No Place to Fall

by Jaye Robin Brown

  “Well, what do you want to hear?” I clutch the beer bottle in my hands.

  Basil leans closer. “Sing something hot.”

  Kush snort laughs. Then Devon starts giggling. Pretty soon we’re all laughing and Basil’s taken his hand off of me and is waving it in the air for us to stop. “All right, all right. I get it.” He nudges me. “Sing what you’re good at.”

  “Play ‘Amazing Grace,’” I say.

  Devon pulls his guitar around and hits a chord. His eyelids are hanging low and he’s wearing this goofy sort of half smile. I wonder if I look as stoned as he does.

  He starts strumming the guitar and I pretend I’m in our family pew at my church, Evermore Fundamental. It’s the place I feel safe singing it loud. My voice rises up. I open my mouth and the notes fly to the trees and swoop up and down and around our little party. It’s almost like I can see them up there, glistening with promise. Tiny sound bursts that sparkle and fall. When I finish, everyone is silent. Basil has his eyes shut and he’s smiling.

  Devon strums absently on the guitar.

  Kush stands and stretches out his legs. He pushes his hair back from his face and shakes his head. “Man, that was a downer. That’s seriously what you like to sing?” He runs his hand down the sides of his mouth, and then reaches for a beer.

  Basil puts his hand protectively around my shoulder. “Dude, don’t. That was tight.”

  Kush shakes his head. “Church music. It’s what all these people up here are into. That and country.”

  Blood rushes into my face, and I press my lips to keep from calling him an asshole. I’m about ready to walk on home when Philly calls out from the grill. “One more song and dinner’s ready.”

  Devon nudges Kush’s foot with his own. “So what do you want to hear?”

  “Can you play anything real?”

  Devon hits the opening chords for “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”

  One night last year, we were messing around and came up with a bluegrass version of it. Even Will, who usually never has time for us, joined in on his banjo. It sounded great. For real, great, and I’ve been wanting to play it again like that ever since.

  But tonight Devon plays it regular, and I go ahead and sing, growling out the lines. I’ll show this city boy church music. I’m high enough that I grab someone’s walking stick, turning it into a make-believe microphone. I even swing my beer bottle in my other hand, taking swigs when Devon plays guitar solos.

  When I finish, I bow and let Basil pull me toward him in a hug. “Girl, you ripped that.”

  It’s then that I get a little self-conscious. What do these people see when they see me? A country girl with a twang and no future, or do they see me as someone who really might be able to fly?

  Philly calls us to dinner. His buddies pass out plates and we all fall silent. I eat another one of Will’s brownies and say yes to the second beer Basil hands me.

  Philly’s friends spin tales about the trail. They crack us up with their interpretation of the speed hikers and the crazy hermits that shun the company of others out in the woods.

  Devon starts playing good old James Taylor sing-alongs and even Kush doesn’t complain.

  Basil is next to me again, and I notice he leans in when we laugh, and gives me a little nudge with his arm. It doesn’t feel all that bad.

  “So, Kush?” Devon asks. “You’re from Athens, too?”

  “Atlanta,” Kush says. “The city. Nothing like this place.” The way he rolls his eyes and tilts his head in the vague direction of town puts me off.

  I remember when Devon first moved here from Raleigh. He’d do the same thing. Roll his eyes. Make fun of us. Like if you weren’t from a city, you couldn’t possibly be a worthy human being.

  Philly’s friend, Larry, yawns and starts gathering up the pots and pans, mumbling about an early start and cleaning up. It’s a good break, so I jump up to help.

  “Hey, man,” Basil says to Larry. “We got that. Go on to bed. I’ll leave your things by your pack.” Basil smiles and walks over next to me, piling dishes in his arms.

  What’s the harm? It’s just dishes, after all. Isn’t this why I’m here? To meet new people?

  Basil sings along to the song Devon is playing as we traipse down the skinny track through the woods.

  He slows until I’m walking next to him. “So, Pixie, you ever think of taking off up that trail? Why don’t you come with us?”

  Because I’m barely sixteen, my mama’s a fundamental Baptist, and my daddy has a thirty-aught-six rifle. Though lately, he hasn’t seemed to care too much about what I’m up to.

  What I say is, “Not this year.”

  “Too bad.” He hip-checks me. “Gets sort of lonely out there, when you’re hiking with a couple.”

  Before I know what’s happened, he’s leaned in and kissed me, real quick.

  “Uh, I’ve gotta pee.”

  “That’s not usually the effect I have on girls.” He laughs.

  We reach the stream and I put down the dishes I’m carrying. “No, really. Be back in a sec.”

  From the woods, I can hear him singing and washing dishes. I squat and realize just how buzzed I am and place my hand on a tree trunk to steady myself. What am I doing? I’m acting like Whitney. But what does it matter? They’ll all be down the trail in the morning anyway, and with school starting next week, it’s back to plain old me. I stand and pull my shorts up.

  Basil smiles as I walk back. We wash the remaining dishes while I hum the tune to “Pretty Saro.” It’s my favorite old Appalachian ballad.

  When we’re done, Basil takes my hand and leads me to a grassy spot near the bank. “Will you sing that? For me?” He pulls me to sit next to him. I recognize where this is going and picture my map, with a new thumbtack stuck on Athens, Georgia.

  I take a deep breath and feel the notes resonate in my belly. I close my eyes, then press my hand against the dirt to steady myself, before bringing up the first words.

  “Down in some low valley in some

  lonesome place,

  Where small birds to whistle their

  notes do increase . . .”

  I keep singing with my eyes closed, only catching my breath when I feel Basil’s fingers tickling the skin on the back of my neck.

  When I finish, I open my eyes and he’s there, waiting for me with a kiss. I turn so I’m facing him and put my hand on his shoulder. We kiss for a minute and then he pulls back. “You know, you’re really good.” Basil pushes short wisps of hair behind my ears.

  “Thanks.”

  “No, I mean, like, really good. You should let somebody record you.”

  I shake my head and blush. “No, it’s only for church and hanging out with my friends.”

  Basil moves his hand down to the side of my neck. His expression is earnest. “I’m not punking you, Pixie. I don’t know that much about it, but I’d guess you have near perfect pitch. You ever watch American Idol?”

  I giggle at his suggestion. Singing in front of crowds is my dream—and my biggest fear. But I’ll never get to that level. I’m just a girl who sings at church and around a campfire.

  His eyes focus in on mine, and then he pulls my mouth to his. At first, he’s real gentle.

  But his kisses get more urgent, and he parts my mouth with his tongue.

  He tastes like chocolate and beer. My head buzzes but my tongue meets his, circling and tasting. His lips press harder against mine and I kiss him back.

  I could tell him to stop and head back to the rest of the group. But I don’t.

  A groan escapes his lips and he leans against me, his arms easing me toward the ground.

  I lie back getting lost in the feeling of his mouth on mine.

  His hand eventually works its way under my tank top, unhooking my bra. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “One day, when I see you singing at some amphitheater, I’m going to remember this night, my brush with fame.” He kisses down my stomach.

  I gasp as every f
eeling in my body settles between my legs. I’d come prepared for something like this. Devon and I’d planned all summer about what it’d be like to hook up for real—the ultimate hookup. It’d been easy to get a condom. All I had to do was rummage deep in the glove box of Daddy’s truck. Tonight could be it. Basil could be the one. Lord knows I wouldn’t let it happen with someone from here. Sevenmile’s gossip train has a loud whistle.

  Basil’s dreads scratch my skin, as he reaches to push down my shorts.

  “Wait.” I put my hands on his arms.

  “No, baby,” he moans.

  I hold his arms tight.

  “Seriously, wait.” I move my hands to his head and lift his face up.

  His eyes meet mine and I guess he sees I’m serious about stopping. “No fucking way.” He groans and rolls off of me. He lies there for a minute before getting up and gathering dishes.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  He shrugs and waves me off.

  As he disappears up the trail, I look through the leaves at the stars.

  American Idol. Now that’d be something.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sunday morning and Mama is yelling at me to hurry up. “We’re gonna be late to church, Amber Delaine!”

  I grab my church skirt and blouse out of the closet and slip them on. Good enough. It’s not like there’s going to be anyone at church to make a fuss for anyway.

  Downstairs, Coby is in his high chair, his bib covered with Cheerios.

  “Hey, buddy, you finished?” I ask him.

  “BerBer.” My nephew grins and waves his chubby fists.

  Mama waddles into the farmhouse’s kitchen and I jump out of the way. Daddy says she’s two ax handles worth of love. That means her rear end is as wide as two ax handles. I hate when he says it, but Mama acts like she doesn’t care.

  You don’t want to get in Mama’s way on church day. “Well, don’t just stand there. Get that baby out of his chair and clean him up.”

  “Where’s Whitney?” I huff as I say it, but I know the answer. Running late because she and Sammy were out till God knows when. But my sister knows better than to skip church, even if it means showing up halfway through the sermon looking like death warmed over.

  I get Coby cleaned up and head out to the yard.

  Fog is settled into the folds of the valley and I hear Daddy walking over from the cow barn. “August fog means . . .”

  “A snowy day this winter,” I say.

  Daddy sheds his coveralls to reveal his Sunday slacks and shirt. I’ve never seen him in a tie, ever. But that doesn’t stop half the women in Sevenmile from noticing him. Coby toddles over and holds up his hands. Daddy obliges, hoisting him onto his hip.

  Daddy looks me over. “Amber, girl, I don’t know why you don’t let your hair grow long. Wear some nice heels. You might be as pretty as Whitney if you did. Might even get yourself a boyfriend.”

  My mind flashes to the hiker barn. Girls don’t need to look like Whitney to get guys to notice them. Basil didn’t seem to care that my hair’s short and I don’t wear fancy clothes. He thought I was interesting. He liked to hear me sing. I roll my knuckles against my thigh and ignore Daddy.

  The porch railing creaks as Mama grabs it and takes the three stairs down to the yard. “You haven’t started that truck yet, Herman?”

  “Hold your britches. I’m going.”

  Daddy cranks the engine while Mama pulls herself up into the passenger seat. I strap Coby into his car seat in the back.

  At church, Pastor Early stands on the front stoop greeting the early parishioners. We are always there first. Mama thinks it will somehow make up for our sins.

  I take Coby to the toddler room in the parish hall and linger. Deana May, the babysitter, goes to my school. Even though she’s right up there with Mama on the devout-o-meter, I’ve always liked her.

  She comes through the door leading the youngest of her five siblings. “Hey, Amber,” she says when she sees me. “You going to sing today?”

  “Hey, Deana May. Yeah, Mrs. Early expects me to. Ready to start junior year?”

  She shrugs and tightens her ponytail. “I guess. I’m in the baby class this fall.”

  I laugh. “You’ll definitely get an A, then.” The baby class is this stupid class where the teacher assigns everybody a robot baby. If you manage not to kill it from neglect or shaken baby syndrome, you get an A. With five younger siblings, it’ll be a cakewalk for Deana May.

  “Hey, did you hear?” Her pretty blue eyes go wide.

  “No, what?”

  “Some new family’s moved in and they have sons. High school age.”

  “Really? Where’d they come from?”

  Deana May leans in because if there’s one thing about her, she loves a good story. “I’m not sure. But the father is a Whitson. My papa knew his father. Said the family moved off for work but now the son is moving back in to reclaim the old property.”

  The hiker barn sits at the edge of the Whitson land. Is that the property she’s talking about?

  The church bell rings and I say good-bye to Deana May before heading inside the sanctuary to our family pew.

  Sammy and Whitney show up late and squeeze in. Sammy lets his legs splay open, so he’s pressing against me. It’s embarrassing, but it used to give me a thrill when he’d notice I was around. He was the ultimate bad boy, a musician, and I was only one degree of separation away, being Whitney’s little sister. But now it’s just annoying. And weird. I scoot closer to Mama, but there’s not a lot of room.

  Pastor Early starts preaching and at first he holds my attention with talk of family and community. But then the slender beam of sunlight illuminating the pulpit’s crimson carpet disappears and he switches gears. Before long I’m tuning him out. Blah, blah, blah, sinner. Blah, blah, blah, darkness. I slink down the wooden pew so my head rests on the back of it.

  Mama hisses at me. “Sit up, girl.”

  Mrs. Early, the preacher’s wife, the choir director, and my high school’s guidance counselor, smiles a sweet-tea smile at me from her place up front and motions for me to stand. She raises her arms and hums the opening notes of “River of Jordan.” As I sing my solo, I don’t think about Pastor Early’s condemnations, or the way that hiker, Kush, curled his lip at me. All I think about are the notes and how they purify me. Make me whole and wash me clean of anything but the sound of my voice.

  “I’m on my way to the River of Jordan,

  Gonna walk right in, in the rushing waters,

  I’m going down to the River of Jordan,

  And let the cool waters cleanse my soul.”

  The folks in our congregation, no more than a hundred, look up and nod when I’m finished. They’re the only audience I’ve ever really had, besides Devon, sometimes his brother, my family, and the hikers this summer.

  Mrs. Early motions for me to sit down on the last note with a smile.

  When I sing, I’m free.

  Sammy decides it’s a good time to drape his arm across the back of the pew and lean over. I smell the strange mix of his wintergreen Skoal and my sister’s sour apple shampoo. “I need to talk to you.”

  I glare at him and put my finger to my lips. “Shhh.”

  Whitney leans forward and stares at us, then latches on to Sammy’s arm.

  I flip open the prayer book and bow my head, praying loud, ignoring the pressure from Sammy’s leg. Mama pats my other leg and whispers, “That’s right, honey, give it all to the Lord.”

  If only it were that simple.

  After church, Sammy follows me to the nursery to get Coby, while Whitney helps Mama set up refreshments in the fellowship hall.

  Before we get there he pulls me into a darkened Sunday school room.

  “Sammy, what are you doing?”

  “Listen.” He pulls the door shut behind him and I look around for a light switch. He takes a step closer. I back up, bumping a wooden chair onto the floor.

  He laughs. “Careful. You might bruise something
.”

  I find the switch and flick it on. “You’re being weird. What do you want?”

  Sammy gathers his hair, still damp from a shower, and flips it onto his back. “Don’t be like that. Aren’t I still your favorite guitar player?”

  “Please, the only place you play anymore is around the console of your Guitar Wars game.” Sammy’s guitar’s been gone for months. Whitney told me they’d pawned it to invest in their “business.”

  Sammy licks his finger, presses it against his forearm, and makes a sizzling sound. “That burned, baby sister.”

  “So? Truth hurts.”

  “But, see, that’s what I have you in here for. I’m thinking of forming a new band. I met a drummer and another dude who plays bass.”

  “Great.” I try to push past him toward the door, but he grabs my arm.

  “Not so fast, I’m not finished.” Sammy pulls me close enough that I feel uncomfortable.

  “Then finish. Coby’s waiting for us.”

  Outside in the hallway, I hear the sound of children’s voices as parents gather them up for Sunday lunch.

  “Please, Sammy, hurry up. What do you want?”

  “I want you to be our backup singer.”

  My head snaps up and I meet his eyes. “What?”

  “You heard me. I know you’ve got a rock singer in there somewhere. Besides, if you’re in on it, then Whitney won’t give me grief.”

  I’m stunned. Two years ago, I would have given the moon for Sammy to ask me to play in his band. But now, he’s a burnout and a drug dealer and there’s no telling who his other so-called band members are. Sure, I want to sing, but with Sammy? He’s got to be kidding.

  “No way.”

  “Aw, come on.”

  “Forget it, Sammy.” I push past him and fling open the door. “Deal with Whitney yourself.”

  As I hurry down the hall, curiosity sneaks around the edges of my thoughts. The first band Sammy played in was pretty good. The old drummer moved to Nashville and picked up session gigs. He isn’t famous, but he’s living a real music life. Maybe this could be the start of something.

  Inside the nursery, Coby’s rolling a truck across the windowsill. He looks up and grins at me. “Ber.”