Reverb (27 page)

“Only if you’re in bed, munchkin.” She sweeps her son off his feet and places him in his crib. He stands up, his small hands holding the wood railing looking down at James, waiting.

James smiles, shakes his head, then brings the guitar to his lap and positions it. Again, the two meld into one as he hunches over the instrument and focuses his attention on playing.

He starts picking, then mixes plucking the strings in a rise and fall of major and minor notes that are instantly familiar, but she can’t place it. High, then low, in a smooth ebb and flow that wraps back into itself and begins again. He plays a known lullaby, and then it strikes her— it’s the most famous lullaby of all, the classical piece by Brahms.

He glances up at her. A smile spreads across his face with her awareness. They both watch Cameron as he plops down on his mattress and curls onto his side, never taking his eyes off James. He grabs the edge of his blanket, brings it to his face, sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks while he watches James play. Elisabeth sinks to the floor, sits near the crib and watches him, too.

Plucking chords changes to precise picking of notes, in an ever increasing complex rhythm. Somehow, James makes the instrument sound like a piano as the lullaby merges into another familiar tune, or part of the same piece, maybe, she isn’t sure.

“What is that? I mean, I know it, but not exactly like you’re playing it.”

He smiles. “Sort of a mash-up of Chopin’s
 Berceuse
and
Brahms’s Lullaby.”

“Oh. Of course.” She meant to sound sarcastic, but it came out with authority.

His smile broadens. She catches his grin just as he looks down again, his long hair like a hood hanging around his face, hiding his expression from view. The intricate, melodic tune he’s playing creates a barely perceptible, fluid vibration that resonates through her—warming, calming. It’s quite mesmerizing watching him play, picking so fast his hand is a blur; elegant fingers of his other hand crawling up and down the neck of the guitar like a massive black widow.

The music peaks with a swelling series of high notes, then falls back to mid-range, then high again, but not as high. He slows the tempo to half time, and stays in mid-range, infusing bass notes as he slows to quarter time, picks a few low notes and lets them resonate before he silences the guitar. She catches a glimpse of his enamored expression, a whisper of a smile filled with child-like wonder, seemingly with the closing harmonics he’s just created.

James looks up at Cameron. Elisabeth would have, but she can’t take her eyes off James. His hair falls over his forehead and tangles in his eyelashes. He blinks several times then runs his hand through his hair sweeping it out of his striking green eyes, for about a second.

“He’s asleep,” James whispers, gives her a soft smile.

Elisabeth looks at her son, curled on his side, finally napping. Fine hair hangs just over his brow; his wide-set eyes look large under his closed lids, enhanced by his long, dark lashes. His pouty red lips are slightly parted. One arm lay over his small chest, his tiny hand outstretched on the mattress in front of him.

She glances back at James as he gets up off the floor, still holding the guitar. He moves to her, puts his free hand out to help her off the floor. She takes it, the contact more than just tactile—warmth resonates with his touch, up her arm, through her body, right to the pleasure centers of her brain. She feels the tingling of desire, and can’t stop it building, vibrating in her belly, her jeans against her, overwhelmingly stimulating, rubbing her crotch as she rises. They stand face to face, eye to eye, hand in hand for a second. Every part of her wants to kiss him, but if she does, she knows she won’t be able to stop herself from mauling him. About the last thing she wants to do is scare him, like when he recoiled with her last attempted seduction. So instead, Elisabeth releases his hand, turns away, and walks out of the bedroom.

She spends siesta reading on the lounge chair on the deck. James reads the New York Times on the other lounge, but within minutes is dozing under the late summer sun. Elisabeth wakes to Cameron beckoning an hour and a half later. The boys go back out to the beach to finish their sandcastle. Elisabeth continues reading for another half an hour. When the sun finally arcs far enough for chiaroscuro, she puts the book down and wanders over to their latest masterpiece with the Canon.

Approaching quietly, she comes up behind them, along the waterline and stops a good thirty feet away, hoping they don’t notice her. Cameron’s putting long reeds into each of the castle’s turrets. James kneels next to him, putting small seaweed leaves into the hollow tops of each reed. They’re making flags. She lays in the sand to get on their level.
Focus on Cameron through the sand turrets. Pull back. Pick up James in profile absorbed in his task. Click.

A lazy wave settles on the shore, pushes its way up the beach and fills the moat they’ve dug around the castle. Cameron is thrilled, but James looks dubiously at the rising tide.
Pull both in clear...sharpen—pick up the contrast in their expressions. Click.
Cam splashes the water around with both hands.
Click
. He splashes James, who splashes him back, both of them laughing with child's delight.
Focus...Click.

Cameron sees her. A big, happy smile.
Click
.

“Mama!”

James looks over at her. The sun is behind him, haloing his chestnut hair in fine gold highlights.
Click
.

Cam gets up to come to her, trips over the moat bringing down part of a wall before she reaches him and picks him up. He wraps his arms around her and squeezes. She squeezes him right back. She loves the way he feels.

“Look! Maserpez for you, Mama. You and ‘Ames and me. ‘Ames says.” He squirms to get down and she sets him on the sand.

“Does he now?” She can’t wipe the smile off her face to save her life.

She looks at James. He fixes the crumbled wall with Cameron, then gets up and stands next to her, letting Cam finish the job.

“Yeah. Well, so much for our masterpiece.”

Regardless of the crumbing wall, their sandcastle is exquisite, with six main turrets, four on the corners and two at the entrance, complete with stairs and windows. Inside the wall is a multilevel castle right out of Disney. “Good job, gentlemen.” And she means it, floored by the excellence James models and is instilling in her son. “You boys ready for dinner?”

“You bet.” James kneels to Cameron. “High five on our latest,” and the boys slap hands, then slam their knuckles together. “Good job, little dude. Ready to go?”

“Soders!” Cam lifts his arms to James.

They meander along the shoreline towards the house. “What are we making for supper?”

“Let’s keep it simple tonight.”

“Zucchini quiche?”

“Sounds good.”

She sets the camera on the end of the kitchen counter, puts Cameron in his highchair then cuts up some banana onto his tray. James opens the fridge and stares at the contents, then retrieves the eggs. He’s getting a bowl from the lower cabinet when she stops him.

“I’ll make it. Why don’t you get the guitar?” She takes the bowl from him, opens the carton of eggs he put on the counter, takes one out and cracks it against the lip of the bowl, then splits it all the way and lets the contents fall. He stands watching her. “James, I’m being very reasonable.” And she gives him her warmest smile.

He stares at her a moment longer then walks out of the kitchen. There’s about a fifty-fifty chance he’ll leave for the rest of the day. Surprisingly, thirty seconds later he reappears in the kitchen doorway holding Jack’s guitar by the neck. He crosses between Cameron and her with his head down as he sits in his usual seat and nestles the guitar in his lap. He doesn’t look up.

“Play, ‘Ames.” Cameron says.

James smiles, picks the guitar quickly from high to low, like water falling. The opening is familiar, but again, she can’t place it. The cascade of notes moves into an easy melody of an old blues tune, and Elisabeth recalls it had originally been done with a piano, she’s sure. Just the singer and the piano.
Who was that singer?
Scratchy, smoky voice...

“This is a little known tune by an eclectic musician named Leon Russell, that I’m not sure I got until now.” He still doesn’t look up. He picks the guitar note for note, exactly as she remembers Leon’s piano. “It’s called ‘
A Song for You
.’ And it goes something like this.”

He picks the guitar like falling water again, from high to low. Stops, silences the strings, then clears his throat and begins picking the ballad’s melody, finally looking at her.

“‘I’ve been so many places in my life and time,’”
his voice is smooth, a rich tenor, deep resonance though he sings softly, his eyes fixed on hers.

“‘I’ve sung a lot of songs, I’ve made some bad rhymes.

I’ve acted out my love in stages. With ten thousand people watching

But we’re alone now and I’m singing this song for you.”'

He smiles shyly, glances at the guitar as he repeats the melody, then at Cam, then looks back at her.

“‘I know your image of me is what I hope to be.

I’ve treated you unkindly, but darling can’t you see

There’s no one more important to me

Darlin’ can’t you please see through me

Cause we’re alone now, and I’m singing this song for you.’”

Cameron stares at him mesmerized. He smiles with quiet amusement, his fingers slide casually up the neck of the guitar as he goes into the bridge, his focus back on her.

“‘You’ve taught me precious secrets

of the truth, withholding nothing

You came out in front and I was hiding.

But now I’m so much better,

that if my words don’t come together

Listen to the melody cause my love’s in there hiding.’”

He picks the guitar like cascading water again, high to low. Silences it. He looks back down at the guitar. Returns to picking the melody then looks at her again.

“‘I love you in a place where there’s no space and time

I love you for my life, you are a friend of mine.

And when my life is over

Remember when we’re together

We were alone, and I was singing this song for you.’”

He picks the closing melody, lets the last note resonate almost to silence then holds his hand flat against the strings. Cocks his head. Winks, then a whisper of a smile.

She stands there, staring at him. Awestruck. Humbled.

“‘Gen ‘Ames. Play ‘gen.”

Ah, from the mouths of babes...
she thinks.

“Maybe later, Cam. Your mama needs help making supper right now.” He gets up, sets the guitar against the wall and he takes the bowl out of her hand before it registers she still holds it. He picks up an egg, cracks it on the rim with a grin and let the contents slide from the shell into the bowl. “Why don’t you cut some zucchini?” He flashes a grin. She narrows her eyes at him with a low growl. He laughs. “Just a suggestion.”

She goes to the fridge and gets several vegetables, then retrieves the cutting board and knife. They make supper without much talking. The quiet is comfortable. The song he sang keeps playing in her head. James’ version. She can no longer recall Leon Russell’s. Elisabeth smiles, knows that James sees, catches a glimpse of his smile.

James gets to read to Cam before bed tonight. She gets the dishes. If they don’t keep a spotless house, the ants come marching in. And Elisabeth hates bugs. James comes into the kitchen after Cameron is tucked in and finishes up the dishes while she bids her son goodnight.

She meets him outside three minutes later. Long shadows from the short pines stretch across the deck. James sits on the bench, slouched against the house, crossed-legs stretched out in front of him. His arms are folded loosely across his stomach, hands lay against his sides. He squints against the blinding light of the setting sun. She lifts the camera and aims it at him.
Click.

He looks up at her. The insolent glare is back.
Click.

She doesn’t think she got it.
Don’t check now. Keep the camera on him.

“Knock it off, ‘Lisabeth. Enough already.” He squints back at the sunset.

Click
. “It’s not. I need to burn through a lot of shots to pull a few great ones. If I can’t dazzle with a subject like you honey, I shouldn’t pursue the arts.”

He laughs, to himself, shakes his head. “So, how will you know?”

Focus on his iris. Sharpen the forest green. More. There. Click.
“Know what?”

“If you’re any good.” His question cuts, though she doesn’t think he meant it to.

She stops shooting, holds the camera to her side. “I have no idea.”

“Exactly. It’s subjective. You’ll never really know.” He looks at her. “That plagued me for the longest time. It’s part of what drove my obsession. Do yourself a favor ‘Liz. Don’t ask yourself if you’re good. And don’t expect to find out through other people. Ask yourself if you enjoy the process. If you do, if it engages you, excites you, sparks your imagination, then keep doing it.”