Of Song and Water (28 page)

Maureen comes to the door, starts to open it, and then slams it when she sees his face. “I'm thinking about a restraining order,” she says.

“For what? I've never touched anyone – ”

“Until now.”

“You're being ridiculous. C'mon, open the door. I haven't seen Heather since she graduated.”

“She won't see you.”

“I don't believe that. What did she say? Did she say she won't see me?”

“Yes. And the same goes for me. I think you should leave.”

“Tell her to come downstairs. I want to hear it from her.”

“I won't,” says Maureen. “She's been humiliated enough.”

“What humiliation? That kid's a creep. He had it coming.”

“Great,” says Maureen. “No remorse. You don't get it, do you? Her name's been in the paper. Strange boys call the house. They've heard what the kid said. They ask if the slut's at home.”

“Open the door. Let me talk to her.”

“She's not here.”

“You're lying.”

“I'm not. She went out an hour ago.”

“Then why's the light on upstairs?”

“I don't know.”

He kicks the door. Then he throws his body against it.

Maureen lets out a groan of exasperation. “I'll call the police,” she says.

He steps off the porch and walks down the side drive to the rear of the house. He tries the back door. It's locked.

He looks through the window. Maureen is nowhere in sight. He takes the trowel out of the flower box, shields his eyes, and strikes the glass with the bottom of the thick blade. He can hear her coming as he reaches inside and throws the dead bolt.

“Stay there,” he says, the glass crunching beneath his tennis shoes. “You're barefoot.”

Maureen stops. She begins to cry. “You're a stranger,” she says. “After all this time, I can't tell who you are.”

He squeezes by and walks down the hall.

“Go ahead,” says Maureen. “Don't believe me.”

He runs up the stairs, opens the door to Heather's room, and sees that the
glowing lamp and the empty bed are the only things there. He checks the bathroom.

Coming down the steps, he hears Maureen sweeping up glass. He rounds the banister and takes in the profile of her body. She's wearing black panties and a T-shirt. She bends. “You're a beautiful woman,” he says.

She looks up. Her eyes still filled. “You shouldn't have ruined her graduation.”

“I didn't mean to.”

She nods.

“Will she see me?”

“Of course. She loves you. You're always the one she loves.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Sorry doesn't change anything.”

“For the door, I mean. I'll pay for it.”

Maureen starts to laugh. “That's the one thing about you,” she says. “You're always willing to pay.”

He holds the dustpan while she sweeps. Then he goes into the garage and finds a piece of thin plywood that's close to the right size. “Where's your hammer?” he says.

She opens the hall closet and pulls out a small toolbox.

He grabs the hammer and a fistful of nails, knocks out two or three of the remaining shards, and boards up the opening.

He finishes the job and sees that she's gone upstairs. He leaves the hammer on the counter, presses the button on the doorknob, and gently closes the door.

Walking to his truck, he considers the neighbors and feels more than a little self-conscious. He watches for movement, for a drape or a blind closing – or, in an unlit window, the outline of a face that suddenly draws back and disappears.

HE HADN'T planned to go but now he finds himself in the Black & White Club.

Wes Montgomery's set had been a dream that brought everyone to their feet. Then he played “Down Here on the Ground,” a quiet encore, and a hush fell over the house – people even held their breath.

He savored each note and leaped up when it was over and stared at Wes's huge hands until the great man stepped off into darkness.

Still glowing from the performance, he asks the woman sitting with him if she'd like a drink. “I'm fine with water,” she says.

“I'll have a vodka martini,” he says. “Straight up, extra dry, olives.”

“Is that really necessary?” says the woman.

“Absolutely.” He smiles. He likes it that her hair is cut short.

“Why did you bring me here?” she says.

He doesn't answer. He missed it at first, but now he sees that her sleeveless T-shirt bears the face of John Coltrane. He points at her chest. “This is a guitarist's club – but I think they'd make an exception for him.”

“He's all I listen to,” she says. “I play
A Love Supreme
over and over again. I have a shrine in my bedroom. You should come over and see it. A little devotion would do you some good.”

“I was once a religious man,” he says.

“You don't have to say that.”

“I was. I probably still am.”

“If you listen to
A Love Supreme
,” she says, “you have no choice.”

He lowers his eyes and regards his martini. He lifts it and takes a sip. “So you're a fanatic,” he says.

“No,” she says. “I'm a follower. His playing is like meditation.”

“It's prayer,” he says.

“Exactly.”

Because her hair is short, he can see the curve of her neck and the slope of her shoulder. Something about her skin – its perfect clarity – makes him want more than anything to touch her.

“If you understand me so well,” she says, “why don't you ever see me?”

“I have a lot to do.”

“I don't mean that. I mean that you've always looked down or away or somewhere in the distance. But you've never looked at me – not really – at least until now.”

“I don't like to compete.”

Her eyes fall to her breasts. “With him?”

“With anyone.”

“That's not very ambitious.”

“I used to be ambitious, too.”

She reaches across the table and picks up his martini. She takes more than a sip. “So if his face wasn't here, you'd see me?”

“It might be easier.”

“I can't take it off,” she says. “There's nothing underneath.”

“I doubt that anyone would mind.”

The woman smiles. She finishes the martini.

He looks up. On the stage, three antique guitars stand in a pool of light. The one in the middle seems to be surrounded by a halo. A security guard walks out and makes certain that each instrument is in the right place.

“I wonder when the next show begins?” he says.

“It starts Sunday.”

He laughs and leans back in his chair. “That can't be right,” he says.

“Sure,” she says. “A Sunday matinee. I saw the sign on the way in.”

“That's crazy.”

“Why?”

“Do you plan to stay here tonight and all day tomorrow and tomorrow night, too?”

“I don't have a choice.”

He glances at the face on her shirt. “But he's not coming?”

“Maybe not,” she says. “I'll wait and see.”

 

THE DAYS get warmer.

Coleman goes directly from work to Humbug and spends the night more often than not. The cabin gets stuffy in hot weather, but on breathless evenings the boat feels calm and restful – it makes no disquieting sounds.

Just after the Fourth of July, he looks her over from bow to stern and decides that everything's squared away. It's time, he thinks, for the planning and repairs to pay off. He wants to prove to himself and to anyone who cares that the work he's put into the boat means something, that he's not just tinkering and wasting time. He's also excited by the idea of a long cruise. Heather'll be gone soon enough, he thinks. There's not much reason to stick around.

He visits the house, checks his mail, and pays a few bills. The rooms feel heavy and he sits in the kitchen with the windows open, his small fan clicking as it rotates from side to side.

He leaves a message for Heather, but she doesn't call. He imagines her at work, her mood swinging between anger and disappointment. She can be unforgiving, he thinks, like her mother. They both see things with a hard clarity.

The house is too hot. He drinks vodka on the rocks but it offers no relief. He downs more than he should and thinks about calling a woman, a lover that he completely makes up – tall, dark, commanding. She tells him to come over and he goes without hesitation. She lets him in and he moves outside of time –
no past or future. He lies beside her and listens to her breathing and the sound of cool sheets caressing her skin.

Not long after that he falls forward and hits his head on the wall.

Nodding off on the toilet is fast becoming a hazard. His forehead throbs. He walks through the dark house to the kitchen, puts a handful of ice in a glass, and then fills the glass with vodka.

After an hour or two, in the cool of the morning twilight, having barely slept, he makes his way to Humbug.

He watches
Pequod
rise in her slings. He feels proud, a sense of accomplishment, when her hull touches the water. The putting in is graceful and without incident, but he knows he would've enjoyed it more had he kissed off last night's booze or taken a shot with his coffee to kill the hangover.

He guides the boat to her berth and goes slowly with the mooring lines, repeating the names to himself – bowline, bow spring, and quarter spring – as he rounds a bollard or cleat.

He thinks about the work that remains. He'll need a hand to step the mast, and then he'll trim the stays and reeve the last lines. He knows it'll be a while before he can cast off.

Later, starting his route for the day, he pictures going upriver, across Lake St. Clair and through the narrows, and then out into Lake Huron. He wants to follow his father's course, make the trip to Port Elgin – sail to the place where his father was last seen. Maybe then, sensing the familiar, the old boat will heel and surge, pointing higher than seems possible, footing and careening in a wash of white spray and wind.

He likes the thought of it. He'll take the vacation time he's got coming. He'll listen to the weather, the patterns and the long-range forecasts. He'll try to see Heather.

He drives across the Ambassador Bridge later that morning, loads up the truck in Windsor, and makes the return crossing before lunch. Then he drives
north and northeast and delivers beer in Roseville and Warren before turning back and rolling downriver in the late afternoon.

When he gets home, he sees the light on his phone flashing. The time of the message is 12:35 P.M.

“It's Humbug,” says the voice. “Looks to me like she's out of trim – and she's not pumping. I'd get over here if I were you.”

When he pulls in at Humbug, he glances at his watch – almost six-thirty.

He hurries to the dock.

The boat's too low in the water – half the freeboard seems to have disappeared. He steps down into the cockpit and the boat barely moves. It's stranded, he thinks. The keel's stuck fast in the muck.

He unlocks the hood and slides it forward. He sees water in the cabin. It laps the top rung of the companionway steps.

“Tough break,” says the yard manager, peering down from the dock.

“Jesus,” he says. “I'm finished with this shit.”

“Want me to handle it?” says the manager.

“Yeah. I can't do it.”

“It'll cost you.”

“I know. Just do whatever it takes.”

“I did a search for a cell number – or a number at work – but nothin' came up.”

“I don't carry a phone,” he says. “Wouldn't have mattered. I was up on the east side.”

The yard manager rubs his stubble. “Bilge pump shoulda kicked in.”

“I know.”

“Could be the battery. Maybe the float switch.”

“Battery's brand-new.”

“What about the pump?”

“No.”

“Well,” says the manager, “maybe it got clogged with gunk. Maybe the motor's fried.”

“Maybe.”

“More likely the float switch.”

“Just take care of it.”

“All right. I'll pump her till she's near dry.”

“Fine.”

“And then I'll haul her out.”

He looks at the manger's beat-up hands and then at the travel lift standing in the yard.

The manager frowns. “Funny she took on water so fast.”

“Yeah, funny,” he says.

“You want her in the same cradle?”

“Sure.”

“A little makeshift, don't you think?”

He shrugs. “She stood up all winter.”

“I can leave her in the lift for inspection.”

“No. Lay her up,” he says.

“It's your boat.”

“I know.” He turns and walks away.

“Hold on there,” says the manager. “You wanna leave me the keys?”

He pulls the keys out of his pocket and the large yellow float dangles from his hand like a dead fish. “Thanks,” he says.

“Don't thank me,” says the manager. “Just pay me.”

 

BACK at the house, he tries to occupy his mind with something other than his father's boat. He forgot to open the windows when he first came in after work and now the place feels hot and stuffy. He peels off his clothes, takes a cold shower, and wraps himself in a towel. He stands in front of the open freezer for
a long time before grabbing the vodka. He pours himself a double and dials Maureen. A voice in his head says to give her a wide berth, but he wants to get the worst part over with as soon as possible.