by Rayne Lacko
Carter adjusted his backpack and his guitar and walked away from the bus stop. He was making plans faster than he could reckon if they were any good. At least he had cash. That was good. Carter decided to get himself some dinner before hiding out behind The Willow. Several of the restaurants along the street had open-air patios. When he rounded the block Carter spotted a tavern, The Crusty Maiden, with a sign reading, “Live music.”
He wasn’t old enough to be in a bar, but it was still early. If he slipped in with the dinner rush, he could linger a bit and maybe catch the first act.
As he stepped in, he felt right at home. The Crusty Maiden had the raucous, bouncing spirit of The Little Yucca after dark. But this place was more punk or rockabilly than Mitch’s southwestern-flavored roadhouse. Where cowboys and steer horns held court at The Yucca, tattoos and black leather ruled at The Crusty Maiden. A server in lace-up motorcycle boots, with jet-black hair fringed by short, cherry-tinted bangs, stepped out in front of Carter before he could make it to a table. A tattoo of a spider’s web encircled her chest and neck. On her left shoulder sat a life-size and too-realistic-looking tat of a black widow spider.
“You looking for your mama, honey?” she asked, chewing a tiny wad of pink bubble gum. She couldn’t have been much older than him, and he was plumb tired of getting treated like a dumb kid.
“You looking for your daddy?” Carter answered her question with a question and tried to appear taller.
She laughed. Carter didn’t know what was so funny, but he couldn’t help but prefer her smile. “You look more like jailbait to me, honey,” she said with a wink, looking him over from head to guitar case. “My name’s Bet. Let me show you to a table.”
Bet sat Carter at a table in the corner by the stage. He was starving, and a quick glance at the menu she gave him made him hungrier. He couldn’t decide between the Maiden’s roadkill burger or chicken tacos, so he ordered both, along with french fries, potato salad, and a big slice of chocolate cake.
Carter listened to the sounds of boots tramping the old planks of the wood floor and the clinking of glasses on the long bar, sometimes harmonizing with a pinball machine in the corner. The waitstaff had a neighborly way of cussing out the clientele. Grabbing his notebook from his guitar case, he sketched the bank of blood-red vinyl booths and strings of Christmas lights twinkling from open-beam rafters. He began writing to Kaia again. Having something to say to her renewed his hope a measure, made him feel like he was making his way again, charting a path to what he wanted and what mattered. He wrote about The Crusty Maiden, but he found himself telling her about meeting Piper and how she’d swung from fierce to flimsy. When he tried to explain what had set Willard off, he couldn’t make sense of it. All Piper had done was ask him not to take a second beer. Weird. He stared at the next line on the page, empty, his pen soaking ink into the pores. He dared himself to write: I’m going to play my guitar here tonight.
This was a big declaration. Could he really convince The Crusty Maiden to let him onstage?
Bet came by with his check. “How you doing, Jailbait? Can I get you anything else, honey?”
“When’s the show?” Carter pointed to the stage with a jut of his jaw, trying to be cool.
“Another hour or so.”
He pulled out enough cash to cover his meal plus a healthy tip and placed it on the table. “With a name like Bet, I reckon you’d be interested in a little wager.”
Bet put her order pad back in her apron and tucked her pen behind her right ear. She raised one sculpted, painted-black eyebrow at Carter. “Who could resist those puppy-dog eyes? What’ve you got in mind, Jailbait?”
“Give me the stage for ten minutes and I’ll guess your favorite song,” he said. “If I can’t guess it, I’ll buy you a slice of cake.”
Bet placed her hand on her hip and sized him up. “I’ll give you five minutes and not a second longer.”
Carter flushed with relief and grabbed the handle of his guitar case.
“But I can tell you right now,” she added, “you don’t stand a chance, Jailbait.”
“We’ll see.” He grinned, rising from his chair. Carter leaped onto the stage without bothering to use the side stair. The nervous tendency to clear his throat chased him, but he kicked it to the floor.
He unlatched his case and pulled out his guitar. “Play to your audience,” Ledbetter had told him, “the way only you can.” Forget Dad’s idea of ’flawless execution,’ he thought, play what they’d like, my way.
His wrists were tender from mixing mesquite and rice flour with cornstarch all afternoon. They felt loose, too tired to strain or resist. He played the familiar chord changes of “Ring of Fire” by Johnny Cash. The song sounded good in his ears. In his mind, he pictured his plane ticket to California flaming up in a ring of fire, and it made him feel powerful, in charge of his life for once. Carter brought the tempo up to a faster rock version. The chords bounced along, unfettered and free. His fingertips peeled with soreness from practicing guitar for hours by the riverbed back in Las Cruces and he couldn’t press the strings against the fret as tightly. To his surprise, that improved the sound. The music was lighter, less forced.
It was a give and take, pleasing the audience while remaining true to himself. Carter dragged the notes where his heart pulled him, both toward Santa Monica and away. He played for Piper’s biological father, wherever he was. As he strummed on, his thoughts unfolded. When that man lost his family, Mitch gained a wife and a daughter. You find out who your family is, and sometimes blood’s got nothing to do with it, he decided.
Cash’s lyrics weren’t about any of those things, but Carter had practiced the song until he knew it too well to get it wrong. Bet leaned against the bar, giving the stage her full attention. When he caught her eye, she shook her head, a playful smile telling him she’d won. It wasn’t her favorite song. But she didn’t move to stop him either. Meeting her gaze made him feel less alone behind the microphone.
At the end of the song, Carter moved directly into “Juvenile Delinquent,” a rockabilly tune, without lifting his fingers. Led-better said it was an old favorite that would save his butt when the haters told him he was too young to rock the house.
When she recognized the tune, Bet hooted and whistled, cheering him on. An older woman with white-blond hair sweeping across her shoulders and a Crusty Maiden tee torn to a deep valley sidled up and said something to Bet, pointing at Carter.
He pulled his gaze away, daring to make eye contact with other patrons for just a few beats, nothing big. What a difference. Random strangers scattered about the room assembled around him, called forward when he looked them in the eye. He wasn’t alone. They shared the music together. Carter played on, an unceasing stream of all the old rock ’n roll songs he’d learned alongside the little record player on the kitchen shelf back at The Yucca. He played the familiar songs his way, with his own arrangements, singing with an honest voice, and no one turned their back. When he ran out of the old favorites, he tried a few alternative rock songs he’d always liked. His five minutes onstage melted away and soon became an hour. It felt so good now that his wrist was freed, he didn’t care if he had a goofy smile on his face.
After his set, Carter made his way over to Bet. Hands from the crowd extended toward him for high-fives, handshakes, and fist bumps.
“How about that cake, Jailbait?” she asked.
“Yeah, of course,” Carter said, catching himself before tagging on “ma’am.” If it didn’t fly with Piper, chances were good it wouldn’t fly with Bet. “Mind if I ask what your favorite song is?”
Bet winked. “Goes with me to the grave.” She counted out twenty-five dollars from a pocket in her apron and handed it to him. “Your pay for tonight’s show. Boss says she wants you back tomorrow for another happy-hour set.”
Carter couldn’t find the words to express either his surprise or his gratitude. He threw his arms around her, squeezing her in a hug.
“C’mon now, get out
ta here,” Bet said, giving him a sisterly pat on the head. “You’re gonna break hearts when you come old enough to fill a man’s boots,” she added with a shake of her head. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Out on the sidewalk, Carter’s feet carried him back to The Desert Willow without his slightest effort, like he was floating between the ground and the stars. If this was what it felt like to perform, he was hooked. LA could wait one more day.
Chapter Thirty-One
BACK AT PIPER’S RESTAURANT, CARTER THOUGHT about his mom and how the only thing she needed to deal with the crazy Wayne ordeal was courage. There was no light around the restaurant save the glow from The Desert Willow’s sign out front. He couldn’t find a decent place around The Willow to crash. He tried the back door to the kitchen, but it was locked. The front entrance was bolted shut. He checked all the windows; no luck. Picking his way around the perimeter of the pueblo-style building in the dark, a square stucco cube with round air-ventilation tubes poking out just below the roofline, he found a metal ladder attached to the building and climbed up to the roof.
There was nothing up there but a pool chaise longue and someone on it, covered by a large, lumpy wool blanket. He froze, holding his breath.
“Who’s there?” The lump bolted up, alarmed and alert. He recognized Piper’s voice. “Don’t take another step. I have a knife.”
“It’s me. Carter.” He dared to step toward her. A knife jutted out from under the blanket. Carter shuffled out from the shadows so she could get a better look at his face.
“Shouldn’t you be on a plane?” The fear in her voice was replaced with irritation.
“Shouldn’t you be home in bed?”
Piper pulled the blanket down and crossed her arms. “What on earth are you doing on my roof?”
Carter couldn’t figure out how to explain himself without making her mad. He toyed with bragging about Bet giving him a reason to stay. But the truth was, he’d come back to help her. Of course, she probably didn’t want his help any more than she wanted her stepfather’s. Piper waited for him to say something, anything.
He was done telling stories and hiding the truth. Whatever went on with Willard that night, Piper was safe for the time being, far as he could tell. So he unloaded. Once he got started, he didn’t hold anything back. Carter told her how his daddy up and left, taking his future in music with him. He told her about the night he’d spent in the pawn shop, when his entire neighborhood disappeared, along with his mama. He gave her the play-by-play of searching the soggy remains of all their belongings for two whole days before a relief crew found him. He admitted he should have been at his aunt’s house days ago, and his shame of promising Lola May he’d go to stay with his mama in the shelter.
“Sometimes I’m terrified of being on the run. But the only thing scarier than being alone is trying to figure out who I’m supposed to be.” Carter knew his mother believed his father had used him, and as much as he wanted to make money recording the Ma Joad’s jingle, he couldn’t help but wonder if that was still true. But he couldn’t go back to the way things were, drifting through each school day wondering how any of what he was learning mattered. Or building his skills in carpentry and engine repair with his mom, knowing his hands only wanted to play guitar.
Piper didn’t try to comfort him. There was no “poor you” from her. He didn’t want her pity anyway. The bruises on her back spoke on her behalf.
“Why do you want to see your father again?” Piper asked at last, her voice muffled under the blanket she held snugly around her shoulders. “He left you.”
Carter didn’t need to be reminded. “Well, at first all I wanted was to destroy his guitar and make the past go away. And then I wanted him to sign it, so I could sell it for more than I’d bought it.” Carter didn’t care to mention how much he owed his mother for stealing. “But now . . .” Carter looked Piper in the eye. “I guess I just want to show him I was worth staying for. In truth, I want him to be my dad.”
The dark sky hung like a black burlap curtain with a hole where a bright moon peeked through. Before Carter could drum up the nerve to ask what Piper was doing up on the roof, she whispered, “My dad was home a lot, but all he did was beat up on Mom and me.” She tucked a loose wave of her lavender-streaked hair behind her ear. “When he finally left for good, my mom had to work two jobs. She only came home to sleep or get drunk.”
“And then she met Mitch Keller and he changed all that?” Carter was hopeful that if her story turned around, his might, too.
She had a bitter laugh. “Is that what he told you?”
“He didn’t tell me much of anything. Just that he loves you a lot.”
“Yeah, he’s famous for his sweet talk. Most bartenders are. No surprise my mom married a guy who owns a bar, right?”
Carter got defensive. “Mitch is a good man.”
“Maybe his guilt gets the best of him.” She shrugged. “He probably thinks he owes me because he killed my mother.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Drinking and driving,” Piper explained. “She died in a fatal collision, coming home from The Little Yucca.”
Carter didn’t know what to say. He knew how bad it had felt when he thought he’d lost his mother after the tornadoes. Piper’s loss was for real. Forever. “I reckon there’s no way round the pain,” he said, as much to himself as to her. “Nowhere to go but straight through it.”
Piper glared at him and pushed herself back into the chaise longue. “Shut up. The last thing I need is some random runaway’s pity,” she said, her voice flat and final.
Why’d she always have to be so mean about everything? Carter wasn’t a runaway; he was a running-to. “I’d sooner be home in the Sooner State,” he said, trying to act like she wasn’t getting on his last nerve. “I just have unfinished business with my dad, is all.”
And no home.
“How’d you get those bruises on your back?” he asked, but it sounded more like an accusation.
She looked at him like he’d just smacked her face.
“I’m so sorry,” Carter rushed to apologize. What was he thinking? He’d come back because he thought she was in danger and now he was the one hurting her. “I had no place saying—”
A tear escaped her eye, but she brushed it away quickly. She said nothing, her lips shut tight, her mouth flattened to a straight line. Carter wanted to reach out and touch her shoulder but hesitated. What did Mr. Ledbetter and Mitch do when he found himself in Las Cruces, broke and plumb out of bright ideas? They gave him his space. And a chance to make his own way.
Carter stretched out next to Piper on the cold tar-paper roof. Together, they stared up into the black burlap sky without speaking. The loss he felt on Mitch’s behalf was bigger than Carter could explain. He’d said Piper’s mom would always have his heart. He’d said Piper “never shook that hurt.” But Mitch was the one showing up every Sunday.
Carter needed to go to his father. He needed to call his mom. Be honest. Help where he could. It seemed all too easy to fall into the habit of hurting. Carter aimed to do something about it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
THE SUN ROSE OVERHEAD AT AROUND FOUR-thirty. In the golden light, Piper’s brown eyes showed bits of green and gray, like pebbles under a clear stream. They’d spent the night telling stories about The Little Yucca. Carter had only a handful, but Piper shared plenty about how she grew up singing with Ledbetter in the kitchen and learning to cook.
Piper whipped up stacks of buckwheat pancakes. Carter pulled a stool up to the kitchen counter, smeared his pancakes with vegan butter and maple-flavored agave syrup, and dug in. The steaming flapjacks were so soft and delicious, they tasted like dessert.
“Why vegan?” Carter asked, his mouth full.
“If I said health reasons, it wouldn’t be lying. I didn’t want to inherit my parents’ bad habits. Besides, Mitch told me to cater to the demand of a local niche, to ’play to my audience.’ There’s a good lot of
health freaks around here.”
Carter wasn’t any health freak, but he sure loved her pancakes. He’d eat them whether they were good for him or not. After his third helping, he sat back and patted his swollen tummy, satisfied. He told Piper about his gig at The Crusty Maiden, harkening back to the thrill of performing, and how he’d been invited back that night. Because he had to kill the day waiting, he offered to make himself useful in the kitchen before catching a red-eye flight into LA County after his gig. In truth, he needed time to figure out a plan for helping her.
“Willard will come round looking for me,” she assured him, as though chasing after her proved he cared. If he’s so wonderful, Carter wanted to ask, what was she doing up on the roof last night?
While prepping the yucca flowers, his thoughts lurched and wavered like a tree in a Tulsa tornado, with nothing but the soggy soil to keep it from flying into the eye of the storm. The people he cared about, all of them, were in some kind of pain: his mother, Kaia, Piper, Mitch, even Mr. Ledbetter. For all he knew, his dad had the blues of some sort.
“Here, try this,” she said, pouring a tangy-smelling amber liquid into a shallow bowl. “It’s apple cider vinegar. It’ll soothe those calluses on your fingertips.”
Carter let her take his hands and drop them in the bowl. “Willard can be real sweet, Carter. He saved me, and I’ll always be thankful,” she began, her shoulders curling inward. “You just don’t know him. He lost his way after getting kicked out of the police academy. One minute the news people were calling him a hero and the next he was serving time. All for teaching a couple of nasty no-goods right from wrong. You can’t take the law in your own hands. He knows that now.”