by Paul Griner
Lamont likes it so much that, during a break, he brings the bassist an Old Fo on the rocks. That was better than Paul Chambers in “Kind of Blue,” he says. Crazy chops.
Andy Garland raises his glass to Lamont. You know your jazz.
Lamont asks Garland for his favorite bass players of all time and Garland says, Mingus, hands down, but Lamont holds out for Jaco Pastorius, Paul Chambers and Scott LaFaro.
Garland says, Mingus, Mingus, Mingus, Mingus, Mingus. Listen to him on “Mood Indigo” or “I Can’t Get Started”. He’s places one through five. In sixth you can slot Ron Carter, for variety, maybe. Yeah, sure, why the hell not? “Alone Together.”
Lamont says, C’mon, man, don’t be like that, putting sugar in your grits. He keeps coming back to Pastorius and LaFaro, especially on Metheny’s “Midwestern Night’s Dream” and Bill Evans’s “Sunday at the Village Vanguard.”
Garland smiles wide, showing a missing fat molar. You’re a romantic, he says.
Me? Lamont laughs. Not a chance.
Sure you are, Garland says. You just like them because they died young.
Lamont’s face shifts. He leans forward and says, You take that back.
What? Garland says, and shrugs, sits back. Jazz is about the truth.
I like the truth all right. But you take back what you just fucking said.
Hey, Lamont. I put a hand on his massive arm. He didn’t mean anything.
Garland is a lot smaller than Lamont; most human beings are. But he isn’t going to back down. Foolish, I think. You should Nope! the fuck out of here.
I’m not taking back nothing, he says, his voice growing harder, and puts his drink on the table and his bass on its stand and himself in front of Lamont.
Around us, the room stills. Just the three of us under that blue light on the edge of the stage, and Molly at my side, standing now too. Let’s go outside, Lamont says, so I can break your fingers. All ten. You’re nothing but a big hunk of fuck.
It comes to me that Lamont hasn’t just been teaching me about jazz all these months because he’s passionate about it. No, it’s because he’s desperate. As if he’s looking for something in it, something that might save him.
Garland doesn’t pick up on all that, though he knows that he’s opened the wrong door, then tries to shut it by taking a swing. But because Lamont is about three times the size of a normal man, he punches me instead of Lamont, which I guess makes sense, yet surprises the hell out of me and my cinderblock feet.
Lamont slaps my face with one hand and holds the bass in the other; Molly’s snuffling my armpit. Bits of a smashed green hookah shimmer in the light. I think, Men and violence, we are a sorry lot. I’m lying on this sticky crappy floor with my head ringing because of him. But no, that’s not fair. Garland is the one who hit me. But Lamont provoked him, threatened him. I close my eyes and want to sleep; it’s too complex to figure out. I say, Did I get hit by a ham?
Lamont says. City or country?
I laugh. You said country hams were more dense, so I’m going with that. I notice his slip-on shoes. Has he worn lace-ups even once since Latrell died? I flash on him in the morning, looking forlornly at his closet floor, all those lace-ups he can no longer wear. I say, Where’s Garland, and why do you have his bass? It’s his life.
Don’t worry about him. He ain’t shit.
After another bad-idea bourbon, I convince Lamont to hide the bass instead of trashing it. The TV is on now and with the music gone we can hear it. A report on American soldiers killed in Mali. We have soldiers in Mali? I ask.
Down on all fours, Lamont ignores me. He slides the bass under a booth near the back. Sticky footsteps as we leave from all the beer, then piercing cold outside. We hug our coats closer and our boots punch wells through the crusty snow, which flashes red in an ambulance’s whirling lights.
Bad night to get hurt outside, I say.
Lamont tucks his hands in his pockets and shrugs. Maybe the guy deserved it.
Wait, I say, and stop. A fog of exhaust turns red in the glow of taillights, the radio squawks, two EMS workers bend over a figure sprawled in the snow, whose pants look familiar. What are you saying? Did something happen to Garland?
Lamont keeps walking, shrugs again, says, He left the bar. After? Who knows?
He’s so calm about it I decide he can’t have done anything to Garland. Besides, he’d probably be happy if he had and would tell me, so I catch up to him.
Did you notice? Lamont asks. They have a sign in the window. Apartment available. Turns out it’s right upstairs. Your next move is all set.
I wobble against him, pretend it’s the uneven ground and not the drink. Molly bumps me upright. At last he says, You need to make friends other than me.
You’re a good friend, Lamont.
The best. He slaps my back to prove it.
Aside from getting my nose broken, I say, pinching it for effect.
It’s not broken. We’re under a streetlight so he tilts his head back and looks down his long nose at mine. Well, maybe it is, but it’s not leaking spinal fluid.
We get in the car and drive. The seats are cold, and he blasts the heat. I know that wasn’t what we expected, he says, but in the end it was a win-win.
How’s that?
You met someone, and I met someone to hate.
At first I think he’s kidding and turn on the radio; jazz, what he always has it tuned to. How about I be the aux and pick something?
Fuck that, he says, and fuck jazz, and snaps it off, after which he decides not to go through a yellow light, causing the guy behind us to lean on his horn. In response, Lamont reaches down into the door compartment and pulls out a pistol.
Jesus, Lamont. We’ve had enough fucking death. The cops might come.
He says, I’ll be ready when they do.
I’m glad when the guy behind us turns off a block later, gladder still when we make it all the way to my apartment without further incident. Guns and bourbon don’t mix well, and his too-close-to-home craziness has me spooked, so, after I get out, I don’t invite Lamont in for a drink. If he notices, he doesn’t say. Instead he sets the pistol beside him and drives off, stopping at the cross street for a long time, head turning from side to side, waiting for something.
I don’t want to know for what.
Gradually, and Then All at Once
APRIL 1, 2016
Liam had to be intubated, because once again he wasn’t breathing on his own. They could only do it for a day, Dr. Wild told me, because they were worried about pneumonia. A pulmonary specialist stood next to her. Dr. Pradhep. He had the youngest face, like a ball boy. I thought he was a high school kid shadowing Dr. Wild.
She said, If we pull the tube out and he doesn’t start breathing on his own, there isn’t much we can do. His lungs were contused, and haven’t fully healed, in addition to his other injuries.
Probably the fall down the stairs, Dr. Pradhep said. And whooping cough weakened his lungs when he was younger. He pushed his wire-rim glasses up on his nose and turned to me. Bronchiectasis, he said, and began to explain.
Yes, I know, I said, cutting him off, because I never liked doctors talking down to me. I said, In the aftermath of his whooping cough, his bronchi are big and baggy, so he gets infections more easily.
Dr. Pradhep nodded and clasped his hands in front of him and stood at his full 5’3” and said, Pneumonia would almost certainly follow reinsertion of the tube. And, given all Liam’s other injuries, it would likely prove swiftly fatal.
I was glad May wasn’t there. There wasn’t much to Dr. Pradhep, and it would have taken a long time to put him back together.
Kate
I admire Kate, odd as that sounds, her ability to stay hidden, while I’ve had to move again and again. True, some of that is restlessness, the sense that each new place might finally feel like a home again, but some of it is that hoaxers keep posting my address on websites and forums and a Facebook hate group.
It takes
a while for them to track me down, and longer every time because I’ve grown smarter, getting my mail across the state, but eventually I slip up. I shop at a familiar grocery store once too often, or speak to a reporter around an anniversary in an identifiable location, or confront a group of hoaxers at a town board meeting. Afterward, angry and adrenaline-filled, I usually forget to look for tails.
And it isn’t only that I admire her, but that I learn from her, her ability to hide, to be private. To be safe.
The farther I go, the longer it takes me to discover who she is and where she lives and how to reach her, the more of that admiration she accrues. I grow heavier with desire, the needle on the scale continually climbing toward bigger numbers. I’ll hunt her down, and I’ll make her regret all her lies and all her skills, yet be glad she made the chase worthwhile.
Hemodynamic Stability
FEBRUARY 2019
Otto showed up at Palmer’s unannounced and with his valentine, though he sat awhile in the car, because it was cold out and because he’d lost his nerve. Now and then he glanced at her curtained front windows, hoping to see her: no car in the driveway, no lights on, no movement; she’d probably already gone to work. He grabbed his sketchbook and colored pencils and drew the house, the stone path meandering beside it. Moonstone; he decided to investigate.
The leather seat creaked in the cold and the door moaned when he opened it and again when he shut it and his footsteps crunched over the moonstone. He knelt and sifted a handful of the cold stone through his fingers and had to admit it looked great there with the yellow house, which made him laugh. That’s probably why he didn’t hear her approach. He heard the revolver cock though, and when Palmer said, Don’t move, he raised his hands above his head.
I said don’t move, she said. I have a gun.
I heard you, he said. Sorry, reflex.
A car slowed before it sped up and away; he guessed the driver had seen a woman pointing a gun at kneeling man and wanted nothing to do with it.
You get guns pointed at you a lot?
No. Just twice. Well, three times now.
Really, she said.
A statement, not a question, but it seemed to contain both doubt and interest, so he breathed and took a chance and turned around slowly, his hands still raised.
Good Christ, she said, and lowered the gun with shaking hands. Why didn’t you say it was you? She wore a tailored suit. Dressed for work and now she’d be late.
With the sun behind her, he couldn’t make out her expression, but relief made him jokey. Well, he said. That would have spoiled the surprise. A bad first date and a gun leveled at me for the second. Kind of memorable, don’t you think?
She said, Well, come on in. At least let me get you some coffee.
In her bright chilly kitchen, a crazy cat clock with a crooked tail and dozens of postcards affixed to the wall above the marble counters. Impressionist landscapes, desert landscapes—Arizona!—a Thoreau quote about fishing. The more he absorbed of her the more he liked her. He was a fool. So, she said. The others.
Others? he asked. The sweat cooled down his back and legs.
Twice before. She nodded toward the counter where the gun lay in its lockbox beside red Lazzaroni Amaretti di Saronno tins and a collection of dog-eared cookbooks and a bottle of holy water that she explained was really gin. The wicker fishing creel surprised him.
Oh, guns. He sat back and broke off part of the scone she’d given him. Lemon with a lemon glaze, moist and crumbly, dense and tangy, it was like eating candied crusty bread. First, he said, did you make these yourself?
I did. My grandmother’s recipe.
I would’ve liked to meet her, if she cooked like this.
Too late for that, I’m afraid. You’ll have to do with me.
He nodded, ate some more, swallowed. I’d like that.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, cowboy, she said, though she smiled. Wait till I hear about your gun run-ins.
One was over a girl.
You stalked her?
What? No. His face and ears grew hot. Another boy and I liked the same one. When I asked her out first, he pointed a rifle at me when I came over to tell him.
She shook her head. Boys. She didn’t need to say more, so she didn’t.
He was glad for the coffee, to warm his hands around the warm chunky mug. The second was random, he said. May and I were walking to a movie. A car pulled up beside me and the passenger rolled down his window and I bent down, thinking they needed directions. The car came to a stop and the passenger smiled at me and pointed a gun at my forehead and said, very helpfully, Gun. I didn’t move.
What about May? Palmer asked.
Nothing, Otto said, and laughed, though as he did, he remembered the smile on the gunman’s face, and how he’d felt, high up on his forehead, the exact spot he thought the bullet would enter his brain. Had Liam felt that? His stomach flipped.
Palmer said, May didn’t say anything? Yell, run, anything?
She didn’t notice. Not even that I’d stopped walking. She was explaining something about electricity and when she gets like that she can forget the world.
Electricity? Palmer asked. Lines crossed her forehead when she frowned. It was a genuine question, without sarcasm, which Otto liked; he still felt protective of May. And it was a mark in Palmer’s favor that she hadn’t judged her.
Otto nodded. That kind of stuff always fires her up, he said. Even when she was a kid. It was one of the first things I loved about her.
That made Palmer smile.
You have a nice smile, he said. I noticed that the first time we met. He didn’t tell her about the dreams he’d had about her mouth; even so, she blushed.
Well, she said, and turned and began wiping off the cutting board. He ate the last of his scone. It was so good he wanted to ask for another and wished briefly that he was a child, so he could. The crumbs cupped in his palm he tossed into his mouth.
Sorry about the gun, she said. I saw you outside.
Ah. And armed yourself against me. That first date was really bad, wasn’t it?
He liked her laugh, but her face grew serious. No. I couldn’t see who was in the car, just that someone was watching the house.
Sorry, he said. Didn’t mean to make you nervous.
Not your fault. My ex. A nasty habit now, but for a while a necessary one.
Oh, Otto said. Then I’m really sorry.
She waved it off. It was okay in the end. He got especially mad about his comic book collection. Should have been a sign, right? A grown man collecting them.
Otto cleared his throat. I have to admit I do too.
Great, she said, and shook her head. I know how to pick ’em.
It’s for my work. The graphic stuff can be bleeding edge. Need to keep up.
Okay. She nodded. That wasn’t a line he ever used, so you get points for that.
Ha. So what, did you toss them?
He was in Mexico with his girlfriend. Needed money and told me to take them down to the dealer where he bought most of them and sell them all and I did.
And he got mad at you for doing what he asked?
She shrugged, put the last of the scones away in a tin and snapped the lid shut, which saddened Otto. He’d been hoping she’d give him one or two for the road. Nonspecific instructions, she said. I sold the collection for a dollar, put it in his account, and took a picture of the receipt. When he came back, he was pretty angry.
Otto laughed. Remind me never to piss you off.
She smiled and said, Thought the gun would have already given you that message. Her face fell as soon as she spoke. Oh, Otto, she said, and touched his shoulder. I’m so sorry. Liam.
It’s all right, he said, though his heart clenched. It’s okay.
She hadn’t meant anything, he knew that, and it was impossible to always have things in the front of your mind. For others at least.
To make her feel better, he said, Tell you what. You can make it up to me.
She raised an eyebrow.
Not that, he said, and laughed, and was happy when that made her smile. How about you give me a few of those scones?
She did, and a kiss on the cheek after walking him to the front door. She held it open, the cold air streaming in, in no apparent hurry for him to leave. He liked that, and lingered as he zipped up his coat. It was cold out but, flooded with sunlight, the brown world just now appeared to be blooming. She took his hand and squeezed it.
This was nice, he said, and nodded while he looked out at a neighbor walking a Bernese mountain dog, who waved at them as if they were a couple. Thank you.
He didn’t say it, but they both knew he would call her soon.
Traveling Through the Dark
APRIL 2, 2019
Yellow ribbons up all over the city, around trees, on school and stop signs, draped over lampposts, which hollowed out my stomach. I hadn’t been watching the news but I didn’t have to guess what had happened, and when I went to present Silver with the final product and my latest bill, she dropped the bread forms she was cleaning and stripped off her blue rubber gloves and filled me in. A school in New Mexico. The poor kids, she said, covering her eyes with her pale hands.
Home again, I looked it up. Twenty-seven dead, including teachers and one counselor, a far-off disaster that felt a little too close to home. And I wasn’t the only raw one, all these years later; the ribbons showed that. I didn’t want to see them. Cranky, my thoughts turned to Kate, but none of my recent emails about her had been answered, so I warmed chili and ate as I read others. The Vermont Fish & Wildlife office had written, to tell me that my sporting license was about to lapse. I had some money and it wasn’t a good time to meet potential clients, given the black eye, so I thought I’d go fishing in Vermont for a few days; a week even, to let the local spasm of sadness pass while I endured my own.
Lamont’s picture on my phone. Let’s drink, he said. Also, why are you ghosting Palmer? She ditched the gun.
I’d expected the call; every school shooting set him off. How’d she know her gun bothered me? I said.