by Ginger Scott
I hope she sees it that way.
Weary and alone in a house that has done nothing but ever make me feel lonely, I step out to the front lawn that is not so perfect any more. The summer night air is warm, and my limbs are worn from holding my body up and my mind together for the last eight hours, but this grass—it needs to be cut. All the planning in the world, but this one detail was something my father let go by. He probably figured nobody else would mow and edge to his satisfaction.
With sleep begging my eyes, I walk to the side of the house to my parents’ garage where I punch in the code that I only recently realized is my birthday—0316. The door lifts slowly, and my father’s car rests still clean from its last wash, not driven for weeks, only a thin layer of dust covering it. I think about how this will be something my sister will deal with—the lawyer in the family will settle who takes what. I don’t want anything. My father wanted to make sure my mom was taken care of, so I figure everything should go to her.
The red sheen of the lawnmower amuses me, how it matches the shine of his car. Everything always so well cared for—if only he’d given half of the attention he gave material possessions to me. I let the wave of bitterness pass as I roll the mower out to the edge of the driveway, and I unwind the cord to plug it into the socket by the front porch. My father liked the idea of being green. This translates to yard work taking four times as long as it should, though—as I worry about mowing over cords and electrocuting myself.
I flip the switch and the motor begins to hum. I wait for a full minute, listening to and watching for a sign from neighbors on either side or across the street to tell me to stop. It isn’t very loud, so I step forward, pushing the blades over the grass slowly until I look behind me to check for the evidence that my mowing job is doing any good at all. The grass is noticeably shorter, so I turn around and push the other way, winding the cord around my shoulder and elbow as I come close to the house and unwinding as I move away.
I’m halfway through my manic project when I feel the slack of the cord lift from my shoulder and I let go of the handle, letting the mower engine idle off.
She’s beautiful in the moonlight.
“You missed Paul’s tonight,” she says, winding the dirty cord on her own arm.
“You don’t have to do that. It’s going to get your dress dirty,” I say, the weight of my last few hours starting to push down harder.
She keeps rolling the cord, so I let go of my end and give into her. I look out over the half-mown lawn. It looks like a comical mess, zigzagged and burnt in a few spots. I bring my hands up to my forehead and jut my elbows out as I take in the work left to be done.
“Gahhh, I’m really bad at this stuff,” I say, turning in a slow half circle until I feel my girl’s hand on my back. My eyes close, and my cheeks quiver as my mouth falls into a frown.
“I went by your place first. Eli told me. Casey,” she breathes, dropping the cord at my feet by the mower and running her hands around the front of my body, pressing her face to my back from behind. She holds me, and I hold onto her hands for dear life.
“This is so hard, Murphy. It’s so hard,” I say, feeling the wet streaks start to take over my face.
“I know, Case,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”
The neighbor’s door opens, and I hear someone’s voice. Murphy rubs my back and squeezes my shoulders, and as I turn, I watch her walk to meet my parents’ neighbor at the hedge that divides their properties. I bend down and tug the plug for the mower from the wall socket, giving up for the night, and begin to wind the cord to put my failed project away until sunlight.
After a few minutes, Murphy shakes hands with the older woman she was speaking with, and she comes back to me.
“Your parents’ neighbor is really nice,” she smiles.
“Oh,” I say, watching the woman step up on her own front stoop and hold up a hand to wave. I do the same as she opens her door and goes back inside. “I’ve never met her. I think she moved in last year some time. When I was a kid, it was this old man who didn’t like me because I kicked my ball in his lawn once. She’s nice though, huh?”
“Her husband said he’d mow the grass for you in the morning,” she says.
I nod.
“I think, maybe, they also thought yard work at midnight was a little…”
“Crazy?” I cut in, wincing.
“A touch,” she says, holding two fingers up to form an inch.
“My dad always kept things so…perfect out here, ya know? I just wanted to see if I could keep that up,” I say, realizing now how impossible that is. This lawn will never again look like it did when my father cared for it.
I walk to the front steps as that realization smacks me hard in the chest, and I sit down quickly, my head dizzy and my stomach sick. Murphy sits next to me and her hand finds mine fast—like magnets. We look out on the quiet street, and my mind plays through the jumbled mess of my day on fast forward—decisions, medications, pain, forms, likelihoods, arguments, sisters, my mom, my father, and me.
Perfection and chaos at war.
“How was Paul’s?” I ask, deciding I’d rather hear about her night than remember mine.
“Good,” she says, her face plain and her expression satisfied enough. I feel that pang of disappointment, because it doesn’t sound like Noah made it after all.
“Was it airplane-hangar good?” I ask, and when her eyes meet mine, they smile even though her lips don’t. She had fun on stage, and that feels good, because it means she doesn’t want to quit.
“I was fucking phenomenal,” she says in a tired raspy voice that sounds as worn out as my own, but still finds the strength to laugh and make me do the same.
“I bet you were,” I say.
I fall away in her grays for as long as she can keep them open out here under the stars. When her breathing begins to change, I lift her in my arms as I stand, and carry her inside to the small pallet of blankets I’ve piled in my father’s den. I stroke her hair and stare at the sheen on each strand from the dim light of the hallway until I don’t remember seeing anything else.
When morning comes, I wake her before madness begins and my father’s in-home nurse wakes to start what will be the beginning of loss for everyone else in this house. My father will officially be pronounced dead today. I lost him years ago.
I never really had him at all.
Chapter 18
Casey
It was harder than I thought it would be. Houston was right.
Everything was so formal—slow and clinical. I signed papers that freed everyone from legal ramifications for following through with my father’s wishes. I stayed in the room while my sisters couldn’t bare to witness and held my mother’s hand while slow beeps turned to long tones and jagged lines became straight and flat.
It’s been almost a week since my father’s spirit left this earth, and I have yet to cry. I’m not sure I believe in spirits anyway. I didn’t think my old man did, but for all of his practicality, the man insisted on a grave. The service was basic—the plan the least expensive I’m sure, but he wanted there to be a place where my mother and sisters could go. Somehow, he knew they would need it. Whether his spirit is there or not doesn’t matter, I guess—it’s about what they believe and need.
He’s been in the ground for twenty-four hours, and I’ve been under this tree—yards away from the fresh dirt and simple marking stone—without sleep for twenty. I left only to take Murphy home. She has been by my side through it all, running errands, making calls, placing announcements in the newspaper, graciously accepting food and help from neighbors I don’t know. I could see the worry in her eyes when I took her back to her home this morning—I haven’t cried. I told her I’m just being strong for my family, that I would let myself feel whatever I needed to when I knew they would be okay.
That time has come.
It’s harder than you think.
My emotions are so mixed when it comes to this man who gave me life. Everythi
ng more confused now that I’m starting to understand his twisted logic, and the fact that his ideas are starting to make sense scares me. I still don’t entirely believe he was right, but I’m beginning to see that his way wasn’t meant to be cruel.
I talked about the man a lot with my mom and Houston while he was with us during the week—he’d seen me on the other side of many of my memories, the rebellious and jilted teen who didn’t think his father gave a damn. My mom’s perspective, though—it was a little eye-opening. My father lived a life of selfless decisions, and they weren’t the flashy kind like when wealthy families donate money to institutions or fund scholarships or build a house for the homeless. They were understated—cloaked in a hard exterior easily mistaken for self-righteousness. He gave up everything to make sure she had it all—family, a home, security. He sat up worrying that we were all going to be okay…that I was going to be okay. That revelation, that he worried about me at all, is something I’m still trying to swallow.
My grandfather scarred the man who would become my father with the worst kind of mental poison. He led him to believe that following his heart would kill everything else that was good in his life, that he could only have one dream—a career he loved or a family that was cared for and safe. My father chose the latter—all the way to this very spot on the outskirts of town near a beautiful garden and the Oklahoma state route, a place my mom could easily drive to when she needed to talk.
She’s been sitting there next to his grave ever since he went in. And seeing that—the way she runs her hands along the cold concrete carving of his name, breaks me slowly. The tear is a surprise. I don’t touch it. I don’t pretend it isn’t there, and I let it fall to my lips where I taste its saltiness.
“It isn’t fair,” I whisper, my eyes frozen open on my mother’s form, my lips parted with breath that comes with great labor. The bricks on my chest are invisible, but they are heavy. I want to scream those words—that none of this is fair, what was stolen from him, the relationship I missed out on, the role I was forced to have to take in the end—but my mom can’t handle hearing them. She has her own words in her own head.
My phone buzzes, and I slip it to my leg, expecting to see Houston or one of my sister’s names. When I see the familiar area code from Nashville, I pull in my brow and let the phone ring again. I’m not sure why Noah Jacobs is calling me today, and I’m not sure if I’m in the mood to talk to him. I glance up and watch my mom hold her fingertips to her mouth then press them to the ground, and my eyes sting again. He was her life—even if it wasn’t the kind of life I wished it was. He lived for her.
I answer and think of Murphy.
“Let me guess…you want a second chance to see if my tip was right?” I say, not bothering with hellos. I’m too tired for them. I smile, though, thinking of how good and amazing she is, and the unnatural movement hurts my mouth.
“Your girl never called, Coffield. I was starting to think you were toying with me after all,” he says. I sit up, pulling my legs in and covering my ear from the faint sound of the highway traffic.
“You went to Paul’s,” I say.
“I did,” he confirms.
Why hasn’t she told me? That was a week ago, and she hasn’t said a word.
“I left it in her court, just so you know. You were right about that one; she has it. And the fact that you’re just giving her to me means you know it too and believe in her. That’s why I’m calling, because I thought you should know—I’m in, if she’s willing…in case you want to nudge,” he says.
“She does have it,” I agree, a real smile casts lightly over my face for the first time in days. It hurts a little less, and I think it’s because of her. Why hasn’t she told me though? Why is she pretending? What is she afraid of? My mind races to put puzzle pieces together, to understand why my girl would give up on her dream. I know she wants it—I saw it in her eyes that night on my parents’ porch after she played at Paul’s. She loves this life, this potential life. She’s meant for it.
“Things didn’t work out with John I’m guessing,” Noah leads. I figured he would do his research.
“That was my fault…all of it,” I say.
I should have protected her, made John give her time to think the deal through. Noah’s only response to me is a knowing chuckle. John’s ruthless, and I thought that was just his pathway to success, and it would be fine to travel on it. I never wanted it to derail Murphy though. Or maybe I just didn’t care at first, too blinded by what signing her would mean for me.
“If I had a nickel for every artist he’s screwed over that has come my way,” Noah says.
“Yeah, well…I hear he’s trying to put out a few rap artists, so be ready for those calls soon,” I joke, not completely.
The laughter on the other end comes hard and fast. My guess is Noah’s opinion is the same as mine—John Maxwell should stay in his lane, the one that made him famous. R&B is going to burn him, and if what Murphy told me about the butchered mashup they tried with her song is any indication, he’s not going to survive the fire.
“There’s only one artist that’s fallen through his fingers that I’m interested in, but I don’t deal with people who aren’t serious, Casey. I work hard, and I need my partners to be one hundred percent committed. And I don’t beg. I’ve got too many people waiting in line. If your girl isn’t ready, I don’t want to waste my time. If I don’t hear from her in the next week or so, I’m going to have to pass,” Noah says, the laughter dead. He’s serious about Murphy, and I can’t let her mess this chance up. It could make everything right.
“I’ll see what I can do about that,” I say, and my eyes scan the quiet lawn, my mother and I the only two left here as the sun begins to fall.
“You do that, and maybe we sit down and talk about you again sometime, huh?” he adds. I’m sure it’s only to sweeten the pot, and for a brief moment, the hook is enticing. I’m flattered, and there’s that familiar pull—that selfish one that thinks this could be a ticket. Then I catch my mother’s gaze, her gentle smile sending me a sign she doesn’t realize.
“Thanks for the offer, Noah. It means a lot, but like you said…you don’t want to waste your time, and I think my next move is going to be completely on my own,” I say, and for once, I think I mean it—and the leap? It doesn’t scare me at all. Nothing can be as hard as everything I’ve survived.
* * *
My seed money isn’t much, and I need every penny I can get. That’s the only reason I’m sticking around for three more weeks of making John Maxwell’s club look like the shit. This is all I am to him now—the link to his club’s long-term success. I’ve made it the buzz. I’ve created the ambience. I’ve given him enough hype. I’m done working for him. Leather booths and city lights out the windows are all well and good, but I’m the one who has been making people feel good when they were here.
I haven’t been in to the main studios for a week because of my family, and I know at this point, turning in my badge is really just a formality. They don’t care if I’m there. When Murphy didn’t work out, they wrote me off too, because she was my pet project—an indicator of what I could bring to the table.
John sums her up as trouble, and that’s what he thinks I’m good for.
Fine by me.
I love trouble. Maybe I should have made more of it. I amuse myself with thoughts of causing a little mayhem at his club tonight, but I also know that the amount he’s on tap to pay me for the rest of my gigs is money I can’t laugh away, so I’ll play nice. Besides, when he moves on to someone else hosting his big Friday evenings at the end of the summer, people aren’t going to be talking about this place as much as they’re going to be looking for the next one to find me at. I’m going to make sure of that. For the next three weeks, I’m going to make the people in that club feel like they’ve had orgasms just by standing on my dance floor. I will be the brand they remember. And when I’m no longer there, they’re going to miss me. I sell heroine for the ears of the
twenty-something masses. They will all be addicted if they aren’t already.
I need more gigs of this caliber, and that’s just a simple fact. If I want to move my goals from things on paper stored in a box—to reality—it’s going to take a lot of money. I’m a bit of a jumbled mess, and there are a lot of stars that need to align, but I’m beginning to believe in them. Time is a constant, and I’m willing to wait through it.
Murphy’s career, on the other hand, needs to begin now. I feel it in my gut. I owe her. I can’t let the bad experience she had derail something so perfect. The world would resent me for it if they ever knew what they missed hearing. But I know that means I’m going to have to let her go. And while I may talk a big game in my head, I’m not so sure I can do it when faced with losing the one thing that has felt like future and home.
When she walks in to Max’s, she stands tall, ready to support me and hold me up after what was easily the worst week of my life. One look at her grays, and I vow to do whatever it takes to be fine on my own. I catch glimpses of her smile as she approaches, and my feet itch to go to her and pick her up in my arms. If I do, though, I won’t let go, and I won’t tell her to take this chance. I’ll be selfish.
“Why didn’t you call Noah?” I ask, stopping her mid-step on her way into my booth. Her mouth is hard set and her eyes are on the floor. I had to ask first, before her lips said hello and before I got lost in that feeling I get when she’s near. I had to broach the subject, because Noah has a deadline.
Her brow furrowed, thoughts sorting behind her eyes, she shakes her head, dismissing me. “The timing was bad,” she answers, barely looking up.
