By Jo Salas<\/p>\n
Published in Chonogram,<\/em> March 2004<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Helen lay warm and deliciously comfortable as long as she didn\u2019t move a hair. Daylight filtered though her thin eyelids but she wasn\u2019t ready to open her eyes. Dreams flitted like dark shapes below her, their outlines indistinct. In one there was a flavor of escape; in another, guilt. She let them go. A song undulated. Just one of those things, just one of those crazy things\u2026. <\/em>Someone was playing brushes with it, but the rhythm was all wrong. Her irritation drove the dream-song away. It wasn\u2019t brushes, it was voices, whispering. She listened, her eyes still closed. All she could hear were sh\u2019s. Shsh sh sh.<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe looks so\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s a shame to \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n Helen opened her eyes to see her daughter\u2019s face above her.<\/p>\n \u201cShwshwshwsh, why are we whispering?\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n Billie\u2019s voice changed to its normal tone. \u201cMother! You\u2019re awake! Merry Christmas!\u201d She stepped back from Helen\u2019s bedside. James stood behind her wearing a silly tie with red reindeer on it. Stiffly he bent down his bald, freckled head. Helen felt his dry kiss on her cheek. \u201cMerry Christmas, dear. We\u2019re taking you to Billie\u2019s. Did you remember?\u201d<\/p>\n Christmas again! Surely a year had not passed since the last one. Helen closed her eyes. The jouncing car ride to Billie\u2019s big house, the endless morning pretending to be interested while the children noisily opened gift after gift, Christmas dinner in her wheelchair at the table where there was laughter and people speaking quickly and too much food, none of it of her choosing or making.<\/p>\n \u201cYes, of course I remember. I\u2019ve been looking forward to it.\u201d<\/p>\n Florence and Gina shooed James and Billie out of the room so they could get her dressed and ready to go. Helen waited passively as though it was someone else\u2019s nightdress being removed, someone else\u2019s diaper being changed, someone else\u2019s lumpy arthritic legs being swung gently over the side of the bed and then into the wheelchair. Florence put a mirror in her hand. \u201cWe\u2019re gonna make you gorgeous today, honey,\u201d she said. Helen held the mirror while Florence brushed her thin white curls. She watched the ancient lady in it with curiosity: the prominent cheekbones and knife-like nose, the nonexistent eyebrows, the toneless skin and mouth framed by enough wrinkles for an elephant. The eyes that looked back at her under draped eyelids were penetrating in their gray stare. Humorous.<\/p>\n \u201cHow interesting,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat, honey?\u201d asked Florence. \u201cNow let me put just a little lipstick on you.\u201d<\/p>\n How interesting to have transformed into this shocking old relic. Not really a woman at all. She didn\u2019t say it out loud. Too tedious to explain what she meant to Florence, who would be upset and think that she was depressed.<\/p>\n James insisted on helping to get her into the back seat of the car.<\/p>\n \u201cDad, be careful now, you\u2019ll strain your back,\u201d said Billie. James ignored her. Florence and Gina let him help but it was their skill that got her into the car unscathed and comfortable. Helen smiled at them through the window as Billie drove away. She could read their lips: \u201cMerry Christmas!\u201d \u201cHave a ball!\u201d Beside her James fussed with his seat belt, then reached for her hand. She let it lie in his. So thin, they both were, both of these elderly hands. Bony and scaly. Once there had been a current that passed between their flesh. She could hardly remember. Helen squeezed James\u2019s hand lightly and slid her own back under the soft blanket that Gina had tucked around her.<\/p>\n Helen woke again, disoriented. \u201cMother, we\u2019re here. Let me help you out.\u201d Billie wheeled her into the house. Young people leaned over to kiss her tenderly. \u201cGrandma, you made it!\u201d said the girl. Fleur. The name took a moment to come into her mind, though her heart had instantly filled with warmth at the sight of her, tall and lovely, her brown hair a shiny cascade over her shoulders.<\/p>\n \u201cGrandma, this is Micky.\u201d A young man smiled beside her, slight and dark haired. \u201cHe\u2019s a musician too\u2014clarinet and saxophone.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHappy to meet you, Mrs. Ashe,\u201d he said. \u201cI hope you\u2019re going to play for us.\u201d<\/p>\n Unwrapping the gifts under the tree was a more civilized affair than Helen expected. Of course the children were older now, too old to tear packages limb from limb like lion cubs with a carcass. Still, all this stuff<\/em>. Didn\u2019t they know that it only piled up into a mountain of possessions that they\u2014or someone else\u2014would have to dispose of one day? She thought of the house she had left three years ago, still filled with the detritus of her life, her and James\u2019s life together. Disgusting. This Christmas Helen had insisted that she didn\u2019t want any gifts. \u201cWhatever could I want? And where on earth would I put it?\u201d she\u2019d said to Billie. But Fleur had disobeyed and presented her with a book, a big illustrated book all about her mother Billie\u2019s namesake and the people in her world.<\/p>\n Helen turned the pages slowly, gazing at each photo as though she could re-enter those long-ago places. Billie Holiday in her glory and her decline, the musicians who had played with her and honored her. They all looked so young. She peered closely at the dimly-lit faces of the audience in some of the photos. Had she really ever been one of those elegantly dressed people, smiling, drinking, at ease? Helen looked across the room at James, snoring lightly on the couch with a half-eaten chocolate croissant on a plate on his lap. He wouldn\u2019t enjoy these photos. He\u2019d always refused to go with her, had objected even to her listening to the music. \u201cYou\u2019re a mother and a wife, Helen. You\u2019re Mrs. James Ashe. Music is all well and good. But I don\u2019t want my wife carried away by jazz<\/em>. Really, Helen.\u201d<\/p>\n He had come home early and found her swaying to Duke Ellington on the phonograph, the baby in her arms. Helen walked quickly to the record player and lifted the needle, hoping only that he would not glance toward the piano where spread out, clear evidence of her corruption, was the sheet music to Satin Doll. James liked it when she played sunny Mozart sonatas. Or nursery rhymes for baby Billie. Whom he mistakenly thought was named after Helen\u2019s father, William. James did not imagine, and she would never tell him, that every moment that she was not cooking, cleaning, amusing the baby, or tending the small, elaborately planted front yard, she was playing the standards, practicing, practicing, singing the songs, carrying herself deeper into the music. Dancing to the Duke was her reward for finally mastering Satin Doll\u2019s chord progression.<\/p>\n No, James would not enjoy the photos in darling Fleur\u2019s book. They would speak to him of danger, of things wrong between them. Of his wife\u2019s disobedience. She turned the pages. There was Billie, the real Billie, singing at Sugarcane\u2019s. It was like seeing her own secret world again. No matter that she felt an outsider there, a visitor from the suburbs.<\/p>\n \u2666<\/p>\n The blue neon sign swung in the October wind. Sugarcane\u2019s<\/em>. Dorothy and Helen paused, looking at each other.<\/p>\n \u201cCome on!\u201d said Dorothy, putting her arm through Helen\u2019s. \u201cToo late now.\u201d Inside, the darkness was thick with smoke and music, the sound of saxophone and piano and drums and a slow voice sweetened with something Helen recognized but could not name.<\/p>\n \u201cFollow me, ladies.\u201d A stocky black man led them through the packed room. The low stage was barely arm\u2019s length from the table he pointed to.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll have a scotch and soda,\u201d said Dorothy, her hand on the man\u2019s shoulder, leaning close to his ear. She glanced at Helen. \u201cA gin and tonic for my friend.\u201d She offered a cigarette to Helen and lit one for herself.<\/p>\n Helen sipped the drink. I\u2019m here, she thought. I did it. I\u2019m downtown, without James, without the baby. In a jazz club. Smoking. Drinking gin.<\/p>\n Some other spring I\u2019ll try to love<\/em> The singer swayed, her eyes closed, fingertips holding the microphone. She was beautiful, her skin a smooth glowing brown, curves held by a white dress, dark hair pulled back. The musicians watched her, weaving a cradle of sound around her and the melody. Oh! I feel it, thought Helen, the pulsing of the music, the calling of the words. She knew every note of the song, though she\u2019d never tried to play it. She\u2019d look for it when she got home, in the sheets of music she kept hidden under Brahms and Beethoven.<\/p>\n Sun shines around me<\/em> Dorothy was staring at her. \u201cSmoke!\u201d mouthed Helen, pointing to her eyes. But it wasn\u2019t the smoke. Nor was it sadness. It was the music, pushing, breaking, stirring her as nothing had for a long time, not since James came back from the war and they danced with all the other young couples in Central Park, drunk on the joy of finding each other again, drunk on peace and promise after the years of separation and fear. Then there had been the house in Queens, and the baby, and then the larger house in White Plains, and James working so hard in the city, and dancing only between courses at dinner dances on the shore on Valentine\u2019s Day or her birthday. Or at home, alone, with Duke Ellington on the phonograph, when baby Billie was sleeping.<\/p>\n Dorothy waved to the waiter and signaled him to bring more drinks. \u201cYou need it, kid.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBottoms up!\u201d called Helen, holding her glass out to Dorothy, then to the musicians, toasting them. The saxophonist saw her and winked.<\/p>\n My life\u2019s yours, love<\/em> The singer bowed her head low. From the half-dark came applause, whistles. She held up one hand, smiling. \u201cWe\u2019ll take a short break and be right back. Now don\u2019t you go away.\u201d<\/p>\n Voices rose to fill the space where the music had been. Helen was bereft. The musicians stood chatting together. Astonished, she found herself on her feet, walking carefully toward them. The saxophonist who had winked at her watched her coming. He was thin and tall, like James, but blond, his hair in a boyish crewcut. Something in the deep lines around his mouth moved her.<\/p>\n \u201cCan I buy you a drink?\u201d I had no idea I could say that, she thought. I sound just like Dorothy.<\/p>\n He sat at their table drinking beer. His name was Drew. Dorothy chatted with him. Helen couldn\u2019t find a thing to say. She listened to their banter, witty like some of the songs the band had played.<\/p>\n \u201cHelen, is it?\u201d he asked, turning to her. \u201cSo you like jazz. Have you come to Sugarcane\u2019s before?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, but\u2026\u201d She sipped her drink. Her third! Or was it her fourth? \u201cI love jazz. I listen at home, when my husband isn\u2019t there.\u201d She blushed, glad that it was too dark for him to see. His smile encouraged her. His mouth \u2026she stopped herself. \u201cBut I\u2019ve always loved music, I took piano lessons for years. When I was younger I even thought I might go professional, but that was crazy. Me a musician! Dreaming! Oh no, life came along and showed me what was real. I play piano with my little girl sometimes.\u201d<\/p>\n Drew leaned forward. \u201cCould be a song.\u201d He put his hand over hers and sang her words, his eyes almost closed.<\/p>\n Life came along, showed me what was real <\/em> He paused and smiled at her. Helen couldn\u2019t look away. I would go to bed with this man, right now, no questions asked.<\/em><\/p>\n The drummer touched his arm. \u201cOK, man?\u201d Drew lifted Helen\u2019s hand to his lips, kissed it, and went back to the stage.<\/p>\n The music started up again. Helen felt as if she was bodiless, swirling through the room like smoke, like the singer\u2019s caressing voice. She jumped when Dorothy shook her shoulder. \u201cHey, doll! Snap out of it! We\u2019d better get going.\u201d<\/p>\n They wove their way to the door. The club was crowded now with bodies swaying, talking, laughing, all joined by the music. I don\u2019t want to go, Helen thought. I don\u2019t want to leave all this.<\/p>\n Outside the air was cold. Dorothy and Helen paused to pull their wraps around them. An arm encircled her from behind and pulled her in. Drew\u2019s voice warmed her ear. \u201cGood night to you, lovely lady.\u201d She turned into his arms. Drew bent his head and kissed her. His open mouth tasted of cigarettes. Helen had missed that taste since James gave up smoking. Drew\u2019s long body in her arms felt wiry, strong, strange. His thick brush of hair under her hand. Her body pressed itself against his while a tiny, wide-awake part of her mind marveled.<\/p>\n \u201cHelen, you wicked little thing!\u201d Dorothy\u2019s laugh jolted her. Helen pulled away from Drew. He held her hand a moment, turned it, kissed the palm. \u201cGotta get back.\u201d<\/p>\n Dorothy stopped the engine and coasted down the hill to the Ashes\u2019 house. \u201cShh!\u201d she whispered, holding a finger up to her lips. \u201cShh!\u201d answered Helen, her eyes dancing. She twisted down awkwardly to take off her high heels, her head bumping Dorothy\u2019s lap, both of them giggling. \u201cThanks for a wonderful evening, kid!\u201d She blew a kiss to Dorothy through the car window and tiptoed in her nylons up the path to the front door. She could still hear the singer\u2019s voice and Drew\u2019s saxophone winding around it. Her mouth tasted of his.<\/p>\n The door was locked. She hadn\u2019t thought to bring a key with her. Why would James lock the door?<\/p>\n Suddenly it was flung open. James stood there, towering, furious. Helen froze.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s two o\u2019clock in the morning!\u201d he hissed. He reached out and pulled her into the hallway. \u201cI said I\u2019d expect you back by eleven. I nearly called the police. What the hell<\/em> were you doing? I knew I shouldn\u2019t have let you go anywhere with Dorothy goddamn Driscoll.\u201d<\/p>\n The music vanished from her ear, leaving an echoing cold silence. The hissing voice hurt her head. She was tired. She wanted to lie down in her bed, to sink into quietness and the dark.<\/p>\n \u201cDaddy?\u201d Billie in her little pink nightdress stood on the landing above them rubbing her eyes. \u201cMommy? Is it morning?\u201d<\/p>\n James ran up the stairs and picked her up. \u201cIt\u2019s OK, sweetheart, everything\u2019s OK.\u201d His voice was all tenderness. \u201cIt\u2019s still nighttime, what do you think of that! I\u2019ll take you back to bed.\u201d He disappeared with the child in his arms, humming softly into her curly hair.<\/p>\n Helen tiptoed upstairs and lay on her bed. In the darkness the room spun gently. She felt Drew in her arms. Her body surged and melted. She heard music and voices and Dorothy\u2019s laugh and saw the burly man with the drinks.<\/p>\n The light was switched on. James stood over her. Helen felt afraid.<\/p>\n \u201cOh no, you don\u2019t.\u201d His voice was snarling but quiet, so that Billie wouldn\u2019t hear. \u201cYou\u2019d better tell me exactly what happened.\u201d<\/p>\n Helen shaded her eyes against the bright light and the angry face above her. The treasures of the evening were turning into dust. She needed to sleep. \u201cJames\u2026Nothing happened, we just didn\u2019t realize the time.\u201d She wished she could tell him how wonderful it was. Not the Drew part, of course. But the music. How it stirred her. How it irrigated something deep inside her that had been parched like a desert. Why couldn\u2019t she talk to him about that? \u201cJames, I\u2019m so sorry I worried you. Everything\u2019s all right, really it is.\u201d She waited, her heart thumping. \u201cPlease don\u2019t be angry.\u201d<\/p>\n James was silent. \u201cYou have to promise me never to do this again,\u201d he said at last.<\/p>\n Helen breathed. \u201cI promise.\u201d She sat up and touched his arm lightly. \u201cBut maybe sometime we could go together.\u201d<\/p>\n James looked down at her with scorn, but the rage was ebbing from him. \u201cYou know I hate that primitive stuff.\u201d He turned abruptly and began to undress for bed. Helen didn\u2019t watch.<\/p>\n \u2666<\/p>\n \u201cMrs. Ashe!\u201d Micky, the young man, was gently lifting the heavy book out of her hands. \u201cMrs. Ashe, how about some music? Got my axe tuned up and ready to go.\u201d<\/p>\n Helen laughed. \u201cOh, no, dear. These silly feet can\u2019t manage the pedals anymore.\u201d But Micky put his clarinet to his lips, his eyes twinkling. He played a plaintive, familiar arpeggio. Helen closed her eyes in pleasure, hearing the words in her mind. It begins to tell \u2018round midnight, \u2018round midnight<\/em>\u2026 Fleur pushed her wheelchair over to the piano. Micky paused for a moment. \u201cKey of E flat minor.\u201d Helen\u2019s fingers were already finding the soft chords. Fleur swayed between them, humming the tune. Out of the corner of her eye Helen saw Billie sit down on the couch next to her father, talking to him. Good girl. Keep him busy, so he won\u2019t notice what his dreadful old wife is doing.<\/p>\n The music found its last note. Helen leant back from the piano. Micky bowed. \u201cThank you!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThank you<\/em>, Micky,\u201d said Helen. \u201cThat was a pleasure.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLikewise, ma\u2019am, likewise.\u201d<\/p>\n Fleur clapped her hands. \u201cWow, Grandma, you\u2019re terrific!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBillie, I think we should be getting your mother home, don\u2019t you? We don\u2019t want to overtire her.\u201d James\u2019 voice had a twinge of its old authority.<\/p>\n \u201cNo, Grandpa,\u201d protested Fleur. \u201cThey\u2019re going to play another one.\u201d<\/p>\n But it was true, Helen was tired. A sweet tiredness. She patted Micky\u2019s arm. \u201cWe\u2019ll play again sometime.\u201d She wanted to go back to her own quiet room with her head full of the Monk tune, and rest, and savor her new book. And say goodbye to James.<\/p>\n They packed her carefully into the car again like a crate of ancient eggs. Helen watched the bleak winterscape slide by as they drove.<\/p>\n James cleared his throat. \u201cNow, Helen,\u201d he said. \u201cI was a little surprised to see you playing that kind of music with your granddaughter\u2019s boyfriend.\u201d<\/p>\n She smiled without turning and did not answer. His disapproval was like a door slamming in another house, nothing to do with her. The brick nursing home appeared. Florence was waiting for her at the front door.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" By Jo Salas Published in Chonogram, March 2004 Helen lay warm and deliciously comfortable as long as she didn\u2019t move a hair. Daylight filtered though her thin eyelids but she wasn\u2019t ready to open her eyes. Dreams flitted like dark shapes below her, their outlines indistinct. In one there was a flavor of escape; […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":16,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-422","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry","post-preview"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/josalas.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/422","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/josalas.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/josalas.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/josalas.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/josalas.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=422"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/josalas.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/422\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":424,"href":"https:\/\/josalas.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/422\/revisions\/424"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/josalas.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/16"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/josalas.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=422"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nNow I just cling to faded blossom<\/em><\/p>\n
\nBut deep in my heart it\u2019s cold as ice<\/em><\/p>\n
\nDon\u2019t explain<\/em><\/p>\n
\nLife came along, told me what to feel <\/em>
\nMusic is only a dream<\/em><\/p>\n