Part 6 (1/2)

A small sharp burn swelled in his jaw, then went away. He touched his hand to the spot and held it there. He waited, then tried again.

A scale stumbled out-his tone cracking horribly, notes splitting like dry wood. But in a moment, through a dull film of pain, clean notes streamed into the thick night air.

The doctor said the soreness would go away and the nerve endings would take a while to heal. Didn't make sense to press his luck. But after a minute, he put the horn back up to his lips and played again.

The moon, arced higher now, its silver reflection casting longer tendrils of light on the surface of the river, bathed everything in deep purple and strands of muted light. A tune surfaced from somewhere beneath his jumble of thoughts, low and lazy like a whisper of sea-fog, a blues drenched in flood water and rising like mist from a childhood summer night. He felt lightheaded. He was a little kid again, playing street tag, double-dog-dare, stickball. And like most of the kids he knew, he felt safe, like nothing bad would ever happen in his life.

No thoughts of his city sinking in on itself, or simply was.h.i.+ng away.

Standing by the river in the dark, he realized he'd thought little about the city itself, about what all this meant. This was his home, home, the place where he'd been born and grew up, where his roots stretched so deep into the sandy soil that their beginnings seemed to have no end. Now, it was unfit for human life. He closed his eyes and his tears burned and in the shadow of the song a rhythm section grooved in the breezeless night-wire brushes soup-stirring watercolor patches of blue-while the sodden soil of home grew soft beneath his feet. the place where he'd been born and grew up, where his roots stretched so deep into the sandy soil that their beginnings seemed to have no end. Now, it was unfit for human life. He closed his eyes and his tears burned and in the shadow of the song a rhythm section grooved in the breezeless night-wire brushes soup-stirring watercolor patches of blue-while the sodden soil of home grew soft beneath his feet.

Tomorrow he would go to Silver Creek to find his father and bring him...home, whatever that meant now. If he was there.

If he was there.

As he lifted the horn high and played out over the big, silent river, he wondered if anybody out there in the endless dark was listening, if maybe he could play so loud that Simon, wherever he was, could hear him. From nowhere, the legendary musician Buddy Bolden sprang to mind, the golden bra.s.s G.o.d blowing the city's first song, a sound so big it soared across time to split the air where he stood now.

When he was small and his friends' fathers spooked them with stories of ghosts and dragons, Simon had made up tales to get Julian to practice. He told stories about the mythic cornet player who blew way back when the city was young, when jazz crawled up from cradle-high to paddle upriver to the world. He was a genius, the best anybody ever heard. A horn player who blew so loud that clouds trembled and birds' wings stuttered in flight. Handsome, too-a ladies' man. Or so the story goes. He was a genius, the best anybody ever heard. A horn player who blew so loud that clouds trembled and birds' wings stuttered in flight. Handsome, too-a ladies' man. Or so the story goes. In Simon's stories, Buddy Bolden's power was mighty, fierce, and the sound of his horn could level mountains and raise the dead. Julian's young eyes lit up, his mind filled to overflowing, and he could not wait to play. In Simon's stories, Buddy Bolden's power was mighty, fierce, and the sound of his horn could level mountains and raise the dead. Julian's young eyes lit up, his mind filled to overflowing, and he could not wait to play.

He wondered if Bolden were here tonight, what notes would blast from his horn. For a moment, he wished his father's fables were true. But even if they were, it would take something more powerful than Bolden's horn to bring this dead city back to life.

After a while, his jaw was still sore, but his breathing felt easy and his head lighter from the lift of his music, so he got back in the car and drove toward his Baton Rouge motel. He didn't turn on the radio-the road hum and darkness beyond the headlights' reach felt right for thinking. He thought of so many things. Simon. Ladeena. A pot of red beans and rice saturating the kitchen air on a Monday afternoon with a smell to make a grown man weep. His daddy, stirring the pot and going on and on about Silver Creek. His mother, reading by the window on a summer Sunday after church. The city he called home, sick at heart and sinking.

All of that, and Velmyra Hartley's smile.

[image]

If he hadn't remembered that she rose early, sometimes before dawn, to capture the colors of morning light on her canvas, he would not have gone. But she was one of the few people he knew for whom seven a.m. was not an unreasonable hour to call.

He had called Sylvia at midnight after lying in his Best Western bed, sleepless, for an hour. He could have sworn he heard a small chuckle of glee in Sylvia's voice when he told her what he wanted. Sylvia hadn't hesitated. It was as if she'd been waiting for him to ask.

”She's not too far from you. She's staying at the Day's Inn right there in Baton Rouge, the one closest to the river,” Sylvia had said. ”Room 212.”

Of course. Half the town of New Orleans had picked up and moved to Baton Rouge, at least temporarily. And even though Velmyra's house in Uptown was not damaged by the storm or the flood, she was still without power and her plumbing didn't work.

He had gotten up at five so he could bathe and shave unhurriedly, then called the auto club to get directions to Silver Creek, a place not even MapQuest seemed to know about. He hadn't brought his good clothes with him, mostly just T-s.h.i.+rts and jeans. He found a pair of clean black denims he hadn't yet worn, then reached in the bottom of the suitcase to find one of his newer T-s.h.i.+rts, one emblazoned with the logo of a new New York club where he'd played a year ago, and pressed out the packing folds with the iron he found on the closet shelf.

When he had showered and arranged himself in a reasonable way-face meticulously shaven, hair washed and neatly combed, s.h.i.+rt tucked in-he got into his car and drove from the Best Western toward the Days Inn, which was, to his surprise, at the next light.

The streets were still quiet, s.h.i.+ny after an early mist that beaded his winds.h.i.+eld, the silver sky fissured like marble, the red and green of the traffic lights and cars protruding in bold relief from the flat gray of the wet, early morning streets. He pulled into the lot as light misting thickened to light rain.

This was not something he particularly wanted to do. Through his night of fitful sleep, he'd remembered his tears, actually crying crying over this woman. Whatever he felt about her now, however undefined, was clearly uncomfortable. It wasn't that he wanted to be with her-it was over this woman. Whatever he felt about her now, however undefined, was clearly uncomfortable. It wasn't that he wanted to be with her-it was so so over after all this time. He just wanted to clear out whatever lingering webs of hurtful memory still cluttered his mind, and then move on. over after all this time. He just wanted to clear out whatever lingering webs of hurtful memory still cluttered his mind, and then move on.

And since he'd been raised not to be an a.s.s, running out of Sylvia's house like some loser would nag at him until he did something about it.

He knocked softly three times on her door.

When she answered, he couldn't help but float his gaze down, then upwards again. Her hair, still fluffed out in crinkly curls, was lighter than he remembered from last night. She was dressed in white shorts and a short-sleeved green tank. Her eyes looked rested, bright. Clearly, she'd been up a while.

He had planned to smile, as if everything was cool, say a few appropriate words, then be on his way. But when he saw her, he felt his tongue thicken and the smile didn't come the way he'd planned.

”Sorry, I know it's early and everything,” he started. ”I just want to say I'm sorry about last night, running off like that. The stress and all, you know, with Daddy missing and everything, I guess...”

”Julian.” She opened the door wider, letting the morning light spill onto her face. ”Why don't you come inside? You're standing in the rain.”

8.

He hadn't realized it was raining, even though his face was covered with water. He hadn't particularly wanted to come inside, to be there any longer than necessary, but he didn't know how not to, so he stepped inside the tiny motel room while she closed the door behind him.

”Like I said,” he began again. His hands were hot and moist. He stuck them both in the back pockets of his jeans. ”I'm sorry about running off last night.”

Almost every inch of the room was filled, but there seemed to be a sense of order about it. A pot of coffee, buried behind bottles of toiletries, made gurgling sounds on the bath area counter top. White towels sat neatly folded on racks near the mirror. Two fullsize beds filled most of the s.p.a.ce-one with stacks of laundry folded on top of the paisley spread, the other with disheveled sheets and pillows thrown about. On a luggage rack near the TV, a full suitcase sat open, and on the table near the window sat boxes of cereal and crackers, bags of nuts, a few apples, and a half-dozen bananas.

It looked remarkably like his motel room, as if someone had taken up permanent residence, except for the large wooden artist's easel near the television with a blank canvas sitting on it.

”You want some coffee?” She looked back toward the gurgling pot. ”It's the worst coffee I've ever made.”

He smiled a little. ”Naw. Thanks.”

For another minute they both just stood in the middle of the room, trapped by a silence so awkward Julian coughed just to interrupt it.

”Look, Julian,” she said. ”I'm really so sorry about Simon. I was so upset when I heard. I just hope he didn't-”

He narrowed his eyes as he cut her off, and started to turn toward the door.

”He's all right. I'll find him.”

”I didn't mean...of course, you'll find him. Simon's strong. If anybody can survive all this, he can.”

She smiled, leveled an a.s.suring gaze at him. ”And knowing you, you won't stop until you find him.”

Some people just knew they had a great smile, and Velmyra must have learned this early on. Milk-white sea-washed pearls set perfectly within the strong bones of her face, her smile was something she could measure against the moment, time to best effect: to tease, cajole, gain advantage, defuse an argument. Right now, she had caught his testiness in her perfect teeth and rendered it numb.

”Anyway, he's lucky to have you for a son.”

A decent thing to say. Her smile tried to ignite the one buried deep in him that somehow could not surface to his face.

”Well. OK. Thanks,” he said.

Light blinked through the parted drapes on the long window facing the parking lot, as if the sun, held captive by a thick cloud, had been set free. Realizing his shoulders had been tight, arched slightly up the whole time he'd been in the room, he let them down, and reached up to ma.s.sage the side of his neck.

She played with her fingers, interlacing them, in and out. The fact that she seemed no more comfortable than he did pleased him a little.

”Well.” She let out a breath heavy with resignation. ”What happened with us doesn't matter much now, does it? I mean, everything's so...horrible. You know how I felt about Simon. He was always so kind to me. I hate that he's missing. So, truce?”

He remembered the bond between Simon and Velmyra. During their engagement, when Julian brought her to his father's for Sunday afternoon dinner, Simon seemed to step a little lighter in Velmyra's presence; chairs were held back, doors held open, jokes told in a doting fatherly tease framed by an almost boyish smile. A special spark lit Simon's eyes, his voice pitched to a lighter lilt, and Velmyra obliged with smooth but genuine affection.