Sixteen

I sleep with my hand wrapped in a hot towel. It’s supposed to ease some of the stiffness, but the aching still wakes me up several times during the night. It doesn’t help that bruises still cover my arm from where you touched me, Holly.

Dawn breaks. After Stratofortress leaves for work, me and Tyler return to the river, waiting for you. Standing inside our circle of chalk and lime, I stuff my hands into my pockets without thinking, then yelp as another blister tears. My finger starts bleeding and oozing clear liquid. I want to wash it off in the lake, but I’m afraid. I can imagine a soft clay hand grabbing my wrist while I do. Instead, I rinse it with a little water from the bottle I brought. I let it bleed on my shirt and keep watch while Tyler plays “The Drowned Forest.”

He plays the same song, over and over. Sometimes I pray, too, the words scattered through the brambles by the wind. There’s still no swallows, and I don’t see the plants growing like before.

We have to get to the Bandito Burrito early, for a sound check before the gig, so after a while Tyler says, “We might as well go. I don’t think she’s coming today.”

We leave, but we’ll be back tomorrow, Holly. We aren’t giving up. Please, please, you can’t give up on us either.

Tyler is nervous about the show, even though he won’t say it. When we get back to Stratofortress’s house, Against the Dawn’s CD, Rooster, is playing so loud I can hear it before stepping through the front gate. Tyler, Max, and Ultimate Steve are loading gear into the Florence Utilities van. LeighAnn pulls me into the bathroom for my first haircut in weeks.

Sitting on the edge of the tub with a towel around my neck, I say, “Make them wispy, not, like, raggedy-looking.”

“Don’t worry.” LeighAnn’s cigarette flares in one corner of her mouth; smoke jets out her nostrils. She snips at my bangs, hair falling to the pink tile. “This is going to look great. Wispy bangs look so good with a rectangular face like yours.”

“I just don’t want people to think I’m deranged or anything. I mean, it’s bad enough I’ve worn the same shirt for three days.”

“Are you kidding?” LeighAnn snorts. “Going to a show in clothes you’ve worn for days? That’s rock ’n’ roll. You’re just a poser until you’ve crashed on at least a few couches and smell like an old lady’s foot.”

“I don’t smell like—”

“Shh … don’t move.” LeighAnn makes a few more snips, then pulls the towel off my shoulders. “Okay, have a look.”

I look in the mirror. Behind me, LeighAnn purses her lips. “Maybe we should thin them out a tiny—”

“No, they’re perfect. Just like they are. Perfect.” They really are, longish and side-swept.

“Ahhh!” Grabbing my shoulders, LeighAnn shakes me hard. “Your first real rock show! Are you excited?”

“Yes, yes.” I wiggle out of her grip. Part of me is excited, practically straining through my skin to jump around and be loud. Another part of me feels guilty about the first part—enjoying myself while you’re still lost under the water. But I think it’s important to support Stratofortress after they’ve helped me so much.

Brushing stray hairs off my shoulders, LeighAnn says, “Now, all through the show, you’ve just got to be on top of it. Holler, bang on the table, flop around a little. Make it like every song we play is better than sex in a Mustang.”

“Gross.”

“Or holding a bake sale or reading to blind orphans, whatever. But you have to show the rest of the audience how great the band is. If the cute girl thinks they’re great, everybody else will, too.”

“Got it.”

With all the equipment in the van, there’s barely any room left for people. I ride sitting on top of an amp. With the window slid open, I can feel the cool dry air on my face. I can taste the pine trees on the wind. Night presses downtown, squeezing every light into a diamond.

The Bandito Burrito stands in that crummy shopping center near UNA. Greasy yellow light oozes across the parking lot, and the air inside smells like burnt flour, but some college kids survive on their two-dollar vegetarian burritos and nightly gumbo of music acts.

“Jessie! Hey!”

On the little stage, Against the Dawn gobbles enchiladas while doing their sound check. Jessie wears green plaid board shorts and a black T-shirt. Hopping down to give LeighAnn a hug, she says, “Hey, guys. Thanks for coming through for us.”

“No problem. How’s the tour so far?”

“Pretty good. Birmingham was hell, but other than that, pretty good.”

“This is Tyler, our new rhythm guitar. And this is Jane. She ran away from Sesame Street and lives with us now.”

“O … kay. Hey.”

“Hi,” I say.

“So, I’m getting a drink,” LeighAnn says. “But you’re still staying with us, right?”

“Yes. You don’t know what I’d do for a shower right now.”

I follow LeighAnn to the bar, where she spots somebody else she knows. “Landon, you made it! All right, man.” She hugs a curly haired guy with John Lennon glasses. The girl he’s with scowls, but LeighAnn doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

Landon says, “Thanks for emailing me. I couldn’t believe it when you said Jessie already has an album out and everything.”

“I know. Isn’t it awesome?” LeighAnn turns to the waitress and says, “Give me a Naked Pig and Mountain Dew for her.” While she’s catching up with Landon, the waitress opens a bottle of Naked Pig Pale Ale for her, then hands me a fizzing Mountain Dew.

“So what are you up to?” Landon asks.

“Uh … still at the bank.” When she says it, LeighAnn glances everywhere except into Landon’s eyes. You can tell she hates saying that.

“Oh. Well, how’s the band? What is it, Secret Fortress?”

“Stratofortress.”

“Right, right. Well, how’s it going?”

“Okay. We lost our rhythm guitar. We’ve just got a fill-in for tonight.”

“Oh. Where’d Patterson go?”

They talk for a while, then spot more people they know. I see Britney standing by herself and drift over to her. “Hey.”

“Hey.” She gives me a hug. “So you excited?”

“Yeah. Crowd isn’t very big, though.”

“It’s okay for a Thursday gig.” Britney shrugs, surveying the twenty or so people lumped around tables. Most of them are probably just here to eat and really don’t care about the band. But Max explained it to me earlier. Against the Dawn is paying for this tour out of their own pockets, so they can’t afford to lie around hotel rooms in between big weekend shows. All week, they’ve been playing in little restaurants and coffee shops, scrambling to get enough gas money to make it to St. Louis tomorrow for the LouFest music festival.

Me and Britney find a table near the stage. The waitress comes by, and Britney orders the sweet potato burrito; I nurse my Mountain Dew. We both cheer as Max adjusts the microphone.

“Um, hey. We’re Stratofortress.” The mike turns his voice into a hollow rasp. A blue piece of paper crinkles in his hand. “So, um, before I get started, the management asked me to tell you that, in accordance with the Alabama Clean Indoor Air Act, smoking is banned in all indoor workplaces including bars and restaurants, excluding designated hotel and motel smoking rooms and limousines under private hire … ” While going over the necessary signage for designated outdoor smoking areas, Max shakes a Winston out of a half-empty pack and lights up. “ … Shall assess a civil penalty not to exceed fifty dollars for the first violation, not to exceed one hundred dollars for the second violation, and not to exceed two hundred dollars for each subsequent violation.” Stuffing the paper into his shirt pocket and swinging his guitar up, he blows a gray curl of smoke into the stage lights. “But, you know, I won’t tell if you don’t.”

That gets a few laughs from the guys beside the wall. Then Max starts belting the lyrics for “Molotov in Your Pocket” with just Ultimate’s drums behind him. Then all three guitars come in at the same moment, and purple veins bulge from the sides of Max’s neck. His body jerks hard, side to side. This isn’t the Max I’ve been staying with. It’s not even the Max I’ve watched fuss over songs in practice. This beast couldn’t practice a song any more than I could practice crying or laughing.

Tyler misses a chord. He recovers quickly, though, and if I hadn’t heard the song a million times, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. Then he misses the same chord again, and this time, LeighAnn glances over, annoyed. When the song ends, she walks over and talks to Tyler. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but Tyler nods. Downstage, Max pants into the mike and says, “Okay, this, um, this one was inspired by Dr. Phil. I was watching his show once, and he said, ‘Cheers to a new year and another chance to get it right,’ and I thought that was too good a line for Dr. Phil to have, so I stole it.”

They start playing “Cheers.” Before long, the momentum of the song sweeps me along and I stop worrying. As I open my mouth to holler, Tyler messes up again. Then he stops dead, and the other instruments clatter to a stop after him.

Feedback whines as Stratofortress glances at each other, trying to get on cue. “If it was perfect, it wouldn’t be rock ’n’ roll,” Max chuckles as they start up again. But Tyler has that deer-in-headlights look now, and his right hand is stiff against the strings. He loses the song again, and boos rise from the crowd. The table beside the wall starts chanting, “You suck! You suck! You suck!”

This time, Max sets down his guitar and walks offstage. He comes straight for us, and at first I think he’s coming to yell at me. Instead, he grabs Britney’s beer and drinks. “It’s not that bad,” she says weakly, almost drowned out by the chanting.

Max doesn’t answer. He goes back on stage, not looking at Tyler, and when he steps to the microphone, he sounds like nothing’s wrong, like he’s having the time of his life. “Okay, thanks for having us. We’ve got one more for you. This is ‘Catatonic State Marching Band.’”

I wonder why they’re giving up on “Cheers” halfway through, but then I see. They play “Catatonic State” so simple and fast, it would be hard for anybody to notice if Tyler did mess up. He could stop playing altogether and people would barely hear it under Steve’s exploding drums. Still, the “You suck” chant keeps going, underneath the song.

It’s a couple college boys behind us. I turn around and glare at them, and I hate them. I want to throw my drink in their faces. I want to smash the glass against their heads. I know it’s not right, but it would feel so good to hear their smug, stupid chant shatter into shrieks. It would feel good to watch them skitter backward like crabs.

Then a gray-goateed man comes up—he wears a greasy apron across his huge belly. He slaps one bear-paw of a hand on the college boys’ table, says one word, and they shut up. But they’re still snickering, and I still hate them.

Stratofortress makes it to the end of the song, Max tells people to stick around for Against the Dawn, and they get out of there. Me and Britney cheer as they walk offstage, but everybody else ignores them.

When Steve comes to our table, Britney says, “That was …
you recovered really—”

Steve shakes his head. “Baby, leave it alone.”

“Well, I mean, with ‘Catatonic State,’ I think you really got back—”

“Just leave it alone, okay?” he snaps. Then he hugs her and sighs. “Come on, let’s go sit with Max and LeighAnn.”

I glance back and see them sitting at the shadowy back of the room, already drinking. “Can’t they come up here?”

“No. I don’t want to be up front right now.”

While we move to the back table, Tyler motions to me from near the stage. He has his guitar case in his hand. “I’m gonna go. Do you need anything out of my truck?”

“What? No. Come watch Against the Dawn with us.”

“No, I messed up. I … ” He looks ready to cry. “I’m gonna go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“What? Where you gonna go? Your truck’s back at Stratofortress’s house.”

“I’ll just walk. I have to get out of here.”

“No. Tyler, please. Come watch Against the Dawn with us.”

“No, I messed up. I … they don’t want me, right now.”

“Tyler … ”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” And he’s gone.

I go sit with Stratofortress. For a long time, nobody says anything. Nobody looks at each other or around at the crowd that saw them bomb. They all stare at their drinks or hands or the table.

“Well … ” Max mutters. “Nobody burst into flame while onstage. If you look at it that way, it was a success.”

We snort and chuckle. Steve says, “I don’t know. Halfway through, I was sort of hoping to burst into flame.”

We laugh out loud. LeighAnn hugs Max. Stratofortress is still embarrassed, still angry, but at least they can lift their heads up now. I try a bite of Britney’s sweet potato burrito. It’s just as vile as it sounds.

Then the music crashes down like a wave. No intro. No warning. Against the Dawn jumps into “Boomtown” with both feet, then “In a Brown Beat Coat.” Stratofortress didn’t do much to excite the crowd, but Against the Dawn makes up for it, barreling through one song after another with barely a breath in between. Then Jessie stops to tell a long story about not being allowed to drink Cokes growing up because she was Mormon. Except one day, she snuck into the woods with a neighbor boy to trade peeks at her underwear for a can of Coke.

“Tony left me. He went on home, but I was too ashamed. I stayed in the woods, those tall pines all around, that sweet taste still in my mouth.” She cracks open another beer, drinks deep, and wipes the foam off her chin. “I cried. Just sat on this old tree trunk and sobbed and prayed to God to forgive me while it got darker and colder. But even while I was praying, there was part of me that just wanted another Coke. And I knew I was a bad girl and I was going to Hell.”

Tugging her guitar strap down so her bass shifts onto her back, Jessie starts singing, “Oh darling, oh darling, don’t tell me no lie. Where did you sleep last night?” Staring up at the lights, she answers her own question—a one-girl call-and-response. “I slept in the pines where the sun never shines and shivered when the cold wind blowed.”

Only the guitarist accompanies her as she moans, “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 … ”

The song creeps up my spine like frost. It makes me think of you, Holly, lost in the drowned forest. But just before I crumple under the sadness of the strange tune, Jessie lets out a triumphant whoop and launches into “Over the Wall.” The band plays so loud behind her, I half expect Jessie to whirl offstage like a dead leaf.

I recognize the songs from their CD, but music is different live. I can taste the steel strings in the air. Some people crowd around the stage and I join them, stomping my feet against the floor until it hurts. I enjoy the hurt. I start pogoing up and down. I can’t help it. My heart pounds in my chest, keeping time with the song.

A guy starts dancing with me, grinning wide. He’s slim and hard, arms and hips just brushing mine. When the song ends, he leans close. “Hey, what’s up? I’m Jello.”

“Jello?” I giggle.

“Uh-huh. So how’s it feel being the prettiest girl in the room?”

I laugh out loud at that, and Ultimate Steve and Max appear on either side of me. Ultimate says, “I give up, Jello. How does it feel?”

“The hell’s your problem?” Jello bows up his shoulders and jerks his arms toward his chest, swaying in Ultimate’s face like a cobra.

Ultimate shrugs. “No problem. Unless you want one.”

LeighAnn tugs me back to our corner. “Damn, Sesame Street. Gonna put a leash on you.”

“He didn’t do anything. We were just having fun.”

“Yeah, you and Jello have different ideas about fun. Stick with us, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

She wraps an arm around my shoulders. Ultimate and Max come back, and Jello slinks to the bar.

The show leaves a ringing in my ears, almost painful but not quite. Afterward, Against the Dawn hangs around the bar, chatting with people, selling CDs and T-shirts. Stratofortress orders another round. I sip my Mountain Dew and walk around, still too wound up to sit still.

The stage is small, just plywood boards covered in white scratches. I lie back, staring up at the mic stand and warm lights. I stretch my hands out and feel the stage’s hardness and the energy beneath the hardness. The stage holds life inside it, like a mussel shell or a seed.

“Jane, you okay?” LeighAnn leans over me.

I sit up. “Yeah, I just … I love you.”

One side of LeighAnn’s mouth curls up like a sideways question mark. “Did you have something to drink? Did one of the guys—”

“No. You took me in, and you didn’t have to, and maybe didn’t even want to, but you treat me like I’m your sister, and you’re—I just love you is all.” I hug her.

“It’s okay. Don’t even worry about it.” She pats my back. “And you sure you haven’t been drinking?”

“No. I mean, yes, I’m sure.”

“Good, because someone needs to drive home.”

“Huh? Not me. I’m fifteen.”

“And we’re all drunk.” She shrugs. “But we can’t leave Against the Dawn’s gear in this neighborhood, so you’ve got to get us and it and everything home.”

“I don’t have my learner’s permit yet.”

“It’s only a few miles, and there’s basically no traffic this late. It’ll be easy. Just remember, left pedal goes, right pedal slows.” She takes a few steps, then shakes her head. “No, wait. That’s backward. Remember it, but remember it backward.”

We help Against the Dawn load their gear into the 4Runner that’s been their home for a month. The guitarist, Kirk, gives us the grand tour. Two people can sleep stretched out if one of them lies on top of the road cases. The only food is a plastic tub of pretzels—payment from their Birmingham gig.

Ultimate drives the Florence Utilities van home, with Britney beside him looking out for cops. I climb into the 4Runner’s driver’s seat. LeighAnn, Max, Jessie, and Against the Dawn’s drummer—a blonde girl whose name I didn’t catch—crowd into the backseat. Kirk sits in the passenger seat. Feeling very small behind the wheel, I roll over the curb while turning out of the parking lot and lurch down the road. Kirk says, “Um. You probably want to turn on your headlights.”

“Dang it.” I tug on a lever. The windshield wipers come on. “Dang, dang, dang it.”

Reaching around me, Kirk turns the wipers off and switches on the headlights. “Relax, you’re doing great.”

The traffic light turns yellow, and I jam the brakes. Cuss words fly as we’re tossed forward.

Jessie says, “Hey, Sesame Street, turn here. I wanna see the Indian mound.”

Kirk turns around. “The what?”

Drunk, Jessie struggles with the words. “It’s a Mith— Missith—Mississippian mound by Wilson Lake. It’s right up here.”

I butt in. “Actually, I think I should just get you guys—”

“No, no, I’m curious now,” Kirk says. “Come on, Sesame Street.”

“It’ll be okay, Jane,” Max says. “Just keep an eye out for cops, and it’ll be okay.”

So I turn and cross the train tracks to where the thousand-year-old earthwork heaves up between warehouses and an office complex. There’s the semi-circular embankment protecting a grassy field as flat as a cake. Inside lies the steep, hexagonal mound. Once, a mighty warrior was entombed here. He was buried with a club that was embedded with shark teeth and fishhooks made from antler. They dug him up and put him in the museum decades ago, though, so all that’s left is the half-forgotten mound. We climb single-file up the steps cut into its clay, up above the streetlights, and look out over the river.

Stratofortress and Against the Dawn stand around drinking beers and telling jokes. They don’t talk about how bad Stratofortress’s set was, but it doesn’t seem like Against the Dawn is mad or anything. Jessie plonks down on the mound’s weedy crown, tucking her legs under her. “I used to bike out here after class. Loved it, wrote so many good songs up here. Max! You need to come out here to write your songs.”

“All right.”

“Dude, seriously!”

“All right!”

I sit down beside Jessie. “Did you write that ‘where did you sleep’ song up here?”

“Huh? ‘In the Pines’? No … no, no.” Her head wags back and forth. “I didn’t write that. Nobody knows who wrote that. It’s so good, though, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. It actually scared me a little.”

Jessie laughs at that. Kirk says, “If you want to hear a really good version of ‘In the Pines,’ go find Leadbelly’s cover.”

LeighAnn says, “Yeah, Nirvana did a version of it too that’s really good.”

Max starts singing, and Jessie joins in. “Oh darling, oh darling, don’t tell me no lie. Where did you sleep last night? I slept in the pines where the sun never shines and shivered when the cold wind blowed.”

I listen, staring out at the river, dark and shining like knapped flint. The song is even more haunting out here, as the notes mingle with the thick, fetid smell blowing off the water. We know the smell from fishing trips, Holly, from wading thigh-deep through inlets boiling with frogspawn. And for the rest of my life, I’ll know it as the smell you carried up from the drowned forest with you. It filled the houseboat’s cabin until my eyes watered.

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.”