Spirit Me Away

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  “Okay.” He nodded as if he didn’t understand me, but he pocketed the number.

  We grew silent, and after a few minutes, Elsbeth touched his sleeve. “I’m so sorry, Wiley. About the war, I mean.”

  He wiped at his eyes. “Hey, it’s over and done with. No big deal. Really.”

  We shuffled awkwardly, there in the safe sunlight, with no enemies to poke us with their bayonets or force us into tiny bamboo huts. I couldn’t imagine what this man had been through, and felt terrible about the pain he must deal with every single day.

  Wiley turned and strode back to the strawberry plot, tossing his hand in the air in farewell.

  Disappointed we’d learned so little, I drove the Valiant sedately back to Boston, listening to Beatles’ “Rubber Soul” album on the tape player. I snagged a choice parking spot on our own block, and with heavy steps, we headed up to our apartment.

  Chapter 11

  “How does this sound, honey?” I asked.

  Elsbeth shifted in the tub and blew on a mountain of bubbles. Her shoulders were submerged, and her knees poked out of the water. A gentle summer breeze fluttered the frilly yellow curtain in our high window.

  “I’m listening,” she said, eyes closed.

  “Okay, here’s what I’ve got so far. ‘Found: Girl. Boston. 18-20 years. No memory. Long, curly, copper hair; violet eyes. Guitar case with lute. Call 555-1433 if you know her.”

  Elsbeth laughed out loud. “‘Girl, found?’ You mean, like a cat?”

  I nodded enthusiastically. “It might work, right? It sure should get some attention, anyway. And if this doesn’t get results, we could publish a picture of her. But that costs a lot, so I thought we’d start small.”

  “Well, the ad would help only if she’s from Boston. If somebody from another state dropped her off, you know, just dumped her here, or something, they wouldn’t even see the ad.”

  “If somebody dropped her off, they wouldn’t want her back, either.”

  “Good point.” Laughing, she stretched one foot up to the faucet. She tried to turn the knob with her toes, but failed. “Hey, would you run some more warm water for me? It’s getting cool.”

  “Sure.” I moved over to the edge of the tub. Pushing my sleeve up, I reached down to let out some of the lukewarm water, and twisted the spigot until a warm stream gushed into the tub.

  Watching my wife luxuriate in the bubbles made me suddenly lose interest in the newspaper ad. “Need some help?” I grinned.

  She opened one eye. “What did you have in mind?”

  I grabbed the loofa and motioned toward her back. “Sit up. I’ll do your back.”

  She obeyed. Soapsuds clung to her skin and dripped down the soft swells of her breasts. My body responded with a shudder of longing. I felt my face grow warm, and I moved closer to her, running the loofa lightly up and down her back.

  “Mmm. That feels wonderful. Why don’t you lock the door, Gus?”

  I tilted my head. “You think someone will come in?”

  “No, goof ball. Lock the door, and take off your clothes. It’s time for me to do your back.”

  She looked at me with that sultry, come-hither look I’d learned to love. Her dark eyes smoldered beneath those long lashes that had captured me the day I fell in love with her as a young man. She reached up and patted me there, removing any doubts I had about her intentions.

  I scrambled to the door, locked it, stripped off my clothes, and slid eagerly into the tub, facing her. “Much better,” I said, unable to stem the rising tide of desire.

  With care, she lifted herself over me, sitting on my lap, facing me. “There we go,” she said, adjusting herself on top of me. “Just what the doctor ordered. I need my man tonight.”

  She wiggled a bit, and in one lovely soapy rush, I was inside her.

  Chapter 12

  On Monday morning, Valerie sat at the breakfast table, munching on toast. “I’m going to need a job,” she said out of the blue.

  Elsbeth poured another cup of peppermint tea from the pot on the stove and carried it to the table. She wore a silky short robe that whispered against her skin, and every time I glanced at her, my body throbbed in memory of the pleasures of last night. It was the first time we’d made love in a bathtub, and I’d never forget it. After a sizzling hour in the soap bubbles, where we had to keep adding more hot water every fifteen minutes, we’d then migrated to the bedroom and continued the passion until one o’clock in the morning. At the age of nineteen, there wasn’t much that could discourage me, including lack of sleep.

  She put her tea on the table, then settled on my lap with an arm around my neck, bringing me dangerously close to an embarrassing episode.

  “What about The Coffee Cup?” Elsbeth said, draping one arm around my shoulder and kissing my ear. “Would you like to work there?”

  I nuzzled her neck and slipped an arm around her waist.

  Valerie buttered another piece of toast, completely unaware of the scene playing out before her. “Waitressing?”

  Elsbeth shifted on my lap, torturing me, and I massaged her back in slow circles.

  She nodded at Valerie. “The tips are pretty good. Especially on the weekends. The Conways are looking for help, too. Nights and weekends especially. You interested?”

  Valerie smiled and sipped her glass of goat milk. “Sure. I have to pull my weight around here until I get everything figured out, anyway. Can we go over to the diner today?”

  “Sure, honey. We can head over this morning,” Elsbeth said.

  Valerie nodded and then paled. She put a hand to her mouth, mumbled a quick “Excuse me,” and bolted for the bathroom.

  Elsbeth darted after her, and my hopes of a morning rematch evaporated.

  Disappointed, I finished my oatmeal, cleared the dishes, and put away the milk. Another rain check, I guessed. But I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of my mouth. Last night still felt so close, so fresh. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  Valerie and Elsbeth returned in ten minutes, and fortunately, the girl’s color was much improved. Elsbeth sat her at the kitchen table and ran a cool cloth under the faucet. She dabbed at her forehead and patted her shoulders.

  Valerie shuddered and burst into tears. “I can’t be. It’s impossible.”

  Elsbeth shot me a knowing glance and in a flash, it dawned on me. Valerie’s pregnant.

  Elsbeth soothed her with soft words. “It’s okay. It’s not the end of the world. We’ll take care of you, sweetie.”

  After much crying and hiccupping, Valerie finally quieted.

  “C’mon honey. Let’s go to the clinic. It’s not the prettiest place in town, but it’s free, and they’re nice. I’ve been there several times. Then we’ll know for sure. What do you say?”

  Valerie stared at Elsbeth; her expression resembled a wounded doe. “But if I am, I don’t even know who the father is.” She lost it again and lowered her face into her hands with shoulders shaking.

  Elsbeth gently motioned for me to leave. I flashed her a look of understanding, then picked up my backpack and headed for the Conservatory.

  Chapter 13

  July 1st, 1969

  I placed the newspaper ad early Monday morning—yesterday—scheduling it for today, July 1st, through Saturday, July 5th. After taking leave of Valerie and Elsbeth, I suffered through a boring theory class, then spent two hours in the school’s practice rooms working over the set of Beethoven sonatas I wanted to add to my repertoire.

  On the way home, I stopped at the diner and invited Porter for supper. He readily agreed, and promised to come over at seven. Porter was always interesting company, and I thought maybe he could cheer up Valerie.

  Afterwards, I splurged, and picked up two whole chickens, some red potatoes, a large bunch of kale, and a jar of natural, cinnamon applesauce at the health food market. I was feeling pretty upbeat, but when I walked through the door of the apartment, the mood inside was somber.

  Valerie sat between
Elsbeth and Byron on the couch, each holding one of her hands. Her tear-streaked face twisted when she saw me, and her eyes were terribly red and swollen. Her wild mass of hair hung down over her shoulders, and the first impression I got was of a lost child. Shattered, alone, petrified.

  Byron patted Valerie’s hand and jumped up to help me, grabbing one of the bags.

  I shrugged out of my backpack and followed him into the kitchen. “Wow. Pretty intense out there, Byron. Did Valerie get bad news?”

  Byron began to unpack the bags. “Indeed. She’s preggers, poor lass. She’s a wreck.”

  “Oh, brother. They confirmed it, then? That’s gotta be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Not only does she not know who she is, she’s now going to give birth to a baby whose father she can’t remember.”

  I took the chickens out of their wrapping paper and placed them in a roasting pan, sprinkled some dried rosemary and melted butter over the skin, and then slid the pan into the oven. “What do you think, Byron? Three hundred and fifty degrees?”

  “Righto. Now, how should we prepare the potatoes, Gus? Boiled in the skins?”

  “That’s what I had in mind. Boiled and buttered. We can boil the kale, heat up the applesauce, and then have some of those fresh strawberries for dessert that you brought home yesterday. It’ll be a veritable feast, my friend.” Speaking of strawberries reminded me of Wiley and the commune. I wondered if we’d ever hear from him again.

  Byron smiled broadly and began to rinse the potatoes. “Shall I treat our young lady to a few songs tonight? That might cheer her up a bit.”

  “Not a bad idea, my friend. Although I know how shy you are.” I chuckled and elbowed him in the side. “Are you sure you can manage it?”

  Byron was the least reclusive man I knew. He’d sing an aria at the drop of a hat. Any excuse, any time.

  “I think I can handle it. Long as you accompany me on that relic you call a piano.”

  “Hey, it’s not that bad. At least it’s in tune.” I rinsed the kale under cold water and ripped it into small pieces before placing it in the stockpot. “It’s only missing a few ivories, anyway.”

  He laughed heartily. “Sorry. I know you two love that old thing.”

  “Well, yeah. It cost us fifty bucks.” I pulled out a chair and sat, watching him scrub potatoes. “What will you sing tonight?”

  “I’ll line up some of my best arias.” He smirked and cracked his knuckles. “That should cheer her up.”

  Chapter 14

  Porter arrived fifteen minutes early. From his wet hair and smooth chin, I could tell he’d just showered and shaved. Instead of his white chef pants and greasy tee shirt, he’d changed into chinos and a green polo shirt. A cloud of English Leather wafted in the door with him.

  “C’mon in,” I said, ushering him into the apartment.

  He ran his hand nervously over his short hair, exchanging greetings with Elsbeth, Byron, and finally, with our flower child.

  Valerie mumbled a timid “Hello,” then bent her head over the pages in Elsbeth’s photo album. Her complexion was pale, and the smile she’d flashed at Porter the day before seemed to have permanently disappeared.

  “Hey, Gus.” He wandered into the kitchen. “Want some help?”

  “Sure,” I said, motioning to the cupboard with the plates. “Wanna set the table?”

  “Yeah.” Porter took down six plates and glasses. “Is Lana here tonight?”

  “Not tonight,” I said. “She’s with her friend, Rosita. Her boyfriend dumped her and she needed consoling.”

  “Oh, okay.” He returned one plate and glass to the cupboard. “What’s wrong with Valerie? Looks like she could use some consoling herself,” he whispered.

  I glanced down the hallway leading to the living room, and could just barely see Elsbeth and Valerie with their heads bent over the photo album. Byron hummed at the piano, sorting through the music he planned to sing after dinner.

  “I’ll let her tell you in her own time, Porter. It’s pretty big. But, you’re right, she definitely needs cheering up tonight.”

  He took the silverware out of the drawer and laid it beside the plates. We both ambled into the living room, carrying wine glasses and a cold bottle of Boone’s Farm apple wine. We talked about music, the newest homegrown Boston bands, an art show that was coming up at the Boston Museum of Fine Art, and finally, poetry.

  When the food was done, I carved the chicken and layered moist slabs onto a platter. I drained and buttered the vegetables and set serving bowls on the table, calling the others into the kitchen.

  Valerie sat between Elsbeth and Porter. Byron settled on the other side of Elsbeth, and I dropped into the chair directly across from her. We began to pass the dishes around the table, filling our plates.

  “So, Porter,” I said. “Tell us about Wiley. He wanted us to say hi to you.”

  Porter nodded. “Ah. So you found him?”

  I drank some of my ice water. “We did. He was working in the fields of Singing Pines, just like you said.”

  “Hot work, this time of year,” Porter said.

  Elsbeth chimed in. “Not as hot as the Coffee Cup’s kitchen, Porter.”

  Porter grimaced and laughed. “You’re right. It gets brutal in there.”

  I took a bite of chicken, bringing the conversation back to Wiley. “Wiley says you two went through hell over in ‘Nam.”

  Porter nodded thoughtfully, dolloping a spoonful of applesauce onto his plate. “Good old Wiley, he was beside me through it all. We worked the tunnels together. Went down in those underground passages and hunted out the VC.” He stopped and looked into the distance for a minute. “It drove some men insane. Dark. Wet. And scary enough to push you over the edge.”

  “Is that what made Wiley the way...the way he is now?” Elsbeth asked delicately.

  “That, and the POW camp,” Porter said. “But the worst of it was Mae Nguyen getting killed. I was the one who was supposed to marry the girl, but he idolized her. Couldn’t do enough for her. Even fought me for her once, crazy bastard.” He took a drink of water, and a faint smile traced his lips. “I won the fight. But then…she died in a raid. That’s what really got to him.”

  Porter pushed back from the table, and I suddenly felt terrible about asking him.

  Why had I brought up his past? I knew he was traumatized over it, and here I was opening old wounds without any consideration for his feelings. And I called myself his friend? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It was stupid of me.”

  Porter waved away my apology. “No, it’s okay. At the VA hospital, they said the more I talk about it, the easier it’ll be to handle.” He pulled up to the table again and started to eat his chicken. “Wiley was in that hospital for sixteen months before they let him out, did you know that?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t. Wow. That’s a long stay.”

  Porter grimaced. “It is, but I’m still not sure he was ready to go out on his own.”

  Valerie looked up at him this time, seeming intrigued and disturbed at the same time. “Oh, Porter. That’s so sad. You were in love with Mae? And she died?”

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice cracking. “It was a raid on her village. The VC attacked when we were on assignment, a day’s march away. We returned the next day and found the whole place smoking. It was torched.” Porter’s expression darkened and he looked down at his hands.

  Before Elsbeth could go to him in her usual mothering fashion, Valerie took his hand and locked eyes with him. “You poor thing,” she said softly. “How awful for you. I’m so sorry.”

  Byron refilled his glass from the water pitcher. “Bloody awful. You lads went through hell and back, didn’t you?”

  Porter shrugged. “It wasn’t just us, everyone suffered. The villagers, most of all. We were lucky to get out alive.”

  After a few moments of silence, Valerie leaned toward Porter. “How about some more chicken? Gus outdid himself tonight.”

  Porter blushed,
but accepted her offer with a surprised smile. “Okay. I’m still hungry.”

  I’d never seen Valerie in any role other than the sad, waif-like creature we rescued on the park bench, so this was a big change. Elsbeth looked on like a proud mother hen, and Byron shot me a conspiratorial grin.

  Valerie served Porter chicken and more potatoes, and went back to work on her own plate. Elsbeth and Byron chatted about nonsensical topics until we finished the meal, but the whole time, Porter and Valerie kept stealing glances at each other.

  Byron cleared the table and set the dishes in the sink. When he was done, he turned back to our guests. “Shall we adjourn to the living room for coffee and some songs?”

  Elsbeth cleared her throat. “We’re out of coffee. But I’ve got Postum.” She smiled with pride.

  “Well,” Byron said. “It’ll do just fine. Now, I’ve promised to sing a few songs this evening, and Gus, good sport that he is, has agreed to accompany me.”

  He winked at me, laughed out loud with his seductive voice, and led us into the next room.

  Chapter 15

  Byron stood at the piano with one arm draped over the top of the instrument and the other resting gracefully at his side. His eyes closed, and for a moment, he seemed to turn inward and lose his personality, as if he were shapeless, unformed, or inhuman. After inhaling one long, deep breath, he transformed into the character of the Duke in Rigoletto.

  The tenor’s dark eyes snapped open and flashed. His shoulders squared and he stood taller, nodding to me to begin. “Ready, Gus.”

  I started the intro to “La donna è Mobile” by Verdi, taking my cues from him.

  Byron transported us to another realm. His voice—smooth as velvet and bell clear—shot chills up and down my spine. I hung on his words, anticipating each note, and wanted him to linger with each pure tone he rendered. I nearly lost my place in the music, listening with my heart and hungering for more.

  The songs poured out of him, this strong, black singer who’d started life in very humble conditions in a tiny village south of London.