Just Shelby

by Brooklyn James

  Its position, outside the house, tells me that Grandpa is done keeping me. Why else wouldn’t he have taken it inside.

  Mr. Cooper was telling the truth. What results, he said, his hooded eyes locking onto mine. He didn’t give the results the time of day. If he had read them, he wouldn’t have tracked down that guitar.

  What does Johnny want with me, my mother said. He got the same results I did, right? Nevertheless he walked into that rehab center and let her unload on him, gave her peace, a place to go in recovery. He didn’t have to do that.

  Hope in my heart at last, I had to read the results. It was worth seeing my father’s name—his unequivocal DNA—on that page, even though it was confirmation that I no longer had a right to his name.

  In all of this, he deserved to come away with something, with one of us.

  “The guitar belongs to Ace,” I say.

  “Unh-unh.” Ting! “You belonged to Mason. An’ if I was you, I’d take that there geetar, throw it in the Shelby, an’ I wouldn’t stop ’til I was on Mrs. Wren’s doorstep.”

  “But what about Hot Brown, the soup kitchen?” Is my concern enough for him to stop with the sarcasm. I know it’s my fault they are in peril. “I was thinking about selling the Shelby.” Johnny said just name the time and place to sign over the title. “The money might be enough to keep everything up and running.”

  “That’s been handled. Johnny Allman paid me a visit. Him an’ the Cooper boy together. Seems ol’ Johnny’s feelin’ generous…or sorry. He bought the whole lot. Offered me a salary an’ a car to run it. With any luck, it won’t be nothin’ like that gas-guzzler he charioted in here on!” Grandpa howls.

  Of course Ace was with him, influencing Grandpa’s opinion that I should move in with Wren. And why shouldn’t I, exactly.

  “What about your health?” I say.

  “My health…” Ting! He spits more tobacco juice into the Folgers coffee can, suggesting that he isn’t too worried about health. “I been usin’ that as a crutch fer too long. ‘Codependency,’ I believe they call it. With yer mama gone, I got no ’scuse to hang ’round here. ’Bout time I did somethin’. I owe it to Imogen, anyway.”

  “I could help.”

  “No, ya can’t.”

  “Seriously, I’ve been thinking about it, Grandpa. Before this conversation ever took place.”

  “Stop thinkin’ ’bout it. This place ain’t got nothin’ for ya, Shelby Lynn.” Deprived of “honey,” he says it so sternly. “It ain’t got nothin’ for yer mama, either. I hope she stays right up there in the city, close to you.”

  Is his tough love for my mother or for me? Of course it’s for her. Go, do your thing. And while you’re at it, keep her in check. Keep her away from here and old habits.

  “But what about you? Will I ever see you again?” There comes that damn lump. I’m tired of it lodging in the back of my throat these days. Do I want to see him again? Does he want to see me?

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere, Shelby Lynn, honey.” Finally, he sounds like Grandpa. I can’t tell if he is talking around tobacco or fighting a lump similar to mine. “But you are.” His gummy grin lights up, a symbol that my time has come.

  He hands me his whittling piece. A dainty wren bookmark, its feather holds the page. Then he starts whistling.

  I recognize the tune—Pretty Bird.

  It was the only song my father sang but didn’t play. “A cappella,” Ace would call it. He said it was too pretty for instrumentation. That’s how the singer—probably another of Ace’s female “trailblazers”—intended it and recorded it. Pure and haunting. If it don’t move ya, Shelby Lynn, nothing will, my father said.

  Like Grandpa, he never gave up calling me that. A true anapest, he always stressed “Lynn” over “Shelby.” Maybe affirmation that I was his.

  The song does move me, along with the bookmark and the Ibanez in my hands, to the Shelby.

  I cannot make you no promise

  For love is such a daily good thing

  Fly away little pretty bird

  For he’d only clip your wings

  Johnny’s loose ends tied up, we leave tomorrow.

  If I show. If I want that life.

  I’m eighteen. Why wouldn’t I want that life!

  First stop, UK.

  Not the University of Kentucky but the United Kingdom.

  The first I will travel any great distance outside of Kentucky and I’m leaving the freaking country? Traveling halfway around the world.

  Technically, Madagascar is halfway around the world. I Googled it. I had to look up the United Kingdom too. Other than a distant memory of a minor mention of world geography in school, I barely knew it existed, let alone where it was.

  I bet Shelby knows where it is.

  I can see her, the bibliophile, actually studying it and its distance from Kentucky. Imagining what it might be like to go there someday. Why can’t she see that someday could be tomorrow. She could go there with me. It should be her. Music is music to me, in the UK or at UK. She would get more out of it than I would. I don’t deserve it.

  She breathed for me in that oven eighteen years ago. If I can’t breathe—live—without her here, why the hell am I going there!

  Maybe not literally, but in a way it’s going to kill us. Any chance we have of being together is gone once I set foot on that plane.

  “If it’s meant to be…”

  “…it will be,” I finished what I thought would be Mom’s canned answer.

  “Not exactly,” she corrected. “It won’t matter the distance, the road you each choose individually, if you are meant to be together, you will find a way to be together. To grow together.”

  Fine, I get it. We don’t have to be stuck like glue, close in proximity to be close in heart. But in this moment when all I want is to be with her, close to her, growing feels like throwing it all away—everything we ever were together.

  It feels like going through my parents’ divorce all over again: It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

  I stopped by Enisi’s on my way home to pack. Shelby wasn’t there. She’s avoided me all week, uninterested in finding a way to be together.

  Timed perfectly, she’s been here and left already. An amber glass bottle of mullein and an Ibanez—beatbox scars and all, unmistakably Mason’s—greet me on the welcome mat of the front porch.

  The mullein a good faith gift for Pop, I should be happy that their relationship seems to stand a chance. But I’m not. I loved her first.

  I put the mullein on the counter for him and take the Ibanez to my room, wondering why she left it for me. Pop tracked it down for her.

  Yet I can’t wait to play it. The lore behind this thing. I can feel it in my hands. The songs that were played on it in this room to Shelby and me before we even knew what music—what life—was. I can hear it.

  The first song played on any guitar is critical. It sets the tone for every song played thereafter. I know exactly where to start. An homage to Mason’s beatbox style and the lullaby sung to us, “We Will Rock You” is magic.

  But these strings aren’t. Worse than out of tune, they’re tight as hell. Like whoever messed with them had no ear at all.

  I set its back flat against my legs to inspect. Beneath the strings and through the sound hole is another handmade label. Not as crafty as the Bootleg label, but clever nonetheless.

  A secret note square addressed to me, a mix of cursive and print—Ace

  Talk about not being able to breathe! Did you think it was from Johnny or Mason. Funny. Not funny? I’m horrible at humor. I trust you. How were you supposed to tell me. The mullein is for Boone. I thought maybe he could use it. It’s my first official batch. His tracking down the guitar was a beautiful gesture. But it’s yours. I want you to take it. Take Mason with you. Where he was meant to be. Where you are meant to be. You deserve this. I’ve been terrible at showing it the past few weeks, but I’m proud of you. I’m excited for you. Remember that awful song we wrote together. My f
ault, not yours. I think I’m figuring out what love isn’t. Love is not hungry. It doesn’t have to be confusing. It doesn’t even have to be consuming. Love is a choice. I choose us. I choose me. I choose you, Ace. Ring some bells! Take their breath away.

  He’s really doing it. Ace is getting out of the hollow. It makes me want to drive to Wren’s and start college tomorrow.

  But I have to see if I can do it—earn it with my legs, my mind, my efforts. Running, studying, volunteering, it all has to count for something.

  And then there is Enisi. There is more to learn from her than can be taught or quantified by “higher education.” A plan starting to form, I think I’ll major in business—4th Generation Extracts, Shelby Lynn, Herbalist & Distiller.

  Boone offered to coach me in the off-season. The thought still makes me laugh, even though I’m considering it. He must be missing Ace already.

  I’m not as clever “missing” Ace as I thought myself to be. When his Jeep wasn’t in the drive and I dropped off the mullein and the guitar, I practically skipped back to the Shelby. Only to be hit by reality, driving away. That was the last excuse I had left to see him.

  I walk into my room—my father’s old room—plop my keys down on the nightstand and plop myself down onto the bed. Is this how he and my mother felt? Like the world could end if they couldn’t be together. Or is this how my mother felt when Johnny left? Like everything worth anything was leaving with him.

  Wait. What is that? I pull my face from the Pendleton blanket that adorns my bed and look to a box on the nightstand that wasn’t here the last time I was.

  A small rectangular box with an Apple insignia, it needs no wrapping. Sleek and silky to the touch, what’s inside must be worth ten Christmases. The color more green than blue but not a true green, it must have been the closest they had to turquoise. It’s bigger, more cumbersome than I expected. Isn’t the purpose of a cellphone convenience, ease of carry? Even if stuck in a pocket, part of it would hang out.

  I carefully transfer it from the box to the Pendleton blanket, wondering how I’ll ever use it when I’m already worried about breaking it. Sifting through each layer—accessories, more waxy packaging—I first search for the user’s manual. As Ace suspected I would. Inside the cover is a secret note square addressed to me, a mix of cursive and print—Just Shelby

  I throw my head back and laugh.

  I guess I’m going for it. This will either finish things off or make you laugh. Obviously I’m pulling for the laugh. I get it, where you are, what you’re thinking. You’re doing the right thing for both of us. I want that, too. But remember that awful song we wrote together; it doesn’t curb the hunger. Keep the hunger, Johnny says. Use the ache. It will make a better songwriter and player of me. Maybe it will make a faster runner of you. Make their hearts thunder! Eclipse them all. The phone is prepaid and unlimited. My number is programmed in. There’s even an app where you can keep up with me on tour. I hope you’ll use it. Every day. Any day. Any time. My tomorrow is hours away. Yours will come in a few months. Just Shelby, what would it hurt if I held you tonight like there is no tomorrow.

  All packed, I pace around the house.

  Pop volunteered for graveyard shift at the mine. That way he doesn’t have to watch me go. He can make believe that I’m not halfway around the world. Maybe I’m just visiting Mom, he said.

  Maybe I should go, stay with her tonight.

  I don’t know why, but I check my phone. There wouldn’t be anything from Shelby even if she had service.

  With a suitcase and the Ibanez, I say goodbye to Appalachia. I will miss her. Memorized every slope and curve of her hills, the Jeep on autopilot takes me to the top of the world before I set off halfway around it.

  Not only hungry, I’m thirsty, too. That has to be a mirage.

  The Shelby’s here at our spot. Just Shelby sits on its hood, wrapped in not just any blanket. Colorful, southwestern-looking, shapes and symbols woven together—knowing it came from Enisi, it must have a purpose. It must honor something. Sitting there in it, she looks like the warrior she is.

  Drive by. If she wanted you here, she would’ve told you. The Jeep on autopilot doesn’t listen. It pulls in beside her.

  From atop the hood, her hand peeks out of the blanket. She waves and smiles. There goes those strings, wrapping and squeezing—my heart thundering under the pressure of love and letting go. Proof that it is going to hurt, maybe even more, if I hold her tonight like there is no tomorrow.

  I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. And her hair…it’s already down.

  I get out. She slides down from the hood.

  A straight shot for my heat-seeking mouth to hers, like a missile it aims to torpedo any defense, a different type of letting go.

  She wraps the blanket around both of us, nose to nose and breath to breath, and says, “I love the phone. I’ll call you or text you or whatever, as soon as I figure out how.” Through a soft giggle, she gives my lips all they came for, more of hers.

  With the next break, “Pop will love the mullein. And I love the Ibanez,” I say. After reading her note, I did restring it. Then I christened it with “We Will Rock You.” New to my hands, the old finger-shaped indents worn into the fretboard were familiar. Every chord hit, every note played, my fingers aligned with and sank into those indents as though they created them. As though I had played that very Ibanez a thousand times before.

  “Trippy, huh,” she says, somehow knowing that I tried it out and felt the instant connection.

  “Uh-huh,” I murmur or moan, being here with her now as trippy. “How were you supposed to tell me,” I recite in a whisper a line from the secret note square she wrote to me. A truce to trust and an admission that although I never laid eyes on the results, I know Mason’s name is on them.

  “I guess the Shelby is yours too.” She shrugs, her expression as perplexed as mine by the fact that I was the one actually conceived in its backseat. The realities of the past drastically changed, it may take the rest of our lives to fully grasp. “Do you want…”

  My head shakes before I interrupt her with more memorized lines she wrote to me, “It’s yours. I want you to take it. Take Mason with you.” Take me with you.

  My biological father. Making what Miss Patterson did even more personal, staggering. She took away any chance I had of knowing him. But maybe that’s why Shelby’s here. In all of this, Mason came away with something.

  “It was my secret note square, wasn’t it.” I chuckle, thanking the wind. It blows her wild hair around my face, the ends of it teasing and tangling with my five o’clock shadow.

  She laughs. And when she does, those strings tighten. God, I’m gonna miss her. “You’re the only one who gets me,” she says. Love is being understood. Then she shivers, the cold too much for the blanket.

  “My Jeep?” I say, hoping to get more of her.

  “The Shelby,” she says.

  In the back seat of the Shelby, I make up for lost time as if I don’t give a care that making out led to…well, Ace’s conception in it.

  Pushing my coat to the floorboard, along with my sweatshirt, “I’m not here just for holding,” I say with a confidence I’ve never felt before and through numb lips so full of blood from kissing.

  “You put it back on,” he says, his eyes meandering over the black heart necklace.

  I hoped what was beneath the sweatshirt would be of more interest than the necklace.

  “Wait. What? Did you just say…” His eyes meet mine with the same fire that rushes over my skin.

  “It has to be you, Ace.” My first. I can’t imagine it with anyone else. Imprinted on my heart, he may as well be imprinted on my flesh.

  Am I sure? I can read the question in his eyes.

  Do I feel pressured? Not by him, but by time and uncertainty, yes. Our lives are going to change. This is our chance. The only thing I will regret is not taking it.

  I let my actions do the talking, unclasping the snaps on his shirt. He must
be averse to regret, too, because he helps me, his shirt pushed to the floorboard in no time flat.

  “I’m taking some herbals for, um, birth control.” I shrug and raise my brow, like how romantic. But it has to be said: I do give a care about conception. “Enisi said to take extra precautions.”

  “I got us ‘covered,’” he shrugs and half chuckles, at least adding a little warmth to breaking the ice. “This isn’t goodbye. We’re gonna have a lifetime of tomorrows. You know that, right.”

  No, I don’t know that. Neither does he. I nod, anyhow, taking him beneath the Pendleton blanket with me.

  Coming full circle in the back seat instead of an oven—breath and heartbeat shared—we are more connected now than we ever could have imagined then. Two souls that once clung to life, cling to love, cling to no tomorrow.

  The thing about no tomorrow is that there actually is one. It’s called today. Today sucks.

  Texting, calling, Facetiming—they’re supposed to help. Too few and too far between with inferior service in the holler, they only leave me wanting more. There is no substitute for her in my arms, her hair on my skin.

  Johnny was right. The ache fuels creativity.

  I’ve written more songs—gut-wrenching and soul-stirring songs—in the past four months and halfway around the world than I ever wrote next to her. Missing her makes me better?

  I pace backstage, prepping for shows. Stomach full of nerves, heart in my throat, it must be similar to what my preemie self experienced in that oven. Show after show, I can barely breathe.

  Tubes and wires. Things that connect things.

  When will I get the chance to take her breath away again.

  I need it now. I’m gonna pass out.

  “Sit. Play.” Johnny says, pushing the Ibanez into my hands.

  It works. There is air in the strings. Or diversion.

  Play softly. There she is.