Lone Rock

by Duane Lindsay

  His hand stiffened, shocked.” Um, Maggie.” He sounded panicky. “I don’t...I mean I’m...”

  “I know,” she said. “Take me to bed.”

  “Four brothers, two sisters, nine cousins, six aunts, five uncles, four grandparents,” Maggie paused to inhale. “A dog, three cats, at least six thousand goldfish, a hamster named Brewster and a turtle. I grew up in Southwest Denver in a very nice house with very nice parents. They’re still married—to each other, thank you. The Norman Rockwell childhood,”

  They lay entwined in Adrian’s narrow bed. By candlelight the room was bearable, in the daylight it resembled a monk’s quarters.

  “Your turn,” She curled to see him better and noticed that his hand now fell naturally onto her bare breast.

  “My parents. Well, they were pretty traditional too, I guess. We lived in a tri-level in Mossbrook—that’s a suburb on the south side of Cleveland. Not too upscale, not too poor. Middle class. Dad worked at Ford for thirty years, mom stayed at home and raised us—”

  “Us?” His fingers were moving lightly on her skin. She closed her eyes to better enjoy the sensation. Nothing was better, she thought, than low talk after sex. She wondered idly how Adrian was doing.

  Adrian was struggling with regret at how he’d gone so long without knowing this. He was touching her breast. It seemed like a miracle in itself that she would allow him to be so close. He felt grateful to her and overwhelmed by her and thrilled with himself. It was good to talk about histories or he’d be babbling like a fool.

  He said, “Two older brothers and an older sister. They all moved away somewhere with families and kids. I talk to them about once a year. No cousins or aunts or anything like you have. My parents pretty much raised us independently and when we grew up and dad retired, they sold the house, bought a Winnebago and now they travel.”

  “Travel where? And keep doing that.”

  Immediately his fingers stopped moving. As long as his touching her was silent he could pretend she didn’t notice. He knew it was silly but it was the way all young men behaved at first around naked women. This was a very ‘at first’ for Adrian.

  She put her hand back on his and said again, “Don’t stop.”

  “Travel where?” he said, too loudly, but began to move his fingers again. “They did a tour of every trailer court in eastern America. They bought the bumper sticker, “We’re spending our—”

  “—Children’s inheritance.” Maggie burst out laughing which caused her to move in ways that scattered Adrian’s every thought. “They didn’t.”

  “They did. They got tired of it and parked it someplace and now they go on cruises.”

  Maggie shook her head. “So very different from how I grew up. We always had people around, pets, a home. I always felt protected and safe. If someone bothered me, a brother or two would defend me. When I wanted to talk about boys, I had sisters or Mom or aunt Edith. Were you close to your parents?”

  “I guess. Dad always made it seem like it was his job to teach us how to do things. Nobody ever talked about feelings. Actually, nobody talked all that much at all.”

  “How very sad.”

  Was it? Adrian hadn’t ever thought about it before. Dad had been what a dad should be, Mom was always there; if there were no close ties, that was normal, wasn’t it? Maggie was talking but Adrian began to drift off into spent weariness and uncommon ideas.

  The unexamined life is a life not worth living. Who had said that? He recalled it from some college class, but had never bothered to examine it, which was, in itself, ironic. Now it seemed profound.

  Maggie, somewhere faintly in the distance droned on pleasantly. “—My father took me to the doctor, I needed six stitches, but the boy got it a lot worse. I started piano when I was five—”

  Adrian’s head fell and her hair tickled his chin. Why had he never explored his life? Did his parents program him that way or was it something inside himself, some humorless timid soul afraid to step into the light? Deep thoughts without answers, but at least, he thought, I’m finally thinking them.

  “—My sisters and I always sang together, Cary on melody, Lauren has a beautiful soprano. I played piano and sang alto, that’s the highest part—”

  As he fell asleep the questions became fragments. Why didn’t I do more? What should I have changed? Why didn’t I do this sooner? His head touched her hair and he fell asleep with his hand on her breast and her perfume in his nostrils and her voice dancing across his mind.

  Adrian drove home and Maggie met him at the drive way.

  “Hurry,” she said.” Come see what I bought you.” She took his hand and pulled him toward the house.

  Adrian was confused. Why was she here? How had she gotten in? What was going on? She held the door and he entered the house.

  “Ta-da!” Maggie yelped with delight.

  In the living room—dominating the living room—sat an enormous dark brown upright piano. Adrian had never seen one so big. It covered the entire East wall, facing the window. The couch had been moved to the side to make room.” What—?”

  “It’s a piano,” Maggie was calm now, her surprise sprung, all matter of fact and blasé. “A Springer and King, made in 1908.” She walked over and leaned against the side. It was nearly as tall as she was and as wide as a city street.

  “See what you bought me?” Adrian said. He ventured further into the room, warily, as if this huge thing could attack him. Up close the wood had a pleasant dark appearance. It smelled faintly of wood polish and dust. They must have cut down an entire forest to make it.

  “Right. It’s yours. It’s in your house isn’t it?” She was wearing a blue wool skirt and a white blouse, her usual working clothes. She must have come back early from work.

  “How’d you get it in here?” Adrian reached out tentatively to stroke the piano, letting his fingers slide gently down the smooth surface. It felt cool to the touch, like plastic.

  “A couple of guys brought it in. Set it here, moved the couch, even tuned it for me.”

  “No, I mean; how did you get in? You don’t have a key.”

  “Sure I do. You gave me one.”

  “No; I didn’t.”

  “Okay, I got it from your coat last Saturday when we went out to dinner.”

  Adrian was behind in the conversation. No-one had ever broken into his house to give him a piano before. He didn’t know how he should react.

  “You had no right to take a key.”

  “Sure I did. We’re an item now.” Maggie was unfazed. “That’s what items do, give each other keys.”

  Confusion was back. “We’re an item?”

  She smiled widely and touched his arm, sending frantic signals of pleasure to his toes. “We’ re sleeping together; I think that makes us an item, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve never been one before.” He stared at the piano as if it was going to do something, but it just sat there, like an elephant in the bathtub or a Studebaker in the garage. “You bought it for me?”

  “Sure. For you. Like a birthday present.”

  “It’s not—”

  “Your birthday, I know. But you needed a present. And this house needed a piano. Honestly, I don’t know how any house can get by without one.”

  “So you bought me a piano.” Adrian was getting the hang of it; this was a Maggie thing. An impulse, maybe, or an aberration. He decided he was pleased. It felt like a new step for them, but he couldn’t give in without teasing. She wouldn’t want it to be this easy.

  “Is this like a kid who wants a baseball mitt, so he buys one for his mother on her birthday?”

  “Nope, not like that at all. A piano is far more versatile than a baseball mitt.”

  “But I don’t play piano,” Adrian objected.

  “You can take lessons.” She inhaled a huge breath, as if the thought had just occurred to her. “I could teach you!”

  “I don’t want to learn piano.”

  “But it would be fun. S
itting together, legs together, thighs touching—”

  “Stop that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t want to learn piano,” Adrian repeated.

  “Fine.” A weary sigh, slumped shoulders, Maggie the picture of defeat.” Fine. I’ll just have to play it for you.”

  “Would you?” Adrian retrieved his arm and gently nudged her toward the keyboard. The keys, faded ivory, looked like an immense set of teeth that would bite if you touched them.

  But Maggie approached them the way a mother neared a baby. Her fingers touched a high key and a tiny note peeped into the room, quickly vanishing. She smiled and sat on the round wooden stool, swiveled to get the feel, placed her feet on the gold foot pedals. She flexed her fingers and looked up at Adrian.

  “It’s your piano,” she said.” What should I play?”

  “Play You Made Me Love You.”

  Her eyes widened, showing she understood the meaning behind his choice.” Nope. Too sad. This calls for something joyous. Let’s see...Ah, got it!” She touched a key or two. getting the feel. She looked like a young girl about to straddle a stallion, hesitant and bold at once. She played a chord, listened to it fill the room and she looked around with interest, gauging the instrument.

  She launched herself into a bouncy infectious rhythm, her fingers curved into chords. moving effortlessly. She threw back her hair and sang:

  From the dark side of the street

  We be lovers once again

  On the bright side of the road.

  Absently, Corley picked up a knife and sliced the head off a fish. He stood in the oasis of his kitchen in a small pool of light in the otherwise dark apartment. He liked the closed in sensation of darkness. It made him feel the world was smaller, more intimate, as if he had more control than he did.

  He wore designer jeans, a white sweater with no shirt and leather moccasins on bare feet. A recent shower made his hair damp and he smelled of cologne. The kitchen added the aroma of cooking oil and bread, coriander and basil. A frying pan simmered butter on the stove top.

  He sautéed the fish, cooked noodles with olive oil and set a table for one, dining formally by low spot lights. All day he’d been struggling with a sense of futility, as if everything he intended to do, everything he’d already accomplished, was of no use. He buttered a slice of French bread and fought the feeling.

  Earlier in the afternoon he’d taken out a pad of paper and, sitting in the thick leather armchair in the living room, had written down, for the hundredth time, the details of his plan. And, as it had for a hundred times, the numbers came out the way he expected, the plan worked as designed.

  He looked through his collection of travel brochures, trying to decide which one would be his new home. In only six months more.

  Maybe it was the woman on the Internet that had him spooked. He was still upset at how he’d been cheated. It was an omen, he thought, bad luck. Corley believed in bad luck. Not in the front of his brain, but in the back areas, the ones designed for superstition. Partly because he had experienced strings of fill fortune, but really he believed because it was convenient.

  Corley considered himself a smart man, skillful and bold, so what could explain failure? Surely not any action of his. Surely not.

  He sat in his dark apartment and listened to Beethoven and the Boss, fussing between checking his figures and fretting about his life. The woman and Adrian Beck, that’s what had him bothered. How did they connect? Did they connect? Corley, like all well-educated men. refused to believe in spiritual control of his life, but also, in rationalizing any personal weaknesses, gave himself a sort of Karmic safety net. It’s in the stars; it’s bad luck—it’s not my fault.

  God wasn’t a factor; Corley wasn’t a believer. The thought of a supreme being sitting in judgement was not a concept he was prepared to face. He also had no desire to share his many successes. In Corley Sayre’s mind victory belonged to himself, not God. Failure was in the hands of luck.

  He could manage this dichotomy by never really acknowledging it. Whenever he got too close to feeling jinxed he ran for a diversion, in this case a small book of phone numbers; the literal little black book.

  A voice said, “ Hi; this is Phyllis,” and he said “Hey, Phyl,” and the machine continued, “I’m not at home now so please leave a message.” Corley hung up.

  He dialed another number. Amber Johnson, a stewardess for United answered.

  “Amber; this is Corley.”

  “Hi, what’s up?”

  “Nothing. Wondering if you’re available at short notice?”

  “Tonight? Sorry, I’ve got a flight to Chicago. Next time?”

  “Yeah.”

  Several more tries with equal results had him again skirting the issue of divine intervention. Sure, it was a Saturday night, and this was no notice, but someone should have been available.

  In annoyed frustration he got up and snapped on all the lights, flooding the little room into brilliance. He swept through the dining room, clearing dishes, washing and wiping and scouring until the kitchen gleamed like a diner. He still couldn’t shake the sensation that something was stepping on his heels.

  He picked up the portable phone and hit ‘three’ on speed dial. “Wally, I need to talk.”

  “Corley? It’s Saturday night. Can’t this wait until Monday?”

  “No. I want to talk now.”

  “Jesus, Corley. I’m having dinner. We’ve got company—”

  “I don’t care. I want to talk about your pet engineer.”

  “Not Adrian Beck again. This can wait.”

  Corley didn’t want to wait. He’d built himself into a corner where he needed an outlet. Patience was at low ebb and impulse had taken over from control. He was at the edge of facing places inside himself he didn’t care to see.

  “No, Wally. Adrian Beck is a problem. I just know it.”

  “You just know it? Corley; listen to yourself. How can you just know something?” Wally sighed, a breathy echo.” You’re losing it. You’ve got to control yourself.”

  Corley was stung. First on his list of personal traits was self-control; Wally’s judgment hit him like a spray of water to the face. He strode around the apartment, moving quickly as if he could outrun time or self-evaluation. But Wally was right, he was getting out of hand.

  And yet; Adrian Beck...

  “There’s something about him,” he said, milder than before. He slowed down slightly going around the dining room table, sped up in a lap around the kitchen, paused at the bookcase where the sight of the missing novel set him off again.

  “Corley, we’ve done this. You didn’t like Birmingham and we got rid of him. You were suspicious of Conroy and he’s gone. Christ, the office is a sweat shop because of your paranoia. Nobody talks to anybody. We’ve got locks on the doors, shut the place down at lunch. It’s like a morgue over there.”

  Corley stared at the bookcase. He wasn’t listening any more. They’d had this talk a dozen times. But the voice helped anchor him, drain him of this need to do something, hit something.

  “—Serious impulse control problem,” Wally said. “I can’t lose any more engineers, Corley; I simply can’t. There’s a legitimate business to run, not this—” his voice lowered—“this thing we’re doing.”

  “Robbery,” Corley corrected absently, still staring at the books. “We’re committing robbery.” He found the effect hypnotic; the bright colors of the dust jackets, the neat symmetry, the sense of order amid chaos. He reached out a finger and gently traced the spine of his first edition Huckleberry Finn. He remembered buying it in Orlando at an antique auction, recalled the sense of purpose he felt bidding.

  Wally said. “Fine; robbery.”

  Corley pictured him, hand over the phone, glancing furtively back to his guests, his posture positively radiating guilt. “But if we’re going to do the whole truth thing, maybe you’d better look at yourself for a change. You’re getting nuts, seeing shadows everywhere. Like B
eck, for instance.”

  A moment of rustling, a muted Wally saying, “I’ll be right there.” His voice, back again. “Here’s the thing. Beck’s a nobody. He’s a pushover, but you don’t see that. Fine. He’s out in Utah. Why don’t you go out there yourself and see him up close? An inspection tour or something. You’ll see; Beck is not a problem. You’ll see.”

  Corley was surprised. The chance to face up to his fears appealed, as it always did, to Corley’s sense of self control. “That’s a very good idea, Wally. Sorry to have bothered you at home.”

  Go see Beck in Utah, see him close up. Corley went back to his lounge chair and turned on the TV, muted the lights. He selected the History Channel and watched a show about Napoleon until eleven when he went up to bed.

  33 – Calculations... And the Square Root of Nine

  Maggie Powers wasn’t a beautiful woman. Adrian considered her in profile as she played piano, oblivious of his inspection. He looked at her as a study in engineering; planes and angles and expectations. Her nose was a little too pointed, her hair too red. He thought her mouth and wide lips were sensuous but, objectively, knew that others would see them differently. But that’s what made horse races, he thought idly. To him she was perfect.

  He leaned further back in the chair and listened to her playing. Her touch on the keyboard was strong, suggesting a contained power, a knowledge of her abilities and lack of fear. Hitting the right notes was natural to her, a result of practice and determination. She played well and she knew it.

  She played while Adrian read the Sunday Denver Post, drank black coffee and considered her over the top of the business section. She did a series of torch songs from the forties ; The Birth of the Blues, You Were My Lover (but you really didn’t feel that way). Summer time, and his favorite, You Made Me Love You. She played each song several times, each differently, gauging the possibilities; picking up notes and looking at them from several angles. She toyed with her voice while she practiced, sometimes growling a phrase, sometimes caressing it; a trace of regret here, a pinch of sorrow, a full throated sob of desperation in Mean To Me.

  Occasionally she scribbled obscure notes in the margins of her sheet music with a mechanical pencil she’d taken from Adrian’s shirt pocket, confiscating it as if it was her right to do so. Often she frowned as she did and looked like a troubled child, puzzled. Or just as suddenly she’d burst into a huge grin, her success diluting the melancholy feel of the music.