How We Deal With Gravity

by Ginger Scott

Chapter 24: Tonight, at Dusty’s

  Mason

  I’ve gone to visit Ray every day since the funeral. It’s been three weeks, and I’m pretty sure I’ve formed a lifelong habit—I no longer think I would know how to begin my day without waking up at the sunrise and bringing my coffee to his gravesite to have it with him.

  I talk when I’m there. I talk a lot. And I swear he answers. Maybe he just taught me well, and I know everything he would say. Whatever it is, my mind is clearer out there with him.

  Matt and Josh both stopped by to visit yesterday. They’ve decided to stay in Arizona, and we’ll probably play together every now and then. Nothing formal, just gigs for fun. Ben handled the news about as well as we all thought he would, swearing me off for good and leaving without ever looking back. The more distance I get from him, the better I feel about my decision to end the tour early. His house still sits vacant, and I hope like hell he never comes back. I think Ben was going down a very dark road, and I think his poison could have taken us all down with him.

  Kevin was just as understanding as I told Avery he was, but he didn’t make me any false promises either. He told me they could cover the last stretch of the tour, but that they probably wouldn’t look our way for gigs again. It was a tradeoff I was willing to make, and for once, I’ve never felt more resolved about a decision.

  “Let’s see…what do I have on tap to talk about today,” I say, sitting down in the soft grass next to Ray’s stone. I pull a coffee from Jill’s Donuts out, and place the cup above his name. I always get one for him, too—though I usually end up drinking both.

  “Avery’s doing well. She’s opening the place back up tonight. She took the semester off school, and they let her drop her grades until she can pick back up again. I fuckin’ hate that she had to do that. Sorry, I know you don’t like swearing,” I say, unable to stop my smile while I sip at my hot coffee.

  “I’ve been careful with her. You know, like we talked about? But I gotta tell you Ray, I’m afraid we’re falling into a pattern. I visit her, but I don’t stay long. I help out with small things, say hi to Max, maybe play him a song or two to practice on his music program. I feel like I’m just an appointment on her calendar, and I don’t know how to break that cycle. It’s like a giant game of double dutch, and I don’t know when to jump into the ropes. Hell, girls were always better at that game.”

  I break off a piece of the donut and toss it in the grass for a couple birds that have gotten used to me. I think they actually wait for me to show up every morning now, too.

  “I’m playing tonight. Josh and Matt might join me. There’s a bunch of us—people who you’ve helped over the years. Avery doesn’t know, actually. She thinks it’s just open mic night, but we all signed up for the slots under different names. I guess it’s sort of a tribute thing. Everyone I called wanted in, and then people called more people, and then it just became a thing.”

  I lie back and put my hands under my neck, looking up in the branches of Ray’s tree at the birds I just fed. They’re fighting over my crumb, and it makes me feel bad, so I throw them the rest of my donut.

  “I’m thinking about doing something crazy,” I say, and I hold silent now for a while, almost like I’m expecting to really hear his voice. The longer I lay there, the less crazy my idea sounds, and I get a funny thought in my head. “I know you know what I’m thinking. You were always two steps ahead of me, so maybe you can just let me know if I’m being stupid on top of crazy. Anything—a sign, or whatever the hell people call it. Just let me know old man.”

  I smile in anticipation, and I prop myself up on my elbows, scanning the empty cemetery around me, just waiting for something to happen. The birds continue to pick at my donut, but that’s about the only activity that happens for the next ten minutes, so I decide to give up on my little experiment. I pick up my empty cups and bag, brushing the grass from the back of my jeans when I stand.

  “Okay, maybe you’re right—crazy and stupid,” I say, shaking my head with a little laugh. “I guess I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

  Once back inside my car, I pull out my phone to check for any messages from Claire or Avery. Seems my handyman services aren’t needed today, and I feel a little sad about it. I drive by Dusty’s to see if anyone’s there yet, but the lot is still empty. I see the Open Mic Night announcement written on the marquee though. I changed the bulbs out last week, one of those nagging things I wished I had done when Ray was still alive.

  I keep driving, and as badly as I want my car to take me to Avery’s, I don’t go—I only go when she wants me—at least for now. I make the turn down my mom’s street, and I’m dreading the empty day ahead of me. But just as I’m about to turn the engine off, I hear it—it’s Ray’s sign. Maybe I just want it to be there, but it seems so rare for this to be happening now.

  My car radio is tuned to one of the popular stations, the ones that play nothing but the top hits. But for some reason, right now, they’re playing Otis. It’s “Tenderness,” and the words could not possibly be any more exact about Avery. I’m stunned silent; I sit there and listen to every last plea that man makes when he sings—begging me to listen to him, to try what he says, just like Ray would. Before the song is over, I’m actually laughing, and I back out of the driveway to head into the city for the day.

  “You sneaky old man, you. You want me to go ahead and try crazy,” I say, my hands playing drums on my steering wheel. “All right, but if this blows up in my face, and I come out looking like an idiot—that’s all on you.”

  Avery

  “Ave, I can’t find a spot anywhere in the damn lot,” Claire says over the phone.

  “Hang on, I’ll meet you out back. I’ll move something so you can get in,” I say, holding the phone on my shoulder while I push a crate in front of the door to hold it open. I see her pulling in, Max in the back seat; I wave and hang up.

  I slide two of the trash bins as far forward as I can, and it leaves her just enough room for her car.

  “Thanks! I swear, there must be a thousand people here!” she says, holding the back door open for Max. Claire picked him up from school for me today and went through homework at home, knowing how much I had on my plate for tonight’s opening. I’m doing my best to juggle, but it’s still a lot to keep up with. I’m not sure I’ll be able to fit school in the mix.

  The dining room is already packed, and there’s a wait, several people deep, just to get a chance to be inside. It looks like I’ll be flipping on the outside speakers for tonight’s gigs.

  It’s all hands on deck tonight. Max learned how to work the video editor on my phone, and he said he was going to record the reopening. I’ve been keeping my eyes peeled for Mason—he said he would try to come. He’s been helping out at the bar over the last two weeks, getting things ready, and sorting through the inventory. He always understood that side of the business better than me—he spent a lot of time here with my dad.

  Barb’s running the front door, making the list of acts for the night as people sign up. I told her to cap it at twenty or else we’d never make it home, but I can already tell she’s blown that—the lists looks to be about two pages long. I guess it’s a big night though, so what’s one all-nighter to kick Dusty’s off with a bang?

  “We should probably get things started,” she says, yelling above the crowd of thirsty college coeds in between us. Cole brought in a friend to help work the bar, and I’m starting to wish he brought two when some of the customers start to push their way up front and pound on the bar.

  “Hey!” Claire whistles down at the far end, standing up on one of the stools and holding a bottle over her head. “All right folks, listen up. This is Avery’s first night, and we’re all figuring this out, so cut us some slack, okay? We’ll get to you, and you’re in for some great music tonight, so just take it down a notch and relax.”

  A few of the men start to applaud her, mostly because they like the view of her black Dusty’s shorts from where they’re standing, but the
y’re the right men to have on her side—big, tattooed, and ready to step in if the college guys get out of hand. Things seem to settle into place after that, and Cole and his friend Derrick get the drinks flowing fast.

  I take the mic from Barb and flip it to on, tapping once or twice until I hear the pop of the sound. I’ve always been behind the stage—in the dark, listening to Mason or my dad—or off to the side while my father did the announcing. My next task has my arms sweating, and my hands shaking uncontrollably; when I step up on the stage and see nothing but a sea of ball caps, cowboy hats, big hair, and hundreds of faces, I almost fall off the stage.

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes, remembering how simple my dad always kept things, and I go for it. “Hey there everyone. Welcome to Dusty’s!” I say, and the entire place busts out in applause. It chokes me up to see how much people love Dusty’s, because I know it’s really a reflection of how much they love my dad, and I have to pause for a few seconds and hold my hand over my mouth until I can regain my composure.

  “Whooooo, sorry. I’m probably going to do that a few times tonight. Thanks for bearing with me,” I say, getting a little laughter from the crowd. “So are we all ready for some music?”

  This time, there’s thunderous applause, and I hear Claire’s whistle in the back again, too, which helps me to smile.

  “All right, well, my dad—Ray Abbot—ran this open mic night for thirty years, and he always kept it simple. You get up here, do your thing, and if we like you, we’ll have you back. So, how about we all give a big welcome to…” I look down at the clipboard Barb handed me for the first name. “Sam…I am?”

  I’m starting to think Barb maybe wrote the name down wrong, and I’m squinting, trying to decipher her handwriting, hoping like hell I didn’t completely just butcher some poor guy’s name. When I look back up, a guy in a cowboy hat is making his way through the crowd. “Sam? Come on up, you’ll have to tell us the story about your na—”

  Mason pulls the hat off as soon as he clears the crowd, and shoots me the most playful and proud smile. I haven’t seen it since the days before he left for his tour, and I know he’s up to something because the closer he gets to me, the tighter his lips have to fight not to break out into laughter. Once he reaches me, he puts the hat on my head and holds his hand out for the mic.

  “May I?” he whispers, and I just shake my head at him and hand it over.

  “You…are up to no good, aren’t you?” I say, crossing my arms.

  “Hey folks, let’s hear it for Avery Abbot. I think she’s doing a great job, don’t you?” he says, walking the length of the stage and raising his hands encouraging people to get up from their seats and cheer for me. My face is on fire, I’m so embarrassed, and when he passes me again, I grab his arms and force them down, begging him to stop shedding the spotlight on me.

  “All right, well…I’m not Sam. Sorry to disappoint everyone. I know a lot of you here tonight, and for those of you I don’t know, my name’s Mason Street…” and as soon as he says his name, the sound of screaming women takes over everything else. “Thank you…thanks.”

  He actually has to wait for the screaming to stop, shaking his head a few times and tossing his arms up to me, honestly a little embarrassed by the amount of attention he’s getting.

  “A’right, A’right…I’ve got more to say, so just hang on a bit, and then we’ll start entertaining you all,” he says, finally getting the crowd to break. “So here’s the deal—it’s not really an open mic night. This list you’ve got Avery? It’s bogus.”

  He tosses the clipboard down to his mom and she gives him a wink and then smiles at me with a shrug. Holy damn! Barb Street pulled one over on me!

  “We’ve got a few people here who are going to play for you tonight though. I’m going to kick things off, and then I’m going to pass the mic on over to an old friend—Stanley Richards,” Mason says, and I pretty much fall on my ass. Stan played with my dad when I was a newborn—I’ve seen pictures of the two of them together, and my dad would tell me stories about watching Stan’s career take off. He’s become one of the best blues guitarists in the country—like multi-Grammy big.

  I’m starting to realize that the room is filled with old friends of my father’s, and the people who stumbled in here tonight just hoping for some drinks and a good show have no clue what a treat they are in for. Mason says a few more names, each one more amazing than the last, and some are people out on tour now, selling out to hundreds of thousands around the country.

  “You see why we sort of had to keep this thing under wraps, huh? We’re already turning people away,” he laughs, waving his hands to the people lining the walls in the back. “Hope y’all can see back there!”

  I’m absolutely floored by this tribute to my dad, and I make my way to the edge of the stage and slide off to take my seat by the bar so I can enjoy it for a while. “So what do you say we get this party started?” Mason says, raising his guitar in one hand and a beer in the other; the place erupts in applause again. I realize finally that Matt and Josh have joined him on stage along with Mike Calloway, another longtime friend of dad’s, on the drums. Mason plays two familiar chords—he’s starting things off with Johnny Cash. Everyone. Goes. Nuts!

  Mason mixes in two or three other songs, throwing in a new one he wrote, but keeping everything upbeat, really getting the crowd up and moving. I lean back to check the bar, and Cole and Derrick seem to have things handled, but the flow is constant. Dusty’s is going to have a good night, and I feel a heavy blanket of stress leave my shoulders.

  “You guys are awesome. Please, make sure you tip your waiters and waitresses—especially that sassy one with the short brown hair. I owe her a shitload of favors, so you’d be helping me out,” Mason says, pointing and winking at Claire. She just takes a bow and blows him a kiss; I start to laugh. “All right, so one more song and then I’m going to pass this mic on over to the next guy.”

  He heads to the back of the stage, and I watch him flip open his guitar case, pulling a different guitar out and putting his away. When I realize what he’s holding, I can’t help the tears that drench my face. “Ray Abbot was the father I never had,” he says, the entire room getting quiet now. “Ray gave me a lot of things—he gave me his guitar,” he says, holding it up and waiting through a few whistles and applause.

  “He gave me confidence when I had none,” he continues. “He gave me advice, even when I thought I knew everything and clearly didn’t. But there’s one thing he gave me—one thing—that freakin’ blows all that other stuff away.”

  I’m holding my breath, sitting on my hands and staring at Mason stand up there and take charge of this room. He looks down for a second, kicking his right foot against the base of the mic stand, sucking in his bottom lip, and then he looks at me. “Ray Abbot gave me his blessing to love his daughter. And he told me to be patient. Avery, he said, is careful.”

  He smiles at me, his dimples deep, and his eyes focused on my every breath. “I love that Avery is careful,” he says, situating his guitar around his neck and pulling the mic a little closer. “I love that she puts everyone else first. I love that she fights for her son. I love her son. And I love how she believes in me—even when I don’t deserve it. But mostly, I just love Avery Abbot.”

  The tears are falling uncontrollably now, and I blot my eyes with the corners of my sleeve, knowing everyone’s attention is on me again.

  “I grew up at Dusty’s. I know this place by heart. And I know there are a lot of things in your life that you’re putting on hold,” he says, looking right at me now, speaking to me and only me. “I’m thinking I might just make a good manager, run things around here—just for a while. And I know you’re going to tell me I don’t have to, and that I should go tour and live my dream, blah blah blah. But the thing is, Ave? You’re sorta my dream. And being here—taking care of this place? I kind of don’t think it gets any better than that. So, what I’m asking you is that you let me put you first—ju
st this once. Whatdaya say?”

  Mason is holding the mic in his hand, waiting, along with a thousand other people, for me to just take his offer—to give over some of the weight I carry, share the load with him. He wants me to choose me, and I’m frozen, my stomach weighted with the guilt that comes along with letting others into my life. What started as cheering is turning into light chatter and eventually whispering, and I’m looking side to side, waiting for someone to make my decision for me.

  Then Mason starts to play. He’s strumming slowly—his hands on my dad’s guitar, the music conjuring every single memory I have in my heart. He plays “Tenderness,” and he doesn’t sing at first, but rather just plays the song, solo, on Ray Abbot’s guitar. By the time he makes it through the song once, my eyes are puffy from crying, and Barb and Claire aren’t far behind me. He moves closer to the mic the second time through, and pauses for a few seconds—long enough for a few women to scream out for him, and for me to break through the damn barrier inside my chest—and then he flashes me his smile, and sings about my grief and making it easier to bear.

  He looks right at me when he hits the chorus; I shrug my shoulders, giving in completely. I look at Max, his face intent on the screen of my phone—he’s still filming, even though I’m pretty sure his timer has run out by now. When I look back at Mason, he’s started to climb down the steps of the stage, still playing the song, but getting closer to me. He lets the guitar rest over his shoulder finally, and Matt takes over the lead, keeping the song going.

  I cry harder with every step he takes in my direction, but when he kneels in front of me, pulling my hands to his mouth and kissing them, then placing the small ring in my hand, I start to shake. I can’t breathe, and my entire body is numb—the sound of the guitar in the distant background is coming in waves, and the room behind Mason is starting to sway out of focus. He can see the panic on my face, I know he can, but he holds strong, lifting my chin back up to face him and moving his hands to both sides of my face. He comes even closer to me, pulling my forehead against his, pulling me up to a stand in front of him, and my eyes shut while I force myself to drown out the noise in my head.