AT 29

by D. P. Macbeth

  Nathan Whitehurst was tall, strong and handsome. He was a man of inquisitive intelligence and fine character. No other man matched his sense for the rhythms of song…

  The words told of another time and place. Yet the story of Nathan and Melba enthralled him. It was touching and sensitive, sometimes humorous and other times heart wrenching. It had all the elements of fiction, but he accepted its truth. The beautiful handwriting that met his eyes transcended all logic. He knew this woman. The descriptions of Nantucket rang true. He could see the streets of the island. His mind pictured the house where Melba lived and he could easily envision the land in Siasconset where she and Nathan planned to build their home. Whaling, harrowing voyages and turn of the century life on a remote Australian farm, it all filled him with exquisite joy. And, the Apollo Bay cottage, surrounded by fields of green was, to Jimmy’s mind, authentically framed as he recalled the dwelling he visited earlier that day.

  Yet, it was neither the words nor the story that held him. As he turned each page he paused and ran his fingers over the letters. Her handwriting overwhelmed him with a mixture of longing and supreme happiness. He knew it was irrational, but it was with him just the same. He could not take his hand away. He refused to close the binder.

  He read Melba’s story twice before turning to the music, hundreds of songs carefully scribed in the same loving hand. All, but a few had no lyrics, merely notes and bars that had the appearance of play on different kinds of instruments. He tried to sound them out, but a piano or the Gibson was needed for him to be satisfied. He knew the creations must have come from the mind of a genius, lovely like the hand that wrote them. The hand he knew. It was close to three when he drifted off with his fingers still resting gently on the notes. His imagination summoned dreams of another time at the keys of a piano with the image of a pretty girl at his side.

  Illalangi Illuka plied the empty road back to Otway National Park. He pulled the Ute into the same space where he’d parked with Jimmy that afternoon. He left the keys in the ignition. Then he climbed to the top of the cliff, using the same ancient path now pitch black in the dark night. His fathers guided his steps until he came out onto the precipice, lit by the descending crescent moon. He stripped naked and began to chant as a breeze rose up from the waters below.

  The burden was lifted. The curse of the Gadubanud would no longer torture his people. Of that, he was certain. The spirits told him and he was content. Yes, the old ways had died. Yes, the lands of his fathers would never again be free of whites, but a new spirit would live in his people. Others would come to preserve the heritage of the Gadubanud in cooperation with noble whites who would refuse to let it be forgotten. Gadubanud art, song, and dance would be resurrected in museums and books. Schools and universities would teach about the ways of the Aborigines who lived along the sea near Airey’s Inlet and Apollo Bay. And, one day a strong aboriginal consciousness would rise again to claim its rightful place among the cultures of the world.

  His chants became louder as he edged to the cliffside. The nearest ‘Apostle’ stood out in the waves, immovable and strong like the spirits who waited to carry him to the real world where no hatred existed. Illalangi the son had fulfilled the destiny of his fathers. He spread his arms, shifted his weight and gazed at the moon, preparing to leap into arms of his fathers. But voices called out and held him back. At once, he knew he must stay. Only he knew the truth. Only he could bring the legends of his people to the ears of those who would one day come to listen and preserve. “Melbourne,” the voices told him. “Go to Melbourne and wait for the one who will seek to know the story of the Gadubanud.”

  Jim Buckman did not hear the sound of the car that rolled to a stop at dawn outside. He did not hear footsteps on the stairs. He did not stir when outside air briefly swept into the room. He did not sense the shadow as it came over his body. He did not feel the presence that came near and bent close to his face. But when a soft hand touched his cheek, he reached up and brought it to his lips.

  “Melba, my love.” He remained in his dream.

  Seventy-Four

  When he awoke, Les was sitting in a chair a few feet away. She smiled at him, but did not move as recognition slowly came. It was still early and the sun filtered through the curtains, basking the shop in soft light.

  “How are you, Jimmy?” she asked, as his eyes adjusted.

  He jumped at the sound of her voice. Melba’s story fell to the floor and they both looked down.

  An hour later they rounded the bend into Apollo Bay.

  “There.” She pointed as he drove her car to the top of Main Street. “Park in the lot.”

  Jimmy was still in shock as she came around and took his hand. He wanted to sweep her into his arms, but the yearlong separation kept him in check. They joined a group of people at the foot of the stairs. Gradually, the group ascended the stairs and went inside. Les led him to a pew close to the front.

  When all the seats were filled the organ sounded its first note followed by a chorus of voices that summoned the Sunday parishioners to their feet. Les stood and Jimmy followed as all voices joined in song. He listened as the melody filled the chapel. It had a familiar resonance and before long, he recognized that it matched the rhythm of some of the songs in the binder he’d read the night before.

  The pastor came down the aisle followed by a lector and altar boys who moved to positions on either side of the priest as he bowed before the cross. Les reached for Jimmy’s hand and held it tight. She was still holding it and hour later when the last song rang out from the balcony. This one was familiar. Jimmy cocked his head to listen as Nigel Whitehurst’s stolen song, meant for a fiddle, boomed out from the organ.

  Les made no effort to move as the other parishioners exited. After five minutes, the last candle was extinguished. The choir members came down from the balcony, removed their robes and departed. An altar boy went among the pews to return missals and songbooks to their places. Soon he finished and disappeared into the vestibule at the side of the altar. They were alone.

  Les let go of Jimmy’s hand and leaned forward. She knelt and whispered a prayer. Then she made the sign of the cross and sat back. She reached for Jimmy’s hand again staring up at the cross. Then they made their way outside.

  They walked down the street, suddenly comforting, no longer a place he wanted to flee. Les came to a stop several blocks from the church and pointed to the second story above a storefront post office.

  “That’s where I live.” She lowered her hand and gestured to the outline of some stenciling that had been stripped from the window. “See there? It says Telegraph Office. That’s what drew me to take the apartment upstairs. I don’t know why.”

  Jimmy looked up at the windows. “You’ve been here all this time?”

  “Just the last two months. Before that I traveled.”

  “Does Nigel know you’re here?”

  “We ran into each other a few weeks ago. Until then only my parents knew.”

  They continued on and entered a restaurant. Jimmy motioned to a table by the window. Over lunch she filled him in on her travels.

  “I went to Europe first; Paris, Rome, Venice, Geneva, Brussels just about everywhere. Running, of course, but relieved to be away from Australia and the horror of losing Nicky. Living at the orphanage for all that time was a blessing. I’d saved plenty of money.”

  “I called your parents every week for months. I think your father wanted to tell me where to find you, but you wouldn’t let him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What every tourist does. I discovered that the French really do serve the finest food in the world. The Mona Lisa is overrated, at least the way it’s shown nowadays from twenty feet away, locked behind bulletproof glass that all but obscures her face. Musee D’Orsay is better. The Swedes are the most attractive people anywhere. Saint Petersburg is heavenly in late spring. Rome has so much to see that it would take a year to get it all in. Milan i
s, indeed, the fashion capital of the world, but I still can’t imagine paying five hundred dollars for heels. Venice is expensive, but worth every penny. It’s a lover’s paradise. I thought of you.”

  Jimmy chuckled. “You have a critical eye.”

  “If you need a guide I’m your girl.”

  “Someday.”

  She smiled. “Everywhere I went the people were wonderful. That’s the real benefit of traveling. Discovering that people can be nice the world over. The Europeans, and Asians aren’t so different from us. They work, play, create, converse, laugh and love the same as you and me.”

  Jimmy glanced out the window. “They are us and we are them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just something someone mentioned.”

  Les followed his gaze. “I was in Japan when I read that you entered rehab.”

  They turned their eyes to one another. “But you stayed away.”

  “I was still dealing with Nicky’s death.”

  “And, now?”

  “It still hurts.”

  “Why did you shut me out?”

  “I shut the world out.”

  “I had dinner with Sister Marie just after I arrived in Melbourne.”

  Les dropped her eyes. “How is she?”

  “She’s fine. It’s hard to tell she had a stroke.”

  Les nodded. “Then she’s back in charge, good.”

  “No. Another nun is in charge, but Sister Marie still raises the money.”

  “That must be Sister Monica. She’s the one who found Nicky.”

  “Why did you come back to Australia?”

  “I didn’t want to go home to New Hampshire. I couldn’t bear to live in Melbourne. Something pulled me here.”

  “What’s here?”

  “You tell me? Why are we sitting together in a seaside town called Apollo Bay? Two Americans who grew up twenty miles away from each other on a continent half a world away.”

  “Simple for me,” Jimmy answered, stung that she skirted the one thing he was desperate to hear. “Nigel asked me to come. We’ll go back to work as soon as we return to New Jersey.”

  She changed the subject. “The scotch on the counter, I thought you stopped.”

  “At Nigel’s place? A reminder. I didn’t slip.”

  He caught the eye of the waitress and signaled for the check. His heart ached. Les clearly didn’t long for him the way he longed for her. ‘Why did you come back? Who knows? Why did you shut me out? I shut the world out.’ Why? Why?? ‘I wanted to be with you! I could have helped! You needed me! I needed you!!’ He had to leave before the hurt gave him away.

  They walked for an hour. This time their hands did not touch. They wandered among the streets, stopping now and then browse in a store. At times, the conversation became distant. Jimmy had plenty of questions, all barred from his tongue by the wall of indifference that seemed to be Les’ feeling toward him. But they were together. She came to him. Hadn’t she taken his hand in the church? They came to a stop at a corner and turned toward the bay.

  “I want to show you something.”

  “The bay? I’ve seen it.”

  “With Melba?”

  “Who?”

  “You said her name last night. Who is she?”

  “Nigel’s grandmother. I was reading something she wrote before I fell asleep. I must have been dreaming. What do you want me to see?”

  They crossed the street and followed the sidewalk to the bay. Benches lined an overlook above the beach. She motioned to one and they sat down to look. She reached for his hand and the distance between them melted away.

  “I come here everyday, rain or shine. I think about Nicky. He was such a beautiful, innocent little boy. That’s why it hurt so much. I couldn’t save him.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I’ll never forgive myself, but the introspection helps. So does the church I took you to this morning. Not the service so much, but the music. Lovely, healing in a way. Whenever I hear it I feel better.”

  “Nigel plays one of those songs on Yarra.”

  “The last one. Yes, I know.”

  Jimmy smiled. “He stole it. I’m surprised he hasn’t been sued.”

  “I hear you in that music.”

  “Me?” Jimmy shook his head.

  “Do you know the very first time I heard you sing?”

  “Surfer’s Paradise.”

  “No. That’s when I knew I was in love with you.”

  His heart leapt. “When?”

  “It was one winter night while I was pursuing my masters at B.U. I was tired of reading, but I couldn’t sleep. I turned on the radio, thinking about Australia and wondering if I might ever return. Dick Summer’s voice offered a backdrop to my thoughts. Then I heard another voice and I sat straight up in bed. It was you just before you launched into Lulu. Then you sang the song and I was sure I knew you. I listened to the rest of the interview and jotted down Passim, where you were playing that winter. A week later, I went to see you with some friends from school. When I saw your face I was sure we had a connection. Now, living above the post office for the past two months, seeing Nigel’s childhood cottage and looking here at the bay, I know in my heart our connection is Apollo Bay.

  “The first time I came here I was a month into my internship at Saint Malachy’s. Sister Marie gave me some time off and insisted I use it to see other parts of Victoria. She wanted me to know something about Australia before I went home to finish college. She even lent me a car. When I came into Apollo Bay it felt like home. This area was called Krambruk, then Middleton for a time before it was changed to Apollo Bay. Until late in the nineteenth century, the only way to get here was by water.” She stopped speaking and turned to face him as if waiting for Jimmy to confirm her conclusion. When he didn’t respond she turned away and pointed at the water. “A hundred years ago ships occasionally stopped in this bay before heading south or north. Some were whalers from America. Over there.” She nodded her head to the right. “There was a wooden dock, very long and sturdy. The ships would tie up for repairs.”

  She turned to look back at the town, gesturing with her hand. “The early settlers harvested trees to get by, but farming followed quickly. The local Aborigines were called the Gadubanud. Another name was Parrot People. I like the way the indigenous people pronounce it, Katabanut. They are said to have been fiercely independent. I spent a few days here and when I went back to Melbourne I read everything I could find about Apollo Bay and whaling. Eventually, it led to my masters in history.”

  “You told me.”

  “Did I?” She seemed to remember. “That’s not where I’m going with this.”

  “I was here last night with a friend of Nigel’s.”

  “The Aborigine. I know, Reina told me.”

  Jimmy turned in surprise. “You’ve met her?”

  “She was with Nigel when we ran into each other. She’s the one who told me you were at Nigel’s shop in Airey’s Inlet. She was quite insistent that I go to you. Back to my story.” She tightened her hold of his hand. He squeezed back overjoyed.

  “After I moved into the apartment above the Post Office I started to think about you. Until then I couldn’t let you in, but you flooded back. I almost called Cindy in Millburn. I went to the bank to get money to buy a ticket for the states. When my parents called I thought about asking them to find you and tell you I was coming. But my emotions were too confused, guilt that I had shut you out, fear that you hated me. I was paralyzed and I did nothing.”

  “Until today.”

  “Yes, but it’s not what you think. The apartment where I live above the post office, it feels like I’ve lived there before. No ghosts, just déjà vu that comes now and then. Do you ever feel that way?”

  “Everyone does.”

  “Here, looking out at the bay, it’s the same. In time, it began to feel like I was waiting. Every Sunday, when I listen to the choir, I hear your music. Maybe you can’t hear it, but I can.
It brought me back to you.”

  “I wish you had come to me.”

  There was a long silence as Les swept her eyes across the bay. Her head turned from side to side then out, gazing with concentration at the distant, endless horizon. Jimmy watched her, lost in thought like he was no longer at her side. At last, she tightened her fingers around his palm and turned to look into his eyes.

  “It was supposed to be here. That’s what I want you to understand. Something made me wait. I had to wait for you to come back to me.”

  “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Look at the bay. How does it make you feel?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I feel safe.”

  “Safe?”

  “Can’t you feel it?” We belong here. This is our home.”

  He thought of his conversations with Franco. “You belong at the orphanage.”

  She let go of his hand. “Never.”

  “Not here, Les, with the boys at Saint Malachy’s. I can take you.”

  “No.”

  “You’re hiding. You think this is where you belong because it’s safe. That’s only an excuse. I’ve spent half my life making excuses. If I’ve learned anything from the past year, it’s that I can’t do that anymore.”

  They drove to the cottage with the unsatisfying conversation still in the air. An invisible wall stifled the desire to touch. Nigel and Reina met them on the porch. Inside, a young man was at the table, poring over drawings. Nigel pulled Jimmy in to look at the architect’s diagrams while Les went into the tiny kitchen with Reina. A short time later Reina came back and fetched Jimmy outside.

  “What did you say to her?”