AT 29 Page 14
It was nearing six when he pulled into Skip’s. Vermont, and especially its more rural areas, buttoned up tight on Sunday evenings, but Skip kept his restaurant open three hundred and forty four days a year, from six in the morning for breakfast, through lunch and dinner, and on until midnight. The other twenty-one days were reserved for the last three weeks of January when Skip went to Florida for two and spent the other ice fishing on Lake Memphremagog, another serene body of water that marked the divide with Canada. Along with an old fashioned menu that featured meatloaf and traditional turkey dinners, staying open eighteen hours a day with a huge neon sign to prove it, were Skip’s trademarks. In addition to the restaurant, there were two other buildings; an ice cream stand, fronting Route 12 where teenagers took orders from behind sliding screen doors, and further back, a roadhouse on the shore of Lake Memphremagog. There was nothing fancy about Skip’s complex, but it was comfortable and welcoming. It was also Jimmy’s place of employment for two years, on weekends and through the summers, until his graduation from Saint Virgil’s.
He sat behind the wheel, surveying the three buildings. He hadn’t been back since graduation, not even when he bolted Blossom following his disagreement with Daisy’s arrogant record producer. That sojourn, five years earlier, never made it beyond Burlington, where Cindy found him. He had his reasons for never coming back.
He recalled his first month onstage in front of a handful of crusty dairy farmers, drinking rye and ginger. Like now, it was late May, at the end of his sophomore year at Saint Virgil’s. Skip’s upright piano needed tuning. Jimmy played around the sour keys for two weeks before his boss spent the money to make it ring true. Next to the piano was a stool at center stage where he positioned himself when it was time to take up the Gibson. The disinterested locals didn’t seem to care about the young kid or his music. He wanted to quit after the first week. Skip was enthusiastic in his rough-edged way.
“These ain’t the people,” he said, firmly. “Farmers don’t care about music, but in another month, when the season gets going, I’m expecting you to fill the place.”
So he played on, three hours a night for weeks, until the hall gradually filled with a different group of patrons. By the end of June, vacationers arrived from New York, Boston and Montreal, families, couples, a few college students home from distant schools and even seasonal farm hands and granite cutters, strong young men who gathered together for a few beers after a long day. By July fourth, word got around about the new kid playing at Skip’s roadhouse. The Newport Daily Express and Caledonia Record wrote articles about him, no doubt a quid pro quo for Skip’s ad revenue. Dinner goers moved from the restaurant to the roadhouse, ordered drinks and extended their evenings, just as Skip had foretold. He wondered if his old boss would be at his familiar station, waiting to escort customers to a table for dinner.
The owner jumped out from behind the stand where he kept his reservation book. He put his arm around Jimmy’s shoulders, squeezing tight.
“My God, Jimmy Buckman, after all this time!”
“How are you, Skip?” Jimmy smiled.
“All the better for seeing you.”
“I’m in Vermont for a few days. I had to stop in.”
“Well sure. It’s been too long, big star from the city.”
“Just a hungry guy who knows where to get a good meal.”
“Nothing but the best for you.” Skip stepped back and raised his hand, beckoning a young waitress from several feet away. “Betsy, give this guy a table and set a place for me, too. Then bring us a coupla Johnny Walkers.” He turned back to Jimmy. “Let me get someone to cover, then I’ll be over.”
Jimmy took his place at the table. A few minutes later Skip crossed the room and pulled out a chair. He was a heavy man with sandy hair and a swarthy complexion. Jimmy took in the changes the years had made. He was in his fifties with silver strands mixed in along his temples. He wore reading glasses on a string around his neck, lifting them to his eyes whenever he had to study words on paper. There were new wrinkles around his eyes. Skip’s appearance was no longer youthful.
Betsy arrived, tray in hand, with two extra large glasses of scotch on the rocks. Skip wasn’t one for having his bartenders measure out careful shots. When she finished placing the drinks on the table, she took a menu from under her arm and handed it to Jimmy. She already knew Skip would be getting his regular turkey dinner. Taking the menu from her hand, Jimmy eyed the tumbler of scotch. His mouth watered expectantly. He didn’t know how to tell Skip he was off the stuff without hurting his feelings. After all, it was Skip who introduced it to him.
The conversation started after they raised a toast. Jimmy stealthily touched his glass to his lips without drinking. The typical questions came rapid fire, ‘How have you been? What brings you back?’ Then, after Jimmy ordered the same turkey dinner, the next two hours were filled with the reminiscences each had anticipated from the moment they met at the door. Throughout the banter, Jimmy let his mind travel back.
Skip came to see him play one night in February during one of those ferocious cold snaps that Vermonters take in stride. The fragile old Corvair needed a jump-start before Jimmy could make the six-mile ride to the Rathskeller coffee house in North Troy. It was a small venue in the cellar of an old building on the tiny town’s short main street. Between sets, Jimmy bussed tables and added wood to the double-sided fireplace in the center of the room. Skip was seated alone at one of the tables near the fire, watching as Jimmy heaved a log into the flames.
“Got a minute?” Jimmy looked around, locating the voice as Skip thrust out a vacant chair with his foot. “You’ve got a nice way with your guitar.” Jimmy nodded, not sure where the conversation was going. “A friend of mine recommended you, said I should come by. You know him? Tim Rash, singer like you from up around here.”
“We played together once.”
“That’s what he said. Point is, I got a place over in Newport and I’d like you to come and perform for the summer. I’ll double what you’re getting here and throw in your meals. If you want to earn a little more you can cut grass and do some painting during the daytime, that part’s up to you. The music’s what I’m looking for mostly.”
Skip’s offer came at the right time. Two weeks earlier his father had driven up to Saint Virgil’s.
“I lost my job. We have enough for this semester but, with the doctor bills, I can’t cover your tuition after that. I’m sorry.”
The news of his father’s worsening cancer devastated Jimmy. For a year he watched the man suffer the effects of his treatments, struggling through horrific bouts of nausea while continuing to report for work everyday. Unwilling to give in and stubbornly determined to protect his wife and son from worry, he kept his spirits high, making them believe that all would be fine. Now, having lost his job, Jimmy sensed that some of the light had gone out. They closed the deal for a fulltime summer job. Eventually, it stretched year round for two years until graduation.
“So,” Jimmy asked, as Skip took a sip of his scotch. “Who’s playing the hall these days?”
“Younger crowd coming around. I’m trying some noisy kids. Not every night though, too loud for me.”
They talked on for another hour then shook hands. Skip walked him outside to the car. “So you’re up at Willoughby for a couple of days?”
“I’m going over to Burlington the day after tomorrow.”
“You made it big after you headed south from here. I followed you through Alice’s articles. Always liked to think I was the one who gave you your break.”
“You did.”
“Just so you know, the way you just up and left, well, that wasn’t exactly fair to some people.”
“You?”
“Naw. I was glad you took Tim’s advice and headed off to Boston. I just think you should have said good-bye here and there.”
“Peggy?”
“I’m not saying who exactly, just a little gentle advice. We all have to move on in life, but th
ere’s a right way and a wrong way to treat your friends when you do.” Skip tapped the door of the car. “Make sure you come back again soon. Maybe next time you’ll play a few songs for old times sake.”
Jimmy thought about Skip’s words on the dark drive back to his cabin. Of course, he knew who Skip meant. Peggy Limoges was Alice’s older sister. Alice was wild, but Peggy was her opposite, pensive, soft-spoken and deeply sensitive. Neither girl was beautiful, but they each had a depth that gave special meaning to the time spent with them. With Alice it was all about the music, how it was presented, ways to make it better, why it should be amped up. With Peggy it was all about the singer, who are you, what’s your philosophy, what’s your plan?
Seventeen
Aaron Whitehurst was twenty years old when his mother summoned him from the waves. He was a strong youth who reveled in all things physical, work or play. As he grew he helped on the farm, gradually taking over the most arduous chores and bringing the two hundred acres of cropland to greater production than any other farm in the region. The small family became prosperous, largely because of his remarkable ability to coax superior quality fruits, grains and vegetables from the land above Apollo Bay. In April, as the fall harvest burst forth, the family of four went into high gear. Aaron and his grandfather loaded wagon after wagon, carting their booty into the village where Melba’s idea for a marketplace had come to reality years earlier. Together with her mother-in law, who despite her increasing frailty, refused to slow down, Melba produced preserves and pickled vegetables that flew from the shelves into the hands of the sailors and merchants who populated the town. They commanded a fair price, but to those who flocked to the sprawling open-air shop, any price was acceptable because they knew there were few places anywhere in the world where such quality could be found.
This day was restful for Aaron. The year’s harvest and selling season had come to another lucrative end. He had several carefree weeks ahead when his time was his own and he could enjoy doing what he liked best, swimming in the pristine waters just west of the protected bay. Most times, he swam alone because not many of his friends cared to brave the frigid ocean. He admitted to himself that they were right about the cold, but after a few minutes his strong body adjusted and he could turn his attention to the waves as he looked for a special one to catch and ride into the shore. Despite the ocean’s roar, it was peaceful until he spied his mother, gesturing frantically from the shoreline, distress written on her face.
When he stepped from the water she came swiftly to his side with the news he knew would one day come. His grandmother had collapsed in the midst of doing one last chore, sweeping the market floor before its final closing for the season. It was Aaron’s mournful duty to fetch his grandfather at the farm. Although he knew it was imminent since the previous winter when his grandmother began to fail, he was still unprepared for the painful duty that awaited him when he set out for the farm. The devotion between the two elderly people who had been so loving and kind to Aaron and his mother was rock solid. He worried that his grandfather would be unable to withstand the loss of his cherished partner.
Few words were spoken between the two men as they traversed the rough road back to the village. Upon seeing Aaron’s grieved look when he entered the cottage, the old man knew his wife was gone. The warmhearted farmer did not cry, but neither did he speak, remaining stoic as the fields passed by. Aaron feared for his grandfather. He was anxious to deliver the man he loved as a father into the arms of his mother who would know how to comfort him.
Three days later, commerce stopped in the village at Apollo Bay. The area was not heavily populated with, perhaps, a thousand settlers over fifty square kilometers. But everyone who could make the trip and a few sailors, who knew of the family with the open-air market, attended the funeral. Speaking for her emotionally incapacitated father-in-law, Melba delivered a heart-warming eulogy. She traced the odyssey of her arrival in Australia, saved by her husband, a whaling captain who, himself, had been saved from an uncertain future by the loving kindness of the wonderful woman who had been taken from them and the strong man, now left to mourn. She described her decision to remain at the farm after it was clear that her husband would not return from the sea. A decision she knew was best for her newborn son because there was no place, other than with her own family, too far away in Nantucket, where she would find the nurturing love that this woman and her devoted husband gave so freely.
When it was time for Aaron to speak he ascended to the lectern and fixed his eyes upon his grandfather. He knew only strength from this man and he desperately wanted to maintain his composure. He hoped that he could find in the man’s sad face the dignity to speak his words without faltering, but it was no use. From the first utterance he stammered and was forced to fight against his terrible emotion. He gulped down sobs as he turned away to hide his face from the onlookers who began to cast their attention to the floor unable to help.
Several times he turned to look at his grandfather, only to be overcome again as he struggled to bring voice to his words. As the uncomfortable silence continued, Melba stirred in her place beside her father-in-law in the first pew. She raised her hand, beckoning her son to return, but the old man placed his hand on her arm and gently lowered it without taking his eyes from Aaron. Then he stood and in a strong voice, spoke for the first time since he was told of his wife’s death.
“Sing, Aaron. Sing to your grandmother. Let her hear you one last time.”
Aaron heard his grandfather’s command. From an early age, he had sung every Sunday in the chapel that that stood at the top the dusty thoroughfare in the village at Apollo Bay. No one who had ever heard him burst forth with inspirational ballads could help but be captivated by his sweet voice. His family and, in particular, his grandmother, urged him to sing at every opportunity. He did this gladly for the caring woman who always had a smile on her face whenever his voice met her ears.
He cast his nerves aside and turned to the waiting mourners. This time he did not look to his grandfather for strength. The command was enough. From memory, he summoned his grandmother’s favorite melody, one created with her in mind by her son, Nathan, long before. Melba had written the words in praise of her husband and her God for bringing her safely to Australia.
I wept with sorrow and fear
Beseeching you for solace
The child within me grew
But I was weak
You turned me to the angel
In my midst
The sea consumed me with sickness
Terror overwhelmed
Your angel was with me all the while
In my midst
Now I live warm and safe
My child at my side
Because you turned me to the angel
In my midst
Few eyes were tearless as the song drifted softly from Aaron’s lips. Many heard it before, during Sunday services, but others, including the seamen who came to pay their respects, were imbued with a spiritual calm that rarely entered their rugged lives. Aaron’s grandfather, too, at last let his grief find outlet as he dropped his face to his hands and wept.
Two years later, unable to endure the loneliness that followed his wife’s loss, Aaron’s grandfather passed peacefully in his sleep. Once again, a prayer service was held at Apollo Bay, attended by hundreds from the surrounding area. The kind man was buried next to his lifelong companion on a bluff across the fields. Aaron assumed his place as the man of the house he shared with his mother.
In the following months, Melba gave much thought to returning home to Nantucket. The long travel by sea frightened her as she remembered the harrowing voyage that brought her to Australia. She was convinced that the oceans took her husband from her, too. She felt no love for the sea, but she longed to see her family again. She also wanted them to meet her son who had grown in the image of both her husband and her father, tall, strong, hard working and gentle. Her pride was boundless and she knew her family, with all the love and a
ffection that they had shown to her husband so many years before, would welcome him.
When she broached the subject with Aaron his response was tepid. He, like Melba, held little interest in the sea. While he enjoyed riding the huge waves that often encircled the beaches beyond the Bay, he knew that his father was most likely lost in the far off waters of the ocean. He had no memory of the man, but he was familiar with the pain his death had caused his mother and his grandparents. He joined them in blaming the treachery of an ocean voyage. From an early age he vowed never to be claimed by the sea as well.
But ocean voyages had changed in the years since his father was lost. Engines had replaced sails, giving far greater speed and stability to the massive iron ships that now traveled with frequency to and from Australia. Mother and son knew this as they debated what to do. Letters went back and forth between Melba and her mother and father. Some included entreaties to take the risk, swallow her fears, and return because there might not be many years before her own parents would pass away. They were desperate to see their daughter again.
In the end, after another lucrative harvest, some eight months after the subject was first discussed, they agreed to make the long trip. Aaron elicited a concession from his mother because he believed that once she was back in her childhood home, she might never return. He made it clear that whatever she might decide for herself, he would come back to Australia and the farm. To this, Melba agreed, although she could not fathom not returning with him.
As they prepared for the voyage, Melba turned her attention to her husband’s cherished music. She had catalogued every song and bound the paper upon which she had carefully written each note into several volumes. She continued to protect the songbooks by wrapping each one in oilcloth and securing them together in one of the trunks she had brought from Nantucket more than twenty years earlier. Over that time, she had often taken the music out, intending to write lyrics that would bring each one further life, but, apart from a few songs she had selected for inspirational use on Sundays, she could never bring herself to continue the monumental task. Each time she sat with the music in her hands, she was overcome by emotion as she remembered those early days on Nantucket where her lover summoned each note from his astonishing memory. After many attempts to add words, she simply put the songs away.