Every Mountain Made Low

by Alex White

  “Can I play it?”

  “I’d hoped you would,” said Quentin.

  She picked up the bow from the case and examined it. Also made from the same gray poplar, the bow had a band of polished silver running down the back that would no doubt sparkle under the spotlights. She took it by the frog and wound the strings tight before rosining them from a small tub in the case.

  Resting her chin upon it, the violin was a stranger to her. All of the notches and dings of her old companion were absent, replaced by a smoothness that did not quite fit her. Normally, the unfamiliarity would have bothered her, but this time it was exciting, like pushing a garden trowel into undisturbed earth. The precipice of expectation and discovery thrilled her.

  When she drew the bow across the strings, she found the instrument more tuned than she’d expected. With a minor adjustment, she found her notes and drew once again. The violin sang with such a clear harmonic that the whole room seemed to shrink to be filled with her sound. The note bounced off the far walls, feeding back into itself to become twice the power it was. It was a pane of glass, more flawless and warmer than those prisms dangling from the chandelier above her. She’d been able to make sounds on her old violin, but now they seemed like hoarse imitations of real music.

  She walked up and down the A scale until she found a curve in the midmorning light – the supple sculpt of Nora’s hip as she lay in bed – an image from the dream at Don’s house. Loxley’s fingers lightly traveled over the strings, gently teasing out more details of Nora’s shoulders, her breasts, her long neck. She played her friend’s sleepy smile into the composition, swaying in time as the music streamed from her.

  She played of Nora’s eyes: green, sure and aglow with a confidence Loxley could never possess. So much of Loxley’s music had been long, straight lines conjoined by harmony alone, but this tune flowed through an ocean of itself, its boundaries continually challenged by each expedition across the fingerboard. She played to recall water, and a dewdrop hanging in the summer light of a dawning day.

  The Nora of her song didn’t belong to anyone else, didn’t exist in any shared space. She wasn’t the same person who failed to share her feelings outside the Bazaar. She didn’t bother with men like Jack or Hiram. This Nora lay naked in bed, warm and wonderful, driving out any thoughts of awakening. She had no flaws, only beauty, because the real Nora wasn’t food for the public ear. The woman of Loxley’s song was a bent half-truth, idealized for Loxley’s ease as much as the music.

  A hint of uncertainty crept into the tune – a tiny amount of discord curling some of the notes. A trickle of blood spilled across the little hairs of Nora’s brow. Just a tiny cut at first, a thin halo of burned flesh faded into the skin around it. A bone-cracking rip sounded as Loxley slapped the bow across the strings. Hair matted to the back of Nora’s head, slick but not smooth. Loxley’s old apartment became Nora’s living room, and Loxley brought her discord to a tiny tremble as she rediscovered her friend’s corpse. She arpeggiated in tense, minor steps, coming closer to the body with each drawing of the bow.

  Loxley looked over the body, the light of the green eyes replaced with the sheen of old meat. She plucked the string and let it hum – a teardrop.

  Sadness and fear intermingled as the thought of ghosts surfaced. She’d never imagined what one might sound like in musical form, but she sawed across the low G string, and it groaned hoarsely. The instrument had a character Loxley hadn’t predicted in that note, as though it sensed what she wanted and gave her more than she’d hoped. Nora arose from her place at Loxley’s side to hover in august malevolence before the violinist. Cold hands clutched the air aimlessly; pale lips uttered meaningless words.

  Loxley squeezed her eyes shut, and the harder she squeezed, the more she could see Nora – and feel her presence. Loxley breathed in the cool, slightly damp air of the stage, and she heard something she hadn’t heard in days: the rhythmic clang of the steelworks below. She stomped a foot in counterpoint, a bass drum to its cymbal. Her hands itched to follow the beat, but terror gripped her heart. Unnatural ripples stirred around her, and she grit her teeth. The song was almost over – two more bars. She couldn’t stop early; she would be done soon. But what would happen when she finished?

  She stopped without finishing. She lowered the bow.

  A wave of applause crashed into her, and Loxley screamed, covering her ears as she fell to her knees. Silence followed just as quickly. She looked out and saw Quentin standing at the vanguard of a dozen or so surprised cooks, cleaners and serving staff. How long had she been playing? Why hadn’t she noticed them?

  Quentin looked her in the eyes and nodded before spinning to face the others. “All right, ya’all: you know you’ve got work to do! What the fuck are you wasting time out here for? We open in six hours, now get to it!”

  Loxley winced as he clapped his hands, shooing off the other staffers. Her gaze drifted downward to the violin laying on the stage. She’d dropped her precious poplar beauty. Her eyes burned with embarrassment.

  “It’s okay, Loxley. I guess you weren’t ready for all that,” came Quentin, climbing onto the stage to sit next to her.

  She fingered the edge of the upper bout and found a chip in the satin finish. “I’m sorry,” she stuttered. A sob fell from her lips, but she caught the next one. “I don’t know what happened. I chipped the violin.” She held it up so he could see.

  “No need to apologize to me. It’s yours, you know.” He gently pushed it away. “Now, Loxley, I have seen you play a half-dozen times at Harrison Hoop. They clap every time. What happened this time?”

  “You’re going to kick me out, aren’t you?”

  “Are you going to scream every time you play?”

  She picked up the bow. “No. I swear I won’t. I’m so sorry.”

  “Are you going to play something happier next time?”

  She thought about it. There wasn’t much to be happy about. “I don’t know what to play. I like to think of stories when I play. My stories are all stupid now.”

  “I could have Jayla bring you a piece of chocolate cake. She could bring you a lot of cakes, actually, and you’ll have a story about the time you ate yourself silly.”

  “I don’t eat sweets.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Jayla!” he called to the kitchen.

  Loxley’s stomach knotted up and she folded her arms around the instrument. Quentin had offered too much, gone out of his way too many times, spent too much money. Now, he wanted to feed her a cake just because she felt bad. She wasn’t that special. A lot of folks could play the violin, and no one gave them shiny new toys from Nashville. What if Quentin was just like Officer Crutchfield, pretending to like her because he wanted her body?

  She ran a finger across the F holes and sniffled. She wanted him to be telling the truth. She wanted him to be her friend. Was she sure he was lying? Did she know anything about him at all?

  “Stop,” she said, pulling his hand down. “I don’t want anything more.”

  “It ain’t a big deal. I’ll just –”

  “I said no, Mister Mabry,” she said, standing up. She set the instrument down on its case. “You’ve done too much already. Everyone told me so.”

  He sat up straight. “Who’s been saying that to you? Was it Cap?”

  Her cheeks pricked with heat. “He says... He, well...”

  “What did he say?”

  “He says I’m sweet on you, but I’m not. I’m never going to have sex with you. Not ever.”

  Quentin nodded and stroked his chin. “I believe we already agreed to that.”

  “You’re buying me expensive stuff, and you keep making people serve me and some people don’t like me because of you. I don’t know why you’re being so nice, because when we first met I didn’t like you.”

  He also stood. “I’m doing this for you because you’re going to make me and Tee money. You’re the talent, and you’re going to keep these tables full... I want to be your friend because
I feel bad for you.”

  She looked away. Staring him in the eyes bothered her too much. “Everyone thinks they’re better than me. You’re just going to call me crazy, too, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “But that’s probably what you think.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  She didn’t know why she was being so forceful with him. What if he had always been nice because he simply liked her as a person? Loxley liked Nora the first time she’d met her. Then again, Loxley couldn’t get Nora’s nude figure out of her head. Did she want to fuck Nora? Was anybody ever honest about how they felt? She’d trusted everyone in the past – everyone her mother had told her to trust – and that was wrong because of Officer Crutchfield. Her mother had told her not to trust blacks; was that wrong, too?

  The world didn’t work right anymore. Alvin Kimball had changed it the day he touched her in the Bazaar.

  “If you care about me as a friend,” she said, “stop being so nice to me.”

  “Loxley, honey, that doesn’t make sense.”

  She shook the crackles out of her fingers and her breathing sped up. “I’m sorry. I’m confused. Please go away.”

  He jammed his hands in his pockets and sighed. “Okay... Okay. Look, just keep the violin. When are you going to be ready to go onstage?”

  “Tonight, but I want to practice.”

  “All right. We’ll give it a try tonight. You can stay in here and get to know your new toy until then.” He sauntered to the edge of the stage and hopped off, headed up the steps to the entrance. “Oh, and be in makeup in four hours.”

  “I don’t wear makeup.”

  “It’s part of the job, so you’d better learn.”

  For some reason, her mind had gotten stuck on the morning she saw Alvin Kimball’s ghost. She thought of Officer Crutchfield, and how he’d wanted her gratitude. As Quentin reached the door, she spoke up once more, calling his name. When he turned, she said, “Thank you.”

  He chuckled. “At least your momma taught you some manners.”

  “Wasn’t my mother.”

  “Whoever it was, they were a good influence on you,” he said, pushing through the swinging doors to disappear around a corner.

  Loxley’s limbs felt heavy as she reached down to pick up her new violin with trembling fingers. Officer Crutchfield was a bad person, even if they’d shot him when he tried to rescue her.

  He was a bad person. It wasn’t fair to feel otherwise.

  Chapter Eleven

  A Hill of Beans

  PRACTICE WAS GOING poorly, and every interlude brought back Nora’s ghost.

  She held the most wonderful thing she’d ever seen, her poplar beauty, but where was the music inside it? Inside her? Disgusted, she placed the instrument into its case, checking to make sure it was carefully seated, then slammed the lid. The explosive clap felt good, like she’d chipped away at a binding around her heart, so she opened the case and slammed it again, humming happily. Clap! Hum. Clap! Hum. Clap! Hum.

  She eased into it and closed her eyes, making a drumbeat. Clap. Breathe in. Clap. Breathe out. Clap. Breathe in. Clap. Breathe out.

  “Hey, stop that!”

  Another voice. Go away. Clap!

  Rough, warm hands grabbed hers, and she looked up to find Jayla scowling at her. “You’re going to break it! Calm down.”

  Loxley ran her fingers along the open edge of the case and found that she’d dinged it up pretty badly. Exposed wood poked out from under the faux leather, and one of the brass latches had gotten roughed up. First, she’d chipped the violin, and now the case. Could she take care of this precious thing? The heat rose in her cheeks, and her fingers wouldn’t listen to her, so she shook them out.

  “It’s mine,” she spat.

  “Well ain’t you just the most spoiled thing on two legs? You think that gives you a right to break it?”

  “Yes.”

  Jayla scowled. “You want to rethink that?”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “Idle hands. I know you just fine. You finished your practice and you didn’t have anything to do next, so you let your hands do whatever they wanted.”

  She wanted to tell Jayla that her mind needed to be flattened out, that she was pounding out the bumps, but the words wouldn’t come. “Ain’t my hands.”

  “It’s that brain of yours, right? It needs to feel like it’s doing something.”

  “Go away. I’m practicing.”

  “Come with me. I’ve got something to show you.”

  Loxley frowned, but she stood and followed Jayla. It was for the best that she get away from the violin for awhile. It beckoned to her, but she knew she’d only get angry if she picked it up again. She stomped her feet a few times before she left the stage, savoring the warm, bass boom of the planks through the main hall.

  Jayla led her to the kitchen, which lay empty, save for a big apple crate, lined with plastic, stacked on the steel tables. The lid had been pried off and inside Loxley spotted a huge pile of red lentils almost bursting from the top.

  “I heard you playing out there,” said Jayla.

  “Okay.”

  “I heard you when you stopped, too, banging around like a wet cat. You need something to do with your hands.”

  “Okay.”

  Jayla’s eyebrows did something, and Loxley was pretty sure she was making a nasty face. “I want you to try something.” She crossed to the open crate. “You know what these are?”

  “Lentils. I don’t grow them because –” Because I don’t have a garden.

  “Wrong, baby. These are heaven on earth. I want you to do what I do.” Jayla sank her hands into the pile, all the way up to the elbows and took a deep breath.

  Loxley scratched her nose and watched as the other woman pushed her hands through the pile, letting the lentils slip between her fingers. “Why?”

  “Just do it. You’ll like it.”

  Her chest felt tight, and she shook her head no, but Jayla wasn’t looking. Loxley flapped her fingers, balling and opening her fists. She stepped closer to the open crate, looking over its endless array of tiny red pulses.

  Jayla withdrew her hands and splayed her fingers, positioning them over the hill. “Like this.”

  Loxley stretched her hands until the skin of her palms burned and pushed them partway into the lentils. “Okay.”

  Cool shells effervesced her skin as her hands sank into the crate. A sudden sigh escaped her lips and a sharpness seized her mind, focusing her surroundings. She looked around the kitchen, at the rows of hanging pots and pans, at the dozen butcher blocks bristling with knives, and felt no need to take inventory. She didn’t hear the endless voices of other workers throughout the club as they prepped for their day. She spread her fingers and pushed them around, the weight of dry pulses tickling and compressing simultaneously.

  “I heard you in there practicing. Sounded good,” said Jayla. “Except at the end.”

  “I was mad.” Her voice sounded clearer somehow, like her lips didn’t want to trip over each other. “I kept thinking of someone I don’t want to think of.”

  “We’ve all got those, sweetheart.”

  Loxley started to correct her, to tell her that Nora was different than some jilted lover, but then she remembered that in the Hole, everyone knew someone who’d been murdered. It was just the way of things. Jayla probably had some sob stories, too.

  Jayla raised her hands from the pile, and let lentils trickle from them. They made a pleasant patter. Then, she plunged them back into the beans. “Don’t worry about it. You’re going to be fine.”

  “Everyone keeps thinking I’m going to be something, but I’m not,” she said. “I’m not anything, and I’m not going to be.”

  Jayla’s hands wrapped around Loxley’s wrists, deep under the grains, and squeezed. They were strong and sure, warm, but far from soft. Loxley looked into the other woman’s eyes and blinked. Another quick squeeze, and Jayla broke contac
t. She felt a sudden emptiness on her wrists, and the lentils felt colder than they had before.

  “Hush. Your bad practicing was better that most girls on that stage ever get.”

  They stood in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the dry lentils. Loxley rained them onto the pile, passing them just in front of her eyes like a red storm.

  “Do you do this all the time? With the lentils?” she asked.

  Jayla smiled and looked away. “Only when we get a new shipment. These will tide us over for a few weeks, and once they’re in the pantry, I don’t mess with them much.”

  “You should. This is nice.” Loxley swallowed. “You have really strong hands, like a man’s.”

  “You’re one to talk! I’ve seen your arms, girl.”

  Loxley’s cheeks prickled, and she looked away. Her hands brushed up against the other woman’s. She looked up.

  Jayla beamed at her. “You feel better?”

  “I do.”

  She drew out her hands and shook them free. “Go on, then. Get back out there and play something pretty.”

  A New Face

  WHEN LOXLEY GOT back to her room for makeup, she found a clean tuxedo awaiting her. She’d begun to sweat during practice, and as she passed Jayla’s vanity mirror, she saw that her hair had become disheveled and greasy. She stripped down, donned a housecoat and padded down the hall to the communal bathroom.

  Several employees lived onsite at the Hound’s Tail: Jayla, Quentin, Charisse the maid, Marcus the bookkeeper, and two of the repairmen, Leandro and Alphonso (who confused Loxley because they were identical twins). Almost all of them lived on the second floor, and they all shared a bathroom, which meant that no one was allowed to leave their things in there. The pristine ceramic tiles comforted her, a blank slate.