Facing the Music
David Henson
I like this tavern. No ghosts. “Another.”
Wiping a beer mug, Pete stares at me. “How about coffee? On the house.”
“Saturdays aren’t for coffee, Pete.”
“Sorry, Aaron. I know you’re going through a rough time, but if you cause a wreck, they could come back on me for—”
“Pffft.” I stand and head for the door, steadying myself on some guy’s shoulder. Outside, I breathe in the autumn air to clear my head for the drive to the liquor store.
Minutes later, I’m at the checkout. The clerk has pretty eyes. She squints as if warding off any flirtation. I shouldn’t anyway. Does it matter now? She hands back my driver’s license. “Probably should get a new one.”
I see my photo has been scratched out, something I vaguely remember doing.
Back in the car, my phone rings. Dad. I promised I’d stop by. I tell him I’m on my way then open the bottle and take a swig to help me get through being in his house. It’s haunted. My duplex may not be much, but at least it’s not haunted.
…Right after I pull into Dad’s driveway, I see the ghost of my son as a toddler run to my mother on the front stoop. Mom’s even more of a ghost. My wife’s ghost trails behind my son’s.
Before I can ring the bell, my father, not a ghost, opens the door. I follow him inside. He sinks into a faded, plaid recliner facing the TV, which blares a game show until he mutes the volume. I sit in the other recliner, my late mother’s.
I look past Dad, out the window into the yard, and see myself playing frisbee with my son’s ghost. It was this past summer, the last time my wife, son and I were here together. Almost every weekend, I taught Johnny something new — how to throw a curve, shoot a basketball. As I’m throwing the disc, Gloria’s ghost storms out, my phone in her hand. “Who the hell is Ellen, Aaron?” Ellen was my two-month fling. My second chance.
“ …Aaron? Are you with me?” My father’s voice hauls me back to the present. “I said Gloria stopped by with Johnny a couple days ago. I swear that boy’s growing like a weed. Have you seen him lately?
“Gloria and I are hammering out custody details. It’s a mess.” I thud the recliner forward. “Sorry, Dad, I can’t stay. Too many…ghosts here.”
“Ghosts? What the heck, Aaron?”
“Memories of Gloria, Johnny and I being here. They…haunt me.” I sway and grip the back of the chair.
My father sighs. “Have you been drinking already, Aaron?”
“I…what? No, of course not. I—”
“I thought you used to know when you’d had enough.”
I did.
“At least when it came to drinking.”
Oof. “Dad, there’s two sides to —”
“I’ll get us coffee. Please, son, sit back down.”
Why’s everybody pushing coffee? “Okay, okay. For a few minutes.” I plop back onto the recliner and try to relax. I don’t feel like talking about the mess I’ve made of things. What if he asks about my job? My heart starts thumping. Just need one little taste to calm down. I’m putting the flask to my lips when Dad returns with two cups.
“I knew it.” He sets the cups on the coffee table.
“Just a sip. You don’t understand how—”
“I don’t want to hear it. If—”
“Can’t you…Can’t I get a break from my own father?” My father shakes his head, and I stand, fumbling the car keys from my pocket to the floor. Dad reaches for them, but I get there first.
“You’re in no condition to drive, Aaron.” My father puts his hands on my shoulders, his gaze locking onto mine. “I know you miss Gloria and Johnny, son, and it’s been only a few months. But you’ve got to pull yourself together.”
He rubs his hands up and down my arms. It seems like a nice moment — until he whiffs on another grab for my keys. I assure him I’m ok to drive, stand and kiss the top of his head. He used to be tall. His ghost still is.
…Back in the car, I mull over what my father said. He’s right about getting my act together. Gloria and I will iron things out so I can spend time with Johnny. I’ll buy a sleeping bag for weekends with him. He’ll like that. I’ll take him fishing. I can practically hear him whooping when his pole bends. I’ll find another job. For the first time in too long, I start looking forward to the future. This calls for a celebration. I take out the flask.
~ ~ ~
I flash back to when Dad tried to snatch my keys last Saturday. If only he’d’ve been quicker. Then maybe the accident— don’t think about it. I look at the wristwatch lying by the bathroom sink. Friday, 11 p.m. Forty-eight hours since my last drink. Forty-eight hours of facing up to what happened.
I splash my face. Water runs down my neck, bare chest and into the elastic band of my undershorts. A trickle makes it to my ankle. Ignore the piano.
I go back to bed and focus on my breathing…unclench my jaw…picture my tongue melting like warm butter. After a few minutes, my face tingles. I’m in a seat in a concert hall. A young girl is playing a grand piano, her talent soaring. She stands and bows. As people cheer, the piano lurches, crushing the girl. A spotlight sweeps the crowd and stops — on me. I awaken in a sweat and hear the piano — as I have nonstop for nearly a week. Though I know I won’t find the source, I search my place anyway, put my ear to the shared wall. The sound is nowhere and everywhere. A melody I can hear but not hum. I’ve tried recording it on my phone, but detected only my breathing. I tell myself it’s some kind of strange tinnitus. I know it’s not.
I’ve heard the haunting sound since the day after my…accident. The newspaper said there were no witnesses or cameras. The young girl was walking to her piano lesson. They say she might have survived if she’d gotten to emergency sooner.
I can’t get the look on her face out of my mind. Go back, go back, I tell myself. I don’t. I didn’t.
I weigh my options: live with the guilt, nightmares and delusions or start drinking again until I pass out. The answer’s unavoidable: neither. This has to end.
A pot of coffee strengthens my resolve. I shower and shave, shedding layers of dirt and grime while trying to ignore the sound of the piano. I put on nice slacks and a clean shirt. I go to the garage, get in the car and turn the key; the engine roars.
The motor idling, fumes build. Decision time. The piano grows louder and chaotic as if someone were pounding the keys with their fists. It’s the parents demanding who…why…how. They deserve to know. I open the garage door and back out. The piano returns to the melody that’s been haunting me.
As I drive, I lower my window to clear out the exhaust. My knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. Wind gusts skitter the crimson dregs of autumn across the street. One snags on my windshield wiper. As I approach the police station, the music fades.
~ ~ ~
July 2026
David Henson
I like this tavern. No ghosts. “Another.”
Wiping a beer mug, Pete stares at me. “How about coffee? On the house.”
“Saturdays aren’t for coffee, Pete.”
“Sorry, Aaron. I know you’re going through a rough time, but if you cause a wreck, they could come back on me for—”
“Pffft.” I stand and head for the door, steadying myself on some guy’s shoulder. Outside, I breathe in the autumn air to clear my head for the drive to the liquor store.
Minutes later, I’m at the checkout. The clerk has pretty eyes. She squints as if warding off any flirtation. I shouldn’t anyway. Does it matter now? She hands back my driver’s license. “Probably should get a new one.”
I see my photo has been scratched out, something I vaguely remember doing.
Back in the car, my phone rings. Dad. I promised I’d stop by. I tell him I’m on my way then open the bottle and take a swig to help me get through being in his house. It’s haunted. My duplex may not be much, but at least it’s not haunted.
…Right after I pull into Dad’s driveway, I see the ghost of my son as a toddler run to my mother on the front stoop. Mom’s even more of a ghost. My wife’s ghost trails behind my son’s.
Before I can ring the bell, my father, not a ghost, opens the door. I follow him inside. He sinks into a faded, plaid recliner facing the TV, which blares a game show until he mutes the volume. I sit in the other recliner, my late mother’s.
I look past Dad, out the window into the yard, and see myself playing frisbee with my son’s ghost. It was this past summer, the last time my wife, son and I were here together. Almost every weekend, I taught Johnny something new — how to throw a curve, shoot a basketball. As I’m throwing the disc, Gloria’s ghost storms out, my phone in her hand. “Who the hell is Ellen, Aaron?” Ellen was my two-month fling. My second chance.
“ …Aaron? Are you with me?” My father’s voice hauls me back to the present. “I said Gloria stopped by with Johnny a couple days ago. I swear that boy’s growing like a weed. Have you seen him lately?
“Gloria and I are hammering out custody details. It’s a mess.” I thud the recliner forward. “Sorry, Dad, I can’t stay. Too many…ghosts here.”
“Ghosts? What the heck, Aaron?”
“Memories of Gloria, Johnny and I being here. They…haunt me.” I sway and grip the back of the chair.
My father sighs. “Have you been drinking already, Aaron?”
“I…what? No, of course not. I—”
“I thought you used to know when you’d had enough.”
I did.
“At least when it came to drinking.”
Oof. “Dad, there’s two sides to —”
“I’ll get us coffee. Please, son, sit back down.”
Why’s everybody pushing coffee? “Okay, okay. For a few minutes.” I plop back onto the recliner and try to relax. I don’t feel like talking about the mess I’ve made of things. What if he asks about my job? My heart starts thumping. Just need one little taste to calm down. I’m putting the flask to my lips when Dad returns with two cups.
“I knew it.” He sets the cups on the coffee table.
“Just a sip. You don’t understand how—”
“I don’t want to hear it. If—”
“Can’t you…Can’t I get a break from my own father?” My father shakes his head, and I stand, fumbling the car keys from my pocket to the floor. Dad reaches for them, but I get there first.
“You’re in no condition to drive, Aaron.” My father puts his hands on my shoulders, his gaze locking onto mine. “I know you miss Gloria and Johnny, son, and it’s been only a few months. But you’ve got to pull yourself together.”
He rubs his hands up and down my arms. It seems like a nice moment — until he whiffs on another grab for my keys. I assure him I’m ok to drive, stand and kiss the top of his head. He used to be tall. His ghost still is.
…Back in the car, I mull over what my father said. He’s right about getting my act together. Gloria and I will iron things out so I can spend time with Johnny. I’ll buy a sleeping bag for weekends with him. He’ll like that. I’ll take him fishing. I can practically hear him whooping when his pole bends. I’ll find another job. For the first time in too long, I start looking forward to the future. This calls for a celebration. I take out the flask.
~ ~ ~
I flash back to when Dad tried to snatch my keys last Saturday. If only he’d’ve been quicker. Then maybe the accident— don’t think about it. I look at the wristwatch lying by the bathroom sink. Friday, 11 p.m. Forty-eight hours since my last drink. Forty-eight hours of facing up to what happened.
I splash my face. Water runs down my neck, bare chest and into the elastic band of my undershorts. A trickle makes it to my ankle. Ignore the piano.
I go back to bed and focus on my breathing…unclench my jaw…picture my tongue melting like warm butter. After a few minutes, my face tingles. I’m in a seat in a concert hall. A young girl is playing a grand piano, her talent soaring. She stands and bows. As people cheer, the piano lurches, crushing the girl. A spotlight sweeps the crowd and stops — on me. I awaken in a sweat and hear the piano — as I have nonstop for nearly a week. Though I know I won’t find the source, I search my place anyway, put my ear to the shared wall. The sound is nowhere and everywhere. A melody I can hear but not hum. I’ve tried recording it on my phone, but detected only my breathing. I tell myself it’s some kind of strange tinnitus. I know it’s not.
I’ve heard the haunting sound since the day after my…accident. The newspaper said there were no witnesses or cameras. The young girl was walking to her piano lesson. They say she might have survived if she’d gotten to emergency sooner.
I can’t get the look on her face out of my mind. Go back, go back, I tell myself. I don’t. I didn’t.
I weigh my options: live with the guilt, nightmares and delusions or start drinking again until I pass out. The answer’s unavoidable: neither. This has to end.
A pot of coffee strengthens my resolve. I shower and shave, shedding layers of dirt and grime while trying to ignore the sound of the piano. I put on nice slacks and a clean shirt. I go to the garage, get in the car and turn the key; the engine roars.
The motor idling, fumes build. Decision time. The piano grows louder and chaotic as if someone were pounding the keys with their fists. It’s the parents demanding who…why…how. They deserve to know. I open the garage door and back out. The piano returns to the melody that’s been haunting me.
As I drive, I lower my window to clear out the exhaust. My knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. Wind gusts skitter the crimson dregs of autumn across the street. One snags on my windshield wiper. As I approach the police station, the music fades.
~ ~ ~
July 2026
