Jonah Man

by Christopher Narozny

With the business I throw her way, she can’t afford not to take you on.

  There must be acts on the circuit that feel the same, Jonson said. I don’t have to go it alone.

  I couldn’t, Ray said.

  You could.

  I won’t. I have a reputation. I promised Ginny I’d look out for you, but by God...

  Jonson held up a hand.

  Best stop there, he said.

  The walk up the macadamized driveway took him past flower beds, sculpture gardens, Rolls Royces. The portico was large enough for a man to live in, its roof doubling as a lanai with marble balustrade and matching chaise longue. The Madame came to the door in a blue silk gown and diamond earrings, a fresh-picked corsage pinned to her breast. She’d rouged over the liver spots on her neck, wore opera-length gloves to cover the backs of her hands.

  Ray sent me, Jonson said.

  Right, she said, eyeing the basket.

  Inside, there were women with their legs crossed running the length of a batik-print sofa, one per cushion. A dark-skinned woman in a sarong. A pale blonde with her hair bobbed and marcelled. An Asian girl in a jewel-studded bra and grass skirt.

  He’s here for me, the Madame said.

  They quit smiling, let their shoulders go slack as they stood and disbanded, looking more like girls in costumes than women competing for a fare.

  This way, she said.

  She led him through a set of stained-glass doors into an adjoining room—a bar, newly constructed, dust still settling on the oak floor, a mammoth man in overalls and shirt sleeves coating the stools with shellac. Jonson and the Madame sat on opposite sides of a small, light-grained table. The Madame drank from a glass of clear, straight liquid, offered him nothing.

  What’s wrong with your kid? she asked.

  Ever have any of your own?

  Never wanted any.

  She glared into the basket as though forcing herself to stare down something repugnant.

  They get bumps on their skin. Nothing to it.

  All right, she said, pointing to a piano in the far corner. Let’s hear you.

  He played a song he’d sung with his wife, a happy little ballad, one of the few songs he knew by heart. He sang both parts, hitting the keys soft, covering his playing with his voice.

  That’ll do, she said. Just keep it up tempo. The bar is an add-on. It opens in three days. I want to hear you practicing until then. Pay is eight dollars a month plus room and board for you and your kid. Room is in the basement—I can’t have a baby crying upstairs. One of the girls will show you around. Your job is simple: play when I tell you to play, stop when I tell you to stop. Max will handle any fights, but this isn’t that kind of place. In the meantime, I’ll get a doctor to look at your kid.

  Obliged, Jonson said.

  She motioned for him to wait in the lobby. He sat where the whore in the sarong had sat, let his body drop into the cushions. He felt as if his limbs had been struggling to keep pace with one another and now for the first time in a long while they could rest in unison. He shut his eyes, heard his son breathing in his sleep.

  The girl assigned to show him around smiled, bowed her head, called herself Cynthia. She was young with a young voice, pretty beneath the paint.

  What do you think so far? she asked.

  This could work, Jonson said. Better than a boat.

  I’ll show you where you’ll stay.

  The basement was well ordered, but crowded. A central aisle cut through long side aisles of identical and carefully stacked cardboard boxes. The concrete floor was swept clean, the ceiling dusted for cobwebs. Halfway down the center aisle was a cot set atop an area rug, a floor lamp plugged into an extension chord, a small bookcase for him to fill, an H&M trunk for his belongings. There were mouse traps at the mouth of every side aisle, most of them empty.

  Not bad, Jonson said. You fix this up yourself?

  You can make any place nice, she said.

  I don’t see anywhere for a baby sleep.

  I didn’t know there was one. I can get a crib. And a blanket. Light blue. Or dark blue, if you like.

  Either’ll work, Jonson said.

  OK, she said. I’ll let you get settled.

  Jonson waited for her to leave, but she stood there, running her palms over the pleats of her skirt, glancing about as though she’d misplaced something in mid-air.

  I’ll be all right now, Jonson said.

  The sound of his voice seemed to startle her.

  He played from early morning to late evening, plucking out the few songs he remembered, filling in the lyrics he’d forgotten. Cynthia sat with his son in the garden out back; on breaks, he’d walk to the window, watch. She’d laid out a blanket on the grass, was encouraging the baby to crawl.

  While Jonson played, Max worked on the bar—sanding, polishing, stocking. He was slow moving, hadn’t once spoken to Jonson, didn’t seem to notice the piano.

  Now and again Jonson heard a gathering in the parlor. Now and again the Madame checked in, set her glass on the piano, asked why he always seemed to be playing the same song.

  It’s been a while, he said.

  Can you read music?

  Better than words.

  I don’t doubt it.

  That night, Cynthia was waiting with his boy in the basement, sitting rigid on the edge of the cot, reading from a thick book. She looked, Jonson thought, as though she felt someone had been watching her for a long while. She was pretty in a way that had nothing to do with sex, in a way that would dissolve as soon as she tried to be pretty. Jonson cleared his throat.

  The doctor came to see him, she said. He left an ointment to put on, morning and evening.

  Jonson bent over the basket. The boy’s skin was oily, his tufts of hair washed and combed.

  He’s going to be fine, she said.

  That the Bible? Jonson asked, nodding at the book on her lap.

  No, she said. Just a novel.

  I’m sorry to hear about your wife, she said.

  It took her a damn long time.

  She remained perched on the cot, stiff-backed, hands folded on her lap, looking as though she wanted to speak but was awaiting permission.

  What’s your novel about? he asked.

  She smiled, seemed surprised.

  A foundling, she said. Left on the doorstep of a wealthy family. The family decides to keep her. Her sisters and brother are jealous because their father dotes on her and she’s bright and pretty. When the father dies, she’s sent away to a boarding school where she does well in her classes but can’t get on with the headmaster. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.

  A hard luck case, Jonson said. Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.

  You think so?

  No one would ruin their eyes over a shit life that stayed shit.

  No, she said. I guess they wouldn’t.

  Now get, Jonson said. I’m tired.

  Lying on his cot with the lights out, he pictured himself as headmaster, Cynthia as his charge. But the image remained static, the figures unable to move their arms or legs, so that after a while he gave up and sat in the dark with his eyes open.

  IV

  He played for three days while Max readied the bar. The Madame brought him sheet music, a large stack, enough to fill a six-hour shift. Max worked steadily, starting, stopping, taking his breaks at the same time every day, as if he’d parceled out the work in advance, as if he knew how many strokes and brushstrokes it would take to sand and polish the bar. He never spoke, though on the third morning he nodded, and Jonson nodded back.

  The Madame made regular rounds. Sometimes she would sit with him on the bench, sing along, applaud at the song’s end. Other times she would curse Ray, bellow at Max, scream until her voice was gone. Once, she placed a vase of daisies on the piano, stopped to touch their petals, continued on, spoke to Max, turned, crossed the room, shattered the vase on her way out.

  Now and again she made her tour in the company of a silver-haired man with padded shoulders and a
long zoot chain. They walked arm in arm, her manner deferential—a saleswoman accentuating strengths, glossing flaws. She never introduced him, though he made a point of smiling at Max, at Jonson, at the girls.

  Cynthia would be waiting for him in the early morning, the baby asleep, a new novel open on her lap. The crib had arrived, the shelves were stacked with books and sheet music.

  He standing in the way of your work? Jonson asked.

  I get in my hours, she said.

  Well, then, Jonson said, I won’t keep you.

  I’ve got a surprise, she said.

  Surprise?

  She disappeared down a nearby aisle, came back wheeling a rack of men’s clothes.

  Mine? he said.

  Yours, she said.

  He toured the rack, rubbing swatches of fabric between his fingers, holding up ties to shirts, shirts to jackets. There was a midnight-blue tuxedo with a rolled collar faced in silk, a single-breasted black suit with matching cumberbund and bow tie, a patterned waistcoat, a gray smoking jacket with satin lining. Balanced on the base of the rack were a pair of two-toned English Brogues.

  You pick all this out? Jonson asked.

  I did. The Madame trusts me with her money.

  You did fine, Jonson said. Real fine.

  Aren’t you going to try something on?

  Not with you standing here.

  I’ll turn my back.

  I’m a modest man, Jonson said. I’m guessing you don’t know many of those.

  The shoes were tight at the shanks, wide at the toe. He stripped to the waist, slid on the smoking jacket. There was a full-length mirror affixed to one end of the rack. Jonson stood before it, tapped out some slow scuffs and chugs, couldn’t tell if his limbs had stiffened or were fighting the newly starched clothes. He watched himself, compared what he saw to what he believed his wife had seen, felt she’d been gone for far longer than one short summer.

  He walked the length of the main aisle, the shoes giving a little at the toes, came to a room the size of a small tool shed. Switching on the light, he found a sink, a workbench, coffee cans full of nails, bolts, screws, hammers of different sizes, saws hanging in no particular order, a stack of old newspapers, a small window looking up into the underside of a bush. On the floor he discovered an open box of unmarked pint bottles. He picked one up, popped the cork, smelled something stronger than the older brother’s home brew. Screwing the cork back down, he slipped the bottle into his jacket pocket.

  He lay on his cot, flipping through a picture book while he drank. The pictures told the story of a stork who’d lost the baby he was supposed to deliver. The bird had injured its wing, was forced now to retrace his steps by land and sea. The book showed the stork on the deck of a ship, in the cab of a truck, in the cockpit of a plane. The people involved looked sympathetic as they shook their heads no.

  Cynthia came back for the baby at eight, dressed in a paisley skirt with a small train, a canvas bag hanging from one shoulder. Jonson kept his eyes shut, his breathing heavy. Lying with a pillow over his head, a sheet pulled up to his neck, he drifted off again, dreamt of nothing in particular—flashes of color, images with no story.

  The finished bar looked like it belonged to a hotel few people could afford. Everything matched: the tables were evenly spaced, the candles placed squarely at the center—the chairs, table tops, floor, bar all glazed the same deep mahogany. Stained glass windows hung inches from the walls, electric lamps lighting them from behind. The wine rack was made of solid brass, the bottles arranged by shade from white to red. The girls who worked the room looked more like bridesmaids than whores.

  The Madame made a final inspection, measuring the spaces between the tables, holding her palm over lit candles, taking each girl by the chin, eyeing her make-up, adjusting her wig.

  The clientele began to show. The girls dispersed—two for the bar, two for the floor. They flirted before they’d touch, held out for a second round before they’d agree to anything. When one girl left, another entered. The money was flowing upstairs and down.

  Max was free and easy behind the bar, his collar unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up. He knew when to laugh, when to lean in. He reached for the right bottle every time.

  The stained glass faded behind smoke; the voices grew louder than Jonson’s playing. He was decoration, one more thing the patrons could believe they were paying for. It made the keys feel lighter, as though the piano were playing itself, as though he weren’t there at all.

  V

  His two-toned shoes were broken in. His son could stand, even stumble. He’d talked to Max, learned he was the Madame’s nephew, that he had a boy he’d never met.

  Cynthia gave him nightly reports.

  He’s a smart baby, she said.

  You can tell?

  He pays attention, she said.

  To what?

  Birds, squirrels, my finger when I point up and down. Songs, mostly. He has favorites. He has ones he doesn’t like.

  You sing to him?

  All the time.

  Let’s hear.

  I’m not any good, she said.

  You’re good enough for my son.

  He’s a baby.

  A smart baby.

  I’m shy.

  How shy could you be?

  All right, she said. I’ll sing his favorite. But I’ve got to sing it to him.

  So be it.

  She lifted the baby from his crib. He fussed, rubbed his eyes, settled on her lap. She gave him her finger to teeth on, cleared her throat. The boy smiled and slapped at her necklace. She sang louder, skirling off key. Jonson made mental corrections, lowering her register, relaxing her spine, watching her morph into Ginny, then reemerge abruptly in her own form.

  So, what do you think? she asked.

  I think you’re abusing my kid.

  Oh, she said.

  She stood, chittering in place, then lay the baby in his crib. She gathered her belongings, started for the stairs.

  I didn’t mean it, Jonson called. You sing fine.

  She kept on, hugging her bag, her strides uneven, her shoulders banging columns of crates.

  Shit and hell, he said.

  He sat for a while, then walked into the side room, dug out a fresh pint, carried it back to his living space. Canting against a support beam, he drank, staring down into the crib, searching the boy’s features for any sign of his mother, finding only mottled skin, tufts of hair, pads of flesh.

  You’re what she left me, he said. But I wish it was different.

  The man was touching a lot for what he’d bought. Max would have let it go, but this was a girl he looked after more than the others. She was just under five feet, small boned even for her height, younger than Cynthia. Max watched the man take her hands, first one, then the other, and slide them beneath his cutaway coat. The man was fat: the girl could not reach her arms even part way around his waist without her breasts meeting his stomach, without his legs straddling her body. The girl smiled, eased her hands back, slapped the man’s chest. She started to move away, but he took hold of her forearms. Max said something. The man lifted a stack of bills from his shirt pocket, peeled off the top few, secured them beneath his glass. Max stepped from behind the bar.

  It was the man who swung first. Max side-stepped, grabbed the man’s ear, forced his head against the bar. Jonson stopped playing. Max was leaning in close, talking low. The whore was pleading. A table’s worth of men rose. Jonson crossed the room, sidled in front of them, stood with his back to Max.

  I’ll make this right, he said.

  He turned, took Max’s wrist, twisted until the ear came free.

  That’s good, Jonson said. He knows now.

  Max knocked him away; the man’s friends advanced. Jonson reached across the bar, grabbed the serrated knife Max used to cut lemons.

  You got two choices, he said. You can drink and fuck on the house all night, or someone can get his throat cut.

  Your man was out of line.

/>   And it’ll cost him, Jonson said. Right now, I’m making you an offer.

  OK, the tallest one said. All right.

  That all right with you, Max?

  Swell, Max said.

  Jonson waited for the small crowd to disperse, then started back, spotted the Madame watching from the doorway. She nodded toward a table in the far corner. He turned, saw the silver-haired man with padded shoulders raise his glass.

  The Madame appeared again at close, a bottle of clear liquid in one gloved hand, a full glass in the other.

  What do you drink? she asked Jonson.

  Most anything.

  By preference?

  Whiskey.

  Max, she called. A bottle of whiskey and a glass. You can straighten in the morning.

  They sat at a corner of the bar, Jonson with his bottle, the Madame with hers.

  Tell me something about yourself, she said. Her speech wasn’t slurred, but the vowels were long, the volume turned high.

  I don’t want to bore you.

  And I don’t want to be bored. Start with your wife.

  She’s dead.

  That much I know. How?

  An inch at a time.

  Cancer?

  Not that anyone could name.

  Doctors are gods or they’re useless.

  They charge either way.

  Was she a looker?

  Not at the end.

  No one is, she said. Jonson watched her in the mirror behind the bar. Light pooled in the foundation beneath her eyes. This time of night, everything about her appeared rucked and water-buckled. She had been young, Jonson thought, but never beautiful.

  You talk like you live, she said. Not a jot more than what’s needed. I’ll tell you what I think I know. Your wife was all the people you had, and you were it for her. She was the talent, you were the man of qualities. You made her feel safe. You know how to handle yourself, and you don’t mind playing the supporting role. That’s a rare combination in a man. You loved her, or else you feel you owe her. I know because you haven’t fucked one of my girls yet.

  I thought they were off limits.

  She sniggered.