Jane's Melody

by Ryan Winfield

  The kid reached up and pulled down the guitar and held it in front of Jane. The wood was lacquered with a beautiful burnt-orange color fading into black.

  “This here’s one of the best,” he said. “A Gibson J-45 in Vintage Sunburst.”

  “It’s pretty,” she said.

  Then she turned over the tag and read the price: $2,950.

  “But maybe something in a lower price range?”

  The kid rehung the Gibson and walked her down the aisle.

  “Yamaha makes some good guitars that you can get into pretty cheap. But if you want the best quality without turning your purse inside out I’d go with the Dave Navarro. Funny thing is, it’s got your name. This is The Jane.”

  He handed her a beautiful black guitar, a white tree branch and a bird emblazoned on its front.

  “That baby’s gonna do everything he needs, and it’s on sale too for just under six.”

  “Six hundred dollars?”

  “Plus tax, of course. Gotta feed the pig.”

  “And it’s really called The Jane?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Jane was so absorbed with the beauty of the instrument that she hadn’t even heard him call her ma’am.

  “I’ll take it,” she said. “But I’ll need a case for it too.”

  When Jane left the shop carrying the guitar, a wind was blowing clouds in from the west and the air smelled like rain. By the time the ferry was midway across the bay, the wind was driving whitecaps to crash against its side and sending spray onto the open portion of the car deck. The island seemed to be in the eye of the storm, and as Jane drove toward home she ran her wipers at full speed and fought with the wheel to keep gusts of wind from pushing her car off the road.

  She pulled into the safety of her garage, shut the door, and sighed with relief. She reminded herself to replace the light bulb as she fumbled through the dark, carrying the guitar.

  She was surprised to find Caleb still outside, working in the storm. She stood at the living room window with the guitar case in her hand and watched as he hauled a tangle of cut blackberry vines to the pile of them he had going. The creek was actually beginning to take shape from beneath the mess of brambles, and he’d already made good progress at removing the Scotch Broom, too. Caleb heaved the vines onto the pile, took off his cap, and leaned his head back and looked up at the stormy sky. He was soaked through. His shirt was clinging to his chest, and his long hair hung dripping from his head, which gave him the appearance of some Greek warrior challenging the gods above. Jane rapped her knuckles on the window.

  He turned and saw her and a smile flashed on his face.

  She waved for him to come in; then she retreated to her room to hide the guitar until she was ready to give it to him.

  When she came into the living room again, he was standing just outside the open slider under the eve of the roof.

  “Would you mind grabbing me a towel?” he asked. “I’d hate to drip water all over your house.”

  Jane went and came back with a towel.

  Caleb kicked off his boots and set them aside, tossing his soggy hat on top of them. Then he peeled his wet shirt over his head and tossed it down too. Jane held the towel out for him, but he ignored it and unbuttoned his pants. She saw the cut of his hips and the band of his boxers before she instinctively looked away. He laughed.

  “Haven’t you seen a man in his shorts before?”

  Jane thrust the towel toward him.

  “Not in a long time, I haven’t.”

  “Well, I’d hate to be uncharitable,” he said, taking the towel and wrapping it around his waist.

  Then he stepped inside and closed the door.

  Jane could feel him standing in front of her, and she could smell the rain on his skin. He stood there for a long time and when she looked up into his eyes, he was smiling at her. The swelling was gone; only the hint of a black eye remained. From the bruised and battered face of the kid she’d taken home, a gorgeous man had emerged. His lashes were thick and long, causing his green eyes to flash when he blinked. His face was rugged and handsome. A man’s features: the perfect arch of his eyebrows; the slight slant to his nose. But it was his mouth and the almost feminine beauty of his lips that fascinated Jane more than anything else. She forced herself to look down from his face. When she did, she noticed the cuts on his hands.

  “Why aren’t you wearing the gloves I bought you?” she asked, taking his hands in hers and inspecting them.

  He lifted her arm and twirled her.

  “If you wanna dance, just say so.”

  When Jane had spun full around and was facing him again, she pulled her hand free and hooked it on her hip.

  “It isn’t funny, Caleb. Those thorns are nasty, you know. You have to wear the gloves from now on.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll wear the gloves.”

  “Good. Now go take a shower and get dressed. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “What’s the surprise?”

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise now, would it?”

  “Just give me a clue then.”

  She pushed him toward the shower.

  “Get in the shower. I’ll put your clothes in the dryer.”

  “Don’t dry my hat,” he called back to her from his way to the bathroom.

  After Jane had set his clothes to dry, she opened the flute in the living room fireplace and lit a Duraflame. It was one of the colored ones meant to crackle, and it hissed and popped and burned in a rainbow of shades. It was casting a nice light into the storm-shadowed room by the time Caleb rejoined her. He was wearing a clean pair of kakis and a T-shirt, and he smelled like soap as he sank into the chair across from Jane.

  “Fire’s nice,” he said.

  “Thanks. I hope you’re hungry, because I ordered a pizza.”

  “Pizza’s great,” he said. “But I’m wondering how it is you keep your awesome figure. I mean the way you packed away the Chinese the other day. And now pizza.”

  Jane smirked at him.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Good. ’Cause I meant it as one.”

  “Well, you’ve got a funny way of flattering a woman then.”

  He leaned back into his chair and grinned.

  “Was the pizza my surprise?”

  She shook her head.

  “No. It wasn’t. Wait here.”

  She rose and went to her room. The second she walked back into the living room carrying it, he leapt to his feet.

  “You didn’t!”

  She held the case out to him.

  “I did.”

  He put up his hands and shook his head.

  “I can’t accept this.”

  “You haven’t even opened it yet. What if there’s a pair of garden shears or maybe a lawn edger in there?”

  He laughed, taking the case from her and sitting with it on his lap. He unclasped the latches and lifted the lid.

  “Oh, my God, it’s gorgeous.”

  “It happens to be called The Jane.”

  “Well, then,” he said, lifting the guitar from its case, “no wonder it’s so beautiful.”

  He set the case on the floor beside his chair and caressed the new guitar in the firelight.

  “I’m not sure if it’s as nice as you’re used to,” she said, “but the guy at the shop said it was a good one. And he had music notes tattooed on his neck, so I assumed he knew what he was talking about.”

  “It’s a great guitar. Even better than the one I had before. But there’s no way I can accept this, Jane. It’s too much.”

  “You don’t have a choice. It’s a gift.”

  “A gift for what?”

  “For what? You can’t earn a gift, silly. It’s just for fun.”

  “Well, I’d like to pay for it out of my earnings.”

  “Absolutely not,” she said. “Don’t you dare try and take away my joy. It’s a gift, and that’s that. If you want to give me anything in return, you c
an play me a song.”

  Caleb looked at her, and his smile could have chased the storm away for the way it warmed her heart. When he spoke, his voice was low and sincere.

  “Thank you, Jane. This is the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

  Jane felt herself blush.

  “Go on and play something,” she said.

  He bent over the guitar and began to play a melody that she hadn’t heard before, but it reminded her somehow of a sad November afternoon. He played for a long time, becoming familiar with the guitar. He looked up occasionally, and his eyes seemed far away, staring into some distant past well beyond the walls of Jane’s living room. Then he began to sing:

  Dun’ know how to fix us

  Dun’ know where to start

  And even if you hear this

  I ain’t so sure it’s smart

  ’Cause hurtin’ you was killin’ me

  And together couldn’t ever be

  Like we dream when we’re apart

  Look’n in a drink

  I wanna be consoled

  Tryin’ not to think

  But our story still unfolds

  That night you took me in

  I’d nowhere else to go

  Fighting my father’s gin

  It seems so long ago

  Our pasts on trial

  Our futures on the run

  You woke me with a smile

  And rose the morning sun

  But fear’s silent yell

  Crept in like a thief

  And August’s trust fell

  Murdered with the leaves

  All we did was fight

  And threaten each other with the end

  This hurts like hell to write

  But I’d do it all again

  Dun’ know how to fix us

  Dun’ know where to start

  And even if you hear this

  I ain’t so sure it’s smart

  ’Cause hurtin’ you was killin’ me

  And together couldn’t ever be

  Like we dream when we’re apart

  Together it just couldn’t ever be

  Like we dream when we’re apart

  He finished and sat still with his head hung over the guitar. When he finally looked up, his eyes were wet.

  “That was beautiful,” Jane said, genuinely moved.

  “Thanks. I’m glad you think so.”

  “Who wrote it?”

  He set the guitar in its case.

  “I did.”

  She was momentarily speechless, both impressed that he had written the song and somewhat jealous over the emotion in its lyrics. She wondered who he had written it for.

  “Whoever she was, she must have broken your heart.”

  “I was young. Hearts break easy when you’re young.”

  Jane sat watching the firelight play shadows on his face. She wanted to ask him more about the song and about his early love, but then the doorbell rang.

  “There’s the pizza,” she said, rising to answer it. “I hope you like pepperoni and mushrooms.”

  Jane tipped the delivery driver a ten for having braved the storm and carried the pizza back into the living room. They sat beside the fire and ate. Gusts of wind threw rain against the window, and an occasional flash of lightning was followed by the distant peal of thunder. The fire log crackled.

  Jane laughed as Caleb picked the mushrooms off his pizza.

  “You’re only doing that because I said I hoped you liked them, aren’t you?”

  He shook his head.

  “I hate mushrooms. Always have.”

  “How can anyone hate mushrooms?”

  “Easy. They’re slimy things that belong on a log in a forest. A much better question is how can anyone hate blackberries?”

  “Well, I’ve never seen a mushroom cut up someone’s hands the way those blackberry vines got yours. And you’re just lucky they’re not in bloom or your hands would be bee stung and stained with blackberry juice on top of it. I wasn’t kidding about the gloves. I want you to wear them.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Hey, that’s not funny.”

  “I was only kidding. Hand me another piece, will you?”

  “Here, this one’s got extra mushrooms.”

  When they’d finished eating, Jane boiled water and stirred them each a cup of cocoa while Caleb added a fresh log to the fire. When she came back into the living room, he had taken a seat on the couch instead of his chair. She handed him his mug of cocoa and turned for her chair, but he patted the couch.

  “Sit here, next to me.”

  She sat down beside him.

  Several minutes passed, the cocoa too hot yet to drink, the fire log hissing and popping as it caught flame.

  “You want to watch TV?” Jane asked.

  “Not really,” Caleb said. “I’d rather talk.”

  “Okay, what do you want to talk about?”

  “You.”

  “Oh, God. Let’s just watch TV.”

  He laughed.

  “Really. I’m curious about you. I mean, I laid my life story out for you over ribs the other day, and you haven’t told me anything about yourself yet.”

  “There isn’t much to tell.”

  “That’s what I tried to say too, but you didn’t believe me either. Don’t be shy.”

  “Okay, what do you want to know?”

  “I dunno,” he said. “Like how long have you lived here? And why aren’t you married, or at least out in the city breaking hearts like every other woman who looks like you do? And how come you always smile so cute like that and look down when someone pays you a compliment?”

  Jane kept smiling, but she looked up at Celeb. She blew on her chocolate to buy herself a moment.

  “How about I answer your first question? I’ve been here a little over fifteen years.”

  “So you must own it then?”

  “Yes,” she said. “We’d been in an apartment since Melody was born, but my job was going pretty good, and they had a first-time-buyer program where you didn’t need much down, so I bought it. She was five when we moved in.”

  She felt the familiar stab of pain, and the memories flooded in. She paused to collect herself, determined not to cry.

  “Our first night here we slept on an air mattress, expecting the moving truck the next morning. But it snowed almost a foot overnight, and we had to camp out here on just that air mattress for three days. But you know what? Those are some of the best memories of my life.”

  “What about her father?” he asked, quickly adding, “if you don’t mind my asking?”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s fine. There isn’t much to tell. He abandoned us while I was pregnant. He never even met Melody, if you can believe it. His own daughter.Never paid a dime of support, either.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Anyway, for all I know he’s dead too.”

  As soon as she said it, her heart ached with grief, the pain so unbearable that she almost spilled her cocoa.

  “Oh, God, Look at me, sitting here and crying. I’m sorry, Caleb. I just miss her so much sometimes.”

  Caleb took the mug from her hand and set it on the end table with his. Then he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close. It felt good to be held, and Jane gave up on trying to hold back her emotions. She let herself weep. In a way she was crying more for that little five-year-old girl who had died long ago than she was for her twenty-year-old daughter who had died just recently.

  When she could collect herself enough to speak again, she turned her head on Caleb’s chest and looked up at his face.

  “Can you tell me anything about her?”

  A look of pain flashed in Caleb’s eyes.

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “That’s not fair, Caleb.”

  “Come on, Jane. You said you wouldn’t interrogate me.”

  Jane pulled away and turned on the couch to face him.

/>   “I’m not interrogating you, Caleb. But is it too much for me to ask you to tell me anything about my daughter, whom you obviously knew? I mean anything.”

  “I didn’t want charity,” he said. “And I didn’t want to be here just because you want to pump me for information about your daughter.”

  “Are you that callous?” she asked. “You won’t even tell me anything? Not one thing.”

  “I think it’d be better if we talked about something else.”

  “No, dammit! I don’t want to talk about something else. I want to talk about Melody.”

  Jane hadn’t realized that she was yelling until she finished. The room was again consumed by silence, broken only by the crackling fire log. Caleb sat staring at her for a long time, a look of anguish on his face, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Then, just when it looked like he might actually say something, he stood and walked from the room.

  She heard the bedroom door close behind him, and she sat alone on the couch and watched the firelight reflecting off the glossy surface of his new guitar, sitting where he had left it in its open case next to the fire.

  Chapter 7

  “DON’T YOU JUST LOVE SPRING?”

  Grace bent over to pick a daffodil, and then she looked at Jane over the flower and added:

  “So how’s the yard coming?”

  After their usual Saturday meeting, they had decided to go for a walk on their favorite island trail. Grace had yet to bring up Caleb, so Jane knew this was her way of asking about him.

  “It’s coming along pretty well,” Jane said as they began walking again. “Caleb’s got most of the creek uncovered. But there’s a lot left to go. I think maybe there was more yard than he’d expected.”

  “And how’s everything else?”

  “Everything else?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that kind of leaves it wide open, doesn’t it?”

  Grace smiled.

  “That’s the idea.”

  “I don’t know,” Jane sighed. “I feel like it’s time for me to get back to work. Don’t you think so? There’s a conference in Portland next week, and I’m considering going. Just to get away for the week.”

  “Get away from what?” Grace asked.

  “The island.The house. Caleb.”

  “Ah-ha. There it is. Are you two not getting along?”

  “It isn’t that. We get along great, really. Maybe too well. And he’s a perfect houseguest.”