Page 31 of And Still Her Voice
“Eighteen.”
She peered at me. “Rape’s as common as bullshit around here. Thugs and pimps. You need to be careful.”
“Listen to her,” Grandma said.
Mary looked at me and I put my hand over my mouth, just in case Grandma might want to say more.
“And drugs,” she said. “Beware of the callous drug dealers roaming the streets.”
***
River sat at the house on a shabby green couch rolling a joint. He sealed it with his tongue, admiring his handywork. The bruise around his eye looked more purple. He took a hit, holding it in as he offered some to Mary. He exhaled. “Your reward for a job well done.”
She set down her baskets and cans and took a hit. River then offered me the joint. Without hesitation, I reached out. I needed to look cool. By now, I’d watched others; they hadn’t gone all reefer mad. I’d been sneaking Dad’s Camels. How different could it be?
Grandma blared, “No!” and I inhaled, stifling her. River peered at me as I handed the reefer back, blasting smoke at the same time. “No way you recognized me.”
He nodded and smiled as he held in more smoke and then he put on a record.
“You’ve got an unforgettable face,” he said.
“Your eye looks better.”
“Magic of makeup.”
After a couple of hits, and a bit of a coughing fit, Grandma was but a memory—not dead and gone like I wished, but I thought she’d left me alone for the time being.
River and I were by ourselves. I recognized Bob Dylan’s song, “Blowin’ in the Wind,” on the record player as River got up and started swaying to the music. I sat back, taking another hit, watching him move, graceful as a cat ballerina.
“He’d sound better with a piano,” he said.
“You think so? Is that all it would take?” Grandma said, and River paused to look at me. I shrugged my shoulders. I knew Dylan wasn’t her favorite, but I dug him. I sprung up to dance, hoping to drown her out and let the music take me away. And it did. I sat down and took another hit.
I don’t know how long I’d been lost in the moment when I heard River talking to me, as if I were under water, about something that seemed like a total non sequitur. “I loved ‘Empty Bed Blues.’”
“What?” The record had changed. “Who’s this?” I asked, piercing the surface.
“Jefferson Airplane. As I was saying, her vocals and keyboard are pretty good.”
“They are,” I said, bobbing my head to the music.
“You don’t know how my fingers were itching to come up and play the piano over at Steinway’s,” River said, pretending to play piano. I froze in place. Finally, the moment of truth.
“Oh, that Dilbert didn’t mind putting his hands all over me,” River said, fluttering his fingers up and down around his body, “but he wouldn’t let me touch his piano. And then when I heard you, it was better than playing myself.”
“You play?”
He nodded. So far it didn’t seem like he knew what happened over at Steinway’s and if he did, he wasn’t making a federal case out of it.
I started to dance again. “And when I heard you sing, I wanted to cry. I loved your get-up, especially your sparkly earrings.”
“Thank you, again,” he said. “Sorry it’s not what you would have preferred.”
“What?”
“You just said you loved my singing, but that you would have preferred something from Bessie Smith.”
“No, I, I didn’t. Who’s Bessie Smith?”
