Adrift in the Sound (21 page)

Before Marian pulled away, she leaned out the window of her truck, “Don’t forget to take your medication. Call me if you have a problem. Sandy’ll probably be back soon.” She honked when she turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

TWENTY–THREE

LIZETTE TROWELED IN THE VEGETABLE
patch she’d planted in the yard behind Sandy’s house before Violet was born. The sun warmed her back now while she pulled weeds, loosened dirt around the bell peppers. At the tail end of summer, the peppers ripened into full-bellied shape. Brilliant-green, luminous in the sunlight, they were almost ready to pick, she thought. Scallions, cherry tomatoes, lettuce planted in short scraggly rows ripened, too. She wondered what Abaya’s garden looked like now, missed her and Poland and her friends at the market in Eastsound, missed the way the water hugged the shores of Orcas Island, making it safe and separate, its own peaceful world.

The nursery curtains billowed in the breezes from Lake Union, waved the afternoon warmth into the room where three-month-old Violet napped. Traffic thrum from I-5 vibrated down to the garden where she dug. Fisher played Rocket’s piano, striking the keys evenly, contentedly, the notes full of color as they escaped the open dining room window next door. She caught the melody and hummed it, picked small pebbles from the vegetable bed, tossed them onto the walkway where she sat musing, her legs folded under her.

“Hey!”

Lizette looked up at the sound. A man stood on the small back porch, staring down the dilapidated stairs at her, his hand cupped over his brow, shielding his eyes from the sun. She could see he was short-legged and dark-haired, familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him. Not one of the regular Dogs.

“Sandy here?”

“Not now,” Lizette said, getting to her feet and facing the man.

“Do I know you?” he said.

Lizette warbled softly in her throat, felt a surge of fear, thought about how to answer. “Who are you?” She wiped her hands on her jeans.

“Al … Al Munoz. Sandy’s old man. Just got out of jail.”

Lizette squinted at him, trying to recall what Al had looked like before he got busted for selling hot motorcycle parts to an under-cover cop behind Lenny’s Tavern more than a year ago. She rummaged around in her head for what she remembered of this bandy-legged little guy she’d only seen a couple of times. She remembered long black hair, a cruel-slash smile, hard black eyes, the letters L-O-V-E crudely tattooed below his knuckles in black ink. She remembered Al throwing a platter of fried chicken at Sandy and bouncing her up against the wall, knocking the breadbox from the top of the refrigerator with the force. She remembered running next door to get Rocket to break it up.

Nothing about this man seemed familiar now as he stood there, clean cut in baggy jeans and a faded plaid shirt. A year was a long time, she thought, and she hadn’t been paying much attention to details back then, at least not like now, since Violet was born. Everything seemed brighter now, more remarkable. The pitches of her crying, the colors of her clothes, her baby smells, the radiance of light itself.

“Where is she? When’s she coming back?”

“Who?” Climbing the uneven stairs to the landing, clutching her heart at the thought of Violet, Lizette tried to decide what to tell him, how to get rid of him.

“Sandy!”

“Oh.” She felt relieved.

“Where is she? Don’t give me no shit. Is she with some other guy?”

“Sandy’s away, visiting friends,” Lizette said, towering over him. “On vacation. I’m house sitting.”

“Who are you?”

“Lizette … A friend.”

“Oh yeah. I remember you. Lizard. The tweeker chick. How you been and all that?”

Trying to distract him, get him off the back porch, she said, “Want something to eat?” She hoped food and a beer would help get rid of him. A quick meal, a swift goodbye.

“Maybe. After I get loaded. Man, jail’s a bitch. I mean, they got dope inside, man, but it’s not the same. You know? Too many
vatos
. Fuckin’ with my business. Bunch a punk bitches.”

Lizette brushed past him. In the kitchen she opened the refrigerator and pulled out a big pot of beans, put it on the stove, got some bread and cheese and set them on the table. She turned to the sink and washed her shaking hands.

“How long’s Sandy gonna to be gone?”

“Didn’t say.” Lizette wiped her hands on a dish towel and leaned against the sink. “Just wanted me to stay here and take care of the place. She didn’t say anything about you.”

“Well, I didn’t know exactly when the jerks were gonna turn me loose. Like they don’t tell you, exactly, know what I mean? I got released a couple of weeks early because of overcrowding in their shit-hole jail.” He laughed and turned, headed for the stairs to the bedrooms, Lizette on his heels, alarmed.

“I wrote her a letter a couple of weeks ago telling her I was getting out.” Lizette flashed to the letter from King County jail that had come through the slot in the door, stamped INDIGENT in big red letters. She’d tossed it unopened.

“Man, I told her to pick me up, call the jail for my release date. This one cat, he gets out, man, and his ole lady picks him up in a limousine. They get in back and, like, she spreads her legs, you know, man, and she don’t got nothin’ on. So they drink champagne in those skinny glasses and … it was rich, man. I saw it, too. But, when I come through the gate, man, with these stupid shoes on,” he looked at his feet … nothin’.” He shook his hands like he’d been squeezing shit and couldn’t get the stink off.

“I took the bus into town, man, had to walk over here.” He stroked his black hair, smoothed it against his head with flat palms. He shouldered past Lizette, started up the stairs. She squeezed ahead of him, he ran his hand over her hip as she passed. “Give me some of that!” He laughed like he was coughing.

“Where’re you going?” she asked, partially blocking his way.

“To get my shit. What’s it to you?”

“What shit?”

“My stuff, man. My stuff was here when I got busted.” He threw up his hands, clinched, splayed his fingers, bouncing L-O-V-E. Sweat beads had formed on his upper lip and he licked them, shifted his eyes like a cornered rat, smelled like oily piss. “I don’t know what they did with my bike, my jacket and boots. Shit. I had my Angel’s colors on when they got me. They took my jacket and gave me this lumberjack shit to wear before they let me go. They’re pigs. Ridiculous, man. I look like a goddamn cholo farmer.”

Lizette eased backward, inching up the stairs, Al stepping up along with her. When they reached the top, she went to the door of Violet’s nursery, the room they shared, and closed the door. She rattled the door knob to her studio, making sure it was latched, too.

Al went into Sandy’s bedroom and stood in the soft afternoon light. He filled the space, dark and square, a specter in the back-light from the windows. He went and looked out on the street, reflected light cast a bluish wash over his brown face, gave him a sickly pall. Lizette felt the suffused color, felt the need to sit immersed in this cool, subtle shade and capture it’s tone in paint, put it on canvas as an ethereal background wash, but snapped back to face the threat.

“Looks the same,” he said, moving toward the closet. “Get outta here, would ya. I need privacy, man. I just spent a year with people in my face. I gotta find my clothes. When did Sandy say she was coming back?”

“I told you, she didn’t say,” Lizette said, backing up.

“Yeah. Well, does the washer still work?” He went to Sandy’s dresser and pulled drawers open, tossing clothes on the floor, feeling in the back and along the sides of the drawers. “I got laundry,” Al said, running his fingers along the underside of the drawers, looking for dope, Lizette realized.

From downstairs, she heard the front door slam and Rocket holler, “Anybody here?”

Al scurried to the top of the stairs, hollered down, “Hey, man! Rocket! We’re up here!”

Lizette followed, looked down and saw a shadow of irritation cross Rocket’s face as he stared up at them. He climbed, pulled hard on the handrail, stood at the top with crossed arms.

“When’d you get out?” Lizette stepped mincingly back and forth between the men, a nervous crane in cold water.

“This morning, man.” The men clasped hands, slapped each other on the back. “Feels good to get the
basura
stink outta my nose, man. I had to take the bus into town, riding like a welfare case. What’s up with you?”

“Same old shit, man. Working the tugs, hangin’ out.”

“
Le vida loco
, eh?”

“Not too crazy. I’m under the radar.”

“Like shit you are. Where’s the crazy Canadian?”

“Greg?”

“Yeah, man. Thought you guys was buddies. What’s he doin’?”

“He died the end of March.”

“OD’d?”

Lizette began nudging Rocket toward the stairs. She glanced at the nursery door and Rocket caught her meaning.

“I got some beer downstairs, man. Let’s crack a couple, catch up. I’ll tell you what happened.”

The men clomped down the stairs and Lizette went to Violet’s door and looked in. The baby slept peacefully, making kissy mouse sounds. She could hear Rocket and Al slamming around in the kitchen, drawers squeaking, silverware rattling, and she paused, remarked on the golden tint the waning sun made on the magnolia wallpaper in the nursery, gilding the big white flowers. She swayed with the full feeling that cradled her heart when she looked at Violet. She left the door ajar so she could hear her when she woke.

The men had settled at the kitchen table, but Rocket got up when Lizette came in. They went to the living room. Al followed like a puppy, sat on the couch, Rocket facing him in Sandy’s favorite chair. Rocket noticed the room’s neatness, the baby’s blankets folded in a stack at the end of the couch, toy rattle placed on top, furniture dusted. Al stretched out. Lizette slipped in and settled at the end of the couch, putting the pile of baby blankets on her lap.

“You on parole?”

“Yeah. Gotta see the man Monday morning. Gave them this address, if they want to find me.”

“That’s fucked,” Rocket said, almost under his breath. “We don’t need the cops.”

“So what about my man Greg?”

“Got hurt out on Orcas Island,” Rocket said, shooting Lizette a warning look. “Ruptured his spleen and he was in too bad a shape by the time they got him to the hospital. Couldn’t save him.”

Al shook his head, “Too bad, man.” He looked at Rocket and Lizette. “I always thought he’d OD. Guy was a straight-up dope fiend. We got so loaded once …” He got up and went to the kitchen, returned with another beer.

Rocket started to get up and get another brew, but the front door blew open. Fisher stood in the front hall waving a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a can of baby formula in the other.

“Drinks’re on me, gentlemen.” He took in the glum faces and laughed. “Looks like a party,” He grabbed glasses from the kitchen and put them and the bottle on the dining room table, looked at the men expectantly. “Who’s going to join me?”

Fisher poured three fingers without looking at them and tipped his head toward Al. “Looks like you had a good vacation, all rested up and everything.”

“Shit.” Al got up for the whiskey, giving Fisher a one-armed embrace, reaching for a glass with the other. “You still playing piano?”

Lizette heard Violet’s soft whimper and went upstairs. She scooped the baby up and settled on the bed, forming a protective pocket around the child with her body. She checked her diaper and looked into her still sleepy eyes, running her fingers around the edge of her chin. She poked the baby bottle she’d brought with her between Violet’s eager lips and held her plump thigh while she sucked and got lost in the peace and satisfaction.

Lizette heard music blaring downstairs. Santana and the thump of “
Oye Como Va”
pulsing through the house. Violet started crying and Lizette felt tension—in her body, in the house. She changed the baby’s diaper and put on a fresh pink crawler, noticed it was almost too small.
Maybe one or two more wearings
, she thought,
and it won’t fit anymore
. She closed the snaps and lifted the baby, holding her close against her shoulder. At the top of the stairs she heard laughter and grumbling voices. She smelled smoke and hesitated before starting down. In the living room Al was grooving. “
Me ritmo!
” He thrust his pelvis, jerked his hips, coughed out a couple of dry hacks. “
Bueno pa’ gozar
!”