Shackling Water

by Adam Mansbach

  There were a lot of stories about Wess: As a youngster in the sixties, he had gotten down with the ungodly undisciplined slap-switch-twist atonal defiance of The New Music as soon as he'd heard it, back when to play too free was heresy against the faded ghost of bebop and just bringing up the names of cats like Ornette Coleman and Cecil Taylor in the wrong company could start a fight.

  Once, Wessel had told Latif, he'd gone to a jam session at Reflections and a whole rhythm section—bass piano drums—had walked off the bandstand in protest over what Wess was doing to the music.

  What else could I do? Wess implored when he recalled the story of that night. What choice did I have, all alone in midsolo with a hundred people in the club and even the bartender evil-eying me? I brought the reed up to my lips and blew.

  That was his last Boston gig for a long minute. Wess stood there alone in the universe, saxophone sweating in the heat of refracted light and hot vowels busting through the metal dome of his horn as he played on and on, filling the room with endurance and belief in his music, which was free, but not of history or musicality or discipline as people said. The liberties it took could be abused just like free speech could be abused, but there was a rambunctious beauty in the new sounds, a yearning scramble of ideas Wess didn't appreciate being maligned by the kind of cats who, if they'd been around twenty-five years earlier, would have been talking shit about this new bebop stuff.

  The motherfuckers who'd walked off the bandstand had had no choice but to stand back there and sip their drinks and watch the cat they'd cut so violently refuse to bleed. Wess stood defiant and blew everything he could think to, played tunes straight ahead and picked them apart like fried chicken and laid each sliver greasy on the ground, broke down the bar lines and zoned free. When he was done he walked still blowing off the stage, through the club past those now-sullen cats, out the front door and into the street, the moan of the horn fading to the rhythm of his footsteps and blending with the honks of cars in traffic.

  Wess disappeared for a while after that, was neither seen nor heard for several rotations of the cycle of the city, and rumors flew as rumors do. I had to be invisible for a minute after that shit, he said. I went out to Frisco and gave cats in the Bean some time to marinate and get hip to what was going on, and I'll be damned if those cats who'd walked out on me in April—plus a whole bunch who wished they coulda walked in with me—weren't playing free when I came back next May. Just like all them jazz rags that gave Monk's shit one star when it came out and then had to go re-review it a few years later on some ol' I don't know what we were thinking. Did we say one star? Sorry, we meant five, jazz classic shit.

  Eddie pulled into South Station at ten-fifteen. Latif said goodbye and hopped a train to Roxbury with his insides queasing and ready almost to collapse. Dark spots flashed and burned if he blinked too fast, as if brown vinegar had been splashed into his eyes. Latif stepped off the train and walked down the block taking small porcelain steps. He was battling the physical with the psychological, depending on a reunion with his teacher to sate his body's craving. As he walked, slow as an old man, Latif remembered the days when he'd raced up and down this very block in a too-big T-shirt playing freezetag with Jay Fox. His mind lit fondly on the sport they'd invented back in junior high, the Tennis Ball Game, which had replaced football and basketball and ruled the hours between school and dinner for a year.

  The rules were simple: If you hit someone from the other team with a tennis ball, they joined your team. The playing field was the whole neighborhood, bound by the highway overpass on one side and Rook's house on the other, and it was a great game because it went on forever, for a whole weekend once. You and your team could hide on rooftops or in stores, waiting in ambush for hours at a time. You could prowl, spy, or even snipe. You could go to somebody's apartment and eat dinner and still be playing the game, leaning together over plates of french fries, strategizing. Eventually there would be some kind of confrontation, and usually everybody would get hit at once, all the hours of tactical maneuvers and counter-reconnaissance dissolving into thirty seconds of attack.

  There had been one game, though, when Latif had been the only one to get away, the lone survivor. His team had walked into an ambush at the island near the hilltop. It had to have been Shane's idea. Most kids would have forced the enemy uphill, figuring that the incline would slow their retreat time. But Shane knew that throwing uphill was harder than running uphill; let the enemy stumble downhill, building up too much speed to dodge the missiles raining from above, and it would be over just like that.

  Latif got away on pure instinct, dodged Rook's first tennis ball, and cut sideways, jumping Mrs. Heppner's fence and sprinting around to the back of her building. He knew Shane knew that her yard opened out into the parking lot: They'd try to catch him there. He doubled back the way he'd come and pressed flat against the side of her house and tried to breathe soft, already thinking how glorious it would be to win, to outsmart them all, already knowing he would do it. He saw every shadow and flicker of light like a detective on a stakeout, an Indian huntsman, Tarzan.

  When he was sure they'd circled to the back, he made a break for it, vaulted the fence and sprinted up the hill and out of sight before they knew they had been tricked. He ran across the yard on tiptoes, arms down and fingertips splayed out like sensors, relishing the perfect self-control he felt, the focus. Latif cleared the fence cleanly, swung both legs over together, and hit the ground running, striding longer and longer until he was whipping past houses and bodegas, slicing through backyards and soaring over shrubbery. There was no reason to stop. He felt the looseness in his limbs, the strength endless in his chest, and sprinted on elated and victorious. He stayed alone for hours, spying, tracking their movements from afar, watching them split up to find him. Sometimes he stopped watching them and just ran through the streets.

  Finally the game ended and the others called his name across the blocks to tell him that he'd won. And even then Latif didn't believe them, thinking it was a trick to make him show himself, and wanting the game to go on forever he stayed in hiding, running from safespot to safespot until he finally decided it was alright to emerge. He walked back to Rook's house, homebase, grinning and huffing, to a hero's welcome and a smuggled glass of beer. Even now, Shane always found a way to mention that game.

  Latif wiped his nose against the back of his wrist for the hundredth time; the patch of skin was already snotcrusted. He turned the corner, walked midway down the block, looked up, and smiled: Wess was standing in his spot. The tenor had been kissed goodnight and tucked into its case, which leaned against the wall next to him. A tall brownbagged can stood by his feet.

  Wessel Gates!

  Hey, Latif. He didn't spring off the wall to meet his student in a bearhug as Teef had expected. The months they'd been apart stood like a block of ice between them. But the seriousness with which Wess looked at him melted the time to water.

  Aren't you surprised to see me?

  Wess ground his hand over his cheek stubble and studied Teef. I got a call from Sonny Burma earlier today.

  Latif blanched, going ashen. What he say?

  What do you think he said?

  Latif sighed, hung his head. I know what he said.

  Wessel's eyes and mouth bent downward in torment. He hadn't believed Sonny, Latif thought. He'd been hoping it wasn't true until now. How could you? Wess whispered. Latif was quiet. There was nothing he could say. And then you come here, Wess went on, shaking his head and staring slackfaced, baleful. You hardly call your mama for months and now you want to bring this into that sweet woman's home?

  I've only been messed up a week, Latif said. I'll tell her I'm sick, and I'll stay and get well.

  No, Latif. Wess shook his head. No. Please. Let me take you to the hospital.

  I can't be around a bunch of junkies, Wess, even if I could afford a hospital. That was the fucking problem in the first place. I've just gotta clear my head. It's only been a week.


  Sonny said he felt like this was his fault. Wess jowled his cheeks and looked down. I feel like it's mine. I never should have let you go down there.

  Latif scowled. You didn't let me go anywhere, Wess. I went.

  I should have stopped you. If I'd known Van Horn and those cats were still dopers I would have.

  Van Horn's clean, said Latif. And no, you wouldn't. You're not my father, Wess, even if I used to wish you were. You couldn't have kept me.

  Wess pursed his lips, opened his mouth to speak, stopped, and began again. I didn't want to tell you this when you were young, Latif, but now I wish I would have. I met Van Horn once, in Frisco. He wouldn't remember me. Higgins would, but not by name. They were sitting in a musicians' bar talking about the group they planned to get together. The Emperor had been in town for a run, and when he left, Albert stayed behind. Word around the campfire was that he hadn't so much quit as been kicked out. To hear Van Horn tell it, though, he was good and ready to be on his own. Wess spoke as if he were being forced, as if recounting something he'd tried to forget.

  He and Higgins were sitting with their arms around each other's shoulders, getting drunk and loud, talking about how this was it, this was the moment they'd been planning for, and the shit they were gonna do was gonna blow minds open. Everybody in the joint was shaking their heads like Listen to these drunk cocky bastards talking shit. Van Horn was doing most of the talking, telling Higgins that he was the only one who understood the mission and so forth.

  Cats who knew him couldn't believe what they were hearing, because Albert had a reputation as a real nice guy, a little on the serious side but always very humble and friendly. After a while Van Horn stumbled into the bathroom, and when I went in to take a leak a little later I saw his legs sticking out under the stall. I figured he had passed out, so I rapped on the door and said Albert! You alright, brother? Wake up!

  He didn't answer me. The stall was locked, so I crawled my ass underneath and found him lying there with his eyes rolled way back and this big vein in his neck twitching like it wanted out. Thick white shit was dribbling down the corner of his mouth. And then I saw the needle in his hand. I thought this cat was dying on the men's room floor, and I picked him up and carried him back out on my shoulder. Higgins saw him and flipped, started shaking him and slapping him, trying to wake him up. I had a car there, so me and Higgins took Van Horn to the hospital and waited while they did whatever they do with overdoses.

  He looked up with hounddog eyes and Latif realized that Wess was telling this story not for its own sake but because it gave him momentary reprieve from the present, from dealing with Latif.

  We sat there in the hall for about twenty minutes before a doctor came out and told us that Albert was alright, he'd shot some bad shit and he was damn lucky we'd gotten him there or he'd be dead. As soon as Higgins heard it he grabbed me and said Come on. I was too shocked to do anything but follow him. He took the keys and drove my car down to some boxing gym somewhere. Next thing I know three big dudes in sparring gear are packed into my station wagon and Higgins is driving like a madman.

  A couple minutes later we pull up to a poolhall. Higgins and his boys go straight to the back and roll up on these three cats sitting at a table. Higgins knocks the table over and grabs the dude sitting in the middle by his jacket. Before the other two can move, Higgins' boys have got them pinned against the floor. Higgins cracks homeboy hard across the jaw, a regular knockout punch, and then locks the cat's arm behind his back and drags him outside. Pop the trunk, he says to me. I'm like, Are you out of your mind? You're ain't throwin nobody in my trunk, man. I don't even know what's going on.

  He stares at me for a second and then slams the cat on the hood face down, picks him up and slams him again. I should kill you, he's yelling. I should kill you for selling me and my man that shit. The cat can't even respond. Higgins flips him over and catches him again across the face. You could see his nose was broken and probably his cheekbone too. Higgins hit him with about five body blows, and I mean hard. He missed once and dented my car with his fist. Homeboy just slid down off the hood into the gutter. Higgins walked away and the dude's boys ran over and tried to help him up, and then Higgins spun around and they just fled. When it was over I dropped his boys back at the gym and took Higgins to the hospital. Then I went home and poured myself one goddamn enormous drink. That was enough to keep my ass away from dope for life.

  I wish I'd told you that story, Latif. But I thought they were clean now. I figured nobody on dope could play like Higgins has these past forty years less he was Superman.

  He is, Latif said. But I'm not. He shook his head. I'm so ashamed, Wess. I just wanted to play . . .

  Wess relented and stepped forward, put his arm around Latif's shoulders and grimaced when he smelled Latif's body and felt the rubbery weakness of the return embrace, the limpness of Latif's arms on his back. You'll help me, won't you? breathed Latif. His mind's eye saw Wessel blink and turn away: You played with fire, you got burned.

  Of course I will. Wess squeezed him harder, then pulled back and eyeballed him, poker-faced. You're sure it's only been a week? Positive? Latif nodded.

  Alright. Wess sighed. Let's go see your mother.

  HOME | SOMNOLENCE | LEDA

  Leda opened the door the way she had when Latif came home past curfew as a kid. She unlatched it an instant before he inserted his key and stood in the hallway with the doorknob in one hand and the other fisted on her hip. It was a reminder of her omniscience, Leda's way of letting Latif know he couldn't get over on her or the world. Try showing up at quarter past for a noon train and see what happens, she'd say, holding the door wide as he bailed in sheepish. Next time you're not getting back in til morning. It was just a threat, though. Even when he was young, Latif had understood that his mother needed to discipline him as much as he needed to be disciplined and maybe more, that her life was a fight against the statistical likelihood that her young poor fatherless black son would end up dead or in jail like Leda's poor fatherless brothers.

  Knowing he was all his mother had and that every time he left the house she fretted over who he was with and what he was doing had been enough to keep Latif on the straight and narrow as a child. He thought his mother so fragile that he never disobeyed, not out of fear of punishment but fear of hurting her. Latif remembered the first Red Sox game he'd been to, with Rook and Rook's brother and father, when he was eleven. A ninth-inning rally had tied the score and sent it into extra innings, and in the bottom of the tenth, with the score still locked and men on base, Latif looked at his watch and left because it was seven-thirty and his mother had told him to be back for dinner no later than eight. Rook had looked at him like he was crazy, and even Rook's dad had assured him it would be alright to stay, but Latif would not be shaken. He listened to the game-winning fifteenth-inning hit on his transistor radio after dinner. Years later, Rook's whole family still fucked with him for leaving.

  Hi, Mama. Her hair was twisted into two long braids and wrapped around the crown of her head. She'd been wearing it natural when he left. Same baby-blue tracksuit, though, looking even paler against Leda's dark, rich skin. She seemed a little heavier; Latif wondered if it was because all the recipes she knew fed two. He stepped forward and hugged her. Leda hesitated for a moment before she brought her arms down over his back and returned the embrace.

  Latif, baby, I can't believe you're here. She stepped back and looked at him and Latif saw a tongue of fear flicker across her face, as if his presence in Leda's home alarmed her, and his stomach dropped. Then Latif remembered how he looked.

  Is everything alright? She put her hand to his forehead, instinctive. Latif loved the architecture of his mother's hands, long and slender like his own. There was a time when the most highly anticipated feeling in the world had been the light feathery tickle of her fingertips against his naked back, soothing him to sleep.

  Everything is fine. He carried her hand down and patted it, hoping too late that his palms wer
en't as sweaty as they had been on the bus, when he'd had to wipe them on the seat next to him every few minutes. I'm kind of sick, he said. And things have been tough. He smiled. And I missed you. I should have come home sooner.

  Well, of course you should have, Leda said, fake scolding, and Latif exhaled relief; his mother was alright now, moving jubilant around her kitchen and beckoning her son to sit down. Nobody had to ask her for some food; Leda assumed you'd make it known if you didn't want to be fed.

  You don't look well to me at all, Latif, she said, glancing over her shoulder, brow lifted in concern, as she rummaged for something in a high cupboard.

  I've been better. He sat down at the halfmoon kitchen table. There were three chairs and Latif always sat in the same one. His mother sat across from him and the middle chair was for guests. Once, Latif supposed, it must have been his father's. He wondered where Wess sat when Leda invited him over for dinner.

  Wess stepped into the room and kissed Leda hello; they both stood over him and suddenly Latif found himself confronting the idea of their relationship, whatever it was. Although he had often thought of Wess as a father, the idea had never conjured any corollary connotation of Wess partnered with his mother. It was something Latif didn't think about, not because the thought disturbed him but because there was no direct evidence to suggest romance aside from an obvious, almost familial, tenderness. They saw each other frequently, Latif knew, now that he was gone. Perhaps they thought as he did, and were drawn together by a parental bond separate from amorous interest.