A Song For the Road

by Rayne Lacko

  “That’s between you and the rock star,” Mitch replied without turning around.

  “Son,” Ledbetter leaned on his cane and squinted at Carter, “you know your way around a deep fryer?”

  Carter sighed and stepped down from the stage. The guitar wasn’t his and was never going to be. The sooner he could get it signed and sold, the better. He needed to get back to his mother. If he could earn a few bucks feeding a hungry bar that night, he wouldn’t complain. Carter needed money, and time to figure out his next move. He glanced sidelong out the window. About a hundred feet across the parking lot, Darren was being handcuffed by a highway patrol officer and tucked into the back of a cruiser. “I suppose I could learn.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  CARTER RETURNED THE GUITAR TO ITS CASE AND followed the old man through swinging doors to a kitchen behind the bar. If a musician as talented as Ledbetter worked as a cook in this dive, just what kind of chops did it take to impress Mitch Keller?

  While he was washing up over a deep stainless-steel sink, Mr. Ledbetter threw a folded apron at him. It landed on Carter’s shoulder, and he put it on. The afternoon was spent hauling sacks of flour and frozen french fries, mindless chores that strained the old man’s back. As he worked, Ledbetter got to talking.

  “Poor technique,” he said, one wrinkled hand palming the worn curve of the head of his cane. Carter lifted a questioning eyebrow, not sure what he’d done wrong. “Poor technique is the birthplace of some of music’s most magnetic and relevant performances.” Ledbetter gestured for Carter to pull a bag of onions from storage. “I’m going to show you how to make onion rings with mesquite flour. If you listen proper, I’ll teach you how to break that nervous wrist of yours loose.”

  Carter worked hard and listened closely. The stellar lineup of musicians that evening surprised him. One after the other, sunburned farmers and tattooed biker guys plucked strings and pounded drums with masterful skill. Music didn’t ask where you came from, Carter thought, but it made neighbors out of strangers.

  Dropping onion rings in hot oil ought to have given him time to drum up an alibi to tell the barkeep and Ledbetter. Kindness of strangers was fleeting. It wouldn’t be long before they’d want to know who he was and why he wasn’t in school. Carter was thankful for the chance to make some money at the tavern, but he also needed a place to sleep that night. He was hard-pressed to make up a believable story; the music pouring from the tavern was too distracting.

  Mitch Keller didn’t take kindly to Carter hanging out by the stage. “Son, if you aren’t twenty-one, you’d best make yourself scarce.” Carter might have been tall enough to pass for sixteen, but could he pull off twenty-one? He wasn’t fooling anybody.

  Mitch saw to it that Carter made his way back to the kitchen. The boy could still watch the bands from behind the swinging doors, and keep up with the food orders as well. Mitch seemed almost satisfied, but something made him hesitate. He looked back across the busy tavern. The evening bar staff could hold down the fort another minute.

  “Even prisoners ask for one phone call,” he said, fishing his cell phone out of his pocket and offering it to Carter. “There must be someone you need to get in touch with.”

  Relief and gratitude washed across Carter’s face. “Thank you, sir,” he said, taking the phone. Mitch’s sleek smartphone appeared downright futuristic in the old tavern. The barkeep nodded, satisfied for the time being, and went back to the bar.

  Immediately, Carter began dialing his mom’s cell number, then froze. He remembered her phone was destroyed, but worse, it reminded him of the night in Tommy’s pawn shop, dialing her number over and over, hour after hour, without any response. And what was he going to tell her anyway, that he was working in a bar in New Mexico?

  He didn’t want to confess what he’d done. None of it. But he needed to know if she was all right. Carter stared at the phone’s glowing screen for several minutes, planning what to say to his mother and how he might dodge her questions about why he was in Las Cruces instead of at Aunt Sylvia’s. He came up with all of nothing.

  Carter figured he’d better put the phone to good use before Mitch asked for it back. He dialed Felicitas Hospital in Tulsa and asked for Sandra Bermejo.

  They wouldn’t put him through; she was sleeping. But the nurse on call recognized his voice. “She’s resting comfortably, bless her heart. On bed rest another few days while we watch for swelling. Your mother is the strongest woman I ever met, Carter. Too stubborn to let a little weather step in her way.”

  Carter smiled into the phone and thanked the nurse. He was about to hang up when he glanced over to Mitch and caught his eye. He was watching him. “What happens when she’s released?” Carter blurted into the phone. “Where will she go?”

  “We aren’t ready to say our good-byes just yet. She’s got a spell of recovery ahead of her. Another ten or fifteen days, likely.”

  Carter didn’t know how he’d get in touch with her next, but he was sure glad she was on the mend. “Tell her I’m all right, will you, ma’am?”

  “Sure thing, honey.”

  Backing into the kitchen, Carter slipped from Mitch’s view. He wasn’t sure when he’d get his hands on a phone again. It was as good a time as any to cement his decision to see his father.

  His aunt picked up his call right away and went straight to wailing about him not showing up when Sandra said he would.

  “Aunt Syl, I didn’t mean you any trouble,” he said, trying to calm her down. “Eddie—my dad—he wants me to stay with him. Says we got a lot of catching up to do.” If Sylvia talked to his mom when she came to, Carter hoped she might actually believe that.

  BY closing time, Carter was beat. Mitch stood in the kitchen’s doorway, jangling a ring of keys. “You need a ride home?”

  It was confession time; there was no way around it. Over the last plate of onion rings, Carter admitted he was broke. But he didn’t want to give up, and he didn’t want to go home, not until he gave seeing his father his best shot. Carter was rattled by the music he’d heard that night. Not one of those talented musicians on The Little Yucca’s stage was itching for fame, but they played their darn hearts out.

  Clearly, Eddie had been right about showmanship, at least when it came to securing gigs. Without it, he’d failed his audition. Carter decided to try his hand at his father’s tuned and oiled bull-crap machine and prove that hitchhiking to California wasn’t a mistake. Carter needed to sell the two men on his bright idea; he was worried they might call the police. Or worse, send him back to Tulsa.

  “I think my father’s guitar is trying to tell me something,” Carter said, solemn as a TV preacher. “I need to get back to the man who marked it with Creativity, Victory, Heart, and Discipline.” Ledbetter seemed to like that a lot. When a kid brings to mind the mystical, folks nod like he’s got more than his years.

  He couldn’t figure whether Mitch Keller was a good guy or bad, but the hour was growing late, so he gambled on Mitch’s kindness. “Mr. Keller, sir? Would it be all right if I spent the night in The Little Yucca?” Carter gestured to a bank of padded benches along one wall. “I’d be sure to have Mr. Ledbetter’s onions chopped for y’all in the morning.”

  Mitch didn’t like the idea. “Any kid who falls into my bar within inches of getting his face dented by a drunk,” he said, “shouldn’t be left to his own devices.”

  Ledbetter had a ramshackle trailer permanently parked out back. He offered the boy the use of his settee for the night. “I’ll keep an eye.” He nodded at Mitch, tapping his cane handle tip gently against the brow over his right eye.

  Ledbetter’s trailer sat on cinder blocks, the wheels hovering motionless over hard, red earth. Carter could tell it had had a custom paint job; maybe it was once green, but the New Mexican sun had broiled it to a near-white gray. Ledbetter grabbed a handle bar next to the door and hoisted himself in, beckoning Carter to follow. It was dark and stuffy. A stale, musty odor hung in the air. The windows were shut tig
ht and blinded by dust, but Carter could make out a small sink and counter and a mini fridge. There were boxes of records and old magazines under a tiny kitchen table and rows of books that looked older than the dirt baking under the trailer’s wheels.

  Carter’s body ached for sleep. He had no clue what a settee was, but when Ledbetter showed him, it turned out to be a small, lumpy love seat, roughly a thousand years old. He wished he could’ve slept by himself in the tavern. When Ledbetter turned in for the night, Carter kept a light on and pretended to browse a bookshelf, afraid of sharing the darkness with the old man.

  Once alone, Carter grabbed his notebook and Kaia’s sparkle pen. Today is April 7, he wrote, followed by everything she’d need to know to send the cops, starting with his exact location, in case anything went wrong. It was ridiculous, he thought. He had to tell her this info that instant or it was useless. He tore out the page and clicked shut her pen, staring at the blank page after it. How long would it take a letter to get to her grandparents’ house? He needed a phone. Why hadn’t he called her when he had the chance? Then the worst occurred to him: He hadn’t deleted the numbers he’d called from Mitch’s cell. So much for privacy.

  On the other side of a curtain dividing the bedroom from the living area, Mr. Ledbetter was making snoring noises. Sleep wasn’t going to find him anytime soon, so he opened the pen again. Carter wrote about the bands he’d heard that night, and the cash Mitch had paid him under the table—fifty bucks for six hours of kitchen labor. He couldn’t help but brag how he’d driven Darren Bartles’s truck, all by himself. In the middle of a car chase on the interstate.

  On a third page, he tried to capture the sounds Ledbetter could pluck from his old Pimentel guitar. Words weren’t enough, so he sketched a drawing of the old man and his old guitar on the dusty old stool in the old tavern.

  He stared at his pages for a long time, wondering whether it was worth it. What did he have to gain from holding back? The whole truth and nothing but the truth, that’s what he’d want from Kaia. So that’s what he ought to give her, right? He began a fresh sheet, describing his audition. How he’d pictured her, and how he drew her image with sound. And how Mitch turned his back on him. He found himself promising her he’d practice, become good enough to make an entire roomful of people hear her with their own ears.

  Chapter Nineteen

  WHEN CARTER WASN ’ τ SWEEPING UP OR prepping the kitchen for the nightly crowd, Ledbetter made him practice on the Martin. Carter could hardly contain his irritation. He just wanted to make enough money to get to California. Once he convinced his dad to sign the cursed instrument to increase its value, he could go back to Tommy’s and sell it, and get on with his life. He was worried sick about his mama, and besides Carter didn’t need any practice. He wasn’t a musician and he’d never be one. It was pointless. And it hurt, too. Having old Ledbetter nag him about rehearsal rekindled the happiest days of his childhood. Those days were far behind him, and every strum of his fingers was a reminder that it’d been a long time since he could honestly say he was happy. The only reason Ledbetter thought he cared about playing his daddy’s old guitar was because it was part of his bull-crap story from his first night at The Little Yucca, so Carter had to keep up the act.

  “Your elbow ain’t playing the instrument, son,” Ledbetter scolded him. Carter wondered if the old man was off his rocker. “When you play a single string, the motion comes from your fingers. With a chord, the strum is born of the wrist.” Ledbetter demonstrated. “Either way, the elbow is motionless.”

  Carter nodded. “Right, the motion doesn’t happen at the elbow,” he repeated, plucking a few strings to get a feel. It was just like when he was a kid and his dad expected him to do as he was told.

  “Easy now, son. The pick needn’t travel more than a quarter inch for a single note.”

  Lots of rock guitarists made big windmill motions. He saw it all the time in music videos. If there was one thing his father had drilled into him, it was that showmanship trumped subtlety. An audience expected a show, and the performer was paid to deliver. Any technical weakness could be buried under either style, or conviction. The problem was, performing with conviction meant diving into the music and reawakening all the feelings he was trying every day to hold down. Carter tried to appease him by playing several notes slowly but found himself picking up speed to show he was getting it.

  Ledbetter sat back in the wooden chair he’d pulled up to the stage and pinched the wrinkling skin between his eyes. “No one likes to hear this, but you got to slow down, boy. Fast comes when you’re ready, but you’re far from ready. Keep a pace you can control. Don’t rush.”

  Carter tried to follow Ledbetter’s instructions, but his hand wouldn’t listen. The second he gained “control,” he strummed faster.

  “No, son. Take your time. Practice. Over and over, until it’s perfect. When it’s perfect, then you can jump the pace.”

  Carter wanted to get it right the first time. The man’s notions of technique were older than his Pimentel and twice as sentimental. Like a vintage roadster, Carter reckoned Ledbetter was among the last of his breed. Stylish back in his day and fierce when the engine revved, but too old to win the race.

  Worse, Ledbetter had a habit of making faces. He often stopped for long pauses, punctuating his sentences with a deep grimace. At first, it seemed the polite thing was to look away. The wrinkles and ridges on Ledbetter’s face seemed to move on their own, telling secrets too painful to put into words. Or maybe he was trying to clear gunk from his teeth or fighting some intestinal trouble. What did Carter know from old people? The only family he had was Mama.

  “Modern music harkens back to the earliest days of rock ’n roll,” Ledbetter said, squinting into the distant past, “when legends like Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley established its roots and carved its shape. You’ll get your style by studying the masters.”

  Carter didn’t tell him the left-handed guitar was supposed to pay tribute to Jimi Hendrix, an incontestable master. The truth was that style didn’t matter to him. For Carter, music was about expression, a way to say something about yourself. Carter figured he’d take what he could from Ledbetter’s teaching, but only until he made enough money to get a bus ticket out West.

  After the lesson, Ledbetter shuffled out to his mobile home for a midday nap. Carter put the letter he’d written to Kaia in an envelope and worked up the nerve to approach Mitch. When the old barkeep saw he was desperate enough to put pen to paper, maybe he’d let him borrow his cell phone again.

  Something was biting at Carter, but it wasn’t panic or even fear. What troubled him most was causing his mom worry. If she caught wind of his getaway, she’d pitch a duck fit with a tail on it. He knew he needed to explain himself, and a letter wasn’t going to cut it. He needed to talk with his mom.

  “I reckon writing letters is kind of lame,” Carter said, sliding Kaia’s sparkle pen into his pocket to hide it. “It’s why they invented telephones, so no one would have to spill their sorrows in permanent ink. Any chance you might lend me your phone?” Aside from the gas station next door, there weren’t many signs of human life around The Little Yucca. He hoped Mitch would tell him there wasn’t one lonesome mailbox this side of Route 66. He didn’t want to tell him about his mother’s condition because Mitch would say what he already knew: that he ought to be in Tulsa taking care of her. But Carter knew the best thing he could do to help his mom was sell the guitar for the highest price.

  “Son, whatever you’ve written, I’m willing to bet you meant every word,” Mitch said, standing a full four inches taller than him, his arms crossed over his massive chest.

  “Nah, not so much.” What he’d written the night before seemed too personal now, and he didn’t know what Kaia would think if she saw it. “But I do need to let my friend know where I am. Safety first.” He tried half a smile, but the hard line of Mitch’s brow stopped him.

  “I gave you that opportunity last night. Don’t suppose you squand
ered it?”

  “No, sir. I called my mom, first thing. My aunt, second.”

  “Good. You minded the important business.” Mitch held out his hand, and Carter gave him the letter. Mitch held it at arm’s length and considered the address, then handed it back. Carter’s gaze wandered to Mitch’s cell phone, sitting on the counter next to the cash register. “I’m no axman,” Mitch continued, “but far as I can tell, writing letters is good for building finger dexterity. There’s a mailbox a quarter-mile south, outside the drugstore.” Mitch picked up his phone and slid it into his pocket, then turned and headed toward the storage room, like the conversation was over.

  He was going to get that phone, one way or another. Finger dexterity, he’d said. If Carter could show him he was writing letters and putting in practice on his guitar, he’d have to let him use it.

  Carter set out down the road a piece, keeping an eye out for a drugstore.

  Chapter Twenty

  THAT NIGHT, CARTER FOUND OUT LEDBETTER was more than a fry cook, he was a local legend. He watched Ledbetter butter up the crowd with his mellow, Latin-influenced songs. His facial expressions were an integral part of his music, casting a spell over the crowd. A coolness softened the heat of his sound, smooth as fresh-whipped cream melting on hot apple pie. Halfway through his set, he swapped his acoustic for more insistent, hard-edged rhythms on an electric guitar. Carter and The Yucca’s waterholing regulars nearly brought the house down with cheers. For Ledbetter, rock ’n roll wasn’t a hobby. It was a way of life.

  Exhausted from feeding the late-night crew and hanging on every chord change from Mr. Ledbetter’s skillful hand, Carter crashed out on the settee, another fifty dollars closer to scoring a bus ticket out West. Maybe he’d pay a little more attention to the old man at his next lesson. It wouldn’t hurt to perfect a song or two to play for his father. He didn’t have much else to offer.