West Seattle Blues (2 page)

“Just that I feel kind of distant from all this now,” I finally replied.

I was still a music journalist. I reviewed albums and interviewed artists. And I loved it. But I didn’t work as hard as May. My diary wasn’t filled with interviews or gigs these days, but that was fine. I’d been there and done that; now I was too busy being a mom. And when I wasn’t doing that I was cranking out quickie unauthorized celebrity biographies under a pen name – because Laura Benton was never going to be known as the author of those; I valued my credibility too much. My husband Dustin helped by taking on much of the child care when he was home, but I still felt permanently exhausted. By nine at night the last thing I wanted was to head out to a bar and hear music. I just wanted to crawl into bed. Motherhood, it was like instant sleep deprivation.

“I feel like I could crash for a week,” I said. “Look at the bags under my eyes.”

May squinted at me. “Bullshit,” she began, than glanced down at Ian, thinking maybe she shouldn’t swear in front of him. “You look great.”

I shook my head. “You better get glasses, then. I’m going to take him home. It’s almost time for his nap. But I’m glad you invited me out.” I’d been stuck at home for a week, finishing off a book. Another celebrity bites the dust, meaning more money in the bank account. I needed the break, to be out in the real world. The writing made me feel like a hooker, prostituting my talent, but I never hesitated to cash the checks and use them to pay down the mortgage.

“It was really good to see you again, Laura.” She gave me a hug and that continental air-kiss on both the cheeks. “I’m headed to the Backstage on Friday, for David Lindley. You want to come?”

“Love to, but no. Thanks anyway, though.”

I fitted Ian into the car seat and headed back over the West Seattle Bridge, gunning the vehicle up the long hill from Delridge and along 16
^th,
past the community college, to Highland Park. It was a blue-collar area of frame houses, a mix of whites, Latinos, Filipinos and everyone else who was part of the American patchwork. It was also one of the few places we could afford when we were originally looking to buy. The sale of Dustin’s condo gave us the deposit and, with our incomes, we could manage the payments and still have money to live on. It was a good house, bigger than it appeared from the outside, a solid place. It had been remodeled to give four bedrooms, with a fair-sized garden surrounded by a chain-link fence, and a garage. We’d been there nine months and it was just now starting to feel like home. Once spring arrived, we’d give it a new coat of paint. I already had the color picked out: a pale duck-egg blue.

Ian had fallen asleep and I carried him inside carefully, sliding off his bootees and laying him in the crib before pulling the blanket gently up to his neck. Another few weeks and he’d be a year old. I remembered the time before I was pregnant, back when kids were all theory and other people’s experiences. People had told me I’d love my baby more than anything I could imagine. I didn’t believe a word of it. How could that happen? But they were right. From the first moment I saw his face, I knew this wasn’t like anything else. It was total. Even now, each time I looked at him I felt a rush of love that overwhelmed me. I’d been a late mother, thirty-six when he was born on April 5, 1993, right at the top end of it being safe. It had been the best day of my life. He took my breath away: so beautiful, so eager, so full of the future. I didn’t care that I was bathed in sweat and still in pain when the nurse handed him to me. He was so tiny, so delicate that it scared me. But
he was completely perfect, and he was
mine
. Dustin and I had talked about kids before we got married, but in the end he’d been an accident. A gorgeous one. I left his room quietly, went into the kitchen and started to fix a pot of coffee. Then I noticed the light blinking on the answering machine.

“Hey, Laura, it’s Tonia. Give me a call, okay?”

She didn’t leave the number but I didn’t need one. I’d worked for
The Rocket
for many years. It was the only music paper in town, a great magazine. I dialed and asked for Antonia Hillman. She’d been the editor for seven months now, younger, smarter, prettier and a way better writer than me. I loved her. A Southern girl, in her late twenties, she had earned a degree in journalism, then she’d done some time in public relations with a couple of record companies before becoming a freelance journalist. The paper had taken a chance on her, because she wasn’t local and she’d never been an editor. But she’d more than rewarded their hopes; circulation and ad revenues were up. More than that, the writers liked her. She was even and open-handed on assignments. Also, she listened as much as she spoke.

“It’s Laura,” I said when she answered. “What’s up, lady?”

“I got a weird one,” she began in that light honey of an accent that was guaranteed to melt hearts.

“Weird is good, right?”

“Well, maybe,” Tonia laughed. “I’m not so sure about this one, though. You ever heard of a guy called Carson Mack?”

“Carson Mack? Are you serious?”

“Deadly.” She gave a husky chuckle. “One hell of a name, isn’t it?”

The strange thing was that I
did
know who he was. A couple of minor country hits in the early Seventies, then he’d gone on to become a songwriter. But that was the extent of my knowledge.

“So what’s he want?” I wondered. “The big comeback?”

“You really know the name?” she asked suspiciously.

“Yeah. My dad liked country music.”

“Oookay.” She drew the word out, as if she wasn’t sure whether to believe me. “The guy called me, right out of the blue. He’s got this wild hair that people would like to read his story.”

“What do you mean? A book?”

“I’m not sure. That’s what he seems to reckon. Though I can’t imagine anyone being interested.”

“Me neither.”

“But I told him I’d ask around and then I thought of you.”

“Why?” I teased, “because I’m old?”

“No,” she answered, “because you’re the kind of freaky chick who lives weird. And also he lives near you. He’s in West Seattle - that’s local, right? You want to talk to the guy?”

“I don’t know.” I sighed. “It’s not like anyone’s going to want a book on him. What do you think about a piece for you guys, instead?”

She gave a snort. “Well, it’s not like we have a living history section, but if you come up with something interesting, I guess we could.”

I sighed again. “Give me his number, I’ll call him.”

Two

He had a voice like a country song: a lifetime of heartbreak and failed promises in just four words. It was a sound like old leather that had been soaked in bourbon or rye.

“This is Carson Mack,” he announced.

I explained who I was, hearing his breathing on the other end of the line.

“I remember hearing your stuff on the radio, back in the day,” I continued.

“Yeah, I was all over that for a little while.” He gave a hoarse, world-weary chuckle.

“Tonia said you were thinking about a book?”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking, really,” Carson admitted. “It just seemed like an idea. I figured there might be someone at
The Rocket
who’d have a few ideas.”

I tried to be kind. “The only problem is those hits were a long time ago. Most people won’t know who you are now.”

“I’m trying to do a little more now. And a book would be a good way for people to find out, right?”

“Yeah,” I agreed warily. “But a book’s only worthwhile if someone wants to publish it.”

“I guess. So you’re trying to tell me it’s a bullshit idea, huh?”

“I’m saying that a book might not be the easiest place to start. Music’s changed in twenty years.” All music had, including country. Now it all seemed to be guys in cowboy hats, or girls who looked like truck stop waitresses with a sideline in hooking. And the songs had more to do with pop music that any country stuff I ever knew.

“I know. I listen nowadays and I’m not even sure what’s going on.”

“Look, Carson,” I said, “how about this? Why don’t we start off by doing a piece for
The Rocket
and see how that goes? It’s a place to start.

“You sure they want one? I don’t want charity.”

“I’m sure, they’ll print it.” I hoped they would, anyway.

“Okay,” he agreed, sounding happier. “You want to come over here and talk to me?”

“I can do that. Whereabouts are you?”

“I got a place on Beach Drive in West Seattle. You know where that is?”

“I do.” If he could afford a house down there, he must have written a few hits. It was right on Puget Sound, where the water lapped against the bottom of the gardens. Just the year before, I’d been to see a one-bedroom house along there, one in need of plenty of TLC before it would even be habitable. The asking price was over three hundred thousand and yet it had sold in a week. I loved the idea of living by the water but I knew that it was a dream. I’d never have the money for it.

“Well, I got time tomorrow if you want. How ‘bout that?”

I thought for a moment. Dustin would be back from his sales trip tonight. Tomorrow he’d be at home all day writing up his reports. He could take care of Ian for a few hours; in fact he’d love the chance.

“Yeah, that’s good,” I said. “What time, and what’s your house number?”

I bathed Ian, settled him in bed and read him a Beatrix Potter story, watching him drift into sleep. He’d run me ragged all afternoon, crawling here, there and everywhere, constantly trying to get into places he knew he shouldn’t be. I settled down on the couch, exhausted all the way to my core. Still, now I had my reward: a bottle of Henry Weinhard’s with my feet up on the coffee table. I was free until his lordship woke again in the morning.

I heard footsteps on the deck, then the lock turn in the sliding glass door by the kitchen, and I stood up slowly with a smile on my face.

“Hey,” I said, as Dustin came in and skidded his briefcase across the floor.

“Hey,” he answered, hugging me close and kissing me warmly, tasting of diner food and coffee. “How’s he been?”

“Like an angel.”

“Any more walking?”

I shook my head. Twice, Ian had seemed on the edge of walking. He’d pulled himself up, tried to step and toppled over. He was on the brink and we were ready for it. We’d put big rubber bumpers on the corners of tables so he wouldn’t tear his head open, locks on all the cabinets, covers to stop him pushing his fingers in the power outlets. We thought we’d covered it all, anyway. But already, even before he was toddling, life was proving a constant battle for us as he found new nooks and crannies we’d never ever noticed before. “How was the trip?”

“Not bad,” Dustin answered. “At least I-5 was quiet on the way home. Made decent time”

He was a publisher’s rep covering the whole Northwest down into Oregon, as far east as Montana, and twice a year up to Alaska. This time he’d just swung down south to Eugene, then took in Salem and Portland on the way back, only two days away from home. From his eyes, and the way he held on to me, I could tell he was glad to be back

The pair of us had met at a mutual friend’s party and hit it off. Friendship led to dating and now we’d been married for two years, living together for almost three. It felt right: a mix of comfort and passion. And now, these days, weariness. We balanced each other: he liked music too, but it didn’t obsess him the way books did. So our living room was lined with shelves full of hardbacks and paperbacks, while my albums, tapes and CDs filled the spare bedroom that had become my office.

I’d never really planned on dating him, let alone marrying the guy. My heart had already been ripped
apart when Steve and I broke up in 1988. That had all crumbled to nothing so quickly and so painfully that I didn’t want to get close again and trust anyone. Maybe there were still nice men out there. I reckoned we could be buds, but I wasn’t going to let them get closer than that.

With Dustin, though, all those resolutions and defenses didn’t matter in the end. We hung out, going to dinner, to a movie or a gig. Even just sitting around doing nothing. He was a couple years older than me, but never seemed it; there was something about him that didn’t indicate an age. After six months it started to hit me: I was beginning to like the idea of him as more than a friend. I was watching him, thinking it would be good to have him kiss me, and wondering what he’d be like in bed.

The transition from being friends to lovers was so awkward and hesitant that it almost didn’t happen. I let him know I was interested, but he knew my history and held back. In the end it took several weeks before the first real kiss broke the ice, and another month before we made love. Once we were on track, though, things just seemed to gather steam. Moving in together seemed a natural step, and in the end I was the one who suggested marriage. It surprised me as much as it did him, but it was right, it was lasting. It was what we needed. And it had worked: we were happy together.

Dustin was a casual guy, always heading off to work in jeans and a shirt. It was a good idea, as his buns were made for Levi’s. He owned one suit but never wore it, apart from our wedding. His hair always looked like it needed to be cut. No matter what he did, he couldn’t tame it, sandy cowlicks always sticking out. At six feet, he was tall enough for me to feel secure in his arms. I’d never known him lose his temper or good humor, just smiling at other people’s strangeness and shaking his head. For someone who’d grown up on the East Coast, he’d managed to avoid that ugly preppy style and after a decade out here, he was as laid back as any native Northwesterner. That didn’t mean he never annoyed me. We had our ups and down, little clashes over things. But we resolved most of them. He read a lot; it came with his work the way music came with mine. Once he had his head in a book he could disappear for hours, until I had to demand some attention from him. He was improving, though, and he was the best father I could imagine.