Of Song and Water (31 page)

Now, on the water, he keeps the skiff at low throttle – the sky cloudy but showing no signs of rain. He runs slow and remembers the cold wind out of the northwest that had once made him shiver. On this boat, he doesn't worry about a winch handle or choosing the right moment to come about. He peers out over the bow and knows that he can keep this heading until he's used up half his fuel. He sees the changing colors of the lake, the deep water ahead, and the light at Port Austin Reef.

It's a wooden boat, lovingly restored, he thinks. It's the old man's dream – a last stand against failure.

Running straight out and going slow, he watches for a sign, an indication that he's passed this way before. He feels his body rising and falling, the skiff beating against the current and in some way holding its own.

He knows he should be grateful for the lake's hard beauty – his father embraced it always – but on this day it seems cruel, almost lonely. He tries to stay calm. He wants to hold everything in check, but he feels a pressure in his chest, his heart pounding, and beads of sweat roll down his back.

Without warning, a thin wall within him suddenly gives way. He wants to break something with his hands, to bulldoze long stretches of the past and start building again from the ground up.

He dreams of pouring the lake away. He wants to dam out all water and walk the singlehander's course from Port Huron to Mackinac Island, cataloging the shipwrecks, mapping the caves and trenches, listening as whispers rise up from the seaweed and debris. He wants to search the naked lake bed, cursing the light, cursing the darkness, following the scavengers that circle overhead, their shrill voices calling, until he finds the lost pile of teeth and bones, the bleached remains of his father's body.

He imagines his father grieving, marking the last miles home, steering by clouds and the hunches of birds. He sees him struggling against the weight of canvas, against the sailboat which was once his body. He seems confused by sudden mistakes, errors in judgment, as he watches for the light at Port Austin Reef and tacks across the lake, across its curved and breathing shoulder, checking the channel for big ships, their sad captains thinking of November, ice forming on deserted decks, storms, a long night, and then the shutting down.

He'd like one more day with his father. He'd walk with him on a seawall and force him to speak.

I want to know what was in you, he thinks. What in the end was hard to keep and what was easy to let go? Did you forget the boatswain on his watch, the crow's nest communing with clouds, losing your head and then your footing?
Was it the lake that claimed you? Or was it the last groping for words? You took no time to explain.

Did you reach for lines strung from the light – lines that promised new breath? Did you pull and climb?

What did you think when the weight of your body betrayed you?

Or did you pray?

The skiff rises and falls on steady swells and the fear rising in him is the fear of deep water. “Lord, create in us changed lives,” he says to no one, “ – even as we drink deep, and thirst, and drink again – whatever the cost.”

Now he dreams himself aboard his father's boat, just after the storm, a sea of diamonds flashing at every stir. He paces the cockpit and keeps watch, waiting for spectral arms to reach up from beneath the hull, waiting with broken hands to somehow touch his father, to hold him fast, the boat ghosting and then leaning, for the last time.

He can feel his hands shaking. He grips the wheel and tries to steady himself.

The swells keep coming – four feet, maybe, or five. His stomach churns. He's stayed out too long. Even if he goes farther, he won't find the thing he wants. He remembers being here as a boy and the nausea rising to his throat. He shudders. No boats on the water for as far as anyone can see. Not a soul raising a sail or letting an engine unwind.

He turns the skiff and sees the light at Port Austin Reef. The swells suddenly seem larger, the boat bobbing like a cork on a rippling pond. He looks beyond the light and wonders for a moment if he can regain the shore. Then he pushes the throttle and the pitch of the motor rises and the old wooden boat leaps forward.

HE DRIVES back the way he came, hitting potholes and sudden downpours, the bones behind his knuckles burning. Pills would help, but he can't take them now if he wants to get home in one piece. He watches the road going and feels bad about using Ben's boat and not paying for it. He should've insisted or left some money in the old man's mailbox. He squeezes the wheel. He opens and closes one hand and then the other. Nothing helps.

He punches the cigarette lighter. He opens both windows and turns up the radio. He pulls out the lighter and glances at the heating element glowing red. He presses it against the skin of his forearm. He holds it there, grunting, the smell of singed hair filling his nostrils.

He likes the sensation. It's more immediate, more urgent, than the misery of his hands. He slows the pickup and breathes. He concentrates on the welt – a bull's-eye of pain – and makes it all the way to Gibraltar without stopping.

TURNING the corner, he sees that his driveway is empty, no station wagon there or anywhere in sight. He pulls into the garage and quickly closes the door.

He goes inside and finds the house in immaculate condition.

He gapes, both confused and astonished, as he walks through each room and observes the sharp lines, the absence of clutter, and the vacuum tracks still visible on the faded rugs. He realizes that the landlord, her wondrous body still wrapped in his bathrobe, had seized the moment of his leaving, the opportunity of an empty house, and taken it upon herself to do a late spring cleaning.

It appears that she washed, folded, and stacked his laundry. She organized his closet and placed his shoes in a smart row. She sponged the kitchen counters, wiped the refrigerator shelves, and scrubbed the stainless steel sink. Miraculously, she lifted mildew and flushed away lime until the smallest details of the bathroom – tile, grout, and chrome – sparkled and gleamed.

After inspecting the rooms and making certain that the landlord didn't leave a message – checking the pad next to the phone book, his pillow, and the corners of the bedroom mirror – he begins to calm down. Heather's senior portrait, though straightened a bit, is in the same spot. So are Jen's black-and-white pictures. Then, from the hallway, he notices a string of black beads on the coffee table. She wasn't wearing a necklace, he thinks. He walks over and sees that she's left him a rosary. He picks it up and the crucifix swings back and forth like a pendulum. The figure of Jesus is tiny but exquisitely detailed. He can discern the crown of thorns, the anguished face, and the nails through the hands and feet.

He drops the rosary on the table and the body of Jesus disappears under a pile of beads. He needs a drink. He stumbles to the freezer and yanks the door open and lets out a sigh of relief, glad to discover that his old bottle, half empty, is still next to the ice tray where he left it. He fills a tumbler.

He sets his duffel bag on the counter and tries to unzip it. His fingers refuse
to work. He reaches for a carving knife but fails to draw it swiftly and easily out of the block. He makes another attempt and manages to wedge the handle between his thumb and palm. He slits the bag. He chooses a small plastic bottle filled with codeine and puts it on the cutting board. He positions the bottle beneath the wide surface of the blade and then brings his fist down as if he were crushing garlic. The plastic cracks. The lid flies off and skitters across the floor. He swallows three capsules, washing the pills down with mouthfuls of vodka.

He sits on the couch and absorbs the perfect order of the house. He can tell, even at this distance, that his guitar case has been carefully dusted. The air smells good, too – not stale at all, despite all the windows being closed and locked. He stares at the pile of beads next to the neat stack of magazines. He drinks. He thinks about Heather and his father's boat. After a while, he stops thinking. He's no longer aware of his hands. He rests his head on the back of the couch and sleeps.

 

HE HEARS a thud, his eyes blinking and squinting at the bright light. The floor pitches and the furniture blurs. Not a thing wants to stay in one place. The thud comes again. It's like a log hitting the keel – but he's not on the boat. He's nowhere near the water.

He shuts his eyes and tries to feel his body. His legs seem to be intact. The same goes for his chest, shoulders, and arms. Only his hands are missing.

Another thud, louder this time, jerks him awake like a door closing.

He sits up and everything in the room shifts; the noise strikes him now as a steady thump, a knocking – someone on the porch. Who could it be at this hour? Why is the window flooded with light?

He drags himself off the sofa and shuffles to the door. He throws the dead bolt. He sees red and a patch of blue, then the glare outside blinds him. He shields his eyes and squints at the dark outline floating beyond the screen.

“Well, you look like death,” says Brian.

He hears the words and the unmistakable voice. “But you're not here,” he says. “You can't be.”

“It's me,” says Brian, stepping over the threshold. “I'm here. You're the one who looks gone.”

He turns and stumbles and Brian catches him.

“You gonna make it?” says Brian.

“Water,” he says. “I'd like some water.”

Brian helps him to the couch. Then he goes into the kitchen and runs the faucet and fills a glass.

He stares at Brian. He takes the water, his hand trembling, and drinks all of it without stopping to breathe.

“Rough night?” says Brian.

“I don't remember,” he says.

“You left pills all over the counter.”

“I was driving. My hands were bad.”

“How are they now?”

“Okay. No pain at all.” He wiggles his fingers. “It's been a while.”

Brian jingles the keys in his pocket. “I didn't mean to bust in and give you a scare,” he says.

“Where'd you come from?”

“We're in Ann Arbor. At the Bird of Paradise. Being that close, I figured I should visit.”

“Oh. The Bird . . . ,” he says, his voice trailing off.

“I found Maureen before I found you.”

He opens and closes his hands.

“You smell bad,” says Brian. “And you look like shit.”

“Yeah. Good to see you, too,” he says.

Brian laughs and takes in the room. “But you're keeping house pretty well.”

“I haven't been here,” he says.

“I know,” says Brian. “I called all weekend. Left a few messages.”

“I went up north,” he says. “Port Austin.”

“How was it?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “It's not there anymore. Not really.”

“Why don't you come to the Bird?” says Brian. “I could send a car for you. The gigs are better these days.”

“I hear it's the Brian James Trio.”

“How'd you know?”

“I may look it,” he says, “but I'm not dead.”

“Listen, Cole, I got all day. If you shower and put on some clean clothes, I'll buy you lunch.”

“Thanks. I don't think I can eat anything.”

“Then you can drink water while I eat.”

He rises from the couch. “I've got some unfinished business at Humbug. I should get over there.”

“What unfinished business?”

“My father's boat.”

“But it sank.”

“So you had a long talk with Maureen.”

“Long enough,” says Brian. “All right, be ungrateful. But you gotta stop by the Bird.”

“I will.”

“You can't say that and then not show up.”

“I won't.”

“You won't show?”

“I'll be there,” he says.

“We're on the rest of the week.”

“I got it.” He sees Brian step toward the door. “How long has it been?” he says.

Brian turns. “Eight years, I guess. Or nine.”

“Thanks,” he says, putting his hand on Brian's shoulder.

Brian hugs him and lifts him off the floor. “I'll watch for you,” he says.

“I'll be better in a few days.”

Brian nods and walks out onto the porch. “They've busted up your street,” he says. Then he gets serious. “If you want to, bring your guitar.”

He looks over Brian's shoulder at the red backhoe parked in front of the house. He lowers his eyes. “That's a generous offer,” he says.

“Hardly that,” says Brian. “If anything, it's selfish.”

“See you in a couple days.”

Brian lets out a deep breath. “I hope so,” he says.

 

HE ARRIVES at Humbug late in the afternoon and finds his father's boat resting in a small cradle made of steel, a modular system with four vertical legs, two on each side, to support the hull. The legs telescope to the correct height and culminate in a hull pad; the pad rides on a universal joint allowing for a snug fit. A ground frame lies beneath the boat with retainers and blocks under the keel.

He's seen cradles like this before with the legs locking in two or three positions, but this one appears to be homemade, a knockoff of a more expensive design. He notices that each leg fits into a shallow socket on the frame and that it's secured with a bolt, a lock washer, and a nut, allowing, he supposes, for infinite angles and easy adjustment but also for the possibility of slippage. It's a clever but thin rig, he thinks. He decides it's not much better than his previous setup. His wood cradle was rickety, of course – the yard manager must've thought it was shot – but it had kept the boat high and dry for five years.