Free Jonah Man by Christopher Narozny Page B

Jonson said. You fix this up yourself?
    You can make any place nice, she said.
    I don’t see anywhere for a baby sleep.

    I didn’t know there was one. I can get a crib. And a blanket. Light blue. Or dark blue, if you like.
    Either’ll work, Jonson said.
    OK, she said. I’ll let you get settled.
    Jonson waited for her to leave, but she stood there, running her palms over the pleats of her skirt, glancing about as though she’d misplaced something in mid-air.
    I’ll be all right now, Jonson said.
    The sound of his voice seemed to startle her.

    He played from early morning to late evening, plucking out the few songs he remembered, filling in the lyrics he’d forgotten. Cynthia sat with his son in the garden out back; on breaks, he’d walk to the window, watch. She’d laid out a blanket on the grass, was encouraging the baby to crawl.
    While Jonson played, Max worked on the bar—sanding, polishing, stocking. He was slow moving, hadn’t once spoken to Jonson, didn’t seem to notice the piano.
    Now and again Jonson heard a gathering in the parlor. Now and again the Madame checked in, set her glass on the piano, asked why he always seemed to be playing the same song.
    It’s been a while, he said.
    Can you read music?
    Better than words.
    I don’t doubt it.
    That night, Cynthia was waiting with his boy in the basement, sitting rigid on the edge of the cot, reading from a thick book. She looked, Jonson thought, as though she felt someone had been watching her for a long while. She was pretty in a way that had nothing to do with sex, in a way that would dissolve as soon as she tried to be pretty. Jonson cleared his throat.

    The doctor came to see him, she said. He left an ointment to put on, morning and evening.
    Jonson bent over the basket. The boy’s skin was oily, his tufts of hair washed and combed.
    He’s going to be fine, she said.
    That the Bible? Jonson asked, nodding at the book on her lap.
    No, she said. Just a novel.
    I’m sorry to hear about your wife, she said.
    It took her a damn long time.
    She remained perched on the cot, stiff-backed, hands folded on her lap, looking as though she wanted to speak but was awaiting permission.
    What’s your novel about? he asked.
    She smiled, seemed surprised.
    A foundling, she said. Left on the doorstep of a wealthy family. The family decides to keep her. Her sisters and brother are jealous because their father dotes on her and she’s bright and pretty. When the father dies, she’s sent away to a boarding school where she does well in her classes but can’t get on with the headmaster. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.
    A hard luck case, Jonson said. Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.
    You think so?
    No one would ruin their eyes over a shit life that stayed shit.
    No, she said. I guess they wouldn’t.
    Now get, Jonson said. I’m tired.
    Lying on his cot with the lights out, he pictured himself as headmaster, Cynthia as his charge. But the image remained static, the figures unable to move their arms or legs, so that after a while he gave up and sat in the dark with his eyes open.

IV
    He played for three days while Max readied the bar. The Madame brought him sheet music, a large stack, enough to fill a six-hour shift. Max worked steadily, starting, stopping, taking his breaks at the same time every day, as if he’d parceled out the work in advance, as if he knew how many strokes and brushstrokes it would take to sand and polish the bar. He never spoke, though on the third morning he nodded, and Jonson nodded back.
    The Madame made regular rounds. Sometimes she would sit with him on the bench, sing along, applaud at the song’s end. Other times she would curse Ray, bellow at Max, scream until her voice was gone. Once, she placed a vase of daisies on the piano, stopped to touch their petals, continued on, spoke to Max, turned, crossed the room, shattered the vase on her way out.
    Now and again she made her tour in the company of a silver-haired man with padded