In a Mist (2 page)

“Don't see much point,” said Herb finally, tossing the hammer onto the cushion of the chesterfield.

“I'm sure you've had a long day,” said Lyle. “Hot day to be carrying mail. Best to take it easy.” Herb looked at him without saying anything.

“My day's just starting,” said Lyle. “Though I've been up all afternoon. Hard to get any sleep in this damn heat.” He took a step forward. “You going to ask me to sit down before I go?”

Herb walked over to the sofa and sat down with a grunt, the hammer shifting as the cushions swelled with his weight.

Lyle took off his driver's cap, bent toward his boots for a moment before he thought better of it and sat across from Herb in an antique high-backed armchair that was too small for him.

“That's Susan's chair,” said Herb.

“I know you're upset,” said Lyle. “All I can say is that I'm sure they're safe. You shouldn't worry about them.”

Herb looked out the front window and watched a young man in a t-shirt and cut-off jeans pushing a manual lawnmower across a lawn on the other side of the street. He saw Mr. Kwong next door holding his son's hand, the boy looking up at his father, as the two of them walked down the path toward their front door. When he looked back at Lyle he noticed dark blotches beneath the arms of his work shirt and patches of grease on his pant legs. Lyle looked back at him almost serenely, rasping slightly with each breath.

“Just tell me you know,” said Herb. “Tell me you know where they are.”

“What good would that do? What diff erence does it make if I know where they're gone?” Lyle sniff ed and looked at the puddle drying on the carpet and the discarded shirt and his eyes followed the severed phone cord across the room to the dent in the wall.

“How long had she planned this?” said Herb.

“You need to straighten yourself out,” said Lyle. “I think if you were capable you'd have done it by now. But you still need to try. Don't look for them. It'll make it worse. And it's best if you stay away from Joan. She won't talk to you.” He stood to leave.

“If you need to talk to someone, you speak to me,” said Lyle.

“I could use some cash,” said Herb, standing, picking up the hammer by its head, tapping the shaft against his thigh.

“You still have a job, Herb. You're still an able-bodied man. Not some bum on the street.” Lyle turned and went out the door and Herb followed.

“Just a loan,” said Herb. “Until I get . . . organized.” He gestured with the hammer as he spoke, standing in the doorway in his sleeveless undershirt, his pants sagging and his suspenders hanging down to his knees.

“Goodbye, Herb. Do whatever it is you need to do.” Lyle opened the car door and got inside.

“Son of a bitch,” shouted Herb. He walked onto the driveway. The engine turned over and an Eddie Arnold tune blared out of the open window as the Buick backed out. The car was pulling away when Herb let the hammer fly. He aimed low and threw without all his force, and the hammer struck the chrome of the rear bumper and fell harmlessly on the asphalt. The car slammed to a halt and Herb watched Lyle turn in his seat and look back at him, his impassive expression giving way to pity and disdain. Then he turned back around and the engine revved and the car accelerated down the street.

The young man with the lawn mower stood and watched as Herb walked out into the street in his sock feet. As soon as Herb picked up the hammer he returned to his work as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Herb walked back down the driveway and out of the corner of his eye he saw the Kwong boy staring at him from the front window. Strands of the boy's black hair stood straight up, clinging with static to the chiff on drapes that obscured the room behind him. Herb looked the boy in the eye and swung the side of the hammer's head into the palm of his left hand and went on into the house.

Herb righted the end table and put down the hammer. He picked up the phone and something rattled inside it and he tossed it back in the corner. In the bedroom he took a short-sleeved shirt from its hanger and put it on, buttoning the middle three buttons. He slid his suspenders over his shoulders and sat on the bed to put his shoes back on. He paused after tying the first lace, remembered lying there in that room, watching Sue as she extended her bare leg, sliding on her nylons, recalled the touch of her white linen uniform, the scent of baby powder and starch.

Then he picked up the phone on the night stand and dialled his mother's number.

“Hello?” she said. “Hello? Is that you, Herbert?”

His throat began to swell. He knew if he were to speak she would hear only the slurred despair of his father's voice, as if calling from beyond the grave. He hung up the phone and walked out of the room.

He went into the bathroom, urinated, and turned to face the mirror. He took off his horn-rimmed glasses and polished the lenses with the corner of his shirt. When he put them back on he saw patches of stubble on his broad cheeks. He recalled the searing morning headache, his unwillingness to turn on the bathroom light while he shaved. Then he noticed more tufts of white in his dark, crewcut hair than he had ever seen before. Opening the medicine cabinet he took a bottle of Listerine, gargled, and spat in the pink porcelain sink. Then he splashed cold water on himself and dried his face with a green towel hung on a hook on the back of the door.

He patted his right haunch and felt the slight bulge of his empty wallet. In the living room he sat down at the writing desk, took the scissors from the middle drawer and worked at the cardboard and the cellophane until all ten coins were loose. He stood, slid the coins into his right front pocket. Before he left, he looked over the living room and except for the dent in the wall and his dirty shirt and the stain on the floor the room looked to him as it did when he would come home late on Sue's nights off , after she had tidied up and the girls had gone to bed. He did not bother to lock the door after himself. Walking down the driveway he heard the sound of a dog barking, a radio playing. He smelled fresh cut grass and the odour of a charcoal barbeque. As he made his way down the street he looked back at the Kwong's but the window was empty and so was the driveway and there was no one there to see him leave.

June 19, 1981

Dear Down Beat,

I am writing out of dismay at Mr. Glasner's piece on Eleanora Sinclair in last month's issue. Glasner's assertion that the small acclaim enjoyed by Ms. Sinclair is due primarily to her strange disappearance only betrays his ignorance of vocal jazz and shows the same penchant for crude sensationalism exhibited by the mainstream media. The suggestion that she orchestrated her own disappearance as a publicity stunt is a joke of exceptionally poor taste—an insult to both Ms. Sinclair and her devout fans. Many of us consider her to be one of the greatest vocalists of her era. It is absurd to think that anyone who loved the stage as much as Ms. Sinclair would wilfully abandon public life. Dean Glasner should stick to writing about the bop and post-bop he gets off on, and leave Sinclair fans in peace.

Alice Alderson
New York, NY

* * *

July 7, 1981

Dear
Down Beat,

I couldn't agree more with Alice Alderson's defence of Eleanora Sinclair. Too often, as in Mr. Glasner's piece, Ms. Sinclair is dismissed as a second rate performer. Indeed, the editors of
Down Beat
may be responsible in part for her status as a footnote in jazz history. Since Earl Ehlrich's short article following her disappearance in 1950,
Down Beat
has all but ignored her impressive catalogue and wide-ranging influence. Even Ehrlich's piece focusses on the circumstances of her disappearance and virtually ignores her merits as a distinctive, perhaps incomparable jazz vocalist.

I applaud Ms. Alderson for her criticism of Glasner, and would like to extend this criticism to the
Down Beat
establishment on the whole. Eleanora Sinclair ought to be remembered for her artistry, and not treated like pulp for the tabloids.

p.s. Any
Down Beat
readers who happen to live in the Fredericton/Oromocto NB area would be well-advised to tune into CHSR 97.9 FM every Thursday at 10 pm for
Two Drink Minimum
. Those of you who recognize that the show borrows its name from Sinclair's signature song (originally by Art Beazley, though Eleanora really made it her own) will require no further introduction.

Roy MacArthur
Fredericton, New Brunswick

* * *

July 26, 1981

Dear Roy,

We have finally had a chance to take a look at the piece you submitted back in February on Bix Beiderbecke and the Wolverines. Unfortunately, it's not the sort of thing we're looking for right now. F.Y.I., we don't as a rule consider unsolicited manuscripts.

Also, we won't be running your response to Ms. Alderson's letter. However, as a personal favour, from one Beiderbecke enthusiast to another, I can forward a copy of your letter to her, though I can't guarantee she'll respond. All the best with your radio show.

Yours,
Allan Brookes
Asst. Editor,
Down Beat Magazine

* * *

Five months after
Down Beat
publishes Alice Alderson's letter, Roy stands outside a gas station on the outskirts of Fredericton, duff el bag in one hand, a Greyhound bus ticket in the other. Roy is not about to let a conviction for dope deter him from attempting to cross the border. He's more or less kicked the habit and it seems unfair to him that such a trivial off ence should keep him from accepting Alice's invitation. Roy's major concern right now is the handful of listeners who tune in regularly to
Two Drink Minimum
and the punker-angst rock they'll be subjected to during his absence. That week, between customers at the record store, Roy spent hours meticulously selecting tracks and scripting anecdotes for next Thursday's show. But in
addition to covering his shifts while he was away, Roy's co-worker Andy agreed to sit in as the host of
Two Drink Minimum
only on the condition that he be permitted to play whatever records he wanted.

Three days later Roy is strolling down East Houston Street, arm in arm with Alice Alderson. He cleared the border without a hitch. Customs did not run a background check, nor did they detect the flask of rye in the inside pocket of his overcoat. Roy has forgotten what day of the week it is. He is not sure if he is in love, he only knows that he is profoundly elated to be in the company of the young woman at his side, and that he is overwhelmed. Roy is not used to big cities and he is not used to Alice. Their first few days together have been awkward at times, but they have also turned out better than Roy had expected. Though Alice proved to be the confident, opinionated young woman of her letters, Roy knows that in person he could never live up to the dashing persona of his radio broadcasts; which, at little prompting from Alice, he had tape-recorded and sent to her. Alice is not entirely disappointed with the young man she has met, but neither is she swept off her feet. Roy knows this. He also knows that his reticence is nothing a few pulls from his flask can't remedy. Alice likes it when he does this, not only because it helps him loosen up, but because it was a stylish thing for a young man to do.

Though Alice has had ample opportunity to become acquainted with Roy's voice, he is still growing accustomed to hers. They had spoken only once before meeting, and Alice had steadfastly refused to sing over the phone. When Roy requested that she send him a recording of herself, she complained that she had never had the opportunity to be professionally recorded—which is why, on the morning after Roy's arrival, as they sat drinking coffee in Alice's tiny apartment, there was an anxious smile on her lips as she
pushed the
Village Voice
across the table and pointed out the advertisement she had circled:

Jazz Vocalists Wanted. Silhouette Studios seeks undiscovered talent to audition/record. $20 fee payable at time of session. Serious inquiries only.

It is the afternoon of Alice's audition and they stand beneath an overcast sky in front of an East Houston Street newsstand. The proprietor is half a foot shorter than Roy and on his head is a grey watch cap. A cigarillo protrudes from his lips. His small, covered stand is stocked with the usual assortment of newspapers, magazines, candy bars and confections. It is only upon closer inspection that Roy notices many of the papers are yellowed around the edges, and some of the celebrities on the magazine covers have died. All the periodicals, in fact, are out of date. There are brittle copies of the
Times
from the late sixties, issues of
Esquire
and
Playboy
from the seventies.

“You brought a friend this time,” says the man, nodding at Alice. He speaks with a slight accent that Roy cannot place. Alice reaches for something tucked behind a row of
National Geographics
, and when the May 1950 issue of
Down Beat
is revealed, he knows why she has brought him here.

The newsman takes the cigarillo from his lips. “This one is very rare, very hard to find.” His brings his left hand to his mouth, covering his lips from Alice's view, as if to conspire with Roy. “For you, only twenty dollars,” he whispers. “Make a nice gift for the lady.”

Roy knows the man is asking far too much and he guesses that the man knows it too. While he imagines the LPs he could buy with twenty American dollars, he watches Alice flip through the pages. She stops at Ehlrich's feature, which is tastefully but predictably illustrated with the quintessential
profile shot of Eleanora Sinclair in performance at Café Society circa 1948. Roy's romantic inclination is to agree with the man, to buy the magazine on the spot. The newsman winks at him. Roy reciprocates to appease him, but then checks his watch impatiently. Beneath them, the sidewalk rumbles and Alice looks up.

“The stop is right there,” says the man. “You can make it if you run.”