It’s the smell of rot. It’s fish, leaves, and a million dead things turning to muck. But it’s also the smell of life, isn’t it, Holly? The river breaks dead things down into humus, into raw life-stuff. Before they built the dam, the river would flood its banks every summer, covering the land with the soft black soil that turns our valley green. It’s why the Indians lived along the river and why farmers settled in the holler. It’s why the kudzu vines twist their way up power lines and swallow abandoned houses. It grows so thick, you can hardly keep it cut back.
The river takes dead things and coaxes new life from them. It’s why the Mississippians buried their beloved here, on the banks of immortality. It’s why, every summer at Rivercall, we drown people so they can be reborn into a Christ-centered life. We depend on the water’s power to grow new green shoots from old, sin-rotten wood. Maybe that’s what gives the river its mojo, Holly. Maybe it’s why you didn’t quite die when you drowned.
Squealing laughter behind me makes me turn. Drummer Girl is rolling down the mound, followed by LeighAnn. Jessie and Max ignore them and keep singing. “You’ve slighted me once, you’ve slighted me twice. You’ll never slight me no more … ”
“You’ve caused me to weep, you’ve caused me to mourn, you’ve caused me to leave my home … ” Pouring water into the coffeemaker, I sing softly and sway my hips.
I gave Drummer Girl the couch last night. She’s stretched out, one arm draped over her eyes. Jessie and Kirk lie on the floor. None of them snore. That’s probably a huge advantage if you’re touring with people.
While the coffee is brewing, I lean my elbows on the rough wood table and clasp my hands together. I’ve prayed, a couple minutes at least, every day I’ve been here, even though my mind constantly wanders—like right now. Still, I ask God to comfort my family and to protect Against the Dawn when they head out on the road today. I try to think of things to be thankful for. I try to ignore the part of my brain moaning that God isn’t listening.
Done with that chore, I step outside. Even this ragged neighborhood seems beautiful in the wash of cool, early sunlight. I head to Piggly Wiggly, singing the whole way.
Just me and some stock boys in the store. I walk up and down the aisles, getting bologna, bread, sliced cheese, and the biggest head of lettuce they’ve got. When I step back outside, I have forty-three cents to my name.
Stratofortress and Britney have already shuffled off, red-eyed and hungover, for long days at work. Against the Dawn is still asleep. I make sandwiches, spreading on mayonnaise and mustard from the little packets LeighAnn swipes from restaurants. The lettuce smells good, still faintly like the earth. The bread is soft and supple. It all smells good.
I keep singing, under my breath so I won’t wake anyone up. Somewhere, “In the Pines” turns into “Five Loaves and Two Fishes.”
An alarm chirps in the living room, and I hear mumbling. Kirk comes into the kitchen. “Hey, Sesame Street, you’re already up?”
“Didn’t go to bed.”
“And now you’re making a tower of sandwiches.”
“They’re for you. For the road.”
“Wow, thanks.”
“Your clothes are all folded on the table. I don’t know what belongs to who, so you’ll have to sort it out.”
He looks at them, then looks at me. “Sesame Street, you’re the best groupie ever.”
But they’ve got a gig in St. Louis tonight and need to get moving. Jessie leaves some band stickers on the table, writing a note to LeighAnn on the back of one. While they take turns in the bathroom, I hurry up with the sandwiches. I run out of bologna, so the last three are peanut butter.
When I carry them out in the Piggly Wiggly sack, the band has almost finished loading the 4Runner. Grinning, Drummer Girl takes the sandwiches and hugs me. I hug my way down the line. “Bye. Be careful, okay? The show was great last night, and I’m going to tell everybody to buy your—your—”
My voice cracks. Jessie is skinny the way you were skinny, Holly. When I hug her I feel the points of her shoulder blades, the energy humming through her like a live wire. You might have gone on tour like this too, huh? If you’d lived a few more years? Tears blur my vision. I squeeze Jessie tighter.
“You … you okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. It’s—it’s just—” Now? Weeks of not being able to cry, and I start now? This is so stupid. I’m weirding them out. “Just be careful, okay? And you were great. And go kick butt in St. Louis.”
“Okay. You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.” But I can’t stop crying. My heart is too full, Holly. I have nothing, and all I want to do is give everything—hugs, my spot on the couch, sandwiches. I’d give them the forty-three cents if I thought they’d take it. Instead, I wave as the 4Runner turns at the end of the street and disappears.
Alone in the quiet house, I keep crying while sipping steel-wool coffee. I don’t have any people left to hug, so I head out back and hug Hobbit and Cookie.
“I love you, Hobbit. Yes, I love you too, Cookie, oh yes, oh yes.”
It’s strange, Holly. Last night, before the show, I felt guilty about going. I didn’t think it was right to enjoy myself while you were still lost. I guess maybe it’s the same guilt Jessie felt after drinking that Coke, the shame of being made from weak, craving flesh. But you don’t know what it’s like when your heart’s numb, when you can’t laugh or cry. Carrying that useless lump around in my chest felt a lot more like Hell, like being cast into the outer darkness, than any sin ever has.
Last night, I danced, Holly. I yelled, I sang, I felt my heart beating for the first time in a long time. That’s what I give thanks for today, Holly—my heart isn’t broken all the way. It’s still beating, even when it beats out an aching melody like “In the Pines.”
Seventeen
Stratofortress’s house is empty, and I’m back to practicing “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” A car passes by trailing rap music. A bottle rocket left over from Fourth of July whistles into the sky and explodes.
It’s afternoon when Tyler shows up. I step out on the porch to meet him, and we head to Swallow’s Nest Bluff.
“So, have they said anything?” Tyler asks once we’re on the road.
“Not really. I don’t think … it really wasn’t that bad, you know?” Except it was. Those seconds of silence when he just stopped playing, they seemed to stretch forever.
“They shouldn’t have asked me to play with them. I shouldn’t have said yes. I let them down. I … ” Tyler shakes his head and doesn’t say anything else. At the bluff, we clamber down the slope and draw our protective circle through the tough wild grass. We play music for you and watch the water lap at the stones.
Tyler plays the “The Drowned Forest” over and over, flawlessly, then “Down by the Riverside.” When he stops for a sip of water, I ask, “So why can you play great here, but not last night?”
“Don’t know. I just—I don’t know. I made one mistake, then another, and then I was panicking and just kept making mistakes.”
“Well, it was your first time playing a real gig. It’s not surprising you got nervous.”
“Yeah.” He fidgets with the water-bottle cap. “I thought it’d be like church, but I know everybody at church. I don’t have to win them over, you know?”
“Sure.”
“Same thing with the Banana Hammocks. We mostly just played for friends, mostly just goofed around. Last night was the first gig that really, really mattered, and I blew it. I totally froze up.”
I nod. “Still, I wish you’d stayed last night. It was the most fun I’ve had in a long time, since Holly died.”