by Rayne Lacko
Hearing her say that made his heart smile. He wanted her to be happy, too. He’d learned all too well what it meant to be alone. “Mama, I’m coming home soon, I really am. I just need to see Dad. I’m glad Lola May’s helping you and all.”
“We’re helping each other. Lola invited us to live with her, Cotton.” His mother’s words were cut short with a cough. “And when the insurance money comes in, Lola says we should use it to build a music studio for you,” she managed to add.
“For real, Mama?”
Carter’s mother coughed for a full minute. Every time she tried to eke out one lonesome word, another round of coughs started up.
Lola May came on and got straight to yapping like nothing was amiss. “Here at the shelter, folks call your mama ’the Mother Teresa of Renovation,’” she said with the neighborly cheerfulness she used on her TV show. “Displaced families bring her salvaged wood and materials from what’s left of their homes. Then Sandy and I create custom furnishings, so they’ll have a piece of their past and something new to make a fresh start.”
It reminded him a whole lot of his daddy’s guitar. “You said Mama was doing a bit of carpentry last we spoke. Sounds like she’s as good as new.” Maybe her coughing spell was nothing.
“Getting stronger every day,” Lola May assured him. “We’ve found new meaning in our work, Cotton. Every refinishing job we’ve ever done was only preparation for helping these people begin a new life.”
’“Garbage into glory,’ that’s what Mama always said.”
“She’s tough as ever, believe me,” Lola said, this time without her trademark confidence. “Cotton, you should know she picked up an infection at the shelter. But I’m keeping an eye on her.”
Carter’s first thought was to get her out of the dang shelter. He remembered Lola May had offered to put her up in a hotel and she wouldn’t hear tell of it. Tough as ever. “She’s always dishing out help. When’s she going to learn to accept some herself?”
Lola and Carter agreed, there was no point expecting his mama might change.
“I reckon Mama’s in good hands with you, Lola May. You’re like family to us.”
“I love you like my own, Cotton.”
“I know it,” Carter replied. He chewed his lip, realizing what she’d come to mean to him. “I love you, too.”
WHEN Carter got back to the condo, he padded inside and picked up the Martin, throwing the strap over his shoulder. It was his. A piece of his past that both his father and his mother wanted him to have. He didn’t care that it was daybreak; he was in California and Poly Virus was playing Coachella that day. Plenty of reason to get the day rolling, and Carter knew the best way to do it. He broke into “Love Never Walks Away” like he’d given it a second life, a rush of happiness pumping through his veins. His song wasn’t the blues. It was built for dancing, for rocking out, for tearing the walls down.
Chapter Fourty-Three
“THAT’S THE ALARM CLOCK I’M TALKING ABOUT.” Garrett appeared at the door of one bedroom, rubbing at his sleepy eyes in the bright early light. “What song is that, I don’t recognize it.”
“I wrote it.” Carter smiled.
“Oklahoma, you got it, man,” he said, hooting and whooping like he couldn’t hold back the hum of energy building inside him. “This is it, this is rock ’n roll.” Garrett motioned for him to keep going, unlatching his own guitar case and plugging in to a small amp. Piper came in from the patio yawning, a smile breaking across her face. Soon Garrett had slipped into the melody, joining Carter’s rhythm by improvising his own harmony to boost the song’s power. It was early and they were too loud. By the time the condo management pulled up in a golf cart to tell them to knock it off, the entire band was jamming with a bad case of bedhead and Piper had whipped up a giant breakfast for everyone.
CARTER had hoped he’d make it to Coachella one day. He’d never imagined it’d be any time before he was old enough to drive. His mother knew where he was, and gave her blessing to let him help out Poly Virus as a roadie at the festival.
Whatever fantasies he may have cooked up were nothing compared to what they pulled up to in the next hour. Several giant stages anchored the massive grass field, with smaller stages in between. A scattering of oversize carnival tents offered cool fans and shade from the blazing desert sun broiling overhead, over a hundred degrees by midday.
It was exciting to be there, to take it all in, become part of the energy. He couldn’t help but recall how different it felt from when he played gigs with his Dad at festivals as a kid. Back then, he’d waited hours for his turn on stage, at the edge of the wave of happy families and couples rushing from one spectacle to another. That day, he was free to dive in.
Carter was surprised to find art installations and sculptures, pedicab drivers, and endless rows of vendor tents housing water slingers, band memorabilia, clothing, and henna tattoos, even farmers selling fresh fruit and vegetables. He kept his eye out for the glow-stick guys he’d met the night before, but it seemed every other tent sold something to light up the night. Carter felt his worries burn off in the hot sun. It was like a dream world, a musical city inhabited by thousands of crazed music fans, dancing, laughing, letting go. Girls went by wearing flower crowns, and many of the guys looked like famous rock performers. Carter soon realized some of them were. An all-day smile made its home on his face.
About an hour before Poly Virus went on, Carter and Piper met up with the band backstage. While it was the festival’s seventh year, it was Poly Virus’s first time there as paid performers. The boys in the band must have found a match because they were lit up like firecrackers, ready to blast. Carter rode the wave of their excitement, as thrilled for them as he was to bear witness to the chaos of the music all around him. Even Piper couldn’t stop grinning. Waiting backstage for Poly Virus’s turn to play, Garrett asked Piper to shoot some preshow footage on his tablet. She nodded, and Carter pulled the front man’s tablet from his guitar case. He thanked Garrett for letting him make his multimedia presentation. When he first met the band back at the Shoretown Inn, he didn’t have an inkling about the influence Poly Virus would make on his music, and on his confidence as a performer. The band was his Shotgun Candle, his rock when he didn’t know which way the road would take him.
“Let’s have a look at it, Oklahoma,” Garrett said, opening a cold bottle of water.
Carter pressed Play. The band was impressed. Sure, Carter didn’t have much experience with editing and he’d rushed to finish his IRP. But the movie’s message was clear: he’d gotten plenty familiar with that Martin and grown a bunch doing it.
“You should hear him cover you guys,” Piper teased. “If you’re too nervous, I’m sure Carter here’ll take your place onstage in a heartbeat.”
“Yeah? Maybe we could add a backup,” Dex said. “Hey, the more the merrier, right?”
“Cool,” Garrett agreed with a nod. “But you’re going to need to plug in.” Austin went through the band’s equipment and chose an electric guitar for Carter. Once they had him fitted, the guys showed him the playlist and let him know when he could come on. Carter couldn’t reckon if he was dumbstruck, awestruck, or starstruck. He tried to pull together some sort of thanks, but all that came out was a bent Southernism: “We’re going to rock them so hard they’ll see tomorrow today.” Dex and Austin doubled over laughing and Garrett stuck his hand in the boy’s hair, mussing it. Even big Nate cracked a grin behind that hornet’s nest he called a beard.
The guys got the signal; it was time. Carter and Piper stood by while Garrett pulled Poly Virus together in a group huddle. They exchanged a couple of words, then Dex glanced over his shoulder. “C’mon already. What you waiting for?” Piper took Carter’s hand in hers, and they stepped into the group, interlocking arms around one another’s shoulders.
“This is the one,” Garrett said, looking around the circle of his friends. “The big one. We came to rock and we’re doing it, right here. We were called to make histo
ry. Today we’re making Coachella history. There’s no one I’d rather do it with than you.”
Chapter Fourty-Four
CARTER HUNG BACK AT THE EDGE OF THE STAGE, shielded from the random blasts of hot desert wind. It was late afternoon and he couldn’t see the grass field for hundreds of yards, there were so many people. An LED thermometer near the main stage read 105 degrees. Most of the crowd had covered themselves with wet bandannas, sunglasses, and sun hats. Any other day, they might have stayed indoors to avoid the dust, the relentless sun, and the untamed wind. But this was Coachella. Today mattered. The music mattered to everyone present. It reminded Carter of a day not too long before, when the weather had failed to hold him back. He couldn’t wait another day for his dad’s guitar—no, his Martin. Now he knew music belonged to him. It belonged to everyone. It was why they were there, bucking some harsh weather like it was nothing. For the music.
Garrett introduced the band, then launched into an adrenaline-infused torrent of deliciously psychedelic lyrics.
Piper nudged Carter onstage, toward a mic set up away from the spotlight. He had his private corner of glory, living out the fantasy that this was his audience, that the favorite song of the playlist was his own. Carter played his best, like it was a do-over of his audition at The Little Yucca.
When Poly Virus finally launched into “Shotgun Candle,” Carter found his confidence. He knew the song; he’d dedicated several hours of his practice to it. The band dove in, rocking it out. The crowd went crazy. It was a college radio station favorite. The wind seemed to love it, too. It howled across the faraway desert, blowing dust and hot air across the sunbaked masses.
Carter’s guitar seemed louder. The heat made him realize he’d closed his eyes. When he opened them and looked around the stage, he realized Garrett had turned up his amp. He’d brought something to “Shotgun Candle”—maybe hot sauce, maybe the drawl of the Southwest—but Garrett sure seemed to like it. Carter played it through, giving every ounce of himself. Playing for the crowd was a mind trip, a dream in which he could see his father smiling up at him.
Wait, was that really his father? He scanned the faces in the front row. It must have been the heat. A fantasy had gotten into him and had its way.
At the end of “Shotgun Candle,” Garrett grabbed the mic. He asked the audience to give a shout-out to Carter Danforth, and cheers rose from the crowd. Garrett put his arm around Carter and pulled him to the front of the stage. At six feet, he and Garrett were the same height. “You aren’t gonna believe this, but Carter here is only fifteen years old.” Wild hoots and whistles rose up. Carter couldn’t get the image of his dad out of his mind. It was tripping him out because he looked older. In every dream he’d ever had about his daddy, he looked the same as he had six years before. “Carter’s traveled all the way from Tulsa, Oklahoma, y’all!” Garrett hollered, tacking on an Okie accent. “He’s here to share his newest song. And first, right?”
Carter just nodded, feeling as light-headed as the bubbles blowing from a machine invisible in the throng.
“You’re going to love it,” Garrett shouted with a grin. “I know I did.”
Piper appeared at the front of the stage with Garrett’s tablet. She was shooting video again, but this time Willard couldn’t stop her. “Boys and girls,” Garrett continued, “give it up for our buddy Carter Danforth, performing ’Love Doesn’t Walk Away.’”
Chapter Fourty-Five
GARRETT READIED HIS GUITAR FOR A REPEAT OF their early morning jam session. Carter stepped up to the mic. “Hey, y’all.” The stage seemed to disappear from beneath his feet.
In the open air, the ginormous amps vibrated across the festival. In the distance, he saw thousands of camping tents dotting the grass to the horizon. To the farthest points on his left and right, huge stages loomed, larger than his. A thumping beat weighed the hot air around them, a heavy audio blanket wrapping the shoulders of every lost soul who’d found their way along the road to Indio. He dropped his hand, wrenching out the first chord. He’d never even played an electric version of his song. But that day, he was plugged into one of the nation’s biggest amps. Even the best song can fall flat if it’s performed without the right ingredients. Carter knew what the right ingredients were: Creativity, Victory, Heart, and Discipline. The melody blasted with massive power, a fresh, raw, electric stream giving it yet another new life, a new birth. Was that what it was all about? Being reborn, again and again, with every song, every mile, every new friend—and every loss? He remembered how old Ledbetter seemed to stop time every time he rocked the crowd, just long enough to pound out every regret, every bad decision, and all the pain of hurting the ones we loved and left behind.
Carter roared through the song, lifted sky high with the band’s accompaniment. Kai’s wicked drums beat in his chest, driving Carter’s own rhythm into him—or out of him, he wasn’t sure. The bassline held the melody afloat, even more than the drums. He tuned into its cadence, followed the pattern of the strings while belting out the lyrics. He’d been promoted to Garrett’s mic and it commanded the loudest, clearest sound. The audience swayed to the beat, hands raised into the wind. The guitar, his instrument, was part of him, another limb, another brain, another heart. With pen to page, Carter could write his own songs, tell his own story. With the lungs in his chest, he could sing his message to the world.
The chorus he sang was about holding on to the past but living well in the present, just like his mother had taught him.
We need to take care of what we have,
See it in a new way.
We got two choices, follow or fight,
Love doesn’t walk away.
There were all kinds of people at Coachella: teens, adults, girls, bros, even families. Carter was getting used to making eye contact with his audience, but there were thousands here, a sea of undulating bodies. He singled out the shining golden head of a little girl near the front row, maybe eight or nine years old, wearing noise-canceling headphones. She smiled up at him, cheeks painted with sparkles. She nudged a taller girl, likely her sister. The older blonde, maybe thirteen, ignored her. She stared at Carter, transfixed. A mix of suspicion and disbelief darkened her eyes, the same color as the sky. Carter locked his gaze with theirs, hoping the young kids in the audience might hear his music and know that nothing was impossible. Carter had dreamed he’d make it to out west to see his father again. Follow your dream and you get there, he reckoned, just maybe not the way you expect. After all, he was in California, playing his guitar.
And there was his father, right in front of him. But how did he know Carter would be there? It couldn’t be a coincidence? If they hadn’t lost the motorcycle, Carter would be in Santa Monica. He’d have ridden right past his father on the way.
A sweat broke out across Carter’s brow. He played on, losing himself in his own music, leading the band note by note, chord by chord. He dared another glance. It couldn’t be. Sure enough, the man he saw looked like a slightly older Eddie Danforth. He and the two girls wore lanyards with backstage credentials.
The sun bore down. Even with the oversize fans on either side of the stage, Carter thought he must be hallucinating from the heat. He closed his eyes, focusing on his own music, the immaculate sound of the band, and let the noise of the crowd fall away. He sang from his heart, pulling from the strength he’d built for himself over so many nights alone, far from the bed he’d never sleep in again back home. The music took on a shining, otherworldly quality, seeming to flow through his veins.
Goose bumps prickled his skin, even in the excessive heat. Carter floated, weightless, powering his song to its climactic end. Rather than quiet it, fading to nothing, Carter ramped it up.
The band drove on. Garrett’s hand thrashed against his guitar, creating a gorgeous rising wave of sound that rocked the whole place. When they played together, the music seemed to weave inward, to seek harmony. Each brought a melody, a bassline, or a tone to strengthen and lift up the other, creating a sum great
er than its parts. This was the song inside Carter. This was the song calling to each of them, filling the creases, voids, and empty crevices inside. Holes they thought had no bottom were filled.
At the end of the song, the crowd went crazy. Carter felt alive and alert, like he could outrun the Frisco train itself, from Tulsa clear to Kansas City. Anything was possible.
The show must go on, and Poly Virus was given a limited time onstage. Carter took one last bow. Piper set down the tablet and mouthed the word awesome.
As Poly Virus launched into the next track, Carter found himself searching the crowd. The man with the two little girls was chatting up the security guys watching over the backstage entrance, who seemed thrilled to be meeting Eddie Danforth in person. Security let them backstage, but Carter stayed close to the band, cheering on his new friends. He wouldn’t let them down. Poly Virus had given him the best day of his life. Carter was suddenly worried what his father would have to say about him being all the way across the country on his own. Once again, it was confession time.
Chapter Fourty-Six
AFTER THREE ENCORES, THE BAND WAS EXHAUSTED and drenched in sweat. They piled down from the stage into the private backstage area, all looking rode hard and put away wet. No matter; Piper fired up the tablet again and they shot video of their backstage celebration. The small space was packed with bodies. A few long-standing fans from Poly Virus’s tour had scored backstage passes and everyone attacked a table of cold drinks and snacks.
Carter heard his own heartbeat in his ears. His throat burned parched and hot. “Dad?” he managed to say, edging nervously toward his father.
“Daddy gets us passes for everything,” the girls both said at once, a blend of enthusiasm and arrogance. “The studios and record labels hook us up all the time.” Eddie smiled, trying to hush them. Carter found himself face to face with his father. “Son, I’d like you to meet Scarlett,” he placed his hand on the younger girl’s shoulder, “and Aurora,” indicating the older sister. Carter nodded to the girls politely, a warm flush of relief and pride creeping over him. His father called him “son” in front of his stepdaughters.
