The Shadow Prince
Page 68

“So that’s why you called me?” Haden asks.
I nod. “Sorry.”
He shrugs. “I’m happy to be your other plans.” His jade green eyes lock on my mine for a moment. Then he turns away. “I guess I should find something else.” He tucks Joe’s album into a stack of Top 40 rock and then migrates to the indie section. He comes back a minute later with a new CD. Death Cab for Cutie.
“How’s this? I liked the name of the band.”
“Perfect,” I say, and lead him to the booth. It’s a small, glass-enclosed room at the back of the shop. It’s such a tight fit for both of us that I can feel the heat radiating off his body as I sidestep around him to get to the stereo. He smells of citrus and soap.
I linger for a second longer than I need to.
“We’ll start with a couple of classical numbers,” I say. There’s an odd tremor in my voice. “And then we’ll move on to some more modern stuff.”
“Sounds good to me,” he says, but I detect a hint of apprehension in his voice. I remember what he said about music having been forbidden to him, and I realize I’m about to take a virtual musical virgin for the ride of his life.
“So what do you think?”
Haden is quiet for a moment. “Can I use the word beautiful to describe music?”
“Yes, of course.” What an odd question.
“I can’t think of another word for it.”
“That’s okay. Music is hard for just about anyone to describe, let alone for someone who hasn’t developed a musical vocabulary.”
“I’m not used to being at a loss for words.”
I believe him. This is the eleventh song I’ve played for him and he’s stayed mostly silent during all of them—verbally anyway. I noticed that by the fifth song, the sphere of silence that normally surrounds Haden had started to wane. It was like when we sang together for the first time, and I had heard a soft, resonating pulse of sound coming off him. And now with each musical number I played for him since then, his inner tone had grown ever so slightly. It is like no other inner song I’ve ever experienced before.
“It might be easier to describe how it makes you feel.”
That hesitant, uncertain expression crosses his face. Has no one ever asked him to talk about his emotions before?
“Sad,” he says. “It’s a sad song. But optimistic, too.”
“Optimistic?”
I’d played him a song called “I Will Follow You into the Dark” from the Death Cab for Cutie album he’d picked out. It is a simple song, just a singer and a single guitar, but it seems to have had a strong impact on Haden. His inner tone beats twice as strong as before. It almost sounds hopeful.
“I don’t know if optimistic is quite the right word. But it’s about two lovers,” he says. “Yes?”
I nod.
“They’ve been together for a long time. They’ve seen many things and loved deeply. But she’s about to die. And he’s telling her not to cry or worry. Because she won’t be alone. Because he’ll follow her into the dark. He’s telling her to have hope. Yes, that’s the right word for it.”
“I guess so. But who would do that? It’s kind of a ridiculous notion, don’t you think? Can he really promise that he’s going to die right after her so she won’t be alone?”
“I think it’s less about death and more about a willingness to follow someone into the unknown. For love.”
“Maybe.”
“Would you ever do something like that? If you loved someone enough, would you follow him into the dark?” He looks at me with those jade green eyes and, for the slightest of moments, I think I see dark amber fire rings dancing around his pupils.
My impulse is to look away, but I don’t. “No,” I say. “I’m not a follower.”
“Hand in hand, then?”
I do look away now. “I don’t think I’m capable of loving anyone that much.” I turn my back on him and move to the stereo.
“Even if it was your destiny?”
I give a short laugh. “Destiny? I don’t believe in all that fate mumbo jumbo.”
“How can you not believe in fate?” His question sounds like he thinks I’m being blasphemous.
“I believe in goals, and working hard for what you want. And choices. I make my own path; nobody else chooses it for me.”
Haden’s hopeful tone disappears. That sphere of silence returns, surrounding him and stretching to the corners of the booth. I can’t stand it.
I remove the disk from the stereo, and look for a new one to replace it.
“What about to save the person you loved?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I say, thinking of my mom. I’d come here to save her—in a way. Well, to save her from losing her shop and her livelihood. But it had been my choice, in the end. “Depends on the person, I guess.” I find the disk I’m looking for and put the new CD into the player. “Let’s try a modern song without lyrics this time. This is by one of my favorite bands, Stars of the Lid. Just concentrate on the music. Open yourself up to the emotion it evokes.” I press play and let the music fill the silence in the booth. “It’s a beautiful song, one of my favorite pieces of modern music, but it also reminds me of a discordant lullaby. Like something’s broken or missing in the music—but in a very deliberate way.”
My back is to Haden as the song plays, but I can feel his warm presence only inches away in the tight booth. The air grows heavy, hot, electric, and a new strain of notes fills the booth. But they’re not coming from the stereo.
I turn to Haden. His lips are partly open. A red blush paints his pale yet olive cheeks. This new sound is coming off him.
It’s the sound that sorrow makes.
“What … what is the name of this song?” he asks, with a tremor in his voice.
“ ‘Requiem for Dying Mothers.’ ”
He purses his lips. His nostrils flare. A wet sheen fills his eyes. “Turn it off. Please. Just turn it off.”
“Okay.” I turn and hit the stop button. When I look back, Haden is gone. The glass door to the booth swings shut, and I see him heading out the front of the store.
I find Haden outside. He leans against a wood railing that overlooks the beach, his face buried in his arms.