The Night Toby Hitched A Ride With Toll-Bridge Bill » »

Descending Intervals

Contributed by Rivka Jacobs on 24/11/09

He positioned himself in front of his fifth-floor window, watching the clean, silver glow of dawn materialize over the buildings of southwest Portland, Oregon. He began his warm-up exercises; pressing his lips tightly together and vibrating them, making a buzzing sound. He lifted his gleaming trumpet and set the mouthpiece to his lips, and began soft-playing, starting pianissimo, making his tones lighter and lighter until almost inaudible.

“I Waited for You” and “Yesterdays,” flowed like mellow honey, so quiet that none of his neighbors, not even the pigeons outside on the ledges, could hear.

The cravings and yearnings to fly high came again, too, but he brushed right by them, losing himself in his music as the sky brightened and the sounds of cars and buses and activity began to waft upward.

T.S. Lord lowered his trumpet and stood motionless and silent as his coffee pot kicked on. He took a deep breath, filling his senses with the aroma of his favorite Maxwell House blend. He exhaled like a sigh. Today would be busy — an AA meeting in the morning, a gig after dinner in one of the small hole-in-the-wall jazz clubs on SW 12th Ave., down the street from his apartment building.

He roused himself, turned away from the window, and positioned his shiny white-gold trumpet carefully on his bed. It was a fairly nice full-size bed. His entire efficiency apartment, at one time a hotel room, was old and no longer symmetrical with layers and layers of cream-colored paint on the stucco walls, but it was clean and well-maintained. The building wasn’t the worst he’d ever lived in; it was far better than a flop house. He had been lucky enough to find the place through one of his AA sponsors, and he had lived here for five years.

As he moved towards the kitchenette he passed the small table and his yellow legal pad with the current letter in progress to Rosa. This was probably the last letter. The most important letter. He hadn’t seen her or their two children in twenty years. He had been writing her almost daily for every one of those years; from rooms or park benches, or some basement where he found shelter, from jails and rehab centers and hospitals. Throughout the years he had kept a notebook, or a composition book, or found a scrap of paper, even a napkin or an envelope someone had tossed away, and tried to explain, to beg forgiveness. He mailed his letters, eventually — sometimes individually, sometimes in collections. Whenever he had gathered enough money, or could beg someone to part with a few stamps, he sent off his scribblings to the last address he could find for his family.

T.S. Lord poured the fresh coffee into a large, terracotta stone mug with a sharp triangular chip on one side of the rim. This was one of his few possessions, one of the artifacts of a long life that he had been able to hang on to. He reflexively patted his right pants pocket with his right hand as he carried the coffee in his left hand to the table — his diamond arrowhead was there, a souvenir or a protective amulet, he couldn’t say which. But it had belonged to him for many years.

He settled into the chair, in front of his yellow pad and pencil and set his mug down carefully as he scanned what he had already written:

“My dearest Rosa, David, and Helen….” he read out loud, then paused. A wave of nervous energy made him shake. He wanted to jump up and leap into the air, hurling himself into space. He abruptly stood and paced from the table to the bed and back again. He wanted to throw something, or play his horn. He forced himself to sit down once more, and concentrate. He continued, “… I continue to miss you every day, more than I can say. I have some important things to tell you, and this may be my last letter. I hope and pray that you will get all my mail and will know how much I love you….”

I didn’t think I could fall in love, the way I fell for you, Rosa. There has been so much violence, there are so many painful memories. I never considered I would father children. This has been a very bizarre life — so intense, so human, filled with the most extreme highs and lows of existence. I make no excuses for my behavior, or ruining your marriage, and for leaving you and our children, who were only babies at the time.

Rosa, if you ever read this, I want you to know that you are the most exquisite and interesting and brilliant woman I’ve ever encountered, and you infected me. It’s like a fever, this passion I have for you. I am certain that our son has grown up to be a fine-looking and good man, and likewise, our daughter is now a beautiful and esteemed woman; you made sure of it, I know. I hope they will prove to be champions, and will do the will of the Lord, and will be spared any punishment for the sins of their father

Rosa, I’ll be leaving this last letter with the manager at the front desk. I want you to understand as best as I can explain, how much our time together meant to me. It’s an entire lifetime to us, a blink of an eye, so to speak, to my employer. I pray my sins will be forgiven. It’s almost time, now, to do what I was sent to do. I don’t want to do this thing. I don’t understand why it needs to be done. And it’s funny, given this monstrous task I’m ordered to fulfill, all I can think is I need to put it off until my gig is finished at the Jazz Cave. My unexpected humanity is filled with petty concerns, these days

I’m left to consider, who judges the judge and who punishes the executioner. Is it weakness or strength that drives temptation? Is there a universal irony, a karmic rebound even greater than He is, that even He is slave to?

At the end of this week, the super of this building will find my body, my human shell, on my bed. I will give him instructions to find and contact you. Please be brave. I can offer you no comfort. But I will try to protect you and our children as best as I can

Please forgive me, for what I’ve put you through. Please tell our children that I adore them, and I’m proud of them.

With all my heart, my love, and my life,

T.S. Lord

Rosa Sinclair blotted each eye with the tip of a wadded Kleenex as she finished reading the letter. She stood at the counter in front of the manager’s cage in the lobby of the Dorchester Hotel. Behind her stood her grown children, daughter Helen on her right and son David on her left. She glanced briefly around her, into the dim and dingy spaces. The doors on the first floor were bright green, and the carpet beneath her feet displayed a stained and faded braided floral pattern. The smell of backed-up sewage pipes mixed with the sharp odors of cooking and cheap cologne. The apartment house manager sat behind a clear plastic barrier with a little window in the front.

“Is this all he left?” Rosa asked, bending slightly so she could see through this small opening and make eye contact. She tried to keep her voice steady.

The manager, an older skinny man with a grizzled face and missing teeth, gazed speechless at Rosa and her children for several seconds. “Ma’am….” he started to say. “Ma’am….” The woman was tall, powerful looking, and beautiful like an ancient stone statue is beautiful. She would have to be at least forty-five years old, but it was impossible to tell her age or origins; her eyes were gold, her skin was a brown color but she could have been Nefertiti or Queen Esther or the goddess Venus herself. “Ma’am….” he attempted again.

The young woman behind Rosa, poised and willowy and almost as lovely as her mother, spoke up, “My mother wants to know was there anything else my father left when he died?”

The manager swallowed, and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. He shook his head once. “Just this letter. And a couple of small things in his apartment.”

“What things? Rosa asked.

“A coffee maker, a change of clothes, bathroom stuff, some coins and keys in his pocket.”

“What about his trumpet?” Rosa demanded. “He never went anywhere without it. Where is it?”

The manager shrugged.

“Someone stole it, and you don’t care do you?” Rosa tugged at her coat collar and hugged herself as the lobby was getting cold. There was an ice storm building outside, and although she didn’t doubt she could handle any danger or threatening situation, she was not happy with being stuck in this part of downtown Portland under these conditions.

Her son, David, said, “We’ll be looking into this. We’ll be contacting the authorities about this.” He of course looked like an Olympic athelete, and the Dorchester’s super could only stare at him and shrug again.

There was a whistling and moaning sound oozing from the ceiling, from the walls, as the wind picked up speed outside. Then a kind of low blue note, a soft mellow tone came riding on the tempest. Rosa tilted her head slightly, listening. She seemed to relax for a moment, as if lost in a memory, then she straightened abruptly and impatience, anger, and sorrow twisted her elegant features once more. “We’re leaving, but you haven’t heard the last from us.” She grabbed the letter from off the counter, stuffed it back into its envelope, jammed the envelope into her purse.

She spun on her high-heeled boots and strode for the front entrance, followed by her son and her daughter.

The super got off his stool and stood, pressed his face right up to the plastic shield and craned his neck as far as he could to watch Rosa Sinclair and her offspring exit through the revolving door. “Wow,” he said to anyone who was listening, “who would have thought that broken down guy had something like that waiting for him!”

The hotel walls seemed to groan and hum like a tuning fork; from diffuse directions, from various rooms, dogs began barking and howling furiously. “Hmm,” the super said to himself, “could be an earthquake or somethin’ comin’.”