Deep Blue

by David Niall Wilson

  “Might have,” she spat the words, rolling the cigar to the corner of her mouth. This allowed her to speak, but slurred the words. “Might be I’d be more likely to say if you was to tell me why you two need three rooms?”

  Dexter blinked once, then smiled. “Ma’am, you see that van over yonder?” He was drawling his words, not his voice at all, but somehow, some way . . . it was working. Shaver bit his lip and forced back the smile.

  The woman glared at him, but nodded, the motion almost imperceptible.

  “Well,” Dexter leaned in, his eye glittering and his head turned, conspiratorially, “there’s a band in there, ma’am. Finest blues band to ride these roads in goin’ on forty years. See, me and my buddy here, we can’t let on to folks what we know, cuz they’d be gatherin’ around and raisin’ all sort of hell, you get my drift?”

  “Who is they?” the woman spat again. “I been hearin’ ever’ band through here for nigh on twenty of those forty years yer talkin’ about, boy.”

  “You probably wouldn’t have heard about us way out here, ma’am,” Shaver cut in. He’d considered adding the drawl to his own voice, then thought better of it. He had no idea how Dex had pulled that off, but now was not the time to ask.

  The woman swiveled to appraise Shaver. “You don’t look like much to me, boy,” she grated. “Don’t look like you’d remember the day of a good blues band, let alone be in one.”

  Dexter cut in again. “His . . . father brought him to music, ma’am. He’s a young one, but a good one. The band is ‘Channel Blue,’ like on the TV?”

  She watched them both for a moment, then nodded. “Catchy handle,” she commented, turning and drawing the screen door inward. “Been a bit of time since any music worth hearin’ came through South Haven. Been a long time since I heard anything not on the TV.”

  Dexter winked at Shaver as they passed inside to the counter. Shaver just shook his head and grinned, though he was quick to kill that expression as the woman slid around behind the desk.

  “I’m Mae,” she said, “Mae DeLucas. Been runnin’ this here place since my Donald died; expect I’ll be runnin’ it for some time to come. I don’t take to no loud music; you get the remote for the TV when you get your key. Cash in advance, and no pets.”

  Dexter nodded, reaching for his wallet and peeling off three twenties and a five. He dropped all of that on the counter and took the register that Mae slowly turned toward him. He carefully penned in each of their God-given names, ignoring nicknames and making each letter as legible as possible. His handwriting, like everything else about him, was sharp and precise.

  “Don’t suppose you’d care to give me a listen to some of that music, seeing as how you’re here, and all?” Mae’s voice had softened a little, and there was a hint of the wistful in her tone.

  Dexter glanced over his shoulder at the van, then turned back, smiling. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “Should we dial ‘0’ to get you, ma’am?”

  “You call me Mae,” she said, reaching across the counter and pressing her gnarled fingers into his arm. “You call me Mae, and yes, it is ‘0’ if you boys need anything.”

  “Thank you,” Shaver said.

  Mae nodded. “Hell,” she chuckled, spinning the cigar deftly to the other side of her mouth, “I’d have rented the rooms to anyone, really. Good to know an old girl can still charm the fellers.”

  Shaver nearly groaned, but Dexter laughed.

  “I knew you would, Mae,” he said, winking at her. “I can never resist the opportunity to be charmed.”

  Mae might have blushed at that. It was hard to tell with her rough complexion, and she turned away just at that moment. Then she was sliding three keys and three television remotes across the counter. “You give me a call,” she said, turning and disappearing into the back.

  Dexter snagged the keys, and the two of them banged back out through the screen door, sliding into either side of the van with a triumphant flourish.

  “Three ‘roadside cottages fit for a king,’” Dexter announced.

  Shaver stared at him. “What the hell was that in there, Dex? I mean, who the fuck was that guy? How’d you know she’d believe you?”

  “She didn’t believe a word of that,” Dexter laughed. “You forget man, I didn’t grow up in any city. I saw that cigar, and I knew I was home.”

  Shaver shook his head and mimicked the tones his friend had used moments before, “Best blues band to pass this way in nigh on forty years.” Then he laughed.

  Liz had turned, her hands now on the console, and she glanced from one to the other of them quizzically. “What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind,” Shaver answered, leaning down to kiss her, still chuckling. “I’ll give you the whole story while we set up for the ‘concert.’”

  Liz stared back at him, returning the kiss, but watching him as if he had lost his mind.

  “Concert?” Brandt called from the back.

  “Wait,” Dexter answered, waving a hand at them. “I have to find the right rooms first.”

  He backed out of the parking place in a crunch of gravel and turned into the shadowy lot. There was a single dim light with a tin-shade, funneling illumination into a yellowed circle in the center of the parking lot. Dexter had to come at the line of rooms from an angle, so the headlights illuminated the numbers. They had numbers 11, 12, and 13. Not that it would have mattered which keys Mae had grabbed. There was one other vehicle in the lot, parked near the office. An old truck, rounded fenders and bowed hood speaking of days when gas wasn’t a precious commodity, sat leaning slightly to one side like it had a limp.

  “Popular place,” Liz commented.

  Dexter pulled in directly in front of room number 12, and killed the engine. He slid out quickly, moving to the door and fumbling the key out to get the door open. Moments later, he disappeared inside, and a light flickered to life, leaking out through the door and onto the parking lot. As he reappeared in the doorway, silhouetted, the others piled out in a rush. By the time Dexter had tossed one key to Shaver and moved to room 11, they were all standing in a closely huddled group, staring at their surroundings as if they’d landed on some alien planet.

  When the lights had been turned on in all three rooms, there was a little more reality to the scene, but only a little.

  “It’s so quiet,” Synthia said, shivering.

  “You’ve been in the city too long,” Dexter commented. “Listen for a while. You’ll hear things you would never hear back home. Real things. Things that are alive. The sound is just another pattern, and it is the backdrop for everything you see.”

  “Pretty profound for a fucking coffee addict,” Shaver commented.

  Dexter smacked him on the arm, but they all did as Dexter suggested. The silence that had seemed so complete moments before came alive with soft buzzing, and low hoots. They could hear the hum from the transformer that ran the parking lot’s lone light, and back the way they’d come, the passing of traffic ebbed and flowed gently.

  Brandt finally tore himself loose from it and turned back to the van, opening the side doors fully and reaching for the first of the bags.

  “Plenty of time to commune with Mother Nature once we get settled in,” he said, heading for the center room.

  The others shuffled behind him, handing bags back and forth and sorting through the debris of junk food and coffee cups in silence. No one seemed willing to speak and break the mood of the moment. It took a surprisingly short time to empty the van and split it all three ways. Shaver and Liz moved into the first room, Brandt and Synthia to the second, and Dexter piled his drums and his small pile of “essentials” just inside the door of the third, flopping back on the bed.

  The rooms were surprisingly clean and dust free. Each was equipped with a small, one cup coffee maker, and a nineteen-inch color television. They’d just gotten their clothing semi-unpacked and had a chance to rifle through the drawers and comment on the complimentary Gideon Bibles, when there was a met
allic scrape out in the parking lot.

  Dexter bounced off his bed and moved quickly to the door to investigate. It was Mae. She was standing, looking a bit sheepish, in the gravel just outside. In her hands, bouncing against each hip, were about six aluminum lawn chairs.

  “Well,” she said, the intake of breath reddening the cherry of a fresh cigar, “don’t just stand there, son, give me a hand here.”

  Dexter laughed and slipped out into the shadows, taking the chairs from her with a gentlemanly flourish.

  Mae watched him, her hands dropping straight to her hips, or the point in her short, shapeless form that appeared to be her hips.

  “Don’t you get fancy with me, sonny. I thought maybe I wouldn’t wait for you to call me. Might miss out on some pretty fine music that way. Thought to myself, Mae, you go out and you fetch them into the parking lot, bring out some of that good corn whiskey you got stashed for somethin’ special, and you plunk yourself in one of those chairs until it happens.”

  The others had wandered out of their rooms to see what all the commotion was, and Dexter waved at them.

  “Seems we have an audience,” he said with a chuckle, his voice dropping easily into the country twang he’d affected when they signed in. “Shaver, you want to help a friend with some chairs?”

  Everyone but Shaver stood stupefied by the scene before them, but the young guitarist took his cue easily and with grace. He took half the offered chairs and he and Dexter aligned them carefully, two in the audience (so there was a place for Liz to sit) and the rest arranged for the band. Mae had returned to her own quarters, and now was back with a heavy-duty extension cord over one shoulder and a stoneware jug in her free hand.

  “Thought you might could use some power,” she grinned. “You ain’t the first musicians to visit South Haven, you know.” She smiled and let the cords fall in a heap at her feet, the trailing end snaking back to some unseen source.

  Dexter had finished with the chairs and made his way to where Brandt and Synthia were still staring, openmouthed.

  “You were complaining about the silence, a minute ago,” he said. “Let’s see what we can do about that? You up for it?”

  Brandt thought about it, but only for a moment. The voices inside were anything but silent, and he knew he’d have to play soon, probably that evening, somewhere. Why not here? Why not with the others? Why not see what would happen? They hadn’t played together since that night, so long ago, when he’d walked out and not come back. He stepped out into the night and nodded.

  Synthia wasn’t so quick to move. She looked past the chairs, past Mae, at those who gathered. Maybe fifty of them, dragging along, some old and some much younger, eyes locked on Brandt as he stepped from the room.

  Synthia felt their need, their desperation, and she nearly moaned at the sudden onslaught of emotion.

  Brandt sensed something was wrong and turned, but Mae was faster. She plunked the jug of whiskey in the gravel and scuttled over to where Synthia had swooned against the wall. Mae’s stout shoulder was under Syn’s taller, more slender arm, supporting her.

  “You seen ‘em, didn’t you, honey?” the older woman said, a tinge of amazement in the tone of her voice.

  Syn raised her eyes, shaking her head and getting her bearings. Without thought, she answered. “I always see them,” she whispered. “Always. I have never felt them before.”

  Everyone had gathered closer, and Mae turned, shooing them away with one chubby hand. “You give her room to breathe,” she said with a grunt. Turning, Mae eyed the lot beyond the chairs. “You too. You got no call comin’ in so close, scarin’ folks.

  “It’s me, you know,” she said. “It’s me who feels them, have for nigh on seventy years. No one ever listened, so I quit talkin’ about it. My mother told me ‘twas the Devil in me, and I should pray. I prayed plenty, let me tell you.” Mae turned back to Synthia, capturing the younger woman’s gaze with her own.

  “None of them listen. I don’t know if they are the dead, or the almost dead, or the damned all-ghost-choir. I can tell you one thing, and that is that prayer don’t mean a tinker’s damn to a one of ‘em. Never seen ‘em pay a bit of attention to a living soul, until now.”

  “You said you felt them?” Synthia asked. “All that pain? Always? That hunger?”

  Mae nodded. “Every bit of it, hon. You be damn glad all you do is see ‘em. I guess you picked those feelings off of me, and I’m right sorry for it.”

  “Or me,” Brandt cut in, offering Mae his hand.

  “And who might you be?” she asked, taking the hand, but looking him up and down skeptically. “You see ‘em too?”

  “I don’t see them, but they are here to see me,” Brandt answered gently. “They are bringing me their pain, their stories. I’ll see those stories tonight. Likely, if you listen, you’ll see them too. Share that pain. Live it again, and let it loose. I have to play it, have to live it with them, through music, or it builds up inside. You feel it when they are here. I feel it, always. Sometimes it’s just a low ache. Sometimes it’s a slow burn, and other times a raging fire, but the one thing it always is is there.”

  Mae watched Brandt’s eyes as he spoke, then turned out to watch the gathering host of angels. “Don’t know why, son, but I believe you. Got no reason to lie to an old woman. I’ll tell you this. I’ve been here a long, long time. I’ve seen them born and dead and I know faces in that crowd. A right many of them, to be truthful. You say you’ll be setting that pain free tonight?”

  “That is what happens when I play,” Brandt replied. “I don’t know if it’s me, the music, a blessing, or a curse, but I’ll play, and they’ll listen. What happens next is out of my hands.”

  Mae nodded. “Let’s do it then. I’m gonna plop in that chair over there,” she pointed across the parking lot, “and I’m guessin’ one of you is joining me, from the arrangements. I’m going to open that jug, and toss back a few gulps. You get ready to play, then ol’ Mae will tell you a secret before you start.”

  Brandt smiled. “I love secrets,” he said, turning back to the room, and his guitar.

  The others moved too, Synthia regaining her bearings and following Brandt slowly. Each of them was lost in thoughts of their own. They remembered. It hadn’t been so long for any of them since the night it had all began, and for all those but Brandt, there had been the second night, the night Synthia had joined him. It wasn’t something to be hurried into, this music.

  They’d practiced a little, but not all of them together. Dexter was rolling his drum kit out, unpacking slowly and carefully and placing each stand gently in the gravel, testing for balance. He was the key, somehow. They knew it as they watched him, though not one of them could have told you why. Even his setup was methodical. Rhythmic. He tested each drum, tuning carefully, teased the cymbals and adjusted the high hat with practiced ease and symmetrical precision.

  The others had little to do. The stage amps were hauled out and Mae’s multi-plug extension brought to bear. Everything was juiced up and humming with power within a very short span of time. Each moment added to the anticipation, and the electricity.

  “Won’t it be too loud?” Synthia wondered.

  “Hon,” Mae laughed. “There ain’t a soul within a country mile of here, and if there were, they’d be high-tailing it over here for this. Hasn’t been a damn thing new in this town since my Donald died, nigh on twenty years ago. You go on and play, and don’t you worry about the noise. You let ol’ Mae handle that.”

  She laughed then, turning up the jug and taking a deep swig.

  “And don’t think for a moment,” she called out, “that you’ll be playing without sampling this. I been saving it a long time.”

  Dexter looked up at that, laughing. He made a final adjustment to his snare, nodded, and turned away. “I’m up for that,” he said, dropping his accent. “I’ve had more coffee than a fleet of redneck truck drivers. If I don’t cut the edge, you girls,” he winked then at Brandt and Shaver, “
will never keep up.”

  They all laughed at that, and moved toward Mae as a group. The old proprietress grinned up at them, passing the jug and watching intently to be certain that none of them shirked on their “swaller.”

  “Does my heart good,” she said at last, taking the jug back and smiling at Liz, who’d taken the chair beside her, pad and pencil in hand. “Held onto this for so long I’d given up hope on a proper moment to finish it.” Mae squinted over at Liz’s pad. “You got enough light, honey?”

  Liz nodded. “I don’t really need to see that well to draw,” she answered. “Sometimes I don’t even remember doing it.”

  Mae nodded. “Figures,” she grunted. “Hangin’ out with a pack of hooligans like this.” Then she saluted Brandt with the jug and took another swig.

  Brandt nodded in answer, sliding the strap of his guitar over his shoulder and giving the strings a last second tuning. Synthia did the same. Shaver seemed content to hold his fingers tightly on his strings, feeling the power in the amp, hissing in an undercurrent of controlled fury.

  Dexter held his sticks tightly. He appeared motionless, but it was deceiving. There was a shimmer of sound from the head of the snare, just the hint of what was to come. His fingers and hands literally vibrated with potential energy, waiting for the spark. It had been far too long since he’d really played. Slapping his finger and tapping spoons was a distraction, but this was his world. His reality.

  He glanced at Mae, and winked.

  Raising the drumsticks over his head with a flourish, he cracked them together loudly, and called out to the others.

  “Ready? A one . . . a two . . . a three . . .”

  Fifteen

  The light above them flickered when Brandt and Shaver hit the strings of their instruments simultaneously, but the power held. Mae only spared the power line a single glance before leveling her concentration on the band. That is what they were again, a band. Weeks, even months, had passed between sessions, and yet, in that instant, no time had passed at all. They rolled into action, warming up with the same old blues. Familiar riffs and quick rolls fell from their fingers, and rippled off Dexter’s drumsticks. It was tight, tighter than it had ever been.