A dual Challenge story:
Who Said That?! and They’re Playing Our Song.

Author’s Note: Written for the September 25, 2022 Anniversary Challenge at CABB ~ New Chambers. The objective … to choose from all the previous Challenges a theme (or two) and write a story of Homecoming. You can read all the submissions to the project HERE.

With Thanks to Vicky C for working out the timeline to which this story adheres.

* * *

I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
Oh, I wish I had a river
I could skate away on

         ~ Joni Mitchell

Vincent left Devin and Father to what privacy the shuttered, lowly-lit carousel afforded them to join Catherine where she waited for him beside a galloping white horse, stilled in mid-race.

“This is,” he murmured, “the very pony I chose to ride that night. That you would be standing here …”

“Imagine that,” she replied.

Her smile was soft with wonder and something else … something sure. For a moment, for that moment, they were somewhere beyond this place of childhood memory.

“When I got your message,” she went on, “I tried the office first.” She pulled a fat envelope from her bag and placed it on the brown-painted saddle between them. “And I found this on my desk.”

“The brief?”

She nodded.

“How is it?”

“It’s rough in spots, and the language isn’t really turgid enough … but I think it’ll keep Ehringer in prison for a long time.” She grinned. “Look at this.”

“Yes, I’m a fraud,” he read, the handwriting on the envelope confident and showy.

Catherine turned it over. “But I’m a good fraud,” she finished.

They both chuckled. The droll annotation was so familiar, so reassuring. Devin was, despite all the personas he’d assumed, despite the toll and transformation of twenty years, the same.

“Do you think he’ll stay?” she asked.

“No. Not for long. Even as a child, he dreamed of mountains and raging seas and palaces shining golden in the sun. But now, no matter where he goes, he has a place to come home to.”

She reached for his hand. Even through her gloves, he could feel her warmth.

“I know what that feels like, Vincent. Home. I have that now … with you.”

They stood together, letting a long minute pass.

It took all his will and resolve not to whisper Whitman’s words aloud, though they resonated within him so, he was sure she could hear … Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me.

From across the circle of ponies, Devin’s voice rose in spiky pitch, Father’s only answer a wince, a gathering up of shoulders, a nod so sorrowful it dissolved a layer of the stubborn anger Vincent held over the evening’s revelations. But whether his outrage was for Devin or for himself, for his own loss, was a question he couldn’t yet answer.

“We should probably go,” she ventured, bringing him ‘round with her touch, “before someone comes. I can’t picture Father making a run for it.”

He felt a smile take over. “Yes.” He glanced over at the two – father and son – to see each rake a hand through his hair, a mirroring gesture. “I’ll send them off and then walk you home.”

“You should go with them, Vincent. Central Park West is just … there, and my apartment a few well-lit blocks north.”

“As Kipper would say … no way, Catherine.” Catherine, my love, my refuge.

They parted ways within the entrance tunnel. Before the secret door closed, he saw Devin reach for Father’s arm, steadying him on their journey home over what would surely prove uneven ground.

Catherine saw it too – he could tell by her tightened grip on his hand and by her sigh and the hope he sensed and shared.

In the light of the stairwell beneath her apartment, he turned to her. “What must you think of us. Of Father.”

“I think … family can be … complicated.”

“Father’s explanation makes no sense. His denial of Devin’s birthright, his kept secrets. It …”

“Angers you?”

“Yes. All these years, all my life, he’s …”

“Withheld certain truths.”

He didn’t trust himself to respond. A weeping rage threatened, a tightening curl of shame.

“And you’re wondering,” she braved, “what else he might have kept from you.”

He studied the ground. “This,” he began and spread his hands, “is about Devin. I shouldn’t … It’s selfish of me to …”

“This happened to you, too, Vincent. Father happened. Don’t be afraid to question, to need. It’s a lot to deal with, a lot of baggage, and not just for Devin.”

He opened his arms for her. “He might leave tomorrow morning,” he whispered. “Or even in the night.”

“And you’d like some time with him.”

He nodded against the softness of her hair.

“Go, Vincent.”

“I’ll come for you, come to you, as soon–”

“Go now.”

Nearing Father’s chambers, he found the corridors of the commonage deserted; his boots unsettled the dust underfoot.

Is it that late? Have I lost an hour mired in heedless fugue?

His first-hurried steps had slowed as he contemplated the ripples the inevitable revelation of Devin’s parentage would cause. Would Father announce this truth to the community? Take responsibility? Face opinion? He couldn’t picture such a scene, yet surely Father wouldn’t let the story spread in whispers. Who among them still would have known Devin’s mother? Had she confided in no one? Had the couple agreed to silence? The way Father had described her – Grace – rankled. Could the secreting have been Father’s singular imposing? The thought filled him with even more stunned disappointment.

His own list of questions had only grown during the tramp home. Devin’s no doubt doubled that.

Had Father and Devin arrived in contentious temper, scattering the passersby? Or had his tunnel family intuitively given them this wide berth?

A lot of baggage. The Great Hall might not hold all that would be handed from this long-locked chest.

Chests … plural.

He scowled away the flash of dark self-insistence. Another time.

He scuffed along, stopping short of the archway into the Library to listen. From deep within – from Father’s private quarters, he believed – came the back-and-forth of low voices, more temperate than he’d begun to imagine. At the continued evenness of tone, the lack of demand or defensiveness, he sighed with relief, releasing a breath he only then realized he’d held. He couldn’t go in, wouldn’t intrude, and his feet – by their own will, it seemed – moved him away from the door and toward his chambers. Time spent with Devin would come on his brother’s terms.

In his room, he chose a chair facing the entry, but hope and watchfulness couldn’t keep him seated. He wandered, then, from shelf to mantel to cabinet, the days of youthful adventures with his brother commemorated with small keepsakes grown large in significance. The shining headlamp reflector, books they’d given each other … the replica of either the Washington Monument or the obelisk in Central Park, something they’d debated so heatedly that Father threatened its removal … the musical carousel he’d unearthed from his trunk … the tabletop jukebox Devin had found and vowed to tinker with until he got it working, only to find out it was just a song selector and would require the full-sized unit that actually played the records. How far afield they’d roamed after that realization, searching for a cast-off player …

Lost in those boyhood memories, he didn’t sense Devin’s approach. He looked up to find his brother leaning against the stone arch with two long-necked bottles of William’s amber brew hooked between his fingers.

“Remember when I finally got the coin box open?” Devin asked.

“We found $17.30 in dimes. We thought we were rich,” he answered.

“I guess we were.” Devin pushed off the wall and moseyed in as if it were any undistinguished day, setting both water-beaded bottles on the center table. Eyebrows raised, he motioned for an opener. When Vincent shrugged in apology, Devin lodged one and then the other against the table’s edge and giving each a solid whack. The loose caps skittered along the granite floor.

“A practiced move, that,” Vincent observed.

Devin grinned and pulled a chair closer, settled into it, lifted his beer in a silent toast.

Vincent drew his velvet chair close as well, angled for the conversation he hoped they’d have.

“$17.30 …” Devin mused. “I wished I’d had that much the day I took off. I grabbed the three or four dollars I’d stashed under my bed, but there was no time to, ummm, borrow any from your hidey-hole.”

“So … you didn’t planon leaving. I wanted to think I’d have known, sensed somehow you were going. Been … a better brother.” He downed a swallow of rich ale as he could summon no other words.

“You were a great brother, Vincent.”

A silence stretched between them.

“What was it like, Devin? With only a few dollars, how did you–”

“Survive?” Devin shook his head. “Whew, it was tough. I didn’t have a plan, and I was blinded by the light. I could just barely see for the squint, you know? I just kept putting one foot in front of the other, not letting myself look back even for a minute, expecting one of those long vaudeville hooks to reach out and grab me, haul me back.”

“But you got away. You left the city … somehow.”

He stopped short of saying Tell me, remembering Devin never liked being nudged. Stop naggin’ me! Let it be, will ya? Geez-us!

“That’s kind of a long story, Vincent,” Devin said. “Longer than I’ve got time to tell right now.”

“So you’re leaving. Soon?”

Devin shrugged. “I think the old man and I could use some time apart to, uh, process.”

“Then … your first day alone above.” He couldn’t help himself. “Tell me.”

“Okay, okay!” Devin said, grinning. “I’ll do better than that, but I’ll nutshell it for you. Just don’t interrupt me with a lot of questions or we’ll be here the rest of the night.”

Vincent settled back in his armchair, folded his hands … clamped down hard on his curiosity, his affection for detail.

“1967 was called the Summer of Love. Did you know that, Vincent? 50,000 hippies in the East Village. Perfect timing, perfect cover. I had to get away from Central Park. Couldn’t risk hiding out in Chinatown – crowded or not, there were too many helpers there. Somebody’d rat me out for sure. And I figured I’d run into Peter if I went anywhere near St. Vincent’s hospital. So when I heard what was happening in Tompkins Square, I hoofed it. Clothing-wise, I fit right in, but no one looked twice. Everybody was ‘out there’, you know? Balloons, daisies, sandals, musicians on every corner, folks sleeping in the park, dancing in the streets, protesting the war. It was easy to be absorbed; I could just move with the crowds. People were generous, sharing what they had: blankets, food, beer, pot … But I needed money, and except for finding a quarter or a buck on the ground now and then, I wasn’t adding to what I had in my pocket. Plus, summer was already nearly over and I knew I wouldn’t be sleeping in the park much longer.”

Devin took a breath, then a swig of ale, picking up the story afterward. “Anyway, I met up with some guys, two or three closer to my age, or at least closer to the age I said I was. They told me about the Cafe au Go Go over on Bleeker Street. They didn’t serve liquor, so all us under-agers were welcome there. Howard, the owner, was this really cool guy, gave kids like me jobs, setting up for concerts, cleaning up after. Paid cash and let us keep any tips we got. He took a shine to me, I guess, because he gave me a backroom closet to sleep in, no questions asked. The place was always crowded. I heard some of the greats there: Muddy Waters, Richie Havens, Judy Collins, Country Joe and the Fish, The Youngbloods, Tim Buckley …”

Devin chuckled. “Do any of these names ring a bell, Vincent?”

“You told me not to interrupt.”

“So I did. Anyway, by October, I’d saved enough money to buy a bus ticket somewhere, but it turned out I also needed an ID. I couldn’t get a driver’s license, and as far as I knew, I didn’t have a birth certificate. I was feeling pretty stuck, but one night I got to talking with the roadies for Cream, the rock group? Yeah? Lots of amps, big sound? They told me how to get a fake ID. Not all that complicated, really, and it worked. From then on – well, until I got another ID – I was Hugh Allard from Bangor, Maine. Hughey to my friends. I planned on taking off at the end of the month. Every day I stayed in the city was a risk somebody’d see me, get word below, and the next thing …

Devin fell silent but only for a moment.

“Turned out my last night in New York was October 26, 1967. Procol Harum was supposed to go on at the Cafe, but they got hung up and had to reschedule, and this singer, this amazing woman, took their place. Joni Mitchell. I’d never heard anyone like her, never known anyone like her. Talk about love at first sight, my God, she was … everything. Of course, I was just a kid, no matter what my new ID might say, and I acted like one around her, all right. But she was so nice, showed me how to string a guitar, let me change one for her, asked me to stay close in case she broke one on stage. And when her set was over, she asked me if wanted to go up to Ann Arbor with her and her crew for her next gig. A free ride, free food, she promised. Back to New York the next day. No way I could’a said no.

“So there I was, riding in the back of a Volkswagen van with half a dozen strangers and an angel. Joni, I mean. Twelve hours on the road. I helped set up and waited in the wings just in case … She’d only performed two songs at the Cafe, but that night she sang a couple dozen.

“About halfway through, she sang Circle Game. You know that one, don’t you? I’d never heard it before that night. And the painted ponies go up and down,” Devin warbled. “Da-da-dah… We can’t return, we can only look behind from where we came … I thought she could read my mind, see everything that had happened. I couldn’t breathe there for a minute.”

Vincent felt the same sharp stab Devin must have, a double-edge of anger and determination. He wouldn’t say so, not now, but he discerned the turning point for his brother. A facing-down of fear, a step into maturity.

Devin eyed his nearly-empty bottle and Vincent wished he had another cold and ready with which to ply his brother, but the story – this part of it – was drawing to a close. He kept his promise of quiet.

“Her last song …” Devin said, “that’s what did it. Urge for Going.”

Devin didn’t sing the words this time, but whispered them … and their poetry was music:

“And summer time was falling down and winter closing in
Now the warriors of winter, they gave a cold triumphant shout
And all that stays is dying and all that lives is getting out
See the geese in chevron flight flapping and racing on before the snow?
They’ve got the urge for going and they’ve got the wings so they can go …

“I was four hours from the Canadian border, Vincent. Four hours. One of the crew hooked me up with some guys going over and three days later I was out of the country.”

A blanket of stillness settled around them. His brother’s story was finished … for now. Vincent was about to push back his chair, let the evening end, when Devin began again.

“You said … when we met up in the entrance … ‘We thought you were dead.’ Did you think that, Vincent?”

“I didn’t say ‘dead’ – you supplied that word.”

“Still literal, aren’t you.” Devin gave him a look. “Well, what did you think?”

“I hoped. I held on to that hope through all our searches for you, through all the intervening years. I couldn’t let go of the notion that I’d knowif you were dead. I mourned you, don’t think I didn’t, and it took months to find any joy. But there was always … a spark … somewhere in the distance. I believed it was you, Devin, free in the world, doing all the things we once dreamed of. I had to believe that … in order to go on.”

“Then you didn’t get it.”

Get it? Understand, you mean? Or are you being the literal one this time.

“Get … what, Devin? A concept? A thing?”

“The album. Blue. One of Joni’s? I had a dozen albums sent to Sebastien back in ’71, Blue being one of them, with instructions – anonymous, but he wouldn’t have found that odd – to take them below. Did the old man not give them to you? It wasn’t music he’d have ever wanted to hear, I’d bet my last dollar. I figured he’d dump them in the game room where the record player was and you’d go through them and see …”

“’71? You were 4 years gone then. I don’t remem–”

But then he did.

1971. After Lisa, also gone, less than a year gone. There was still no differentiation of day, just one miserable, months-long night of aloneness. But Liz came to his room, as she did every day to visit, this time carrying the blue and white Dansette phonograph the younger tunnel dwellers claimed. She’d set it up by his chair – he was awake by then, but unwilling to venture out – darting back into the corridor to return with a bundle of vinyl albums in her arms. She’d told him they’d been sent a gift, asked him to pick one for first play. For a moment he’d imagined the records came from Lisa until he saw the covers spread before him on the table. Not music she would dance to. So, not from her. No one else mattered …

“Liz brought down some records once, but I–”

“Must’a missed it, huh, my secret message to let you know I was okay. I’ve had a lot of jobs, learned how to do a lot of things, but I’m no artist. It was just a doodle. I thought you might catch it though. On the liner notes, inside … I drew it next to the title of one of the songs. There’s a line in it … If you play it … or read the lyrics … you’ll understand.” Though his beer was surely warm, Devin took a last drag at the bottle. “Well, it’s moot now, right? Here I am, alive and well. All’s right with the world?” He set the long-neck back in the ring that marked the tabletop. “Liz …” he continued. “She was always something. Where is she now? Still down here?”

“She moved north, to the northern community, I mean. Not long after you sent the records, I realize now.”

“I’d like to see her. Next time I’m home …”

Next time.

No words more simply sweet.

* * *

“Catherine. I found it.”

He’d flipped through the milk crate of records gathering dust in the alcove behind a much newer stereo system Mouse kept adding to until he came to it. He held the album with its distinctive blue cover in both hands, studying the face of the woman who had helped Devin when he needed it most.

“Let’s see,” Catherine said, and he drew the disc from its jacket, the liner notes printed in white on blue paper.

There it was, in pencil but not even smudged … a drawing of two boys on a raft beside the lyrics of the song, River.

“Look,” Catherine murmured. “He altered the words. There’s a strike-through. I wish I had a river I could float away on. Float instead of skate. It’s the two of you, isn’t it, on the raft?”

He nodded.

“If you’d seen it, you’d have known he was alive,” Catherine said. “If only …”

But it didn’t matter; it wouldn’t have. Because, somehow, somewhere deep inside, he must have known all along.