Long Way Gone (21 page)

I love you. Me.

I stuck my thumb in the air and made my way west. I stopped when I hit the Pacific.

A
year passed. Then a second. I had no destination in mind. Wandered a lot. Rented a shack on the coast in Oregon. Watched the tide roll in and out. Wasted the better part of a year there. My voice returned enough to whisper and even groan out a hoarse moan. Finally it returned enough to make me sound like a five-packs-a-day smoker. My hand healed somewhat, and feeling replaced numbness. To force my fingers to move, I made myself brush my teeth and write. Anything to tax the muscles and nerves. Writing was the tough part. Initially I wrote block letters. Then cursive. Followed by single short words. Just a few letters at a time.

Playing any kind of instrument was out of the question. Not that I wanted to.

My hearing returned slowly. At first my ear just itched. Then I could hear the ocean. Months later, the waves on the rocks. Finally, seagulls in the distance.

Provided I existed at a subsistence level, I had enough money to survive a few years, but eventually I'd have to get a job. I hired myself out for weeks at a time. Until I got bored or just couldn't take it any longer. I worked for a tree surgeon hauling limbs in northern California. Bused tables near the Canadian line. Washed dishes in Wyoming. Worked custodial at a Nevada motel where I vacuumed the halls and cleaned rooms. Worked the grape harvest in the Columbia River Valley of Oregon. After almost three years I'd gained enough strength and coordination
in my hand to do a few pull-ups and even floss my teeth. The guy at the motel sold me an old Jeep that burned oil but got me from place A to place B. I drove it up the coast, through Washington, and then south. Eight years, six months, and three days after I'd left, and nearly three years since Sam shot me, I found myself sitting at the stoplight in Buena Vista. My house sat eight miles to the right.

My hair had grown down past my shoulders, I'd not shaved in a few years, scars covered my neck and shoulders, my skin was tanned, my eyes were harder, my movements slower and more deliberate, and my hands calloused from running chainsaws. I'd come back different. Patched up. Pieced together. Very much broken.

When I crested the hill and pulled into the drive, I found the cabin dingy and in disrepair. Weeds had grown up under what I guessed was my dad's truck. The bus sat off to the side of the garage. One tire flat. I cut the engine and climbed up on the porch. I smelled coffee through the open front door. I knocked and, to my surprise, Big-Big appeared out of the shadows. His hair had turned white as wool. His feet shuffled. He saw me, his face lit, and he spread his big arms, wrapping me in them. My cocoon against the world.

I stood there and let that man hug me a long time. Finally he stood me up straight and looked at me square. “Coop—” His lips tightened. Half a breath escaped. He'd been holding this. Even now, it was tough to let out. I knew what he was going to say before he said it. “Coop . . . your daddy? He dead.”

Big-Big and I spent the day on the porch. He told me that Dad had not tried to continue without me. He knew better. Not that he couldn't. But that his heart wasn't in it. He'd be lying to people. Sold everything but the bus. He knew it had been me when I called. That gave him hope that I was alive and at least thinking of him.

I asked, “Big-Big?”

He didn't look at me. “Yeah, boy.”

“What'd he die from?”

Big-Big stood from my dad's rocker, poured out the rest of his coffee over the porch railing, sucked between his teeth, and wiped the tears soaking his face. “His heart just quit working. That's all.”

I had a feeling there was more, but I wasn't sure I could bear it.

“Where is he now?”

His eyes turned up the mountain. Then he pointed back at the road that led up to the cabin. “The procession be three mile long. Folk come from five states. Busloads.” He shook his head. “Beautiful day. I said what I could, but he always better with words. Never had no problem knowing what to say.” The wind cut across us and lifted up through the aspens. The leaves smacking each other.

“I go up and talk to him most every day. Carry my coffee.” He waved his hand across me. “I miss him mo' now than befo'.”

“Does he ever talk back?”

He studied me, then reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a letter. My name was written on the front. A lump appeared in my throat at the sight of my father's handwriting. Big-Big handed it to me and then motioned toward the mountain. “He left you this. Now, go on up and let him speak to you.”

I clutched the letter, weaved through the aspens, and sat down in the grass between my mom and dad.

Dear Son,

You left tonight. Drove out of the Falls. I stood on the stage and watched the truck's red taillights get smaller and smaller. I'm sitting here wondering whether I should've let you go. Wondering if I should've gone about all this the way I did. Maybe I was wrong. I don't know. I know my heart hurts. I imagine yours does too . . .

I don't know what kind of dad I've been. I know you've grown up without a female influence, and I wish you had known different. I wish you'd known your mom. You might be better prepared when you
get where you're going. She was better at a lot of things. Teaching you tenderness was one of them.

I don't know when you'll get this, if ever. But if and when you do, I want you to know that some of the happiest I've ever been has been watching you play your guitar. When you play, you come alive. Music is the language of your heart, and you speak it as well as anyone I've ever known.

Maybe I've been overly protective. Maybe I should've let that scumbag keep the tapes you made in the gas station. Maybe I should've done a lot of things differently. But then I think about your gift and I want to protect it, and not let it fall into the wrong hands. What you have is special, more special than you know, and when you think back on me, I hope you see that I was trying to protect you from the folks who just wanted to profit off you.

That night, the night of the storm, you were afraid to get up because you saw Blondie sitting on the piano. I believed you, not because I could see him, but because I could hear him. Hear them. Son, I've been hearing them for years. Every time you play, I hear angels. I don't know if you can hear them, but there's an entire chorus attached to your fingers. And they make the most beautiful sound. The only two times I haven't heard them were the night in Pedro's and when that snake-oil salesman recorded you. It may take you awhile to realize this, but the purpose of your gift is not to make you the focus. It's to point those within earshot. Direct them. To reflect, not absorb. Anybody can stand on a stage and demand another's affection. It's the nature of the spotlight. But few will choose to deflect it. When you see people with their hands raised, you'll understand what I'm talking about. Rightly or wrongly, I want you to spend your life making music where the angels sing along. Being a reflection. I think that'd be a life well spent. I failed to say that before now, and for that I'm sorry. If I may offer one excuse—I've never raised a son before. Please allow a few mistakes. I'm figuring this out as we go.

After last night I had a feeling that you would leave in anger. And I was guessing you'd take whatever we had, so I gave you all I had. Think of it as my investment in your career. So is Jimmy. Take care of him. You make him sound better than I do by a long shot, and your mother would have liked that.

I'm asking you to hear me when I say this: I know you're angry right now, but please let these words break through that hardened outer shell. Let them filter down and come to rest on your heart. This is the truth about you and me as much as I'm able to know it. And when it comes to the truth, people have a right to know it. Always. No matter how much you think it might hurt, the truth is the only thing that both cuts us free and holds us tight. When you think back to us, remember this—the memories I hold of you are good and tender. All of them. Even tonight.

When you think back to the stage tonight, to our last words and your leaving, don't let the picture in your mind be the angry one. I'm not angry. Never have been. Never will be. You can't hit me hard enough to cause me to close my arms to you. Period.

Being eighteen isn't easy. Neither is finding your own way in this world—especially when your dad casts a big shadow.

One last thing. When you get where you're going, chances are good you will hear a lie that is real popular these days. It goes something like this: If you don't make it, if you don't succeed, if everything you set your hand to doesn't prove to me that you were right and that you can make it on your own, then you have lost your right to come back. Your only ticket back into my good graces is some certificate of success. As if the world will give you one, when you've proved to everyone that you've made it on your own. That's a lie from the pit of hell. Always has been. But it's the end of the lie that's the worst part. The end of the lie says that there is a place that's too far to come back from. That somewhere in the distant future, there is something you could do or someplace you could go or some hole you could fall into
that would disqualify you from ever coming home. And once you've stepped over that line, there's no coming back.

Don't listen to that lie.

Here's the truth: No matter what happened on the stage tonight, no matter where you went when you drove out of here, no matter where you end up, no matter what happens, what you become, what you gain, what you lose, whether you succeed or fail, stand or fall, no matter what you dip your hands into . . . no gone is too far gone.

You can always come home.

And when you do, you'll find me standing right here, arms wide, eyes searching for your return.

I love you.

Dad

I ran my fingers through the grooves of the stone etching of his name and tried to say what I'd rehearsed so many times, but I could not. The emotions that I'd stuffed for so long began looking for an exit. The wave started in my stomach where it swirled, then erupted, giving me enough time to turn my face. Anger, sadness, shame, and regret spewed across the ancient and silent forest floor. The pain turned me inside out, exited me, and took most of me with it. The wretching lasted several minutes. When finished, I sat back on my heels, wiped my mouth with my shirtsleeve, and realized that I was now twenty-six and fatherless.

The anchor of my life had been cut away.

T
he fire dwindled, leaving white-hot coals. My skin had dried and I was shivering less. Big-Big touched my shoulder, then left as quietly as he came, leaving me alone with my memories and Dad's letter. My core body temperature had started to rise, but I could not control the shivers. I never could. I stared at the water a long time, thinking about my dad dying right there. Drowned due to a heart attack.

I wondered about his last few minutes. Had he known only the pain of a heart attack, and was he dead before he hit the water? Or had he known piercing chest pain first, followed by the slow pull of the water and the inability to extract himself from the river, followed by the suffocating inability to breathe? Even now, at forty-four, I found that question tough to stomach. Dad had been strong as an ox. If his heart had quit, it quit because it had been broken. Truth was, I'd broken it. And that was the toughest part of all.

Throughout the night, I read and reread the letter a dozen times. It spoke to questions of the heart in ways that only my dad could, like salve on a burn. It also produced a painful longing to hear his voice just one more time.

The next morning was Friday. I slept in, showered, spent some time with Jimmy on the porch, then drove to Leadville, where I expected to spend the afternoon. But when I got there, the old man was a no-show. No crowd. No open guitar case. No song in the air. Nothing but soggy cigarette butts on the street corner.

I stepped into the bar across the street and asked the bartender, “You seen the old man plays guitar across the street?”

“You mean Jube?”

“I don't know his name.”

“Died. Week ago. Right there on that street corner. Guitar in hand. Case full of tips. Smile on his face.”

I turned to walk out, then stopped. “You happen to know where they buried him?”

He pointed. “Two blocks. Turn left. Cemetery at the end of the road. He's in the back right corner, up on a hill. You'll see the fresh dirt.”

“Thanks.”

The cemetery was fresh cut. Well maintained. Wasn't hard to find his headstone. The sun was going down when I walked up. There were no dates. His stone simply read:

J
UBAL
T
YRE
L
OVING
F
ATHER
FOR EIGHTY-FIVE YEARS HIS SOUL MADE MUSIC
‟T
HIS PEOPLE HAVE
I
FORMED FOR MYSELF
;
THEY SHALL SHEW FORTH MY PRAISE
.”

I stood there a long time. Looking at the words
shew forth
. King James English with its archaic spelling had always been tough to wrap my mind around, but my dad had preached on that very verse. He was always good with visuals when he taught, so he brought a broom onstage and said that “shewing forth” wasn't something you did when you were trying to get a dog out of the yard. He demonstrated, scurrying around the stage.
“Shoo! Shoo!”
He then brought out a twelve-foot stepladder and climbed up to the second rung from the top, where he cupped his hands together like the town crier. He said in his loudest voice, “
Shewing forth
means to announce beforehand. Declare. Shout it from the rooftops. Without apology.” He paused. Made sure he had their undivided
attention. Then he'd add with a sly smile, “Or sing at the top of your lungs!”

I thought about the old man on the street corner. He fit the job description perfectly.

When I turned to go from the cemetery, I found a boy standing behind me. Maybe twelve. He was holding a guitar. Resting it on his shoulder like an ax. It was the Gibson I'd given the old man.

He looked up at me. “Mister, you know him?”

I slid my hands into my pockets. “We met once.”

He held up the guitar. “You the man who gave him this?”

I nodded.

He stared up at me. “My grandfather said that the man who gave it to him might be the best guitar player he ever met.” He extended it. “You want it back?”

I studied him. “Can you play?”

He glanced at the stone. “My grandfather showed me a thing or two.”

Interestingly, the kid did not seem inclined to prove to me that he could play. Which told me everything I needed to know. The tips of his fingers on his left hand were calloused. Evidence that he'd been playing a good bit.

I pointed at the mound of dirt. “He give it to you?”

He nodded. As if the memory was both pleasant and painful.

“You keep it,” I said.

We stood there several minutes, staring at the granite staring back at us. Finally I asked the kid, “What happened?”

He spoke matter-of-factly. “Drunk himself to death. Body shut down.”

“I mean, before that. Years ago.”

The kid shrugged. “He loved my grandma, but he loved the road more. Momma says one of her first memories was standing on the curb watching him climb on that bus. Grandma called it the jealous mistress. He'd stay gone for months at a time. Send postcards. Make promises.
Sometimes he'd send money.” The kid paused. “When my mom left for college, Grandma disconnected the phone and burned all his clothes. He came home to an ash heap and a key that didn't fit. So he climbed inside a bottle and never climbed out.”

I nodded and mumbled to myself, “Some people wear their shame.”

He glanced at the scars on my neck and hand. “You wearing yours?”

I nodded. The kid was smart, and I liked him. “Yes.”

“What happened to you?”

“I was young and full of myself, so I turned my back on somebody who loved me a whole lot. Fell in with some bad people when I got where I was going.”

“You ever turn back?”

I chuckled. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“When I got home, my dad was dead. That was eighteen years ago.”

“Did you love your dad?” The kid's eyes were round and bright and pure.

I nodded once. “Still do.”

He shook his head. “I never met my dad.”

I turned toward the kid. “That's his loss.”

“That's what my mom says.” The space between his eyes narrowed, and his expression became one of curiosity. “If you had thirty seconds and could say anything to your dad, what would you say?”

I didn't answer. “What would you tell your dad?”

He shrugged. “I'd tell him that we don't really like bologna and that when it gets toward the end of the month, Mom adds water to the milk. That when it gets cold I steal firewood from our neighbors and don't tell Mom, but I think she knows because she doesn't look at me when I walk back in the door. I'd tell him that I won the talent contest at school three years in a row. That I make good grades. That I can read at a college level. And I'd tell him that Mom cries some nights after I've gone to bed. I can hear her through the wall.” He glanced up at me. “I'd tell him stuff like that.”

I squatted down, putting me closer to eye level with the kid. I sucked between my teeth. “I'd tell mine I was sorry.”

The kid nodded, turned around, and started walking off.

I called after him, “You need a ride home?”

He shook his head and pointed at a shack up on the hill. White smoke rose out of the chimney and a woman stood on the porch, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, watching us. He'd walked a few steps farther when I said, “Hey, kid?”

He turned and looked at me.

“What's your name?”

He pointed at the headstone as if the answer were self-explanatory. “Jubal.”

It was after dinner when I pulled into Riverview. Mary was in bed. Dozing. I scooted up next to the bed and watched her sleeping. After a few minutes her eyes opened and one eye focused on me. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “How long you been there?”

“Few minutes.”

Without warning, she grew animated. “Oh—”

She tried sitting up. I helped slide her up and propped a few pillows behind her back. The ammonia smell told me her diaper needed changing.

“You hear the news?” she said.

“What news?”

“Daley's playing the Falls.”

“When?”

“Few weeks.”

“How'd that happen?”

“That video of you two at the Rope went viral. I still can't figure out how come I wasn't invited.”

“It was sort of a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“That's no excuse. Anyway, she got to this casino and started playing a bunch of new songs nobody's ever heard before. Just her and her guitar. Like really great stuff. Her shows started selling out. They're recording a live album at the Falls. Bringing in a choir.”

I knew what was coming next.

“You'll take us?”

“Us?”

She waved her hand up and down the hall. “Us!”

I chuckled. “Big-Big too?”

“Of course.”

I was pretty sure I wouldn't be alive in a month. But I squeezed her hand. “Sure.”