by Dave Balcom
Jan stopped at the piano, and I proceeded out into the relatively brighter barroom. The bar was some 30 feet in length. The back bar was a wall that I realized was probably part of a kitchen or even a walk-in cooler.
There were TV screens judiciously spaced around the stuffed fish, deer heads, outdoor art, vintage beer signs, pictures of good times being had by all, and antique fishing gear that adorned the walls of this part of the facility. The TVs at each end of the bar were all tuned to This Week in The NFL, typical for a pub in this part of the world. A half dozen guys were sitting under them.
A woman who probably weighed in at 240 pounds or more came out of a swinging double gate at the left end of the bar with a tray containing plates of steaming food which she carefully dealt to the customers at the right end of the bar. As she tucked the empty tray under the bar with one hand, she was collecting empty beer bottles with the other and looking at me, “Help you?”
She was smiling and sweaty. Her gray hair was done up in some kind of braided bun at the back of her head and I could see a pencil sticking up back there. She was wearing a gray “Property of the Detroit Lions” tee shirt and had a University of Michigan maze and blue apron tied about her bulging waist.
“I heard you offer a remarkable Bloody Mary,” I said as I approached her.
“It’s been said...”
“I’d like two, if I might.”
“They come hot; you can make ’em spicier if you want. Any special vodka?”
“Nope, thank you.”
She nodded and turned to her work, coming back minutes later with the two drinks in tall glasses, garnished only with what turned out to be pickled asparagus, on a tray bracketed by two small glasses of draft beer.
“That’ll be seven-fifty; you want them here?” She indicated the bar. I handed her a ten and said, “I’ll take ’em and bring the tray back.”
“That’ll work,” she said and then stopped as the sound of Jan doodling on the piano drifted into a lull in the buzz from the television. As the bartender cocked her head to listen, the doodling suddenly evolved into a jazz riff that took us up and down the keyboard at a frenetic pace only to calm itself into a melody that I’d heard a thousand times from Jan’s little traveling keyboard at our home.
Without a word, the woman marched out from behind the bar and looked into the little alcove where Jan was playing. With her hands on her hips, she bent back and I expected to hear her laugh, but I didn’t. She just stood there, her feet planted, bending back at the waist as if she were stretching a tired muscle. I stood there with my tray, taking all this in, not sure what I was seeing, but my only thought was “Welcome home, Janice.”
Jan was lost in the moment, and had broken into song. One of the football fans at the end of the bar, turned toward us, “Hey, Annie! What ’n hell? Can you turn up the TVs or shut off the music?”
Annie stalked back behind the bar, put her hands on the channel where the towels, salt shakers and other condiments reside. “Ronnie Pratt, how long have you known me?”
The customer could be seen to visibly shrink at the tone of her voice. “Pretty much all my life, of course.”
“And how long have you been coming in my bar?”
“Since I turned twenty-one,” he answered with a grimace.
“And, Ronnie Pratt, in all that time have you ever known me to respond politely to that tone of voice?”
“No, ma’am.”
“And, because you don’t know any different, I’m going to cut you some slack this time. You have a choice, Ronnie Pratt. You can up and go, or sit here and watch your show with no sound, drink your beer, and be happy ’cause no way in God’s world are we gonna shut down Janice Coldwell playing the piano for me. We straight on that?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good, now you wait until Janice takes a break, and I might bring you a beer or somethin’.”
And with that she returned to the alcove and sat down just as Jan moved into “I’ve Got a Crush On You.”
I followed her into the alcove, put our drinks on a tiny table next to the piano, and perched myself on the end of Jan’s bench, my back to the keyboard. I watched the old woman sitting there, tapping her fingers in time to the music, looking at Jan as if she were admiring her own child.
CHAPTER 7
When Jan finished the tune, she picked up her drink and walked to the table where Annie Jameson was sitting, beaming with pure joy.
“Look at you!” Annie said in a sigh. “You’re every bit as beautiful as I always knew you were going to be, and you still have all that music coming out of you on demand...”
“Hi, Annie,” Jan said as she stooped and kissed the older woman on the cheek. “I’m sorry it’s been so long between visits; you deserve better.”
Annie just smiled at her some more, “You’re here now, that’s what counts; you’re a week early for the reunion, though...”
“I know, oh my!” Jan said as she backed away to include me in the grouping, “I’m so sorry. Jim, this is Annie, Annie Jameson I’ve told you about; Annie, this is my husband, Jim Stanton...” the words tumbled out in a stream of embarrassment and Jan’s face was beet red.
Annie stood up and extended her hand to me, “You’re big enough, that’s for sure.” And then she turned to Jan, “And he’s good-looking to boot. You probably don’t forget him too often, but relax, you’re home.” The good humor of her was on full display, and as we sat down at her table, the two women started talking as if they’d seen each other every week for years.
I was lost in thought about homecomings, reunions and had missed the question...
“Jim? So how about it; can we stay for dinner and let me play for Annie’s crowd tonight?”
“What’s for dinner?”
Annie chirped, “He’s a man all right; don’t care about anything but food.” Then she hopped up and left, returning with menus, “We have a full menu, and it’s all worth eating, but on Friday nights, this is northern Michigan after all, we have all-you-can-eat-perch or frog’s legs. They’re both served with coleslaw, French fries and bread.”
“I can guess where you buy the perch, but the frog legs?”
“Don’t be foolish; they all come from Canada and they’re not fresh, but they’re pretty tasty if you can’t catch your own.”
“And if I did?”
“We’d cook ’em up for you as good or better than you could do it yourself,” and then in unison both Annie and Jan recited the house motto: “But we draw the line at road kill!”
“I’d like some dinner here,” I said to Jan, and she grinned as if it might make her face hurt.
“Can you stand it if I play for a while? We might not be home early.”
I just gave her a funny look, and she turned to Annie, “We’re in!”
Annie exited and came back a few minutes later with a glass of wine for Jan and a draught beer for me. “Dinner’ll be a bit, just make yourselves comfortable.”
Jan reached out and took my hand, “Thank you, Jim; I mean it.”
I gave her that look again, shaking my head, “For what? Eating great food, listening to great music being made by my favorite person on this planet? All of my sacrifices should be so difficult.”
She pulled back her hand, “I’ll be right back.”
She returned to the table just as Annie arrived with our food.
“Annie, we’ll be four for dinner. Francine and Greg will be here in a few minutes, but we’ll start without them. Fran’s frog; Greg’s perch.”
“Wonderful!”
The food was excellent, and we had just finished our first serving when Fran and Greg arrived. “All’s well,” Fran said to Jan as she pulled out a chair. “Judy’s had supper and a quick run; she’ll hold until you guys are home.”
“That’s a nice pup,” Greg said to me. “I can’t wait to see them working at the same time, but in the yard you’d think neither of them knows the other exists.”
“Last one to mark t
he spot wins...” I added.
“Oh, yeah, there is that.”
Annie appeared to place drinks in front of them and a young woman in an apron was right behind her with their food.
“That’s the fastest service I’ve ever experienced in this place,” Fran teased, “I ’spect we can thank Jan here for that.”
Annie didn’t miss a beat, “You can. The quicker you eat, the sooner she starts playin’.”
Jan swallowed a drink of her wine, “There’s nothing that brings you home like good friends and greedy masters. You guys make her all-you-can-eat cost her; I’ll go pay for it with my soul.”
We all smiled and Annie huffed, “She wasn’t so uppity back in the day.”
CHAPTER 8
The last diners had arrived just before eight, and as Annie didn’t recognize them, they were dubbed “touri.” As they were served, the waitress moved through the full tables announcing “last call for eats,” which was code for Jan, and she announced she’d take a “pause for the cause.”
As she joined our table, several patrons stopped her progress to thank her and welcome her back.
“I remember when you were just a slip of thing,” one lady who looked to be about my age commented, “of course I was in here on a false ID,” she ended with a giggle.
“How you holdin’ up?” I asked as she sat and Annie put a cup of hot tea in front of her.
“You tell me,” she said with a smile as she patted my hand.
“You sound great, but I can’t remember when you’ve played so long or sung so much at one time.”
“I’m getting tired, but I’m having a ball too. It’s like, well, how you’d feel if you wrote your heart out day after day and nobody read a word, you know?
“We create to be read, heard, seen – it’s what drives the juices in my opinion.” She turned to Annie, “What do you think?”
The older woman was beaming in happiness. “I’d a been just as happy to have closed and listened to you all night. Really, I would; but you look at my wait staff and they’re all happy and bouncin’ around; this is a surprise payday for them. They don’t see crowds like this after Labor Day until the snowmobilers show up... Most of these people are locals, and we don’t see so many at one time and stayin’ so long. They came to hear you...”
Jan was pleased and it showed in her eyes, “I love doing it tonight, but I’m really grateful I didn’t spend my whole life doing just this...”
I squeezed her arm gently and she tucked it into her side to let me know she’d gotten the message.
“One last set,” Jan said as she rose, but she headed for the restrooms. “First the cause...”
When she returned she stood in front of the piano and spoke to her audience, many of whom were in the dining room and couldn’t see her, but the acoustics of the place were such that if they sat still, they could hear every word.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she paused and let the silence fall over the rooms. “I’m Janice Coldwell Stanton. I came home for the final Stoney High School Reunion. It’s the first time I’ve been in this room in 35 years. My husband, Jim,” and she pointed at me, “keeps telling me that the nostalgia is the real reason people go to class reunions, and now I think I fully understand what he was getting at.” She reached to a glass of water at the table next to her bench and took a sip.
“I don’t do this very often any more in my life, but tonight has been special because all of you came and stuck around to listen. I’m going to wind this up now before my croak comes out,” which garnered a chuckle from the absorbed crowd. “I thank you more than I can express.”
With that she spun down onto the bench, took a deep breath and started playing Mozart’s Sonatas. She played for an hour and not one person left the room until she finished with a traditional fading rhythm.
The place erupted and I saw first shock and then embarrassment cross Jan’s face, and I realized that she had become so engrossed in the music she had forgotten the audience was there. She stood, gave a curt little bow and then nearly raced to me as the applause continued unabated.
“Whew!” Annie said, and shut up.
Fran and Greg were standing with the rest of the crowd applauding. “Take another bow, honey; then I’ll rescue you.” I gave her elbow a little push and she stood up slowly, turned to face the rear of the room and bowed. As she started to sit, Annie stood up with her, “I think you should take a walk with me, Jan; let ’em take a good look at you.”
“That’s right,” Fran said. “Let ’em get a load of what this town produced.”
So with Annie’s arm through hers, she walked from table to table, thanking the people, being introduced by Annie, and camera phones were cracking the dim light of the room practically with her every step.
“Everyone should be a star one time before the home crowd,” Greg said next to my ear.
“She’s the star of my show every day, but you’re right, this has to feel good for her.”
We didn’t leave Annie’s until nearly ten and I drove back to the resort following Greg’s tail lights. Jan didn’t have much to say, and I could feel her relaxing, even wilting, as we rode in silence.
At the cottage she said good night across the parking lot to the Blakes, and then wordlessly headed to the shower, leaving a trail of shed clothing in her wake.
I took Judy out for a walk, and stood watching the stars until I saw lights going out in our cabin. I gave a low whistle and Judy came to the door and we went in. Judy to her bed; I to the shower.
When I came to bed I knew instantly that Jan was awake, waiting. I crawled in between the sheets and met her nakedness like a flame igniting the length of my body. We never said a word, didn’t hurry, didn’t dawdle, just celebrated being alive; living well the best way we could.
CHAPTER 9
Jan was still sleeping when Judy and I loaded our gear into the Suburban at first light Saturday morning. By earlier arrangement we were headed to Cadillac for a day of bird hunting with Miles Lawton and at least one of his boys.
The drive down U.S. 131 was as familiar as it had always been. The rolling hills, cedar swamps, and the occasional pasture or crop land was, to me, the real Northern Michigan as opposed to the lakeshore condos or the upscale ski-turned-golf resorts. This was the land that had fueled the dreams of a young man who had been saved from an urban upbringing as he reached the age of exploration.
I had shot grouse where Jack Nicklaus had built “The Bear” golf course outside Traverse City, and I had learned to mend my line to catch rainbow trout in the rapids below Antrim Pond. In my age of discovery, I had learned about myself and the meaning of friendship in a six-mile, black-on-black walk for help one June night after burying my buddy’s dad’s pickup to the frame out along the Boardman River.
Jan and I were both having reunions this week, and I was hoping hers could measure up to mine that morning.
As agreed, I pulled into the cafe in Manton just before eight. Miles and his eldest son, James, were sitting at the counter eating their breakfasts; their hats on the stool between them. I put my hat on the stool with theirs, and sat next to James without a word. The waitress appeared with coffee and a cup – one of those heavy, old fashioned ivory-colored mugs that stay where they are put empty or full – and a look that was a question. “With cream,” I answered. She placed the cup before me and poured while fishing two creamers out of her apron.
“Eat?” She asked.
I pointed at what was left of James’s eggs, sausage, home fries and toast. “Whole wheat?”
“Coming right up.”
Miles swallowed and took a sip of his coffee, “Good to see you, Jim.”
“Happy to be here. James, you’re growing like a weed; I guess that goldfish food we sent your mom didn’t work...”
“Mr. Stanton,” he said with his mouth full. “Hi.”
They sat quietly while my food was served, and Miles accepted a coffee refill. James declined another glass of milk, “I’ll just
drink my water.”
When I had finished and drained my second cup of coffee, I made a move for my hat as Miles said, “Come on, James; we’re burnin’ daylight.”
Miles had a big pickup with a cover over the bed. A dog crate full of a Vizsla was visible with the tailgate down. “Put your crate in there, Jim; your gear will fit in the back seat of the cab.”
I let Judy out of her crate in the Suburban, and walked her crate over to the pickup. I slid it into the cover far enough that there was a landing area on the tail gate and called, “Judy, kennel.”
She launched herself and landed like a feather on the tail gate, walked into the crate and turned around. I patted her head, and closed her in.
James put the tailgate up and we clambered into the truck. “We don’t have far to go; there’s a section in the Manistee National Forest that burned about six years ago, and it’s grown up into some pretty fair poplar slashings... it’s tough going in spots, but there was a flight of woodcock in there last weekend, and more have arrived. It could be a good morning.”
“There’s a bunch of grouse in there, too,” James said from the back seat. “They’re eating the poplar leaves. Have you ever seen that, Mr. Stanton?”
“No, can’t say as I have.”
“They tear them into little disks, like they were cut with pinking shears, neat little scallops around the edges, and then when you clean ’em, you find those leaves stacked in their crops like poker chips. It’s really cool, you know?”
I caught Miles’s eye with mine, and he was smiling that “proud papa” smile that I had known in my day too.
“Wonder how they do that,” I said.
“I’m gonna find out next year at State,” he said.
“Really?”
“I’m going to major in wildlife biology and I’m hoping I can specialize in game birds.”