The memorial’s more crowded than I expected it to be.
What started as a few pockets of people has turned into a mass, like a group of cells multiplying into an unstoppable cancer. They’re everywhere, huddled around collections of photos Kenny and I set out. Who Gives a Crepe? has a line running down the sidewalk, and King’s is packed with people sitting at tables and leaning against railings. Their voices travel through the air in a low rumble, reminding me of the antelope running after Simba before Mufasa dies in The Lion King. Instead of saving someone or even facing them, though, I’m hiding behind a tree a block away.
This was a terrible idea.
A couple hours ago, Kenny and I met here to set everything up. The space isn’t big by any means. There’s a gazebo, which we turned into a little stage with my guitar, his drums, and a couple mics, and nearby are a handful of tables, which we decorated with the memorabilia that Kenny had available. He had boxes of photos of the four of us from college, drawings of Mark’s, posters he’d made up for the band—the sorts of things you collect if you stick around, I guess.
I, on the other hand, had nothing.
For all our efforts, the display looked pathetic, like someone had left their half-assed homework sitting around. What we didn’t expect was that people would bring their own artifacts, pictures and drawings and stories to tell, and before long, every table was jam-packed with memories that people circled like a museum exhibit or a science experiment.
Around 7:00, when the event was set to begin, Kenny headed to his truck and I laid low. When the crowds started to duplicate and spread and eventually turn into the overflowing congregation they are now, I tried to melt into the tree or bury my head in the ground. Anything but run away, really. I ran away once, when I was too much of a little shit to face a tough situation and do what I needed to, and I’ve just now dug myself out of it. Now is my moment to do better for myself, to do better for Mark and Kenny and Beth and everyone else, and I owe it to them to keep my feet planted and stick this out.
Now that I think about it, I guess I owe it to them to head to the gazebo and emcee this memorial. Not running away is hard enough, though, so I close my eyes, turn away from the crowd, and lean into the tree. The bark is harsh on my back, scratching and poking me with its jagged little fingers, but I don’t care. I take in a long breath through my nose and hold it there, puffing my chest out. Lauren once made me watch a TED Talk on the power of body language and “making yourself big” to feel more confident, and for some stupid reason, it’s all I can think about. After a few seconds I exhale, focusing on the wind whistling against my teeth as it makes its way out of my mouth. It takes with it some of my nerves, loosening my shoulders and the knot in my stomach.
“I don’t suppose you know who’s behind this, do you?”
My eyes shoot open, and my chest freezes. Mark’s dad is staring at me through narrow eyes that smooth the wrinkles on his forehead, and his arms are crossed in front of teddy bears holding hands and eating frozen custard on his T-shirt. Their heads poke up over his hairy, dark, weathered skin, and I can’t help but think about them staring down at me when Mark found out that I’d slept with Beth. There’s no tension in Mark’s dad like there was in Mark that night, though. One side of his mouth is curled up, barely containing a smirk, and his eyes, despite being narrow, are bright and lively. Happy, even. He’s a far cry from the man who hit me with a baseball bat, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to trust him.
I think to take a step back, then remember I’m against a tree. “I might know a thing or two.”
“Kenny told me,” Mr. King says, uncrossing his arms. He hooks his thumbs into his pockets, looking like a rugged Clint Eastwood type. “Says you worked pretty hard on it.”
I scratch the back of my neck. I didn’t work hard, really, save for a late night at the hotel. Most of it was printing a few lies into existence and crossing my fingers they’d come together, which they did. Lucky me, I guess.
“Just thought Mark deserved something special.”
Mr. King leans to the side, looking over my shoulder at the crowd. “I’d say you did all right.”
I turn and look back. “I wasn’t really expecting this.”
“No one was really expecting you to show up and get in a fight at the funeral, either. I guess you can say it all balanced out, huh?”
The urge to run away comes back, working its way up until my fingers twitch and I’m on my heels. “About that—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Not that what you did is okay, but Mark’s mother and I really appreciate this. You know as well as I do that Mark was troubled, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t work hard or love this town.” A tear wells up in the corner of his eye. He obliterates it with a quick finger before it can roll onto his cheek, then tucks his thumb back into his pocket.
“I appreciate that.”
“So,” he says, looking over my shoulder again, “I heard there’s going to be music at this thing.”
I take in another breath, raising my shoulders and tensing. “Working on that.”
“Mark always said you were an okay singer,” he says, crossing his arms again, “but a hell of a guitarist. Granted, you didn’t have a broken arm back then, but I have faith that you’ve figured something out.”
I tilt my head to the side, unsure of how to take this. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” he says. “There was something else I wanted to talk to you about, though.”
“Yeah?” I look down at the cast, preparing for an apology and working through the different ways I can react. I’ll accept it, sure, but that doesn’t mean I can’t dream about the revenge hit or making him grovel a little.
“Yeah,” he says. His face is still as he looks me over. “The cat.”
In between figuring out a way into the funeral, getting kicked out of said funeral, and coming up with the plan for this, I’d forgotten Jack existed. A swell of panic rises in my throat, trying to figure out if he’s been given food or water or had his litter box cleaned, but it settles as quickly as it arrives. Beth and Brian are there, and, all things considered, they’re more equipped to handle a cat than I am.
“You can keep him,” Mr. King says.
“Really?”
He nods.
I want to ask him why we couldn’t have come to this decision earlier, before he broke my arm with a baseball bat and chased me out of his home, but I don’t. Everything I’ve felt and gone through since Mark died, Mr. King must have experienced tenfold. And while that doesn’t excuse the Throwdown at Casa del King, as I’ve taken to calling it, Mark’s dad is far from the only one to have made some hasty decisions.
“I'm too old for this grudge match,” he adds. “When Kenny asked me to be a part of it, I’d just lost my boy and couldn’t stop thinking about everything I could have done to save him. Seeing you get hit by that car scared the shit out of me, though. Thought it was Mark all over, and I couldn’t stand the thought of another parent going through what Mark’s mother and I have experienced.” Another tear gathers in the corner of his eye, but he lets this one escape. It rolls down his tanned, leathery cheek before wobbling on his jaw and falling to the ground. “You didn’t do right by my son, but I think you know that. There isn’t any good in all of us drawing it out into a fight.”
Somewhere between my head and my mouth, the words have frozen. I stand there, opening my lips from time to time but pausing before anything comes out.
“He was a good guy,” I finally say.
“He was,” Mr. King says. He takes in a heavy breath, raises his shoulders, and wipes at his eye again. “Enough of that, though,” he adds, clapping me on the shoulder. “Someone decided to slam my business, so there’s custard to make. Plus, you have a concert to play, no?”
I look back over my shoulder at the sea of people surrounding the gazebo. I was hoping it would have died down, but it looks larger now, the crowd spreading and folding out around the edges of our makeshift stage. “Guess so.”
“You’ll be fine,” he says. “People are pretty forgiving at charity things, believe it or not. I think everyone’s just happy you put this together.” He takes another look at the crowd and nods a couple times as if assessing them, then mutters a “good luck” and heads off toward King’s.
He’s right, of course. Who could fault me for not playing well when most of the band is gone, my arm is broken, and we had no rehearsal time? It’s the thought that counts, I tell myself. This needed to happen for Mark, and it has, albeit better than I expected it to. Plus, what other option do I have? There’s no more time to run away from these sorts of decisions, to cower down when I get nervous and want to hide. This is my best chance to do right by Mark, and even though I didn’t think it through and don’t have much of a plan, it’s my responsibility to own up to that and do the best I can with what I have.
The walk back to the memorial takes longer than I thought it would. For every step I take, it seems like the distance doubles, like one of those nightmares where you’re walking toward a door and it gets farther and farther away until you break out in a sprint and realize you’ll never catch it. There’s no sprinting for me, though, just a focus on one step, then another.
Stay on track, Jack.
When I get to the gazebo where the equipment’s set up, I hop over the back. The entrance is crowded with people turned in all sorts of directions while they talk to one another. Some are holding crepes, others custard, and a few brave souls are holding the necks of beers that definitely aren’t legal to have here, but they’re all smiling. They might be talking about Mark, or they might be catching up, but it doesn’t matter. They’re together, like people in a community should be. Like what Mark loved seeing at things like this.
I wrap the fingers of my good hand around the mic stand and clear my throat. Feedback echoes through the speakers, and my stomach ties itself back into a knot as I take in the faces. There’s Mr. Arnold, who owns the pizza shop across from the fairgrounds. Kurt Klosterman, who beat me up in the seventh grade before Mark saved my ass. There’s Lisa, Steve from the bar, and a bunch of other folks, and suddenly, I want to throw up and die. It’s like the best and worst parts of my life have all come together for this terrible moment, and there’s nothing I can do to get away from it.
“Thanks for coming,” I say. “For those of you I don’t know, I’m Jack Dotson. Mark and I were—” I bite my tongue, unsure of what to say. “We were best friends. I’ve been gone for a little while, but when we were young, we were in this band together.”
“Come on, man,” someone yells from the crowd. “We remember The Jackals!”
A few laughs travel across the crowd.
“Okay then,” I say, smirking. “Well, I thought I’d play a few songs for you if that’s all right. Mark loved playing music, so I thought it would be fitting as we take some time to remember him.”
There’s a weird silence between us as I wait for them to do something and they wait for me to start playing. There’s a sneeze, then the hum of a car driving by, so I grab my guitar off its stand. The neck is difficult to hold onto because of my cast, so I fumble a couple times as I try to sling it over my shoulder, looking like a blown-up version of one of those string tricks kids play with their hands—cat’s cradle or something. The guitar drops when I finally get it over my shoulder, and the force of the strap pinches my neck. I jump at this and bump the mic, making a few people in the audience wince.
“Sorry about that,” I tell them. “Dealing with a little bit of a handicap here.”
A few folks force a smile, and a few others look away. Hesitation builds up in my gut, and my palms start to sweat, but I swallow it back down and rest my fingers on the guitar strings.
“This one’s called ‘With Great Power.’”
The notes come back easily enough. The words, too, even though I wasn’t ever the singer. My fingers, though, won’t do what they’re supposed to. They can’t because of the cast, making what was the song that won Lafayette’s 2005 Battle of the Bands sound like a middle school talent show. I push through it, focusing on belting out the words Mark wrote, ignoring the twang of the occasional missed note or the strings that sometimes get muted because of my cast stopping them. I take a step closer to the mic and close my eyes like I remember Mark doing during those shows at the Java Joint and at open mic nights, and I’m a kid again, happy with my minimum wage job and my shitty bed at Mark’s place. I’m not worried about my boss ripping into me or my clients telling me what I need to do or my girlfriend cheating on me. I’m not running away. I’m just making music in a park in a small town because it’s a good thing to do.
I botch the final note, making what’s supposed to be drawn out disappear in a hiccup. I open my eyes, expecting to hear the crowd break out in applause like they used to, but they’re staring at me, wide-eyed. There’s the occasional cough and a couple attempts at a clap, but they fade out before anything can catch on. A few feet back, I catch a look at Klosterman snickering.
“Thanks,” I say, not knowing what else to do. “This next one’s called—”
“Hold on,” someone says. “Don’t put them through another one.”
A few people laugh, and from the back of the crowd people start to part. I stand on my tiptoes to get a better view, but it doesn’t do me any good. It isn’t until Brian gets about ten feet away that I recognize him, clapping folks on the shoulder, smiling, apologizing for my shitty performance, and all other manners of greeting people. He’s grinning ear to ear, a far cry from the last time I saw him staring me down and lecturing me outside of the funeral home. He’s wearing an old King’s shirt that he must have taken from Mark’s house, looking more the part of the guy I shared a futon with in college and less the part of a doctor.
“Hey,” he says when he makes his way to the front of the crowd. “Thought you could use some help.”
“Was it that bad?”
Brian shrugs. “The thought was nice.”
At least I got that part down.
“You guys care if I jump in on this?” comes another voice.
Brian grins, and I turn around. Kenny’s sitting behind his drum set, which we set up in case he was able to make it away from the truck. He’s spinning a drumstick between his fingers, and he gives the bass pedal a couple thumps, bringing out some applause from the crowd.
“Fuck yeah,” Brian says. “These people won’t know what hit them.”
I laugh. “Thanks, dudes.”
Brian and Kenny smile, and the three of us are silent for a few seconds. The two of them make eye contact, and Kenny twitches.
“What?” I ask.
Brian leans toward me, away from the mic. “You giving me that guitar?”
I look to Kenny for support, but he shakes his head and looks down at his bass pedal.
I put my hand over the mic. “I was always the guitarist.”
“You're really going to do this?”
“It’s my job.”
“You sounded like a car wreck playing that thing,” Brian says. “You literally sounded better when your limp body smashed into my windshield.”
Behind Brian, the people in the crowd shuffle, eyes lit, and talk amongst themselves. Some stand up on their tiptoes, trying to get a view of us. It’s a far cry from the looks they made when I performed a few minutes ago.
“Fine,” I mutter, wrestling myself out of the guitar strap. Brian’s hands are on it before I can get it over my shoulder, and within seconds it’s over his, falling into place like it was meant to be there all along.
I clear my throat and grip the mic again with my good hand. “Looks like you guys get more of a Jackals experience than I thought you would,” I say, and before the crowd can cheer, Kenny taps his drumsticks four times and Brian rips out the opening notes to “Born Again,” a song Mark wrote about Kevin Smith’s Daredevil arc from the ’90s. The words come back to me like the first ones did, only this time, there’s no cringing. The crowd’s heads bob, and they dance and pat their thighs, listening and watching like they used to, and I can’t help but picture what that show I bailed on could have been if I’d stuck around. I keep my eyes open this time, not wanting to miss the moment. Brian’s leaned over the guitar, his head nodding to the beats Kenny lays out, and Kenny’s as stoic as ever as he plays the drums. He flashes me an occasional grin when he catches me looking his way, and I flash one back before the song ends. Within seconds, we’re starting in on the next one as if we planned the whole thing out.
By the time we get to the last song we remember, effectively bringing our set to an end, an hour has passed. The sun’s disappeared, giving way to the streetlights, but the crowd hasn’t died. They’re as active as ever, clapping after every song and bobbing their heads to the music. Brian lets his final note draw out, and Kenny plays a short drum solo that gets the crowd cheering and clapping even louder. When it’s done and the music’s silent, the noise of the crowd washes over us. Brian comes up to me on one side, wrapping his arm around my sweaty shoulders, and Kenny comes up on the other, doing the same, and we stand there for a few seconds, taking it in. We bow as a unit, bringing up a few more claps, before doing it again.
I lean into the mic. “That’s for you, Mark,” I say, drawing up more applause. “We miss you, man.” The crowd claps at this louder than anything else, making me think that somewhere, somehow, he might just be able to hear them.