Where’s My Heart?

Part 1: The Strings

Alfred Tishman sat at his piano. He sat at his piano and stared at it, just like he did every day at this time. He stared at it for two long, silent hours. Two hours, one hour for every decade. Every decade since a successful solo, successful live performance, successful album, successful anything. Once he had possessed all of these. Once upon a time he had been the thing, the new sound that you absolutely had to hear. He had the golds, the platinums, the many, many awards to prove that. He even had one Grammy. Song of the year, “Where’s My Heart?” It sat on the piano, the very same one that Alfred had written all of his songs at, the very same one that was now the subject of his soundless gaze.

The hour dragged on. But Alfred did not move, not even one muscle twitch. No tears, if he was mourning the loss of everything that he had once possessed, he was doing it quietly and serenely. Five years of, “Opening tonight at the Cartwright Amphitheater, Alfred Tishman, piano performer of the highest order. Sold out concert,” all reduced to nothing in a few seconds of blindness and of scraping and screaming metal. His hands were uninjured. He could still play the piano. But his head had undergone extreme trauma. The doctors had said that he was fine, that he could thank his lucky stars there had been no brain damage. He had thought that funny. “Lucky Stars” had been another song of his. But when he sat down to write, when he sat down to churn out yet another amazing crowd flooring composition, there was nothing. The notes were muddled, the melody was flat, everything was horrible. There had been damage, Alfred knew it. The doctors had been wrong, mistaken. He didn’t need to go back to them to know it, he knew it. He knew it down in the pit of his stomach. The only reason he had gone back this last time were the headaches and those weird fainting spells. Now the doctors were running all kinds of tests, scans, and whatnot on him. Trying to make up for missing what had happened. Whatever had happened to him in that accident, it had addled his brains enough so that whatever he had drawn on for his songs, his bread and butter, was gone. Gone, gone forever. And with that went everything, record deals, tours, interviews, even the simple joy of writing something new was now taken away from him by a drunk in a beat up Pontiac.

Finally Alfred got up. The two hours had passed, his self-imposed punishment for a crime not committed but a consequence all too painfully felt was over for another day. Now Alfred could go about doing what he did the rest of the time. Luckily for him he had made enough money in the five years of fame to tide him over until he finally decided to buy the farm, as his dad back in Columbus had put it. That memory made Alfred shake his head to rid himself of it. That man was part of the reason he had tried so hard for his five years of fame, worked so hard to have something worthwhile for himself. The elder Tishman had never given Alfred much credit. For example, he’d named him Alfred because he liked the butler from the Batman comics. Named after some comic guy who waited on the important people hand and foot. Alfred really didn’t like to think about that. That was why he had learned to play the piano, to play it well. That was why he had hitchhiked to Los Angeles back in 1982 at the age of nineteen. It was why he had walked into a record studio, sat down at the display piano in the front lobby, and started playing his first hit, “Start Walking.” Biographers would probably paint a lovely word picture of that scene, of the record execs walking out to hear this kid playing something new, and playing it well besides. He had enjoyed that. He had enjoyed every minute of his fame, from the hand that clapped him on the back when he had finished his little impromptu performance in the studio lobby, to that last great concert in Madison Square Gardens for thousands of his adoring fans. If nothing else, Alfred was glad that he had told them, just before he left the stage for the last time, that he appreciated everything they had done for him. And he had meant it. His dad had never said that to him. Ever.

It was now lunchtime. Alfred opened up the refrigerator and pulled out everything needed for a simple ham sandwich. In a way the cosmic comic seemed to be laughing now. When he had started out in Los Angeles he had spent two years eating nothing else for lunch but ham sandwiches. Now, twenty three long years later, he had come full circle. To tell the truth, he had never liked or hated ham sandwiches. They were the kind of food you just didn’t notice. You ate them too much to really do that. If one came along that was exceptionally good, or that had moldy bread, well then you might notice it. But an ordinary ham and cheese sandwich was the most unnoticeable thing on the face of the planet. In a way, Alfred related to the ham sandwich a little. Not much, but a little.

Alfred made his sandwich slowly and quietly. Everything about him nowadays was quiet. He had no radio, no TV, nothing that made much noise. He himself had not spoken for days, not since he had talked to an old acquaintance on the phone last Thursday. That was also the last time he had heard another person’s voice. It was all as silent as a tomb. Perhaps he was afraid of sound. Perhaps he was afraid that the noise might bring back memories of other noises. Noises like the old songs, the bus engines as they sped on to yet another concert, the screaming and clapping of the happy people who had paid so much so that he could make them happy for a little while. And noises like the unearthly scream that had left the driver’s throat as the front of the Pontiac made contact with his side of the limousine. The sound of the two cars colliding, the horrendous bending and scraping as metal met metal, and the whole world began to fall apart. The noises might come back. It was best that they did not.

Alfred took his sandwich to the table and ate it. He stared out the big picture window at the waters of the Juan de Fuca Strait. He had always liked to see pictures of this part of the country. The Pacific Northwest had always fascinated him, the beautiful green temperate rainforests, the deep blue of the ocean. He’d always been a sucker for natural beauty. One of the first things that he’d bought with his newfound wealth was this house. He’d moved in as soon as he had been able, and he had never let the thought of selling it enter his head. He loved this country. It was one of the very few things that still gave him joy in life.

Alfred finished his sandwich. Now he was left with deciding what to do for the rest of the day. Other performers his age in similar and not so similar situations had turned to that thing called drug use, and still others had turned to that other thing called drinking. But Alfred did neither of those things. It didn’t matter what everyone else in the business did. He did not abuse himself that way now, nor had he ever. His dad had. Alfred shook his head.

Maybe he might go out on his boat. Alfred owned a boat. It was a twenty foot sailboat he called, “Right Here”. A friend had once asked him why he had named it that. Alfred had simply smiled and asked what the name of his biggest hit, that song he had won a Grammy for, was. He had spoken true. His heart was truly with that boat, especially when he took it out on the water. He knew how to sail; he had learned it only a few months after moving to this region. He liked sailing. It was quiet. He disdained the motorboats and the noise that they stirred up, coughing and sputtering as they ran across the water. They disturbed the natural peace of the place. But Alfred liked being part of it, liked forgetting all else and simply listening to and enjoying the soft sounds of water and wind. It was better than any artificially induced high or any drunken stupor. It was perfectly natural, and in that was perfect.

Suddenly there was a knocking at the door. This startled Alfred. He was not expecting any company. The mail did not knock on his door. He was puzzled by the identity of whoever this caller might be. It had been too long since anyone had simply visited. No reporters or paparazzi came around the place. Alfred had stopped hiring security a few years after the accident for that very reason, they simply weren’t needed. The knocking came again. Slowly Alfred rose up from the table and walked towards the door. The walking became surreal in a way, as if suddenly he was watching TV, and he was someone else being watched by himself about to open the door. It boggled his mind and slowed his pace a bit. And still the knocking came. Finally Alfred put a hand upon the doorknob, twisted it, and slowly opened the door.

A woman who appeared to be in her late thirties was standing on Alfred’s front porch. She was modestly well dressed, with blue faded jeans and a blue turtleneck sweater. Her black hair came to her shoulders, framing her soft, sweet face so well. For a moment Alfred was bewildered by this sight. He did not know this person. Why was she here? Strangers did not call on him, there was no reason to.

“Are you Alfred Tishman?” the lady inquired. The question registered itself in Alfred’s mind, and he found himself fumbling for the answer.

“Uh, yeah, I am,” he said, stumbling to get the words out.

The lady held out her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she said as Alfred took her hand in a clumsy handshake, “My name is Megan Nolan.” Alfred nodded and motioned inside with his hand.

“Come on in, Ms. Nolan,” he said. Megan walked past him into his house. She looked around with the air of someone who has just discovered a shrine to some sacred deity, a pious air of a pilgrim perhaps.

“I don’t know why you’re here,” Alfred said.

Megan turned and smiled at Alfred. “I need your help,” she said. Alfred was now indeed very puzzled. Help? Why did this woman need his help? He motioned to the living room. Ms. Nolan walked over to the sofa and sat down. Alfred took the large recliner across the way from her.

“It’s, well, it’s a little thing,” Ms. Nolan said, “It’s a melody, and I was wondering…” The rest of Ms. Nolan’s words were lost on Alfred. He stopped listening. So this was it. He had thought that he had seen the last of these people a long time ago. Fans who just couldn’t believe that their idol, the great and immortal Alfred Tishman, was very much ordinary and mortal. There had been quite a few of them in the years immediately following the accident and the beginning of the lost music. Always coming, saying, “Please Mr. Tishman, try,” and “Come on, Mr. Tishman, it’s this one little piece.” But they didn’t understand. He tried not to feel animosity towards them. They were after all the very reason he had once been something. He had nothing but thanks for them for giving him that much. But he hated it, absolutely hated it, when people just would not get the fact through their thick skulls that their musical hero was drained dry with no hope of refill.

Alfred put his hand up to silence Ms. Nolan and shook his head. He was going to be polite about this, he decided, he was going to be quiet and civil and simply decline and show her to the door. The emotion he read on Ms. Nolan’s face was that of mixed disappointment and disbelief.

“Oh, no. Please, Mr. Tishman, it’s this one little piece,” she said. There it was. That old familiar phrase. But it didn’t phase Alfred. He simple shook his head again and spoke that one simple word, “No.”

Ms. Nolan shrugged her shoulders. “Okay then,” she said, “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Tishman, if you wanted to be left alone.”

Mr. Tishman smiled. At least she had better manners than the others. He took her hand. “It’s alright.”

As Ms. Nolan walked towards the door she started to hum an unfamiliar tune. Alfred caught it; ever so faintly he caught it. His musician’s ear heard every bit of it and his musician’s mind began to pick over it. There was something about that tune, something that started to pull at him. For some unknown reason he found himself getting up and turning to Ms. Nolan.

“Wait,” came the word almost unbidden from his lips. She turned and looked to him, an inquiring look on her face. He ran his fingers through his graying hair and turned to the piano. “I guess,” the words came slow again, and nearly unbidden still, “Let’s give it a shot.”

Ms. Nolan’s face lit up like the morning sun. She rushed around Alfred and towards the piano. Something seemed different about her, Alfred decided. She didn’t act like a regular fan acted. Normal fans would have been gushing praise for past work, hanging on each and every word, would have been broken beyond recollection at his refusal. Yet she had remained together. Alfred liked her. He couldn’t help not liking her, and suspected that everybody around Ms. Nolan probably felt the same way. She had that kind of aura around her.

Alfred followed Ms. Nolan over to the piano. She stood to one side of it as he sat down on the bench. He used an old church upright piano. One might have suspected him to own one of those grand pianos, polished black with the top propped open so that one could see all of the inner workings. But Alfred had never cottoned much to those. Too showy, too flashy for his tastes. The only reason he had used one on stage was so that the people could see him better. Here at home though, where he was free to use what he pleased, his instrument of choice was this piano. It had sat in the old Baptist church that he had gone to back in Columbus. It was on this that he had first learned how to play piano, and how to play it well. The second thing he had done with his newfound wealth, after buying the house, was going back to Columbus, back to his old haunts, to get the piano. He was lucky he had arrived when he did. The church was closing down and auctioning off a great many things, chief among them this piano. Two thousand, one hundred and fifty dollars was the ransom that Alfred had paid for this beauty. He considered it a ransom well paid.

“Now, Ms. Nolan,” Alfred said as he sat at the piano, “Just what is this melody?”

“This,” Ms. Nolan said. She began to hum that tune again. Alfred’s mind went over it again. He looked down at the keys on the piano and experimentally pressed one of them. It sounded, a sweet sound. The first note always sounded the best.

“Keep humming it,” he told Ms. Nolan. She did. Alfred scanned the keys, searching for a second note. He pressed another key, but it didn’t sound quite right. He grimaced and pressed the first key again. Ms. Nolan kept humming as Alfred kept up his search for a second note. He tried another, but it sounded worse to him than his first choice. He pressed another key, but all he was treated to was more of the same. In a fit of anger Alfred hit a few keys and put his head up against the piano.

Ms. Nolan shook her head. “It’s alright, Mr. Tishman,” she said with sorrow in her eyes, “I shouldn’t have bothered you with this anyway. Thank you for trying.” She turned and began to walk towards the door again. Alfred put his hand on the piano to push himself up again. But when he did so the keys he used for support sounded. They sounded right. Alfred hit the first key, then that configuration. It worked. Alfred was hit with dumb shock. He had never gotten this far before, not since the accident. For a moment he was speechless with a joy was beginning to well up inside of him. He heard Ms. Nolan opening the door and turned to her.

“Wait, I’m getting it!” he said, hoping to halt her exit. She turned and walked back towards him.

“You are?” she asked, her voice filled with hope. Alfred nodded excitedly, and then hit the notes again. The sound they made filled him with such happiness. He saw it on Ms. Nolan’s face too.

Alfred turned back to the piano. “Let’s see what else we can do,” he said.

Twenty minutes later Alfred Tishman sat at his piano, Megan Nolan occupying the space on the bench beside him. For the first time in twenty years something had happened. Alfred could scarcely believe it. Part of him was still thinking that it was a dream, that he was going to wake up any minute now and find that it was all just some figment of his sleeping mind. But that part of him was diminishing. Finally he had something that he had not had in so long, something that he had strived for and hoped for in the beginning, but had gradually lost over the years. But now it was back, staring him in the face like an old friend long missed. Indeed it was. Alfred Tishman had a song.

“It sounds wonderful,” Ms. Nolan said to Alfred. He smiled and nodded his head. It did. He knew it; he felt it deep down inside of him. This one was a winner. Forget “Where’s My Heart?” This was going to blow that away completely. A hope, one that had died so long ago, began to grow faint in the heart of Alfred Tishman. This was the hope of a return. A return to music, a return to the albums and crowds and everything. A return to life.

Alfred turned and looked at the clock on the counter. Ms. Nolan turned to see it too. “Oh, I really must be going,” she said as she got up.

Alfred reached up and took her arm. “Please, stay,” he said, so childlike and simple. Her eyes lit up.

“Do you really want me to stay?” she asked.

Alfred nodded, “Let’s try another tune.”

Ms. Nolan nodded and sat down, “Yes, let’s.”

Three hours later there were scraps of music sheets, all with fragments of tunes that would work. Alfred sat for a moment, exhausted and elated all at the same time. Ms. Nolan, or Megan as she had asked to be called after a while, smiled and put an arm around Alfred in a motherly fashion. And in a way that was how Alfred was regarding her. It was her mannerisms towards him, gently guiding him along, giving him suggestions when he needed them but for the most part letting him pick his own way through, that had led to this view of her in his mind. Even though she was at least fifteen years his younger, this was okay with him. If she noticed the way he viewed her, she gave no hint of it. She merely continued gently leading him along.

Finally, after another hour or so, Alfred’s stomach gave forth rumblings of hunger. He smiled and laughed at the unusual sounds it made. And it was a good, hearty laugh that came out of his throat.

Megan laughed too. “You want food?” she asked him.

Alfred grinned and nodded his head. “Yeah, that’ll be good,” he said as he got up, “I’ll order us something. Pizza or Chinese?”

“Pizza,” Megan said, “With anchovies.”

Alfred made a playful disgusted face, sticking his tongue out from between his teeth. “Half then,” he said as he reached for the phone book, “I’m not as weird as you.”

Thirty minutes later the pizza was delivered. Megan took it from the delivery boy and paid him. Alfred brought out the good plates, the ones that hadn’t seen light in who knew when, and set two of them out on the table. Megan divided the pizza, giving herself a couple of the anchovy slices and Alfred some of the regular pepperoni. Then they sat down to eat. Alfred enjoyed the taste of the pizza. It tasted like his first meal after he had sealed his deal with the record companies. The executives who had heard him playing had taken him to a fancy Italian place, their treat. He had eaten pizza before that, but never until then had he truly eaten pizza. Back then that was the best pizza ever. It was so thick and covered with so many toppings that he had not known what to do with it. But he had eaten it. And up until now, that had been the best pizza he had ever eaten. But this one, a cheap delivery pizza, tasted so much better than that one. It tasted like how a meal must taste for a convict who’s just been set free, and who walks into the first restaurant he sees and orders the biggest, tastiest thing on the menu. And in reality, that was exactly how it tasted for Alfred. The situation was so similar.

“You have thing for music,” Alfred said to Megan as they finished up their slices of pizza.

She blushed and shook her head. “No,” she said, “Not really.”

Alfred shook his head. “No, you really do,” he insisted, “You know how long it’s been since I wrote a song? Twenty years. I tried everything. And here you come in and hum one little tune and suddenly I’m all over the place as far as music is concerned. You’re a genius. Can you play any instrument?” Megan shook her head. “What about singing?” Alfred inquired, “Can you sing?”

Megan nodded her head. “Yes, I can sing,” she admonished.

“Can I hear it?” Alfred asked, eagerness hanging in his voice, “Please?”

Megan smiled. She began to sing. Alfred recognized the song at once. It was the old hymn, “Nearer My God To Thee.” He had sung that in choir back in Columbus. He could go over to the piano now and accompany her on it. But he didn’t. Her voice was unusual. It seemed to take those good old words and make them come alive as no voice on this earth ever had before. Alfred’s mouth dropped wide open as Megan continued to sing. She was brilliant, talented beyond belief. If she could record a CD, get a record exec to hear it, there would be no limit to how far she could go. Alfred could help her, yes he could. It would be the least he could do for her.

Megan finished singing the hymn. Alfred clapped. “Thank you,” Megan said, “It was nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Alfred said as he got up and walked to her, “That was amazing. I don’t know why you’re here right now and not already in music. You should get someone to hear you.”

Megan shook her head. “No,” she said, “I can’t. I have a family.” For some reason Alfred didn’t press the issue. With anyone else he might have, but Megan was different. Alfred realized that she possessed all the qualities of her voice. She was almost saintly.

Alfred collapsed on the sofa. “You know,” he said as he lay there looking at Megan, “You’ve been here four hours and I know barely anything about you. Just what do you do?”

Megan smiled and sat down on the recliner. “I’m a volunteer with a special organization,” she said.

“Which one?” Alfred inquired.

Megan paused a moment before answering that question. “The West Foundation,” she finally replied, “We care for the fall of the sparrow and things of that nature.” So she was a charity woman. Alfred smiled. It went so well with everything she did.

“Where do you work at?” he asked.

“I work all over,” Megan replied, “In the winter I’m usually in Hawaii. In the summer though I go up and down this coast. So I’m kind of well traveled as far as this region is concerned. It’s really a wonderful arrangement. I like it a lot. Although I don’t get as much free time as I would like, but those kinds of things do happen.”

Alfred nodded. “You know, I really do have to thank you,” he said.

“It’s alright,” Megan said.

“No, I really have to say this,” Alfred said, “Twenty years ago, when the accident happened, I couldn’t write songs anymore. And all those twenty years I strived and strived to write just one little scrap of something. And for all that striving all I had to show was failure. But today you just showed up with one tune and suddenly I have four rough drafts of what I can tell are just going to be wonderful. You don’t know what that does for me. And the weirdest thing is, well I don’t know if I can even say it.”

“What?” Megan asked.

“Well, you’d think I would look at you like some pretty thing I’d want to go out on a date with or take to bed,” Alfred said, “But instead, I’m finding myself looking at you like a mother. Call it weird but it’s true.

Megan laughed a little. “That’s alright,” she said, “I don’t mind. I always thought being a mother was a good thing. Of course, I’m not one yet. It’s always been a dream though.”

Megan got up from the recliner. “It really is time for me to be going,” she said.

Alfred got up and showed her to the door. “Thank you again,” he said.

“Like I said, Mr. Tishman, it’s nothing,” Megan replied.

“It’s actually Alfred,” Alfred replied with a little smirk on his face. Megan smiled. As she turned away, Alfred reached out and touched her on the shoulder. “How can I get in touch with you?” he asked. Megan reached into her pocket and handed Alfred a business card. On it was printed Megan Nolan and a phone number. In between the two was a picture of a breaching humpback whale, kind of like the Pacific Life logo, though not quite. Alfred smiled and put the card in his pocket.

“Goodbye, Alfred,” Megan said as she turned and walked out into the gathering dusk. Alfred watched her walk towards her car, then closed the door when she got into it.

Alfred turned to the house feeling all sorts of everything. What had happened? It was so wonderful, just so very wonderful. People needed to know this; they needed to know that Alfred Tishman had found his songs again. His friends, the record execs, all the fans that still waited patiently for their hero to come back. Now he could come back. The stage could once again be his. Maybe he could get one more Grammy. The possibilities wheeled around in his head, making him dizzy. He collapsed on the couch again, laughing hysterically with joy. Yes, people needed to know. But they could be told tomorrow. Tonight Alfred Tishman needed to know that he could write songs again. He needed to sit and play them over and over again, letting their melodies inundate his senses like a flood. And that was what he did. For four straight hours he played those four new songs over and over again.

Finally fatigue began to tug at Alfred, and his bed sounded very good. Like a drunken man he stood to his feet and staggered towards his bedroom. Today had been a good day. Today had been the absolute best day of Alfred’s life, no question, no exception. He walked into his bedroom and collapsed onto his bed. He stared up at the ceiling fan as it made its revolutions round and round. It had a hypnotic effect, for soon Alfred had fallen into a deep slumber, a slumber filled with dreams of his return and of his music.