He never had.
Marcus needed dialysis Monday morning.
The hospital had given Booker one final extension.
Eight o’clock.
One hundred and eighty dollars after Medicaid.
If he missed the payment, Marcus would be moved to the public waiting list.
The estimated wait could be eight months.
The hospital had never explained what happened to children who could not wait that long.
Booker knew.
He simply refused to say it aloud.
The camel coat on his shoulders was the last thing he owned from his old life.
Eleanor had bought it at Barney’s the winter she was pregnant with Marcus.
Eight years ago.
Eight years since Eleanor died.
Eight years since Booker had stopped singing.
Through the kitchen door of Halloway’s, he could faintly hear someone’s radio.
Puccini.
“Nessun Dorma.”
Booker pressed his palm against the brick wall.
He listened until the aria ended.
Then he opened his eyes.
He stood.
And instead of walking back toward the dumpster, he walked around the corner.
Toward the front door.
Somewhere between the third and fourth hour of waiting, Booker had made a decision.
Dignity was important.
But his son was more important.
He stepped inside.
Sing for It
A young waiter named Mason Crowley was folding napkins at the service station when Booker approached.
“The plate at table six,” Booker said quietly.
Mason looked at him.
“Could I take it home?”
Mason hesitated.
“I’ll wash dishes all night.”
Across the dining room, Garrett Halloway saw him.
Garrett walked over.
He pulled sanitizer from his vest.
He sprayed his palms.
Then he sprayed the marble floor at Booker’s feet.
“Brody.”
The security guard came forward.
“Walk this thing out.”
Brody seized Booker’s elbow.
“Sir, just the bread,” Booker pleaded.
Garrett raised one finger.
Brody stopped.
Garrett reached up and pulled Booker’s cap from his head.
He threw it onto the bar.
Then he nodded toward Brody.
The security guard grabbed Booker’s camel coat and yanked it from behind him, trapping his arms.
The coat fell onto the floor.
Garrett turned toward a group of men at table eleven.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Would you eat next to this?”
They laughed.
Booker swallowed.
“My son is twelve.”
Garrett turned back.
“He needs dialysis Monday morning.”
“I lost my wife eight years ago.”
“Every dollar I have goes to him.”
Garrett smiled.
“Please, louder.”
Booker said nothing.
“People paid for dinner.”
Brody slapped Booker across the face.
A woman at another table cried out.
She did not stand.
Garrett leaned closer.
“Boss asked you a question.”
Booker slowly turned his head.
His eyes did not drop.
“My son needs dialysis Monday morning.”
Garrett suddenly noticed the child sitting at table eight.
The little girl was watching him.
Her mother covered the girl’s mouth.
Garrett straightened.
“I’m a generous man,” he announced.
He pointed toward the stage.
“I support the children’s hospital every year.”
Then he smiled.
“Entertainers earn their meals here.”
He pointed at the stage.
“Sing for the room.”
Booker stared at him.
“Then maybe I’ll feed you.”
Brody pushed down on Booker’s shoulders.
His knees hit the wooden floor.
Garrett crouched.
He rested one hand on Booker’s head as if touching a dog.
“Say please properly.”
Booker looked up.
He did not bow.
“Please.”
Garrett clapped once.
He placed a twenty-dollar bill on the stage.
“Tip jar.”
Then he turned toward table eleven.
“Take requests.”
One of the men laughed.
“Mammy. Make him dance.”
Garrett laughed with them.
Brody hauled Booker onto the platform.
His shirt tore at the shoulder.
His cap landed at his feet.
“Hat off, boy.”
Booker stood.
One cheek burning.
Knees covered in dust.
He did not pick up the cap.
His hand moved toward his breast pocket.
His fingers touched Eleanor’s folded opera program.
Then Marcus’s photograph.
Booker closed his eyes.
He took one breath.
And for the first time in eight years, his diaphragm engaged.
The First Note
The first note did not sound like a homeless man begging for food.
It sounded like something the room had forgotten it needed.
Low.
Deep.
A baritone’s middle register anchored somewhere beneath the chest.
The sound did not merely reach the ears.
It seemed to arrive at the sternum first.
Garrett had been turning back toward table eleven.
His mouth was already opening for another joke.
The joke never came.
At table four, a woman lifted a fork toward her mouth.
She stopped.
The fork remained suspended in the golden light.
At another table, a man tilted a wineglass toward the linen.
He never finished putting it down.