by Lori Hahnel
Just then I noticed the guitar case propped against the wall behind his desk. “Do you play, too?”
“I do. I’m not that good.” Ah, a musician. That explains the hair.
“Well, I’d like to hear you.”
“All right. You bring your guitar in one of these times and we’ll compare notes.”
A black-haired boy stood beside us at the desk. “Mr. Lair, can you help me find this book?”
I took Charlie’s hand. “We’d better let you get back to work. But it was nice to meet you,” I said.
“Yes. Nice meeting you, too.”
I took off my coat and shoes when I got home, walked by the mirror hanging over the bench by the front door. For just a second, I saw Mami’s lined, weathered face looking back at me. I blinked and looked again. It was me all right, but since when did my neck look so crepey? My skin looked dull and grey. I wondered how long I’d had those dark circles under my eyes — weeks, years? The phone rang and I snapped out of it. Just as well.
Sofia came back to Regina after about three weeks. I picked her up at the Greyhound station late on a Tuesday afternoon and brought her home to have dinner with us. We had tea in the living room after, while Charlie did her homework in the kitchen.
“It’s good to be back,” Sofia said. “But I feel awful leaving Rose. She’s so frail.”
“What about bringing her back to Regina?” I suggested.
“We talked about that. There’s a couple of problems with it. One — well, you’ve seen our apartment. I don’t know where I’d put her, even. She came here for radiation treatments a few times, but I think they’re pretty much done with that. She slept in Charlie’s bed, and Charlie slept on the couch. I don’t know if that would work for too long. And the other thing is, she doesn’t want to leave Lumsden. She’s lived there close to forty years now, since she and Pete got married. Pete passed away ten years ago, and pretty much everybody she knows in the world now, besides us, is in Lumsden. So she wants to stay there.”
“That’s too bad. It’s a lot of worry for you, not to be with her.”
“It is. The thing is, she’s quite a bit older than me, looked after me a lot when we were kids. I kind of feel like it’s my turn to look after her now. I was thinking on the bus that I might be able to work something out with my boss, Gabe, about working different hours for a while so I can be with her more. Gabe is Manny’s brother and he feels bad about the way things worked out between Manny and me. So I think I can get him to give me a break, for a while, anyway.”
“And if you need some help from me, you know you can just ask, Sofia.”
“I probably will. Thank you, Lita.”
The deal Sofia came up with was that she would do night shifts, Tuesday through Friday. She’d take the bus out to Lumsden Saturday night and get back Tuesday afternoon. She hoped it would only be temporary, mostly because it didn’t leave much time for Charlie, but it was the best she could do.
When Charlie and I arrived at the library for story hour that Saturday morning, Mr. Lair and a small group of children were just leaving the building.
“The weather is so gorgeous, I thought we’d have story hour in the park this morning. We might as well enjoy it while it lasts.” He nodded in the direction of Victoria Park, down the block and across the street.
“Good idea.”
“So when are you going to bring your guitar in?”
I laughed. “I didn’t really think you were serious, Mr. Lair.”
“Please, call me John. And of course I am. I’d love to hear you play. When would work for you?”
“I don’t know. I’m pretty flexible.”
“How about next Saturday?”
“I suppose so. Sure.”
“That’s great. Thank you.”
“Oh. My pleasure.”
John sat on the grass when we got to the park. “Boys and girls,” he said. “Can we all sit in a circle on the grass right here? This morning we’re going to read some books by Maurice Sendak.”
I had been going to go back to the library during story hour and look for a novel, maybe Up the Down Staircase by Bel Kaufman. Instead, I stayed and listened to John read One Was Johnny, Alligators All Around, and Where the Wild Things Are.
After an animated discussion about monsters, we got up to go back to the library. I was just about to ask John what time I should arrive for next time when Charlie bounded up to us.
“Lita! Did Mr. Lair remind you about bringing your guitar?”
“Yes, Charlie. I’m bringing it next week.”
She turned to him. “See? I told you she would.”
“You were right, Charlie,” he said, and we both laughed.
The next Saturday was dull, overcast. I left Charlie to play hopscotch in the park with some of her friends from school while I took my guitar into the library. I felt a bit nervous as I descended the stairs, almost stopped and turned around. I didn’t know what that was about. Stage fright? How silly. I took a deep breath, took another step and put my head in the doorway. John sat at the desk.
“Good morning,” he said. He wore a soft grey sweater that brought out the grey flecks in his eyes. “How are you?”
“Pretty good, thanks. And you?”
“I’m well. I’m quite excited about having a musical guest this morning. We’ll be in the story room over here. The only thing was, I wondered if you’d mind if we read a couple of stories before we get to the music part?”
“No. No, that would be all right.”
“If you have something else you need to do, you can leave your guitar here and come back later. Sorry, I wasn’t really thinking when we got talking about this last week.”
No, I wasn’t either. “That’s all right. I can stay and give you a hand if you like.”
“If you want to. That would be great. Listen,” he said, opening up his briefcase, “I thought you might like to borrow these.”
He brought out a handful of 45s. I picked them up and read the labels. “ ‘Another You’ by The Seekers, ‘Catch the Wind’ by Donovan, ‘I Knew I’d Want You’ by The Byrds.”
“You mentioned you were playing some folk and I thought you might want to listen to some folk-rock. It’s kind of a new thing.”
“It sounds very interesting. I would like to take them home and listen to them. Maybe when I bring them back you’d want to borrow some of my jazz 78s.”
The kids began to file into the story room and I leaned against the counter under the windows in the back. John told them, “We have a guest in story hour today, everyone. This is Mrs. Stone. She’s a friend of Charlie’s, and she’ll be playing some music for us a little later on.”
Charlie beamed at me.
He continued. “Right now, though, we’re going to read some stories with music in them.” He started with The Bremen Town Musicians.
“Now, who knows this one?” he asked, holding up a copy of Over in the Meadow by John Langstaff.
“I do, I do!” said a couple of girls, putting up their hands.
“That’s fine. You can help me sing, then,” he said, opening the book. He began to sing the old folk song. “Over in the meadow, in the sand in the sun, lived an old mother turtle and her little turtle one . . . ”
What a beautiful voice he had: low, clear, smooth. I didn’t want him to stop. When he was done, he asked me whether I wanted to play.
“Sure.” I brought the National out and started tuning it.
“Ooh, nice guitar,” he said.
“Thanks. We’ve been together a long time.”
The kids sat in a semi-circle on the rug in front of me while I played some Gypsy tunes, some jazz numbers. Then they started to pipe up.
“Mr. Lair, you should play, too.”
“Oh, no. I’m not nearly as good as Mrs. Stone.”
I smiled. “C’mon, Mr. Lair. We can do a duet.”
“All right. Just one.”
He had a nice mahogany-bodied Gibson LG-O. While he tuned it he as
ked me if I knew Duke Ellington’s “Solitude”.
“Sure do. You start and I’ll jump in.”
He played the melody and I played around him, echoed, harmonized. I was having a great time. When we finished, the kids’ applause was pretty enthusiastic. I could tell from his flushed smile that he’d had as much fun as I had. And for a minute or so I couldn’t tear my eyes from his. Soon enough, though, I had to. The kids loved our guitars. They rushed up and wanted to take turns playing. I showed a little blonde girl where to put her left-hand fingers on the National’s fretboard, and I had a sudden flash back to Mami’s long, leathery hands showing me the same thing so many years ago.
Story hour was done then. Charlie went to find some books, and after John saw the kids off he joined me at the back of the room, leaned against the counter beside me. He smelled faintly of coffee, and soap. “Jazz 78s? Really?”
We ended up talking quite a while, about music mostly, of course. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed talking to him. Very much. But it did seem a little strange. After a while, I started packing up my guitar.
“That is a fantastic guitar,” he said.
“Yes. It’s far and away my favourite. I’ve had it since 1935. In fact, I won it in a poker game I was playing with some of the On-to-Ottawa trekkers when they were camped out here.”
“Really? Okay, you have to tell me about this.”
I told him how I’d won the guitar, and looked at my watch. It was almost noon.
“I should really go,” I said, and picked up my guitar case.
He looked at his watch. “Ooh. You’re right. Look at the time. I, uh, guess I should get back to work. But listen, thank you so much for coming. It was wonderful. You’re an amazing guitarist.”
“Thank you. You’re pretty good yourself, you know.”
“Thanks. It’s great for the kids to be exposed to live music. If you’d ever consider doing this again, maybe once in a while . . . ”
We started out the door. “Of course. I enjoyed it, too. We’ll have to do it again.”
“Let me know what you think of those records.”
“I’m looking forward to listening to them. Well, goodbye, John.”
“Goodbye, Lita.”
I found Charlie sitting at a table, reading one of the huge pile of books she’d selected. We signed them out and started to leave. Up the stairs, out the door. As I opened the car door for Charlie and put my guitar in the backseat, I had the strangest feeling. I felt kind of lightheaded, had trouble focusing. Of course — I must be hungry, I thought. Or I need a cup of coffee. Or a cigarette — that must be it. I lit one before I started up the car, smoked it before we got home, but didn’t feel any different. Inside, as I caught a glimpse of myself in the entryway mirror again, Charlie asked the name of the song I’d been singing all the way home.
Singing? “Oh, I guess that was ‘Solitude.’ Duke Ellington song.”
“Uh-oh,” I said to my reflection, under my breath.
Twenty-Four
Lita
Spring 1966
I ENDED UP COMING IN TO story hour as a musical guest fairly often, every other Saturday or so. I really did get a great deal of pleasure out of playing for the kids, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have an ulterior motive. I loved spending time with John. He and I leaned on the counter in the back of the story room one afternoon as the children filed out. Charlie asked if she could play Chinese skipping with some friends for a while in the park before we went home. The sun through the window warmed our backs and it hit me all of a sudden that his auburn hair glowed in the light, seemed to be constantly changing colour — red, gold, brown, pink. He was just like the little boy in the dream I’d had so many years before.
“You were saying something,” he said.
“Was I?” It took me a second to get back to what I’d been thinking before. “Oh, right. Well, I just don’t understand. You say you want to play music, and you’re good. There’s nothing to stop you from doing it — ”
“No, there’s nothing to stop me,” he’d said. “Nothing except what my family expects. What my wife expects.”
“Are you going to live your whole life according to what other people tell you?”
“Music can wait. I don’t have time right now. You know I have to work.”
“You can’t work and play music at the same time? Millions of people have jobs, and families. But they still make time to do what they love.”
He turned his eyes from me, fussed with a loose thread on his sleeve. “You know what I mean. I’ll take it up seriously later, when I have time.”
“Listen. Maybe you’ll be around another fifty years, or maybe you won’t. My first husband died when he was twenty-three. How long are you going to wait to do what you really want to do?”
He shrugged. “It’s easy for you to say, Lita. Listen, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get going.”
“I should, too.”
He gave me a half-wave as he walked down the hall and out of sight. What a waste, I said to myself as I went up the stairs and outside to get Charlie. His voice was so beautiful it brought tears to my eyes. Like Bill’s had been but richer, deeper, like rum or molasses. A gift. And he was going to squander it? Waste it, never use it? But then it was his voice. Who was I to tell him what to do with it?
Later that night I thought again about John and the child in that dream. Then I realized with a jolt that when I first had the dream he would have been three or four years old, just like the boy. And those men I’d dreamed about over the years — the man on the dock, the man in my arms on my and Jake’s honeymoon — all had the same glowing hair with shifting colours. Had they all been John? The thought scared me a little. But in a weird way, it made perfect sense.
Sofia convinced me to stay one night and have a cup of tea after I dropped Charlie off. It was late and Charlie was tired and went pretty much straight to bed. We sat at Sophia’s tiny drop-leaf kitchen table.
“Lita. Listen, I’m worried about you,” she said, and poured me a cup of strong black tea.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
“I mean it. You look tired. Is taking care of Charlie too much for you? It’s a lot to ask.”
“No, it isn’t. You know I love her, and I’d miss looking after her.”
“So what is it, then? Something is bothering you, I can tell.”
I hesitated for a moment. What was the point of lying to her, pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t? Sofia was no fool. Besides I had to tell someone. I was going insane. “I guess I haven’t been sleeping well the last few weeks. I — I’ve fallen in love with someone.”
Sofia was silent for a moment and though I knew she would never reproach me, I wasn’t sure what her reaction might be. Finally she asked, “Is it someone I know?”
“No. Charlie knows him, though. He works in the Boys and Girls’ Department at the library.”
Sofia just nodded. “Go on,” she said.
“He’s a very attractive man. And, well, we just seem to have so much in common. He’s a musician, too. We’ve been trading records. And talking a lot. Talking quite a lot.”
“He is interested in you?”
“Maybe he’s just interested in antiques. He is a lot younger than me.”
“Lita.”
“You’re right. I have to stop feeling sorry for myself.”
“You’re only human. You’re lonely. I understand . . . and I don’t blame you.”
“Thank you, Sofia.”
“It’s easy to understand. Just be careful.”
I sighed. “Sure. I will.”
The end of the school year and the end of story hour season drew near. I tried to steel myself: I would have to let go of him. I didn’t know how, but I’d have to. This was crazy, and if he knew how I felt he’d probably think I was crazy. A line from a Bob Dylan record he’d lent me kept running through my head: You are a walking antique. It could never work. And yet there were little things that made
me think it wasn’t all me. Besides the long conversations we had leaning on the counter at the back of the story room.
The way he looked at me. Sometimes our eyes would lock, and I’d forget what we were even talking about. I’d catch him looking me over, and thought I must be imagining it. How could he find an old woman like me attractive? But it happened again and again. He’d touch me on the arm, on the shoulder, and it’d go through me like a jolt. He told me pretty intimate things about himself and his wife. Things were rocky between them.
“Lita, listen,” he said in a hushed voice once, after the kids had all left. “My wife. She can’t . . . well, she has a medical condition.” He dropped his gaze, fidgeted with the pen in his hand.
My head started to spin a little. What he was getting at was obvious. What should I say? He looked at me again, and I nodded.
“Mr. Lair!” Kent, a freckle-faced loudmouth, peeled into the room at top speed, gasping for breath. “Marianne fell down the stairs! You have to come!” And before either of us could say another word, the two of them were gone. I’ve often wondered how the rest of that conversation would have panned out. I might have talked about Jacob and me.
One Saturday in the middle of May, we got talking again after story hour, about all kinds of things. Before I knew it, the clock said 12:30.
“I should go,” I said. “I should let you eat your lunch.”
“I guess so. Before you go, though, I brought those 78s back. The Charlie Christian ones.”
He got his briefcase out from under his desk, opened it and looked for them. “Ah, sorry. I thought I put them in here last night.”
“That’s okay. Another time.”
He got up from behind the desk and stood near me. “You know, I always enjoy talking to you. Here, it’s difficult. We always get interrupted. We should go out for coffee sometime.”
My face felt hot. I looked at my feet for a second, couldn’t hide my smile when I looked back at him. My mouth felt a little dry.
“I’d like that. Very much.”
He smiled, too. Just then another librarian put her head in the doorway. “John? I need to ask you about those intermediate readers . . . ”