by Erin Hahn
It’s Friday, and I’m revving up the John Deere once again when Annie’s grandfather comes up behind me with a slight tap on my shoulder. He holds out an older model, slim iPod between his fingers attached to a set of large headphones.
“It belongs to Annie. I offered to bring it out so I could talk to you.”
I swallow and nod, taking the small, outdated device.
“She thinks you’re worth saving. Are you?”
The air gushes out of my lungs at his frank question. I shake my head but look him in the eyes. “I want to be, sir.”
His stare softens, just barely. “My Cora was intoxicated with fame. She didn’t want to be saved. She wanted to dance with the devil.”
I wait him out.
“Everyone thinks I don’t see things because I’m old and I don’t run off at the mouth every chance I get. But I watched you and my granddaughter onstage. I know she’s afraid of following her momma’s path, but there’s a difference. Annie won’t dance with the devil. Annie wants to save his soul.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure I like what he’s alluding to. “I don’t want to be the devil in this scenario or any scenario, sir.”
Pops puts one gnarled hand on my shoulder and squeezes with a surprising amount of strength. “Good. Don’t be.”
A humorless chuckle erupts from the back of my throat, and my head is shaking again. As if it could shake the messed-up grief and rage right out of my brain. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I used to be a grandson and a brother and a son and a singer, and now I’m just a fuckup. Excuse me.” I rush to apologize, remembering my audience.
Pops squeezes impossibly harder and the pain sharpens, and I feel something inside of me wake up. I can grasp on to the ache. It’s tangible and real. Grounding.
“You are still those things, boy. Just because my Cora died doesn’t mean I’m not a father. Just because your family is gone doesn’t mean that you are. Your identity is tied to who they made you into, not who they were. The way I see it, you can honor them by becoming the best possible version of who you are meant to be, or you can wither away to nothing with no one to remember you.”
“Hell.”
“Yes.” He releases my shoulder and points to the music still grasped in my fingers. “No one but the best possible version of you is worthy of my granddaughter, so you’d better figure that out.”
“I’m not—”
He waves a hand over his shoulder. “Sure you aren’t.”
I stretch the headset over my ears and tuck the iPod into my pocket before climbing onto the tractor’s deck and settling down into the molded yellow seat. When I turn to check, Annie’s grandfather has already lumbered halfway back to the house. I watch him head up the front porch steps before I tug the iPod back out. Apparently, Annie’s already cued it up for me. I scroll to the first song and let it play.
It’s twangy and sweet over the low rumble of the mower. I circle the drive and cut a clear swath across the perimeter of yard acreage. It takes me two and a half songs before I notice the trend in the playlist she’s chosen for me. Redemption. Grace. Forgiveness.
I almost laugh. That’s such an Annie thing to do. She’s not going to hit me over the head with her beliefs. Instead, she slyly hands me music. It’s our common ground, our language. Music.
A small part of me feels rebellious and wants to switch it off to spite her. That same part of me that threw back the pills and washed them down with a bottle of hard liquor. The part that hates Danny for getting himself blown up and who embarrassed a beautiful girl in front of thousands because of petty jealousy.
I turn it up instead. My hands steer the powerful mower up, down, and across in tight rows through the rippling green grass. I don’t have to think about it. They know what to do. Muscle memory. As soon as I could reach the pedals, I’ve been mowing. My shoulders ease, and I swipe at the sweat beading at my hairline. I readjust my ball cap, letting the breeze cool my damp scalp for a second before replacing it once more.
Down back and up again. Repeat.
The lyrics start to penetrate my thoughts, and I let them. In the back of my mind, I recall numerous conversations I had with my granddad and brother over the years. Even Fitz, though he’s not the most openly devout person. I’ve fought long and hard to not need anything or anyone in my life. Life is loss. Love is loss. You can’t tell me any different. Eat, drink, and be merry until you die from it all. What’s the point of living if you aren’t enjoying every moment to the fullest?
But am I enjoying it? Never mind to the fullest, just flat-out enjoying my life? Am I ever drunk enough to forget my demons? The pills, those fucking pills. Was I enjoying life on the pills? What about when I’m onstage? Does performing give me the thrill it used to?
I think long and hard. Fans screaming, girls hanging on my every word, my bank account swelling unreasonably for a not-quite-nineteen-year-old. Maybe if I sang my own songs … but the look of pure derision on Lora’s face in my memories chases that thought away.
Not even then, really. Because what is it all for? Who is it for?
I don’t know if I’m ready to change. I know Fitz thought I was playing when I said I wanted help with my drinking. But I wasn’t. Not really. I don’t know where to go from here, and honestly, it’s all sort of embarrassing. Why is it the majority of the world’s population can get their shit together and I can’t?
Or maybe they can’t. Maybe they’re all pretending. But I know that’s not 100 percent true. Annie has it together. Sure, she’s damaged from her parents’ deaths, but more than that, she’s whole. Dented but filled. Bruised but carrying on.
I’m not carrying on. I’m treading water but slowly sinking. My breaths fast and furious, panicked and straining against the swelling waves.
I finish my rounds and end up at the border of the property, marked by a small fishing pond. There’s a rickety dock covered in moss from disuse. A row of weeping willows shades the eastern rim. I turn off the mower and, leaving the iPod behind, hop down to the freshly mowed ground. I make my way to the water’s edge and sit, unlacing my heavy leather boots. Then I strip off my shorts, specked in grass clippings. Next, I tug my shirt over my head, removing my cap with it.
Without overthinking it, I step into the water. The mud squishes under my toes, filling the spaces under and around my arches. I continue to my knees and waist. The water is warm but cooler than the hot sun, so I still feel goose bumps lift over my exposed skin. The pond is murky but not turbid, and there’s a bubbling water feature on one end of the reservoir to keep the water fresh.
I inhale several long breaths, moving my arms back and forth, allowing the surface to ripple around and over me. I take another step, this one bringing me to my neck. There’s a flutter of movement near my knee, curious fish darting around me.
I’m overwhelmed. Loss of family, loss of direction, the look on Annie’s face when I betrayed her. It’s as though I’ve forgotten who I’m supposed to be. What I want to be.
Do I even want to be Clay Coolidge anymore?
I know, in my gut, I don’t. The truth threatens to drag me under. I don’t want to be Clay Coolidge. I don’t even want to be Jefferson Coolidge. As far as I can tell, he’s barely a step above. Nothing about who I’ve been interests me. I’ve completely lost my way. I’ve become expendable. Worthless.
I imagine thousands of tiny tethers latched to my skin, tugging and weighing me down. Individually, they are nearly harmless, but as one, they pull me under.
I let go. I allow them to sink me. The water rushes over my head, and I close my eyes against the light filtering above me. Coolness washes over my skin, releasing the tethers. I stop struggling, and my face lifts, breaking the surface. I spread my arms wide and release my limbs. Invisible hands seem to support me on the top of the water. I open my eyes to a brilliant existence. Rich colors, musical sounds, sweet-smelling breezes wafting, caressing my skin.
An unfamiliar smile breaks across my face. Stretching the muscles
in my cheeks and exposing my teeth. A laugh erupts from deep inside of me, and all at once, I can’t stop. I have to stand up, tears streaming as I lose control in the wonder of it all.
I’m not Clay striving to be Jefferson anymore.
I’m someone new.
25
Clay
I fly home the next morning, early, before the sun is even up. I leave a note on the dining room table thanking Annie’s grandparents for their hospitality and letting the rest of Willows and Fitz know I’ll catch up with them at the next stop.
My lonely inheritance is calling me home. Time to face the music. Literally.
Sobriety takes some getting used to. It’s not so much that my body needs the liquor as the rest of me does. The world is too sharp without the booze buffer. The airport is noisy and bright. The plane is cold. Indiana is terrifying, and I’m not ready for it.
It takes me another hour before I’m pulling down my dirt drive, and I curse as I see Fitz’s truck out front in my spot.
Son of a bitch, the man has fucking unicorn magic or something.
I slam the door, pulling my duffel out the back of the rental car, and approach my front porch just as the man of the hour swings open my screen door to allow me in.
“Thanks for letting me in my own house, man,” I mumble.
“Annie found me a flight with no layovers.”
I drop my bag on the ground. The air smells like alcohol, and I grimace.
“It’s all gone.”
My shoulders slump in relief. “The ones in the barn?”
“Got them.”
“There was a stash in Danny’s—”
“—old room behind the Nintendo. Duh. Who do you think put it there? Gone.”
My vision goes blurry around the edges, and I feel like the last two years are rushing behind my eyes. I have to swallow multiple times before I can choke out, “Thank you.”
Fitz scratches the back of his neck. “I wasn’t sure you wouldn’t come home and throat-punch me.”
I shake my head. “No. I planned to dump it all, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to once I got here.”
“Same. After the pills, though…” He grimaces. “I wasn’t gonna fail you again.”
“You fail me? What are you talking about?”
Disbelief paints his face. “Clay. You can’t be serious. You could have died.”
“I didn’t, and even if I did, that’s not your fault. I’m the fuckup.”
Fitz shakes his head, and I raise a hand to stop him as something hits home.
“Wait a minute. This isn’t another one of your ‘Danny’ things, is it? He didn’t leave you to take care of me. I’m an adult.”
“No, that’s not … well, yeah, of course that’s always a part of it. But not the way you think. Danny didn’t leave me in charge of you or anything, but Christ, Clay. You’re all I have left. We’re family. I care, you asshole. When you were laid out on the floor, blitzed out of your brain and bleeding…” He trails off, swallowing hard. My feet are frozen, stuck to the ground, my blood pounding painfully in my veins. Will I ever stop hurting the people I care about?
“I was ready to force you into rehab before Annie basically took charge of the situation and told me we were all going to her farm. Even then, I made some calls just in case. If you were coming back here to drink yourself into oblivion, I have an appointment at a place tomorrow morning.”
He sinks into a kitchen chair with a weary creak. “I thought if I could keep an eye on you, it would be fine. I could keep you out of trouble. Lots of kids drink. Fuck, Danny and I drank like fish. We slept around. We got into all sorts of trouble whenever he was on leave. But then, we looked out for each other. I figured I could do the same with you and you’d grow out of it.
“But you don’t drink to have a good time or scare away your nerves. You drink so you don’t have to face things. That ain’t right. You stuff that shit down until one day you’ll explode. You taking those pills? That was serious. I know that’s not the first time you’ve been given pills. The label hands that shit out like candy. But I was always there. You always told me about them. I mean, the first few times you handed them off to me to get rid of.”
I open my mouth, but Fitz waves me off. “No. No explaining that away. One day you’ll get it. You’ll see it from our perspectives. Jesus H., Clay. You didn’t see Annie’s face when she first saw you.”
“I didn’t mean to scare—”
Fitz lets out a humorless chuckle. “Oh, she wasn’t scared. I was scared. Kacey was scared. Jason wasn’t, but that’s…” He shrugs. “No. Annie was resigned. Cool. Calm. Ready. Because this wasn’t her first time. She’s been down this road before. She comforted me, dude. Told me you hadn’t hit rock bottom yet.”
My insides burn and sink at the same time. I think of the pictures at Annie’s house of her parents. I’ve blown it.
“I’m done, though. That was rock bottom for me.”
Fitz raises a brow. “Done with what? Drinking? The girls? And by girls, I mean Lora. What?”
“All of it,” I say. “Drinking, girls, music, touring. I have to go back to square one. I can’t keep going like this. I’m sorry for what that means for you.”
“You think I care about any of that?”
I shrug. “It’s your livelihood.”
“Fuck my career. It’s your life.”
His words ring out in the silence of the kitchen. The clock ticks on the mantel in the dining room.
“Clay, what part of ‘you’re all I have left’ did you miss? Family over fame, man.”
I nod. “Family over fame,” I repeat in a choked voice. After a beat, I say, “I’ll finish the tour, though.”
“And then what?” Fitz isn’t challenging, just curious.
“Then…” My gaze skims around the dusty house, as though I’m looking for clues. “Then, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll take some classes or find a job.”
“You’re going to give up music?”
Even considering it hurts, and I rub at my chest. “I’m not sure. Maybe I need to go back to square one on that, too.”
Fitz nods approvingly. “I’m hungry. Want some pizza?”
“Sure. But let’s go out. It smells like a liquor store in here.”
He grins and slaps my back as he stands. “But you’re paying, brother. I’m about to be unemployed.”
* * *
The next morning, Fitz and I go visit Lindy. It’s my idea that we don’t call her ahead of time. We’ve only got two days before we’re due back on tour, and I’m afraid if she turns me down, I’ll let the opportunity go again.
She answers the door with wet hair and a harried smile that falls the instant she sees me. “I wasn’t expecting you—Clay! Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine, Lindy.” Fitz leans in to plant a kiss on her cheek just as Layla peeks from around her legs.
“More than fine,” I add, feeling awkward. “I hope it’s all right we came by.”
Lindy’s brows rise, but she stands back, allowing us into her small home. It’s a tiny, gray ranch with two bedrooms and zero kitchen space. I’ve been here before but am suddenly taking it in as though I hadn’t seen it. Her home is neat and clean but clearly worn. The walls are patched, and her kitchen floors slant toward one end. Her carpets are older and thin in spots from daily wear.
“I was about to head out back with my coffee. Care for some? Just brewed a fresh pot.”
I nod, and Fitz helps himself, clearly familiar with the kitchen. He hands me a mug as Lindy slides open her back door and we all head out to her deck. The patio furniture is a heavy iron, sturdy, but with cracked paint. Lindy sits first, followed by Fitz. I stand, shifting my weight, and try to lean against the railing. It gives, and I straighten.
Here I am with more money than I know what to do with, and Lindy is raising my niece and I’ve left her to struggle on her own. Danny would wring my neck.
Fitz and Lindy are making small talk, but
I’m distracted by Layla out in the yard. She’s made her way over to a rickety swing set and a sandbox that’s more mud than anything else.
Putting down my mug, untouched, I maneuver down the steps toward the girl.
She’s talking to herself, piling up sand with a shovel. I grab another and squat down next to her.
“Can I play?” I ask.
She blinks, wide-eyed, looking so much like Danny, I can barely breathe. “Sure, Uncle Clay.”
I swallow thickly, shaking off my grief, and dig in.
* * *
Layla and I play side by side for a long while. I really like the kid. She doesn’t ask me lots of personal questions and doesn’t look at me like I’m a ticking time bomb. She’s a little bossy, but then so was Danny. There are worse things.
Lindy calls from the deck that it’s time for lunch, and I startle, pulling my phone from my pocket. I’ve been in this sandbox for over an hour.
“Okay, Mama!” Layla shouts back in a high, sweet voice. I stand and brush off my hands before her little hand finds its way into mine.
“Mama cuts off my crust. She’ll cut yours, too, if’n you want.”
Fitz snickers, and I toss him a glare before looking down at the tiny girl still attached to my hand. “I actually really like the crust.”
She freezes. “You do?”
I grin apologetically. “But your dad, he hated crust, too.”
“He did?” She beams.
Lindy sniffs loudly, and I force myself to look at her finally. Her hazel eyes are watery and red-rimmed. She shakes her head. “It’s nothing. I mean, it’s everything, really. Thank you. I know this is hard for you, but she needs this.” She gestures at our conjoined hands. “You’re the closest thing she has to her daddy.”
I swallow against the lump in my throat and clear it loudly. I look down at Layla. “Well, what a coincidence. You’re the closest thing I have to my brother, Little Layla. Think we should stick together?”
We eat a lunch of PB and J with apple slices, and talk—while stilted at times—is more than it’s ever been. I can see why my brother was attracted to this woman. She’s strong-willed and pretty and protective as all get-out. They must have been great together. I wish I’d paid more attention, but I’d assumed I had all the time in the world.
