Part 3: The Crescendo

Alfred’s phone suddenly began to ring. He picked it up swiftly, answering with a joyful, “Hello?”

“Mr. Tishman, you seem to be in a particularly fine mood today,” said Dr. Grigori, Alfred’s personal physician, “What happens to be the occasion.”

“I wrote some songs, Doc,” Alfred said, “I finally wrote some songs. I got a deal to go down to a record station later this week. I’m back, Doc, and I’m just happy crappy.”

Dr. Grigori was silent. “What’s the matter, Doc?” Alfred asked.

“I hate to do this,” Dr. Grigori said, “Alfred, we ran an MRI on you the last time you were here, do you remember that?”

“Yeah, I remember laying still and listening to elevator music,” Alfred said, “What about it?”

Dr. Grigori took a deep breath before going on. “We found a growth in your brain,” he said, “It’s malignant. Alfred, I’m sorry to tell you this, it’s too advanced. There’s nothing that we can do about it.”

Alfred stood as still as a statue, the phone gripped tight in his hand, the blood being cut off from his fingers as they turned marble-white, as the implications of what Dr. Grigori was saying hit home hard. As quickly as it had come, the joy that he had felt all this morning began to drain away.

“How long?” he finally asked, struggling to speak through the lump that seemed to have materialized in his throat within the last few moments.

“I’m giving you six months,” Dr. Grigori said in a solemn tone, “But that’s optimistic. I’m sorry.”

Alfred stared at the wall, too shocked by this revelation of doom to even make a single sound. Finally he replied, “It’s alright Doc. It’s not your fault.”

“Are you going to be all right?” Dr. Grigori asked. Alfred pondered the ridiculousness of the question. The doctor knew he wasn’t alright. Was he alright? Was the cosmic comic coming back to play yet another sick joke on Alfred Tishman? Could it not keep itself occupied with some other unlucky person somewhere else? Could it not just leave him alone and let him live?

“I’ll be fine,” Alfred said to Dr. Grigori, a tiny mote of sarcasm creeping into his voice.

“Okay,” Dr. Grigori said, his voice now become the harbinger of a doom that Alfred had not asked for, had definitely not wanted, “I’ll check up on you tomorrow. Goodbye, Mr. Tishman.”

Dr. Grigori hung up the phone. The tone droned into Alfred’s ear. He made no movement to put it down. The hand that hung limply by his side began to shake and tremble. A lone tear began to trace it’s way down his cheek as Alfred dwelt upon the doctor’s words. In a sudden burst of rage he hurled the phone at the wall. It struck it with force and broke apart, shattering on impact, just as his life seemed to be doing now, shattering on impact with this news. All of his hopes, the dreams of going back to the wonderland of music and the crowds, were now fading away like the morning mists beneath the glare of the singular sun. Happy crappy had now become beyond crappy, so far beyond that crappy seemed to be a shining ray of light. Alfred collapsed upon the couch and sobbed, his chest heaving as he poured out his misery and sadness in great tears onto the fabric. It soaked them up as they fell, one by one.

Finally Alfred pushed himself up off of the couch. He stumbled to his piano. He did not sit down at it. Instead he stared at it. It was not an angry stare, but it was not a happy stare either. It was a questioning one. He found himself supposing that within the piano lurked a sentience, one that found great pleasure in tormenting the innocent and wreaking havoc within the lives of those who had done nothing but dream.

But he pushed such childish thoughts aside. The piano was not to blame for what was happening, no more than Dr. Grigori was. Another thought entered his head. The cancer had been within his head before the muse had returned in the form of Megan Nolan and those four songs had found their way into existence. Perhaps the songs had come about as a gift. Maybe the world was not as cruel as all the cynics would have him believe. Perhaps whatever greater power that existed at the top of the tower had taken pity on Alfred Tishman, and had given him back the gift of music to take away the pain of death. A singular realization entered into Alfred’s head. He could not allow this gift to be wasted. He would not. So Alfred Tishman sat down at the piano with one thought in mind, to write as many songs as he could while he could.

Five hours later Alfred stood up from the piano with a feeling of satisfaction in his heart. All about him were eight songs more than the four that he had originally written. They were not the songs one would expect from a man who knew that in less than six months he would no longer be alive. These songs were vibrant and spirit lifting, every note and stanza simply bursting with joy and rapture. Alfred looked upon these products of a parting gift with satisfaction and pride. He found with surprise that the inevitability of his demise was not near as terrifying as it had been just a short time ago. Death, or at the very least the fear of it, had lost its sting.

Alfred turned and gazed out the great picture window that overlooked the strait. He looked at the water and the wind. He saw that it was a perfect day for a sail. He needed it. Sailing always brought out his brightest emotions. Alfred walked into the kitchen and got his car keys off of the counter.

Twenty minutes later Alfred was down at the dock getting the “Right Here,” ready to go. It was indeed a fine day for a sail.

Alfred pushed off from the dock. He opened the sails and they caught the breeze almost instantly, eager to get out on the water. Alfred was too. He had not sailed in quite a while. It felt good to be out on the boat again.

Alfred took the boat out into the middle of the strait. He gazed all around him at the natural beauty of this place. The trees seemed to be especially green today, highlighting the hills about the water. The sea was thick and deep. Alfred listened intently to the sound the boat’s hull made as it cut through the water. Off in the distance he noticed what seemed to be a thunderhead building. He disregarded it. It was far off, and he would be at the dock long before it hit. A pod of dolphins passed along the port side of the boat. Alfred watched them as they made their way to wherever it was they were going. He smiled and walked into the “Right Here’s,” small cabin. He stretched out on the small couch and drifted off to a pleasant sleep.

A sharp bump jostled Alfred from his repose. He shook his head and started to stand up. He was thrown to the floor of the boat as it was jerked furiously. He struggled to his feet and looked about him. He had slept far too long. The storm was here. He was in the middle of it. It was the darkest dark that he had ever seen. All about him the sea rose as if in anger, great waves passing all around the tiny sailboat. Alfred took the wheel and tried to steer towards what he thought was the docks. He couldn’t be sure of where that was though, not in this weather.

The waves turned the minutes into hours in the midst of that great tempest. Alfred kept his place at the wheel, trying desperately to turn it towards the safety that the dock would provide. But the elements would not cooperate. It seemed Mother Nature had other plans. Alfred’s face was wet, not just from the spray of water or from the sweat of exertion. Once again he was weeping. In his heart he sensed that he would not be able to make it back to shore. A question pulled at his heart, the question that cripples the best of us sooner or later, why is this happening to me?

Time now passed as slowly as an eternity, or even an infinity of eternities. Still Alfred struggled with the wheel of the boat, hoping against everything that he would be able to get the boat at least to shore and safety. A violent wave threw him free of the wheel to the floor of the cabin.

As he lay there on the wood bruised and beaten and hurt, a simple thing occurred to him. Why go on? Because he was still alive. But was that reason enough? Sometimes you could prevent things. You could keep yourself from having lung cancer by not smoking, keep away cirrhosis by not drinking. But once you had it, and it was to a certain point, there was no use in fighting. Sure, you could try, and you could keep it at bay for quite a while doing that very thing. But it hurt you more, didn’t it? Trying to keep yourself alive long past time for your passing just hurt you even more. Had he been like that, Alfred asked himself. Had he sat at the piano for two hours every day because he was fighting to stay alive long past time? Possibilities began to occur to Alfred, things that he could have been doing, opportunities that could have been his, all of these had been missed because Alfred had been trying so desperately to bring back something that was long past time to let go of. He had wasted twenty years of his life just because he had been selfish, wanting the good things when he could have been having better things.

He stood up and looked out at the storm. The analogy stared him the face with all the brutality that reality possesses. He wiped the water away from his face. Perhaps fate was not nice. But it was just.