Anthology - A Thousand Doors

by Various

  “The one about how our love was like the river, and the destination wasn’t ours to know? That one we wrote when you were already sleeping with fake-name Sissy?”

  Red had the decency to look away, so I had time to stare at him without meeting his eyes. He was thinner, his countenance showing a lack of sleep and peace. I knew every curve of his face, and how the contours changed when he’d been drinking too much, sleeping too little, holding on too tightly. I didn’t have to torture him; he was doing just fine all by himself.

  I took a breath. “Sorry, Red. Let’s go look.”

  He followed me through the house he’d bought me. “You’ve done a mighty fine job with this place. You always have such a nice…aesthetic, always knowing where something will look just right.”

  “Thank you.”

  Once in the kitchen, I lifted my leather song satchel, bulging with notes and Post-its, a notebook with tabs and half-formed ideas. I dumped the contents onto the wooden breakfast table as a shaft of sunlight burst into the room, arrowing between us.

  “See? It’s not here. And it’s not in my guitar case.”

  “Damn.” He sank onto a kitchen chair covered in a sweet floral print I’d found at the local thrift shop. “I have no idea where it is.”

  “I bet it’s in your top left drawer. I think you put it there during that party last month when you thought Craig was snooping for songs.” I brushed my hand across the papers on the table. “It’s not here.”

  “Holy shit. You’re right.” He looked up and his face brightened. “I totally forgot about that.” He flipped through the papers on the table, and I bristled, feeling the fine hairs on my neck come to attention. He picked up the one sheet I would have hidden if I’d thought about it—“Consolation.”

  He read it before I could react, before I could find my voice or shoot my hand across the space between us, through the sunlight and through time. It was written on unlined paper, unmoored from the rest of my notebook.

  “Sing it,” he said with his teeth slammed tight, the words hissing out between his lips.

  “Hell no.” I walked a few feet from him and motioned toward the front of the house. “You have someone waiting for you, and my songs aren’t any of your concern now.”

  “This is about me.” He waved the paper in the air, violently, and then slammed it onto the table. “Sing it to me. Don’t be a coward and write about me and then play it for the world before you play it for me.”

  “A coward?” He knew when to prick the bubble of my pride, where to prod against my damaged courage. I rushed to the far corner and picked up my guitar, ran my hand over its curves and lines. I tossed the leather strap with my name emblazoned in bright red, the one he’d had made for me, over my shoulder. Without once looking at the scrap of paper, I sang the song I already knew by heart, the song I’d already sung for Bill, the song he was trying to peddle to Sony Records just the day before.

  My voice didn’t waver. The lyrics and the melody grew stronger than me into something far greater than merely the words and music combined. My voice found its pitch and rise as Red stared at me and the song filled the room. Resonant, the chorus arrived clear and pointed, and although I never met his gaze I never stopped singing.

  When I finished, I set the guitar in the corner and pointed to the door. I was out of words; there was nothing left to say now, and the shaking began as the adrenaline had nowhere to go now that the song was over.

  His face blanched white, and his eyes were red with unshed tears I knew he wouldn’t show, at least not in front of me. He would cry eventually—I’d watched it happen when he didn’t know I could see him, when he was alone and halfway through a bottle of whiskey.

  Red stood and we faced each other. I could smell his chewing tobacco, a familiar and once sweet aroma. “If you sing that song in public, I will take this house away from you. You’ll be shamed. I will make sure you don’t have a career to salvage.”

  “What?” It was a stupid thing to say, but I didn’t understand him; I didn’t understand what he actually meant although he could not have been more clear.

  “You heard me perfectly well.” He took three steps toward me, and for the first time since we’d met, his size and presence became menacing instead of comforting. His face turned red, the blood returning with anger. “If you sing that song, everyone will know it is me. They will…know.”

  “Probably.”

  “I have a reputation, Mia. You damn well know that, and not as an asshole, which this song obviously makes me. You can do more damage with that song than with any tabloid story you might tell. I sound…horrific. They will all know it’s me—and you’ve used my words against me. Those were private conversations, not for public consumption.”

  “Well, Sissy has damn sure been for public consumption. The song tells the truth.”

  “Don’t do it.”

  “Leave.”

  And he did leave, but not before taking the white piece of paper with the lyrics and tearing it to shreds, so small and torn apart that even hours of taping and gluing could not have put them back together. He threw the scraps on the floor and ground them with the heel of his boot.

  When the front door slammed shut, I waited for the shaking, for the panic attacks I had come to expect, the slow crawl of gooseflesh and then the sensation that I couldn’t breathe. I waited, but it didn’t happen. So I sat down and wrote the lyrics again, this time in my notebook, where it gathered together with all the other songs of my life, where it joined them in the place it belonged.

  ————

  A thundering boom, a falling of something large, a gunshot, a collapsed balcony. I don’t know what the sound is, but it startles me out of the reverie, jerks me from the memory that leaves me with a hammering heart that has just as much to do with the intrusive noise as the memory itself. I jump back, trip on the cords that snake across the Ryman stage, and land on my bottom. “What the hell was that?”

  Cursing in all voices and accents flows from backstage. I stumble to my feet and run behind the partition to find Bill staring over a drum set that has crumpled from a dolly into a heap of shattered and misplaced parts. Colton, the drummer, stands over the mess with his hands covering his eyes like a small child, but unlike a small child with his litany of curses, which are coming like a mantra.

  “Oh no,” I say and look to Bill.

  “Someone didn’t lock the wheels on the transport trolley and…”

  Bill takes my arm and gently leads me away from the chaos and into the Cash dressing room, my favorite backstage area. A black-and-white drawing of Johnny Cash hangs on the wall in a bright red frame, his smirk both smiling and daring at the same time. Get Rhythm, it shouts in blue letters. The coffee table, a shorn piece of oak, is littered with my song sheets. I sink onto the black leather couch with Johnny’s gold album framed behind me.

  “I want to be happy,” I say to Bill, looking up at him. “This is everything I thought I wanted. This is my night in the spotlight.”

  “Then be happy, Mia. This is yours.” He sits next to me.

  “For a minute, or less than a minute, I thought that noise was a gunshot. I thought Red had come for me and for my song.”

  “He’s not like that. Not nearly like that.”

  I nod and bow my head.

  We’re silent for a moment, the room hushed and sacred. Again, he takes my hand and squeezes. My cell phone bursts into a harp melody, and we both startle, and then laugh. I glance at the screen. “It’s Red.”

  “Do you want to talk to him?”

  “No. I know why he’s calling, and I can’t hear his voice.” I click Ignore and turn off the phone. “Fear makes everything seem larger and more dangerous. Fear makes everything come at me in bass relief, like a monster in 3D.”

  “But do you feel that fear when you’re singing?”

  “No. I on
ly feel it before or after I perform.”

  “That is courage—doing it anyway. Now I’m going to give the set list to the band. You get ready.”

  You get ready.

  I know what he means. Get ready to sing. Dress and put on my makeup and allow the hairdresser to tease my hair as wide and tall as possible. Get ready to face my demons.

  ————

  The first three performers—Tim McGraw, Trace Adkins, and Patty Loveless—all adapt to a set without drums and put the crowd in a good mood until it’s my turn. At the side of the stage, still hidden from view, Patty announces my arrival. She tells my story of being raised on a farm in Tennessee, of losing my dad at a young age, of fighting my way to Nashville and living in a friend’s basement, of my four hundred songs until “Ruins” hit the top ten. Would they please give a warm welcome to Mia Jensen?

  I stride onstage, blinded by the spotlight. My red dress, glittering and long, flows around me like a butterfly. I smell the acrid hair spray and feel the false eyelashes like tiny weights. All sensation is amplified. That is, until I swing my guitar strap around my shoulder and my Gibson settles. My fingers touch the taut wire strings and it all falls away—the world, the noises, the smells, and the fear.

  “I’m honored to be here tonight. This is the dream of a lifetime.” My practiced words come smooth and easy into the silver microphone. “My first song tonight is one I believe you all know well. I wrote it one night beside a dying campfire. I found the heart of it as the sun rose the next morning and the words fell together like the pieces of my life, forming a picture I hadn’t seen before. I hope you love it.”

  I strum a few notes, feel sure of the tuning, and then, as taught by performance coaches, I look up and beam at the audience before launching into “Ruins.”

  When the applause dies down, I glance to the band. I know the second song Bill has given them is “Consolation.” They wait for my cue, and I don’t give it to them. Instead I glance to the front row, scan the faces gazing up at me, expectant.

  Red.

  Yes, he’s there in the front row. He stares directly at me, and his face is set and tight. There isn’t anything in his demeanor that reminds me of the man I loved. How had I not seen this incensed part of him that only wants to be adored? When we love, do we only see what we want, or are our eyes just clouded by expectancy and desire?

  In a flash, I’m twelve years old and my mother is hollering at me to do something with my life instead of playing the damn guitar all day. I’m fifteen and my guidance counselor is telling me I will never amount to anything if I don’t get my head out of the clouds. I’m eighteen and the first boy I made love to is explaining that I’m just another girl, another notch in his bedpost (literally). I’m twenty-two and a bar owner is explaining that I don’t have the talent and my music will go nowhere in this town unless I sleep with him. I’m thirty-five and Red is making it clear to me that he loves another woman and I am a dear friend, as comfortable as a pair of worn-in boots. On that stage, as I decide whether to sing the song, I am all of the selves I’ve ever been, and all of the selves defined by others.

  No more.

  I define myself.

  I choose.

  The silence stretches to an uncomfortable length, and I run my fingers across the strings, felt their vibratory comfort, and signal the band behind me. A bass joins in, as does the piano. A slow rhythm moves through my body—my self, as defined by me.

  And I sing the song. I sing it with every fiber of my being, its resonant chords filling the sacred hall. The words are made of crystal, clear and fragile, and I handle them with loving care.

  When I finish I don’t glance at Red, or at the crowd, but instead close my eyes. The thunderous applause fills me until I open my eyes to the standing ovation. Everyone in the room is on their feet, except Red. He sits in that first row and glowers while patrons stomp their feet and holler approval. Red then stands, but not in approval. His six-foot-six frame dominates the front row, and he turns on his boots and strides up the middle aisle, across the back of the auditorium and the displays of country music star memorabilia, then out the rear double doors. No one notices, or if they do, they pay him no mind as they continue to clap, as the room thunders.

  I bow and thank them with a shaking voice.

  I told the truth, and what else was a song meant to do? What else was I ever been meant to do? All those months of thinking I’ve fallen into the wrong life because my heart was broken were months filled with the hollowness of mistaken beliefs. This, right here, this is my purpose—to tell the truth in lyrics and melody, to allow others to feel the same, to let the wounded souls of the world know that we are not alone.

  I wanted to be someone else during the pain, I wanted a different life, but this is my life and my pain and my songs and my purpose.

  The Widow

  Kate Moretti

  No one prepares you for the feeling of a new kiss. Hands on your waist that are bigger than what you’ve been used to for twenty years. The smell of a new soap, shampoo, aftershave. A different weight in the bed next to you. You find yourself noticing the smallest movements, sighs, breaths, all in search of what’s different. It’s exciting and disorienting.

  Martin smells like soap, where Linc had smelled sweetly like sweat. Martin was narrower but heavier than Linc. How? It doesn’t make sense unless Martin was taller. But Linc was six-one. I used to be proud of that, having a tall husband. Such an odd thing to care about.

  Martin’s mouth tastes like peppermint. It bothers me that I can’t taste him, only this bright, burning mint. It’s not the first time we’ve kissed. Not the first time we’ve been to bed together. Just the first time we’ve been to my bed.

  It’s hopelessly distracting. I keep hearing noises, even though the house is empty.

  Penelope went south with a friend, a weekend volleyball camp. Not the first time she’s been away from home, of course; she is seventeen. But the first time in almost two years, since the accident. Paige, sixteen, stayed at Breanna’s house. Breanna and Paige, tighter than sisters, wound around each other so you could hardly tell where one ended and the other began. I’d come home to find them on the couch, a tangle of long legs and hair, watching Pretty Little Liars on Netflix and laughing so loud it sounded more like six girls than two. I’d never found the show funny in the least and I tried to say that, What’s so funny about this show? But they just laughed again, shared a secret smile, and I stood awkwardly in the doorway.

  That was before Martin. Now, after Martin, the house is eerily silent. Pen is always around, but she’s quiet as a mouse. Pleasant, usually. Paige is, always has been, the fire starter. She came into the world screaming, her face purple and raw, and hasn’t stopped since. Now, Paige goes to Breanna’s, no spider knot of limbs and hair on the sofa.

  I think I hear the door and go still under him.

  “It’s after midnight, you know,” he whispers, his mouth featherlight against my neck.

  “I know.” I sit up. Pull the sheets around me, click on the lamp next to the bed. If she came home—how would she come home, she can’t even drive—and Martin was here, in my bed? His palm is warm against my bare back.

  Once, when Linc was alive, I bumped the gas on the stove with my hip and didn’t realize it. I didn’t know how long it sat like that, collecting gas in the crevices of the grate. I started a pot of water for pasta, and as soon as I turned the dial the whole thing blew up. There was a loud whomp like all the air being sucked out of the room and a flash, and I was able to shut the valve off. For a second, while all the gas burned off, the whole kitchen was alight in blue flame. It burned out quickly, but those seconds felt like an eternity. Not knowing if the house would catch or not. Not knowing if we were safe.

  Paige and I were like that. And the gas had been going for a long time now.

  ————

  Linc’s death
was simple: He was here one day, then he was not. He was driving home from the hospital one night after a long shift on a long stretch of a dark, country road and an SUV crossed the yellow line, pinning his gray Toyota against the guardrail until it gave way and both cars tumbled into the ravine along Route 59. Somewhere in those few minutes, Linc died. The SUV hit him in the driver’s-side door as they were going around the curve. One of his ribs snapped, punctured his lung, and he drowned in his own blood. His skull was fractured in three places, and he was therefore likely unconscious. If he’d felt pain, it was probably only seconds (this was meant to comfort me).

  The driver of the other car is still in a coma. They found the SUV and the car tangled together a fiery steel knot.

  Linc and I had both been nurses. I know and understand more about the clinical details of his death than your average widow. In the beginning, I believed that people wanted to know the technicalities when they asked How did it happen? I’d see the horror on their faces, the pause, the glance at their spouse, and realize, Oh, not that way. You didn’t mean that way.

  Eventually, I just said car accident and that was fine. I mean, after a while people stopped asking, because everyone knew by then.

  No one ever tells you that you must learn how to be a widow, that grieving isn’t instinctual. At least, not appropriate grieving. I could never do the things I truly wanted to do: cry at grocery stores when our wedding song came on the sound system, punch a fist-sized hole in the wall when I learned that he had been sleeping with someone else.

  When your husband dies, it’s confusing. You know him better than anyone, so when they say He was the most generous person alive, you think no, not really. He’d never give money to grifters. He always said he’d rather give a lump sum to a shelter, get the receipt and the tax deduction. And then he did give money, so he actually was generous, and he followed through with his proclamations, which is admirable in its own right, but the desire to posthumously elevate Linc to sainthood grated on me.