Chapter 21

ARMS FOLDED, a beefy sentry guarded the Broward Performing Arts Center backstage entrance. Across a barrier, a throng of screaming teenagers held “We Love Spitfire” signs that they hoped to have signed by the band. They expelled so much youthful heat they made the thick Florida night air feel like soup. Through this sea of adolescents, an old man in checkered pants and a threadbare Titleist shirt attempted to wade his way to the velvet rope, earning dirty looks and more than a few elbows. Just who did he think he was, anyway? He timidly approached the brute, who spoke before the old man could even say a word.

“You got the wrong night, pal. The Englebert Humperdink show is tomorrow.”

The goon turned to his companion, an oleaginous-looking man of thirty or so, and continued speaking as if David weren’t there, or if he were, as if he weren’t human. “You know we get all kinds here. When Wayne Newton is here, the old biddies scream for him like he’s Elvis or something.”

The comment received no reply. The guard’s colleague had all the trappings of someone who either was important or wanted to create the appearance of being important. He was dressed entirely in black and wore tortoise-shell glasses that were so obviously designed to age him up, one couldn’t help but doubt whether they contained lenses. He car-

ried a clipboard and periodically whispered into a wireless microphone that he’d clipped inside the lapel of his black sports jacket, as if he were with the Secret Service. David pegged him as the band’s manager.

“I saw a woman give her number in lipstick to Vic Damone once,” the gorilla continued. “She wrote it on a pair of panties and slipped it right into his lapel. She must have been eighty.”

“You don’t say.” The manager seemed more bothered than entertained by the guard’s banter. Perceiving an opportunity, David tapped the manager on his shoulder and said, “Excuse me.”

The bouncer immediately intervened. “You still here, old man? I told you to come back on Tuesday. Bring flowers. Steve and Eydie really like flowers.”

“I want to see Spider.”

“So does everyone else here, pal.”

“You don’t understand. I’m his father.”

The security guard raised an eyebrow. “You’re Mr. Spider?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“What’s your name?”

“David Howard.”

The security guard borrowed the clipboard from the manager and twice leafed through several sheets of paper. “Sorry, your name isn’t on the guest list. You’re going to have to wait with everyone else.”

“I don’t think you understand. I’m his father.”

“I heard you the first time. I don’t care if you’re the Pope. If you’re not on the list, you wait outside the ropes like everyone else.”

“Do you really think he was born with the name ‘Spider’? His real name is Scott Howard.”

This didn’t impress the guard, but it caught the attention of the manager, who stepped toward David and asked the guard, “What’s going on?”

“This guy says he’s Spider’s father.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“David Howard.”

The manager reclaimed his clipboard, quickly scanned the list and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Howard. I’ve never heard Spider mention his father, and I don’t have your name down on my list for passes. We have very strict rules against disturbing the band. We can only let people backstage who are on this list. You’re going to have to wait in line for an autograph with everyone else.”

“I don’t want an autograph and I wouldn’t be on your list. He doesn’t know I’m coming. It’s a surprise.”

“Well, you’re still going to have to wait in line.”

“Tell Scott that his father—David—would like to see him.”

Sensing that David had made some progress with the manager, the guard said, “Anyone with a computer can look up his real name on the Internet.”

The manager seemed to doubt whether this old guy in the golf get-up would engage in cyber-stalking, but the point couldn’t be denied.

“Okay,” David said. “Tell Scott that the man who paid for his piano lessons with Mrs. Singer would like to see him.”

The specificity of the comment persuaded the manager to investigate further. He turned away, whispered into his microphone and, after a couple of minutes that seemed like an eternity, told the guard, “Let him pass.” The guard seemed incredulous, but he complied with the order by unhooking the rope and pressing back the crowd so David could slip past. A group of girls with dyed hair and various piercings protested vociferously. One hit David in the head with a joint, making his sense of relief all the greater when he finally escaped the mob and re-entered the air-conditioned arena.

*** After a career spent inside the ropes, David understood as well as anyone how disappointing things could be behind the scenes. Golf fans often wondered what players talked about on the course or what went on in tournament clubhouses, but they’d have been underwhelmed by the reality. People tended to forget that for the pros, golf was work, not play, and the people with whom they shared their rounds were trying to pick one another’s pockets. Most of the time, golfers chatted less than accountants. People also tended to forget that golfers didn’t all tee off at the same time. Except for rain delays, clubhouses were mostly deserted; the sight of a solitary pro changing shirts or shoes wasn’t exactly the stuff of childhood dreams. David had seen enough to intuit that even the family quarters in the White House probably weren’t all that remarkable. There’d still be toothpaste in the sink and underwear on the floor. They might belong to the leader of the free world, but underwear was underwear.

Even when judged against these low expectations, the backstage area at the Broward Performing Arts Center underwhelmed. The hallway smelled vaguely of feet. Its harsh concrete walls were decorated only by the occasional poster: Journey with the Filipino guy who replaced the guy who replaced the guy who replaced Steve Perry, Jerry Vale and Friends, and the Steve Miller Band Summer ’20 Tour, which was probably about forty years too late for anyone to care.

Being backstage at a rock concert made the quiet seem particularly incongruous. The contrast to the commotion outside couldn’t have been starker. David saw precisely one human being: a cleaning person wheeling away a hardly-touched cart of chips and guacamole from the dressing room that temporarily belonged to the bass player, Beetle, and the lead singer, Mantis. A teenager would have swooned at seeing these

iconic names scrawled in magic marker, but David felt nothing.

When he saw the name Spider, though, he felt a bit light-headed. In his imagination he’d lived this moment many times. In these dreams (or nightmares), the encounter almost always ended with something being thrown at him. It seemed poetically just, in a way he couldn’t precisely define, that this substance would likely prove to be avocado.

David steeled himself and knocked. In a moment he heard a voice— Scott’s—say “come in,” and he opened the dressing room door.

Though it had been almost twenty years, he’d have recognized his son anywhere. He was bigger, of course, and softer, but there was the scar near his eye from when he’d gotten hit by a hockey stick, and the cowlick that would never fall into place. His almond eyes, which warmed when he smiled to welcome David, hadn’t changed at all. Scott hugged him more warmly than David either had expected or felt he deserved.

“I didn’t believe them when they said it. I knew you lived around here, but it’s been so long. Way to come up with Mrs. Singer’s name, by the way.”

“Yeah, I definitely pulled that out of my butt.”

“You should have called. You didn’t need to wait outside with the yearning masses.”

“I kind of decided at the last minute. This boy I’m teaching golf got me a ticket as a present.”

“That’s nice of him.”

David nodded. “He’s a very nice boy. A lot like you.”

Scott nodded. “Did you watch the show?”

“Yeah. It was great.”

Scott looked at him skeptically. “Come on.”

David should have known better. He’d never been able to deceive his son. He searched for something honest but polite, finally settling on, “It

was loud.”

Scott laughed. “I don’t like it either.”

“So why do you play it then?”

“I’d rather play jazz, but unfortunately, you can’t make any real money doing that. It’s okay, though. I still get to play music for a living. Not everyone gets to do exactly what he wants to.”

“I understand that.”

Scott nodded. He knew that was true.

“Would you like a drink or something?”

“No, I’m fine.”

Scott gestured for him to sit. As they sized each other up, David wondered how he looked to his son. David had never cared much about his own appearance, but at that moment he wanted to look better for Scott’s sake. His son had suffered enough. He shouldn’t also have to endure the sight of his pitiful excuse for a father grown decrepit and frail. But Scott seemed unbothered by David’s physical appearance. For that matter, he seemed oddly at peace with the entirety of his presence. His smile seemed warm and genuine. Only David seemed uncomfortable with the situation. He made what felt like a pathetic effort to break the ice by saying, “I’d imagined there’d be groupies.”

“Nah, we’ve been touring for more than ten years,” Scott said, responding quite naturally. “We all got that stuff out of our system a long time ago. Most of the guys are pretty cerebral, anyway. The drummer was reading Faulkner before the show. You’d like him a lot. He reads more than anyone I know.”

“That’s cool.”

“Besides, everyone in the band has a family. I’ve been married for more than five years. My wife and I have a two-year-old son.” Scott let these words sink in for a moment, then pulled a phone from his pocket,

swiped, and handed it over. As David saw his grandson for the first time, he felt the full weight of lost time crushing down on his chest. He returned the phone to Scott and asked, “How’s Amy?”

“She’s good. She teaches high school English in Pittsburgh. She’s married to an anthropology professor at Carnegie Mellon. He’s a good man. They’re trying to have a child.”

David nodded. “How’s mom?”

Scott looked down at the ground and David immediately understood that Kristin had died. Somehow David hadn’t considered this possibility. He’d been disconnected from his family for so long that he wouldn’t have imagined that any news about them could have impacted him much, but he felt as much emotion now as he had a minute earlier when he’d learned of and seen his grandchild for the first time—a full measure of grief for the woman that had been his first and only love, and regret for the poor choices he’d made. David wanted to cry, but he thought that would be indulgent.

“I had no idea. When?”

“Four years ago. We would have called you, but no one had your number.”

“I’m sorry,” David said.

Scott collected himself quickly. He was a Howard, after all.

“How have you been?”

“For a long time, really bad, but better recently.”

Scott nodded. “I’m glad to hear that.” After a beat, he asked, “Are you still playing?”

“I haven’t touched a club in more than ten years.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Not at all.”

Scott nodded his head “Yeah, you never seemed to like it all that

much. Always seemed more like obsession than passion.”

“That’s perceptive of you,” David said. It had been a long time since he’d felt understood.

They sat in silence for a while, and David thought that it was enough to simply sit quietly with his son in a room. He lamented how many such simple moments he’d missed over the years. Later, they chatted amiably about Scott’s career and his marriage and how magical it was to have a two-year-old. Scott explained how conflicted he felt about being on the road, and how even a single day apart seemed intensely significant. David understood, of course, and said comforting things about the importance of a parent maintaining his or her identity and the virtue of artistic pursuits, though if he were being honest, he wished he’d taken that club pro job at Laurel Valley Country Club all those years ago. Scott said comforting things of his own about pursuing one’s dreams. He asked how things were going for David, who couldn’t think of anything interesting to say other than to tell Scott a little bit about Billy and how the boy had reconnected him to golf. Scott seemed to be pleased that David had found someone to mentor. When the conversation drifted toward its natural end, they exchanged numbers and agreed to try and build a relationship and for David to meet his grandchild as soon as Scott’s tour ended. They hugged, and somehow, impossibly, it still felt like his son. The experience so far exceeded David’s expectations that it left him breathless.

As he turned to leave, David said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“You don’t seem angry.”

“I’m not.”

“How can that be?”

“Well, at first I just missed you. Then, when it became clear you weren’t coming home, I did become angry. That probably lasted a long

time, but eventually I saw that it didn’t accomplish anything positive. I remember that story you told me your golf teacher told you about the woman and the strawberries.”

“You remember that,” David asked, incredulously.

“Yeah. I think music really helps with staying in the moment. It sensitizes you to the energy in people and universe. I can’t play good music angry. So it went away. And then after mom died and Maggie was born, I just missed you.”

“I always figured you’d never want to see me again.”

“Why would you think that?”

“For all the obvious reasons. Because of what happened in the Birmingham hotel.”

“People make mistakes.”

“Because I was such a failure as a golfer and a father.”

Scott smiled and sniggled.

“What’s funny?”

“I always thought you were the best father and golfer in the world.”