The Song of David

by Amy Harmon

  The music resumed, but this time the melody was slower, sadder—music for listening rather than dancing. It was a Damien Rice song called “The Blower’s Daughter” and it pleased me that Millie knew it too, the discovery making me feel hopeful in an ‘if-we-love-the-same-music-our-hearts-must-match’ kind of way. I rose, grateful for the noise to cover my ascent, but Robin rounded the corner before I could take a single step.

  When she saw me she squeaked and jumped a foot in the air. I held a finger to my lips, shaking my head vigorously. Millie didn’t need to know what I’d heard.

  I turned and climbed the stairs, hoping Robin was following me, hoping Millie wasn’t.

  I walked into the laundry room with Robin at my heels. I shut the door carefully behind her and shoved my hands into my front pockets, meeting her wide-eyed gaze.

  “I want you to yell down the stairs. Tell her that I’m here. Tell her I’m coming down,” I demanded.

  “But . . . you . . . how long were you there?” she stuttered.

  I waited, not answering, and Robin’s face twisted into a scowl.

  “You’re right about me, you know,” I said, giving her an indirect answer. “I do like women. I like them a lot. Especially beautiful women. And I’ve never been interested in having just one. I’ve never even had a girlfriend. There’s never been a girl that’s kept my attention. Until now.”

  Robin’s scowl evaporated instantly, and her pursed lips slid into a smile. Without another word, she turned, opened the door, and bellowed down the stairs.

  “Amelie! You’ve got company!”

  I slid past Robin, winking as I headed back down the way I’d just come.

  “Don’t screw this up!” she hissed. “She’s had too much shit in her life, and she doesn’t need more, Tag Taggert. Sunshine. Roses. Kisses. Adoration. That’s your job! No shit allowed!”

  I couldn’t promise a future with no shit. I couldn’t even promise I wouldn’t cause some. I couldn’t alter my DNA, and I was sure I had strands that were soaked in the stuff. But I was bound and determined to shelter Millie from as much as I could. I shot a look over my shoulder and nodded once at Millie’s protective cousin, an acknowledgement that I’d heard her, and Robin closed the door, giving us the privacy I hadn’t afforded them.

  Millie stood waiting, obviously not sure who her company was. She’d pulled her ponytail free, and her hair tumbled around her shoulders in rumpled disarray, but she didn’t smooth it down or tug at her clothes. She was regal and composed in her stillness, confident enough in herself that she didn’t fuss over what she couldn’t fix. Damien Rice was singing about not being able to “take his eyes off of you” and I could only nod in agreement as I approached her.

  “David?” she ventured softly. The fact that she knew it was me made me light-headed all over again.

  “Am I the only guy who makes that much noise coming down the steps?” I’d purposely made plenty of noise the second time around.

  “Nah. You should hear Henry. You’re just the . . . only guy,” she admitted sweetly. Then her cheeks grew rosy and my chest got hot.

  I felt a huge flood of relief. I was the only guy. Thank God.

  I stopped a foot from her and reached out, taking one of her hands in mine. “Do you like this song?” I asked. Obviously she did and obviously I was stupid.

  “I love this song.”

  “Me too,” I whispered. I reached for her other hand.

  “Accidental Babies.”

  “What?” I tugged her hands gently, and she took a step. I was so close now that the top of her head provided a shelf for my chin, and Damien’s song was being drowned out by the sound of my heart.

  “It’s another one of his songs. . . and I think I love it even more,” she whispered back.

  “But that song is so sad,” I breathed, and laid my cheek against her hair.

  “That’s what makes it beautiful. It’s devastating. I love it when a song devastates me.” Her voice was thready as if she was struggling to breathe.

  “Ah, the sweet kind of suffering.” I dropped her hands and wrapped my arms around her.

  “The best kind.” Her voice hitched as our bodies aligned.

  “I’ve been suffering for a while now, Millie.”

  “You have?” she asked, clearly amazed.

  “Since the moment I saw you. It devastated me. And I love when a girl devastates me.” I was using her definition of the word, but the truth was, my sister was the only girl who had ever devastated me, and it hadn’t been sweet agony.

  “I’ve never devastated anyone before,” Millie said faintly, shock and pleasure coloring her words. She still stood with her arms at her sides, almost like she couldn’t believe what was happening. But her lips hovered close to my jaw, as if she was enjoying the tension between almost and not quite.

  “I’m guessing you’ve left a wake of destruction,” I whispered. “You just don’t know.”

  “Can’t see my own mess. Perks of being a blind girl.” I could hear the smile in her voice. But I couldn’t laugh now. I was on fire, and the flames were growing uncomfortable.

  Finally, as if she couldn’t resist any longer, she raised her hands to my waist. Trembling fingers and flat palms slid across my abdomen, up my chest, past my shoulders, progressing slowly as if she memorized as she moved. Then she touched my face and her thumbs found the cleft in my chin, the way they’d done the first time she’d traced my smile. Hesitantly, she urged my face down toward hers. A heartbeat before our mouths touched she spoke, and the soft words fluttered against my lips.

  “Are you going to devastate me, David?” she asked.

  “God, I hope not,” I prayed aloud.

  Anticipation dissolved the lingering space between us, and I pressed needy lips to her seeking mouth. And then we melded together, hands clinging, bodies surging, music moaning, dancing in the wreckage. Sweet, sweet, devastation.

  “Too late . . .” I thought I heard her whisper.

  Moses

  I SAT OUT on Millie’s front porch with Kathleen and rocked in a wrought iron swing that had probably been there since the house was built more than a century before. I had abandoned listening to the cassettes altogether. Tag wasn’t holding anything back. Every detail, every thought, every feeling hanging out. Naked. And I didn’t like naked men. So I was letting Georgia listen with Millie, and Kathleen and I were bonding on the porch, Kathleen bundled up in a fuzzy hat and a fuzzier blanket, asleep on my chest, a buffer against the cool spring air, soaking up some daddy time so that she would grow to look like me and know she was mine, just like Henry said.

  Henry had retreated to his room. It was late, and we were all tired. But Millie couldn’t stop listening, and I couldn’t blame her. The drum beat was quickening, and as much as I wanted to just skip ahead, just stick the last tape in the player, I had no right. And knowing Tag, it wouldn’t be that easy.

  And then Georgia opened a window, the window nearest my head, as if the emotions in the room had become stifling, and suddenly sitting there on the front porch, I could hear every word once more, and I listened as my friend struggled to put into words that which I could only ever describe with paint.

  I’d told Georgia once that if I could paint her I would use every color. Blues and golds and whites and reds. Peach and cream and bronze and black. Black for me, because I wanted to leave my mark on her. My stamp on her. And I had, though not ever in the way I intended. My mind drifted to my son—who had looked a great deal like me, though I wouldn’t tell Henry. I hadn’t spent a single day of his life with him. And still, he looked like me.

  “Hey, little man,” I whispered, wondering if he could hear me. “I miss you.” I tasted the same bittersweet tang on my tongue that always came with saying his name, but I said it all the same. “Keep an eye out for Tag, Eli. He acts tough, but I’m guessing he’s running scared.”

  “I don’t want to leave.” Tag’s voice rang out behind me.

  I jerked and cursed loudly,
making Kathleen whimper in my arms.

  Then I realized with a start that Millie had changed the cassette. It was just Tag’s voice coming through the window, nothing more, and I cursed again.

  “I DON’T WANT to leave,” I moaned. We were standing on the front porch and it was cold, but I wasn’t ready to go home. I didn’t know if I’d ever be ready.

  “Then don’t,” Millie said firmly. We’d been wrapped around each other all night, and it was messing with my willpower. I had the Santos fight in ten days, and fighting was the last thing on my mind. I needed to go home. I needed to sleep. I needed to get up early and hit the gym. But I didn’t want to leave.

  “I’m afraid of the dark, so I guess I’ll have to wait until morning,” I whispered. I was trying to make her laugh, but somehow the words rang true and I winced, grateful that she couldn’t see me do so. But she was too attuned to the nuances in a person’s voice to miss it. She stiffened a little. I felt it, just a tremor that traveled through her arms and down to her hands resting on my chest.

  “Are you really afraid of the dark?” she asked, and I allowed myself to get sidetracked once more.

  “No, not really. It’s more tight spaces. Dark, tight spaces. I had asthma when I was a kid. I guess it’s the feeling of not being able to breathe, of feeling helpless. Being trapped.”

  “I see. I won’t make you sleep with me in my coffin then.”

  “That’s right . . . you’re a vampire. I forgot.” I smiled, and she heard the grin in my voice because she smiled with me.

  “The darkness is huge, though. You don’t need to be afraid of the dark. Whenever you start feeling trapped or helpless, just close your eyes, and you have more space than you’ll ever need.”

  I nodded and kissed her forehead because she was so earnest and sweet.

  “Close your eyes. Come on, close your eyes,” she commanded.

  I did, but immediately felt dizzy, disoriented, and I reached for her. My balance had been off lately, and I blamed it on lust.

  “Don’t be scared.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “I’m right here. I’m touching you, and you are safe.” She was enjoying this game.

  “Go down.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Your hands are on my chest,” I said.

  “Yeah, they are.”

  “Keep moving them down. I’ll tell you when to stop,” I demanded.

  She burst out laughing, understanding dawning. “You have no idea how often I’ve used my blindness to “accidentally” feel someone up.”

  “Really?” My voice rose in surprise.

  “No. Not really. Now shhh!” she commanded. “I need to look at you a little.”

  I swallowed as her hands slid across my chest and down my torso, her fingers brushing against the swells and valleys that made up my well-muscled abdomen. If it was possible, I felt more naked, more vulnerable than I’d ever felt with a woman, even though I wasn’t naked at all. The fact that she couldn’t see me made me more aware of the attention she paid to every detail. She slid her hands beneath my shirt, and I smiled into her hair. I was both ticklish and turned on.

  “Your skin is smooth. But it’s bumpy too. I adore bumps, you know.”

  I chuckled, thinking of all the braille, the “bumps” in her house that helped her order her world, and I tried not to moan as she ran her fingers up the swell of my lats and rested her head against my chest, pulling me close. I leaned down and kissed the top of her head, the silk of her hair welcome against my lips.

  “I am going to touch you a lot,” she said sincerely.

  “I’m okay with that,” I said magnanimously.

  “But the things I can’t touch, you’ll have to describe.”

  “Okay.”

  “Your eyes . . . what color are they?” she asked.

  “Green.”

  “Like the grass?”

  “Yeah, maybe a little paler.”

  “And your hair?”

  “Dark and light. A mixture of both. Yours is chocolate, mine is . . .” I thought for a moment, trying to come up with a description. “Do I really have to describe it? You can feel it.” She ran her fingers through it, and I tried not to purr.

  She reached for my hands and brought them to her face.

  “Now, look at me the way I look at you.”

  I ran my fingers over her cheek bones, closing my eyes so I could see the way Millie did.

  “Your cheekbones are high and pronounced, and your face is slightly heart-shaped,” I declared, though her face was in my mind as my hands traced the features I described.

  “I have a big forehead,” she interrupted.

  “And a pointy chin,” I added.

  I felt the silk of her hair and pushed her hair behind her ears.

  “And big ears,” she said.

  I traced them with my fingertips. “You have pretty ears,” I said. And they were. Between my fingertips they felt dainty and detailed, little whorls of soft skin in the shape of a question mark, always waiting for answers.

  “What’s your favorite thing about my face?” Millie said after I’d explored a little more.

  I touched her mouth, pressing the pads of my thumbs against the fullest part of her bottom lip and then sliding them upwards to rest in the crease so I could part them slightly.

  “This. This is my favorite part.”

  “Because you can kiss me?” Ah, my girl knew how to flirt. I liked that.

  “Yes,” I said. And I did. I kissed her softly and then sweetly. And then I kissed her again. And again, over and over, for several long minutes, until our lips were sore and I knew I should stop, but found myself sinking in again, licking between her smooth teeth and sliding my tongue against hers because the friction felt so good, and her flavor lit a fire in the pit of my stomach.

  “I don’t want to leave,” I said again. I didn’t know if I would ever be ready.

  MILLIE TRIED TO take me to church again, but I had a surprise for her. We lived in a city that boasted one of the most famed choirs in the world, and we were going to hear them sing. I twisted some arms and made some calls and got permission to sit in on a rehearsal. I didn’t want to share the experience with a crowd, and Millie would be completely surprised if I just led her in, right down to the front row of the tabernacle, and sat her down. If there was a crowd she would be expecting a performance. No crowd, and the surprise would be complete.

  She was excited, her cheeks pink and her smile wide, and she held onto me, squeezing my arm like an anxious child.

  “Are we in a church?” she whispered theatrically.

  “Kind of.”

  “It doesn’t feel like there are lots of people here. Are there other people here?”

  “Kind of.”

  Her eyebrows rose and she pinched my arm. “How can there ‘kind of’ be other people here? Either there are or there aren’t.”

  “There are other people here . . . but they aren’t attending church.”

  “Okaaaay,” Millie said doubtfully, but I could tell she was dancing in her skin.

  The entire back wall was a pipe organ, something I’d never seen before, and when the organist began to play, I felt the vibrations in my back teeth and the hair stood up on my neck. Millie gasped beside me and I reached for her hand and closed my eyes so that I could experience it the way she was experiencing it. Then the choir started to sing. A wall of sound washed over us, taking us both by surprise, the power and precision seeping into our pores and spilling down our spines, sinking into the soles of our feet.

  I forgot my goal to keep my eyes closed and found myself staring at Millie instead, who had lifted her chin and was basking in the sound as if it were sunlight warming her skin. Her eyes were closed and her lips were parted, and she looked as if she were waiting for a kiss. It was an Easter hymn, the choir proclaiming joyfully that He had risen, followed by jubilant hallelujahs in triumphant harmony.

  “That’s what heaven sounds like. Don’t you think?” M
illie breathed, but I stayed silent, not wanting to ruin the moment with my own opinions about what heaven sounded like. In my limited experience, heaven was silence, a silence so pervasive and complete that it had mass. It had weight. And in that silence there was sadness and guilt, regret and remorse, and loss. Loss of what could have been, loss of what never would be, loss of love, loss of life, loss of choice. I’d felt all those things when I’d swallowed that bottle of aspirin and slit my wrists for good measure. I’d lost consciousness only to become more conscious, more aware. And the silence had been deafening. It wasn’t dark. It was light. So light you had no choice but to see yourself, all of yourself. I hadn’t liked it.

  Though I’d wailed and protested being yanked back to the ground, yanked out of heaven—or hell, whatever it was—I’d been grateful too. And my gratitude had filled me with guilt. It wasn’t until I’d met Moses that heaven had become something different. Moses saw people, people who had died and gone on. Heaven wasn’t silent for Moses. It was filled with memories and moments, filled with color. He brought the dead back to life. He painted them. Moses hadn’t wanted to see any of it, but he didn’t have a choice. He had to come to terms with it. And as he had, I had gone along, persistent in my devotion, if only because Moses saw a sister I would never see again, and Moses had answers nobody else did. Even if those answers sometimes made death more alluring. At least death wasn’t the end. Of that, I was sure.

  Maybe for Millie, heaven was a place that sounded like angelic choirs and pipe organs, because that was where she felt alive. It was all about sound for Millie, not sight. Not colors, like it was for Moses. But for me, heaven would be something else. It would sound like the bell at the beginning of a round, it would taste like adrenaline, it would burn like sweat in my eyes and fire in my belly. It would look like screaming crowds and an opponent who wanted my blood. For me, heaven was the octagon.