Late August, 1900
three
T
HOM'S FINGERS WERE RESTLESS, POUNDING THE NOTES
VIOLENTLY INSTEAD OF THEIR USUAL CARESSING. At the
end of the piece he slammed his fist into the keys, imme-
diately regretting it as the grand piano’s discordant burst sounded
like pain.
He let his forehead drop onto the cool ivory, wishing music
were the refuge it used to be. He couldn’t fall deeply into it,
couldn’t immerse himself far enough to forget to worry.
Standing, he closed the lid carefully. He’d go out. Maybe
someone else’s music could pull him away from reality.
He buttoned a jacket over his vest and raked his fingers
through his hair, slicking it into shape as he looked out over
the New York City night. It glowed and twinkled back with the
promise of escape.
Padding down the thickly carpeted hall, he turned the door-
knob and eased open Charles’s door. His younger brother lay
diagonally across the bed, feet twisted in the sheets, comforter
on the floor, his arm thrown over his face. He never used to sleep
this way, but Thom had been finding him in this position more
and more often. Charles claimed the pressure helped ease the
headaches.
Thom tiptoed into the room, easing the comforter back over
Charles’s much-thinned frame. Charles’s eyes twitched beneath
his lids, rapidly processing dreams. Thom hoped they were dreams
of running, dreams of light and life that would bring his brilliant
brother back from the deathly chasms he walked now.
When Thom went out the front door minutes later, no one