With its population of less than 6,000 residents, I was certain I had never driven through a small American town as serene and picturesque as Kingston, Tennessee. I couldn’t help but draw contrasts between this bucolic paradise and all the big cities I had traveled to through the years: instead of towering rows of concrete and steel buildings lining the highway for as far as the eye could see, there were majestic tall trees, including pines, birches, dogwoods, and maples; instead of a dull haze of smog lingering grimly overhead, I rolled down my window to take in the clean, crisp mountain air that cleared my mind of all its troubles; instead of a downtown area filled with the cold, banal testaments to commerce and unbridled urban growth, there was a magnificent abundance of rolling hilltops, generously blanketed with an exhilarating array of autumnal colors. The whole of it produced a settling effect on me, as did the smiling, friendly, and inviting faces I saw everywhere I looked.
After driving through the quaint downtown area, I found myself on a road that branched out alongside a narrow channel of the town’s lake. I had passed the public dock to my left before realizing I was driving away from the restaurants; I wanted to find a greasy spoon where I could eat a decent waffle and half a slab of bacon. I was so mesmerized by the scenery that I had briefly forgotten my mission. I turned my rented Ford Taurus around and drove back to the downtown area, where I quickly found what I was looking for.
I’m ashamed to admit that after downing the waffles and bacon, I wasted no time in bedding down my waitress, whose name was Tamara Linhart. It was a careless and reckless act, perpetrated against a very beautiful—but uneducated—young woman. I don’t want to say that Tamara Linhart wasn’t bright or that she lacked core intelligence; it’s just that she wasn’t very well-read. She had a heavy East Tennessee accent so thick that my city-boy ears had trouble fully comprehending what she was saying. When speaking, she used contractions that I didn’t even know existed. Yes, she was a country bumpkin in many ways, but since her father had saved a good bit of his earnings from his years working at the nuclear plant in nearby Oak Ridge, she’d inherited enough money to take proper care of herself. She had outstanding dentition and a crystal-clear complexion. Tamara Linhart was a natural beauty, not requiring one dab of makeup. Her blond hair (I can’t recall if it was a bottle job or not) was a carefully constructed replica of what Dolly Parton was sporting at the time, and her breasts were damn near the same size as Dolly’s, too.
After eating I drove around town until her lunch break at noon. I bought her lunch at McDonald’s—yes, Tamara Linhart just loved the chicken nuggets at the place my father always called “The Gastric Arches”—and then she invited me straight to her house over on Lakeshore Drive.
The sex was unimaginative and hurried. I still remember Tamara Linhart thrusting her hips so violently fast that she made a true minuteman out of me. I came in less than five minutes—and so did she.
I didn’t waste any time getting the hell out of that house. She had humped me so fast and furiously that my condom had slipped loose. That wild ride scared the devil right out of me. It was the first time I’d ever had unprotected sex. I immediately became paranoid that I had impregnated her. When I literally ran out of there, I was one hundred percent certain I had done so. I’m even more ashamed to confess that I left Tamara Linhart’s house without even saying goodbye.
Here’s the sad part: Nine months later I received a phone call at my office in Atlanta. It was from a man who identified himself as Doc Salters. Doc informed me that Tamara Linhart had tragically died during childbirth. The baby girl weighed eight pounds and six ounces. Since her mother had not declared a name for her before labor, the child was now nameless. I asked Doc Salters why he was calling me. How did he know I was the father?
“Mr. Smith,” he said, “I know you are a very busy man, and that you travel all about the world. That’s what Tamara said about you before she passed. The reason I knew whom to call was because nine months ago, in your apparent rush to leave her home, you left behind a gilded business card case.”
Oh shit, I thought. I wondered where I’d lost that damned thing.
I told Doc Salters not to have the baby named until I got there. I drove 100 miles per hour all the way from Atlanta to Kingston. By the grace of God I arrived in one piece just before ten o’clock.
When that beautiful blue-eyed baby was placed in my arms, I cried. I cried out of shame, guilt, and anger with myself. I had never hated myself more at any time in my life than right then. And what I did next was the most terrible thing I’ve ever done.
“This baby’s name is Miranda,” I said to the doctor. “Her legal name will be Miranda Lee Linhart.” I still don’t know why I picked that name. It just sounded nice and it felt right. “But I cannot take care of her. I will provide for her financially for the rest of her life. I will establish a trust fund for her in addition to making substantial monthly child-support payments. But I am not fit to be a parent.”
I informed the doctor that I was a hopeless drunk, a manic-depressive who went largely unmedicated, a drifting and restless wanderer who never knew where he’d wake up the next morning. The doctor, God bless him, tried to tell me that none of that mattered, that I could make the change immediately and become a new man, a proper father to a child who would need him.
But I didn’t listen. My head was spinning in that doctor’s office. A million thoughts were going through my head, and none of them good ones. I was truly a self-loathing human being. I had traveled the entire planet telling people I only had one name: Smith. I’d explained to the particularly nosy people that it didn’t matter what my real name was, that nothing mattered to me except the job I was paid to do, and the fun I would treat myself to after the day was done.
I was a loser, a vagabond who wasn’t worth a damn to anyone.
Before I left, the doctor gave me a copy of Miranda’s birth picture. He said he would contact the proper authorities to find a good home for my daughter. I told Doc Salters that I would hire an attorney who would work very closely with the adoptive parents to ensure that the baby would be taken care of all the way through college and beyond, if necessary.
And then I was gone.
…
I had told Glory this story on Thursday night after she’d gotten off work—it wasn’t appropriate for open air discussion at the library.
“And to this day you still provide for her?” Glory had asked.
“Yes,” I answered, trying my damnedest to hold back my tears. “The darling little baby in the photograph you’re holding works hard to deplete my bank account on a monthly basis, and I’ve never regretted a penny of it. I still love her as if she were my own, though I know I will never see her again.”
“How can you be so sure?” Glory asked. She smiled sadly and placed her hand on my cheek. “Do you still think she’s in Tennessee?”
I took Glory’s hand and kissed it. “I talked to my attorney recently. He knows exactly where she is. But I’ve asked him to keep her hidden from me, inasmuch as anyone in a small town like that can be hidden, if she’s still there. It would never be right for me to interfere in her life. In fact, the other day was the first time I called him about Miranda in five years.”
“Why?” Glory asked. “You’re still her father. Maybe a little inquiry wouldn’t hurt. Maybe her adoptive parents would welcome your appearance. I never told you this, but my sister was adopted. She would kill to know who her real parents are, even though she deeply loves and adores my parents.”
“I did a really terrible thing,” I said. “I just don’t think it would be right to walk back into Miranda’s life and expect to have a place in it.”
Glory shook her head. “No, you won’t know until you ask. If you don’t do it, then I will.”
Glory was a tough cookie, and I knew she wasn’t going to easily budge from her stance. As much as I wanted to disagree with her, I left myself open to the possibility that maybe she was smarter and wiser than I. It was a long shot
to try and connect with Miranda, but a challenge like that would not discourage Glory.
I was most relieved, however, by Glory’s reaction to my confession of being a manic-depressive. Yes, Caitlin had already alerted her to my condition, but still I had feared how she’d react to the real truth. All she said was, “As long as you take care of yourself and keep a vigilant eye on your condition—and as long as you’re honest and open with me about when the swings come—I will never hold it against you. I will hold you in my arms through the worst of it, until the storm passes. Bank on it.”
As I continued playing guitar I smiled, thinking of Glory’s persistence and her good heart. I wouldn’t see her again until tomorrow night. But tonight I would sing and play for Glory, as if she were seated before me. She was my true inspiration. Not just for my guitar playing but for everything else in my life as well.
Before I clicked on my iPod to play the next tune I wanted to strum along with, my cell phone went off: Sidebottom.
“Hey, Sidebottom. What’s up?”
There was a long silence on his end. I thought I heard him sobbing.
“Wally? You there? What’s wrong, buddy? Talk to me.”
“She’s gone, Smith,” he said. “Her son found her body just an hour ago. Sam killed herself. She committed suicide. She’s gone forever, Smith. Gone forever.”
36
“PEOPLE CAN BE SUCH ASSHOLES,” Sidebottom declared as we sat at the bar in 52 Palms following Samantha Fleming’s funeral. He was upset because during the funeral procession we had heard frustrated motorists blare their horns as we passed through the intersections, where traffic had temporarily been halted by the police to allow us unfettered passage.
“I’ll tell ya something,” Sidebottom said. “During that cruise I took last year to The Bahamas, while walking the streets of Nassau, I learned a little something about those kind folks. The only time the drivers there honk is when they want to do something nice for you, like let you go first at a stop sign. Man, here in the States, someone would rather kill you than allow you to roll through a stop sign out of turn. Here, a honk means ‘Fuck you!’ There, though, it means ‘Pass through, my friend.’” He shook his head and took a sip from his Crown and Seven. “I’m so sick of all the hatred in this country. I want to go live in a place like Nassau.”
It had been four days since Samantha’s suicide, and Sidebottom was now in the anger stage of his grief. He’d sat stoically through the funeral service, not shedding a single tear. I had been with him for most of the week. He had cried himself completely dry by Tuesday evening, and I had spent last night at his house as he’d drunk himself into a complete stupor.
I tried to get his mind off of Samantha. “So, how did it go with those girls and the threesome? Tell me.”
He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “You don’t want to know about the threesome. Thank you, though, for attempting to distract me from this tragic mess.”
It was late afternoon and there were only a couple of other people sitting in the bar area. The Thursday night pack of happy hour patrons wouldn’t pile in for a couple of more hours.
“It’s not your fault, what happened,” he said as he turned to me. He was being sincere, and I really appreciated it. Through his grief he’d been sensitive to how this was affecting me.
I smiled and patted him on the back. “Thanks, Wally.” I turned away from him and glanced at the entrance. I was waiting for Glory to come pick me up.
“I’m not just saying that,” he said. “She was fucked up long before I introduced you to her. She’d been emotionally unstable for quite a while. I’m telling you, she was a really good person until her husband killed himself. That whole thing completely changed her. It wouldn’t have been so bad if not for the gambling debts. I swear I want to beat the shit out of someone because of this. But there isn’t anybody, though. It’s now all said and done.”
“What about her son?” I asked. “What happens to him now?”
“He’s presently with his aunt and uncle,” Sidebottom answered. “The kid is just a mess. He’s . . .” His voice trailed off and he glanced away from me. “Smith, I know you’re a manic-depressive. Even though I always sort of knew it, Sam confirmed it for me.” Then he looked back at me quizzically. “Why do people like you attempt suicide so much? What goes on inside your heads?”
“I’ll be honest with you,” I said. “I don’t really know. Sometimes there are these voices in my head. . . . Not voices, really, but more like uncontrollable thoughts. Thoughts that say, ‘Hey man, I’ve had enough of this shit. It hurts in here and I want out of this hell hole of a life. Death can’t be worse than what I’m going through now.’”
“What would you tell Sam’s kid?” Wally asked. “How would you tell him to fight the urge to one day do the same thing to himself?”
“Wally, it just makes me cry to think about the life that is in front of that boy. Kids whose parents commit suicide often repeat the act. My mother killed herself, and to this day I don’t totally know why the hell she did it. And that is what has haunted me every day of my life. Yes, I know she was grieving my father’s death. But dammit, she had me to live for. But instead of focusing on me she just tuned me out and gave up.
“The way I look at it is this: My mother must have been so consumed with grief and painful thoughts that she completely lost her sanity. I mean, she must have totally spaced that she was still responsible for me. When she took her life, I’ve come to think she must have not even known she had a son anymore, that her head was so clouded that she couldn’t see or feel anything other than her own pain.
“And to this day I still carry anger for her. And I’ve always been scared, Wally. I’ve always been scared that one day my head would become filled with suicidal thoughts, thoughts over which I had no control. That’s why I never married. It’s why I never had a family. I didn’t want to have anyone that loved me go through the pain of losing me, just because I lost my head and took my own life. I’ve lived scared like this ever since the day my mother died.
“I loved my mother so much. Dammit to hell, in the past, any time I heard of someone committing suicide, it just roiled me beyond words. It made my blood boil. I always believed suicide was the absolute most selfish, uncaring, and thoughtless act a human could commit. Though I’ve now softened my hardline stance on suicide, I’ll still never do it. No fucking way. I’ll come to the doorsteps of friends like you and cry my eyes out in your arms before I ever draw the blade.”
Wally started crying. He got off his stool and put his arms around me. He said, “I know we haven’t been getting along very well of late, bubba. But any time you need me, I’ll always be here for you. Don’t you ever forget that. Please, not ever.”
“I won’t,” I said. “I love you, brother. I won’t ever run away from you.”
…
We were still there three hours later. I had called Glory and told her I needed more time with Sidebottom, and asked her to come back at seven. It was a quarter till seven now. Sidebottom was deep in his cups, and I was trying like hell to cheer him up.
“What’s going on with the Water Girl?” I asked. Wally loved to gossip. I knew he’d have something on her.
“Well, interesting you should ask,” he said. He smiled a little and tapped on his glass. “I’m now totally convinced that God did intervene on your behalf, my friend. Another miracle happened.”
“What? Tell me.”
He laughed. I was glad I brought up the subject. “Water Girl apparently hooked up with another guy the night you ran out on her and Esmeralda. She went over to the Blue Martini nightclub over at the mall. One of my crew—the pickup artist crew—sarged her and had her in bed within an hour. Don’t ask why I wasn’t able to sarge her myself. Anyway, three days later, he’s at the doctor getting treated for VD or something. He swore he could have only picked it up from Water Girl. He was diagnosed with something called urethritis. The doc said it was caused by chlamydia. So, basically, he pi
cked up the clap from Water Girl. And how do I know that? Well, it seems she took a few days off from work, and one of her loudmouth friends blabbed it all over Dusty Pond that all wasn’t well with Rachel Draper’s vagina.”
“Damn,” I said. It was a relief to hear that divine intervention had perhaps saved me from a course of antibiotic treatment. “Wally, be careful with your pecker, man. Get it checked out, and always wear the love-glove.”
I then felt someone kissing my neck. I turned around and gave Glory a kiss and a hug. “Thanks for coming, babe.”
She turned to Sidebottom and smiled. “You’re welcome to join us for dinner tonight, Wally. We’ll watch some basketball and chill out for a bit.”
“Thanks, angel face,” he said as he stood. “But I’m going home now. I’m done with drinking and grieving. I’ve got to get back to good. I have to get ready to go back to work. I want to help Vernon out next week to catch up with all the work we couldn’t do because of Sam dying.”
“You’re not driving.” I stood and grabbed his shoulders. “Give me the keys. I’ll drive you home and Glory will follow.”
…
During the drive from Sidebottom’s house I told Glory everything that had happened between me and Samantha. I didn’t leave anything out. I had to be honest about everything, including how I felt about Samantha’s passing.
“It would be hypocritical of me to say I’ll miss her,” I said, “because the last time I saw her I hoped I would never see her again. She had just simply gone too crazy for me to deal with. But I did care about her. I saw the good in her. Despite her harsh view of the world and how terribly cold she could be, I still knew that somewhere inside of her was a very caring and compassionate soul, someone who’d do anything for those she loved and cared about. That’s the part of her that will be sorely missed in this screwed up world.”
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