Shackling Water

by Adam Mansbach

  Latif spent the day sitting at Shane's crib, thinking and shaking and smoking everything Shane handed him, drifting briefly off to sleep, returning to his mother's house to say goodbye. She and Wess bid him a sad, quiet farewell; he heard himself tell them he'd come back soon, as soon as all of this was over, for a proper visit. Wessel squeezed his bicep fiercely, discreetly: Please do, he intoned with guarded meaning. Latif nodded. Leda kissed him on both cheeks and then the forehead, whispering a final condolence; Latif mumbled his downcast thanks and shuffled backward out the door, duffel strap slicing his shoulder and horncase weighing down his arm. The smack he'd stolen from Shane was in his underwear, plastic knotted, tucked against his balls for safety. Stealing it had made him sick, but not as sick as not stealing it would have.

  A soulfood spot called Bob the Chef's was the only thing in the area Sonny was sure he could find. Burma was waiting in the parking lot when Teef got there, leaning back against the hood of his car and staring vacuously, hat pulled down close over his eyes against the nonexistent sun. Latif mouthed hello and they embraced. Sonny's hug was tight. The first hour passed wordlessly, with nothing to distract Latif from his thoughts but the metronome click of the blinker when Sonny changed lanes, which he seemed to do at random. Latif tapped his foot in counterpoint long after the noise abated. He wished Sonny would scan the radio, cough, sigh deeply: anything. Soon, though, the silence grew on him like moss on tree bark, soft padding, and Latif found himself fretting about the inevitability of conversation. Whatever words shattered the congealing air would not be worth it; the silence was tribute to Albert.

  Latif wondered if anyone he knew would ever speak normally again, if in a week or two or six months' time rooms would fill once more with loud casual conversation, chatter, bullshit. How long before Sonny and Amir were twin pillars of discourse again, riffing on each other's jokes and trading tagteam stories? Nothing ever shook the world for long. Jay Fox's death had not stopped them from laughing, and at first that had seemed horribly wrong, but soon it was horribly right. Latif stared out the window at the headlights of opposing cars, wondered what Sonny was thinking, and decided his own loneliness outweighed the importance of the ceremony.

  I know this sounds crazy, but I feel like Albert died for my sins.

  Sonny glanced over, across his rigid pilot arm. I feel that way too, he confessed. But the truth is, Albert died for nothing. It ain't meant to be, it ain't the Lord working in mysterious ways. It's just some fucked up unfair fucked up shit, and I'm not gonna dignify it with that kind of thinking.

  Without taking his eyes off the road, Sonny opened the glove compartment and dropped the New York Post onto Latif's lap. Look at the shit they write.

  Latif picked it up and turned on the vanity light. The newspaper was folded over and the inside headline read Jazzman Found Shot Dead.

  They make him sound like a gangster in there, Sonny said. They don't get to the music until the fifth paragraph, after a whole bunch of there is speculation that Van Horn's death may be in some way tied to narcotics bullshit. Sonny locked both arms, pushing like he wanted to smash the dashboard with the wheel. Newspaper motherfuckers. Couldn't do him right when he was alive and just as ignorant today.

  How's Marisol? Latif asked.

  Hysterical, absolutely hysterical. Keeping herself busy with funeral arrangements, though.

  Still the manager, huh?

  Mmm. Sonny turned toward him for longer than was prudent, a confidential glint in his eye. You know, he said, if Albert was cheating—and I ain saying he was or he wasn't—but if he was, Marisol would have killed him herself.

  Latif studied Sonny's profile. And how are you? he asked.

  Not much better than Marisol. He was quiet, face drawn grim. Latif noticed the uneven splotches of stubble prickling Sonny's face and realized he'd never seen Burma unshaven before.

  I'm better than Higgins, though, Sonny volunteered after a moment. He's taking it harder than anybody. No two musicians have ever been closer than them, man. Or pushed each other like that. Albert was his brother and his patron saint rolled into one, and I'll tell you right now: if he finds out who killed him, Higgins' gon live out his days in jail for murder one. Sonny laughed mirthlessly. That's his coping technique; he's quote unquote investigating. Anybody so much as gives him a name, Higgins' gonna walk out his front door with a shotgun and start blasting.

  Sonny sighed, tossing up his hands and letting them fall back into position on the wheel. You know, he said. It's horrible, it's a tragedy, it never should have happened, there's not much else to say. You're never gonna go to his house and vibe with him again. I'm never gonna sit down at the keys and listen to him play and do my best to keep up anymore. Even if they do solve it: So what?

  Latif kept still. Some day Sonny would want to talk about Albert's life, laugh, reminisce, smile with remembering, tell stories. But now was a time for simple unarticulated sorrow. Latif thought of the biographies lining Albert's living room and wondered who would write Van Horn's. He had always looked at those books, famous names aggressively emblazoned on their spines, as being authoritative, definitive, official. It was only now, as Latif sat with Jazzman Found Shot Dead in his lap, that the absurdity of such an assumption hit him. Why should anything in those volumes be true? Who could tell if the authors had known their subjects, understood them, why they even wrote those books? Latif thought of Higgins with the shotgun, an image he had no difficulty seeing, and felt that he would wring the neck of anyone who distorted Albert's life, miscolored what he was about.

  Latif closed his eyes but he was wide awake, thinking. He rolled down his window slightly, just enough for him to snake his hand out and hold the roof and catch some breeze. When he was young Latif had liked to rest his elbow on the bottom of the backseat window of his father's car and cup his hand, letting the moist wind fill it like a sail and push it back. Now, though, he could only bear to let it blow against his fingers, lest the wind play the holes in his arm like a flute.

  I'm quitting junk, said Sonny out of nowhere, just as Latif was thinking of the stash in his drawers, the ache to get some in his system mounting, wondering how Sonny would react if he pulled out the bag and offered him a bump.

  You're what?

  I've been clean since you left. He drove with his wrist casual atop the wheel, shrugging, dangling his hand. I've been playing with fire way too long, man, telling myself I was cool but never really sure.

  So you just quit, Latif said, flat. Just like that. After all these years.

  Sonny nodded, oblivious to the jealousy in Teef's voice. Cold turkey. Everybody said they'd never seen somebody kick so easy. Guess I'm lucky.

  Goddamn fuckin right you're lucky, Latif growled. He pulled the bag out and untied it. Care to join me? Seeing as it was so easy for you to kick, how bout a little bump with a motherfucker you practically convinced to start?

  Sonny stared out at the highway. If you want to blame me you can blame me, he said. I probably shouldn't have been so honest.

  You think? Latif powdered his finger, held it to his nostril, and glared through bloodshot eyes. His snort was gratuitously loud. Sonny didn't react. Latif leaned back, eyelids humming, wiped his nose and took another hit.

  I want you to know, Latif, Albert wasn't mad at you. Sonny spoke deliberately, hard and ponderous, knowing his words had to penetrate a heavy haze. Latif said nothing. His nose twitched.

  He saw a lot of himself in you. He told me that.

  Well, Latif said, sullen, I guess that proves even the great Albert Van Horn misses sometimes.

  You think so? Sonny's voice rose, indignant. How many times Albert leave The Emperor's band? he asked, shooting the question with pop-quiz velocity.

  Latif frowned. Twice, he said. Once to go home when his pops had cancer, and once when he got kicked out.

  Wrong, said Sonny. Once when he got tossed and once for reasons nobody knows but Albert. He was gone a year and it wasn't Pittsburgh with his father like he tol
d you or India to study with the master musicians like he told me or Africa to learn the tribal rhythms like Amir thought.

  Sonny eyecorner-checked Latif to see if he was listening, saw him toying with the bag of smack and found himself wanting some. I knew he'd never tell, Sonny continued, ignoring the craving, so back when I was the new guy in the band and she still liked me, I asked Marisol. She got real big-eyed and solemn and said Albert figure out what is musician. Shook her fist and walked away.

  Sonny looked at him as if he'd proved his point. Well, more power to that nigga, Latif retorted. He coulda told a motherfucker the answer. He knew it was no way to speak of the dead, but all this had lost its potential to comfort Latif, even if he believed it. Particularly since Albert had emerged from exile and exploration unscathed, and here Latif was jagged and tattered and Albert was dead. Albert was dead.

  Sonny gave up, on comforting Latif and contorting himself. Gimme the bag, he said. Latif passed it, professionally unsurprised, and Sonny's mind flinched. Should he toss the junk and stare you-better-get-your-shit-together eyedaggers at Latif, or share a moment of sympathetic indulgence with him, a mourners' mind-erasure solidarity interlude even though the kid couldn't handle his dope? The bag was in his hand now: Who was he to start playing holier-than-thou? Sonny did a bump, felt better than he had in days, and passed the bag back. Latif took a small hit and leaned back, zoning. Sonny tightened his hand around the wheel, and when Latif awakened they were home.

  RECKONING | HOLES | ALCHEMY

  The funeral was a jazz world who's who. Mournful men filled the aisles of the uptown chapel, unsurprised that another of their ranks had been plucked early from the earth. Stainedglass light rays shined soft and brightly on the tears of matronly women in the front rows of the pews and on the bowed heads of gray distinguished gentlemen standing in a line against the back wall with gray hats atop their folded stridepiano hands. Sonny was the organist, sitting onstage in his black suit amidst the rainbow flowers amassed everywhere: on the dark wood steps, the stage, across the closed oak coffin. Latif looked at the box and could not believe that it contained Albert Van Horn, that he lay inside with arms pressed to his sides, straight as a soldier at attention, his eyes touched closed probably by some white police captain's leathergloved right hand, a strange fish washed ashore in Harlem.

  Latif was paralyzed upon entering the church, unsure where to sit and afraid of violating the unfamiliar protocol with which everyone seemed so ghoulishly conversant. An usher approached on silent feet to guide him to a seat. Latif followed him up the aisle and saw Marlon Burma on his left. They greeted each other with tightlipped halfsmiles. On his lap Marlon held a houndstooth fedora, distinctively cut and unmistakably Sonny's. Latif looked at it in wonder and then glanced back up at Marlon. The painter touched the brim.

  Latif walked on. The usher stopped and took him lightly by the elbow, gesturing to a half-empty pew. As Latif shifted to shuffle into the row, he saw Mona sitting on the bench behind him. She beckoned to him, her eyes clear and open, removed her purse from the seat beside her, and patted the pew. He lightstepped past the others in her row and sat to Mona's right. She said nothing, only slipped her arm through his and laid her head across his shoulder. The service was starting. Latif scanned the chapel, noticing faces familiar and famous and registering slight, muted reactions at the sight of curvy, fluid nightclub people pressed and starched and staring straight ahead like automatons.

  The preacher's eulogy floated languid and lush over Latif's head, pretty but ignorable. The cat quoted the Bible, a book Latif had never noticed on Albert's shelves, and he half-listened and devoted his attention to the scent and feel of Mona, nestled between his head and shoulder, her hair tickling his neck.

  He was grateful for her presence; sadness, memory, hope, and comfort were stirred by the naturalness of touching her. He wondered what they would say to one another when all this was over; Latif rehearsed an apology and stared at the candles on the altar and felt a righteous steadyburning desire to make his life correct and clean and proper, refill his drained hull of a body with better potions. He looked around and wondered how many others were resolving to reform themselves right now. Marisol and Murray were in the front row with Amir and some of Albert's family. He feared speaking with any of them; perhaps he would eschew words and simply hug each one in turn. Words seemed to have no place or power here.

  The preacher disagreed and spoke on and finally was finished, and then the worst began. Murray and Amir joined Sonny on the stage, Amir carrying his bass and Murray sitting down invisibly behind the coffin, where his trap set waited. They began to play a delicate, heavy ballad of Van Horn's and it was terrible: terrible because where Albert's horn should have come in there was nothing and everyone in the chapel heard it. There was a hole in the music and that was all Latif could hear, a giant unfillable vacuum. The sight and sound of them brought it all home; sobs swelled to wails and the calm sea of funeralgoers rippled with tiny, minimized motions: handkerchiefs and tissues dabbing eyes, hands clasping more firmly, shirtcuffs and watches suddenly visible beneath suit jackets as men squeezed women tight around the shoulders. Seeing the three of them up there was like watching a broken bird attempting flight, and there was nothing anyone could do but sit and listen. Tears rolled down Latif's face and glistened in Mona's hair and he let them, his hand in Mona's and his body shuddering slightly in silence. He looked down and saw one of her tears fall, felt the dampness seep through the knee of his suit.

  A man slid in beside them and tapped Latif's elbow lightly with a finger. Latif turned his head and Larry Calvin moved in closer, conspiratorial, his eyes darting left and right before finally setting on Latif.

  Say, bruh, he said. You think when this is over you and I can take a little walk?

  Loathing poured undisguised from Latif's eyes. He was sitting in a church pew listening to a whispered plea for skag with one ear and the sound of a black hole collapsing with the other. Albert's supernoval collapse pulled all light into its void and Murray, Sonny, and Amir were standing at the edge, feet planted, straining to keep from being sucked into oblivion. Latif wanted to punch Larry Calvin in the face, but instead he lifted Mona's head gently in his soft palms and slid out from underneath its weight. He stood up and brushed wordlessly past Calvin, turned crisply on his heel, strode quick and solemn to the rear.

  He looked back for a second, hand on the polished brass-ring doorknob, and took in the whole church: the full rows of people, Sonny hunched over the organ, Murray staring down into his necktie as his brushes swept the snare drum, Mona looking back at him with confusion and concern in her moist eyes, the red carpet and the altar and the coffin buried in flowers, and the stained-glass Jesus on the cross, his arms around it all.

  Latif pushed open the immense wood door. A stalactite of pure noon sunshine cut into the church and Latif slipped out onto the steps and let the door creak shut behind him. He lifted his face and stood glaring into the sun, waiting to go blind as Shane had playground-claimed so many years before, scaring him so much that Latif had never dared to stare at heaven since then. His vision dissipated into brightness, and when he heard Mona say his name behind him and turned to face her Latif saw nothing but a blotch of sheer light still. He closed and rubbed his eyelids, massaged the light until it calmed and dulled and he could see her, standing on the top step with her purse between her hands. Are you alright?

  I guess there are a lot of ways to take that, said Latif. And the answer to them all is no.

  She nodded and looked down. The doors were far too thick, but Latif could swear he heard the faint strains of Albert's ballad through the wood and stainedglass nonetheless.

  Albert asked me once why I was a musician, said Latif. He put his hands in his pockets and looked up the steps at her. Instead of somewhere with a bomb strapped to me.

  Mona was walking toward him, head bowed in respect like they were still inside. The only way you can justify it, he continued, turning sideways and
dipping his shoe into the air between his step and the next one down as if testing a swimming pool's temperature, is if what you create is on the frontlines somehow. If your music pushes people into thinking about freedom and justice and love and what they're fighting for, then maybe you're doing your part. I could live with that, anyway, if that was what my music did.

  Mona stopped and stood a step above him, between Latif and the sun, their eyes level. In the coolness of her shadow, he relaxed his brow. I used to think fear made me a musician—a musician instead of a warrior. But I'm not scared of what's out there. He tapped his chest. I'm scared of what's in here. Of how much hatred might come out my horn if I let it, how much sadness, and what that might do to me.

  I'm not talking about some friendly-ghost melancholy blues you shoo away, Latif said. I mean the sadness and the violence that come out of knowing I might make it, and you might make it, but not me and you and Shane and Sonny and Albert and Spliff and Kofi Ogunde and Jay Fox and my mother and my dad and my whole neighborhood. I mean knowing that every day I've gotta deal with things that somebody who looks like you never has to consider at all, even if we're sleeping in the same bed. I mean knowing we're all gonna end up dead as Albert, no matter what we do, and most of us a whole lot quicker and with less to show for it. Knowing we've gotta find love in the midst of all this savageness. What's the beauty of the struggle against the fact we gonna lose?

  Latif paused, momentarily shaken at what he'd uttered in the clean sunshine church air. This must be the moment when some cats find religion, he thought, then went on. There's some kind of violence deep inside me, Mona, and I'm just realizing it's there. Maybe I'd never need to play at all if I could just kill everybody who looked at us the wrong way on the Reese Beach boardwalk, or every cop in this city, or my dad.