henry’s shoulder and pats it.
“Henry, I know you don’t believe me, but this is grand news. We’ve had a breakthrough. I know this has been hard, but I think things will get easier now. I’ve got to visit some of my other patients, but I’ll be back later on today, and we can discuss this further – if you want to. Okay?”
Henry nodded, listlessly.
We watched The Doctor walk out of the ward, silent and drained.
“Ubie!” Lil’s little voice cut through the silence. “Ubie, this isn’t working! We’ve got to sing! It’s what we do!”
“I fear he is right,” Pa rumbled from his spot by the window, his pipe bobbing up and down in his mouth. “Our silence merely lets this quack convince him of whatever he wants.”
Ubie looked at me. “Hank?”
I shrugged. “I just want to sing, Ubie. I’d rather sing in here than not sing anywhere.”
“Let’s just give this some time,” Ubie said passionately. “We just need him to listen. If we just give up, we’ll be here forever.”
“He only listens when we sing, Ubie,” Lil protested.
“But when we sing, he doesn’t get better.”
“Get better?” Lil asked, his little face frowning.
“Doesn’t get out of here,” Ubie shouted. “Ever! We’ll be singing in this goddamn place forever if we just sit on our asses and do nothing! This is our best chance, dammit.”
We all fell silent. Henry just sat, looking miserable. Ubie knelt down next to him again, put his hands on him. “Henry,” he said, pleading up at Henry’s defeated posture. “Please, listen to me. Hear me. Please.”
Henry didn’t look up. Ubie looked down at the floor, and the rest of us turned away.
“I remember the first time,” I said, smoke rising from my cigarette.
“Tell us about it,” Lil said sleepily, sitting on the floor with his legs crossed. “I came later.”
He’d always been there, of course, just quiet, shut up. He didn’t seem to realize it, and I didn’t have it in me to explain. “Henry was young – oh, a teenager. We were in school. Henry didn’t like school, he had a bad bunch of experiences there, and no one seemed to care. God, I can remember the day as if it were yesterday.”
I paused to look out at the night. The day had passed in wretched silence, and I was trying to liven up the evening a little. Henry wasn’t listening to us, but we could listen to each other, for a while. It was life, of a sort.
“He looked at me, I was sitting right next to him.” I laughed, staring at the red coal of my cigarette. “It had been a bad day for Henry, and he looked over at me, and I could tell that he needed some help. I didn’t know what else to do, so I started to sing.”
“What did you sing?”
I smiled. “The Leaving of Liverpool. It just popped into my head. It really calmed him down, you know? Later, in the Nurses Office, we sat and talked for a while, and we’ve been together ever since.”
“You’re lucky you were first,” Lil sighed.
“He has great affection for you, Hank,” Pa suddenly rumbled from his position by the windows. “Still, you are his favorite. He has always listened to you most.”
“He only listens when we sing.”
Pa nodded. “Tell that to your brother. He thinks he knows everything, and he’ll either have us trapped in here forever, or Henry will just stop listening to us, you see?”
I nodded. Lil sighed again, glum. I paused, a sudden thought hitting me forcefully. “Where’s Ubie?”
Pa looked at me as I scrabbled to my feet. “Why?”
“I have an idea.”
“Oy, ideas,” Pa lamented. “Ideas have certainly gotten us far, haven’t they? Bah! He is with Henry. Whispering in his ear as he sleeps, I suppose.”
Ubie was sitting on Henry’s bed, slumped and shadowed. But he wasn’t talking to Henry, he was just sitting there, quietly. I stopped near the bed, behind him, but he knew I was there, of course.
“I’m sorry, Hank,” he said dismally. “I’m sorry. I’ve ruined it.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, for form’s sake. I knew what he meant. Pa had known too.
“We’re stuck here, I think.” He gestured at Henry miserably. Henry slept peacefully, a slight simple smile on his aging face. “I’ve been singing to him for two hours. I – I started to think about what Pa said, so I sang something simple, something he used to love.”
Silence. I bore it as long as I could. “And?”
“He can’t hear me anymore. He didn’t even look at me. He can’t hear me.”
I swallowed heavily, and moved to sit next to him. “Should we tell the others?”
“I think they know already. I think they already knew.”
I nodded in the darkness. “I’ll get them.”
I walked back to where Pa and Lil were passing their time, and they looked up.
“It has come to this then, eh?” Pa said crisply.
I nodded. I couldn’t make myself speak.
“Come then,” He said firmly, looking almost happy. “If it is time, it is time. Let us sing once more. One last time.”
I shook my head. “He doesn’t hear us any more.”
Pa shrugged. “Perhaps not. Perhaps he just ignores us. It doesn’t matter. We sing, because that is what we do. And if he does hear us, in some way still, then this should be his last memory of us: Singing, as we always have.”
Lil stood up. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
We filed into the ward. Ubie turned and stared at us for a moment, and then stood, still immaculate in his suit, and smoothed himself a little. The he nodded at Pa, and we formed a loose ring around Henry, who slept peacefully.
“I’m sorry – ” Ubie croaked.
“Don’t,” Pa commanded. “You did your best. This moment had to come.”
We stood quietly for a moment.
“What should we sing?” Lil asked.
I cleared my throat, felt movement possible again suddenly. “The Leaving of Liverpool, I think.”
Pa nodded gravely. “Good.”
We sang, unhurried and as firmly grouped as we’d ever been. We sang the whole song, unselfishly, un-self-consciously. We sang, and as we finished, welling up into a gentle climax of pure notes, finally ending with Lil’s high, perfect voice, holding impossibly long, each of us holding, each of us impossibly long, and then fading, fading, and Henry opened his eyes.