The Scars of Practice Sticks to snare, brushes to high hat, sticks to snare, brushes to high hat. Batoom, batoom, chhh, chhh, batoom, batoom, chhh, chhh. Marla's head nods up and down as she closes the cupboard door, then turns around, leaning her back against the wood paneled counter. The stove top needs cleaning, brown grease spotting the right half. The lights are dimmed by the bug bodies in the fixture. She just hasn't had the energy to clean much lately. Feeling real tired for months, maybe more. She's not sure. And she's still not sure she believes the doctor, believes the test results. She lights a cigarette, smoke fading into her frizzy, brown hair. Batoom, batoom, chhh, chhh. Nick is obviously listening to Max Roach, best drummer for all Nick's favorite musicians. Charlie Parker, Dizzie Gillespie, Mingus. The past, really. He cushions his ears in leather padded headphones, then practices back up rhythm. Solos he practices without the headphones at first. Listens, then does it. Since they finished dinner, Nick's been practicing that steady rhythm. Their black and tan collie/shepherd sits patiently at Marla's side, panting. The dog's breath barely a whisper compared to the drums. Marla cooked blackened
catfish, mashed potatoes, fresh peas. Before bringing out
the cake, she gave Nick his birthday presents, a brown
cardigan sweater, thick wool for days it's particularly
cold, and a black blazer, the kind that looks good with
jeans. "Thanks, Marla, this is beautiful. I'll wear
the jacket next Saturday when I'm playing at
Harling's." He tried on the blazer, his back to her,
broad and young looking with his dark hair grazing the
collar. Then he turned and kissed her, his hand around
her waist, the dog looking up at them. He loved the cake,
too, but . . . "not too much, if I get too full I'll
be wiped out." She decided that it was an age thing. He used to enjoy celebrating his birthday with a big party or a special dinner. The whole evening spent in revelry. Thirty-five marked the turning point. His band scheduled a gig for that night, and rather than sticking around afterwards, for at least a few drinks, he wanted to come straight home and go to bed. Who wants to celebrate the beginning of age lines? That's all birthdays really are any more, age lines and newfound pains. It’s the pains that worry her. Marla’s arms ached
with fatigue mixing the batter for Nick's birthday cake
earlier this afternoon. She knows that such constant
aching throughout the body means something toxic, a
cancer slowly throwing everything out of whack. Soon it
would even re-flavor all her food. A metallic taint on
the tip of the tongue. She could picture Nick
sitting by her side, rubbing her forehead with his
fingers. He'd tell her stories about his days in New York
and Chicago: “. . . that night Fitz Dingas got us
all off a possession charge by telling the cop about his
dad's days in precinct 12. It was difficult for me to
keep a straight face since I knew his dad was really the
three hundred pound owner of Doogies’, a club down
on Bleeker St. Gambling and ladies in the back room. You
should’ve seen it, Marla. That place was always
filled with so many people that everyone sweat from the
crowd’s heat. And the lights were so dim and so
orange that people were always knocking into one another
. . .” She imagined that she’d focus so much on
Nick's descriptions, she'd almost forget about the pain.
And about all the bills, too. How expensive cancer must
be. Best of all worlds here. His drums are in the basement on the factory side of the house, one house on the other side of them, corner market across the street. Marla gets to work in ten minutes. She runs the phones and intercom at Armco Steel, a few miles from their home, a narrow one story white house and two foot picket fence that bends in the wind. Nothing corporate about
Marla. She sits in a slim leather chair in front of a
switchboard in a cubby hole office. Sometimes the phones
don't ring much. More often she gets on the intercom,
managers and supervisors needing to talk with one
another. They buzz her. She makes the announcement.
Problems with machines or a failed job at one section of
the assembly line. She sits. She often makes long
distance calls to her mom and her sister, both still
living in St. Joseph. They tell her about people from
high school, their families, too. Everyone still living
in the same city, kids and divorces, plenty of factories
and chain retail. Then Holiday did the same
thing when Nick played the drums. Running through the
house, spinning in circles, barking. Same thing every
time he practiced. First, Marla tried to calm her, hold
her, pet her while speaking softly, "It's okay,
girl, shh . . ." Marla tried walks. Walks before he
began, maybe she'd be calm when she arrived home, drums
just background. Marla tried walking her after she got
upset. Holiday just started up as soon as they got home.
Marla got frisbees, brought the dog outside to play. When
she heard the drums, she took off. Nick didn't know what
to do for her, either. "Could the vet suggest
something?" It was all the unknown, unadvertised illnesses that frightened her. How would anyone know if they had them? She had been keeping her eyes open for many months. Billboards from the lung association, hospitals, the heart foundation. Cholesterol, AIDS, even the ebola virus. But surely there were less talked about illnesses killing people like herself every day. Surely something like ebola couldn't have been more rampant than the jack hammer disorder. And what about her job, what diseases might be prowling the halls of Armco Steel? It seemed like the news only covered something when someone famous died from it. She wonders how Max Roach died. She'll ask Nick one day. Nick wants to be Max Roach. Not emulate him. Be him. She knows. He says he was born too late. Marla envisions them living in the fifties, his career taking off, the two of them traveling up and down the Mississippi River. She thinks that with more opportunities back then, he would have made it big. She could see herself in a satin dress, a long cigarette between her fingers, she'd sit at a special table in the front corner, a booth against the wall. The night club filled with a few thousand people all there to see Nick and who else? Gillespie? Mingus? And once he made it big, they'd have money in the bank, a stone house on the Missouri side of the city, and Nick would teach all their children music. They'd see the world--Rocky Mountains, California, even Hawaii. Gigs have been so scarce,
lately. Several months ago he was bemoaning the state of
jazz in America. "Yeah, people still swing. People
talk about swing. But look at Milton's, Harling's.
Harling's even has `alternative' night, now. Not enough
money in jazz. It's sad." Nick doesn't think about these things. Claims not to at least. She imagines him thinking about it. How he owns those drums. Those drums mean everything to him. He must think about them, dream about them. How the metal rims point so much light in your eyes, you have to angle your head to look at the set. And the bruised skins of the drums, all the beating, the scars of practice. Occasionally, the sticks just rip right through. All her life Marla has been trying to imagine other people's thoughts, their daydreams. Her mother must want a new husband. Year after year, sliding under cold sheets, too many pillows. Claims not to miss Marla's dad. "No drama, Marla . . . we just don't love each other any more. We have nothing to talk about, nothing but tv and bill payments year after year. There's nothing left for us. It's been mutual for years. Now, we're ready to let go." It seemed so strange to Marla. No, they didn't touch or laugh or tease. Still, she assumed divorce meant something happened. "It just stopped happening, Marla." She tried to remember a
pivotal moment from her childhood or adolescence. Or at
least a change. But really she couldn't. Of course, she
can remember those occasional fights about money or
family. But no, it was all a ruse. How long had they
pretended for the kids' sakes? She struggled to remember
her childhood, a moment when things got worse, but she
couldn't. She wonders if her mother ever wanted flowers. If she would be happier if she dated. Marla imagines her mother lonely, afraid of repeating the past, smiling nicely, then quickly moving along when men brush by her in the supermarket, the mall, the garden store. What if she just deceived herself all those years, thinking she loved her husband? Could she ever trust herself again? Marla imagines her neighbor's ex-wife, too. Sam took a liking to Marla and Nick when they moved in. His balding head always seems pushed to the dirt. Weeding, planting, nourishing the ground, but as soon as he hears their screen door slam, he looks up, waves, slowly ascends, hands against his knees, helping them straighten out. Loves to chat. Marla thought he'd be good
for her mom. A little younger, but kind and smart,
reading Time and Reader's Digest, books about gardening.
Reads about everything before he takes action.
Thoughtful, that's the word she thinks of when she sees
him, always stopping to see how they’re doing. One
Sunday she started telling him about her mother. ".
. . won't date. Hasn't dated since the divorce, twelve
years ago. She really needs to meet a nice man. A nice
man like you--" Marla thought maybe she would tell Sam about the doctor's visit. An impartial outsider. And he reads so much surely he has an opinion about medical science. He wouldn't think she was silly for worrying about the accuracy of the test results. She'd explain the
situation to him. How she hadn't been to the doctor since
she was a teenager. Gone to clinics periodically. To get
antibiotics for bronchitis, strep throat, things like
that, occasionally for flu shots. But no physical in
about twenty years. Never had the insurance to cover it.
But now she does. And how would she know if she had
something serious? Don't most illnesses start off with
minor symptoms? She had been tired lately, and achy.
After much deliberation, she went to the doctor. Took a
while. Made the appointment, then canceled. Made the
appointment, then canceled. She couldn't bear to think of
a doctor pinning her to slow death . . . she could hear
her mother every time she picked up the phone to make the
appointment . . . "I can't believe you're still
smoking with all we know today about cancer. I bet your
blood pressure is sky high . . . you really don't eat
enough vegetables, that'll catch up with you in a few
years." But each time she thought
about going over to talk to him, she felt foolish. They
knew so little about each other, how would they ever even
approach a conversation like that? She remembered the
awkward feeling she had when he mentioned his wife. She
stuck to the safe topics: the garden, the dog, the
approaching holidays. Lately, she always felt weighted down. When she arrived at the doctor's office, it seemed like she could feel every pound of her body, every muscle and nerve, tingling to exhaustion. She stood in the hallway outside the office staring at the door for a few minutes. It seemed heavy, like it would take everything she had to push it open. She paced the blue diamond carpet, toward the elevator, back toward the office, toward the elevator, back toward the office. Slowly. Barely lifting her legs. When a patient came out of the office, almost knocking into her, she entered. Her legs felt achy like they did the last few years she waited on tables. Marla spent most of her life on the late shift in bars and clubs. Worked her way from Toscannini's to discos to Harling's, one of Nick's favorite jazz clubs. Nothing between Nick and Marla at first. 1982 she started working there. She was married to Tim Waters, a bartender at Kelly's. Nick was 23, skinny legs, wide shoulders, baby fat under his dark stubble. She only noticed him because her friends did. They never saw each other or spoke except when she took his order. Nick was studying with Tutu Robins, the student of Rick Crawford, who followed Max Roach around. He learned by watching, asking, occasionally getting some hands-on tutoring. Women, drugs, booze, all peripheral interests for Nick. It took her divorce and a few boyfriends before Marla and Nick got together. 1987, Nick came back from Chicago and New York broke. No luck. Yeah, he'd played a little, met some people. But nothing steady, no band formed, no studio wanted him. Lots of people told him he had talent, but no one needed him. No one was stunned. Only impressed. Nick came back. Arrived at Harling's, wan and thirsty, penniless and depressed. Marla was his waitress that night. Drinks on the bar, hospitality for an old customer and house musician. He told her about his bad
luck and no place to go. After several hours of watching
him hold his face in his hands (baby fat all gone) and
sip his beers, she offered her couch to him for a few
nights. Until he got his feet off the ground. Marla's
boyfriend had moved out several weeks earlier. She had
space. Wanted some company anyway. Nick slept on her couch for about a week. Then one thing led to another. Lonely nights, a few drinks, a man, a woman. Sex, then nights out, dinner, jazz, dancing, laughing. Nick seemed to forget about his bad luck, settled into the Kansas City jazz scene pretty quickly, stayed at Marla's apartment. Her nights off they went out, just the two of them. When they were broke, they just walked around the park, sat on the war memorial looking out over the city, lit up and quiet, occasional sirens. Nick talked a lot about music, everything he loved, learned and dreamed, taught her how to read music, just the basics. She asked him about New York and Chicago, told him things she'd like to try, water skiing, scuba diving. She figured their lives would change. But in a different way than they did. She assumed that one day they'd be more focused on a nice home, a family. At this point, though, that seemed unlikely. At thirty-eight her childbearing time was almost up. They hadn't even made love for over a month. The doctor didn't ask about her sex life. Only about contraception. Didn't even ask her if she'd been to the gynecologist. She figures one thing at a time. Her mother gives her hell all the time about not going. But raising a family
wasn't a fertility issue. It just seemed like something
else always took precedence. It was never the right time
to start a family. Not enough money, possibilities for
his career to take off and then he'd be out on the road
too much. His face contorted
slightly, but he nodded in agreement. Nick had some gigs
now and then but, like most musicians, just broke even. A
few months later they rented a house for more space, more
noise, and Nick started teaching. She dreamed of them
getting a house of their own one day. One like the house
they have now. But a little bigger. They walk down the block toward the factories. If they walk the other way they'll have to pass by the crazy lady's home, a square brick house hidden behind bushes and tree limbs growing into one another like knots. Marla is confident passing the house would traumatize Holiday. The factories still go at night. Smoke pouring into the neighborhood, lights on top of towers brightening the area. Makes Marla feel safe to have so much light. Barbed wire fences enclose most of the factories. She and Holiday walk alongside them. They get home half an hour later. Two hours and fifty minutes since dinner. Only one hour and ten minutes left. Nick is precise. He never plays less than four hours. Rarely more than four and a half. Holiday follows Marla back to the bar where she makes another drink, lights a cigarette she lays in the black plastic ash tray sitting on the bar and clicks on the television. News on now. A murder solved, suspect handcuffed and hanging his head to his chest. She takes another drag off the cigarette. Marla lied to the doctor about smoking. Said she only smokes four or five cigarettes a day. Closer to fifteen. A whole pack the day she went to the doctor. She thought about not going. She envisioned herself telling Nick that she thought she had cancer. "What makes you think you might have cancer? . . . tired? . . . you'd be more than tired if you had cancer." Sitting in the stiff-backed, cloth chair of the waiting room, her legs crossed and the top leg swaying, she could smell cigarettes, not smoldering but lingering on someone's clothes, in their hair. She concentrated on the smell. She imagined Nick inhaling, his thin lips pursed around the cigarette, and exhaling through his nose, smoke swirling, clinging to his thick dark hair, just beginning to gray. She wanted to hold him, tight. Kiss him, kiss his whole body. People casually flipped through magazines, Discover, Time, Modern Maturity. She picked up Newsweek. Thumbed it. Noticed the ads, computer programs, cars, people with smooth skin. She wore a denim dress, hair neatly stacked in a bun, a little more blush than usual. Her foot tapped the carpet. "Mrs. Brock." She quickly uncrossed her legs, tucked her purse under her arm and followed the nurse's lead. The hallway was small, narrow and white. The doctor's office blue with cushy, leather chairs. She felt overwhelmed by the list of diseases no one in her family ever had--diabetes, thyroid condition, heart disease. Nothing but arthritis in her family. That didn't even make the list. He took her to a small, shiny clean room, left her while she stripped and put on a backless paper robe. He weighed her, took blood, said her heart sounded fast, but could be she was nervous. Her blood pressure slightly high, nothing serious. Blood, though. That's the key to the body. It's a routine check, he explained. Cholesterol, levels of vitamins and minerals, blood sugar, blood cell count, anything abnormal would show up. But how can that be? Does everything abnormal affect the blood? Even after the fact, she didn't tell Nick she went to the doctor. She meant to but he's had so much on his mind, always practicing, teaching, looking for gigs, other musicians. Nick is persistent. Nick is frustrated. He doesn't want fame and glitter. Or money. He wants to play with the best. He wants to play for someone. Someone who knows jazz. Someone who listens. He persists. Marla admires his determination. But he gets more and more tired. He always came to bed sweaty, something that used to turn her on. If practice went well, he'd caress her face, kiss her neck, his breath like a whisper. If it went badly, he'd be so frustrated he'd need her to take his mind off it. And when they were too tired, they'd just rub each other's backs. Now, he's out of breath, bags under his eyes, crashes into the bed at night. He puts in about a ten hour day if you count his practice time plus teaching and working at the store. She figures it's really harder to work a few part-time jobs rather than one boring full-time job. Often she massages his shoulders if they're both still awake after he finishes practicing. Less and less as time goes on. No, there was no need to
worry him. If she ends up real sick, he'll find out soon
enough, and his whole life will change. Hours and hours
each day at the hospital. Looking for ways to earn more
money. Eighty percent. That's what her insurance pays.
He'd be busy looking for the other twenty. And visiting
whenever he wasn't working. The skin around his eyes
would crinkle with worry. No money for elaborate gifts,
but he'd probably pick tulips from the crazy lady's when
she wasn't looking. A Robin Hood gesture. All for her. She needs to stop smoking. So does he. She knows that. Both on their way to lung cancer, and she figures they'd feel better if they quit. Not to mention all the money they'd save. But somehow she can't find the energy. Tells herself this is the last cigarette, the last one ever. Says that about every cigarette. They're all the last. Maybe if they both quit it would be easier. They could help one another, talk through it. Hang air freshener around the house. Clean the ash trays, fill them with packs of gum. Cinnamon, fruit flavors, peppermint, something different in every room. They could grow fat together, kid each other about their love handles, squeezing them and laughing. At the moment of weakness, insomnia, the taste of tobacco on the tongue, she could lean over him in bed, tell him how badly she wanted a cigarette. He'd hold her hand, tell her how much better she'd feel if she didn't smoke. Several weeks ago over
dinner she said, "I think we should consider trying
to quit smoking." She's going to start taking vitamins. Never thought it necessary before. Never knew many people who seemed to take them. Except her mother, of course. But her mother's such a worrier. Marla wonders what people did a long time ago, before vitamins could be condensed into a pill. What did those people do? Before their blood could be isolated and tested. Perhaps that's why they didn't live so long. Perhaps they spent most of their lives sore. Three days ago the phone
rang about thirty minutes after she got home from work.
She was snapping green beans over the sink, Holiday was
at her feet, Nick was finishing his last drum lesson in
the basement. It was Dr. Stein. "The results of your
blood work came back. Everything's normal." She scratches Holiday with her foot. She feels a tightening in her throat but holds back her tears. She's not sick. Everything's normal. She knows the doctor is right. Nothing's any different than it ever was. Except she's tired. Tired of this. She looks down at Holiday, thinks about a kitten, how a kitten would liven this place up. A really small one who'd leap after yarn, scale curtains. The runt of a litter. Something really tiny. Holiday would probably try to nurse it. Or at least bathe it. It would sleep in Marla's arms each night. When she finishes the
drink, she brings the glass to the kitchen to wash it,
sponge squeaking the glass as she thinks about different
colored kittens--black and white like Loony Toons'
Sylvester. Or calico. Or tiger striped. Deciding would be
the hardest part. As she dries the glass, Nick comes
upstairs, turns off the basement light and enters the
kitchen, his shirt soaked with sweat, hair wet and
sticking to his forehead. He's out of breath. Marla hands
him the dry glass, he nods a thank you while getting
water from the faucet. "Hey . . . what's
wrong?" Contributor: Pamela Garvey
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