“Oh Dahlia,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. That loss you suffered must have been unbearable. We don’t need to go on any longer, okay? Let’s leave it at that.”
“Dahlia was done after that,” she mumbled. “Much as I tried to walk on through, I wasn’t able, no how. Dahlia was done after that.”
We sat, holding hands, until one of the PCWs came and stood at her side. She placed a hand gently on Dahlia’s shoulder. “Dahlia? Let me walk you to your suite. It’s time for your medication.” She turned to me and said “please excuse us.”
I nodded woodenly and glanced at my notes. That tragic accident had wiped out The Jazz Deliverers and tore them from Dahlia’s life. No wonder she clung to those pre-accident memories. I looked up to see Dad entering the lounge. We would have lunch together and I would tell him about the tragedy that had struck down The Jazz Deliverers. But as I stood to meet him, I was gripped with an acute sense of urgency to get home and try to make things right with Bradley.
***
Bradley was at the top of the steps, golf bag slung over his shoulder when I arrived home. He had taken up playing again since the trial wrapped up. The jury had come back with a ‘guilty’ verdict, allowing him some time before the losing side filed their appeal.
He acknowledged me with a nod.
“Hi,” I said softly. I followed him inside.
“What’s that?” He asked looking at the box I held in my hand.
“New York cheesecake.”
He raised his brows in a questioning arc. “Oh? Something like a condemned man’s last meal?”
“No, just cheesecake.”
He placed his clubs in the hall closet. “So, you’ll feed me my favourite dessert then tell me you're leaving me.”
“Bradley,” I sighed. “I’m not leaving you. I love you.”
He glanced at the floor and for a moment I caught a glimpse of the unassuming young man with whom I had fallen in love. He returned his gaze to me. “I don't know if that's true anymore, Meg.”
“Is that how you feel? You don’t love me anymore?”
“Yes...I mean no, that isn't what I'm saying. Of course I still love you. We just seem to have drifted so far apart.”
“So far apart that we can't find our way back to each other?”
He shrugged. “It feels that way sometimes, doesn't it?”
I went over to him, placed the cheesecake on the hall table and took his hands in mine. “It doesn’t have to be that way. We can fix this. I want you back. I want us back. I want them back.” I looked toward our wedding portrait. The vintage style black and white photo hung on the hallway wall in the center of a group of family photos. “Please tell me you want that too, Bradley. Please.”
He kept his hands in mine. “Yeah, I want that too, more than anything. This may sound cliché, as you writers say, but you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, aside from our children. It just seems like whenever we try to talking, we end up arguing, or worse.”
“I know,” I said. “Maybe we need some outside help, you know? Like counseling?” I studied his face. I’d mentioned counseling in the past, but he had only balked at the suggestion.
This time, he nodded. “That might not be a bad idea.” He pulled his hands from mine. “But why don’t we try clearing the air now because, I’ve got to say, Meg, I've been feeling petty neglected, you know? And, well, when I felt you didn't really want me to come with you to visit Dad – that hurt. It really did.”
I stared at him, hard, as though trying to penetrate his mind, make my way to his point of view. “I know,” I said. “And I'm sorry. You’re right, Bradley. I’ve shut you out of a huge area of my life. I think it started with Dad going to live at Forest Brook, then lately, with this Dahlia project.”
“Dahlia project?”
I nodded. “Yes. I’ve been working on a novel based on her life. But I’ve gotten so caught up in it that I put you, us, on the back burner. I haven’t even congratulated you on winning your trial. I really am sorry. Forgive me?”
He came to me then and drew me into his arms. “Sure, I forgive you and hope you’ll forgive me. I’m sorry, too. You were right, y'know. I really did act like a jerk."
“Well, I was as much a jerk , bringing up that Cheryl thing. It won't happen again, promise. So, what do you think? Can we try to move toward what we had?”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen. Let’s do it - let’s try counseling.”
I smiled at him. “How about we try one session, then take it from there?”
“You arrange it and I’ll be there. Promise. Listen, I’m going to have a shower. I’ll come back down and we can talk some more. I'd like to hear more about your Dahlia project, maybe over cheesecake and coffee?”
My smile widened. “I’d like that.”
A flood of joy rushed through me. We had made it through the impasse in our marriage and emerged, if not quite fresh and new, at least somewhat cleansed. We were walking through, headed back to where we once were. Bradley leaned in to kiss me and we clung together as though tasting the goodness in each other for the first time.
“You know I love you, right?” he said as he turned to climb the stairs.
“Yes, I know and I love you, too,” I called to him then went to fetch the cheesecake from the hall table. As I passed the family photos, I paused at the portrait of Mom and Dad and whispered “thank you, Dad.”
***
Bradley and I sat at the kitchen table. The air in the house felt lighter like a fresh breeze blew through it breaking through the smog of disparity. As we enjoyed the cheesecake and coffee, he told me more about the trial and I told him about the Dahlia project.
“Sounds like an intriguing idea,” he said when I paused to take a bite of cheesecake. “But do you think it might be a bit exploitative? You know? Likely, she’s not aware of what you’re doing.”
I shook my head. “Yeah. I have thought about that and I want to contact her daughters, let them know about this novel and maybe see if we can collaborate on this work based on her life story. I’d like to discuss with them how this could maybe bring more awareness to dementia and Alzheimer’s.”
He nodded. “Good idea. I’ll support you in any way I can, Meg.”
“Thank you. That means a lot. I’m so glad you see it as worthwhile. Dahlia’s story really is intriguing. In fact, I didn’t expect to become so captivated by her and her story. It’s been addictive, like a kind of drug.”
Bradley whistled, long and low. “Holy cow! I wish I had that effect on you. So, what’s so addictive about Dahlia?”
I laughed. It felt good. “Addictions aren’t healthy, you know. But, Dahlia, there’s something alluring about her. She has this aura where you just feel enveloped in warmth, as if you’re wrapped in a thick duvet.”
He smiled. “Spoken like a writer. So? What’s next?”
“Well, we’ve come to the end of her time as a Jazz singer. In fact, the band ends up perishing in a fatal accident.” I recounted details of the accident.
He stared at me, wide eyed. “So, they all died?”
I nodded. “All of them, except Dahlia.”
"Oh my God! How tragic."
"Yeah, it sure wasn't the end to her story I had envisioned. Now, I need to do more research."
Bradley tapped his index finger against his chin. “You know,” he said. “Finding The Jazz Deliverers album might be a good place to start. We’ll play it on my turntable. That way, you could experience them as close to the real thing as possible. Remember that store in Manhattan, in The Village, where I found that record I’d been searching for?”
I nodded. “Hmm hm. Tito Puente, Live in Paris, right?”
“Right! I bet that store has their album in stock. Why don’t we go check it out; maybe next Saturday?”
Bradley had said ‘we’. He’d used that precious little pronoun that had become scarce in our life narrative; he and I, making plans, together. I could have cried but
this time my tears would taste sweet, like nectar.
“Great idea,” I said. “We can have dinner in the Village, make a date of it.”
He scraped the last remnants of cheesecake from his plate and, like a child, licked the strawberry filling from his fork. “Sounds good. It’s a date.”
***
June in New York brought with it a heatwave that, ten days into the month, refused to let up. Entering the tiny record store felt as though we had walked into a sauna. I paused momentarily while waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. Either the store had no air conditioning or, if it had air conditioning, it surely wasn’t working. The whirring noise from a small fan perched on the front counter was amplified in the high-ceilinged space. The fan, blowing warm air around the store, provided little relief from the heat.
Bradley and I walked slowly through aisles of bins stacked with records. I scanned the index cards at the front of each bin searching for the Jazz category.
“Here it is,” Bradley said pointing to a card. It’s thick block letters read ‘Blues and Jazz’.
Just as we were about to start rifling through the albums, the wide-plank floorboards creaked, followed by the sound of footsteps. We turned to face a wrinkled-face gentleman. The line where his wiry grey hair met his forehead was beaded with sweat. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, removed the glasses that were perched on the end of his nose and dabbed his forehead and face.
“I’m really sorry about the heat in here folks. AC’s been on the fritz for days and the repairman said he’s had so many calls, he won’t be able to get to us until tomorrow.”
“How awful for you,” I said. “I heard this heat should break soon, though.”
He wiped his face again. “I sure hope so. Folks, my name is Simon, proprietor of The Old Times Record Store.” He directed his gaze toward Bradley. “Ah, I remember you, sir. Last year, you came in looking for, hmm, what was that album? Oh yes! Tito Puente Live in Paris.” He smiled. “We had a nice chat then. Good to see you again.”
Bradley reached his hand toward Simon who accepted it and they shook hands. “Wow! Good memory. I’ve enjoyed that album a lot since then. This is my wife, Megan.”
“Good meeting you, Megan. How can I help you folks today?”
“We’re looking for an album called Walking Through,” Bradley said. “We thought your shop would likely stock it.”
Simon’s face brightened. “Ah, yes. Walking Through by Dahlia Baker and The Jazz Deliverers. Not too many folks ask for that one lately, but it’s still a classic in the Jazz world.” He reached for a spot near the front of the bin, pulled the album out and handed it to me. “Here you go.”
I took the album, a tangible piece of their history, from him and with my fingertips traced the faces that smiled at me from the picture on the cover. My eyes widened as I gazed at the Jazz group I had come to know so well.
Bradley looked at the album. “I’m ashamed to say I’m not familiar with them.”
Simon nodded. “Well, do you know about the accident? Seems their music faded from the Jazz scene after that.”
I shifted my gaze from the album to Simon. “Yes, we know all about it. Such a sad ending to a group with so much promise.”
“Indeed. It was a tragic ending. I believe they were never allowed to reach their full potential.”
“And poor Dahlia,” I said looking down at the album cover. “All that great talent wasted when she couldn’t go on performing after losing the guys.”
“Excuse me?” Simon said.
I looked up at a face that was staring at me as if I had grown a second head. Simon’s reaction to my comment sent a chill running through me. I looked at Bradley. He was frowning.
“Is…is something wrong, Simon?” I stammered.
Simon's brow was squeezed together in a confused-looking frown. “Megan,” he replied. “Dahlia Baker couldn’t continue performing because she died. She was killed in that accident along with the rest of the group. There were no survivors.”
The chill became intense, like ice water injected into my veins. I felt Bradley’s arm slide across my shoulders, his hand gripping my upper arm. I stared at Simon. “What? No, that can’t be. I’ve met Dahlia. She lives at Forest Brook. It’s a retirement and assisted living residence. There has to be a mistake.”
“With due respect, Simon, are you certain your facts are correct?” Bradley asked a bewildered looking Simon. “Because according to the Dahlia my wife knows, she, Dahlia, wasn’t on that bus when it crashed.”
“Yes,” I added. “There must be some mistake. There’s got to be. I met Dahlia over a month ago while visiting my father. I’ve seen her every Sunday since. We’ve had some great conversations. She told me all about her life with Josephus Jones and her time with The Jazz Deliverers, the accident, everything. Only the person who had lived that life could know all those intimate details, right?”
“Megan,” Simon’s voice oozed astonished concern. “I don’t know what to tell you. Whomever you visit with can’t be Dahlia Baker. Honestly. I have the newspaper clipping in my archives. I keep important news stories of all the artists whose records I stock. It’s good to know what became of them or what’s going on with them. Give me a minute. I’ll get it for you.”
Dumbfounded, I stood, leaning against Bradley and still clutching the album while Simon disappeared through a door at the back of the store. Bradley and I were exchanging hushed chatter when he returned holding a manila file and retrieved from it a yellowed newspaper clipping. He laid the article onto the counter and called us over.
“Here you go. This is the article on the bus crash.”
Bradley and I bent our heads toward the page. Bradley pulled his reading glasses from his shirt pocket. My eyes were drawn to the small picture of the group, the same one from the Walking Through album. The headline seemed to spring from the page. Bradley started reading, his voice low and stilted, like a first grader learning to read, “Jazz band killed in accident on I-95. Popular Jazz band, Dahlia Baker and The Jazz Deliverers, were killed when the tour bus in which they were travelling collided, head on, with a truck that crossed the Interstate’s center line. Members of the group identified as Carl Smith, Ben Taylor, Oscar Wilkins, Eddy Brown, Dahlia Baker, and manager, Percy Smith, all perished. With their crisp, yet soulful sound, the group exploded onto the Blues and Jazz scene in 1966. Many compared Miss Baker to Jazz great Nina Simone. The group’s untimely and tragic demise is a great loss to the country’s Blues and Jazz community and the music industry, as a whole."
All perished...all perished. Nothing else registered beyond those words. The heat in the store became more oppressive. I must have swayed or staggered because Bradley reached for me. “Honey, are you okay?”
I stared at him but didn't answer.
Simon spoke softly. “Megan, do you need to sit down? I have a stool behind the counter.”
“No, thank you. I’ll be okay. May I have some water?”
“Of course.”
When Simon returned with the water, I reached for the glass and drank down the water in one long gulp.
“You sure you’re okay?” Simon’s voice sounded far away.
“Yes, I..I think so.” I handed him the empty glass. “Thank you. This is surreal. Dahlia told me that the band members were killed in a bus accident – everyone except her. She wasn't on the bus, she had the flu and had to fly home…” My eyes shifted from Simon to Bradley and back to Simon, his eyes filled with sympathy, as he listened while I rambled on.
Simon shook his head slowly. “Like I said, I don’t know what to tell you Megan, but the lady at that place can’t be Dahlia Baker.”
“Well then, who? Who could she be?” I mumbled.
Bradley placed his hand on my back. “Meg, we should go. Simon has been very kind but we’ve taken up an awful lot of his time.”
I scanned the store. It was getting busy and Bradley was right; we were monopolizing Simon’s attention. I tur
ned to him. “Thank you for sharing that information with us.”
“Oh, it’s no problem at all. I’m only sorry it came as such a shock. Here,” he said handing me a business card. “Please let me know if you find out more. I can’t recall ever having a day like this and I sure would like to find out who your friend, Dahlia, is.”
I nodded and took the card. “Me too. We’ll let you know what we find out.”
As we turned to leave, Simon called after us. “’Scuse me, folks, did you still want it?”
“I’m sorry?” Bradley asked.
“The record album. Would you like to buy it?”
Bradley took his wallet from his pant pocket. “Oh. Yes, we’ll take it.”
He paid for the album and took my hand. We left the heat of the store for the heat of the sidewalk where we stood, neither of us speaking. A jumble of possible scenarios raced through my mind. Nothing made any sense.
I looked up at Bradley. “Who is she Bradley? A ghost? No, she can’t be. Other people see her and speak to her too. Maybe she doesn’t even exist. Maybe I’m losing it. But Dad has met her daughters, right? It's all so bizarre.”
Bradley patted my back as if trying to soothe an irritable baby. “Slow down, honey. We’ll get to the bottom of this. We’ll contact her family and find out what’s going on. Listen, why don’t we get something to eat? I sure could use a drink in an air conditioned restaurant.”
I nodded. “Yeah. A drink sure sounds good.” I gripped Bradley’s hand as we walked along the sidewalk but I couldn’t let go of the image of a crushed bus, laying on its side, in a ditch on Interstate 95.
***
It was Sunday morning, 10:00 a.m. when we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. As we neared Forest Brook, my heart felt heavy. I gazed out the window at the blur of greenery whizzing by. My friendship with Dahlia or whoever she was, and her story, occupied my thoughts.
She had been on my mind all night – Dahlia, The Jazz Deliverers and the tragic accident that claimed their lives, including Dahlia’s, according to that newspaper article. I had slept fitfully drifting in and out of sleep and when sleep came, one dream played out repeatedly, like a DVD in a player stuck on automatic re-play: I wandered, barefoot, through a ghostly mist until I came upon the tour bus lying on its side in a ditch on I-95. Above me, the rising sun’s tepid rays crept across dawn’s pastel sky. Unidentifiable, tear-drenched faces floated upward, like helium filled balloons, among vapors of hissing steam rising from the bus’s mangled engine. In the distance, two little girls ran along the highway’s grassy shoulder toward me. I tried to go to them but my feet refused to move. I called to the girls who were crying hysterically. They collapsed to the ground. As I tried to reach out to them, the bus righted itself and was restored to its former state. I looked toward it and through its windows saw each member of The Jazz Deliverers peering out. They were calling to someone. I looked around and suddenly, Dahlia appeared before me. She turned to me and smiled, but her smile was sinister. She waved goodbye and disappeared through the bus’s folding doors.
Walking Through and Other Stories Page 15