by Ginger Scott
~ Casey Coffield
“It’s stupid, and corny, I know, but…” I stop, running my hands over my face as I stare up at her ceiling. I roll to the side and watch her finger tracing over the purple crayon-written scribbles I wrote six times, still not satisfied in the end that my words were right or enough.
“I love it,” she says, flipping through the pages again from the beginning.
“You can hide it in the cabinet, with the mug,” I joke, and she laughs, but it fades quickly as her head lifts and her eyes find mine.
“That’s how I should have signed your yearbook,” I shrug, reaching forward and grabbing her smallest toe between my fingers and tugging gently. “If I weren’t such a juvenile prickwad, I would have noticed you a lot sooner.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head and moving to her knees, to the front of her small bookcase where she slides her new book in place. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to. You showed up exactly right.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
She rests back on her legs, her palms flat on her thighs, and looks at me, a thick braid of purple over one shoulder and the neck I love to kiss bare on the other side. Her smile is quiet and still, and it lasts for minutes yet seems to constantly change and say something new. She’s the Mona Lisa.
“Do you want to go somewhere with me?” she asks, a glimmer in her eye as if she’s gone back to that girl she was—the innocent one still in high school—and that girl is giving me a chance to see what would have been.
“I’d love to, birthday girl,” I say, letting her stand first and hold her hand out for me.
I wait while she slides her bare feet into a pair of black tennis shoes and reaches for her guitar case. I follow her down the stairs and remain quiet and still in her kitchen while she whispers in her father’s ear. There’s nodding, and a quiet conversation with her mother next, and soon she’s holding her keys and is linking her free arm through mine to guide me out the door.
“It isn’t far,” she smiles.
I don’t ask questions.
She loads her guitar into the back of her car, and I notice the scratch that still mars the side. I’ll fix it for her next week when she’s at school, because I know she can’t be without her car long enough to get it done.
She remains secretive during our short drive that winds through her quiet suburb and along a dark country road until I notice a row of flashing lights flanked by two farm fields. When we pull over and she punches in a code on a gate that looks weak enough to just drive through—even with my car—I sit up and roll down my window.
“Is this…a runway?” I ask, tilting my face to the sky. There aren’t any planes lining up, but this is definitely some sort of runway.
“My dad has a hangar here. It’s where they keep a lot of the crop dusters and the tankers for fire season,” she shouts, finishing the code to the countdown of beeps as the gate slowly slides open. She jogs back to the car and slams the door closed, speeding in and racing to a row of metal buildings away from the lights.
“Your dad’s a pilot?” I ask.
“No,” she smiles, screeching to a stop outside of the last building.
Falling forward, my hands hit the dash and I’m stunned still while she’s already out her door and pulling her guitar from the back. I have an odd sense that we’re about to visit an alien ship or that I’m about to see the time machine her family’s been hiding.
I exit the car and follow her to the door on the side, stepping into the dark space behind her when she gets the door unlocked. She lets it slam closed behind us, and before my eyes adjust, I feel her hand on my cheek and her lips against mine.
“Well, hello there…” I tease, grabbing her ass and squeezing.
She giggles in the dark, and without her touch, I’m lost. I can’t find her.
Seconds later, there’s a loud clatter and lights begin to buzz on. The glow is dim at first, and it takes my eyes a few minutes to adjust, but soon the plane comes into view. It’s red and magnificent, and the propeller at the front looks sharp and well cared for. I’m already afraid of flying, even in seven-forty-sevens, so there’s no way I would step aboard something that, at a quick glance, looks like it runs on rubber bands. But I can appreciate its beauty.
“It was my grandpa’s; he built it himself,” she says, running her hand along a wing as she walks toward me. There isn’t even a single speck of dust to be found.
“It’s something,” I say, taking a small tour around the body of the craft.
“It’s just a replica. My grandfather was a history professor, and he was fascinated by flight. It’s the same kind of plane they flew in the Czech Army Air Force in the late twenties,” she beams. Her hand wraps lovingly around one of the support rods and her head falls against her arm as she looks at me. “My entire family is afraid of flying, so she’s never even been airborne,” she laughs.
I join her and move to the cockpit, looking to her for approval before I step inside.
“Do you fly?” she asks.
I laugh loud, and it echoes against the metal walls.
“I’m not much better than you. I drink heavily when I fly just so I don’t rip the seat arms away with my death grip,” I admit, running my fingers over the small switches and levers that have jobs I don’t understand.
“Good old Jim Beam, huh?” she chuckles.
“Don’t you mean Johnnie Walker,” I tease.
Her head leaned to the side, she holds on to the rod tightly and swings her body underneath the wing until she’s standing next to me.
“If you were a pilot, I’d let you fly me to the moon,” she says.
I stare into her eyes and wait for her to laugh at her line, but she doesn’t—so I leave it alone, too, and lean my head forward against hers. We rest like this for nearly a minute, her hand running over mine along the edge of the cockpit. She traces every knuckle, and my nerves react by sending signals to my heart. The kick is swift, and constant.
“Thank you for showing me this,” I say, finally breaking our silence. “I’m really glad it isn’t a spaceship.”
She gurgles a laugh, and the sound makes me laugh, too.
“My dad comes to clean it once a week. He was here a couple days ago, and I came along to hang out,” she says, holding on to the edge and stretching her body back before finally letting go and urging me to follow.
I climb from the plane, my feet hitting the ground in a loud clap. We both cross back to the other side to a small workbench set up against the wall, and she brings her guitar case up from the ground, unclasping the hinges and pulling her instrument out.
“I would always come here to test out songs, especially when I was still learning,” she smiles shyly, holding one of her picks in her teeth while she plucks her strings and twists the bolts for tuning. Taking the pick in her hand, she strums a few times, making minor adjustments until her ears are satisfied. Her eyes come to me and her smile is crooked.
“Even when I sucked…” she starts.
I interrupt.
“You never sucked,” I say.
Her head tilts to the left and her lips purse.
“I did. Believe me,” she says. “But even then, I sounded good in here.”
She strums a few more chords followed by a soft melody that she picks out. It’s sweet at the heart, but the echo does something special to her tune. She’s right—an old airport hangar off a country back road is the great equalizer.
“Not bad,” I nod, sliding up on the metal table and leaning back until my head rests on the corrugated steel wall.
“Fucking phenomenal,” she winks.
I could watch her in her element for days and never grow tired. Wondering why we’ve come here tonight, I begin to ask, but Murphy holds up a finger, urging me to have patience as she reaches back to her case and pulls out the tattered notebook I’d riffled through that day in the mall. She flips a few pages, clearing her throat when she lands on the one I had hoped for. Her eyes flit to mine, and h
er smile is brief—her nerves alive and evident all over her face. She closes her eyes and begins to work her fingers, letting the melody play out several times while she wills away her demons.
I don’t interrupt. I don’t become a crutch. I do nothing but wait, watching in wonder as her hands do something I could only dream of having mine do. Nearly a minute passes, and I forget that I was ever waiting to hear her sing at all, my soul too invested in all she’s already done, when her lips part and a fucking miracle happens.
Murphy sings her song—the one I like best. It isn’t about me. It isn’t about guys like me. It’s about the girl she was, the one who wanted to break out, but couldn’t—the one whose own tongue betrayed her and tangled her messages and held her hostage when she should have been careless and naïve and young and free.
That tongue is a thief, no matter how much I love it. But it’s powerless now.
I watch her lips and take in every painful wince and twitch of her eyelids until the very end, when she’s completely gone to the other side—fearless and singing in front of only me, singing words so personal they almost look as if they burn on their way out.
I’ve never been more proud of something in my entire life, and I was only the witness.
When her mouth closes and her hands stop, I sit still and don’t make a sound. She brings her guitar flat to her chest, hugging it while her mouth takes on a satisfied form.
I love you, Murphy Sullivan. You are better than me, and I don’t care. You will slay dragons.
I never say a word, and Murphy packs her guitar quietly before I hold the tips of her fingers and let her guide me back out through the pitch-black room. I don’t speak until I know her heart has finally quit racing, her adrenaline has run out, and her ears are ready to accept the truth.
“You are so special,” I say as she starts the car’s engine. She lets her head fall to the side against the seat, and I can tell by her expression she thinks I’m just complimenting her. I’m not—I’m warning her. “Do not—under any circumstances—give that song to anybody who doesn’t deserve it.”
Our eyes lock, and several seconds pass with my words the only thing on both of our minds.
“Okay,” she says, giving herself back to the road, taking us home.
Chapter 16
Murphy
“Oh my god that song is so boring!”
Leave it to a seven-year-old to put me in my place.
It’s free-play. Because I said so. Because my heart does not want to be here in this classroom today. It isn’t fair to the small group of kids left. They get to sign up by the week, and it seems only the most dedicated eight have stuck around to continue moving into Brahms and Beethoven. Well, seven dedicated students—Sasha is still here, and I am totally convinced it’s because her parents have nothing else to do with her.
“You think it’s boring, hmm?” I ask Sasha. The rest of the kids are playing on the keyboards with headphones, and she’s staring at me with her chin against her table.
“Yeah,” she says. “Sorry.”
I laugh out a small breath and look down at my fingers. I was plucking out a melody, but I couldn’t settle on one I liked. It seems I need to keep looking.
“What kind of music do you like?” I ask my worst student ever.
“Rock!” she shouts, her voice loud enough that two or three others hear her and pull their headphones from their ears.
“Rock, yeah?” I nod. She smiles big. “Well, this class is about the classics, but maybe…if you’re lucky…I’ll surprise you with a little something tomorrow,” I wink.
Sasha perks up, unraveling her headphones and pushing them to her ears with a grin on her face that matches the size of the bubble she blows with her gum she isn’t supposed to have. I let her get away with it, because there are only a few weeks to go, and if she’s chewing, at least she isn’t talking.
When class is over, I rush to my car for my favorite part of the day. I wait for Casey to call, because I’m never quite sure what he’ll be dealing with. His father suffered a stroke the night after my half birthday, which seems incredibly unfair and cruel, but the doctors told Casey and his mother that it was actually common.
Casey was distraught. He rambled through percentages that the doctors gave him, risk factors mixed with medicines that equal likelihoods, talk of another stroke—everything he said seemed entirely uncommon. So did he. My cool, calm, nothing-phases-him boy was drowning in what to do.
I pull on my safety belt and lay the phone in my center console so it’s easy to see and grab. The buzz comes before I leave the lot, so I pull back into a space and rush to answer, pausing when I realize it’s Gomez instead of Casey. My heart rushes for an entirely different reason—I haven’t heard from John Maxwell since the day we recorded, and I haven’t heard a word about my song since Casey played it for me. He’s asked around, but didn’t get any clear answers.
“Hello, this is Murphy,” I answer, squeezing my eyes shut, because I always sound so incredibly unhip with Gomez and John.
“Murph, heyyyyyy,” he says, the word sliding out as if it is longer than one syllable. He sounds high—I’m pretty sure he’s stoned.
“Hey,” I answer back, starting to feel like we might just go round-and-round with this.
“Yeah, hey…so…John wants to get you in. Can you stop by today? We’ve got some exciting stuff to share, and some new ideas he’d like to run by you,” Gomez says.
My pulse is doing triple-time, and I’m suddenly searching around my car for a pen to take notes, even though…I don’t really know what I’d need to write. But a pen…I just need a fucking pen!
“Sure, yeah…uhm…” I’m stuttering. I’m sweating. I find a pen and I pull a receipt from my purse and turn it around and begin drawing circles. This is stupid, but it’s working. “I can be there in an hour. Does that work?”
“Sounds good,” Gomez says, and I hear some laughing behind him along with the clanks of silverware. “Hey…hey, order me one more…” he says to someone in the background, his hand muffling the phone. “You there?”
I don’t answer at first, still listening, still full of adrenaline.
“Murphy? You there?” he repeats.
“Oh…yeah. Sorry,” I say, pen clenched and drawing triangles now.
“Good, so make it two hours. We’re on a business lunch, and John wants to sit in,” he says.
“Okay,” I answer, my mind searching for what question I need to ask next—there are so many. He hangs up before I get the chance.
My hands are shaking and I’m staring at the 1:37 total minutes stamped on my last call when my phone buzzes again in my palm. I shake my head and try to clear my nerves, to temper my excitement in case Casey’s day did not go well.
“Hey,” I answer—that same hey. I hope I don’t sound stoned and disinterested.
“Beautiful girl,” he breathes, and I sink into my seat, suddenly grounded.
“How’s your dad?” I ask.
There’s a deep breath before he responds.
“Good. I guess,” he says. “Nothing new, but he’s having trouble breathing. They have the oxygen going, and his doctor is coming in this afternoon. I called in to work again. I hate missing so much, but I guess…I mean…whatever, right?”
“I’m sure everyone understands,” I say.
“And fuck ’em if they don’t,” he says, and I frown, because for the first time since I’ve known him, he sounds so detached from this thing that used to fill him with fire.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring you down,” he says, and I can tell his chest is tight and he’s trying just for me.
“You didn’t. I’m glad you can talk to me. I’m sorry this has all gotten so…I don’t know…hard, I guess,” I say.
I hear him sigh long and deep on the other end.
“Me, too,” he says. “But hey. I’m okay. Really, Murph. I don’t want you to worry about me.”
“Okay,” I whisper, lying. Not okay.
Not at all. And I worry—a lot.
My teeth saw at my bottom lip while I think about how I could possibly mention my news to him. I’m excited, and that doesn’t feel right, because I also want to help and I feel bad. Casey is the person who got me here, no matter what he says. And I want to have him with me, at least mentally, when I go into that big board room again in two hours.
“Gomez called,” I say. It’s not the greatest transition.
“Oh yeah?” he asks. I can hear him working to sound happy…for me.
“They want me to come in to talk about more,” I say, my thumbnail resting between my teeth.
“Murph, that’s…that’s a really good sign,” he says, genuine pride in his tone.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be. You’re the one they want. You hold the power. The keeper of the chips. The big kahuna,” he chuckles.
“Wow, that’s…like…a whole lot of metaphors,” I smile.
His laugh is soft and breathy on the other side. He sounds tired, and I know he has to work tonight. I miss him. We’ve only been voices to one another all week.
“Do you need me to visit your mom while you’re at the club,” I offer. I know he’ll refuse.
“Thanks, but it’s okay. My sister’s coming in,” he says.
“Which one?”
He chuckles. “All of them, actually. I think they’re going to watch chick flicks with my mom,” he says.
“Sounds nice,” I say.
He pauses for a few seconds. “It does, actually,” he says, and I don’t ask, but I think a part of him likes seeing the women in his life do normal family things that don’t involve banking and dinner-table talk about projects and management.
I want to keep him on the phone with me. I want to carry him into my meeting and have him there just in case, whenever I need. But I know he has a lot in front of him today. So I settle with just hoping I’ll see him later.
“Can I come tonight?” I ask, knowing I’ll show up no matter what.
