Chapter Twenty-Four

Music doesn’t lie. If there is something to be changed in this world, then it can only happen through music.

–Jimi Hendrix

Outside the Backdoor Lounge, Hunter took a slow deep breath. The air was balmy and warm, with a dense humidity that felt like a kiss to his skin. After he packed his truck, he drove to Caitlin’s boat. He parked in the Cottonport Lounge parking lot, opened the truck’s topper, and retrieved his guitar. He walked toward Caitlin’s houseboat, following the waning light of a trail of candle lanterns.

As he came onboard, he saw Melissa sitting on the gunwale, her dress hiked up to her thighs and pressed down between her legs. She said, “Hey, Hunter.”

“Good crowd for the party?”

“The boat was packed, but everyone’s gone now except for me. I think Caitlin is in the cabin doing dishes.” She looked over her shoulder and called out, “Hey, Caitlin! Hunter’s here.”

“Good. Tell him to take a seat and I’ll be right out.”

As soon as he set down his guitar, Tejan thrust a steaming ceramic plate into his hands, heaped full of fish and shrimp and red gravy over rice. “Mr. Hunter has worked hard tonight. Mamá says he must eat.”

“Thank you, Tejan,” Hunter said. “This smells great.”

Caitlin came out of the cabin, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. “Tejan’s a wonderful cook. And I think cooking is therapeutic for him. He insisted on cooking with palm oil. I had the devil of time finding it.”

“Men in Louisiana have always cooked the special meals. He’ll fit right in with our tradition.” Hunter stuffed a forkful into his mouth. “It’s good. He could start his own restaurant or catering business.”

“That’s a good idea,” Caitlin said. “Monroe needs some food variety. I don’t think we’ve ever had an African restaurant.”

“What’s he going to do about school?” Hunter asked.

“I’m home schooling him now. I’m hesitant to send him to a public school until he has some time to adjust. We’re going to enroll him in West Monroe High School in January, though our priest wants me to send him to St. Fred’s.”

“Don’t try to shelter him too much. I don’t think it’s healthy. Don’t you want him to be around other boys his age?”

Caitlin poured Hunter a glass of Merlot and handed it to him. “No. He’s not ready. I learned that today.”

“Good God, and you say I’m overprotective. What do you mean you learned that today? What happened?”

“Tejan had a little run-in with some boys hanging out at Barry’s store. But he’s okay. I’m glad you brought your guitar. Would you play us some songs?”

“I can’t believe my ears. You are asking me to play some music?”

Caitlin slapped at his arm. “Stop that teasing. You know I like your music. It’s just better when it’s not at a bar.”

“I admit I’ve thought that myself a couple of times.” Hunter set down his plate and lifted his Taylor from its case. He lightly strummed a few chords to check it for tuning, then began playing. Even though he was buzzed from the wine, his fingers deftly moved along the guitar’s neck, his right hand plucking notes to a melody swelling in his heart, fingering chords in a minor key. He sang softly, the lyrics describing a lonely sailor looking at the stars and thinking of his true love.

Tejan sat near him, his bare legs pulled up to his chest. “The song is sad, Mr. Hunter. I understand such songs.”

As Hunter made a transition to the second verse, Tejan kept time with the African rattle, and hummed the song’s melody as if he had heard it all his life.

Amazing, Hunter thought. Maybe I didn’t write this song. How can he know it? Tejan picked up enough words of the chorus that soon they were singing together in harmony. Hunter then did a faster song, one about the Southern Cross. Tejan accompanied him on a djembe, striking the leather drumhead with his hand. Hunter noticed three distinct tones Tejan drew from the instrument, and some rhythms he had never heard. When he ended the song, he said, “Where did you learn to play?”

“My father, he teach me to play djembe. Mamá, she buy the drum for me.”

“Now, you play, Tejan. Just you and the drum.”

“This is a song of our village, written long ago. It honors the strong and brave men that came from our village in Guinea.”

Using the three basic strokes of the djembe drummers, Tejan slapped out a rhythm that was fluid, complex, polyrhythmic, throbbing, at times rolling. Tejan closed his eyes and lost himself in its cadence that ebbed and flowed as strong as an ocean tide. He accelerated the beat into a blistering tempo, then slowed and softened his strikes so that the song faded into the night. A ten-minute song the night of Monroe had never heard.

Hunter’s head reeled from the impact of the song and the images it evoked. “I’ve heard conga players in New Orleans, but I’ve never experienced anything like this. I feel like I’ve been in Africa. I think people would pay good money to hear you play like that. You could be a star. Do you have more songs?”

“I have many, but I will not give them for money. A star?” Tejan looked up at the black scrim of the sky with the stars splattered brightly across it. “My people say the stars are fireflies that flew too high. A man must know when to stay on de ground.”

Hunter played another song, and Tejan listened with rapt interest. When Hunter finished, Tejan said something in French to Caitlin. She leaned toward Hunter. “He asked me if you will teach him to play guitar.”

“Sure. Tell him I’d be glad to. We’ll start whenever he wants.”

Tejan smiled. “Thank you, Mister Hunter.”

“I think he speaks English better than he lets on,” Hunter said.

Caitlin reached for Hunter’s hand and squeezed it. “Yes, but sometimes he chooses not to, because he wants what we say to just be between us.”

Melissa drained her wine and refilled their glasses. “I’m going to get drunk tonight.”

“We’re all going to get drunk tonight.” Caitlin raised her glass. “To art. To borrow Auden’s phrase, ‘art for our sake.’ ”

“The savior of our souls,” Melissa said.

“The mistress of our hearts,” Hunter said. He fixed his eyes on Caitlin. “And to the muse who gives us our songs.”

Caitlin handed Hunter another bottle of wine and a corkscrew. He opened the bottle and they filled their glasses again. “Now I have a toast,” he said. “To the Lost Bazaar and my friends.”

“To the Lost Bazaar, where anything goes,” Melissa said. “The gallery of our erotic dreams,” Melissa said.

“Naughty girl. To the Lost Bazaar,” Caitlin said, shifting her eyes to Hunter. “Where one can find one’s self, friends, or the love of her life.”

“Oh, brother,” Melissa said. “Let’s not get mushy here. You two are so obvious. Why can’t you be raunchy like me?”

“You’re a writer, that’s why.” Caitlin turned on her CD player. The words of the songs she had chosen rattled Hunter’s insides, songs that brought back memories and that seemed to tell their story. Caitlin pulled Hunter to his feet. “You’re going to dance with me tonight.” As they danced, she occasionally repeated lines of the song in his ear.

“It’s been a long time since we danced together,” she said.

“Too long,” he replied.

“I wish we could stay like this forever.”

The next song jumped to a faster tempo and Caitlin pushed Hunter away and danced freestyle, wiggling and shaking her hips, and once in a while giving Hunter a shimmy. Hunter wildly jumped about, slinging around his arms. Caitlin covered her mouth with her hand for a moment, then said, “You’re a damn good musician, but you sure can’t dance!”

Tejan set down his tray of dirty dishes and danced with them, mimicking Hunter’s spastic movements. Hunter laughed until his face and chest hurt.

Melissa sat on the edge of the boat’s ladder and dangled her feet in the water. “The water’s warm. We should all go for a swim.”

“I assume you’re skinny dipping again?” Caitlin said.

“I didn’t bring a suit. Besides, it dark,” Melissa answered. “So, do you want to join me?”

“No, thanks. We’ll just sit here till you’re done.”

Melissa moved to the other side of the boat. Hunter heard a small splash and rose to see.

“Hey,” Caitlin said. She grabbed Hunter’s shirt and pulled him down. “You’re supposed to be looking at me tonight. That’s something else, Hunter. I don’t know if I can trust you around other women.”

“Just checking out the scenery.”

“Uh huh.”

“I thought anything goes at the Lost Bazaar.”

“It does, but not on our first night together in nearly a year.”

When Hunter lit a cigarette, he saw three men standing under the streetlight on top of the levee. They seemed to be looking at the houseboat.

Caitlin noticed his gaze. “What’s wrong?”

“I thought I saw some men looking this way. Over by the levee.”

“Maybe they just heard the music.”

Melissa finished her swim, dressed, and joined them.

Hunter set his guitar in its case and watched Tejan as he tied up the last sack of trash from the night’s party.

“Will Mr. Hunter play his sad guitar more tonight?” Tejan asked.

“No. The world’s heard me enough tonight. Like Tejan, I want to listen to the quiet. I want to hear a heartbeat.” He looked at Caitlin.

Caitlin placed her hand on Hunter’s shoulder.

“I like Mr. Hunter, Mamá,” Tejan said. “He is a good man. Il est amoureux de ma mère?”

“Oui, et je suis amoureux de lui.”

“Mamá, Tejan will sleep outside tonight. He will watch stars move across the sky and guard the boat so Mama can sleep well.” He looked at Hunter and smiled bashfully.

“Yes, thank you, Tejan,” Caitlin said.

“You are good man, Mr. Hunter. Tejan not see many good man in his short life.”

“I’m not a good man, Tejan. I’ve made many mistakes.”

Tejan patted Hunter’s chest. “No, you are good man. The eyes do not lie to Tejan. Tejan too has done many wrong things, but Mamá’s eyes tells Tejan that he is good. And now Tejan feels like he is good man. Mama says you are good man too. And my mamá could never be wrong about a man. The heart is what makes the man.”

Tejan went inside and fetched a pillow and quilt and climbed up on the top deck.

“I was wrong about you before, Hunter,” Caitlin said. She moved to the cabin door and held out her hand to Hunter. “But I’m not wrong about you now. Am I?”

Hunter leaned over and kissed her. “No, you’re not wrong.”

Caitlin stood gently pulled him toward the cabin. “Goodnight, Tejan. Goodnight, Melissa.”

“Oh, I guess I should be going,” Melissa said.

“You’re welcome to sleep here tonight, if you want, Melissa. Tejan will get you pillows and blankets.”

“Why don’t you take this good-looking man inside your boat and worry about yourself for once?” Melissa said. “The gallery’s only a block away. I’m going to walk home.”

Hunter fell asleep in Caitlin’s arms, listening to the water lap at the boat’s bottom and the wind whistle through the small window, rustling the curtain window above them, tossing, and playing delicately with the thin fabric. Hunter thought he had grown used to being alone, but the feeling of having Caitlin next to him proved he had not.

****

For the first time in many months, Caitlin didn’t wrestle with insomnia. The soft shuffle of Tejan’s bare feet on the deck above them and the sounds of the river were familiar, but tonight they were like a lullaby. She wondered if this night really meant she and Hunter were a couple again. And if it did, how long would it be before Hunter’s old restlessness kicked in, before Lady Music called him to some new place, before he screwed up with one of the easy groupies who followed musicians like Hunter around? Maybe he wouldn’t find a way to screw things up. Perhaps things would go well this time. Maybe Hunter was the one for her and Tejan. The only certainty Caitlin felt was that even though she and Hunter had hurt each other deeply in the past, they loved each other, and because of that their destinies had to be connected in some way.

****

Hunter woke later that night and made his way to the bathroom. He stepped out on the deck and lit a cigarette. He saw a man in the Cottonport parking lot, digging in the dumpster. Odd. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. There was the ripped open trash bag from the party down on the ground, but no man in sight. On his way back to bed, he opened Caitlin’s refrigerator and took out a bottle of water. As he chugged the water down, he saw a letter on the cabinet. It was addressed to Caitlin and had African stamps. He picked it up and in the dim light of the open refrigerator read it. He pitched the letter down and returned to Caitlin.

He slipped in the bed, stroked her cheek and shoulder, and whispered, “Caitlin, are you awake?”

“Hmmm? You hand feels so nice on my shoulder. Kiss me.”

Hunter kissed her cheek. “Caitlin, This Von, how important is he to you?”

The question slapped Caitlin awake. She sat up in the bed and pulled her knees to her chest. “I meant to tell you about him, Hunter. Really, I did. Von was only my boss. I did date him in Africa.”

“I know. Melissa told me. Are you in love with him?”

“Was I attracted? Yes. In love? No.”

“There was a letter by your icebox. I shouldn’t have, but I read it. He seems to be nuts about you.”

“Oh, yes, the letter. He writes and calls constantly. He says he’s in love with me, but I think it’s more of an infatuation.”

“He’s the diamond merchant in the painting? That came to your reception?”

“Yes.”

“He seemed more than a little interested in you, don’t you think?”

“Hunter, it’s awkward. I agreed to date him, but that was before—before you and I got back together. In Africa, I wasn’t counting on getting you back. I told him about us, told him I didn’t want to date him seriously anymore.”

“You don’t have to do that. See him if you want. Maybe we are moving a little too fast here. I’ve no right to demand anything from you.”

“You don’t want us to be together?” she asked.

“I want it more than anything. I’ve wished for it every day since that night. But I want you to want it too.”

“Oh, I do, Hunter. I do. I realize how much I’ve missed you and how incomplete I am without you. Besides, you’ve always said I was your muse. How can you create great music without a beautiful muse?”

“I can’t.” Hunter hugged her tightly. “Come to me, muse. Let’s make some more music tonight.”

****

Caitlin, with a mother’s ear, heard Tejan groan. When she sprang from the bed, Hunter sat up.

“What is it, Caitlin?” Hunter mumbled.

“Something’s wrong with Tejan. Go back to sleep, Hunter.” She slipped on a pair of shorts. “I’ve got to go see about him. Sometimes he has nightmares. Please, go to sleep. It will be all right.”

Caitlin touched Tejan’s forehead. He burned with fever. “Oh, Tejan.” She hurried to the sink, wet a washrag, and wiped his face. He opened his eyes and she knew he was lost in some alien dream. And the thought of where the dreams might take him—to the diamond pits, to the battlefield, to the villages—those thoughts oppressed and hurt her. But she knew that if she held him, if he heard her voice, he would be better in the morning, and he would wake up and realize he was on the Ouachita River with his new mother. At least the dreams recurred less often. Time can heal us all. Time can heal anything.