Off Limits

by Robert Rayner

  So she wasn’t an aging hippie trying too hard as a stand-in music teacher. She was a famous musician, married to a famous writer — one Birmingham knew about because they’d studied him in school.

  He read on. The band had produced six CDs. There was a clip from the title track of one called The Usual Culprits: Broken and Blue. He listened to Amber Flood singing, “All right, I’m beaten and shattered, heart hurt, feelings battered. And it’s all ’cause of you I’m broken and blue.” Her plaintive voice stirred his body and emotions all over again.

  He closed the site and sat for a moment, thinking about the other life of this woman. Thinking of her as Ms. Flood no longer seemed to fit. Ms. Flood was a slightly pathetic — he had to admit it — substitute music teacher. Amber Flood was a sultry, drop-dead gorgeous musician, at home in dim bars, jazz festivals, and the literary world. It was like she was two different people.

  He searched Winter Flood, looking for more pictures of the younger Ms. Flood, and hundreds of images appeared. He found a photo of Amber and Winter Flood, drinks in hand, standing in a crowd of people dressed for the red carpet, the women in gowns, the men in bow ties and dark suits. Winter Flood, his face hidden behind the hand he was holding up to ward off the photographer, wore jeans and a jacket over an open-necked shirt, while Amber Flood looked like a teenager — a hot teenager — in a short dress and jean jacket.

  Birmingham clicked Home, and found he was on the website of Winter Flood’s publisher. There was a tag inviting visitors to Ask our authors a question. He’d enjoyed Faking It, and on impulse typed:

  Dear Mr. Flood: In Faking It, is Tina a troubled young woman bravely trying to overcome personal problems? Or is she just a heartless, selfish bitch who simply doesn’t care about the feelings of the two guys who try to help her? Sincerely, Birmingham Glover.

  He clicked Send, thinking that Winter Flood would never bother to respond.

  Chapter 6

  Birmingham said, “See you, guys,” and shouldered his backpack. He’d spent an hour after school on Monday in math study group.

  Jordan Stokes stopped him in the hall. “So how’s Jenna these days?”

  Birmingham shrugged warily. “Okay.”

  He didn’t like Jordan, a short, broad-shouldered senior who claimed to have the highest marks and the most body hair in the history of the school. Birmingham didn’t understand why girls went out with him. But they did, in droves, including Jenna for a few weeks a couple of years before.

  “You oughta thank me for breaking her in,” Jordan went on.

  Jordan’s constant companions, Sam and Cory, joined him in front of Birmingham, grinning. Jordan asked, “She still bang like a shithouse door?”

  Birmingham barged through them.

  “She was the virgin queen when we started going together — for about five seconds,” Jordan called after him. “Then she jumped me in the back pew of the United Church, with everyone in front listening to the sermon. Hottest fourteen-year-old I ever had.”

  Birmingham remembered Jenna at fourteen, slim and lissom and as unreachable as a teen pop star.

  “Then I passed her on to you, eh, Cory?” said Jordan. “Or was it you, Sam?”

  “Both of us,” said Sam. “We took turns. We both had her.”

  “Like most of the guys in school,” said Cory.

  “Most of the guys in town,” Sam corrected him.

  “In the universe,” said Jordan.

  Sam and Cory laughed harshly.

  Birmingham resisted the urge to return and take a swing at Jordan. Instead, he turned his back on them and sauntered toward the main entrance.

  He saw Jenna on the other side of the glass doors and hesitated. She’d told him earlier she would wait for him, but he thought she’d get distracted and take off. How much of what Jordan and his friends said about her was true? He turned and made his way to the music room. The sound of the piano drifted out — “Who Cares?” He could tell it was Ms. Flood. He corrected himself — Amber.

  He stopped, thinking, Right now I could be on my way to sex with a hot sixteen-year-old who’s desperate for it. Instead I’m seeing a substitute music teacher, who may be almost hot in a strange kind of way, but is also married and twice my age.

  What am I doing here?

  The music stopped. She repeated the last phrase. Then she played it in a different way. Birmingham peered in. Her back was to him as she sat at the piano. He slipped into the music room and nudged the door closed.

  She finished and folded her hands in her lap, as if at the end of a public performance. Birmingham applauded softly. She looked around. She wore her soft face, as he’d hoped.

  “I didn’t mean to surprise you,” he said.

  “You didn’t.”

  He realized she’d seen his reflection in the shiny piano.

  “I’m glad you came,” she said. “I was trying two versions of ‘Who Cares?’ Which did you prefer?”

  He moved further into the room. “The first one. The left hand was too dominant in the other.”

  “You are so sensitive! I agree. I played the first version at the Cellar Club on Friday night — remember?”

  “Yes.” He also remembered feeling like a child when she came to their table with her bright teacher-in-public act.

  Surprised at the bitterness in his voice, he said, “I didn’t think you even knew I was there.”

  She murmured, “Oh, I knew. Did you enjoy the band?”

  He blurted out, “I loved how you did ‘Who Cares?’ — especially when you sang. I looked you up on the web. You’re famous! I found you playing ‘Long Time No See’ and ‘Catnip Blues.’”

  “In Montreal. That was a long time ago.”

  He thought of the close-up photos of her online. “You looked . . . different.”

  “I was ten years younger.”

  “You were . . .”

  He stopped. He was going to say she was gorgeous. But that would overstep the boundary between student and teacher. Even though she’d invited him to do exactly that when she told him to call her by her first name, he knew he couldn’t step back if he did.

  He tried again. “You looked . . .”

  She smiled. “I looked younger. What did you think of ‘Catnip Blues’?”

  “It was wild. I love the opening of that song, but I can never figure out the left hand.”

  “Watch. I’ll play it slowly.”

  He moved closer to watch her hands.

  “Got it?” she asked.

  “Not sure.”

  He moved even closer, so that he was standing beside her at the piano as she started again. This time she kept playing, picking up speed, her eyes half closing, her mouth half open, and her tongue between her teeth. She was swaying as she played. Birmingham tried to keep his eyes on her hands, but each time she swayed forward her dress fell open at the top so he could see down it.

  Shouts and the clatter of feet sounded from a distance.

  She faltered and stopped, looking up and blinking as if coming out of a trance.

  Birmingham didn’t move his eyes fast enough and was still gazing down her dress. He blushed, mumbled, “Sorry,” and rushed from the room.

  Jenna was in the hall, a few steps from the door.

  “What’s up with you?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” His face still felt hot. Would she notice? “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you, dummy. I waited at the main door, like I said I would. When you didn’t show up, I guessed you’d be in the music room.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I know you’re nuts about music, stupid.” She slipped her arm through his as she added, “And the music teacher.”

  He scoffed, “Now who’s stupid?”

  As they lef
t school by the back way, Jenna demanded, “Was she in the music room?”

  “Who?” He knew who she meant.

  “Hippie Skank Flood, of course. Who else?”

  “She’s not a hippie.”

  “Bet she used to be — the way she dresses, and all that hair. Was she there?”

  “What if she was?”

  “Just asking.”

  They set off across the playing field.

  “What were you doing in there with her?” Jenna tried again.

  “Listening to her play the piano, if you must know. She was showing me how to play something.”

  “Was that all she was showing you?”

  He thought of his glimpse down her dress.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

  “I mean with you dreaming of getting it on with her, and her looking for it . . .”

  “You’re talking crap.”

  “You can tell, the way she looks at you in class. Think I haven’t noticed? Just thought she might be after you to give her a quick grope at the keyboard.”

  He looked straight ahead as they walked. He couldn’t meet Jenna’s eyes. He felt himself blush again as Jenna questioned him, as if he were guilty of something.

  He was. He was guilty of looking down his music teacher’s dress.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes. Soon Jenna seemed to have forgotten her anger. She clung to his arm and laid her head on his shoulder. “Guess what!”

  “What?”

  “Mom and Dad are away the long weekend we’re going to the Showcase in Fredericton.”

  “So?”

  “I told them we’re staying two nights with Trish’s Aunt Rose. All you gotta do is tell your folks the same story. Then we’ll have my house — and my bedroom — to ourselves from the time we get home on the bus. That’ll be most of Sunday and Monday — including Sunday night.” They were passing the entrance to the cemetery. Jenna tugged him toward it, murmuring, “Let’s do it on that big tombstone in the middle of the graveyard.”

  “No!” he said, walking on. “I don’t mind in the cemetery, but not on a tombstone.”

  “Where then, Birm?” she whined.

  They were at the corner of Main Street. Their homes were each five minutes away, but in opposite directions.

  “How about your place?” Jenna suggested.

  “My folks are home.”

  “My place, then.”

  “Won’t your mom and dad be there?”

  “Not until later.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she set off, pulling him by the hand. As they approached her house, Birmingham saw a car in the driveway. He hung back. “Someone’s home.”

  Had she known all the time?

  Jenna’s mother appeared. She wore gardening gloves and was carrying a rake. Jenna and Birmingham were still several metres from the driveway and she didn’t see them. She took a garden cart from the front lawn and wheeled it around the side of the house.

  “It’s okay,” said Jenna. “Mom’s working in the back garden. We can sneak up to my room.”

  They were at the end of the driveway when Birmingham saw Jenna’s dad at the kitchen window over the front garden. He had a book in one hand and a spatula in the other.

  Birmingham stepped back. “Your dad’s home. He’s in the kitchen, cooking, I think.”

  “We’ll do it in the car then,” said Jenna.

  Birmingham said, “No way!”

  But she was already running down the driveway, keeping one eye on the kitchen window. Her father was no longer visible. She eased one of the back doors open and slid inside. She beckoned to Birmingham. He looked up and down the street. Pedestrians were approaching from both directions, and a constant stream of traffic passed by. With a glance at the kitchen window to make sure Mr. Starr wasn’t watching, he ran to the car, keeping low, and threw himself in. Jenna pulled the door closed behind him. She was giggling helplessly as she slid full length on the back seat, her miniskirt riding up.

  Birmingham said, “How are we . . . ?”

  “Easy,” she said.

  Had she done it in the back of a car before?

  She bent one leg up on the seat, tucked the other under the passenger seat, and said, “Better go gently. Don’t want Dad to see the car rocking.”

  He eased himself gingerly onto her. Moved gently against her. Felt her breath on his neck come quicker. Felt the now-familiar rush nearing.

  Heard voices.

  “Whatever are they doing?”

  “Where?”

  He reared up. A woman on the sidewalk was pointing at a house across the road where scaffolding had been erected.

  “Just painting,” said her companion.

  Jenna pulled him down.

  The voices faded.

  Jenna murmured, “Keep your mind on the job, Birm.”

  He heard a tapping sound.

  Then Mrs. Starr: “How are you getting on in there?”

  “Good question,” Jenna whispered. She began to giggle.

  Birmingham wished he could enjoy the sensation of her body trembling with laughter, but he was too scared. He glanced around at the windows, expecting to see Jenna’s mother looking down at them. No one. He eased himself up again until he could see out. Mrs. Starr was tapping on the kitchen window.

  She repeated, “How are you getting on in there?”

  Mr. Starr opened the window. “Nearly ready.”

  “Is Jenna home?”

  “I haven’t seen her.”

  “Thank God for that,” Jenna whispered, still giggling.

  “Maybe I’ll take a walk up the street and meet her,” said her mother.

  Birmingham thought, She’ll see me and she’ll kill me. If she doesn’t, Mr. Starr will.

  Jenna, holding him tight against her, breathed, “Don’t stop now.”

  Footsteps approached. When Birmingham was sure Mrs. Starr was beside the car, able to peer in, Mr. Starr called, “Can you give me a hand with the rice?”

  The footsteps stopped and retreated.

  “Quick,” said Jenna, breathing fast, her eyes rolling back.

  Afterward, she walked with him to the end of the driveway. “See you later?” she said. “We could try it beside the train tracks, or on one of the picnic tables behind the takeout, once it’s closed.”

  “Too much homework,” Birmingham lied.

  He felt the familiar gloom and disappointment coming over him.

  Jenna pouted. “You’re not turning gay on me, are you?”

  Birmingham ignored her. He was thinking of Ms. Flood. He couldn’t help himself.

  Jenna stared at him. Was she reading his mind?

  “Gay . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “Or something.”

  Chapter 7

  Birmingham didn’t know where he expected a famous novelist to live. But he hadn’t expected a big, new development of modern houses with perfect gardens like Manor Farm Estates.

  He’d been surprised when Winter Flood replied to his e-mail, although all the message had said was, Which do you think Tina is?

  Birmingham had e-mailed back: I felt sorry for her, so I guess that means I think she’s a troubled young woman. Is that what you want the reader to think?

  He was amazed all over again when he received a reply a few days later: Reader’s job to judge. Writer just writes.

  Birmingham e-mailed again: Do you mean something like Chekhov said about the writer being as objective as a chemist?

  That morning, his English teacher had talked about Chekhov in class. Luckily, a handout with that essay question was beside his computer.

  Winter Flood’s reply was a sudden invitation for Birmingham to visit, fro
m 3:00 p.m. sharp to 3:30, at 178 Broomwell Gardens, Manor Farm Estates, Back River. The message had come as a text on the day of the invitation, and it was noon before Birmingham had found it.

  Birmingham snuck out of school early and caught the bus to Manor Farm Estates. He made his way through a maze of streets until he found Broomwell Gardens. It was a dead-end road on the edge of the development with a row of townhouses on each side. He walked slowly along, looking for number 178. The last even-numbered townhouse was 176. Beyond it, a narrow, potholed dirt road led into a cluster of trees. He followed the dirt road to a spit of land that jutted into the river. There, a shingled cottage stood alone. It was the kind of house a writer would live in, Birmingham decided. The new housing development must have been built after. A small wooden sign with 178 painted on it hung crookedly from a tree.

  Birmingham knocked quietly at the door.

  No one answered.

  He checked his watch. It was exactly three o’clock. He knocked again, more loudly. He heard shuffling footsteps. The door opened a crack, but no one appeared.

  Birmingham said, “Mr. Flood?”

  “What if I am?” said a man’s voice, soft and trembling.

  “You said to come.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m Birmingham.”

  “So?”

  “Birmingham Glover. We e-mailed. You said to come at three o’clock today.”

  Winter Flood opened the door a little more. He peered around as if checking to see if Birmingham was with a gang of hooligans.

  “I’m by myself,” said Birmingham.

  The door opened further.

  Winter Flood had a lined, jowly face, and unkempt, curly grey hair. He wore a stained red wool cardigan over a black t-shirt and baggy grey pants. He stooped in the doorway with rounded shoulders. He looked a lot older than Ms. Flood, more like her father than her husband.