The Gravedigger's Daughter Part 36

He, him. This was Daddy-must-not-be-named.

Now that Hazel Jones was an usherette at the movie theater, she had a way of speaking in mimicry of certain Hollywood actresses. As Hazel Jones she could allude to things that Zack's mother would not wish to allude to. There was Mommy who'd had another name in that time living in the big old farmhouse on the Poor Farm Road close by the ca.n.a.l where he'd played and there was Daddy who'd had a name not to be recalled for Mommy now would be very upset, he lived in dread of upsetting Mommy.

There is Mommy now. Mommy will be all to you now.

And so whatever Hazel Jones said in her airy insouciant way was somehow not "real" yet it could be used as a vehicle for "real" speech. As one might speak through the mouth of a mask hidden by the mask.

The other game was the fearful game. For he could never be certain that it was a game.

Sometimes on the street. Sometimes in a store. In any public place. He would sense his mother's sudden apprehension, the way she froze in mid-speech, or squeezed his hand so that it hurt, staring at someone whom he, Zack, had not yet seen. And might not see. His mother might decide no, there was no danger, or his mother might suddenly panic and push him into a doorway, pull him into a store and hurry with him to the rear exit, paying no heed to others staring at them, the white-faced young mother and her child half-running as if in fear of their lives.

Always it happened so quickly. Zack could not resist. He would not have wished to resist. There was such strength in Mommy's desperation.

Once, she'd pushed him down behind a parked car. Tried clumsily to s.h.i.+eld him with her body.

"Niley! I love you."

His old name, baby-name. Mommy had uttered it without realizing in her panic. Later he would realize that Mommy had expected to be killed, this was her farewell to him.

Or, she'd expected him to be killed.

Only a few times did Zack actually see the man his mother saw. He was tall, broad-backed. In profile, or turned away from them entirely. His face wasn't clear. His hair was close-cropped, glinting gray. Once he was coming out of the Malin Head Inn, pausing beneath the marquee to light a cigarette. He wore a sport coat, a necktie. Another time he was just outside the IGA as Mommy and Zack were leaving with their shopping cart so that Mommy had to reverse her direction, panicked, colliding with another customer just behind them.

(The cart containing their meager groceries, they'd had to abandon in their haste to escape by a rear exit. Fortunately by this time Hazel Jones was known to the IGA manager and her groceries would be set aside for her to retrieve the next morning.) Zack was left shaken, frightened by these encounters. For he knew that any one of them might be he, him. And that he and Mommy would be punished for whatever it was they'd done, he would never forgive.

Back in the apartment, Mommy would pull down all the window blinds. At dusk she would switch on only a single lamp. Zack would help her drag their heaviest chair in front of the door that was locked, and double-locked. Neither would have much appet.i.te for supper that evening and afterward practicing piano at the make-believe keyboard, Zack would be distracted hearing behind the sharp clear notes and chords of the imagined piano a man's upraised voice incredulous and furious and not-to-be-placated by even a child's abject terror.

"It wasn't him, Zack. I don't think so. Not this time."

Hunched over the make-believe keyboard. His fingers striking the paper keys. The piano sound would drive out the other sound, if his fingers did not weaken.

In the morning, the pebbles on the windowsill.

If it was a clear day, suns.h.i.+ne flooded through the gla.s.s making the pebbles hot to the touch. Zack would realize the pebble-game was not a game merely. It was real as Daddy was real, though invisible.

Mommy would not allude to what had happened the day before, or had almost happened. That was a rule of the game. Hugging him and giving him a smacking wet kiss saying in her brisk Hazel Jones voice to make him smile, "Got through the night! I knew we would."

A curious variant on the Game of He/Him gradually evolved. This was Zack's game entirely, with Zack's rules.

By chance, Zack would sight the man, not Mommy. A man who closely enough resembled the man of whom they could not speak, yet somehow it happened that Mommy did not see him. Zack would wait, with mounting tension Zack would wait for Mommy to see this man, and to react; and if Mommy did not, or, seeing the man, took no special notice of him, Zack would feel something snap in his brain, he would lose control suddenly, pus.h.i.+ng into his mother, nudging her.

"Zack? What's wrong?"

Zack seemed furious suddenly. Pus.h.i.+ng her, striking with his fists.

"Butwhat is it? Honey"

By this time the danger might have pa.s.sed. The man, the stranger, had turned a corner, disappeared. Possibly there'd been no man: Zack had imagined him. Yet, in childish fury, Zack drew back his lip, baring his teeth. It was a facial mannerism of his father's, to see it in the child was a terrifying sight.

"You missed him! You never saw him! I saw him! He could walk right up to you and blam! blam! blam! shoot you in the face and blam! he'd shoot me and you couldn't stop him! I hate you."

In astonishment Hazel Jones stared at her raging son. She could not speak.

9.

Stunned. Struck to the heart. Somehow her son had known, his father had owned a gun.

Somehow, the son had memorized certain of the father's expressions. That look of disgust. That look of righteous fury, you dared not approach even to touch in helpless love.

10.

Fallin' in love with love.

Savin' all my love. For you.

It was in the early winter of 1962 that he began to see the young woman in the smoky piano bar of the Malin Head Inn. Where he was CHET GALLAGHER JAZZ PIANO advertised in a blown-up glossy photo on display in the hotel lobby.

At first half-disbelieving his eyes, it could be her. The usherette from the Bay Palace Theater.

The one whose name Gallagher had learned from his friend who managed the theater. ( Though he had not made use of this information, and vowed he would not.) She arrived early at the piano bar, about 8 P.M. Sat alone at one of the small round zinc-topped tables beside the wall. Left before the lounge became really crowded, shortly after 10 P.M. Always she was alone. Conspicuously alone. Declining offers of drinks from other, male patrons. Declining offers of company from other, male patrons. She smiled, to soften her refusal. You could see that she was resolved to listen to the jazz pianist, not to be drawn into conversation with a stranger.

Each time, she ordered two drinks. She did not smoke. She sat watching Gallagher, attentively. Her applause was quicker and more enthusiastic than the applause of most of the other patrons as if she wasn't accustomed to applauding in a public place.

"Hazel Jones."

He mouthed the name to himself. He smiled, it was so innocent and naive a name. Purely American.

The first time Gallagher saw her had been one of his brooding evenings. Picking his way through Thelonious Monk's "Round About Midnight." Minimalist, meditative. Like making your way through the dream of another person and it's easy to lose your way. Gallagher loved Monk. There was a side of him that was Monk. Unyielding, maybe a little cranky. Eccentric. Beautiful music Gallagher believed it, this very cool black jazz. He wanted so badly for others to hear it as he did. To care about it as he did.

That's the problem. To be supremely cool, you don't care. But Gallagher cared.

It's her. Is it her?

A woman by herself in the Piano Bar. You expect a man to join her, but no one does. This striking young woman in what appeared to be a c.o.c.ktail dress of some cheaply glamorous dark red material threaded with silver. Her hair was feathery and floating at the nape of her neck. She smiled vaguely about her not seeing the frank stares of men and as the waiter approached she looked up at him, appealing. As if to ask Is it all right, that I am here? I hope I am welcome.

Gallagher fumbled a few notes. Finished the meandering Monk piece to scattered applause and his agile fingers leapt to something more animated, rhythmic, s.e.xy-urgent "I Can't Give You Anything But Love, Baby." Which Gallagher hadn't played in a very long time.

Hadn't realized he'd been thinking of her. "Hazel Jones." In a way, he resented thinking of any woman. He'd have thought that he was beyond that, the tight hot sensation in his chest and groin. Since The Miracle Worker that summer he'd returned to the Bay Palace Theater only once; and that evening he hadn't allowed himself to seek out the pretty usherette, to inveigle her into speaking with him. No, no! Afterward he'd been proud of himself for avoiding her.

The compulsion to be happy only complicates life. Gallagher had had enough of complications.

That night, Gallagher took his break without glancing out at the young woman. He walked quickly away. When he returned, her table was occupied by someone else.

Too bad. But just as well.

Had to ask the waiter what the young woman had been drinking and was told c.o.ke on ice. She'd left a thirty-five-cent tip, dimes and nickels.

This curious phase of Chet Gallagher's life: woke up one morning to find himself an affable small-town eccentric who played jazz piano at the Malin Head Inn, Wednesday/Thursday/Friday evenings. (Sat.u.r.day was a country-and-western dance combo.) He lived in a small wood-frame house near the riverfront, sometimes drove out to the family camp on Grindstone Island for a few days in seclusion. It was off-season in the Thousand Islands, there were few tourists. Locals who lived year-round on the islands were not exactly sociable. Not long ago Gallagher might have brought a woman friend to stay with him on the island. In an earlier phase, the woman would have been his wife. But no longer.

Too d.a.m.ned much trouble to be shaving every morning. Too much trouble to be warmly humorous, "upbeat."

The compulsion to be upbeat only exhausts. He knew!

Gallagher's family lived on the farther side of the state, in Albany and vicinity. In their own intense world of exclusivity, family "destiny." He hadn't spoken to any of them in months and not to his father since the previous Fourth of July, at the Grindstone camp.

And so he'd become an entertainer in the sometime hire of the Malin Head Inn, whose owner was a friend of Gallagher's, a longtime acquaintance of his father Thaddeus Gallagher. The Malin Head was the largest resort hotel in the area, but in the off-season only about a fifth of its rooms were occupied even on weekends. Gallagher played piano Hoagy Carmichael style, loose-jointed frame hunched over the keyboard, long agile fingers ranging up and down the keys like making love, cigarette drooping from his lips. Didn't sing like Carmichael but frequently hummed, laughed to himself. In jazz there are many private jokes. Gallagher was an impa.s.sioned interpreter of the music of Duke Ellington, Fats Waller, Monk. In the Piano Bar, he received requests for "Begin the Beguine," "Happy Birthday to You," "Battle Hymn of the Republic," "Cry." Smiled his fleeting polite smile and continued playing the music he liked, with strains of cruder music woven in. He was versatile, playful. Good-natured. Not mocking and not malicious. A man of youthful middle age whom most other men liked, and to whom some women were powerfully attracted. And not often drunk.

Some nights, Gallagher drank only tonic water on ice, spiked with lime gratings. Tall gla.s.s beading with moisture on the piano top, ashtray beside it.

Gallagher had local admirers. Some drove up from Watertown. Not many, but a few. They came to hear chet gallagher jazz piano, they were mostly men, like himself unmarried, formerly married, separated. Men losing their hair, gone flaccid at the waist, stark-eyed, needing to laugh. Needing sympathy. Men for whom "Stormy Weather," "Mood Indigo," "St. James Infirmary," "Night Train" made perfect sense. There were a few local women who liked jazz, but only a few. ( For how could you dance to "Brilliant Corners"? You could not.) The hotel guests were a mixed bag, especially during the tourist season. Sometimes there were true jazz enthusiasts. Most often, not. Customers came into the lounge to drink, smoke. Listened a while, became restless and departed for the less restrained atmosphere of the tap room where there was a jukebox. Or they stayed. They drank, and they stayed. Sometimes they talked loudly, laughed. They were not intentionally rude, they were supremely indifferent. You couldn't help but know, if you were Chet Gallagher, that they were disrespectful of the musical culture that meant so much to him, Gallagher wasn't so d.a.m.ned affable he didn't feel the sting of insult not to himself but to the music. Privileged white sonsofb.i.t.c.hes he thought them, having eased into the dark subversive skin of jazz.

It was one of the things his father detested in him. An old story between them. Gallagher's politics, his "pinko""Commie"tendencies. Soft-hearted about Negroes, voted for Kennedy not Nixon, Stevenson not Eisenhower, Truman not Dewey back in '48.

That had been the supreme insult: Truman not Dewey. Thaddeus Gallagher was an old friend of Dewey's, he'd given plenty of money to Dewey's campaign.

Lucky for Gallagher he didn't drink much any longer. When his thoughts swerved in certain directions, he could feel his temperature rise. Privileged white sonsofb.i.t.c.hes he'd been surrounded by most of his life. f.u.c.k what do you care. You don't care. The music doesn't depend on you. A privileged white sonofab.i.t.c.h yourself, face it, Gallagher. What you do at the piano is not serious. Nothing you do is serious. A man without a family, not serious. Playing piano at the Malin Head isn't a real job only something you do with your time. As your life isn't a real life any longer only something you do with your time.

"Blue Moon" he was playing. Slow, melancholy. Maudlin raised to its highest pitch. It was mid-December, a snow-flurried evening. Languid flakes blown out of the black sky above the St. Lawrence River. Gallagher never allowed himself to expect Hazel Jones to turn up in the Piano Bar as he never allowed himself to expect anyone to turn up. She'd come several times, and departed early. Always alone. He had to wonder if she worked alternate Friday evenings at the Bay Palace or maybe she'd quit altogether. He'd made inquiries and knew that ushering paid pitifully little. Maybe he could help her find better employment.

His friend who managed the Bay Palace had told him that Hazel was from somewhere downstate. She knew no one in the area. She was somewhat secretive but an excellent worker, very reliable. Always friendly, or friendly-seeming. Very good selling tickets. "Personality plus." That smile! Good with troublesome (male) patrons. You hired a good-looking girl to fill out the usherette uniform but you didn't want trouble. Unlike the other female ushers Hazel Jones didn't become upset when (male) patrons behaved aggressively with her. She spoke calmly to them, smiled and eased away to call the manager. Never raised her voice. The way a man might do, not letting on what he's feeling. Like Hazel is older than she looks. She's been through more. Anything now is chicken s.h.i.+t to her.

Gallagher glanced out into the smoky lounge, saw a young woman just coming in, heading for an empty table near the wall. Her!

He smiled to himself. He made no eye contact with her. He felt good! Improvising, liking how his lean fingers flashed. He eased from "Blue Moon" to "Honeysuckle Rose" playing vintage Ellington for one who he guessed knew little of jazz, still less of Ellington. Badly wanting her to hear, to know. The yearning he felt. Thinking She came to me. To me! In a showy run of notes to the top of the keyboard Chet Gallagher fell in love with the woman known to him as Hazel Jones.

At his break, Gallagher went directly to her table.

Looming over the surprised young woman who'd clapped with such childlike enthusiasm.

He thanked her, said he'd been noticing her. Introduced himself, as if she wouldn't have known his name. And stooped to hear the name she told him: "'Hazel'what? I didn't quite hear."

"Hazel Jones."

Gallagher laughed with the pleasure of a thief fitting a key into a lock.

"Mind if I join you for a few minutes, Hazel Jones?"

He could see that she was flattered he'd approached her. Other patrons had been waiting to speak with the pianist but he'd brushed past them heedless. Yet Gallagher would recall afterward to his chagrin that Hazel Jones had hesitated, staring at him. Smiling, but her eyes had gone slightly flat. Maybe she was alarmed by him, looming over her so suddenly. He was six foot three, whippet-lean and loose-jointed and his high balding dome of a head glowed warm with the effort of his stint at the piano; his eyes were shadowy, kindly but intense. Hazel Jones had no choice but to move her chair to make room for him. The zinc-topped table was small, their knees b.u.mped beneath.

Close up, Gallagher saw that the young woman's face was carefully made up, her mouth very red. Hers was a poster-face at the Bay Palace. And she was wearing the c.o.c.ktail dress made of some dark red glittery fabric that fitted her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and shoulders tightly. The upper sleeves were puffed, the wrists tight. In the smoky twilight of the c.o.c.ktail lounge she exuded an air both s.e.xual and apprehensive. Politely she declined Gallagher's offer to buy her something stronger than c.o.ke: "Thank you, Mr. Gallagher. But I have to leave soon."

He laughed, hurt. Protested, "Please call me Chet, Hazel. 'Mr. Gallagher' is my sixty-seven-year-old father way off in Albany."

Their conversation was wayward, clumsy. Like climbing into a canoe with a stranger, and no oars. Exhilarating and also treacherous. Yet Gallagher heard himself laughing. And Hazel Jones laughed, so he must have been amusing.

How flattered a man is, that a woman should laugh at his jokes!

How childlike in his soul, wis.h.i.+ng to trust a woman. Because she is attractive, and young. Because she is alone.

Gallagher had to concede, he was excited by Hazel Jones. In the Bay Palace in her ridiculous uniform, now in the Piano Bar in her glittery-red c.o.c.ktail dress. Her eyebrows were less heavy than he recalled, she must have plucked and shaped them. Her hair was cut in feathery, floating layers, like a loose cap on her head. Brunette, streaked with russet-red highlights. And her skin very pale. It was like leaning toward an open flame, leaning toward Hazel Jones. The sensation Gallagher felt was tinged with dread for he was not a young man, hadn't been a young man for a long time, and these feelings were those he'd had as a young man and they were a.s.sociated with hurt, disappointment.

Yet, here was Hazel Jones smiling at him. She, too, was edgy, nervous. Unlike other women of Gallagher's wide acquaintance, Hazel seemed to speak without subterfuge. There was something missing in her, Gallagher decided: the mask-like veneer, the scrim of will that came between him and so many women, his former wife, certain of his lovers, his sisters from whom he was estranged. With girlish aplomb Hazel was telling him that she admired his "piano playing"though jazz was "hard to follow, to see where it's going." Surprising him by saying that she'd used to listen to jazz music on a late-night program on a Buffalo radio station, years ago.

Immediately Gallagher identified the program: "Zack Zacharias" on WBEN.

Hazel seemed surprised, Gallagher knew the program. Gallagher had to resist telling her that late-night jazz programming on a number of stations through the state was his, Chet Gallagher's idea. WBEN was an affiliate of Gallagher Media, one of the stronger urban stations.

"Do you know him? 'Zack Zacharias'? I always wondered if he wasyou know, Negro."

Delicately Hazel enunciated the word: Ne-gro. As if to be Ne-gro was a kind of invalidism.

Gallagher laughed. "His name isn't 'Zack Zacharias' and he's no more Negro than I am. But he knows good jazz, the program is in its ninth year."

Hazel smiled, as if confused. He didn't want to seem to be laughing at her.

"You're from Buffalo, are you?"

"No."

"But western New York, right? I can hear the accent."

Hazel smiled again, uncertainly. Accent? She had never heard the flat nasal vowels, herself.

Gallagher didn't want to make her self-conscious. She was so vulnerable, trusting.

"Why've you come so far north? Malin Head Bay? Must've come here in the summer, yes?"

"Yes."

"D'you know people here? Relatives?"

This blunt question Hazel seemed not to hear. Surprising Gallagher with a remark he'd have had to take as flirtatious, from another woman: "You haven't been back to the movies for a long time, Mr. Gallagher. At least, I haven't seen you."