Hydraulic Level Five

by Sarah Latchaw

  “You people are pushier than a turnstile, you know that?” I was beat. My forehead fell over my guitar with a thump. “Fine. Danita, Angel—this is for you, so you both better sing loud and clear. Play it again, Sam.”

  His beautiful smile grew bigger as he started us off. The first stanza was awkward, like I’d expected. Jamming with Samuel again, especially to a song which encapsulated an innocent era for both of us, was difficult. But then my gaze drifted to Danita. Her eyes were bright as she watched Angel. Her face was rife with love as she swayed with him to the flourishes of Samuel’s Spanish guitar. He laughed down at her, tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear. I put all of my anxieties and heartaches aside and simply focused on both of them, sharing their happiness. I was glad—no, ecstatic—they got their fairy tale.

  Samuel nudged my calf with his elbow, reminding me about our added key change. I nudged him back with my foot; of course I remembered the key change. He chuckled his way into the next stanza.

  Once the song ended and everyone belted “Gracias totales,” we dove into Molly’s request. Then we strummed through everything our fingers could handle. We even played around with a couple of The Twiggies’ songs, something we’d never tackled together.

  Guitar sing-alongs on our camping trips underscored the melding ethoses in our circle of friends. Holidays, mealtimes, weddings, and funerals carried the more obvious differences. The Mexican-Americans peppered their words with colorful Spanish interjections learned from their parents and neighborhood children. Then there were the songs we grew up singing in car rides and before bedtime. It was only logical that the vast amounts of time we spent in each other’s company gave rise to the oddest, mish-mashed cultural stew—music playlists included.

  All the while, Caroline’s eyes burned holes into my guitar neck. It didn’t unnerve me. I was comfortable here, with a guitar in my hands, next to Samuel, surrounded by our friends, and there was nothing she could do or say to take me out of my element.

  “Oh! Did I mention that Samuel’s taking me to Rocky Mountain Folks this year?”

  And…there goes my confidence. I strummed a chord, its somber, disjointed tone hanging in the air as everyone fell silent along with it.

  “Nothing’s set in stone, Caro,” Samuel said quietly. I knew that voice. He was pissed. He shuffled his guitar, standing up. “And August is a long way off.”

  “It’s only two months, actually.” Poor Santiago was a little behind. “When you think about it, that’s not really a long time.”

  Don’t cry…don’t cry…Every muscle in my face tightened to keep those tears from welling, and I was grateful for the cloak of night. Molly slapped her knees and hopped up to diffuse the tension.

  “Okay, girlies! I think it’s bachelorette time! Kiss the boys goodnight, brush those teeth, and be in the VW in ten minutes!”

  “’Night, Hector.” I stood on tip-toes to peck his cheek. “Lay off the poker and cigars.”

  “You too. You can’t bluff to save your life.” He pulled me into a bear hug, whispered. “Don’t let Cabral and his woman trip you up, ’kay mamacita? Just enjoy the night.” He left to help Cassady smother what was left of the campfire.

  “Kaye.” Samuel touched my arm.

  I stepped away from him, stuffing the Gibson back in its case and shoving my arms through my fleece.

  “Please talk to me.”

  I gave him a wide berth as I picked up the leftover marshmallows and angrily grabbed my blanket.

  “Oh, so now you’re giving me the silent treatment?” he snapped, irritation evident.

  I shot him a fierce warning glare. “It’s none of my business where you take your girlfriend, Samuel. In fact, I think I’m the one who suggested you show her Planet Bluegrass, in the first place. Just go to bed.”

  “Fine. Goodnight, Kaye.” He backed off, running aggravated hands through his hair. Stalking over to the tent, he grabbed a towel from his duffel bag and made his way into the woods, toward the creek. I watched with jealous eyes as Caroline followed.

  Danita tugged on my arm, pulling me away before I could run after them. “Come on, Samuel’s a big boy. He can handle himself.”

  “I know.” I peered at Danita’s concerned expression and guilt crept in. Geez, Kaye, could you be a worse maid of honor? I sucked it up and slathered on the biggest grin my face would allow. “Anyway, this night isn’t about them. It’s about you, my knock-out hot friend who is getting married to the sexiest pilot this side of the Rockies.” I climbed into the Campervan, Danita following behind. “And right now, we are going to give you the best, and only, semi-bachelorette party of your life.”

  “Come on, Kaye! Just do one more.”

  “Molly, no. I’ve had two already and so help me, I am staying as sober as possible.”

  She pouted and poured another round of raspberry liqueur and Bailey’s. Sweet heaven, those things were tasty, but I held my ground. With Samuel just yards away on the other side of the campground, I was not going to risk another drunken email-type incident on a much grander, in-person scale.

  “Hit me, baby.” Danita held out her glass. She, on the other hand, imbibed as much as possible. We’d already opened naughty lingerie, played a couple of obligatory penis games, and moved on to spilling our guts (or getting Danita to spill, anyway) about our love lives. She adjusted the red lace bra she wore on the outside of her pajamas.

  I patted her cheek. “You are going to be such a sexy, beautiful bride.”

  “Damn straight!” Molly raised her shot glass. “Here’s to scoring the second hottest man to ever come from Lyons.”

  Danita frowned. “Wait, who’s number one?”

  “Sorry, Danita. Your brother’s Mr. January on the Lyons Hotties calendar.”

  Dang. I’d nearly stopped dwelling on the fact that Caroline was still outside, in the dark, with Samuel.

  An hour later, Caroline clattered through the door, her face stony. The rest of us exchanged cagey looks. Muttering a hello, she grabbed her bag and headed to the back of the van to get ready for bed. I ignored her and passed the snack mix bowl to Danita. Eventually, the Afghan hound emerged, sleek in green satin pajamas, and tentatively curled onto the bench next to Molly. Molly gave her a friendly little smile and handed her a shot. She declined, her cool mask firmly in place.

  I wondered if Samuel had asked her to get to know his sister better, and was certain she’d put a damper on the night. But before long, even Caro quietly laughed as each of us took turns swapping stories about Danita and Angel’s long, tumultuous, entertaining romance. The many years Angel spent firmly entrenched in Dani’s friend corner. The high school boyfriend Dani had who perpetually smelled like peanut butter. And finally, Angel taking electric hedge clippers to his car, just so he could ask Dani to weld it. She’d invited him to Sunday dinner after that.

  A couple of times during the night, Angel’s or Hector’s face popped up in the window, followed by faint scuffling. Then, five minutes later, scratching sounds moved along the outside of the VW, as if a pack of raccoons scaled its retro trim. Santiago’s pasty cheeks (the other cheeks) even made a one-night-only appearance, but the act was cut short when Cassady bellowed, “You gunnars better get offa Betty and make as scarce as rocking horse shit!”

  After that, it was quiet.

  Once the boys retreated, the energy was zapped from the small camper. We toppled over, one by one. Danita was the first out, still in the red bra. Then Caroline crawled into the back of the Campervan and drew the beaded curtain, leaving just Molly and me. After another fifteen minutes of soft chatting, we curled into our sleeping bags, her head resting on my feet.

  I closed my eyes, but did not sleep. Rather, I lay awake, hands behind my head. I listened to the distant bubbling of the creek. Cicadas and crickets. And the quiet, pensive strumming of a Spanish guitar.

  It was eight in the morning when I stumbled out of Betty with bleary eyes and aching joints, my hair a blond haystack. Samuel and Caroline were
the only two awake, the others dead to the world and probably would be for another hour. Grabbing my toothbrush, washcloth, and water bottle, I snuck around the back of the Campervan and cleaned as best as I could. Smoothing my hair into a haphazard bun, I unfolded a lawn chair across from the pair.

  My anger had abated after a good night’s sleep, and I couldn’t help but think that both of us had been overly sensitive because of the late hour. I sought Samuel’s gaze, shooting him an apologetic look.

  He smiled back and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

  I nodded, settled into my lawn chair and let the cool morning air wake me. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I studied both Samuel and Caroline more closely. He had gone for his early morning run, despite our late night. She, however, had forgone careful makeup and posh clothing for an oversized, slate-gray warm-up, glowing skin and knit cap. Caro was one of those “I’m pretty and I don’t even have to try” people. I struggled to figure out why she owned such ill-sized clothing when it hit me. It wasn’t hers.

  It was Samuel’s.

  Breakfast didn’t seem appetizing, now.

  Caroline handed me a mug of coffee. For a moment I warred with myself, very aware of Samuel’s eyes on me. And I needed coffee, desperately. I took the mug from her manicured hands, muttering a thank you.

  She nodded. I closed my eyes, focusing on the strong, woodsy fragrance and not on the couple across from me.

  “So, Kaye, you and Samuel have played guitar for a long time, I understand.” Her voice was much too shrill for morning conversation.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Keep the answers short, polite.

  “You’ve been playing since you were what—eight?”

  I sighed, setting my mug of coffee down. Woman couldn’t just let me enjoy my coffee in peace. “No, I believe I was nine.”

  “I’m pretty sure you were eight, because you decided you wanted to play guitars when you went to your first Rocky Mountain Folks, correct? And you learned on a pink guitar? You were eight and Samuel was eleven.”

  “No, I believe I was nine.”

  Samuel put a hand over Caroline’s, probably a silent warning that I was about to rip out her throat. She ignored him and gave me a patronizing smile.

  “You were eight, and you decided to play after seeing the Tripping Maggies.”

  “I was nine. The band was the Tripping Marys. And my banjo was pink, not my guitar.” I narrowed my eyes at Samuel. Why had he told Caro all this personal stuff about me?

  He rose from his chair, trying to diffuse the bomb. “Caro, let’s walk over to the crick?”

  She shook her head, beaming in triumph. I braced myself for her kill. “I can’t wait for Planet Bluegrass.”

  The tears I’d repressed last night with Herculean strength tromped back to my eyes and refused to budge. My temper warred with immense gloom. I set my coffee mug on the grass, pressed fingers to my eyes, and took a deep breath. Relax, Kaye, relax. If you fling the coffee in her face, that’s assault. You don’t need a criminal record.

  “No, I was nine when I started playing the guitar. What Samuel has probably failed to mention to you in his detailed account of my life is that my birthday is in September—just weeks after Rocky Mountain Folks. So the next time you decide to flaunt your in-depth knowledge of my childhood, be sure you have your facts straight.”

  I stared at my toes, unable to watch their reaction to my outburst. Jerking on my sneakers, I sought refuge on the wooded trail to clear my head.

  How dare he betray me like that? But betrayal was nothing new for Samuel, was it? My tender memories had been exposed, violated by this wretched woman. How much did she actually know about me? How much had Samuel told her?

  I shoved my way through the trees and wandered off the path, not caring the low-lying bushes and bramble scraped and snagged my clothing and ankles.

  He was taking her to Planet Bluegrass, this unworthy, manipulative person who’d insinuated herself not only into his present life, but our past. Our Planet Bluegrass. I swiped angry tears from my eyes before they tumbled over. I knew I’d suggested he take her to Planet Bluegrass when she attended Danita’s shower, but I didn’t think he’d actually do it.

  Somewhere behind me, trees and bushes rustled loudly as a second set of feet trampled through them, and I heard Samuel call my name. Crap, he’d followed me. I veered to the right in a last ditch effort to lose him, but he already had me.

  “Kaye, will you slow down instead of running away from me?” He caught my elbow. I yanked it away.

  “I’m not the one who ran, Samuel.” I whisked away tears with grimy hands.

  “You’re running now. For once in your life will you just yell at me, or hit me, or show me how infuriated you are instead of hiding it?”

  I rounded on him, jabbing my finger in his chest. “Fine! You want to be friends, Samuel? Well let’s get one thing straight, right here, right now, you self-righteous cabrón. Don’t you ever tell that woman anything about me again, do you understand?”

  “Kaye, she’s my editor, my publicist…It’s not like she hasn’t been hearing about you for years.”

  “I don’t care if she’s the fricking CIA. Starting now, not a word to her about me, or we’re done. I’ll not have her flinging personal details in my face like the pink banjo or Planet Bluegrass, even if you consider them trivial.”

  He shook his head. “They aren’t trivial at all.”

  “Not a word to her.”

  “Kaye, I’m a writer—”

  I turned to leave.

  He caught my elbow again. “Wait! What if I had your permission first? Let’s say you read what I write and sign off on it before I send it to Caroline for editing. Anything you don’t want her to read, I won’t give to her. How would you feel about that?”

  I started to scoff at the idea, but paused. This would certainly give me some power over the floozy. And Samuel had never offered to let me read his drafts before he completed them, preferring to present a perfected, error-free copy. Would he really let me read his work-in-progress stories?

  Then his words struck me like a boxing glove. Wait. Wait a second. Is he writing about me again?

  “Samuel,” I said through clenched teeth, “what exactly have you been writing about? Isn’t Water Sirens finished?”

  Streaks of red crept up his neck as he realized his mistake. He was writing about me! Mother cliff-hucker! And if his stories included my pink banjo, it was the real me, not some stupid mythological nixie heroine.

  I spun around and stalked back to the campsite, angry fists pumping at my sides. Samuel was immediately next to me.

  “Kaye, please. Yes, I’m writing about us—a memoir of sorts. Our story, when we were kids. But I’m not publishing it,” he explained breathlessly. “And I planned to let you read it once it was cleaned up and edited, I swear.”

  “Then why are you writing it if you don’t intend to publish it?”

  He went quiet. The only sound was our quick breath and the rustle of tall grass as we pushed our way through the forest.

  “Because I don’t want to forget,” he finally answered.

  “Forget what?” I broke through the trees and scurried onto the trail. He followed on my heels.

  “Forget us. Every day, more details disappear. Little things, like the color of the dress you wore on your fourteenth birthday, or the first song we learned on our guitars. Every day, you slip farther and farther away from me.”

  “You made the choice to leave, Samuel. At Button Rock I asked you, point blank, if it was worth it. And you couldn’t even give me a straight answer!” I frantically scrambled over a dead tree, trying to lose him. Still, he kept pace.

  “Por Dios, Kaye, will you stop running? Yes, I chose to leave. And no, it wasn’t worth it, because I don’t think that either one of us is happy, are we?”

  I pushed a low-hanging branch out of the way. It swung back and thwacked Samuel in the face.

  “Ow!” He doubled over, hands flying to his nos
e. “Shit, shit, shit!” he cried painfully, his eyes watering. Blood began to seep between his fingers.

  Horror at what I’d done swept over me and I flew to his side, easing him to his knees as I crouched next to him. “Oh, Samuel, I’m so, so sorry. Is it bleeding badly?”

  “I dunno,” he said nasally. “Sorry for the swearing.”

  Only Samuel would apologize for cussing when he was in pain. Prying his fingers away, I gingerly touched the deep cut on the bridge of his nose. No breaks, thank goodness, but he’d need a couple of butterfly stitches from the first aid kit. I pressed my cuff over his injury to clot the blood, wiping away the stream of red trickling down the inside of his cheek.

  After several minutes he exhaled. “Isn’t that your favorite sweater—the one your grandma made?” His voice was muffled by my ruined sleeve.

  “Yeah,” I admitted.

  Grasping my hands in his, he rolled my blood-soaked cuff back until it wasn’t visible. Then he leaned his forehead against mine, his sad, perceptive eyes so close, they blurred and doubled in my vision.

  “Kaye, this is why I’m writing.” His voice was weary, resigned, as if he’d just lost a long, brutal battle. “I’m scared—no, terrified—to forget this. Us. I need to get it down on paper before it’s too late, and those little details are completely gone from my mind. I don’t want to lose them. Tell me it isn’t the same for you, and I’ll leave you alone.”

  Tears gathered in my eyes. I knew what he was feeling. I was terrified to forget, too. I had my photo albums, my memories, my family and friends to remind me. And still, I’d forgotten May twenty-third—his birthday.

  The photo of us as children on his laptop. The graduation picture. The Friday lunches. The draft about Planet Bluegrass. Even Caroline’s callous, cruel remarks about how Samuel cared only for my thirteen-year-old self told me he was being truthful—he was writing to remember. Well, maybe he did care more about our childhood than our present. So be it. But dang it, that thirteen-year-old girl was still inside this twenty-seven-year-old woman’s body, somewhere. And if he cared about that little girl, then he had to care about the woman she’d grown in to.