Shadow of Ashland (Ashland, 1) (12 page)

"I'm not too crazy about any music by anyone who didn't die violently in a motorized vehicle. You know what I mean?"

"Buddy Holly," I said.

She nodded. "Him and others. That's the idea."

"You like some more wine?" I held out the bottle.

"You bet." She held out her glass.

We stood outside the pale blue frame house. Even in the dark, the wind was blowing warm and sultry.

"No rain yet?" I asked.

Jeanne shook her head. "Just the wind, for a while. Then'll come the lightning. It'll come in sheets from the east and the north. Afterward, there'll be rain. Lots of it."

I kissed her. It was the right thing to do, because it came to me spontaneously.

When I stepped back, she looked at me fondly. "Last time, we shook hands."

"Don't know what got into me," I said.

"It's only after nine o'clock."

I waited.

"You like to come upstairs for a while?"

"Very much." Then I pondered. "What about Adam?"

"I can get him around midnight. Mom won't mind. Girl doesn't get too many nice dates she can afford to mess up when she gets to my age."

"That's a couple of hours from now." I looked about me, at the lights in the windows of surrounding houses, wondered who was sitting out on their front verandas. "What'll the neighbors say?"

"We got a homey little sayin' about that down here."

"I’ll bet you do."

She took my hand and led me up the walk.

3

We made love that night.

With the warm night wind sweeping across the Appalachians, up the winding Ohio, and through the open second-story windows of the robin's-egg house, we explored each other's bodies in the hesitant manner of all new lovers—careful, uncertain of the limits. And when it was over, it was as right and as comfortable as the dinner at the Chimney Corner Tea Room had been.

I have a memory of her outline in the darkened room, of the sway of the mattress, of the cool sheets wrapped about us, and of the taste of her mouth as the lightning flashed finally in the skies, as she had said it would. And, strangely, of all things, I remember the feel of her fingers as they trailed along my shoulders, and how much I needed that touch.

In the dimly lit room, I thought of Adam's father, walking away from this woman and his son. I thought of all the things I could never comprehend, and knew that they were just beginning.

At midnight, we walked to where my car was parked behind the Scott Hotel and drove to Carter Avenue. I waited while Jeanne went inside her parents' bungalow, and came out with a sleepyhead boy in tow, then drove them back to their home.

On the veranda, she opened the front door. "Upstairs," she said to him. "Into the bathroom. It's late. I'll be up in a minute." She guided Adam through the door, closing it softly behind him.

When we were alone, I held her. "Ritchie Valens," I said.

"Pardon?"

"He sang 'Donna.' He was in the plane with Buddy Holly."

I felt her smile against my chest. Then: "I've got to go. Mom stuff," she added.

"I know."

"Look." She pointed over my shoulder.

I turned. Sheets of lightning, without sound, rippled the sky across the river. Watching the spectacle, this woman in my arms, I wondered where I was, how all this had happened.

"I'm not supposed to ask," she said. "But I will."

"What?"

"Will I see you again?"

I pulled her head back to my chest, where it fit snugly below my neck. "Yes," I breathed. "Yes." And I meant it.

But already I was alive with what would happen next that night.

The lightning flashed at my back, leaves on the trees stirring in the wind, and I knew, even then, that I was going to see him within an hour.

"Yes," I said.

I stood and waited.

He came out of the hospital at 1:00 a.m., as he had previously, and we replayed the entire walk along Lexington, 14th, the pause at the Scott, then onto Winchester. It had become a mantra, a ritual like the Mass, where each step in the ceremony was ordained, cherished, and respected.

When he stood, finally, across from the First Bank and Trust Company building, he put his hands in his pockets as I knew he would, turned and faced me, and once again, our eyes met.

And yes, there were sheets of silent lightning electrifying the air as we stood there, and I have no idea whether it was pure coincidence or not. But it happened that way, and the images that I remember are burned into my brain as white-hot flashes and heart stops in the night, as the world turned inside out, and I shared a timeless point in the universe with my uncle, who was younger than I was.

I licked my lips before I spoke. "Jack?-" The word was a long-awaited, soft thunderclap.

He smiled, puzzled.

"Jack Radey?"

He nodded. "Yes."

My heart flooded with a sudden ache. I forged ahead. "I'm a friend of Margaret's. A friend of your sister."

In the darkness, his eyes brightened. "Way down here? You're kidding!" He stepped forward, closing the space between us.

I remained frozen, light-headed.

His shirt was plain white, open at the neck—the collar from another era; his pants were flannel—too warm for either the time of year or the place—with double-pleated front. "Do you live here?" he asked.

"No. I'm on vacation. Margaret knew I might get down here. She gave me your address. Asked me to look you up, make sure everything's all right."

He shook his head, smiling. His eyes were bright blue, like my mother's. "Good old Marg. Always keeping tabs on me. Watchin' out for little brother." He was both amused and pleased. Then his eyes met mine again. "I'm sorry—I didn't catch your name."

"Leo." He waited for a last name. When I didn't offer it, I added, "Just tell her Leo dropped by to see how you were, to see if there was any pressing news, next time you write."

He accepted that.

I walked toward him, closing the space between us. I saw my shadow ahead of me, flickering wildly on the pavement, a transient fragment cast by the lightning with no sound. And as I neared him, as the distance was closed, the air became still, and the shadow disappeared.

It happened like that.

I held my breath, looked around.

We stood, face to face, in the silence, in the dark.

In the past.

EIGHT

Monday, October 8, 1934

Everything changed.

The temperature had dropped slightly, the wind was gone, and the approaching storm had ceased to exist.

The streetlamps were dark, cast iron, with gracefully arched necks, their bulbs suspended downward. And in that soft light, I began to note the classic, hulking black coupes of the 1930s parked intermittently about the street. Then I turned and stared in the opposite direction, my eyes catching the announcement for
King Kong,
starring Fay Wray and Bruce Cabot, jutting over the sidewalk below the green marquee of the Paramount Theater, resplendent with its new golden lettering and trim.

I glanced in a window beside me—a clothing store—my eyes scanning the display of suits, coats, shoes:
Ayer's All-Wool Tweed Coat, $9.75, Delivered; Lady's High Fashion Dress, $2.98, Delivered; Black Calfskin or White Leather Pump, Featuring a Smart New Bow, $2.45 Pair, Delivered.

I stood on Winchester Avenue, in Ashland, Kentucky, and let it happen.

"Where you staying?" he asked.

I shrugged.

"You really on vacation?" There was a playfulness to his question. I thought of Jeanne. The story had an obvious timelessness to its incredibility.

"Sort of," I said.

"Yeah," he said. "Like everybody else." He took a package of cigarettes from his pants pocket, shook one loose, placed it between his lips, then held the package toward me.

"No. Thanks."

He smiled, put them away. He lit his own, inhaling the smoke, enjoying the luxury. Then he seemed to study me. "How'd you know it was me?"

"I've seen pictures," I lied. "Of Margaret and you."

He smiled again, his pleasure obvious. "Where do you know Marg from? I thought I knew all her friends."

"You've been gone for a while now."

He nodded. "That's true."

"Marg helped my family when we moved into the neighborhood." I began to amaze myself with my story. "Helped me look after my father. He's my family," I added, trying to flesh out the picture. I realized that I must look positively middleaged to Jack.

"How's Tommy?" he asked, watching me.

"He's in good shape. Still working."

"And the kids?"

"Ronny and Anne?" I smiled. "Healthy as horses."

He relaxed even more. "So you live up around Yonge and Eglinton, do you?"

I nodded.

"Too far north of the city for my tastes. I guess I'm kind of a downtown kid."

He nodded in the direction of the railway lines, just this side of the river. "You sleeping down there?"

I followed his gaze and took my cue. "Isn't everybody?"

He seemed to consider. The cigarette smoke floated upward in the still air. "I'm not sure what you're doin', Leo, but any friend of Marg's a friend of mine. It's as simple as that." He gestured with his cigarette toward the railway yards. "Lots sleep down there. I know." He pondered. "Maybe I can help you."

I waited.

"I know a nice place. I think we can work something out."

I followed his glance. The Scott Hotel in its prime, even in the dark, was a very nice place.

We slipped into the Scott, up the stairs, and into room 8 on the third floor.

Jack's things were spread throughout the room. Mine were gone.

He pulled a pillow and blanket from the bed—the same white-painted iron bedstead that I had known—and tossed them on the floor by the window. "Good enough?" he asked.

"It'll do fine," I said. The furniture was new.

He nodded, smiled. "We'll talk in the morning."

I went over to the window, looked out. The church was still there. Then I sat down on the floor with my back against the wall, staring at him.

He smiled, dropped back onto the bed and ran his hands through his dark, curly hair, as I had seen him do before. "What?" he asked.

"How do you know you can trust me?" I frowned. "How do you know who I am?"

He continued to smile, that magic, disarming smile, his eyes burning with a belief in a future and things that I could not share. "Who are any of us?" He paused. "A hunch," he said. "I play hunches. Can't help myself. Marg always said I was a little naive." Another shrug. "What can you do?"

I was quiet, listening to my heart beat, listening to the silence of the years breaking open.

"And you're a friend of Marg's. It's enough." He seemed content, pulled off a shoe and leaned back on his elbow, gazing at me. "You must know that she makes everyone a better person just because she believes in them." His eyes twinkled. "You know what I mean?"
 

"Yes," I said.
 

It was true.

"In the morning," he said.
 

I listened.
 

"We'll talk."

He turned off the light. In the darkness, I could see the tip of his cigarette flare when he inhaled, smell its smoke as it wended its way out the window by my side.
 

When it was dashed out, I must have slept.
 

Or dreamed that I slept.

I woke with the sunlight streaming in above me. I was still on the floor, Jack was still in the bed.

He pushed up on to an elbow when he heard me stir and smiled.

I touched the wall beside me. It was solid. It was real.
 

I looked for my car at the back of the Scott when we were outside. It was gone.
 

"Where we going?" I asked. He went ahead of me across Winchester Avenue.

"Get something to eat."

"Where?" We reached the other side and stopped.

"Soup kitchen." He looked at me. "Unless you got some money."

I reached into my pants pocket and took out my wallet. I opened it and looked in.

It was empty.

We sat at a plank table in a warehouse near the east end of town. Dozens of men, at similar tables, surrounded us. The room was lit by bare light bulbs, hanging from wiring strung over thick, wooden rafters.