When he turned, though, instead of Hannah, he found himself staring into the milky eyes and sun-worn skin that belonged to Mary, the day’s hostess. After a full century of life, the healthy, tanned skin of Mary’s youth had thinned, allowing her blue veins to draw highways all over her somewhat skeletal-looking arms and across the bony legs poking out from the hem of her shin-length burgundy skirt. Her curly white hair had thinned, too, allowing the pinkness of her scalp to glow beside a somewhat crooked part. She almost looked to Michael like she was slowly disappearing.
“You going to play soon?” she asked. Her voice sounded a little tired from having greeted so many neighbors and friends, but there was nothing brittle or thin about it. The forceful tone instantly let Michael let go of the whole slowly disappearing thought that had come to him only a moment ago.
She pressed a blue fruit jar against his right arm. It was cold. And a little wet. Ice cubes clinked together like notes coming from a steel drum. She’d brought him some of her famous iced sun tea.
“So?” she asked as he took a grateful sip.
“Well—Gary’s bringing some equipment…” Michael’s voice waned. He cringed, as though the cold drink had hurt a sensitive spot in a tooth. The truth was, music was his sore tooth—the wiggly kind he’d had when he was Hannah’s age. The kind that had hurt, but that he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off of, either. The kind that he knew he needed to pull, but had been afraid to—to the point that sometimes, an adult tooth would start to push through, grow in, even if he hadn’t yanked the baby one yet.
If he were to be brutally honest, he didn’t have the guts to completely yank his music out, either. He just kept letting his adult life grow up around it, the old dream that had never come to fruition and probably never would.
Suddenly, he was tumbling into a slew of bitter memories that clashed against the over-the-top sweetness of the lives around him.
He’d left Finley the summer before last. Left with an acoustic guitar and his childhood dreams in the trunk of his car. His radio was broken in the old four-door Mercury, he remembered, along with a back window and the door handle on the passenger side. But it didn’t matter, because he was going to Music City. Nashville, Tennessee. Home of fame and fortune and sequin-lined Stetsons and the Grand Ole Opry. Only, when he got there, Nashville was a city. This had shocked him. Just a regular old city with grocery stores and schools and apartment buildings and four-lane streets and red lights and libraries. Not unlike Finley. Bigger, sure—more streets, taller buildings. But it had antique stores. And coffee shops. Just like the one his mother owned. And there was no yellow brick road leading straight to the offices of a record label, where a contract and a pen were waiting for him on some big executive’s desk.
Overwhelmed and afraid, Michael hadn’t the slightest idea how to navigate. Where did he begin? Who did he talk to? He went to a grocery store and bought some cereal from the dollar aisle. He rented a cheap hotel room. He thought about an apartment. But he didn’t have enough cash on hand for a deposit—all those years of busking, all that money Finley had given him—it had paid for his gas and his hotel and a few meals. He showed up for an open mic night at a coffee shop, where no one paid attention to him, where they talked and laughed over the melody of his chorus, and somebody spilled their iced vanilla latte on the back of his new embroidered shirt with the pearl buttons. He went to the Bluebird Café, because he’d always heard it was where guys like him had gotten their big break. But it kind of felt like a tourist attraction.
And there were just so many people. Everywhere he went—bars or Music Row or his crummy hotel—there they were, all of them talking and shouting and singing. Everywhere, people were singing—on streets and balconies and in the rusty beds of pickup trucks. Beautiful voices, strong voices, talented voices. If Michael couldn’t hear himself over the din, how would anyone else?
So he’d returned home. His radio was still broken, and at that point, so was his heart. He’d tied a green Cuppa apron around his waist and started steaming milk again. Occasionally, while the machines were gurgling and chugging, a customer would lean forward and shout, “Say, I heard you were going to Nashville!” And Michael would change the subject, rather than tell them he’d already gone.
Two weeks. That was how long he’d been in Nashville. It was long enough. You don’t know what it was like, he always wanted to say. It was just a city. It wasn’t some magical place where dreams came true just because you’d crossed the border. But he didn’t. He swallowed the words instead.
He’d smile and nod, too. And one day, he smiled and nodded at Ashley. And before he quite knew what had happened, they were married. And one day, his mother had told them, the business would be theirs. Until then, they’d share the responsibilities and living quarters, all of them in the same house, Ashley and Michael saving up their money for a home of their own.
Michael had almost convinced himself that Finley was the kind of place where dreams did come true simply because you’d crossed the city limits.
The rest of Finley certainly thought so. Questions about Nashville dried up completely—not even leaving behind the slightest mark, the faintest ring to let anyone know the dream had once sat near Michael. Why, if Michael had settled permanently in Finley—if he was marrying here and working here and putting down roots—then obviously this was his happily ever after. He was a barista. An excellent one. With the steadiest hand anyone had ever seen. Cuppa was already popular, but with Michael at the helm? Why, it would grow in ways his mother had never imagined.
But Michael had this spot inside him—almost like a giant canker sore. The kind of thing no one could see looking at him. And the kind of thing that Michael was always constantly aware of, this ache, these unanswered questions: Why did you leave so quickly? Why did you let Nashville push you out? What if Nashville does that to everyone—tries to intimidate new arrivals, like the world’s meanest professor, just to weed out the kids who never should have enrolled in the first place? Why did you give up like that?
He was shocked back into reality by Mary’s declaration, “I can’t wait to hear what you’ve come up with.”
“Gary’s the one who wrote the song,” Michael said with a shrug. An original song for the fundraiser. “I’m just the backup.” He cleared his throat, forced a smile.
Mary twisted her face into a confused expression.
“We play at Cuppa together. Thursday nights,” Michael explained. “Me and Gary. You know Gary, right? Norma’s—friend. Or—maybe he’s her boyfriend? I dunno. It’s probably none of my business. I’m sure you’d recognize him if you saw him—tall, white hair. Well. I guess he’s kind of new to town, though, isn’t he?” Michael babbled. “Started coming to Finley to see Norma. He made it—did you know that? I mean, maybe Gary wasn’t exactly Bob Dylan, but he cut a few records. He was actually on the radio. That counts for a lot, right?”
Mary’s expression tightened into an even tighter wad of confusion.
“Mom told him I played guitar, too,” Michael told her. “When we met. Me and Gary. At Cuppa. I’m not sure why, really. I hadn’t picked up my guitar in months. But she told him, and all of a sudden, there he was showing up all the time with lyrics to new songs falling out of his pockets. Literally. Scrawled ’em on gas receipts and paper napkins and up the sides of the morning newspaper. And then Mom was hanging a sign on the plate glass window, and propping me on a stool Thursday nights. But you see, I’m just—I’m there to harmonize with Gary. That’s what—that’s how we’ll play for the fundraiser. It’s Gary you want to talk to, not me.”
“No,” Mary insisted. “I can’t wait to hear you. Your song. You’re the one.”
Michael smiled politely. Despite all of that, he still wasn’t getting through to her.
“There’s a cave, you know.”
“On your property. Yes, I did. Caves are pretty common in Missouri, huh?”
Her frown deepened this time in a way that warned him not to condes
cend.
“River trickles straight into that cave,” she said. “The river. The Finley.”
“Oh yeah? The one along the edge of Founders Park.”
“Cuts the town in half. Some on one side of the river, some on the other.”
“Well, yes, I guess that’d be right.”
Again, the look.
“Listen,” Mary insisted. “Listen to me. The river’s name is Finley. A girl was named for the river. Finley. My relative. Her sweetheart, Amos, named this town after the girl. Three Finleys: First the river, then the girl, then the town.”
Michael nodded. He’d heard this story before. More than once, more than often. “Amos Hargrove fell in love with the girl named for the river,” he recited. “He rode gallantly off to defend the Union in the War Between the States. But poor beautiful Finley died of pleurisy before the brave Amos could return from battle. Heartbroken, he founded our town, naming it after the girl who—” he leaned closer to Mary to add “—was named after the very same river still flowing through your property today.”
Mary smiled. She’d brightened, hearing these details. This was delighting her. Almost, Michael thought, the same way a song a person knew by heart could bring them back even from the fog of dementia.
“He created a lovely place,” Michael went on, really letting his voice rise and fall for emphasis. “The kind of place that Finley—his love—would like to return to. And after he died, they would be reunited. Here. In the town named after the girl named after the river. In the meantime—” His voice faltered. His words dried up.
“Go on, go on,” Mary insisted, like a child enthralled with their bedtime story.
“In the meantime,” Michael finished, his words now rote, lacking any enthusiasm at all, “The spirit of Amos is here, in town, granting wishes. Making dreams come true.”
“That’s right!” Mary exclaimed, even though Michael wasn’t so sure. What had happened to that kid with the open guitar case, busking on the square? Where had he gone? Was he dead and buried, just like Amos and his sweetheart?
“Rivers are complicated things, you know. It’s true,” she said.
He figured by the time that he and Ashley had a child in elementary school, the story would be in his or her history books.
“There’s power in names. A Native American told me that. And power in rivers.” Mary reached out and grabbed his sleeve.
“I’d believe they saw a lot of power in rivers,” Michael managed, his eyes on the shirt she’d balled into her fist. “They were the source of life, really—water was—”
“Yes!” Mary whispered, her milky eyes swelling. “Look—the old Hargrove place was over there.” She took a step closer, pointing. “On the other side of the river. The same side of the river as the National Cemetery. This house—my house—it’s Finley’s old house. See? We’re on different sides.”
Michael took a sip of his tea so he wouldn’t have to respond. This was making him uncomfortable. What was she trying to say? What was he supposed to say? How would he untangle himself?
“The river forms a line. Between the living and the dead.”
Michael nearly choked on his tea. He hadn’t expected that one.
“And rivers are complicated,” Mary said, hammering on each syllable in the same way that Patricia Steele had once emphasized the themes and topics in her lessons on A Midsummer Night’s Dream, hoping that at some point, Michael might actually let some of it sink in. “You always need something to help you get across the river. When you are alive, you have a physical body. So—you build a physical bridge. Easy, right? When you have passed on, it’s far more complicated. You’re not physical. You can’t rely on the physical. But you can still rely on what is true. What’s real.” She made a fist and tapped her chest, right over her heart. “You know what’s real.”
Did he? Music had once been real. The kind of real that had made him feel he could put all his weight against it, lean on it, and it would always hold him up. But that hadn’t been true.
“Love. Love is real,” Mary insisted. “And it never dies. Not true love. It is the dream destined to always come true.”
Michael felt a little like gagging. It was too much. Because it seemed to be true for everyone but him.
“Names. They’re very important. Names carry weight, you see. And Finley—that’s an important name.” She emphasized the last two words by pointing an index finger toward Michael. “Amos named this town Finley to help call love home. See? Finley calls love home. But the river, you see, that’s messing it all up. The line between death and life. You understand. I know you do.”
“O—okay.”
“And your song. Yours—”
“No. Really. I’m not a writer. Gary’s the writer. He’s written a song for Natalie and Damien. I’m sure that’s the one you’re thinking of.”
“No, no, no. The river. Your song. Your song.”
He wasn’t getting through to her. Nor did he know how.
“Thank you for this,” he said honestly, raising his glass. “I appreciate it. Gary’ll be here with the equipment soon. For our soundcheck. We’ll run through his song then.”
“No,” she insisted. “You. Yours.”
Hannah was suddenly grabbing onto Mary’s hand, dragging her toward the house.
It was his chance. Michael smiled again and retreated, farther from the crowd that continued to swarm behind Mary’s back door.
He found a nice tall patch of Queen Anne’s lace, plopped down cross-legged in the middle of it. He liked that the wildflowers were the perfect height to cover his face. He could disappear for a minute, sip his iced tea, and not even have to look at anyone buzzing about Mary’s property.
The wildflowers rustled, and a body plopped down next to Michael. He sighed. It was Cody.
“Hey,” Cody said. “I thought we gave up playing hide-and-seek years ago.”
Again, Michael took a drink of the tea to keep from answering. He wasn’t in the mood for joking.
Cody straightened up, waving at someone who was apparently far closer to Mary’s house than they were to this wildflower-laced field where the two of them sat.
Michael straightened up too, just as Cody’s live-in partner, Steven, waved back.
Michael couldn’t help resenting Cody at that moment—another Finley resident who had it all (love and his own construction company to boot). Michael felt like the lone guy at the high school reunion that no one had much use for—bald and overweight, no career or family to brag about.
He took another sip, hating his woebegone attitude. What was wrong with him? Life was good, actually. He had Ashley. He had a job. No—more than just a job. One day, he would own the business. That was all good. But was it rewarding? Was it…Michael glanced to the side, at Cody, and a word popped into his head: authentic. That was the word everyone liked to throw around these days, wasn’t it? Was Michael leading an authentic life? He wanted to ask Cody a hundred questions—he wanted to ask how he’d felt when he’d taken a girl to their senior prom. He wanted to ask when he’d known what he really wanted—if it had hit him like the proverbial lightning bolt, or if it had been more like a slow simmer of unhappiness. Just like the one that Michael was carrying around. And once Cody knew—did he feel like he was living an outright lie? He wanted to ask if pretending that he was straight had always felt like a loose tooth that finally he just had to pull. He wanted Cody to describe his relief when he’d admitted, finally, that everyone’s assumptions were wrong. Surely there was relief. There had to be.
Would Michael be relieved to get rid of this silly limping-along music dream? If he tied a string around it and slammed the door? How was he supposed to do anything with music in Finley? Other than play in his mother’s shop? Other than wonder, every single time his finger pressed one of the strings, what could have been?
He needed to pull it. Music. He would do the fundraiser as promised, but not the wedding. Not that Natalie had even asked. But if she did—if she wante
d him and Gary to play her reception…Gary would be fine without him. He could do the wedding solo. Or find another player to accompany him.
Michael would be of better use drawing hearts in steamed milk. Wouldn’t he?
“Did you finally come up with a total? Know how much it’s going to cost?” Michael asked, mostly because he just needed to say something. Anything.
Cody took a deep breath. Nodded. Then exhaled finally and whispered, “I love this town.”
Michael felt like giving him a black eye to rival the shiner Cody had given him when they were boys. It seemed a thoughtless thing to say, frankly. Didn’t he remember how much he’d loved his music? Finley had been a wishing well of sorts for everyone else: they’d all squeezed their eyes shut and wish I may, wish I might, just by being here—in Finley—their dreams had come true.
Michael was here; and yet, he’d just decided he was going to pull his dream—yank it out. Get rid of it, the thing that had as much use to him now as an old baby tooth. All it’s doing is hurting you.
“Hey,” Cody said, “would you lend a hand when we paint the exterior?”
Michael shrugged, nodded an agreement.
Cody slapped his shoulder. “Knew I could count on you.”
It would feel good get out of his own head for a little while. But help would only be a fleeting good feeling. And then what?
A car coughed to a stop nearby. Between the stalks of Queen Anne’s lace, Michael watched as Gary pulled himself from the driver’s seat of his old Civic, his smile brighter even than his white hair.
They set up the equipment and together, they began to play the song that Gary had personally written for the fundraiser. Everyone stopped talking, grew closer, choked-up expressions on their faces. Gary’s song had moved them.
In the distance, a desperate little girl called to her sweet cat, begging the creature to come home.
It would take an Amos Hargrove-sized miracle for that to happen.
It would take another Amos miracle for Michael to stop wishing for more in his life.
Forever Finley Page 22
