Jezebel's Blues (14 page)

A small, strangled noise came from him, and he lifted one arm, then let it drop. “I wish I could forget it, but it’s gonna be on my conscience forever. Because of me, Retta’s dead. Every time I look at my hands, I remember that I killed her.”

Celia lifted her head and rounded his tall frame to look at him. Guilt was seamed into the grim lines of his face. She touched the hard planes with her fingers, using both hands to try to smooth the sorrow. “So you keep running.”

He grabbed her arms above the elbow, grabbed them fiercely. “You keep looking at me with that hero look in your eyes, Celia, and I keep trying to tell you that I’m not the man you think I am.”

“You aren’t the man
you
think you are, either.” She didn’t pull away, in spite of the boiling glimmer in his eyes. “I’ve never seen anyone who was as hard on himself as you are.”

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t get it. I’m the bastard child of a woman everyone in this town had a name for. I’ve never had anything to call my own, and for most of my life I rarely had two nickels to rub together. I dropped out of high school when I was sixteen and never went back. The only thing in the world I had was that guitar and now that’s gone, too. I don’t have anything to give you.”

Oh Eric, don’t you see what you have?

She wanted to touch his mouth, set in such hard lines, but in his present mood he might bite her fingers off. The thought made her nearly smile again, but this time she caught it before any of it showed.

She put her hand flat on his chest and waited until she could feel the heavy thud of his heart against her palm. “Your heart,” she said, and looked at him.

Puzzlement chased away some of the fury in his eyes.

“Your heart’s broken,” she said softly. “That’s all that’s wrong with you.”

He rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Celia—”

“No. It’s your turn to listen to me.” Keeping her hand pressed against the life-sustaining heat of his heart, she said, “You’d like me to believe that you took Retta with you because she was good in bed and that was it. But the truth is, you don’t have a mean bone in your body. Another man might take on a woman for the sake of sex, but I’ve got a feeling you really did feel sorry for Retta, and you did what you could to give her a break.” She smiled with a little shrug. “Which isn’t to say you didn’t enjoy her, uh, company.”

She stood on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his beautiful mouth. “Whenever you get over feeling sorry for yourself, you know where I am.”

As she walked away from him, Celia felt her own heart pounding. Her mouth had opened of its own accord, and maybe she’d been wrong. She hesitated, then turned around.

Eric stood at the edge of the river, his head bent into his hand. His bare feet were planted in the mud, and his other hand was braced on his hip. His pain radiated from him like steam, almost visible in the hazy, humid air.

What he needed was to be loved, deeply and completely and unconditionally. Not for his beauty or his talent or his sexy, sexy ways. Just because he was Eric Putman, unique in all the world.

The problem was she kept getting tangled in her own past, in the scenarios torn from her father’s stupid books and in fear. Fear that she might be falling in love with Eric. It terrified her that she could even consider such a thing, that she could fall victim to fate like that.

This morning, talking about babies and grandchildren, she’d put Eric in the role of daddy and grandpa. She’d offered her vision of the peaceful future to tempt him.

But his stories this afternoon had seemed especially designed to illustrate to her just how far his life was from the role she wanted to cast him in. Babies and grandchildren and long evenings on the porch? Fat chance.

As she stood there staring at him across a field of grass, with the sun burnishing his skin with gold, she wanted to weep. In spite of all her resolves, she was falling in love with him.

Furious now with both of them, she whirled and stomped away, walking along the banks of Jezebel, who had deposited him on her doorstep.

When Eric was firmly out of sight, she paused, breathing hard. “Why did it have to be my doorstep, Jezebel?” she asked the river. “There must be a woman that could handle him, but I’m not her.”

She paused and realized she half expected the river to answer. Instead, Jezebel sang her own private song, rushing over rocks toward the place where Eric likely stood yet, lost in his own private hell.

Celia wavered, thinking of his posture as she’d left him. Maybe she ought to go back.

“No,” she said aloud. “You comfort him, Jezzie. He’s your son.”

A
fter Celia left him, Eric sank into a heap at the edge of the river. The cocoon of numbness he’d created for himself after the accident two years ago was crumbling fast.

It had started to crack when Celia had yanked her father’s original manuscripts out of the trunk and thrown one at him. Excitement had shimmered all the way through him over those damned manuscripts.

That had been the first crack. Celia, with her wide-open kiss, had levered the split into a fissure.

From there, it had been disintegrating further each day. His sister’s disappearance, being in the blues club and hearing his song, dancing with Celia—all had taken their toll. Last night when he’d begged her to go home before he’d lost control, he’d known there wasn’t much left of his peace of mind.

Now he knew it was gone. He felt as rawly exposed as a half-formed moth.

In a black humor, he headed home. He checked the message machine, finding nothing. After dinner, he showered off the fishing trip from his body, and unable to bear the thought of another lonely evening in his sister’s house, set out on foot for the Five O’Nine. If he was blown open, he might as well go where he was known.

It was early. The sun hadn’t even set, but this was the time of day he had always walked over to the club when he worked there, and it felt natural. A handful of cars rested in the shade of a cottonwood tree, and the door was propped open to any wind that might stray from the river. As Eric crunched over the gravel of the lot, he heard a laugh ring out, and he knew someone had dropped some coins into the jukebox, because a tinny recording of Lightnin’ Hopkins swirled suddenly into the evening.

Long, gold fingers of sunlight arrowed through the trees and fell through the open door, and as if they were the yellow-brick road, Eric followed them inside.

He paused a minute to let his eyes adjust to the dimness within. At the bar was a cluster of older men, some dressed in the ties they’d worn to work, others in field clothes. At this hour, the customers were mostly widowed or divorced old men looking for a little conversation before they returned to the quiet of their rooms. There was a younger couple in the corner, murmuring quietly between themselves, and a pair of young men played a game of pool, but most of the younger crowd would filter in later. There was something reassuring about the fact that the pattern hadn’t changed.

He ambled toward the knot of drinkers at the bar. The bartender with the gold tooth looked up and grinned. “Hey, y’all,” he said to the others at the bar, “look who’s here.”

The group turned as one, heads swiveling, and Eric slapped Wild Willie on the shoulder. “Hey, old man.”

Willie grinned and gestured at the stool beside him. “Pull up a chair, boy, have a drink.” He gestured to the bartender. “Just couldn’t stay away, could you?”

Eric thought about lying, but he shook his head. “Nope.”

“Well, you must’ve read my mind.”

“Why’s that? I know you don’t have laryngitis.”

Willie chuckled. “I might get it any minute, you don’t behave.” He leaned over the bar. “John, hand me that guitar.”

Eric frowned as the bartender lifted a black case from a spot behind a case of beer. The light caught a scratch in the black leather that Eric recognized. “Where the hell did you find it?” he asked as Willie deposited the case in his hands.

“Some old tramp brought it in a day or two ago, trying to get a few drinks in trade.” The rheumy eyes settled on Eric hard. “Now I’m not a man for signs and superstitions—”

“Uh-huh,” Eric said sarcastically.

Willie glanced over his shoulder at his cronies in mock disgust. “This younger generation got no respect a-tall.” Shaking his head, he turned back to Eric. “Like I was saying, I’m not much of a man for signs and superstitions, but this here guitar showing up like that, right here, made even me think a bit.”

Eric ran a hand over the leather, traced the scar on the case that he’d picked up in the fight in Chicago that he’d told Celia about this afternoon. He’d spent days cursing his choice to leave the guitar behind, and his fingers were just a hair unsteady as he flipped the lid open.

And there it was, his guitar, a blue ’57 Stratocaster, silky and cold to the touch. He smiled and let go of a long breath, running his fingers over the frets, the almost womanly dips and swells along the edge. A ripple of relief washed through him, and he had a peculiar, powerful urge to hug it, kiss it, press it close against his chest. Instead, he just looked at Willie and raised his eyebrows.

“And you think you can turn your back on the blues,” Willie said in a soft voice. “Boy, those teeth are sunk so deep in your heart, they ain’t never gonna let you go.”

Eric pursed his lips. He laughed without mirth. “I know, Willie,” he said quietly. “I know.”

“Why don’t you hang around awhile? There’s a boy comin’ in who’d really like to meet you.”

“Who is it?” Eric closed the case and eased it down to lean against the bar, close to his leg.

“Local fella. Name’s James. He’s gonna fill in for Cat tonight.”

Eric nodded. “I’ll be here.”

Willie nodded and clapped him on his shoulder as he stood up. “I’m gonna go have Betty fix me something to eat. You want to join me?”

Eric lifted his head. He’d already eaten a light supper, but the thought of salty, heavy cooking as prepared by the woman who’d been making such meals for the clientele of the Five O’Nine for twenty years or so was more than he could resist. “What’s she got tonight?” he asked.

“Catfish. I caught it myself.”

Eric chuckled to himself at the irony, then stood up to join the old man.

* * *

The boy, James, was just that—no more than seventeen at the outside; and already as tall as Eric. He ambled over to the vinyl booth where Willie and Eric ate from heavy porcelain plates. To learn that he was painfully shy took no more than a glance.

His shirt was buttoned to the collar and tight around the gangly wrists, an odd sight for Eric, who’d forgotten boys in the country didn’t wear leather or cut designs in their hair: their mamas would kill them. As he slid in next to Willie at the old man’s invitation, James cast a shy glance toward Eric.

“How you doin’, man?” Eric said, spearing the last of his fish.

“I’m okay.” James’s voice was a gentle tenor, his smile tentative.

Eric pushed his plate aside and leaned comfortably on the table. “Willie says you’re filling in for Cat tonight. You must play a pretty mean sax.”

“Yes, sir,” James said. “Well, I mean, uh—” He glanced at Willie, who nodded. James sighed and met Eric’s eyes directly. “My grandpa wanted me to play the sax and I’m okay, but I want to play blues guitar—I mean,” he said, ducking his head momentarily, “I already play, but I want to play like you. I’ve heard you every time you been home and have two records you played on, and every record that anybody made with your songs.” Earnestly, he gestured with his long-fingered dark hands. “I never heard anybody play guitar like you do—did.” He gulped and fell back in the booth. “I’d be real honored if you’d teach me some of your licks. But if you don’t want to, I mean, I understand. Willie told me…”

Despite himself, Eric grinned at Willie, who had a fond smile on his wide mouth. “He doesn’t have a lot of trouble once he gets going, does he?” Eric asked.

Willie touched his nose with the pad of his thumb and chuckled. “Reminds me of somebody else I know.”

Between Willie and Eric passed a hundred memories—a thousand—beginning with a spiel much like the one Eric had just heard.

Eric looked back to James’s dark face, to his wide, earnest eyes, and he saw the hunger there—the hunger to somehow
be
the blues. He filled his lungs with air and blew it all out. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “My hands…”

James tried to hide his crestfallen expression. He was unsuccessful. But bravely, he inclined his head and half shrugged. “I understand.”

Quickly he got to his feet. “I gotta warm up.”

Eric swore under his breath, watching the boy walk away. It seemed lately as though everything he did was wrong.

“You know,” Willie said in his slow drawl, “ain’t many boys his age want to play blues anymore. They all want to sing rap or play heavy metal.” He growled the terms. “There’s some who say the blues is dying. ’Less we all share what we know, your grandbabies won’t never know it.”

Eric looked up, but Willie had already slid from the booth. “I got some work to do myself,” he said.

There’s some who say the blues is dying.
Over the next few hours, as Eric watched the crowd amble in, as he listened to the blues-men on the small corner stage, the words echoed in his head over and over and over.

By the time the club had grown hot with bodies and smoky with cigarettes and friendly with drink, Eric made up his mind. A world without blues was not a world he wanted to live in. When the band took a break, he crossed the room and touched James’s shoulder.

“Can you come to my sister’s place tomorrow? Maybe about five?”

James smiled. “Yeah.”

He held out a hand and Eric took it. “We’ll see what we can do.”

Old Wild Willie, standing nearby, nodded solemnly.

* * *

It was late. Celia knew she ought to get to bed, get some rest. Instead she sat on the porch, staring over the dark fields as if they could tell her what to do.

She was worn out. The house, in spite of long days of work, was still a mess. Most of the mud had been shoveled out, and she’d even made some progress in throwing out the ruined artifacts of her grandmother’s life, but everything stank to high heaven.