by Rayne Lacko
“You were incredible up there,” he said, grinning red-faced at him, and opening and closing his arms like they couldn’t decide whether to tackle him.
“You were so amazing!” Scarlett squealed, sweet as cherry pie. “I can’t believe you’re like, what, our half-brother? Step brother? You’re going to be a famous rock star, I know it!” She nudged her big sister Aurora, who held her arms folded tightly across her chest.
“You’re not as bad as I thought,” the older girl offered. Carter didn’t know what to make of her until she smiled in a way that told him sass was her standard.
“Your mother called me this morning,” Eddie said, shaking his head as though he still couldn’t make sense of it. “She told me where you were. I asked if I could see you, just once,” he said, opening his arms wider and then closing them again when Carter stood still as a parked car in the ruckus of noise and dancing and carrying on.
At last Carter floated toward him, stiff as old Ledbetter’s back. Eddie enclosed his son in his arms. As his father squeezed Carter close, the scent of him, his hair and the skin of his neck, smacked Carter square in his memories, sending him tumbling back through time. This was his daddy.
His father released him, searching his face. Eddie looked him over, trying to take Carter in all at once. “Dang it, you’re so big.” Carter broke out in a grin, and Eddie put his hand on his son’s shoulder, steadying himself as he looked in his boy’s eyes. “Carter, she said you could stay with us for a while. If you want.”
“Please, Carter?” Scarlett broke into whining. “It’d be so fun! We have a music studio at our house.” Smiling down at her, he sure appreciated her enthusiasm.
Aurora shrugged. “I guess it’d be cool.” Carter could tell she wasn’t tagging along for any family reunion. Piper and Garrett called the girls over to help themselves to Poly Virus shirts, giving Carter and his father some time alone.
“Dad, check this out,” Carter said, clicking the latches open on his guitar case. The Martin seemed humbled by the modern instruments all around it. Eddie picked it up and ran his hands along the familiar guitar, his gaze landing square on the inscription near the pickguard.
“I remember bringing this home when you were just a wee baby. It seemed forever before you were big enough to hold it yourself. You fought me through every cotton-picking lesson, always wanting to do things your way,” he said, squinting into the past. Carter didn’t like how similar his dad’s memories were to his mother’s. As he recalled, he loved playing the Martin. “I had a plan for you, but you had other ideas.”
Carter stepped back from his father, blinking away spots flashing in his eyes. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe his mom was right about his dad.
“I figured if I left this old beauty behind, it wouldn’t hurt so bad,” his father told him. “I didn’t want it staring me down, reminding me of how I failed you.” He laughed a sorry laugh at himself, as if sorrow and wishful thinking were one and the same. “But now I get it. You needed to make music your way, not mine.”
“You gave me a love for music. You didn’t fail, Dad.”
“You’re a natural born musician, took to that Martin like it was a third arm,” he continued. “But I never gave you a chance to find your own sound.” Eddie stared his son in the eye. “I promise you, not a day goes by when I don’t think of you, son.”
Before Carter could answer, Eddie set down the Martin and grabbed him in a bear hug, dragging him up off the ground and holding him tight. Carter’s feet dangled in the air. He was pressed so hard against his father, he couldn’t even return his embrace. His father held him there, long moments ticking by until Carter’s toes came back to the ground, but still his dad held on. He realized his dad was crying into his hair, but Carter didn’t mind.
“Back in Tulsa, at that run-down old house, those were some of the happiest days in my life,” his father told him.
“Dad, we can’t go back in time; we can only move forward,” Carter said. He’d given up trying to bring back the past. He didn’t want to go back to who he was before he left Tulsa. He couldn’t ask his father to, either.
“I hope one day you’ll be able to forgive me.” Eddie broke from him, holding his son by both shoulders. “I’m never leaving you again.”
“I just want you to be my dad,” Carter said. “I reckon it’s all I ever wanted.”
“I am. And I will be,” Eddie said. Carter dropped his gaze to the brown, trampled grass beneath them. The anger he’d felt toward his dad all those years had been longing, in truth. The Martin bound them together, and Carter understood finally why he couldn’t stand the idea of it tucked away at Tommy’s. It belonged in his family.
Eddie wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. Aurora and Scarlett wandered back, checking in on their stepdad. Carter pulled them in and Eddie wrapped his arms around all three kids. Scarlett’s pinky finger found Carter’s and curled around it; Aurora did them all the favor of buttoning her lip. Carter had come to realize kin was more than another word for family; it was built on the love you gave — and accepted.
OVER his dad’s shoulder, Carter spotted Piper shooting more video footage. When he broke from the hug, she motioned him over. “You need this,” she said. “It’s part of your story.”
“I’m not writing a story,” he pointed out, “I’m trying to pass ninth grade.” Piper sat him down right then and there and made him work. Eddie was setting up to take the kids home to Santa Monica before sunset. “After dark at Coachella is no place for kids,” he said. Aurora went straight to back-sassing Eddie, arguing that other kids at her school were allowed to stay, and without having to drag around a parent, much less a baby sister. Carter wanted to stay and hang out, too, but he was plenty fine with being seen with Eddie.
He inserted the concert footage, and replayed the scenes Piper had shot of him and his father. There he was, his teenage, six-foot body off the ground in a bear hug. It was too much. “Add it,” Piper commanded over his shoulder. He cut it to a two-second clip in black and white, replacing their conversation with the song performance, the words “Love Doesn’t Walk Away” appearing over the top until the image and title faded away to a small line of text reading, “Special thanks to Kaia Liu, Mr. Ledbetter, Mitch Keller, Piper Piedra, and Poly Virus.” The project was done. He saved it and emailed a copy to his homeroom teacher, and a copy to Kaia Liu, with the comment, “Smoother than a gravy sandwich.” He sure hoped she’d like it.
“Ledbetter?” Eddie pointed to the screen, surprised. “You met Get the Led Out Ledbetter, the rock and blues legend? I didn’t know he was still alive.”
“Alive and well, I reckon.” Carter laughed. “He gave me guitar lessons night and day at The Little Yucca.” He reached for the Martin and held it in the right-hand position. “He restrung it for me, Dad. To play it my way. Hope you don’t mind.”
Eddie examined Ledbetter’s handiwork like he’d unearthed a lost masterpiece. “I only wish I hadn’t pushed you the way I did,” he said. “You don’t need a gimmick when you’ve got music in the veins.”
Carter thought about the energy that drew an audience toward the stage during a performance. Music was meant to be shared, to connect strangers, to create a bond. He smiled at his father, a seasoned pro at pulling heartstrings. “Maybe not a gimmick, Dad, but there’s something to be said for giving the audience a show.”
It was time to get on the road. Piper grabbed his arm and pulled him in tight, hugging him. He remembered how she’d avoided Mitch’s hug entirely and counted himself lucky for the quick embrace. “I’m heading home in a few days. The Desert Willow needs me. And it’s time I told Willard to move on for good,” she said. “Besides, I owe Mitch a visit.”
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you,” he whispered in her ear. “Thanks for everything.”
“Believe me, I owe you. Don’t tell Mitch, but I always wanted a little brother.” She squeezed his arm, then glanced back at Garrett, a flush warming her olive sk
in. “The band invited me to stay on for the rest of the festival.”
“Cool,” was all he could come up with. Good-bye didn’t seem right. “Hey, watch out for these musician types. They might get you singing again,” Carter teased her. He lingered on, wishing he had thanks enough for everything they’d been through. “If anyone gives you any trouble, just give ’em a taste of the butt-whupping you dropped on Willard.”
“You got that right,” she said with a laugh. Happy looked good on her. “Next time you’re in Tucson, we’ll rock The Maiden again.”
Chapter Fourty-Seven
CAMELLIA WAS WAITING WITH THE SUV AT A hotel. A bigger and blonder version of her girls, Camellia’s perfect white smile exactly matched the white crescent-moon tips of her toenails in her sparkly flip-flops. She seemed hyper-groomed, like a beauty-salon pit crew overhauled her from bumper to taillights. At first Carter figured his mother would dismiss Camellia for conjuring the same smoke-and-mirrors fakery she accused Eddie of. But his mama found it in her heart to focus on the best of Eddie, and he reckoned they both ought to give Eddie’s new wife the same benefit. Carter had his own share of faults, but he sure hoped Camellia and the girls would go easy on him, give him half a chance.
As they drove west toward Los Angeles, the girls filled several miles gushing over social media updates about the festival. From behind the driver’s seat, he saw Camellia considering him in the rearview mirror. “I didn’t know you were a musician like Eddie. I’m sorry it’s taken so long to meet you.” She offered him the kind of smile a talk-show host gives a guest with a hard-luck story. “I guess we have a lot of catching up to do.”
Carter nodded his understanding. Writing his song had helped him sort out his feelings and put the past where it belonged. He needed to give Camellia room enough to do the same in her own way. “I reckon we do, ma’am.” Carter met her gaze in the mirror, holding it for a beat.
A light pink rose to her cheeks. “You sound just like Eddie when we met,” she said, reaching over to the passenger seat and placing her hand lightly on her husband’s shoulder.
Eddie laughed, squeezing her hand in his. Carter liked seeing his father so happy. It couldn’t have been easy when his mama told Eddie to go follow his dream alone. “You can take the man out of Oklahoma, but you can’t take Oklahoma out of the man,” Eddie said, Tulsa coloring his words. “Hey, Carter,” Eddie turned to look at him, “we’ve got studio time on Monday to record the jingle for Ma Joad’s pancake house. The chain is paying big bucks. You think you’re ready, son?”
Carter was thankful his father wanted him to perform the duet. But his mother was right. They could make it on their own. His dad had made a success of himself, and Carter aimed to do the same. “I was thinking maybe Mr. Ledbetter would be a better match for a duet with you. It’d be great to see him again, give him a proper thanks for everything he did for me.”
“They’d go crazy if I brought in a legend of his caliber,” Eddie said, with a whistle. “You think he’d do it?”
“Couldn’t hurt to ask.” Carter grinned. He hoped Ledbetter would agree. Performing in a national ad would provide his friend a small income for years.
Aurora and Scarlett had plenty of questions about what Eddie was like back in Tulsa, before he became a pop star. They teased him about his cornball ballads, but Carter could tell they were proud of him. Eddie knew how to pull heartstrings with his music, but he’d found his way into their hearts, too. It seemed Tulsa was a foreign country to them, and they wanted to know all about Carter’s hometown. As the miles wore on, the conversation turned around to life in Southern California. The girls insisted Carter get a VIP tour of all their favorite places. Eddie leaned over and whispered in Camellia’s ear, and before long, Carter found himself on Santa Monica Pier.
Eddie pulled out his phone and snapped Carter’s photo next to a sign on the Santa Monica Pier marking the end of the legendary highway: “Santa Monica Route 66, End of the Trail.” After Darren Bartles took him south, away from the 40, Carter’d given up on 66 altogether, but it still brought him home, just as he’d reckoned it would. Little Scarlett hammed it up for the camera, fishing a rainbow pen with a unicorn design from her bag and asking for his autograph. Carter scrawled his name awkwardly on her Coachella ticket, while Eddie snapped some photos, laughing. Then Scarlett took a few pictures of Eddie and Carter until Aurora shoved her little sister out of the way and took over, complaining that “Scarlett’s composition was all wrong.” Carter didn’t mind their squabbling; it reminded him of the kind of sass Piper or his mama might dish out. Camellia busted it up, dragging the girls in the direction of tacos and cold drinks. Before disappearing into the crowd, she leaned in close and whispered to Carter, “He’s missed you.” He couldn’t help but hope they’d all become as familiar as sitting on a porch at sundown.
They texted a few pictures to Sandra, and she straight up called Eddie right back. He put her on speaker phone, and they had their first family conversation in years. His mom and dad were on speaking terms and, to Carter, that was enough.
“Eddie, I hope you don’t mind my asking for your help,” she said, “just until the insurance company fixes the roof on Lola’s house.”
“Carter can stay as long as you need. He’s my son, and I want you to know you can count on me. We can work together, Sandra. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that six years ago.”
“I didn’t give you the chance,” she said. Laboring to say more than a few words at a go, she managed to congratulate Carter on his video. Back home, radio and news stations were blasting clips of the teenage runaway from Tulsa performing at Coachella. Kaia Liu had posted it to her social media channels. When kids from Bob Bogle High School saw how he’d turned his own garbage into glory, they’d hit Share on his independent research project. It soon warmed the hearts of thousands in Tulsa, and caught the attention of Poly Virus’s fans. “I spent so much time worrying about lining your nest, I forgot to let you fly,” she said. “I’m proud of you, Cotton.”
Carter ran to the end of the pier, the farthest west he could go. Below, the salty ocean lapped the posts of the pier. A new song rose among the waves. Still holding Scarlett’s rainbow pen, Carter wrote the lyrics bubbling up within him into the palm of his hand. His father caught up with him, and wrapped his arm around Carter’s shoulder, pulling him toward the Ferris wheel glowing neon in the setting sky.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It may surprise readers to learn that I grew up in Canada. My father was passionate about stories and songs from early radio, and the dawn of American folk and country music. Dad used to play his old records—Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn, and Hank Williams—on a scratchy record player, loud enough to hear the music over the band-saw and lathe in his woodworking shop. He always cracked up over funny Southern idioms, even when they didn’t amount to a hill of beans, and often laced them into polite Canadian conversation. He kept dusty used books in his office that told the tales of the people who lived in the time of the Depression, before he was born. My dad could fix anything in our house. To this day, he restores historical vehicles, painting burled wood-grain dashboards and custom-fabricating tools and parts no longer available. If he doesn’t have the right tools for a job, he makes them with his own hands. My heartfelt thanks go to him.
I’d also like to share my gratitude for dear friends who tirelessly and tenderly supported me through the long process of bringing this book to you. They include Lisa Manterfield, Margaret Nevinski, Lesley Holmes, and Mark Sarvas, editors Jason Sitzes and Lorin Oberweger, Oklahoma native Patrick Weems, and publisher Brooke Warner. Special thanks to Rebecca Lown for hand-drawing the cover. In the habit of playing acoustic guitar and making his own sketches, Carter would appreciate its “unplugged” quality.
From the time our children were newborn, my wonderful husband Joseph and I have loved reading stories with our sons. It is a special treat to share this book with my family. They are my true loves, now and alwa
ys.
About the Author
Photo credit Susan Doupé
Rayne Lacko believes music, language, and art connect us, and she explores those themes in her novels, Listen To Me and A Song for the Road, and in the guided journal Dream Up Now, an interactive exploration of emotions for teens. She now resides on a lush, forested island in the Pacific Northwest, where she sits on the board of trustees at a performing arts organization. She cohosts a library youth writing workshop and an annual filled-to-capacity writing camp, and she established Teen Story Slam, a twice-annual spoken word event for teens. Rayne is married with two children (a pianist and a drummer), and she and her family share their home with a noisy cat and their canine best friend.
Connect with Rayne
Website: www.RayneLacko.com Instagram: @RayneLacko
SELECTED TITLES FROM SPARKPRESS
SparkPress is an independent boutique publisher delivering high-quality, entertaining, and engaging content that enhances readers’ lives, with a special focus on female-driven work. www.gosparkpress.com
The House Children: A Novel, Heidi Daniele. $16.95, 978-1-943006-94-6. A young girl raised in an Irish industrial school accidentally learns that the woman she spends an annual summer holiday with is her birth mother.
The Leaving Year: A Novel, Pam McGaffin. $16.95, 978-1-943006-81-6. As the Summer of Love comes to an end, 15-year-old Ida Petrovich waits for a father who never comes home. While commercial fishing in Alaska, he is lost at sea, but with no body and no wreckage, Ida and her mother are forced to accept a “presumed” death that tests their already strained relationship. While still in shock over the loss of her father, Ida overhears an adult conversation that shatters everything she thought she knew about him. This prompts her to set out on a search for the truth that takes her from her Washington State hometown to Southeast Alaska.
