He punches the cigarette lighter. He opens both windows and turns up the radio. He pulls out the lighter and glances at the heating element glowing red. He presses it against the skin of his forearm. He holds it there, grunting, the smell of singed hair filling his nostrils.
He likes the sensation. It’s more immediate, more urgent, than the misery of his hands. He slows the pickup and breathes. He concentrates on the welt – a bull’s-eye of pain – and makes it all the way to Gibraltar without stopping.
TURNING the corner, he sees that his driveway is empty, no station wagon there or anywhere in sight. He pulls into the garage and quickly closes the door.
He goes inside and finds the house in immaculate condition.
He gapes, both confused and astonished, as he walks through each room and observes the sharp lines, the absence of clutter, and the vacuum tracks still visible on the faded rugs. He realizes that the landlord, her wondrous body still wrapped in his bathrobe, had seized the moment of his leaving, the opportunity of an empty house, and taken it upon herself to do a late spring cleaning.
It appears that she washed, folded, and stacked his laundry. She organized his closet and placed his shoes in a smart row. She sponged the kitchen counters, wiped the refrigerator shelves, and scrubbed the stainless steel sink. Miraculously, she lifted mildew and flushed away lime until the smallest details of the bathroom – tile, grout, and chrome – sparkled and gleamed.
After inspecting the rooms and making certain that the landlord didn’t leave a message – checking the pad next to the phone book, his pillow, and the corners of the bedroom mirror – he begins to calm down. Heather’s senior portrait, though straightened a bit, is in the same spot. So are Jen’s black-and-white pictures. Then, from the hallway, he notices a string of black beads on the coffee table. She wasn’t wearing a necklace, he thinks. He walks over and sees that she’s left him a rosary. He picks it up and the crucifix swings back and forth like a pendulum. The figure of Jesus is tiny but exquisitely detailed. He can discern the crown of thorns, the anguished face, and the nails through the hands and feet.
He drops the rosary on the table and the body of Jesus disappears under a pile of beads. He needs a drink. He stumbles to the freezer and yanks the door open and lets out a sigh of relief, glad to discover that his old bottle, half empty, is still next to the ice tray where he left it. He fills a tumbler.
He sets his duffel bag on the counter and tries to unzip it. His fingers refuse to work. He reaches for a carving knife but fails to draw it swiftly and easily out of the block. He makes another attempt and manages to wedge the handle between his thumb and palm. He slits the bag. He chooses a small plastic bottle filled with codeine and puts it on the cutting board. He positions the bottle beneath the wide surface of the blade and then brings his fist down as if he were crushing garlic. The plastic cracks. The lid flies off and skitters across the floor. He swallows three capsules, washing the pills down with mouthfuls of vodka.
He sits on the couch and absorbs the perfect order of the house. He can tell, even at this distance, that his guitar case has been carefully dusted. The air smells good, too – not stale at all, despite all the windows being closed and locked. He stares at the pile of beads next to the neat stack of magazines. He drinks. He thinks about Heather and his father’s boat. After a while, he stops thinking. He’s no longer aware of his hands. He rests his head on the back of the couch and sleeps.
HE HEARS a thud, his eyes blinking and squinting at the bright light. The floor pitches and the furniture blurs. Not a thing wants to stay in one place. The thud comes again. It’s like a log hitting the keel – but he’s not on the boat. He’s nowhere near the water.
He shuts his eyes and tries to feel his body. His legs seem to be intact. The same goes for his chest, shoulders, and arms. Only his hands are missing.
Another thud, louder this time, jerks him awake like a door closing.
He sits up and everything in the room shifts; the noise strikes him now as a steady thump, a knocking – someone on the porch. Who could it be at this hour? Why is the window flooded with light?
He drags himself off the sofa and shuffles to the door. He throws the dead bolt. He sees red and a patch of blue, then the glare outside blinds him. He shields his eyes and squints at the dark outline floating beyond the screen.
“Well, you look like death,” says Brian.
He hears the words and the unmistakable voice. “But you’re not here,” he says. “You can’t be.”
“It’s me,” says Brian, stepping over the threshold. “I’m here. You’re the one who looks gone.”
He turns and stumbles and Brian catches him.
“You gonna make it?” says Brian.
“Water,” he says. “I’d like some water.”
Brian helps him to the couch. Then he goes into the kitchen and runs the faucet and fills a glass.
He stares at Brian. He takes the water, his hand trembling, and drinks all of it without stopping to breathe.
“Rough night?” says Brian.
“I don’t remember,” he says.
“You left pills all over the counter.”
“I was driving. My hands were bad.”
“How are they now?”
“Okay. No pain at all.” He wiggles his fingers. “It’s been a while.”
Brian jingles the keys in his pocket. “I didn’t mean to bust in and give you a scare,” he says.
“Where’d you come from?”
“We’re in Ann Arbor. At the Bird of Paradise. Being that close, I figured I should visit.”
“Oh. The Bird . . . ,” he says, his voice trailing off.
“I found Maureen before I found you.”
He opens and closes his hands.
“You smell bad,” says Brian. “And you look like shit.”
“Yeah. Good to see you, too,” he says.
Brian laughs and takes in the room. “But you’re keeping house pretty well.”
“I haven’t been here,” he says.
“I know,” says Brian. “I called all weekend. Left a few messages.”
“I went up north,” he says. “Port Austin.”
“How was it?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not there anymore. Not really.”
“Why don’t you come to the Bird?” says Brian. “I could send a car for you. The gigs are better these days.”
“I hear it’s the Brian James Trio.”
“How’d you know?”
“I may look it,” he says, “but I’m not dead.”
“Listen, Cole, I got all day. If you shower and put on some clean clothes, I’ll buy you lunch.”
“Thanks. I don’t think I can eat anything.”
“Then you can drink water while I eat.”
He rises from the couch. “I’ve got some unfinished business at Humbug. I should get over there.”
“What unfinished business?”
“My father’s boat.”
“But it sank.”
“So you had a long talk with Maureen.”
“Long enough,” says Brian. “All right, be ungrateful. But you gotta stop by the Bird.”
“I will.”
“You can’t say that and then not show up.”
“I won’t.”
“You won’t show?”
“I’ll be there,” he says.
“We’re on the rest of the week.”
“I got it.” He sees Brian step toward the door. “How long has it been?” he says.
Brian turns. “Eight years, I guess. Or nine.”
“Thanks,” he says, putting his hand on Brian’s shoulder.
Brian hugs him and lifts him off the floor. “I’ll watch for you,” he says.
“I’ll be better in a few days.”
Brian nods and walks out onto the porch. “They’ve busted up your street,” he says. Then he gets serious. “If you want to, bring your guitar.”
He looks over Brian’s shoulder
at the red backhoe parked in front of the house. He lowers his eyes. “That’s a generous offer,” he says.
“Hardly that,” says Brian. “If anything, it’s selfish.”
“See you in a couple days.”
Brian lets out a deep breath. “I hope so,” he says.
HE ARRIVES at Humbug late in the afternoon and finds his father’s boat resting in a small cradle made of steel, a modular system with four vertical legs, two on each side, to support the hull. The legs telescope to the correct height and culminate in a hull pad; the pad rides on a universal joint allowing for a snug fit. A ground frame lies beneath the boat with retainers and blocks under the keel.
He’s seen cradles like this before with the legs locking in two or three positions, but this one appears to be homemade, a knockoff of a more expensive design. He notices that each leg fits into a shallow socket on the frame and that it’s secured with a bolt, a lock washer, and a nut, allowing, he supposes, for infinite angles and easy adjustment but also for the possibility of slippage. It’s a clever but thin rig, he thinks. He decides it’s not much better than his previous setup. His wood cradle was rickety, of course – the yard manager must’ve thought it was shot – but it had kept the boat high and dry for five years.
He puts his foot on one of the legs and tries to give it a shake. It doesn’t move. Pretty solid, he says to himself. But he’s not convinced. The tubular steel looks flimsy. It seems to him that someone with a heavy boot could kick the cradle to pieces. “It’d be simple,” he whispers, “like knocking a leg out from under a table.”
He knows he’ll need a ladder to get on board, but he chooses to leave that for another time. He doesn’t want to go up there now. He has no stomach for throwing himself over the gunwale and stepping into the cockpit. He considers it unwise to open the cabin on an overcast day with a dank smell coming up from below. If he went aboard, he’d feel the boat trembling in its new cradle and glimpse the darkness belowdecks, the gray light piling up like unclean water. At this hour, on the old trembling boat, going down the companionway would be hopeless. Trying to see precisely what happened, trying to see anything at all, would be a hopeless effort. He doesn’t want it. He’ll leave things just as they are.
HE DRIVES to the Lighthouse Diner, parks in front, and sits in his pickup until Heather, taking an order, glances out the window and recognizes the truck. He watches her as she unties her apron and says a few words to the other waitress. A customer holds the door open and she steps over the threshold and onto the sidewalk. She walks slowly and stops at the curb.
“You still mad?” he says.
“Sometimes,” she says. She hooks her thumb on a belt loop.
“Why won’t you answer my calls?”
“Mom said you were drinking again.”
“I always drink.”
“She said you were drunk.”
“I’ve only had water today.”
“Should I be impressed?”
“No.”
“You look terrible.”
He nods. “You look beautiful.”
She almost smiles. “Are you working on the boat?”
“No.” He catches her eyes but then she turns away. “Are you leaving soon?” he says.
“A week from Monday.”
“Can I drive you to the airport?”
She drops her head. “Mom already said she would.”
“Okay,” he says. “What are you doin’ Saturday?”
“Don’t know,” she says.
“Are you working?”
“No.”
“Well, what would you say if I told you we could see Brian James?”
Her face lights up for a second, but then she shrugs. “I think there’s a party Saturday night.”
“C’mon. Let your old man take you out on the town. He’s playing in Ann Arbor.”
She comes closer to the door. “At the Bird of Paradise?”
“At the Bird.”
She balances on the curb. “I’ll have to make a couple of calls.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s pretty short notice. We could have dinner first and get there for the late show.”
“What time would you wanna leave?”
“Let’s go in your car,” he says. “We shouldn’t roll up at the Bird in a dusty truck.”
She smiles. “Sure.”
“Then it’s a date,” he says. “Pick me up around six.”
She hears people coming out of the diner. “I gotta go,” she says.
“Saturday,” he says, starting the engine.
Heather runs around the other side of the pickup and leans into the cab and kisses him on the cheek. He lets her slip away and then sees her again inside the diner wrapping herself in a clean white apron.
He listens to the truck’s smooth idle and imagines sitting in with Brian at the Bird of Paradise. To get there, I’ll have to start now, he thinks, opening both hands and pushing his fingers against the wheel. He congratulates himself for having the courage to invite Heather, but then he’s bothered by second thoughts. Having her on board means he can’t change his mind. If he runs into a problem, there’s no easy way out.
Pulling away, he feels an urge to keep going, to find the place where she once needed him – a night when she couldn’t sleep and cried for a story or a song. And where in the world was that place? he wonders. Was I young then? And how young was she? He wants to remember when music was a fastrunning stream, an unspoken prayer, when his fingers pressing lightly on the strings could make something beautiful and whole. Now, the music like water eludes him – his daughter, too.
WHEN he gets home, he gathers up the pills in the kitchen, pours the remaining vodka down the drain, and rinses the one glass he used the night before. He runs the water until it’s cold. He bends and puts his mouth under the faucet and drinks more than he thought his stomach could hold. He tosses his dirty clothes in the laundry and throws out his duffel bag. He plumps up and arranges the sofa’s green pillows. He wants to keep the house exactly as the landlord left it.
Below the sink in the bathroom, he finds a bar of lavender soap. He doesn’t know how it came to be there. He peels off the plastic wrap, his fingers stiff but able, and carefully lays the bar in the soap dish on the rim of the tub.
He showers in cool water, enjoying the spray on his neck and back, the narrow streams falling down his body like silk. He lathers his arms and chest and fills himself with the scent of lavender. He lets out a deep breath and feels wobbly. He leans against the tile wall and tries to focus on the bottle of shampoo and, next to that, the razor. The dizziness passes and he bows his head beneath the drenching nozzle – the water rushing and bubbling in his ears.
He sleeps that night without disturbing the bed and brews coffee in the morning before making oatmeal for breakfast. After washing his bowl and spoon, he sits at the table and makes a shopping list. He’ll go to the market and bring home fish, vegetables, and rice – maybe some pork. He’ll set a small basket on the counter and fill it with tomatoes and peaches.
Over the next couple of days, he establishes a routine. He showers in the early morning and again in the evening. He cooks uncomplicated meals and eats in the kitchen. He drinks hot tea or bottled water. When he finishes what he’s doing in a particular room, or in a particular corner of that room, he immediately picks up after himself. He keeps the newspapers and magazines in separate piles. If he moves the footstool or a chair, then he uses the markings on the rug to put it back in its proper place.
Having changed the strings and adjusted the neck, he takes his guitar out of the case and plays for two hours in the morning and two hours in the afternoon, his mind blank but his fingers remembering. By the fourth day, his left hand is surprisingly nimble, and the ache in both hands is almost dull, manageable, a pain he can live with, at least for the moment, without pills.
BY SATURDAY at six he feels a year or two younger. He stands at the picture window and waits for Heather to appear. He smells
rain on the air, the sky darkening to the northwest. It makes him glad that the house is in good order. He can leave and lock the door and not be preoccupied. Humbug remains, of course, tasking him like a paper cut, but he won’t think about the boat until tomorrow or the next day.
Heather pulls into the driveway. He slips into his sport coat, picks up his guitar, and walks out onto the porch. He rotates the key and hears the dead bolt click.
“I don’t believe it,” she says, stepping out of the car.
“What?”
She points at his guitar. “You’re going to play?”
“Maybe.”
"Don’t be a tease,” she says. "You’ve already made up your mind – otherwise, you wouldn’t bring it.”
He walks down the steps and marvels at her confidence, the perfect ease of her movements. “It’s good to see you,” he says.
She hugs him. “Thanks.”
He holds her tight. “I’m glad you came,” he says.
“I would’ve said yes right off if you’d told me you were going to sit in.”
He smiles. “How do I look?”
“You clean up nice.”
He puts his guitar in the backseat. “Boy, you even got it washed,” he says, seeing his reflection in the roof of the car.
“It’s clean,” she says. “But don’t open the trunk.”
“I won’t.”
She takes in the sky. “Those are some mean clouds. Did you remember your windows?”
“They’re all set.”
He watches the way she turns the key in the ignition and drops the car into reverse, checking the mirrors and then glancing over her shoulder. She drives – talking all the way to Ann Arbor about her ambitions for school and how much she’ll worry about him while she’s away.
“Without you here,” he says, “there’s not much reason to stay.”
“What about the boat?”
Of Song and Water Page 24