BUTT CAME FOR A VISIT, TOO. He gave me the latest news about school. "Knacke's dead. They're hushing the whole thing up. But everybody knows. And Frankengoon's gone, too. They're saying he's on a leave of absence. Only the rumor has it he's gone for good. We got this new guy. He always wears this hideous checkered coat and flood pants. I think his name is Bob Hein. Only everyone calls him 'Mr. Behind.' Get it? Get it?"
I got it.
"OK. So you get better real fast and we can start practicing again. All right?"
I nodded.
Relly got my Ibanez out of its case the next time he came. I hadn't touched it since the Bug Jar gig. That seemed like about a hundred years ago. "You should start playing a little," Relly said. "Keep the songs in your fingers, you know?"
I nodded and took the bass. It felt ten times heavier than I remembered. The strings were cold. Yet when I fit my hand around the neck, the old good feeling started to come back.
With no amp, you can hardly hear a bass. That was OK, at least at first. It was just for me. Nobody else had to hear the riffs that had been playing themselves in my inner ear. Soon enough, Relly would, and Butt and Jerod, too. First, though, I wanted to get them exactly right.
When I was alone I listened to Silence singing in my head. My fingers moved on the Ibanez, finding the sound, matching the melody.
Awake ye nations under ground;
ye saints ascend the skies.
I wondered how long Silence would be with me. She made it easier to sleep. I mean, her voice was kind of a night-light. It didn't shine. Nobody could see it. But it reassured me like the faint quavering bulb used to when I was little.