The History of Sound By BEN SHATTUCK

I sang for David

"What department?" Likely everyone in the pub that night was from the Conservatory.

"Voice," I said.

"Well," he said. "Fa-la-la. I'm Music History. This—" He played the melody once. "Just a hobby. In the summer. To get fresh air. Collecting."

From across the room, Matt and Lawrence motioned that they were leaving. I waved them on.

"Ever been to Harrow?" I said. "That's where I grew up."

"Harrow. Two summers ago. Sky-blue gazebo in the center of town."

He seemed unsurprised by the coincidence, so I, likewise, didn't react. There weren't many Southerners at the Conservatory then, and absolutely nobody from Harrow, a town of two thousand between the rivers Cold and Solemn. But here was David. Perhaps we'd even seen each other. I was once homesick, I remember.

"There was a reel I remember learning there," he said, "‛Maids of Killary,' I think?"

"I know it. Do you know 'Seed of the Plough'?"

"Should I?" he said.

I told him that my mom used to sing it.

"Go on. Let's hear it."

"No," I said, shaking my head.

"What key?" he said, playing one chord to the next, down the piano. He edged forward on the bench. "What key?" he repeated, touching out an A.

His eyebrows lifted. I noticed then a dash on his upper lip, a scar, a smudge of pale red that I'd later learn was from his father.

"Don't think you could put a piano to it," I said.

"The floor is yours." He pushed away from the keys, slipped another cigarette from his pocket, picked a candle from the headboard, and cupped the flame to his face. Waited.

I was first told I had perfect pitch when I named the note my mom coughed every early morning. I could harmonize with a dog barking across the field. I was the tuner for Dad's violin—standing at his elbow, singing out an A while he pinched and tightened the pegs. Early on I thought that everyone could see sound. A shape and color—a wobbly circle, blackberry purple, for D. I only adjusted the shape I saw, and then locked into the correct decibels. Tastes started to accompany the notes when I was thirteen. Dad would play a bad B minor and waxy bitterness filled my mouth. On the other hand, a perfect C and I tasted sugary cherries. D, milk.

I sang for David then.

I've always felt as if what came from my throat and lips was not mine, like I was stealing rather than making something. This body was mine—the constriction of my diaphragm, the pressure in my throat, the lips and the softening of my tongue that shaped the sound—but what left me, ringing through the crown of my head so my skull felt more bell than corporeal, flooding my ears' tympani, vibrating through my nose, wasn't my own. More like the sound of wind in the trees or over a glass bottle. Or, better, an echo of my own voice, coming out of my mouth. A repetition. I can't sing like that anymore—and I miss it. Now I have this weak warble, this drone that nobody tells me isn't any good.

As I ended the song, the color yellow faded to the taste of wet wood.

"Where in hell did you learn that?" he asked.

I shrugged.

"I wouldn't be puttering around school if I had a voice like that," he said.

When he stood to get another beer, I saw he was inches taller than anybody in the room.

We stayed together until dawn. Me singing to his piano. I might have been able to hum a D at both octaves, but I'd never met anyone with a memory like his. Tilting his head, plugging one ear with a finger, humming a note or two, he'd tease the song out, only fumbling a line when he was absolutely drunk.

"Let me buy you another beer," I said, not moving from the piano's side, in the gray morning light.

"Yes," he said. "You've kept me up all night. You owe me."

"Anything you want," I said, staring.

"No. I'm tired. It's almost morning. I'm going to bed. I live across the street. I have a couch if you want."

His apartment was bare—only a bed, a piano, and a chair. No couch. Dirty plates and glasses were scattered on the floor, along with pages and pages of music. No desk. I asked him for a glass of water, because the room was spinning. He brought a water glass from the kitchen, took a long sip, and then spit an arc of water at me. I opened my mouth to catch the stream. He did this until the glass was empty and I was wet but had managed a few sips. He placed the glass on the floor, and then walked to me, took off my glasses, folded them and put them on the window sill. He pulled my wet shirt up over my head and led me to his bed, on which was a pile of quilts and sheets. When I leaned in to kiss him I went right for the scar on his lip, sucked it while he pressed his palm up against my thigh. He fell back on the bed, wrapped his legs around me.