Shaman's Blues

by Amber Foxx

  “Sugar?”

  He turned his head away, his hands raking his hair, his posture more contracted.

  “Can you take a few slow breaths, maybe like you breathe when you sing?”

  At first he seemed too far gone to respond, but after a few minutes she heard a long, shaky inhalation and exhalation, a kind of gasp, and then more normal, slow breathing as his hands relaxed. He sat up straighter, put his hat on, and pulled it over his eyes. Thus blinded, he reached over to her, and she took his hand. It was hot and damp and unsteady, and squeezed hers hard.

  To Mae it felt like a long time, waiting for Jangarrai to recover, but the clock behind the bar told her it was only about five minutes. Five minutes of holding this strange man’s hand.

  “Thanks, love.” He lifted the hat with his free hand, let go of her, and looked down, clasping his beer. “Sorry about that. Happens sometimes.”

  “You don’t have to apologize.”

  “Yeah, I do. Jeezus. I meant to take you out for a nice evening and I fucking do that. Well, never mind the take-you-out-for-a-nice-evening part, either. Sorry. Just talk to me, keep me company, all right?”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He shoved his hat back to its normal position. “Ask each other questions. Be nosy. What d’you want to know about me? And then I get to ask you.”

  She couldn’t think what to ask without seeming to want to get to know him personally, which would seem like flirting, or without pressing him about his career, which seemed to upset him. Only one question popped up, and as soon as it was out she was afraid it might insult him. “Why do you dye your hair?”

  “Jeezus.” He sounded annoyed as he turned away from her, taking a drink of his beer, and she looked at the back of the cloud of strange hair. It wasn’t curled tight like African hair, but wavy and crinkled, and she felt an urge to check out its texture to see if you could comb it. What an odd impulse. Facing her again, he put on a minor version of The Smile. “Sorry. Get sick of people asking that. It’s not dyed. I’m a permanent juvenile.”

  He took his phone out, turned it on, and she noticed that the first thing that came up on the screen was no service. Like he hadn’t paid his phone bill. He fumbled with the keypad, scrolled though some pictures, and handed the phone to her. “See?”

  The picture displayed two boys, darker than he was, with long, wavy blond hair even lighter than his, and shy black eyes looking up into the camera. They were bare chested in shorts and sneakers, in an area of red dirt and scrubby plants.

  “My nephews. Aboriginals start out blond, lots of us. My sister turned dark. Most people do. A few women don’t, and even fewer men don’t, but it happens. Rare and strange. I’m like a baby seal—y’know, those things people club to death—that stayed white when it grew up. Permanent juvenile. Bit of a freak for that. I used to shave my hair off and think it’d finally grow in dark, dyed it and hoped it’d take somehow ... never did. But it’s not the white blood. We make blonds without ’em.”

  She blushed, regretting that she’d thought he was vain when he seemed resigned and not happy about his odd blondness. To cover the awkwardness, she focused on his nephews’ picture. “Where was that taken? New Mexico?”

  “Nah. They live in Perth, but that’s in the GAFA. Sorry, Outback, Great Australian Fuck-All. Don’t see ’em more than once year.” He sounded sad about that as he took the phone back and closed the images, putting it away in his pocket. “Parents are there now. Not the GAFA, Australia.” He pronounced it ’Straya. “Dad’s on sabbatical ’til January. He studies people like us.” He finished his beer, too fast by Mae’s standards, and signaled to the bartender. “That’s how he met Mum. Except she said, ‘the only way you’re studying me, anthro, is over dinner.’” In the mirror, he gave Mae a wink, and their reflected eyes locked. “I take after her.”

  Loud laughter erupted from a nearby table, and applause. One of the patrons rose and embraced another. Jangarrai watched with radiant delight, seeming to share the strangers’ joy. The bartender brought him his food and a fresh beer, and Jangarrai drank immediately. He slid the plate of fried white and sweet potatoes toward Mae as he picked up an enormous wrap bulging with beans and dripping with a chunky green sauce.

  “That’s your third beer,” she said. “You’re not driving that van home.”

  “Just doing my part for the Australian stereotype.” He licked a drizzle of green salsa off his wrist. “Land of rubber sidewalks and more words for getting a gutful of piss than the Eskimos have for snow.” Taking another bite of the wrap, he asked, “You driving?” He talked with his mouth full, seemed to realize what he’d done, swallowed, and said, “Sorry. Gotten uncouth being single.”

  Better manners would help him fix the singleness, but it would be insensitive to tell him that, at least right now. “I walked.” She sipped her wine and her water. “But how are you getting home?”

  “Never mind me. You shouldn’t walk alone this time of night.” He grabbed a handful of the fried potatoes and stuffed them in his mouth. Maybe he just really enjoyed food and beer, but it looked to Mae that he ate and drank as if he were starving. “You can drive the van. That’s an honor, y’know.”

  “So you escort me by having me drive myself in your van,” she said, “and then you walk home?”

  The plan sounded wrong as soon as she heard herself say it.

  “Yeah, from your place.” He dove into the bean wrap again, green salsa dripping onto both hands and into his beard. “Or something. I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  Chapter Eight

  When she’d found Jangarrai, Mae had thought her task so easily accomplished. Now she wasn’t sure she had gotten him to agree to contact Wendy, which might be necessary for Deborah to be able to order more of his music, and somehow she’d taken on a new responsibility, to find a safe way to get him home, as well. She didn’t want to get in his van with him, didn’t want him to drive it, and wondered if he’d be all right going home by himself. What if he had another spell while walking, or in a cab? Delgado Street was so close she felt silly getting a taxi for herself, and the streets were busy and public enough that she’d be safe if she walked. It was him she was worried about.

  A streetlight went out over their heads as they left the bar.

  He seemed to think she’d agreed to drive the van, but she didn’t really know who she was with, not even his whole name, let alone very much about him. She asked, “Do you have more to your name?”

  “James Edward Jangarrai Ellerbee.” He flashed a quick grin, and aimed their walk back toward La Villa Real Center, taking the Guadalupe Street route this time. “Mouthful, isn’t it? Family calls me Jamie. Some musicians call me Jangarrai, but it’s really more like, in the bush, you’d say that Jangarrai. I’d be one of a few blokes with that skin name. My ex thought it was good marketing to use it.”

  “It was. But Jamie’s easier to say.”

  “I liked it when you called me sugar.”

  Mae avoided the flirtation implied in his tone. “I’m not sure about driving your van. How far off do you live? Walking distance?”

  He frowned. “Long walks are out. My hip’s fucked—well, not totally, but there’s some metal in it. Don’t pound the pavement if I can help it.” He put on that trying-to-charm smile. “How far are you? I can get my bike out of the van and be your slow-rolling escort.”

  This offer struck her as avoidance of some kind. He still hadn’t told her where he lived, or even how far. Was he trying to make sure he knew where she lived? “And leave your van?”

  “Yeah. Hardly ever drive it unless I’ve got to carry stuff. I’ve left it all over town.” They walked in silence for a block, and then Jamie said, “I’m not drunk, by the way. I know I drank too fast. But I’m all right. I mean, I’m not a drunk. In case you thought that’s why I leave my van. Not that I don’t get off my face once in a while, but—” He stopped walking. “Fuck. I’m making myself sound like I
’m lying, and I’m not. What I’m trying to say—I drink sometimes, but I’m not a drunk.”

  “My first husband was an alcoholic.” She started them moving again. “I can tell the difference.”

  “First husband? So you’ve been married twice already? Jesus. That’s a lot to go through. Breaking up with the woman I lived with was bad enough—I can’t imagine surviving a divorce. Twice.” The sincerity of his compassion, the depth with which he felt her pain, disconcerted her. It was too intense for someone she’d just met. “It’d rip your heart out.”

  “Depends.” She didn’t want to talk about having her heart ripped out. “My mama’s heading into marriage number three, as soon as she’s divorced from number two. I don’t think her heart’s ripped out—she’s already given it to the next man. Not that I can see doing that. I’m taking some time out.”

  “You’ve made your point.” Jamie sounded annoyed. “You can stop rejecting me. I get it.”

  “You don’t act like you do. Off and on, but you keep bouncing back.”

  “Can’t help it. Feel like I know you.”

  “You couldn’t.”

  “Yeah, I could.” He stopped, lightly touching her arm to stop her with him. “Your name’s Martin. Your father talks like you, right? Lives with Niall Kerrigan, the sculptor?”

  “How do you know them?”

  “Arts circles.” He started walking again. “Mum’s a poet. Back when Niall still had his studio here—I think he and your dad were as new in town as my parents were—Niall had these open studio nights every month, second Saturdays. Mum would do poetry readings and there’d be Niall’s work on display, and other artists and poets and musicians would be there, and we’d be in this crazy jungle of—you’ve seen his stuff—”

  “Not much. Just what’s in the house here, and in T or C.”

  “It’s fucking amazing, isn’t it? I loved the masks. There’s one he said looked like me. Had these round saw blades for eyes and a rake for a mouth, old springs on its head ...” Jamie made a face, exaggerating his large eyes and wide mouth, holding his hair stretched out to the side, and then laughed and dropped the act. “Anyway, I’d play didg while Mum read her stuff, very Aboriginal, y’know, exotic for the Americans—and then I’d get to hang out and watch the adults have these witty, sophisticated conversations.” He slid his hands into his pockets, looking down at his feet after a quick glance at Mae. “My sister's older, and she’d float around and chat with everyone like she belonged, and I couldn’t even open my mouth with kids my age, let alone with these important artist people, scared to death of them all. Except your dad. He didn’t fit in either, but he wasn’t nervous like I was. Just soaking it up and smiling. Being nice to me.” A pause. “He showed me your picture. Talked about you a lot. You ran track, played softball. I remember that.”

  So he really had recognized that she was a runner. Her father had told him, way back when Marty had first disappeared from her life. Mae felt a pang of jealousy, irrational as it was. Jamie had been there for the part of her father’s life she’d missed. Then she pictured Marty, missing her, talking about her to a gawky teenage Jamie while the artists had their wine and clever conversation. The jealousy melted into a kind of kinship, as if he was a brother.

  At the parking lot, they found the van alone under a light. Jamie unlocked it, moved his drum out of the passenger seat. “Is it the house on Delgado that you’re cleaning? That’s one fucking gorgeous house. I loved that place.”

  “Yeah, but you wouldn’t love it right now. It’s all smoked in and dog-hairy—the lady that rented it was a pig. Grease, and spills—it’s disgusting.”

  “Jesus. You’re living in it in that shape?”

  “I have to.”

  “No, you don’t. Hop in. We’ll give it a burl, see if we can get the whole thing done tonight. How’s that sound? Can’t have that hanging over your whole time here.”

  “Jamie—that’s what I’m here for.”

  “Nah, you’re here to find me.” He jumped into the passenger seat and tossed her his keys. “For that lady in Virginia.” A quick smile. “Or Wendy Huang.”

  Get the whole thing done tonight. It was tempting, but it would mean bringing him in, not just riding with him. “Hang on a second.” She took her cell phone out and called Marty. He might be asleep, but he might not.

  “Marty’s phone, he’s sleeping. Niall speaking.”

  “Hey, this is Mae—”

  “I know who you are.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you—”

  “Cut the Southern courtesy crap. Get to the point. We’re old men, we get tired.”

  “Okay. You weren’t an old man yesterday, now you are.” Was Niall always this abrupt? Maybe he was just being Northern. She walked a few steps away from the van and lowered her voice. “I met Jamie Ellerbee and I want to know if it’s okay to trust him. Is he all right?”

  “Is he there?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  Puzzled, Mae returned to the van and passed Jamie the phone. He looked quizzical as he took it, listened for a moment, and smiled. Apparently Niall hadn’t been as disagreeable to him. “Jeezus ... No, I’m not ... Fuck, no—no ...” He grew serious and looked a little sad while Niall talked for a while. “Nah, I’m all right. Yeah? ... Of course. Too right.” He smiled again. “Yeah. Catcha.” He handed the phone back to Mae.

  “Hey, I’m back,” she said.

  Niall snapped, “Of course he’s safe. Have fun. Good night.”

  She wondered what Niall had said to Jamie. They seemed to get along well. Putting her phone back in her purse, she got into the driver’s seat and looked around. The van was a mess, the desert’s red-pink grit thick on the floor, paperback books and papers crammed into the side pockets. The glove box hung open, apparently broken, spewing crunched old maps. As she turned the key, the engine coughed, and she tried again. The van started this time, but the check engine light came on.

  What would Hubert think of this vehicle? The reflex to think of her mechanic husband struck her, a guerilla grief attack. She pushed it down. Still, this van was the most neglected thing she’d ever seen on four wheels. Hubert would be bothered by it. He didn’t like to see cars mistreated.

  “You need to get this van to a mechanic.”

  “Nah, still runs. Might put some tape over the light.” Jamie tipped his seat back, stretching. “Nice to talk to Niall,” he said wistfully. “He sounds the same. The cranky Yankee.”

  “So that’s normal?”

  “Yeah. Grows on you. He remembered at lot about me. Wanted to know if I was singing at the Met yet.” A sad laugh. “Not bloody likely, but, y’know, he thought to ask. Even if he knows I’m not.”

  Mae started the van out of the parking lot. “This street is two way, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you train for opera?”

  “Yeah. Caught the train. Missed the boat. Or something. Whoop—missed the street— Chuck a yewy— Nah, never mind, take your next left. You can’t get lost. It’ll all get you there.” He tipped the seat a little further back. “Bloody hell, I ate too much. Beer and beans. Hope I don’t fart.”

  “I hope not, too. I’m trying to air the place out.”

  Jamie cracked up, as if this were much funnier than it was. “Fuck.” He caught his breath. “When you first get to know someone, d’you ever worry about that crap? Like, what if I fart, or what if I have things stuck in my teeth or hanging out of my nose, or what if I stink up the bathroom or whatever, and it’s bound to happen, y’know, sooner or later, and I fucking die of it, get terrified, paralyzed. Like I’ll be disgusting and she’ll hate me—fuck, you just have to do it, y’know?”

  Having never worried about these things, Mae wondered what to say. He had just listed his fears and embarrassments with a candor somewhere between neurotic and funny. Did he want a laugh, or compassion?

  Jamie seemed to take her silence as a comment. “All righ
t, just shoot me. Shut me up. Shoot me.” He pulled his hat over his face. “Jesus. I’m such an idiot.”

  It was going to be a long, long night. Mae hoped she could get through it still liking him. He had the potential to either entertain her or get on her nerves, and it was fifty-fifty which way things would go.

  When they parked, he crawled into the back of the van and came back with a toothbrush that wore a little plastic cap. “Not moving in, don’t worry, just anxious. Y’know. The teeth.”

  In the house, he made sick noises about the smell, apologized for his adolescent humor, and excused himself to brush his teeth. When he returned, toothbrush sticking out of his pocket, he seemed calmer. “Ahh. Minty fresh.” He beamed The Smile.

  While they scrubbed the nicotine stains and food splashes off walls, and the bacon grease off the stove, he claimed his turn to ask nosy questions, and inquired about her work as a psychic and in fitness, about the place she grew up, her favorite music, favorite foods, if she liked to dance, what she liked to read, and what she would study in college. Normally reserved, Mae found that Jamie’s clumsy honesty combined with his strange off-and-on shyness made him easy to talk to. So far, he was more fun than aggravating, and seemed to have moved past flirting. To her relief he showed no signs of another spell like he’d had in the bar. His moods didn’t seem as erratic any more. Maybe eating had made him more steady, and that was all that had been wrong with him. A whole day without food could make anyone moody and light-headed.

  They cleaned the refrigerator, dumping out the nauseating remnants from the plastic tubs, and he sang a lower-volume version of his blues song, hips and feet dancing as he worked.

  “She’s like something gone bad in the back of my fridge.

  My memory gags on the things that she did,

  But I’m throwing her out, cooking up something new,

  ’Cause I can’t stand the smell of these left-over blues.”

  Time flew. Somewhere in her muscles and bones, Mae knew she was tired and that the effort of the work was wearing on her, but Jamie’s randomness and silliness distracted her from the difficulty of even such repellent tasks as getting dog hair out of the freezer.