Piano in the Dark (14 page)

After a hard day’s work, the Spring Trails sign to my neighborhood off Riley Fuzzel Road usually brought me a sense of peace and relief. But today it was a source of great stress when Jacobi turned into the subdivision. Several calls to the tow companies had yielded no results and I refused to believe someone had stolen my new Acura TSX. That would be a serious case of
when it rains it pours
. And I was already in the monsoon with no raincoat.

So that left another alternative.

Go home and hope it was there.

And face my wife, hoping my marriage was there.

I nervously checked my phone for the third time in the last minute to see if Dawn had perhaps returned my call and I’d missed it. But no such luck was in store. After turning off Spring Trails Bend, we wound our way to my home on Julia Park Drive, where I spotted my car parked in the street. Rather than placing it in the garage or at least parking it in our driveway, Dawn left it discarded like some temporary nuisance.

“Mystery solved, my man. At least she didn’t key it or bust out the windows,” Jacobi offered as he slowly pulled into the driveway…our driveway.

I said nothing, instead looking at my car then back at the house before repeating the sequence.

“Need me to stay for a minute? Until you’re on your way?”

I opened the door, cradling my car keys in my hand. “Nah. I got this,” I replied. “I’ll see you at your place in a little bit.”

I stood in my driveway, staring at my home as Jacobi put the Rover in reverse. It would be so good to stand under the spray of my own shower right now and wash this jail funk off me. I checked my phone one more time. Nothing from Dawn. Resigning myself to the fact that the next call would be from some overpriced Post Oak Boulevard divorce attorney, I clicked the remote to my car.

“They were going to tow it,” Dawn softly spoke from the porch, scaring the hell out of me. She still wore her dress from last night, albeit wrinkled. Her makeup remained only in streaks. A lit cigarette dangled between her fingers. My wife didn’t smoke. “You should be thanking me for bringing it here…considering.”

“Thank you,” I said cautiously. No knife was visible in her other hand despite prior random warnings regarding infidelity…and what would happen to my testicles—snip, snip. Having seen Dawn also, Jacobi stopped backing up and lowered his window, awaiting further instructions. “Can we go inside and talk? Please, baby?” I begged.

“Why? There’s nothing in there for you, Chase. Not anymore,” she coldly stated. I took the greater meaning in her words, digesting the poison.

“I want to explain.”

“So you can lie like that dog?” Dawn scoffed, her reddened eyes cutting at the Range Rover parked behind me.

“Hey, I got nothing to do with this, Dawn. Believe that,” Jacobi called out, overhearing her.

“Fuck you!” she spat, flicking her cigarette in his general direction. He hurriedly raised his window back up. I gave him a look to keep his window up and mouth shut. “Was your bitch following me in the store to rub it in my face? Was I some kind of joke to the two of you?”

“Look. I don’t know about that painting, but I—”

“Don’t play with me. I gives a fuck about that painting, Chase. I saw the look on her face at the gallery. I can’t get it out my mind. I just can’t. A woman knows when another woman wants what she has. Just be a man and tell me. Are you fucking her?”

“No—not anymore. It—doesn’t make sense. Look. I don’t know how this happened,” I mumbled and stumbled. Before I could build a case, I’d already lost in the court of my wife’s heart.

Unanimously.

All that was left was sentencing.

“You disgust me,” she said from behind eyes holding a storm at bay. “I put together a bag of your shit. It’s by the front door. Take it and get the fuck out of my face.”

“No. Wait. I love you, Dawn. I’m not just going to give up on us,” I said, recklessly trying to embrace her.

Stupid.

Dawn swung on me with a series of windmills, a primal growl escaping her throat that I’d never heard before. I had to put my arms up to shield myself. When I retreated a sufficient distance, she halted. Whatever rage she’d conquered since last night had erupted to the surface again.

“Look,” she said, stabbing a finger at me as her makeup began to run again. “I told myself I wasn’t causing a scene in front of the neighbors. And look what you had me do. You’re not worth it. You don’t deserve this, you cheating bastard! Now get your bag before I call the cops and you go to jail again. And believe me…Montgomery County won’t be as nice to your black ass as Harris.”

“Listen to her, bro,” Jacobi feebly offered, having cracked his window just a smidge this time.

Accepting the moment, I walked to the front door where a hastily packed duffel bag lay on the hardwood floor. I glanced back at Dawn.

“The locks will be changed by this afternoon,” she said.

“Hey, boy,” she called out as I walked down the hallway toward her after exiting the elevator. She was suspicious. I knew that from the second her eyebrow twitched. Of course, the hand on her hip was another sign.

One of her coworkers sauntered by, same navy and powder blue uniform as my mom, but possibly Honduran by her features. In her gloved hand, she carried some sort of cleaning solution in an anonymous spray bottle. Just another day at an anonymous office building on the north loop for an anonymous cleaning crew. But my mom preferred to be unseen; the stark opposite of my dad who lived to bask in the adulation and praise of others.

Once.

“Hey, Mom,” I responded. I gave her a swift kiss on the cheek in the hopes she’d loosen up. Would make it easier to talk to her. Maybe blunt her disappointment that was to come. But that was foolish of me. For my mom was no fool.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” she asked as she quickly rolled up the vacuum cleaner cord she’d unplugged from the wall outlet. I almost reached to help her, but she’d just slap my hand away.

“I’m off temporarily. Waiting to go back,” I replied, cognizant of the old warm-ups packed for me by Dawn that I wore. Eventually I would need to gather some more clothes from home if Dawn hadn’t burned them or donated them to Goodwill.

“I know they don’t do layoffs over there. What did you do, boy?”

“Where do I start?” I offered glumly.

“Dawn called me crying,” she admitted with a shake of her head and a tsk in her voice. “I take my break in about thirty minutes. Let me finish this floor. I’ll meet you down in the lobby,” Earnestine said.

We sat together on one of the brick-framed benches within view of the glass elevators transporting people to various floors. Sunlight filtered in from the skylights above. Earnestine had intently listened without commenting as I vomited out a majority of the details. When I was done, she checked her bun to make sure her gray hair was still secure. Then she turned and looked me square in the eye.

“Yep. That man’s blood in you,” she offered in such a matter-of-fact way that hurt worse than raising her voice ever could. I came here like a scared little boy seeking his mommy and had been lumped in undesirably with Joell by the one person whose approval I craved.

“I gotta make this right.”

“She told me she kicked you out. Where you stayin’?”

“At my friend Jacobi’s for now.”

“Uh-huh,” my mom threw out. “Your wife thinks he’s to blame.”

“He had nothing to do it. I promise. This was all my being stupid.”

“You think you love her?”

“Dawn? Of course. Never stopped,” I replied, brimming with conviction.

“No. I ain’t askin’ ‘bout your wife. That art lady. She pretty. Pretty and strange. When we saw her in HEB, she was all close-up on me like we was kin or something. Way too comfortable.
Hmph.
Maybe she thought I was gonna be her future mother-in-law.”

“In her mind, you already are,” I mumbled, Ava’s pervasive whispers in my head resurfacing.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Just crazy talk, s’all,” I replied. “I got caught up, Mom. Now I have to fix things with Dawn. But it was like me and this woman just fit.”

“I’ll bet you did. Probably too much
fittin
’,” she joked straight-faced. “Thought I raised you better.”

I lowered my head, embarrassed. “You did, ma’am.”

“You never answered me, though. Do you think you love this Ava woman? Something you need to know before you can fix stuff.”

“I love Dawn,” I quickly answered.

“It’s like I’m looking at Joell all those years ago when you make that face. You still didn’t answer my question, boy. Do you think you love—”

“It’s over,” I stressed, cutting her off. Very rude of me. “I promise.”

“Okay. So you say it’s over, boy,” my mom stated as she stood up to return to work. “Now how you gonna handle this mess you created?”

“Uh-huh. Yes. Two-dozen roses,” I requested into the phone on my lap. “Yes. Same as before—mixed yellow and red. To her work address and home address.” I checked my watch again as the florist confirmed my order.

Same flowers. Every day.

And I would continue until Dawn agreed to speak to me.

From my car, I cast my gaze over the North Oaks Shopping Center parking lot at Veterans Memorial and FM 1960, waiting for him. This was one of his few predictable routines. I told myself I did this for my mom, but I cared for him too on some level, despite his failings. Even if he didn’t know I was watching, I could assess his state and at least know he was still alive. But after the last hour, he hadn’t shown up.

I went to start the car, dreading where I was about to go next. But my phone rang.

A call from work.

“About damn time,” I muttered, feeling one of my many weights lessening. The job limbo was about to end. I cleared my throat, preparing to sound more professional than my scraggly demeanor today. My five o’clock shadow was more akin to nine o’clock eclipse and I needed a haircut badly. I turned it off speakerphone, raising it to my mouth to engage in a more personal conversation.

“Hello,” I said after the third ring.

“What up, dude,” Jacobi said in a low, measured tone. Could tell he was in his office, not wanting anyone to eavesdrop.

“Nothin’,” I answered with a grimace. “I thought you were one of the partners.”

“Not a partner yet,” he glibly remarked. “Sorry.”

“You got word for me? Did they tell you anything?” I asked desperately.

“Not yet. But I need your help with something.”

“What?” I’d heard this way too often from my friend, but I bit my tongue. I needed my job. For me and Dawn.

“Sally is awful,” Jacobi replied, referring to another one of the firm’s paralegals. “They’ve got her covering for you. All my stuff is disorganized now. Is the Crosby case going to mediation?”

“No,” I replied with a roll of my eyes he couldn’t see through the phone. “The defense declined our suggestion. We’re just waiting on a trial date.”

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled while probably jotting down a note on his calendar. “Um…is the dictation finished on my case summary for Randazzo?”

“You never dictated a summary on that case, man.”

“Oh,” he chirped. Part of my job covering for Jacobi was dictating letters and such that he either forgot to do or was so awful at that I would edit.

Seeing my opportunity, I chose to turn the conversation back to something advantageous to me. “I can’t help you as much from the outside. I need to be back at my desk, so we don’t miss a beat. And it’s been more than two weeks. Things are going to just get more disorganized. The partners can’t just leave me twisting in the wind like this. You gotta talk to them, man.”

“I’m working on that, bro, but have some patience. Trust me. I ain’t been back long myself. The thin ice is shared, believe that.”

“Anything else you need? I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

“What? More flowers for Dawn?” he clowned.

“Fuck you. I did that earlier.”

“Okay,” my temporary roommate said with a laugh. “You wanna eat out tonight? My treat, dawg.”

“Not tonight. I don’t know what time I’ll be back,” I answered, letting my frustration show in my voice. Since moving in with him, most of our dinners consisted of me being peppered with work questions by Jacobi to where I was doing his job…again. For some reason, stuff like that never bothered me in the past. But that was before Ava upended my life and made me reassess a lot. Could almost swear he was preparing himself for my permanent absence from the firm.

Ending my conversation with Jacobi, I left my vantage point, rolling past CiCi’s Pizza. Across the parking lot, the discarded shopping cart by Smoothie King where my dad usually performed was still vacant. Leaving the shopping center, I turned right onto Veterans, venturing slowly south as I looked on both sides of the street for a familiar silhouette.

On the right side of the street, just past the comical restaurant shape that is Pirates Seafood Boat, the familiar faded golden glint brought a smile to my face and an equal sense of relief. I was worried for nothing.

But as I got a closer, I discerned the hand holding it wasn’t my dad’s.

A small group of boys, maybe in their teens, were laughing and joking among themselves as they ambled down the sidewalk toward me. One was counting some dollar bills, while another absentmindedly dangled a dented, weathered trumpet from his fingers. When it fell on the sidewalk, he stumbled over to pick it up, accidentally kicking it further along up the street.

No respect for it or the history it held.

Panic and rage inhabiting me, I firmly gripped the steering wheel as I pointed the car directly at the cluster and gunned the motor.

“Hey! What the fuck, man!” one of the crew yelped as I ran up on the curb, cutting them off. With the car still running, I jumped out to confront the puzzled teens.

“Where’d you get the trumpet, son?” I asked its temporary owner. He’d just snatched it back up off the pavement as I ran up on them.

“Dude back there gave it to me,” he replied nonchalantly, not too concerned by my posture. Kid was accustomed to confrontation.

My dad would never part with that trumpet. At least, not willingly. In some bizarre way, it meant more to him than his family. I began to wonder if maybe that money one of them was counting might be my dad’s too. I started looking for signs of a scuffle on their knuckles or clothes.

“You a cop?” the smallest one asked. Couldn’t be more than fifteen.

“No,” I answered, not taking my eyes off the trumpet.

“Then move the fuck out the way, man,” he said with a sneer. The rest of them laughed and nodded.

I sized them up, debating my next course of action. Five to one, not counting possible weapons on them, but some of them would flee if something jumped off. The last few days had been too violent already.

“Tell you what. Give me the trumpet and I’ll give you a twenty without anybody getting hurt. Deal?”

In seconds that felt like an eternity, I tensed as I removed the money from my wallet. In one hand, I held it out before the kid.

“Make it forty,” he countered.

“Fuck you. And you better hope he’s okay.”

“Whatever, man,” he said, snatching the money from my hand while dropping the trumpet again. When I bent down to retrieve it, they quickly ran off, jetting across the traffic on Veterans to disappear from my sight.

With a sense of urgency now, I jumped back in my car and quickly backed off the curb. I made the two blocks down Veterans to where I came upon Champions Business Park, a mixture of odd businesses and storage facilities. From memory, I sped down one of the streets between the structures, narrowly avoiding a car backing out of a transmission shop housed here.

When I got to the rear, I pulled over and parked. Somewhere along the fence was a cut portion leading to the adjacent apartment complex on Bammel North Houston Road. Probably where those kids who had his trumpet lived. Near this, my dad usually found a tiny space between the buildings to lay his head. In days when it was too cold, some of the shop owners were nice enough to let him sleep inside in exchange for watching their place after hours. The man still had fans, especially in the Hispanic community around here.

“Dad!” I called out, pacing carefully along the fence line while looking and hoping.

Nothing.

“Joell!” I tried this time. His trumpet was in my hand, an orphan eager to be reunited. I came closer to the fence, peering toward the apartments for any sign of movement or a cardboard box in which he might be holed up.

When I didn’t see or hear anything, the thought of calling the police began to factor into my thinking. Before I went that far, I came up with a far-fetched idea. Grimacing, I took the trumpet and thoroughly wiped the mouthpiece. Who knew what dwelled on it or the last time it had been cleaned? Nevertheless, I put it to my lips, fingering the keys as I blew.

A few random notes from “The Girl from Ipanema” were all I could produce; an awful rendition of what he warmed up with.

But it served its purpose.

Gravelly laughter amid some coughing came from behind an old oil drum in a tiny alley between some storage buildings. I gladly removed the horn from my lips and ran toward the sounds.

Lying on his back with a lump over his eye was an alive Joell Hidalgo.

“Why you messin’ up my song?” he groaned as I helped him to his feet. “Sound like shit.”

“I was just returning this to you,” I said with a smile. I quickly fixed my face back to the sternness to which he was accustomed.

“My baby always comes back,” he uttered as he took the beat-up trumpet, cradling it in his scratched and scuffed arms as if the one true love of his life. I could see now that he had a busted lip. It would need to heal before he could entertain again at the shopping center.

“Uh…it almost didn’t this time. You need to be more careful around here. You could’ve been killed.”

“By who? Those punk kids?” he scoffed, rubbing his sore ribs. “I’ve been in worse fights in my sleep. How’s your momma?” Earnestine ever on his mind.

“She’s good. Look…I should get you to Houston Northwest,” I said, referring to the nearest hospital. “There might be something broken or worse.”

“Nah. What I need is a good shower. Ain’t had one in—”

“Okay. Gotcha,” I said, trying not to think about the smell. I usually kept my distance.

“You know I never want to bother you and that wife of yours.”

“I know, Dad.”

“But if you could spare a moment for me just to get cleaned up…maybe take a little nap…”

“
At my house
?”

Joell slipped into embarrassment. “Don’t worry about it,” he hastily whispered.

“No, no. That’s not what I—”

“I said don’t worry about it!” he growled, the erratic man who refused help returning.

“I’m not welcome at my house right now. The locks have been changed.”

Joell stared at me, fighting to emerge from the haze that gripped his mind these days. “Y’all two…?” he asked apologetically. Could’ve easily been
y’all too
.

“We’ll work through it, Dad.”

“I’m sorry.” Our eyes met through his phrase of regret, a connection made for the first time. “It’s okay. I’ma make a call. See if we can get you that shower,” I said as I led him to my car.

I made the call, as difficult as it was, and took my dad on a short drive. A brief respite from his existence. Anywhere too far from what he called his home and he became extremely unmanageable. A pity he never stayed on his meds.

At the house, I knocked on the door, having let its resident know we were there already.

As the front door opened, I tensed.

“Hey, boy,” Earnestine said, embracing me. Looking at the smelly, troubled man behind me, she craned her neck. “Hello, Joell,” she offered to her former husband in as cordial a manner as possible.