Fissures, cracks, clefts, canyons.
And it’s not just in his bones.
Philip is trying to make connections.
It’s midday and sunlight penetrates the unit’s one window. A blond nurse, Delores, administers a shot and even this contact, needle to skin, is something.
Philip feels frighteningly alone.
There was Secretary Mull walking into the bar, Doug’s Den. There was the sound. There was . . .
But in a way, there was nothing after the sound. As if, once Philip got out of the booth and gathered the Danes, reality eroded, the daily ticks and tacks, the hum of existence, the unheard sound of the planet spinning, all of it was replaced . . . with the sound.
“Radio?”
Delores is asking him if he wants to listen to an afternoon drama. The concept is so far from what Philip is thinking about that it almost feels like she doesn’t mean what she asks.
He doesn’t respond.
Instead, he’s sensing a change.
Was it the shot? It must be. The sensation of being stuck, paralyzed, unable to bend a finger, is lessening. Pieces are being put back together, the picture the puzzle makes . . .
There was Mull. There was agreeing to go listen to the sound . . . there was Africa . . .
Yes, Philip almost feels able to turn his head, to lift his hands, to speak easily. But when he tries, he discovers he still can’t.
And yet, things are changing.
Connections.
I wouldn’t do that if I were you . . .
That’s a big one. The “who” in “who said that?” Philip remembers the words, even remembers the voice, but can’t place where he heard the warning.
Was it in the desert? Was it in Detroit?
And “wouldn’t do” what?
“I’ll put it on,” Delores says, out of Philip’s field of view. “And you tell me if it’s too loud.”
Philip isn’t listening to her. He’s making connections. His bones, his body, his brain . . .
For the first time in his life, Philip’s identity is at stake. Maybe he’d acted too cool for his own good, before the Namib Desert, before the hoofprints in the sand. Maybe all the things that he thought meant something don’t mean anything after all. Maybe Detroit was a fantasy land, Wonderland, where he was a hero, where he was a star, where he walked the streets and nodded to some people and ignored others, too cool, the man in the band, the man in the army, the soldier musician who flirted without words, who awed the younger piano players, the young men weighing the options of war.
How many locals joined the army because of the Danes?
The radio is playing, two voices, back and forth. A husband and a wife? A husband and a mistress? Even this, the roles of the voices he hears, even these are suffering from some sort of identity breakdown, an erosion, who is who, who did what, who took the Danes and where did they take them?
Who said what?
I wouldn’t do that if I were you . . .
He must have groaned, must have made a sound, because Delores is suddenly beside him, placing a hand on his forehead.
“Are you okay?”
But what kind of question is this?
The unnecessary answer is no.
He thinks of the nurse from the night before. Ellen. Was that her name? She seemed to emerge from the shadows of the unit, the shadows of his injury, his thoughts, the space between his connections.
What else might rise from those regions?
Has he ever been this scared before?
Identity.
And yet, the shot, the medicine is doing something profound. Philip knows enough about drugs to know that this isn’t like getting high. This isn’t a pill to relax you or a joint to set your thoughts aflame. This is the gradual easing of bones, muscle, and skin into preformed foam, a return . . .
To what?
To normal.
Or a better normal. Yes, Philip thinks, seeing a window, a sliver of hope for a calmer day, a reality in which he might move again.
Might make connections.
“Is it always this cold in the summer?”
Philip said that. And his voice was splintered wood.
Because she hesitates to respond, Philip knows Delores is surprised to hear him speak.
“Would you like me to close the window?”
“No,” Philip says, still staring to where the wall meets the ceiling. “Just . . . strange weather.”
“Well,” Delores says. And before she says what she’s about to say, Philip knows he’s fooled her. “Nobody said Iowa was reasonable.”
Iowa.
“Iowa,” he repeats.
And he can see her now, her features in his field of vision. She’s brought a hand to her lips, as if questioning herself, debating quickly whether or not she was supposed to tell him where he was.
“I’ll close the window partway.”
She crosses by the foot of the cot. As Philip hears the window sliding half shut, he’s making connections. Bodily. And in mind.
Iowa.
It isn’t just that he’s fooled Delores into telling him their location; he’s gotten her to show him that whether or not Iowa was a secret, there are secrets in here.
Things kept from him. The look on her face tells him so.
As his body mends, stitching itself together, temporarily or not, Philip wonders at his new identity, his new scared self, how the hospital has secrets, and how he must keep secrets of his own. And he thinks of his former self, too, an aloof drunk in Detroit, a musician soldier who once believed that a man was defined by how much awe he struck in others.
But exactly when did that mind-set change? Was it when Secretary Mull opened the door to the bar? Was it when Sergeant Lovejoy pointed to the prints in the desert and said “this way”?
Was it when someone warned him, in a voice he still can’t place, the only detail he can’t remember from the desert?
I wouldn’t do that if I were you . . .
As Delores passes by the foot of the cot again, Philip is almost able to shake his head no.
No. Not those times. Not those places.
It happened when he was with his best friends. In a place he felt more comfortable than any other in the city. At a time when he felt on top of the world.
Philip changed forever, got unconnected, the first time he listened to the sound.
6
Will I be court-marshaled if I record this?” Ross asks.
Secretary Mull smiles. But shakes his head yes.
“That’s against the rules, Private Robinson.”
“A recording studio probably isn’t the best place for a clandestine meeting,” Larry says. Like Duane, Larry hasn’t sat down. As if the pair won’t commit even that much yet.
Mull nods. Papers he’s brought rest upon the mixing console.
“But we do what we can,” he says.
He’s likable. Philip doesn’t like that. Mull’s full black hair brings out the blue shine in his eyes. If not for the sadness in those eyes, and the wrinkles on his strong face, he might look something like Superman.
Mull removes the quarter-inch reel from the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
“Mind playing this?” he asks Ross.
“That’s the mystery sound?” Philip asks.
“It is,” Mull says. Still seated in the engineer’s chair, he hands the reel to Ross. “Thank you.”
The Danes are suspicious. With good reason. Secretary Mull has proposed they fly to a desert in Africa to “identify the source of a dangerous sound.”
A new weapon? The United States Army thinks so.
Mull leans forward, places his elbows on his knees, rubs his hands together.
“You can roll the tape,” he tells Ross. “There’s quite a bit of headway and discussion before the sound begins.”
Ross threads the reel and presses play. He looks at Philip.
What’s going on? his expression asks.
“We first heard the
sound in ’48,” Mull begins. “Came through a routine radio check conducted in Tallahassee, Florida. We understood it was a disturbance but we didn’t consider it a threat. We asked our radio men to isolate the frequency. The problems started to surface immediately. We weren’t able to determine what it was. And of course we’re not in the business of ignoring unknown signals. Rather quickly it became a priority in our offices. Then the Pentagon got involved. Audio experts removed the static, isolated the tone, got it as clear as they could get it. But at some point it became clear that if we wanted to know what was making this noise, we’d have to go find it. We’ve already sent two platoons. All soldiers. No musicians. That’s why we’re interested in you.”
Voices on the tape. Muffled. Military men. Philip can almost see the dimensions of the conference room in which the tape was recorded. The echo is tight, suggesting low ceilings, long walls.
“The only positive ground we made was determining its relative location. Partially. The Namib Desert. Africa. But that still doesn’t tell us what’s making it.”
“Hang on,” Larry says, putting his hands on his hips. “You’re telling us there’s a sound coming from somewhere in all that desert and you want us to find it?”
“Yes. That’s it exactly. We think sending in experts, live, to experience the sound live—”
“Did either of the first two platoons have any luck?” Philip asks.
Mull nods slowly.
“Some.”
“What’s some?” Duane asks.
“It’s buried,” Larry says. “Beneath the sand. That’s obvious, right? If soldiers go looking for a sound in the desert, and they can’t find it, that thing’s gotta be buried. Right?”
“The Pentagon doesn’t get involved unless they have to,” Duane says.
“Right,” Ross says, his elbow just inches from the revolving reels. “Until it’s a matter of national security—”
“The sound,” Mull says without looking any of the Danes in the eye, “inoculated one of our nuclear warheads.”
A moment of static on the tape. No voices.
“What does that mean?” Philip asks.
“That means that we believe the frequency somehow . . . robbed our most powerful defense weapon of its . . . power.”
“How do you know—” Philip begins.
“And there’s more,” Mull says.
“Oh, I bet there’s more,” Duane says.
Mull breathes deep.
“Once the alarm was sounded, the notification that the warhead had been sterilized, an MP drew his gun and quickly discovered it, too, had been rendered useless.”
Philip imagines an entire army with impotent weapons. How different they would look.
“So,” Mull continues, an ear on the muffled voices from the speakers, “a matter of national security indeed. A weapon like that could make us all . . . the whole country . . . vulnerable.”
“Listen,” Larry says. “We may have served, but we were only in the band.”
“That’s what makes you gentlemen ideal.”
Some silence. Big thinking.
“And it’s up to us to find out where it is?” Duane asks, but still far from committing. Philip is surprised his drummer hasn’t walked out the door. All this feels like the top of a slide. A return to the army, the life they’ve left behind, is waiting for them at the bottom.
“Yes,” Mull says. “But, of course, there’s a bigger question than where.”
“What?” Ross asks.
“Who.”
“Hey,” Duane says, having finally heard enough.
Mull removes earplugs from his jacket pocket. He places them firmly in his ears.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen. The sound is about to begin and I can’t stomach hearing it another time. Please forgive me in advance.”
“What?” Philip asks.
Mull adjusts his earplugs.
“Hang on a minute,” Duane says, holding out a black palm toward Mull. “How bad can it be?”
Philip looks to Ross as Ross falls to his knees by the playback speaker.
“Ross?”
He looks back to Mull, sees the military man has adopted a new expression, one of study.
Philip throws up.
He hardly felt it coming and he looks to his lap, sees the bronze sheen of booze. He grips the soft arms of the control room chair.
The sound, Philip understands, has begun.
But does he hear it?
He feels sick. Drunk sick. Worse. Stronger. Like his skin is now made of leather. He’s sweating. Colors, gray and black, snake in his belly. He’s bringing a hand to his forehead.
The others are covering their ears. Larry looks like he’s been hurt.
Philip opens his mouth to say something and saliva pours from his lips. Feels like he’s going to vomit again. Larry gets up to leave the control room but can’t bring his hands from his ears long enough to open the door. He wobbles, falls against the wall for support. Vertigo.
Duane is on his side on the ground.
Mull leans back in the engineer’s chair, patient, with folded hands. His eyes reveal that he knows exactly what the Danes are experiencing. He’s experienced it himself.
The inimitable sensation of fingertips in Philip’s ears. He turns fast. Nobody there.
Mull smiles without mirth. Nods.
What do you think it is? he seems to ask. What is it, Philip?
Philip is shaking his head no.
I don’t know. I don’t understand. It’s not a sound. It’s a feeling.
But it is a sound. Listen.
Philip strains for it . . . an ear to the speakers . . .
. . . there is a sound.
It’s more than one note, Philip thinks, staring Mull in the eye. A chord.
He’s trying to raise his fingers to play the chord on an unseen piano before him. But he can barely move, barely lift his arm.
The sound is more of a flood than a reverberation. More like something coming toward him than a song. As if the air it travels upon is scorched, rendered black, leaving a trail as wide as the studio, and maybe the entire city beyond the studio walls.
Larry falls to his knees by the front door. Ross rolls to his side on the carpeted floor of Wonderland.
Are they speaking? The other Danes? Are they telling Mull to turn it off?
From the ground, Ross reaches for the control panel.
Mull watches all of this. Silent. Patient.
Philip throws up again.
Duane rolls onto his belly. Ross’s fingers are contorted, arthritic bones testing the flesh of his hands . . .
Philip hears a chord, three successive half steps played at once, as if someone has flattened their hand upon a piano. He’s done it himself, drunk, playing for girls, trying to make them laugh; a flat hand was funnier than a melody; but it’s a mean sound, the three notes no superstitious musician will play at once.
Philip tries to say that, tries to open his mouth. Then—
The sound stops.
And for a beat there is only the silence of men trying to process what they’ve endured.
The vertigo has passed. The sickness is gone.
“Jesus Christ,” Larry says, getting again to his feet. “No way. I’m out.”
Mull nods. He’s expected this response.
Ross brings the wastebasket close like he’s going to puke. He gags instead.
Duane is standing unsteadily in the center of the room.
“What was that?” he asks, out of breath.
Mull looks to Philip.
“Private Tonka said it’s a chord. Did you all hear it that way?”
Philip is shaking his head no.
“I didn’t say that.”
Mull smiles coldly.
“Sure you did.”
“No, Secretary. I didn’t.” Philip is sitting up. “I didn’t say that at all. I thought it.”
Mull shakes his head no.
“You made a sound, Private Tonka.
And I heard it. Am I wrong? Did you not think it was a chord?”
Philip looks from bandmate to bandmate, finally back to Mull.
“I did,” he says. “I heard a chord.”
As the other Danes debate what they heard, Philip stares Mull in the eye.
You made a sound, Private Tonka. And I heard it. Am I wrong?
Philip breathes deep and thinks of Africa. Thinks of two platoons, unable to find a sound that changes how a man feels, changes how he listens, changes how he speaks, too.
“Three hours,” Mull says, rising, handing each a small pile of documents. The military man’s number is written in pen on the papers. “Three hours to tell me whether or not you’re going to Africa.” He removes the reel from the machine and tucks it into the inside pocket of his suit coat. “I’ve already told Private Tonka that we plan to pay you for this mission. But perhaps I failed to say how much.”
The Danes, still recovering, wait.
“One hundred thousand apiece,” Mull says. “Four hundred thousand for the band.” He adjusts his suit coat. “I’m not one for theatrical exits, but the stakes here are rather high. If it is a weapon, maybe the four of you can stop it from being used.” He steps to the door. “Three hours, gentlemen. We expect a decision by then.”
7
Ellen watches Philip from behind the glass of the nurses’ station. She’s observed him every day for six months, and it’s still shocking to see him this way. Awake. Blinking. The subtle movement of his lips. The sweat at his black hairline. When the orderlies Carl and Jerry wheeled him into the Observation Room, Carl mentioned that Philip was in a rock ’n’ roll band. The Danes. Jerry said he never heard of them.
But maybe Ellen has. The name rings a bell, sparks something, but she can’t think of what it is. Maybe it’s just because Presley has a hound dog.
The Danes.
Ellen thought he was going to die. It’s how the nurses view most of the patients who’re brought to Macy Mercy. Comatose. Or near. And near death, too. So close you can feel it when you walk the halls, day or night; a black fog, formless fingers reaching for the doors of each unit, capable of opening them, prepared to pull the life from the still, barely, living. Why, just the day before Philip woke, the patient in Unit 9 died. His vital signs had looked promising; the chances of a recovery were being considered. The nurses agreed he was looking much better than Philip himself, and yet . . . those fingers. Some days Ellen felt the full hands of Death in the halls of Macy Mercy Hospital. Impatient, greedy, perverted.