She puts the book down on the sofa and stands up, walks away from him and to the other window. The sky is clear and the sun just setting, the window glass filling with a deep blue. She looks over at him, his head still back, mumbling, needing to be bathed, to be fed. She feels giddy, is ashamed of what she feels. I could turn you out, she thinks, and my life would be mine. No more sea stories. The house would be quiet. She goes across the room to him and says, “He’s dead, you know, he’s nothing, not any place.” And then she feels more frightened than she has ever felt before. She puts her arms around his neck, so fragile, and she says, “What kind of life is this, Papa?” and he puts his hand on her hair and says nothing.
Rondo
The wife of a pianist with hair to her waist leans too close to a candle and for an instant the spray of hair burns and glows like hot wires, filaments in glass. The pianist is sitting in the corner by another candle, in conversation with an androgynous cornet player who feels that she is in some way carrying on a secret though spiritual affair with the pianist right under his wife’s eyes, because they are of course talking on a much higher plane than the pianist could ever hope to reach with his wife, who is much too pretty and too blatantly feminine to have any kind of intelligence. Neither of them notices the wife’s burnt hair, and she runs outside the house, past the other musicians, and into the back yard. The cornet player sees her leave and feels triumphant, assuming it’s jealousy, thinking kindly that it might help the wife to grow if she begins to face realities such as this, if she begins to stand on her own in the way that the cornet player has always had to do, choosing first the trombone and finally the cornet over the flute and violin, to the confusion and anger of her parents who were certain that instruments were extensions of the body, of the voice, and were created for specific sexes, but who were thankful at last that she hadn’t chosen the cello, a woman’s instrument that a lady would not play. This had been the first place where people listened to her, where they seemed not to notice the blue shadow of a beard on her chin, the thick shoulders and waist that she had begun to emphasize in defiance. At the end of the year she can go back home to her parents or she can go to New York and begin making the rounds. But she’s afraid that she is not good enough. She leans toward the pianist, toward his words, desperately afraid of leaving.
The teacher, a composer and director, sits near the center of the room, drinking straight gin. He brushes a hardened crumb of cheese from his lapel, scans the room for a victim. He sees the flutist with yellow hair who is talking to a tuba man who has a wife and a new child and soft muscles in his stomach but who is no doubt thinking, as the teacher is thinking, only of the way the flutist’s lips bloom on cold metal, cheekbones like soapstone. She is obviously uninterested in the tuba man and uninterested in the percussionist who comes over to join the two of them and begins to rub the back of her hair territorially, runs his hand down to the small of her back, the fingers of the tuba man’s right hand tensing, swollen beefy lips tight. Most of the women and half of the men in the room are in love with the percussionist, and the teacher is for a moment worried, watches the flutist’s eyes for signs of dilation, of interest, when she looks at him as he taps the stretched skin of her wrist, and, finding none, settles back. He knows that even though he hasn’t written anything true in years they all hold him in awe, that that supports the illusion this is the only musical universe which exists, that the flutist will eventually make her way to him. He looks around at them, the students, knows that though they wouldn’t admit it, didn’t like to think about it, some of them know this is the only place they will ever have the courage to think of themselves as artists and that, too, the impossibility of the adjustment from being artists to being teachers or salesmen, hawking band instruments and uniforms at small high schools, will destroy some of them. At times he feels that he should discourage them, tell them they are no good—the good ones will only benefit from that. But he can’t, says you are good, so good, possibly brilliant, and in turn they sit at his feet, they say it is only because of you that I am great, only through you that I am great, only with your greatness that my greatness grows.
The pianist has come to feel that conversations like this are somehow shallow, small talk about large things, has grown weary of them, would like to cultivate some distance from this, from all of it, the talk of techniques and composers, harmonies and forms, buildings filled with the cacophony of too many voices, too many instruments. Singers walking in the open, across a field, across a campus, still going over an alto part in Latin and singing aloud, not noticing or caring about the heads turning. The phrase from a Bach invention that follows him through the daily domestic things and at night will not, no matter how hard he tries, let him sleep. But the cornet player is obviously enraptured with him and he is kind so he continues talking to her though he feels nothing for her, not even pity, only a mild curiosity about what she will be fifteen years from now, older, in a place she is not accepted, of course a failure. He listens to her and looks around the room, envies the percussionist his ease with women, with the beautiful ones, his hand a moment ago resting on the flutist’s back, and now he is slumped against the wall, the dark-haired singer taking a drag from his cigarette, light gathered and reflected from her bracelet, an earring, as she turns her head, the beautiful line of her forehead a cool that he can almost feel on his own lips, the touch of ivory on his hands, the way she looks at the percussionist now, brushes against the sleeve of his jacket, not accidentally. The pianist wonders what it is about him, how people, things, are drawn to the percussionist to be taken, subdued, some lack of something civilized in him, of domestication, a pull of something somewhat like death. He sighs, turns to the cornet player, and tries to think of something intellectual, says God would come, possibly, if we called Him by His name, Jehovah, Yahweh. Peter would turn if called Pedro, but not if called Boy. He sighs, leans into the rough fabric of the chair, looks at the singer, and thinks Janice, thinks Juanita, says the trouble is that some names are too sacred to be spoken.
The flutist sees that the teacher is watching the singer with the percussionist and, triumphant from having ignored the percussionist’s touch, she leaves the tuba man in mid-sentence and goes over to sit on the floor in front of the teacher, to bring his gaze to her, secure in the knowledge that she is the one true genius, that her music is not derivative. She can feel the cool underside of the flute on her thumbs, the complication of the valves on her fingers. She purses her top lip and blows downward, feels the warmth of the air on her chin. There is music in that also. She knows that the teacher knows this, is drawn to her because of it, that he in fact loves her, sees her in his fantasies, slim and smooth as metal. She has been his student for years, only lately has she begun to demystify him, to realize that the abstraction, the look of the composer, is cultivated, as his music lately has become, neat formulas repeated from when he was younger, the hair and the skin graying too fast. He is prey to imaginary illnesses, sellers of vitamins and magical yeasts, close to but not yet an old man and afraid of it, fewer women each year. He is bear-like, hoary, reaches out to touch her arm, the roundness of it, tells her that she is quite beautiful, says let us invent one another, and she feels her head bow, her arms slyly and consciously rise toward him until they are level with her face—elbows, wrists, fingertips touching as if bound.
The singer knows that she is nothing to the percussionist and feels that that somehow protects her, this awareness of his motives, the way he automatically reaches for women like a newly blind man who, in order to move from this room to the next, this street to the next, constantly must feel the touch of something—a chair, a wooden table, a railing, a bush, a tree—or be overwhelmed by the immensity of space around him, once teeming but now, without sight, empty. She realizes also that he is not indiscriminate, reaches only for the beautiful, the talented, is flattered by this attention at the same time she is aware of a certain danger in the clearness of his eyes, the practiced fumbling with keys at d
oorways, the lovely structure of his face and shoulders, his hands, something sinister in the way he expects always to be met with yes, with compliance, is so sure of this that he never asks. The one frightening truth she learned as a young girl is that men who ask if they can kiss her are the ones she never wants to kiss. As he talks she becomes aware of the texture of the black wool dress on her skin, the way it tapers to her wrist, the slimness of that, the heartbreaking beauty of the silver in her bracelet. She moves her hand to watch the light catch in the bracelet, to watch the grace of her own fingers, something she seldom notices, how good the air feels to her, the night. She can feel herself wanting to hum, to sing, imagines how she will look on her first album cover, a famous jazz singer performing for audiences of thousands, each one of them in love with her and she distant, remote. There are certain songs she hears which are so beautiful that she can’t bear to think that she hadn’t written them, certain voices so perfect that she can close her eyes and feel them in her throat. The percussionist touches her face and she knows the smoothness of her skin beneath the thumb that he runs in a half moon from her cheekbone to chin. He tells her that he’s been in love with her for years, has worshiped her voice, that she is more talented than he, more intelligent than he, that he feels a kinship with her, something mystical, that he wants to be a part of her greatness, and she leans against the wall, catches her lower lip in a tooth, is aware of the movement, the roundness of her breasts, moves toward him finally at the same moment that his eyes grow cloudy, that he looks away, that he turns to leave.
In the kitchen, the percussionist has to step over the tuba player to get to the bottles on the counter. He fills his glass with straight bourbon, knows he is already drunk, can’t remember exactly what he’s said to the singer, but knows he could have her if he wanted, if that’s what he wanted, is not sure. To take the risk of the rhythm being not right, the sound of springs becoming at one time more important to him than anything, he now sleeps only on a mattress, hoping still for perfect syncopation not a matter of technique but of communication like jazz artists who can improvise together, a rarity. And the women, paradoxically, thinking of him only as an object, building romantic fantasies about him, returning always to the others, the ones they take seriously so that now he gets rid of them before they have that chance. He slides down the kitchen counter, sits on the floor next to the tuba player who leans his red cheeks toward him and asks which one he’s taking home, what’s it like, is it true that it’s awful the morning after. The percussionist pities the tuba player but doesn’t answer him, takes a sip of his drink, thinks that the mornings are the best part. His mouth always tastes sweet when he wakes, no matter how much he’s had to drink, and he always wakes before the woman so that he looks at her asleep in the light, more innocent, and he goes downstairs, makes coffee and toast, puts on music, and sits looking out a window. In the winter he makes a fire, never is reading the paper when she comes down in one of his bathrobes, hair combed by now, warmed by the mug of coffee he has for her, by the fact that he’s been waiting for her, that he does in fact have respect for her. Then the civilized conversation about books, about music, and he never asks her to go, always lets her decide on the right time. He has never been disappointed. As he begins to get up from the floor, the tuba player says my wife thinks you’re sexy, sometimes I think she pretends that I’m you, and the percussionist reaches a hand down to him, says come back and join the party, but the tuba player shakes his head, no, takes some of his drink, which is bright red from sweet cherry juice and which sickens the percussionist. He leaves the kitchen, having decided that the singer would be pleasant in the morning even if perhaps disappointing at night. He stops in the doorway, thinks that he’s been to bed with half the women in the room, that they’ve told him their secrets, all comfortably now in conversation as if there isn’t someone in the room who could suddenly shout I know you, I know who you are, what you’re afraid of. He looks at them, the flutist, the singer, the rest of them, even the cornet player, the pianist, the teacher himself, decides that they’re all hideously alike in some way, pauses, feels suddenly that the room is too small, too full, leaves through the side door and no one notices.
The back yard is circled by small trees, the base of the trunks wrapped in white tape like the legs of race horses. They make her feel wild like the dry brittle leaves she’s sitting on and the wind and the movement of branches reflected in the at-night-black glass of the small greenhouse make her feel wild. She holds a leaf to the part of her face that feels hot from the flame. There is the pleasant odor of dust, of stems, a rusted scythe blood red among the weeds, the red of the quince bush, dried foliage of peonies and geraniums, she is mad for this, for all of it. She sees the drummer come out the door to the side yard. Always he has smiled at her, the kindest smile, and passed on. He doesn’t see her now, sits down at the base of a tree, stretches one leg out in front of him, then the other, slowly, like an old man would. Somewhere there is the sound of hammering, the movement of birds, a boy practicing archery in a yellow lighted garage two houses down, a loose wire thudding rhythmically on a wooden house. She sees the drummer put his head back against the tree, look up, the strength of his hand running down his leg to one knee, knows that he is feeling the same things she is, hearing, seeing the same things, and she thinks of going to him, of saying something to him, but she doesn’t. Instead she too leans back, looks up, stars tangled in the emptying branches of trees, of wires, and all of it, all of it singing.
Kentucky People
Summer, and the sidewalk cracks are lush with weeds; the concrete buckles. Last year’s crop of high school pom-pom girls push strollers with new babies over the waves of sidewalk, the wheels catching. A factory that makes car seat cushions sends out clouds of white fallout, coating flowers. A half acre of old tires catches fire and smoulders.
Mrs. D. watches through her screen. She knows the names of the girls’ grandparents, remembers the factory strikes when executive wives kept guns in their cars next to their children. She was born in the corner house defined by the sidewalks, was almost blown out the upstairs window trying to save her good silk dress from the Walnut Street tornado. Fifty years ago she danced under the stars in an indigo dress at her senior prom and that night went to bed with TB until she rose a year later, cheerful and undaunted. She sees the girls and their strollers, but she doesn’t see the white dust on the flowers and she’s unaware of the burning tires. In the spring she hides plastic daffodils among last year’s dried-up weeds. Before the factory, the streets were paved with star bricks and trod by pony carts, dress materials were fine and costly and one-of-a-kind, her house the cornerstone of the finest neighborhood. Her house is wood, painted white, very little of it chipping, and that in the back. An asbestos roof is lined with delicate lightning rods.
Energetic, still known for her cheerfulness, she looks twenty years younger than she is, even in bright sunlight. She attributes it to the Normans, Merle and Vincent Peale. Her husband looks older—gray, almost too thin—but he too suffers from a constant optimism which keeps his paper-dry skin healthily pink, his movements agile, his eyes clear. He has a small business and still works at age seventy. When anyone new moves into the neighborhood, they’re the first ones to call with a loaf of sweet bread. They never had children, and they’re the kind of long-married couple that other people point to and say, “How like newlyweds,” or “Married couples stay more in love if they don’t have children.” They go out for dinner at least twice a week, have friends in at least once. They make charming dinner companions. Mr. D. brings his wife cinnamon toast and coffee on a tray every morning before she gets out of bed. In all their years of married life, no one has ever seen them disagree about anything, even though they both have strong opinions.
Mrs. D. hears a knock at her back door and turns back through her living room and out through the kitchen. A short, stubby woman in bermuda shorts stands with her back to the door, bent over and clapping for a dog to stay in
the yard. “Mrs. Lovelace,” Mrs. D. smiles. “Call me Lonnie,” the woman says, then, “Just a minute” and she runs after the small dog, dragging it back and attaching it to a post by a two-foot chain. The post is in the sun and Mrs. Lovelace always forgets to leave water when she goes to work. Mrs. D. has mentioned it a hundred times and Mrs. Lovelace always seems to take it to heart, but she continues to forget the water and she never moves the post, so that Mrs. D. has decided that Mrs. Lovelace is probably feebleminded like many of the Kentucky people seem to be, as much as she hates to say it, using old television tubes for target practice, and hanging sheets at the windows, their children always dirty and running around in underwear, and their houses crumbling. She finally decided that the Lord had just given her an opportunity to do good works when Kentucky people moved into the double next to her house and left her with the responsibility of keeping the dog alive while the husband and wife were off making seat cushions and their one daughter at home, a fifteen-year-old girl who was already pregnant and big as a house without even making it to the pom-pom squad, sat upstairs eating Oreos and reading True Confessions.
The Invention of Flight Page 2
