by Cat Porter
She shot me a warm grin. “His favorite.”
I brought the platter of braised lamb shanks to the center of the table, Lenore served an arugula salad with shaved parmesan and red seeds. The three of us sat down to eat.
They talked, exchanged stories about Lenore’s store, the town characters, the type of songs Beck was working on.
I didn’t have too much to say. I listened. I drank my beer. I ate the lamb, the potatoes, and they were damned good.
Beck poked at his salad. “Pomegranate seeds, huh?”
“Aren’t they a good contrast to the peppery greens? What do you think?” Lenore asked, her eyebrows raised high.
“Mother, are you doing this to me on purpose?”
She let out a rich, satisfied laugh. “Of course I am.”
“I haven’t forgotten the dried goji berries and prunes you put in that roast pork in LA.”
“You hated that.”
“As if you’ve forgotten.”
Lenore glanced at me. “We were at his father’s house for this family meal which me and his stepmother made together. Beck turned the berries and prunes into projectiles during dinner.”
“They landed in the swimming pool,” said Beck.
“Except for the ones that landed on me and your sister.”
“Then you two tossed them in the swimming pool too.”
“Couldn’t help it.”
“Yeah, Dad and Pam weren’t too happy with us.”
She sighed dramatically. She was amused. “Oh well. The element of surprise is my favorite weapon. How else am I going to get you to expand your horizons, honey?”
I was lost. They had their own riff going between them. A riff of shared memories and experiences. Familiar likes and dislikes.
I pressed back in my chair. I didn’t like feeling awkward. I didn’t do awkward or insecure, for fuck’s sake. Here I was on the outside looking in on an aspect of her life that was so important to her, her life with her son.
But her life was now my own. We were stirred together like a potent cocktail, each liquor’s flavors discernible, but blended they created a unique flow of taste and color in the glass.
Beck wasn’t my son, but he was the son of the human being I loved more than any other in this world. If I wanted to be a part of her life, and I did, I was, I had to find a way to be a part of Beck’s life. This wasn’t the family I’d foreseen for myself, but what the hell ever turns out perfect or the way we want it?
All my life I’d striven to create my own identity, to leave my own mark my way, and I’d achieved that. Now, here I was with Lenore, my Serena, in her house, eating at her table, sleeping in her bed, making love to her day and night, night and day.
I needed to try.
“I have to say,” I began, and they both turned to me, eyebrows raised, forks stalled mid-action. “I’m not a fan of fruit in my food either.”
“Voice of reason, there you go.” Beck grinned as he resumed chewing. “Thanks, Finger.”
Lenore rolled her eyes and shook her head at us.
“I speak the truth, babe.” I raised my beer bottle.
Beck clinked my beer with his glass of water. “That’s it, Ma. Fruit needs to be eaten on its own. My one exception is yoghurt in those fruit bowl creations. So please, no more underhanded undercover operations—no hiding in sauces or salad dressings or whatever else you come up with. Your men have spoken.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for future meals.” Lenore smiled. A smile that told of hushed sunrises and vibrant sunsets, embraces that didn’t need words, bare toes sinking in warm sand.
We finished the roast lamb, with Beck asking me questions about where I came from, where I lived. I gave him what I could of my story.
“Hey Mom, tell me about Pete’s.”
“Pete’s Tavern?”
“That’s the one.
“It’s the old bar here in Meager, one of the oldest in the area. They sell a lot of local craft brews, basic eats, and they support local musicians. Why?”
“Dad mentioned it.”
“Oh, of course. Cruel Fate played here when they first hit it big.”
“I wanted to check it out.” Beck arranged his fork and knife on his empty dish. “You guys up for going there for a drink or no?”
“Sure.” Lenore glanced at me.
“Yeah, let’s do it,” I said.
“Great.”
My gaze went to Beck. “I heard Cruel Fate play once.”
His face lit up. “Oh yeah?”
“Yep.” I folded my napkin and pressed over it. “At a rock fest in Colorado.”
Lenore’s eyes slid to mine.
Beck took my empty dish and stacked it on his. “What did you think?”
“They were good. Lot of fans, girls screaming, singing along,” I said.
Lenore planted a kiss on the side of my face as she took the dishes from the table. My hand went to her lower back as she moved past me.
“Where you headed after Denver, Beck?” I asked.
“Albuquerque, then Dallas, then Houston.” He told me about the last leg of his tour.
“Hey you two.” Standing in the foyer, a thin shawl expertly wrapped over her shoulders, Lenore swiped dark red lipstick on her gorgeous mouth. “Let’s get going to Pete’s.”
“Who’s that?” Beck asked.
“Who?”
“That dude glaring at you.” Beck drank from his longneck, his gaze on Tricky.
Tricky sat next to a wiry young brunette with sparkly makeup, dark lipstick, and big hoop earrings. She was talking to him, but Tricky’s eyes were on me. At his table were Grace and Lock, Jill and Boner, and Butler and Tania, who Lenore had stayed to chat with after we’d gone over and said our hellos, introducing Beck to them.
“Ah, he’s just some guy,” I muttered, staring Tricky down.
He finally looked away, his arm going over the shoulders of the girl he was with, and she smiled huge as she drank her pink cocktail.
“Ah.” Beck turned to me. “Some guy. Got it.”
“Yeah.”
“Small town, huh?”
“It is. Reality.”
“My mom’s always been popular, but she never gave it too much importance. When she told me about the two of you, I had to come see for myself.”
“To check me out? See if I’m good enough for her?” I asked.
“No, the kind of man you are is up to her. She’s no dummy. But when she told me about you two, about your history, I had to see her with you.”
The noise and music playing in the bar faded as I focused on Beck’s words. His concentrated, serious face.
“My mother is good at glossing over, making everything seem easy when it isn’t at all. She did that with her work, with my dad, with guys she’s dated. But I always knew there was a piece missing for her.”
“You mean the right man?”
“It’s more than that.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “It’s a core piece, the piece that lets her fly. It’s different for everyone, of course, but I was never sure what that was for her.” Beck set his bottle down on the bar with a clink. “It’s that one verse in a song that turns everything around. That makes perfect sense and grips your heart and soul then sends it soaring. Without it the song goes nowhere. From what I’ve seen tonight, you’re her verse, Finger.”
This boy. I put my beer bottle down next to his and held his vibrant blue gaze. “She’s always been my verse.”
Beck’s eyes glistened with water and he swallowed, looking away quickly, leaning back against the bar. “She always pushed me to go after my dreams, and it wasn’t just mommy talk; she knew what that meant. I figured she had her own dream locked inside her. She inspired me with her focus and discipline and her sense of wonder. She literally bred that in
me. She blended any fears I had with her excitement, and made me realize it was okay to go out on a limb, to risk, that it was actually good for me—I’d survive somehow, I’d make it. And when I did fall, I’d pick myself up and find another way. That was all part of the journey. And she was right.” He faced me once more, his features back in control. “She’s my rock and she’s my waterfall.”
My heart ached in the hollow of my chest at the frankness and passion in his voice, in those beautiful words. I knew exactly what he meant, and he knew I did.
“She told me your story,” he continued. “I’m sure she’s left plenty out, but that’s okay. I know what I need to know. I’m real glad you two found your way back to each other and that she’s happy. Happy like this.” We watched Lenore laughing at something Grace was telling her. “She finally got her dream.”
“Ah, Beck.” I took in a breath. “Your mother raised an extraordinary man.”
He averted his gaze again. “She’s the extraordinary one.” His lips tipped up softly. He was pleased.
“Total agreement.” My eyes went over his shoulder to the back wall of the bar where I knew there was a photograph. “I think that’s your dad’s band over there in that photo framed in red.” I pointed to it.
He blinked. “Oh, man. Yeah, that’s them.”
I gestured to the bartender and, explaining who Beck was, asked him to bring the photo over.
“Sure thing.” He took it off the wall and handed it to Beck.
“Look at that,” murmured Beck.
I glanced at the image of Cruel Fate rocking in the late nineties in Pete’s Tavern. Tables crowded, standing room only. His dad jammed on his guitar, sharing the mic with a bandmate, howls plastered on their young sweaty faces, long hair flying.
“You’re headed in the same direction, Beck. Enjoy it.”
He dragged his teeth across his lip, staring at the photograph.
I leaned my arms on the bar. “You going to play anything tonight?”
He looked up at me. “I just wanted to come here and see the place.”
“Your mom mentioned she was disappointed she wouldn’t be able to get out and see you perform on this tour.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“It’s open mike tonight. Her best friends are here, and I know we’d all love to hear you play.”
He scanned the bar. “I’m sure the sign up is probably closed by now.”
I put a hand on his arm. “Hold that thought.”
Butler was a guitarist and played here sometimes on open mike nights. If there was an in with management, the musical One-Eyed Jack would be it. I caught his eye, gesturing for him to come over. He did, and I asked him to talk to the manager to get Beck included in tonight’s performers.
“Hell yes, you bet.” Butler went across the bar to the front. He spoke with a heavy set man who stood by the entrance with the hostess and two security types. A few moments later he gave me a thumbs up and brought the man over to us.
Butler introduced Malcom, the owner of Pete’s to me and Beck.
“Great to meet you, Beck,” said Malcom. “I know your mom, and I was a big Cruel Fate fan back in the day. It’d be a real thrill to have you play here tonight.”
Beck’s face lit up. “Means a lot to me, thanks. I don’t want to step on anyone’s time though. One song only.”
“It’s actually a slow night tonight. You’d be doing me a favor. You can open the next set.”
“Wow, great. Thank you, I really appreciate it.”
“What do you need, Beck?” I asked. “A guitar, a piano?”
Beck rubbed his hands together, eyes wide, gears churning. “Yeah, I don’t have my guitar with me—”
“No worries,” said Malcom. “Johnny Z from my house band can hook you up no problem. Let me introduce you.”
They left together. Butler clapped a hand on my shoulder, a thick blond eyebrow arched. “Come over and sit with us.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?”
“Ah, you’re both big boys.”
“Another time. Not just yet. Not tonight.”
“Whatever you say. I’m looking forward to hearing Beck play.”
“Me too.”
Butler went back to the Jacks’ table as Lenore returned to me at the bar.
“Did you want to sit with your girls over there?” I asked her.
“I want to sit with you. Right here’s good.” She slid her arm through mine and kissed me. “Where’s Beck?”
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we’ve got a special guest with us,” Malcolm’s voice boomed over the mike. “Please welcome to Pete’s, Beck Lanier. His mom lives right here in Meager. You many know his dad, Eric Lanier of Cruel Fate.” The crowd applauded and cheered. “Beck’s band Freefall is on tour right now with The Heave. And tonight, Beck’s here and he’s gonna play for us.”
“Holy shit, did you know about this?” Lenore asked over the din of the applause. Butler let out a shrill whistle.
“Sort of happened this minute.”
Her eyes were glued to her son adjusting the microphone and settling his hands around an acoustic guitar. The clapping died down.
Beck leaned into the mic. “This is for you, Mom.”
Lenore pressed into me.
Beck played an intricate web of chords, making that wooden instrument in his hands sing.
“Your eye was full,
Full of the sea
A raging sea
You never hid the world from me
You thought I couldn’t,
But I could see
Your waves crashed high
I heard the noise
That terrible, fantastic noise.
You, you are the storm,
Flourishing high,
Humming low,
Lifting me up.
Daring me.
Daring me.
You are the storm
And I want more
My hand in yours
I dance in your wind,
Sing in your roar
A roar that’s mine…”
His voice was deep but also had this odd, breathy quality. It looped and dipped, scraped against his beautiful words, lifting them with this raw simplicity and a sense of intimacy that was staggering. The entire room spun in his notes, soared on those lyrics.
Beck was gifted.
My hand gripped Lenore’s arm tight as she listened with everything she was. Beck nodded at his mother as he sang and she lifted her chin, moving to the steady rhythm of his music, hearing him on a whole other level from the rest of us mortals. I held her and her movement, her emotion rocking through me.
“…a roar that’s mine.” Beck’s eyes closed, his hands stilled, his last note hanging in the air.
A second of sacred silence. Butler’s sharp whistles tore through the room, slicing at the magic haze gripping us. Heavy applause thundered in the bar. Lenore jumped up and down at my side like a teen groupie, clapping wildly. Butler and Tania, Grace and Lock, Jill and Boner were all on their feet clapping and whooping. I gave Lenore a quick kiss, and she ran to Beck. He leaned down and hugged his mom, lifting her up on the small stage with him.
“I like being alive,” she’d once said to me in a clear, sure voice in a dank, horrible darkness a long, long time ago. “No matter what, I want to stay alive.”
She’d lived. Oh, how she’d lived. She hadn’t allowed the brutal past to define or mar her. She’d become what she’d chosen, her own design. And she’d given that fierce passion to her son. And although I would’ve liked to have been alongside her for that, that’s not the way it had worked out. I had played a part in it, though, and I was glad and proud of that for the first time in a very, very long time, and in a way that didn’t hurt so bad, in a way that was
humbling and just plain good.
I stood up and clapped loud and hard for my woman and her son.
69
“Really? You’ve never been to Nebraska before?” Finger asked me, adjusting his sunglasses.
“Except for going to your club that time,” I said. “Otherwise, no. Never had a reason to go. Until now.”
He grinned. He was planning something. “I want to take you somewhere special. Get on.”
I snatched the helmet he held out to me and climbed on the back of his bike, settling into the saddle, my pulse racing. I pressed against him and a deep noise rumbled through his back. We took off and he punched up his speed, my arms tightening around his taut middle. He let the roaring bike hang loose underneath him on the smooth road, keeping our center of gravity easily at his core and in his control. I hadn’t forgotten what this was like; I had kept it sacred in my shrine of shrines all these years. My limbs clung to man and machine, heat searing through me, heart pounding, flying through the wind, flying at the sun.
We left the Black Hills and the expansive farm fields of South Dakota behind, and passed into northern Nebraska. A sign for the Oglala National Grasslands shot by us. Vast sweeps of short grass prairie, waves of burnt yellow and pale green punctuated with small hills of towering dark evergreens swept by us. This used to be all prairie in the old days, but trees were encroaching everywhere now.
Two buffaloes slowly ranged up a hill. Another one hurtled across the golden grasses in the distance. My pulse twanged. Hell, they were huge and fast. Impressive and intimidating. Wild and free the way they had been for centuries in their natural habitat. Grace had been on plenty of bike trips through the region and once told me how buffalo group together in herds as the sun faded from the sky. That would be a sunset to witness.
A long wavy ridge of rock rose in the distance. Butte and peak formations that looked more like a mountain range of frozen layers of sand or a lost city of the stone age. This corner of Nebraska had its own Badlands, just like the Dakotas. Slopes of ground were shadowed from the occasional low lying cloud suspended in the wide open sky, making the greens of the hills sharper, the golden yellows of the dipping valleys deeper. Nature’s pure drama.
