And it was over just like that. Jesse put his fiddle back in its flour sack and Ernie went over to the sink and started to get the chicken ready for the frying pan. Jesse said he had to run across the creek. Before he left, Jamie asked if he had a dulcimer. Could've been his way to keep the conversation going.
Jesse said, "I wouldn't swat a pig with one of those things," and disappeared through the front door.
Jamie shrugged his shoulders. "Your turn." He rubbed his eyes and set his fiddle in his case on the table. He shut his recorder off.
"I'd just as soon turn in to bed hungry and get going as early as possible." I said it loud enough for Ernie to hear, but not loud enough that Jamie'd figure out I'd said it loud enough for Ernie to hear.
Jamie poured us each another finger or two of whiskey.
I saluted him and threw it down. I whooped, and Ernie came over and said he didn't want us getting too far ahead of him, so we all drank another.
"Requests?" I asked Jamie.
"Play what you feel, son," he said.
"What I feel? That's a tough one. Let me try this on for size." I strummed a slow D and played the opening to "Grace is Gone."
Jamie nodded, eyes closed. After I finished the first chorus he accompanied me with his fiddle, playing just like Boyd Tinsley. When we finished he said, "That's a very nice song."
"Dave Matthews Band. Haven't played that in a long time."
"Give us another, maybe something I can sing along with."
Jesse came in, singing something else to himself, and helped Ernie at the stove. Jamie and I went back and forth, playing songs I hadn't thought about in years. Jamie was happier than a tick on a fat dog and he laughed easily. "The Rain Song." "Goodbye Blue Sky" and "Dogs." Israel Kamakawiwi Ole's "Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World" medley. Old Jimmy Buffett. Some Beatles B stuff, whatever that means. "Mother Nature's Son" and some other White Album stuff. I didn't know as much Dylan as Jamie thought I should. I told him I'd work on it if he listened to more Wilco and Black Keys. Whenever either of us forgot chords or words we helped each other out.
Jesse lit an oil lamp and a candle to make dining more romantic, he said, but it just made the little room hotter. Almost reminded me of firefly weather. Even though the chicken looked good and greasy, I couldn't eat. The smell made me a little sick in the stomach. I tried to put down some red beans and a little cornbread. After dinner Jamie took his fiddle back out and even had his mic stand pointed and ready to go. Jesse said he'd play, maybe, after he did dishes, so I chipped in and gave a hand to speed things up. But when Jesse showed little interest in picking his fiddle back up. I'd been tricked. He really just wanted to play checkers.
Only two of us had any song left in us. Jamie and I sat at the wooden table, each facing a glass with a few fingers of Jack in it. Jesse finished the dishes and went upstairs for his checkerboard. Ernie opened the bourbon I'd brought. He stopped putting wood in the stove some time ago, but the odor of wood smoke lingered.
The forest outside grew dark and distant as the rain continued to fall even harder. What remained of the snow had mostly melted. The icicles that had been hanging on the porch fell to the ground with splintering crashes like breaking dishes. Water dripped through the gutters in straight 4/4 time.
Jamie did his best to maintain the show of gratitude to our hosts with anecdotes about other recording sessions with people Jesse and Ernie both knew, the whole time still working on getting the song out of Jesse. I strummed my guitar, going through scales and arpeggios and chord progressions I didn't even have to think about. The calluses on my fingertips grew harder and the playing had gotten much easier.
I stared at Jamie, trying to give the appearance that I'd been listening. He glanced at Jesse and Ernie and leaned in closer.
"Besides," he said, locking eyes with me and raising his glass, "it seems like the one song I always hope to get ends up being the most elusive."
Jesse dropped the old cardboard checkerboard and wooden box of checkers onto the table. I stood, partially because I had to make a trip to the outhouse and mostly because I couldn't take another evening of sitting around watching a game I didn't like to begin with.
"I'm going to go for a pee," I said. "You know, Jamie, it's all good. I think I need to let the song go."
"Sit," said Jesse. "Have another sip to warm up before you head out."
At that moment, thunder rattled the windows. If we'd have been back in town the lights would've flickered, the TV and refrigerator and furnace all would've kicked back on. But out here only the whoosh of more rain followed.
Jamie froze, holding his drink with his head halfway tilted back.
I looked at Jamie and Jesse. No one moved a muscle—all ears waited for whatever'd come next. Water continued to drip lazily into the sink.
"I better go before it really starts coming down," I said.
"Shh," Jamie hissed.
Just then rain pounded the roof with doubled intensity, like a thousand buffalo running down the hill and right over the house.
"Too late," I said and opened the kitchen door. The screen door slammed shut behind me with a bang.
I jogged over to the bridge. Cold rain rinsed sweat off of my face. Lightning flashed overhead, and before I could even begin counting 'one Mississippi, two Mississippi' the thunder boomed.
A reverberation coursed through me as I approached the stream, and it scared the hell out of me because it had a more ferocious tone than the rain. The stream spilled over its bank and spread through the yard. The stump next to the bridge sat a good ten feet away and half underwater.
I went upstream a few yards and found more water where yard had been earlier. Because of the whiskey I didn't totally feel confident in my ability not to fall in. The stream rushed past so furiously I backed up to a tree and hung on like it might get hold of me.
In the muddy light I saw ripples and waves with white tips washing well over the railroad tie bridge. The high dark pines acted like funnels, pushing it all into the tiny stream. I backed away like I'd back away from a snake, and made my way down the lane to cross the creek there.
I walked with purpose. The cold rain gave me a shiver. I pushed my wet hair back from my eyes and coughed. When I crossed the lane's bridge over the creek I paused to watch the flood make its way down the hill. A silver ribbon widened then narrowed then disappeared with a boom that sounded like the water at the lock on the Mon back home.
Water lapped the edge of the muddy path that ran upstream past the chicken coop and corn crib to the outhouse. When I passed the tree with the nails in it the path got really narrow. The water covered the trail and I had to go around the tree to keep my feet dry. I stepped over the wet roots carefully, but still slipped. I put my hands on the ground in front of me and pulled myself up using the roots like rungs on a ladder. But there were nails in some spots, so I felt with my fingers to make sure I wouldn't cut myself.
I stood for a second next to the tree. I'd gotten tired of thinking about the devil and thinking that the devil had it in for me personally. Superstition and ritual wore me out. The feeling that no matter what I did, the universe had final say defeated me. So I put my hand on the tree, found a loose nail and wriggled it free.
I paused, waiting for the lightning to strike me dead. The sky didn't fall. No limbs crashed down on me. So I shoved the nail back into its hole and went up to the outhouse.
The walk felt good even if the cool air didn't. My buzz faded, but I was still wobbly from the whiskey. The noise from the birds made my head ache. They tweeted so loud—like they were just inches from my head. Even though I stayed really close to the buildings my feet still got wet. Up the valley lightning flashed. Across the stream I could see the house and its empty upstairs windows looking back at me. I couldn't make eye contact with the windows.
"Be a good time for a smoke."
Wobbly from the whiskey, I started back downstream. But I figured the chances of me slipping and getting washed int
o Virginia weren't worth it. So I cut into the trees and laurel to go behind the chicken coop and corn crib. A big jagger bush blocked the way, so I backtracked and went the long way around. The breath of the forest felt warmer than the air by the stream. In between drops I felt spring.
Pushing through the trees made me sweat again. Water washed salt onto my tongue. But the dark night made seeing impossible. I tripped over rocks and roots and stepped away from the buildings to get better footing. Through the trees above I saw another flash, and waited for thunder, but the boom never came. I stopped walking and looked up to watch it.
The light shined dimly, and steadily, like headlights from a car coming around a bend. I didn't think it was the light itself that held my gaze as much as the idea that I'd gone without electricity for this long. It seemed like a novelty, and I went up the hill to look.
The higher I went the brighter the light got, like a spotlight from a police cruiser through the treetops. Shadows moved from left to right as the light circled. I couldn't hear anything other than the rain. No motor or electrical hum. Even the birds got quiet. When the lightning flashed again, the light disappeared. I stood there for a second, waiting for it to come back. I pushed the hair out of my eyes. Then I caught it, another sound blended with the rain, a shuffle that grew until there was no mistake. I thought, "Why did Jamie follow me out here?"
"Jamie."
I waited, and the sound stopped.
"Jamie."
I started jogging back down the hill and saw another light, like a firefly this time. Maybe not as green. I squinted through the rain to see more clearly. I wished that I was sober.
Somebody pushed through the laurels behind me.
I walked as fast as I could without running. Suddenly the light seemed to be the least of my worries as the sound of the footsteps just a few yards behind me got closer.
I stopped.
A fraction of a second later I heard it.
Wet laurel and jagged pine branches clawed at my shirt and my skin. In some parts it grew so dense I had to hold my arm above my face and close my eyes. Small pine needles and dead leaves stuck to my cheeks and hair and arms. They got into my mouth and I had to spit them out.
Off to the left I heard the rush of water. I turned toward the sound and picked up my pace, shuffling my feet to avoid getting tripped up in roots and rocks. The stream stayed the same distance from me no matter how fast I walked. I began to jog.
With my arms crossed in front of my face I took the most direct route back to the creek that I could. In between rain drops and laurel hells I saw more of the fireflies. First two or three, then dozens throughout the forest all around me like spotlights off of a mirrored ball. They didn't move at all like fireflies. The sound of the water got more distant.
I panicked. At first it came like nausea, like I'd throw up after a long night drinking. But the nausea got overtaken by a feeling like too much caffeine. Spikes of energy down my spine through my arms and legs. I shook my hands out like you do when it's cold. My heart fluttered and it got hard to breathe.
Figuring the lights were a trick of my mind, I turned away from them and walked. They were in the trees behind me now, glittering like sugar stuck to a donut. Pinpoints of almost white light. I could imagine the house watching from the other side of the stream. Dark, empty windows staring into the forest while Jamie and Jesse and Ernie talked downstairs. I thought about Pauly and Stu and Katy, and for the first time got afraid I'd never see anybody again.
I told myself over and over it was all in my mind. I told myself over and over I had to ignore the lights and listen for the stream. As soon as I figured out which direction was downhill, I ran. The bright spots went past me like porch lights and street lights past a fast-moving car. I had to tell myself over and over that they weren't out to get me.
When the hillside flattened out I knew I'd made it. I pushed through the shrubs and came into an opening. Water came up over my ankles. The fear of being pulled downstream made me fall backward into the mud and leaves. I looked for the house and outhouse, but I must've come out too far upstream. With my hands clinging to the branches and trees along the stream, I shuffled through the icy water. I placed one hand over the other, never letting go until I had something else to grasp onto. I slid my feet through the sand and mud and rocks making sure I wouldn't trip and end up face down in the stream.
Branch. Tree. Foot. Foot.
Branch. Tree. Foot. Foot.
The next light I saw was the light from the kitchen. I stayed cautious and kept both feet on the ground and tried to shuffle toward the bridge.
Branch. Tree. Foot. Foot. I began to shake. Whether the shaking came from the cold or nerves I couldn't tell.
The water got higher, covering my ankles and creeping up my calf. But I couldn't let go of the tree I'd been holding, and retreated to the shore. When I passed the outhouse I didn't waste any time heading back to the lane. Back to the corn crib and chicken coop. The water ran higher now, pushing me right up to the buildings. Splinters from the old door caught my palm when I steadied myself. I pried it out and held my hand in the cold water.
At the rise where the nail tree stood I reached ahead of me to feel for roots. I kept one hand on the ground and the other feeling the air ahead of me. When I found the nail tree I pulled my hand back like it was an electric fence.
The tree felt like a clean shave. I got my feet under me and pressed my hands into the bark. My fingertips read the tiny holes where the nails and pins had been like braille.
I slid my hand down the tree's roots and found thousands of nails on the ground instead of soil and snow and stones.
I picked fistfuls up with both hands, then dropped them back onto the ground. I wiped my hands clean on the tree. The holes had closed. The bark felt smooth as the skin of an apple.
I took three big steps away from the tree and ran toward the lane. Maybe Jamie was right and I was a just stupid city kid. We only ever camped up Jenkinsburg with beer and take-out from Wings Olé. When I saw the lane I took a moment to get my stuff together. Then I ran the whole way to the house.
I tried to think of what I'd say to explain what took so long. When I stepped onto the porch I figured I wouldn't say anything at all unless asked. The rain picked up again. My teeth chittered from the cold.
The heavy kitchen door remained propped open, just like I'd left it. Murmuring escaped through the old screen along with hot air from the stove. Jamie sat right next to the door. As soon as he saw me he turned, and put his finger up to his lips, then pointed at his mic. Candlelight threw long shadows on the walls and ceilings. The bottle of whiskey, almost empty now, sat on the table. Jesse had his chin resting on the heel of his palm. I caught the door so it wouldn't make any noise when it shut. Ernie sat with his back against the stove. A halo of sparks drew my attention to his face, his mouth in particular. He hummed the melody, and softly clapped his hands. The tune, dissonant and disjointed as it sounded, was still immediately recognizable. Ernie just happened to be between verses.
With a voice that reminded me of sulfur matches, he sang, "Mmmm, now old Preston, he couldn't sleep the whole night through, that old Preston couldn't sleep the whole night through..."
I leaned against the wall and listened. Jamie scribbled lyrics down in a notepad.
Ernie went on, "He just laid in bed 'til morning came but the devil she'd visit him all the same, now old Preston don't sleep the whole night through."
His words came out at odd angles, like when a dog's hair gets all bristly because he's angry. "Now old Preston Black went to the crossroads, he did, Preston black went down to them crossroads, tried to make the devil a deal but the devil she said he ain't got a soul to steal, Preston Black went down to the crossroads, so he did."
Ernie's dirgeful version sounded a thousand miles away from the version Earl Black sang last week at the fire hall. Ernie sang with a voice full of pity and remorse, singing about a body rather than a person. Or better yet, singing about a
person rather than a fictional character. "Preston Black writ his own sad song, so he did, Preston Black writ his own sad song, none of it mattered in the end, after his body went floating 'round the river bend, Preston Black writ his own sad song."
After a moment of silence Jamie shut off the recorder.
Ernie shifted in his chair and asked, "How much did he hear?"
I replied, "Just enough."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rain came down so hard I started to wonder if we were going to get another thirty-nine days of it. The little creek had been up over the lane at least once during the night. A high water mark of bare rock stripped of leaves and snow recorded the event, almost flaunting the way isolation had made me a prisoner.
Jamie loaded as much of our gear as he could into a few garbage bags Jesse gave him. I asked Jamie if he wanted me to try to back the Subaru up the hill and he said, "Not if you want to spend another night here. Just start her up, get the heat going."
When the only things left on the Currence's kitchen floor were my guitar, Jamie's fiddle and digital recorder, Jamie launched into his ceremonious goodbye. He gave Jesse and Ernie some of the things that he'd brought with him—jars of jams, apple butter, honey and a box of chocolates—cream centers, no nuts. Jesse smiled, and told Ernie, "...lookie here."
And even as we were heading onto the porch Jamie reminded Jesse about the clinic this summer. Told him about pickin' on the porch, Saturday night contras, walking downtown for ice cream, watching the Perseids over campus. The more he talked the more it sounded like something I'd be into. Only the smallest part of me noticed when he mentioned Katy taught the beginner fiddle course.
Jesse shook my hand and told me to stop by any time, like I'd just happen to be in the neighborhood. The only thing Ernie said to me was, "...that old song don't mean a thing," and then, "...the devil can't do nothing to you if you have faith."
Jesse said, "...don't pay him no mind."
And I tried to let it go on the trek back to the car. I really did. Birds squealed their goodbyes. They hung in the trees dense like a fungus. But as soon as Jamie put the car in gear I had to ask. "What did you think about what Ernie said?"
The Devil and Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey) Page 19
