by Rayne Lacko
“Tell me where you are, Cotton,” she said.
He leaned against the cool storage-room wall in silent refusal and waited for Lola May to give him what for. He couldn’t go back. What would going back do? He couldn’t fix anything. He messed up too badly, but he aimed to set things right. A minute ticked by. Then another.
At last, Lola May spoke. “Cotton, did I ever tell you how I got into home renovation?” Carter frowned into the phone. She had a fondness for telling parables starring herself. Now wasn’t the time. “Growing up in Little Rock, I was the middle child in a house with seven kids. Near invisible, you might say. My daddy did what he could to support us, but most people didn’t expect much from him, and frankly, he delivered exactly that.” Lola May’s voice sounded like a bruised peach, soft, dark, and fuzzy. Why was she telling him a story when she was mad enough to have him skinned? “When I was just about your age, our congregation was called to turn the pastor’s dank, dirty old basement into a meeting place for Bible study. Someone put a power tool in my hands and before I knew it, I’d helped transform it into something beautiful.”
Carter swallowed hard and shut his eyes. He never thought about what people might have expected of Lola May when she was growing up. Probably not a career in carpentry. Carter whispered to her in the dim storeroom. “That’s how playing guitar feels.” He couldn’t be entirely honest with her, but he owed it to her to admit, “It’s like you said, transformation. But of me, you know?”
“Sandy’s done a fine job raising you up. She just wants you to be safe.”
“You always been good to me, Lola May.” Carter couldn’t believe he was saying it, but it was true. “And I don’t reckon I ever said thanks.” He told her he’d ask Mr. and Mrs. Liu to bring him back to Tulsa so she wouldn’t have to leave his mother’s side.
“Y’all need anything, just holler at me,” she said.
Carter knew it was time he spoke with his father. Maybe his daddy would come to him, if he asked.
Chapter Twenty-Three
THE NEXT MORNING, LEDBETTER SHUFFLED sleepy-eyed into the kitchen. Carter was already at the kitchen table with the Martin, Kaia’s sparkly pen, and his notebook. He strummed a few chords, then picked up the pen to transcribe the notes into his notebook. Lola May expected him back in Tulsa, but he couldn’t go, not until he spoke with his father. It would be hard enough to ask him for the favor of signing the guitar. Carter wanted more than the man’s signature. He wanted to see if he still cared. And he wanted to prove that Eddie Danforth should not have given up on his son so easily all those years ago, and the only way to do that was to perform for him. Carter couldn’t reach out to his dad until he was ready to rock.
He woke early that morning short on time but not on inspiration. He reckoned he could build a bridge between fighting and following by perfectly executing his very own song. Step one was getting the melody down on paper. Ledbetter leaned against the counter and considered the boy strumming and writing, writing and strumming, for a long while. On the stove, Carter had a pot of fresh eggs simmering in salted water.
“What in the—? Son, you ain’t left-handed.”
“Nope. But Jimi Hendrix was,” Carter said. He ran his fingertip over the stained letters of the word Discipline. “My dad used to say if I hope to impress an audience like Jimi did, I’d have to practice twice as hard.”
Ledbetter began rummaging through three drawers full of guitar strings, mumbling to himself. When he found what he was looking for, Ledbetter sat down at the table and fished a pair of eyeglasses from the chest pocket of his Western-style shirt. “Trust me, boy.” He held out his hands for the Martin.
Carter handed over his beloved instrument. Truth was, he did trust old Ledbetter. A new set of strings would add to the instrument’s value, too.
Ledbetter flipped the left-handed Martin over and set to restringing it.
Carter watched Ledbetter’s wrinkled knuckles move across the strings as masterfully as they did when he played. For a moment, he felt comforted knowing the Martin was in experienced hands. His comfort quickly disappeared. As Ledbetter loosened the tension on the first tuning peg, the string made a startled, offended-sounding twang. Then the first low E string moved in where the sixth high E string had just called home. “That’s not how it was strung. What are you doing?”
“Restringing it for a righty like yourself, of course,” Ledbetter said without looking up, bumping the string’s bridge pin out and inserting a new, unfamiliar string.
Carter couldn’t sit still. He hopped out of his chair and paced the floor. “But then it’ll be just like any old guitar,” he said. “What you’re doing, it ain’t natural. Stop.” Before Carter could get to him, Ledbetter had another peg loose. Another sad twang filled the kitchen. He was already halfway to ruining Carter’s most valuable possession.
“I said stop it.” Carter regretted raising his voice to Ledbetter. He didn’t want to fight the old man.
Ledbetter set the guitar down, removed his eyeglasses, and raised a solitary eyebrow at the boy.
Carter was breathing hard, like a fight had already started. “You’re wrecking the thing that makes it special.”
“You think the order of strings is what makes a guitar special?” Ledbetter had a deep, throaty laugh. He might have been a smoker when folks were still allowed indoors with a cancer stick. This was no laughing matter. “Son, you don’t owe me any thanks for putting them back where they’re supposed to be,” Ledbetter began, “because I don’t care to restore this instrument to what it once was. The past is past. I’m fixing the strings to fit you.”
Over Carter’s shoulder, the pot of eggs over-boiled, spilling hot water across the stovetop. A cloud of steam filled the kitchen. Carter scrambled to fix the mess, keeping one eye on Ledbetter’s hands as he resumed his work. Carter had enough to contend with; if he was going to play for his father, he needed all the frontman tricks that went into a memorable show because his daddy always said performing was ten percent sweat, ninety percent style. At six foot, he had no notions of climbing back in his daddy’s lap for a music lesson. But he wanted the man’s respect.
Carter drained the eggs in the sink and poured cold water over them. He didn’t know what to make of Ledbetter changing the guitar to fit him. Hadn’t he made it clear he planned to sell it anyway? He couldn’t dare think of the Martin as his. It wasn’t. He owed too much for it. The whole thing was just like Lola telling him she was coming to get him. Ledbetter was trying to do something Carter secretly wished his father would do and it made him lonesome for his dad and that didn’t feel right. It would be a whole lot easier if he could just stay mad at his father and not care one way or another what he did.
Dragging himself back to the kitchen table, Carter sank into a chair, frowning as the next string loosened with its own pitiful twang. He swished his hair out of his eyes, but it fell back in the exact same place. He sat stone still, letting Ledbetter carry on to the finish, heat rising around his neck. Stopping Ledbetter now was as useless as having second thoughts halfway through a tattoo.
At last, Ledbetter rose from the table and offered the guitar back to him. “New strings need to stretch a little. No more than a day or two.”
Carter sniffed and grabbed the guitar, bolting toward the kitchen’s back door. He cursed himself for sticking around at The Yucca. When Lola May told him to get his butt back to Tulsa, he should have gone.
“You’re welcome,” Ledbetter said as the door slammed behind him.
CARTER threw the guitar strap over his shoulder and stormed past Ledbetter’s trailer into the desert. He didn’t slow up or stop until he made it as far as his secret spot by the dry creek bed. He was too angry to cry and too freaked out to turn back and give old Ledbetter an earful. Situated under his shady boulder, Carter examined the new strings. They were heavier than the ones he was used to, and strung so tight they looked nervous. The guitar was his one hope for paying back his mother and rebuilding their life back
home. But more important, Carter hoped he might make amends with his future in music. Mr. Ledbetter had no business altering the instrument.
He strummed out a chord, assessing the damage. The sound, clean and pure, caught his breath in his throat. He tried another chord, and then another, sliding his hand up the fret. He’d have sworn Ledbetter had given him a new set of ears. Launching into Poly Virus’s “Shotgun Candle,” his fingers found the melody, swift and easy. Something shining hot and bright burst in his chest, connecting his mind to his heart, igniting his fingertips and tickling his ears. He broke out singing. Maybe it was the full, clean sound, the gauge of the strings, or the straightforward ease of playing right-handed guitar with his right hand, but Carter realized he’d been working against himself, trying to play his father’s way. Making do. It was like what Lola had said about transformation. Ledbetter had transformed the guitar into something that worked for him, and with him. The guitar fit him, just like Ledbetter said it would.
Carter rose up from under his rock and met the day’s full sun. The instrument felt lighter in his hands, an extension of his body. He knew he wouldn’t have it much longer, and it pained him to think that music would be another too-short moment in his life, but he wasn’t going to waste a second of it. He strode back to The Little Yucca, strumming and singing loud enough for Ledbetter to swing open the kitchen’s back door to have a listen.
“Now the hard work begins,” Ledbetter called to him, ushering the boy into the tavern. Ledbetter said it was time he learned how to set up the mics, foldback speakers, amplifiers, and cables for the evening’s entertainment. Carter didn’t complain. He was choosing to fight for what he wanted.
Chapter Twenty-Four
CARTER OFFERED MITCH A FULL DAY’ S PAY FOR the use of his phone. He was running out of time. Lola May and Mama would pitch twin fits if he wasn’t home soon, but he had no way of getting back. He already knew he couldn’t take the bus, and he hadn’t figured out how to get himself back up the 40 to Albuquerque Sunport to catch a flight to Tulsa. Above all, he didn’t want to admit to Mitch the fix he was in.
It was a steep price, but Carter wagered he couldn’t turn him down. Mitch held out his hand with a grunt. He counted his hard-earned bills into the barkeep’s oversize palm.
While Ledbetter rehearsed for his set in the bar, Carter found some privacy in the mobile home out back. He entered the phone number by heart. He’d practiced speeches for his father over the years, some anger-fueled, some wishing for understanding, some plain lonesome. But now he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. Carter quickly ended the call before it rang through.
He took a deep breath and tried dialing again. He didn’t make it past the area code. What if one of his daughters answered again? Or worse, Camellia? Carter considered waiting until tomorrow.
He’d paid good money to use Mitch’s phone. Call now or hitch a ride back to Albuquerque, he told himself. The last thing Carter wanted to do, ever, was hitchhike again.
Carter dialed the number and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the phone too hard to his ear.
His dad answered on the second ring. “Hey, it’s Eddie.”
“Dad, Eddie? It’s me, Carter.” He sank into the settee, folding his long legs under him. “Sorry if I’m calling at a bad time.” He wasn’t sorry for calling, just nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. “You mind if we have a word?”
“Who? What in the—?” Carter could hear muffled voices in the background. “Hang on, I’m just finishing up in the studio,” his father said. “Trying to record a jingle for Ma Joad’s restaurant chain, but it isn’t going so great. The commercial’s got everything but a heartbeat.” Shuffling noises were punctuated by unintelligible whispers. His dad seemed irritated. Maybe it was a bad time. Would his father drop the call, block the call?
“You sound so grown up,” Eddie said at last, confusion weighing his words.
Carter wondered how he expected him to sound. “I’m fifteen.” Clearly, Carter had been the only one counting the days and nights they were apart.
“Has it only been six years?” his father said. “It feels like a lifetime.”
“Sure does, sir,” Carter replied, swallowing a hard lump in his throat. He pulled the phone from his ear and double-checked the number. The man on Mitch’s cell didn’t sound a lick like his father. Carter realized then that he’d lost his Tulsa accent. It seemed his dad had left everything behind.
“I’ve missed you,” Eddie said.
Carter hung his head, shaking it in amazement. “Dad, I’ve missed you, too.” He thought about all the make-believe conversations he’d had with his father over the years. Carter wanted to tell him everything he wished he’d been able to say, but figured he’d best get straight to the facts. “The hospital says Mama’ll be back on her feet now that she’s had her operation, and the insurance company is going to help us get another house.”
“Operation? Insurance?” Eddie let out a long breath, like this information was out of nowhere and none too easy to swallow. Hadn’t Camellia told him about Mama’s call?
Whenever he hit a sour chord or lost his momentum, Mr. Ledbetter would tell him to back up a little and pick up a few bars from where he’d dropped off. Seemed like the right approach with his father.
“Remember the left-handed Martin?” Carter nearly kicked himself for bringing it up like that. He wanted to try and make peace with his father before admitting it wasn’t a lefty anymore. “I’m doing guitar lessons again.”
If his dad didn’t know about the storm, maybe he wasn’t ’too busy with work’ to care for him after all. What Carter wouldn’t give to hang out with his dad in his music studio. Carter kept going.
“Our house was totaled in the tornado outbreak a few weeks back. You didn’t hear about it?” It was hard to stay on one topic. This wasn’t how he’d pictured catching up with his dad. “Mama got hurt pretty bad in the storm. I don’t know how we’re going to manage her hospital bills, let alone get a new house.” Carter couldn’t figure how to stop everything from coming out at once. “Rock and blues mostly, the classics, you know? We never asked you for anything all these years but we sure could use your help now. And—”
Eddie spoke up. “You’re still playing my old Martin?” He let out a low whistle. “I always imagined I’d hand that old girl down to you. Your mama let you keep her?”
Let him keep the Martin? He couldn’t very well ask his mother’s permission when the thing cost more than her savings. Carter was getting mad. “Why didn’t you just leave it for me instead of pawning it?” Eddie had no idea what that one decision had cost him.
“I’d never pawn a beauty like that. The only pawn I ever handled was in a game of chess.” Carter remembered his daddy used to play chess backstage between sets, but he couldn’t be sure if Eddie was bluffing. His voice sounded so different, like Los Angeles got in his lungs and washed out the Oklahoma. “Pawn shops were Sandra’s thing.”
Carter’s throat caught with a hot sting. He couldn’t trust what he was hearing. “But you sold it,” he managed to choke out.
“I made some dumb-fool choices,” Eddie muttered, “but I would never sell that guitar.” A silence fell between them. Carter hoped his father meant to say that leaving him had been a dumb-fool choice. It felt impossible to ask for his dad to see him, and sign it. He sure wasn’t going to admit his plan for selling it when he got back home.
“Your mother told me to stop sending presents because you didn’t need anything,” his dad added, as if Carter hadn’t wanted anything the man tried to give. “But I would’ve liked to hear from you. I’m glad you finally called.”
“What presents? I never got any presents.” It was just like his mother to say they didn’t need anything, but she wouldn’t hide gifts from him. Would she? “How come you never told your daughters about me?” Carter didn’t want to pick a fight with his dad, but once he turned the ignition, his engine was revving.
“I couldn
’t. Your mama wouldn’t let me have one weekend with you. I didn’t want the girls missing something they’d never have.”
Carter’s heart pounded like a hailstorm. He wanted to believe him, but if he did, it made his mother a liar. “You didn’t even try. Just left Tulsa and never looked back.”
“I wanted to do the right thing,” Eddie said, his words shot full with anger but damp and mushy. Must be what folks called anguish, Carter reckoned, listening for more than what his father had to say for himself. “She ripped my heart out, showed it to me, then baked it in a pie. But I knew if I fought Sandra in court, she’d get buried by lawyer fees and shackled by debt. I couldn’t do that to her.”
It didn’t add up, not after all this time. But he sure wanted to believe his father had loved them. Carter took a deep breath, trying to keep all his feelings from running catawampus. He searched for something to say, but he was caught between longing to be closer to his father, and wishing he’d make right all the years they’d spent apart. Before Carter could open his mouth, his father said, “You’re growing up a musician. Don’t that beat all.” His voice was recovering some of its old Okie flavor. “How about you play something for me?”
Carter brushed his hand through his hair. He’d been writing something new, practicing for just this moment. But wasn’t his father going to ask about his mom? The house? And if he did, what then?
Music. It was the only thing that made any sense to Carter. The only thing he could stand behind with any certainty. “What do you want to hear?” He pulled his guitar strap over his shoulder, centering the Martin in front of him.
“Give me some music from back home.” He liked that his father referred to Tulsa as home.
Ledbetter had drilled in him daily to face a challenge full-bore, but Carter didn’t want to push his luck. He was only starting to catch hold of the music he’d discovered inside himself back at Shoretown Inn in Albuquerque. He decided to choose an old favorite of his mama’s. She was big into country music, and even though his father used to tease her about her crooner crushes, Carter knew there were a few songs his dad also liked. He started playing “In Lonesome Dove,” an old favorite by Tulsa-born Garth Brooks. “Music can transport a soul back to a place and time as though it were yesterday,” Ledbetter had told him. “Memories,” he said, “it’s what we’re made up of. All of ’em, good, bad, crazy, or copacetic.” Carter didn’t know what copacetic meant, but Ledbetter must’ve been right because he’d spent most of his life chasing after his memories.
