Of Song and Water (6 page)

“Don't worry about it,” he says. “Like I said, it's a long shot.”

 

IN A different summer, on a day thick with humidity, Otis in a crisp white shirt and black pants opened the door and peered through the screen. “You been lost?” he said.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Young.”

“For what?”

“For not showing up.”

“It's no skin off my back. And the name is Otis. Or maybe you forgot that, too.”

“I'm sorry,” he said.

Otis crossed his arms. “You done?”

“I wanted to give you this.” He unrolled a magazine. “There's a story in here about Coltrane and they mention you.”

Otis opened the door. He looked at the cover. “Thanks,” he said. “Maybe you should come in?”

He stayed put. “And I wanted to tell you – ” He cleared his throat, an attempt to hold down his feelings. “We're moving away.”

“Who is?”

“I am,” he said. “And my family.”

“What about the store?”

“My father closed it. The one in Saginaw, too.”

Otis tucked the magazine under his arm. “You always said he never liked it much. I guess you were right.”

“I was right about that,” he said.

“You still practicing?”

“All the time.”

Otis smiled. “Too bad you don't keep in touch. I'd like to hear how it goes.”

“I'll let you know,” he said.

Otis chuckled. “I guess I'll read about it when you crack the big time.”

“Maybe.”

A tired expression filled Otis's face. “Don't be a fool, now. Don't count on it. It's – ”

“I know,” he said. “It's a long shot.”

“Yes it is,” said Otis.

He wanted to hug the old man. “When I get back here, I'll stop by.”

They shook hands.

“You do that,” said Otis, “by all means.”

Before he'd gone far, he stopped and thought about turning around, but this time he was afraid. He waited for the creak of the screen door, heard it close, and then kept walking.

 

WITH the afternoon light almost gone, he begins shoveling fresh powder and watches for Heather's headlights through the flurry. When he was a boy, he hated this chore; the sound of metal on concrete bothered his ears. These days he finds it enjoyable, almost peaceful, making a clean edge where the driveway ends.

He looks up and down the street. Of the houses he can see, most remain dark. His neighbors are either out for the day or waiting for the snow to stop before they shovel. Two or three inches so far, he thinks, and no sign of it letting up. His fingers are cold. When he played for a living, he wore gloves to protect his hands. Now he never wears them. Working on the boat or Maureen's house, summer and winter the same, his hands go bare against fiberglass, wood, mortar, and dirt. Heather scolds him about it sometimes. “You have to save your hands,” she says. “Why save what's ruined?” he fires back.

He bumps the mailbox and snow falls between his sock and the top of his boot. He tries to brush it away, but before long he feels an icy wetness against his skin.

“My feet are freezing,” he says.

“You got the wrong shoes,” says Brian. “You can't be wearing wingtips in this shit.”

“I know. Wet socks depress me,” he says.

“Tell me, Cole, is the set list all you wanted to talk about? Because if it is, I'm not sure why we had to do it out here on this fine Chicago street.”

He tells Brian that he couldn't say anything with Tom sitting there, too – that what he needs at the moment is fresh air and daylight. “It's only an audition,” he says. “I'll be back before I miss anything important.”

“But what if you get it?”

“No point in thinking about that. It's a long shot.”

“But you've thought about it, haven't you? They could give you the green light. There's a chance. And I'm sure you've considered that and dreamt up another whole life for yourself.”

“It could help both of us.”

“That's shit and you know it. Shore isn't looking for a bass player. And that isn't the point. We've got something here. We've got a sound and people who come to hear us play. And this is a good town for music. And nobody's telling us what we have to do or when we have to do it. But you're willing to piss on that.” Brian kicks the snow. “Like they say at the Mill, CBT stands for ‘Chicago's Best.' Only you don't buy it.”

“It's just a shot. I need to find out what it's like.”

“I understand that. I do. But you could've let me in on it before you made your plans, before you dragged me out here in the snow and started complaining about your lousy socks.”

“I'm sorry. Is that what you want?”

“No. I want you to go. Have a great audition. I hope you get the gig. It'll be great for both of us.” Brian stops at the door. “Get the right shoes,” he says. “It snows in Philly, too.”

 

JEN'S waiting in the kitchen when he gets home. She puts two bowls of vegetable soup on the table and throws the ladle in the sink. He fills a glass with ice, pulls out the vodka, and pours himself a double.

“So you told him,” she says.

He sips his drink and nods.

“Is he happy for you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. He said it'll be great for both of us.”

“What else did he say?”

“He told me to get the right shoes.”

“You mean he told you where to get off. Was he angry, hurt?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Well, you can be sure about me – I'm angry.”

He stirs his soup.

“It isn't what you want that bothers me,” she says. “It's just that your timing is bad.”

“Tom says I have a great sense of time.”

She sweeps her hair to one side and secures it with a silver clip. “You're impatient.”

“You've mentioned that before.”

“You go too fast. You want everything right now.”

“So what's the alternative? I suppose you'd like me at home doing the laundry or watching TV?”

“That's a ridiculous thing to say. The alternative is to find time for me, for your friends. Everything you do has an edge to it. Where's the joy?”

“It's hard for me to let things slide.”

“That's because you're out to prove something.”

“Can we eat?” he says. “The soup is getting cold.”

“It's all about him,” says Jen.

“Leave my father out of it.”

“Why? You say you failed him. So until you decide otherwise, it'll always be about him.”

“I'd like to change the subject,” he says.

“All right,” she says. “Let's talk about your mother instead.”

“Fine.”

“Too bad you couldn't take her to the airport. We had quite a chat.”

“What about?”

“I'm not sure how to describe it. Social climbing, I guess.”

“Her family's from Bloomfield Hills. It was a step down marrying my father.”

“It wasn't that,” says Jen. “She thinks when two people are in love, when they're committed to each other's dreams and doing good work, other people are drawn to them. She said it's dangerous to attract admirers with happiness and talent, especially when you're inexperienced. She said it's easy to get used.”

He puts down his spoon. “I've never heard her say anything like that.”

“Well, that's pretty much what she said – right before she got out of the car.”

He pours more vodka.

“You're going to miss my sister's wedding.”

“Your sister won't miss me.”

“Probably not,” says Jen.

 

ALREADY he sees a thin layer of snow where he just shoveled. He likes the look of it, inviting in a stark sort of way. When Heather comes, she'll have a good place to park. There's less visibility, he thinks, now that the wind's kicked up. He turns his back to the gust and tries to rub some warmth into his hands.

Through the blowing snow, he makes out a shape that seems to be a station wagon. I've paid the rent, he thinks, walking to the foot of the driveway, carrying his shovel like a weapon. I won't let her pull in – no time now for a visit. But as the car approaches, he realizes that he has it all wrong. It's a foreign job, elongated but sleek, and at the wheel is a gloved and bearded man, rather than his born-again landlord. The car glides by as if it were floating on the snow.

He hears a sound in the distance, maybe a chain saw or a snowblower – a nasal whine like a voice through a bullhorn, like a woman announcing the imminent departure of a bus.

The station overflows with people. His ragged suitcase sits on the wet pavement, but he won't put down his guitar. “You need to get a winter coat,” he says. “Your lips are turning blue.” Jen huddles against him.

“When will you be home?”

“Early next week,” he says. “Tell your sister congratulations. When I get back, we'll go to the Green Mill for a drink.”

She shivers but is otherwise still. She seems frozen to his body. He kisses her.

“It's time,” he says. The wind pushes him onto the bus. He gives his ticket to the driver and then turns to see Jen, pale and stiff, disappearing into the crowd.

It's been a long afternoon, he thinks. He opens the garage, stamps his feet, and leans the shovel against the wall. He trips on a paint can and stumbles, catching his arm on the truck's side-view mirror. His workbench, tools, and accumulated boxes allow less and less room to maneuver. Parking the pickup in front of the house would be an easy solution, but he doesn't like the idea of turning his garage into an attic. He struggles to unlace his boots. He has the first one off when Heather pulls into the driveway. He hobbles out to greet her. She tells him to go inside. “You can't come out here in one boot,” she says.

Heather follows him into the house brushing off snow and untying her scarf, and her red hair catching the hallway light makes the dullness of the afternoon and the tedium of the leaking faucet suddenly disappear.

He pours milk in a saucepan and sets it on a low flame. “No marshmallows for me,” says Heather. He spoons chocolate powder into large mugs and puts blue paper napkins on the counter. “Hungry?” he says.

“Not really.” She checks the photographs taped to the freezer door. “Look at you,” she says, “with that long hair. And Brian James. Now
he
was a handsome man.”

He keeps an eye on the milk. “Thanks a lot,” he says.

She moves in closer. “Was this up the last time I was here? Jennifer took this, didn't she? You've been cleaning out your closet again.” Heather tips her head and frowns. “You know, you can take down these old pictures of me whenever you want. Maybe you could replace 'em with my senior portrait.”

He chuckles. “How'd it turn out?”

She picks up the napkins and walks over to the kitchen table. “Oh, the pictures aren't in yet. I'm not sure when they'll be ready.”

He hands her a steaming mug. They sit across from each other stirring the hot chocolate.

“Has that new boyfriend of yours booked you for the prom?”

“No, he hasn't. And what's the deal? You never ask about boys.”

“I know. I've decided to change my ways.”

“Has Mom been talking to you?”

“Not about this. I just thought that if it's important to you, maybe I should know about it.”

“Okay,” says Heather. “So how's your love life these days?”

“That hurts,” he says.

She puts on a serious expression. “C'mon, Dad. If it's important to you, I should probably know about it.”

“You think you're pretty damn clever, don't you?”

“You can't blame me for inheriting your brains.”

“First sarcasm and now flattery.”

“I watch and learn,” she says.

“What would you like to talk about?”

“I don't know.” She looks out the window. “Why don't you tell me something I don't know anything about. A snowy day is good for that.”

“Like what?”

“Like one of your stories about H.M.” Her eyes wander back to the freezer door. “Of course, you've never said much about Jennifer.”

“Havelock Moore was a pirate. I've told you that story.”

“Well, Jennifer then. The only thing I know about her is that Mom says you should've married her.”

“Your mother said that?”

“More than once.”

He wants to ask if Maureen said it with bitterness or sympathy. But he knows better than to ask Heather for that kind of judgment. “How about Brian James?” he says. “You seem pretty interested in him.”

“You bet,” she says. “Let's move to the living room.”

He settles on the couch and Heather flops down next to him. He balances the mug of hot chocolate on his leg and takes a moment to collect his thoughts. Then he begins the story of Crystal James, a blues singer, a churchgoer, and Brian's mother.

“Everybody who heard her sing and who knew her last name thought she was the sister of Etta James,” he says. “‘Crystal can make a hard man cry,' they said. ‘If you listen too long, she'll break your heart and leave you with the pieces.'”

“That sounds like a song,” says Heather.

“It is.”

She smiles. She reaches over and presses his right hand between her two smaller hands.