by Laura Briggs
His fingers reached the end of the song. “Last month.” He glanced up at her with a faint smile as he rested against the guitar. “Every Monday and holidays.
“I forgave them for the same reason they forgave me,” he said. “We both cared, even if we had different ideas about where my life should go.”
Libby snorted. “Naturally,” she said. “If you’re telling me this, there must be a lesson somewhere. Otherwise, you’d still be playing guitar at this moment.”
He shrugged. “Maybe there’s a gift instead. Ever think of that?” His eyes widened with the suggestion before he leaned over his guitar again, strumming the chords to their latest song.
Shoving her glass across the counter, she turned to walk away from the bar.
“Check your room,” he called after her. She resisted the urge to turn around.
She found the Bible on her bed that evening, a cracked leather cover that showed evidence of being read multiple times. Tucked within was a folded piece of sheet music. A song, something spiritual she didn’t recognize from her churchgoing years. When she saw the name written at the top, she understood why.
J. Dillard, she read, the handwriting scribbled beside the title, “His Hand in Mine.” Until now, she had never thought about how Jake must spend his evenings in that little camping trailer while Will was doing his homework. She pictured him hunched over his guitar, softly chording in between making notations on the page, pausing to correct math problems or read over history papers for his son.
She read the music several times, humming the tune softly under her breath. It had been years since Libby had sung a piece with spiritual meaning, since her audience of bar toughs and line dancers wanted something more conducive to romance or dancing.
Don’t be silly about this, Libby. It’s just a song. But when she refolded it, she tucked it in her jacket instead of in the box she usually reserved for sheet music, photos, and other papers. If nothing else, maybe Jake’s offering was a blessing, a little of his positive side rubbing off on her.
That weekend’s show was at the Bull and Bar, a rough joint on the Texas-Oklahoma border. Walls of chicken wire separated the band from the sometimes riled mob of patrons. Libby knew a performer on the circuit who was accidentally drawn into an altercation at the bar and ended up getting stitches in the local hospital.
The Blue Persuasion was popular with the usual crowd, however, so the sight of Libby stepping up to the microphone drew cheers. She could sense the tension and energy, a feeling that sapped her strength rather than built it up. Signs of restlessness drew her eyes and ears, the sound of glass shattering on the floor, drunken laughter in the midst of loud conversations.
“Good evening, folks,” she said. “How are ya’ll tonight?”
The audience gave a loud cheer in response.
“We’re here to give you a couple songs tonight. Maybe more, if you’re in the mood.” Her voice slipped into sultry tones as the band struck up the first strains of “Remind Me,” an old Patty Craye hit. Libby crooned the words to the bluesy guitar chords, trying to find herself in the song even as someone in the darkness shouted an obscene phrase at the performers onstage.
They switched to modern country for the next few songs, playing a few dance hits and chart toppers from the past few months. The most sober bar patrons took to the square floor space portioned off for dancers, even as the noise from some of the most intoxicated listeners grew louder.
Libby remembered a story from another performer, about seeing a drug deal go down behind the building. Taking a deep breath, she forced a smile to her tense face. “We got one here tonight that’s brand new for you guys,” she said. “A little something a friend of mine wrote. I wanna see if the band can follow along with this one...”
It was a departure from the set that had the rest of her band exchanging glances of confusion. She moved closer to the microphone, cupping it softly.
“When I’m all alone, and there’s nobody to hear what I say,” she sang, “there’s a stillness around me, that only your touch can break...” From the corner of her eye, she saw Jake’s body grow still as comprehension dawned on his face. A split second later, his fingers found the guitar strings, picking up the song’s melody behind her voice.
“When it’s over for me, and nothing turned out like I planned...” The next few lines were spiritual, Libby’s brain deftly editing out the reference to God and religious tenderness. “All that saves me is feeling the touch of your hand,” she sang. “Because your hand in mine, leaves me feelin’ so fine...”
The sound of cheering grew loud in the bar, momentarily drowning out the hecklers. Libby’s smile grew more genuine at the sound. “The love that you give me, is all that I hold to this time...”
They were loving it. At the close of the song, she felt the most enthusiasm from this crowd than she had in weeks of performing—a glimmer of hope that dwindled with subsequent songs as the crowd grew restless again.
“Thank you, you’ve been a wonderful audience,” she said at the close of the set. Her ears tried to block out the taunting voice of a heckler, his volume enhanced by liquor.
In the pressure of the crowd, she was more interested in making her escape to the bus than getting a drink. A body jostled against hers, taking hold of her elbow as she tried to yank it away before recognizing the familiar scent of Jake’s aftershave.
“Why did you change it?” There was an edge in his voice that she had never heard before.
“What do you mean?” she asked, as a few patrons squeezed past en route to the bar.
“The song,” he said. “You changed the words, Libby. You changed the meaning.”
“It’s a good song, Jake,” she answered. “Just a little too spiritual for the average bar type, so I modified it a little. I didn’t think you’d care. I thought you’d be flattered.”
He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “I was hoping you’d see it as something other than a random song,” he said. “I wanted you to see—”
“To see what, Jake? That you’re talented? Or that your songs are more ‘special’ than others because God’s in them?” She snorted.
The look in his eyes made her feel ashamed. He brushed past her and disappeared in the crowd.
Momentarily trapped by the wall of people between them, Libby was cut off from following him, even if she wanted to do so.
Instead, she sought consolation at the bar. Despite her better judgment, she joined the Saturday night crowd ordering their drinks, downing her own glass in a few seconds’ time. She motioned for another one as she took advantage of an empty stool.
“Ms. Libby Taylor.” A man joined her, offering her a knowing smile as he spoke her name. “You sounded good tonight. Very good.” As the stool beside her opened up, he sat down.
“And who might you be?” asked Libby, glancing at him with curiosity. The blazer, the baseball cap with the Tennessee team logo. Her spine tingled as she noticed the expense of the briefcase at his side.
He leaned closer to her. “Can we talk somewhere?” he asked. “In private?”
“OK,” she answered, feeling slightly breathless.
“Then let me buy you a drink,” He touched her shoulder, his hand moving to guide her towards a booth near the back of the bar.
Fifteen minutes later, she was curled up alone in the bus, a half-empty bottle cradled against her. Swallow after swallow disappeared down her throat as she washed the loneliness away.
Another crushing disappointment, her dream vanishing like the last rays of sunset when she understood the producer’s meaning. The oily smile on his face as he suggested there was more she could do to improve her career—especially tonight.
Her head swayed slightly as she studied the contents of her bottle. In a moment she would be scrounging for painkillers to take away the edge from her heartache. Even if she had chosen to pray in place of her despairing thoughts, her mind would have found it impossible to wrap itself around the words.
> In her heart, however, there was a longing for something more than the liquor—more than painkillers. Why can’t I just let go, she thought, her fuzzy brain failing to define what was holding her hostage with this pain.
The door to the bus opened, a footstep falling in the hall between the band’s bunks. There was a rap against her half-open door, then a second one before a hand slowly pushed it open.
“Mind if I come in?” he asked, softly.
12
In Libby’s memory, there was no greater moment of shame than the one where Jake found her slumped on the floor of the bus with the bottle. Although her vision and perception were blurred by liquor, she recalled it with crystal clarity now.
The look in his eyes as he stood in the narrow doorway was a mixture of sympathy and sadness.
She knew what she must look like, hair tangled in her sweaty face, eyes red-rimmed against her pale complexion. Liquor splashed down the front of her silk shirt as she crouched between her bed and the wall.
After a moment, he bent down and drew the bottle gently from her hand. “Let me,” he said. He disappeared into the bus’s main room. She heard the sound of his footsteps in the miniature kitchen area, the sound of liquid pouring into a mug. Then the splashing sound of the bottle’s contents chugging down the sink drain.
He pressed a warm mug into her hand. “Drink some of this,” he said. “It’ll help.” He crouched beside her, coaxing her to drink. She took a swallow, grimacing at the taste of black coffee made strong by hours in a carafe.
“Where’s your son?” she asked. Her voice was thick, words slurring over the rim of the cup.
“He’s safe,” Jake answered, his hands steadying her as she swayed to the side. “Bob’s looking after him for a while. He was staying here anyway, calling his family tonight.” Reaching down, he pulled the damp strands of hair back from her face.
“You don’t have to do that,” Libby said, drawing away from his touch. “I’m fine. I take care of myself.” She tried to struggle up, hand grasping the bed for balance.
Jake slipped one hand beneath her elbow and helped her, his other hand steadying the coffee cup she held.
“Just keep drinking this,” he said, sitting next to her. “In a couple of hours, you’ll feel a lot better.” He drew her against him, letting her wobbling frame rest against his strength. Her head sagged onto his shoulder like a lead weight.
“Did you ever do something like this?” she asked him, certain she knew the answer. She felt his arms holding her in a gentle cradle.
“No,” he answered. “But I saw a couple of band mates through nights like this. When the pressures of the road were too much, it was the only thing they had to fall back on.”
A hoarse chuckle emerged from her throat. “But you didn’t feel the same pressures, huh?”
His face tightened. “I did,” he answered. “But I handled them differently. I had something else to keep me going.” Something in his voice told her he was thinking about his past, probably his wife’s death. She was sorry for the remark, now that it was too late to take it back.
“After I lost my wife, it was different,” he said. “For a while, my faith…it was a pretty thin thread, let’s say. I almost lost it, giving up the music. Trying to help Will through it was the worst part.”
“But you still had your faith.” A faint trace of sarcasm returned to her voice. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jake’s lips twitch into a smile.
“Somehow I figured you would say that. You make it sound like your faith got up and walked away by itself, Libby. I think you don’t give yourself enough credit for helping it out the door.”
“Thanks for the blame,” she mumbled. She felt his fingers reach up to tuck her hair aside, stroking the damp skin on her cheek.
“I’m not blaming you,” he answered. “I just want you to see that it’s your choice. You could welcome it back anytime. I’m not saying it would be easy, but it’s there. Waiting for you.” His eyes were looking into her own, a smile softening the pain in their depths.
Tears gathered beneath her eyes, spilling past the red rims and onto her cheeks. “Stop saying things like that,” she said. “I don’t need you to convert me to anything. I’m…I’m all right the way I am.” Her hand wiped her cheeks clumsily, trying to erase the proof of her emotions.
“Someday you’ll change your mind,” he said. “I’ve seen it before, Libby. The way people reach the bottom in their lives out here on the road. Sometimes I think...” he trailed off for a moment, gazing off in the distance. “Before my wife died, we talked about a ministry for musicians. We wanted to find a way to reach them, help them keep their faith alive in temptation. Maybe find a future when the crowds and music start slipping away.” He leaned back against the wall, gently shifting Libby onto her side as he drew a blanket over her.
“That’s when musicians just shrivel up,” Libby said, her eyes closing. “Can’t do anything about that, Jake. Part of the business.”
He touched her shoulder, a tender gesture that reminded her of her father’s hand. “But it doesn’t have to be,” he answered. “That’s what I’d like to change.”
Her eyelids fluttered briefly as she drifted off to sleep. When they opened again, she could tell time had passed. A faint square of sunlight came from her lone window, a sense of the morning’s energy despite the silence on the empty bus.
She sat up slowly, the blanket sliding down her shoulders. Her head felt heavy like a bowling ball. There was a rancid taste in her mouth from the coffee and liquor the night before.
A sound from behind made her turn her head. Jake was still seated on the foot of the bed, asleep as he leaned back against the wall. His mouth was slightly open, the shadow of morning stubble across his face. One brown hand rested on the bedspread, palm upturned to show the musician’s calluses on his skin.
“Jake,” she said. “Jake, wake up.” She nudged him with her hand.
After a moment, he opened his eyes. “Morning,” he said. He drew himself upright, stretching his arms. “How do you feel?”
“Maybe worse,” she answered, although a slight smile appeared. “I guess your coffee cure has its merits.” Her foot touched the coffee mug as she sat up, a brown stain from the last swallow of coffee that escaped when it slipped to the floor. In the mirror, she caught sight of her disheveled hair and rumpled clothes, the usual traces of a hard evening after a concert.
“Why did you stay?” She turned towards Jake. “Why did you even come here at all?” She couldn’t recall him giving a reason for showing up on the bus like this. Unless he had business to talk, he never set foot in the band’s quarters, spending his evenings with Will in their camping trailer.
“I wanted to apologize,” he answered. “For the way I spoke to you over the song earlier. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” He leaned forward to rest his weight on his knees, staring at the floor.
“I’m sorry I changed your song,” she said. “For what it’s worth, I wanted them to hear it. It was good. Even with the spiritual parts still in it.” It was her turn to stare at the floor, rather than meet his eyes with her guilt so visible.
He reached over and touched her hand. “Thanks,” he answered. “I wanted you to like it.” With that, he rose and moved towards the open door to the bus’s bunkrooms. Pausing in the doorway, he glanced back. “I hope you liked the rest of the present, too,” he said, glancing meaningfully at the battered Bible on her dresser. With that, he closed the door behind him.
Despite the fact her head seemed to be filled with rocks, she inched forward on the bed, drawing herself slowly towards the dresser. Her fingers touched the Bible’s worn cover, aware that Jake had touched it countless times. This might have been the copy that saw him through his so-called wild youth on the road, or through the loss of his wife a few years afterwards. Maybe the copy he read to his son when he was first born.
She closed her eyes and imagined those scenarios, stroking the soft leather beneath her
hand. These thoughts were more pleasant than the ones she usually had after a night of drinking, a nightmarish combination of the rowdy crowd and the disappointment for her dreams yet again.
Jake, the father and husband—the side of his life she made him hide, so she wouldn’t have to endure the reminders of her own unhappiness. It was for that reason she drew her hand away from the volume.
****
In the car’s cold interior, Libby drew a trembling breath. If she could change that moment in the bus, she would now. She would open the cover of the book Jake left in her room and read its words. Maybe he was right. The only difference between their lives was somewhere in its pages.
The pain in her chest sharpened with each breath. How bad was the blow to her head? As if it mattered, given the drop in temperature and the fact that no car had passed by to discover her. Unless she could walk, she might be trapped here all night, without a blanket or water or anyone even noticing her car crashed just off the highway.
If she had shown Jake how much she cared, then right now, someone would be concerned for her safety. He would have called the police or gone to search for her. She would have told him the name of her destination before leaving, at least.
If that connection existed between them, perhaps she wouldn’t have been running away this weekend to chase a decision she made twelve years ago.
“I pushed him away so hard,” she whispered. “Why did I always make him go? If just once I had...I had let him know the whole truth. Maybe if I had been vulnerable...” She didn’t finish as her voice became choked off in the darkness. Not that anyone was listening, since the phantom of Alecia seemed to have vanished. There was no one left to listen but herself and God.
If she saw Jake again, she would make an effort to tell him she was sorry. She would go to him in person before she left for Nashville and apologize for having been so cold in the past. For having left him and everyone else behind without a personal goodbye. Even now, she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to tell him the whole truth about this weekend. Some things were beyond friendship. She didn’t permit herself to think past that point.
