Chapter Fifteen. I finish dressing in my borrowed clothes, thinking about the satisfying thwack my palm will make against Dunk’s skull when I get into the hallway

I finish dressing in my borrowed clothes, thinking about the satisfying thwack my palm will make against Dunk’s skull when I get into the hallway. I surprise myself, and probably him, by not smacking him upside his smug, little head. Maybe I am growing as a person. Then again, I let him bait me into following him downstairs to join the weekly music class, so maybe I am just as petty and ridiculous as I have always been.

The scene on the porch is like Romper Room on Red Bull. Three of the children are sitting on the floor, bouncing up and down as if they are suspended by rubber bands. A couple of the teenage supervisors stand chatting amidst the chaos, seemingly oblivious but following the action out of the corners of their eyes. Two more kids are chasing each other around the porch, weaving in and out of the human obstacles. Next to them, a little girl sits combing her Barbie’s hair, giving what appears to be a very serious lecture to her doll on proper hair maintenance. And there is Buck in the middle of it all, perched on an armless rocking chair, watching the scene before him, that beautiful old Martin resting gently across his lap. A couple of other adults I don’t recognize are crowding in at the edges of the porch, and I notice a few more lurking a little farther out in the yard, like they are embarrassed to be here but unwilling to miss anything. I notice, of course, that Kate is nowhere to be found. The disappointment I feel at her absence is as unsurprising to me as having woken up this morning with both a left and a right foot.

Dunk yanks on my shirt sleeve and heads for the center of the porch, plopping himself down dead center of the action. I stay rooted to the floor, just in front of the house’s screen door. He beckons me with a nod of his head and pats a space on the floor beside him, and I will my feet to move. But they don’t.

I feel like an outsider, an intruder of the first order, an interloper with no right to the two square feet of space next to Dunk. I shake my head and sidestep to my left, finding that my legs are willing to obey my commands as long as the direction is away from the group. I lean up against the wall of the house, my arms locked in that familiar place across my chest. I am as inconspicuous as a moose in a ballet recital. Something bumps my leg. It’s Rusty, angling for a head scratch. I give him a little rub, and he settles down on the floor beside me with a contented sigh and begins snoring.

Buck clears his throat, and all attention turns toward him. He flips the guitar upright on his lap, settles his left hand onto the fret board, and begins to play. His first selection is a rousing rendition of “Old MacDonald.”

What have I gotten myself into?

He sings in a rich baritone, each verse in perfect pitch. He is quickly joined by the less than perfect voices of the children and adults gathered around him, but Buck doesn’t seem to mind. Although they sing off-key, they sing—and in some cases, shout—with enthusiasm. I want to be glib and signal how above it all I am with a roll of my eyes or a sigh, but instead my foot betrays me, tapping out its approval in time to the music.

I am pathetic.

“Now, who can tell me what chords I was playing?” Buck asks, his song finished. Eager hands shoot into the air, and a few more eager voices call out a random assortment of answers. The most insistent of those voices is Dunk’s, much to the group’s amusement. He looks around sheepishly once he realizes he has less restraint than the seven-year-old sitting beside him. Buck smiles, though, and congratulates Dunk on being right. Dunk’s embarrassment quickly turns into pride.

“Okay, what shall we sing next?”

A chorus of voices shouts out their opinions, ranging from “Pop Goes the Weasel” to “Freebird.” Finally, Buck settles on one he likes and begins to play again.

And so it goes for the next hour, with Buck playing a song and everyone singing along, followed by Buck asking a series of questions about music and music history. His repertoire extends, thankfully, beyond children’s songs. He is definitely a child of the 60’s, not that anyone seems to mind. I certainly don’t. But Buck also plays a variety of other songs of differing genres, including one song from The Sound of Music that has me doubled over with laughter. By the time he gets around to “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” I am singing along under my breath.

After one last Dylan song, Buck lays the guitar back down on his lap, eyeing the group.

“Time for me to hang up the old pick. Now, who’s going to take over for me?”

Five hands immediately go up, including one belonging to a little boy sitting next to Margie, who is no bigger than the guitar. Buck makes a show of selecting his successor, studying each of the wannabes carefully. Finally, Buck chooses one of the teenage boys, who hoots and pumps his fist with all the exuberance someone his age should have. I worry his enthusiasm might lead to carelessness that could endanger the priceless instrument he is about to play, but I needn’t bother. He takes the proffered guitar with the care and gentleness of a father picking up his newborn daughter for the first time. Clearly, Buck’s music lessons have included teaching respect for the Martin.

“What are you going to play for us, Sam?” Buck asks, leaning back into the rocker.

“Well, sir, I thought I’d play one of my sister’s favorites. If that’s all right?”

“Go ahead, son,” Buck says, patting Sam’s shoulder. “Show us what you’ve got.”

Sam nods and looks to the sky, his silent prayer obvious. He closes his eyes for a moment and lets out a long breath. Then he begins to play.

I can’t name the song right away, although the strum pattern and notes tickle some kind of memory in the basement of my brain. Sam’s playing is nearly perfect. The strings resonate smoothly, each tone crisp and bright.

I know I recognize the song, but I still can’t place it. A concert, maybe? Sam’s voice is different than I expect, higher pitched than his speaking voice yet gravelly and soulful, but still managing to hold a measure of youthful innocence. He sings softly, his voice contrasting beautifully with the lower octaves of the guitar.

I know the tune is right, know Sam is singing on key, know the lyrics as they fall from his mouth. I am definitely remembering a concert of some sort. In college.

Sam plays gently at first, letting the music lead him into a progressively stronger and sharper rhythm. The next line comes, and it acts like a balloon being rubbed against my head, the static electricity causing my mental hairs to stand on end. I am increasingly sure that not only do I know this song, but I need to remember what it is very quickly for some reason I have yet to identify. I glance over at Buck, who similarly seems to be trying to puzzle it out.

I was in college, and a whole bunch of us crammed into my tiny Geo Metro and drove three hours to see this concert. I didn’t really want to go, but I had the biggest crush on this girl who was going, so I offered to drive. Of course, the whole night she was mooning over some guy in her world literature class who had blown her off the night before, so that didn’t go anywhere. And I kind of thought she was being a bit of a bitch…

Oh, wait, I do know this! Cool, that…Uh-oh.

It’s like watching a movie and recognizing the star even though you can’t think of her name or anything else she’s been in, and it nags at you throughout the movie and bothers you long after you’ve finished your popcorn and soda and have had your after-dinner cocktail, until finally you’re in a meeting the next day with several colleagues and your boss, and they’re all in the middle of a conversation when you suddenly yell out, “Helena Bonham Carter!” as it explodes in your head, and you find yourself beaming with pride at everyone around you until you notice the quizzical looks on their faces, and your pride quickly dissolves into horror.

“I’m a—”

“Sam!” Buck and I shout in unison, both of us lunging forward, having recognized the impending train wreck at the same time. Sam freezes mid-strum, his eyes darting back and forth between me and Buck. I, of course, having no idea what to say, just stand there like a deer in the aforementioned train’s headlamps. Buck, thankfully, is as cool as usual.

“That was great, Sam. Good work. Maybe we’ll have you play the song again Saturday night. Late. After the children are asleep?”

Buck puts a little added emphasis on that last bit, which, combined with the interruption, finally gets through to Sam. His cheeks redden, and he quickly hands the guitar back over to Buck. Thankfully, the kids seem to be oblivious to the subtleties of the conversation. The murmuring and muffled laughter among the rest of the group says that if they hadn’t understood before Sam stopped playing the song, they do now.

“You did play it well, Sam,” Buck adds, a mixture of reassurance and relief that Sam won’t be finishing his performance of “Bitch.”

“So, who’s next?”

Several hands wave excitedly in the air. Once again, Buck’s eyes track over the group, glancing at each volunteer in turn. I ease back against the wall, reclaiming my position as head wall-holder-upper, willing my heart back into a steady rhythm.

Dunk is, if possible, even more excited than the last time. He reminds me of one of those boy band groupies just before the inevitable fainting. I chuckle at the image of Dunk in the front row, swooning as the boys on stage, in all their glittery glory, blow kisses to their twenty thousand number-one fans.

“How ’bout you, Taylor?”

All chattering ceases in an instant, and the focus falls on me like I’m Captain von Trapp about to sing “Edelweiss” for the first time. The weight of those stares is enough to punch me through the wall. If it were nighttime, you’d be able to hear crickets chirping from a mile away for all the silence. There is no escape, no place to hide. And Buck knows that, the sneaky little bastard.

“Uh, no. Thanks,” I say shakily, hoping my mildly polite decline will be enough, even though I know better. Buck’s hazel-hued laser beams have me pinned to the wall.

“Do you know how to play?”

Buck’s voice grins at me even as his face does its best impression of the clueless but encouraging grandfather who just wants little Johnny to join in the fun.

Damn it, Buck.

He’s trying to trap me. If I say yes, he can keep pestering me to play. If I say no, I am a big fat liar.

Buck’s eyes twinkle. He is most definitely pleased with himself.

“I used to,” I grind out through clenched teeth. I give him my nastiest glare, which only entertains him further. He damn near breaks his unassuming-old-coot façade by laughing.

“Well, come on then,” he says, holding the guitar out to me. “Don’t be shy.”

He is working me for all I am worth. Blood colors my cheeks, though I’m not sure whether it is more from being supremely pissed off or from being terribly embarrassed.

I take the guitar from Buck’s outstretched hands and proceed to just stand there, staring at it dumbly. A soft chuckle from Buck breaks me out of my stupor. He moves over onto the love seat next to Margie, sliding the little boy onto his lap. I take the hint and settle onto the now open chair. Rusty ambles over and takes up residence at my feet and is quickly snoring again.

The long-faded scent of the mahogany wafts up to my nose, and I breathe it in deeply, knowing full well I have to be imagining it. My fingers find the fret board, and I slide them along the strings, testing their tension. I wrap my right arm over the body, pulling it in so the back bumps against my chest. It feels familiar, comfortable.

I slip the pick out from between the strings and set it down. I’ve never liked picks. They always feel unnatural between my fingers, and they have this annoying habit of flying out of my hand when I play. I always just use the side of my thumb, liking the feel of the strings vibrating against my skin as I strum. I know I can’t unleash the full power or beauty of the Martin by playing this way, but I don’t care. It feels better to me somehow. More personal.

The audience, my audience now, quietly awaits my performance. Butterflies begin fluttering in my stomach. Of course, the fluttering feels more like angry jackhammers, and I’m pretty sure the butterflies are of the Jurassic persuasion, probably the size of Tonka trucks. I’m not really nervous about playing, or even playing for people. I have played in public before, at a little coffee house on the town square near my college, with a girl who loved Ani DiFranco. We did two songs together, and at least five people told us we sounded like the Indigo Girls, which I thought was the coolest thing ever. No, my nerves now are caused by something other than playing in public.

“What are you going to play?”

Dunk’s voice forges across the silence. He looks up at me expectantly, supportively, urging me forward.

I rack my brain trying to remember something I know how to play, or at least something I can fake, and come up empty. I cannot for the life of me remember a single song, let alone the opening notes to one. I half expect people to start shouting out suggestions like they did with Buck, but they don’t. After a minute or two, people start shifting uncomfortably, but still they say nothing.

“It doesn’t have to be anything we know. Just play from your heart.”

Play from my heart?

Sometimes Buck is too cheesy for his own good. I start to give him a look to tell him exactly what I think about his play-from-your-heart philosophy, but stop.

Sonofabitch.

My left hand finds my favorite chord, the G. My friends used to laugh about how all my songs started with a G. It is my home chord, my safe place.

I have written four songs in my life, three of which were so unmemorable I forgot them mere days after having written them and probably couldn’t remember even a single word if I was administered truth serum or put under hypnosis. But as my fingers find their home, there is one song I do remember.

My right hand floats over the strings. My left hand switches chords instinctively. I close my eyes, giving myself over to a melody I haven’t played in a long time. The guitar sings beautifully. I only hope my own voice can match it.

Oh well. In for a penny…

I am surprised at how steady my voice is as I begin to sing. I expected it to be shaky, to fade in and out while I stumbled and stuttered out the lyrics. But the words fall smoothly from my lips as I work my way through the first verse. I keep my eyes closed. I am partly afraid of seeing people writhing on the floor, clutching their ears in agony. Of course, that wouldn’t be the guitar’s fault.

The music leads me, and I allow myself to be led. My lips pass the words without thought, my fingers craft the chords without intention. I am lost to the music, and to the moment. For the first time in a long time, I feel free of the burden of life after the plague.

I wind my way through the chorus and second verse, my voice and my playing growing stronger. I can hear nothing save the music I am creating. It fills my ears and flows through my body. It is like the ocean crashing against my skin, overwhelming every part of me.

As I leave the bridge and enter the third verse, I finally trade the darkness behind my eyelids for the light of the front porch.

I don’t know how long she’s been here, or how much she has heard of my pitiful excuse of a song, but it doesn’t matter. She is here, her eyes upon me, speaking to me, shining for me. There are tears there, yes, but they do not fall. They don’t need to.

It all feels easy, simple…normal. Sitting here, playing this guitar, singing for a bunch of mostly strangers, it feels like the world isn’t a wasteland, like I didn’t watch people die or Washington crumble or spend months struggling to survive as I crawled across America. It feels familiar and surprisingly good. It almost feels like maybe there can be more to life after the end of the world than just surviving it. Maybe it’s not pointless to dream of a future. Maybe I can dare to believe I can love and be loved, here on a tiny farm in the middle of nowhere, with a woman who captivated me from the moment I saw her.

A few weeks ago, or a few days ago, or even a few hours ago, I would have rejected such a notion instinctively, purging the idea that anything could ever be normal again. The world had changed too much. I had changed too much. Everywhere I have been since leaving DC has been steeped in misery. Even the places where I have briefly found refuge along the way, places with people willing to provide food and shelter for a night or two, have been awash in sorrow, steeped in a desperation so palpable it simply mirrored my own. Children cry through the night in those places, their tears falling thick as rain in a summer storm for a world they are barely old enough to remember. Then there are the other places, where people take what they want and want more than you have to give. In those places, places like Pittsburgh, tears only provoke the infliction of more agony.

Until now, my life has been about my journey home. I have given no thought to what happens after I keep my promise to my father, no consideration to what will happen when I have to face the truth of whether they are alive or dead. But things are different now, and I know I want them to be. I must still go home, for myself and for my family, but maybe that does not have to be the end of my story. Maybe it’s time to look beyond Asheville, to what happens after. Here, in this place, I feel safe for the first time in five months, and people who care about me are offering me a place to belong. Sitting here with this guitar in my lap, staring into Kate’s eyes, I allow myself to feel something other than pain or sorrow. I allow myself to care. And for the first time in forever, I dare to allow myself to just be.

Дата добавления: 2015-10-31