by Karen White
Glen jumped up. “I left my jacket and wallet in the front seat. Let me get those before you leave.” He stood and took the car keys from the hall table.
Eve’s eyes glittered as she watched Glen escort me out the front door. He followed me down the front steps to the curb, where he’d parked the car, being very careful not to touch me. He handed me the keys.
“You don’t have to go, Eleanor.”
Does he know? I stared up into his earnest eyes. “It’s only for a few hours.” My gaze skittered down to my hands, to the closely cropped nails I still kept short even after all these years.
“You don’t have to go,” he repeated, his words almost too soft to hear, and I felt certain that he did know—knew that when the music died from the piano I would look for somebody to give me what he could not. I hated myself for my weakness, for my inability to take my just punishment and live the life I’d been given. But I’d never forgotten the music my father had given me or the dreams that refused to die. I had once been like Icarus, flying too close to the sun, and in those nights in the smoky bar with the piano and the men with their sad, admiring glances, I could allow myself to believe—if just for a short while—that I was still flying.
The scent of Confederate jasmine flitted stealthily in the night air, sending a wave of fragrance before snatching it away like a serpent’s tongue. I put my hand on the door handle of the car as Glen took a step closer. I held my breath at his rapid movement, his arm rising before he brought his hand down in a stinging slap on my forearm.
We both looked down in surprise as he lifted his palm to reveal a mosquito, dead and bleeding my blood against pale skin. Glen took a handkerchief from his pocket and held my arm carefully as he wiped away the mess, his gentle touch as startling as the sting from his slap.
I reached inside the car and brought out his jacket, the front pocket heavy from the weight of his wallet, and handed it to him. Our eyes met, and I wondered if mine looked as resigned as his did.
“It won’t always be this way,” he said softly. “I’ll have my degree soon and I’ll get my promotion so I can start making real money. Things will change.”
“Will they?” I asked before slipping into the driver’s seat. Staring through the windshield, I could still see Eve’s wheelchair and my mother’s sad eyes. There were some things in this life that could never change.
“Don’t wait up,” I said as I closed the door, knowing that he would lie awake in his bed next to Eve, listening for my footfall on the front porch, imagining he could smell another man’s scent clinging to my skin.
I pulled away from the curb without looking behind me. I listened to the thrum of the tires against the pavement, hearing again the words of the Gullah woman. All shut-eye ain’t sleep; all good-bye ain’t gone. With a crushing sense of defeat and frustration, I realized that I was no closer to understanding what she’d meant than I’d been the day I’d touched the sun and been sent crashing down to earth.
CHAPTER 3
In the back corner of Pete’s Bar, I sat on the piano bench, sipping my third scotch and soda, and felt the edges of my life begin to blur. I never got so drunk that I couldn’t play, just drunk enough. The bar had begun to empty, leaving behind the stale air of loneliness and a haze of cigarette smoke that swirled under the ceiling fans like confused ghosts looking for the way out.
Draining my glass, I placed it on the piano before spreading my fingertips over the white keys. My fingers were long, like my father’s, and I’d been able to reach an octave since I was seven years old. Unlike the rest of me, my hands hadn’t changed much in the years since, except for the small scar near the top of my right index finger, as if I needed another reminder of what I’d done to Eve.
A middle-aged man with sad, red-rimmed eyes sat at a nearby table, his gaze never wavering from me. His collar was dirty, his tie stained, but as I began to play, the music transformed us into the people we had once dreamed of becoming.
I played “Summertime,” a Gershwin standard that didn’t require too much of me or my audience. Sometimes when I played it, I’d have a drunk make his way to my side to sing half-remembered lyrics. But I was left alone this time, just me and the music and the man with the sad eyes who’d shredded the label of his beer bottle and was now rolling up the little pieces of paper. He was building up his courage to approach me, I knew; I’d seen it enough times to recognize the signs.
I returned my focus to the music, in my head hearing my father’s rich baritone as he sang to a younger version of my mother, a mother who’d not yet lost her beauty or dreams and still remembered how to smile. I felt my own smile curve my lips as I played the last chord as a slow arpeggio, each key separate and singing until the final note. I held it down with the pedal, allowing the sound to fade like the smoke from a blown-out birthday candle.
As soon as I lifted my fingers from the keys, I felt his presence beside me, smelled his breath full of beer and cigarettes and a hastily chewed mint. I turned to meet his eyes, noticing that he had probably once been a nice-looking man. But life and all its burdens were clearly marked in the deep ridges and lines of his face, like text on a written page in which each word had been carved with force.
The second thing I noticed was that Pete’s wasn’t as empty as I’d thought. Another man sat on a stool at the bar, the glare from the piano light hiding his face in shadow. But there was something familiar about him, in the shape of his head and broad shoulders. I blinked hard, annoyed that I couldn’t see. He wasn’t a regular; I knew that much. His back wasn’t hunched with defeat, and his pants were pressed with a neat crease down the middle, his shoes burnished to a dull shine.
A throat cleared beside me. “Excuse me.”
I looked up and smiled, remembering the distant feeling of skin against skin. “Yes?”
He cleared his throat again, his own smile shaky. “You’ve been playing for a while and I was wondering if you might be hungry. If you, that is, if you are, if you’d like to go with me. To get some food.”
Tilting my wrist to read my watch, I saw that it was nearly midnight. Underneath the scotch and soda my stomach was empty. “I’m done here, and yes, I’d like that.” I picked up my purse from beneath the bench and stood. I had to grab hold of the piano to steady myself, then picked up the tip jar and carefully upended the contents into my purse. Keeping my smile intact, I said, “I just need to go powder my nose, if you’ll excuse me for a moment.” I touched his arm, and his eyes met mine in understanding.
Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other in my high heels, I began to make my way to the ladies’ room. I had just passed the bar when I felt a firm hand on my arm.
“Eleanor?” Although it was spoken as a question, there was no doubt in the man’s voice, a voice I recognized.
I twirled around too suddenly. My head spun and I had to strike out my hand to steady myself. I found myself gripping the sleeve of a fine gabardine jacket and looking into the dark gray eyes of my employer, Mr. Beaufain.
I blinked twice, as if I could somehow make him be somebody else. I realized I was still gripping his jacket sleeve and quickly let go. “Mr. Beaufain,” I stuttered, my tongue feeling thick. “I didn’t think you lived around here.”
His eyes were hard, but I saw the edge of his lips soften slightly in the start of a reluctant smile. “I don’t. I had a business meeting, and I needed a drink.”
I lifted my eyebrows. Even in my not-quite-sober state I couldn’t imagine anyone in this neighborhood having any kind of business that would interest Mr. Beaufain.
He looked behind me toward the piano, where the stranger was anxiously shifting from one foot to the other. Speaking loudly, he called out, “I’m taking the lady home.”
“You have no right—”
He cut me off. “You’re drunk, Eleanor. And I don’t think you should leave this bar with a stranger.”
; Anger flickered to life beneath the haze of the alcohol. “How do you know he’s a stranger?”
He didn’t answer as we both listened to the front door slamming and I realized I hadn’t even asked the man for his name.
Softly, Mr. Beaufain said, “I’ll drive you home now.”
“I have my own car,” I insisted, still too embarrassed to meet his eyes.
“You’re in no condition to drive. I’d rather make sure you get home safely than lie awake all night and wonder.”
I felt my cheeks flame as I thought of him lying awake and thinking about me.
“But my brother-in-law will need the car in the morning,” I continued, desperate to leave this scene behind.
“What time does he leave?”
“Nine o’clock,” I replied, sure this would be the end of it as I gave him my address. My North Charleston neighborhood wasn’t a convenient commute from his south-of-Broad home. I knew for sure where he lived only because Lucy had once driven me by his house on Gibbes Street. It was old and grand and so far out of my world that it might as well have been on another planet.
He lifted his BlackBerry and pushed a number, then spoke quietly into the phone. After a moment, he lowered it and regarded me with a grim smile. “Done.” He held his hand up and I dropped my keys in his palm without hesitation. He was my boss, after all, and I was used to following his orders.
I hadn’t heard his conversation because my head and stomach had begun to churn in opposing directions. “Excuse me,” I said. I quickly walked past him and went to the restroom, where I promptly emptied the three drinks of scotch into the toilet. After rinsing my mouth and splashing cold water onto my face, I felt marginally better. I stared at the woman in the dirty mirror, at the spots where the silvering had begun to flake off, creating holes in her face. But it seemed like it was my true reflection, the only honest assessment of what I looked like from the inside.
Mr. Beaufain’s black Mercedes was parked at the curb, and the thick scent of leather wafted out as he opened the door to let me into the passenger side. I put on my seat belt, then sat with all of my limbs locked and my hands clutching my purse on my lap. I felt like one of the old women on my bus who feared a mugging from every stranger.
“Here,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket and reaching to place it over my shoulders. The car’s air-conditioning cut through the humidity like a cold knife, giving me goose bumps, but I felt sure that his jacket wasn’t to keep me warm.
I clasped the lapels together, grateful but still acutely embarrassed. “Thank you,” I said as he started the car and pulled out into the deserted road. I stole glances at him in the passing flicker of streetlights and noticed a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t normally there, and I remembered what he’d said about having business in the area and how he’d needed a drink. Feeling a need to fill the silence, I said, “I’ve never seen you at Pete’s before.”
He didn’t answer right away. “I’ve never been. I was doing a favor for a family member—and I was supposed to meet somebody at the bar.” I felt his gaze on me. “How odd that I’d find you there.”
“I go there sometimes to play. Pete gives me fifty dollars an hour under the table plus tips.” I wanted to slap my hand over my mouth. I didn’t want to remind him of the humiliating scene he’d witnessed.
Mr. Beaufain was silent for a long moment. “I didn’t know you played the piano, Eleanor. You’re very good.”
I stared at him, his strong profile outlined against the side window. Although I’d worked at his firm for more than two years and he signed my paychecks, I hadn’t expected him to know more than my name and that I was always available for overtime. Or that I had a sick sister and had to sometimes come in late or leave early but I always made up the time. It surprised me that he’d expected to perhaps know more.
I looked back at my fingers, which were still clutching my purse. “My father taught me when I was little. He wanted me to go to Juilliard.” I wasn’t sure why I’d told him this, as if the darkness had somehow transformed the inside of the car into a confessional.
He didn’t say anything. I wondered if it was because he knew what childhood dreams were, knew how easily they disappeared as the realities of getting older crept up like a tidal surge, stealing everything in its retreat back to the sea.
“It’s never too late, you know. To become what you want to be. My daughter tells me that all the time.” His cheek creased slightly, as if he were trying to remember how to smile. I’d never met his daughter, or even seen her, but Lucy had told me that she’d been very sick a few years ago and lived with Mr. Beaufain and not her mother. I’d never thought to wonder why.
“What does your father say now?” he asked.
His question caught me by surprise. “He drowned. When I was fourteen.” I turned away from him, feeling the sting in my eyes and the spray of salt water as I remembered sitting on the pier and waiting and waiting, even after the storm became so bad that the police chief had to carry me to his car. “I stopped playing after that. And then Mama sold the piano . . . later.”
I didn’t continue, the memory too painful even in the plush confines and dark anonymity of a confessional.
“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling up to a red light with his left blinker flashing. His voice seemed deeper in those two words, as if he understood the weight of grief, the years like strands of yarn that wound around themselves tighter and tighter until it was impossible to find where they’d begun.
“It was a long time ago,” I said quietly. I smelled his jacket and the clinging scent of his cologne and felt oddly comforted by it. A plaid hair ribbon lay in the console between us, reminding me of what he’d said about his daughter.
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
His face softened in the dim light, making him appear younger than he was, and I realized that seeing him now, like this, away from the office, made me notice how handsome he was, how his eyes betrayed his emotions if one looked close enough.
He gave me a half smile that I was beginning to recognize. “Her mother named her Genevieve, but I usually call her Peanut.”
A chuckle erupted from the back of my throat before I could call it back. There was something sweet about this serious man in the black suit calling his daughter Peanut.
“What’s so funny?” He didn’t sound offended.
He slid the car up to the curb in front of my house, and I wondered at the stab of disappointment in the pit of my stomach. I stared down at my hands, embarrassed again. “My father called me Ellie. He was the only one. Everybody else calls me Eleanor.”
“Ah,” he said, and I knew he understood.
He made a move to open his car door, but I stopped him.
“That’s not necessary. I’m fine from here.”
It looked like he might argue, so I quickly opened my door and stepped out into the muggy night air, my head surprisingly clear. I leaned down into the car. “Thank you, Mr. Beaufain. I really do appreciate the ride, although it wasn’t necessary. You’ve got a long drive back to Charleston.”
“I’m glad I was there.” He smiled softly. “My name is Finn, by the way.” His face was serious suddenly. “I was wondering . . .” He stopped as if measuring his words, then said, “Do I pay you enough?”
It took me a moment for his question to register. “Yes. Of course,” I stammered.
He shook his head slightly. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out the way I intended. I suppose I wanted to ask you if you’d be interested in some extra work. Different from what you’re doing now, and just a few hours a day. But I’d pay you well.”
The thought of never having to go back to Pete’s Bar brought back my light-headedness. “What kind of work?”
His gray eyes were contemplative under the domed light. “I don’t really have a job description yet, but it would be as sort of a companio
n to an elderly lady—my great-aunt. She’s in the hospital now but will be coming home in the next week.” He spoke a little faster, as if he needed to work harder to sell me on the idea. “She has a large house on Edisto Island that she won’t leave, and I don’t like her being there by herself all day long.”
Something warm and soft like hope fluttered in my chest, then just as quickly died. “I would have no way to get there and back.”
“I can provide transportation.” He said it suddenly, as if he’d just made up his mind.
I stepped back from the car, imagining I could smell the wet scent of the ocean. “I grew up on Edisto. I might know your great-aunt.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “It’s late. You should go inside. We can talk about this tomorrow.”
I felt unsettled under his gaze. “Yes,” I said. “I’d like that. Good night, Mr. Beau . . .” My voice trailed away. I felt odd calling him by his first name, but it seemed just as strange calling him by his formal name now, too. So instead I let the silence fall between us.
“Good night, Eleanor. I’ll see you in the morning. And don’t worry about your car—it’ll be here.”
“Thanks again,” I said, then turned and hurried up the peeling porch steps, suddenly aware of how shabby our house must appear to him and grateful once again for the darkness that hid from sight all the things best kept hidden.
I felt him watching me as I turned the key in the lock and let myself in, not looking back as I closed the door. I listened as the soft hum of the engine disappeared down the street, hearing, too, the sound of quiet footsteps above me and then the creak of bedsprings.
I inhaled deeply, smelling the stale scent of fried chicken and the faint, expensive cologne that clung to the jacket I’d forgotten to give back. I pulled it closer around my neck as I switched off the hall lamp and made my way up the stairs.
