Sweeter Life (11 page)

Cyrus cast a nervous glance in Ronnie’s direction. “The thing is—”

“Look, there’s no ‘thing.’ Just do what you’re told and we’ll all be happy as pigs in shit.”

“But there is a thing. I’m a guitar player. Mr. Conger didn’t say anything about playing bass.”

Sonny slumped. “Oh, Jesus Murphy.
Con-ger!”

Ronnie was already halfway over to them. “Good, good, good,” he called out. “You’ve all met. This is wonderful, is it not? I so love new beginnings.”

Sonny laid his hand lightly on Ronnie’s shoulder. In the sing-song voice of feigned civility, he said, “Are you a total idiot? Cal was a bass player. What the hell am I supposed to do with this dickweed?”

Ronnie smiled broadly and nodded his head. “I understand your consternation, Sonny, but you know, I see this as a tremendous opportunity for all of us, a chance to learn some flexibility in the face of life’s uncertainties. And let’s face it, the group had gotten a bit stale. You said yourself that the band would sound a hundred percent better without Cal, and you were right—he was a dear boy but admittedly a weak link. So now you’ve got your wish and more. You can cover the bass lines, just like you wanted all along. You won’t have Cal messing things up. And now we have young Cyrus here, who plays guitar like an angel. This is a step in the right direction, you can’t deny it.”

Sonny spit on the floor, turned sharply on his heel and marched back across the hall with his entourage. If Cyrus had been nervous before, he was on the verge of tears now, petrified he would make a fool of himself.

Ronnie clapped him on the shoulder and said, “That went better than I thought it would. And don’t worry about Sonny. His bark is worse than his bite.” Then he guided Cyrus over to a dolly beside the stage. Handing him the keys to the Caddy, he said, “I wouldn’t keep him waiting. He’s a stickler for punctuality.”

Cyrus dragged the dolly outside, opened the trunk and hauled out his gear. When he turned around again, he saw a face staring at him from the
Airstream. A moment later the door opened and a hulking man stepped uncertainly down from the trailer. He had long, unnaturally black hair swept back like a lion’s mane, a glistening black goatee, and eyes that were Robin Hood green. He wore a rumpled white linen suit. His feet were bare. He was holding the Pekingese Cyrus had seen earlier.

“The new musician?” The man offered his free hand, which Cyrus promptly accepted. “Always a pleasure, you know, to have a new face remind us what we’re all about. The spirit, yes? The vital energy like a river that refreshes us and carries us to a higher place …”

The man had a voice like a canyon, deep and reverberating. “You believe in signs, young man?”

“Well—”

“Of course you do. Who doesn’t? When your stomach growls, isn’t that a sign? When you yawn, when you’re thirsty—these, too, are signs. You follow stop signs and pay attention to the first sign of a cold. You head for the exit when there’s a fire and follow the highway signs to your favourite fast-food restaurant. Don’t tell me you don’t believe in signs.”

“Well,” Cyrus conceded, “I guess I kind of do.”

“Mmm-hmm. God gave us signs, too, rules to guide us in our life. Honour thy father and mother. I know your momma and your daddy have rules, and these are things we all must obey. As musicians we follow key signatures and notations, and what are these but signs to the glories that dwell in our hearts. Young Cal followed signs that led him away from us, just as you have now followed signs that have brought you into our circle, which is a very awkward way to say welcome to our little family. My name is Jimmy Waters, and I want you to know that whatever is your problem is my problem. Whatever is your fear is my fear. Do not hesitate to come to me. I am at your service. Our stories are here and forever more entwined.”

They were standing so close together that the man’s sheer bulk was intimidating. Heat radiated from him, the air musky with perspiration and hair oil and black licorice. He nuzzled his chin into the dog’s fur, then looked off into the distance and said, “I remember, Lord, I still remember how it felt to stand where you are standin’ now, just there on the verge of mighty things, with all your music before you. Youth is what I mean, your age.” He shook
his head at the wonder of it all. “Have you ever noticed that music is a one-way street? The first note of any song can lead us anywhere, you know, but only ever forward. Have you noticed that? Into the future. It is a young man’s game, you see. Ever forward, the young man’s game. Play a single note, any note, and no matter what it is, you will never wonder what may have preceded it but only what comes next. Play a note and you begin to hear the next one before it can even be shaped, already you are movin’ forward, ever forward.”

Cyrus finally succeeded in pulling free of Jimmy’s clutches. He wiped his palm against his pant leg and said, “It’s nice to meet you. But the others. I should go inside. They’re waiting …” Then, backing sheepishly away, he dragged the dolly into the hall.

Sonny, who was standing at the door of the dressing room, waved him in, but not before he took a good look at Cyrus’s equipment. “Your gear’s not half bad,” he muttered. “Let’s hope you know how to use it.”

As Cyrus set up his amplifier and effects, he realized he’d have to keep his volume down. The keyboard was plugged into a tiny practice amp. The drummer had a snare drum wedged between his knees.

Sonny made the introductions. He pointed to the guy who’d been tossing the football outside and said, “That’s Tony Two Poops. He sings some, plays percussion some. He thinks he knows how to play harmonica but he doesn’t. And whatever you do, don’t play cards with him. He’ll skin you alive. Beside him there is D.C.”

“Europa,” the woman corrected, her voice deep and smoky and heavily accented. “Europa Del Conte. But you can call me Eura.”

It was the woman he’d seen earlier with the dog. Up close, he noticed she had a tattoo along one side of her neck, showing just above the collar of her sweater. It was a vine with bright red berries and tiny purple flowers with yellow centres.

“Like I said,” Sonny continued brusquely, “that’s D.C. Mostly she sucks cock—”

“Sonny!”

“—but she’s been known to sing a tune or two. Doesn’t have much talent either way, though.”

Eura reached into the nearby ice bucket and threw a can of beer at Sonny’s
head, not at all playfully. He caught it in mid-air, popped the top and tossed back a mouthful. He flashed her a toothy grin.

“Our drummer,” he continued, “is Chuck Ray. I’m on keyboards. And you, it seems, are our guitar player.” He mouthed the last words with a sour look on his face. Then he put the beer aside and said, “Let’s see what kind of trouble we’re in.”

Chuck winked at Cyrus. “Don’t let Sonny rattle your cage. He’s only a prick till you get to know him. After that he’s just an asshole like the rest of us.” Then he launched into a half-time shuffle.

Sonny moved behind a Fender Rhodes electric piano, setting up a loping bass line and framing the occasional chord of a simple blues jam. All the while he kept his eyes on Cyrus, who let a whole twelve bars go by as he fiddled with his knobs and adjusted the strap on his shoulder. He still wasn’t familiar with the new guitar, but he was aching to blast away, to feel the power and exaltation.

He cut loose when the band moved into the second verse, a flurry of notes building quickly to a blizzard, his hand racing about the fingerboard and fitting most of his favourite licks into a twelve-bar section. He wanted to show that, even minus a finger, he could blaze away with the best of them. When he finished, Sonny took a turn.

If Cyrus’s solo was manic and unmannered, Sonny’s was a lazy Southern drawl full of wit and wisdom. There were more spaces than notes, and each phrase had a face and a voice of its own, each voice telling a story, each story leading to the next, a graceful tale of life and humanity.

When the song stumbled to an end, everyone nodded approvingly—everyone but Sonny. He winced as if he was in pain and said, “Listen kid, we don’t get paid by the note, you know.” Then he left the room and returned a minute later with a rickety music stand and a leather satchel. He pulled out a handful of sheet music and placed it on the stand in front of Cyrus.

“Ah,” Cyrus said, “that could be a problem.”

“It’ll do for now. We’ll get you a better stand for the show.”

“No,” Cyrus explained, “I mean the music. I guess I wasn’t very clear with Mr. Conger.”

“I don’t follow you, kid.”

Everyone heard the wariness in Sonny’s voice. No one moved. No one breathed. Cyrus touched the stand and said, “I don’t read music.”

“Tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“But chord charts, right? You can read those at least.”

Cyrus dragged a hand through his hair and said, “Look, I usually pick things up real fast. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

“Problem?” Sonny suddenly towered over him. “You don’t know the first fucking thing about problems, pal. Don’t talk to me about problems.” He began to pace the room. “So let me get this straight. You don’t read. And it’s clear you don’t know how to play your instrument. You’re sure as hell not good-looking. So what’s your excuse for living?”

“Sonny,” Eura said, “this is just a boy.”

“He’s a dull fuck who’s jerking me around here. Jesus.” For emphasis, he kicked out his cowboy boot and sent the music stand cartwheeling across the floor, sheet music flying every which way. Then he turned on Cyrus and aimed his finger like a gun. “Jim likes to have a lot of bodies onstage, so you’re gonna stand up there with us even if your amp’s turned off. The three of us can cover the rhythm and the chords all right. See if you can stick in a few notes without screwing up the whole thing.”

C
larence sat on a stump at the edge of the orchard and gazed down the long ridge where Cyrus had tobogganed every winter. He could see clear over to the next concession, and the next, all the way to the Owens’ old place, those big black fields, the fluorescent green of the irrigation pond, the writhing forms of the willows.

Clarence couldn’t stand to be around the house just now. It pained him to see Ruby suffering for the boy, pained him, too, that he could do nothing about it and was maybe even to blame. Below all that, haunting his every waking moment, was the question of whether they had caught all the cancer. He felt so tired, and he was afraid that they’d have to go back in and remove more and more of him until there was nothing left. He didn’t feel like working and had never had much use for play, so he had wandered out in the April sunlight to think about happier times, which led him back to the day he first set eyes on Riley Owen.

Clarence was sixteen, had just gotten his driver’s licence and was barrelling down the Second Concession in his father’s Ford pickup when he saw a kid standing in the middle of the road and heaving stones, regular as clockwork, at a fence post fifty feet away. The kid looked to be about ten, and he wore blue overalls and nothing much else—no T-shirt underneath, no shoes on his
feet, his blond hair standing straight up like a shock of wheat. A good-looking boy but poor as could be.

Clarence pulled up beside him and leaned out the window. “Hey there, sport,” he said, “what’s your name?”

“Dizzy,” he replied, never breaking his rhythm, “Dizzy Dean.”

“Hey that’s funny. My name is Babe Ruth.”

The kid kept tossing a stone every five seconds. If he threw twenty at the post, fifteen hit their target. Clarence said, “You’re pretty good at that. Got any other tricks?”

He stopped throwing and edged over by the truck. “I’m saving up to buy me a ball and glove. Gonna be in the big leagues.”

Clarence had half a mind to tell him he’d be better off buying some clothes. Instead he said, “While you’re dreaming, why don’t you dream me up a million bucks and a gal with big knockers.”

The kid gave him a dark look and then grabbed another handful of stones from the side of the road. “That’s our place over there,” he said, whipping stone after stone into the middle of the black mucky field in front of them. “Jake Owen and son. My real name’s Riley.”

Clarence leaned farther out the window to get a better look. Settling back into the truck again, he said, “Don’t know what place you’re talking about, Riley. All I see’s an empty field.”

The boy scowled at Clarence, then started throwing at the fence post again. “Ain’t built yet,” he said. “Pa and me’ll build it ourselves.”

Something about Riley, the certainty, the bravado, made Clarence smile. He’d never had a brother or sister, and the sight of this kid made him ache for one. He wanted to tease him but hug him, too. He stuck his arm out the window and offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Riley Owen. Name’s Clarence Mitchell. If you ever need anything, that’s our place up thataways—Orchard Knoll.” Then he stepped on the gas and left Riley standing in a cloud of dust.

The summer of 1931, the Owens managed to build a small barn and a chicken coop. Jake was practical that way, or impractical, depending on your point of view. The house would come eventually, and until it did, they would make do. The important thing was to be productive, he felt. Food was scarce;
most things were. That winter they would live in the coop.

Riley had a hard time those first months of school, getting into a dust-up almost daily, often with older boys who teased him about his threadbare clothing. But with the first snowfall and first snowball fight, things began to change. The boys of Lakeview School soon realized that no one could match Riley’s arm and accuracy. By the second week of winter, the taunting had stopped. By the new year, the smarter boys were enlisting Riley’s services. Come summer and the baseball season, he had earned their grudging respect.

Some friendships flow in a single direction, with one person taking on most of the maintenance. That’s how it was with Riley and Clarence, only not the way you might expect. Riley was younger, poorer, more needful in every way. It would be natural for him to seek out Clarence who had so much to share. But Riley was naturally a loner, and maybe he just couldn’t imagine that he had anything to offer in return. Whatever the reason, it was always Clarence who suggested they get together. Not that they were best friends or anything. There were six years between them; they went to different schools. But Clarence, a straight-A student, helped Riley with his homework. He offered him rides around town. And it was Clarence who gave him his first ball glove.