Of Song and Water (33 page)

The good listeners in the crowd, those who've followed the trio's progress, understand that Brian can stay back or step forward with perfect ease. For Brian, it's not a question anymore of showing what he can do. It's an effort now to be true to the song, to stay with it and find its direction. He's learned to acquiesce, to let go, and no warm-up appears to be necessary. He surrenders to the sound and rhythm and in doing so finds a place for himself that feels right.

The next tune pays homage to Charlie Parker, an incredibly fast, dense, and elliptical charge with the hands of all three players moving in a constant blur. He lets it wash over him and remembers some of the ancient bluesmen in Chicago talking in a scattershot and cryptic street language that seemed to mimic the bebop phrasing of Parker's saxophone. He hears it now in the conversation between Brian's bass licks and the sharp, staccato cries of the piano. He glances at Heather – she rocks back and forth and her head dips and then rises – and he wants to ask her exactly what she hears. He senses now that the audience is on board and the trio, taking the opportunity, works to keep everyone together, pulling the crowd through waves of emotion and energy, carrying them far from shore and then returning them to a place they recognize as both familiar and new.

With the set two-thirds gone, Brian calls him to the stage.

Heather, already moved by the music, kisses him on the cheek and whispers, “I'll be listening,” her voice wavering, tearful, filled with a smoky kind of joy.

He plugs in and tunes and hears Brian's voice but not the introduction itself and then Brian wipes his face with a towel and turns to the musicians and says, “Let's go easy and find a groove. Blues in E.”

He looks at Brian and takes a deep breath as Brian counts off the beat.

At first, his fingers won't cooperate, all of them heavy and stiff, almost clumsy, but as the piano and bass move through their turns he starts to feel loose, getting off fills and phrases that surprise him for their voicings and speed. When Brian points to him for the next solo, he takes off and plays three or four choruses, working higher and higher on the neck, enjoying a strong and youthful momentum. In the middle, he catches a glimpse of Heather at the table, her head tilted to one side, a look of quiet satisfaction on her face. The drummer grabs the last lead and does the run-up to the end and the final chord vanishes in a glittering crash of cymbals.

He wants to celebrate his good fortune. He realizes that he can't make some of his old moves, but when an inspiration comes, he finds other ways to compensate. He smiles at Brian. “What's next?”

“I'll think of something,” says Brian. Then he turns to the audience and speaks into the microphone. “We'd like to feature Coleman Moore on this next tune – a classic from Brazil that Cole and I played when we were young – ‘Manha de Carnaval,' otherwise known as ‘Black Orpheus.'”

Coleman begins without accompaniment, making the first notes a plaintive and legato whisper. Then the drums step in with a stammering rhythm, a mellow samba, and the guitar repeats the opening measures, this time with a feel that's cool and lyrical. He opens his eyes and sees that the magic of the bossa nova has transformed the room into a sultry, smoke-filled bistro with the people, the tables, and the walls all beginning to sway. A woman approaches
the stage with a camera. He notices her black hair and the sculpted line of her shoulders. He blinks and clears his head.

He listens as the piano carries the theme through the first verse and chorus. In response, he creates a descant and touches on a few harmonies, hinting at variations to come. Later, during Brian's solo, a spiral of descending registers, he plays short bursts of the melody, eruptions of fire, while his guitar seems to shift and change, the body and neck somehow growing pliant, supple – even weightless.

He takes over after that, ascending in scales like a man climbing out of darkness. Following each phrase, he lets out an exhalation of breath, almost a groan, and listens in the next beat, in the brief space of silence, hoping for reassurance, for the echo of someone moving and breathing nearby.

He forgets his hands and the slow plodding of his feet, and then, as the room fills with audible light, the music soaring, he lifts his fingers, a slight hesitation, and sees that the stage has suddenly become a boundary, a far shore, where he waits in silence and bends his ear to the wind and finally looks back, knowing in that instant that he's turned too soon, a lack of faith, of judgment, always and again, the melody straining and falling away, disappearing on the air like dust.

Sensing the turn, Brian finds him and buoys him up, the long dark notes like water. Then, reasserting his presence, relying on the precision of his hands, Brian pulls on short melodic lines strung from the light, his fingers striding between strings and discovering new patterns, his progress steady, the bass growing brighter, more poised, as he bridges the distance between the guitar and drums.

Coleman bows his head and drifts, giving himself to the sound, surrounding himself with it, a union more complete than harmony. In that moment, even as the music fades, he feels whole, utterly at peace, utterly cleansed.

 

AFTERWARD, with most of the crowd having gone, he orders a shot of vodka on ice and sits with Heather and sips his drink. The woman with the camera and dark hair stops at the table and asks if she can take another picture. He puts his arm around Heather and the flash fires.

“Are you coming out?” says the woman.

“Pardon me?” he says.

“Of retirement. Brian James said in his introduction – ”

“I never retired,” he says.

The woman smiles. “Then you're planning a comeback?”

“Nothing quite so ambitious.”

“But you do intend to play.”

“Maybe. But not to make a living.”

“Then how will anyone hear you?”

He shrugs.

She smiles again and waits for an answer. When it doesn't materialize, she taps her finger on the table like an impatient schoolteacher.

“Is there anything else?” he says.

“Comebacks take a lot out of a man.”

“I imagine they do.”

“How old is she?” says the woman, still smiling.

He puts down his drink.

“You're outrageous bringing her here,” says the woman. “You could be arrested.”

Heather's face goes sour. “I'm his daughter,” she says.

The woman laughs. “Nice try, sweetie.” Then she scowls and stamps off.

Heather scoots over and rests her head on his shoulder. “I'm sorry,” she says.

“For what? It's not your fault.”

“I know. But I wanted to stay and talk about the songs – enjoy it with you for a while.”

“It's okay.”

“No, it's not.”

“Really. It's fine. It's a good reminder.”

“But she ruined it.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “She can't. Let's talk about something else.”

“It was strange,” says Heather.

“What?”

“Seeing you and Brian together. I mean – the last time I must've been only seven or eight.”

He stares at his glass.

“But there were moments tonight when you seemed like two parts of the same person – like you were moving in him and he was moving in you.”

“Is that what it looked like?”

“No. That's what it sounded like.” Heather sweeps her hair to one side. “Was it always like that?”

“Maybe it was.”

Heather's words make him think of Jennifer and the first nights that he worked with Brian at the Green Mill. He remembers the small, awkward stage, the thick smoke, and his firm belief that no one would stay for the second or third set.

He sees Jen drinking bourbon over ice, her camera waiting on the table. And he thinks of her now in Tobermory and of the last time they spoke, a phone conversation just after midnight, a cold New Year's Eve.

“You should be celebrating,” she said.

He heard the concern in her voice. “I am.”

“I always hated New Year's Eve,” she said.

“Me, too.”

“You did not. You liked the bigger paycheck.”

“That's true.”

She didn't say anything then, so he raised his pint and took a quick pull. “I'm surprised you weren't asleep,” he said.

“I was.”

“Sorry.”

“Is there a reason other than New Year's?” she said.

“I keep seeing a picture of yours. A bench in Chicago. I can't get it out of my head.”

“I didn't think you liked that picture.”

“Did I say that?”

“I don't remember. You never said it was good.”

“It's better than that,” he said.

“Cole,” she said, “you should come up here. Stay as long as you want.”

“You'd do that?”

“Just drop everything and come up.”

“I'd have to explain to Heather,” he said.

“I know.”

“And the boat still needs work.”

“What difference does that make? It's not going anywhere.”

“Maybe I will,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “Anytime.”

In the morning, he couldn't remember hanging up or saying good-bye. He meant to call her, of course, but then winter dragged itself into April, and he only went as far as the yard at Humbug.

The waitress stops for last call and he asks for bottled water. Heather orders coffee. Brian comes over and takes a seat at the table.

“You were incredible,” says Heather.

“Thanks,” says Brian. “But your old man brought down the house.” Brian smiles. “How was it for you?”

“Like before,” he says. “Only better.”

Brian nods. “Too bad we closed tonight. I'd invite you back.”

“You around tomorrow?”

“No. Early flight out.”

The waitress returns. Heather clears a small space on the table. “But you'll be playing here again,” she says.

“I suppose,” says Brian. “Don't know when though.”

“I'd like it if you could stay,” says Heather.

“Watch out, Brian. She's playing the guilt card.”

“No I'm not.”

“It's all right. It won't work on Brian any better than me.” He watches as she stirs her coffee. “That really smells good.”

“Want a sip?” says Heather.

“Sure.” He savors the aroma. The coffee looks very black inside the white cup.

“I'll see you,” says Brian, offering his hand across the table.

He takes it and feels glad, his gnarled hand almost disappearing in Brian's grip. “Thanks,” he says. “For everything.”

Brian lets go. He kisses Heather on the cheek. She hugs him. Then Brian stands and turns and slips out the door without looking back.

Walking to the car, they hear thunder groaning in the distance. The storm has come and gone, leaving large puddles like mirrors on the asphalt. He catches a glimpse of himself together with his guitar and Heather. The parking lot is empty. The fresh-scrubbed air smells like honeysuckle.

“Are you tired?” he says.

Heather puts her arm around him. “I'm a little sleepy.”

“Give me the keys,” he says. “I'll drive.”

 

HE FEELS close to a hangover in the morning, though he'd taken only one drink, a tiny shot of vodka, at the Bird. He opens the fridge and manages the
carton of orange juice without much pain. He brews tea and toasts a plain bagel. He washes the fork, knife, and salad plate he'd left in the sink.

He showers, puts on a clean T-shirt and jeans, and makes the bed.

He brings in boxes from the garage and begins to pack all the tapes and photographs of the CBT Trio. He pulls out and takes down all of Jen's loose pictures and places them carefully between the pages of a scrapbook. He pauses over the three images in the black frames – an ethereal, onstage shot of Brian and two self-portraits of Jen. He pads each of these with thick paper and slides them into the carton.

He dumps the contents of his dresser drawer on the bed and picks up his grandfather's letter and carries it out to the patio. He strikes a match and holds it to the corner of the envelope. Then he drops the letter into a metal can and watches it flare up and curl into ashes.

After that, he looks through folders of old arrangements, chord charts, and original songs. He comes across his cardboard “Circle-O-Keys” slide rule and is amazed to discover that it was published in 1957 on North Wacker Drive in Chicago. He packs it with a blues harp and his antique pitch pipe.

Starting a new box, he takes down his photograph of Wes Montgomery and wraps it several times in a thin blanket. He thinks of Otis and Lucille's sister and for a moment gives free play to his recollections, trying to gather up and keep what details he can: Otis in a white shirt and black pants waiting at the screen door, the dozen or so grips that he knew for every chord, his sense of time, the ease of being with him, his belief in a student's will, his faith.

He seals the carton and carries it into the living room and sets it on the stack next to his amplifier and guitar.

He empties his closet, the medicine cabinet, and several of the kitchen drawers and crams the stuff into suitcases, backpacks, and shopping bags. He slips Heather's picture into a briefcase along with a short stack of letters and a crayon valentine that she'd made somewhere in the past.

He runs out at midday to the Blue Moon Market for a sandwich, bottled water, and a pint of vodka. He wolfs down the smoked turkey on wheat in the parking lot and chugs the cool water. He stops at the gas station and fills the tank and squeegees the windows. When he returns to the house, he puts the vodka in the freezer.