The Hambledown Dream

by Dean Mayes

  “What’s going on with you, Andy? For the longest time you’ve been this ... lost soul douche bag or something. Nobody could reach you. Then the moment you start becoming ... interesting, you start acting all weird.”

  Andy squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, trying to work out what the hell Samantha was getting at.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said exasperated.

  “Oh, c’mon, Dev. What’s with all this bullshit about souls speaking to you and mysterious women on the other side of the world?”

  Andy was completely sideswiped by Samantha’s escalating tirade until he realized what she was getting at. He glanced over at his backpack hanging up in the alcove behind her. The penny dropped. She had been looking through his stuff.

  “Sam, my bag and what’s in it is my business. No one else’s,” he said angrily.

  Samantha shifted uncomfortably, stung by his barb.

  “Andy, I just don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Samantha was exasperated now. “You’re inventing all of this ... this ... shit, so you don’t have to face up to the realities of this world!”

  “Samantha you have no friggin’ idea what is going on with me right now,” Andy hissed.

  He glanced sideways then, noticing that their increasingly heated exchange had attracted the attention of the few remaining patrons in the bar. He lowered his voice as much as he could. “I don’t even understand it myself. I confided in you because I thought I could. But you didn’t want to know about it then, so why should it matter to you now?”

  “It matters, Andy.” Samantha blinked; her cheeks flushed a bright pink. In that moment, when she looked into Andy’s intense gaze, she noticed something about his eyes that caused a shiver to pass through her. She turned away from him, unable to meet his gaze any longer. “Because you matter. To me.”

  Abruptly, she turned away from Andy, pushed past him and disappeared into the men’s room.

  Andy stood there stunned.

  Son-of-a-bitch, he thought.

  ***

  Late in the evening The Pub was quiet. The bar was closed, most of the staff had gone home and Gideon was discussing the day’s take with the bar manager. The door behind him opened and he turned to see Bruce DeVries step in from the cold. Bruce nodded a wordless greeting to Gideon and unzipped his jacket, welcoming the open fire that crackled brightly in the corner.

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” Gideon said, gesturing for his old friend to join him over at the bar. He signaled for the bar manager to serve them a couple of drinks.

  Bruce removed his cap and placed it down on the bar beside him.

  “It’s friggin’ freezing out there,” he grumbled hoarsely, swinging his leg over his own bar stool and ruffling his matted-down, graying hair. The barman placed a whiskey tumbler in front of him.

  “You just get back into town?” Gideon queried, eyeing his watch discreetly. “That’s a bit late for you, isn’t it?”

  Bruce shook his head wearily.

  “I got back a couple of days ago. Been down at the yard dealing with some engine trouble.”

  “Have you eaten anything? I can open the kitchen for you, if you’d like.”

  Again Bruce shook his head without speaking.

  Gideon regarded his friend with concern as he sipped his whiskey.

  “You get my message, then?”

  “I got it,” Bruce nodded, sipping his whiskey thoughtfully. “Is the ... kid still here? I called his apartment, but his friend said he wasn’t home yet.”

  Gideon lowered his glass and held it still. Bruce DeVries wasn’t given to asking anything much from anybody, especially when it came to his son. This was definitely a rare show from him now, Gideon thought.

  “You just missed him by a few minutes,” Gideon answered. “I suspect he’s probably home by now.”

  Bruce nodded once. Gideon swore he noted disappointment in his friend’s expression.

  “You went and saw him, didn’t you?” Gideon ventured.

  Bruce considered his glass for a long moment before nodding silently.

  “I went to the hospital the night he was brought in. I stayed for a few hours. When I went back yesterday, the shit had signed himself out.”

  Gideon smiled, which brought a frown from Bruce.

  “He looked a little worse for wear when he turned up for work today. I tried sending him home, but he wouldn’t have it.”

  “And of course you couldn’t resist the opportunity to have more money coming in over the bar by workin’ him, could you?” Bruce said.

  Gideon feigned being hurt by Bruce’s jibe, grabbing at his heart before chuckling sardonically.

  “What’s goin’ on with him, Gideon?” Bruce asked, his tone becoming serious.

  “You tell me. All I know is that he turned up here for work one day and worked like no one I have ever seen work. It blew me away. Blew us all away. He hasn’t missed a shift in three months, he’s always punctual and he’s probably one of my best barmen. It’s a mystery to me.”

  Gideon paused as he fished around in his jacket pocket for a half-cigar he’d been saving. He lit it and puffed away.

  “I don’t get it,” Bruce muttered sourly, shaking his head slowly. “One moment he’s mixed up with that bunch of lowlifes, the next he just - changed. No one just changes like that, especially not a kid like him.”

  “A kid like him?” Gideon asked.

  “Yeah, a kid like him. A fuck-up, a do-nothing. Spends more time with that damned guitar and swallowing pills than applying himself to anything useful.”

  “Hmmm,” Gideon nodded thoughtfully, suddenly feeling a little defensive. “Those are strong words for a father to describe his son. Especially when he hasn’t been around to know what the fuck his son has been doing.”

  Gideon saw Bruce flinch, almost imperceptibly, and he smiled inwardly.

  “From what I’ve seen lately, that guitar-playing of his is pretty bloody special. Almost as special as what we heard back in Nasiriyah,” Gideon paused as an old memory hovered between them.

  “And I’ve noticed you sneaking in here to watch him perform,” Gideon took a drink from his glass then pointed directly at Bruce. “So you haven’t written him off entirely, have you?”

  Bruce bristled, flashing Gideon an icy glare.

  “I never wrote him off, Gideon. I just never understood him. I still don’t.” Bruce’s shoulders seemed to sag as though a heaviness had descended on him. “I know I haven’t helped things much.”

  Gideon reached out with a meaty hand and patted his shoulder.

  “Dev, I’ve never criticized you for any of the choices you’ve made. You did what you felt you had to do after Clare left. Your mother did a fine job with both Andy and his sister,” Gideon took a moment to think carefully about how he was going to frame his next sentence. “But Andy’s been lost for a long time. He’s needed a father and, sadly, you haven’t been around for him. He’s desperately wanted someone to be proud of him, to show an interest, but no one really has.”

  Bruce felt a painful twinge of guilt and he took a large mouthful of his whiskey. He knew that Gideon was right. Not that he would let Gideon see that.

  “That still doesn’t explain what’s happening with him right now, though, does it?” he said.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Gideon acknowledged. “But I guess, again, we’ve all underestimated him, haven’t we? The boy is no fool, Bruce. He’s a bright kid. I guess that overdose was enough for him to realize that he had to change his direction, and quickly.”

  Bruce shot Gideon a surprised look. He hadn’t said anything to Gideon about the overdose and, so far as he knew, no one else in The Pub knew about it, either.

  Gideon took another puff on his cigar.

  “Look. Talk to your son, Dev. Whatever it is with him is welcome enough on its own, but it’s only a side note to what he really needs right now...”

  “And what does he need right now?” Bruce echoed
with a tinge of frustration.

  Gideon shook his head and smiled as he stood up from the bar.

  “You really are a slow one tonight, huh?”

  ***

  At the sound of knocking Andy trotted to the front door of the apartment and peered through the peep hole. His eyes went wide when he saw his father standing a little off to the side so that he was only partly in view.

  “What the hell?” Andy muttered, alarmed.

  When the door opened, Bruce stood back a little, probably not expecting anyone to answer. Andy poked his head around the door and looked at his father blankly. There was an awkward silence between them.

  “Hello,” Bruce finally offered, trying to look at his son but unable to find the courage to do so.

  “Uhh - hi,” Andy stammered, unsure of what to do or say next. His father rarely came to the apartment. “What are you ... doing here?”

  Whaddaya mean, what are you doing here? You idiot! Andy cursed himself.

  Bruce shrugged and fidgeted on the spot. He loosened the woolen scarf he wore under his trucker’s jacket and removed his cap, holding it tightly in his hand. Andy noticed he had a newspaper rolled up under one arm.

  “You - want to let me in, perhaps?”

  Andy quickly opened the door as if he had forgotten his manners.

  “Shit. I’m sorry. Of course.”

  He ushered his father inside. Bruce noted the drop sheets and paint cans on the floor in the hall, as well as the partially repaired holes in the living room wall. He pointed at the damage.

  “This from your friends?”

  Andy nodded.

  “Yeah. Beck and I are fixing it up.”

  Bruce raised an eyebrow as Andy passed him and went through into the kitchen.

  “You?” he said, surprised.

  “Yeah, me,” Andy shot back. He scratched the back of his head, wincing that he’d been too defensive. “I’ve - uh - just made a fresh pot of coffee. You want some?”

  Bruce nodded and sat down at the table, placing his newspaper down without unrolling it. Andy studied his father suspiciously out of the corner of his eye as he poured two cups of coffee. For his part, Bruce sat nervously at the table, unsure of himself, not knowing whether he should stand or sit.

  “I missed you at the hospital the other day,” he said finally. “Nurse said you checked out against medical advice.”

  “Yeah,” Andy responded flatly, transferring the two cups to the table, shaking his fingers vigorously from the heat of the ceramic. “The doctor kept delaying and delaying. I just wanted to be home here.”

  Bruce nodded once as he sugared his coffee and added milk.

  “You think that was a good idea?”

  Andy shrugged as he sat down at the table, splinting his injured ribs with his arm as discreetly as he could so that his father would not see.

  “Probably not, but I’ll deal with it.”

  “Like you dealt with those friends of yours, huh?” Bruce ventured, without looking up.

  Andy sat back in his seat and appraised his father.

  “Look, what do you want, Dad? What are you doing here?”

  Bruce finally looked up at Andy with that hollow stare he was so good at.

  “I’m just ... here!” he said evenly. “I was concerned. I know what happened the other night with that gang of yours - I know they ambushed you. I just wanted to know ... that you’re all right.”

  Andy relaxed slightly and took hold of the cup in front of him. He didn’t lift it up.

  “I’m all right,” he said simply.

  Moments ticked by.

  “So. What’s with all this turning things around for yourself?” Bruce asked.

  “I dunno,” Andy’s tone was noncommittal. “Guess I’ve just had enough of drifting along.”

  Denny observed the tension between father and son, lamenting their alienation.

  “Well, that’s good. That’s good.”

  Bruce was floundering and he knew it. His son sat across from him fidgeting, unable to look at him directly. This was how it had been for so long. Andy could barely remember a time when it had been any different. The years spent longing for his father when he went away, the disappointment of trying to win his father’s affection, only to have it dismissed out of hand, when Bruce was around. All of it clouded his emotions now. He did not know how to react to his father’s presence here and now.

  He is trying to reach out, Denny suggested. Listen.

  “There was this kid out in the desert,” Bruce began, relaxing back slightly in his seat. “Near Nasiriyah. He had a beat-up old Spanish guitar. Looked as though it had been run over by a truck.”

  Andy looked up at his father. Bruce DeVries had never spoken of the Gulf War or his time in Iraq.

  “Nassar used to play all the time, whenever we were on down time. It was a beautiful sound. We used to listen to him play all these classical pieces that he knew by heart.”

  Bruce’s eyes lifted towards the ceiling as he recalled the 20-year-old memories.

  “Nassar wanted to study in Europe. He was saving up to leave Iraq. We chipped in each time he played for us, and he used to busk on the street in the town. I guess he made a decent sum of money over time.”

  Andy listened, suddenly transfixed.

  “Our supply unit got caught in a firefight, late one night. The camp was overrun by insurgent fighters. As we were trying to defend it, there was a lot of crossfire. People were running everywhere.”

  Bruce looked down at his son again. This time, Andy was sure he could see tears welling in Bruce’s eyes.

  “He got caught up in it. Gideon and I were marshaling civilians to safety. We had to take cover from a mortar attack. I - mistook him for an insurgent fighter. And I shot him.”

  Andy was stunned, unable to move or speak. He could barely comprehend the guilt that his father had harbored, let alone that he would be so open with him now. That he would lay bare such a terrible truth, a burden he had carried with him for two long decades...

  “I haven’t been able to listen to so much as a Willie Nelson record in, maybe 20 years,” Bruce said. “And I haven’t heard anyone play as beautifully - the way he did - until - well, you know. Until now.”

  Bruce gestured awkwardly towards his son. Andy felt overwhelmed, recognizing the compliment for what it was. The significance of this moment was not lost on him. Then Andy remembered something from long ago. A memory from when he had lived with his grandmother. The memory of a beat-up old guitar she had stored away in the attic. He had found it one day, as an inquisitive seven-year-old, and begun to play.

  “That guitar,” Andy said. “The one I used to play around with at Nana’s house. That was his, wasn’t it?”

  Bruce nodded wistfully, not wanting to speak for fear that he might break down in front of his son. Andy looked down at his hands in his lap, balled them into fists, then relaxed them again.

  “I’ve stopped with all that shit, Dad,” he said. “I ended it. They - the crew - weren’t real happy about it.”

  Andy circled his face with his hand for effect, before cupping his hands in his lap.

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I already took care of it,” Andy said, allowing himself to smile bitterly. “The police took down the crew yesterday. Busted them wide open. They won’t be a problem for me anymore.”

  Bruce sipped his coffee and looked across through the entrance into the living room.

  “I’ll bet that’s cost you a lot.”

  A trio of worry lines creased Andy’s brow.

  “Too much.”

  Bruce smiled wryly at his son, downing the remainder of his coffee.

  “Would you like another?” Andy offered hopefully.

  Bruce considered it a moment, then nodded with a smile.

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  He slid his cup across the tabletop towards Andy, who refilled it and his own.

  “Gideon tells me that you’ve got an oppo
rtunity to travel overseas - to some sort of gathering of guitarists?”

  Andy nodded hesitantly, pointing to a flier that was secured to the door of the refrigerator. He took it down and handed it to Bruce.

  “Australia,” Bruce remarked with surprise. “That’s a long way to go. Can you even afford this?”

  “There’s talk of a sponsorship arrangement, if I’m successful,” Andy replied, sitting down at the table again. “I haven’t been interviewed yet.”

  “Oh? Well, when does that happen?”

  “I don’t know yet. I don’t even know if they’ll want to interview me.”

  Bruce gazed at his son with a curious expression. A question began to form in his mind. Who was this young man who sat across from him?

  He was unable to put it into words.

  Bruce stayed for several hours, and together father and son talked - more than they had in a long time.

  CHAPTER 15

  Andy stood behind the bar wiping a glass when the side door opened and Beck appeared. Andy greeted him with a smile as he stepped inside and took off his jacket.

  “Hey, man.”

  “Hey yourself.”

  Beck’s greeting wasn’t especially enthusiastic - not unusual for him, such was his quiet way - but there was something in it that made Andy consider his friend with concern. For a moment he feared someone associated with Vasq might have threatened Beck again.

  Beck sat down at the bar and Andy poured him his usual beer right away. Beck definitely had something on his mind.

  “Are you OK?” Andy ventured as he set the beer down in front of Beck.

  Beck nodded without looking up.

  “Yeah. Well - I dunno, man.”

  Andy gave him a quizzical eye as he picked up another glass and began wiping it over.

  “Please tell me someone didn’t harass you again.”

  “Oh, god, no!” Beck retorted reassuringly, forcing a smile. “Not at all.”

  Beck surveyed the bar distractedly as though he were looking for someone.

  “Where’s Sam?” he asked.

  “She’s not working today,” Andy replied, growing impatient.

  “She still pissed at you?”