Shaman's Blues Read online

  “Fuck.” He folded his arms on his knees and laid his head down. “I can’t help it. It’s all closing in on me.”

  Nothing worked. She’d tried to keep things upbeat and friendly, but he was having some kind of upset anyway.

  Looking at his bowed head, Mae noticed that he had done the strangest thing with his hair, plaiting some of the sun-bleached top hairs into five tiny braids, bright little ropes over the thick, unruly underlayer. What had made him think of doing this? It was probably what had taken forever at the fitness center and made him come out so silly-happy. He’d been making himself look good for her.

  She pictured him all worried and desperate to be liked, bobbing back and forth between excitement and anxiety, picking out the crinkly pink shirt, baking a cake, and doing this hairstyle. It was all so—goofy. Sweet and goofy. If it had been directed at some other woman, it would be endearing. It still was. But it was for her. She ached to hug him, yet held back. How could she show she cared, and yet not act like his girlfriend?

  When he stayed in his contracted position too long, the nurturing urge won out. She tugged on one of the little braids, and then rubbed her hand in his hair. He felt hot. The sign of something emotional brewing. Why? Over his fear of touring? Mae wondered if he even knew what overwhelmed him.

  Trying to reassure him, with no idea what she meant or what she was promising, she said, “You’ll be all right, sugar. It’ll all work out.” No response. She played with another little braid. “I like your hairdo.”

  He turned his head, still in his curled position, looked at her through his half-spilled hair and smiled. “Thanks.”

  She pushed the rest of his hair out of his face, and he sat straight again, smiling at her, not the nervous trying-to-charm smile, but nakedly vulnerable and trusting, like a child, like a lover in the morning. She shouldn’t have touched him.

  The bandleader came to the front of the bandstand, introduced his group, and welcomed the audience. Jamie rose and drew her to her feet. “May I?” As he stepped back to lead her to the dance floor, he slipped in his spilled hummus, catching his balance with her help. “Bugger.” He snort-laughed. “That was supposed to be fucking elegant.” Still laughing, leading her by the hand, he walked backwards toward the open space in front of the band. “But this’ll make up for it.”

  She slowed down. “Wait, I can’t—”

  “Yeah, you can. I can lead. Like we did in the store. You’ll do great.”

  “It’s not that—it’s—” It’s the way you looked at me. “It’s not a good idea.”

  “Bloody hell. You need a chaperone? Jesus. We’re just dancing.”

  “Sorry.” Maybe she had been too careful. She was trying to keep him for a friend, after all. People danced with partners they didn’t have romantic feelings for all the time. Danced for the sake of going out dancing. She opened her arms to him. “Let’s dance.”

  Holding her hand and her upper back, sending subtle signals with his touch, Jamie talked her through the basic foot pattern and rhythm for salsa. Mae looked down to make sure she had it right, and noticed how he moved his hips with every step, almost touching hers in a snaky, sensual rhythm. This wasn’t what she’d expected when she’d agreed to dance. The movement would have been seductive if he weren’t Jamie.

  “Don’t look at your feet, love. Look at your partner.”

  Bringing her gaze back up, she said, “I got the feet. I was checking out the hips.” That came out wrong. As if she’d been thinking about him being sexy. She had to fix it. Ask for instruction, something. “How do you do that?”

  He drew her closer and smiled. “What? You thought I couldn’t, with three big screws in one of ’em?”

  “No, I meant, teach me how.”

  “Don’t think about it. Just feel it. Your hips’ll swing on their own if you set ’em free.”

  She had to stop thinking about more than the movement. Stop thinking about him flirting. Or about how she liked him so much but wasn’t in love. It was a summer night in Santa Fe. All around them people were celebrating, and she longed to let go and be part of it. In her small-town life in North Carolina, there had never been anything like this. The music delighted her and she wanted to dance to it. Jamie led with such a skillful touch that if she stopped all the clatter in her head and followed, she could feel the music move her hips, like a force field below the waist, when she let go into it.

  Much as she didn’t want to encourage Jamie, the dance itself took her over. Her resistance dissolved into the flash of the horns, the beat of the drums, and she let herself flow with his lead. It felt wonderful and free, as if she had slipped halfway out of her skin.

  As Jamie guided her in a playful hand exchange pattern while their feet and hips kept the beat, she said, “You’re amazing.”

  There was fire in his eyes now, a blaze of uninhibited joy. “Am I?” He drew her in and spun her out. “Guess I am.” Pulling her back in, he caught her hip to hip, before releasing her into an open position. “Nah—correction. We are amazing.”

  Her dancing vision became a kaleidoscope—the band’s sparkling costumes, the green of the grass, the bare blue sky with its low golden blast of sun, the first hint of the moon, other dancers spinning—each turn of the dizzying wheel coming back to Jamie’s eyes. Full of passion, joy, and love. A deep black pool of what have I done in the middle of her whirl of joy.

  The first band finished, and the second one began to set up. A man came to the microphone and made announcements about the final concerts of the season. Mae felt relieved in some strange way, as if she had escaped something, though she didn’t know what.

  She and Jamie sat on the white cloth again. He opened the picnic basket, lifted out a cake, removed its plastic cover, and took a knife and forks from the basket. “We’ve earned dessert.”

  In the center of the thick chocolate frosting, fresh velvety raspberries formed a heart with an arrow.

  Mae’s heart tumbled through too many feelings—guilt, amazement, worry, sadness—as well as the thought that he’d be a gem for some patient woman who could understand him. But he’d done this for her, a woman in the middle of a divorce who would be leaving in two days. The sense of having escaped collapsed. “Oh, Jamie, what am I going to do with you?”

  He cut big squares from the undecorated end of the cake and slid them onto paper plates. “Dance and eat chocolate?”

  Evasion, his usual refuge. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I do.” Dropping the knife onto the cloth, he served the gooey slabs of cake, and lifted out a thermos from the bag. “Share the cup? I brought coffee and forgot cups.” Unscrewing the lid, he filled its cup cap and offered Mae the first sip. “I’ll try not to spit crumbs in it or anything.”

  “Sugar, the cake is good, and you’re the sweetest thing on earth, but—”

  “Jeezus, all right, I get it, so shut up and eat it. I’m sorry. I took a risk.” He grabbed the knife and stabbed it into the raspberry heart. “I fucked up.”

  Alarmed, Mae set the coffee down slowly. “I don’t like that drama.”

  “Yeah. You’re right.” Yanking the knife out, he tossed it into the bag and took hold of her forearm. “I should have done this.” He shoved her hand into the middle of the cake, crushing the heart.

  Stunned, Mae looked down at her hand, wrist deep in cake and frosting. She could feel the berries smushing under her hand at the bottom of the pan. All his hard work and romance destroyed. Torn between outrage and sadness, she lifted her hand out. “What is wrong with you?”

  As soon as she said it, she wanted to take it back. Of all the things to say to Jamie. She watched his eyes for the pain, the anger. Instead, the light came back. First a hint of smile lines around his eyes, then a huge grin and the snort-laugh. “Jeeezus.” Laughter, almost out of control. “You still have to ask?”

  He lay back and held her cake-covered hand, examining the mess. And began to lick it clean.

  At first, the unexpected gestu
re made her laugh with him in relief. She’d thought he was going to panic, or walk off. Instead, he was like a cat licking a kitten.

  But in seconds, as his tongue stroked her palm and the inside of her wrist, it felt so intensely erotic that she hardly could move. Stop him. This is awful. Her body fought her mind, craving sexuality suddenly the way she had craved water on getting to the desert. It had been so long since a man had touched her like this. Eyes closed, Jamie might as well have been in bed with her, licking chocolate off her breasts. She pulled away.

  Angry with herself, swamped with lingering longing and with regret, Mae wiped the remaining chocolate on the cloth. She should have stopped him even sooner. For a few seconds of feeling desired and aroused, for a fraction of a fantasy in her prolonged celibacy, she’d let him love her.

  Still in a blissful state, Jamie tugged a corner of the cloth over his face and wiped himself clean.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Mae said.

  “No worries.” Jamie opened his eyes and smiled at her. “No calories in food licked off another person. Any frosting in my beard?”

  “No. And I should have said, I shouldn’t have done that.”

  She sipped the coffee and passed it to him. Still twinkling and happy, he propped up on his elbow to drink. As the second band’s leader introduced their first song, Jamie said with a grin, “Fuck. It was harmless fun. Come on, ya gotta be a little wicked once in a while.”

  “I still think we made a mistake here, sugar. I shouldn’t have let you.”

  “No worries. Just play.” He sat up, refilled the coffee cup, and drank more. “Forget I did that.”

  She took a bite of cake. Hard to believe someone as intense as Jamie could take what bordered on foreplay so lightly. “Are you sure?”

  The music began. He rose, reached out his hand to her. “I know you’re a married woman. Sort of. Halfway. Not done yet. Whatever you said about it. I’m not delusional. But,” dancing a few steps, still reaching out to her, “if I were going to die tomorrow, this is how I’d spend today.”

  If her time were that short, would she do the same? She looked at his outstretched hand, not taking it. Too much had happened. She’d let herself slip, get carried away. Not a good move, with him.

  “Come on, love. Let’s have fun. I’m sorry about the cake and the—the,” he seemed to teeter between ascent to joy and descent to sadness, “the scene. I’m sorry. Please. Forget the crap. Forget everything.” He held out both hands. “Please. Let’s dance.”

  Not sure if she should, not sure what would happen if she did or she didn’t, Mae took his hands, and Jamie pulled her to her feet with a sunburst of a smile. Joy triumphed.

  “I’m making a big mistake,” she said. “You know that.”

  “No you’re not.” He drew her in, leading her into a soft turn and spinning her to face him again. “Fuck. We’re alive. This is it.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Plaza felt strangely quiet in the twilight after the concert, even with all the people still sitting, strolling, talking. Tiny lights sparkled in the trees. Jamie put his hat on and packed the cloth into the bag. “Best night I’ve had in months, love. Maybe in a year.” He looked into Mae’s eyes, and then hugged her with a crushing enthusiasm, cheek to cheek, chest to chest. “Thanks for that.”

  His best night in a year included a near panic, a cake-stabbing, and a heart-smashing. Mae regretted that his glorious dancing was marred with moments like that. She pushed away gently, not wanting to seem cold in such a warm embrace. It would be easier on him if she could say goodnight and send him home now, but they had to prolong the evening a little more.

  “You left your flutes and drum at my place. I reckon you want them.”

  “Was that today? Yeah, guess it was. Feels like it was yesterday. I have to get the van. Walk to it with me? Then I’ll—no. Maybe ...” He froze, and when he resumed, his energy was subdued. “Sorry. My hip’s done for. Dancing on cement. Van’s a bit of a hike. Your place is closer. Could you give me and my things a lift to it?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  In the silence as they started up Palace Street, Mae began to notice her legs. She had been so swept up in the music, the dancing, the conflicted and yet joyous surrender to the moment, that she had tuned out the pain. Dancing asked more of the same muscles that were already sore from barefoot running. The subtle stretch from the uphill slope of the street was the only thing keeping her calves from going into knots. Like the way she’d played hurt in softball games in high school and not even noticed an injury until the ninth inning was over, she’d overridden this pain and the gasping intensity of breath and heartbeat at high altitude. Now the endorphins faded and the intensity of her discomfort came on full blast.

  She stopped and dropped a heel over the curb, stretching. “Hang on. My legs are cramping.”

  “Yeah, dancing does that.” Jamie took her elbow to help her balance. “When I first started ballroom it did a number on me. But I was out of shape. Thought you’d be all right.”

  “Mmm. Not on top of running in my foot gloves. I think I did too much.” She held a stretch on each leg for about a minute, hoped for the best, and resumed walking. “I feel like this place makes me kind of flaky. Like I don’t think as clearly as I do at home. I’d normally know better than to do all that in the same day.”

  “Maybe the place frees you up, y’know? Floats your lid off, and you go for it, pain and all.”

  Did she have a tight lid on? She didn’t think of herself that way, although Niall did, and she had certainly done a few things lately that she wouldn’t normally do.

  As they turned the corner to Delgado and started to cross, both Mae’s legs seized up with pain like spikes being driven deep into her calf muscles. She had to stop in the middle of the street to try to stretch again, but the knot was so strong, even her arch was cramping and she couldn’t stand. Leaning on Jamie, she wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but it hurt so much she could only make ouch and ow sounds.

  “Want me to massage you?” he offered.

  “No. I need you to hold my foot—”

  “What? And you walk on my hands?”

  “No, you press from the top and I push back—ow—with opposing muscles and you—” The pain cut her off as Jamie squatted obediently at her feet, tenderly stroking the tops of them, looking up at her with worry and bewilderment. Either he didn’t understand her directions, or was too concerned about her to even listen. “It’s a way to stop a cramp—”

  “Nah. Trust me. Don’t need it. Massage is best.” Before Mae could stop him, he wrapped his arms around her hips and lifted with a loud grunt. Within a few steps he was groaning and staggering, but he delivered her to the sidewalk. “Jeeeezus. You’re like a bloody load of bricks.” He nearly fell as he set her down. “Sorry. I mean, you’re lovely, but fuck—” He laughed so hard he couldn’t finish.

  Mae braced her arms on a neighbor’s adobe garden wall and attempted to stretch again. Her leg resisted. “Ow. Yeah, I probably weigh as much as you do.”

  “You think?” He sat on the sidewalk and began to massage one of her legs. “Might. I’ve kind of shrunk lately.” He stroked her calf, not forcing the knot, but easing through from the surface, as if taming her muscles the way he’d tamed Pie. “Is this all right? If we go inside I could do both at once.”

  “I can’t walk yet. I’m gonna sit right here.” She lowered herself to the sidewalk. “Let me explain this PNF thing again, sugar. You give me resistance and—”

  “Relax. You don’t have to do all that.” Jamie moved her legs into his lap, quietly determined. Mae wondered if he really didn’t understand what she meant, or if he didn’t want to. “Let me take care of you.”

  Let him be a man. Not just a mess. She couldn’t refuse. Her legs needed something urgently, and this was the way he wanted to show he could help. “Thank you, sugar.” She felt silly and awkward, but at least for the moment the residential street was q
uiet, with no witnesses to their preposterous position. “I’ll try not to holler again.”

  “I know. Hurts like bloody hell. I’ve danced myself sore before.” Jamie worked on both her legs at once for a while, and then switched to a deeper two-handed exploration of one leg, his fingers slowly penetrating to the knots, sometimes making her start a little, but effectively reaching the painful place. “Got it. Jesus, it’s like a fucking ball of cement in there.” He rocked the ball of cement gently. “All right? Not too rough? Don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You’re doing fine. Thank you.”

  A man on a bicycle appeared, on his way toward Alameda from Palace. “Honeymoon?”

  “First date,” Jamie called back. “She won’t let me kiss her.”

  With a wave and a starlit grin the cyclist vanished, a whoosh of tires in the quiet night as he crossed Alameda and then the bridge.

  “You know him?”

  “Nah.” Jamie began to roll her lower leg in both his hands, easing the cramp more fully. “People here talk to you.”

  Mae stared down the street at the bridge. Pictured Dusty jumping, crawling under. The police never coming. It was so close, Ruth would have heard him running. He would have been louder than the bicycle for sure, meaning she would have known which way to direct the cops. She’d wanted him arrested. What had happened?

  Jamie’s run-on chatter shook her out of her thoughts. “You need to drink a ton more water, love. This place, seriously, you can’t let yourself dry out. Got orange juice in the house? Potassium. Good for you. Yeah, we bought juice the other day. We’ll get you in, get you some juice, rub you down some more.” He took the other leg and gave it the same treatment. “Arnica, too. Homeopathy. You use that? I can run out and get you some.”

  He sounded eager to do it, as if hoping to be chosen for an honor. “That’s okay, sugar. Just help me inside. That’ll be enough. Thank you. You’ve already helped a lot.”