Balls by Julian Tepper, Julian Page A

the corners of his mouth rose high to the middle of his cheeks. That song almost played on televisions around the world?
    Henry blew air through his nostrils. He was tugging on his ear. He said, Almost , and stood straight up from his seat. Paula’s graduation program, an anxious roll of paper, had escaped his jacket pocket, and lay on the floor. Henry stooped down for it and came up red-faced and off-kilter. He said, Everyone, I’m sorry, I have to go home.
    From down low in the booth Paula stared at him. She looked like a child, the way she sat, of no more than twelve. She said, You’re leaving, Henry?
    I have to. Shaking with Marcel, he said, Nice to see you, sir.
    Marcel clapped both his hands around Henry’s. A superb piece of music, he said.
    Thank you. Thanks. Well, I’ll talk to you later, Paula. He kissed her goodbye, he embraced Denise. He couldn’t wait to get out the door, away from the Mills’, and Andy Powell. It was where he’d find peace.

THREE

T he sun had already set, and Henry, seated under lamp light at his piano, drank from a small glass bottle of whiskey. He was trying to write a new song, but the dark sky of evening had intensified his fears. He was sure he was dying. Through his lungs up into his brain the cancer had spread. With chemotherapy they’d try to save him, but there was no chance of it. Life was over. Or else he was going to lose both his testicles. He’d never ejaculate again.
    With two fists he struck the keys of the piano. Discordant treble notes rung out and in the quality of their sound was something murderous. Sweaty, hot, trembling, he put his face flat to the keys. At the next moment he could feel from inside his pocket the vibrations of his phone. He dug it out. Paula was calling. He stood back from the piano. He was so grateful to hear from her. His whole body felt warm. She was still at the Carlyle. Her parents had returned to their room and she’d gone to the lobby for privacy.
    I haven’t told them anything about the bulge in your back. Just like you asked, she said, proudly.
    Thank you, Paula.
    But my stepmother was after me. She was saying, Is Henry doing all right? and I told her, He’s great. Why? and she said, I don’t know, just seems not himself and—well, anyway.
    Yes. Anyway.
    What else did they say about your bulge , Henry?
    Nothing more, really. They’ll do a minor procedure.
    Will it be painful?
    A little, I’m sure.
    He didn’t mean to add layers to his lie. However, tomorrow, he’d tell her the truth. That was it. And he felt certain that the matter had been decided. He said, Come over, would you?
    Come there?
    Paula reminded him that it was the night of her graduation. She had plans to celebrate.
    Right, said Henry. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that myself. His heartache returned.
    Paula invited him to come out with her. Just to be asked made him feel better. Then she began to rescind her offer.
    Or maybe I’ll just come for breakfast tomorrow.
    Tomorrow?
    Maybe I should be alone with my friends tonight and I’ll come in the morning and we can have a nice day. What do you think?
    I don’t know, said Henry.
    Do you want to come tonight? If you want to, you should.
    Walking his fingers along the black keys, he said, No. No, actually I don’t think so. You go and have a good time. Come for breakfast in the morning.
    Maybe around noon.
    Sure. Come at noon, said Henry.
    Okay. I’ll see you then.
    Putting down the phone, he lifted his head and saw his piano. My savior, he thought.
    Playing did make him forget his sorrow. Soon his fingers took on great life, moving vigorously along the keys. Strong and loud, he felt every note in his chest. At one point his hands incidentally began to play the chorus to Ms. Scandinavia.
    But no, not that! he shouted. She crashed the stocks in Stockholm . She is the hell in Helsinki. That’s terrible. And it’s over