My Children Sing
By David L. Swint

Geoff Wilmer spent the first 30 minutes in Norwood getting lost. He knew Tom Cross lived near the old Rookwood pottery factory, but that was about it. It wasn't an unfamiliar neighborhood, this blue-collar suburb of Cincinnati, but just unfamiliar enough, and compounded by the fact that he was working on his first cover story for World Guitar Monthly. And Tom Cross wasn't just any luthier; most folks in the tightly-knit world of guitar building and vintage guitar trading considered Cross one of the finest artisans ever to construct an acoustic guitar. Wilmer shook his head and grumbled as he took a second left turn onto Millcroft Avenue after circling the block. "Jeezus…35 years old, freelancer for a dozen years. I'm too old for rookie nerves."

After his third left turn onto Millcroft, driving yet again past the same nondescript rows of old two-and-three-family homes, all seeming in need of a little repair and some fresh paint, Wilmer decided to try a right turn onto the troublesome street. Less than halfway down the avenue, he was in front of a slate-gray two-family structure set on a high bank that afforded a view of downtown. The Cross home/workshop. He glanced at the car's console clock. Almost 4 p.m., not really late after all. Notebook in hand, he climbed the steps to the front porch. Then, grumbling again, back to the car to get his mini-cassette recorder.

He rang the doorbell, standing expectantly at the entry, the only sound that of children somewhere nearby chanting a sing-song "Red rover, red rover." That sound would be gone by dusk, he thought. There had been no disappearances in Norwood for a few months, but parents were still keeping their children close to home. The thought was gone in an instant as the door opened and he was shaking hands with Tomasso Croccetti, better known as Tom Cross, master guitar builder for the better part of 40 years. The tall, white-haired man had to be in his late-60s, but he had a strong grip, his hands as detailed as branches of an ancient oak.

"I can't tell you how much I've looked forward to doing this piece, to meeting you," Wilmer said, a little too eagerly. He winced at his gushing.

Cross smiled. "Well, I'm a little behind on orders, but I can spare a few minutes for your story. Come on back to the shop." He led Wilmer out of the foyer and into what used to be the first-story living room of his home, lined with shelves and workbenches. Stacks of lumber were visible in an adjoining room, arranged in neat, flat piles on an open wooden rack. "This is where I do most of the carving and fitting. Gluing and finishing are done in what used to be the back porch. Pretty modest setup, if I say so myself. I work alone and I live upstairs, so it's really all I need."

Wilmer jotted down some notes, checked his recorder. "Any climate control?"

"Only a little. Dehumidification in the worst of summer, humidification in the winter. I've found that if you're reasonably comfortable, a guitar will be reasonably comfortable." He looked over to Wilmer. "So. Is this what you expected?"

The reporter nodded, tried to maintain a respectable professional composure. "It's similar to other small shops I've seen." True enough, but inside, he was trying desperately not to drool over the Cross guitar sitting on a cushioned bench nearby. It looked like it had been based on the body style of an old Gibson model flattop guitar, but that was only a starting point. Even amid the sawdust and scrap wood, the instrument stood out like some rare jewel, its elegant curves of Brazilian rosewood and Adirondack spruce, its Hawaiian koa binding, its intricate abalone inlay accents set exactly right into the headstock between the tuning pegs and down the ebony fingerboard. Playing this guitar would be a sensual - maybe even sexual - delight.

"I'm afraid that one's taken," Cross said.

Wilmer regained his composure with an embarrassed grin. "Guess I was pretty obvious, wasn't I?"

"I'm used to that look. I'd offer you a minute with it, but that one's not ready to be played just yet." Cross moved to another bench and picked up a thin spruce board, tapped it gently as he nodded for the reporter to move closer.

"Hear that?"

Wilmer leaned closer to the wood, listening, then smiling. "Yeah."

"What did you hear?"

"Sort of a ring, a vibration…musical."

Cross put the board down. "This wood isn't ready yet. Now listen to this one." He held up another fine-grained plank and tapped it gently.

Eyes widened. "Wow. Sounds like the wood is alive. I hear tones, overtones…"

The old man smiled. "This wood is starting to sing. It's telling us it's ready to become a guitar."

Backing away, Wilmer jotted a few more notes as he checked his tape recorder for the fifth time in as many minutes. Cross placed the spruce board gently onto his workbench as he spoke. "I've worked with woods from all over the world...varieties of spruce from the northwest States and Canada, Hawaiian Koa, Bubinga from Cameroon, cedar, ebony, walnut, maple. Only a few of those pieces of wood can become a guitar. Most do not."

The reporter nodded, watching the luthier handling the pale wood plank as gently as one might hold an infant. It made sense. A Tom Cross acoustic guitar had become a sort of grail among guitarists worldwide, as the two-year waiting list for one of the half-dozen or so instruments he would build in any given year would attest. One of the finest guitars available, made from the finest woods available by one of the best craftsmen, one of the best artists, to work wood into an instrument. At a starting price in the mid-five figures, only a few lucky musicians would ever own a Cross, and all who did seemed to agree that their instrument had been a bargain.

Wilmer sighed a little…a freelance writer who played in a weekend bar band would never own one of these instruments, but perhaps he could touch one before he was finished with his interview. Maybe one would be ready to play if he could come back to the old man's shop when the photographer showed up next week to take some shots of the builder working on one of his masterpieces.

"So, Mr. Cross…how long does it take to make a top for one of your guitars?"

"A few days. A few weeks, months. The wood tells me when it's ready." He laughed as he turned from the bench. "I have plenty to do in the meantime. The back of the guitar, that has to sing, too. So do the sides, and I have to bend those with steam and clamps. Even the neck…every piece has to sing, not just on its own but also with the other pieces of wood that it will join to become a whole instrument."

"So that's why your guitars are different from something made in a factory?"

"There are fine instruments made in factories. They have history, and they have a well-earned place in music. But they're still manufactured. Some will sound good, some not so good. A few will sound great. Happy accidents, I call them. I don't produce accidents."

Cross wiped a bit of sawdust from his worn tan workshirt. "This is not a factory, Mr. Wilmer. It's a delivery room where guitars are born. My little varnished children, born to make music." He shook his head with a little chuckle. "Never thought I'd become such a sentimental old man. You'll edit out the clichés for me, yes?"

"How about the finishes?" Wilmer asked, pressing ahead. "Your finishes are probably the most celebrated features of Cross guitars. Any secrets you can share?"

An inscrutable smile. "I'm afraid not. My father, my grandfather, all my uncles, they all were woodworkers back in the old country, in Italy. They developed their own formulas for finishing woods. Some based on history, old knowledge shared many years ago within the guilds. Some that they discovered on their own, refined, perfected, passed on from generation to generation. I've done a bit of discovery and refinement of my own. I'd like to keep that much for myself."

"So you won't be passing that knowledge on to an heir, a protégé? Someone who'll continue your work?"

The luthier took a step closer to Wilmer. "When I'm gone, my work will be complete. The instruments will live on."

The reporter looked up from his notes. "There's no one else?"

"I have no immediate family, Mr. Wilmer. All you see around us…that's it. That's my family, secrets and all." He removed his glasses as he pulled a blue handkerchief from a back pocket, began wiping at the lenses. "Let me tell you a story. A few years ago, a Japanese billionaire bought one of my guitars. Secondhand, of course. No offense, but I craft my instruments for musicians, sell my instruments to musicians, people who'll play them. Not seal them behind glass, turn them into things to stare at from a distance. My children were born to sing.

"This billionaire took my guitar back to Japan, where he had a team of engineers examine the instrument inside out. They studied everything; they traced the lineage of the woods, where they came from, they did a chemical analysis of the glue. They analyzed the finish. Everything. After more than a year, they gave up. They were able to physically reproduce the guitar, but it would not - could not - sing."

After a moment, Wilmer spoke. "Why do you think they failed?"

"No soul. Their guitar had no soul. My guitars do, all of them. The finish gives the instrument its soul."

They toured the rooms, Cross showing off the woods he'd collected from around the world, showing the templates he used, the tools he preferred, some of those tools designed and built by his family. Wilmer asked his remaining stock questions, the questions that World Guitar Monthly's readers expected in interviews. The luthier wouldn't answer any follow up questions regarding his finishes. After a couple of hours, they were done, and Cross showed the reporter out.

At the door, they shook hands again, and Wilmer stole a glance over Cross' shoulder, back into the workshop. Before he could suppress the urge, he abruptly asked, "Do you suppose it's too late to learn how to make guitars? For me, I mean. Too late for me to learn?"

Cross gripped the younger man's hand a little tighter, almost fatherly. "Of course not. But not here. I'm sorry. I have my ways…a family thing, I guess."

"Sorry. I didn't intend to presume."

"Don't worry about it. It's been good talking with you. I can tell that you play. You'll send me your issue of the magazine, won't you?"

"I will. It'll be a great advertisement for your shop."

"I have as much business as I can manage, but I appreciate the notion." He backed away, into his shop. "Please have your photographer call ahead to schedule a time."

The door shut now, Wilmer stood for a moment, disappointed with himself for his lapse in professionalism. He turned away, back down the steps off the porch, then down the concrete steps to the street and his car. Silent outside now, the sound of children gone, their songs vanished into the approaching fall darkness. Safe at home for another night.

He got in his car and pulled away.

--

Wilmer had worked enough times with Kenny Lake to make him promise to call when he'd scheduled the photo shoot, and Lake halfheartedly agreed. A day later, the photographer lived up to his word. The shoot would happen in four days, a Sunday afternoon.

"I'll have everything I need with me, Geoff," Kenny said. "You're being a pain in the ass about this. You'd think it's your first cover story for the magazine."

"It is my first cover story. Stop being a dick. You want some help bringing your stuff over to Cross' place?"

"I'm fine. I'VE done this before, remember?"

Wilmer switched the phone to his other ear, taking another look at his notes. "He's got a couple of nearly finished guitars around. Try and shoot those."

"I'll get 'em. Stop worrying."

"And some candid shots. Something impromptu, you know."

"I know how to do my job. I'm hanging up now."

"And you'll be on time? It's at 2 p.m., right?"

"Hanging up, Geoff. Can't hear you."

"Close-ups of his hands applying a finish would be great, too..."

"Do you really need to be at this thing? You're gonna drive me nuts."

"You'll be fine. YOU'VE done this before, after all."

"Then I'll see you there. Asshole."

"Great. Hey...thanks. Really. You'll get some good stuff."

"Always. We can't depend on words to tell the whole story."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll see you Sunday. And Kenny?"

"Yeah?"

"Stop being a dick."

A couple of short beeps buzzed in the earpiece. "Oops...call waiting," Kenny said. "Gotta go." The photographer was gone. Geoff hung up, still gazing at his notes. The soul angle would make a good lead for the story, he decided. Now all he needed was a way to work it in.

--

Geoff wound through the Norwood streets, remembering to make the correct turns this time. A sunny Sunday afternoon, a warm autumn day, there was no traffic to speak of in the neighborhood as he pulled up behind Kenny's van, an anonymous-looking maroon Chevy. Car parked, he got out, wandered to the driver's side window for a quick glance inside. It seemed as though most of the photographer's gear was still in the van, which meant he probably hadn't been there long. At least, that was the hope; Kenny sometimes showed up for shoots earlier than planned to catch his subjects a little off-guard for more spontaneous, less formal photos. Twenty-something guys felt too indestructible sometimes, Geoff thought, especially when they act like paparazzi-in-training.

He scaled the steps to the house, a little unnerved by the silence. Even traffic noise from the Norwood Lateral seemed subdued today, but maybe that because it was Sunday. He rang the doorbell, got no answer. Knocked, leaned in to listen for sounds inside the house. More silence. Windows were curtained, so there was no view into the shop. Geoff decided to try the door and found it unlocked. He leaned in.

"Hello?" His voice only stirred a bit of fine sawdust from atop a doorframe. Out of the foyer, into the main shop, everything seemed still as late-night sleep. He walked slowly, stepping alongside a long workbench, the aroma of freshly-cut wood heavy in the air. "Mr. Cross? Kenny? It's Geoff..."

Guitars in various stages of completion were visible around the room. A short row of unfinished necks hung on peghooks above one bench; a dark piece of rosewood that would probably become a guitar back bore an hourglass-like sketch outline for a saw to follow; a finely-grained spruce board sat atop another bench surrounded by a bed of shavings and sawdust. The Cross guitar nursery. Geoff stopped for another listen, heard nothing.

The guitar he'd seen on his first trip still sat on it's cushioned work surface, spotlighted by a single lamp hanging from a chain overhead. The reporter moved a little closer, not too close, since he remembered the luthier's assertion that guitar wasn't ready to be played yet. It rested, a sleeping beauty, or perhaps a sleeping baby, still intoxicatingly lovely in the humble little shop. Then, he was right beside it, looking down upon the instrument. It was even more breathtaking up close. The top's finish was exquisite, giving the wood a sheen that enhanced the natural undulations of the grain. The gloss seemed to give the guitar depth, as if it were a small pool that one could plunge into, to become surrounded by warmth and music. Geoff saw his reflection in the finish, the light creating a hazy halo around his head. For a moment, he imagined he saw more faces in the wood, young faces, eyes closed, mouths open, singing. A glimpse of the instrument's soul.

A sharp pain just behind his right ear took him to his knees. Before he could react, a second, duller pain in the same area. Geoff felt the sensation of falling as the room went spinning into darkness.

--

First there was black, an absence of light creating a void, a mystery. Darkness and quiet, save for something distant, something abstractly melodic. Voices, perhaps, like a choir in a church far away. Then the pain, a dull throb behind his right ear. Each throb a heartbeat, each heartbeat slowly pushing out a little darkness, swirling in a little gray, then colors, faint and drifting into lazy focus. An aroma, heavy and unidentifiable, undercut with the chemical sharpness of solvent.

Geoff opened his eyes. A dimly-lighted room, a bare concrete floor. Couldn't move. He shook his head, setting off another wave of pain on the right side of his head. Took a sharp breath, a cough, another breath. He raised his head slowly. He didn't know how long he'd been out...minutes, hours? Must have been clubbed from behind. Ahead, a bare brick wall, dull red. To the left, more brick. To the right...

To the right was a row of amber children. He blinked, refocused. The amber children remained, propped in straight-backed chairs, seated bolt upright in their clear brown shells. Faces, some staring ahead, others pointed down. One's eyes were open, frozen wide under the shiny, hard crust.

A soft apologetic voice: "I'm sorry you had to come back when you did, Mr. Wilmer." Cross stepped into view. Holding a brush and bucket, the old man wore a stained white overall.

"What...where?" Geoff tried to move again, realized he was naked, that he'd been duct taped to a straight backed chair. "What are you doing?" A wave of panic twisted inside.

"Your photographer. He arrived early, let himself in. He was a rude young man. Not at all like you. No respect for my children." Cross stepped close, knelt in front of the reporter as he stirred something in the paint bucket.

"Mr. Cross...what happened? What are you doing?"

The luthier began painting Geoff's feet and legs with a clear, pale amber liquid. He tried to move, struggling against his restraints.

"Shhh. Please be still. It's part of the process." More painting.

"What is this? Is this a joke? Did Kenny put you up to this?"

"Please, Mr. Wilmer. Kenny's gone."

"What do you mean gone?"

The old man sighed. "He's gone. Won't be found. He came early, came inside. Disturbed my children. I found him here in the basement, and he had to go away. He won't be found...my family was good at more than just woodworking."

Painting higher, Geoff's legs were coated past the knees, halfway up the thighs. The reporter struggled again. "I don't know what you're talking about...I don't understand. Let me up. We can talk."

"Sorry about the brush, by the way. I require a thick coat for this work. I would need to thin the varnish too much for spraying."

"Varnish? This is varnish? What the fuck..."

"It creates a shell, a sealed environment. A place for the special ingredient to develop and cure. An old, old family tradition. Those beside you, they came from this neighborhood. The perfect age, around 9 or 10. The little girl next to you is almost ready to be tapped for her essence."

The children. A cold shock of realization flooded Geoff. Kids sealed in amber shells, a row of little varnished children waiting for an old man with strong, lithe hands to tap into their clear little world, to drain off their dead, liquefied remains. He began to scream.

The old man stood, shook his head. He stepped out of sight for a moment, returned with a roll of duct tape, tore off a piece. Sealed Geoff's mouth shut, then resumed the painting, now chest-high. "Mr. Wilmer, my children deserve the best. I choose the finest materials, I fashion it with a skill my family refined over many years, I fit everything perfectly. But the most important part is the finish. That's where the soul of the instrument comes from."

Varnish chest high, Geoff was exhausted from struggling, tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked up to Cross pleadingly. The luthier smiled down on him.

"You understand. I know it...you play, you know what it's like. The finish is the soul, the soul is the song. It's why my children sing." He stopped painting, stood to regard Geoff for a moment.

"I've never used an older source before. Not part of the formula, you understand. But perhaps you'll help provide a very special soul for a very special instrument." He gently pulled the tape from Geoff's mouth. "Take a few breaths, Mr. Wilmer. I'll have to replace the tape in a moment. Part of the process."

Geoff moved his mouth, trying to find words. None would form.

Cross nodded. "I truly am sorry."

A long silent moment, the men staring into each other's eyes. Finally, Geoff spoke: "Is there anything I can do?"

Cross shrugged. "Well...can you sing?"

He replaced the tape and began applying the rest of the varnish.