Balls by Julian Tepper, Julian Page B

with. It never happened. You’re not a jingle-writer.
    He saw his own mad reflection in the long frame of the upright piano. With delirious eyes, he stared back at himself and said, Look forward. There’ll be a future for you. You’re not going to die. They’ll cut it out and you’ll walk away. Now put something down. Make some music. A song. A song for Walbaum.
    Henry began to play, and within minutes he was lost in a new composition:
    Faulk,
Old FRIEND,
Last month,
You called me,
Fifteen times,
In a single day.
Can’t you take,
A hint?
I don’t want anything,
More to do with,
You.
    Faulk was not right in the head. He never had been. As recently as last month, messages, long, sentimental, remorseful, were coming to Henry via text at an alarming rate. It was not his first attempt to make amends for a particular misdeed. Undeniably, Faulk had wronged Henry, and he knew it. But he took offense when Henry didn’t forgive him.
    I don’t care,
If it hurts,
I’m done,
With you,
For good.
    Just shy of a year ago, Faulk appeared at Henry’s door. Smelling oddly of gasoline and with dirt on his face, Faulk, once a handsome man, now bald and missing teeth, was agitated. Plastic bags full of junk encumbered his hands. He dropped them on the floor and went straight into the kitchen to make himself a vodka-soda.
    Are you all right? Henry asked him.
    All right? Henry, I’m on top of the world. Faulk, filling his glass with ice, said, I’ve got the one.
    You’re in love? Henry asked him.
    Faulk said, No. Not love, but it is about a girl. She’s a singer. Sonya. What pipes, what legs, you’re going to love her.
    Oh, I see. That’s great.
    Henry thought Faulk had given up on managing talent. He’d said he was going to begin a house-painting business.
    I believed you were onto something,
With that idea.
For my own sake,
I was relieved knowing,
I’d never have to hear you say,
This one’s going to be a star,
Or, that one’s going to the top,
Ever again.
    Since All the Crazies Love Me debuted on the radio, Faulk had been after Henry for help. One singer, and then another, and another, he insisted they be brought before Walbaum for a meeting. Henry was skeptical. He didn’t trust Faulk’s judgment of talent, and he would not be made a fool of with Walbaum.
    Listen Henry, Faulk was circling his glass in the air, you have to listen to her sing. She’ll make you drop. You’ll want to call up your guy, Walbaum, and get a little convo going.
    If your father, Lawrence,
Hadn’t taught me to play piano,
I’d have told you no,
Way.
    The Faulks had lived around the corner from Henry’s family on East 92nd. His father, Lawrence Faulk, was a musician, a tall, imposing man, who kept a full beard. He wore thin black cotton pants, but no shirt, his chest hair dark and copious. Sheet music to Bach’s Minuet in G sat open on the worn grand piano. In red ink at the top of the page he had written:
    Make the Art. Earn your Death .
    Henry and Faulk, both six years old, sat at the piano in the smoky room, the shades drawn. The furniture was all antique and stunk of mildew. Faulk’s mother lived in Jersey. It was only he and his father there in the small apartment. Lawrence, lighting a cigarette, addressed them like prisoners.
    Did you ingrates practice your scales?
    We did, sir.
    Don’t lie to me.
    It’s the truth, Dad.
    Lawrence smacked his son over the head. Henry, too. A couple of hopeless cases…how could I, just a man, make either of you any better? It’s impossible. Agree or disagree?
    Disagree, the boys said in unison.
    Agree or disagree?
    Disagree!
    Lawrence would start the metronome at a slow tempo. For half an hour the boys would practice scales. Meanwhile, Lawrence would recline on a green divan by the window, smoking and reading the Times . Every so often his ear would tune into their playing.
    Listen to the metronome. Pah