THE NEXT MORNING, BEFORE heading to the hospital, Simon sat in the apartment, panicked. What had he done? How stupid had he been to send Libby the file? Nothing was going to happen, or if it did, it wouldn’t be good. That guy wouldn’t remember Libby, or he would and he’d want something sleazy from her, despite what she said. Or he’d remember Libby and he’d listen as a favor for her, and then he’d have to regretfully tell her, “Sorry. Not for us.” And then Libby would have to relay the bad news to him, and he didn’t know how he would face that or face her.
He felt sour with shame. He wanted to tell her to forget sending the file to that guy, but that thought mortified him, too. He’d never say anything about it to her. He’d have to see her today and pretend that nothing had happened.
But what if something did happen? He felt the sharp spark of joy, and then he shut it off. Magical thinking. That’s what he had always done to keep himself centered. If I touch the door three times for luck, I’ll have a good day. If I end the stairs on my left foot, all will be well. Stella used to laugh at him, but still he did it. For the longest time, music had been magic for him. His safe place, a cone of sound he could hide in.
He pulled out the bills and spread them all around him. He put his hands in his hair. How was he going to manage all this? No amount of magical thinking would do it. There was always something else he needed to pay for.
Bette sometimes came home with groceries she had paid for herself, but when he protested, she touched his shoulder. “You let me do something nice for you,” she said. “Please. It makes me feel better.”
He couldn’t ask her for anything more.
Every once in a while, a check came from his mother in the mail, but it was always something small. Two hundred. Once five. Grocery money. He couldn’t ask them for more either.
He made up lists of things he owned that he could sell or cash out. His IRA was already gone. His bank account, too, and Stella’s, which he shared. One of his guitars. He combed the apartment until he found a box of press photos he had saved, some of them signed. Some of them could be worth money, maybe not a lot, maybe not unless it was from an actual superstar, but it could be something. The photos slid across one another, and he picked up a few. There he was standing with his new guitar, smiling. Fourteen years old and a total innocent, thinking he knew everything, that the world was going to be his. He wished he could go back in time and sling his arm around his younger self and tell him the truth. He wished he could live his whole life over.
Kevin had once told him that he believed the world was a computer simulation run by advanced super-smart aliens, and that was why things felt so out of whack sometimes. Simon had laughed, but Kevin was adamant. “Aliens like to fuck us up. And the way we get to stay in the game is to rise to their challenges. To be entertaining by getting in trouble now and then.”
Right, Simon thought. Then the aliens must love him. They must adore Stella, because look at the life those so-called aliens had given her.
He lifted up another photo. There was Stella, laughing, her hair wet from the shower, so beautiful he wanted to weep.
He riffled through the pile, picking out another photo. His breath quickened. He stared. There was Silverwood, his parents’ vacation house in Woodstock, their respite from the city. The house was originally Simon’s grandfather’s, a man he had never known, and it was to be Simon’s, handed down like an heirloom. At first, Woodstock had been great for Simon. He loved to swim in the local pool. His mother took him for walks around the reservoir and into town to see kids’ plays and movies. What did he know except it felt like a paradise that would never end?
But then he got older and his mom became busier with her social obligations. His father was tied up with accounts and clients, and he always wanted Simon to be busy, too. “Here,” he would say, handing Simon a stack of envelopes. “Make yourself useful. Seal these.” His mother was always joining clubs and going to meetings, or working out with her personal trainer at the gym. “Learn to amuse yourself,” his father said.
Simon didn’t know what to do. He read, but after he finished a book, he felt restless. He played chess with himself, but that wasn’t much of a challenge because he always knew what he was going to do next. There weren’t a lot of kids around either, and his parents wouldn’t let him invite anyone up to visit because they didn’t want the responsibility, even though Simon could care for himself and his friends, too.
The house was supposed to be handed down to him. And if it was supposed to be his, he could surely sell it, and that would bring in enough money so that he wouldn’t have to worry about the bills. He hadn’t even thought to ask his parents, but he could call them again now; if he could just get the courage, he could face talking about that horror house.
SIMON, AT FOURTEEN, had already given the Woodstock house that name. He hated it. He never wanted to go there, but he never had a choice. It was so lonely there, with no friends, no one to talk to.
It was music that saved Simon when he was at Woodstock. Simon glued himself to the radio with headphones, lost in the sounds. These people singing, playing guitars or horns or drums, were speaking to him and it wasn’t long before he wanted to answer.
“I want to take music lessons,” he told his parents.
“When you get straight A’s,” his mother said.
“When you’re older, maybe. And you can really focus,” his father said.
So Simon waited. He made a keyboard out of paper and taught himself piano, hearing the notes in his head as he pressed down on the imaginary keys. He practiced every day. Then he did the same with guitar strings, patiently working out the chords. And he sang when he was away from his parents, widening what he was listening to musically, trying it all out. While in the city, he began to frequent String Me, a local Upper East Side music store that had a beautiful steel-string Martin in the window that he yearned to own. They taught lessons there, too, and every time Simon came into the shop, one of the musicians who worked there grinned at him encouragingly, but Simon knew it was pointless.
His father was convinced Simon would go to law school and Simon knew it did no good to argue with him.
Still, that year, Simon asked for music lessons. “Music lessons?” his dad said. “You should be prepping for the SATs.”
Instead of a guitar for his fifteenth birthday, his father gave him stocks, pieces of paper Simon only stared at. “They’ll grow,” his father said. “Here, come sit down. Let me show you.” His father spread out the stock pages, and the numbers jumbled in front of Simon’s face. Simon’s father’s voice grew stronger, more excited.
“So, this is worth money?” Simon said, holding up the paper.
“Yes. And it will be worth more money the longer you hang on to it.”
“When can I cash it in?”
“Let it grow; it’ll be worth more.”
Simon could wait only a year, and then at sixteen, he asked again.
“Why do you want to do something so foolish?” his dad said. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I explain how this all works?”
“I want to buy a guitar. I want to take lessons.”
His father looked as if Simon had told him he wanted to fly, using his own arms as wings. “Do you understand what you’re saying? What you’re giving up?” his father said.
Simon thought of the beautiful light-wood Martin at String Me, how he thought he would die if he couldn’t get it. He thought there would be a bigger argument, but instead, his father said, “This will be a good lesson for you, then. You wait and see. You’ll discover the mistake you made.”
Simon’s father gave him the money from the stock. “You’re sure?” he said.
“Yep.”
“Well, you can always change your mind,” his father said.
Simon rushed to the store and pointed to the Martin. He had enough for the guitar but not for lessons, but it didn’t matter. Didn’t Bob Dylan teach himself? Didn’t lots of musicians? He was smart and there was nothing he loved more than music. He could teach himself, too.
He didn’t know any rules about playing music, so he didn’t know what you could and couldn’t do. He just did it, playing for hours. He got better and better, and he even began toying around with writing songs. But every year, his father made a point to show him how his stock would have done, and every year Simon ignored him and loved his Martin all the more.
ONE NIGHT WHEN Simon was seventeen and reluctantly at Silverwood, his father was having one of his parties, fifty people all dressed up. His mother had hired caterers, and a band, too, called Zoo, five guys playing rock-and-roll oldies on a special little stage his father had built. They were good, Simon thought, though he’d rather hear something modern. Still, people were dancing. Simon could feel the rhythm throb up through his feet, talking to him. His father shoved him into the crowd. “Being able to mingle and make small talk is one of the best skills someone can learn,” he said.
Simon didn’t talk to anyone. Instead, he slipped off to his room to play his guitar. No one would notice in all this noise. But opening his bedroom door, he startled two guys from the band, snorting coke. No one said anything for a while, and then one of the guys nodded at Simon’s guitar. “You play?” he said, and Simon nodded. “Well, come on, then, dude,” he said. “Play for us.”
“You don’t even know if I’m any good,” Simon said. He wasn’t sure if they were making fun of him or not.
“Come on. What’s to lose? What’s your name? What do you want to play?”
So Simon took a chance. He played the one song he’d written called “SmashMe,” one word because he liked the way it looked. It was about an Upper East Side kid who had his heart broken by a hard-hearted woman. He used the tricky chords he had learned, the weird open tuning he had picked up from listening to Joni Mitchell records, and he belted out the song. He couldn’t look at the guys, because he didn’t want to see boredom or, even worse, laughter, but when he was done, they both jumped up and clapped him on the back.
“Man oh man, where’d you learn to play and sing like that?” one of the guys said. “You are so fucking good, it’s mad-crazy.”
“What?” Simon said, astonished.
“Come play the next song with us,” the other guy said.
“I can’t do that—”
“Yeah, you can,” the guy said. “Come on. It’ll be a blast.”
On stage, the band pushed Simon to the front. “We have to play oldies for the oldies,” the bass player said to Simon. “But one new tune won’t kill them.”
“Once again, ZOO!” someone shouted. The guy who had urged Simon to play took the mic. “Guess what,” he said. “We’re going to show you some new talent here. Playing a song he wrote himself. Not to worry, the oldies but goodies are coming back at you right after. This is Simon and he’s going to sing ‘SmashMe,’ a song he wrote.”
Simon took a deep breath. He shut his eyes and then began to play and sing. And the longer he played, the more he felt the crowd was with him. This is what I’m meant to do. The band began to sing harmony, and it worked perfectly. At the end, there was a crash of silence followed by a deafening wave of applause. Simon stood there, bathed in sweat, trembling. Around him, the rest of the band was bowing low, so Simon did, too. “Give it up for Simon!” the bass player screamed.
Then Simon saw his father moving toward the stage. He stepped up and took the mic. “I hope you enjoyed my son’s hobby, but let’s leave it to the pros for the rest of the evening.” His father didn’t look at Simon, didn’t see him wince at the word hobby.
“He can play with us. He’s really good,” the bass player said.
“I’m paying you, not him,” Simon’s father said, still close to the mic, so Simon knew everyone could hear. His father turned to Simon, his eyes hard. Simon bit down on his lip so he wouldn’t cry. His father leaned down next to him so that only Simon could hear. “Only idiots do that. Don’t embarrass yourself.”
Simon got off the stage. People were patting him on the back, grinning wildly at him, grabbing his sleeve, wanting to talk to him, but Simon kept moving. His father had toppled him as easily as he would a house of cards. People were making a path for him. Someone ruffled his hair, like he was a child. He heard the band blasting out “Tusk,” an old Fleetwood Mac song, and the crowd began dancing, talking to one another again.
Simon went straight through the house and began walking out of the neighborhood, across the town and down to a small lake. As soon as he saw the water, he started to cry.
He didn’t go back to the house until the sky was light again, and even then, as soon as he opened the door, he felt his father’s disdain, his belief that his son was a failure.
He vowed he’d never go back to Silverwood again.
BACK AT HOME, Simon spent all his time playing his guitar. He joined bands at school and played at Sweet Sixteens and then even at weddings, and he began saving money, until he had enough to apply to Manhattan School of Music. “Well,” his parents said. “It’s your life. Waste it if you want.”
They never came to his shows, not even when he hit it big. They rarely asked about his career, but when they did, they treated it like an obsession he eventually would outgrow. He knew they were disappointed in the choices he made, but it didn’t matter to him, not anymore. In his mind, he saw crowds lining up for a ticket to one of his shows, for a chance to touch him, to know just who he really was.
BUT HE DID come back to Silverwood, one more time, and that was because of Stella. Then they were newly in love, dizzy with the excitement of it. To his own surprise, he wanted his parents to meet her. He wanted to show off and make his parents know that an extraordinary woman like Stella had chosen him. “Bring her to Silverwood,” his mother said.
Stella was a city girl. He wasn’t sure she’d like it there. But she agreed easily. “I’m happy to meet your folks,” she said.
They went for a week in August, when the city was a steam oven. Stella packed sundresses and sneakers, and a gift for his parents, a vintage pitcher shaped like a chicken. His parents made a fuss over it and even more of a fuss over her. His mother got out the china and the real silver and made steak tartare, and when Stella shyly confessed that she was a vegetarian, his mom laughed and said, “There are plenty of other things for you to eat.” His mother brought out greengage plums and Granny Smith apples, six kinds of sharp cheese and brie, a crusty bread.
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” Stella said, so enthusiastically because Simon knew she was hungry, but it made his parents laugh. Simon’s father grinned at him. “I like your girl,” he said.
That’s right. Mine, Simon thought.
All through dinner, Simon still felt like an outsider. His parents peppered Stella with questions. What, her father was no longer alive, her mother had moved to Spain? Oh, so far away. Oh, what a shame. When his mother put her arm around Stella, it felt conspiratorial to Simon. “Now, how can we do something about Simon’s hair?” his mother said, and Simon bristled, but Stella laughed. “I love his hair,” she said, reaching over and smoothing it over his brow, her fingers cool and steady.
His parents treated Stella like family. They showed her where they hid the spare key under the mat on the porch, so she could come and go as she pleased. His father gave her maps so she could wander into town and walk back home if she liked. They pointed out the bikes in the garage and were so friendly that Stella later said to Simon, “I don’t understand. They’re lovely to me. And they seem to be lovely to you. How can there be any problem here?”
He told her how they had treated him when he had played with the band. “You were a kid,” she said. “And they were wrong. You’ve become a success. People can change, you know.”
He was about to say, Yeah, right, you don’t know them, but she was so happy, her face had a glow, so he just nodded.
By the third day, Simon felt like he was going out of his mind. There wasn’t anything to do, and all he wanted was to get back to Manhattan. Stella, though, who was even more city centric than he was, who called anything even remotely country “outer Mongolia,” seemed ridiculously content. Every morning, she had coffee on the porch with his parents, telling them stories about her life.
Later Stella walked to the little lake and then back. She shucked off her shoes and walked in the shallows, shivering with delight. Some days she took a book from his father’s library (she was allowed! Simon had never been allowed!) and curled up on the porch swing and read. When she saw Simon, she smiled. “I could get so used to this,” she told him.
“I thought you were afraid that if you ever left Manhattan, you’d have to take a test to get back in. You know, name all the bridges, the best diners.”
“I love it here.”
“Want to go to the village green again?” Simon asked. The farther away from the house that they got, the better he felt, the less he heard the house whispering to him. Part of him kept imagining that they might run into someone famous, someone he had seen before but had been too tongue-tied to speak with. He had once seen Stephen Stills buying cucumbers at the farmers’ market there. He had spotted Deborah Harry on a bike. Stella nuzzled his nose with hers. “I don’t care about celebrities,” she said. “You’re my celebrity.” She stretched out her long legs. “And it’s nowhere near as hot here as Manhattan,” she pointed out.
“You haven’t experienced a Woodstock winter,” he said.
“But I’d like to. I’ll bet it’s pretty.”
“Wait, what? You would?” Simon shook his head. “You don’t mean it,” he decided.
He went with her to an outdoor concert. They packed a picnic, which they shared on a blanket, and even though it wasn’t July, there were fireworks, and Stella looked up at them in wonder. “What a magical place,” she told him, and he held her closer and shut his eyes.
BEFORE THEY LEFT for the city, Simon combed the house, gathering up anything that was his, including his boyhood bedspread. “You’re doing our spring cleaning for us,” his mother said with a laugh as Simon packed the car with bag after bag of stuff.
He waited until they were halfway home to find a trash bin, and he began dumping things out. “What are you doing?” Stella said. “Why are you throwing this out?” She held up an old sweatshirt that said WOODSTOCK on it. “This would still fit,” she said.
“Nothing fits,” he told her. “Not anymore.” She studied him quietly, and then she helped him throw everything away.
They never went up to Woodstock again, though Stella had asked to. Then, after a while, his parents mostly stopped going to the house, too. They were older, tired more easily, and city living was too crazy for them now, even on the Upper East Side. They moved to Florida, along with their friends. Only once in a great while did they come back to the Northeast to visit the house. But they’d never sell the house, wouldn’t even consider renting it. They told themselves, You never know, you might want to come up, even if just for a weekend.
Sometimes Stella would sigh and say, “Remember Silverwood?” For her, it became a code for everything that had been perfect between her and Simon.
NOW SIMON PUSHED the photos away and glanced at the clock.
It wasn’t so late that his parents wouldn’t be up. Silverwood was worth a fortune. His parents still told him that all the time. His mother said that she had read in People magazine that Jennifer Aniston was in Woodstock, buying pottery from one of the artisanal shops. Daniel Craig—James Bond, for Christ’s sake—had a spread there now and could often be seen eating at one of the outdoor cafes. It was an incredible time to sell or at least to rent the house for income he desperately needed. Surely his parents might understand that.
His hands shaking, he punched in their phone number.
“Darling,” said his mother when she heard his voice, and Simon gripped the edge of the counter. He felt ten years old again, completely unsure of himself. “How are you? How is Stella? Did you get our check? We put in a little extra this time.”
“I did. And thank you, thank you so much.” He swallowed. “Stella’s the same,” he said, and he heard her sharp intake of breath.
“I was wondering,” Simon said. He made himself slow down and took a breath. If there was bad news coming, there was no reason to rush for it. “I know you’ve been so generous with money, with helping us.”
“Darling, what are parents for? Your father and I know you’re having a hard time. We’ll send more money soon.”
Simon felt a headache, small and hard as a dime, forming in his temple.
“I was wondering. The Woodstock house is mine now, right? Since you aren’t going there again?” he said.
“That’s right, darling.”
“So, if it’s mine, I’d like the papers that go along with it.”
“Why? They’re safe in our deposit box.”
“Because I want to sell it. I need to sell it.”
“Silverwood?” his mother said. “Why would you ever want to sell Silverwood?”
“No one goes there anymore. Not you and Dad. Not me,” Simon said. “You guys are always in Florida. I mean, I don’t have to sell it. Even if I could just rent it, the money would be so helpful, and you wouldn’t have to give us money from your accounts.”
“That house is for you,” his mother said firmly. “For you and your wife when you get around to having one. For your children—our grandchildren. That’s how it’s always been done. That house was your grandfather’s.”
“I know that. But I don’t want it, Mom. I never wanted it. You wanted it for me. I just want to sell it.”
“It’s out of the question,” his mother said. He heard a door banging behind her, the thread of his father’s voice. “Who’s on the phone, honey?”
“We’ll send you more money,” she said, and then his father got on the phone, on the other landline, and even his voice sounded suntanned.
“What’s this about?” he said, and Simon told him.
“It was my father’s. I can’t sell my father’s house.”
“Grandpa’s dead,” Simon said. “I never even knew him. And it’s not his house anymore. It’s yours, and then it’s mine.”
His mother cleared her throat. “Simon,” his mother said. “We will float you some money, to get you through this, but we’re not selling the vacation house.”
“We’ll send you a check this evening. Tell us what else you need and it’s yours,” his father said. “You know that. You’re our boy.”
Simon was startled. They had never offered money like that, and it confused him. Still, his father had called him a boy, not a man. His father didn’t think he was responsible, either, and it made him feel dark with shame. “Whatever you think is good,” he said finally. “And thank you. Thank you so much.”
Simon hung up and rested his head against the cool of the table. But then, he thought, his parents were frugal. No matter what they sent, it would certainly help, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough.