Red House Blues (12 page)

She was still musing about tattoos when the
band launched into their first number without any time-wasting tune
up. After the first moment or two she realized that being in tune
wasn’t necessary to what they were doing. Scalp guy was the
drummer. The other two were on keyboards and guitar. The guitar
player was bellowing something into a microphone. Suzan couldn’t
make out many words but from what she could pick up it didn’t sound
like anything Sean could have written. Or at least the Sean she
knew.

Talking over the volume wasn’t an option.
Marla ordered a beer for herself and a Coke for Suzan. Suzan was
worried if she ordered a beer too she would be carded. She was
always carded, a problem when she knew nobody there but Marla.
There was no way of knowing whether the bartender was part of
whatever happened to Sean. She couldn’t trust anyone. Not even
Marla, she realized, but it was too late to worry that she had
screwed things up there also.

The set lasted forty-five minutes but seemed
longer and by the time the band finally unplugged her head was
bursting. Marla hurriedly ordered another beer, and beer in hand,
edged her way through to the drum riser where the drummer was
detaching himself from his instrument. Suzan followed in her wake,
knowing this was finally her big chance at some answers.

Chapter 11

The Red House, Fir Street - October 1960

Morning was stillborn on the orange sill
above the cracked sink. Clay leaned over the pile of dirty dishes
and tried to make out the backyard through the rain sheeting off
the grimy glass. It was at least an hour before dawn and the
backyard was like the inside of a closet. He didn’t see the dog.
Probably drowned during the night. Maybe if he was lucky he got out
through the fence. Seemed like every stray Donna adopted managed to
come to a bad end. He wondered sometimes why she thought she was
doing any animal a favor. Better just to leave them out in the
street to take their chances.

The coffee started to burp to a perk on the
hot plate. Donna would be down pretty soon. It was her turn to open
the cafe this week. She’d be bitchy about it. She hated the early
crowd. They never wanted to talk, just shovel in the eggs and slurp
enough caffeine to prime them for their own miserable mornings.
Clay hated it when she worked mornings. As it was, he hardly ever
saw her, what with him playing nights at Trader Vic’s. It was
better when she used to work nights at the Fifth Avenue Theater.
They would come home around the same time, sleep late and then go
to brunch up at the Egg Basket Cafe. Then Hazel asks her if she
wants a job there. Money talks and the tips are good at the cafe.
Always Donna’s argument when he grumbled about the rotating
shifts.

And she had a point. It wasn’t easy coming
up with rent money every month when Premier Management sent one of
their goons around to collect. Even with the other three bedrooms
rented it was a stretch. Especially since Walt and Palmer weren’t
all that dependable about kicking in their share.

Ferlin, though, was okay where the rent was
concerned. Always paid his on time, and always in cash. Clay could
never figure out where he found the bucks. The man lived like a
bum. He didn’t have a steady job that anyone knew. Just odd jobs
around the neighborhood. Clay was pretty ambiguous about Ferlin.
The guy was clearly not playing with a full deck but he could fix
anything mechanical ever invented. Without him, Clay knew, he’d
never have gotten the hi-fi stereo kit put together. Maybe it
wasn’t a good idea to know too much about housemates as long as the
money was there.

This morning Clay was going to surprise
Donna with breakfast. Have a little time together. She’d been
sleeping so hard when he got in he hadn’t wanted to wake her up to
tell her his news. Or maybe he was afraid of how she’d take it at
two a.m.

He went to the fridge and pulled out the egg
carton. He’d scramble her a few just the way she liked. While he
realized it was kind of silly since she’d be serving scrambled eggs
till noon up at the corner. She’ll know it’s the thought that
counts, he thought. She’ll see he was trying to make it up to her
for not waking her last night when he came in. Or suspect he was
trying to butter her up. It was a little of both, he admitted to
himself.

“Hi. What are you doing up this early,” she
asked as she came into the kitchen through the dining room
door.

“Making us some breakfast, baby. Couldn’t
sleep anyway. Nasty weather coming in. The wind was banging the
house around a while ago. Did you hear it?”

The window now looked like a porthole on the
Titanic.

“Oh, no! The dog is out!” she said, “Poor
thing is going to be soaked.” Donna padded to the backdoor in her
fuzzy pink slippers. “Why didn’t you bring him in, Clay? How would
you like to be out in this rain?”

“I looked for him, baby. Couldn’t find him.
Maybe he got out. That fence wouldn’t hold anything that wanted
out.”

She wrapped her terry robe tighter around
her generous figure and unlocked the back door. A whoosh of wind
brought with it a whale spray of chilly drizzle.

“Here, puppy,” she called. “Come on, boy.
Come get breakfast.” Any dog worthy the name would have come to
that invitation. No dog showed up. Donna gave him a few more calls,
then closed the door.

“He’s gone. I just knew I should have
brought him in last night,” she said, her eyes welling ever so
slightly. Ah hell, he thought. Now she’s going to cry.

“Maybe he’ll come back when it stops
raining. Probably found himself a dry hidey-hole. Come sit down and
have some coffee. You want toast? Eggs will be ready in a
second.”

“
He was so cute, Clay. I
really wanted a puppy. We need a dog around here, you know. He
could have even been a guard dog,” said Donna.

As if any of us has anything worth guarding,
thought Clay, but he swallowed the thought.

“Yeah, he was pretty cute. As I say, maybe
he’s just running around and he’ll be back. Hey, could be he’s in
Ferlin’s room. I’ll check with him later.”

Ferlin occupied a tiny room off the kitchen.
Room for a twin bed and a dresser. Not even a chair. A two by two
window overlooking the trash cans. Even though he’d lived in the
house longer than any of them, and over the years he had the pick
of any of the bedrooms, Ferlin insisted on staying in what used to
be a walk-in pantry. To Clay that spoke volumes about Ferlin.

“I didn’t think of that,” said Donna.
“That’s probably it. He really took to Ferlin.”

“Sure. That’s most likely where he is,” said
Clay, not at all convinced, but it was good enough to forestall the
water works. He dished up the eggs on a cobalt blue plate and
buttered a slice of toast. So it wouldn’t be so obvious that he had
something on his mind, he made up a plate of the same for himself
and poured coffee into a pair of hand-thrown mugs Walt gave them
the previous Christmas.

Donna sat down at the kitchen table and
spooned some sugar into her cup. “What’s going on, Clay?” she
said.

“Nothing, baby. Just wanted to do something
nice for you. I never see you anymore.”

“Come on, I know you. Is there something
you’re afraid to tell me about? Because if there is something you’d
better just get it over with and tell me.”

Here it is. This is the time. Have to do it
now. She’s cradling her coffee, waiting for me to speak. Outside
the rain was slashing at the glass like a wild cat. Inside, Clay
nervously tapped his fork on the edge of his plate.

“There is something, baby,” he opened.
“Nothing bad but I know it’s going to change some things for us.
You know how I’ve always wanted to study classical piano and
composition at the U.? Well, a while back I applied for some
scholarships and loans. I didn’t want you to get all excited about
it until I knew whether I had a chance. Donna, here’s the thing - I
got the money. I’m going to school.”

Oh please, let her be happy about it. Please
don’t let her spoil it for me. I’ve waited so long, playing sappy
piano in cocktail lounges until my brain pours out my ears.

“I don’t know what to say. Wow, I mean, I
had no idea. That was the last thing I expected.”

“It’s a surprise, I know. The money will be
tight, but I can still work some nights and go to classes during
the day.”

“No, Clay. That’s not what I meant by did
you have something to tell me. I meant, what is the kid doing on
the couch?”

“What are you talking about, Donna?”

“There’s a Negro kid sleeping in the living
room. I noticed him when I came downstairs. You didn’t bring
someone home from Vic’s with you?”

“No, I didn’t. Walt and Palmer probably had
some people over. The stereo was on when I came home but I didn’t
look in.” He got up and poured them a coffee warm-up. “Or could be
somebody Ferlin knows. Nobody was here when you went to bed?”

“No. But I heard the stereo later. I wish
they wouldn’t have these parties when I have to work in the
morning. Maybe you could talk to them about saving it for the
weekends.”

“Yeah, I will. Funny I didn’t notice the kid
when I came downstairs this morning. Probably half asleep myself. A
Negro kid, you say? How young a kid?”

“How do I know? High school age maybe.”

“That’s just terrific. All we need is some
kid’s parents sending the cops around. I’m going to kill those two,
I swear. Guess I better go wake the kid up and send him home before
he’s reported missing. I’m beginning to feel like a den mother. Why
couldn’t we have normal housemates?”

“At least finish your breakfast, Clay. The
boy probably needs his sleep,” she said, loading her fork with egg.
“Clay, I think it’s great you’re going to college. You need to go.
I’ve always thought that . . . that it’s your karma to be the
greatest pianist in the world. You don’t have to worry about how it
will affect things around here. We’ll all cooperate.”

But he did worry. He knew she had been
hoping they were going to get married. College meant at least four
more years of eating spaghetti and beans . . . and no wedding. They
wouldn’t be able to afford to move out of the Red House into
something of their own. Four more years at least of grubbing for
every dime.

Of putting up with strangers in the next
bedroom, sharing your bathroom, filching your food out of the
fridge. Palmer blowing fuses with his electric guitar. Ferlin
stoned night and day. Walt slapping oil paint by the gallon all
over the house. Walt was in his senior year of painting major at
Cornish School of Allied Arts. Going to school was no hardship for
Walt. His dad paid the tuition. And he didn’t have a woman in his
life. But for Clay it would mean four years of seeing the
frustration and hurt in Donna’s eyes. Nothing to be done now.
Couldn’t be helped, he was committed.

Donna wedged her plate in the already
overflowing sink, knowing that she would eventually get so
irritated she’d relent, would once again wash up after her sloppy
house mates. No matter how strong her resolve she ended up dealing
with the messes they were so skilled at creating. Clay felt
put-upon but if anyone was the den mother around here she was. No
doubt because she was the only female and it was her female karma
to serve. And because Clay would be a famous pianist and she would
be his wife. And wasn’t that worth a pair of dishpan hands?

The dog didn’t show up the next day or the
next. But the kid from the couch did. His name was Charles and he’d
just flunked out of Garfield High. He didn’t care all that much. He
wanted to play guitar, and guitar players didn’t need much in the
way of algebra and social studies anyway.

The first time he showed up at the house on
Fir Street he’d just come from his friend Dave’s place. He’d been
there since he left campus, sitting for an hour on the steps until
Dave got his own self home from school. Dave’s mom finally came
home from work and fixed up some pork chops and potatoes for
everyone, Dave, Dave’s two brothers and him. Dave’s place was
always good for a meal. Never a scrap of food in his own house. His
dad’s place would starve roaches. He didn’t tell Dave he wasn’t
going back to school. He would have to eventually. Someone would be
sure to let it spill. Charles had already decided to tell his
friends he got kicked out for something he did. He hadn’t decided
what, something bad. Sounded better than being stupid and
flunking.

After supper, he and Dave played a new B. B.
King album up in the room Dave shared with his brothers. Then they
just shot the bull and played some more music. Dave had some good
blues albums. Around seven Dave’s mother told Charles to go on
home, home to Yesler Avenue where he lived in a small rented house
with his dad. Charles didn’t think of it as home. He had no home.
Him and his dad, and sometimes his older brother when he was in
town, slept anywhere they hadn’t been kicked out of yet.

He cut down Fir Street, not having a
particular reason for the short cut to Yesler. It was pure habit to
hurry away from where he was no longer wanted. There wasn’t
anything good to be rushing back to. As soon as he told his dad he
flunked out he was guaranteed a whipping. At least if his dad was
sober enough to swing the belt. For the first time Charles was
really hoping his dad was shit-faced. So when he passed by the tall
red house on the crest of the hill and heard the music he was
grateful for a reason to pause.

It was an electric guitar on a stereo amped
high and spilling out the windows like honey. Rock-n-roll with a
folk twang and a blues bass. Sounded pure and good to the kid. He
wished he had his own guitar with him so he could try a few of
those chords. Of course it wouldn’t sound the same on his guitar -
not on that beat up piece of lumber he had - a pitiful Danelectro
Silvertone that wouldn’t stay in tune. Someday he’d get himself a
real guitar, not some hand-me-down pawnshop shit.