Shaman's Blues

by Amber Foxx

  Slowly, Mae and Jamie stood and made their way down the sidewalk and over the footbridge, stopping for her to stretch several times, and got in the door before her legs cramped again. She could feel her big toe muscle all the way through her arch to where it attached in the calf, as well as the deeper calf muscle layer again, and fell into a chair as soon as she could limp to it. Propping an ankle on her thigh, she began to massage herself, but the knot fought back.

  Jamie took the bag with the remains of the cake and the food-stained cloth into the kitchen, and returned with a tall glass of orange juice, a bottle of olive oil, a dish towel and some red chile powder. “Better service coming.”

  “You cooking my leg?”

  He handed her the juice. “Hot peppers for pain relief. Oil for the massage. Then I can lick it off—joke, love. Joke. I’ll keep my tongue in my head.” Sitting cross-legged at her feet, he put the towel on his shoulder and laid her ankle on it, and then poured a puddle of oil into his hand. After rubbing it around, he added some red pepper to it, and began to repeat with even greater care the slow, gentle process he had done earlier, the sleeves of his crinkly pink shirt coming close to the oil as his stroked the length of her calf.

  “Is that your best shirt, sugar?”

  A hopeful smile and eager eyes turned up to her. “You like it?”

  Her turn for evasion. “I don’t want you to ruin it.”

  “No worries. Thrift shop. More where it came from. I lost so much weight, I had to do some crash shopping.” He rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, and resumed the massage. “Pants were falling off. Showing my grundies.”

  Was he trying to tell her something, or leaking information he didn’t mean to let out? It was the second time he’d mentioned it.

  “I hope you weren’t trying to get that skinny.”

  He frowned with a hint of anxiety. “Do I look bad?”

  She couldn’t say he did. He would look better a little more filled out, but his body was, in a bare way, graceful and strong. “No. Just skinny.”

  “Yeah.” He went back to massaging her leg, apparently relieved. “I’m normally a bigger bloke. Feels funny not to carry much weight. Like, if I’ve got my head on straight, I’m about one seventy-five—fighting off one ninety.” A short laugh. “Back then I could have lifted you, lovely big girl that you are.”

  “Hard to keep weight on if you only eat once a day.”

  He kept his eyes on her leg, added another sprinkling of the red pepper to the oil. The heat felt better than she’d expected. “Twice, today. Had lunch with Mwizenge. He’s got a nice kitchen. Nice home. Two little kids running about. And his wife works with him.” Jamie went on, too long in Mae’s opinion, about his friend’s business and family and house. A digression, a distraction. He’d brought up a problem, and then run from it.

  She drank the juice, and listened until his ramblings ran down. “Is it money? Is that why you don’t eat?”

  He avoided her eyes, attending to her foot now, finding the ridge along the medial arch that felt tight. “I’ve got enough.”

  “Your phone’s cut off, you skip meals, you don’t fix your van—”

  “I said, I’ve got enough. All right?” There was a kind of ferocity in his tone. “Anything I want you to know about me, I’ll tell you.”

  “Sorry.” She thought about her vision of his self-harming with a touch of guilt. He hadn’t told her that. “I’m not being nosy. I want to make sure you’re all right.”

  “Fuck. I don’t need someone to make sure I’m all right. I’m not a bloody cripple. I’m taking care of myself.” In silence, he finished with her right leg and foot, and picked up the left. As he applied the peppered oil in long strokes, he finally spoke again. “Sorry I bit your head off, love. Hate people worrying about me, that’s all.”

  “Means they like you. Friends, family. It’s only natural.”

  Wiping the oil from his hands on the towel, he took his hat off, shook his hair, the little braids wagging, and resumed the massage. “But I’ve made people worry too much, y’know? I’m tired of it.”

  Mae wanted to say something, but she could think of nothing useful. Would his friends and family have less to worry about because he was tired of making them do it? In just a few days he’d given her plenty of cause for concern. Yet he wanted to be the one taking care of her, not being taken care of.

  As he oiled his hands again and began to work on her arch, bringing her foot down from his shoulder, he accidentally drew a long streak of oil and pepper along his shirt. “Fuck. I like this shirt.”

  “I can put some spot remover on it."

  He seemed to jerk back from a threat. “I’m not taking my shirt off.” Then he caught himself, gave her The Smile. “Bashful.”

  “You don’t have to be.” She watched for a panic or anger impulse in him, but he kept rubbing her foot, his thumb working out the tightness with expert care. He must have given his ex-girlfriend a lot of massages. “I already saw your scars.” Still no reaction. Was it safe to keep talking about it? “In the pool. The scars on your belly. Not just your arm.”

  “That.” He glanced up at her, and then back at her foot. “Not as bad as it looks, really.”

  “It does look bad. You told me you hurt yourself once.”

  “Yeah, but it was a little fucking paring knife, y’know? And I was heavy, like, two-twenty-five. Didn’t hit anything but fat.” He stretched her big toe back, and then the rest of her toes one by one. Finished, he kissed the top of her foot, set it down and began the toe stretches on the other one. “It was ... meds, mostly. The black box warning labels? They finally figured that out after a few people like me.”

  Did that mean he could still go off the deep end like that? “Are you on any meds now?”

  He stood, stretched, and walked over to the bedroom door, flipped on the starry ceiling switch. “Love this thing. Used to leave the parties and the adults and come lie on the floor and look at it.”

  “Jamie. I asked—”

  “Nah, haven’t been on meds for years. Got a new therapist when I got my first job, learned some ways to handle myself without ’em. You’ve got fifty fucking diagnoses, Jeezus, try medicating that. You end up in the fucking Guinness Book of World Records for side effects. One drug fixes one thing and fucks up the next, so you fix that, and it fucks with the other problem. My shrink in Albuquerque when I was in college was all about pharmacy, though. And my parents, poor souls, they had no idea, they were scared out of their minds. Trusted her. Anything to save me.”

  “From what?”

  He did the alternate shoulder shrug, drifted to the couch and lay back, examining his stained shirt. “Being me, I suppose. I mean, I was always—Mum used to call me Typhoon Jamie. Storm blowing through. But I wasn’t crazy. I was all right, in a way, just didn’t handle stuff ... the opera, or college, being on my own kind of. Y’know—the stuff that happens.” He fidgeted with the buttons on his shirt. “I only did the thing with the knife once. It was with my meds the other times.”

  “You overdosed?”

  “Tried.”

  “And you ended up in the hospital?”

  “Fucking nuthouse, love. Three times. Twice for the drugs, once for the knife.” He sighed. “I was a walking dead man for like five years. Jeezus, I’m done with that, y’know? Don’t want that crap. I want to live. Dance, cook, eat, drink, sing—live.” He sat up, gave her The Smile. “So there’s nothing to worry about. You see?”

  She wasn’t sure of the logic in that. He was no longer suicidal, so there was nothing to worry about? It was irrational optimism, but at least it was optimism, and she didn’t want to undermine it. “I’m glad you’re better.”

  “Fuck, yeah.” He grinned. “I feel great, like ten times a day. Really happy. A little wobbly here and there, but that’s nothing. Nah, I’m bloody great. How are your legs?”

  “Better.” She tested standing up. So far, no cramps. And he did seem to be feeling good, even if his assessme
nt of his own mental health struck her as either dishonest or self-deluding. “Might be able to drive you to your van now.”

  “Don’t you want to wash my shirt first?” Before she could say anything, he had it off. The sight of his uncovered torso this time, unlike the view in the pool, didn’t draw her to the scars. She saw, rather, his nakedness. His milk chocolate skin and long, corded muscles, his ribs and collarbones, a hard yet vulnerable body, bared to her. She felt her heart jolt, and took the shirt to the laundry room, sprayed spot remover on the stain, and noticed the warmth of his body still in the cloth.

  Was she, could she be—attracted to him? Now, who was crazy? It had to be a passing impulse, a reflex after his licking her hand and four months without sex.

  His sweatshirt sat on top of the dryer in the rumpled heap of her earlier load of clean laundry. It would be a waste of water to wash this one shirt. She needed to be a good desert dweller. Distractions, thinking about water and laundry. She went to the kitchen and got the chocolate-smeared cloth from the bag, brought it to the laundry, started the load, and walked back to the living room with Jamie’s old, forty-pounds-ago sweatshirt.

  He lay with Pie on the couch, holding her above him, her legs dangling. Somehow she didn’t mind, but seemed peaceful. He set the cat on his bare chest and stroked her. “Poor old Pie. Wonder how long she’ll last.”

  “That’s morbid.”

  “She’s fucking old, love. She’ll go.”

  Mae held out the sweatshirt. “You can wear this. So I don’t send you home shirtless.”

  “So that’s the plan, is it? Time to go?”

  Pie’s tail switched over his flat, hard belly, and Mae imagined the sensation. Stroking his skin. Or was she imagining being him, feeling fur on flesh? She stopped the thought. “That was the plan when we walked here, yeah. I give you a ride to the van and you go home. Come on, sugar, you said ... you said you get it, that I’m not through with my divorce, that you’re not ... delusional.”

  “I’m not. But it doesn’t mean I want to go.” He sat up, set Pie aside, and gestured with both hands for Mae to join him. She didn’t move. “Come here, love. Sit with me. Talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Jeezus. Just sit, will you? I’m leaving my fucking pants on, all right?”

  Handing him the sweatshirt, which he laid on the back of the couch without even looking at it, she sat on the farthest cushion away from him.

  “You like me, right?” he asked.

  “Of course I do.”

  “And you’re leaving Friday morning. We’ve got one more day. Two more nights. You don’t get it back. You throw it away, it’s gone. But it’s like, you’re—dunno—hiding. You were so free that night we cleaned this place. I loved that. I made you laugh. It was fucking great, y’know?” He reached toward her, but she didn’t return the gesture. He let his hands drop and picked up Pie again, placing her in his lap. The cat squirmed a little at the disturbance, and he spoke softly to her, stroking her head, her front legs, even gently pulling her tail. Mysteriously, she seemed soothed by this.

  Jamie looked at Mae again. “You told me all about you, and I loved hearing you talk. Your Bible-totin’ two-timin’ Mama, your dreary little town, your husband, your step-kids, your roommate in Norfolk, your jobs ... I got a sense of you, y’know? What makes you you. And the more I see you, I think—All right, step on me if I’m rude, but I think—you’re not happy, love.”

  “Me?” The idea stunned her.

  “Listen. I know happy, and I know bloody fucking miserable. And you’re not happy.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yeah, I do. I see your—I see your face. I don’t need to hear the words. How bloody hard was it to make you dance? Jesus. And when you talk about your husband, you shut down. Bet you haven’t been happy for years.”

  “That’s not true. I loved him. I kind of still do. I’m ... getting over him.”

  “Lights are out, love.” Jamie shook his head, and then flung his hair back and grinned. He spread his arms out wide, no fear or shame now, his thin, scarred body open to her. “But I light you up.”

  When? It wasn’t possible. She’d been so bogged down in her concern for him, how could she have lit up like that? He was delusional.

  When she didn’t move or speak, he let his arms drop again and resumed toying with Pie, twirling her fur around a finger. “I know you can’t see it yet, but you’re my soul mate.” His eyes grew soft, even darker and deeper, and his voice faded out, rough and overwhelmed. “We’re a match, love. Meant to be.”

  Mae stood and walked to the empty studio. If it had come from anyone but Jamie, she’d have thought it a pick-up line. But she knew him too well already. He wasn’t like that. From what he’d told her, and from what she’d learned in that vision, he might have had only one girlfriend in his whole life. When he said something like this, he meant it. She’d seen that look when she arrived in the Plaza. As a kid he’d even been in love with her picture and Marty’s stories about her. Now what? She walked into the middle of the huge, dark room.

  This mess was her fault. She should have seen it coming, but instead she’d let it happen. Never sent him away. He got to her all right, but she didn’t light up with love like a girlfriend. She worried like a mother. There was always some crisis, some need he had to be rescued and cared for. Or he’d make some sweet suggestion of things they should do, with those big eyes looking at her so open and vulnerable, so hard to hurt. It was like she was trapped up to her knees in syrup, and he wanted her to fall down and get covered in it.

  His voice broke into her thoughts. “I’m sorry.”

  She looked around to see Jamie, wearing the oversized sweatshirt, in the doorway of the studio with his hands against each side of it, his head tilted to the side, observing her. He pushed himself off the doorframe, walked to her, and took both her hands in his, lifted them and kissed them. “I’ll go. I can catch the bus.”

  He turned and left the room. At a loss, struggling to speak, Mae watched him let himself out the back door. He looked fragile in that huge shirt that used to fit him, and she wanted to go after him, hold him, stop him. Make sure he was all right.

  But then she would never get him to go home. He’d done it on his own. It was what she wanted. He’d left. Leaving behind his drum and his flutes again, and now his hat and his silly pink shirt. He’d be back. And that, too, was what she wanted.

  Chapter Nineteen

  How could she feel this—whatever it was? A linear feeling, like a cord stretching from her to Jamie, dragged her toward him. At the same time something else, like an airbag popping open, resisted him. Mae wished she had someone she could talk to. It was late to call her father. When she’d called at night previously, he’d already been asleep. She might call her old roommate in Norfolk. Randi was a night owl—but it was two hours later in Virginia. Anyway, she’d given Mae those romance audio books, not a good sign for wisdom.

  Standing in the dark, empty studio, Mae wondered what she would say if she did call someone. I just felt attracted to this really sweet disaster. After failing at two marriages back to back, men were out. She needed to go into some kind of recovery plan. Ask Kenny and Frank how they kicked drugs. Maybe she was addicted to bad choices and train wrecks.

  No. Hubert hadn’t been a bad choice like Mack, her alcoholic first husband. Hubert was stable and reliable. Even though they’d grown apart, if she listed his virtues he had plenty, and his faults were few. Jamie, on the other hand, was a mess. He had a kind heart within all that chaos, but that was hardly a sign he was her soul mate. Someone should love him, someone who had room for all the scattered pieces of him, but that wasn’t her.

  So what was her problem? Why was she feeling around for some decision, when there wasn’t even one to make?

  Going to the kitchen for water, Mae saw the paper bag on the counter. She had to clean up after that picnic. Reaching into the bag, she brought out a sandwich and put it in the refriger
ator along with the remaining grapes and cherries. The cake was troubling, though. Keep it? Throw it away? She set the container on the counter and took the lid off. There sat her handprint, a knife slash plunging between the fingers, in the remains of the raspberry heart. The sight of it made her sad and she wanted to toss it, to erase the thought of Jamie making so much effort for her. But she couldn’t quite do it. Instead, she cut the edible edges off the cake, sliding the crushed heart from its center into the trash. Sorry, sugar. The sight was unexpectedly distressing, like she had dumped his heart.

  The next day being trash pick-up day, Mae took the bag out back to the outdoor garbage can, and wheeled it through the garden. It was faster to reach the street through the house, but she wanted to protect its cleanliness, not roll the garbage through.

  As she walked up the alley, she remembered Dusty’s final flight, and imagined what it must have been like to run on that twisted ankle. The boy had been tough, with that crazed mind driving his body.

  An idea from earlier in the night came back as she parked the trash can. Its wheels were loud enough she was sure the neighbors could hear them, with their windows open. They would have heard Dusty, too, unless it had happened later at night. Maybe only Ruth had been up, awakened by her dog’s bark or growl. Mae stood at the curb, stretching her calves again, the muscles tightened slightly by the short walk. She didn’t want to undo all of Jamie’s good work, and should go to bed and rest, but the puzzle held her in place.

  If Ruth had been standing here, the view of the bridge was clear. If she’d still been in the garden the view down Delgado to either side would be blocked by other houses even if she’d hauled herself up to see over the wall, but she would have been able to tell by sound which way he’d turned. If she were trying to make sure Dusty was caught, which seemed almost certain—calling the cops before she even confronted him, and grabbing his wrist to make him stay—wouldn’t she have tried to notice which way he went?

  Everything about Dusty said mentally ill homeless person. Ruth had seen his strange behavior and had to have smelled him when she grabbed his wrist. Also, she had to have known he’d hurt himself when he leaped over her wall—and then off the bridge, if she’d seen that. Surely she’d want him found for those reasons as well as his trespassing. If the police had picked Dusty up shortly after Ruth called, he probably would have lived. Might even have gotten treatment for more than his injuries. They hadn’t come to his shelter under the bridge, though, the most likely place to look for a homeless person. Why not? What had happened?