The Song of David

by Amy Harmon

I was slightly repulsed, and I was glad Millie couldn’t see my expression. “So he has bags of hair in his room?”

  “I’m assuming he does though he won’t tell me where. I pay my next-door neighbor to come in and clean once a week, and she hasn’t found it either.”

  “Well, Henry said okay. So I’m planning on it. But we won’t be bringing any bags of hair back home.”

  Millie’s brows furrowed and she looked as if she wanted to argue, but stepped toward me instead, felt for her walking stick that was leaning against the wall, and changed the subject. “Did you drive? Because I’m thinking we should walk. The church is around the corner.”

  I eyed my shiny red truck wistfully and then forgot it when Amelie slid her hand around my arm.

  Other than a few scattered snow flurries that dumped in the mountains and frosted the valleys, Salt Lake City was enjoying the mildest winter we’d had in years, and though the temperatures plummeted here and there, in comparison to normal February temperatures, it was almost balmy.

  We walked east towards the mountains that ringed the valley. The mountains were the first thing I noticed about Utah when my family moved from Dallas my junior year in high school. Dallas didn’t have mountains. Salt Lake City had staggering, snow-covered mountains. I’d spent more than a few weekends in them skiing, though I was careful about how much skiing I did when I was training. Unfortunately, I always seemed to be training.

  Amelie lifted her face as if to soak up the sun.

  “Can you see anything at all?” I wondered if the question would offend her.

  “Light. I can differentiate light from darkness. That’s about it. I can tell where the windows are in the house, when the door is open, that sort of thing. Natural light is easier for me than artificial light. And the light doesn’t illuminate anything else, so it’s really only good for orienting me in a room with windows, if that.”

  “So if I danced around in front of a spotlight, you wouldn’t be able to see my outline?”

  “Nope. Why? You thinking about doing a little pole-dancing at the bar?” she said cheekily.

  “Yes. Dammit! How did you know?” I exclaimed, and she tossed back her head and laughed. I admired the length of her throat and her smiling mouth before I caught myself and looked away. I stared at her way too often.

  “You look nice, Millie,” I said awkwardly, and felt like an idiot for the understatement.

  “Thanks. I’d say the same thing to you, but, well, you know. You smell nice, though.”

  “Yeah? What do I smell like?” I asked.

  “Wintergreen gum.”

  “It’s my favorite.”

  “You also smell like a pine-based aftershave and soap—”

  “New cologne called Sap,” I joked.

  “—with a hint of gasoline.”

  “I stopped to fill up on the way. Guess I didn’t need to, since we’re walking.”

  “We’re walking because we’re practically there.” An old church that looked like it had been built around the same time as Millie’s house rose from a circle of trees at the end of the block. “There’s been talk that they are going to tear it down. Then I’ll have to find somewhere else to go.”

  As we closed the distance, I could see that the church was a pale brick with a towering white spire and soaring windows on the tallest end. A creek ran to the north of the building and Amelie and I crossed a sturdy bridge that ran adjacent to the road.

  “No water in the creek?” She asked as if she already knew the answer.

  “No.”

  “Soon. A couple of months and I’ll be able to come hear two of my favorite sounds at once.”

  “You like the sound of the creek?”

  “I do. When spring comes, I stand on this bridge and just listen. I’ve been doing it for years.”

  When I began to veer across the grass on the other side of the bridge, heading for the wide double doors that were clearly the entrance to the church, she pulled against my arm.

  “Aren’t we going in?” I asked.

  “No. There’s a rock wall. Do you see it?”

  Ahead was a crumbling, twenty-foot wedge of piled rocks cemented into a divider that rimmed the side of the church, separating it from the grassy slope that led down to the dry creek bed. I led Millie to it, and she dropped my arm and felt her way down it a ways before she sat and patted the spot next to her.

  “Are the windows open?” she asked

  “It looks like one is, just a bit.”

  “Mr. Sheldon usually remembers. He leaves it cracked for me when the weather’s good.”

  “Do you listen from out here?” I was incredulous. I could hear muted men’s voices and then laughter, as if there was a meeting of sorts going on behind the windows.

  “No. Not exactly.” She listened for a second. “They’ve started earlier today. It fluctuates. Sometimes it’s eleven-fifteen or eleven-thirty. They like to visit and are slow to begin sometimes. But I don’t mind waiting. This is a nice spot, and when it’s not too cold I’m happy to just sit on this wall and think. When it’s warm Henry comes with me and we have a picnic. But he gets bored, and I don’t enjoy it as much when he’s here. Maybe because I can’t relax.”

  The piano began playing and Millie sat up straighter, tipping her head in the direction of the music.

  “Oh, I love this one.”

  I could only stare at her. This was one of her favorite sounds? Then voices were raised, and the sound seeped out the slim opening and floated down to the place where we sat, and I forgot about the fact that my suit coat was a little tight across the shoulders and my knuckles were sore from yesterday’s sparring session. I forgot about all of it because Amelie’s face was lit up by the sound of men’s voices, singing in worship, mellow and smooth, lifting and lowering over the words. They weren’t professional. It wasn’t a barbershop quartet or the BeeGees. There were more voices than that, probably twenty or thirty male voices singing praises. And as I listened I felt it deep in my belly.

  “There is no end to glory;

  There is no end to love;

  There is no end to being;

  There is no death above.

  There is no end to glory;

  There is no end to love;

  There is no end to being;

  There is no death above.”

  When they finished, Amelie sat back and sighed. “I’m all about girl power, but there is nothing like men’s voices. They knock me out every time. The sound makes my heart ache and my bones soft.”

  “Is it the words you love? It was a beautiful song.” I was still thinking about the words.

  “I love that particular one. But no. It wouldn’t matter if I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, and there have been days when Mr. Sheldon doesn’t attend or he forgets to open the window, and the music is muffled, even more than it was today. And I still love it. I can’t explain it. But love is like that, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  “Did you like it? Now you’ve heard two of my favorite sounds.”

  “I liked it a lot. I wish I would have worn my sweats instead of this damn suit coat. But hey, at least I didn’t have to actually go to church.”

  Amelie reached toward me, feeling along the lapels of my coat and up to my collar. “Yep. I got you good. I can’t believe you agreed to come.”

  “You’re wearing a skirt!”

  “Yep. If I’d worn pants you would have known something was up.”

  I stood and pulled her up with me. “You’re a smart aleck and a tease. I don’t know if I like you, Silly Millie.” I was smiling as I spoke, and she grinned with me before reaching for my lapel once more, as if asking me to wait.

  “I want to feel you smile. I can hear when you’re smiling. I love the way it sounds. But I want to feel it. Can I?” she asked sweetly.

  I brought her hands to my cheeks and laid them there, dropping my hands to my sides.

  “Are you smiling?” she asked.

&
nbsp; I realized I wasn’t, not anymore. But she was, her pink lips parted slightly over pearly teeth, her eyes on a distance she would never see. I smiled down into her face, accommodating her, and her hands immediately fluttered over my lips and her fingers traced the grooves in my cheeks. I’d always used those grooves to my full advantage. When her left thumb slid into the notch on my chin, her smile grew even wider.

  “You have dimples in your cheeks and a cleft in your chin.”

  “My mother dropped me on my face as a child. I’m severely dented. What can I say?”

  “Ah. I see.” One hand flitted up and traced the bridge of my nose. “Is that what happened here, too?” she asked, tracing the bump that I’d earned over and over again.

  “Nah. My mama’s not to blame for that one. That’s a product of my favorite pastime.”

  Her hands moved to cradle my face, melding to the shape of my cheekbones and my jaw. As she pulled her hands downward, the tips of her fingers touched the hair that brushed my neck on either side, and she paused in her exploration. She fingered the curls thoughtfully and a groove appeared between her dark brows.

  “Haircuts with Henry tomorrow, huh? That’s very sweet of you. But don’t cut it all away, okay?”

  “You like the Scottish highlander look?” I tried for a Scottish brogue, but didn’t quite make it. My heart was pounding and I wanted to close my eyes and lean into her hands. Her explorations were erotic without meaning to be, sensual without sexual intention, but my body didn’t seem to know the difference.

  “I don’t know. Maybe? I’m not sure what a Scottish highlander looks like. But I like your face. It’s strong . . . full of character. And the hair suits you.” She was staring up into my face, describing me, and yet she couldn’t see me at all. I stared at her mouth and wondered what she would do if I pressed my lips against hers. Would it startle her or would she recognize the sensation immediately? Had she ever even been kissed? She wasn’t shy and she was beautiful, and at twenty-two she should have had her fair share of boyfriends and kisses. But she was blind, she had a dependent brother, and she spent her free time listening to men’s choirs and babbling brooks. Somehow I suspected she wasn’t all that experienced with men. She dropped her hands and stepped back from me, almost as if she could hear my thoughts.

  “Let’s get some ice cream,” she said, and I shook myself awake, pushing away thoughts of kisses and linking her arm back through mine.

  (End of Cassette)

  Moses

  “I WANTED HIM to kiss me. But he didn’t. And I was convinced that he didn’t like me that way,” Millie said sheepishly, her face flushed. I kept expecting her to turn off the tape recorder and ask us to leave. Hearing Tag’s inner thoughts and feelings was downright embarrassing, and when I saw him again, I was going to punish him for making me sit through it.

  We were at Millie’s now, parked in her living room so that she would be there when Henry got home from school. It had been forty-eight hours since Millie had called me, forty-eight hours since my world had shrunk to one priority, everything else pushed aside or postponed.

  “Tag went to church with you?” Georgia’s voice was incredulous. Millie and I had brought Georgia up to date, and her presence calmed me, reminded me that regardless of the priority, regardless of my fear, she was with me. She was mine. That part of my world was intact. She’d arrived last night with baby Kathleen, and we’d rented a hotel room, unwilling to stay in Tag’s apartment, though I had a key. There was a freaking “For Sale” sign in the window, and I didn’t want to be sleeping in Tag’s bed only to have a realtor show up with buyers in tow.

  The thought made me angry, even as Georgia’s question made me laugh. Tag and church didn’t really mix. The thought of him sitting in a suit coat, his hair slicked back, listening to hymns with Millie was almost too unbelievable to imagine.

  “Moses?” Georgia’s lips quivered, the seriousness of the situation making her hesitant to join in.

  “I had to drag his ass into dozens of churches throughout Europe. I don’t think he ever went willingly, and we were just looking at the ceilings and the sculptures, no singing involved.”

  “He loves music. Have you ever heard him sing? I love hearing him sing.” Millie smiled and then her smile immediately fell, as if reality had slapped her back down and whisked away her joy.

  “I’m still stuck on the fact that he volunteered to get a haircut,” Georgia smirked, giggling in spite of her attempts to be appropriate.

  “Well . . .” Millie hedged. “That didn’t quite go according to plan.”

  HENRY CLIMBED INTO my truck and buckled his seatbelt with the grimmest expression I had ever seen. His hair stood out in every direction, and his hands shook.

  “You okay, buddy?” I asked, trying to be gentle.

  “Do you want to go see Robin instead? She’d be glad to cut it, Henry.” Millie had followed him out, tapping her way down the sidewalk with a concerned frown between her dark brows. She now stood holding onto the passenger side door. I could tell she wanted to ride along, but Henry didn’t seem to want her to.

  “It’s a man date, right Henry? Men go to the barber. Not the salon.”

  Henry tapped his fingertips together nervously and wouldn’t look right or left.

  “Kite flying is an official sport in Thailand!” Henry blurted.

  Amelie bit her lip but stepped back from the passenger door.

  “Bye, Millie. I’ll bring him back. Don’t worry,” I called.

  She nodded and tried to smile, and I pulled away from the curb. Henry’s tapping became a cadence. Clack clack. Click click. It sounded like the rhythm Millie made with her stick when she walked.

  “Henry?”

  No response. Just clicking, all the way to the barbershop.

  I pulled up to Leroy’s shop and put my truck in park. I jumped out and came around to Henry’s door. Henry made no move to disembark.

  “Henry? Do you want to do this?”

  Henry looked pointedly at my shaggy locks and clicked his fingers.

  “I need a haircut, Henry. So do you. We’re men. We can do this.”

  “Ben Askren, Roger Federer, Shaun White, Troy Polamalu, David Beckham, Triple H.”

  “Triple H?” I started to laugh. Henry was listing athletes with long hair. “You’re getting desperate, Henry.”

  “Larry Fitzgerald? Tim Lincecum?”

  “Tim Lincecum, huh? He plays for the Giants, doesn’t he? Your favorite team, right?”

  Henry didn’t respond.

  “Ah, shit. What the hell. I didn’t want to cut my hair anyway. I kind of think your sister likes it.”

  The clicking slowed.

  “You wanna go buy a kite? I hear it’s an official sport in Thailand,” I said.

  Henry smiled the smallest ghost of a smile and nodded once.

  WE WENT TO Toys R Us for the kites. They have the best selection of fun stuff, and we weren’t messing around. Henry took his time considering and settled on a kite with LeBron James on it. I bought the only red one I could find, which was an Elmo kite, the happy red monster staring out at me, his furry face in the shape of a diamond. Henry thought it was hilarious, which made it even better.

  “I like red!” I told him, laughing because he was laughing. “We should get Millie one too. What do you think she would pick?” I felt stupid immediately. I was constantly forgetting that she couldn’t see and wouldn’t care what it looked like.

  But Henry didn’t seem to think it was a stupid question and considered the kites all over again. He pulled a shimmery, bright pink one from a shelf and handed it to me.

  “Referees in the National Rugby League wear pink jerseys,” he said seriously.

  “Okay, I don’t know what the National Rugby League has to do with Millie. But good choice.”

  When we arrived back at the house, an hour after we left, Henry scooped up all of the kites and was out of my truck before I put it into park. He ran up the walk like he was five inste
ad of fifteen, barreling through the door, while I followed him at a slower pace.

  By the time I made it into the kitchen, Millie was running her hands over Henry’s head with a furrowed brow. I lifted one of her hands and placed it against the back of my neck where my hair fell over my collar.

  “You were right,” I said simply. “We’re too attached to our hair.”

  The furrow lifted but she didn’t drop her hand. She curled her fingers against my scalp and tugged a little, testing its length, and I did my best not to start purring. Henry didn’t. He dropped his head to her shoulder and closed his eyes, completely tamed.

  “Don’t fall asleep Henry. We have some kites to fly.”

  Millie threw back her head and laughed, her hands dropping to her sides.

  “Oh, you didn’t miss that not-so-subtle suggestion, huh?” she snickered.

  “Nope. I got it loud and clear. We got you a pink one. Henry picked it out.”

  “He knows me well. Pink’s my favorite color.”

  “Oh yeah? Why?”

  “Because it has a smell. It has a flavor. Every time I taste something pink I can remember the color. It floods my memory for a second before I lose it again.”

  “Huh. I thought you were going to say it’s because you love rugby.”

  “Ah, the pink jerseys?” Millie asked.

  “Henry needs to get out more,” I answered, laughing.

  “Let’s go!” Henry shouted, running for the door, as if taking my advice to heart.

  The street was tree-lined, the front yard too small, and the traffic a little too steady to give us an open place to put our kites in the air. We piled back into my truck, Millie in the middle, straddling the gear shift, and Henry sitting by the door, practically bouncing with enthusiasm.

  Moses hates my bench seat. He says it’s irritating not to have an arm rest. But Mo isn’t the smartest man, sometimes. I was never more grateful for the bench seat than I was at that moment with Millie pressed up against my side, my right tricep brushing against her breasts every time I shifted. She smelled like fruit. Strawberries or watermelon. She smelled . . . pink. The thought made me smile. She felt pink too. Pink and soft and sweet. Damn. I decided then and there that pink was my favorite color too.