As Luck Would Have It (15 page)

When my uncle Jack learned of my musical ambitions, he remembered that his father had an old Martin acoustic guitar, which hadn’t been played in decades.  He helped me clean it up and even though the years of storage in the damp basement had caused the finger board to warp slightly, necessitating frequent tuning on my part, the richness of the sound had not suffered and I loved the beautiful instrument immediately.  Christian was incredulous of the miracle that had befallen us.  He caressed the guitar like it was a lost love after playing it for several minutes and insisted that we head to the music store immediately so that he, Christian, and no one else, could restring the guitar
personally before proceeding to start teaching me how to play it.  He kept staring at the instrument and shaking his head in apparent disbelief; didn’t I understand what this meant, what an amazing gift this was?  You must be the luckiest guy on earth, was all he could say. 

I did feel lucky just then, having someone like Christian around who cared enough to teach me to play the guitar.  And yes, the appearance of the Martin out of nowhere seemed like divine intervention, but perhaps this entire matter is worthy of further contemplation, and maybe you have already given some thought to it as well.  But for the horrific bad luck of Mr. Casslemond losing control of his truck, I would never have meet anyone in the Casslemond family, or been given the Martin, or started a band, or eve
n
hear of Buddy Holly in all probability.  Maybe it was that my good luck did not really
begin
to kick in for real
and start stacking things up in my favor until after the accident, continuing that way for many years, pretty much
un
interrupted for the next
four and a half decades in fact, determined to balance the bad thing that happened until it would ease its grip and let my life proceed unimpeded, triggered apparently by the events on my 60
th
birthday when luck must have said enough is enough, we’re even now, you’re on your own.  What an enormous price I had to pay for luck to side with me, protect me, stay close by for all those years, alone without my parents, God knows why or how.

But let us not confuse luck with talent, the former of which, as we have seen, was in abundance now, but the latter was keeping a safe distance, at least as far as the band was concerned.  We added a drummer by the name of Steve Carlston, not so much because of his competence as a percussionist, but mainly due to the fact that he had a set of drums in his basement and
a set of
parents who were never home.  So we lugged the keyboard and the amplifier that Richard had seen at a garage sale and bought for us out of the money he
saved
working that summer at 7-Eleven. 
Here it is you creeps, keep it at Steve’s house
;
I don’t want to hear any noise when I’m trying to sleep.

Despite Christian’s good intentions, my
aptitude
as a guitarist could be easily questioned
; then there was the problem of who was going to sing.  Christian was by far the best musician in the group and could sing on key more or less, but his range was limited, while Joseph’s adolescent voice cracked with almost every movement up or down the scales.  Steve banged away
mainly
on the Ludwigs and we didn’t have the extra microphone or stand for him anyway, which was a good thing because when he tried to sing he sounded like
Yoko Ono.
 
I had the best voice of the four of us, which isn’t saying much, so when Christian wasn’t playing the sax or the harmonica, we’d sing duets and struggle together with the harmonies we both loved.  We worked at it all summer, even when Joseph was away at camp, and though we understood completely that we were never going to be famous rock stars, we had a great time with it anyway, trying out new songs we’d hear with relatively easy riffs, or doing our Beatles favorites, me playing rhythm guitar and Christian on bass, just like John and Paul, in spirit at least.  We’d do their harmonies as close as we could while Joseph and Steve followed
along
with us unshakably. 

She told me she worked in the morning and started to laugh

I told her I didn’t and crawled up to sleep in the bath

It was a way for me to get through that difficult first summer, the only way I knew with my friends
and
the music both there to help me.  We would crank up either the record
p
layer or the one amplifier that we had to share and play along or just listen to the songs that
we
loved over and over until we knew them as if we had written them ourselves.

And now the time has come

And so my love I must go

And though I lose a friend

In the end you will know

D
estiny would see to it that I would not excel as a musician, but it graced me with such bitter sweet memories of that summer. 
No matter what had been taken
f
rom me, the love of music and my remembrance of th
ose
carefree
days
with Joseph and Christian could never be
.
  I still bring out the Martin now and then, the warp in the fret board having evolved over time into a slight crack,
and keeping it in tune is more
of a challenge.  But the music it creates has not changed
much
; the melodies are still as pure and rich as I remember them
from when we were just fourteen, when luck was there with us, looking out for me and
who knows, maybe
them as well.

Looking back on it, I don’t think I would have been able to survive that summer without Christian and Joseph.  Luck notwithstanding
, suicide
might have proved too strong a temptation to overcome; the pain of going
on alone too overwhelming.  If Mr.
Casslemond had done what most of us would have done, mainly run as far as possible from me and the
clutter
I now represented, I might have succumbed to the enticement of running as well, likely straight into the path of a speeding
bus
or off the top of a very tall building.  The irony became clearer to me over the years; Mr. Casslemond killed my parents and then saved my life.  It also became clear to me that what had seemed like the worst possible luck might have been something else disguised; that is to say anyone could have slid on the ice that day, but it was far from just anyone, it was Mr. Casslemond that happened to be coming around that curve at just the wrong moment, distracted for some reason and driving too fast, and wasn’t it lucky that he got out with just a badly injured leg so that he would not only survive, but see to my survival as well?

Yes, looking back as an adult well into middle age, with the benefit of experience and hindsight, with knowledge and retrospection, I can see
how events
became woven in this complicated way, and in the process set my life on a new path, not an easier one
c
ertainly, but one that I would adjust to and live to talk about.  And the observation after the fact, completely impossible to make as a young teenager, would in my later years provide a great deal of consolation; that knowing the Casslemonds and having them take part in my life, allaying the distance and detachment I felt living with my
a
unt and uncle, would in time make li
fe
not just bearable, but enjoyable again.

I don’t know how Mr. Casslemond and his wife knew things at home were getting worse, as I’m nearly positive I never complained to them, or even to Christian.  Over time, they invited me to their house more and more often until I was routinely included in their many family events, holidays, and birthday celebrations.  I spent as much time as possible there or at the Kleins house because I
was miserable
being at home. 
And though my aunt’s bickering and her disdain for many of the things that I valued frequently got on my nerves, by the following autumn, things had started to level off for me and I was now, mercifully, in my final year of middle school, the last year of the three-year prison sentence, soon to be in high school and out from under the spiteful glare of Mr. Strickmann.  I had fallen behind the year before and had to retake two courses, but my concentration had improved, and
I wasn’t failing any of my
classes
at least
.

I was seeing a psychiatrist now, who prescribed antidepressants as a primary means of therapy, but I never took them.  My uncle kept refilling drug every 60 days at the local Eckerd in our neighborhood, but each morning I flushed one of the tablets instead of popping it with my oatmeal.  I didn’t feel like being drugged into avoiding the pain, I wanted to experience
it for what it really was, and figure out how to
endure it
on my own
.  I resisted the therapy sessions at first as well, but eventually be
came more agreeable to seeing the doctor, as she was the only one I ever really opened up to completely.  She probably hated me at
first;
I was detached and disrespectful initially.

But I developed a good relationship with Dr. Rosenberg after a few weeks and felt
comfortable and
unreserved
around her. 
I wondered how interested she really was in m
e
, this was just a job after all, but she was an incredibly good listener, and f
or the first time, I
found
myself
exploring
the unpleasant
reality of
my nightmares
. 
She asked if I would
close my eyes and recount them in as much detail as possible.  Tell me about how it feels when you dream of the accident, what do you see?  I just see flames. Are your parents there?  I know they are but I can’t see them, just the fire and Mr. Casslemond.
  How do you feel about Mr. Casslemond now?  Sometimes I want to hate him; sometimes I wish he had died too.  Not really, he’s good to me; I don’t know, it’s hard to describe what I think about him.  Try to explore that Clifford, I think it might be important.  It is perfectly normal for you to feel enormous resentment towards him and his family

My aunt resented
them, that’s for sure, both of my
two adoptive
families;
although you would think she would be happy not to have to attend to all of my needs and not having me constantly around tying up the phone and leaving my dirty clothes wherever they landed.  She wanted me home after school, for what, I have no idea. 
Maybe I should have known better, but
I assumed that she
wasn't about to t
ake on Mr. and Mrs. Klein, who I had been very fond of and close to since the day they moved into our old neighborhood.  She didn’t do much to hide her contempt for them, no
r
could she contain her negative comments about their perceived lack of good taste or manners
,
but even Doreen
must have
realized,
her lack of tack and comportment notwithstanding, that the Kleins were in my life unconditionally and somewhat beyond the scope of her jurisprudence.  But as more and more of my attention was devoted to the Casslemonds, and a corresponding amount of affection developed among us as well, she became more outspoken in her opposition to my relationship with the family.  When I dismissed the logic of her arguments, Doreen became more adamant, her criticisms of them more caustic.  Her lowest point came by way of one of
her
self-serving
guilt trip
s
when she asked why I would want to befriend the people who killed her sister.

I cried alone in my room that night, fearful that I would be forbidden from seeing any of the Casslemonds again.  But I had refrained from arguing the matter too forcefully with my aunt, as she had after all, taken me in under the worst imaginable circumstances.  Uncle Jack was often
away
or somewhat aloof when he wasn’t, and I couldn’t count on him for much help, yielding as he was to his wife’s demands.  I overheard the arguing for a long time in their room, and though I could not make out what they were saying, I knew that he was taking my side.  I called Joseph, sobbing into the phone, but as usual he was calm and comforting and said not to worry, what could they do, lock me in my room?  He said if my aunt continued to be such a mean bitch, then I would just come live at their house.  The next day, I was informed by my aunt of their decision, that it was final and beyond further discussion.  I was not to associate with anyone in the Casslemond family again, including Christian, who would no longer be welcome in their home. 
Their home, not our home, really?

I had thought it through the night before and decided rather than argue, or threaten to move in with the Kleins, I’d just ignore the order.  Really, what could they do?  I’d hang out at Christian’s or Joseph’s instead and spend even less time at their home, if that was how they really felt about it.  My aunt was right; there was no need for further discussion.  I was almost fifteen
,
not exactly a baby,
and
they weren’t my parents so I didn’t have to obey them.  And I probably had a good amount of money coming my way from the insurance company before much longer
;
Mr. Greenbaum had said so. 
I would continue to live with my aunt and uncle until I went to college, under all of their rules except this one.  If they wanted me out before then, fine, I’d use some of the settlement money to get my own apartment, or if that didn’t work, I’d ask
Mr. Casslemond
and his wife if I could move in with them, certain that they would say yes without any hesitation.  Even if Mr. Casslemond had killed Doreen’s sister, they would make it right.  Christian had told me the first day we met; his grandparents were never going to Florida, they weren’t going anywhere, they would never leave me.  I could go to see Mr. Greenbaum again too; he said come by anytime, no appointment needed. 
He was a very nice man and would help me I was sure; maybe I could even visit their home and meet Mrs. Greenbaum and their beautiful daughter
Tiffany.