The Song of David (6 page)

“Excuse me,” Amelie gasped, her stick clattering to the floor as curious patrons turned to stare. She hesitated briefly and then squatted down, feeling for her stick before her fingers found it and she rose gracefully. Her cheeks were slightly pink, and I wondered if she could feel the stares of those watching. She moved forward slowly allowing the stick she held to guide her to the bar. I realized belatedly that I was on duty and hurried around the counter, pulling off my jacket and rolling up my sleeves. Amelie had climbed up on a stool and was waiting patiently to be greeted. I wondered what she did when people ignored her.

“Amelie, what can I do for ya?”

“David?” she asked, her head tilting in surprise.

“Impressive. You’ve got a good ear for voices.”

“Thank you. Uh, where’s Morgan? Are you working?” She kept herself very still on her stool, not slouching or rotating in her seat like most people did. She didn’t even lean on the bar, as if she were fearful of upending something or invading someone’s space. She couldn’t know that the only other people at the bar sat at the far end, nursing beers and staring at the Spurs game above them.

“Yep. I’m filling in tonight.” I didn’t elaborate. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Amelie bit her lip and shook her head. “No. I don’t drink. I’m already blind and drinking dulls my senses, the senses I have left. Instead of relaxing me, it scares me to death.” She shrugged. “I probably sound like a little kid.”

“Nah. I understand. I don’t drink either.”

Her brows rose doubtfully. “But you work in a bar.”

“I don’t drink because I’ve never been able to figure out how to do things in moderation. See, I don’t drink. I get drunk. I’m all or nothing, all the time. Can’t do all, so I gotta do nothing,” I said conversationally, wondering at my need to reassure her. “You want something else? A soda, water, something non-alcoholic?” I changed the subject smoothly.

“I’d love a Diet Coke.”

I hopped to it and within seconds set the drink on a coaster in front of her. “Diet coke at twelve o’clock.”

She smiled at my instructions and thanked me, then eased her hand forward carefully, letting her fingers brush the cool glass, tiptoeing around it until she could grasp it and pull it toward her. She leaned over it, almost like she was smelling it, and I watched as she held her face, oddly suspended, over her drink, her nose so close to the fizzy liquid it would be submerged if she moved another inch.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

She sat up and rubbed her nose with her right hand, still grasping the drink with her left. “No! I, um, I like the way it sounds and the way the bubbles feel against my face. I didn’t realize you were still watching me.” There was a little steel in her voice, letting me know that staring wasn’t appreciated.

“I’ll just be moving along then.” I grinned, liking the bit of sass she threw back at me.

“Um, David,” her voice rose, “I actually just came to get my check. Could you get that for me?”

“Absolutely. Give me a minute, and I’ll be right with you. I won’t be watching if you want to enjoy the bubbles a little longer.”

The checks were in a lockbox beneath the bar, and it took me a few minutes to locate the spare key from Morg’s office. Morgan had taken his set of keys when he walked out. I swore, thinking of the complications—like re-keying the whole damn place—that would arise if Morg decided his pride was more important than his job. I really hoped the man came back contrite in the morning. I really didn’t want to find a new manager, and Morg did a good job when he wasn’t being an ass.

When I slid the check labeled with her name across the counter, brushing the hand not gripping her drink so she knew it was there, she grabbed at it and then handed it back.

“Could you open it please and read me the total? I’ll be able to deposit it at the ATM on the corner if I know the amount.”

When I tore it open and looked at the amount I was stunned. I read the numbers back to her almost sheepishly, and she sighed.

“Morgan told me I would be making minimum wage until my probation period was over. Do you know when that ends?”

I felt the heat of outrage roil in my gut, but squelched it for her sake. I had to play along, not to protect Morg, but to protect her feelings. There was no probation period. Morgan had been playing games. Amelie had been hired as a joke, and a cheap joke, at that. But I couldn’t tell her that.

“It’s up. You’ll be making the same as all the other dancers, and you’ll receive the full amount you would have made in the first two weeks, minus the amount of this check.”

“Really? That’s great! Morgan didn’t tell me that part.”

I grimaced. Morgan was the one who was going to be on probation.

She repeated the total of the check, a slight question in her voice, and I read the numbers back once more.

“Got it. I’m going to go deposit it. What do I owe you for the drink?”

“Employee perk. No charge for Diet Cokes. Or bubbles.” She smiled widely and I smiled back, her pleasure making it impossible not to, whether or not she could see my response.

She slid carefully from the stool and snapped her stick out, heading for the door, her check tucked in her broad coat pocket.

“Do you need any help? You want me to send someone with you?”

She shook her head without looking back. “Touch screens are obnoxious. I can’t feel a touch screen. But the ATM on the corner has braille on the keypad, thank God! If the world is too flat, people like me will slide right off.” She said this cheerfully, with humor, and I shook my head in amazement as she pushed out the front door into the darkness, the door swinging closed behind her, the night swallowing her up.

I fought the urge to follow her, to make sure she wasn’t mugged at the ATM, her paltry check stolen, her stick used against her. The world was a scary place for most people. For Amelie, it was downright lethal. She was completely vulnerable.
If the world is too flat, people like me will slide right off.

And yet she didn’t hesitate at all.

I respected that, admired it, so I stayed behind the bar for several long seconds, a silent show of support, even though my heart was pounding and my palms grew slick. My sister’s face flashed in my mind. She’d disappeared into the night once too. And I never saw her again.

“Vince?” I called out to the young bartender swapping stories with a couple of regulars down at the far end of the bar, completely unaware of the drama that had unfolded in the last ten minutes.

“Hey, Tag.”

“You’re going to be alone here for about a half hour. I’ll be back to finish out the shift and help you close. Morgan had to leave. Will you be okay?”

“Yeah, boss. No big deal. It’s been kinda slow all night.”

I grabbed my jacket and was out the front door without another word, running down the street toward the ATM on the corner, catching up to Amelie before she’d made it half a block. She was surprised when I reached her, but shrugged easily when I referred back to the rules.

“But I didn’t even work tonight,” she protested.

“Humor me, okay?”

She shrugged again, and I stood back patiently, giving her privacy to make her deposit, which she did easily, her fingers gliding over the key pad with confidence.

When she was finished, I moved to her side and she linked our arms the way she’d done the night before. We walked in easy companionship, me humming softly, Amelie matching my stride like she trusted where I was taking her.

We were almost to her door when she stopped, her hand pulling against my arm with urgency.

“Listen!”

I searched the darkness with my narrowed eyes, suddenly nervous that we weren’t as alone as it seemed.

“There it is,” she said.

And then I caught the hollow whistle of a distant train and the clattering of wheels on a track.

“Ten pm. Right on time,” Amelie breathed.

The sound thickened and deepened and the whistle came again, louder, bugling through the night with a warning that felt more like a song. I had always loved the sound of a train, but it had been a while since I’d stopped just to listen.

“Trains are like time machines. If you close your eyes—not that I have to—it’s easy to imagine the world hasn’t changed much in a hundred years. You hear that sound, and it could be 1914 instead of 2014.”

“Or we could be getting ready to head to Hogwarts for the new school year,” I teased.

She laughed again, and I liked the way she didn’t hold back. “You aren’t a Harry Potter fan. No way.” She poked me in the side.

“Not really. But I know the basics.”

“I love Harry Potter. And I love the sound of a train,” she sighed. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“You have favorite sounds?”

“Yes. Lots of them. You?”

“I guess I never thought about it,” I confessed.

“I collect them,” she said breezily.

“How do you collect sounds?”

“The same way you collect memories.” She tapped a finger to her temple.

I had no response to that, but she didn’t seem to need one.

“Speaking of collections, would you mind saying hello to my little brother? He is a huge sports fan. He would love to meet an actual fighter. He’s a little awkward, but he would be thrilled.”

“Sure.” I shrugged. I was curious to see the inside of the house, curious to see how she lived, curious about parents who let their blind daughter wander around the city and dance half-naked in a bar.

She fished a key from her coat pocket and felt her way to the lock. It didn’t take her long and she didn’t ask for help, so I was silent at her side.

The door groaned as she pushed it open into a foyer that was dark. The house smelled slightly of mildew and furniture polish, which was probably due to its age more than anything.

“Henry?” Amelie called, setting her stick aside and pulling off her coat, hanging it on an old-fashioned hat and coat-tree to the left of the door with only a hint of fumbling.

“Henry?” she called a little louder.

I heard a door open overhead, the sound of sports commentary spilling out and then cutting off again as the door was closed. Footsteps sounded above and a chandelier came to life, showering light from the top of the ornate staircase that the house had been built around.

A boy in his early teens appeared from around the corner, his hair an unruly mass of red curls. He’d either been asleep or combing his hair wasn’t a priority. He wore a black, Chicago Bulls Jersey with a pair of flannel pajama pants, and he folded his thin arms across his chest when his eyes met mine, shifting from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the unexpected company.

“Henry?” Amelie had obviously heard his approach and subsequent halt. “Henry, this is David . . . um David, I forgot to ask your last name.” She didn’t wait for me to supply it before she added enthusiastically, the way a mother does with a child. “He’s a real live fighter, Henry! I thought you might like to say hello.”

Henry stayed frozen at the top of the stairs. I waved.

“Hi Henry. I’m David Taggert. But you can call me Tag,” I offered. The boy seemed more nervous than impressed.

“Tag?” Amelie squeaked in alarm, turning toward me slightly. “Oh, my gosh. I didn’t realize . . . I mean, you’re Tag Taggert. You said your name was David! I just thought you were a bouncer at the bar who fought in his spare time! Like Lou! Oh, my gosh. You’re my boss!” Amelie put her hands up to her cheeks and I tried not to laugh as she breathed in and out, clearly a little embarrassed by her earlier informality.

“Boxing became a legal sport in 1901!” Henry blurted.

“He’s not a boxer, Henry,” Amelie recovered quickly. “He’s an MMA fighter, right Mr. Taggert?”

So now I was Mr. Taggert. I started to laugh. I couldn’t help myself.

“It’s kickboxing, wrestling, judo, grappling. It’s a little of everything,” I agreed, still chuckling.

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” Henry said, and folded his arms even tighter.

“You like Mohammed Ali, huh?” I asked.

“The Greatest, The People’s Champion, The Louisville Lip,” Henry rattled out before turning and fleeing down the hall. A door banged closed, muting the radio, and leaving me and Amelie alone in the foyer once again.

“The next time he sees you, he’ll know everything about you, your record, and everything about mixed martial arts. Henry has a phenomenal brain, but he’s not great at small talk,” Amelie said softly. She bit at her lower lip like she wanted to say more and then stiffened her back as if deciding against it.

I guessed it went a little deeper than not being great at small talk, but I said nothing.

“I didn’t know who you were. I feel stupid now,” she offered timidly.

“Why?”

“I treated you the way I treat Lou.”

“What? Like a friend?”

“I flirted with you.”

“Well, that’s happened to me before. I think I can deal.”

Her nose wrinkled and her brows curled. “Are you smiling?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Okay. Well, that’s good. I will try to be more professional in the future.” With that she held her hand out in my general direction, obviously wanting to shake hands in a “professional” manner.

I clasped it briefly, fighting the urge to laugh again. She was funny, especially because she wasn’t trying to be.

“If you think Henry would like it, bring him by the gym. It’s two doors south of the bar, same side of the street. I have a whole team of fighters. Lou works out with us sometimes too. We spar and train from about ten to four most days. I can show him a few things, introduce him to the guys.”

“Really?” she squeaked, and she squeezed my hand tightly, bringing her other hand up to envelope it between her two smaller ones. “I’ll ask him. I actually think he might like that. He’s really shy, and he doesn’t like it when people touch him, but maybe he could just watch.”

“I wasn’t going to ask him to get in the octagon,” I said wryly.

“Are you smiling again?” It was a strange sensation to think I could wear whatever expression I wished, and she would be totally unaware. I could make fun of her, roll my eyes, grimace, stick out my tongue. And she would never know.