Abit
I didn’t feel much like working, but I needed to stay busy. I sanded a coffee table Della’d ordered not long after Fiona’d left me. She swore it weren’t a pity order, and I guessed I believed her. I vaguely remembered her saying something earlier about an order. Whatever, I was glad to have a small project to work on. That was all I could handle.
I tried focusing on my dovetail joints, but I kept thinking about what I’d learned the other night at one of our concerts. Our banjo player, Tater Matthews, told me he’d seen Fiona out with a doctor from the Newland Hospital. They were in a restaurant up in Boone, not hanging out local, he said. I was trying to figure out what he meant by that when he added that his wife, who was also a nurse in Newland, had heard that the doctor had just separated from his wife. That meant neither one of them had waited long to jump in each other’s arms. I made myself stop picturing it happening before we split. I just couldn’t believe that.
Shiloh didn’t complain about my mood that day, and he worked in merciful silence for a while. I switched jobs, carving some leaves and birds on the top piece of a hoosier. It felt good to make something pretty. The piece turned out so nice, I thought about keeping it for myself—but what did I need with a baking cupboard?
About three o’clock, Shiloh brought over a thermos of mu tea, some herbal concoction he drank most days, and offered me a cup. Not bad, really, though that seed loaf he shared tasted like sawdust. (And believe me, I knew what that tasted like.) But he was trying to cheer me up, and I appreciated that. When he asked about Fiona, I told him about her and that doctor.
Just like that, he was doing his goddam standup routine. The joke was so bad—something about a second opinion—I just tuned him out. I knew he’d meant no harm. That strange brain of his heard a cue like “doctor” and whirred through his bank of jokes to find one that worked. Only it hadn’t.
I got through the day, and at quitting time I met Duane Dockery out back of Della’s store. We were looking over the old Rollin’ Store bus. Della heard us talking and joined us, holding out two cans of beer.
“Do you think she’ll work for Abit’s band?” she asked, patting the side of the bus. “By the way, Abit, what are you guys calling yourself these days?”
“Rollin’ Ramblers.”
“Well, this old Rolling Store bus seems fitting for a band with that name. What do you say, Duane?”
“Oh, we can get her on the road again,” he answered after taking a long pull on his beer. “But what about the outside paint job? I don’t know if either one of us has time for a major overhaul of that.” We talked a while, and then Duane’s eyebrows shot up. “I’ve got an idea,” he said, smiling.
A couple of days later, the bus had a fresh coat of paint in the spots it needed. Duane had played round with the flowers and vines, making them look like exhaust coming outta the bus he’d added on the side, like it were riding on flower power. Della was clapping her hands, and I was as happy as I’d been in some time.
Then Shiloh stopped by. “What is a Rollin’ Rambler? The opposite of a Stationary Rambler?” he asked. It took me a minute to follow his logic. I saw his point. It was kinda repetitive, but for a guy whose name meant peace, he sure could stir up trouble. Besides, the band had agreed we wanted to keep the Rollin’ part in honor of the bus’s history.
That evening I signed Duane on to be our driver and roadie. It didn’t pay much, but it got him out. He and I made a sorry duo—pining for our former wife and girlfriend. The only good thing that came from his divorce was he’d lost a lot weight and had been working out. Later on, oncet he was working with the band, he got invitations same as me, women asking us to join them after our gigs, but our hearts just weren’t into that.
Not that I didn’t notice pretty girls. They’d be sashaying to our music, and I wasn’t blind to how nice they looked. When I was growing up, everyone from Mama’s church—and plenty of others—made a real fuss over the evils of dancing. I could never make out what they were so worried about. Then one night while we were playing, I looked up, and I swear you could see clear as day what was on their minds as those boys and girls swayed close to one another and then back, close again, making eye contact and sharing a knowing smile. For the first time I could see what those church folks were talking about. Not that I thought it was evil, just as natural as the sun coming up.
Since Fiona’d left me, I’d had a lot of time on my hands, so I put them to work writing songs for our band. I’d been listening to Ricky Skaggs, and when he sang “Memories of Mother and Dad” by Bill Monroe, something just blew open inside of me. Something good. Like I had things to say and music I wanted to write.
We had a gig coming up at my old school, The Hicks, in Boone. I went back from time to time to play on Dance Night, which they held every Saturday night except for Christmas, if it fell on a Saturday. It was amazing how the Keefe House, the main building at the school, woke up from its sleepy weekday vibe. Even with school in session, that place had a comforting hush about it, pine tongue-and-groove walls absorbing over sixty years of sounds and handmade rugs quieting every footfall. And all them black-and-white photographs of people lining the hallways. Doris Ulmann had come through these parts in the 1920s and ‘30s taking pictures of Appalachian crafts makers and musicians, among others. They looked back at you so weary you couldn’t help but feel it, too. And yet she’d captured them in a way that had dignity. Those portraits on the walls were a shrine of sorts, a tribute to what our ancestors had created outta nothin’.
But come Saturday night, that building rocked in its big community room where they held the dances. On that particular Saturday, I planned to perform a song I’d just finished. During our practice, all the band folks told me they liked it. Mr. Monroe had awakened the songwriter in me—I wasn’t stealin’, just inspired in the way artists had always done—and I wrote a nice solo for the mandolin in his honor. Gina Rodgers played it so good during our practice, I could imagine Mr. Monroe nodding his approval.
Tater drove us to Boone in the bus (Duane couldn’t start ‘til the following week), and we got set up in plenty of time before eight o’clock when the dance got in full swing. The weather had turned especially hot and humid, so the doors were wide open, letting in the night air and, as the evening went on, light from the full moon, which added something electric. I couldn’t exactly hear the crickets and katydids sawing away out there, but as I stroked that bass, I felt we were all in harmony, inside and out.
The deal was we’d play country dance music for a while, and when those mostly young folks needed a break from all that flirting and cavorting, we performed a few bluegrass numbers. That was when I planned to premier my song, at the beginning of that set. Then we’d close the evening with about six more dance numbers, ending with “Dargason,” an English folk tune so grand to dance to I even felt the urge to sashay a bit.
I always got nervous performing other people’s work, but playing my own was somethin’ else altogether. When I started to introduce it, my voice croaked. I swallowed hard and carried on. “I wrote this song a few weeks ago when my life took a bad turn,” I said. “But these notes brought me some comfort, the way only music can. It’s called ‘My Thorny Irish Rose,’ and I hope you enjoy it.”
You oncet were my rose
As bright as the stars
Then you left me with nothin’
But a heart filled with scars
Where oncet you did bloom
Like light from above
There’s nothin’ but thorns
Where oncet there was love
My thorny Irish rose
How could we be foes?
My thorny Irish rose
Now I’ve nothin’ but woes
When we started playing, even the dancers, who could be unruly, all hepped up with them hormones, stopped to listen to my melancholy tune. I liked the way it sounded and felt something close to happiness when Gina joined me with her mandolin as I played my bass, deep and mournful.
Until.
I looked up and saw Fiona swaying in the fourth row next to some handsome guy with his arm wrapped around her. When I missed a beat or two, Tater gave me a look, and I got back on track. I put my head down and played with all the heart I had left. When I looked up again, Fiona was gone.
We went right into “Ashes of Love” and a couple more heartbreakers: “I Wonder Where You Are Tonight” and that favorite of mine “Little Cabin Home on the Hill.” I mean, what else could I have played? I nearly lost it during that last one, but I got through it. By the end of that set, I was beat. We took a break.
Women came up to me, telling me how much they loved my song and my bass playing. But I’d never heard of anyone having a thing for the bass fiddle, except those of us who played it. I knew they were just putting me on.
It felt like forever, but we finally finished our gig. When they passed the hat, our take was better than usual. I think they liked the new song and everyone’s playing.
I didn’t say much on the trip home. The rest of the band were all whooping it up, happy about the take and the beer Ed bought before we headed home. I was driving, so I didn’t drink any. Besides, I didn’t feel like it. I preferred looking out at the kind of night the full moon created—strange looking critters and objects flitting past, outlined in silver. And I got a lift from driving the bus. It might have the Rollin’ Ramblers painted on its side now, but it would always be the Rollin’ Store to me, offering me a chance to get out of my life and do something good.