Recovering Charles

by Jason F. Wright

  “OK, OK,” she continued. “Think about Magnum P.I. Tom Selleck played a private investigator, a good one mind you, and de-li-cious on the eyes, but he wasn’t a detective because he didn’t have the piece of paper or formal training.”

  Now I added laughter to the eye-rolling. “You’ve lost it, Jordan. You’ve jumped the shark this time.”

  “So in closing . . .” She flipped her hair and acted as if she hadn’t heard me.

  I liked it.

  “The tasty Tom Selleck could never become an actual Sleuth, because he didn’t have enough respect from his peers. He was too much a renegade. You need industry support to reach—”

  “All right! I give, Matlock!”

  “Now that guy could have been a Sleuth—”

  “You win!”

  “It took you long enough.” She pulled her hair toward her right side, draping it over her shoulder, and let linger a style of smile that I’d never seen from her before. Seductive. Soft. “I hope it doesn’t take you that long to ask me out.”

  Why not? I thought.

  We left the club and I bought her a strawberry-topped Belgian waffle at an IHOP in Jersey.

  “Make a bet?” she asked.

  “OK. I’ll bite.”

  “If I can eat this waffle in five minutes or less you have to take me to any restaurant I want for our first real date.”

  “How about three?” I countered.

  “Four.”

  “Deal. And if you can’t eat that ginormous waffle in four minutes or less?”

  “I’ll teach you to play the acoustic as well as I can.”

  “Chomp chomp!” I taunted.

  Two weeks later we ate at the Rainbow Room in the RCA building. The meal was so expensive I could have paid for personal lessons from Eric Clapton.

  That was the night I expected the spark my father had described to ignite my heart and change the nature of our friendship.

  It didn’t, though I held hope it someday would.

  Chapter

  2

  I couldn’t turn off the TV.

  I had plenty to do the week Katrina rearranged the Gulf. I was on deadlines to deliver photos to two clients and was already a week late on delivering a rough cut of a DVD slideshow I’d created for Jordan’s real-estate broker.

  But I just couldn’t turn it off.

  The final death toll would be hard to pin down, Louisiana Governor Kathleen Blanco said in a news conference. She was taking a beating from the national press, which some felt was unfair. Mayor Ray Nagin also had his critics for what they called his dramatic exaggerations and tendency to place blame everywhere except on his own shoulders. Images of submerged and abandoned yellow school buses filled TV screens and newspaper front pages. But above all, FEMA had become the easiest target. Federal bureaucracy. Washington, D.C. mentality. A useless Bush crony. A disconnected president.

  None of that mattered to me. Not as I heard another explanation of how the levees failed and Lake Pontchartrain had taken eighty percent of the city prisoner. Not as I watched a woman sob on live national TV that her twin sons were missing. Nine years old. Former Haitian refugees. One was wearing a red tank top and the other his favorite New Orleans Saints T-shirt.

  I’d never felt such raw emotion for anyone not sharing my last name.

  I changed the channel. Bernard was on another network. He had arrived at the Superdome but had yet to find his wife. He carried a wallet-sized picture of her. He was drinking a Dasani.

  “Good, someone got him water. Keep looking, Bernard, you’ll find her.” I didn’t mean to say any of that out loud, but I did.

  I flipped to MSNBC. They reminded us the hurricane hadn’t only been cruel to New Orleans. For half an hour, local NBC reporters in Florida, Alabama, and Mississippi went national to tell their stories. Hellacious devastation in Long Beach, Mississippi. Power outages in Mobile, Alabama. Fires everywhere. Hospitals shuttling patients out of state. Neighbors helping neighbors.

  I opened my laptop and visited the Red Cross web site. I donated a hundred dollars to their Katrina Disaster Relief Fund and bookmarked the page.

  I turned the television channel again. An unknown but attractive, well-groomed female reporter was outside giving an update on the state of the Superdome. The sun was beating down on those camped along the sidewalk and cries could be heard all around her.

  In the background, a black man knelt over a body covered from the neck down with a gray bedsheet. He pulled the sheet over the body’s head and turned toward the camera, screaming in agony.

  Bernard.

  Tears began to drop for a man I’d never meet face-to-face and for the woman he loved.

  I found yet another channel offering wall-to-wall coverage, but I don’t remember which. They were showing a series of still shots set to a slickly produced dramatic soundtrack—

  A body in a grassy median, covered with a stunningly vibrant American flag.

  National Guard troops on helicopters.

  The roof of the Superdome. Most of its tiles ripped in half or missing completely. The building best suited to handle high winds in all the Crescent City in trouble. Bitterly ironic, I thought. Water is leaking in. Hope is flooding out.

  Mississippi Governor Haley Barbour hugs a woman outside a temporary shelter.

  Mormon missionaries hand out cases of water in a church parking lot.

  A man and a teenager paddle three young children down a street in a canoe. A fire burns behind them in an upscale neighborhood.

  Cars stuck in an alley, buried under ten feet of water. They look like colored marbles at the bottom of a mud puddle.

  A young, tall black man pushes a dead woman—probably his mother—in a wheelchair.

  A red Chevy Cavalier sits in a hotel swimming pool.

  A man sits alone on an overpass, clutching a black case. I wonder if it’s a saxophone.

  ~ ~

  I was fourteen and certainly not the most popular kid in Mrs. Ingham’s eighth grade music class. Everyone else had no trouble picking an instrument during the first week. We spent two days goofing around on twenty-year-old trombones, trumpets, clarinets, and whatever else Mrs. Ingham pulled from a closet in the back of the band room.

  Wednesday was decision day.

  “Can I pick last?” I’d always known I’d go with whatever Chrissy Alves picked. She’d never even looked at me before, but playing the same instrument might finally be the excuse I needed to say hello or punch her in the arm the way other boys did to the girls they liked.

  Mrs. Ingham smiled warmly. “I suppose, Luke.”

  One by one the other kids announced their choices. Big Spencer chose the bass drum. No surprise there, not with the way he liked beating up on people. Olivia chose the violin because she already owned one and had taken a few private lessons. Our popular eighth grade class president, Matthew, went with the tuba, and Green Beret-bound Glen chose the trumpet. His best friend Bryan went for the tambourine on the theory it would give him the greatest opportunity to sleep during class. Caleb only wanted to sing, and quite loudly, but Mrs. Ingham made him pick an instrument anyway.

  “But my voice is an instrument,” Caleb argued.

  “I know, Caleb, and a finely-tuned instrument it is, but chorus doesn’t start until next semester. So choose a musical instrument, please.”

  He went for the cymbals and played them with gusto.

  The Wages twins picked saxophones. Jay had really wanted to play the bassoon but the school didn’t own one. He settled for the trombone. The new girl from Minnesota picked an orange-colored French horn that was already bent.

  Then came Chrissy. She sat at the end of the row below me; I was perched alone on the highest riser. I looked at her profile and admired her sparkly purple hairband. I prayed, Please don’t pick the—

  “Flute!” she announced proudly.

  Mrs. Ingham smiled toward me again. She clearly enjoyed this. “And last but not least, how about you up there at the top? Mr. Millwa
rd? The flute for you as well?” She winked. I hated it when teachers winked.

  The boys giggled and Spencer practically screamed, “You two will make beautiful music together.”

  Now the girls giggled, too. I might have slugged Spencer if he hadn’t already locked me in the custodial closet twice that year.

  Mrs. Ingham disappeared into the deep closet and came out with two tarnished silver flutes and two different-sized cases. “Here you go, you two.” She surveyed the class, each of us awkwardly handling our instruments and making sounds normally heard in emergency rooms and jungles. “And now we have a band!”

  Over the next two weeks we learned fingering and then, finally, scales. After another month of screeching out music that Mrs. Ingham called “beautiful,” we learned a John Philips Sousa song that would have been unrecognizable to Mr. Sousa himself.

  “It’s time to practice on your own, students. This is what eighth grade is all about. Responsibility. If we want to be ready for the afternoon concert next month, you’ll have to commit to practicing outside of class.”

  I hated practicing the flute at home almost as much as I hated blowing on the thing during class. But the flute kept me four inches closer to Chrissy Alves on the front row. Sometimes when she played, and she’d actually gotten pretty good, I would only pretend to play so I could look at her puckered lips through the corner of my eye. I secretly hoped she’d never been kissed and that I’d be her first, but I was afraid I was too late. The rumors were that she’d gone behind the school’s landscaping shed last year and left the Virgin Lips Club with a boy nicknamed “Funk,” kissing him square on the mouth. For obvious reasons, she denied it. But the silly look on Funk’s tomato-face whenever she looked at him gave it away.

  “Are you all listening to me?” We packed up our instruments and shoved sheet music we didn’t really understand into our backpacks. “Practice this weekend, please. I expect to be emotionally moved by your progress on Monday.”

  I took a deep breath and punched Chrissy in the arm.

  “Hi, Chrissy.”

  “Hi, Luke.”

  “You gonna be practicing this weekend?”

  “I guess I better after that speech.” She grinned and pulled grape lip gloss from the pencil pocket of her purple backpack.

  Is she going to put that on right in front of me?

  Gulp. She did.

  “That’s awesome. I like practicing, too. A lot, too.”

  “That’s good.” She put the lip gloss away and rubbed her lips together.

  “Would you like to, ah, to practice playing the flutes with me?” Flutes?

  She studied my face for what felt like hours. By the time she spoke, I was so shaky I needed the boys’ bathroom. I tried not to squirm and almost teared up at the thought of wetting my pants in front of the prettiest girl in the eighth grade.

  “Sure, I’ll practice playing the flutes with you.” Her bright eyes could light a fire.

  I nodded. Words couldn’t have escaped my cotton mouth even if I’d tried.

  “You know where I live?”

  I shook my head no. A big fat lie.

  “I live across from the Kimbles. On Reservoir Road.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I croaked. “Knew that.”

  “Come over Sunday after church. We get home at 12:15 or so.”

  “Awesome.” I picked up my backpack and casually threw it over one shoulder.

  “Don’t forget your flute,” she said.

  “Yeah, duh.” I reached back down, grabbed the case, and unzipped my backpack just enough to cram it inside.

  “See you Sunday,” she said, walking away.

  “Awesome.”

  I practiced so much on Saturday that my lips were worn out from holding them in a position that should be reserved for first kisses. My hands ached and my pinkies were so sore I wanted to lop off them off with wire cutters. Dad came in every now and again to encourage me and to offer help. He took my flute and played a few bars.

  “Geez, Dad, you play the flute, too?”

  “Not really, but I know a little about a lot of instruments.”

  “I wish I’d picked something else.” So did my pinkies.

  “Don’t say that, son. The flute is beautiful when played well. It’s magical in fact. You’ll get there.”

  “You don’t wish I’d picked the sax?”

  “Not at all. You have your reasons.” He tapped my shin with his foot.

  How does he know this stuff? I thought.

  “Don’t worry, Luke. Give it time, you’ll get there.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Dad handed the flute back to me. “You made a brave choice, son. Stick with it. It will be worth it later.”

  Like tomorrow.

  Just after noon the next day I threw my freshly-polished flute in my backpack and rode my black Huffy to Chrissy’s house. She invited me in and led me to the living room where she’d already set up a folding music stand in front of two dining room chairs. She’d also arranged a TV tray with two glasses of Kool-Aid.

  “Hope you like grape.”

  It could have been diesel fuel and I would have enjoyed it.

  We sat side by side and blew our way through scales and then the only song we’d learned. We played it four or five times. Each time we’d start again her knee would inch closer to mine. By the time they touched I could barely breathe, never mind play the flute.

  “You quit playing!” she squealed after the final note.

  “Sorry.” My heart was racing so fast I was sure she could hear it. “I lost my place.” I pretended to straighten my sheet of paper on the stand we shared.

  “You’re funny, Luke Millward.”

  “You too.” I turned to look at her and her nose was so close I felt her breath on my face. She was making the face she made just before putting the flute to her gloriously shiny lips. But the flute was still in her lap.

  I leaned in and at last forfeited my membership in the VLC. That was the last thing I remember about the first time I practiced the flute with Chrissy Alves.

  ~ ~

  Our Sunday practices became the highlight of my middle school musical career. I got exactly one kiss every time we practiced. It always went down on her terms and the timing was completely unexpected. I tried in vain to convince Chrissy we needed to practice on Saturdays, too.

  Six kisses into our flute relationship, Mom and Dad made me invite her to our house for lunch and a practice session in Dad’s den.

  “We just want to meet your practice partner,” Mom said.

  “Fine. But you better buy some grape Kool-Aid.”

  Chrissy showed up the next Sunday afternoon and Dad led us into his den. We played our scales to his great satisfaction. Mom watched from the doorway.

  “Outstanding, guys!” he said. “You sound great! Really good work. How about you play something from the concert coming up?”

  We played one of the three songs we’d learned. I’d played them so many times I didn’t even read the sheet music anymore. Dad praised us again and excused himself. He left the door open.

  Chrissy and I played through each song one more time before taking a break to drink our Kool-Aid.

  “What’s your dad’s job?” Chrissy asked.

  “He’s an architect.”

  “Like Mr. Brady!”

  “You got it!” If she thought she was clever, I thought she was clever, too.

  “So he builds buildings. That’s a cool job.”

  “I guess. He doesn’t really build ’em, I don’t think, more like draws them out. Then like a million people look at them and say it’s OK to actually build it. Dad’s always talking about red tape.” I sat a little straighter. “Red tape means all the—”

  “I know what it means, Luke.”

  “Yeah, figured you did.” I slumped.

  We finished off our Kool-Aid.

  Chrissy gestured with one hand while wiping her purple mustache with the other. “What’s in there?” She’d spo
tted Dad’s saxophone case on the bottom shelf of the bookcase.

  “That’s nothing, just my dad’s old sax.” Shortening it made me feel like a high schooler.

  “Can I see it?”

  “Better not, it’s super expensive. I’m not allowed to even carry the case for him. He’s had it since he got married. Mom bought it for him for their first Christmas. I could tell you the story, I’ve heard it a billion times.”

  “That’s OK. Sorry for asking.” She took another sip and looked embarrassed for bringing it up.

  Thinking first was never my strong suit. “Hold on.” I put my flute on my chair and walked over to the open door. I peeked out then pulled it shut. I carefully opened the case and pulled the heavy saxophone from its red felt bed. It was even heavier than I’d expected. I carried it across the room and placed it in her hands.

  “Wow, Luke. This is so nice. It’s so beautiful compared to the ones at school. It weighs like a hundred pounds. It must have cost a fortune, huh?”

  “Definitely.” Hey, she thinks we’re rich! I wiped my palms on my jeans. “Better get it back.”

  “Yeah, you better.” She handed it to me and I turned back toward the case. Only I hadn’t realized how close I’d gotten to Dad’s heavy music stand and my left foot tripped over one of the legs. The stand fell and Chrissy yelped.

  I fell too. Right on top of Dad’s saxophone.

  Before I’d even turned over, Dad had flung the door open and rushed over to me.

  He scooped up the instrument.

  “Luke Millward! What did you do? What happened here?” Dad spun the saxophone end-to-end, examining the neck, mouthpiece, and rods.

  I noticed the small indentation in the bell the same time he did.

  I couldn’t speak.

  Chrissy was frantically packing her flute.

  “Luke!” Dad barked.

  “Sorry.” I looked at my feet. “We were just—”

  “Just what? Disobeying me? Showing off for your girlfriend? Which was it?”

  “Dad—”

  “Well? Now you’ve damaged the instrument. Do you have any idea what this means to me? Your mother saved like a pauper to buy this for me.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  Chrissy also mumbled a “Sorry” and a “Good-bye, Luke” and scampered out the door.