by Becky Wicks
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he replies, too quickly. ‘I guess I just can’t write as fast as you, that’s all. You’re a goddam machine, Alabama!’
‘It needs work,’ I say.
‘It’s not just about the speed, it’s the quality that counts,’ Pete says wisely.
‘Happy you think so,’ Tal snorts, nudging his arm. He pretends to look offended but I catch the look they’re sharing. In a heartbeat I miss Conor.
‘Show me what you’ve got,’ I say to Travis, reaching for the notebook. He tries to stop me but it’s already in my hands. I read it out loud. ‘Empress in a garden juggling circles. Magician with a wand. Hanging man without a plan.’
I look up at him. He’s scowling now and I ignore the way Tal and Pete are leaning into each other, trying not to laugh out loud. I clear my throat. ‘OK, so the hanging man without a plan could work,’ I say. ‘That’s not bad. But we need a verse from a guy’s point of view, right? You’re seeing the same girl in all the cards, no matter what the gypsy tells you. You believe your love is perfect...’
‘I don’t feel inspired just looking at a set of picture cards, Stephanie, it’s all bullshit anyway,’ he growls. I don’t miss his jaw pulsing as he rests his elbows on his knees and wrings his hands, looking at me. His attitude annoys me instantly.
‘We’re making up a story, Travis.’
‘Well I can’t make up stories, can I?!’ He stands up, almost sending his guitar crashing to the floor.
‘If you can’t make up stories, make up something real!’ I say. ‘Like the song you played the other night!’ I stand up opposite him, barefoot on the carpet, forcing my voice to stay calm now. ‘Something happened to you to make you write like that, Travis. You dragged those words straight from your heart and put them on that page, and you took everyone with you when you sang it, including Noah Lockton’s manager! If you want to get on that stage at the Ryman as much as I do, you have to channel those feelings again. Or any feelings!’
‘What if I can’t?
‘What do you mean?’
He bites his lip, looks like he’s struggling for literal words now. I lower my voice. ‘Why can’t you write? What aren’t you telling me, Travis?’
He glowers at me. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘She means she hasn’t seen you produce one line that hasn’t sucked, ever,’ Tal says for me and I glare at her. I told her that in private. ‘You’re all talk,’ she accuses him.
‘You know what? Screw you!’ he yells at her, making all of us jump. He’s fuming. I can see all the veins in his arms and neck throbbing around his white shirt.
‘You told Denzel there was plenty more where that song came from, Travis,’ I say, stepping closer, trying to keep things calm. ‘I’m just trying to find out if that’s true.’
‘You want another song?’ he spits. ‘I’ll write you another goddam song!’ But he’s grabbing up his guitar and before we can say anything else he’s marching out of the room. Bob Barker barks wildly as he slams the screen door and seconds later we hear his car start and screech off down the street.
Tal shrugs her shoulders at me, pulls a face as Pete stares awkwardly at the carpet. ‘Guess I started that. Sorry. But I don’t like him.’
‘You didn’t like Conor much either,’ I snap, irritated.
‘Only when I thought he wasn’t being honest with you,’ she counters. ‘And I don’t think Travis is being honest with you. Something’s not right about him. My psychic feelings are never wrong. I knew Pete would be a snorer…’
‘I don’t snore!’ Pete retaliates, snorting on purpose in her ear.
I sink back into the couch, slap my palms over my eyes. 'I still have to work with him.'
‘No you don’t, the guy’s a leech,’ Tal says. ‘Why won’t Conor do this with you?’
‘Conor doesn’t want to sing, he doesn’t want all this, he just wants to write,’ I sigh. ‘Maybe that’s all I want now, too,’ I add quietly as E-beth walks in to the room.
‘Well, someone got lucky! How many dates is that now with Noah Lockton’s manager?’ Tal cries. ‘Did you sneak his number off his cell phone yet?’
‘Three dates, and damn, I knew I’ve been forgetting something,’ E-beth grins. ‘Guess I’ve been busy.’ She floats across the room and sits next to me, twirling her hair. I don’t miss the stubble rash across her chin. ‘I’m moving to England,’ she announces, putting her feet up on the table. ‘It’s the only way I can surround myself with that accent the whole time. It’s officially what I need to keep breathing. Denzel thinks I can write my book there, too, he thinks I’ll be inspired. What did I miss?’
‘Nothing,’ I say. I sit up straighter, reach for my guitar, psyche myself up to carry on. I can’t afford to fall into a slump. I’m not even doing this for me right now. Well… I am, of course. But more than that I’m doing it for my brothers, for the house. I’m going to submit three songs to Denzel by Friday with or without Travis freakin’ Flynn.
20.
Conor
Memphis. The birthplace of the blues, soul and rock 'n' roll, and apparently my brother’s new home. But I’m damned if I know where he is. I sigh into my laptop so hard it blows my napkin and muffin crumbs off the table. A petite brunette at the next table looks at me in sympathy over her latte and I raise my hand to her weakly.
He’s not on Facebook. Or Twitter. Or Pinterest, or Instagram or Google Plus, or any of the other stupid sites that make it so easy to find people; not under his real name anyway. He knows damn well I would’ve found him by now if he lived a life like the rest of us – a click away from knowing what each other had for breakfast, and where.
I spent the past three days walking between all the music stores Google Maps would throw up and asking strangers in bars if they’ve seen him. If I know my brother, he would have bought something from one or all of the stores, or played a gig somewhere. One guy at Amro Music confirmed a transaction was made by someone called Micah within the last month, but for security reasons he wouldn’t tell me any more. It’s a flimsy lead I know, but it’s something.
Facebook at least says there are only three Micahs in Memphis. None of them are him, sure, but if there are only three Micahs with profiles at all I’m sure it was my brother in the music store. He was more obsessed with guitars than me. Fret was his life.
I’ve been using this coffee house as a basecamp since I had to stop driving from school to school and start calling them on the phone instead. Things being the way they are, you can’t just walk into schools anymore. Guess I forgot that, even with my brain buzzing ninety miles an hour on all the coffee. Only two schools were actually willing to tell me that no one called Micah or Jeanne is working there anyway. I check the time. It’s almost eight p.m. My phone pings with a text. It’s Stephanie.
How’s it going?
Still sniffing around. Written a hit yet?
Wouldn’t say that. Call me when u can. Love u, good luck x
I frown at my phone. I know her. She sounds like she’s pissed and trying not to sound pissed, which makes me smile instantly. I can only imagine her and Travis trying to write together. He’ll be acting all controlling when it’ll be Stephanie doing most of the work. The girl’s like some floodgate when she gets behind that guitar now, or the piano. Whatever was blocking her music before, fear, guilt over her parents, is gone. Well, almost.
The annoyance I feel at her sitting there with Travis Flynn creeps over me like an irritating rash again but I brush it off. I trust her implicitly, of course, and I want her to do this. That was no lie. I don’t trust him one bit. I just don’t want him taking advantage of her in any way, shape or form. She’s too nice to that guy but that’s just the way she is. She's as open as a book and innocent. That's why I love her.
Love you too, I tap back.
I study the letter from Micah again. The name Jeanne plays over in my mind. I’m not even sure that’s a popular name. I do another Facebook search. I’ve considered that
maybe they got married. Jeanne Judge, Jeanne anything. There are fifteen Jeanne’s with profiles in Memphis and I’ve covered them all.
I glance out the window, turn the key chain round with the other half of Stephanie's guitar pendant on it. Beale Street is dark and neon lit, but busy with the usual tourists all strolling along aimlessly. The truth is, it tries hard but Memphis is nowhere near as exciting as Nashville. I remember coming here with my mother and father back when things were relatively normal. We visited the museum that used to be Sun Records, where Elvis, Roy Orbison, Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash and more all recorded. All the greats.
‘I’m gonna be a musician,’ I told my father that day and Micah fell to his knees with an air guitar routine. He was always the most dramatic.
‘I don’t think you should get your hopes up too high,’ my father said then. ‘You’ll both have your work cut out managing Fret.’
Yeah, right.
I settle up, then walk outside, back towards the trolley station. I left the car at the hotel. For a second I expect Stephanie to follow me out of the coffee place. We haven’t spent a night apart since we first hooked up at the cabin and I think we’ve both gotten so used to being side by side the whole time that even now, it’s weird not having her next to me, like my shadow’s missing.
I roll my eyes at myself, avoiding a Japanese man taking a photo of his family in the middle of the sidewalk. I’m in so deep. I stand by the fact that she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I actually don’t want to go back to the hotel on my own. I try to recall which one of these flashing bars it was in that blues legend W.C. Handy first got his shot, so to speak, but the memory of my father telling me anything at all makes my fists start to ball, so, narrowly avoiding some tourists speeding at me on a night time Segway tour I cross the street and head into a bar showing the game, called Alfred’s. I order a plate of fries and half watch the Predators thrashing Edmonton, half go through all the Jeanne’s I can pull up on Facebook.
Was I crazy coming here? I text Stephanie after forty-five minutes, as a guy with I’ve walked in Memphis on his T-shirt rams me accidentally and almost sends my plate flying from the bar. It’s a private thought I guess, but I’m so used to sharing. I half don’t even expect her to respond but she calls me right away.
‘Hey, no you’re not crazy,’ she says the second I pick up. ‘What’s the latest?’
I sigh. ‘Looks like the Predators are going for a 1-0 victory,’ I say as the bar man takes my plate away, throwing me an apologetic look. I pick at the label on my Bud as Stephanie offers me words of encouragement about finding Micah and all I want to do is hold her.
‘What did you write today?’ I ask. I'm picturing her in the dwarf bed, the sheets tangled round her bare, long legs as she figures out a song, a pen tucked behind her right ear. Then I hear Tal and Pete laughing in the background and I picture her in the living room instead. Is Travis there too?
‘Some song about the tarot cards,’ she answers as Tal shouts something at her. ‘Tal has a card for you now, actually. It’s the four of wands.’
‘What does that mean?’
I hear Tal grab the phone. ‘Conor, hey, OK, so the four of wands is a good card in your position. It indicates happy families, a celebration, also a harmonious home environment and good news!’
I sip from my Bud as my eyebrows shoot to the ceiling. ‘Thanks Tal.’
‘Conor, it’s me, listen…’ Stephanie’s back on the line, walking out of the living room. I hear her closing a door behind her, then the screen door open and shut. I picture her on the porch with the breeze in her long hair, twisting it in her hand the way she does. ‘Denzel called Mel, asking about you. He wants to know if you’re coming to the launch party. We have to confirm our flights and the hotel.’
Damn, Mel called me too. I forgot to call her back. ‘I don’t know, Jackson,’ I say, running a hand across my stubble. ‘When do we have to fly?’
‘Sunday,’ she says. ‘It’s Friday tomorrow.’
‘I need more time, baby,’ I say. ‘I don’t know if I can go to New York. My mind wouldn’t be on it, you know?’ The truth is it’s been the last thing on my mind.
‘I know, I understand,’ she says, though her voice is laced with disappointment and I feel bad. ‘Just think about it anyway. Maybe you’ll have more news by Sunday.’
‘Maybe. I don’t think I’ll make the Bluebird gig tomorrow either,’ I say. ‘I was thinking Travis could sing with you again, seeing as you stole the show before?’ As I say it I feel the familiar twang of irritation creep up but it’s the right thing for them to do. She’s quiet on the line. ‘You need to practice on stage together, right? I take it you got your songs to Denzel?’
‘Only just,’ she says. Then she sighs heavily.
‘What’s wrong?’ Soon as I say it I know. ‘You wrote most of the songs, didn’t you?’
‘Not really… I wrote the tarot one. He stormed off all pissed and…’
‘He stormed off?’ I try not to laugh. ‘Why?’
‘He couldn’t write, he was mad at himself,’ she says. ‘You know what he’s like. But then he came back with this song and it was kind of genius.’
I feel my eyebrows scrunch together. Travis writing anything genius never did sound too plausible somehow. He’s a showman, sure, but if his ketchup song’s anything to go by he’s not exactly a lyrical wizard. ‘I have a feeling he just can’t write with other people around him, you know?’ she muses. ‘He’s one of those people who can’t channel his emotions too well unless he’s alone, where no one can see his ego breaking down.’
‘It’s a pretty big thing to try and break,’ I reply and she laughs. I clutch my Bud so hard the label slides off under my hand.
‘Anyway, we sent three songs and Denzel says we should know by Sunday whether they want us for the Ryman. By the time we’re due to fly.’
I pause. I know she’s waiting for me to say I’ll try and make it to New York, but I don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep.
‘I’ll let you know about the launch party, OK? Just do your best with Travis. Maybe you’re bringing out a new side of him, like you did me.’
‘Like you did me,’ she replies. I can hear her smiling. ‘I miss you. New York wouldn’t be the same without you, Conor, you know that right?’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, I want to come…’
‘Its OK, that’s not what I meant. I want you find Micah. You know I support you.’
‘Thank you,’ I say as my heart fills with so much love for her I have to neck my beer to stop from blurting it out to the room.
Minutes later I hang up, order another Bud, carry on scrolling through the countless Jeanne profiles on my cell. The battery’s low and I’m just about to settle the tab when I come across a Jeanne that stops me in my tracks.
Jeanne Frank. Works at Lowrance Elementary School in Shelby County.
She’s around the right age, twenty-eight. She has dark brown hair and a wide, white smile and her profile photo shows her sitting on a motorbike. It’s the bike that strikes me more than the school she works at. Micah always wanted a motorbike, ever since he was a kid.
I click the photo, scroll through the three more shots it will show me without sending her a friend request. All were posted in the last couple years. There are none showing any guys, but I see a wall of guitars in one and a kid, no more than three or four with a huge Fender almost swamping his tiny frame. I zoom in as far as I can.
The kid looks exactly like Micah used to look.
21.
Stephanie
Noah Lockton’s face is beaming at me from a blown-up print of his new album cover: All Talk. That's what they've called it. I just met the writer who wrote the title track. All of me wanted to ask what he earned for it but I didn't. People don't seem to be so open here as they are back home.
Home. I smile to myself. Funny how it took leaving Nashville to make me realize it's now my home.
&
nbsp; A thousand twinkly lights are reflecting off all the tinsel hanging on the wall and waitresses in spray-on black mini-dresses are handing out free mojitos. It’s everything I thought a New York launch party would be, right down to the stick-on smiles and faux-niceties being throw around like confetti. Denzel’s swanning around the room in his turquoise shirt. I watch as he keeps getting caught up in circles of the rich and maybe-famous, heading in my general direction. I’m leaning up against one wall in the emerald green dress and heels Tal and E-beth picked out for me, making small talk with a guy who works in sales at HotFlush. ‘You guys were seriously awesome,’ he enthuses over his glasses. ‘Is it true you’re dating?’
‘Me and Travis?’ I swallow my mojito quickly. ‘No, we’re friends.’
‘Oh, right. That’s awesome.’
My eye catches Travis talking to some girl in a designer pantsuit. We sang Tarot earlier and the room exploded into applause, like they did when Noah and Courtney Lentini performed Stars. It was weird to see them singing one of the first songs Conor and I wrote together but I won’t lie – the pride swelled up in my chest to the point of tears when they did it. Even if it made me wish Conor was here even more. Everyone thinks me and Travis are together. I’ve had questions like this all night.
‘You guys look so awesome together,’ the sales guy continues, flashing me his retainer. It glints in the lights.
‘Showmanship,’ I reply. ‘It’s purely about the songs.’ I will him not to say awesome again. If he says awesome one more time I might stab myself in my own eye with my cocktail straw.
I couldn’t very well argue with Denzel’s decision to fly Travis here in Conor’s place when he said he couldn’t come. As predicted, HotFlush loved our songs. Everyone is super excited for us to take on the Ryman back home and it made sense for Travis to come with me and start ‘showing our faces’ – as Denzel said. Travis is the one working the room. He knows the concert will be broadcast to millions on TV and he’s not leaving this bar till he knows every industry insider will be tuned in. I guess I’m glad. I’m trying my best but he’s better at all this than me.
