Lady Blues

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  The man beside her sat up straight and bellowed the words in a trembling tenor. One by one, tentative voices joined in as the entire congregation came alive. A thin elderly gentleman, wearing a black suit, white shirt, and red bow tie, stood on shaky knees, conducting with a pencil.

  Overcome with emotion, I continued through the hymn, replaying the last verse twice. The music had transformed them. They’d risen from the half-dead; these souls who’d lost themselves in almost every other capacity, and sang with the vigor of their vanished youth.

  ***

  When the service ended, a reverent hush settled over the group. Within minutes, the charged atmosphere faded. Personalities enchanted by music retreated. Eyes glazed over. Shoulders slumped. Mouths drooped.

  The residents able to walk rose slowly and headed back to their rooms. A bevy of uniformed aides rolled most of their wheelchair patients into the sunroom next door.

  I sat on the bench, enjoying the light dancing crimson and lavender on the varnished oak floor. The chapel was a jewel—a work of art in an otherwise sterile institution. I wondered how they’d been able to afford such an expense, and glanced around until I found a plaque on the wall between two stained glass windows. Gathering my music, I ambled over to read the inscription.

  “Donated to the Bello Mondo Manor by Novacom.”

  A memory tickled in the back of my head.

  Novacom?

  It hit me. Novacom, the drug company name stamped on the suitcases of the two reps arguing in the elevator at the hospital. It figured. In addition to manufacturing and selling mountains of drugs, they were obviously rolling in dough.

  In the back of the chapel, Nahum was deep in conversation with a dark-haired stocky nurse. She trilled a laugh, probably at one of his corny jokes.

  I waited for Nahum to be free, walking around the room to inspect the wall paintings depicting country lanes, farmhouses, and village scenes. They all appeared to be nineteenth-century original oils. When I’d come full circle around the chapel, I neared the gentleman in the black suit and red bow tie who sat in the front pew, staring into space. One of his hands still held the pencil he used to conduct the music; fingers from his other hand tapped rhythms on his knee. I wondered about him while I waited for Nahum.

  He looked to be in his eighties. White hair swept straight back from his high forehead. Deep character lines etched his face, offset by dark blue eyes that drifted to days forgotten, or perhaps, to sweeter days remembered. His prominent aquiline nose anchored a strong bone structure with high cheekbones. I imagined in his day he’d been popular with the ladies.

  Nahum flipped through a date book and jabbed at the pages he and the nurse studied together. I wondered how far in advance they planned these services. Our dear pastor spread himself thin—between our church, the jail, four nursing facilities, and now this place. He suddenly noticed me and raised one finger as if to say “One more minute.”

  I walked toward the bow-tie man. He glanced up and smiled, surprising me with his awareness. I’d been wrong to assume he lived in another world and hadn’t noticed me.

  “May I?” I asked, motioning toward the seat beside him.

  “Please,” he said, patting the bench.

  I sat and turned toward him.

  He appraised me, taking in my khaki pants and denim shirt. “A mite casual for church, aren’t we, young man?” He twisted his bow tie, as if to contrast our attire.

  I laughed, feeling embarrassed. “I know. You’re right. But this is how everyone at my church dresses. Flannel shirts, jeans, sneakers. It’s the norm these days, I’m afraid.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Really? How peculiar. Of course, you’re dressed one step above the bathrobe club here.” He motioned to the patients in the sunroom on the other side of the hall.

  I chuckled. “I guess so.”

  He changed the subject. “Nice work on the keyboard, by the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I don’t think you got the cadence right.” His dark blue eyes blazed into mine. “What band do you play with?”

  I hesitated. “Pardon?” Cadence had to do with understanding the harmonic structure of a tune, and with its chord progression. How had he learned that term? Was he trained in music?

  He tried again. “Are you with a band? Or do you play the clubs?”

  “Oh, no. I’m a teacher. I play piano and teach music appreciation at the college.”

  He grew bored and turned away. “Oh.”

  I rose when I saw Nahum pick up his briefcase and grab his coat.

  As I turned to leave, the elderly man snatched my hand. His eyes widened, almost in fear as they darted around the room and back to me. “Do you know her?” he whispered anxiously.

  I leaned down to listen closer.

  “Do you know her?” he asked again. “Did you talk to her?”

  I shook my head. “I’m afraid not, my friend.”

  He collapsed against the pew, obviously saddened. His eyes grew dull and he raised a hand to dismiss me. “Okay then. Have it your way.”

  Puzzled, I said goodbye and met Nahum at the door.

  “I see you’ve met the music man,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  Nahum led the way to the outer door, waving goodbye to residents as he passed them. “They call him the music man,” he said. “He’s sort of a mystery around here. The nurses filled me in last week, hoping I could help him.”

  “Help him, how?”

  We headed out to the parking lot.

  “Figure out who he is,” he said matter-of-factly. “The man showed up with no memory, no name, no records, and an old dusty valise. He’s been in the system ever since.”

  “Since when?” I said.

  Nahum paused at his rusty old sedan and opened the door. “I believe it was 1944. He’s been in one home after another. Had no memory from the start. Now they say it’s Alzheimer’s, but according to the nurses, if that’s the case, he’s suffered from it since he was dropped at the county’s doorstep in World War II.”

  I stepped back to let Nahum close his door. He rolled down the window and leaned out. “You should talk to Debbie next time. She’s the nurse who knows the most about him.”

  “Next time?”

  He started his engine and flashed a wry smile. “Yes. Next week. You’ll come, of course? These delightful folks really enjoyed the music today.”

  I sighed. My Sundays were rapidly disappearing. “Okay. Of course, Nahum.”

  “Good.” He smiled. “See you soon for dinner.”

  I nodded, waved, and headed to my SUV.

  Chapter Six

  On the way home, the music man’s questions haunted me. I pictured his deep-set eyes peering at me beneath his fuzzy white eyebrows. They saw another world, a realm invisible to me. Over and over, I replayed his words.

  Do you know her? Did you talk to her?

  Who was “she?” His wife? Daughter? Mother? Did she die, or had he lost contact with her when his memory failed? Perhaps his condition really was early Alzheimer’s, back in the 1940s as the records suggested. Or, maybe he’d suffered a blow to the head.

  I listened to Duke Ellington’s “Caravan” on the way home. I’d been immersed in jazz for the past month, savoring the minor tunes and enticing beats in preparation for my new book. The exotic rhythms of “Caravan” brought to mind a camel caravan weaving over the dunes in the hot desert. Beads clacking, saddles swaying, and gritty sand in the eyes. The intoxicating imagery provided an interesting backdrop to my musings about the music man’s past.

  I pulled myself out of the daydream and turned into our driveway. Even before I shut off the engine, Johnny bolted from the porch steps where he’d been lying in wait for me.

  He hurdled into my arms when I stepped out, clinging to my neck. “Opa,” he said. “You’re home!”

  Although my heritage is French Canadian, Siegfried dubbed me with the German term for “Grandpa” when Johnny was born five years ago. �
�Opa” had stuck ever since. All thoughts of the mysterious music man and desert caravans evaporated. I basked in the attention from my grandson. There’s nothing so sweet as the unconditional love of a child, and I fully intended to soak up every minute of it.

  He jumped down and tugged on my hand, chattering and pulling me toward the barn. “We have six baby kitties, Opa. Six!” His big brown eyes shone beneath long bangs.

  My daughter, Freddie, cut his hair so it hung like an inverted soup bowl, falling just above his eyes. I ruffled it and followed him into the tack room.

  Although we had long ago neutered our male Himalayan cat, Tristan, and our female orange tabby, Ginger, it had been too late to take similar measures for the calico who was dropped off on our road last February, pregnant and hungry. Siegfried had adopted her and reported her to be a good mouser, naming her Elise.

  Freddie had arranged two hay bales to form a triangle in the corner. The mother cat and babies lay nestled on a layer of newspapers and an old towel.

  “We can’t touch ‘em yet,” Johnny cautioned, although I knew he itched to stroke their damp fur coats.

  The kittens mewed and clawed blindly on the blanket, seeking their mother’s furry underbelly. She rolled and purred, exposing her milk supply to the kittens.

  Two orange, one calico, a black and white, and two tiger kittens made up the new family. The black and white kitten honed in first, kneading its tiny claws against its mother. The others quickly followed suit.

  “What a nice litter,” I whispered.

  Johnny grinned. He squeezed my hand and snuggled against me, laying his head on my chest.

  Siegfried’s voice floated over my shoulder. “Elise did good, Ja?”

  At the sound of his voice, the mother cat purred louder, proud of her accomplishment.

  Sig stood and watched for a while, motioning me to the other side of the room. “Professor? Do you have a minute? I want to show you something out there.” He pointed toward the woods.

  I looked at Sig’s hopeful face and ignored the ticking clock in my head. If I didn’t start dinner soon, I’d have to order pizza. “Sure. Let’s bring Johnny inside, first, though.”

  After dropping my grandson in the house, I followed Siegfried. He walked along the fence bordering the horse pasture, heading for the alfalfa field that separated our property from the woods.

  “Sig?” I huffed, trying to keep pace with him. “Where’s Lily?”

  His long legs ate up the ground, leaving me to follow in his wake. “She is with Camille. They are using the computer.”

  I shrugged and smiled, unsure of my wife’s plans. “Oh. Okay.”

  The turf felt soft and spongy beneath our feet. A cool breeze stirred, lifting my hair from my brow. Cumulus clouds sailed across the azure sky, enticing me to spend the day outside, rather than in a hot kitchen. I mentally catalogued the outdoor jobs on my list. The garden needed its first tilling of the season. Peas, beets, chard, kale, lettuce, and collards could be planted now. To help facilitate the process, I’d left the black plastic mulch down on the garden all winter. I knew when I lifted it and peeled it back, the ground would be dry, soft, and ready to churn.

  Fallen sticks littered the yard, which would make it hard to mow the grass. If I had time later in the afternoon, I’d attach the cart to my lawn tractor and get Johnny, Marion, and Celeste to help me pick them up.

  Two fence posts leaned sideways, perilously close to falling. They remained standing only due to tenuous attachments to their neighboring posts, since their bases had rotted over the winter. Our horses, Diablo and Maggie, grazed contentedly on the new spring grass, unaware their escape path lay only one gentle push away.

  “Professor, come.”

  I’d dawdled as the jobs mounted on my mental checklist. Jogging, I caught up to Siegfried, who stood on the hillside just beneath the tree line. “Where are we going?”

  He finally stopped, put his hands on his hips, and surveyed the valley. “Here. Here is where I will build.”

  I looked at Siegfried’s docile face. His eyes danced with imagination.

  “Build what?” I asked.

  “Mein Haus.”

  I stared at him. He’d been content to live in the converted carriage house beside the barn for the past twenty years. The apartment, serviceable and comfortable, included a small kitchenette and full bath.

  Sig turned to me and spoke as if he’d rehearsed the words. “Professor, I have been happy in the carriage house. But now it is time for me to make my own house. My… own… home. I will build a log cabin here,” he pointed to the field, then to my house. “Not too far from the family. That is okay, oder?”

  Stuttering, I finally regained my composure. “Of course! Of course it’s okay, Sig. It’s more than okay, it’s wonderful. But… you know it costs a lot of money to build a house, right?”

  He smiled and waved the notion away as if swatting a mosquito. “I have money, Professor. I have saved almost every paycheck for the past twenty-five years. And I will do most of the work myself.”

  When he told me how much he had saved, my jaw dropped. The market had been kind to him, propelling what amounted to a small retirement fund into the major fortune category.

  “Sounds like you’d only need to tap into a small piece of that for your house.”

  Instantly, I pictured Siegfried and Lily living in the cabin. The sweet vision pleased me immensely, but I kept still. I didn’t want to jinx the relationship.

  A broad smile bloomed on his lips. He inhaled deeply with eyes closed. “The air is good here. Clean.”

  I copied him, greedily pulling the cool air into my lungs. “You’re right, my friend.” I opened my eyes and scanned the horizon. Rolling fields adorned the land, following the contour of the Genesee Valley. “It’s perfect here. The ideal spot for your cabin.”

  Chapter Seven

  By the time I made it into the kitchen, it was two-thirty.

  I rolled up my sleeves and wandered into the great room, where Lily and Camille sat side by side at the computer. They shared the keyboard, pushing it back and forth, bent close together with their heads nearly touching.

  Johnny hugged me, then impulsively pounded up the stairs, calling for his mother and asking for his truck collection. I suspected Marion and Celeste were still napping, and hoped he didn’t wake them. Freddie’s furtive whisper at the top of the landing confirmed my suspicions. Their voices trailed off into wisps of muted conversation.

  I walked over to Camille and put my hands on her shoulders, then leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Hey, sweetie.”

  She flashed me a quick smile, but kept typing. “Hi, honey.”

  Lily looked up and nodded with a shy smile.

  “You ladies look busy. Just wanted to say hi before I start cooking.”

  Camille pushed the keyboard to Lily, who hunted and pecked with two fingers. A keyboard map with oriental characters showed in the upper right hand corner of the monitor. Below a translation box blinked: English to Korean, and Korean to English.

  Camille reached one hand up to my cheek, patting me like a puppy. “Okay, Gus. You go ahead.”

  I raised an eyebrow and laughed, not used to being patronized by her. “You’ll have to fill me in later,” I said. “I’d like to know what you girls are up to.”

  Without looking up, she nodded half-heartedly. “Whatever you want is fine with me,” she answered. “Chicken’s good.”

  I snorted a laugh, but the women didn’t turn around. Throwing my hands in the air, I spun on my heels and headed for the kitchen, checking my watch.

  Not much time left.

  I grabbed the breaded turkey cutlets from the freezer. They were more prefabricated than I usually liked to serve, but I needed something easy, and they’d do the trick today. I laid them in the microwave to defrost, and in one smooth motion grabbed a saucepan from beneath the counter, popped two bags of frozen cranberries into it with some water, and set it cooking on a burner.

 
; With my favorite paring knife, I chopped up some red pears. The cranberries were soon boiling, producing steam that filled the room with a tangy aroma. I dusted some cinnamon and nutmeg into the pan, tossed in the pears, and added sugar. When it bubbled into a thick syrup, I turned the heat down, and concentrated on the next dish.

  Rice? Potatoes? Couscous?

  I decided on red potatoes. In a flash, I washed and sliced ten pounds of potatoes, buttered and seasoned them with garlic, dill, and paprika, and slid them into the oven to bake. Next, I layered the cutlets in a large electric skillet. When I added the extra virgin olive oil, the cutlets spit and crackled in the pan.

  During the meal preparations, thoughts of the music man returned to me. The more I thought about him, the more I wanted to hear his story. I decided to stop on the way home from work on Monday. Perhaps the nurse who knew his history would be there.

  What was her name? Debbie?

  I shredded two heads of Boston lettuce, adding grape tomatoes, sliced yellow peppers, and fresh mozzarella balls. Handling the store-bought produce triggered a longing for my own garden. I couldn’t wait for the vine-ripened tomatoes, sweet cucumbers, and aromatic basil.

  With the salad crisping in the fridge, I finally thought about dessert. Although I’d called them all to push dinner back an hour, Oscar and Millie Stone, Joe Russell and Maddy Coté, Adam Knapp, and Reverend Nahum Hardina would be arriving within thirty minutes. I drummed my fingers on the counter, looking for inspiration.

  An angel food cake sat on top of the refrigerator. Freddie often gave in to desires for store-bought sweets, and had brought this home Friday night. I’d passed it by earlier, thinking it beneath me. After all, it wasn’t homemade.

  I laughed at my own snobbery and reconsidered.

  Maybe it could work.

  I rummaged through the freezer on top of the fridge, and found a large container of raspberries I froze last October. The Heritage variety, a prime fall berry, had produced in abundance last year. Satisfied, I defrosted the berries and cooked them into a sweet sauce to drizzle over the cake. After I whipped the cream, I started a pot of coffee and slumped into a chair to relax for a second, but it didn’t last long.