Dana Spiotta: Innocents and Others

“So I have to go, Jack. I am so sorry I disturbed you.”

“No. I mean, no problem. I had to get up. I usually don’t sleep this late. But I was working all night. On this piece.”

“You probably want to make some coffee and get back to work.”

“Yeah, but not really.”

“Is it for a film score?”

“You know, it isn’t. It is just a thing I had in my head and now I’m playing with it. Using the keyboard. It will end up in a film score at some point, I’m guessing.”

“Really? You don’t watch the film and then compose to it?” she said.

“Yeah, I do. But I also import melodies and musical ideas I have. On file, so to speak.”

“Fascinating.”

“So, would you like to hear some of it?”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“Oh wow, I would really love that. Yes, please.”

“Okay, good.” He laughed. “Hold on,” he said.

Jelly closed her eyes again and leaned back. She called this body listening. It was when you surrendered to a piece of music or a story. By reclining and closing your eyes, you could respond without tracking your response. You listened. The opposite were the people who started to speak the second someone finished talking or playing or singing. They practically overlapped the person because they were so excited to render their thoughts into speech. They couldn’t wait to get their words into it and make it theirs. They couldn’t stand the idea of not having a part in it. They spent the whole experience formulating their response, because their response is the only thing they value. It was a way of consuming the experience or the work. Jelly had a different purpose in listening to anything or anyone. It had something to do with submission, and it had something to do with sympathy. She would lie back and cut off all distraction. The phone was built for this. It had no visual component, no tactile component, no person with hopeful or embarrassed face to read, no scent wafting, no acid collection in the mouth. Just vibrations, long and short waves, and to clutch at them with your own thoughts was just wrong. A distinct resistance to potential. A lack of love, really. Because what is love, if not listening, as uninflected — as uncontained — as possible.

But while Jack played his music for her she did not think about listening. She took a deep breath, relaxed, and let the music find her body. Jelly thought about things only after she got off the phone. When she went over what was said so she could remember it. She took notes on details, but the best way to imprint something in memory was to listen in the first place.

“So that’s it,” he said, and he let out a tight, nervous laugh.

Jelly opened her eyes, expelled a small sigh into the receiver. “It’s wonderful,” she said.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Good,” he said.

“There were these little leaps with each reprise.”

“That’s right,” he said.

Only after she was done listening did she form her response. And it worked like this: find the words — out of the millions of words — that would describe the experience. That part, the search for the right language, was fun and almost like a puzzle. You thought of the word but then you felt it in your mouth, pushed breath into it and said it out loud. The sound of it contained the real meaning — she had to hear the words to know if she had it right. Then as it hung there she revised it, re-attacked it, applied more words to it.

“And it gave me a remarkable feeling of lifting. Not being picked up or climbing. Not even like rising in an elevator,” she said. “Or an escalator. Not quite. More float in it. Maybe like… levitating.”

Jack laughed. “You levitated listening to my little piece. Right on.”

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 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.”