December 2021
Author’s note
The writing of An Incoming Tide began with an initial scene: a spousal murder on the coast of Vancouver Island. I had no idea where it would eventually end up. Subsequent writing explored the aftermath of that tragedy—the emerging plot followed the lives of the children left behind, cared for by their resentful Aunt Leanne. I wrote as if I was a reader, anxious for the next chapter to see what was going to happen.
As characters and context emerged, I realized that I needed another male character. The principle male characters so far were dangerously dysfunctional, if not thoroughly evil. Surely, there could be a positive male figure.
And while the plot evolved with increasing trauma and tragedy, there also needed to be a glimmer of hope—hope in relationship.
And so, a harmonica player. A perfectly obvious solution, eh? Someone for Leanne after all she did to raise her brother’s kids.
The harmonica is a humble musical instrument. And Gordon, in contrast to the narcissism and entitlement of the other male characters . . . well, Gordon is a humble sort of guy, the ultimate sideman.
And yet, just as tragedy and trauma and psychopathic evil can come in waves to overtake, so too can beauty born of humble stuff. In An Incoming Tide Gordon plays a supporting role—in doing so, he provides a foil to the other destructive males in the story. But perhaps, as you read the unfolding plot, you might just hear the sound of his harmonica emoting in the background.
Oh, and by the way, in the sequel novel, Undertow, Gordon takes on much more central a role in the healing of this traumatized family.
A final word of explanation. In restructuring the novel, to get An Incoming Tide down to a publishable size, I needed to axe a number of passages that provided backstory. What follows is one such scene. Watch for the backstory of other characters in upcoming issues of Fourth Comings.
Leanne meets Gordon
Leanne enters Club Mes Amis Des Arts in the late afternoon. She is greeted by the smells of stale beer irrevocably saturated into worn wood, the fading skunk of cannabis, and the brace of freshly made coffee. Tables and chairs assembled from garage sales and second-hand stores are scattered about.
Her eyes adjust—eyes keen on detail and light, eyes wise in middle-age, eyes in pursuit of the recovery of her career as a portrait artist after a dozen years raising her brother’s kids. It is time to fulfill some of her own dreams.
The sound of a jazz guitar is mesmerizing, the guitarist caught in netherworld of practice scales and exquisite beauty. It brings to mind the interplay of rose madder and ultramarine, partially mixed and swirling together. Leanne recognizes Mitchell Brennison as he sits on a stool, head down over his hollow body electric. His body moves with the music. His fingers caress steel into beauty.
Leanne places a sketchbook, an array of pencils, and the small case of watercolour paints on one of the tables.
A upright bass appears, carted onto the musical stage by a lanky gentleman of disparate joints. The two jazz men don’t speak but within moments are in musical dialogue. At first, the plucked bass undergirds the guitar. Then, as the music envelops them, a counter melody comes from the deep. Banality turns to exuberance as the two musicians push each other forward. The scales and arpeggios of the guitar are revitalized into inventive riffs. The bass begins to soar.
Leanne opens her sketchbook and begins to draw.
Then it happens—the sound of a harmonica. It stabs her by the heart with its mournfulness. Then it elevates her, it floats her, it dizzies her—a voice freed of words. Its gentleness caresses her. Her heart is stilled, and then sent racing.
Leanne can’t see the lower half of his face, the musician holding the mouth organ to his lips. She quickly takes in the roundness of his balding head, the eyes that dance with the sound, and the furrow of his brow as he navigates dissonance and depth. He glances over to her and their eyes meet. Time is suspended. Space disintegrates between them.
Then he is off, walking onto the musical stage, the sound of his harmonica entwining with the bass and the guitar. The three musicians affirm each other, then taunt. They take the best of what the others give and then twist it, raise it, hush it into a new dimension. Each musician sends a wave to wash over the other two—submerging first, then elevating into buoyancy.
Another gentleman comes and sits beside Leanne. She looks at him, embarrassed by her own surrender of soul and sanity the music had caused. He begins to clap in rhythm with the musicians, a clap first gentle and then more insistent—a calling out to them to bring them back. Each musician makes final statements and the air inside of Club Mes Amis des Arts falls into silence.
Leanne is afraid to breathe.
The man sitting beside her states proudly, “and that, my friend, is the Mitchell Brennison Trio.”
“You’ve met?” Mitchell asks as he comes over to the table.
“Not really.”
“Yves, Yves Montre.” Brennison introduces the club owner and then pauses. “And I don’t remember your name, just that I met you at the Armann.”
“Leanne, Leanne Caylie,” Leanne introduces herself.
“Mitchell says you . . . ” Yves breaks in, searching for the English word.
“Painter, portraits mainly. When we met at the Armann, Mitchell said something about a painting for an album cover.”
“Ah, yes.”
The bass and harmonica have started to play again. Their riffs back and forth are as two monkeys grooming each other, picking gnats—there is just that sort of love in it. Leanne is distracted.
“Can I see?” Brennison asks pointing to the open sketchbook on the table and the few lines already drawn.
“Oh, it’s nothing yet.”
“Your work, do you have examples?” Yves asks.
Leanne reaches into her satchel to pull out a digital camera. “Now if I can figure out how to work this damn thing, I’ve some images of work on display at the Armann that I can show you.”
But Leanne is disoriented by the music in the background. She wants to be over there with the bass and harmonica, her business at the club now displaced by the emotional energy coming from the stage. She fumbles with the camera—looking at the back of it, then the top, then helplessly at the other men.
“Here, let me, if you please.” Yves takes the camera from her, figures out the buttons on the back.
The sound of the harmonica is soulful, soul full. It thrills her beyond the ear and the mind, surrounds her heart, then falls deep within her.
“Ah, very good . . . fascinating . . . ” Brennison has pulled his chair over beside Yves and is looking at the back of the camera as a slideshow progresses on the tiny screen.
Leanne’s gaze drifts away from the men at the table to the musicians. She feels embarrassed by what the harmonica man is doing to her, embarrassed and thrilled, sensations she hasn’t felt for decades.
Mitchell gets up to return to the stage, take up his guitar, enter in with the others. Leanne notices how little the trio members speak. Occasionally, Mitchell poses a question to the others or suggests a direction. When he does, the bass or the harmonica replies with a few notes that bring fresh life to the phrase. Leanne has never seen men like this. There is no vying for control, no competition. They are like a well-chosen colour palette, each complementing the other.
She sets to work, buoyed by the sound of the trio. A foundational sketch emerges with an interplay of the strong, straight lines—the necks of the bass and the guitar, the back of the harmonica. She adds gentle curves suggesting the musicians’ hands and faces. The composition is structured based on threes—the stability of a milking stool and the movement of a waltz. The music, an emotional backdrop to her work, urges her forward then holds her cozy.
Leanne sets the sketch on the counter of the bar. She steps back from it, squinting her eyes to make it blur. She rushes in to make notes on its edges, then steps back again. Leanne picks up the digital camera and takes an indulgence of shots from different angles—the instruments, the facial expressions, the glances from one to another.
Finally, Leanne opens the tablet of watercolour paper. She roughs out a square format as needed for the front of a compact disc jewel case. With faint lines she quickly sketches in the rudiments of the composition. From her satchel she pulls her watercolour palette, a bottle of water, a metal tray comprised of shallow indentations, and several fine brushes. Quickly, colours are mixed. Clean water is applied to the tablet delineating future shapes, then left to evaporate to the perfect dampness. Drops and deft strokes apply swaths of colour onto the receptive surface. It oozes and bleeds, blending in mimicry of the music.
She has what she needs.
Leanne’s attention shifts back to the music. From the riffs played by each musician she infers personality profiles—a wry sense of humour for the bass player, confidence and security from Mitchell on the guitar. The harmonica is coy, shy and tender.
The trio settle into a structure of lead and support. Each takes the lead in turn, pushing the melody into new emotional territory. The bass resonates deep into her gut and the guitar dances up and down her spine—but it is the harmonica that holds her heart. When the harmonica plays, tears came to her eyes.
She catches her breath—retrieving it, for briefly it had stopped.
The end of the rehearsal comes chaotically, tiredness alongside of rejuvenation. The words spoken are a sham to the musical communication that had come before. Awkwardness prevails, as if for these musicians there is no idea of how to relate in banalities or social convention. The bass player trucks his instrument off the stage. In his departure, Brennison calls Adieu Deni. Deni doesn’t reply, he just leaves. Finally, Mitchell and the harmonica player come over to where Leanne stands, her sketches and watercolour rendering lying on the table.
“These are just sketches. I’ll work them more in the studio, perhaps in oils, or maybe stay with the watercolour. What do you think?”
Brennison just nods and smiles. “I think I need to introduce you to Gordon here. Gordon who has never played so well as he played for you today.”
Comment submitted:
The details setting up the venue are amazingly engaging. As a reader I felt I was right there with the a characters enjoying the music and being part of the limited human interaction that happens among the characters. The music appeared to be the strong presence. Beautifully done. - A.M.
The details setting up the venue are amazingly engaging. As a reader I felt I was right there with the a characters enjoying the music and being part of the limited human interaction that happens among the characters. The music appeared to be the strong presence. Beautifully done. - A.M.