Of Song and Water (27 page)

“Never again,” he said.

“Is Philly that bad?” she said.

“No. I mean the bus. Damn near killed me.”

“I told you to fly.”

They went to dinner, one of her favorite restaurants, and he bought a rose
from the old woman who roamed from table to table. He rushed through dessert. He wanted to get home and go to bed. He wanted to have sex. When she refused, he thrashed the bed, tossing and turning like an angry child.

She woke the next morning – and for a month of mornings thereafter – and found the bed empty, found him in the kitchen playing his guitar, no smell of coffee or toast. He spoke rapidly about opportunities and doors opening. He talked about his career, his plans.

She went to work. She corrected papers and turned in her third-quarter grades. She tacked up new photographs in the kitchen, in the bedroom and bathroom, too.

“They're empty,” said Coleman.

“What do you mean?” she said.

“Park benches, streets, alleyways – they're all vacant. Even the trees are deserted.”

She argued for the simplicity of the pictures, the unbroken lines. “I'm tired of faces,” she said. “I see blank expressions all day. Is it my job to spark their enthusiasm? I'm tired of putting on a show.”

Coleman flipped through the mail.

“Nothing I do fills them. Nothing satisfies them. They scrape the bottom of every barrel and toss out the remains.”

“You need a break,” said Coleman. “You need to slow down.”

“Or we need to look again. Maybe they're not empty at all. Maybe they're mirrors, pieces of dark glass – ”

She sees the junction ahead: 1-94 West to Chicago. She brakes and puts on her blinker, though there's nothing behind her but darkness. She turns on the radio and finds a station playing oldies. She sings along, tries to match the doo-wop harmonies. She doesn't worry about singing off-key.

SHE KNOWS, passing the exit for Ann Arbor, that going back to the apartment is more than she can bear. She won't watch him pack. She won't ask for the details of his schedule or the day of his return. She'll refuse to play the woman who's satisfied to wait, as if waiting were her purpose, her duty.

He doesn't know it yet, but today, in the orchard's twilight, she let him go for the last time. I won't follow him, she thinks. I'll go to Evanston and stay with my sister. I'll wait until he's gone, then I'll empty my closet and clean out the darkroom. I'll pack only what belongs to me.

Like her predecessor at school, she'll quit without notice. She'll set off a string of sudden meetings filled with hand-wringing and condemnations. In the faculty lounge, eating a bagel before class, she'll inspire a polite hush. A friend will observe in an offhand way, almost as a consolation, that contracts are made to be broken.

When the time seems right, she'll call on her grandmother and take advantage of Tobermory, the old house, and the promise of absolute calm, a refuge without ghosts or obligations. From there, she'll venture out and visit a place that's new, somewhere she's never been. I'm ready for mountains, she thinks. I'm tired of being a flatlander. She imagines the ground of Colorado rising into the sky. She'll try Boulder. She loves the boldness of the name.

Driving west, she thinks about Chicago and the fact of leaving her hometown for good. Having settled on a course of action gives her a feeling of strength, but seeing Brian and telling him about her plans won't be easy. He'll be distant and very matter-of-fact. He'll wish her luck, of course, and tell her to be careful, but in the sound of each thing he says, she'll pick up notes of anger and disappointment.

Even so, she thinks, it may not be that complicated. We've been long out of touch. He may say he's too busy.

She wanted him, in the time since they'd stopped speaking, to drop in unexpectedly, to walk up the stairs, as he'd done so often, with a bag of carryout
food or a bottle of wine. Instead, he kept his distance. She managed to see him once – a Wednesday night at the Mill, a set with Kurt Elling, the songs spiraling upward like flames.

“How are you?” she said.

“Good. Cole out of town?”

“Of course,” she said.

Brian looked in the direction of the stage. “They keep him busy.”

She smiled.

“I never told you,” he said, “but when Cole came back from Philly, he said he'd still have time for the trio.”

“I'm sure he meant it.”

“Yeah. That's right.”

“Why don't you come over sometime,” she said. “I'll cook.”

“Sure,” he said.

She fiddles with the radio and sees from this distance that her invitation was selfish and cavalier. He couldn't help but ignore her. Now, having made up her mind to go, she'll leave a message – awkward after such long silence – and hope that he'll return the call, though she wonders what she'll say to him, trying to remember the comfort of his hands, his voice, trying to convince herself that between them nothing has changed.

It returns to her now without sadness or regret, the night she opened the door, nine months after the abortion, and found Brian standing on the welcome mat, the slush falling off his shoes. She wasn't surprised. Coleman had said, before rushing out in a huff, that she'd be better off with somebody else.

Brian stamped his feet and stepped across the threshold. She closed the door.

“Isn't that Cole's coat?” she said.

“Yeah. He said he wouldn't need it where he was going. Told me to dump my old rag and take it.”

She hung the coat on the back of a chair.

“You okay?” he said.

“I'm fine. Why?”

“Cole asked me to come by. He said you needed to see me.”

“He said that?”

“Is something wrong?”

“We argued while he was packing. We always do.”

Brian nodded. “He was probably concerned – ”

“And feeling generous,” she said.

Brian sat on the couch. “I told him I didn't need his coat.”

“He wants you to have it,” she said.

“I guess.”

“He likes to give things away.”

“He does?”

“Almost everything.”

Brian looked up. “You didn't ask to see me, did you?”

“No,” she said. “It was his idea.”

Then she placed her hand on the back of the sofa, knelt on one leg and slowly moved the other across his lap until she had him between her thighs. She kissed him and felt his muscles tighten.

He squeezed her shoulders. “I've waited a long time,” he said.

She kissed him again, her heart pounding.

His hand moved down her arm and slipped beneath her shirt. “You sure you want this?” he said.

“Yes.”

“And Cole?”

“He wants it, too.”

Brian opened his eyes.

“It's all right,” she said. “What he wants doesn't matter.”

IT ENDED, she thinks, as abruptly as it began. Brian stopped calling. He stayed away.

She went to the Mill and waited. Then came that Wednesday when he showed up and pecked her on the cheek but wouldn't sit down, anxious about the show with Kurt Elling. Her offer of dinner was, by then, a pointless invitation.

Now, she'll go to Evanston. She'll wait for Cole to leave and then pick up her stuff at the apartment. She'll try to get in touch with Brian. She wonders how anything simple and necessary survives.

There's no going back, she thinks, seeing the sign for Benton Harbor. Tonight, she'll descend along the southern shore of Lake Michigan, passing the ash heaps of Gary and East Chicago, the moon gone and darkness coming down, the color of her skin fading and her smooth arms dissolving, until she feels that her body is without substance, a shadow, a silver mist, moving unseen beneath the city, the ground falling away from her in spirals.

COLEMAN checks the boom vang: the traveler, the double blocks, and the line that runs from the foot of the mast to the ear of the spar. Without this mechanism, the boom, taken by the wind, would naturally ride up and let the main go slack, the sail lifting, twisting, and slipping the air. “If it fails,” his father said, “there can be no wing – no hope for control or a perfect curve.” He tests the line again just to be sure.

He reaches into his pocket. To his surprise, he discovers that the list he'd been using isn't there. If it doesn't reappear, he'll have to quit for a while and make a new one. He wants to find it right now so he can enjoy the ritual of crossing things off. He scours the boat, turns his clothing inside out, and decides at last to look in his shoes. He feels foolish after that and stops to catch his breath.

He squints at the blue sky. It's still early. He has Humbug all to himself. The air coming off the river feels cool and dry.

He hears the crunch of gravel, glances down from the cockpit, and sees a station wagon pulling into the lot. A cloud of dust drifts through the yard.

His landlord, dressed in a tank top and shorts, gets out of the car and walks toward the boat. “Ahoy there,” she says.

“How'd you find me?” he says.

She takes off her sunglasses. “You're always here.”

“Yeah, well.” He rubs his hand. “I've got a lot to do.”

The landlord plants herself just off the stern. “Is she seaworthy? Will you float her this season?”

“Any day now.”

“Most folks put in before the middle of June.”

“She'll be ready by the end of the month.”

The landlord peers at the transom. “What's a
Pequod
?”

“It's the name of a boat,” he says.

“I can see that.”

He leans over the taffrail. “It's from a book. There's a ship called the
Pequod
.”

“What book?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Okay, but it's a strange name.”

“Is that what you came to tell me?”

“No,” she says. “I came to see how you were doing, seeing that your street's torn up and littered with pipes and big trucks – it's like a war zone.”

“I'm fine.”

“Toilet okay?”

“Toilet's fine.”

“They say it may be weeks before they're finished.”

“I've got plenty to do here,” he says.

The landlord, looking up, puts her hands on her hips. “Any other trouble?” she says.

He sees that her short hair is shorter still, a cut that shows off the strong line of her shoulders and the symmetry of her arms. He shifts his gaze. “I told you. The toilet's fine. No problem.”

“I saw the article,” she says, a pained expression on her face.

He nods. He knew it would be like this. After all, they ran the story in the
Sunday News-Herald.
They interviewed the kid who gave a breathless description of the headlock. The mother, who referred to him only as Mr. Moore, threatened to press charges. She said, “A man who can't control himself should be locked up or run out of town.”

“If I'm put away or banished, will you cancel the lease?”

“Consider it done,” she says, and then her face gets serious. “Someone said you were trying to finish the boy's education.”

“No. I wouldn't say that.”

“Were you drinking?”

“Not before the ceremony.”

“You should ask for the Lord's forgiveness.” She points at her breasts.

He sees now that on her tank top is a likeness of Jesus with the word SAVES beneath it.

“And if I were you,” she says, “I'd ask for His blessing on this boat.”

He thinks about climbing down, but he can't take the risk. He doesn't want another story in the
Sunday News-Herald
. “If there's a problem with the toilet,” he says, “I'll give you a call.”

“You do that,” says the landlord.

“I'll pray that the toilet keeps working,” he says.

“You're not a kind man.”

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I'm out of practice.”

After she's gone, he descends and squints at the transom. He'd thought
about changing the name before, and now he wonders if he should've gone through with it.

He remembers his father telling him about the drawings he'd made, both ink and pencil, of the boats in Saginaw Bay. His father said, “There was one I especially liked, a cutter, and my mother saw it and suddenly she said, ‘
Blue Morning
.' It sounded to me like the title of a painting or the name of a song.”

He stares at the transom and pictures his father leaning on the taffrail. “You never went so far as a cutter,” he whispers. I'll stick with
Pequod
for now, but
Blue Morning
is the right choice – it isn't a fraud or a kind of theft or a sign of spiteful domination.

 

DRIVING home, the sun going down, he runs into a new barricade, another closed road with piles of dirt on one side and stretches of black pipe on the other. The detour takes him to the river and dumps him on his old street. He sees Maureen's car in the driveway. Rolling by, he glances at the front door and notices the light in the upstairs bedroom. He figures it's a bad time to stop, but then he changes his mind. He pulls over three houses down and parks at the curb.

He slides out of the truck. With the sun gone, the air feels cold. He walks without making a sound and climbs the three concrete steps to the porch. It looks like Heather's in her room.

He rings the bell.