He wanted us to listen. He’d gathered us all together, his closest friends, and he was excited. He said it was real special and he thought we’d get it, thought we’d get it like he got it. He’d carried his father’s record player into the yard, the blue plastic box as far out into the air as the electric cable would allow, and we were all there.
He’d just come back from a trip to the coast. He’d left without saying he was going. He just upped and left. ‘Time to get his shit together,’ that’s what he wrote on all out postcards by way of explanation. And now he was returned, just as suddenly and just as unannounced, and he had something to share and we all were there.
It was a jazz record he’d discovered, all blast and fizz and staccato beats, and a woman weaving her voice through the music and a voice to make you ache inside. He played it through to the end and then, without a pause for breath, he set the needle to the start again.
His face was a picture. He was the old Howard in those moments of listening and his face was all soft and smiling, and he stood taller and looked younger, and his foot was tapping on the lawn.
I thought it was a passable piece and I liked the singer, at first I did, someone called Martha or Marion, and there was something birdlike and something harder in her singing, both at the same time. I thought the record was a find and I wanted to know more and to hear more. But, it wasn’t special, not in the way that Howard wanted it to be. I’d heard a half dozen other singers who were as good or better and I thought the trumpet playing was a bit overblown and the drums a tad tinny and the bass player seemed a step or two behind the rest, like he couldn’t keep up. But I’d heard a lot worse, too.
I could see that the others were of the same mind and though they nodded, they did so with some uncertainty and they betrayed themselves in their not looking directly at Howard .
‘Do you hear it?’ he said. And there was a plea in his voice.
‘Sure do.’ Said too quickly to be true and the voice too high as though a hand was about Lucy’s neck and she was choking.
‘Underneath the music and the singing, do you hear it?’ said Howard.
Ellis asked him to play it again and we all strained to listen, all of us wanting to hear what Howard heard, wanting it to be there, the thing that made him young again and smiling and no rough edge to the things he was saying. We wanted to hear it. But none of us did. It was more and more ordinary the more we listened, and even the singer’s voice seemed to develop cracks and was more faltering than it had at first appeared.
I think later, when we were leaving and we shook his hand or held him in a too-heavy embrace, I think he knew. He said he had more records ordered and by the same group and he’d call us when they arrived. But I think he knew. The smile was a little different and a blue sadness had returned to his eyes and we, his friends, were a little muted in our goodbyes, too. All except Ellis who made a greater show of everything and she kissed him and said it was good he was home again, really it was, and maybe we could all have lunch together or a drink.
We left then, wishing we had been as Ellis had been, and because we hadn’t and because we hadn’t heard what he wanted us to hear, we felt we had all failed him somehow. That feeling has not gone away.
If there had been time, I might have tried to comfort him a bit more kindly, but the way it was, I had a train to catch, His ramblings were a dull rattle to my brain so I drained my coffee cup, folded my paper, smiled and nodded at him, and hurried off. I made it to the station with fifteen minutes to spare. My thoughts went back to him as I watched people scurry and line up at gates. I knew Carter was going to sit there anyway, talk to his mug, to the waitress, to the man who sat beside him with his rumpled fedora in his hands. They made a pair. I could imagine they would have quite a discussion about how women can make or break you and Carter whining abut his wife as thought she was still around. But she had left three months ago, right after the birthday bash we had for him. I just knew them from work, so it was obligatory. But it didn’t surprise me she left; she was breathy and anxious despite the beer, and spread her gaze around the room like she was a compass gone haywire. So Carter had missed a lot of work and then finally too much and then he didn’t come in. Now he lived at the coffee shop during the day, his tiny porch at night. He doesn’t drink like he did but he cries. I can hear it all the way down here, that “why didn’t I see it?” cry. Well, we all saw it but him. I feel for him but not so much as I want to hear it every time I get coffee at that great corner shop.
I boarded the train, got comfortable, watched the city pass by with its colors and shapes and goings-on. Then we slowed a bit and there he was, Carter, standing on the corner with a man was playing records on an old player. I felt like I had slipped across some border into a netherworld made of past and present all at once. A shock of anxiety ran through me. I lowered the window enough to hear Carter singing out like he had a virtuoso voice, and people were looking at him as though he had lost his mind. And the thing is, maybe he had, but at least he wasn’t bawling. I could see him lean into the music. I could tell he found a new pal.
He wanted us to listen. He’d gathered us all together, his closest friends, and he was excited. He said it was real special and he thought we’d get it, thought we’d get it like he got it. He’d carried his father’s record player into the yard, the blue plastic box as far out into the air as the electric cable would allow, and we were all there.
He’d just come back from a trip to the coast. He’d left without saying he was going. He just upped and left. ‘Time to get his shit together,’ that’s what he wrote on all out postcards by way of explanation. And now he was returned, just as suddenly and just as unannounced, and he had something to share and we all were there.
It was a jazz record he’d discovered, all blast and fizz and staccato beats, and a woman weaving her voice through the music and a voice to make you ache inside. He played it through to the end and then, without a pause for breath, he set the needle to the start again.
His face was a picture. He was the old Howard in those moments of listening and his face was all soft and smiling, and he stood taller and looked younger, and his foot was tapping on the lawn.
I thought it was a passable piece and I liked the singer, at first I did, someone called Martha or Marion, and there was something birdlike and something harder in her singing, both at the same time. I thought the record was a find and I wanted to know more and to hear more. But, it wasn’t special, not in the way that Howard wanted it to be. I’d heard a half dozen other singers who were as good or better and I thought the trumpet playing was a bit overblown and the drums a tad tinny and the bass player seemed a step or two behind the rest, like he couldn’t keep up. But I’d heard a lot worse, too.
I could see that the others were of the same mind and though they nodded, they did so with some uncertainty and they betrayed themselves in their not looking directly at Howard .
‘Do you hear it?’ he said. And there was a plea in his voice.
‘Sure do.’ Said too quickly to be true and the voice too high as though a hand was about Lucy’s neck and she was choking.
‘Underneath the music and the singing, do you hear it?’ said Howard.
Ellis asked him to play it again and we all strained to listen, all of us wanting to hear what Howard heard, wanting it to be there, the thing that made him young again and smiling and no rough edge to the things he was saying. We wanted to hear it. But none of us did. It was more and more ordinary the more we listened, and even the singer’s voice seemed to develop cracks and was more faltering than it had at first appeared.
I think later, when we were leaving and we shook his hand or held him in a too-heavy embrace, I think he knew. He said he had more records ordered and by the same group and he’d call us when they arrived. But I think he knew. The smile was a little different and a blue sadness had returned to his eyes and we, his friends, were a little muted in our goodbyes, too. All except Ellis who made a greater show of everything and she kissed him and said it was good he was home again, really it was, and maybe we could all have lunch together or a drink.
We left then, wishing we had been as Ellis had been, and because we hadn’t and because we hadn’t heard what he wanted us to hear, we felt we had all failed him somehow. That feeling has not gone away.
If there had been time, I might have tried to comfort him a bit more kindly, but the way it was, I had a train to catch, His ramblings were a dull rattle to my brain so I drained my coffee cup, folded my paper, smiled and nodded at him, and hurried off. I made it to the station with fifteen minutes to spare. My thoughts went back to him as I watched people scurry and line up at gates. I knew Carter was going to sit there anyway, talk to his mug, to the waitress, to the man who sat beside him with his rumpled fedora in his hands. They made a pair. I could imagine they would have quite a discussion about how women can make or break you and Carter whining abut his wife as thought she was still around. But she had left three months ago, right after the birthday bash we had for him. I just knew them from work, so it was obligatory. But it didn’t surprise me she left; she was breathy and anxious despite the beer, and spread her gaze around the room like she was a compass gone haywire. So Carter had missed a lot of work and then finally too much and then he didn’t come in. Now he lived at the coffee shop during the day, his tiny porch at night. He doesn’t drink like he did but he cries. I can hear it all the way down here, that “why didn’t I see it?” cry. Well, we all saw it but him. I feel for him but not so much as I want to hear it every time I get coffee at that great corner shop.
I boarded the train, got comfortable, watched the city pass by with its colors and shapes and goings-on. Then we slowed a bit and there he was, Carter, standing on the corner with a man was playing records on an old player. I felt like I had slipped across some border into a netherworld made of past and present all at once. A shock of anxiety ran through me. I lowered the window enough to hear Carter singing out like he had a virtuoso voice, and people were looking at him as though he had lost his mind. And the thing is, maybe he had, but at least he wasn’t bawling. I could see him lean into the music. I could tell he found a new pal.
I do like this piece, Cynthia. Nice use of the prompt and a neat surprise to the piece. Yes, I like this.
Thank you! I enjoy yours, as well.