“‘I Think I Love You,’ by the Partridge Family.”
She hesitated a moment, then stammered, “Oh. Oh . . . God, no!”
Ah, success. “Did it work?” I asked brightly.
“Yes, but . . . are you sure this isn’t worse than ‘Muskrat Love’?”
“You tell me.”
“I—I just don’t know!”
“Right, while you think about it I’m going to move onto the next call. Hello, Ellen. What do you want to talk about?”
“Hi, Kitty. You know the Orpheus myth?”
I said, “Orpheus. The bard of Greek mythology who went into Hades, and his music was so powerful that he convinced the god of the underworld to release the soul of his dead wife. He was told that he could lead her to the surface, but if he looked back to make sure that she followed, he’d lose her forever. Of course, he looked back. It’s a story about the power of music, but it’s also a story about trust.”
“Yeah,” she said, and I caught a sadness in her voice, an uncertainty. “Kitty, you’re always talking about myths and legends that have these roots in reality. That sometimes the stories are real, at least partly. Do you . . . do you think that’s ever happened? That music—or anything—is so powerful it could bring back the dead?”
It amazed me sometimes, the stark emotion that people could expose with just their voices. The human voice is the most expressive musical instrument of all.
I closed my eyes to gather myself for the question I had to ask. If she didn’t want to talk about it, she wouldn’t have called in. “Who did you lose, Ellen?”
“My husband,” she said, and her voice didn’t even crack. She was just muted. Lost. “Eight months ago. It was cancer. We’d only been married three years. I know I can’t bring him back, but . . . I’m a musician. I play the flute professionally, I’m in an orchestra and everything. Not
as good as Orpheus must have been . . . but I wonder. Music was strong enough to bring us together the first time. Maybe it could bring him back. If I had the chance, if I thought I could, I’d try.”
I rubbed my face and pinched my nose to stop tears. This happened every now and then. I didn’t know what to say. Nothing I could say would be the right thing.
“Maybe not all the stories start out as true. A lot of them start out as wishes, I think. The Orpheus myth, it takes something powerful that people can do—make music—and turns it into something powerful we wish we could do. Like bring back our loved ones. Ellen, I know this sounds trite, but I’m betting there’s a part of him, part of his spirit that comes through every time you play.”
“I—I think so, too. But sometimes it isn’t enough. Kitty—if it had been me, I wouldn’t have looked back.”
“I know.”
With incredibly bad timing, the studio door opened and let in a swarm of noise from the outside. The producer in the sound booth waved manically and ran out to try to stop them.
I rolled with the punches. “Ellen, thank you for calling and sharing your story. I know I’m not alone in extending my thoughts and sympathies to you. We’re going to break now for station ID.” I signed Ellen off, then turned to the door.
There they were, crowding into the studio, lugging their instruments. I recognized the lead singer from the band’s publicity photo: a skinny punk, twenty-two years old, wearing cut-off jeans, a ragged, oversize T-shirt, and combat boots.
I jumped out of my seat to intercept him. “Rudy? Hi.”
Our introduction would determine how the rest of the evening went. Was he a stuck-up, self-absorbed musician type who barely deigned to speak to lesser mortals, or was he a regular guy who just happened to sing in a band?
He smiled at me. “You’re Kitty? Hi!” He had a warm expression and easy-going manner at odds with his punked- out persona. He seemed more surfer dude than anti-social rebel. I relaxed; this was going to go well. “Let me introduce everyone. There’s Bucky on drums, Len’s our guitarist. And Tim there’s on bass.”
Tim stood out from the rest of the band. The other guys looked like they were in a band: Len had lightning bolts shaved into his crew cut, Bucky had tattoos crawling up both arms. Tim, however, was wearing a cardigan, like he’d been zapped through time from a ’50s doo-wop group.
I considered for a moment, then said, “So, he’s the one who’s possessed by a demon?”
“Yup!” Rudy said proudly. “I don’t know how it happened, but there it is.”
Tim glanced at us as he was plugging his bass into an amp. His expression didn’t change. He looked like a regular guy.
I contained my skepticism. “Rudy, do you mind if we have a few words on the air while the others set up? Then I’d love to hear you play.”
“That’s what we’re here for!”