West Seattle Blues

by Chris Nickson

Dustin was already dressed for work, holding Ian by his hands and guiding him in a few tentative steps across the living room.

  “What did they say?”

  “Nothing helpful,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.

  “You don’t look happy.”

  “Of course I’m not,” I snapped. “Two people I talked to a few days ago are dead and the police have no leads.”

  Dustin lowered Ian gently to the floor, came over and gave me a tight hug. I needed the warmth of him against me, someone I could trust completely. I held on to him until I felt my heartbeat slow down.

  “You’d better go to work,” I said. “Those books won’t sell themselves.”

  “Are you okay?” he asked. It was a stupid, pointless question and he already knew the answer.

  I wasn’t in the mood for it. “Of course I’m not fucking okay. There’s a murderer out there who knows all about me and could be waiting somewhere with a gun. What do you think, Dustin? I’m scared for me.” I pushed him away. “Off you go. We’ll keep busy and safe.”

  “I can stay home.”

  “Just go,” I told him. Right now I didn’t want him there. He might love me but right now he didn’t understand what was going on in my head. So much for lovers being on the same wavelength.

  I stood by the kitchen window with Ian in my arms, and watched Dustin drive off.

  “What do you think?” I said to my son. I was genuinely scared but I was damned if I was going to show it. “Are we going to let them beat us?” I shook my head, and he imitated me. “That’s right, kiddo. Screw ‘em.”

  I might not let myself be cowed but I was definitely going to play it safe. The two of us didn’t go outside for the rest of the morning, playing instead with cars, reading books, then watching a little television until lunch. I kept checking the street for unfamiliar vehicles or people hanging around.

  Nothing.

  By three I was coming down with cabin fever. Our house was a pretty fair size but it was starting to feel cramped, as if I could walk from one end of it to the other in just three steps. My nerves were raw and Ian didn’t help. He’d only taken a short nap and he was starting to get cranky, not wanting to settle to anything. The day was warm for the end of March; the heat had barely come on. Finally I bundled Ian into a coat, shrugged on a jacket and headed off around the neighborhood with the stroller. The air felt refreshing, cleansing. I closed the gate behind us, hardly daring to breathe. We turned the corner at the end of the block and I hesitated for a moment. Nope, I thought. This neighborhood was where I lived. No one was going to keep me away from it.

  We walked the half mile down to White Center, past the three-sided Triangle Tavern where Sixteenth and Delridge met, then crossed Roxbury and along to the Guatemalan bakery. This was my secret place. It was a blink-and-you-miss it, bland little building with just a few tables inside and a counter filled with pastries. The best pastries I’d ever eaten, made in the back. No one spoke English here; I was the alien, caught in a little Spanish world. Over the last year I’d picked up a few words, enough to order, but too few to feel really comfortable.

  I came here once a month, whenever I wanted to treat myself. It smelled of coffee and cinnamon, full of people I never saw elsewhere, huddled over their cups and plates, chattering and smiling. Everything was cheap, everything delicious. I spent three dollars on a large box of goodies, enough to provide dessert for the next three days. Simply being here raised my spirits, all the scents and sights inside. Going back outside to the real world always brought a pang of sadness, as if I was forced to leave some sweet paradise.

  On the way home we passed a few shops, all looking run-down and weary, the paint peeling, interiors sun-faded and bare. We cut along Seventeenth, by the tortilla factory where Mexican men sweated in the heat, then past neatly tended gardens behind chain-link fences. These weren’t the modern subdivisions with split-levels and elaborate landscaping. Instead, they had history and solidity. Many of the houses around here had come out of the Sears catalog back in the first few decades of the century, only intended to last a few years but still around and sturdy. Ours had been the same. I’d gone hunting in the city archives one empty day and found an early photograph of our place that dated from 1928. With no close neighbors, it looked like a house out on the prairie. There were no roads, just ruts through the dirt and a distant telephone pole. It could have been located anywhere in the West. Every time I stared at it I expected to see Laura Ingalls Wilder appear in the background. A little house out on the prairie.

  Times had changed, though. Sometime after World War II, someone had razed our house and dug a full basement with a concrete floor and cinder block walls. The fence had come later, along with more houses to fill in all the gaps in the area. Now every lot was carefully separated and isolated. It was impossible to imagine a time when the people settling out here were the pioneers. I’d had my doubts when we first moved to West Seattle; I hadn’t lived so far from downtown since I was a kid. But I’d come to like the neighborhood. There were people here from all over: Asian, Filipino, the East Indian guys who ran the 7-11 on Holden. We were all getting by, working hard and raising our families as best we could. On these streets no one gave a damn about seeming cool.

  When I locked the door behind me, I felt relief. We’d done it, heading out and back without a problem. Taken all in all, it was a little victory. I didn’t even feel bad about my anger with Dustin that morning. He deserved it. For Christ’s sake, right now someone could be planning on gunning down his wife, maybe even his son, and all he could ask was if I was okay. I took a deep breath. Let it go, as the Buddhists would say. Maybe I needed to visit that temple of theirs up in Greenwood and get myself a dose of serenity to help me through this.

  I noticed that the light on the answering machine was blinking as I walked into the kitchen. I settled Ian with a video and a cup of juice, and then played the message. It was short and simple: “Call me.” Tonia’s voice. I dialed The Rocket and asked for her.

  “What’s up?” I asked as she answered.

  “Are you looking for more work?”

  “Always,” I said, meaning it.

  “I got a couple things that might interest you.”

  “Try me.” I already knew I was going to say yes. It would take my mind off everything else.

  She mentioned the name of an Irish musician.

  “Really?” I liked his band and the man had written some good songs, even if he was supposed to enjoy a few drinks. “I’m game.”

  “Cool. He’s got a new band now and they’re going to be touring here. Twelve hundred words, you know the drill. I’ll have the publicist get in touch. I’m just glad that the publicist didn’t mention Nirvana when she called.”

  “Why would she?” I was confused, as if I’d missed something.

  “Because everyone else does. Every band’s going to be as big as Nirvana. I know Kurt Cobain’s the biggest thing to come out of here since Boeing, but I’ve had enough. I don’t care if he’s God. I love Nirvana but enough already.”

  I laughed. She needed that little rant. I probably would, too, if I had her job.

  “You said a couple things?”

  “Yeah,” she continued slowly. “How do you feel about plays?”

  “I like some,” I answered. “What did you have in mind?”

  “There’s one going to open at Seattle Center. It’s a little different. It’s about Sarajevo, and it has some music.”

  Sarajevo? I didn’t know much about the conflict in the Balkans, only that too many people had died. I was like most Americans, I guessed – if it was happening somewhere far away, it wasn’t completely real. It would do me good to look beyond the horizon and get a taste of what was happening in the rest of the world. Even the bad things.

  “Yeah, I’ll do it,” I said. “Sounds interesting.”

  “Can you be there at three tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  It meant going out. Being around crowds
of people. But if I changed the way I lived, I’d already lost the battle. I wasn’t going to be beaten down by anyone. If he – and it had to be a male – was going to kill me, he’d do it, anyway. What kind of example would I set for my son if I spent my life terrified and hiding behind four walls? That was bullshit, and I knew it. In reality I was petrified. The only thing I could do was make sure I didn’t show it.

  Who could I ask to look after Ian for an hour while I did the interview? There was May; she loved him and I could ask her to babysit for the afternoon. Even better, she was a music writer, so she’d understand the reason.

  Ten

  I put the phone down, ready to dig out May’s number, when Ian came tottering around the corner from the living room. On his own two feet. Still clutching the sippy cup, he looked up at me with astonished eyes.

  For a moment I was speechless as I watched him take his first real steps. He seemed as shocked as me at this new thing, this new power. Then I dashed to grab him before he could hurt himself.

  “Your daddy’s going to be so happy when he sees this,” I told him. My heart felt full of joy. We’d been waiting, encouraging, and now he was doing it. “You want to walk again?” I asked as I lowered him. He was still uneasy on his feet and I kept hold of his hand, but a series of short, jerky movements took him all along the kitchen. “You know what? I think you’ve got it.”

  I glanced at the clock: almost five. Dustin would be home soon. The argument we had was forgotten. This was far more important. It felt like the biggest event in history. I wanted to tell everyone about it. Hey guys, Ian’s walking now! Take some pictures, take a video for the memories. But my parents were dead and I had been an only child. Dustin’s folks were off on a cruise somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico. Most of my friends had kids of their own so they wouldn’t find it so special. For a moment it struck me that I was alone here in so many ways. Then Ian took one more faltering step and none of it mattered any more. This was what counted. Him, me, Dustin, and the future we had together. For a moment at least, every thought of murder and music vanished.

  A little before six I heard a car door slam, then the sliding door opened. I’d already fed Ian, and now he was winding down before I gave him his bath. He turned at the sound and I hoped he’d slide off the couch and toddle toward it. Instead his attention returned to Tom and Jerry on the television screen.

  “Hey,” I said after Dustin came through and kissed me, before crouching down in front of Ian. “Guess what?”

  “Someone offered you a six-figure book contract?” he said as he tickled the boy, making him giggle. He looked up at me sheepishly. “I’m really sorry. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever said. Ever. You know… earlier.” Of course I knew. I could see it had been bugging him all day. There was an anxious twist to his mouth and his eyes had gotten big as if he was about to cry. “I know how hard this is for you. I gave my boss a call. He’s not happy, but I’ve put back the Montana trip. I’m not going away from home while all this is going on.”

  “Thanks,” I told him. I wanted him close by. I needed someone I could trust, someone I could rely on. I needed him. With me, and behind me. This was his way of saying he’d be there.

  “So what’s this big news?” he asked.

  “He’s started walking.”

  “What?” He rubbed Ian’s nose with his own. “When?”

  “This afternoon.” I told him every detail, and he listened as if it was the most interesting thing he’d ever heard. He might have had his failings but he was a great father. I’d never had to push him into changing diapers; he loved doing things with his son. He even helped around the house, with the cooking and doing dishes.

  “You think he’ll do more soon?” Dustin asked hopefully.

  “When he’s ready,” I answered with a smile. “Don’t worry, you’ll see it soon enough. I’ll even let you chase after him.”

  Not today, though. Like someone who’d exhausted himself by demonstrating his talents, Ian refused to do anything but crawl for the rest of the evening. After his bath I carried him to bed and he was asleep long before I’d finished the Winnie the Pooh story. I put the bookmark in the page, the same one my dad had used when I was a kid, then pulled the blanket around his chin and left quietly.

  The interview went smoothly. I left Ian with May, knowing she’d spoil him while I was gone, then swung by the main library to let Monica feed me information on Sarajevo and the Balkans, so that by the time I met Gino Yevdjevich I didn’t feel a complete idiot. But I was chilled by the stories he told me about the way people had to move around the city under sniper fire, how the violence and the bullets became part of everyday life. Gino had been lucky. He’d made it out alive, sponsored into the US by Joan Baez. He’d been a session musician back home, and the play captured some of the horror he’d seen.

  I felt seriously sobered as I walked out of Seattle Center House and back to the car. I’d parked up the street from Tower Records, close to the apartment where I’d lived for several years. We were lucky living here, secure in a way we’d probably never appreciate. I sat in the Horizon for a while, just letting my thoughts wash over me.

  It must have been powerful stuff, because it took a few minutes before my brain returned to the thought of someone waiting out there with a gun. If he’d killed twice – maybe three times if he’d been responsible for James’s murder – then another body wouldn’t mean too much to him. I drew in a sharp breath and turned the key.

  When I arrived to pick up Ian, I wasn’t sure who’d played harder, May or my son. Toys were all over her apartment. The rug in the hallway was bunched up as if someone had been sliding on it. He was grinning like a demon, hair disheveled, one sock vanished somewhere. May looked as perfectly groomed as ever, her black hair shining, clothes so perfect she could have just changed into them. The only thing that gave her away was the small sheen of sweat on her face.

  “Looks like you guys had fun.”

  “We did. He’s been great,” she said, lifting him up and rubbing her nose against his until he started giggling. “Seriously, anytime you want me to look after him, just ask.”

  “Did he walk at all?”

  “Nope, just speed crawling. He can definitely move.”

  “Tell me about it,” I laughed.

  We sat and drank a cup of coffee. With me around now, Ian wasn’t so hyper. He settled down to play with a plastic toy car May kept around specially for his occasional visits. That gave us a chance to gossip. She didn’t date much, but the year before she’d been seeing a guy from one of the big Seattle bands. I knew she’d felt flattered, and then hurt when he broke up with her. Now he was calling her again.

  “Do you think I should see him?” she asked. “He wants to take me out for dinner.”

  “Do you want to?”

  She had that slightly dreamy look, so unlike her. “I’m kind of scared,” May admitted, and I suppressed a smile. I was just beginning to know what scared felt like, and it had nothing to do with dating. “What if I fall for him again?”

  For someone who was so competent and efficient, May wasn’t good at dealing with emotions. I set the mug down on the table and sighed.

  “Do you really want to know what I think?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was earnest.

  “I think he treated you like a dick the last time around.” She opened her mouth to object but I carried on. “You know he did. I saw what you were like when he dumped you, remember? I just wonder why he’s coming around again.”

  “Maybe he’s sorry.”

  “Maybe. Or perhaps you’re making excuses for him. He stood you up half the time, didn’t call when he said he would.”

  “He was busy.”

  “He was a dick.”

  “He…” she began, then stopped. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “You deserve better than him, May.”

  “Thanks.” She leaned across the couch and gave me a hug. You’re right, I do.”

  “Maybe I sh
ould go into the advice business,” I laughed. “Call it ‘Blunt Truths.’”

  She chuckled. “So what’s been going on with you, anyway? Good interview?”

  “Educational,” I told her. “There’s not much else right now. Except Ian, of course. He keeps me pretty busy. And Dustin’s thinking of changing jobs.” I wasn’t going to tell her that a madman might be out there, looking to kill me. I’d keep that stress inside the family.

  “Really?” The two of them had met a few times although they’d never spoken much. “What’s he going to do?”

  “He’s been talking to Elliott Bay Books, about maybe becoming a manager there. Less money, but less travelling, too. I don’t know, it’s still early days. I’m not even sure it’ll happen.”

  “Do you want him to go for it?”

  “It would be good to have him home every night. Depends how much money he’d lose by changing jobs, really.” I smiled. “We’ll figure it out. Now I’d better get this guy home and feed him. I really appreciate you doing this for me.”

  “It’s my pleasure. How can anyone resist a face like that?”

  It took us two trips to carry everything down to the car – stroller, diaper bag, baby food, toys. Then I gave her a hug and my thanks and then we were off as she waved to Ian. Homeward bound. I switched on the radio, the KCMU signal fading as I crossed the West Seattle Bridge. Ian was already asleep in his car seat; any car journey had that effect on him.

  I carried him in gently, settling him down on the rug. All the gear in the car could wait. I checked the mail. I received so many CDs from record labels that we’d bought ourselves a bigger mailbox. Even that wasn’t enough; the mailman often left a plastic USPS box filled with packages out on the porch.

  But there was little today. In the kitchen I started a fresh pot of coffee and noticed that the message light was blinking on the phone.

  “Hey,” the voice said. “It’s Carson. Can you call me? It’s kind of important.”

  “What’s happened?” I asked as soon as he answered.

  “Can you get down here?”