West Seattle Blues Read online

  “So what’s he want?” I wondered. “The big comeback?”

  “You really know the name?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Yeah. My dad liked country music.”

  “Oookay.” She drew the word out, as if she wasn’t sure whether to believe me. “The guy called me, right out of the blue. He’s got this wild hair that people would like to read his story.”

  “What do you mean? A book?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s what he seems to reckon. Though I can’t imagine anyone being interested.”

  “Me neither.”

  “But I told him I’d ask around and then I thought of you.”

  “Why?” I teased, “because I’m old?”

  “No,” she answered, “because you’re the kind of freaky chick who lives weird. And also he lives near you. He’s in West Seattle - that’s local, right? You want to talk to the guy?”

  “I don’t know.” I sighed. “It’s not like anyone’s going to want a book on him. What do you think about a piece for you guys, instead?”

  She gave a snort. “Well, it’s not like we have a living history section, but if you come up with something interesting, I guess we could.”

  I sighed again. “Give me his number, I’ll call him.”

  Two

  He had a voice like a country song: a lifetime of heartbreak and failed promises in just four words. It was a sound like old leather that had been soaked in bourbon or rye.

  “This is Carson Mack,” he announced.

  I explained who I was, hearing his breathing on the other end of the line.

  “I remember hearing your stuff on the radio, back in the day,” I continued.

  “Yeah, I was all over that for a little while.” He gave a hoarse, world-weary chuckle.

  “Tonia said you were thinking about a book?”

  “I don’t know what I’m thinking, really,” Carson admitted. “It just seemed like an idea. I figured there might be someone at The Rocket who’d have a few ideas.”

  I tried to be kind. “The only problem is those hits were a long time ago. Most people won’t know who you are now.”

  “I’m trying to do a little more now. And a book would be a good way for people to find out, right?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed warily. “But a book’s only worthwhile if someone wants to publish it.”

  “I guess. So you’re trying to tell me it’s a bullshit idea, huh?”

  “I’m saying that a book might not be the easiest place to start. Music’s changed in twenty years.” All music had, including country. Now it all seemed to be guys in cowboy hats, or girls who looked like truck stop waitresses with a sideline in hooking. And the songs had more to do with pop music that any country stuff I ever knew.

  “I know. I listen nowadays and I’m not even sure what’s going on.”

  “Look, Carson,” I said, “how about this? Why don’t we start off by doing a piece for The Rocket and see how that goes? It’s a place to start.

  “You sure they want one? I don’t want charity.”

  “I’m sure, they’ll print it.” I hoped they would, anyway.

  “Okay,” he agreed, sounding happier. “You want to come over here and talk to me?”

  “I can do that. Whereabouts are you?”

  “I got a place on Beach Drive in West Seattle. You know where that is?”

  “I do.” If he could afford a house down there, he must have written a few hits. It was right on Puget Sound, where the water lapped against the bottom of the gardens. Just the year before, I’d been to see a one-bedroom house along there, one in need of plenty of TLC before it would even be habitable. The asking price was over three hundred thousand and yet it had sold in a week. I loved the idea of living by the water but I knew that it was a dream. I’d never have the money for it.

  “Well, I got time tomorrow if you want. How ‘bout that?”

  I thought for a moment. Dustin would be back from his sales trip tonight. Tomorrow he’d be at home all day writing up his reports. He could take care of Ian for a few hours; in fact he’d love the chance.

  “Yeah, that’s good,” I said. “What time, and what’s your house number?”

  I bathed Ian, settled him in bed and read him a Beatrix Potter story, watching him drift into sleep. He’d run me ragged all afternoon, crawling here, there and everywhere, constantly trying to get into places he knew he shouldn’t be. I settled down on the couch, exhausted all the way to my core. Still, now I had my reward: a bottle of Henry Weinhard’s with my feet up on the coffee table. I was free until his lordship woke again in the morning.

  I heard footsteps on the deck, then the lock turn in the sliding glass door by the kitchen, and I stood up slowly with a smile on my face.

  “Hey,” I said, as Dustin came in and skidded his briefcase across the floor.

  “Hey,” he answered, hugging me close and kissing me warmly, tasting of diner food and coffee. “How’s he been?”

  “Like an angel.”

  “Any more walking?”

  I shook my head. Twice, Ian had seemed on the edge of walking. He’d pulled himself up, tried to step and toppled over. He was on the brink and we were ready for it. We’d put big rubber bumpers on the corners of tables so he wouldn’t tear his head open, locks on all the cabinets, covers to stop him pushing his fingers in the power outlets. We thought we’d covered it all, anyway. But already, even before he was toddling, life was proving a constant battle for us as he found new nooks and crannies we’d never ever noticed before. “How was the trip?”

  “Not bad,” Dustin answered. “At least I-5 was quiet on the way home. Made decent time”

  He was a publisher’s rep covering the whole Northwest down into Oregon, as far east as Montana, and twice a year up to Alaska. This time he’d just swung down south to Eugene, then took in Salem and Portland on the way back, only two days away from home. From his eyes, and the way he held on to me, I could tell he was glad to be back

  The pair of us had met at a mutual friend’s party and hit it off. Friendship led to dating and now we’d been married for two years, living together for almost three. It felt right: a mix of comfort and passion. And now, these days, weariness. We balanced each other: he liked music too, but it didn’t obsess him the way books did. So our living room was lined with shelves full of hardbacks and paperbacks, while my albums, tapes and CDs filled the spare bedroom that had become my office.

  I’d never really planned on dating him, let alone marrying the guy. My heart had already been ripped apart when Steve and I broke up in 1988. That had all crumbled to nothing so quickly and so painfully that I didn’t want to get close again and trust anyone. Maybe there were still nice men out there. I reckoned we could be buds, but I wasn’t going to let them get closer than that.

  With Dustin, though, all those resolutions and defenses didn’t matter in the end. We hung out, going to dinner, to a movie or a gig. Even just sitting around doing nothing. He was a couple years older than me, but never seemed it; there was something about him that didn’t indicate an age. After six months it started to hit me: I was beginning to like the idea of him as more than a friend. I was watching him, thinking it would be good to have him kiss me, and wondering what he’d be like in bed.

  The transition from being friends to lovers was so awkward and hesitant that it almost didn’t happen. I let him know I was interested, but he knew my history and held back. In the end it took several weeks before the first real kiss broke the ice, and another month before we made love. Once we were on track, though, things just seemed to gather steam. Moving in together seemed a natural step, and in the end I was the one who suggested marriage. It surprised me as much as it did him, but it was right, it was lasting. It was what we needed. And it had worked: we were happy together.

  Dustin was a casual guy, always heading off to work in jeans and a shirt. It was a good idea, as his buns were made for Levi’s. He owned one suit but never wore it, apart from our wedding. His hair alw
ays looked like it needed to be cut. No matter what he did, he couldn’t tame it, sandy cowlicks always sticking out. At six feet, he was tall enough for me to feel secure in his arms. I’d never known him lose his temper or good humor, just smiling at other people’s strangeness and shaking his head. For someone who’d grown up on the East Coast, he’d managed to avoid that ugly preppy style and after a decade out here, he was as laid back as any native Northwesterner. That didn’t mean he never annoyed me. We had our ups and down, little clashes over things. But we resolved most of them. He read a lot; it came with his work the way music came with mine. Once he had his head in a book he could disappear for hours, until I had to demand some attention from him. He was improving, though, and he was the best father I could imagine.

  “Did you get the book sent off?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.” The unauthorized biography of Mariah Carey was now out of my life, at least until the phone session with the lawyer. That usually took more time than the edits on the manuscript. But I wasn’t complaining, since the books were quick to write and paid well. A month from starting one to waving it goodbye. The only research involved was photocopying magazines and microfiche. No interviews, just cutand-paste and padding. Dustin had never read any of them. Once they went off to be edited, neither had I.

  “I’ll just go and peek in on Ian,” Dustin said.

  I smiled. He’d be gone at least fifteen minutes, just standing and watching our son sleeping. But I was glad. He hated being away for days at a time, checking in with me every evening for an update. He even had a cell phone, a big brick of a thing, so I could get hold of him in case of an emergency.

  “Hey, can you watch Ian for a couple hours tomorrow?” I asked.

  “I guess,” he said. “But I need to write up my report and I want to get the oil changed on the car. Why?”

  “I have to go interview someone.”

  “Anyone I’ve heard of?” he asked with a laugh. Music wasn’t his strong point. He liked some of what I played him, but his interest didn’t run deep.

  “No. Some old country guy.”

  “For just a little while, right? I have plenty to do.”

  “Promise.” I felt a little resentful, nevertheless. I spent all day, every day, with Ian and I needed to get away on my own sometimes.

  He sat down, looking serious.

  “I had lunch with the main guy at Elliott Bay books today.” It was the best bookstore in town- and one of the biggest- down on Pioneer Square. It was also one of Dustin’s main customers and he regularly took the owners out for lunch on expenses. I waited. There had to be more. “He asked if I’d be interested in going to work for him.”

  “What?”

  “As a manager.”

  “Wow.” I wondered what had prompted that offer. Dustin was good at his job, but it wasn’t on the retail end.

  “I told him I’d think about it.”

  “Seriously?” I looked at his face; he wasn’t joking. “Why?”

  “Because I need a change. I’m tired of driving so much. And I want to be home at night with you and Ian.”

  I didn’t know what to say. It would be a huge change for him. And for me. I’d grown used to him being on the road, his overnight stays here and there. But I’d love to curl up to him in bed every night, to have him here with me more.

  “What about the money?”

  “Not as good, but he thinks we can work something out.”

  “If you want it, you know I’m behind you,” I told him.

  “I know. And I’m glad. Just don’t say a word to anyone yet.”

  Dustin spent the next morning at the computer, typing up his sales reports. The machine had been a big purchase for us; with the printer it had cost well over a grand and we’d spent days discussing it before spending the money. But it was worth it. Writing books was so much easier when all I had to do was delete the mistakes I made, and he could use it regularly for his work. We’d even splashed out on a modem - with its gurgling, spacey noises and a subscription to CompuServe - to be able to dive into the new world of the Internet.

  Once he’d finished the reports, he bundled Ian into a coat and strapped him in the stroller for a walk around the neighborhood. It had become a habit; unless the weather was too bad, one of us took him out every day. People would stop to talk with us or wave. If we were feeling energetic we’d go all the way to Westwood Village to pick up a few things at QFC or look around Target.

  “I’m going out in a few minutes. To see that guy I told you about last night.”

  “I remember,” he said. “The country singer.”

  “The country singer with a few bucks,” I corrected him.

  He smirked. “Have fun with the rich hick.”

  I had time before I needed to leave, so I used them to call the main library downtown.

  “Information, this is Monica.” The familiar voice made me grin.

  “Hi, Monica, this is Laura Benton. How are you?”

  “Laura! How are you?” Her voice bubbled with pleasure. “How’s that little cutie?”

  “Bigger and cuter than ever,” I told her. “Getting ready to walk soon.”

  “You got to bring him in again.”

  “You could always come over here sometime.”

  “I might.”

  I’d known Monica for years. Whenever I needed to know anything, I called or stopped in to see her in her nook at the library. Whatever I wanted, she found it in just a few minutes. Over time we’d become friends. She used to despair of me ever settling down and now she doted on Ian. She’d even given us a Tiffany piggy bank stuffed with pennies when he was born.

  “I hope you do. Bring that husband of yours and the kids.”

  “Lord, I wouldn’t take those boys around polite company, not the way they’ve become since they hit their teens.” She stopped herself. “Anyway, enough of that. I bet this isn’t just a social call.”

  “Carson Mack.”

  “What’s a Carson Mack?” she asked in amusement.

  “It’s a he. I’d be grateful if you can find anything on him.”

  “Five minutes,” Monica told me, and she was as good as her word. “Do you want the long or the short version?”

  I looked at my watch. “Short, please.”

  “Let’s see,” she began, and I knew she was quickly scanning through information from a book or three. “He was born in Idaho in 1933, parents moved to Boise when he was six. He was in the service in Korea, came back and settled in Tacoma.” She paused for a moment. “Worked on the docks and played music at night. By the Sixties he was able to make a living playing and singing, and he found himself a record deal in 1968. Moved to Nashville and had hit singles in ’71 and ’72. I’ve never heard of the songs. ‘Maybe Darlin’’ and ‘Idaho Sweetheart.’ Do those mean anything to you?”

  “Yeah.” My dad had played them in the car when I was a teenager. He’d loved country music. That was why I’d even heard of Carson.

  “Evidently he had a string of flops after that. Oh.” She suddenly brightened. “He wrote ‘Call You Sunshine’ and ‘After The Heart Falls’; I remember those. They were wonderful songs.” And they also explained why he could buy a place on Beach Drive. Both had been huge country hits for several singers at the end of the 1970s. “He had a few others that sold moderately well. But nothing like those two and no more since 1985.” She went quiet for a few moments. “He moved to Seattle twelve years ago. Divorced twice, four children…it doesn’t give their ages.”

  “Thanks,” I told her. “I’m heading down to interview him.”

  “You tell him I loved those songs. And you make sure you bring Ian down here soon.”

  “I will.” I meant it.

  I parked on Beach Drive and walked down a set of steps cut into the hillside, leading down toward the water. It was quiet here, as if the rest of the world was miles away. At the bottom a thick mat of grass opened out, stretching all the way to the shore. The water was iron-grey, with low bre
akers out on Puget Sound. I could imagine sleeping soundly in a place like this, lulled by the sound of the waves.

  The house that stood in the middle of the grass was nothing special, hardly bigger than a shack. The paint had been worn away by years of sand and wind, leaving the wood a faded, pearly grey. There was a small porch, just big enough for a couple of beat-up chairs and a table. The whole place looked as if it had been pulled out of Appalachia and then tossed down in western Washington state. The neighbors probably thought it lowered the tone of an expensive area.

  I rapped on the screen door and heard someone moving around inside. The man who opened up wasn’t at all what I’d expected. I’d pictured someone looking old and running to fat. Instead he was stick-thin in that hillbilly way, like an older Harry Dean Stanton with a face that was weathered and creased, every plane cut sharp, and a narrow scar down one cheek. He was dressed in a clean Western shirt and new Levi’s, a shiny pair of working men’s boots on his feet.

  “Come on in,” he said, emitting a wave of booze on his breath. “I’ve made a pot of coffee.”

  The living room was small but neat, a woodstove off in the corner, a couch with a Navajo rug thrown over the back, and a Mission-style armchair. A dining table sat under the front window, looking out over the water, beyond which the mountains of the Olympic Peninsula were just a smudge on the horizon.

  He brought a pair of mugs, not even asking how I took it, and settled back into the armchair. A half-empty bottle of Maker’s Mark and a glass sat on the coffee table, next to a pack of Marlboros and an ashtray.

  “I’ve forgotten how all this goes,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

  “Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’ll be gentle.”

  We began to talk, as I took out the cassette recorder and microphone and set the levels.

  “That’s quite a scar you’ve got,” I said.

  His fingers moved automatically to his face, running along the pale ridge that crossed it.

  “Long time ago now.” He lit a cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling.

  “It kind of suits you.”

  Carson laughed. It was a warm, hoarse sound.