It did feel like levitation. Levitating through listening. Waves of sound. Waves on the ocean. Floating on the water. And floating on sound waves: levitation. What Jack didn’t know was how easily this came to her.
“I have to go, Jack. I’m afraid I’m late.”
“Oh no, really?” he said. She heard the hard fizzle of a strike and then a sharp breath followed by a blowing out: lighting a cigarette. She knew the sounds people made on the phone: the bottle unscrewed or uncorked followed by the pour of liquid over ice and the cracking of the ice. The sip — so slow it was painful, the delicate and distant sound of a swallow. And this sound, lighting a cigarette. But with a match, not a lighter. He was a constant smoker who used matches instead of a lighter, which made him a certain kind of person. Because a match had drama, a match left you with a flame to shake or blow out. And a match left a pleasant phosphorus smell lingering in the air.
“So nice to talk with you this morning, nice to meet you, Jack,” she said.
“The pleasure, Nicole, is mine. So when can we talk again? Can I call you sometime?”
Jelly sat up. Held the phone back for a minute. She moved slowly in these moments. The giveaway was not in his request. The giveaway was in that he used her name. She had him.
“I do have to run. I promise I will call you soon,” she said.
“I look forward to it. Anytime,” Jack said.
“Goodbye,” she said.
“Bye.”
She would not call anytime. She would call on Sunday at the same time. Only Sunday, and it would only be her calling him. Parameters. Predictability. It was the way it worked best for both of them, for this thing they were building between them. He wouldn’t understand, he would want to call her, have her number. He would want other times, more frequent talks. But she knew what was best, how to do this. Pace was important. She would make him her Sunday call, and as the weeks of talks would go by, he would accept her terms. He would begin to get great pleasure out of counting the days until Sunday.
JELLY AND OZ
Jelly first met Oz at a group session. He listened to her tell the group what she struggled with. Then she was quiet while various people made suggestions and said mildly supportive things. After it was finished, Oz came over to her. He had his dog with him, and he moved confidently through the space. She waited for him to tell her it would be okay, she would adjust to it all. Instead he told her his name was Oz, and then he said, “I dig your voice. I thought, I would love to hear that girl tell a story. A long sad story with children and animals in it. Like a dream you don’t want to wake up from.”
“Thank you,” she said, and she blushed, a little unprepared for a come-on. In this place. Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it?
After he left, another girl from group told her about Oz: he had an IQ of 160 and a special genius for electronics. The next time she came to session, he approached her again.
“Hey, there,” Oz said.
“Hi, Oz,” she said. His high soft voice belied his big physical presence. He sat next to her, a large blur.
“Girl, what can I do to get with you?”
Jelly laughed loud enough for him to hear her.
“You like music?”
“I love music,” she said.
“I’d like to listen to some John Coltrane with you. You should come over. We can order some take-out food and listen to Coltrane. You know, like A Love Supreme?” She was right, he was into her. It made her nervous. How old was he? She couldn’t tell, not with her blurry view. Everyone looked like they had perfect wrinkle-free skin. It was funny not to know how old or how ugly someone was. She had to go on other things, like size and smell. But mostly the sound of a voice, and hey — even what the voice said.
“I don’t think I have heard it—”
“Oh girl! Your life is missing something truly beautiful—”
“But I can’t tonight. I’m going out with a friend. She is picking me up in a few minutes.”
Jelly turning him down did not seem to bother or discourage him at all. Oz was always comfortable, always easy, which was unnerving and oddly seductive. And the next time she was at session, he asked her out again. She wanted to say yes, to date Oz and spend time with Oz and get close to Oz, but she hesitated for what she knew were stupid reasons. She was worried his blindness would make her even more ridiculous. She was on the continuum of blindness: a meningitis infection had nearly killed her and made her blind overnight, but then, slowly, she had recovered some sight. She could see shapes and light and colors, but her blurry vision was also tunneled to 90 degrees, which made getting around without the help of a cane difficult, although she tried anyway. Imagining the way two blind people would look walking down the street wasn’t the only thing. Oz had no sight at all, never did. That was a different planet, “never sighted.” There was something unbridgeable in it. But that was such a ridiculous idea, as if any human experience couldn’t be bridged. How to build the bridge? You talk about it and find the things you understand in it. The pieces of your own experience in the other. That’s the bridge, she thought. “Yes,” she said. “I would love that.”
She went over to Oz’s apartment. They ate dinner, and Oz put on the promised John Coltrane LP, which sounded mystical and less romantic than she expected. He smoked a joint, which he assured her helped to make the Love Supreme, helped you hear the holiness in it, the God sounds in it, but she declined. “I’m nervous about getting home,” she said.
“So sleep here,” he said. She laughed. “What’s so funny? It’s cool.”
“I know,” she said. She made a loud exhale sound. “Does it get easier? I mean, I don’t like to move from place to place. I could be a shut-in, I think.”
“Girl, is this a group session?” he said, laughing. “Are there a bunch of weepy blind folks here?”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Just relax. You are safe. Crash on the couch and you will have all day to get home tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she said.
She slept on the couch. Oz didn’t offer his bed or even kiss her, which surprised her. She decided that although he was not handsome, he had a solidity that she wanted. He was all in one place, while she felt blurry most of the time. She was glad to sleep there and leave in the morning. The daylight was better for her — she needed contrast. For Oz it didn’t matter. The dark was as safe a place as the light.
She asked him over to her place for their second date. She realized an apartment he didn’t know would be more awkward for him, but he and the dog quickly found the chair at her little table. She brought him a glass of wine.
“Would you like to hear some music?” she asked.
“I would,” he said. She put on Blue Train, which she had bought earlier that day. The record store clerk handed it to her when she asked what Coltrane album she should buy.
Right away Oz said, “I love this record,” and she could hear the smile in his voice. They smoked some pot and drank some wine. They drank their glasses quickly and she poured more and then started to serve dinner. She realized how much she wanted to talk with Oz, to hear him talk about his life. Was blindness easier on people who never saw? How would Oz or anyone know? What were his dreams like, what were his thoughts when colors were mentioned? Could she ask him or would he just laugh her questions off? Girl, you ask too many questions. The wine made her brave.
“This is maybe too personal,” she said, and the word personal sounded funny to her. A question about your personhood, your experience as a person. “But when did you realize you were blind? I mean, what blindness is, and that most other people are not blind. Do you remember?” Jelly said this as they ate spaghetti and a slow-cooked sauce that filled the air with basil, tomato, and almost-burned garlic. She had grown the tomatoes on her porch, on scaffolds and ties. More than the tomatoes themselves, she loved the tomato leaves in the early summer. She would water the plants and put her head close. She would inhale the burst of damp leaf with the faint tomato coming off it. A promise of fruit, the green bulbs just starting. As the summer progressed the smell grew more and more pungent. Sometimes she tore a leaf from the plant and took it inside her apartment so she could hold it to her nose and inhale. It relaxed her — such a fresh and earthy smell. How can something so new seem so deep? She knew Oz would appreciate the smell and the taste.