Under the Lake

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Howell said.

“Right.”

Howell walked out onto the deck of the cabin, the first time the weather had permitted. The woods around him were heavy with moisture from the days of rain. The lake flashed moments of blue at him as the new sun struck its surface in places. The light was warm on his face. The sounds of sour piano notes turning sweet drifted out from the living room as the albino tightened strings. Occasionally, a whole chord sang out. Howell felt his spirits lifting with the changing weather. It was as if he were being tuned, like the piano. He took a folding canvas deck chair from under the deep eaves and flopped down in it. He felt good for the first time in weeks, maybe months.

As he tuned the piano, the albino began to play little fragments, a few chords, of a tune Howell couldn’t quite pin down and was too drowsy to care much about. It was mixed in with runs and other chords and octaves. Three quarters of an hour later, Howell was stirred from a doze by the sound of tools striking other tools and the clasps of the toolcase being closed. Then, unexpectedly, the albino played a few chords and began to sing, in a high, clear tenor voice:

By the time the albino finished, Howell was practically in tears from the beauty and sadness of it.

“Your piano’s tuned,” the man called out.

Howell roused himself from the deck chair and returned to the living room. The dog, Riley, was still lying on his back in front of the dying fire, snoring softly. “You sing and play very well,” Howell said to the albino.

“Oh, God gives everybody some sort of talent, I guess. Mine’s making music. I play the guitar and the mandolin and the accordion and fiddle a bit, too. You ought to come down to one of the Saturday night dances at the community center sometime. Want to try the piano?”

Howell sat down at the keyboard and played a few bars of “Lush Life”. “You like Duke Ellington?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” the albino replied. “That’s Billy Strayhorn’s tune, though. It’s hard to separate Ellington and Strayhorn; seems like one takes up where the other leaves off.”

“Right. Say, I didn’t call you about tuning the piano, did I? I mean, my memory has been a little spotty lately, but…”

The albino laughed. “Oh, no. Mama sent me. She said you needed the piano.”

Now Howell knew why the albino looked familiar. “That was your brother who brought the firewood, wasn’t it?”

The albino nodded. “That was Brian. Brian’s a little…” – he made a gesture – “but he’s a good lad. He liked bringing you the wood.”

“He wouldn’t let me pay him for it. I wanted to…”

“Oh, no, Mama wouldn’t have that.”

“Now, look, I want to pay you for the piano tuning. You do do that for a living, don’t you?”

“Yes, that and playing at the dances. Well, all right, I usually get twenty dollars for a tuning.”

Howell pressed the money into his hand. “Listen, I don’t quite understand about ‘Mama’. Who is she?”

“My mother.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Dermot Kelly.”

Howell shook the hand. “Glad to meet you, Dermot. I’m John Howell. But how did she know I needed firewood and the piano tuned? Did Bo Scully tell her about me?”

Dermot Kelly picked up his case and began to move toward the door. He didn’t seem to need assistance finding his way. “Mama and Bo Scully don’t have much to do with each other,” he said. “No, Mama just knows things other people don’t know. She’s been sick for a while, now, but she still has her moments.”

Howell walked with Dermot to the door. “I’m afraid I don’t really understand this, but I’m grateful to her for sending you and Brian around. Will you thank her for me?”

“Thank her yourself,” Dermot replied. “She wants to meet you, anyway. She says she’s been waiting for you for a long time.”

Goose flesh rose on Howell’s skin. “Well, I’ll drop by and see her if she’s well enough. You said she has been sick?”

“Yes, but she’ll be well enough when you come. We’re just a ways up the hill from the crossroads,” he said, pointing. “You’ll see the mailbox. Come any time.”

“Thanks, I will. And thanks again for the tuning.”

“Don’t mention it. Riley!”

The dog, who had never stopped snoring, was instantly on his feet. He walked quickly to Dermot’s side, neatly avoiding the furniture. Together, the two of them walked down the stairs, down the short drive, and started up the road. Dermot moved slowly, but with some confidence.

Howell watched them for a moment. Before they went into the trees, Dermot Kelly raised a hand and waved, as if he knew Howell was watching them. When they were gone, Howell went back into the house, still amazed at the pair. “Talk about the blind leading the blind!” he said aloud to himself.

5

As Howell turned right at the crossroads and headed for town, he looked up the hill and saw the Kelly mailbox at the roadside. Some how, he wasn’t ready to meet a sick old lady who knew when he needed firewood and piano tuning. Too bad she didn’t know that he was out of beer and booze, too, and send somebody around with that. Four days alone at the cabin had depleted his supplies of everything, so there was ample reason for a trip to town. He could always work over the weekend to make up for lost time.

He found a parking space on Main Street; he could use one of Bubba’s cheeseburgers and a beer. The place was fairly crowded. “Sit over yonder with McCauliffe,” Bubba said, motioning toward a booth where a man ate alone.

“You mind?” Howell asked the man, pointing to the empty seat.

“Glad for the company,” the man said, sticking out his hand. “Enda McCauliffe, known to one and all as Mac. Sit yourself down.” McCauliffe was a slender, rumpled looking man somewhere in his forties, dressed in a wash-and-wear seersucker suit that had been washed too many times.

Howell introduced himself. “How’s the, ah…?” he half asked, indicating the food on the plate before Mac McCauliffe.

“Stuffed cabbage,” McCauliffe replied. “No worse than the pork chops, and a damn sight better than the chicken-fried steak. In fact,” he said loudly, glancing sideways at the approaching Bubba, “We’ve never been too sure around here from which animal the chicken-fried steak derives. It ain’t chicken, and it sure ain’t steak.”

“Now, Mac,” Bubba cautioned, “don’t go knocking my cooking; you eat it most every day.”

McCauliffe nodded. “The voice of experience. Bubba came to us from Texas,” McCauliffe said to Howell, “which will explain a lot as you get to know him, but not the origins of the chicken-fried steak – or, for that matter, one or two other bits of Western exotica which occasionally pop up on the menu.”

McCauliffe had the characteristic mountain drawl of the local residents but spoke in different cadences, somehow. He was wearing a rumpled wash-and-wear blue suit, a blue shirt, and a necktie. Howell ordered a cheeseburger and a beer.