“They’re not all right! The overtones are thinner now, listen.” He keeps tapping the cymbal.
Max says, “Come on, Ultimate, we have to get ‘Cheers’ down tonight.”
Ultimate Steve straightens up, but he’s still not happy. “Spend years getting them sounding just right, years pouring my heart and soul into them, but sure, stick them in the dishwasher. They’ll be fine.”
I decide to make myself scarce during practice, so I take Max’s acoustic out onto the back patio. I try to play, but my hand is cramped into a claw. Instead, I listen to the band and turn the guitar over and over. Its top is blond wood, and the reflection of the plastic skull lights overhead wobbles across its surface.
Of course instruments have mojo. It’s plain as day once you really think. The guitar is just wood and steel wires and empty holes. It’s mostly just air. But you used a guitar to fill people with joy, drop them to their knees as quick as any rifle. Of course instruments are magical, of course they’re more than what you can see and hold.
And of course the river has its own mojo. We’ve felt it before, Holly, swinging out over Swallow’s Nest Bluff. And that winter afternoon when the frozen pines sang in the crisp, clean air. And all those fishing trips in Dad’s boat, the never-still surface of the lake rising and dipping like the chest of sleeping Leviathan. Those waters have a deep, slow, quiet power older than any human soul. We’ve always known that, we just never had a name for it.
I don’t notice the band taking a break until the glass door slides open and LeighAnn steps out, cigarette in hand. She says, “Hey. Doing okay?”
I nod and force a smile. “Steve still mad?”
“Oh, yeah. He’d burn your house down if you weren’t staying here.” She sits on the concrete steps beside me and whistles. Her dogs trot up to get petted. “Don’t worry, though. He’ll get over it.”
“You guys are sounding better tonight.”
She shrugs. “It’s coming together, coming together. Now you’re coming to the show tomorrow, right? Even if we totally bomb—”
“You’re not going to bomb.”
“Even if we bomb, Against the Dawn is amazing. Jessie, the singer, we were in a band together back in college. She pulled Against the Dawn together, like, a year ago after moving down to Atlanta, and they’ve already got a record contract.”
“Wow. That’s cool.”
“Yeah, they’re not huge yet or anything, but if this tour goes well, they really could be. You like … what kind of music do you like, anyway?”
“Contemporary Christian. Mostly Christian rock.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just, ‘Oh, okay. That’s the music you like.’”
“Nuh-uh, that wasn’t an understanding ‘Oh.’ That was a sympathy ‘Oh.’ Like the ‘Oh’ you give somebody after their grandma dies. That ‘Oh’ was dangerously close to an ‘Aw.’”
She’s grinning. “It was just an ‘Oh.’”
“Not all Christian stuff is lame. I mean, some of it is, but there are lots of bands that are really good.”
“I like some of it. I love some old gospel stuff. But Christian music … ” Her gaze floats around the backyard, searching for the right words. “Christian music isn’t really a style of music like rock or the blues. It’s really more of a song theme, like love songs.”
“So?”
“So listening to it all the time, and nothing else, it’s like listening to love songs all the time and nothing else.”
“So? Would that be so horrible?”
“Yes. Because nobody’s in love all the time.”
“So? Maybe we would be in love all the time if we listened to love songs all the time.”
LeighAnn laughs and shakes her head at the same time. “Just so you know, I hated girls like you when I was in high school.”
“Girls like me how?”
“The smiley, sunny Jesus dorks who think that if anything’s wrong in your life, it’s because you aren’t praying hard enough.”
“I don’t think that.”
“Who think life is clear-cut, and if you say it’s not, they decide you’re just on drugs or a sinner.”
“I do not think that! LeighAnn, my best friend drowned and turned into a river ghost. I watched her kill her pa-paw; she almost killed me. You seriously expect me to tell you life is clear-cut?”
“Yeah, well … maybe you’re not that bad. But you can still be pretty obnoxious.”
“Naw, you like me despite yourself. Admit it.”
“I like you despite yourself.”
We both chuckle, then fall quiet. I slide my fingers up and down the guitar strings. It sounds like some creature yawning and stretching itself awake. LeighAnn says, “I got kicked out of church for having blue hair.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’d just broken up with this guy … okay, he cheated on me, and I told him I was ready to forgive him, then he dumped me.”
“Ouch. Sorry.”
“Definitely not my best moment. But anyway, I was angry and, I don’t know, I wanted to be different. So I dyed my hair blue. Then at church, Deacon Andrews—jackass—pulled me aside and said I couldn’t come back until it was a normal color. That just made me even madder, so I just never went back.” She grabs a stick and throws it for Cookie. I get the feeling she’s waiting for me to say something. She’s daring me to say anything.
I want to tell LeighAnn God loves her. That He will leave His flock of ninety-nine sheep to search for the one that has gone astray. When it’s found, He’ll rejoice more of that sheep than the ninety-nine. I want to tell her that more than anything, but I don’t know if I believe that anymore, Holly.
“That wasn’t right of them,” I say, and at least I know it’s the truth. “They shouldn’t have treated you like that.”
“Thanks.”
“So … what’s your favorite gospel song?”
LeighAnn shrugs, flicking her cigarette butt into the yard. “‘Uncloudy Day’ is good. ‘Down by the Riverside.’ My mom loves Dolly Parton, so ‘Coat of Many Colors’ was, like, the first song I ever learned to sing.”
She’s grinning now. I ask, “Think you can teach me one?”
LeighAnn lights another cigarette, letting it bob in the corner of her mouth. She strums the first few chords of “Down by the Riverside,” correcting herself, making sure she’s got it right in her head. Then she says, “All right, so you already know the G chord, so you start off with that. Then D seven, then back to G, then a regular D chord. See how it’s different from D seven? You have to move all your fingers, but see how that D is the only note that changes in the chord?”
Just then, Tyler raps on the sliding glass door and motions for LeighAnn. She hands the guitar back to me. “Back to practice,” she says with a tired sigh.
Alone again, I try to play the new tune. My fingertips start bleeding again, and my knuckles have started to swell. But even though the song is slow and unsteady and full of leaden notes, if I listen close, I can just sense the mojo underneath.
Sixteen
I sleep with my hand wrapped in a hot towel. It’s supposed to ease some of the stiffness, but the aching still wakes me up several times during the night. It doesn’t help that bruises still cover my arm from where you touched me, Holly.
Dawn breaks. After Stratofortress leaves for work, me and Tyler return to the river, waiting for you. Standing inside our circle of chalk and lime, I stuff my hands into my pockets without thinking, then yelp as another blister tears. My finger starts bleeding and oozing clear liquid. I want to wash it off in the lake, but I’m afraid. I can imagine a soft clay hand grabbing my wrist while I do. Instead, I rinse it with a little water from the bottle I brought. I let it bleed on my shirt and keep watch while Tyler plays “The Drowned Forest.”
He
plays the same song, over and over. Sometimes I pray, too, the words scattered through the brambles by the wind. There’s still no swallows, and I don’t see the plants growing like before.
We have to get to the Bandito Burrito early, for a sound check before the gig, so after a while Tyler says, “We might as well go. I don’t think she’s coming today.”
We leave, but we’ll be back tomorrow, Holly. We aren’t giving up. Please, please, you can’t give up on us either.
Tyler is nervous about the show, even though he won’t say it. When we get back to Stratofortress’s house, Against the Dawn’s CD, Rooster, is playing so loud I can hear it before stepping through the front gate. Tyler, Max, and Ultimate Steve are loading gear into the Florence Utilities van. LeighAnn pulls me into the bathroom for my first haircut in weeks.
Sitting on the edge of the tub with a towel around my neck, I say, “Make them wispy, not, like, raggedy-looking.”
“Don’t worry.” LeighAnn’s cigarette flares in one corner of her mouth; smoke jets out her nostrils. She snips at my bangs, hair falling to the pink tile. “This is going to look great. Wispy bangs look so good with a rectangular face like yours.”
“I just don’t want people to think I’m deranged or anything. I mean, it’s bad enough I’ve worn the same shirt for three days.”
“Are you kidding?” LeighAnn snorts. “Going to a show in clothes you’ve worn for days? That’s rock ’n’ roll. You’re just a poser until you’ve crashed on at least a few couches and smell like an old lady’s foot.”
“I don’t smell like—”
“Shh … don’t move.” LeighAnn makes a few more snips, then pulls the towel off my shoulders. “Okay, have a look.”
I look in the mirror. Behind me, LeighAnn purses her lips. “Maybe we should thin them out a tiny—”
“No, they’re perfect. Just like they are. Perfect.” They really are, longish and side-swept.
“Ahhh!” Grabbing my shoulders, LeighAnn shakes me hard. “Your first real rock show! Are you excited?”
“Yes, yes.” I wiggle out of her grip. Part of me is excited, practically straining through my skin to jump around and be loud. Another part of me feels guilty about the first part—enjoying myself while you’re still lost under the water. But I think it’s important to support Stratofortress after they’ve helped me so much.
Brushing stray hairs off my shoulders, LeighAnn says, “Now, all through the show, you’ve just got to be on top of it. Holler, bang on the table, flop around a little. Make it like every song we play is better than sex in a Mustang.”
“Gross.”
“Or holding a bake sale or reading to blind orphans, whatever. But you have to show the rest of the audience how great the band is. If the cute girl thinks they’re great, everybody else will, too.”
“Got it.”
With all the equipment in the van, there’s barely any room left for people. I ride sitting on top of an amp. With the window slid open, I can feel the cool dry air on my face. I can taste the pine trees on the wind. Night presses downtown, squeezing every light into a diamond.
The Bandito Burrito stands in that crummy shopping center near UNA. Greasy yellow light oozes across the parking lot, and the air inside smells like burnt flour, but some college kids survive on their two-dollar vegetarian burritos and nightly gumbo of music acts.
“Jessie! Hey!”
On the little stage, Against the Dawn gobbles enchiladas while doing their sound check. Jessie wears green plaid board shorts and a black T-shirt. Hopping down to give LeighAnn a hug, she says, “Hey, guys. Thanks for coming through for us.”
“No problem. How’s the tour so far?”
“Pretty good. Birmingham was hell, but other than that, pretty good.”
“This is Tyler, our new rhythm guitar. And this is Jane. She ran away from Sesame Street and lives with us now.”
“O … kay. Hey.”
“Hi,” I say.
“So, I’m getting a drink,” LeighAnn says. “But you’re still staying with us, right?”
“Yes. You don’t know what I’d do for a shower right now.”
I follow LeighAnn to the bar, where she spots somebody else she knows. “Landon, you made it! All right, man.” She hugs a curly haired guy with John Lennon glasses. The girl he’s with scowls, but LeighAnn doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
Landon says, “Thanks for emailing me. I couldn’t believe it when you said Jessie already has an album out and everything.”
“I know. Isn’t it awesome?” LeighAnn turns to the waitress and says, “Give me a Naked Pig and Mountain Dew for her.” While she’s catching up with Landon, the waitress opens a bottle of Naked Pig Pale Ale for her, then hands me a fizzing Mountain Dew.
“So what are you up to?” Landon asks.
“Uh … still at the bank.” When she says it, LeighAnn glances everywhere except into Landon’s eyes. You can tell she hates saying that.
“Oh. Well, how’s the band? What is it, Secret Fortress?”
“Stratofortress.”
“Right, right. Well, how’s it going?”
“Okay. We lost our rhythm guitar. We’ve just got a fill-in for tonight.”
“Oh. Where’d Patterson go?”
They talk for a while, then spot more people they know. I see Britney standing by herself and drift over to her. “Hey.”
“Hey.” She gives me a hug. “So you excited?”
“Yeah. Crowd isn’t very big, though.”
“It’s okay for a Thursday gig.” Britney shrugs, surveying the twenty or so people lumped around tables. Most of them are probably just here to eat and really don’t care about the band. But Max explained it to me earlier. Against the Dawn is paying for this tour out of their own pockets, so they can’t afford to lie around hotel rooms in between big weekend shows. All week, they’ve been playing in little restaurants and coffee shops, scrambling to get enough gas money to make it to St. Louis tomorrow for the LouFest music festival.
Me and Britney find a table near the stage. The waitress comes by, and Britney orders the sweet potato burrito; I nurse my Mountain Dew. We both cheer as Max adjusts the microphone.
“Um, hey. We’re Stratofortress.” The mike turns his voice into a hollow rasp. A blue piece of paper crinkles in his hand. “So, um, before I get started, the management asked me to tell you that, in accordance with the Alabama Clean Indoor Air Act, smoking is banned in all indoor workplaces including bars and restaurants, excluding designated hotel and motel smoking rooms and limousines under private hire … ” While going over the necessary signage for designated outdoor smoking areas, Max shakes a Winston out of a half-empty pack and lights up. “ … Shall assess a civil penalty not to exceed fifty dollars for the first violation, not to exceed one hundred dollars for the second violation, and not to exceed two hundred dollars for each subsequent violation.” Stuffing the paper into his shirt pocket and swinging his guitar up, he blows a gray curl of smoke into the stage lights. “But, you know, I won’t tell if you don’t.”
That gets a few laughs from the guys beside the wall. Then Max starts belting the lyrics for “Molotov in Your Pocket” with just Ultimate’s drums behind him. Then all three guitars come in at the same moment, and purple veins bulge from the sides of Max’s neck. His body jerks hard, side to side. This isn’t the Max I’ve been staying with. It’s not even the Max I’ve watched fuss over songs in practice. This beast couldn’t practice a song any more than I could practice crying or laughing.
Tyler misses a chord. He recovers quickly, though, and if I hadn’t heard the song a million times, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. Then he misses the same chord again, and this time, LeighAnn glances over, annoyed. When the song ends, she walks over and talks to Tyler. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but Tyler nods. Downstage, Max pants into the mike and says, “Okay, this, u
m, this one was inspired by Dr. Phil. I was watching his show once, and he said, ‘Cheers to a new year and another chance to get it right,’ and I thought that was too good a line for Dr. Phil to have, so I stole it.”
They start playing “Cheers.” Before long, the momentum of the song sweeps me along and I stop worrying. As I open my mouth to holler, Tyler messes up again. Then he stops dead, and the other instruments clatter to a stop after him.
Feedback whines as Stratofortress glances at each other, trying to get on cue. “If it was perfect, it wouldn’t be rock ’n’ roll,” Max chuckles as they start up again. But Tyler has that deer-in-headlights look now, and his right hand is stiff against the strings. He loses the song again, and boos rise from the crowd. The table beside the wall starts chanting, “You suck! You suck! You suck!”
This time, Max sets down his guitar and walks offstage. He comes straight for us, and at first I think he’s coming to yell at me. Instead, he grabs Britney’s beer and drinks. “It’s not that bad,” she says weakly, almost drowned out by the chanting.
Max doesn’t answer. He goes back on stage, not looking at Tyler, and when he steps to the microphone, he sounds like nothing’s wrong, like he’s having the time of his life. “Okay, thanks for having us. We’ve got one more for you. This is ‘Catatonic State Marching Band.’”
I wonder why they’re giving up on “Cheers” halfway through, but then I see. They play “Catatonic State” so simple and fast, it would be hard for anybody to notice if Tyler did mess up. He could stop playing altogether and people would barely hear it under Steve’s exploding drums. Still, the “You suck” chant keeps going, underneath the song.
It’s a couple college boys behind us. I turn around and glare at them, and I hate them. I want to throw my drink in their faces. I want to smash the glass against their heads. I know it’s not right, but it would feel so good to hear their smug, stupid chant shatter into shrieks. It would feel good to watch them skitter backward like crabs.
Then a gray-goateed man comes up—he wears a greasy apron across his huge belly. He slaps one bear-paw of a hand on the college boys’ table, says one word, and they shut up. But they’re still snickering, and I still hate them.
The Drowned Forest Page 13
