Retouch

A short story by Grady Bradley
Copyright 2000 All rights reserved

Karen was applying eyeliner, her cell phone held to one ear. Judy always let it ring three times before picking up her phone so that her Caller ID unit could kick in. Such a waste of time, she thought: I could write a paragraph in the time Judy wastes on her rings.

“Hey, Karen! You ready?”

Karen dropped the eyeliner into the clutter around her sink and picked up a tube of bright red lipstick. She was long past expecting a simple hello from her friend. “Three shakes,” she replied, painting her upper lip. She smacked her lips together then eyed the results in the mirror. “Your car?”

“You can ask that, after the cab ride home last week? Sheesh, when are you going to replace that dinosaur?”

“Petal was just tired, was all. She’s running fine now.”

“Let’s take the Beemer, anyway. We might have company later and, Heaven knows, we could use it!”

As they bantered, Karen loosely tied a purple paisley scarf around her neck, checked her earrings, then left the upstairs bathroom, the only room in the house with a mirror.

“See you soon,” she said.

Karen and Judy sat in their favorite booth at The Digs. They were awaiting the start of a performance by Larry Paget, jazz pianist on tour from L.A. The dinner crowd was just now arriving, chairs scraping the hardwood floor, a few tables rearranged for dinner parties, the chatter of voices swelling by the moment. The walls of the large room held stark silhouettes: white on black city skylines and black on white jazz bands. The low stage at the front of the room was in deep shadow, empty but for a grand piano lit by a pale blue spotlight.

“What have you heard about Larry?” Judy asked.

“Not a lot,” Karen replied. “I hear he’s doing well in L.A. Seen his picture?” She held a publicity photo of a thin, balding man in his forties seated at a glossy black grand piano.

“Yeah. He needs some retouch work. Hope his music is better.”

Their waitress arrived and they ordered drinks.

Karen quickly scribbled on a napkin and handed it to the waitress. “Would you see that Mr. Hunt gets this, please?”

Judy turned to Karen with raised eyebrows. “And what was that?” she murmured as the waitress walked away. “Couldn’t be a love note at this early stage, could it?”

“Judy, really. Just asking if he’d like to join us later for a drink.” Judy rolled her eyes. Karen continued, “And stop that yeah, right look, if you don’t mind. Besides, I need some background for my column.”

“Seems you’ve gotten quite a lot of background since Hank died.”

Karen turned away, her shoulders slumping, not needing a reminder of the failed relationships Judy referred to.

“Oh, shit, Karen. I’m sorry.” Judy put her hand on Karen’s shoulder and rubbed gently. “That wasn’t fair,” she said. “So you’ve known a few guys, who hasn’t?”

“It’s OK. You’re right.” She squeezed Judy’s hand. “Seems I can’t find Mr. Right no matter how hard I try.”

Karen’s thoughts drifted as her fingertips idly smoothed the cool linen tablecloth. She sipped from her drink, felt the ice nudge her lip, the cold liquid chill her mouth. She remembered Tony, a roommate who had moved out six months ago. I liked what you did with ice, she thought: brushed my nipples until they were hard and high, then inflamed them with your hot mouth.

“Hey,” Judy said, brightly, bringing Karen back to the present, “maybe Mr. Paget’s a way cool guy and we’ll have a swell time.”

“Might be seeing some pigs fly later, too.”

They shared a laugh, then looked up as Larry Paget walked out to the piano. Several white spotlights now lit the stage.

He was tall, perhaps six feet six. He lowered his head to the microphone. “I’d like to dedicate this first number to Karen Brooks, editor and columnist of The Blue Note,” he said, his eyes searching the audience. “You’ll surely remember the tune, even though it’s forty years old.”

God, what a gaffe, Karen thought. Judy giggled and whispered in her ear, “Jerk.”

Karen recognized the tune immediately, Art Tatum’s classic It’s Only a Paper Moon, but she was disappointed with Larry’s approach; instead of a slow, gentle sway, as in the original, Larry was playing with an upbeat rhythm, jarring her expectations for the piece. OK, the jazz critic in her chided, drop the expectations and let the music speak for itself. She closed her eyes and leaned back.

Larry segued smoothly into Earl “Fatha” James’ You Are Too Beautiful, then jumped into the stride rhythm of Fats Waller’s Truckin’.

Karen found herself becoming increasingly uncomfortable as the set wore on. Oh, she recognized the tunes, all right; anybody would. Yet there was something about his style that clashed with her feelings for jazz.

As the set ended to enthusiastic applause Judy interrupted her thoughts.

“So, what do you think? Does his music need a retouch, too?”

Karen roused herself. “I can’t figure it out. It’s like he knows all the moves, but that’s all he knows.”

“Huh?”

“Well, he’s like a concert pianist performing a Mozart Sonata, flawlessly.”

“And that’s bad?”

“For jazz it is; there’s no independent life. He’s not interpreting the music, he’s playing it.”

“Better play your cards pretty close to your chest. Here he comes.”

Larry had left the stage and now walked up to their table and introduced himself.

“And you must be Karen Brooks,” he said, bending over her outstretched hand with an awkward smile.

After they introduced themselves, Karen invited him to sit down.

“So,” she said, “you’re from L.A.”

“Canoga Park, actually.”

“The Valley.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Went to school at UCLA.”

“No kidding! Me, too. Majored in music. And you?”

“Oh, men.”

They laughed.

“She was the only female computer geek on campus,” Judy said.

“You still do computers?” Larry asked.

“It’s my living.”

“And jazz?”

Karen paused a moment in thought. “I feel like—if I’d learned to play an instrument when I was young, I’d now be playing jazz. But it’s too late to begin, now”

“Maybe not,” Larry said. “Still, I’ve heard your column mentioned in L.A. Not bad for a Portland jazz critic.”

“So,” Judy said, “how long are you in town?”

Larry cleared his throat. “This gig lasts three weeks. Don’t know after that.” His eyes flicked to Karen’s face. “I’ll be looking for a place to stay.”

“You mean just for the gig?” Karen asked.

“No, I’d like to live here. All this green, less traffic, good jazz clubs. Good jazz writers.”

He said this directly to Karen.

Whoa! she thought. He may be skinny, but maybe not all over.

“I’m looking for a roommate,” Karen blurted, and suddenly her face was white hot. For a moment she could say nothing more, was afraid even to breathe. Gently, beneath the table, Judy’s foot kicked her own.

Karen felt him sizing her up and it embarrassed her. She found herself praying he’d say no; forgive her her brashness.

“Thanks,” Larry said. He saluted her with his drink. “Do you have an application with you?”

Karen struggled to speak calmly, feeling herself carried along, mouthing a script. She forced a smile. “Maybe you’d like to come over tomorrow and fill one out?”

From the edge of her vision she saw Judy roll her eyes and shake her head.

To hell with Judy, she thought; he’s not so bad. Not Mr. Right, but it’s not like I’m going to marry him. “Say, four o’clock?”

Karen left her bedroom wearing her terry cloth robe. As she passed the partly open door of the upstairs bathroom she glimpsed Larry standing in front of the mirror adjusting his toupee. In the three months he’d lived with her she had found him to be terribly vain. He would spend fully twenty minutes every morning adjusting and combing and readjusting his hairpiece, turning his head to left and right, his eyes never leaving the mirror. This and other traits, like his obsessive need to talk about his music, had quickly cooled the passion she’d felt early on.

“I’ll have breakfast ready in a few minutes,” she called as she started down the stairs.

He stepped out of the bathroom. “Could I have a bit less margarine on the toast this morning? I swear I’ve gained five pounds since I moved in.”

His shallow smile did nothing to remove the sting from his words. Karen was painfully aware of her own plumpness and she felt the sideways cut of his comment. Like last night in bed, when she’d gotten on top and he’d jokingly complained that he couldn’t breathe.

“OK,” she said without looking around and continued down the stairs. Gone were the playful words and gestures, the carefree laughter of their first few days together. She felt glum as she entered the kitchen and started the coffee. Not so many grounds, he’d complained on their third morning together; I’m hypersensitive to caffeine. And not just caffeine, she’d discovered. He couldn’t be in the house when she vacuumed or dusted: allergies to dust mites. Couldn’t be in the house when she cleaned: allergies to cleaning chemicals. One day she returned some of his clothes from the dryer and she found him bent over a small overnight case full of prescription drugs. Reluctantly, he informed her they were for allergies, high blood pressure and acid reflux. Her reply was reflexive, given his comments about her weight, and she offered to hire a nurse. They hadn’t talked the rest of the day.

Karen broke some eggs into a pan, placed bread in the toaster, set out a couple plates on the kitchen table. She turned as Larry walked in.

“Coffee ready yet?” he asked, sniffing.

Karen glanced at the coffee maker. Anyone could see that it had just started working, with the coffee dribbling into the pot. Annoyed, she said “As you can see.”

“Oh.” Larry turned to leave. “Let me know when its ready, will you?”

Moments later Karen heard him practicing on his piano in the living room, the piano he’d moved at great expense from L.A. At least, Larry called it practicing. Karen called it many things, few of them complimentary, and never to his face. Her finely developed sense of what made jazz a living organism was daily assaulted by his playing. She remembered the night she’d met him at The Digs and how she’d known then that something was wrong with his music. She now knew exactly what was wrong. Larry had no talent for improvisation. He did have a phenomenal memory, though, which allowed him to mimic a wide variety of artists and to combine their artistry in subtle ways beyond the recognition of most jazz fans. But not beyond Karen’s. It wasn’t that she hated his music. What she disliked most was the lie. He constantly talked about “his” music, while all the time it was someone else’s.

The coffee was ready. She poured two cups, placed his precisely buttered toast onto his plate and placed his exactly timed over-easy egg alongside his toast (I simply delight in soaking my toast in egg yolk, he’d say). She then prepared her own plate and called to him.

The music stopped abruptly and he joined her at the table.

“Mmmm,” he said. “Looks good enough to eat.”

“Thanks,” she said mechanically, not charmed by his witticism. “Look, Larry. It feels like this isn’t working out so well.”

“What isn’t?”

He gave her a bland look over a forkful of egg. She watched as he put the egg in his mouth and chewed; she’d found it difficult to watch him eat as his lips formed a small pout with each clench of his jaw.

“What do you mean, what isn’t? What is working. The fun’s gone. I find myself waiting each day for you to leave so I can feel comfortable in my own home.”

Larry sipped his coffee, looked down at his plate a moment.

“OK, it’s been difficult at times.” He raised his eyes to hers. “But that’s normal.”

“Difficulties are normal,” she said. “What isn’t normal is to feel uncomfortable in your own home.”

“You feel uncomfortable?”

“I’ve said so twice.”

“And it has something to do with me?”

“Larry, it has everything to do with you. Cleaning house is now a major—“

“I never hassle you about cleaning house.”

“The hassle is that you’re sensitive to every goddamn thing that floats in the air around here. If the windows aren’t opened rain or shine then you’re into your portable pharmacy for relief.”

“And that’s it? My allergies?”

Karen sighed heavily and got to her feet. She brought the coffee pot and filled both their cups, then stood with her back to the sink, cradling her warm cup with her palms.

“No, it’s not just your allergies. You make fun of my weight—“

“I do not.” He said this indignantly, straightening his back and turning to face her.

“You do, and you do it in such a way that when I object you can deny it. You have a way of sticking it to people but disguising it as humor.”

“Maybe you’re just being defensive.”

“If I am I feel entitled.”

Karen felt her shoulders tightening up. A dull ache was growing along the sides of her neck. She set her cup on the counter and tried to touch her left ear to her shoulder, stretching the muscles, then did the same to the other side. Larry watched her as she rolled her head in a full circle, trying to ease the tight muscles.

“Feeling tense?” he asked.

Karen listened not to the words but to the tone, searching in vain for evidence of concern. In that moment she knew their relationship was over. All over but the very worst part: the confrontation, the argument, the resolution, the separation. Suddenly she felt weary, unable to find the energy needed to carry her through the next few weeks as Larry found other housing. And Judy. Judy would so want to say I told you so, but she wouldn’t. Thank God for good friends.

“Yes, Larry. I feel very tense.”

Larry carefully set his coffee cup precisely in the middle of his saucer and with his long thin fingers carefully positioned the cup’s handle at a right angle to the table. Having done so he pushed his chair back. The sound of the heavy wooden chair’s legs sliding across the hardwood floor filled the kitchen and seemed to echo from the walls. Karen heard Larry’s leather shoes scuffing the floor as he stood. He hid a phlegmy cough in his fist; Karen watched as he searched for a napkin.

“Here,” she said, handing him a tissue from the box on the counter.

“Thanks.”

Larry wiped his hand then stuffed the tissue into a pocket.

“So, what now?” he asked.

“I’ve decided I’d like to live alone.”

Larry crossed his arms. “When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“No, I meant when did you decide.”

“Just now.”

Karen watched his face. His gaze was over her shoulder, out the window above the sink. She sensed a gathering of the lines at the corner of his mouth and between his eyes. His mouth worked as though exploring a broken tooth. She didn’t really want a drink of coffee right now but she felt compelled to smoothly raise the cup to her lips, sip the hot liquid, and keep her gaze steady on him.

Larry’s eyes briefly met hers then looked away. His hands found his pockets and stayed there.

“Well,” he said. “I guess that’s that. Too bad. Could have been a lot of fun.”

Just like Larry, Karen thought. Say one thing and mean another. The implied accusation stung but she shrugged it off. “We did have some fun, Larry. In the beginning.”

“Didn’t last very long.”

“No.”

Larry seemed to brighten. His hands came out of his pockets and he clasped them behind his back. “I guess we’ll be running into each other now and then, you being the famous columnist and I the famous jazz pianist.”

“Famous isn’t the right word.” Karen felt closure approaching, grateful for Larry’s acceptance of the end of the relationship. “Well-known, maybe. I don’t think we’ll ever be famous.”

Larry immediately stiffened and frowned. “Never say never,” he said with a tight smile.

“No,” Karen replied. “Never say never.”

Karen picked up the dirty dishes and placed them in the sink. She ran hot water, squirted a dab of soap and began washing up.

Larry cleared his throat and walked toward the door. “Guess I’ll be finding another place. Sure hate to move my piano again.”

“How many times have you moved it?”

“Oh, too many. Don’t remember, really.” Larry stood at the door, one hand on the knob. “Should get a portable keyboard.”

Karen said nothing, glanced at him then returned to the dishes.

“Well,” Larry said, his voice unusually high, “guess I’ll be off.” He opened the door and paused. “See you later.” He pointedly waited for her response.

Karen resisted a sudden need to ask him to stay. She turned to him, her hands remaining in the hot sudsy water. “OK.” And again, she had to stop herself from blurting out Have a nice day. “See you later,” she said instead, a gentle smile corrupted by other words clamoring for release.

When the door closed behind him Karen released a deep breath. She felt she’d been holding it for half an hour. She let her head fall to her chest for a moment, listening as his footsteps faded and then the front door opened and closed. The house was very quiet now. The round blue clock on the wall measured the seconds like a metronome. She dried her hands on a worn cotton towel and slipped a Miles Davis CD into the player. Karen felt herself melt as Godchild filled the room with light and energy and life. She had wished for years she could play the piano, never more so than right now. As the music swept her away she imagined the electric vibrancy of muscles and nerves and blood and bone and brain knowing an instrument so well—and being so familiar with the rhythms and patterns and motions of jazz—and being able to meld all the disparate sources of talent and genius and mechanical dexterity—that the music released was like a short story by Ernest Hemingway, a painting by Picasso, a poem by Walt Whitman: a work of art which transcended the artist and the medium.

She envied Miles Davis and many other jazz greats. But it was enough to make their music her own, as now when she simply stood, eyes closed, in her kitchen, on a drizzly gray Wednesday morning in Portland, Oregon, preparing farewells to her latest relationship.

She’d never envy Larry. And he’d forget her quickly. Judy would keep her admonishment subdued out of friendship, and maybe Mr. Right was just around the corner. No harm in looking.