by Liv Rancourt
Skip watched the water, moonlight highlighting the contours of his face. His beauty broke Russell’s heart, while his silence left him floundering.
“I’m buying this time.” Russell didn’t have a whole lot of money, but he could afford a glass of whiskey for a friend.
With a quick move, Skip picked up his horn. Two steps later, he was close enough for Russell to feel his breath against his cheek. “Thought you weren’t a fag like me.”
Russell closed his eyes, inhaling the sweet scent of pomade and starch and sweat. “Mostly I feel like a jackass, and I’m...I’m sorry.”
“Takes a big man to admit when he’s wrong.”
There was enough teasing in Skip’s voice to make Russell grin. He rocked his hips, once, bumping against the other guy’s thigh. “I am a big man.”
“Russell?” his aunt called from the bus.
“Just say when.” Russell turned up the path. “I owe you.”
The heat of Skip’s attention stayed with him.
***
The days passed in a blur of calisthenics and choreography, trips to the laundromat for clean shirts and stilted newspaper photo shoots. Russell spent the shows trying not to make calf’s eyes at the orchestra pit, and Skip disappeared every night without taking him up on his offer for a drink. By Sunday, Russell concluded that his attempted apology hadn’t worked. The memory of Skip’s mouth pressed warm against his lips, the taste of whiskey, and the scratch of whiskers against his chin made the rejection more painful.
Wednesday was closing night. One more show. Their train would leave the next afternoon. Russell marched along the deck like a robot, barking commands at the girls during their warm-up, barely watching their routines. The muggy heat never broke, and before intermission, sweat plastered his button-down shirt to his skin.
Russell had the girls work through some figures. Through grumbles, they began a series of catalinas, cranes, and flamingos. Straightening his tie so the knot sat evenly between the flaps of his collar, he filled his lungs with the boggy, rotten-egg lake smell in an attempt to wash away the puddle of melancholy sloshing around in his gut.
Susie broke ranks, pulling up to the side of the pool to work out a cramp. Under other circumstances, he’d give her a quick scold and send her back to the water. Tonight he ignored her, telling himself she was the cause of his unhappiness.
Who am I kidding? His relief at being done with Susie was almost pathetic. Heat built in his groin, a slow swelling, a pressure so sweet, it caused pain. He wanted Skip. Now. He didn’t want to go off into some mythical future without touching him. Tonight. The lanky musician didn’t fight his nature, and Russell needed another taste of his life.
He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets to hide his clenched fists. He could wish and want and hope all night long, but if he wasn’t willing to do anything about it, he’d end up alone.
Before the show started, the director stood at the edge of the stage and gave the performers a pep talk. He assured the dancers the crew would do their best to keep the stage dry if it rained, and complimented the swimmers on a fine performance the night before. Russell’s gaze drifted over to the band, right about the time Skip looked in his direction, and the director might have been a dog barking down the block
Russell smiled, as broad and inviting as possible. Skip didn’t return his smile, but he didn’t turn away either. His expression might have softened, or maybe the distance and the misting rain blurred his features the way fog turned oak trees into green-gray smudges.
The moment passed.
Skip lifted his horn and laughed in response to something Russell couldn’t hear. Aunt Maude waved from stage left, demanding Russell’s attention, reminding him of what was possible.
And what was not possible.
The girls made it through the Aqua Dixie minstrel number without any problems. Their moves were sharp, elegant, and their smiles brilliant. Russell allowed himself to relax, even laughed at the MC’s tired jokes.
Then the conductor counted off “In the Mood.”
Skip rose above the band to play his solo, and desire crystalized in Russell’s soul, brittle enough to cut deep if it shattered.
But he felt more than desire, more than the simple physical urge a man could handle on his own. He wanted to know Skip, to share in the warmth of his optimism. Russell shut his eyes, indulging in the trumpet’s bell-like tone. A kiss meant something. Both the giver and the receiver had to lower their guard, leave themselves open. They’d done a lot more than just kiss, but still, he couldn’t get on the train to Red Wing without talking to Skip one last time.
They still had things to say to one another.
Tonight after the show, he’d give Aunt Maude the slip and wait in the parking lot. He and Skip would have their chance, and if things backfired, at least he’d know he’d given it his best shot.
Right before the grand finale, the swimmers posed along the edge of the deck, a row of sherbet-colored dolls, their left legs extended, toes pointed, arms held gracefully overhead. One by one, each turned her arabesque into a dive and hit the water right in time with the band, so steady, Russell kept track with a nod of his head. Three from the end, Phyllis slipped, stumbled, hit the water at an odd angle. The misfire jerked his attention in her direction and he was moving from his spot on the deck before her bubbles rose to the surface.
He rounded the deck at a near run, acting from such a basic level, it was almost instinct. The rest of the girls side-stroked toward the stage, facing over their left shoulder for four-beat strokes, then flipping to their right. Phyllis was still underwater, a vague shadow wrestling with an invisible adversary. Russell tossed his blazer onto the deck and kicked out of his shoes, sliding down into the water with a minimum of splash, doing his best not to attract the audience’s attention.
The routine went on, the band played, and Russell filled his lungs and dove. Silence. Cold. One strong pull of his arms brought him close to her. Phyllis grabbed his hand hard, before he was ready, her nails digging into his flesh. He almost gasped, recovered, took hold of her arm, and kicked them both to the surface.
They broke through the water with a crash of cymbals and a huge roar from the crowd. Phyllis coughed hard between gulps of air. Russell got his arm around her chest and dragged her over to the deck. She held on to the ledge with one hand, and he launched himself out of the water, planted his feet, and hoisted her out. She made it onto her hands and knees.
“I breathed water”—a racking cough made her chest heave—“couldn’t find up.”
Russell quickly surveyed the area. Only a few people were watching them. Most everyone’s attention was on the divers careening off the platforms, tripping over their floppy clown feet and splashing the crowd.
A man tapped Russell on the shoulder. “I’m a doctor. Let me help you get her off to the side.”
Russell was grateful for the help. They needed to get Phyllis someplace where she wasn’t on stage.
The man barely came to Russell’s shoulder and was probably the same age as his father. Phyllis was doubled over coughing, and Russell knelt to help her up, terrified by her struggle to breathe. The doctor took hold of her arm, and together they got her standing. Russell looped her arm over his shoulders, lifted her under her knees, and carried her off the deck toward the lockers.
Once they were behind the stage, the noise from the show diminished. Phyllis’s coughing slacked off too, though she still clutched at Russell. Her chest heaved, and shivers racked her body. After a quick conversation, the doctor stayed with Phyllis while Russell went into the locker to get her belongings.
She was still coughing when Russell returned. “We should get her to a hospital,” the doctor said. “Wait here, and I’ll go get my car.”
He jogged off, and Russell wrapped Phyllis in a towel. Her coughing paused long enough for her to gasp words out. “Can’t catch my breath.”
With the flat of his palm, Russell made circles on her back. He didn’
t know her very well, but her ribs’ frantic heaving frightened him. “You must have hit the water wrong.”
“Yeah.” She gave in to another burst of coughing.
Aunt Maude strode up, heels hitting the pavement so hard, they could have shot sparks. “What happened?”
Between bursts of coughing, Russell and Phyllis tried to explain. By the time they were done, the doctor was back with his automobile.
“We’re going to Harborview County Hospital.” He spoke with such authority, Aunt Maude shut up.
“I’ll go with her, Aunt,” Russell said. “You take the team back to the dorm.”
Her look of fear flayed him. “Take care of her.”
“We will.” The doctor patted his aunt’s shoulder, a gesture that would have earned anyone else a quick swat.
Aunt Maude heaved a sigh. “Okay. I’ll get someone to drive me over there once all the girls are in bed.”
“Sure,” Russell said. His aunt might have been a prickly pear, but she was committed to her girls. “She’ll be okay.”
Russell and Phyllis climbed into the doctor’s car, a new white Chrysler with lots of chrome. They pulled out of the parking lot, and Russell’s belly clenched, his breath caught tight in his chest. The emergency had overruled his plans. He’d probably never see Skip again. Never have the chance to show him how he felt. He plunged into a cold sadness he couldn’t put aside despite Phyllis’s distress.
Chapter 10
For the last time, Skip held down the spit valve and blew through his horn, sending a spray of liquid onto the floor of the pit. For the last time, he unscrewed the mouthpiece and laid his trumpet in its case. For the last time, he said good night to the show’s director.
The 1955 Aqua Follies had ended.
Most of the stage lights had been shut off, and the empty stands echoed with stragglers’ laughter. A few musicians were still packing up, and after his usual whining, Ryker had hauled his first load of gear to his car.
Skip snapped the buckles on his trumpet case and climbed out of the pit. Earlier, he’d done his best to ignore the way Russell’s trim charcoal suit emphasized his broad shoulders and long legs. Skip owned one suit, black gabardine, cut too wide. He wore it for gigs and would wear it to his funeral, and he huffed with jealous appreciation at the way Russell managed to look both athletic and smooth.
He hurried down the ramp to shore. Didn’t matter how good Russell looked. No point in bellyaching over what he couldn’t have.
Halfway to the parking lot, Skip bumped into Ryker.
“Man, your horn wailed tonight.” Ryker extended his hand to shake.
“And you were the boss on the beat.” Skip switched his horn case to his left hand and offered Ryker his right. “Do you need a ride home?”
A woman’s giggle from the direction of the lockers made Ryker twitch. “Nah, I’ve got my father’s big V8.”
“The Thunderbird?”
“Yes, sir, Daddy-O. I’ve got things to do tonight.”
“Where you going?”
“Gonna kill some time at a jam, then, when everyone’s asleep, I’m snatching Susie and we’re heading for California.”
Skip almost dropped his horn. “California?” What the heck? California was his dream, where he could earn a living playing music. Just hearing the word prompted visions of cable cars and Chinese food and jam-packed jazz clubs.
Damn. The irony burned in his gut like a shot of cheap booze. Ryker kept talking, but Skip barely listened.
“Well, to start with, we’re going to my cousin’s in Tacoma.” Ryker reached for his pack of smokes, his shiny chrome lighter glinting. “Did you catch the sideshow tonight?” Hot red flame threw his face into shadow. “One of the swimmers almost drowned, I guess.”
A second surprise jerked Skip out of the muddle of his own thoughts. “What?”
“Yeah, Susie says they all want to go to the hospital to see her, but the old battle-ax won’t let them.” Ryker paused, flicked his lighter, and inhaled.
Russell would be upset too, though Skip kicked himself for worrying about him.
Ryker exhaled a cloud of smoke and carried on, oblivious. “Russell took the girl, Phyllis, I think is her name, to Harborview County.”
“Damn.”
“Susie figures Mrs. Ogilvie will be busy at the hospital, so this is our chance to bug out.” He took another drag. “Besides, they take the train tomorrow, and I’m not letting this one go.”
I’m not letting this one go. Skip didn’t ever expect to say those words. As much as he liked a little backseat bingo, he wasn’t about to risk his heart for someone who’d soon be on a train out of town.
Maybe they’d both acted like jackasses on the ferry, but Russell’s apology made it worse. In one flirty, honest gesture, Russell had turned into someone Skip could care about. No way. He’d spend every night down at the baths before he’d let himself fall in love.
Ryker bumped him with an elbow. “I’ll see you later. Gotta grab the rest of my kit then head over to the 443.”
Normally, Skip would have been eager to jam at the Negro Musician’s Union, the 443. Normally, he would have offered to help haul drums to Ryker’s car. This night wasn’t normal, and his temper was foul enough he’d likely end up in a fight. Besides, one of the perks of being a horn player was only having a single case to drag around. Skip sauntered across the parking lot, ignoring the jagged lights from the school bus and the jabbing disappointment from knowing Russell wasn’t there.
***
The next morning dawned clear and perfect. Not trouble-free—Russell had had too little sleep and too much on his mind for that—but clear and comfortably warm. The crystalline blue sky drew him outside to the small lawn in front of the dorm, where the light swirling breeze carried the scent of the ocean.
Something about Seattle enticed him, drew him in. Home had its beauties, but there was a sameness to the flat stretches of green. Seattle was a young city, still grappling with the surrounding mountains, oceans, and lakes. Everywhere he turned, he was distracted by the rugged natural beauty.
He could live here, if things were different. If he wasn’t afraid of breaking his mother’s heart.
Russell’s feet were restless, but rather than give in to the yen for a long run, he sought out his aunt. The group would be traveling today, and he needed to make sure he understood his role in her plan.
He found her in the dorm cafeteria, a long room that smelled of burnt coffee and toast. Annette was with her, sitting with her back to Russell at the far end of one of the dining tables. Aunt Maude had her hand on Annette’s shoulder, her face so grim, it could have been carved from marble. Coming closer, he heard the sobbing.
Annette’s shoulders were hunched and her hands covered her face. Her hair was still in curlers, covered with a coral chiffon scarf. Aunt Maude’s eyes were ringed dark, but she had her lipstick on and her flowered shift was crisp. She murmured to Annette, though Russell couldn’t tell if they were words of comfort, or something else.
“Aunt Maude?” He kept a chair or two between himself and the women and spoke softly, doing his best not to intrude.
“Good morning, Russell.” His aunt waved him into a chair. “Better you hear this now rather than later.”
He scooted back a chair and sat, resting his forearm on the table. “What?”
“She left.” Annette hiccupped into her hands. “Susie took off with that Ryker guy, and says she’s not coming back.”
Not coming...? Russell’s head jerked as if her voice had been an actual slap in the face. His mind puzzled out the words, trying to make them fit in a rational sequence. He and Susie had once been happy. Hadn’t they? Before she left? Maybe she’d just been using him. Except he really wasn’t good for much, so using him would have been a waste of her time. Of course, maybe she figured that out, and that was why she left.
“Oh Russell,” Annette wailed. “I’m so so-o-o-rry.”
Aunt Maude settled heavily into the ch
air across from Annette. “Hush now, honey. Your eyes will stay puffy all day.” When Annette kept up the noise, Aunt Maude rapped sharply on the table. “That’s enough.”
Annette hopped in her seat, but she quieted down.
“The problem is...” Aunt Maude paused to dump some creamer in her coffee. She tasted it, made a bitter face, and kept talking. “Phyllis will be staying in the hospital for the next few days, and her parents won’t be able to fly out here right away. I’m going to need you to stay behind, Russell, to be with her until they get here.”
Flustered, Russell rose to get himself a cup of coffee. It was easier to move than to sort through all the ideas the last few minutes had presented him with. “Okay.”
“I would like you to do something else, Russell, though I know this will be difficult for you.”
He glanced warily at her over the top of the brown pottery mug. “Yes?”
She looked so profoundly unhappy, he knew what she was going to say before the words left her mouth. “I would like you to find Susie and talk her into coming with you to Detroit.”
Why not just ask me to empty Lake Erie with a teaspoon? “Aunt Maude...”
“I know, but her parents will be distraught. She held you in some regard, so maybe she’ll listen to what you tell her.” Maude’s posture firmed, as if the conviction with which she spoke strengthened her backbone. “She’ll be a little soiled, but if we get her home quickly, her parents will still be able to marry her off to someone.”
His aunt’s considering tone of voice made Russell angry. The Susie he knew was flighty, sometimes silly, but she rarely did things without thinking about the consequences. But then he’d thought she was going to marry him.
Just went to prove how little he knew about women anyway.