Lady Blues

by Aaron Paul Lazar

We turned into a room at the end of the corridor.

  “Here we go,” Debbie said in a hushed voice. “Let’s see if he’s awake.”

  ***

  The music man sat in a chair by the window, gazing out onto the grounds. His eyes, alert and calm, shifted when we entered, then returned to the landscape. He sported a bow tie and white shirt with frayed cuffs. Today, red suspenders held up his blue pinstriped trousers.

  “Mr. Smith?” Debbie said. “I want you to meet Professor LeGarde. He’s a musician, just like you.”

  Smith didn’t move.

  She tried again. “This is Professor Le…Garde...” She strung out the words as if speaking to a child. “He plays pi…a…no.”

  No response.

  An insistent beeping erupted across the hall.

  “Oops, gotta run. Don’t forget your physical therapist is coming in half an hour, Mr. Smith.” She shot me a meaningful glance.

  “I won’t stay too long,” I promised.

  “Have fun, now.” She swiveled and hurried away.

  I drifted toward the window and stood beside him. This view, far preferable to the quasi-landscaped frontage, was completely overgrown and wild. The lawn backed up to a curve of pine trees and sugar maples. In the distance, neat fields dotted the horizon. The glimmer of a pond shimmered beyond, dimpling a hilly cow pasture. Far on the horizon, the spire from the Presbyterian church rose, vying with the steeple from St. Anne’s.

  “I like the view,” I said.

  He nodded, blinked his eyes once, and answered. “It’s serene.”

  We watched a red-tailed hawk swing in lazy circles over the tallest pine, repeatedly diving in search of a meal.

  “The birds are returning,” he said. “I saw a pair of goldfinches this morning.”

  Surprised at his eloquence and sharp state of mind, I leaned against the wall and relaxed. “I love the way the finches swoop when they fly.”

  His gnarled fingers moved on the arm of the chair, tapping to no audible music. He turned, pulling himself away from the view as if having decided me worthy of his attention. “Where’d you learn to play the organ?”

  I took in his blazing blue eyes, the nests of wrinkles, his high forehead, the patrician sweep of white hair and bushy eyebrows, and smiled. “Boston. New England Conservatory.”

  For a moment, his eyes lit up with curiosity. “Did you know Jackie McNabb? He went there. Played a mean trombone.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, no. I was there in the late sixties and early seventies, actually. When did your friend go to school?”

  “He was older than me. I would say it was right before the war started.” Smith’s eyes clouded over, but soon cleared, as if a curtain had parted. “Maybe 1942?”

  I raised one eyebrow. Had he always remembered this, or was it thanks to the new medication? “The Conservatory’s a good school.”

  He gave me a prim smile. “Indeed. Jackie loved it, I think. But that was just before it all went to hell. Before I lost her. Before I lost myself, as well.”

  I stared, openmouthed, but quickly recovered. “It must have been tough.”

  A ripple of pain shot over his face, evidenced by his closed eyes and tensed neck muscles. “It was. She was all I had. And I… lost her.”

  I walked over to him, touching his arm tentatively. “I’m so sorry. What was her name?”

  A dull wave shrouded his eyes, passing over him with sudden darkness. “Her what?” he stuttered.

  “Her name?” I repeated. “The lady you lost. What was her name?”

  He shook his head as if ridding himself of an unwelcome vision. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.” His face worked with emotion and his voice rose to a high pitch. “God damn it. I can’t remember anything anymore.”

  I made a soothing sound, as if calming a wild horse. “Shh. It’s okay. You don’t have to remember. Just relax and enjoy the birds. Look, there’s a cowbird. See?”

  He calmed and refocused on the trees. “I see her. She’s a beauty. Not sure why everyone hates them so. They sound so lovely when they sing.”

  “I know,” I said.

  We sat in silence for twenty minutes, occasionally pointing to a newcomer in the woods. When a half hour had passed, I rose to leave.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Smith. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to come back again.”

  His eyes searched mine, and doubt flickered in them. “I don’t know what you find of interest here, Professor LeGarde. I’m just a dying old man with an addlepated brain. But you’re certainly welcome to return. Perhaps you could help me with a few things next time.”

  “Sure thing,” I said, heading for the door. “Whatever you need.”

  “You may call me Kip, if you like.”

  I hesitated. “Okay. I will. I like that much better than Mr. Smith, anyway. Kip.”

  I backed out of the room, almost bumping into the young physical therapist who waited to enter.

  Kip chuckled. “Me, too.”

  ***

  I ambled along the plush corridor, heading for the exit.

  When I neared the chapel, Debbie hailed me from the far end of the hall. “Professor! Wait!”

  I turned to meet her half way. Huffing slightly, she put a hand on my arm to catch her breath and steered me into the silent chapel. “Sorry. I just wanted to see how it went.”

  Two ornately carved wooden chairs flanked the entrance. I rested my hand on a cherub’s head. “Rosewood?” I stroked the smooth surface.

  She looked at me with surprise. “Why, yes. How did you know?”

  I shook my head. “Just a guess. My grandmother had a rosewood square grand piano. Had a similar grain. Anyway, you wanted to know how it went?”

  She nodded. Her penny red curls bounced. “Yes. Please.”

  I motioned to the other chair and we sat, facing each other across the narrow aisle.

  “He seemed very alert today. Profoundly so.”

  She beamed with pleasure. “He did, didn’t he? It’s almost a miracle, Professor. He’s been out of touch for so long. You should have seen him three months ago. He wouldn’t speak or pick up his fork. Now he’s dressing himself, eating, conversing…”

  “Astounding. That… Memorphyl, did you call it?”

  Her curls bounced again. “Yes.”

  “It must be great stuff,” I said. Shifting on the seat, I let my gaze wander over the gorgeous chapel, taking in the rich purples and royal blues of the velvet drapes hanging over the altar. “We talked a little bit about dates today. He asked me about a friend of his who attended my conservatory, then remembered the guy had been there in 1942.”

  “Seriously?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Uh huh. And we talked about birds. Watched them for a while. Then he mentioned a lady.”

  “Who?”

  “A lady he lost. Back in the forties. He said he ‘lost her,’ and then he ‘lost himself.’ You know anything about this? About her?”

  She frowned. “No. He hasn’t mentioned her to me. But just the fact that he’s talking to you…” Her eyes glazed over as if in ethereal wonder. “This is heavenly. I’m going to have to report it to his doctors and the pharmacy reps.”

  I stretched and massaged my lower back muscles with one hand. I needed to get outside and get moving, get back in shape. Our snow-less winter had been terrible. I hadn’t cross-country skied since last season. “The best part is this,” I said.

  She came back to earth and refocused, looking excited again. “Yes?”

  “When I left, I called him Mr. Smith. He told me to call him ‘Kip,’ instead.”

  Her eyes widened, becoming bright saucers. “He said that? He told you to call him Kip?”

  “What name had he been going by? You never told me his full name.”

  She responded automatically. “John Smith.”

  Almost as bad as John Doe. “Do you think it could possibly be his real first name?”

  She grinned. “It certainly coul
d. Or his surname.”

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  We sat for a moment in shared silence, pondering the development.

  “Kip.” She tilted her head to the side as if trying on the name for size. “I like it.”

  I stood to leave.

  She snapped to attention and hung on my arm for a moment. “Let me walk you out.” She rose gracefully. There was something about the way she positioned her legs and arms and floated up to a standing position that reminded me of a dancer.

  “Debbie, I hope this isn’t too personal, but did you study dance?”

  Her eyes lit up. A smile bloomed on her face. “Why, yes, Professor. I did. A very long time ago.”

  “It shows,” I said. “You’re very graceful.”

  Pink suffused her cheeks and she raised two fingers to her lips. “Shh. I used to dance for the Rochester City Ballet.”

  We passed the receptionist, who filed her nails and blew on them with her back turned to us. Debbie rolled her eyes when we stopped at the entrance.

  “Really? Rochester City Ballet? Nice.”

  She looked down at herself and grimaced. “Well, it was nice until I got married and had kids. Then this happened.” She poked at her tummy with both hands.

  I zipped up my jacket and jangled my keys in my pocket. “Well, don’t sell yourself short. Raising a family may not be as glamorous as dancing on stage, but it’s the most important job in the world.”

  She trilled a laugh. “I guess so. Hey, are you coming back? Mr. Smith…I mean, Kip…hasn’t spoken to any of us like he talks to you. I was hoping you…”

  I pushed the door halfway open. “I’ll be back. You can count on it.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I reached the house just before three o’clock. It dawned on me that once again, I wouldn’t be coming home to Mrs. Pierce’s dinner, since she was still at her sister’s place. My mind went into overdrive.

  If I hurry, I can throw something in the oven and still have time to sneak outside to plant the onions.

  Surprised to see Siegfried’s Jeep parked in front of the carriage house, I stopped for a moment, suddenly remembering he’d promised to babysit the children while Mrs. Pierce was away. I smiled, realizing he was probably overjoyed to stay home, especially with Lily in the house. I knew Freddie would miss his help at the veterinary clinic, but she’d survive.

  Max lay on the top step of the porch, ears perked and tail thumping.

  I stopped to pat his side and make a fuss over him. “Good dog. What a good boy.”

  His gray tail whipped back and forth, and he uttered a low woof.

  Tristan perched on the porch railing, basking in the late afternoon sun. The cat’s whiskers twitched as if in greeting, but he didn’t join us. Instead, he closed his blue eyes, soaking up the warmth.

  The temperature had risen since I left the college. I shrugged out of my jacket and eyed the garden. The visceral pull called to me. I needed to get out there and—”

  Before I could finish cataloging my long list of chores, voices hailed me from the field behind the barn. My family tromped through the alfalfa. Johnny scampered around the twins, who at two-and-a half, ran, rather than toddled, now. Siegfried and Lily walked side by side. With healthy-looking pink cheeks and bright eyes, she trotted to keep up with Sig’s long stride.

  “Opa!” the children cried in a chorus of baby shrieks. I couldn’t make out what they said after that—they all clamored at once.

  “Uncle Sig’s gonna build a house and let me sleep over,” Johnny shouted, dancing around my legs.

  “We see bunny!” Marion yelled, as if I were hard of hearing.

  Celeste echoed Marion. “Bunny. Bunny Wabbit!”

  I went down on one knee to scoop them into my arms. All three tumbled on me, grabbing my arms, legs, and neck. After a few minutes, I struggled to stand. “Okay, okay. Let Opa get up now.”

  With Celeste on one hip, I took Marion’s hand and followed Johnny’s racing sneakers to the porch.

  Siegfried just smiled. “We went for a walk.” Love simmered in his eyes and his mouth held a perpetual smile.

  “I guess you did,” I said. “Hi, Lily.”

  She flashed a shy smile. “Hi.”

  Surprised, I glanced at Siegfried. He grinned, proud of himself. “I taught her that.”

  She smiled up at him, adoration glimmering in her eyes.

  “Well, I guess you did, big guy. Nice work. Very nice work.”

  We clambered up the porch stairs. Before I could stop them, the children burst into the kitchen without scraping their boots or taking them off, smearing mud on the brick-patterned linoleum.

  I rolled my eyes and grinned. “Kids.”

  Sig and I kicked off our boots and placed them on the mat outside the door. Lily watched and followed suit, removing boots I recognized as Shelby’s. Amazed at how quickly she adapted to our family, I stepped back and gestured for her to go first, and followed the family into the kitchen.

  ***

  After dumping a pile of boots, socks, and coats in the mudroom, Siegfried and Lily followed the children into the great room along with two cavorting dogs and one indignant cat. Tristan twitched his tail and looked haughty, avoiding the tramping feet and groping hands of the twins.

  Marion lunged for him and missed.

  He leapt to the top of the piano. I cringed, hoping he wouldn’t add to the collection of scratches he’d already made.

  The blare of the television quickly overtook the formerly quiet house, as sounds of the movie Balto reverberated from the walls. To the tune of all three grandchildren hooting wolf cries, I mopped the kitchen floor and dried it with an old towel. Sunlight danced in the windows, beckoning. I looked at the clock on the stove. Three-twenty.

  Still time, if I hurry.

  Rushing, I grabbed a large ceramic bowl and collected ingredients for the meatloaf. Ground beef, ground turkey, chopped onions, chopped scallions, eggs, fresh diced tomatoes, tomato paste, oatmeal, mustard, crushed garlic, basil, Worcestershire sauce, salt and pepper. I switched the oven to three hundred and fifty degrees and adjusted the racks. Scrubbing my hands with hot water and soap, I rinsed and dried them. In the tradition of my mother, I added all ingredients to the bowl and mushed them together with my bare hands. With the mixture well-dispersed, I patted it into a giant pan and covered it with tomato paste and ketchup.

  Sliding it into the oven, I tossed eighteen scrubbed and fork-poked potatoes around it.

  What else?

  I opened the refrigerator and sighed with relief. There sat a vat of homemade applesauce, leftover from last week. With a hastily tossed salad, it would make a fine meal.

  Satisfied, I poked my head into the great room. Siegfried, with a twin on each leg, sat on the couch beside Lily.

  “I’m going out to plant the onions, Sig. Could you check the meatloaf in about an hour and a half?”

  He nodded, eyes transfixed on the cartoon. “Ja. No problem.”

  Three heads popped up and swiveled in my direction. Johnny reached me first, followed closely by the twins. “Can we go outside with you, Opa?”

  Tempted to decline in the interest of time, I hesitated. Johnny turned his big brown eyes up to me, full of trust and sparkling with excitement.

  Celeste screeched, “Outside! Garden!”

  Marion ran for the mudroom, not waiting for my answer. I threw my hands in the air and relented.

  “Okay. I guess so.”

  Siegfried and Lily remained on the couch, their gazes fixated on the video. “Uh, Sig? I’m taking the kids out.”

  He nodded and waved at me, but his eyes didn’t flicker. I smiled. I loved the movie, too, and understood his fascination.

  After re-dressing the grandchildren in sweatshirts and boots, we went outside and headed for the garden. The sun sparkled in the trees and off the car windows. I progressively relaxed as we neared the garden, enjoying the warmth of its rays. I grabbed the onion plants from my makeshift tab
le in the barn, along with gardening tools, string, and markers.

  Johnny already lay on his stomach on the swing and the twins scrambled onto a glider beside him.

  “You kids stay out here while I get the tiller, okay?”

  Johnny answered and the twins ignored me.

  “We will,” he said, feet dragging in the mud as he pushed back and forth. He didn’t look up.

  With a belch of smoke, the old Husqvarna started up. I wheeled it out to the garden and parked it beside last year’s sheet of plastic mulch, switching off the engine. The rectangular piece spread twenty-five by forty-five feet, and had been home to eighty tomato plants. Remnants of the vines still lay in tangled, rotting heaps.

  After pulling and piling vines, I lifted the one section of the plastic and pulled it back from the earth. As expected, the soil beneath the mulch lay soft and dry, ready for planting.

  I glanced at the twins, who had abandoned the glider for the slide. The girls fought at the bottom rung, pushing to be first. Celeste whacked Marion on the back. Marion howled.

  “My turn!” Celeste screamed, shoving her sister and squirming toward the ladder.

  I dropped the mulch and darted toward them. Marion wailed even louder when she saw me coming to her aid.

  “Celeste! We don’t hit,” I said. “Can’t you two take turns?” Scooping Marion into my arms, I comforted her. “It’s okay, baby. You’re gonna live.”

  She slowly snuffled back to normalcy, and wiggled to get down to hurry after Celeste, who’d sneaked up the slide while I wasn’t looking. Giggling as if nothing had happened, Marion climbed the three steps and whooshed down after her sister.

  I turned back to the garden and started the tiller. Miraculously, no fights broke out among the ranks as I maneuvered the machine up and down the soft soil, preparing an a wide row for the onions. Johnny copied me from the lawn with his toy John Deere mower, moving it through the soft hummocks of overgrown grass.

  When the soil seemed well-churned, I turned off the tiller and parked it on the grass beside the garden. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s get the markers up.”

  “Can I help?” Johnny squealed. The twins had graduated to the playhouse now, and had disappeared. Every so often I saw a tousled head peek through the window, or soft fabric walls billowing from little bodies pressed against the inside of the house.