Number 8 (11 page)

Jackson introduces Lilly and Mitch and goes into the living room. I smile at Valerie and together we watch Lilly as she follows, swaying across the cork floor, her hips pausing for just a beat at the left and right. A sarong, flecked with golden thread to match her bikini swings gracefully over her perfect bottom. Valerie grins back at me and ruffles my hair. I know it's stiff with salt.

“Oooh, the beach,” says Valerie and leans down to bury her nose in the top of my head. “I love that smell. Sand squeaking under your toes, skin toasty, white salt tracks drying on your legs—”

“Fish and french fries—”

“Sunsets falling into the water, salty kisses.” Valerie stops and wrinkles her nose. “Sorry, I got carried away. Was it lovely at the beach? How did Jackson do? We haven't lived near the beach you know since his dad…”

“It was a great day,” I tell her quickly. “Jackson caught some waves—he was really fine.”

“Jackson did?” Valerie's smile opens up, disappearing her eyes. She reminds me of Jackson after he'd ridden his first wave.

“Yeah,” I feel my own grin widen with pride. I can tell how happy she is because her face transforms for a second, and she doesn't look tired anymore.

“I'm so glad he has you as a friend,” she says softly. “He's very lucky.”

We beam at each other and I'm about to say to Valerie
that she should go to the beach more often, in fact why doesn't she come with us next time, when Jackson calls from the living room.

“Esmerelda? What are you doing?”

“He sounds a bit desperate,” laughs Valerie. “Go on, honey. I might go back and lie down. Don't know why I'm so tired.”

In the living room Jackson and Mitch are sitting on either end of the sofa, not saying anything. Jackson is tapping out a nervous rhythm on his knee. I can hear him clearing his throat. I wonder if he's getting ready for one of his coughs. Lilly is drifting around the room, picking up things and putting them down. She yawns and looks up at me.

“Jackson's mom is a singer, you know,” I tell her. “Did you see the mike and amp? They've got all sorts of instruments here.” I start to babble, I don't know why. Now that she's here, I somehow want to impress her, make her see what an incredible world she's walked into.

Lilly looks around and shrugs. She's holding a photo of Valerie wearing a baseball cap with her hair all tucked up inside it, and a man's shirt. She stares at it blankly for a moment, and puts it down. It's a funny thing but Lilly seems to have absolutely no curiosity. Why is your mother dressed as a man? she could ask Jackson. Isn't that the Empire State building in the background? Did you take the photo? What's America like? But Lilly just moves on. I think of the green caterpillars on Mom's gardenia bush, the way they just munch and fill and move on to the next leaf, without ever a backward glance.

I show Lilly the amp and mike in case she's missed them, and the keyboard and guitar.

“Mmm,” she says, picking up the guitar. “My cousin's got
an electric bass, brand new. It cost one thousand three hundred and ninety-nine dollars. And he got a new amp, too, really loud, excellent quality. It's a Fallen Angel, you know? With built-in reverb and boost option. Top of the range. But he's a professional, so I guess…”

She lies the guitar down on the sofa next to Mitch and touches his knee. “You haven't met my cousin Jason yet, have you, Mitch? He's away a lot, touring. You should see his place, it's so cool, he's got this stereo system that cost five thousand dollars, it'd blow your head off.”

We sit for a while, staring at the air, and then Valerie wanders in.

“I suppose you're all hungry after a day at the beach,” she says, looking around the room. “Jackson? Have you asked your friends if they want something to eat?”

Mitch looks up at her hopefully.

“Oh, don't worry, Mrs. Ford,” says Lilly, “we pigged out at the beach.” She pats her stomach. “I've eaten enough for two weeks!”

Valerie frowns. “Don't think I've got anything very interesting in the fridge, actually.” She closes her eyes for a moment, and I notice the dark smudges under her eyes. It could be smeared mascara, but it looks more like weariness to me. When she opens her eyes I notice they are veiny and red. My mother looks like that when she hasn't slept.

“But you boys ought to eat something…” Valerie says, looking at Mitch.

“I'll go to the store and get a few pastries, okay?” I say. “It's on me, I've got money.”

Mitch's eyes dance.

Valerie starts to say no, then changes her mind. Energy just seems to drain out of her. “Thanks, love, that'd be great.”

“I'll come with you,” Jackson turns to me, starting to get up.

“You've got guests, honey,” says Valerie. “Ez won't be long.”

I charge off up the street. I'm glad to be alone for a bit. There's so much to walk off, so much to think about. The hill climbs steeply and the sun is blaring full in my face. My T-shirt is sticking to my back as I pass Badman's house.

Ivy grows wild over his fence, jungle green and bushy, curling out toward the sidewalk like a forest. My mother always sniffs at it, shaking her head. “Needs a good trim. So neglected-looking, that house. Such a shame.” Mom says the ivy problem is because Badman's father has gone off to New Zealand and no one has time to look after things anymore. I like the ivy. It's a spot of wilderness in suburbia, a green pause in the rush of things.

I slow my pace, dawdling under the ivy shade. I lean my back against the wall for a moment and in the quiet a tumble of notes float out toward me. Badman must be tuning up. He licks through an E-minor scale. Sounds like water flowing up a set of steps. A streak of excitement shivers through me. Then three chords crash through the air and I feel as if my body might split open. “Smoke on the Water.” That chord progression goes straight to your heart, bypassing your brain. I close my eyes and my legs start to thump in time against the wall. How many watts does
his
amp have, I wonder.

I sink back into the ivy, curling the darkness around me. Badman veers off the main track of the song and slides into a moody guitar riff that lifts the hair off the back of my neck. The rhythm is quickening, climbing higher. I can imagine his fingers flying on the neck of his guitar. The high notes
are a scream, stinging like a cut in lemon juice, scraping the skin off the back of your throat. I'm singing for him, about fire burning in the sky, making the gravel rust in my throat. In the dark under my lids I weave my voice into his notes, becoming the treble to his rhythm. Another riff morphs into Led Zeppelin's “Whole Lotta Love,” climbing into “Stairway to Heaven.” His playing comes at you like wave sets and you keep diving under, into the trance of his music. He must be going under, too, because I hear his voice let loose, roaring with the guitar. His pitch is terrible, raw and wild and out of key, but somehow it swells the fever just right as he starts to punch the power chords of a heavy metal song, “Tainted Love.” My heart is the pulse of his song and suddenly I feel a longing that's almost unbearable. I want to sing out loud, wrap myself in that music, be inside it, not outside, looking in…

“Bruce, will you turn that thing down! Damn noise, can't hear myself think!”

There's sudden quiet, so thick you could slice through it with a knife. A door slams, final as a pistol shot.

I walk on quickly, starting to run.

Jackson cuts the apple Danish and cherry strudels in halves, and arranges them on a plate. We bring them into the living room and sit around munching. No one seems to have much to say. I can hear Mitch's jaws moving, and Jackson's swallow. But mostly, like a soundtrack to a movie in my head, I can hear the sting of Badman's guitar.

“Anyone want a cup of tea?” calls Valerie from the kitchen.

Lilly and I do, and when Valerie brings them in, perching on the arm of Jackson's chair with her mug, I ask her if we
can hear some of her soul music. “Aretha Franklin or Wilson Pickett or that Otis guy, whoever,” I say.

Lilly looks at me strangely.

“What about Bo Diddley, ever heard of him?” Valerie asks me. “He played his guitar like it was drums. Had a back beat he called
sanctified.
It was, I guess—he got it from the black churches of America. You know, gospel music. There were drums, saxes, singing—in church people went into trances, got happy the way you see people do on the dance floor or at a concert—”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “We don't need a lecture, Mom. Why don't you go back and lie down. You look really tired.” He's squirming there on the sofa.

Valerie grins at him. “I seem to have woken up.”

“And that black gospel music really started in Africa, didn't it?” I put in, ignoring Jackson. I just wanted to dive back into music again—talk it, hear it.

“Yes,” nods Valerie. “Way back, Africans were brought to America to work as slaves—they had no rights, no possessions, but boy, did they bring their music! No one could take that away from them. And drumming in Africa has a whole other dimension, you know—it's a way of communicating and helping people get close to their gods. There are these sacred drums, called
bat'a—
”

“Oh, Mom not the
bat'a
thing again, no one wants to know—”

“
I
do,” I snap.

“Well, in Africa these
bat'a
drums act like signals to the gods to come on down and get with the people. The drummers can shift their rhythms to guide a dancer into a particular trance. It's amazing. And you know that hypnotic beat in rock music? Same kind of thing. Back in the sixties
a lot of white people in America were scared of it. Said rock music was voodoo—you know, African magic, and it was hypnotizing their children on the dance floor. Ha! They wouldn't let black music be played on radio stations, said it was dangerous—”

“Did you know we sang ‘Oops! … I Did It Again' for the concert tryouts?” Lilly says to Valerie. “We really hope we get in, they haven't told us yet. I think it's tomorrow we hear. Do you know the song? It's by Britney Spears?”

Valerie just opens her eyes very wide.

Lilly lets out a squeal. “Oh, Ez, why don't we show Mrs. Ford! We could do the song right here!”

And show off for the boys, is what she means. I couldn't think of anything I'd rather do less.

“We don't have the backup song here,” I say.

“Oh, I could probably pick out the notes for you,” says Valerie. “Hum it and we'll see.”

Lilly stares at me.
Go on,
her eyes say.

I press my lips together hard. There's an agonizing silence.

Then Lilly starts to hum, faint as the fly buzzing behind the sliding glass door. She's turning red, her mouth quivering. I can't bear it any longer. I pick it up and we hum the first few phrases.

“Okay,” says Valerie. “Got it.” She plays it through on the keyboard, adding rhythmic chords and flourishes. She could make the Lord's Prayer rock.

“Stand
up,
” Lilly whispers to me. She prances into a spot in front of the boys. I drag my feet after her.

“One two three
four!
” Valerie counts, and we start to sing.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Lilly starting up all the
dance routine hand-waving garbage as well. I keep my fists bunched tight in my pockets.

When we finish, the boys clap politely.

“Very sweet,” smiles Valerie. “Have you ever tried harmonizing?”

“No,” says Lilly, annoyed. She wanted straight praise. Her mouth pulls down at the corners.

But Valerie doesn't seem to notice. “Listening to other performers can really help grow your singing,” she says earnestly. She starts sorting through the CDs near the stereo. “Have you listened to any a capella groups—you know, voices singing in harmony? Each voice acts like a different instrument, or the chords of a guitar. If you have more people, you can even sing percussion.”

Mitch laughs, nudging me. “Remember that song ‘Kookaburra Sits in an Old Gum Tree'? We had to sing it in rounds in third grade. Badman kept messing it up. But even without Badman, it was really hard. I put my fingers in my ears to shut out the others but then I lost track of where everyone else was up to—”

“And Mrs. Hatfield threw the chalk at you,” I add.

Valerie nods. “It
is
hard, but worth it. You have to learn how to keep your own melody, while listening to the others. It's a bit like life, really.” She sifts through the CDs. “Listen to this now, The Supremes—their harmonies are divine, gives you goosebumps.”

Jackson groans as the first bars of “My Guy” begin. He's caught Lilly's raised eyebrow and he's wriggling again on his chair. “I don't think everyone is into the time warp, Mom.”

But Valerie has her eyes closed, listening.

When the song is over, she says to Lilly, “Do you see
what I mean? But you'd do that with
your
song, of course. One of you could take the melody and the other do the harmony—you know the other part of the chord. So for example Ez may be singing in A, you in C. It's like a weaving, two strands dancing with each other.”

Lilly stands up and stretches. She gives a loud yawn right in Valerie's face and goes over to the sliding glass doors leading out to the garden. “Do you have someone to mow your lawn, Mrs. Ford? The grass is very long, isn't it? My mother has this boy Richard come every two weeks. He's pretty cheap. We could give you his number if you want.”

I stare down at the carpet. There's a stain the shape of Tasmania near my feet. Red wine, it looks like.

Lilly steps out into the garden and wanders over to the mango tree. Mitch gets up, too, pretending to stretch his legs, and follows her.

Jackson snorts into the silence. “There's harmony for you—drives people away. You might not have any trouble keeping your own tune, Mom, but do you know how to listen to others?”