by Rayne Lacko
Eddie hadn’t given him a passing notion in six years. But Carter’d never asked him for anything. He hoped his father would help him when he needed it the most. “What if Dad doesn’t—” he coughed, his throat scratchy. “What if he doesn’t want me?”
“Let’s just hope your father is reasonable,” his mother said. A flicker of her eyelashes batted away the doubt whether they could trust him.
CARTER sat at the foot of the hospital bed, tapping his foot on the linoleum tile. He didn’t know what to make of his mom dialing Eddie’s phone number from memory. Had she been keeping it secret all these years? Or had the long-forgotten digits busted loose as a side effect of head trauma? Carter was about to hear his father’s voice for the first time in far too long. He found himself leaning in closer to the phone.
Eddie’s new wife, Camellia, answered. Carter noticed his mother stiffen, but she didn’t miss a beat, reciting the facts, cool and efficient. Mama wasn’t the type to get sentimental or whiny or anything. It was only reasonable that his father take him under the circumstances. Temporarily, of course. Carter hoped his dad would cough up his plane fare so he wouldn’t have to tell his mom her money was gone.
Camellia refused Sandra with a polite apology. She said Eddie was far too busy with work to be able to babysit. Sandra stared at the phone, her tongue stone still. At fifteen, Carter was no baby. Just the man’s own flesh and blood, Carter wished she would tell her.
“Get well soon,” Camellia said at last, then ended the call. The phone screen lingered with the broken call a second longer before it went dark. Neither mother nor son spoke. Carter wasn’t sure what he’d do if his dad turned him away again. But his new wife speaking for him? Worse than six years of his father’s silence.
Arrangements were made for Aunt Sylvia to take him instead. Aunt Syl pitched a fit when she heard about Sandra’s bad luck and offered a helping hand straight up. “I’m in a stitch of trouble myself,” Sylvia said. “I could use your boy’s help with the shovel.” Aunt Sylvia had a double-wide trailer in the flea-bitten town in Washoe County where Carter’s mother and her sister grew up. The trailer was having septic issues, something about the soakaways failing, and “wet waste” creeping up around her porch. Carter made a gagging noise. He hadn’t seen his aunt since he was a toddler. Carter was raised to put family first, but the last thing he wanted was to get up close and personal with Aunt Syl’s toilet problems. His mom hushed him. “Happens all the time, totally fixable,” Sandra said.
“But you call everything ’totally fixable,’” Carter argued when she hung up. “I don’t want to go.”
“The safest place for you is with family, honey. Who knows what kind of shady characters are at those shelters? You’re better off with my sister in Nevada, and I won’t hear another word about it.”
She instructed him to collect the hidden money from her pickup. It would have been enough to purchase a plane ticket to Reno, the closest airport to Aunt Syl’s. He had no choice but to get his mother’s money back from Tommy.
Chapter Seven
THE HOLE WHERE THE PAWN SHOP’ S ROOF HAD caved was covered with a checkerboard of tarps and duct tape. Carter set the guitar case on the glass counter housing vintage belt buckles big enough to block a bronco’s lethal buck. “I’m going to my aunt’s in Nevada,” he told Tommy. “I need my money back.”
The rolling office chair Tommy was sitting in squeaked its relief when he heaved himself out of it to have a closer look. “There’s water damage on the case,” he pointed out, tapping the burning orange embers of the last inch of his cigarette into an ashtray. “You mess up the guitar, too?”
Carter opened the case, revealing the Martin guitar nestled in burgundy satin. He ran his hand across it, game-show-host style. Carter remembered the way the guitar felt against his body in the damp basement of his childhood home. It had kept him company through the night, awakening memories of his father. The guitar had held him to this world, saved him from blowing away with the storm.
Tommy stood back to consider the instrument, his arms crossed over his chest. “I cut you a decent deal on it; I felt sorry for you. Do you know how much I lost on that piece of junk?” He sniffed with annoyance.
Carter wanted to argue the Martin was anything but junk, but he was worried Tommy might ask him for the extra two hundred dollars again. He was deep in the hole as it was. “It’s like you always say, you stand by your merchandise one hundred percent.” Carter tried his best to keep the negotiation light and easy, but his heart wasn’t in it. “I need the money I gave you. Tommy, please.”
Carter’s mom didn’t want a guitar in the house anyway. It wasn’t that she didn’t like music. She just had higher aspirations for him, she said. But his father, Eddie Danforth, did fine for himself as a Top 40 pop singer. He even had a song that got played in soda pop commercials. Hitting it big as a performer was the reason he’d left Oklahoma for California. It must have made him happy because he never came back.
“I pulled the paperwork on it.” Tommy smacked a wrinkled invoice on the glass counter. “Pawned by one Sandra Bermejo. The name ring a bell?” A chill stiffened Carter’s spine, the kind you get when your mama opens your report card before you have a chance to come up with a good alibi. His father must have been a bigger coward than he reckoned, pawning it under his mother’s name.
Tommy scratched at an armpit, his loose tank top exposing dark hairs. “I got to pondering, what’s the connection between your ma and Eddie Danforth’s guitar, you know what I’m saying? Then I noticed you signed the receipt, ’Carter Danforth.’”
Shaking, Carter closed the lid on the guitar case and pulled it off the counter.
“Why didn’t you tell me it belonged to your pa?” Before Carter had a chance to reply, Tommy’s voice grew louder. “We sat in my storage room from dusk ’til dawn and you never thought to bring that up?”
Carter’s mouth went dry, words caught in his throat before he could offer any explanation. He couldn’t make sense of it himself. He shook his head, unable to calculate how much the guitar had really cost him. Every last dollar of his mom’s savings. Six years of wishing he never even learned to play it, and the same six years longing to hold it in his arms again.
“Get out of here, kid.” Tommy waved the boy away. “I don’t do business with liars and cheats.”
“But I need the money.” Carter wasn’t sure he could show his face back at the hospital without it. “My mama, she’s in the hospital. I have to buy a plane ticket, and I spent—” Tommy already had called him a liar and a cheat. Could he really admit the money he used to buy the guitar was stolen?
Tommy didn’t seem too interested in hearing what Carter had to say anyway. “A real axman,” he said, pointing to the meager guitar display left after the storm, “would throw down and feel it out. A real guitarist would try dang near everything I got in stock, searching for a certain sound. But you didn’t pluck a single string. I figured you was some spoiled brat with air-guitar dreams looking for a fancy play toy. I shoulda known it was sentimental value.”
He was wrong about Carter. Eddie Danforth had left Carter with nothing but a hankering to pluck strings, but with every passing year his destiny as a musician dwindled away. When he was little more than a knee baby, his daddy dragged him round to every tavern, gin joint, and road house, and stood him on a milk crate to perform. Eddie was going to strike it rich when little Carter grew up to be a big rock star one day. Carter never minded the late nights and shady places, he just loved playing his daddy’s guitar. Music was his connection with his father. Music was all he understood, or wanted. A future built on the foundation of music was all he knew, and all he wanted. That is, until Eddie up and left with his dream and never came back.
“Sentimental value,” Tommy went on, rubbing his thumb against his fingers like he was caressing a fat wad of bills, “comes at a premium.”
“I paid a fair price,” Carter tried to point out, but he was losing steam.
> Tommy took a long drag on his cigarette and considered the boy. “I hear your pa is releasing a new album this summer.”
Shaking, Carter gripped the handle of his father’s guitar. “Yeah, I’m real proud of him,” he said, bluffing. “He’s giving me a way better guitar for my birthday, so I figure I’d best sell this one back to you so I can help out my mama.” His chest grew tighter with every untrue word. Worse, he wished what he was saying was fact. “C’mon Tommy, help me out.” He managed a grin. “Remember? We survived a tornado together?”
Tommy scoffed and stamped out his cigarette. “Because you’re a good kid and I like you, I’ll let you keep it.”
“No, you don’t have to, sir,” Carter replied too fast. He wasn’t sure anymore if he wanted to keep it, or get rid of it. The dang thing got him all mixed up.
Tommy leaned his sweaty forearms on the counter and motioned Carter closer. “I tell you what you’re gonna do, boy,” he said, his smoker’s breath moist on Carter’s cheek. “This old left-handed guitar is worth ten-fold with your pa’s signature. Get him to autograph it, and bring it back to me. We’ll find a buyer for top dollar and split the difference.”
Carter hugged the guitar case to him. The Martin was all he had left of his past or his future, and only days before he’d wanted nothing more than to destroy it. Camellia had said he wasn’t welcome at his father’s, and frankly there were plenty of sleepless nights he’d sworn he never wanted to see the man again.
“No problem, Tommy.” Carter breathed hard, backing away from the counter. “I’ll get my dad to sign it.”
Chapter Eight
CARTER BOARDED THE CITY BUS BACK TO THE HOSPITAL. Out the window, loose pieces of grocery ads and fast-food wrappers flitted about in the wind like toddlers playing musical chairs, waiting for the song to stop before touching down on the sidewalk. He’d have to tell his mother about the guitar. About everything. There was no way to pay for a plane ticket now. But what he wished for more than anything was to repay what he’d stolen.
SANDRA Bermejo had visitors. Carter was glad he’d taken the time to run a brush through her uncooperative hair that morning, coaxing it away from her neck and piling it all on one shoulder. He had to help her; she couldn’t reach her own head, let alone hold the brush. Sandra wasn’t fussy about her looks, but she had her dignity.
A dark-haired man wearing a shirt the color of Key lime pie stood frowning at the end of Sandra’s bed. The bright color he wore did nothing to lighten the serious-as-a-cocked-rifle look on his face. He was nearly a full foot shorter than Carter, and the man’s slender arm encircled the shoulders of an even smaller woman holding some kind of complicated-looking flower, a bow around its pot. In a straight-back chair next to the window, Carter recognized a girl from his class, Kaia Liu. Less than a month after she’d transferred to Tulsa from New Jersey, Kaia had stolen a two-hundred-dollar pocketbook from the outlet shops off the highway and given it to their homeroom teacher. Ms. Coyne fancied that purse was the next best thing to sausage gravy and carried it everywhere, like a fool. Smug Kaia ruled as prettiest bully at Bob Bogle High School.
Carter left his guitar with one of the nurses who didn’t treat him like he was in her way. He wasn’t interested in any public confessional.
“Hey.” Carter gave Kaia a half-wave, then tucked his hand in his pocket. He wasn’t in the habit of talking to her and she wasn’t in the habit of paying him any mind. Besides, he’d never seen her cry before.
“You must be Carter. I’m Tom Liu. This is my wife, Jiao.”
Carter glanced past Tom and Jiao to his mother. She was awake and seemed comfortable enough in their company. When Carter shook the man’s hand and said, “Nice to meet you, sir,” Kaia stopped sobbing just long enough to roll her eyes. She’d made it crystal clear to everyone at school that Jersey was far superior to living in Oklahoma. Carter reckoned good manners plain offended her.
“A tree came clear through our front door,” Mr. Liu told him, his words spongy and not fully formed, as though he still didn’t believe they were true.
“My mom told me,” Carter replied, dropping his gaze to the linoleum tile. She was injured at their home, but it wasn’t their fault. Bad timing was all.
“We’re so sorry about what happened,” Mrs. Liu said, her eyelashes glistening with tears. Carter sank into the empty chair next to his mother’s bed. His mom was going to be okay; the doctors had promised him. Why were the Lius acting this way?
Sweeping dark curtains of hair behind her ears, Mrs. Liu forced herself to face Carter. “I understand you lost your home?” she asked, her voice barely a squeak.
“Yes, ma’am.” Carter kicked the linoleum with the toe of his Converse. “But it’s okay. My mom and I, we’ll—” Carter’s voice trailed off. He didn’t have a clue what they’d do. He looked at his mother, broken and bandaged under the starched hospital sheets. Her warm gaze, the only part of her still shining with life and hope, met her son’s. Carter straightened himself, brushing a loose curl of hair from his eyes. “My mom’s made a career out of turning the bad into good. ’Garbage into glory,’ that’s what she calls it.”
“Your mother tells us you’ll be staying with your aunt in Nevada,” Mrs. Liu said, trying to sound cheerful.
“Looks like it.” He nodded.
Sandra’s gaze shifted to the backpack in his lap. “Were you able to take care of everything, Cotton?” she asked. Carter pulled the pack closer to him. All he had was a notebook from school and his Windbreaker. He wasn’t about to tell her he didn’t have the money, not in front of Kaia and her parents. But he didn’t want to lie to her again either. It seemed he was heaping one lie on top of the other, and it was starting to stink something awful. Avoiding her question, he reached for the limp hand at her side and squeezed it.
“I’ll be back on my feet before long, honey,” his mother said, like she already had her walking papers. “Don’t bother acquainting yourself with the desert. Nothing there but dust.”
He wasn’t sure which was worse, not having the money to buy a plane ticket, or going to Aunt Syl’s if he did.
“How will you get out to Reno?” Mr. Liu asked, his frown deepening. “We were going to fly to Jiao’s parents in Albuquerque while the insurance company fixes our house, but the airport was evacuated. All flights are cancelled for the week.” Carter glanced at his mom. Maybe he was stuck in Tulsa, and he wouldn’t have to tell her about the money until he had enough to pay her back. Mr. Liu’s brows met in the middle, where heartache introduced them. “The last thing I want to do is drive. Worst place you can be in a storm is a car.”
Carter nodded but said nothing. Okie intuition told him the worst was over, but no one knew for sure which way the wind might blow.
“But you have to go to Sylvia’s.” Sandra tried to sit up. Pain seized her and she stiffened to a statue. Carter placed his hand behind her back and lowered her gently to her pillow.
Mr. Liu stroked his hand over his pinched forehead. The ashen rings under his eyes reached halfway down his cheeks. “It’d be easier to fly out of Albuquerque International Sunport,” he said. “Sandra, we want to help however we can. If you’d like, we’d be glad to see your son to ABQ airport.”
“Daddy, no!” Kaia sat up suddenly. “We don’t even know him. You can’t expect me to sit next to some random boy through two states.”
“I go to Bob Bogle with Kaia,” Carter stammered. It was bad enough she acted like half the kids at Bogle were invisible. If she were any more stuck up she’d drown in a rainstorm. Carter reckoned Kaia ought to write her ninth-grade independent research project on the fine art of making other people feel lower than a crawfish frog in a dry well.
“Would you, Tom? It would give me peace to know my son was safe,” his mother said. “What do you think, Cotton?”
It was a ten-hour drive to Albuquerque, Carter knew. That was ten hours to figure out a plan for getting the rest of the way to Nevada. Not that he even wanted to go to Aunt
Sylvia’s. Her nasty septic problem was bad enough, but his mom never showed the tiniest yearning to revisit her hometown. Just how bad was the desert? What Carter needed, what Carter was convinced his mom needed, was to get her savings back, and then some. If he could figure some way to convince his dad to sign the Martin, he’d see to it that Tommy made good on his promise to sell it and share the money.
He needed to talk to his father. Compared to them, his dad was rolling in cash. Maybe if he knew Carter had his old guitar, he’d remember how they used to play together. His dad might be willing to send him money for a plane ticket to LA, and he wouldn’t have to go to crazy Aunt Sylvia’s. Maybe his dad would let him do some odd jobs around his house, like mowing the lawn, washing dishes, or babysitting his wife’s daughters. Then he could repay his mama, and clear away the bad taste lying had left in his mouth.
“That’d be kind of you, sir.” Carter nodded his thanks and glanced westward out the window, like he could see Albuquerque from where he stood. Kaia got up from the chair, whining to anyone with an ear, but Carter paid her no mind. If he could get as far as the airport, he hoped his father could help him the rest of the way.
Chapter Nine
THE LIUS’ SUV WAS BRAND NEW. IT HAD A SMELL, a curious blend of leather and cash in the bank. The quiet interior was unfamiliar to Carter, who was used to the clanging rattle of Sandra’s old Chevy pickup. Not old, his mother would say, but vintage.
It was good to be on the road. It meant he was done with lying and on his way to making things right. He promised his mother he’d call the minute he got to Aunt Syl’s, but he reckoned that was his last lie because he was still going to call her. It’d just be from Eddie’s house instead.
Kaia pulled the tissue box from the console and held it in her lap. She had no intention of sharing. As far as Carter was concerned, Kaia could cry her sorry face off. If she thought he’d be dealing with his own waterworks, she was sorely mistaken. The Liu family had moved to the area the year before, from tornado-free New Jersey. Carter was a true Okie, born and raised. He’d seen folks pull out lawn chairs to watch funnels touch down in farmers’ fields. Nothing to cry about.
