Ronnie laid the guitar flat on its back atop a felt sheet so the coarse workbench wouldn’t scratch it. Hunkering down, he stared across its surface for a moment and said, “See? She’s starting to belly.”
Fegan bent down at the opposite side of the bench. Ronnie smelled of mint and linseed oil. Yes, there it was: a slight deformation in the guitar’s smooth face. “I see it,” Fegan said. He ran his fingertips over the satin-finished cedar.
Fegan reached in through the guitar’s soundhole and felt the loose brace just inside. “Glue it and clamp it?” he asked.
“That ought to do it,” Ronnie said. He coughed and spat into a tissue, his face reddening. “Grab us the aliphatic resin like a good fella.”
Fegan went to a storage cupboard and found a bottle of the glue. He brought it to Ronnie, but the older man shook his head and eased himself back onto his stool.
“You have a go,” Ronnie said. “Dab a bit of that on a spatula and slap her on.”
Fegan hesitated. “You sure?”
Ronnie nodded. Fegan worked while Ronnie watched, the old man softly humming an old jazz tune in his wheezy voice. Fegan recognised this one as “Misty’. Ronnie had played it for him once on his guitar. He said Clint Eastwood made a film about it.
As Fegan tightened a G-clamp to hold the glued brace in position, Ronnie asked, “Are you sleeping any better?”
“No,” Fegan said.
“Still those dreams?”
Fegan wiped away the excess glue with a tissue. He did not answer.
“Don’t tell me,” Ronnie chided. He coughed and smiled. “See if I care.”
“It’s just . . .” Fegan rolled the tissue in a ball and threw it on the workbench. “It’s just I’m not sure they’re dreams.”
Ronnie scratched his stubbly chin. “Why?”
“Because I’m awake when they come. I know I’m awake. And sometimes ...”
Ronnie waited. “And sometimes?”
“I’ve seen them in the daytime.” Fegan screwed the lid back on the bottle of glue. He didn’t look at the other man.
“What does Dr. Brady say?”
Fegan shrugged. “He says it’s guilt. He called it a manifestation.”
Ronnie wiped his mouth with his tissue and raised his eyebrows. “Big word. Must be serious. And what do
think it is?”
Fegan crossed the room and stowed the glue in the cupboard. He stayed there, his back to Ronnie. “When I was small, before my father died, I used to see things. People. I used to talk to them.” He listened for some response, some dismissal. When none came, he said, “I never told anyone that. Not even Dr. Brady.”
He waited for a long minute before turning back to Ronnie. The old man sat hunched on the stool, staring at the tissue in his fingers.
Fegan took a step closer. “Ronnie?”
“You’re talking about the dead,” he said. He hacked and spat, his face going from red to purple. When he was done, he wiped his lips and inhaled a deep, rattling breath. “Don’t talk to me about the dead. This stuff’s eating away at me, the asbestos, eating me from inside. You’ll be out of here in a few weeks, but I might not make it that far. The quack says some of these nights I’ll just drown in my sleep, same as if someone held my head under water. Every night I put my head down I pray I’ll lift it again in the morning. And I pray if I don’t, He’ll take care of me.” Ronnie’s shoulders hitched and his eyes welled. “You know what I did.”
Fegan nodded.
“Aye.” Ronnie sniffed and coughed. “Don’t talk to me about the dead, Gerry.” He raised himself from the stool and shuffled towards the door. “I’ll meet them soon enough.”
Ronnie stopped in the doorway while the guard checked his pockets. He looked back over his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Gerry.” He winked. “No one else will.”
Fegan never saw him again. He wept the day Ronnie’s daughter brought the guitar to him.
Sunlight from his window made glistening pools on the Martin D- 28’s finish. Fegan propped the guitar back in its corner and admired the wood’s grain. The lacquer had yellowed with age, making the guitar even more handsome. He had a set of strings, eleven-gauge bronze, for when it was done. He wasn’t sure how to tune it, but he would figure it out.
Fegan checked the time. The phone had been charging for its requisite two hours. Despite the shaking of his hands, and the throb behind his eyes, he finally managed to put the little plastic card in place, cover it with the battery, and snap the phone’s back cover on. The instructions lay open on the coffee table in front of him, and he traced the small words with his fingertip. He pressed and held the green button. When it vibrated in his hand, he placed it on the coffee table and watched its colorful screen play a series of animations.
He looked at his palm. The string of digits was faint, but still readable. Following the instructions, he dialled Marie McKenna’s number. He closed his eyes and listened to the ring tone, remembering she had made no promises about answering. The phone almost slipped from his fingers when she did.
“It’s Gerry,” he said.
