Of Song and Water (24 page)

“I've been trying to reach you,” she said, running her hand through her short wet hair. “But your answering machine never seems to work.”

“What's the problem?” he said.

“No problem. The city needs to redo the sewer lines, so the street'll be torn up soon and there may be a time when the toilet won't flush.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” he said.

“That your daughter?” said the landlord.

“Yes.”

“Pretty girl.”

He nods.

“Pretty girls need to be careful. They grow up fast. Kids these days could use more religion.”

On stage, the singers smile and sway. He taps his foot and listens to the harmony. It doesn't work, he thinks. If high school is slavery, what comes next?

Struck by the song's hope for heavenly reward, he imagines the parking lot behind the Green Mill and transforms the scene into a dark church and considers whether or not the sacrifice of his hands served as some sort of redemption, a strange rite of passage – a fated balancing of the scales. He sees himself kneeling on the asphalt waiting for the service to begin.

A choir would've been just the thing, he thinks, the ceremony could've used a song, an upbeat score. Had a priest been standing nearby, I would've confessed, admitted to sloth, pride, envy, and lust. My guilt was certain beyond a reasonable doubt. As it happened, though, no priest was available, and I had yet to discover the full extent of my sins, the crimes of my family, my history, but there's no salvation in pleading ignorance.

I've made discoveries, of course. I'm in possession of more knowledge, some might even say truth, but it makes no difference. When people are punished, when they're pushed into a corner, pinned or driven to their knees, they lack objectivity. They lack perspective. Taking a broad view of things seems ludicrous.

I've paid for more than my crimes. And no schedule of penance will restore my hands; no regimen of pills will stop the pain. I should take a broader view, but these days I side with H.M. God is unjust. He has no sense of proportion.

THE RECESSIONAL music begins to wobble and go flat. The graduates laugh and some break formation, skipping and running out of the auditorium.

He stands in the parking lot, shields his eyes, and feels the heat of the afternoon rising from the blacktop. Maureen walks out with the thick guy who'd been on her left, her arm around his waist, her red hair sparkling in the sun. She looks enticing in her summer dress. He spots Heather – all smiles and laughter as she moves through the crowd. A circle of girls pull her in for a photo.

The beanpole who took her to the prom walks up from behind and taps her on the shoulder. He whispers in her ear. Heather smiles and shakes her head. She floats over to the other side of the circle and the boy follows. When she turns and sees him, she attempts to step farther away, but he grabs her gown and pulls it toward him.

Without thinking, he feels his weight leaning toward his daughter. It strikes him that she's no longer happy. He sees the guy grab her with his other hand, and then Heather tries to twist out of his grasp.

I'll walk over, he thinks, and say it's time to go, though the prearranged plan calls for Heather to leave with her mother, to have dinner with Maureen and her sizable friend before the evening reception.

As he approaches, he hears snickering and broken laughter.

“I'm good for the prom but not for tonight?” says the boy.

“You're drunk,” says Heather.

“I'm not drunk,” he says.

“I can smell it.”

“I've had a drink. But I'm not drunk.”

He can almost smell the liquor on the boy's breath. He walks through the parting circle but stops when Heather waves him off.

“Go home and I'll call you tomorrow,” says Heather.

“You must think I'm stupid,” says the boy. “You won't call.”

“Why wouldn't I?” says Heather.

“You'll be too busy.”

“I don't have any plans,” says Heather.

“That's not what I mean.”

“Watch it,” says a tough-looking girl. “Heather's with me. And you better not be spittin' in her direction.”

The boy spits. “I get it. I'm a one-time fuck. I'm the after-prom special.”

Coleman grabs the kid's gown. “That's enough,” he says.

“And what the fuck do you want?”

Using his forearm and elbow, he checks the boy – a sharp jab to the stomach.

Heather sucks in a short breath.

The boy doubles over, his mortarboard and tassel flying.

He hooks his arm around the kid's neck and puts him in a headlock. “When you can breathe,” he says, “I think you should apologize.”

Before long, he senses the quiet that surrounds him. He looks up and sees Heather, Maureen, and most of the people in the parking lot frozen in place, their faces aghast, watching him choke a skinny high-school graduate.

He lets the boy go and a couple of friends help him scamper away. Slowly, the crowd comes back to life.

“Bravo,” says Maureen.

Heather hurries off with her mother. He sees her getting into the backseat and closing the door. He wants to explain himself, make some sort of excuse – a reflex, lack of sleep, a sad effort to protect her reputation – but he doesn't move. His feet feel heavy, glued to the warm asphalt. Heather stares at him through the closed window as the car speeds out of the parking lot.

JENNIFER reaches up and closes her fingers around a large Red Delicious. She pulls but the stem refuses to give way. The branch bends, leaves trembling, until she rotates the fruit and breaks it free. She holds the apple as if it were a precious stone, polishing it with her shirttail. A voice in her ear tells her to give it away, but now the orchard, despite the brilliant October day, stands empty.

It is 1982.

Before picking the apple, she watched him go, his body becoming smaller, drifting through the corridor of dark shade, the old trees forming a low canopy. She saw him stumble into the light, where, in a moment of indecision, he glanced back.

Jennifer crouches and sets the apple in a basket. She takes care not to bruise it. A breeze touches her face and the leaves begin sighing. The air tastes sweet, a slight consolation. She'd like to step out of the orchard and find herself in another country, in a busy café, away from the trio of birds that move with her from tree to tree, away from Michigan, having traveled here to visit his family
and friends, to fulfill obligations. Today, they'd driven to Blake's Orchard, speeding northeast from Grosse Ile to a town called Romeo, because he wanted a shaded place, a place without people, to say all the things he'd said before.

At first, they walked without speaking, listening to the orchard. Then, breaking the spell, he said, “Let's leave tomorrow. We've been here long enough.”

“You haven't picked any apples,” she said, swinging the empty basket.

“What about you?”

“I'm searching for just the right one.”

“Forget the apples,” he said. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Yes. I've been ready since we got here.”

“Too much for you, is that it?”

“Let's not start – ”

He narrowed his eyes. “I didn't choose the place I came from.”

She stopped and put down the basket. She looked at the long row of trees and then at Coleman. “What are we doing here?”

“I needed some air.”

“Is that all?”

“All right,” he said. “I'm going on the winter tour.”

“You say it as if you're unhappy.” She felt the chill of the afternoon on her bare shoulders. “Are you starting today?” she said, rubbing her arms. “Am I driving home alone?”

“I fly out of O'Hare on Monday.”

“Go now,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Go. Take the car. I'll stay a little longer.”

“That's crazy,” he said. “You don't know anyone here.”

“It's no different than being on tour. I'll try it. Maybe I'll like it.”

“I think you should come home,” he said. “With me.”

“What for? To keep you company until you leave?”

“There's more to it than that.”

“It's your choice, Cole. It's always been your choice.”

“That's true. But it hasn't been easy.”

“I never – ”

“You're perfect,” he said. “Too perfect. You care too much. It makes me hate myself.”

“You're right,” she said. “You need someone else. Someone less perfect.”

He rubbed his forehead. “I need to do this on my own.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I don't know.”

“And the rest doesn't matter?”

“No,” he said, unable to hold her gaze.

“Go,” she said. “Take the car. I'll be fine.”

“I'll be back in a few months.”

“Come back or not,” she said. “You won't find me.”

He began to turn and then stopped.

Beyond him, looking down the long tunnel of trees, she glimpsed a small circle of daylight. “It happened too fast,” she said, wiping her eyes. “For a while, everything was whole. Remember that.”

The orchard grows still, no breeze, not even the birds. She admires the apple resting in the basket and touches its cool skin. It's perfect, she thinks. The kind you see on a teacher's desk or in a painting. It's large enough to be a meal in itself.

 

THE APPLE reminds her, quite unexpectedly, of a prayer,
Hail Mary, full of grace
. . . She remembers sitting on a plastic chair and the prayer rising on her breath, nearly two years ago – the rules concerning payment tacked to the wall,
the carpet threadbare and soiled.
Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb
. . . Women come here bearing fruit, she thinks. We're stuffed birds bloated with bread and giblets. The
Ave Maria
keeps repeating itself like a broken record. She sees with the clarity of a picture the sliding glass window, thin and smudged, that separates her from women wearing white uniforms and white shoes. She'd come directly from the station, afraid to go home, afraid of losing her nerve, after a moment of foolishness when she followed him onto the bus, having rehearsed her speech in front of a mirror –
blessed is the fruit of thy womb
. . . But she knew too well how his face would look, pale with incomprehension, the fear gradually changing to contempt, and although he'd suffer guilt, she knew where he'd place the blame. There'd be no accusation, no epithet, but he'd think of her as solely responsible. She knew all this because he'd shown his true colors more than once. In the odd weeks when she was late, rare occasions by any count, she'd lived with his misery. She'd seen just how desperate he could be, given to mania and panic, rattling around the apartment at night, unable to sleep, going on about his weakness, his unborn talent, predicting the slow death of everything he held dear.

 

SHE HADN'T seen these things in Boston, in the beginning, when he parked his rusty Dodge at the curb and pulled his guitar and suitcase out of the trunk. In the orchard now, without birds, with only the company of trees, she tries not to remember, tries to keep herself exactly where she is, but it takes too much effort.

She steps through the door with a bag of groceries, unpacks the fruit and vegetables, and puts a box of oatmeal on the shelf over the sink. The tiny room, a studio with a single bed, feels cramped. Sometime soon they'll find a new apartment. She sets a bottle of vodka on the table. He pours a shot and raises the glass.

“Thanks for going out,” he says. “It's cold today.”

On the table she sees a letter bearing the insignia of Boston College. “What's that?”

“A warning from the dean. Says if I slip much further, they'll review my scholarship.”

“Are you slipping?”

“No. It's just routine.”

“I don't understand,” she says, holding the letter closer to the light. “Who's Jason Moore?”

“That's me.”

“It is?” She looks at him as if for the first time. “Then who are you? A CIA operative? A British agent?”

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I should've told you before this. My stage name is Coleman.”

“Your stage name?”

“That's right. A bar owner christened me Coleman last summer.”

“What's wrong with Jason?”

“It's boring.”

“No, it's not.”

“Well, it isn't particularly musical.”

“That's silly.”

“Jason's my name because I was supposed to be just like my father.”

“In what way?”

“A sailor.”

“Navy?”

Coleman laughs. “No. My grandfather sailed the Great Lakes. He ran singlehander races from Port Huron to Mackinac Island. My father inherited the gift.”

“But not you.”

“No. Not me.”

“I couldn't possibly change my name,” she says.

“Why not?”

“I couldn't answer to anything else.” She fills the teapot and sets it on the stove. “Anyway, my mother would disown me.”

Later, sipping tea, she listens to his guitar and watches the movement of his hands, his fingers, the careful pressing and plucking of strings. On some days the music carries him to a world all his own, a place swayed by technical expertise, by speed and virtuosity, but she soon realizes, as the chords and melodies build, that he's playing himself into a corner, a dark recess that for all its impressive and intimidating skill feels lonely and confined. On other days his playing strikes her as passionate, often tender, a kind of meditation or prayer. In such moments, with the music like water, she forgets the small apartment and goes her own way, gives herself to an impulse, the childlike urge to splash and float, her feet kicking free without fear, her body turning in the swells, rising on sudden waves, striking out farther and farther from shore, from recognizable ground, until she feels nothing but hunger.