The Vaughan family—reintroducing scurvy, one child at a time!
We ate straight from the containers. After that, we went down to the basement, where Dad was watching the History Channel. The first thing I noticed was his clothes: T-shirt and jeans. True, he’d ironed a sharp crease down the front of the jeans, but it was progress.
He raised his eyebrows as I came into view, which made it difficult for him to express his shock when he caught sight of Tash.
“Dad, this is Tash,” I said.
Dad began to extend his hand, then thought better of it, either because he figured she wasn’t the hand-shaking type, or because he was afraid she’d rip it off his arm. In the end he settled for a curt nod that looked weirdly self-conscious.
“You’re later than I thought you’d be. Just as well your mom is out.”
“We wouldn’t have been late otherwise,” I said.
Dad chuckled, apparently impressed by our cunning. “Where have you been?”
“Jimi Hendrix’s house.”
That clearly got his attention. “The one in Renton?”
“Uh, yeah. . . . How do you know that?”
Dad waved off my question. “Hendrix was the greatest. The things he could do, the way he transformed rock guitar into something angry and poetic all at once . . . it was miraculous.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t help wondering if we were getting a glimpse of the
real
Ryan Vaughan at last. It was already the longest conversation we’d had in months.
Tash and Finn sidled up, and together we sat down on the sofa next to Dad’s armchair.
“Jimi played at Woodstock in the summer of 1969,” continued Dad. “It was a crazy thing—three days of music and drugs and rain. He played near the end, and most of the crowd had given up and gone home, but his set was the most amazing of all.” Dad looked up, suddenly remembering that he had an audience. “You’ve seen it, right?”
Tash and Finn nodded, but I shook my head. Dad frowned, like he couldn’t believe he’d been so negligent. He walked over to the far corner of the den and began rifling through a cardboard box. Eventually he pulled out a few LPs, and a DVD.
He handed me the LPs to look at while he put on the DVD. They had cool covers too. The title of one—
Are You Experienced
—was written in a kind of psychedelic bubble lettering, wrapped under a photo of three guys in flamboyant outfits (aka: the Jimi Hendrix Experience). Apart from Tash, I’d never personally known anyone who could get away with wearing such outrageous clothes, and it made me feel kind of envious.
When I’d cycled through the LP covers, I realized that Dad was still kneeling in front of the DVD player, transfixed, unable to contemplate the long journey back to his armchair. So I watched the TV too, where the real Jimi Hendrix had taken center stage, presumably live at Woodstock. He wore bell-bottom jeans and a white jacket with tassels, topped off with a red bandana. He should have looked funny, but instead he just looked incredibly cool.
Dad spun around. “Listen to this,” he told me, his hands shaking with excitement.
I could have pointed out that what he was asking was difficult, to say the least, but I just wanted to hang out with this new Ryan Vaughan for a little longer, so I nodded. I wondered if Mom ever saw the version of Dad that emerged during his date nights with Jimi.
Jimi was playing solo now, the crowd cheering wildly. I studied his hands, but the noise coming from the old speakers beside the TV meant nothing to me, gave no hint of the music emerging from his guitar. I’d contented myself with watching Dad instead, when I thought I caught a few notes of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” It couldn’t have been that, of course, not at Woodstock, but then I recognized a little more of the national anthem. Dad lowered the volume, turned to me and smiled.
“Can you believe it?” he asked, his words clear and slow, like he really needed me to understand. “To do an improvisation on ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ at that time, in that place. . . . Hendrix always said he thought it just sounded nice, but it was during the Vietnam War, and his improvisation was so tortured. His guitar spoke for a generation that day.”
Finn had stopped looking at the TV now, and his eyes were fixed on Dad instead. Dad was changing before our eyes, and I’m not sure either of us knew what to make of it.
Eventually Dad shrugged, smiled, and turned the volume back up, communing with Jimi once again. The music became denser, fuzzier, but knowing what he was playing helped me. And because it mattered so much to Dad, I concentrated as hard as I could on Jimi and his guitar, as they sang, scratched, and clawed their way through “The Star-Spangled Banner” like it was part patriotic hymn, part heartrending cry. He seemed to sculpt the sound with his bare hands, pulling and shivering a lever, prolonging the agony or ecstasy or whatever was coming out of the instrument at that moment. And although I couldn’t make out most of what he did, I could tell by the faces of the crowd, and the faces of Finn, Tash, and Dad, that what he was doing was utterly compelling, and positively transcendent.
As suddenly as it began, the improvisation ended. The whole band rejoined their leader, and the crowd drifted back toward insanity. Immediately Tash unzipped her guitar case and pulled out her guitar, and Finn did the same. Dad grabbed the remote and raised the volume until the speakers rocked on their stands and the walls began to shake. He leaned back and laughed with delight as Tash and Finn jumped up and down on the spot, strumming their unplugged guitars. Then he joined them, and suddenly there was a trio of Hendrix impersonators, egging each other on to ever greater feats of imaginary dexterity. For the first time I saw Tash laughing out loud, basking in her own personal heaven. And Finn was right there with her, matching her step for step, gazing at her like no one else existed.
My breath caught as the scene came into sudden focus. Finn wasn’t interested in Kallie—never had been. It was Tash. It was all about Tash. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before.
Just then, Mom appeared at the bottom of the stairs, her expression caught between amazement and puzzlement. No one but me even noticed her.
Is your father really doing what I think he’s doing?
she signed, stifling a laugh.
Absolutely. He’s an air guitar genius. Didn’t you know?
Mom snorted, but it seemed to require effort. Frankly, she looked exhausted.
What are they listening to?
I was going to finger-spell
Jimi Hendrix,
but I just lifted the cover to one of Dad’s LPs instead.
She nodded, but then her eyebrows shot up, and I knew she’d spotted Tash. She didn’t seem as amused anymore.
Is Grace sleeping through this?
she signed.
When I didn’t respond she stalked up to Dad and waved. “Is Grace sleeping through this?” she shouted. “Where’s the baby monitor?”
Dad looked like someone rudely awoken from a very happy dream. He shut off the TV, ran across the room, and turned on the monitor with fumbling hands. Suddenly there was a new sound, as all five lights on the monitor sprang to life.
Dad sprinted across the den toward the staircase, but Mom stopped him with an outstretched arm. “Don’t bother,” she snapped. “I’ll do it myself.”
Mom spun around and left the deflated mob in her wake. Dad sighed twice, then shook his head and trailed after her.
Tash knelt down and pushed her guitar back into its case.
“You should stay,” said Finn, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I—I’d like my mom to meet you.”
Tash peered up scornfully. “Why?”
Finn’s eyes darted around the room. “Just ’cause ...”
She picked up the case and swung it across her back. “This was cool. Thanks.”
“You need a ride home,” blurted Finn as a last resort.
Tash leaned forward and planted a kiss on Finn’s cheek. “I’ll be okay, Finn. I’ve got a bus pass.”
Then it was just Finn and me, scurrying around in a last-ditch attempt to clean up the evidence before the interrogation began.
Sure enough, Dad returned a minute later, slumping onto a bar stool and closing his eyes tightly.
A couple minutes after that Mom arrived too, clutching a still hysterical Grace. She popped out a boob and pulled the baby toward it, trying to counteract our neglect through a midnight snack. It seemed to work.
“What on earth were you thinking?” she asked finally.
Dad raised his hand. “I’m sorry. It was my fault.”
“No, it’s everyone’s fault,” corrected Mom. “You all know she’s up there. Or did you just forget about her somehow?”
“We’re sorry, honey. Okay?”
“No, it’s not okay. Sorry doesn’t make it right. All three of you chose to ignore her because it’s easier that way. All so you can prance around the den pretending you’re Jimi freaking Hendrix.”
Finn shook his head. “We were just having fun, Mom.”
“Wonderful. Some new girl comes over and suddenly our family’s idea of fun is playing music loud enough to bust the walls, and neglecting the baby.”
I could see Finn growing tense, his jaw clamped shut like he didn’t quite trust himself to speak.
“You know who she is, Mom,” I said calmly. “That’s Tash. I told you about her.”
“Frankly, I don’t care what she’s called.”
Finn snorted. “I bet you don’t. What is it—the green hair or the piercings?”
“Oh, you’d like it to be about that, wouldn’t you?”
Dad stepped off his stool, knelt down beside Mom, and squeezed her arm reassuringly. “Hang on, Lynn. Tash was very pleasant. This isn’t her fault.”
Mom pulled her arm away. “Is that supposed to reassure me? Frankly, I’d prefer to put this down to her influence. It beats the alternative.”
“You don’t know the first thing about Tash,” I groaned.
“And God willing, I’d like to keep it that way. And another thing: This band experiment has gone on long enough. If you’re so desperate to go to Gallaudet, then I suggest you get back to studying and focus on applying for scholarships, instead of wasting your time.”
I was about to fire back when Grace pulled away from Mom’s breast and began wailing again. “I can’t even get her to nurse!” cried Mom.
I waited for Grace to settle. “I know you’re angry, Mom, and I’m sorry for not paying more attention to Grace, but the band isn’t a waste of time. They’re getting better every day.”
Grace popped off the boob yet again and pawed at Mom’s face, leaving an angry scratch across her cheek. Mom flinched as she touched the spot with her fingertips.
“Oh really, honey? And how exactly would you know that, huh?”
I felt my breath catch, her words sharper than a knife. We both knew what those words meant, and so I waited for her to apologize, to point to the bags under her eyes and admit she was too tired to think straight. But when she finally looked up, she just seemed defiant.
“Fuck you.” The words came from somewhere deep inside me where the censor had been turned off. I was as surprised as anyone that I’d said it, but I meant it with all my heart.
For a moment no one moved, but then Dad leaped up. “Don’t you dare speak to your mother like that.”
I needed to back down, I knew I did, but I couldn’t. “Oh, that’s right. Side with Mom.”
“I’m not taking sides. Your mother told the truth, that’s all. I’m sorry if that’s tough for you to hear.”
I could feel the tears coming, but angry laughter slipped out first. “Oh, so I
can
hear now?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re deaf, Piper, okay? That may be painful, but it’s a fact.”
“You’re wrong. You’re so wrong it’s practically a joke. One of these days you’re going to work out there’s nothing
painful
about being deaf. But I find it pretty significant that you keep using that word. Is that why you spend every waking minute cooing over Grace instead of talking to me? Does it make you feel better to know that at least you were able to cure one of us?”
Dad’s hand balled into a fist, and I could feel his anger like a living, breathing presence. In the heat of the moment I willed him to yell at me, to scream obscenities, to declare war once and for all. It would have made it easier for us to admit there was no connection between us—never had been. Suddenly I saw the evening’s bonding session for what it had really been: a mirage, brought on by an overdose of Jimi Hendrix, not by me. But then Dad forced himself to relax. “That’s not fair, Piper,” he said, and I hated him for keeping control, for trying to seem reasonable.
“You’re damn right. And it’s not fair you never bothered to learn more than fifteen signs, even though you know it’s how I prefer to communicate. All these years, and the best you can do is ask how my day went, then pretend to understand my response. You don’t know a single sign to express an emotion . . . happiness, sadness . . .
nothing
! Signing with you is like talking to a computer.”
I took a deep breath and focused on keeping it together, saying what had always needed to be said, without breaking down. If I broke down, he might feel guilty, and I didn’t want him to feel guilty for that moment; I wanted him to see the wrongness of
always
.
“I—I’m sorry, Piper. If I’d known you felt this way I’d have ...”
“You’d have
what
, Dad? Learned to sign? And you and Mom would’ve refused to give Grace an implant because you think I’m so perfect you want her to be like me? Don’t blame me for this one, Dad. This one’s all on you.”
I saw the way my words had crushed him, deflated him as surely as a punch to the gut, but I still didn’t cry. I didn’t even cry when I saw Mom hunched over Grace, a worn-out shadow of a woman with eyes shut tight. It should be them breaking down, not me, I thought.
But then I felt a hand on my arm, warm and comforting. I turned and looked at Finn, his face full of remorse and understanding, and I began to cry anyway. Through the tears I saw my father help my mother to stand, and together they shuffled out of the den without another word.