How We Deal With Gravity (26 page)

“There will be other bands,” I repeat, nodding up and down,
convincing myself.

“Yep,” he says, smiling softly to show me he understands.

There will be other
bands.

Avery

“My father had very few regrets,” I say to the rows of
familiar faces looking back at me. It’s an unusually warm day, and hundreds showed
up for Ray’s service, so all I see are waving programs and note cards as people
fan their faces.

“You all knew him, and most of you knew him well, because
that’s who my father was. He loved fiercely, he embraced friends easily, and
once Ray Abbot was on your side—it was hard to lose him. Some did…but
those people were few and far between.

“He never stopped parenting. He was giving me advice up
until the very end. I didn’t always follow his advice, and per usual, my father
was right—I regret not taking those things to heart. But his lessons will
always stick with me, and in his absence, I’m vowing to take his place in this
world—at least as best as I can. I’m going to enjoy this earth and the
people on it every chance I get, and I’m going to appreciate every single one
of you.”

I’m struck when I glance over the dozens of smiles looking
back at me. No one is crying, and they shouldn’t. Ray Abbot spread joy in the
world—it’s why he loved music so much, and why he tried to encourage
people who had that talent to share it with the world—people like Mason.

“I know many of you are worried about what will happen to
Dusty’s. It’s been around a long time. My father opened it years ago, and I
don’t intend on closing it. Please, bear with me though—I’m not my father,
and I don’t really know the ins and outs of the bar business. I plan on getting
some help…
eventually.
But these next
few months might be a little bumpy. We’ll open back up in two weeks—an
open mic night, in true Ray Abbot style. In the meantime, spend your weeknights
with your loved ones. I’m asking you to do this for me. Squeeze in those
moments, and make time. These moments are precious, and…as my father said to me
not so long ago, ‘you only get to do
now
once
in your life. Do it right.’”

I manage to hold it together until I leave the stage and
edge back up into Claire’s side. I lose it again the moment her hand slips in
mine. We aren’t a particularly religious family—we’ve been to church a
few times, but when it came time to settle on services for my dad, I just went
with the same
everything
that he did
for my mom. This stuff mattered more to her.

The minister directs everyone to the burial, and I walk
along with Claire. Max stayed at the house with Jenny, his therapist. She’s
been so helpful on guiding me through this with Max. My dad’s death isn’t like
Adam leaving—Max has memories, even if they’re really more like habits
for him, and my dad played an intricate role in his life. He filled a
box—and now that box is empty.

The line of cars to the interment is long, though only about
half of the guests come for this part—it’s mostly family and close
friends. Claire guides me to the site. We picked a simple stone for the
marker—right next to my mom’s. I can’t watch this part, so I clasp Claire’s
hand and lay my head on her shoulder while others walk up to say their
farewells. This part isn’t for me—my goodbye happens in my head, with my
memories. I don’t want to taint those visions, the picture I have of him, with
anything else.

I recognize the broadness of Mason’s back immediately. He’s
not looking either—he wants to remember my dad just the way I do. Claire
said he would come, but I didn’t want to count on it. Somewhere in the back of
my mind, though, I hoped for it. When he turns to face me, something pulls us
together, until our eyes meet. I don’t look away, and neither does he. We stare
into each other, my head on my best friend’s shoulder, for the rest of the
ceremony.

Claire hugs me tighter to get my attention when people begin
to leave. Everyone wants to say
something
to me, and I know they have to—I would have to too. But when you’re
on this side, you don’t really want to hear it. This part takes almost an hour,
and by the time it’s only Claire and me, I’m faint and thirsty.

“There’s one person left,” she says into my shoulder. And I
know exactly who it is.

“I’m okay, you go on to the house. I’ll go with him,” I say,
squeezing her arm to let her know I’m sincere. She kisses the side of my head
and gives me one last look, trying to fill me with strength. I don’t have much
left.

“Thanks for coming, Mason,” Claire says over my shoulder,
and my insides twist just hearing him breathe.

I watch her walk away and make it all the way to her car
before I turn to face him completely. “Thank you so much for coming, Mason,” I
say as Claire drives away, and I finally take him in. He’s wearing a black suit
with a gray shirt underneath. I can tell by the creases on the pants and
sleeves that it’s new. He wanted to look nice for my father, and it warms my
heart to know that—to see him here looking like this, all for him.
  

“I hope you know I wouldn’t have missed this,” he says, his
eyes just as sad as I feel inside. “It wouldn’t have mattered where I was or
what I was doing. I would have come.”

“I know,” I say, forcing my lips into a tight, closed smile,
fighting the urge to cry. “You were a son to him, in every single way.”

Mason reaches for my hand and threads his fingers through
mine, holding it in front of him loosely. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he says,
and he turns his head to the side when his eyes start to water. “I should have
been here.”

“No, you were right where you were supposed to be, Mason.
You made my dad so proud. You were right where he always wanted to see you,” I
say, wrapping my hands around his wrist and hugging his arm.

“We left the tour,” he says, and my breath completely stops.
This is
too much—
too much for
right now.
I want Mason here, and I want
him to stay here and never ever leave—but I don’t want it to be because
of guilt or grief or both.

“Mason, you can’t…you have to see that out—it’s your
dream. He would have wanted that,” I say, my hands moving to the collar of his
shirt, my fingertips running on his neck, willing him to look at me.

“Kevin understood. It just…it didn’t feel right. None of it
did, and it’s not where I wanted to be,” he says, his eyes back to mine, still
red with emotion.

“I hope you didn’t do this just for me,” I say, immediately
sorry how harsh my words came out. “I don’t mean it like that. I just…I don’t
want you to do anything rash—not when everything is so raw. Just, promise
me you’ll think about everything.”

“I promise,” he says, his eyes not leaving mine, and his
face still serious. “Can I take you home? My mom brought a lot of food over to
your house before the funeral. I told her I’d come over to help.”

“Thanks. And thank your mom for me. Mason, she’s been
amazing—I don’t know what I would have done without her,” I say, taking
his arm while we walk along the blacktop to where his car is parked.

“I’m glad my mom was here, too,” he says, opening my door
and slipping the edges of my long black skirt inside before shutting it.

We don’t talk for the entire drive back to my
father’s—I guess
my
—house.
But Mason leaves his hand in mine the entire time, holding onto me tightly. And
when we get to the house, he runs around the front of the car to help me out,
grabbing my hand again. He keeps it in his for the next two hours, only leaving
my side for minutes at a time to help his mom serve a few guests and to run
upstairs once or twice to visit with Max.

When the house finally empties again, Mason and his mother
are the last to go. I wonder if, perhaps, Barb wasn’t with him, if he’d try to
stay—if he’d say something…
more.
But
she’s loading up the back of his car with her empty trays, and Mason and I are
standing at his car, the last light from the sun rapidly disappearing.

Claire has been staying at our house, sleeping in Mason’s
old room. I know Mason saw her things in the room, and I overheard him thank
her for not leaving me alone.

“Promise me you’ll call me, if you need
anything,”
he says, his finger lifting my chin, tilting my head to
look up at him.

“I promise. But we’ll be okay, Mason,” I say, forcing my
mind to shut off the floodgates of everything I now have to figure out.

“Promise me anyway,” he says, and I just smile and nod. He
brings me into his arms then, holding me close, and I reach around him, my
hands hard against the warmth of his back. He feels like home, and I never want
to leave, but I also don’t want to hide in him. I want to deal with everything
that’s in front of me, and I want him to too—if we both end up in the
same place when we’re done, then it’s meant to be.

After he and Barb leave, I sit in the hallway waiting while
Max finishes taking his bath. He asked me for privacy the other day, so our
compromise was letting one of us sit in the hallway. I can’t help but remember
the last time I sat here now though, and I look at the doorway, Mason’s old
doorway, and pretend that the light on inside is there for him. When Claire
opens the door, my illusion shatters, and I turn my attention back to the
half-open bathroom door in front of me.

I feel Claire’s body slide down the wall to sit next to me,
and I’m enormously grateful for her company. But it’s still not the same as if
Mason were here. Nothing is. And I’m convinced nothing ever will be.

Mason

I’ve gone to visit Ray every day since the funeral. It’s been
three weeks, and I’m pretty sure I’ve formed a lifelong habit—I no longer
think I would know how to begin my day without waking up at the sunrise and
bringing my coffee to his gravesite to have it with him.

I talk when I’m there. I talk a lot. And I swear he answers.
Maybe he just taught me well, and I know everything he would say. Whatever it
is, my mind is clearer out there with him.

Matt and Josh both stopped by to visit yesterday. They’ve
decided to stay in Arizona, and we’ll probably play together every now and
then. Nothing formal, just gigs for fun. Ben handled the news about as well as
we all thought he would, swearing me off for good and leaving without ever
looking back. The more distance I get from him, the better I feel about my
decision to end the tour early. His house still sits vacant, and I hope like
hell he never comes back. I think Ben was going down a very dark road, and I
think his poison could have taken us all down with him.

Kevin was just as understanding as I told Avery he was, but
he didn’t make me any false promises either. He told me they could cover the
last stretch of the tour, but that they probably wouldn’t look our way for gigs
again. It was a tradeoff I was willing to make, and for once, I’ve never felt
more resolved about a decision.

“Let’s see…what do I have on tap to talk about today,” I
say, sitting down in the soft grass next to Ray’s stone. I pull a coffee from
Jill’s Donuts out, and place the cup above his name. I always get one for him,
too—though I usually end up drinking both.

“Avery’s doing well. She’s opening the place back up
tonight. She took the semester off school, and they let her drop her grades
until she can pick back up again. I fuckin’ hate that she had to do that.
Sorry, I know you don’t like swearing,” I say, unable to stop my smile while I
sip at my hot coffee.

“I’ve been careful with her. You know, like we talked about?
But I gotta tell you Ray, I’m afraid we’re falling into a pattern. I visit her,
but I don’t stay long. I help out with small things, say hi to Max, maybe play
him a song or two to practice on his music program. I feel like I’m just an
appointment on her calendar, and I don’t know how to break that cycle. It’s
like a giant game of double dutch, and I don’t know when to jump into the
ropes. Hell, girls were always better at that game.”

I break off a piece of the donut and toss it in the grass
for a couple birds that have gotten used to me. I think they actually wait for
me to show up every morning now, too.

“I’m playing tonight. Josh and Matt might join me. There’s a
bunch of us—people who you’ve helped over the years. Avery doesn’t know,
actually. She thinks it’s just open mic night, but we all signed up for the
slots under different names. I guess it’s sort of a tribute thing. Everyone I
called wanted in, and then people called more people, and then it just became a
thing.”

I lie back and put my hands under my neck, looking up in the
branches of Ray’s tree at the birds I just fed. They’re fighting over my crumb,
and it makes me feel bad, so I throw them the rest of my donut.

“I’m thinking about doing something crazy,” I say, and I
hold silent now for a while, almost like I’m expecting to really hear his
voice. The longer I lay there, the less crazy my idea sounds, and I get a funny
thought in my head. “I know you know what I’m thinking. You were always two
steps ahead of me, so maybe you can just let me know if I’m being stupid on top
of crazy. Anything—a sign, or whatever the hell people call it. Just let
me know old man.”

I smile in anticipation, and I prop myself up on my elbows,
scanning the empty cemetery around me, just waiting for something to happen.
The birds continue to pick at my donut, but that’s about the only activity that
happens for the next ten minutes, so I decide to give up on my little
experiment. I pick up my empty cups and bag, brushing the grass from the back
of my jeans when I stand.

“Okay, maybe you’re right—crazy and stupid,” I say,
shaking my head with a little laugh. “I guess I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

Once back inside my car, I pull out my phone to check for
any messages from Claire or Avery. Seems my handyman services aren’t needed
today, and I feel a little sad about it. I drive by Dusty’s to see if anyone’s
there yet, but the lot is still empty. I see the
Open Mic Night
announcement written on the marquee though. I
changed the bulbs out last week, one of those nagging things I wished I had
done when Ray was still alive.

I keep driving, and as badly as I want my car to take me to
Avery’s, I don’t go—I only go when she wants me—at least for now. I
make the turn down my mom’s street, and I’m dreading the empty day ahead of me.
But just as I’m about to turn the engine off, I hear it—it’s Ray’s sign.
Maybe I just want it to be there, but it seems so rare for this to be happening
now.

My car radio is tuned to one of the popular stations, the
ones that play nothing but the top hits. But for some reason, right now,
they’re playing Otis. It’s “Tenderness,” and the words could not possibly be
any more exact about Avery. I’m stunned silent; I sit there and listen to every
last plea that man makes when he sings—begging me to listen to him, to
try what he says, just like Ray would. Before the song is over, I’m actually
laughing, and I back out of the driveway to head into the city for the day.

“You sneaky old man, you. You want me to go ahead and try
crazy,” I say, my hands playing drums on my steering wheel. “All right, but if
this blows up in my face, and I come out looking like an idiot—that’s all
on you.”

Avery

“Ave, I can’t find a spot anywhere in the damn lot,” Claire
says over the phone.

“Hang on, I’ll meet you out back. I’ll move something so you
can get in,” I say, holding the phone on my shoulder while I push a crate in
front of the door to hold it open. I see her pulling in, Max in the back seat;
I wave and hang up.

I slide two of the trash bins as far forward as I can, and
it leaves her just enough room for her car.

“Thanks! I swear, there must be a thousand people here!” she
says, holding the back door open for Max. Claire picked him up from school for
me today and went through homework at home, knowing how much I had on my plate
for tonight’s opening. I’m doing my best to juggle, but it’s still a lot to
keep up with. I’m not sure I’ll be able to fit school in the mix.

The dining room is already packed, and there’s a wait,
several people deep, just to get a chance to be inside. It looks like I’ll be
flipping on the outside speakers for tonight’s gigs.

It’s all hands on deck tonight. Max learned how to work the
video editor on my phone, and he said he was going to record the reopening.
I’ve been keeping my eyes peeled for Mason—he said he would try to come.
He’s been helping out at the bar over the last two weeks, getting things ready,
and sorting through the inventory. He always understood that side of the
business better than me—he spent a lot of time here with my dad.

Barb’s running the front door, making the list of acts for
the night as people sign up. I told her to cap it at twenty or else we’d never
make it home, but I can already tell she’s blown that—the lists looks to
be about two pages long. I guess it’s a big night though, so what’s one
all-nighter to kick Dusty’s off with a bang?

“We should probably get things started,” she says, yelling
above the crowd of thirsty college coeds in between us. Cole brought in a
friend to help work the bar, and I’m starting to wish he brought two when some
of the customers start to push their way up front and pound on the bar.

“Hey!” Claire whistles down at the far end, standing up on
one of the stools and holding a bottle over her head. “All right folks, listen
up. This is Avery’s first night, and we’re all figuring this out, so cut us
some slack, okay? We’ll get to you, and you’re in for some great music tonight,
so just take it down a notch and relax.”

A few of the men start to applaud her, mostly because they
like the view of her black Dusty’s shorts from where they’re standing, but
they’re the right men to have on her side—big, tattooed, and ready to step
in if the college guys get out of hand. Things seem to settle into place after
that, and Cole and his friend Derrick get the drinks flowing fast.

I take the mic from Barb and flip it to
on
, tapping once or twice until I hear the pop of the sound. I’ve
always been behind the stage—in the dark, listening to Mason or my
dad—or off to the side while my father did the announcing. My next task
has my arms sweating, and my hands shaking uncontrollably; when I step up on
the stage and see nothing but a sea of ball caps, cowboy hats, big hair, and
hundreds of faces, I almost fall off the stage.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, remembering how
simple my dad always kept things, and I go for it. “Hey there everyone. Welcome
to Dusty’s!” I say, and the entire place busts out in applause. It chokes me up
to see how much people love Dusty’s, because I know it’s really a reflection of
how much they love my dad, and I have to pause for a few seconds and hold my
hand over my mouth until I can regain my composure.

“Whooooo, sorry. I’m probably going to do that a few times
tonight. Thanks for bearing with me,” I say, getting a little laughter from the
crowd. “So are we all ready for some music?”

This time, there’s thunderous applause, and I hear Claire’s
whistle in the back again, too, which helps me to smile.

“All right, well, my dad—Ray Abbot—ran this open
mic night for thirty years, and he always kept it simple. You get up here, do
your thing, and if we like you, we’ll have you back. So, how about we all give
a big welcome to…” I look down at the clipboard Barb handed me for the first
name. “Sam…I am?”

I’m starting to think Barb maybe wrote the name down wrong,
and I’m squinting, trying to decipher her handwriting, hoping like hell I
didn’t completely just butcher some poor guy’s name. When I look back up, a guy
in a cowboy hat is making his way through the crowd. “Sam? Come on up, you’ll
have to tell us the story about your na—”

Mason pulls the hat off as soon as he clears the crowd, and
shoots me the most playful and proud smile. I haven’t seen it since the days
before he left for his tour, and I know he’s up to something because the closer
he gets to me, the tighter his lips have to fight not to break out into
laughter. Once he reaches me, he puts the hat on my head and holds his hand out
for the mic.

“May I?” he whispers, and I just shake my head at him and
hand it over.

“You…are up to no good, aren’t you?” I say, crossing my
arms.

“Hey folks, let’s hear it for Avery Abbot. I think she’s
doing a great job, don’t you?” he says, walking the length of the stage and
raising his hands encouraging people to get up from their seats and cheer for
me. My face is on fire, I’m so embarrassed, and when he passes me again, I grab
his arms and force them down, begging him to stop shedding the spotlight on me.

“All right, well…I’m not Sam. Sorry to disappoint everyone.
I know a lot of you here tonight, and for those of you I don’t know, my name’s
Mason Street…” and as soon as he says his name, the sound of screaming women
takes over everything else. “Thank you…thanks.”

He actually has to wait for the screaming to stop, shaking
his head a few times and tossing his arms up to me, honestly a little
embarrassed by the amount of attention he’s getting.

“A’right, A’right…I’ve got more to say, so just hang on a
bit, and then we’ll start entertaining you all,” he says, finally getting the
crowd to break. “So here’s the deal—it’s not really an open mic night.
This list you’ve got Avery? It’s bogus.”

He tosses the clipboard down to his mom and she gives him a
wink and then smiles at me with a shrug. Holy damn! Barb Street pulled one over
on me!

“We’ve got a few people here who
are
going to play for you tonight though. I’m going to kick things
off, and then I’m going to pass the mic on over to an old friend—Stanley
Richards,” Mason says, and I pretty much fall on my ass. Stan played with my
dad when I was a newborn—I’ve seen pictures of the two of them together,
and my dad would tell me stories about watching Stan’s career take off. He’s become
one of the best blues guitarists in the country—like multi-Grammy big.

I’m starting to realize that the room is filled with old
friends of my father’s, and the people who stumbled in here tonight just hoping
for some drinks and a good show have no clue what a treat they are in for.
Mason says a few more names, each one more amazing than the last, and some are
people out on tour now, selling out to hundreds of thousands around the
country.

“You see why we sort of had to keep this thing under wraps,
huh? We’re already turning people away,” he laughs, waving his hands to the
people lining the walls in the back. “Hope y’all can see back there!”

I’m absolutely floored by this tribute to my dad, and I make
my way to the edge of the stage and slide off to take my seat by the bar so I
can enjoy it for a while. “So what do you say we get this party started?” Mason
says, raising his guitar in one hand and a beer in the other; the place erupts
in applause again. I realize finally that Matt and Josh have joined him on
stage along with Mike Calloway, another longtime friend of dad’s, on the drums.
Mason plays two familiar chords—he’s starting things off with Johnny
Cash. Everyone. Goes. Nuts!

Mason mixes in two or three other songs, throwing in a new
one he wrote, but keeping everything upbeat, really getting the crowd up and
moving. I lean back to check the bar, and Cole and Derrick seem to have things
handled, but the flow is constant. Dusty’s is going to have a good night, and I
feel a heavy blanket of stress leave my shoulders.