It returns to her now without sadness or regret, the night she opened the door, nine months after the abortion, and found Brian standing on the welcome mat, the slush falling off his shoes. She wasn’t surprised. Coleman had said, before rushing out in a huff, that she’d be better off with somebody else.
Brian stamped his feet and stepped across the threshold. She closed the door.
“Isn’t that Cole’s coat?” she said.
“Yeah. He said he wouldn’t need it where he was going. Told me to dump my old rag and take it.”
She hung the coat on the back of a chair.
“You okay?” he said.
“I’m fine. Why?”
“Cole asked me to come by. He said you needed to see me.”
“He said that?”
“Is something wrong?”
“We argued while he was packing. We always do.”
Brian nodded. “He was probably concerned – ”
“And feeling generous,” she said.
Brian sat on the couch. “I told him I didn’t need his coat.”
“He wants you to have it,” she said.
“I guess.”
“He likes to give things away.”
“He does?”
“Almost everything.”
Brian looked up. “You didn’t ask to see me, did you?”
“No,” she said. “It was his idea.”
Then she placed her hand on the back of the sofa, knelt on one leg and slowly moved the other across his lap until she had him between her thighs. She kissed him and felt his muscles tighten.
He squeezed her shoulders. “I’ve waited a long time,” he said.
She kissed him again, her heart pounding.
His hand moved down her arm and slipped beneath her shirt. “You sure you want this?” he said.
“Yes.”
“And Cole?”
“He wants it, too.”
Brian opened his eyes.
“It’s all right,” she said. “What he wants doesn’t matter.”
IT ENDED, she thinks, as abruptly as it began. Brian stopped calling. He stayed away.
She went to the Mill and waited. Then came that Wednesday when he showed up and pecked her on the cheek but wouldn’t sit down, anxious about the show with Kurt Elling. Her offer of dinner was, by then, a pointless invitation.
Now, she’ll go to Evanston. She’ll wait for Cole to leave and then pick up her stuff at the apartment. She’ll try to get in touch with Brian. She wonders how anything simple and necessary survives.
There’s no going back, she thinks, seeing the sign for Benton Harbor. Tonight, she’ll descend along the southern shore of Lake Michigan, passing the ash heaps of Gary and East Chicago, the moon gone and darkness coming down, the color of her skin fading and her smooth arms dissolving, until she feels that her body is without substance, a shadow, a silver mist, moving unseen beneath the city, the ground falling away from her in spirals.
chapter nine
COLEMAN checks the boom vang: the traveler, the double blocks, and the line that runs from the foot of the mast to the ear of the spar. Without this mechanism, the boom, taken by the wind, would naturally ride up and let the main go slack, the sail lifting, twisting, and slipping the air. “If it fails,” his father said, “there can be no wing – no hope for control or a perfect curve.” He tests the line again just to be sure.
He reaches into his pocket. To his surprise, he discovers that the list he’d been using isn’t there. If it doesn’t reappear, he’ll have to quit for a while and make a new one. He wants to find it right now so he can enjoy the ritual of crossing things off. He scours the boat, turns his clothing inside out, and decides at last to look in his shoes. He feels foolish after that and stops to catch his breath.
He squints at the blue sky. It’s still early. He has Humbug all to himself. The air coming off the river feels cool and dry.
He hears the crunch of gravel, glances down from the cockpit, and sees a station wagon pulling into the lot. A cloud of dust drifts through the yard.
His landlord, dressed in a tank top and shorts, gets out of the car and walks toward the boat. “Ahoy there,” she says.
“How’d you find me?” he says.
She takes off her sunglasses. “You’re always here.”
“Yeah, well.” He rubs his hand. “I’ve got a lot to do.”
The landlord plants herself just off the stern. “Is she seaworthy? Will you float her this season?”
“Any day now.”
“Most folks put in before the middle of June.”
“She’ll be ready by the end of the month.”
The landlord peers at the transom. “What’s a Pequod?”
“It’s the name of a boat,” he says.
“I can see that.”
He leans over the taffrail. “It’s from a book. There’s a ship called the Pequod.”
“What book?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Okay, but it’s a strange name.”
“Is that what you came to tell me?”
“No,” she says. “I came to see how you were doing, seeing that your street’s torn up and littered with pipes and big trucks – it’s like a war zone.”
“I’m fine.”
“Toilet okay?”
“Toilet’s fine.”
“They say it may be weeks before they’re finished.”
“I’ve got plenty to do here,” he says.
The landlord, looking up, puts her hands on her hips. “Any other trouble?” she says.
He sees that her short hair is shorter still, a cut that shows off the strong line of her shoulders and the symmetry of her arms. He shifts his gaze. “I told you. The toilet’s fine. No problem.”
“I saw the article,” she says, a pained expression on her face.
He nods. He knew it would be like this. After all, they ran the story in the Sunday News-Herald. They interviewed the kid who gave a breathless description of the headlock. The mother, who referred to him only as Mr. Moore, threatened to press charges. She said, “A man who can’t control himself should be locked up or run out of town.”
“If I’m put away or banished, will you cancel the lease?”
“Consider it done,” she says, and then her face gets serious. “Someone said you were trying to finish the boy’s education.”
“No. I wouldn’t say that.”
“Were you drinking?”
“Not before the ceremony.”
“You should ask for the Lord’s forgiveness.” She points at her breasts.
He sees now that on her tank top is a likeness of Jesus with the word SAVES beneath it.
“And if I were you,” she says, “I’d ask for His blessing on this boat.”
He thinks about climbing down, but he can’t take the risk. He doesn’t want another story in the Sunday News-Herald. “If there’s a problem with the toilet,” he says, “I’ll give you a call.”
“You do that,” says the landlord.
“I’ll pray that the toilet keeps working,” he says.
“You’re not a kind man.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m out of practice.”
After she’s gone, he descends and squints at the transom. He’d thought about changing the name before, and now he wonders if he should’ve gone through with it.
He remembers his father telling him about the drawings he’d made, both ink and pencil, of the boats in Saginaw Bay. His father said, “There was one I especially liked, a cutter, and my mother saw it and suddenly she said, ‘Blue Morning.’ It sounded to me like the title of a painting or the name of a song.”
He stares at the transom and pictures his father leaning on the taffrail. “You never went so far as a cutter,” he whispers. I’ll stick with Pequod for now, but Blue Morning is the right choice – it isn’t a fraud or a kind of theft or a sign of spiteful domination.
DRIVING home, the sun going down, he runs into a new barrica
de, another closed road with piles of dirt on one side and stretches of black pipe on the other. The detour takes him to the river and dumps him on his old street. He sees Maureen’s car in the driveway. Rolling by, he glances at the front door and notices the light in the upstairs bedroom. He figures it’s a bad time to stop, but then he changes his mind. He pulls over three houses down and parks at the curb.
He slides out of the truck. With the sun gone, the air feels cold. He walks without making a sound and climbs the three concrete steps to the porch. It looks like Heather’s in her room.
He rings the bell.
Maureen comes to the door, starts to open it, and then slams it when she sees his face. “I’m thinking about a restraining order,” she says.
“For what? I’ve never touched anyone – ”
“Until now.”
“You’re being ridiculous. C’mon, open the door. I haven’t seen Heather since she graduated.”
“She won’t see you.”
“I don’t believe that. What did she say? Did she say she won’t see me?”
“Yes. And the same goes for me. I think you should leave.”
“Tell her to come downstairs. I want to hear it from her.”
“I won’t,” says Maureen. “She’s been humiliated enough.”
“What humiliation? That kid’s a creep. He had it coming.”
“Great,” says Maureen. “No remorse. You don’t get it, do you? Her name’s been in the paper. Strange boys call the house. They’ve heard what the kid said. They ask if the slut’s at home.”
“Open the door. Let me talk to her.”
“She’s not here.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. She went out an hour ago.”
“Then why’s the light on upstairs?”
“I don’t know.”
He kicks the door. Then he throws his body against it.
Maureen lets out a groan of exasperation. “I’ll call the police,” she says.
He steps off the porch and walks down the side drive to the rear of the house. He tries the back door. It’s locked.
He looks through the window. Maureen is nowhere in sight. He takes the trowel out of the flower box, shields his eyes, and strikes the glass with the bottom of the thick blade. He can hear her coming as he reaches inside and throws the dead bolt.
“Stay there,” he says, the glass crunching beneath his tennis shoes. “You’re barefoot.”
Maureen stops. She begins to cry. “You’re a stranger,” she says. “After all this time, I can’t tell who you are.”
He squeezes by and walks down the hall.
“Go ahead,” says Maureen. “Don’t believe me.”
He runs up the stairs, opens the door to Heather’s room, and sees that the glowing lamp and the empty bed are the only things there. He checks the bathroom.
Coming down the steps, he hears Maureen sweeping up glass. He rounds the banister and takes in the profile of her body. She’s wearing black panties and a T-shirt. She bends. “You’re a beautiful woman,” he says.
She looks up. Her eyes still filled. “You shouldn’t have ruined her graduation.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
She nods.
“Will she see me?”
“Of course. She loves you. You’re always the one she loves.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t change anything.”
“For the door, I mean. I’ll pay for it.”
Maureen starts to laugh. “That’s the one thing about you,” she says. “You’re always willing to pay.”
He holds the dustpan while she sweeps. Then he goes into the garage and finds a piece of thin plywood that’s close to the right size. “Where’s your hammer?” he says.
She opens the hall closet and pulls out a small toolbox.
He grabs the hammer and a fistful of nails, knocks out two or three of the remaining shards, and boards up the opening.
He finishes the job and sees that she’s gone upstairs. He leaves the hammer on the counter, presses the button on the doorknob, and gently closes the door.
Walking to his truck, he considers the neighbors and feels more than a little self-conscious. He watches for movement, for a drape or a blind closing – or, in an unlit window, the outline of a face that suddenly draws back and disappears.
HE HADN’T planned to go but now he finds himself in the Black & White Club.
Wes Montgomery’s set had been a dream that brought everyone to their feet. Then he played “Down Here on the Ground,” a quiet encore, and a hush fell over the house – people even held their breath.
He savored each note and leaped up when it was over and stared at Wes’s huge hands until the great man stepped off into darkness.
Still glowing from the performance, he asks the woman sitting with him if she’d like a drink. “I’m fine with water,” she says.
“I’ll have a vodka martini,” he says. “Straight up, extra dry, olives.”
“Is that really necessary?” says the woman.
“Absolutely.” He smiles. He likes it that her hair is cut short.
“Why did you bring me here?” she says.
He doesn’t answer. He missed it at first, but now he sees that her sleeveless T-shirt bears the face of John Coltrane. He points at her chest. “This is a guitarist’s club – but I think they’d make an exception for him.”
“He’s all I listen to,” she says. “I play A Love Supreme over and over again. I have a shrine in my bedroom. You should come over and see it. A little devotion would do you some good.”
“I was once a religious man,” he says.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I was. I probably still am.”
“If you listen to A Love Supreme,” she says, “you have no choice.”
He lowers his eyes and regards his martini. He lifts it and takes a sip. “So you’re a fanatic,” he says.
“No,” she says. “I’m a follower. His playing is like meditation.”
“It’s prayer,” he says.
“Exactly.”
Because her hair is short, he can see the curve of her neck and the slope of her shoulder. Something about her skin – its perfect clarity – makes him want more than anything to touch her.
“If you understand me so well,” she says, “why don’t you ever see me?”
“I have a lot to do.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean that you’ve always looked down or away or somewhere in the distance. But you’ve never looked at me – not really – at least until now.”
“I don’t like to compete.”
Her eyes fall to her breasts. “With him?”
“With anyone.”
“That’s not very ambitious.”
“I used to be ambitious, too.”
She reaches across the table and picks up his martini. She takes more than a sip. “So if his face wasn’t here, you’d see me?”
“It might be easier.”
“I can’t take it off,” she says. “There’s nothing underneath.”
“I doubt that anyone would mind.”
The woman smiles. She finishes the martini.
He looks up. On the stage, three antique guitars stand in a pool of light. The one in the middle seems to be surrounded by a halo. A security guard walks out and makes certain that each instrument is in the right place.
“I wonder when the next show begins?” he says.
“It starts Sunday.”
He laughs and leans back in his chair. “That can’t be right,” he says.
“Sure,” she says. “A Sunday matinee. I saw the sign on the way in.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Why?”
“Do you plan to stay here tonight and all day tomorrow and tomorrow night, too?”
“I don’t have a choice.”
He glances at the face on her shirt. “But he’s not coming?”
“Maybe not,” she s
ays. “I’ll wait and see.”
THE DAYS get warmer.
Coleman goes directly from work to Humbug and spends the night more often than not. The cabin gets stuffy in hot weather, but on breathless evenings the boat feels calm and restful – it makes no disquieting sounds.
Just after the Fourth of July, he looks her over from bow to stern and decides that everything’s squared away. It’s time, he thinks, for the planning and repairs to pay off. He wants to prove to himself and to anyone who cares that the work he’s put into the boat means something, that he’s not just tinkering and wasting time. He’s also excited by the idea of a long cruise. Heather’ll be gone soon enough, he thinks. There’s not much reason to stick around.
He visits the house, checks his mail, and pays a few bills. The rooms feel heavy and he sits in the kitchen with the windows open, his small fan clicking as it rotates from side to side.
He leaves a message for Heather, but she doesn’t call. He imagines her at work, her mood swinging between anger and disappointment. She can be unforgiving, he thinks, like her mother. They both see things with a hard clarity.
The house is too hot. He drinks vodka on the rocks but it offers no relief. He downs more than he should and thinks about calling a woman, a lover that he completely makes up – tall, dark, commanding. She tells him to come over and he goes without hesitation. She lets him in and he moves outside of time – no past or future. He lies beside her and listens to her breathing and the sound of cool sheets caressing her skin.
Not long after that he falls forward and hits his head on the wall.
Nodding off on the toilet is fast becoming a hazard. His forehead throbs. He walks through the dark house to the kitchen, puts a handful of ice in a glass, and then fills the glass with vodka.
After an hour or two, in the cool of the morning twilight, having barely slept, he makes his way to Humbug.
He watches Pequod rise in her slings. He feels proud, a sense of accomplishment, when her hull touches the water. The putting in is graceful and without incident, but he knows he would’ve enjoyed it more had he kissed off last night’s booze or taken a shot with his coffee to kill the hangover.
Of Song and Water Page 21