The food arrived on large pottery plates, and I remembered a time when I was a child, probably seven or eight years old, and I was caught in a riptide, pulled out to sea as though a rope were tied to my body. Panicked, I scrabbled toward the surface, fought and clawed my way through the water, unable to find air, banging against the sand and shells on the bottom. Then I had remembered—Daddy said that if I ever got caught in a riptide, I was to let the current take me into calmer waters, where I could reach the surface, then swim parallel to shore—away from the pull. I’d stopped fighting, closed my eyes, and let the current carry me to the stiller waters, where I’d burst to the surface to gasp for air and swim—away from the danger. In the few moments of peace out there, I had understood the absolute calm of letting go.
And, here, at the table with these people, I did the same. I wasn’t an observer—but a participant. Soon I would need to swim sideways, but right then I drank my Guinness, bitter and warm, laughed and talked with Jack and his friends. Soon I was past the undertow, floating in their conversation.
I wanted to stay there for a very long time, with Jack’s knee brushing up against mine, his hand touching my arm every time he made a point, his eyes—the very same ones with the gold flecks inside the darker brown—looking at me when he spoke. But it ended. The waitress brought the bill, and Jimmy paid it, not allowing me to pick my purse up from the ground. Before they all stood from the table, I grabbed my camera from my bag.
“Wait, don’t move. Let me get a picture. . . .” I stood and backed away from the table. This was a single slice of time I wouldn’t need a picture to remember, but I wanted one anyway, something to hold. They all scooted together and I held the camera, counted, “one, two, three,” and snapped the image of them at the table surrounded by finished beers and empty plates.
As we walked out of the restaurant, I was floating, free. I excused myself to the bathroom to avoid good-byes and awkward reactions to being in their group when they had other places to go, other things to do that absolutely did not include me. I locked the door behind me and leaned into the mirror. My face was flushed, my eyes bright and wide. My brown hair hung around my face in tangled curls. There was no makeup left on my face. I reached into my purse and swiped some pale pink lip gloss across my mouth. Childish games would now be set aside. It was nice remembering how I enjoyed Jack and Jimmy, how I was once a young girl who lived next door to this energy. But it was now time to return to real life.
When I left the bathroom, Jack still stood at the front doorway of the restaurant, leaning against the door frame, a grin on his face. He didn’t see me until I came up next to him. “Whatcha grinning about?” I asked.
He wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “Finding you in a restaurant in Savannah, Georgia. All the places I’ve been . . . and here you are.”
“Oh...”
“And I thought you promised to find me.” He squeezed me tighter.
I did find you.
“Did I?” I shifted my purse higher on my shoulder.
“Oh, how easily we forget.” He laughed, then pointed to his group standing around a tour bus. “You probably have to get back to work.”
“Work?”
His eyebrows came together. “Thought you said you were here on business.”
“I am . . . I was. I’m . . .”
“Well, if you’re done, you want to hang with us? We have to get to the auditorium and set up, do the sound check and all that. Come on. . . .” He nodded toward the others.
“I don’t know, Jack. I don’t want to interrupt your work, and I need to drive back to Palmetto Pointe.”
Jimmy hollered toward us. “Come on, we’re gonna be late. Come with us, Kara. You’ll love it.”
Jack grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the bus. “Come with us.”
The current took me, and once again I let go and nodded, followed Jack with a rushing sound filling my head like I was underwater. Large block letters ran along the side of the bus:
UNKNOWN SOULS. A Celtic design filled the inner letters and wound its way along the length of the bus.
I had so many questions, but they sank, for now, to the floor and the currents of the sea. I sat back on the nubby cushion of the bus seat and watched, in fascination, this world I didn’t know existed, a world far from my own.
The six of them talked of instruments and lyrics, of lighting and sound, and I was once again an observer. Arguments turned to laughter, and they lightly punched, touched, and handled each other with familiarity.
My face felt stuck in a permanent grin. As the bus approached the auditorium, Jack came next to me and sat down, placed his hand on my knee. This simple action caused much more than a simple response, as everything in me remembered his kiss, his touch.
“You okay? You look a little shell-shocked,” he said.
“This is not a world I’m used to . . . but please don’t make me leave yet,” I said.
He stared directly at me. “It is so damn good to see you.”
I glanced up at a motion above me; Isabelle stood over us, her frown deep. “Jack.”
“Yes?” He lifted his hand from my knee.
“Mark”—she nodded toward the bus driver—“needs you. Something about security at the gate.”
“Coming,” Jack yelled toward Mark, then looked at me. “Just wait here . . . we’ll get you into the concert.”
“That would be great.” I was sure my grin looked goofy next to Isabelle’s sly smile. She sat next to me as Jack walked toward the front of the bus. “Now, how do you know Jack and Jimmy?” She flung one long leg over the other.
“I used to live next door to them a long time ago,” I said.
“And when was the last time you saw them?”
When their father slapped me to the ground, when their mama took them from me, when my heart stopped beating.
“Oh, when they moved away from Palmetto Pointe, back in the late eighties.”
“Hmmm....”
“How do you know them?” My curiosity was more intense than my manners now.
“I’ve lived with them since high school. Been with them ever since.”
I nodded and vaguely wondered what “with them” meant.
The bus came to a stop and Jimmy hollered, “Let’s rock and roll!” And everyone stood up, grabbed a bag or instrument, jumped out of the bus.
I stepped down, and Jack came up beside me. “I need your driver’s license for the security pass.”
“Okay.” I opened my purse and reached for my wallet. In slow motion, the Unknown Souls ticket I’d bought from Ticketmaster fluttered to the wet pavement.
Jack looked down at it, then up at me with the cutest thirteen-year-old grin. “Oh, you’ve already got a seat.”
I closed my eyes, wished whatever current I’d been riding would take me under.
He placed his hand on top of my head, heavy and warm. I opened my eyes and he stared at me. “Business, huh?”
I nodded. “Sort of. I need a band for this golf tournament benefit I’m planning . . . and well, sort of.”
He leaned down and picked up the ticket, handed it to me. “I’ll get you a better seat than this.”
“I’m sure you will.” I slapped both hands over my face, then peeked between my fingers at him.
He bent down and separated my fingers wide so we were eye to eye, as if we were under the roots of our old tree. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
I shrugged. “Embarrassed. But not nearly as much as right now.”
Isabelle hollered from a few yards away, “Let’s go, Jack.”
“Hold on,” he shouted back, but didn’t turn to her. “You still want to go?”
“Absolutely,” I said, feeling fourteen years old and ready to follow him anywhere.
He grinned, put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me toward the back doors of the coliseum.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The chaos inside the building was far greater than anything I’d ever seen
, and it stole my breath, as does a stun ningly beautiful painting or sculpture that you don’t expect to be as exquisite as it is.
I sat in a metal chair on the far side of the stage and watched in amazement. Jack and Jimmy threw a football with the crew while Isabelle and Anna called to them to get their asses back to work. Harry tuned the guitars, and soon Jack walked toward me with an older man. I stood.
“Kara, this is our band manager and security guru, Luke Mulligan. There isn’t a job he hasn’t done—some he can’t even talk about.” He ducked a punch from Luke. “But he’ll make sure you get a good seat and aren’t left to the wolves around here.”
I looked up at the older man: screeching tires, metal grinding. I wanted to cry, but instead a laugh bubbled up. “I do believe I know Mr. Mulligan, and I think I owe you something, sir.”
He laughed, hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets. “Well, well, life does have a funny way about it, don’t it?”
“What?” Jack looked back and forth between us.
“Why did you take off like that?” I asked Luke.
“I just believe that every once in a while everyone deserves a mulligan—you know, like in golf.”
I laughed. “Absolutely, like in golf.”
“And you looked like you could use a mulligan that day more than anyone I’d seen in a very long time. No?”
“Yes, but I don’t need one now, so let me know how much it cost.”
Jack pressed his hand on his chest. “You want to catch me up?”
Luke slapped him on the back. “Can’t stand to be on the outs, can you?”
“Very funny. Story, please.”
“Jack here”—Luke nodded toward him—“loves a good story.”
“This is not a good story,” I said, my hands in the air. “I hit your kind band manager’s truck with my car, and he drove off without letting me give him my contact information. It was a very, very bad day and not a good story in any way whatsoever.” I offered Luke a small curtsy. “Thank you. It was a much-needed mulligan—but I actually got really sick with the flu after that. I’m so sorry, but I can pay you now. Really.” I reached for my purse.
“No.” He held up his hand.
“What were you doing in Palmetto Pointe?” I searched the bottom of my purse for my checkbook.
“The band had a show nearby—at the Historic Festival in Beaufort.” Luke placed his hand on my arm. “Stop looking for money. I won’t let you pay.”
“Oh?” I glanced at Jack, who turned away. “You were in Palmetto Pointe?”
Luke nodded. “Yeah, but just for the day before we headed to Beaufort—great show. You see it?”
“No, I didn’t know. . . .” Trembles ran through my heart, like I’d just been slammed to the floor of the sea after trusting the current. Jack had been in Palmetto Pointe and not called me. Now here I was looking like I’d chased him down in Savannah. I wanted to groan. I didn’t.
“You know,” I said to Luke, “I’m really glad to see you. I was starting to believe you were an angel of some sort.”
“Not an angel.” He lifted his arms. “No wings.”
“No wings.” I smiled.
He tapped my shoulder. “But you look like you could have some buried somewhere. If anyone looks like an angel, it’s you.”
“With a broken wing,” I said and tried to laugh.
“Listen,” Luke said, “I have to get back to set up. Let me know if you need anything at all.”
I nodded, but Luke didn’t see me as he walked off.
Jack gestured toward the back door. “Let’s get out of here for an hour or so before I have to help Jimmy warm up.”
I glanced around. “They won’t be looking for you?”
“Nope, I always sneak off by myself—to get my head together before the show.”
“Well, then surely you don’t need me messing up your quiet time.”
“Do you want to go for a walk or not?” He squeezed my elbow.
I looked over my shoulder, shrugged. If he hadn’t even said hello to me in Palmetto Pointe, would I follow him now?
“Come on.” He lifted his palms up, and then slapped them together in a prayer pose. “Please?”
I fiddled with the latch on my purse, gazed at the floor, then up at him. “All right.”
We strolled in silence along the river, moist air surrounding us after the rain. I slowed down, fell behind him for a minute. “You walk the same,” I said.
“Oh, yeah?” He looked over his shoulder. “Does my arse look the same?”
I threw my head back and laughed. “No, it is much, much larger.”
He reached behind and grabbed me, picked me up, squeezed me with a tickle under my ribs.
“In a good way, in a good way.” I attempted to twist away, laughing.
“I’m sure.” He set me down on the ground.
I stood still for a moment and watched him walk. He turned. “You coming?”
I nodded, wanting to tell him to pick me up again, laugh again . . . kiss me. But of course I didn’t say any of those things. I twisted my diamond ring and smiled.
We reached a bridge over the river and leaned against the rail without speaking, gazing at the water below. The river moved in its furious and unending surge toward the ocean. It didn’t matter who stood and watched this water, who swam in it or fished in it or dumped trash in it, it just kept moving—like time. I could do and do some more, make my to-do list the most important and organized list ever, and time would just flow past me, over me, through me, just like this river. And if I needed any proof of this theory, Jack Sullivan stood next to me as a grown man.
In all my memories of him he had remained the same: just like my photographs always would. But this was no memory, he was flesh and bone. I couldn’t make him into who he was, who we were, any more than I could force the river to flow in the opposite direction.
“I did try and see you in Palmetto Pointe,” he said in a low voice.
“Oh?” I looked up at him.
“Yep, I drove past our old houses.”
“That’s looking for me?” I poked his side.
“Yes, it is. You stood on the front porch with some guy—I’m assuming your fiancé—and I didn’t want to . . . interrupt. I called the next day, after the concert, but whoever answered said you were sick in bed and couldn’t come to the phone. And I just kinda let it go at that. It didn’t seem like the right time to . . . track you down or anything.”
“I got sick the same day I hit Luke. Not in my list of top-ten days.”
Then the silence, which had been comfortable, became awkward and full of unsaid words, until we spoke over each other.
“So, tell me about your fiancé.”
“So, where have you been living—tell me . . .”
I smiled. “Fiancé? His name is Peyton Ellers—he’s a—”
Jack’s laugh interrupted my words. “I know who he is. Wow, that’s great, Kara. When’s the wedding?”
“It’s coming up so fast, end of May. But surely you don’t want to hear about it—my life is boring compared to this.” I swept my hand back toward the coliseum.
“You, old friend, don’t know how to be boring. Okay, when did you last know where I was?”
“It was 1992—September. You wrote from Chicago. That was the last I heard from you. You told me that you’d moved there from Arizona . . . that your mom was doing well, that you . . . missed me.” I spoke too fast. Knowing exactly, to the month, when I’d last heard from him . . . I turned away to hide my rising blush.
“I’m sorry, Kara.”
“For what?”
“Losing touch.”
I waved my hand in the air. “Ah, don’t be. Life moves on, you know? I’m sure you were very busy and so was I. Life moves on....”
“Yeah, you said that.” He grinned and pulled me next to him. “Very philosophical—life moving on and all that.”
“Don’t you dare make fun of me.”
“Well, it
wasn’t because I didn’t wonder how you were. I just got sucked up into the band and moving around and . . . some bad stuff happened with the family.”
“What bad stuff?” My hand automatically lifted, touched my own cheek as though I still felt the slap from his father. “Your dad never found you, did he?”
“No, nothing like that.” He looked up to the sky. “We moved a lot, Kara. Mom just couldn’t find her peace in one place. When we ended up in Chicago, slowly easing our way across the country, she got involved with some . . . bad people, started getting a little more into the drugs until she got arrested one night, and Jimmy and I ended up in foster care for a brief time.”
I instinctually threw my arms around Jack. “No.”
He hugged back and didn’t let go. It felt good, and I stayed against his chest as he finished the story. He was shorter than Peyton, and my head fit right onto the cleft of his chest, comfortable as the words vibrated below my head and filled my ears. I had the thought that this was what babies must feel like when they lay against their parents, the words felt as much as heard. I didn’t even try and move as he told me where he’d been.
“It wasn’t that long in foster care.” He ran his fingers through my hair, pulling apart the rain-induced tangles. “We were there for a month—it’s where we met Isabelle. When Mom finally had her hearing and was released, and we vowed to all pull it together, she took Isabelle also. We packed—again—and headed as far south as we could before we ran out of money. When we hit Houston, Mom got a job at a diner and we finished high school. She was really happy there. She found this group of artists and began to paint again. It was like painting kept her out of trouble. It was when she wasn’t doing her art that life disintegrated. So, although we lived in a crappy apartment over someone’s garage—Jimmy and I in one room, Isabelle in the living room with cardboard doors, and Mom in a cramped room meant to be a walk-in closet—those were some of the better years. And, just like Mom had, Jimmy and I found our outlet—music. I’m sorry you and I lost touch—surviving took all our effort at that time.”
He was silent for a few moments and I thought maybe he wanted me to say something, lift my head from his chest, but then he placed his hand on top of my head and kept it there.
Patti Callahan Henry Page 12
