Innocents and Others (5 page)

JELLY AND JACK

This was another crucial moment, and she knew that she could not initiate anything more. She had to wait for him to open it further. She could not get anxious. Jelly held the receiver with her left hand and leaned back on the pillows. She crossed her legs at the ankles, pulled her kimono robe over her knees. She was a little cold. She wanted to be in that room with the beach smell and the sun on the windows. She waited, closed her eyes. She listened to the quiet line. She heard him cough.

“So how do you know Mark?” he said. He sounded friendly and a bit amused now.

Jelly made an “em” sound in her throat, with a little push through her nose. It sounded thoughtful, vaguely affirmative. She knew that even if she had to say “no” at some point, she would say it low and round and long so it sounded as if it had a yes in it somehow. Or an up-pitched down-pitched mmm-mmm, like a hill. The hums take you for a ride, just under the nose with the mouth closed.

“We talk a lot. Sunday-morning talks, late-Monday talks. Middle of the night talks. Sometimes we talk for hours.”

“Yeah? What about? Are you a girlfriend?”

Jelly laughed. These men all had “a” girlfriend, meaning several at any time. She never wanted to be one of a number. What Jelly wanted
was to be singular. Not even “a friend.” She wanted a category of her own construction. Something they never knew existed.

“No,” she said. “Actually he talks to me about his writing. He reads me what he has written that day. I listen and tell him what I think. He says it gives him motivation, knowing I will call and he has to have something good to read to me.”

“Really?”

“He never told you about me?” she said.

“No, but I don't listen to everything Mark says. He tends to fill the air with static. It is ambient noise at a certain point. You know, busy but easily ignored.”

She laughed. He laughed. Jelly sat up, stretching her back straight, feeling her spine arrange itself in a line above her hips. She switched the phone to the other side and relaxed the tension in her neck. She took a breath. So much of this involved waiting, silence, timing.

“So I have to go, Jack. I am so sorry I disturbed you.”

“No. I mean, no problem. I had to get up. I usually don't sleep this late. But I was working all night. On this piece.”

“You probably want to make some coffee and get back to work.”

“Yeah, but not really.”

“Is it for a film score?”

“You know, it isn't. It is just a thing I had in my head and now I'm playing with it. Using the keyboard. It will end up in a film score at some point, I'm guessing.”

“Really? You don't watch the film and then compose to it?” she said.

“Yeah, I do. But I also import melodies and musical ideas I have. On file, so to speak.”

“Fascinating.”

“So, would you like to hear some of it?”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“Oh wow, I would really love that. Yes, please.”

“Okay, good.” He laughed. “Hold on,” he said.

Jelly closed her eyes again and leaned back. She called this body listening. It was when you surrendered to a piece of music or a story. By reclining and closing your eyes, you could respond without tracking your response. You listened. The opposite were the people who started to speak the second someone finished talking or playing or singing. They practically overlapped the person because they were so excited to render their thoughts into speech. They couldn't wait to get their words into it and make it theirs. They couldn't stand the idea of not having a part in it. They spent the whole experience formulating their response, because their response is the only thing they value. It was a way of consuming the experience or the work. Jelly had a different purpose in listening to anything or anyone. It had something to do with submission, and it had something to do with sympathy. She would lie back and cut off all distraction. The phone was built for this. It had no visual component, no tactile component, no person with hopeful or embarrassed face to read, no scent wafting, no acid collection in the mouth. Just vibrations, long and short waves, and to clutch at them with your own thoughts was just wrong. A distinct resistance to potential. A lack of love, really. Because what is love, if not listening, as uninflected—as uncontained—as possible.

But while Jack played his music for her she did not think about listening. She took a deep breath, relaxed, and let the music find her body. Jelly thought about things only after she got off the phone. When she went over what was said so she could remember it. She took notes on details, but the best way to imprint something in memory was to listen in the first place.

“So that's it,” he said, and he let out a tight, nervous laugh.

Jelly opened her eyes, expelled a small sigh into the receiver. “It's wonderful,” she said.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Good,” he said.

“There were these little leaps with each reprise.”

“That's right,” he said.

Only after she was done listening did she form her response. And it worked like this: find the words—out of the millions of words—that would describe the experience. That part, the search for the right language, was fun and almost like a puzzle. You thought of the word but then you felt it in your mouth, pushed breath into it and said it out loud. The sound of it contained the real meaning—she had to hear the words to know if she had it right. Then as it hung there she revised it, re-attacked it, applied more words to it.

“And it gave me a remarkable feeling of lifting. Not being picked up or climbing. Not even like rising in an elevator,” she said. “Or an escalator. Not quite. More float in it. Maybe like . . . levitating.”

Jack laughed. “You levitated listening to my little piece. Right on.”

It did feel like levitation. Levitating through listening. Waves of sound. Waves on the ocean. Floating on the water. And floating on sound waves: levitation. What Jack didn't know was how easily this came to her.

“I have to go, Jack. I'm afraid I'm late.”

“Oh no, really?” he said. She heard the hard fizzle of a strike and then a sharp breath followed by a blowing out: lighting a cigarette. She knew the sounds people made on the phone: the bottle unscrewed or uncorked followed by the pour of liquid over ice and the cracking of the ice. The sip—so slow it was painful, the delicate and distant
sound of a swallow. And this sound, lighting a cigarette. But with a match, not a lighter. He was a constant smoker who used matches instead of a lighter, which made him a certain kind of person. Because a match had drama, a match left you with a flame to shake or blow out. And a match left a pleasant phosphorus smell lingering in the air.

“So nice to talk with you this morning, nice to meet you, Jack,” she said.

“The pleasure, Nicole, is mine. So when can we talk again? Can I call you sometime?”

Jelly sat up. Held the phone back for a minute. She moved slowly in these moments. The giveaway was not in his request. The giveaway was in that he used her name. She had him.

“I do have to run. I promise I will call you soon,” she said.

“I look forward to it. Anytime,” Jack said.

“Goodbye,” she said.

“Bye.”

She would not call anytime. She would call on Sunday at the same time. Only Sunday, and it would only be her calling him. Parameters. Predictability. It was the way it worked best for both of them, for this thing they were building between them. He wouldn't understand, he would want to call her, have her number. He would want other times, more frequent talks. But she knew what was best, how to do this. Pace was important. She would make him her Sunday call, and as the weeks of talks would go by, he would accept her terms. He would begin to get great pleasure out of counting the days until Sunday.

JELLY AND OZ

Jelly first met Oz at a group session. He listened to her tell the group what she struggled with. Then she was quiet while various people made suggestions and said mildly supportive things. After it was finished, Oz came over to her. He had his dog with him, and he moved confidently through the space. She waited for him to tell her it would be okay, she would adjust to it all. Instead he told her his name was Oz, and then he said, “I dig your voice. I thought, I would love to hear that girl tell a story. A long sad story with children and animals in it. Like a dream you don't want to wake up from.”

“Thank you,” she said, and she blushed, a little unprepared for a come-on. In this place. Because that's what it was, wasn't it?

After he left, another girl from group told her about Oz: he had an IQ of 160 and a special genius for electronics. The next time she came to session, he approached her again.

“Hey, there,” Oz said.

“Hi, Oz,” she said. His high soft voice belied his big physical presence. He sat next to her, a large blur.

“Girl, what can I do to get with you?”

Jelly laughed loud enough for him to hear her.

“You like music?”

“I love music,” she said.

“I'd like to listen to some John Coltrane with you. You should come over. We can order some take-out food and listen to Coltrane. You know, like
A Love Supreme
?” She was right, he was into her. It made her nervous. How old was he? She couldn't tell, not with her blurry view. Everyone looked like they had perfect wrinkle-free skin. It was funny not to know how old or how ugly someone was. She had to go on other things, like size and smell. But mostly the sound of a voice, and hey—even what the voice said.

“I don't think I have heard it—”

“Oh girl! Your life is missing something truly beautiful—”

“But I can't tonight. I'm going out with a friend. She is picking me up in a few minutes.”

Jelly turning him down did not seem to bother or discourage him at all. Oz was always comfortable, always easy, which was unnerving and oddly seductive. And the next time she was at session, he asked her out again. She wanted to say yes, to date Oz and spend time with Oz and get close to Oz, but she hesitated for what she knew were stupid reasons. She was worried his blindness would make her even more ridiculous. She was on the continuum of blindness: a meningitis infection had nearly killed her and made her blind overnight, but then, slowly, she had recovered some sight. She could see shapes and light and colors, but her blurry vision was also tunneled to 90 degrees, which made getting around without the help of a cane difficult, although she tried anyway. Imagining the way two blind people would look walking down the street wasn't the only thing. Oz had no sight at all, never did. That was a different planet, “never sighted.” There was something unbridgeable in it. But that was such a ridiculous idea, as if any human experience couldn't be bridged. How to build the bridge? You talk about it and find the things you understand in it. The pieces of your own experience in the other. That's the bridge, she thought. “Yes,” she said. “I would love that.”

She went over to Oz's apartment. They ate dinner, and Oz put on the promised John Coltrane LP, which sounded mystical and less romantic than she expected. He smoked a joint, which he assured her helped to make the Love Supreme, helped you hear the holiness in it, the God sounds in it, but she declined. “I'm nervous about getting home,” she said.

“So sleep here,” he said. She laughed. “What's so funny? It's cool.”

“I know,” she said. She made a loud exhale sound. “Does it get easier? I mean, I don't like to move from place to place. I could be a shut-in, I think.”

“Girl, is this a group session?” he said, laughing. “Are there a bunch of weepy blind folks here?”

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“Just relax. You are safe. Crash on the couch and you will have all day to get home tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she said.

She slept on the couch. Oz didn't offer his bed or even kiss her, which surprised her. She decided that although he was not handsome, he had a solidity that she wanted. He was all in one place, while she felt blurry most of the time. She was glad to sleep there and leave in the morning. The daylight was better for her—she needed contrast. For Oz it didn't matter. The dark was as safe a place as the light.

She asked him over to her place for their second date. She realized an apartment he didn't know would be more awkward for him, but he and the dog quickly found the chair at her little table. She brought him a glass of wine.

“Would you like to hear some music?” she asked.

“I would,” he said. She put on
Blue Train
, which she had bought earlier that day. The record store clerk handed it to her when she asked what Coltrane album she should buy.

Right away Oz said, “I love this record,” and she could hear the smile in his voice. They smoked some pot and drank some wine. They drank their glasses quickly and she poured more and then started to serve dinner. She realized how much she wanted to talk with Oz, to hear him talk about his life. Was blindness easier on people who never saw? How would Oz or anyone know? What were his dreams like, what were his thoughts when colors were mentioned? Could she ask him or would he just laugh her questions off? Girl, you ask too many questions. The wine made her brave.

“This is maybe too personal,” she said, and the word
personal
sounded funny to her. A question about your personhood, your experience as a person. “But when did you realize you were blind? I mean, what blindness is, and that most other people are not blind. Do you remember?” Jelly said this as they ate spaghetti and a slow-cooked sauce that filled the air with basil, tomato, and almost-burned garlic. She had grown the tomatoes on her porch, on scaffolds and ties. More than the tomatoes themselves, she loved the tomato leaves in the early summer. She would water the plants and put her head close. She would inhale the burst of damp leaf with the faint tomato coming off it. A promise of fruit, the green bulbs just starting. As the summer progressed the smell grew more and more pungent. Sometimes she tore a leaf from the plant and took it inside her apartment so she could hold it to her nose and inhale. It relaxed her—such a fresh and earthy smell. How can something so new seem so deep? She knew Oz would appreciate the smell and the taste.

But Oz was not as interested in the food as she expected, as she was.

He was silent, and she was about to say that he didn't have to tell her or talk about this if he didn't want to. She was still figuring things all out, so she thought about it a lot. But instead of saying anything, she let her question hang in the space between them. She ate a bite of
the spaghetti. She waited. At last Oz leaned in a little and she heard him let out a long breath.

“My mother,” he said slowly, “my Italian mother made me the center of her world. My father was not around, and I was with her constantly. She talked to me, sang to me, and read to me all the time. That was how I learned what blindness was—from the books. We would read about what the little bear saw, and I would ask what that meant. She would try to explain. ‘Some people can get the shape of something without touching it.' She didn't overdo it. She didn't tell me more than I needed. She would read a thing and then let me feel it. I didn't mind. At a certain point, she revealed that ‘some' people were actually ‘most' people.”

Oz put his hand on hers. This was not an overtly sexual gesture. It was that being together and not seeing meant more touching, more body communication. The usual way Oz talked—affectedly easy, slangy, slightly stoned—seemed to fall away as he spoke. She knew that meant something. His voice was soft and low, so she had to lean in to hear him.

“But the big boom for me, the first fall in my life was not that I was missing this thing that most others had, but when I asked the question that she had avoided. It took me longer than you might have guessed for me to think to ask this, but it is hard to imagine your mother as really separate from you. It takes time, it takes a moment—a number of moments—of frustration when she doesn't understand you to even imagine that she is not part of you. That she isn't you.” Jelly listened very carefully, but he hesitated, stopped telling her the story.

She watched the white blur of Oz pick up his wineglass and take a swallow. Wine was sour and red wine made your lips pucker and feel like they had an edge to them. Red wine found rough surfaces
and emphasized them. A crack or dry spot on your lips, patchiness on the surface of your tongue. It surprised her that she was thinking of his mouth and what it would be like to kiss him. She didn't think she felt attracted to him, not yet, but she kept imagining this kiss. Their mouths would both be rough and sour from wine.

She could have said, “What happened?” or “Then what?” But her instinct told her to wait. She knew that would give him room to talk. She should not—could not—rush him.

“One day,” Oz said at last, “I sat on her lap as she read. I could feel the words vibrate in her chest, and I felt the smooth pages in front of us. I realized that she got the stories from the page, the smooth pages that gave me nothing. I guess I had known that for a while. But now it all came together. I interrupted her, ‘But Mama, can you see?' and she had to admit that, yes, she could see. She was not like me, and I was not like her. I was blind, and she was not.”

Jelly reached out her other hand and placed it on his. Still she did not speak, but he understood her reaction to his story. He could feel it in the heat of her hand, hear it in the slight change in her breath. He leaned in so his face was next to hers, and they were breathing close, with their mouth and hair smells next to the food and room smells. He would kiss her, she knew, but for now they were almost motionless. She heard a murmur from one of them. Then she realized that it wouldn't just be a kiss, that they would keep going until they were naked and their bodies entwined. They would hungrily touch every part of each other, and she felt—even before the kiss—breathless and almost faint. She tried not to talk or even think. She tried to stop. She wanted to be still.