Bluewater Blues

by G. B. Gordon

  Two days after her daughter had been born, she’d run outside in her nightgown and thrown herself off the edge of the ravine behind the house. The official version was that she’d fallen, but Mrs. Hardwick, the cook, had known better. She and Mr. Simmons, who’d delivered from Simmons’s grocery store, threw glances in Jack’s direction whenever they talked of his mother, so that for months he’d been convinced her death was his fault.

  Mawmaw had been adamant, though, that she’d killed herself because of that man, which was what Mawmaw had called Charles. Jack had been brought up to call him Sir, and to stay away from him. No hardship there, because he’d been terrified of Charles. It wasn’t until school enrollment that he’d learned that Charles was his father.

  Jack had been six when Margaret was born. Charles and Grandfather hadn’t cared enough to protest when Mawmaw had taken him under her wings, and they didn’t care when she had taken another one. They’d had no use for children. Especially girls. Even less when it had become apparent that Margaret was as touched as her mother had been.

  “We need to protect her,” Mawmaw had said, and Jack had taken one peek at the tiny fingers and solemn eyes and had known that she was right.

  On Saturday he found Margaret in a sunny mood, though the sunshine outside was somewhat hazy. It was cool enough now, because it was still early, but the weather report had forecast humid heat for the day. She hopped and danced and butterflied around the back room with her headphones on, and covered that shy smile of hers with a hand whenever she thought he was looking at her. It felt like they were sharing some fun game, or an intimate conspiracy. He tried hard not to think about how close to the truth the latter actually was.

  Hopefully she’d still feel good enough to go when it warmed up later. He shrugged. Things would sort themselves without him worrying about them; they usually did. He resolved to start the A/C in the car in time to cool it down before they left, just in case.

  After breakfast, he cleared and stocked the rest of the deliveries from the big pallet that he hadn’t gotten to over the week. It had been busy the last couple of days, as if people needed to make up for not having been out during the storm. He wouldn’t complain though. He and Margaret could sure use the money. Thanks to Mawmaw’s foresight, the house was half paid for, but he still had to stock the store every week. And now that they were settled in one place, it would be nice to have a little extra. Maybe get Margaret assessed, find something to support her efforts at communicating, or some activities she’d benefit from. As much as he liked to see her this excited about the concert, it also brought home the fact that she didn’t have a lot of events like those in her life. He wasn’t sure to what extent she actually needed other people around her, but for a short while at least and in moderate numbers, she seemed to enjoy company. She was fascinated by colorful, bustling places, even though she couldn’t be in a jostling crowd.

  They left early, so they’d have their pick of seats. Small things like that could make or break an event. Unfortunately, as it turned out, others had had the same idea.

  When Jack pulled into the parking lot of the elongated redbrick building with the square bell tower, Margaret ducked her head between her shoulders at the sight of all the people streaming into the church. But she didn’t let that stop her from getting out of the car with him.

  “You’re a trooper,” Jack whispered to her.

  After the sweltering parking lot, the inside of the church felt cool and dim.

  Ahead of him Margaret started pirouetting, eyes wide, waving her hands at a pew, then another, then the steps leading up to the choir, her fingers picking out brightly colored spots of light touching their surfaces.

  Jack pointed at the rosette window above the door. “Look.”

  She stood transfixed, staring at the window, wonder on her face. Laughter exploded from her lips that had people turning and trying to hide their gaping.

  He found an as-yet empty pew, the one end of which was worked against a column holding up the roof. Between that and his body, Margaret would have a protective space from where to enjoy the concert without anyone jostling her or sitting too close.

  The church didn’t have an organ. Someone fiddled with a sound system. “You might want to plug your ears,” Jack murmured. “There could be audio feedback.” As he said it, a shriek from the speakers ricocheted off the walls. Margaret wailed and slammed her hands over her ears, then banged her back against the hard wood of the bench. Please, no.

  Trying to stop her would only make it worse. This was her version of whistling in the dark. It kept the pain monsters in check. No, she needed the noise to stop. He knew better, though, than to fish in Margaret’s pockets for her earphones. Instead he leaned in and said with quiet insistence close to her ear. “Margaret, listen to my voice. Just my voice. Put your hand in your left pocket. Good girl. Now pull your earphones out and plug your ears with them.”

  She complied so fast that he had to duck out of the way, or he would have been punched in the face. He watched her pick some music on her phone, and blew out a breath. Close call.

  The choir filed in, and Jack scanned the figures for the tall and lanky one he couldn’t forget. There he was. All the singers wore black pants or skirts and white shirts, and damn, a white dress shirt suited Mark. And not only because Jack had a thing for white dress shirts.

  There was rustling and low voices as they took their places, plus the occasional whistle and snatches of music from the sound system. Apparently they were using a canned orchestra with the choir.

  The conductor gave a brief introduction, and thanked everyone for coming. Jack got Margaret’s attention with a wave in front of her eyes and pointed to her earphones. She took them out as they began, then immediately closed her eyes, her head swaying softly to the rhythm of the music. A soprano solo started, followed by a rich alto that was more to Jack’s taste. He’d never heard the piece before, at least not consciously. He winced inwardly at the louder passages, but Margaret didn’t flinch. Her lips were moving along with the words—trust her to know them—and her face and body were relaxed and at peace.

  Jack turned back to the choir, to Mark, who sang like Margaret listened, with his eyes closed. He made Jack’s throat tight with longing, and for a second he was tempted to close his eyes as well. To give in and abandon caution, fall into the music and let himself believe that a connection outside their team of two was possible. But that would have meant letting Margaret out of his sight, which wasn’t an option.

  A cello started up, and Mark moved into the soloist position. Oh? He sang and, sweet Jesus, Jack had been right. That rich baritone pebbled his skin from his wrists all the way to his hairline. He wanted to listen to that voice forever. The choir cutting back in felt like a betrayal. He waited for the next short solo line, and then the next, bereft when Mark made way for the soprano again. After that the soloists sang together without the choir. Mark’s solo was clearly over. It was still a beautiful piece, and the choir was of a quality Jack hadn’t expected in a town the size of Bluewater Bay. But it left him yearning. Because of Mark, and his voice. Because of all the music he’d left behind in Savannah.

  There were standing ovations when it was over, and then everyone wanted to talk to people in the choir, especially to the conductor and the four soloists. Jack would have liked to talk to Mark again, but wasn’t sure how long Margaret would hold out. And anyway, what would he say? He didn’t know enough about what he’d just heard to make an intelligent comment about it. So he waited, until everyone was either up front or walking toward the door, to find clear passage for the two of them to leave. But when he scanned the aisle, Mark was making his way toward them, raising his hand to catch their attention.

  Jack’s heart did a little two-step. He stopped and moved over to one side, where they wouldn’t be in the stream of people. He was still thinking about what to say when Mark joined them, but it was Margaret who spoke first. “Basso cantante,” she said. “Yes.” And she gave Mark one
of her shy, covered smiles. It was high praise.

  And Mark surprised him by getting that. He inclined his head toward Margaret. “Thank you. Almost. I’d say bass-baritone myself. I’m a bit more comfortable in a baritone tessitura. It was originally written for a bass, of course.”

  “Of course.” It didn’t sound like an echo, but like she was agreeing with him.

  “And you?” Mark turned toward him. “Did you like it?”

  “A lot. And, honestly, I didn’t expect to all that much. Margaret’s the one into classical and choir music. Me, I’m more into blues and a bit of soul and jazz.”

  “John Coltrane?”

  “Absolutely. And Charlie Parker, despite the bebop.”

  “Etta James.”

  “Muddy Waters.”

  They kept throwing names and then styles at each other without comment or transitions until Margaret’s fingers pulled at his sleeve.

  “Home, please.” Her not simply saying No, but being specific about her needs deserved immediate attention. Despite that, reluctance slowed Jack down. He wanted to keep talking to this man who was so odd and so familiar in such confusing and thrilling ways. But it wasn’t an option. Margaret wouldn’t ask to be taken out of a place with music and colored lights if she didn’t absolutely need to be away from the mass of people.

  “Then we’ll go home, love. Would you like to say good-bye to Mark?”

  She nodded. Then, to Jack’s stunned surprise she said, “It was a pleasure to meet you. Why don’t you come over for dinner on Sunday?”

  He stared. It had to be a line she’d picked up in the crowd. Original speech didn’t come easy to her, much less polite conversation. Which didn’t mean that she couldn’t talk or communicate, but never, as long as he could remember, had he heard her invite anyone to come visit them. She didn’t just take to people at first sight. And even at second sight, the people she liked were few and far between. Margaret taking a shine to a stranger, and enough of one to invite him home was an extraordinary first.

  “Thank you, miss. I’d be delighted,” Mark said.

  The incongruity of such perfectly polite conversation between two people who not only didn’t shake hands, but didn’t even look at each other, surprised a laugh out of Jack. He gave Mark a brief nod. “So would I. Shall we say seven?”

  “Seven sounds perfect.”

  And that was that. No hesitation, no polite attempt to blow them off. The wish to meet again a mutual one, then? “Well, you know where to find us.”

  Again Margaret tugged at his sleeve.

  “I’m afraid we have to be off. I really enjoyed hearing you sing; you were fantastic.” He turned to Margaret. “Lead the way, Sis.” And half over his shoulder. “See you Sunday, then.”

  Anticipation unfurled like wings in his stomach. What to cook? He had no idea what Mark liked to eat. Did he have any allergies? He hadn’t said anything. But he hadn’t exactly had time to think. Something neutral, then: no seafood, no peanuts. Damn, he was looking forward to this.

  On Sunday evening, the store is dark, but the porch lamp over the annex door is lit, despite the still-bright sunlight. That must be the entrance to the house proper, then, where I’m supposed to ring the bell.

  I’m listening to the receding echoes of its chimes, when the door opens to a mouthwatering smell of roasting meat and to Jack’s silhouette against a weak ceiling light that is trying its best to illuminate the dim hallway.

  “C’mon in.” Jack steps back to make room, and I follow him almost the full length of the house. It feels like the next stop must be the backyard, but Jack opens a door on the left into the house itself. Smack into the dining room, a narrow affair with a second door straight ahead, and a third one on the far end of the right wall.

  Margaret is about to finish up setting the table, arranging the cutlery beside each plate.

  “Good evening, how nice to see you again.”

  “Good evening.” She smiles without looking up from her task.

  It’s not the kind of room I would have expected from these two. The decoration stopped evolving sometime in the sixties. None of it says anything about the people currently living here.

  “It came fully furnished,” Jack says. “The previous owner moved into a senior residence and only took a few pieces with her.”

  I’m not used to people being able to read me like this. I don’t know whether it would be more appropriate to apologize or laugh it off, so I don’t say anything, and he continues. “Please. Take a seat. Anywhere you like. Can I get you a beer or something?”

  “I won’t say no to a glass of water. Alcohol doesn’t play nice with my meds.”

  For a second Jack seems about to comment, but then he turns and leaves the room. Has he picked up on what I’m hinting at by mentioning the anxiety meds? I have Asperger’s has never been an easy thing to say, even back when it was still a listed diagnosis, when most would nod and assume they knew what I was talking about. Now that Asperger’s has been declared out of existence, explanations tend to be more involved. Too many people flat-out don’t believe me. I’m not autistic enough to meet their expectations. Fuckers.

  And who’s ever heard of Sensory Processing Disorder? It’s not like you can casually slip that into the conversation. Hinting and letting people come to their own conclusions is often easier. Plus, it doesn’t rub me the wrong way as much as having to put myself on display and explain it as if I was an addict at an AA meeting. Hi, my name is Mark, I’m autistic. The anger starts to uncoil in my stomach. Wrong place, wrong time for that. I have to think about something else.

  Jack returns with the glass of water just as Margaret disappears into an adjoining sitting room. The water is cold, no ice. “Thank you.”

  Jack hooks a thumb over his shoulder, vaguely indicating the other side of the house. “Stove,” he says. “Be right back.”

  I’m left stranded in the dining room, unsure whether Margaret would prefer me to join her where she’s curled up in a large, high-backed rocking chair, or to leave her in peace. In a sort of compromise, I stand in the doorway.

  The sitting room is furnished equally sixtyish, if somewhat more plush. The only thing that might have been put up either by or for Margaret is a fishing line across the window with a number of different prisms hanging from it. A mantel clock ticks away on top of a heavy cabinet.

  Whenever the prisms catch a vibration from a passing car or the breeze of the fan, a small flock of rainbows dance around the room. Margaret’s eyes follow the tiny dots as if she wants to commit every color, position, and size to memory, a delighted smile on her lips that she covers with her hand as soon as she knows herself watched.

  She smiled the same way at the sun streaming through the church windows. Shards of light and color, prisms, stained glass; they cut into my eyes and now threaten me with a headache, despite the Irlen lenses.

  I have no idea if conversation is expected. “You like the colors of light?”

  Her voice drops a few registers and assumes a flat accent. “Humans can distinguish ten million colors.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Visible light ranges from 390 to 700 nanometers.” She cocks her head, then adds, “For humans.”

  “Yeah, bees can see ultraviolet light, right?”

  “Bees can see 300 to 600 nanometers. No red.”

  I try to get comfortable with my back against the doorframe and my hands in my pockets. But watching the refracted light dance through the room starts the familiar pulling above one eyebrow that tells me I need to leave if I want any chance to avoid the threatening ice pick to the brain. “I’ll go and see if Jack needs any help in the kitchen.”

  “No.”

  “No?” The rainbow dots are growing more intense by the second. “Because you want me to stay?”

  “No.”

  “Because Jack doesn’t need help?”

  Her gaze darts around the room much like the small dots. She drums a staccato on her thigh and repeats, matching m
y intonation perfectly, “Because Jack doesn’t need help?”

  “Because he doesn’t want me in the kitchen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I’ll stay outside, then, unless he tells me to come in. Would that be okay?”

  “Yes.”

  Stepping through the door where Jack disappeared earlier, I find myself in another narrow hallway, equally dimly lit, this one with a threadbare carpet. What a rabbit warren.

  The smell leads me to the left, where the kitchen door stands open, and again I lean against the frame, trying to stay out of the way.

  Here blue notes spill from a radio on a corner shelf, and steam hisses from a pot on the stove. Jack stands with his back to me, singing along, though not always hitting the notes, bent over the counter in front of him. He’s shed his shirt, suspenders dangling across his ass, and his white undershirt displays his shoulders and arms kneading and slapping dough. I have to curl my hands around the desire to run my fingers over those deltoids and follow the contours of the muscles up into the black curls, now limp against Jack’s neck with sweat from the damp heat in the kitchen. He’s perfectly proportioned, and he moves like a dancer, despite the decidedly domestic task. I didn’t expect to find him quite so attractive. It rattles something loose in me.

  An old-fashioned timer ticks on the counter; the lid of a pot on the stove clatters with escaping steam. Jack half turns to get it and stops midmotion when he sees me standing in the doorway. He holds his white-dusted arms away from his pants, though he’s already gotten some flour on them. His eyes narrow, and he ducks his head. Embarrassment? At what? Being caught in his undershirt? It’s his own kitchen after all. And it’s hot, even though my body doesn’t acknowledge the heat like his does.