The River In Spring

by Leslie Pike

  “What? Yes! Didn’t you hear me?” I say, going for genuine. But it was a little shrill. I heard it. Sounded like a lie.

  He climbs to where I lay and joins me.

  “I heard you. It seemed different. Just my mood I guess.”

  Taking his hand, I kiss it and hold it against my face. Neither of us suggest we keep fucking. This was the shortest sexual escapade we have ever had.

  “It’s been such a long week. Maybe I was a little distracted. But I got there. And as usual, you were perfect. It felt wonderful,” I lie, covering the next gap in conversation with a deep kiss.

  Time is so unkind. It persists in passing, bringing me closer to leaving.

  Then fate delivers a final blow. I see a vision. The woman that appeared by the river, while Nobel held the child, is standing behind him on the porch of this house. The trees and flowers tell a story too. It’s late in the day in early spring. Their backs are to me, looking out to the vista. I am nowhere to be seen.

  * * *

  “You understand, right?” Nobel says, looking for the Uber driver.

  “Yeah, I do. This is bad enough.”

  He won’t be coming to the airport and it was the right decision. He sets the suitcase and carry-on on the porch. I have dropped any pretense of normalcy. I’m over pretending I don’t know what is going to happen.

  “Let’s sit out here and wait,” he says, taking a chair.

  I pull one close and take my place. We automatically braid fingers. Maybe it’s for the final time. If I have to stay in Nashville and he decides to stay here. How could we go back to another kind of relationship? Apart when we have the ability to be together. I couldn’t do that.

  “Remember to watch yourself,” he says as he always does when we are apart. “Hotels can be dangerous when you’re a single woman alone.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  He catches himself and chuckles. “I do sound like that. Can’t help it.”

  “So I’m going to call you every night. I’ll keep you posted as soon as I know what’s happening.”

  The sound of an approaching car reaches our ears. We lock eyes.

  “I’m wishing you every good thing that could possibly happen for you guys. Hitch your wagon to that star, Dove.”

  He wants me to believe him and I do. I also believe it won’t change him. Both things are true.

  The Uber driver pulls in front of the house. He gets out to put the luggage in. My stomach tightens.

  “Morning.”

  “Morning. Thank you.”

  Nobel surrounds me with his embrace and holds me close. Here we are.

  “I love you. You know that, right?” He says it like a goodbye. That’s what I hear.

  “I love you too. Always.”

  I separate, look deep in the still pool of his green eyes and stay silent. What else is there to say or do to make him understand what love requires?

  I walk down the steps but turn back as I stand by the open door.

  “Don’t forget us, Nobel.”

  I slide into the back seat. “I’m going to the airport. United.”

  My eyes stay looking ahead. There’s no looking back now.

  * * *

  Music Row is just southwest of downtown Memphis. “Musica”, the forty-foot bronze statue, is the centerpiece of the roundabout. It gives me a thrill as it comes into view. Nine disrobed male and female figures dance in a circle atop a base of limestone boulders.

  Beautiful tree-lined streets. Homes with wrap around porches that have been turned into recording studios. The best and the brightest, the most famous have recorded here. It looks unassuming. It is anything but. One would never know Dolly Parton or Garth Brooks made some of their most famous recordings in these buildings. Even Elvis Presley. So cool.

  I expected big buildings. Bet most people do. Glamour and glitz seemed a given in my fantasy of the place. Instead, it is an architecturally unimpressive spot with a few signs pointing out where musical history has been made. Some would be underwhelmed. Not me. After all, fancy or not, this was the birthplace of country music.

  The limo and driver Arthur sent to bring us to Studio James pulls into the underground parking of a nondescript three story building. This is the well-respected studio? It’s currently recording albums for three top of the charts artists. We did our digging and found out it’s not only contract players that use the studio, but independent artists do as well. The reputation proceeds the engineers who mix the tracks and the studio musicians that play here. Not to mention the touted skills of the producer and his team. All working together at the top of their game. No surprise they would be in demand.

  “I have to take a shit,” ZZ says, apropos of nothing.

  “Just fucking hold it.”

  “I’ll hold it in your fucking hands,” ZZ comes back.

  But it doesn’t piss Tony off, in fact it breaks the tension, and we start laughing.

  “You’ll have time. We’re a little early.”

  Jimmy leans in and addresses the group.

  “Do you think this is normal?” he whispers, gesturing to the vehicle we find ourselves in. “Does everyone arrive in a limo?”

  “Who cares? I’m just going to enjoy the ride,” Oscar adds.

  “I’m thinking he wouldn’t send a car if he had any idea the music wasn’t going to pay off,” ZZ says.

  “Or if he didn’t think he’d sign us.”

  As the car pulls up to the elevators and stops, I add one more thought. “Don’t jinx it! Let’s just take it step by step.”

  “What floor do we go to?” Jimmy asks.

  “It’s all Studio James. Just walk inside. There will be someone there to guide you.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Good luck to you,” the driver says, turning to us with a smile.

  “Thank you!”

  Obviously, he has delivered other overly excited and nervous artists to this underground foundation of hopes and dreams. We share one thing, regardless of styles and genres. To reach this level, music has held a holy place in our lives.

  It’s sweet that he understands.

  We pile out and straighten our clothes as the limo pulls away. Even ZZ checks his zipper. Don’t think I have ever seen him in formal wear. The newer jeans and long-sleeved shirt qualify.

  Getting in the elevator we meet each other’s eyes. Every single one of us aware of the weight of the moment. The first floor button is pushed. Jimmy lets out a long sigh.

  “I’m so fucking nervous,” Tony says, fiddling with his bracelets.

  “Me too,” I add.

  “I have to shit.” ZZ states the more serious problem.

  The door slides back to an understated small lobby. There are no gold records or awards on the espresso colored walls. Just modern furniture and upscale lighting.

  The woman sitting at the modern desk at the far end is speaking with... Oh shit! It’s Marley Mantley. Country’s latest golden goose. Her writing is so good. Walking forward, it feels like I have cement in my shoes. She turns with our approach.

  “I’m just leaving. I’m boring my friend here to death. That’s a cool dress!” She holds out my arms for a better view.

  Now to pretend I’m perfectly used to speaking with a star.

  “Thanks!”

  I go blank. She must be used to people spazzing out and comes to my rescue.

  “I’m Marley.”

  Her hand reaches for mine.

  “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry,” I say, spinning my index finger around my temple. As if she didn’t figure out I’m crazy already. “I’m Dove. We’re Montana, this is Jimmy and Tony. Oscar and ZZ.”

  She makes eye contact with each person and they exchange the pleasantries.

  “Oh! You’re the ones who booked my favorite room tomorrow.”

  She raises a fist in a comical stance.

  “We did?” Jimmy says.

  Now I watch her put something interesting together.

  “Or maybe someo
ne booked it for you?”

  None of us know what to say, but she expertly reads the room and puts what she knows together.

  “There’s talk about your song. But don’t say it came from me,” she says, walking away with a backwards wave. “Good luck, y’all.”

  I feel my nails digging into Tony’s bare arm.

  “Ow! Fuck, Dove. I need this one!”

  “Sorry. Oh my God, that just happened!”

  “We’re here to see Arthur James,” Jimmy says to the young, hip receptionist.

  I expect a nonchalant attitude, but she surprises me.

  “Hi. Welcome! Mr. James is ready to see you. Through the double doors to your right.”

  It’s like a scene in a television show. The naïve talent stands nervously, ten steps away from another world.

  * * *

  “Tell me about it,” Nobel says across the miles.

  It’s early. Watching the morning sunlight stream through the blinds of the hotel room, I’m still in bed.

  “Oh it was everything we have ever dreamed about. Baby, I almost started crying.”

  “That’s so exciting. What did he say?”

  I sit up against the headboard and cross my legs.

  “He said our song is really good. My little songwriter heart practically stopped. We were all like that. But today we’re going to rerecord it. It’s so exciting to think we are going to be in this famous, first class studio, with the pros. The mixing, the equipment, the guidance. It’s all so far above what we have experienced before.”

  “What about that Archangel guy? Did you meet yet?”

  “No. He’ll be there this afternoon. We are nervous about impressing him, but if Arthur’s right, it’s already a done deal.”

  “Sounds like this Arthur is a pretty straightforward guy. What’s your general impression?”

  “That’s exactly what he is. At least that’s how it seems now. He was cool with Deborah, who he immediately figured out. She didn’t try to oversell her talents, and he didn’t undervalue her good sense and natural abilities. He wasn’t talking down to her, just because her exposure to this level is nil.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “I think he reads people really well.”

  “It sounds like you are on your way. I’m so happy for you, Dove.”

  “Are you? For real?”

  “For real. Call me after your session. I’ll be waiting to hear the good news.”

  A genuine wish is in there somewhere. But I know sadness sits behind it. The timber in the voice and the rhythm of the statement is skewed. I don’t think anyone but me would notice. It isn’t his natural joy. The sense of happiness coming in waves has stilled. He’s trying though. He’s trying so hard.

  20

  Nobel

  It’s the pivot point. I’m a little drunk, but not enough to miss the indelible writing on the wall. Here we are. Everything has happened fast. She wouldn’t agree with that take. After all, they worked their asses off for years already. I’m only judging from my first look at her. Then to now is just a moment. I down the last swallow of whiskey and pour a refill. That’s the most I’ve moved in two hours. Sitting in the dark living room, watching the sun and my hopes fade is exercise enough.

  It’s going to take the rest of the bottle to stand by my decision. Why prolong the inevitable? Being under the influence when making a decision is pretty stupid. I don’t have the courage to do it another way. Rip the band-aid off and be done with it. It would be cruel to prolong telling her. This way, she can be finished with the personal drama. I wonder if any of her friends sense she is struggling with our relationship? Do they see a difference in behavior or mood?

  I bet they hate seeing her not fully present. Am I paying enough attention to my boyfriend seems a teenager’s problem, not a woman’s. It would be cruel having to constantly be checking my emotional temperature, as if I was lacking the confidence of a man. Oh God. I’d hate doing that to us. We would lose the spontaneity. That would be the first thing that would happen.

  In a matter of two weeks, every fucking thing has changed. Recording “Mined”, signing with James Records, and beginning to record another song that was written a few years back. She said Arthur is acting like he’s discovered buried treasure. He’s right. She wept when she told me.

  That Archangel dude is the unknown. He hasn’t offered anything concrete yet, but she says talk of Archangel’s tour in November has come up a few times. She thinks he is waiting for the release of “Mined” next month before he decides. If he knows what’s good for him and his band, he’d grab ahold of Montana now.

  There was barely a moment when I wasn’t thinking about her these last weeks. About us. About them. It rolls around my mind on a loop, unmerciful in its persistence. If it happens now, before the effect of fame, what would it be like after?

  Asked and answered. Last night when I was just about to say I love her, the call from Michael Angelica interrupted. Not that I’m jealous of the guy in the general sense of the word. It’s just that there doesn’t seem to be a space for us. Not one that shuts out every other demand. And that’s what I would turn into. A demand of her time and attention.

  What kind of life would that be? That may be oversimplification, but it reduces to that. The realization makes up my mind. Has everything been illusion, not magic? A man’s attempt at believing love exists? Bullshit. I love her and I will never deny the truth. Trouble is, I love her enough to let her fly. I’m going to tell her that when she calls. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. Leaning my head back on the chair, I put the drink down and close my eyes. Just for a minute. Maybe I can stop thinking.

  * * *

  Fuck. I peek out of one sleepy eye. It’s dark outside. At least an hour or two has passed and my back feels like shit for sitting crooked. In my stupor, posture didn’t factor into the equation. It fits though. This has been one clusterfuck of a day. Nothing has changed, except for a desire to be drunker.

  The cell sounds. Grabbing the phone with one hand and the whiskey bottle with the other, I tap the name and take a long pull.

  “Hello?” Dove says, wondering where the fuck I am. Why I’m not speaking.

  “I’m here. Right fucking here.” It is said with a slight slur I hadn’t noticed before.

  There is a pause before her response. “Are you drinking? You sound like it.”

  “I am. Good deduction, Sherlock.”

  Didn’t realize it would come out with an attitude.

  “Maybe I should wait to tell you the news,” she says with an attitude of her own.

  “Tell me now. How much worse could it be?”

  The pit bull in her voice bites back. “Worse? What news have I given you that was bad?”

  I chuckle and within the sound is the desire to tell her what I really want to say. This is the spot to lay it out. I’m drunk and angry enough to pull it off.

  “The list is too long. Let’s just get to today’s headline.”

  She pauses, and I ask again.

  “Tell me what spectacular thing happened to you today.”

  “No. You don’t deserve to know, and I don’t deserve this bullshit attitude.”

  I take another swig of whiskey.

  “See. I already stole your thunder. This isn’t going to work, Dove. For either of us.”

  There’s a long pause before my words reach her head and heart.

  “What.”

  It is not a question she asks. The realization of what I’m saying wounds her. And for just a moment it almost makes me reconsider. Hurting her is torment, and I am completely aware that is what I’m doing. But better now than later when it will hurt more. It is said hope springs eternal. But false hope is a dead thing. It’s worse than the ugly truth and only prolongs the inevitable.

  She whispers, “Don’t you love me?”

  My heart sinks.

  “It’s because I love you.”

  Silence. Then the phone goes dead. Along with myself.

/>   * * *

  Day two of this new reality begins as expected. I wake up feeling like a pile of shit. Sunlight through the windows is harsh on bloodshot eyes. I need to stop drinking today. As soon as the thought leaves me, I eye the bottle. No. What time is it? Checking my cell, I skim by the eleven thirty numbers and go directly to messages. None from her.

  Drool has dried on the side of my mouth, and the headache is bad. But the urge to piss worse. Standing slowly, I feel the result of sleeping on the couch with a jacket as a pillow. My clothes are twisted and wrinkled. For the first time in my life, I feel old. Not sure what to blame, last night’s bed, or last night’s drama.

  “Fuck.”

  The bathroom seems a mile away, but halfway there, Dove appears in my mind. It’s done. I made it clear. Hope I was kind. Not sure I was. A fuzzy memory of her wounded surprise tells me the answer. Should I text and see how she’s feeling today? Don’t be a passive aggressive ass. Of course, you shouldn’t. I cut the cord, severed the ties, now I need to live it. Funny how those euphemisms both involve a knife and a wound disguised as good sense when someone has too much influence.

  I drop my pants and release the flaccid hound. Images of her. Awww. Relief. Even when I’m pissing, she takes center stage. There’s a persistent nudge poking my consciousness. A voice trying to get my attention and point out the obvious. You are an asshole. You are.

  A shake and a zip later, I head for the kitchen. Better eat something. Maybe it will fill the hole in my life.

  Ring! The doorbell sounds annoying. I check the phone and access the front porch camera. Shit it’s Aargon. I don’t feel like talking. But fuck, the shutters are open, and the curtains drawn back. I can’t get out of it.

  Walking to the door I see him looking inside. Watching as I approach.

  “Hey,” I say, opening the door.

  I must look bad, because his eyebrows knit together and his mouth tightens.

  “What happened to you? You look like shit.”

  He follows me into the kitchen, waiting for an answer.

  “Nothing. I had a few too many drinks last night.”