He turns to walk up the aisle. He glances at Maureen. She clutches the thick arm of the man on her left and smiles and dabs at the tears running down her cheeks, her face glowing with contentment. He pauses for a moment, hoping that she’ll notice him, but she seems oblivious to the people around her. Gazing up at the stage, she gives the impression of being softer somehow, less defensive. She looks the same as she did on Grosse Ile, on the day they met walking the dogs, when her boredom with music felt to him like a breath of fresh air.
At the start, she was patient and loving, but his habits and disposition wore her down, particularly those things that were careless, even reckless, and that fell, he believed, within the province of an artist’s life. When he went back on the road, she urged him not to go. When he came home and women from faraway cities called in the middle of the night, she pretended to be asleep. When he left the water running and the kitchen sink overflowed, damaging the countertop and the cabinetry below, she reset the tile and refinished the wood doors without complaining. When she found a small stash of pornographic films, she feigned interest. When he misplaced the car, his wallet, and then his keys, she left the front door open. And when a teenage girl wanted private lessons and came to the house in the middle of winter wearing a tiny plaid skirt and a bikini top, Maureen slammed the door and saved him from jail. In these ways, he used up whatever patience she had. He used it up so completely that going home with broken hands seemed presumptuous, utterly ridiculous, a burden he couldn’t ask her to bear.
The assistant principal reads another name, and several guys in the audience break into applause. They keep it going, whistling and cheering, while a young woman with a movie star face struts across the stage. She turns and waves and the boys fire up their enthusiasm.
Back at his seat, he takes off his jacket. All morning he’s been uncomfortably warm, a condition that he can’t explain given the weather. Heather, of course, appears cool and relaxed, entirely comfortable, even though she’s been under the lights for more than an hour. He thinks of women, at least those in his life, as remarkably composed, more resilient when subjected to pressure, whether gradual or sudden. Some have a high tolerance for pain. Others can hear the snapping of a bone without flinching.
He wipes his forehead with his sleeve and thinks about the weekend stretching out before him, the reception later this evening at the old house – Maureen’s house – and then Sunday, a day of work at Humbug followed by cooking and eating alone. He hopes the dry Canadian air sticks around through the start of the week. High humidity makes it difficult to breathe.
HE KNEW that the bartender would crank up the air as the Green Mill filled with people. He wiped the sweat from his temple and felt happy to be in a darkened room, not only because the last three days had been humid but also because Jen, a worshipper of heat, oblivious to the ovenlike atmosphere of the apartment, had ignored his fuming and his threats and reset the thermostat whenever he turned the other way.
Brian and Tom were already in back and he was tuning again, dissatisfied with the new strings he’d put on the day before. As a purist, he’d been resisting the lure of an electronic tuner, but lately his ears weren’t working and the frustration made him wonder if he shouldn’t give in.
When he sat down, he thought he saw someone familiar out of the corner of his eye, but when he scanned the crowd there was no one he recognized, and so he busied himself with the tuning, though the feeling stayed with him, as if a person he knew were watching from a shadowy corner. A few minutes later, feeling entirely ill at ease, he got up, looked around, and stumbled, catching himself at the edge of the stage, staggered by the figure of Otis sitting alone in one of the small booths against the wall.
“My God, Otis,” he said, rushing over and shaking the man’s hand until Otis told him to sit down. “What are you doing here? You never leave Port Austin.”
Otis centered his drink on the small white napkin. “I decided to make an exception.” He gave the impression of a man sitting in church, rather calm, almost solemn, with one arm held tightly against his side. “I don’t hear anything. I don’t get any news. What’s a man to do?”
“I’m sorry. Jen always asks about you. We talk about coming to Port Austin.”
“You do? You only brought her around once. I can’t remember what she looks like.”
“She’s gorgeous.”
“That’s good,” said Otis.
“So how long are you in town? Where are you staying?”
“Slow down,” said Otis, shaking his head. “I see you’re still in a hurry. Let’s get through the first set, shall we?”
He flagged the waitress and glanced at Otis’s black jacket and white button-down shirt, an outfit that was too nice for the Mill and too heavy for the weather. “Another for my friend,” he said. “And I’ll have a vodka on the rocks.”
The waitress walked away and Otis watched her go. He shivered. “I gotta get out more.”
“You okay?”
“It’s chilly in here,” said Otis, sitting perfectly still.
Suddenly, as if the bartender had turned up the lights, he saw that Otis’s face was drawn, thinner than he remembered, and the shoulders seemed less substantial, pinched or crumbling, beneath the fine tailored coat. He lowered his voice and said, “It’s not the chill, is it?”
Otis sipped his drink with measured dignity and then set the glass down on the napkin. “I’ve come to hear you play. That’s all.”
“What’s bothering you?” he said.
A man walked up to the table. “You’re Otis Young, aren’t you? If I’m not imposing too much, would you mind signing an autograph?”
Otis winced and wrote his name on a scrap of paper and kept his other arm pressed against his side.
“Thank you,” said the man. He bowed and walked away.
“C’mon, Otis. What’s the story?”
“All right,” he said, sitting flawlessly upright with one hand resting on the table. “This is my last wish. Will you grant me my last wish?”
Later, somewhere in the first set, trying to play for Otis, wanting more than anything to do him justice, he felt himself losing control, filling up with the grief of time passing, of long summers and tired dreams, a flood of memory, hope, and desire rising in him until the song and his playing became prayer, a tribute to the man who’d given him meaning, who’d shown him the possibility, if only in brief flashes, of a rare and elemental sound that could live forever against time, and so he played without thinking or knowing and finally looked up, the lights low and the room drained of color, and saw that Otis was composed and seemingly without pain, his body leaning toward the music.
AFTER the applause, the soloist leaves the stage and some of the graduates use the moment to shift in their chairs and take a deep breath. Then Principal Trip returns to the podium. “Now we’ll hear from the chorus,” he says.
A group of seniors comes forward and members of the sophomore and junior classes join them on the stage. The director looks like a descendant of Ichabod Crane and bows deeply before turning to the singers. Snapping his fingers, he counts off a quick tempo, and the kids leap into a song, a spiritual, a celebration of deliverance and freedom. In a flash, the auditorium feels like church.
Fanning himself with a program, he listens to the voices and imagines a preacher rising above the chorus, the students in their purple gowns – bathed in bright light – waiting for redemption.
“I’d say kids these days could use more religion.” He wishes the words weren’t so fresh in his mind. His landlord had made the remark when she saw prints of Heather’s senior portrait – wallet size to 8” x 10” – spread out on the kitchen table. As a committed overseer, she’d come by before work and caught him in his bathrobe making coffee.
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” she said, running her hand through her short wet hair. “But your answering machine never seems to work.”
“What’s the problem?” he said.
�
��No problem. The city needs to redo the sewer lines, so the street’ll be torn up soon and there may be a time when the toilet won’t flush.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” he said.
“That your daughter?” said the landlord.
“Yes.”
“Pretty girl.”
He nods.
“Pretty girls need to be careful. They grow up fast. Kids these days could use more religion.”
On stage, the singers smile and sway. He taps his foot and listens to the harmony. It doesn’t work, he thinks. If high school is slavery, what comes next?
Struck by the song’s hope for heavenly reward, he imagines the parking lot behind the Green Mill and transforms the scene into a dark church and considers whether or not the sacrifice of his hands served as some sort of redemption, a strange rite of passage – a fated balancing of the scales. He sees himself kneeling on the asphalt waiting for the service to begin.
A choir would’ve been just the thing, he thinks, the ceremony could’ve used a song, an upbeat score. Had a priest been standing nearby, I would’ve confessed, admitted to sloth, pride, envy, and lust. My guilt was certain beyond a reasonable doubt. As it happened, though, no priest was available, and I had yet to discover the full extent of my sins, the crimes of my family, my history, but there’s no salvation in pleading ignorance.
I’ve made discoveries, of course. I’m in possession of more knowledge, some might even say truth, but it makes no difference. When people are punished, when they’re pushed into a corner, pinned or driven to their knees, they lack objectivity. They lack perspective. Taking a broad view of things seems ludicrous.
I’ve paid for more than my crimes. And no schedule of penance will restore my hands; no regimen of pills will stop the pain. I should take a broader view, but these days I side with H.M. God is unjust. He has no sense of proportion.
THE RECESSIONAL music begins to wobble and go flat. The graduates laugh and some break formation, skipping and running out of the auditorium.
He stands in the parking lot, shields his eyes, and feels the heat of the afternoon rising from the blacktop. Maureen walks out with the thick guy who’d been on her left, her arm around his waist, her red hair sparkling in the sun. She looks enticing in her summer dress. He spots Heather – all smiles and laughter as she moves through the crowd. A circle of girls pull her in for a photo.
The beanpole who took her to the prom walks up from behind and taps her on the shoulder. He whispers in her ear. Heather smiles and shakes her head. She floats over to the other side of the circle and the boy follows. When she turns and sees him, she attempts to step farther away, but he grabs her gown and pulls it toward him.
Without thinking, he feels his weight leaning toward his daughter. It strikes him that she’s no longer happy. He sees the guy grab her with his other hand, and then Heather tries to twist out of his grasp.
I’ll walk over, he thinks, and say it’s time to go, though the prearranged plan calls for Heather to leave with her mother, to have dinner with Maureen and her sizable friend before the evening reception.
As he approaches, he hears snickering and broken laughter.
“I’m good for the prom but not for tonight?” says the boy.
“You’re drunk,” says Heather.
“I’m not drunk,” he says.
“I can smell it.”
“I’ve had a drink. But I’m not drunk.”
He can almost smell the liquor on the boy’s breath. He walks through the parting circle but stops when Heather waves him off.
“Go home and I’ll call you tomorrow,” says Heather.
“You must think I’m stupid,” says the boy. “You won’t call.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” says Heather.
“You’ll be too busy.”
“I don’t have any plans,” says Heather.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Watch it,” says a tough-looking girl. “Heather’s with me. And you better not be spittin’ in her direction.”
The boy spits. “I get it. I’m a one-time fuck. I’m the after-prom special.”
Coleman grabs the kid’s gown. “That’s enough,” he says.
“And what the fuck do you want?”
Using his forearm and elbow, he checks the boy – a sharp jab to the stomach.
Heather sucks in a short breath.
The boy doubles over, his mortarboard and tassel flying.
He hooks his arm around the kid’s neck and puts him in a headlock. “When you can breathe,” he says, “I think you should apologize.”
Before long, he senses the quiet that surrounds him. He looks up and sees Heather, Maureen, and most of the people in the parking lot frozen in place, their faces aghast, watching him choke a skinny high-school graduate.
He lets the boy go and a couple of friends help him scamper away. Slowly, the crowd comes back to life.
“Bravo,” says Maureen.
Heather hurries off with her mother. He sees her getting into the backseat and closing the door. He wants to explain himself, make some sort of excuse – a reflex, lack of sleep, a sad effort to protect her reputation – but he doesn’t move. His feet feel heavy, glued to the warm asphalt. Heather stares at him through the closed window as the car speeds out of the parking lot.
chapter eight
JENNIFER reaches up and closes her fingers around a large Red Delicious. She pulls but the stem refuses to give way. The branch bends, leaves trembling, until she rotates the fruit and breaks it free. She holds the apple as if it were a precious stone, polishing it with her shirttail. A voice in her ear tells her to give it away, but now the orchard, despite the brilliant October day, stands empty.
It is 1982.
Before picking the apple, she watched him go, his body becoming smaller, drifting through the corridor of dark shade, the old trees forming a low canopy. She saw him stumble into the light, where, in a moment of indecision, he glanced back.
Jennifer crouches and sets the apple in a basket. She takes care not to bruise it. A breeze touches her face and the leaves begin sighing. The air tastes sweet, a slight consolation. She’d like to step out of the orchard and find herself in another country, in a busy café, away from the trio of birds that move with her from tree to tree, away from Michigan, having traveled here to visit his family and friends, to fulfill obligations. Today, they’d driven to Blake’s Orchard, speeding northeast from Grosse Ile to a town called Romeo, because he wanted a shaded place, a place without people, to say all the things he’d said before.
At first, they walked without speaking, listening to the orchard. Then, breaking the spell, he said, “Let’s leave tomorrow. We’ve been here long enough.”
“You haven’t picked any apples,” she said, swinging the empty basket.
“What about you?”
“I’m searching for just the right one.”
“Forget the apples,” he said. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Yes. I’ve been ready since we got here.”
“Too much for you, is that it?”
“Let’s not start – ”
He narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t choose the place I came from.”
She stopped and put down the basket. She looked at the long row of trees and then at Coleman. “What are we doing here?”
“I needed some air.”
“Is that all?”
“All right,” he said. “I’m going on the winter tour.”
“You say it as if you’re unhappy.” She felt the chill of the afternoon on her bare shoulders. “Are you starting today?” she said, rubbing her arms. “Am I driving home alone?”
“I fly out of O’Hare on Monday.”
“Go now,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Go. Take the car. I’ll stay a little longer.”
“That’s crazy,” he said. “You don’t know anyone here.”
“It’s no different than being on tour. I’ll try
it. Maybe I’ll like it.”
“I think you should come home,” he said. “With me.”
“What for? To keep you company until you leave?”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“It’s your choice, Cole. It’s always been your choice.”
“That’s true. But it hasn’t been easy.”
“I never – ”
“You’re perfect,” he said. “Too perfect. You care too much. It makes me hate myself.”
“You’re right,” she said. “You need someone else. Someone less perfect.”
He rubbed his forehead. “I need to do this on my own.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“And the rest doesn’t matter?”
“No,” he said, unable to hold her gaze.
“Go,” she said. “Take the car. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll be back in a few months.”
“Come back or not,” she said. “You won’t find me.”
He began to turn and then stopped.
Beyond him, looking down the long tunnel of trees, she glimpsed a small circle of daylight. “It happened too fast,” she said, wiping her eyes. “For a while, everything was whole. Remember that.”
The orchard grows still, no breeze, not even the birds. She admires the apple resting in the basket and touches its cool skin. It’s perfect, she thinks. The kind you see on a teacher’s desk or in a painting. It’s large enough to be a meal in itself.
THE APPLE reminds her, quite unexpectedly, of a prayer, Hail Mary, full of grace . . . She remembers sitting on a plastic chair and the prayer rising on her breath, nearly two years ago – the rules concerning payment tacked to the wall, the carpet threadbare and soiled. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb . . . Women come here bearing fruit, she thinks. We’re stuffed birds bloated with bread and giblets. The Ave Maria keeps repeating itself like a broken record. She sees with the clarity of a picture the sliding glass window, thin and smudged, that separates her from women wearing white uniforms and white shoes. She’d come directly from the station, afraid to go home, afraid of losing her nerve, after a moment of foolishness when she followed him onto the bus, having rehearsed her speech in front of a mirror – blessed is the fruit of thy womb . . . But she knew too well how his face would look, pale with incomprehension, the fear gradually changing to contempt, and although he’d suffer guilt, she knew where he’d place the blame. There’d be no accusation, no epithet, but he’d think of her as solely responsible. She knew all this because he’d shown his true colors more than once. In the odd weeks when she was late, rare occasions by any count, she’d lived with his misery. She’d seen just how desperate he could be, given to mania and panic, rattling around the apartment at night, unable to sleep, going on about his weakness, his unborn talent, predicting the slow death of everything he held dear.
Of Song and Water Page 18