Fourteen
G … D seven … G … G … D seven … Max’s acoustic guitar in my lap, bare feet tucked under me, I work through the chords for “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
I woke up before dawn, Holly, and my head immediately filled with worries about you, worries about my family. I knew I wouldn’t get back to sleep without my Tenex, so I decided to practice instead.
G … D seven … G … G … D seven …
Max and Ultimate Steve wake up and leave for work. In the master bedroom, LeighAnn’s alarm clock goes off. I hear her cuss and slap the snooze button.
G … D seven … G … G … D seven …
Alarm. Cuss. Slap.
G … D seven … G … G … D seven …
Alarm. Cuss. Slap.
G … D seven … G … G … D seven …
Alarm. Cuss. Something smacks against the wall. A few minutes later, I hear the shower running.
G … D seven … G … G … D seven …
LeighAnn shuffles down the hall, mostly dressed, no makeup. I look up and smile. “Good morning.”
“You still here?”
“I made coffee.”
LeighAnn nods and disappears into the kitchen.
G … D seven … G … G … D seven …
LeighAnn reappears with a coffee cup. She’s shaking her head. “You’re hitting that G wrong. You have to arch your middle finger more.” Still bleary eyed from not enough sleep, she yanks my finger into position. “There. Now press down as hard as you can.”
I press down past the point where the steel string hurts my fingertip. G … D seven … G … G … D seven …
“Better, better, but look, put your fingers here and here.”
“Ow! Stop!” I jerk away. “Fingers don’t bend like that.”
“Sure they do.” Pressing her left fingertips against her right palm, she bends them so far back it makes me a little queasy. “Just have to stretch the ligaments more.”
“But it hurts.”
“Supposed to hurt at first. You’re not doing it right if it doesn’t hurt.”
“It hurts up in my biceps. How is that even possible?” Shaking cramps out of my fingers, I try again.
“Good. There you go.” She starts putting her earrings in. “So you have any plans today?”
“Me and Tyler are going to look for a woman, an old root-worker who may know something about Holly.”
“Cool.” LeighAnn sips her coffee. I flex my fingers, working out some of the soreness from bending them in strange ways.
The silence starts growing uncomfortable. I try to think of something to crack it. “So, where’d you learn to play music?”
“Muscle Shoals High Marching Band.”
I perk up and grin. “Seriously? Just the regular high school band?”
“Yeah. I played clarinet.”
“I figured it be something more rock ’n’ roll, like Tighty-Whitey and the Banana Hammocks.”
LeighAnn rolls her eyes. “Only Ultimate could come up with something like that. He’s so gross.”
“So how’d you go from clarinet to bass guitar?”
“Well, I was in the marching band, but I really wanted to be in jazz ensemble, right?” She straightens up, eager to tell the story. “But all the clarinet chairs were taken up by seniors, and they always got preference. So I borrowed a friend’s bass, holed up in my room for the summer, and taught myself to play.”
“Awesome. And now you’re a big rock star.”
“Whatever. I’m a bank teller with half a psychology degree.”
“Hey, I’ve see your flyers in the hall. You’re doing real shows and stuff.”
“You see the one that says ‘Stradivarius’?”
“Okay, but still, you’re doing something you love, right? And it’s something nobody else ever could. I mean, even if somebody else played the same song, it could never sound exactly like how you play it.” I’m remembering what your pa-paw told me.
“Yeah. I suppose.”
“No, it’s true. Before Holly died, I never really thought about how much dies with somebody. I mean, I’ll never hear Holly play again. Or how she laughed or anything. It’s hard … thinking about all the stuff that’s gone.”
LeighAnn nods but doesn’t say anything else. I think maybe I’ve gotten too personal. As the silence around us hardens again, she says, “You know, I heard Holly play. She was really good.”
“Really? When?”
“Tyler brought over a recording of her playing at your church. ‘Everybody Hurts,’ that R.E.M. song, and uh, ‘More to This Life.’ Seriously. She was great.”
“Thanks. That means a lot.” And it does. LeighAnn wouldn’t say it unless she meant it.
LeighAnn finishes getting dressed. Grabbing her makeup to put on in the car, she says, “Hey, be careful looking for that root-worker, okay?”
“I will.” I guess we’re friends now. At least in the sense that LeighAnn doesn’t wish me dead.
“And make sure Tyler’s back here by five thirty. We’ve got to practice for the show tomorrow.”
“Five thirty. We’ll be here.”
She throws the devil’s horn sign as she heads out the door. I try to play some more, but my hand has cramped up so bad I can’t. Instead, I kneel down and pray. I ask God to comfort my family, but I don’t really believe anymore that He’s listening. He’s pulled His hand away from us. He’s left us in the wilderness and won’t even say why.
These days, praying just makes me angrier. So I get back to my feet and go walk the dogs. We go all the way to Tennessee Street this time. Hobbit stops to sniff every tree and crack in the sidewalk. Cookie strains at his leash, always wanting to go faster.
Still waiting for Tyler to find a way to skip school, I move the laundry from the washing machine to the dryer, straighten up the living room, and polish Steve’s drum kit until I can see myself in his cymbals.
When Tyler finally shows up, he has a bag of jelly doughnuts. They make me realize how hungry I am. While I scarf them down, Tyler says, “So, Brooke called me last night.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. She’s started a prayer circle for you. She’s really worried about you.”
I snort. “That’s just her way of gossiping without feeling bad about it.” Everybody in the youth group must know I ran away by now. I bet they’re just loving how I finally snapped. My face burns with embarrassment. I want to scream and yank Brooke’s stupid hair. But that won’t help you, Holly, so I grab Max’s guitar instead. “Come on, let’s go.”
Tyler asks, “You’re taking the guitar?”
“Yeah. You drive, I practice.” Just holding it makes me feel better, just knowing I can make the guitar shout for me.
Decatur is upriver from Florence, far away from the dam and lake. Tyler drives past cotton fields, troops of blackbirds watching us from power lines, and houses clinging to Highway 31 like dew on spider silk. I sit in the passenger seat and play “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
Despite the soreness in my fingers, my hand skims across the strings like a water strider. Holly, can you see? Even with a few buzzing notes, the little tune comes through. The string bites right into the blister on my ring finger and I wince, almost yelp. The song shivers to silence.
“Coming along.” Tyler nods. We cross a bridge into downtown Decatur. Swinging into the library parking lot, Tyler says, “Here we go. They must have a phone book.”
They loan us a phone book, but the only Peake is Peake Landscaping. When Tyler calls the number, a man with a Spanish accent tells him he bought the company from James Peake eleven years ago, and no, he doesn’t know where James is now.
Sighing, Tyler says, “Well, let’s look around. If she was as well-known as you say, maybe somebody remembers her.”