We talked about Tin Pan Alley and the pop music explosion that occurred in the teens and twenties, about the piano roll business, the development of early jazz and race records. I hadn't talked so much in ages and she hung on every word, and now and then I caught that look in her eye again, something deep and curious. Finally I had to go, afraid of overstaying my welcome and burning her out. She made me promise to come back and bring her some recordings. They already had some old record players capable of playing the old 78's, and she wanted to hear the music for herself. She asked me to teach her.
I kept my word, and their shop became my second home. I struck a deal with Eric: I'd put a box or two of records in his store and we'd split the profits three ways. Any records he came up with that I priced, the same deal, cutting Ellen in on it too. It was an overly generous offer, but at the time I wasn't really doing much business and I wasn’t much of a negotiator, so I let him set the terms. Besides, it gave me an excuse to hang around.
I didn't think of it as love at first. I was a lot older than her, and if anything, our relationship seemed more like a father-daughter affair, even though I knew age didn't matter to her. It was Eric who'd bring it up, subtly, without any rancor, but in a way that was supposed to remind us of our places. He knew something was going on, something he wasn't a part of.
Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't been sure that Ellen felt the same way about me. We connected so easily, and on a level that seemed to go way beyond what she felt for Eric, that I was sure she was aware of it. She took care of the books and the nuts and bolts of the business-the dreary stuff-and there were times when she'd be sharp with him. No matter how busy she was, though, whenever I came into the shop, she just broke out in that sweet smile and told me to help myself to some coffee, that she'd only be a minute.
There was something amazing about listening to music with her. We seemed to hear the exact same things in the old blues tunes. When we listened to Blind Lemon's understated despair on 'See That My Grave Is Kept Clean' or Robert Johnson's
'Hellhound On My Trail,' she'd lower her face and fold her arms over her chest like she was cold, and I'd see the goose bumps rise on her skin. It was times like those when I just wanted to grab her in my arms, knowing she felt what I felt, knowing that someone else understood. She responded to the loneliness and emotion in these old recordings just as I did. She understood.
She became inextricably bound up in those records for me, and back in my apartment I'd lie on my sofa, deciding what I'd bring for her to listen to the next day, and 6
trying to picture her reaction. I wasn't trying to seduce her or lure her away from Eric, but I was trying to pick records that would say to her things I couldn't say myself.
Maybe that was silly, but it wasn't all a one-way infatuation. There were signs. It hardly matters what they were-they were there, and I saw them. They might have gone right by a younger man's eyes, but I saw them. Whether I'd admit them or act on them, that was something else. I had fantasies, but that's as far as it would go. I had dreams, I didn't have plans.
In September as the weather cooled off, Eric began taking more frequent road trips in search of fresh stock for the store. That meant getting in the van and leaving town for days at a time, hitting the estate sales and auction houses out in the country beyond the reach of the day trippers from the city. I pretended to myself that it made no difference whether he was gone or not, but of course it was easy to see if the big Dodge van was parked out in front of the store on a weeknight, and I always knew if he were there or not.
I had to pretend I didn't care, otherwise I'd have to face up to what I was doing, which was spending time with another man's wife while he was away. I told myself it was nothing like that, that Ellen and I were just friends and associates, keeping each other company and sharing our interests. I'd stop by a half hour or so after the shop closed. If she was still there to let me in, fine. If not, then that was probably for the best too. I started carrying around a big stack of old 78's and tapes in the trunk of my car, so I always had some excuse for stopping by. I'd fill a bag with stuff and pretend they were things I'd just bought and hadn't had a chance to listen to yet.
'No blues tonight,' she said one evening as she opened the burglar gate to let me in. 'I'm feeling bad enough as it is.'
'Oh? Are you sick? You want me to go?'
'No, no, not at all. I'm glad you're here. I need some company. Eric's in Ohio and I can't stand another night alone. It's just been a crappy day, that's all.'
I couldn't tell it from looking at her. She looked gorgeous. She had a collection of vintage clothing and often wore them in the store as a kind of joke, and tonight.she was wearing a jade green dress-not authentic fin-de- siecle, but a modern interpretation-
made of some jersey-like material that hung beautifully on her body. It had a bib front with white buttons all around it, and her breasts looked as soft and inviting as fleece pillows. She wore an antique butler's bell-pull as a sash, wrapped twice around her waist and tied in front so the elaborate tassels hung down between her legs. It gave her a slightly medieval look. The tassels swished erotically when she walked.
But there was something else about her too: a kind of careless looseness. I knew she often had a glass of wine or two after closing time, and I wondered whether she might even be a little drunk.
I helped her close the burglar gates and lock up in front. She turned off the lights and we walked into the back of the store, where the cash register was. The drawer was open.
'I'm just balancing out. Why don't you go in back? I'll only be a second.'
'Bad sales today?' I asked.
'No, that's not it. Actually business is great. I sold that Bavarian armoire and the Depression bedroom set.'
The store had been an apartment some time long ago, and the back was cut into small rooms, the largest of which had been the kitchen, still with its sink and fridge. It was now stacked high with antiques and lampshades, boxes of hardware and other junk. Eric did some refinishing and restoration back here, and it was where the record player was. I was surprised to see a bottle of whisky standing on the old kitchen table and a drink waiting next to it, the ice already mostly melted.
'What's this?' I asked when she walked in back with the day's receipts. 'You're drinking whiskey now? And Jim Beam at that?'
She smiled wanly. 'I thought you'd approve. Isn't that what your blues guys used to drink?'
That was Ellen. Just like with the old clothes, she liked getting into the era.
'Yeah, I suppose so. But they use to do a lot of things back then. Like fighting and killing each other over women and gambling too.'
She smiled wanly. 'Want some?'
I shrugged. 'Sure.'
'Glasses above the sink. There's ice in the fridge.'
I found a glass, poured some whiskey and took a gulp. With Jim Beam, you might as well gulp as sip; the results were the same anyhow. The whiskey burned, but standing under the bare work light in that crowded kitchen, it felt right. It reminded me of my youth.
'Eric's out of town,' Ellen said casually. 'He won't be back ’til Friday.'
Usually she didn't mention his whereabouts unless I asked, but I just nodded, as if it didn't matter.
'He's out looking for new stuff, huh?' I asked.
Ellen stopped dead with the glass half way to her lips and her eyes flashed at me, as if checking to see how I meant that remark. Assured of my innocence, she brought the glass to her lips.
'Yeah. I guess you could say that.' She took a big drink, as if she was taking medicine. Whiskey isn't wine-she shuddered as it burned its way down.
I let it pass and decided to change the subject. I gestured at the bottle. 'So what's the occasion?'
'Oh, every day's a celebration around here, you know that. I just really felt like having some whiskey for a change. All those songs you play, you never hear them singing about Chardonnay, do you? And I like to set the right mood.'
She sat down in one of the big, overstuffed armchairs. 'So what'd you bring tonight? Anything good?'
I was still a little wary. There was a bitterness in her I'd never seen before.
'I thought you said you didn't want to hear any blues.'
'That's not what I meant. I don't want to hear any heartbreak blues-nothing about leaving and cheating, about people being shitty to each other. You've got other stuff, don't you?'
'Yeah. I've got other stuff.'
