BACK ON DON’S COUCH, WE ran through some of the other topics I wanted to cover—his grand jury testimony, his hand-drawn blueprint of Jane’s apartment—but, even though our remaining time together had dwindled, I didn’t feel rushed. I was certain that our conversations would continue long after I left the Big Island. The only thing I still needed to do was listen to the piece that Jane had played at his and Jill’s wedding: Bach’s Toccata in F Major. Don had told me that after Jane’s death, when he and Jill got home from Bougainville, he would get drunk and put on that record. He still put it on when he was thinking of her. I wanted to watch him listening to it.
We tried it on his laptop, but the bass wasn’t powerful enough to replicate the experience. “You lose everything without the low note.” So we walked into his office and stood as it played on his speakers. It was an impressive piece—baroque, eerie, powerful—an accomplishment simply to play. For almost eight minutes, we were held, spellbound. I thought I could see Don’s eyes tearing up, but I didn’t know if I just imagined it. I wanted to be able to dissolve into the scene, but I couldn’t picture where Jane was.
“If this is where the minister is, then the organ is up there,” he said, pointing above and behind us.
I turned around as if she were actually behind me. “Oh, so you couldn’t see Jane. No one could see Jane.”
“No one could see Jane unless they turned around to look at her, no. She’s just sitting on top of everyone else.”
“Do you picture her playing it when you hear—” I began to ask.
“I don’t picture anything,” Don said. It was more that he felt her life and death. Listening to it, Don said—especially the descending notes at the end—“That’s when I come closest to screaming: Why the fuck did this happen?”