Adrift in the Sound (27 page)

“Shut up,” Rocket spat. “You don’t know anything about it. You show up, freak out, disappear, sneak back in, parade around with your ass hanging out. Now, I call that nuts! Where do you get off talking about Sandy? At least she got paid for it.”

Poland stood up, took Violet and went to the living room. The arguing continued, but he said nothing. He heard Rocket shout, “You’ve got big feet like a frog, bug eyes, too!”

Lizette fired back, “Worthless junkie. Think you’re better than everyone because of that stupid piano. It’s shit. You can’t even play it! You don’t know Mozart from Montovani!”

Poland rocked Violet, burped her, held her close and looked out the window at the sun on the grasses, at an eagle soaring above the trees, a black-tailed doe stepping gingerly in the forest’s shadows. He chanted quietly into Violet’s ear.

When the voices in the kitchen took on a dangerous edge, when he sensed Raven might jump in and square off against Rocket, he said, firmly, “Come in here. All of you. Sit down right now!”

Rocket glared at Lizette, spread his angry look around the room. Marian got up and put her arm around Abaya’s shoulders, led her to the living room. Marian and Abaya fumed at either end of the couch. Lizette folded cross-legged onto the floor, making soft, intermittent tweets, holding the twitching muscle beside her eye. Rocket threw himself into the wing chair, cast a sly-eyed look at Raven who leaned against the wall with his arms folded. They waited. Silence filled the room. Bird songs came to them, soughing whispered from the trees and softened their hearts, the grasses swayed rhythmically in the field, a sheep baahed, a gate hinge creaked.

“In the time when people could still become animals, a beautiful girl of the Raven clan lived in these meadows.” Poland spoke in a deep, even voice, gesturing out the window. “She was spoiled and headstrong, proud because her father was a chief.”

He raised an eyebrow and looked around the room at each of them, settled on Lizette, who squirmed, re-crossed her legs. “In late summer, at berry-gathering time, she went with other girls into the forest to pick. Her friends teased her because she would not take a man. She turned away from everyone her parents offered. They told her she would turn into an old crow—sleek feathers, rough voice.” He made a caw that startled Violet in his lap.

“The beautiful girl said she would know when the right man appeared. Along the trail, she tripped in muddy bear tracks and dropped her berry basket. She complained about clumsy bears as she got up, accused them of taking the best berries, making a mess of the forest. The girls shushed her, looked around, told her not to talk bad about the bears. She’d make them mad, they warned. The girl made an ugly face, said she didn’t care.”

Poland’s voice coarsened and Abaya went to the kitchen, brought back a glass of lemonade. He slurped. Violet slept in his arms. Lizette stretched her legs.

“So the other girls kept picking, moving away from the beautiful girl. They sang songs to the bears to show respect. The beautiful girl did not praise the bears. She found a berry patch with the biggest berries she’d ever seen. She picked, ate some, picked more. It got dark and she couldn’t hear her friends singing anymore. Then there was rustling in the bushes, a twig snapped. The girl was afraid. But before she could run, two men stepped from the trees, one was very handsome. The other one was short and limped.”

Lizette eyed Rocket, but he didn’t seem to be listening.

“ ‘It’s getting dark,’ the handsome one said. ‘We’ll help you find your way.’ He took her berry basket and joked as they walked. She didn’t see that they were moving up the mountain, away from her home. They came to a village, but she realized it was not her village. ‘I want my father,’ she said.

‘No, you are ours,’ the handsome one said. ‘Wait while I talk to my uncle.’

“He headed toward a great longhouse and disappeared inside. ‘I don’t care how handsome he is,’ she said to the short one. ‘I don’t like waiting. My father is a chief.’

“In a while, two men came from the lodge. She could see from their shaved heads they were slaves and she thought they’d come to serve her. Instead they grabbed her arms and dragged her to a small cave, shoved her inside and rolled a big boulder across the opening.’”

Violet cooed in Poland’s lap, made a soft baby fart. Everyone giggled and he tucked her blankets tighter, made a serious face and looked out the window. He waited, regained his dreamy look, continued.

“The girl hollered to be let out. She cried and threw herself on the ground, but they didn’t come back. Lying in the dark, she heard a small voice.” He made a small squeaking in the back of his mouth. Lizette giggled.

“It was Mouse Woman. She told the girl she had been taken by the Bear People because her pride and rudeness offended them, but she said she had a plan. To get out of the cave, Mouse Woman told the girl to bite off small pieces of her copper earrings and bracelets, put the pieces under her tongue. Then, after they fed her each day, she should spit out a bit of copper and offer it as a gift to the chief. The Bear People liked copper, she said. The girl did this and in time the Bear People came to think she had magical powers.”

“Hey, man. I need a beer,” Rocket slurred.

“Don’t interrupt,” Lizette said, seeing him as she’d once seen Greg in the same chair.

“Fuck you, man.” He lifted his droopy lids and looked defiantly at Lizette.

“I’m not a man.” She folded her arms and gave him her shoulder.

Raven watched the exchange and lifted off the wall, flexed his biceps, took a step toward Rocket, looked at his father. Poland shook his head, tilted it toward the kitchen. Raven went to the refrigerator and got a beer, cracked it open and returned, handed the bottle to Rocket, who sheepishly responded, “Thanks, man.”

“After the beautiful girl had coughed up copper for many days, they took her to the chief. His lodge was hung with many bearskins and he sat on a big bench carved with dancing Chinook. He called for mats and told the slaves to bring in his nephew. The couple kneeled before the chief. The old man got up and put a great skin over his head and shoulders, the room misted and he stood above them, half man, half bear. The girl was scared.”

Poland waited, looked at each one’s face, waited some more, until Rocket paid attention, then went on with the story. “The bear chief said, ‘We have waited for a high-born girl like you, one with special powers. You will marry my nephew.’

“The girl wanted to run, but she knew the bears would catch her and she would be made a slave. That night they had a feast, a celebration like the ones the girl’s clan had at home—salmon and halibut, crab and clams, wild onions, robin’s eggs, honey and baskets of berries. All the while, the girl planned her escape, knew her father and brothers and cousins were out looking for her. She longed to be rescued.

“After the wedding, the girl joined in with the Bear People, did everything they wanted,” Poland said. “But she still looked for signs and sounds that she would be rescued, even though her bear husband was kind and a good hunter, too. One day he gave her a bearskin of her own. He wanted her to put it on, to become a bear with him, but she resisted. Later, when he was out hunting, she tried it on. It felt good, warm and soft. She felt love for her husband and the Bear People and forgot about her other family.

“In time, she knew she was gonna have a baby, just like this little dragonfly.” He kissed the top of Violet’s head. She was awake now, looking around, taking in everything, cooing like a dove.

“That’s one birth I wouldn’t want to attend,” Marian said. Everyone laughed.

“Well, when the baby was born, he looked like us.” Poland moved his hand down his chest and gestured to Abaya. “But he tumbled and crawled just like a bear cub. When he wanted to, he put bearskins on and looked just like his father, but the girl wasn’t afraid anymore. She loved her son and her husband and the Bear People, but sometimes she missed her own people, too. The loneliness for her father felt like a small pain in her side.” Poland flattened his fingers and poked himself just below his ribs.

“In the fall, when the Chinook run,” he said with new energy, “she was fishing with her husband and noticed he was quiet and looked sad. She asked him what was wrong and he told her about his dreams. He saw her brothers coming with spears. She felt her heart leap.

“ ‘They are near,’ he said.” Poland took a long drink of lemonade, held Violet out, offered her to Abaya, who got up from the couch and grabbed her like a hungry animal.

“When they returned from fishing, baskets full, they moved to a cave far up the mountain. The bear husband said he hoped they’d be safe there, but the dreams continued through the winter.

“When spring rains warmed the island, her husband said, ‘Your brothers are very close now. My dreams tell me that they must kill me.’

“He put his bearskin on and went out into the sunshine. She sat with him, up on Turtle Mountain, and he told her ‘Whenever one of your people kills a bear, the people must build a fire and decorate the bear’s head. They must sing songs to honor the bear spirit and burn the bones. I will watch over you and protect you. I will always be here in spirit, if you do these things.’ The girl cried and hung onto his bear leg. She went back to the cave and cuddled their son.

“In the quiet of the cave, she heard her husband singing his death song, and felt the spear when it struck his heart. The young woman’s sobbing and wailing drew her brothers and they found her wrapped in bearskin. When she and her baby cub got home, she taught her family and the villagers all around the islands how to hunt like bears and respect and love them. The villagers got rich with good hunting. After that, they didn’t need nothing.”

Poland bowed his head and Lizette clapped, everyone else joined her.

“I don’t get it,” Rocket said. “All she did was go home and help her family? That’s it?”

“What else is there?” Poland said, looking perplexed.

Abaya got up from the couch.

“Lunch is wasting,” she said, heading for the kitchen with Violet. Lizette got up and stretched, twisted, bent at the waist and put her hands on the floor. She reached out to touch Rocket as she passed, but he paid no attention. He did not join them They ate lunch in silence, the humming of the refrigerator and ticking of the clock the only sounds. When they finished, Marian took Violet into her lap. Abaya cleared the table.

Rocket came in sounding refreshed, awake, “I gotta go,” he said and sat down. “I work tomorrow, need to get home.” Lizette dug in her bag, pulled a tattered paper from the bottom.

“Sign this.” She slid the paper in front of him, handed him a pen. “Fill it out.”

He looked at the paper, held it up, put it down, opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, started writing: Raymond James Daniels. Where it said “Born” he wrote San Francisco. For “Date,” he filled in May 19, 1950. He signed his name, looked the form over, stood up. He took Violet from Marian, rocked her, kissed her baby mouth.

“See ya, little shit pants.”

He turned to Lizette, “Let’s get the car unloaded.” He handed the baby back to Marian.

They leaned into the car’s yawning trunk, brushed shoulders as they pulled out boxes and bags, stacked them in the dirt. Rocket threw open the passenger doors and grabbed blankets, rolling them and setting them on the pile of things beside the car, mostly stuff for Violet. He hoisted the stroller out and set it up. Lizette pushed it into the barn. She came back and tapped his shoulder. He stopped arranging tools and flares and tire irons in the trunk, turned to her. She held him by his forearms, looked at his boy face, the freckles on his nose, his periwinkle blue eyes. She turned away, wiped her cheek, let him go.

“Listen.” He looked down at his hands as if watching something slippery get away. “I … Ah … I didn’t mean for things to … Look. I signed the birth certificate for Sandy’s sake, for the baby. Everybody needs something more than a blank. But I’m not saying … you know? It’s just that it’s the right thing to do.”

They stood before the open trunk, surveying the emptiness. “You can put that stuff in the living room for now,” Marian called out the back door.

They gathered the boxes and bags and brought them inside. Rocket went out into the dooryard, looked back at the house. Lizette waved from the steps. He got into the Rocket 88, pulled it around and headed out. Inside, they all sat at the kitchen table, listened to the engine’s throaty rumble, watched the car until it turned onto Horseshoe Highway and disappeared.

TWENTY–NINE

ROCKET THREADED THROUGH TRAFFIC ON EASTLAKE
, a flat pressure on his heart. He took a deep breath and turned onto narrow Franklin Street, sensing the void even before he got out of the car. The picket fence in front of Sandy’s place had tipped over, the garden was weedy. Geraniums in the bedpan planter trailed over the porch railing, brown and shriveled. The commotion of Al’s and Bella’s deaths had evaporated into a sinking recollection. He looked at the blank windows of the Dog House, the missing boards on the porch. He got out of the car and stood in the mocking warmth of fall, sensed the season slipping toward winter.

He dropped his sea bag by the front door, listened, but heard only an empty silence. He hollered, “Yo! Knuckleheads! I’m home!” No greeting came back to him. The usual mess of dirty dishes clogged the kitchen sink, garbage spilled by the back door, the late afternoon light through the dining room windows rested on the piano. Rocket pulled out the bench and sat before the keyboard. He played a major ascending scale—C,G,D,A,E. Again C,G,D,A,E.

He leaned forward and rested his forehead on the piano’s cool ebony finish, closed his eyes, surrendered to a splitting headache.
Need to get loaded
, he thought,
shake this shit
. He went upstairs and got his stash, taped to the back of a water-stained print of Turner’s
Shipwreck
—fishing boats trying to rescue the crew of a floundering sailing ship. Sometimes he thought the fishermen succeeded, other times he knew they all went down in the storm. He tied off, shot up and flopped back on his bed, the sheets smelling sour and greasy.

“Hey, Rocket!” He opened his eyes in the dark when he heard his name.

“Up here, man.” He rolled out, stood. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, man. Bomber!”

Coming down the stairs, Rocket saw Bomber was drunk, hanging onto the wall, asked him, “Where’s everybody?”

Bomber lurched toward the kitchen “They split after the cops left.” He yanked open the refrigerator door, stood in the puddle of cold water leaking from under the old Frigidaire. “They’re lookin’ for Lizette and Violet. County welfare people. They want to check that Violet’s OK. You know, they found Al’s stash and the snake thing. They got questions, man.”

“What’d you tell ’em?”

“Whata ya think?” He pulled out empty mustard and pickle jars. “Nothin’ … I left you a note, man, on the table.” Bomber turned to the table and spread a wrinkled paper towel flat with his palms, pushed a business card to the side. “See?”

“What’s this?”

“Landlord’s givin’ you seventy-two hours to get the hell out. Came in here with the cops, all puffed up and serious, like we’re criminals. We were just sittin’ around watchin’ TV. I knew one of the cops, met him in a USO in Saigon. Pussy guy. Never thought he’d end up like that.”

Rocket picked up the dirty paper towel, but the words didn’t make sense. He looked at Bomber, waited for a better explanation.

“So.” He thought for a minute. “OK. The landlord. Jerry, he, ah … “ Rocket signaled for him to go on. “He shows up with the cops, like I said. They ask questions, nobody talks. The landlord hands me this business card.” He picked the card up, handed it to Rocket, who scanned it. “Jerry says we got three days. We all leave. That’s it.”

“I need to sit down,” Rocket said, heading for the living room. He settled into a chair by the window, cushion springs poking his behind. He shifted to one cheek to avoid being stabbed. “Then what happened.”

“Nothing. Everybody split, like I said.”

The front door rattled. Fisher stood there, craning into the gloom.

“What’s up, man?” Rocket said.

“Hey, where you been?” Fisher nodded toward Rocket when he made him out in the dark.

“Took a run out to Wenatchee, cleared my head, watched ’em pick apples. Stayed in a fleabag motel, caught a game on TV.”

“Which one?” Bomber asked and Rocket waved him off.

Fisher dumped himself on the couch next to Bomber, said, “Some bad shit came down here, man.”

“I heard.” Rocket frowned. “Looks like Al messed everything up. Did you see him? Eye popped fuckin’ out. What a mess. You been back over to Sandy’s?”

“Naw, creeps me out.” Fisher said softly. “Heard the landlord’s throwing you out.”

“That’s what Bomber says.” Rocket turned to Bomber.

“Hey. It’s not my fault.” Bomber threw up his hands in surrender. “I was just sitting here. The cops and the landlord bust in, all big and bad. They said this place is a crash pad, that there’s ordinances against it. They stood around like they were waiting for a hippie to pop up. Good thing nobody was smokin’ a joint. We were just watching the news. That chick Billie Jean King said she’d play Bobby Riggs at tennis. Battle of the Sexes. She’ll never win, unless they rig the match. Either way, Riggs is a lame-o to even play a chick. I’m not even gonna watch it.”

“Shut up!” Rocket shifted in the chair and glared at Bomber, who looked hurt. “What’d they say about Sandy?”

“Just wanted to know where she was, that’s all,” Bomber said. “We told ’em she was on vacation, should be back any day now. That’s true, ain’t it?”

Rocket got up, walked to the piano, pulled the oil rag from the bench and wiped down its sides. “What am I gonna do with this beauty?” He rubbed the top lovingly, stood on his toes to wipe the whole surface, spit on a hardened food glob, rubbed it away.

Bomber and Fisher looked at each other, didn’t answer. The air got heavy. Bomber turned on the TV, caught the baseball highlights. “Hey, get that? … Nolan Ryan just threw his second no-hitter of the season. Guy’s throwin’ smoke, man.” Bomber stared at the screen as Ryan went into his windup, shook his head in amazement at the delivery. “The guy’s on fire!”

Rocket went upstairs, dug in his sock drawer, pulled out some papers, went back downstairs. He sat across from Fisher. “I gotta go to work tomorrow morning. I need you to do two things. OK?” Fisher looked solemn, waited. “First, call the piano company and tell them to get the movers out here.” He handed Fisher the papers.

“But, where do you want them to take it?” Fisher asked, alarmed. Then he thought a minute. “They could take it down to my old man’s glass shop in Kent. Cover it up and put it in the back.” Rocket looked thoughtful, got up and paced. “It would be safe there, “Fisher added, “for a while at least. You know, they could wrap it up, in blankets or something, until you’re ready to move it again. I mean, to your new place.”

Rocket ignored the suggestion, walked around the house taking inventory.

“Where’s Violet?” Fisher said, sounding worried. “She’s just a baby.”

“Yeah, well, she’s gone now,” Rocket said bitterly.

“Where the hell did Lizette take her?” Bomber asked.

“San Francisco,” Rocket said. “Probably for the best. She’ll fit right in with the head cases down there. Took Greyhound this morning.”

“I thought you said she went to Wenatchee,” Bomber said, scratching his head.

“Shut up,” Rocket snapped.

Bomber looked hurt, turned back to the baseball highlights. “Looks like Oakland’s going to the World Series, man. Reggie Jackson’s on a tear.”

“Listen, Rocket,” Fisher paused, took a deep breath, waited for Rocket to focus on him. “I’ll move the piano, but I want to talk about it.”

The phone rang in the kitchen and Rocket answered. “Yeah, this is Rocket … How the hell should I know? I live next door. Yeah? Well it’s mighty nice of the landlord to give my name and number … I don’t know Al. He’s a friend of a friend. Just got out of jail, I hear. Check with the cops, they know more about him than I do … Family? Heard they live in California. San Jose, I think. Look, check the San Jose phone book. I have no idea.” He slammed down the receiver, stumped into the living room and faced Fisher’s and Bomber’s expectant faces.

“Coroner’s office,” he said and flounced into the chair, winced when the spring bit his butt. “Said they’re trying to locate Al’s family so they can get rid of the body. It’s taking up space in their cooler. I don’t know nothing about the guy.”

“Sandy does,” Bomber said in a helpful tone.

“Shut up, you idiot,” Rocket snapped. “One more word and I’m gonna rearrange your fuckin’ face.” Bomber looked pained, sunk into his Army jacket.

“About the piano,” Fisher started again. Rocket glared at him. “I’d, ah …” He swallowed. “I’d like to buy it. I’ll give you five thousand.”

“I’ll bet,” Rocket said sarcastically. “First of all, it’s worth way more than that. If I was going to sell it, which I’m not, I’d ask for a whole lot more. The guy at the piano store already offered me fifty thousand cash. See, this is a special piano. It’s not some church basement shit. It’s for real.”

“How about ten thousand?” Fisher waited. When Rocket said nothing, he broke the silence. “I’ll sell it back to you when you get your new pad, man. I just need it to practice, that’s all.”

“You don’t have ten thousand dollars and you don’t have a place to put it either.” Rocket let out a huge, frustrated sigh. “This is a valuable instrument.” He gestured toward the piano that glowed from the dining room. “It needs a good home. It can’t sit in the back of some glass shop, getting kicked to shit by knuckleheads. It’s not the kind of thing you can just put anywhere.”

“You’re right, but for now it’ll be safe there.” Fisher remained calm, reasonable, sensing his advantage. “I’m trying to help, find a solution. That’s all. Look, I don’t want to be responsible for it, if it’s not mine. It would be easier if I owned it. In case anyone came around asking questions, you know? I’ll give it back when you need it.”

Rocket shuffled through the papers on his lap. “Look, here’s the number for the guy at the piano store. Tell him I’m out working on the tugs, can’t get to a phone, have to move suddenly.” He handed the papers to Fisher. “Get the movers over here tomorrow, tell ’em where to go with it. I’ll be gone a few of days.”

Rocket went upstairs, banged around. Bomber and Fisher sat quietly, listening. He came down with an armload of stuff, filled up the trunk of the Olds with clothes, went back up and came down with dresser drawers, odds and ends overflowing, pictures of his mother and grandmother fluttered to the floor and he bent to retrieve them. He lugged the drawers out to the car. Traffic buzzed overhead as he arranged his stuff in the trunk. An air horn blew and he heard the truck’s breaks lock up, then a loud crumpling sound. He pictured the crash, the trailer crushed, lying on its side across three lanes, people getting out of their cars to check for injured, visualized the whole mess, went back inside. Bomber and Fisher sat glued to the idiot box. They’d offered to help him pack, but backed off when they sensed the offer just made him mad.

“I’m gonna catch some Zs,” Rocket said and slammed the front door, hit the stairs. “Gotta get up at four in the morning.”

“What about the rest of this stuff?” Bomber asked, gesturing around at the living room.

“Light a match.” Rocket pulled up on the banister, stomped the stair treads.

“Can I have the TV?” Bomber hollered after him. Rocket slammed his bedroom door.