by Rayne Lacko
Piper stared into the bowl between them, avoiding Carter’s eye. “I keep telling him there’s something better than being a cop, he just hasn’t found it yet.”
The ounce of kindness she was showing with his fingers gave him a measure of courage to speak his mind. “I reckon music says the things words can’t. And it feels real good, too.” Carter didn’t have bushels of time to get to the point. “Music doesn’t leave any bruises.”
“Well, if I met a man who made me feel like music does, I’d marry him,” she said. “But there’s no such thing, is there?”
“Can’t say as I know,” Carter replied, thankful she didn’t get mad again. She was right about the vinegar; it felt good. He hadn’t realized he was so sore. “Mitch said he taught you to fight. So why don’t you?”
“Fight Willard?” She twisted her face like he’d suggested she kick a kitten. “Sometimes he uses his fists to say the things he can’t find words for, but he promised he’d never set out to hurt me. Unlike my father. I know I can show Willard he’s better than that. If I’m just patient—”
“What if you ran away?” He cut her off, daring to look her in the eye. “You could buy yourself a plane ticket, go places you always wanted to visit. Before Willard even figured out you split, you could move on to anywhere.”
When Piper didn’t say anything, he took it to mean she was hearing him out. “I watched where my mom hid her savings. I don’t know why, but she doesn’t much trust the banks.” The vinegar must have been some kind of truth serum because Carter heard himself telling far too much of his worst secret. “I didn’t have enough money to buy my father’s guitar and I wanted it so bad. I just wanted to be free from the past, you know?”
“You didn’t steal from your own mother?”
Carter was surprised. It wasn’t like Piper had a gracious word for parental figures. But even though she was disappointed in him, he was glad to see she cared. Carter lifted his fingers out of the apple cider vinegar, but Piper pushed them in again. “So you think I ought to abandon my business? Walk away from everything I built with my own two hands? This is my life, Carter.”
He nodded, embarrassed. She couldn’t just up and leave; running never solved anything. I ought to know, Carter thought, glancing up at Piper’s face. For all her tough talk, there was a goodness about her, like a perfectly ripe apple with a wormhole through it.
“You really think I’m tough as a claw hammer swinging both ways?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. The word ma’am made her lips crumple at the edges, not quite a smile. “I can tell you my mom wouldn’t stand for a lick of sass. Any man who raises his hand to her should hope he gets to keep it.”
“Hey, why don’t you use that smart mouth to call her already?” she shot back. “From everything I’m hearing, you owe your mother a phone call. And a big fat apology.”
Piper handed Carter the phone from her office and sent him up to the roof, where he could speak in private. He’d been through every possible conversation with her in his head. As much as he wanted to hear his mother’s voice, he was worried she would have his hide for not being home yet. He didn’t know if she could ever understand his wish to see his father again. In a strange way, he hoped she had the strength to give him what-for. He couldn’t shake the nagging worry she might not be doing well, and it made him feel even guiltier about being so far from home.
Chapter Thirty-Three
HE SAT ON THE EDGE OF THE ROOFTOP AND looked out to the horizon. Kaia would probably like Piper, he reckoned. He jotted a quick letter to her. There’s something special about Piper’s menu, he wrote. She’s got her own flair. Slices of jicama here, chopped cilantro there. Some say there’s nothing new in music, but every artist mixes their own flavors. Carter hoped Kaia might try cooking with him some day.
There was no putting it off any longer. Carter dialed Lola May’s number, then held the phone tight to his ear.
“Hi, it’s me. I—” He stopped himself, realizing he ought to open with some respect straight up. “I know I owe you an apology and a whole lot more.” The weight of worry made his words sound wooden and formal. “Mama’s well enough to talk, I hope?”
“Well enough to be out of hospital going on a week, and even doing some minor carpentry around the shelter. But stubborn ’ol mule that she is,” Lola emphasized the word mule, clearly for his mother’s benefit, “she still won’t let me move her into a hotel.” As Lola passed the phone to his mom, Carter drew in as much of the big, open Tucson sky as he could hold.
“Mama, are you okay?” Before she could get a word in, he blurted, “I’m sorry. I’ve missed you.” He let all the air out at once.
“Cotton? Oh, thank goodness. I’ve been so worried about you.” Her voice felt as familiar, warm, and close as a Tulsa summer rainfall. Cleansing. The events of the night before, the day before, the week before, and every moment since he’d stepped into the Albuquerque airport, disintegrated. She was a part of him, the only part left that he could honestly call home.
“What were you thinking, sending me money?”
Carter paused, unsure how to reply. She didn’t sound happy about it.
“I hated the idea of sending you to Aunt Syl’s, and I certainly didn’t take a shine to reaching out to your father,” she went on. “But now you’re in the middle of nowhere with no one to look out for you. Working in a bar, of all places.” Sandra’s voice turned a sour note. “I don’t want your money, Cotton. I want you home, safe.”
“Are you okay, Mama?” Carter couldn’t believe she wasn’t impressed by how responsible he’d been on his own. She did need his money. Sure, he’d made his share of mistakes, but didn’t she trust him to make good?
“My head’s still on my shoulders. But you’ve got some explaining to do.” Carter had seen his Mama get mad, but never this mad. “I don’t know what kind of stunt you’ve pulled staying on in Albuquerque, but you best pack your things. Your aunt’s been pulling her hair out with worry, and I’m not faring much better. You told Lola May the Lius were bringing you back to Tulsa but they haven’t heard one word from you.” Her words were coming faster now, lining up like they might finish with a month-long grounding. Carter glanced at his guitar, looking for some sort of reassurance.
His first instinct was to argue. His music lessons with Mr. Ledbetter turned out to be one of the best things that ever happened to him. But Carter reckoned the reason he’d called in the first place was to be honest with her. “I’m in Tucson now, Mama.”
“Tucson? You told Lola May you were in Albuquerque.”
“I hitched a ride.”
“This isn’t a game, Cotton. You’re a fifteen-year-old boy.” Mama sounded mad enough to knock him into the middle of next week looking both ways for Sunday. “I should’ve plunked you down at a temp shelter myself.” Carter tried to get a word in, explain that he was okay and that he had a plan, but Mama wasn’t having it. His chest sunk. Turned out, they were having the conversation he’d expected. “Let’s not forget you’ve got schoolwork to do. I don’t suppose you’ve given that any thought? No, you thought you’d take a nice little vacation for yourself. What’s gotten into you?”
“I’m not on vacation.” Carter wished he could find the words to make her understand how none of what he’d done was easy. He wished she were there with him, to see how much he’d learned and grown. He was only trying to make things right. “The last thing I wanted was to get stuck in the middle of nowhere,” he managed to choke out, but his words didn’t ring true. He didn’t feel stuck anymore. Sure, he would’ve liked it a whole lot better if his father had sent for him to begin with, offered up the cost of his ticket and a warm bed to sleep in back when he first tried calling from the hospital. But he wouldn’t have met Piper or Ledbetter or Mitch. He wouldn’t have learned his way around the kitchen, and he might’ve already sold the Martin. His dad’s guitar had come to mean the whole cotton-picking world to him and as much as he loved her, as much as he was sorry, he
wanted to keep it.
“Mama, don’t freak out. I talked to Dad and everything’s going to be okay. I’m catching a plane to his place tonight. It’ll be fine.” He sure hoped that was true.
“Carter, I don’t know what to believe. One day you’re my sweet boy and the next you’re hitching rides across the country? There are some crazy, unstable, and dangerous people in this world, son. You may be six foot, but I would have your hide, I’m so sore at you.”
It was safe to say his mother was near recovered.
“Mama, I won’t hitchhike again, I promise. I’ve made some good friends and I’m learning to play—” Carter shut his fool mouth and thought hard about what he had to say about his father’s guitar. “All I have left in the world is Dad’s guitar. I started playing it again. It feels right. Dad said he got it for me, and Mama, I want to keep it. I want to write my own music, become a musician. I reckon it’s what I was born to do.”
Sandra fell quiet on her end. That was bad, he figured. He expected her to fire back, ground him until high school graduation for his sass mouth. Her silence was unbearable.
“Cotton,” she spoke up at last, “let’s leave the past where it belongs. Behind us.”
What was she on about? His mom had built her whole business around refinishing antiques, resurrecting what was lost or left behind. There was nothing Carter wanted more than to go back to the way things used to be.
“Eddie knows you’re in Tucson?” She sounded hurt that his father knew more about Carter than she did. “And he sent you a plane ticket?”
Carter was caught. He couldn’t lie to her, not again. “Well, not exactly. Dad thinks I’m in Tulsa. But I have enough money to buy my own ticket. I earned it—”
“If you have money to buy a plane ticket,” she said, her words solid and immovable, “you’re coming home tonight.”
He was sorry he hadn’t called her, and he aimed to fix that. But give up on reuniting with his father?
“No.”
He could almost hear the expression on her face, some mutation bent between anger and surprise. He’d never stood up to her before and he was sure she wasn’t ready for it. As far as Carter was concerned, his mother had some explaining to do herself.
“I’m going to Dad’s,” he told her. “He invited me to play a duet with him for a Ma Joad’s pancake house jingle, and he’s even going to pay me for it. I’m doing it for us, Mama. We need the money.” He was afraid to tell her he also wanted to see his father, be with him again.
“Cotton, Eddie’s all hat and no cattle.” Carter knew she thought his father was all talk, and not the genuine article, but it wasn’t true. The man’s own rock ballads and love songs showed up in the pop charts, just like he always wanted. Carter knew he was a showman, and a bit of a show-off, but even Mama couldn’t deny he’d made a success of himself.
“He claims he sent presents and you told him not to. Is that true?” Carter stroked the bumps along his jaw where he was gritting his teeth. One of his parents was lying.
“If you count autographed promo pictures of himself. All he cared about was his own success. His way of loving was to make you think he’s the greatest in the world, but he never reciprocated that feeling.”
He disagreed. Carter’s family was his world. And that included his father.
“When I told him to leave, I meant for good. He didn’t need to send his guilt in a package.”
“You left him?” Carter’s legs buckled. He sank to the pool chaise, holding his forehead in his palm, a loud clanging sound pummeling him between his ears. How could she make that choice for him?
“Son,” she began. “Eddie and I,” she added, rationing her words like one too many might snap the last thread holding them together, “we loved each other. But just when I thought we were building something to last, he went off chasing another one of his schemes, trying to get famous. He made poor choices for us, his family. It was up to me to protect you.”
“But he is famous. He caught what he was chasing, Mama.”
“And I’m happy for him. But he wasn’t a good father. I couldn’t stand by and watch what he was doing to you. All those sketchy places he took you to perform, keeping you out till the wee hours on a school night. Shady bars, deals under the table because you were underage. Making you his little dancing monkey.”
“I wasn’t his ’dancing monkey.’ I loved playing music,” Carter argued. “You aren’t a musician, you wouldn’t understand.”
“No, but I am a mother. Don’t you remember all those weekend county fairs he dragged you to? You’d spend the whole day crying your sorry eyes out because Eddie wouldn’t let you ride the roller coaster and the Ferris wheel. His idea of parenting was making you a source of revenue.”
“As I recall, the audience always loved it when I played. I got standing ovations.” Carter thought about telling her how it felt to play his set at The Crusty Maiden. Or about the song he was writing. He needed to make her understand.
“Oh they thought you were born to play the blues all right,” she said, a bitterness staining her words. “Red-faced and snot-nosed from crying, your ’blues’ came from missing out on your childhood. I tried to protect you from that life, and what do you do? Run away and find work at some run-down tavern in Las Cruces.”
Carter hadn’t forgotten those fairs or how much he’d longed to go on just one carnival ride. But what stung him was how he found the blues with Ledbetter. By remembering his childhood.
“That’s why I pawned the guitar when he left,” she added.
A bright flame snapped to high heat in Carter’s belly, the blaze surprising him like a kitchen grease fire. “You pawned the Martin?” At fifteen, he was mature enough to be thankful to her for watching out for him. But it wasn’t okay to deprive him of his music.
“When did you buy it out of hawk from Tommy?”
Carter wished he could explain. Stand up and choose the life he wanted to live. That guitar had come to mean everything to him. It was his past, present, and, he hoped, his future. But he’d had to steal from her to get it. He’d left her, broken in the hospital, and he’d lied. He had no explanation. Only one question.
“Why did you pawn it? It was hard enough when Dad left. But I loved that guitar.”
She pressed on, determined to make him see things her way. “I’ve done right by us both. Eddie was putting his wants and wishes ahead of your safety and well-being. I didn’t want you to turn into your father. I begged him to ease up on you, but he didn’t pay me any mind. You know I’d rather be on my own than put up with a lick of sass.”
Lick of sass? He’d give her a bushel.
“Get over yourself, Mama,” he heard himself say. “You’ve always wanted me to follow in your footsteps, and you taught me plenty. But Dad wanted me to fall in love with music. And I did. Twice now, by my count.” Carter stood up and glanced over the side of the roof to the ladder. He wanted to make sure Piper wasn’t listening. “I always thought you were strong,” he said, quieting to a whisper. “Truth is, you think you’re always right. And plenty of the time you got good reason. But you took away my father, and my guitar. Why?”
He could hear Lola May fussing in the background, begging her to “go easy on the poor kid.”
“Your father was shiftier than the weather. Every time he failed—and he failed plenty—he never took responsibility for himself. Just pretended he was someone he wasn’t.” Carter thought about how his father had dropped his Tulsa accent. How he’d failed to mention his own son to his new family. “You were too young to be working, thinking about making money and getting famous. It was up to me to give you a stable home, a chance to be a kid. When he got it in his head to move west, chasing whims instead of getting a proper job, I was plumb out of patience.” Sandra’s voice softened, pleading with him. “Trust me, Cotton. I know what’s best for you.”
Carter let the phone drop from his ear. He held it in his lap, distancing himself from her. What a waste of time, being
mad at his daddy all those years for pawning his guitar. This definitely was not a conversation he’d imagined. Carter willed his lip to remain still. If he let the quiver have its way, tears were sure to follow.
He put the phone back to his ear, steeling himself. “I best get on my way. I love you, Mama.”
“Sweet pea, please come home tonight. I want to see you with my own two eyes, make sure you’re okay. I understand Eddie is tempting you with that Ma Joad’s jingle but we can make our own way without him. I promise.”
“I got to go,” he choked out. He’d heard that promise before, and they always made do. But maybe she was only part way right. Carter reckoned it was time to find out the truth about his father for himself. “I’ll call you tomorrow when I get to Santa Monica.”
“Cotton, I love you.”
“Be safe, Mama. Take care of yourself.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
CARTER HID OUT ON THE ROOFTOP A WHILE. Whatever bright hope he’d had for himself before talking to his mother was gone. Going to his father’s in California was stupid. Eddie thought he was still in Tulsa. His mom wanted him back in Tulsa. He should just go back to Tulsa, he thought. But what about Piper? He wasn’t one tiny step closer to convincing her to reach out to Mitch. She was still in harm’s way and he’d made a promise to Mr. Ledbetter. If his mom had just listened to him, maybe he could have asked her advice about how to help. But she only wanted one thing: for him to get his butt back to Oklahoma where it belonged.
Throwing the guitar strap over his shoulder, he pulled out his notebook. He’d been putting it all together, note by note, lyric by lyric, the song he’d first caught an inkling of back at the Shoretown Inn. Carter let out a long breath and closed his eyes on everything weighing him down, going back in his mind to the pool deck at dawn. Picturing the Sandia Mountains reawakened the melody from deep within him. He hoped writing might quiet the chaos between his ears.