PLAY ON

by Marilynn Halas

  Clint and Sara had been living in the old farmhand bunkhouse for the last few years. There were just too many memories in the farmhouse, and they maintained it like a museum. If Sara wasn’t cleaning Danny’s room, she was working hard somewhere else on the farm. In their thirty-one years together, Clint had never seen Sara work so much. She mucked out the stalls, turned out the horses, and worked the Internet to market their barns and boarding facilities. She never sat still and never cried; she just worked and ran.

  Sara had been a runner all her life but now she ran with desperation to get away from her own broken heart. The thing was, her broken heart ran right along with her.

  “Okay, that’s it,” Clint muttered to himself, and he carried the old guitar outside. “I ain’t never been a coward before and I can’t keep going like this.”

  He walked back into the farmhouse and took out two things: family pictures and Danny’s folded flag from the burial. Sara saw him but just shook her head. She had no idea what he was up to, and she decided she was too busy grooming her foal to get involved.

  Clint was on the massive old tractor and heading straight for the house. She screamed to him, but there was no way he could hear her even if he wanted to. The sound of the first wall breaking was like a firecracker, and soon there was a dust cloud so thick Sara could hardly see through it. She climbed onto the tractor and saw a single tear running down his face.

  “I can’t do this anymore. Our whole life is like a monument to pain and I can’t do it anymore. We need a clean start and I’m making it.”

  At first Sara didn’t understand, and then Clint put the tractor back in gear and she remembered how much she missed his crazy side. Sara nudged him over and put her hand over his on the throttle. Together, they pushed the old bone-shaker right through their living room and got back out just in time to see the roof cave in. Sara and Clint laughed, cried, and cheered as they brought that old, wrecked house to its knees. It was a huge mess, but it was a new beginning. Clint took the guitar to Nashville to be fixed up, and he and Sara began to breathe a little deeper each day.

  Down the street from Rosalie’s Lounge on Broadway was the Lead Guitar Shop. It was a busy place full of tourists and country music. Jake Fabler, the owner, was at least a hundred years old and knew just about everyone. He held Danny’s guitar in his gnarled hands and smiled. He promised Clint that he could get it fixed up with no problem at all.

  “Aw yeah, this is what I’m lookin’ for,” Jake mumbled under his breath as he put the guitar in the back room.

  The plane touched down on runway 20R at Nashville International Airport at 4:30 in the afternoon. Dillon loved to fly as much as his dad hated it. “What a waste of time,” his dad complained. Dillon’s dad was used to private jets, and after the stock market crash of '08, he was still adjusting to his new reality. Dillon, however, loved to travel any way he could. They grabbed their bags and were the first off the plane. No need for baggage claim because Dillon’s dad didn’t trust airlines enough to check anything. An hour later and they were settled in at the Heritage Hotel and heading down to the Nashville Grille for dinner.

  The food was ridiculously good, but Dillon couldn’t wait until the meal was over. They were headed over to Rosalie’s Lounge after dinner, and the music there was supposed to be better than the barbeque—no small feat in Tennessee. A quick ride in a taxi and they were there. Under normal conditions, Dillon was too young to be allowed into a place like Rosalie’s, but tonight was different.

  His dad’s big client, the same Michael McIntyre from the Hamptons, was throwing another one of his famous parties, and everybody who was anybody was there: record producers from New York, L.A., and, of course, Nashville; publishing execs; and plenty of musicians. Michael McIntyre was the sole owner of Big Game Music, the first music label to produce exclusively for digital downloads. Since McIntyre had bought Big Game, profits were way up because everyone knew he sold more music for less money than anyone else. He was famous for saying that hard copies were history and soon CDs would go the way of vinyl, 8-track, and cassette. When the digital market became the only choice, Big Game Music was poised to pounce. It was no surprise that Michael McIntyre was at the cutting edge of any industry he entered.

  After the party Michael McIntyre took Dillon and his dad to a small honky-tonk around the corner. The adults just sat at a table in back to talk. Apparently the guy at the mike was Mr. McIntyre’s latest find and McIntyre could hardly wait to show him off. Dillon made his way up to the stage. Different from the party in the Hamptons on the Fourth of July, there was no bandstand here. The stage was just a small platform near the front window with an old neon sign flashing on the wall. No five-piece band either. There wouldn’t have been enough room anyway. There was just one guy and his guitar. He sang about love and trucks, and even a song about how much he loved his truck, but it was a funny song and Dillon laughed. Dillon’s dad was busy with Mr. McIntyre, so when the set was over, Dillon spent some time talking to the singer.

  “Hey, kid, where’re you from?” the guy with the guitar wanted to know. Dillon looked down at his feet and realized how the singer knew Dillon was from out of town. There were a lot more boots than high tops around here.

  “I’m from New York. My dad is Mr. McIntyre’s lawyer, so I got a free trip to Nashville.” Dillon shrugged.

  “My name’s Jason and I’m from Georgia, but I live here now. I see you like the music. You play?” Jason held out his guitar, and Dillon held up his hands to wave it away.

  “No, I played the violin when I was younger, but I’m no musician.” Dillon wished he had something more interesting to say.

  “Tell you what, I’ve got a break for a minute and I’m feeling generous tonight, so I’m gonna show you something that changed my life when I was just about your age.” Jason stood up and pointed to his chair. Dillon sat down and before he knew it the guitar was in his hands.

  “The difference between being a musician and being a technician is that anybody can learn what notes to play; that’s just technical. Being a musician requires something that can’t be taught: you gotta love it in your bones. It’s gotta be the only way you can imagine getting through the day, the only way you can tell your story. That can’t be taught and that’s good, ‘cause that’s what you got. Any fool can see you love it, so here you go.” He showed Dillon a C chord. It sounded pretty weird when Dillon played it, but he didn’t care. It was as if a huge piece of him just slid into place.

  “Remember kid, they say that country music is just three chords and the truth. Now you got one of the chords, go get yourself some more, and good luck.” After that, the singer was back to work. As soon as he heard the first word, Dillon recognized it. The guy with the guitar was a big deal here in Nashville, and Big Game Music wanted to make him global.

  July 15, 2011

  The next day Dillon was on Broadway again. Broadway in Nashville was more than just a little bit different from the one in New York, but one thing was the same: throngs of tourists. Slowly he made his way down the street. He knew where to meet his dad, but he still had plenty of time and he wanted to find something to bring back for his mom. She worked really hard, and he wanted to find something to make her life a little easier. So far, all he saw were cowboy hats and T-shirts, and since he couldn’t really see how they would be useful to his mom in New York, he kept looking.

  He decided that between grocery shopping and changing her clothes for work, his mom could always use another tote bag. Besides, he didn’t think she had one with a rhinestone buckle on the front. The store was a definite tourist trap, but that was fine with Dillon. Proud of his purchase, he had just decided to head back to the hotel when something stopped him dead in his tracks. The Lead Guitar Shop had an electric blue acoustic guitar in the window and it was the most beautiful thing Dillon had ever seen. Dillon had never given much thought to guitars until recently, but now they were all he could think about.

  The neck of the guitar was inlaid with
mother-of-pearl and the body was the color of a blue flame. He just had to hear it. There was no doubt in his mind that his one C chord would sound better played on such a beautiful guitar. The shop was bustling with tourists and professionals alike. There was a sea of blue jeans and cowboy boots, and he could hear at least three different guitar riffs as he walked around the store. The wide floorboards creaked with every step, and the smell of stale smoke hung in the air. It was like a honky-tonk on a Sunday morning, or at least it was what Dillon imagined a honky-tonk would be like on Sunday morning. He tried to get a salesperson’s attention, but no such luck. Still, he waited and kept trying until a nice girl, not much older than he was, came over to help.

  “Sorry about the wait. We’re kinda busy today. I’m Annie and I’m just here to help out my grandpa today, but I’ll help you if I can.”

  Five minutes later Dillon held that magnificent, blue beauty in his hands. He sat down and threw the strap over his shoulder. He was a little embarrassed to try to play his one and only chord in front of Annie, but he did it anyway. The guitar was just too sweet not to play, no matter who was around.

  “How much is it?” Dillon heard himself ask, as if he had any money anyway.

  “I’m not sure.” Annie smiled encouragingly, “but I know we have special sale today.”

  Dillon couldn’t believe his luck. Maybe there was a chance he could bring his dad over here later on and he could go home with the ultimate Music City souvenir. Then reality struck. Who was he kidding? Even if it were free, his dad would never get him a guitar. His dad got him that stupid violin years ago and now he hated the violin, Beethoven, and especially his teacher, Maestro Posano. Dillon could not imagine his dad giving him a chance with a guitar.

  Dillon explained that he really couldn’t afford it at any price, and Annie sighed and nodded. He was nearly out the door when she called after him.

  “Grandpa will seriously kill me if he finds out about this, but wait a minute.” She disappeared and came back a few minutes later. In her hand was a beat-up old guitar case and a brand new strap.

  “Sometimes we get old guitars to fix up and the customer just forgets about it, or can’t afford it, or trades it in toward something else. This one was in the back closet where we keep the Christmas lights. I figure if we’ve had it that long, no one’s really gonna miss it. Besides, it’s a good first guitar. Nothing fancy, like the blue one in the window, but if you get new strings on it, I bet she’ll sing. Tell you what, for seventy-five dollars it’s yours. I’ll even throw in the strings.”

  Dillon had $80.00 in his pocket and he quickly handed it over before she changed her mind. He thanked her at least twenty times and she smiled and hurried him out the door. He half expected to hear sirens behind him at any minute as he headed back to the hotel. The whole way up in the elevator he clutched his prize and tried to figure out how he would explain this to his dad.

  Safely tucked away inside room 302, he opened the case. There it was, a miracle of spruce, mahogany, and strings. Gently, he lifted it out of its case and placed it on his lap. He wrapped his hand around the fingerboard and drew the pick across the strings. No doubt about it, it was the best C chord he'd ever played.

  He barely even noticed when his dad came into the room an hour later. He was lost in his own world, trying to figure out the G chord he'd found online.

  “Where’d you get that?” his dad said as he crossed the room. “I haven’t seen one like that since high school.”

  Dillon gave his dad the guitar and was stunned to hear the first few bars of a classic rock anthem fill the air.

  “You know how to play the guitar? You never told me.”

  “Well, your old man has to keep a few surprises up his sleeve, right?” His dad reached for the strap and fastened it to the base and back of the guitar. “Here you go. That will make it easier for you to hold.”

  “Aren’t you mad? Aren’t you gonna tell me it’s too big to take back to New York or something?” Dillon was really confused.

  “I’m gonna assume you didn’t steal it, so I guess if that’s what you want to spend your savings on, you could do a whole lot worse. Music City, right? Well, rock on.”

  It was as though Dillon had just met his dad for the very first time. Who was this guy who played guitar riffs (he had just learned that word) and didn’t freak out when surprised? Who knows and who cares, as long as he is here to stay, Dillon thought. He smiled as he put the guitar away. When he tried to fasten the case, Dillon noticed it was stuck on something. He lifted the guitar and found a piece of paper he hadn’t noticed before. When he turned it over, he saw only one word: Remember. Dillon felt chills run down his back.

  August 2, 2011

  By the time they got back to New York, his dad was back to business again, but at least he didn’t hassle Dillon about the guitar and even paid for it to be carried on board. When they got back to his dad’s place, Dillon opened the case to show his dad the note.

  “Hey Dad, check this out.” Dillon waited for his dad’s response and then discovered why he was being ignored: his dad had fifty emails in his inbox and from the look on his face, every one of them was more interesting than Dillon.

  Back at his mom’s, Maggie smiled when she saw the tote bag and put it discreetly in the back of her closet. Life got back to normal with one small change—Dillon was obsessed with country music. He knew three chords now, but judging from his musical abilities, he was not convinced they were the same three chords that singer told him about.

  His friends thought the guitar was cool, but they were so over his “hillbilly phase.”

  “What the freak, man? What is that?” Tom looked disgusted when he scrolled through the music on Dillon’s phone. Dillon was getting his jacket and boots on, and they were going for a slice of pizza and to walk over to the park. “Oh, no! No way, my friend. Step away from the boots!” Tom looked and sounded like a cop trying to talk down a jumper.

  “Relax. I like these. You should get a pair,” Dillon said.

  “No man, you should get a pair—a pair of sneakers or loafers or even flip-flops, but cowboy boots in New York City? You see any cows around here?”

  Dillon laughed, but Tom didn’t. Instead, he just handed Dillon a pair of sneakers and walked out the door.

  “And one more thing,” Tom called over his shoulder. “Put back that denim jacket and put on a hoodie like a normal person. Jeans and a denim jacket look like a freakin’ hillbilly tuxedo.” Tom shook his head and muttered something about saving Dillon from himself as the boys headed out onto the street.

  Dillon thought about staying home to play the guitar a little longer, but he didn’t think Tom would understand. No matter where he was, whether at his mom’s or his dad’s, playing the guitar was where Dillon felt most at home and least alone.

  Back at The Lead Guitar Shop, in Nashville, chaos was king and old Jake was as mad as a cat forced to snorkel.

  “What do you mean it’s not there?” Jake yelled at his clerk. “I specifically put it there so it would be out of the way and safe from all you meddlers!”

  Everyone scurried around the store and looked again where they had already looked at least five times. No one knew where the old guitar from the Charles farm was hiding. In truth, no one except Jake really wanted to find it anyway. Jake had no right to do what he was doing: he was just supposed to fix that guitar, not sell it, but the old greedy rat couldn’t resist. He knew the Charles family didn’t realize that Danny’s old six string was worth a fortune on the collector’s market, and anyway Danny wasn’t coming back to play it, so why shouldn’t Jake make a little money and let the Charles family get on with their lives? If the New York collector saw it, he would buy it for sure, and Mr. and Mrs. Charles would be okay, eventually. Jake planned to give them a different guitar and let them think the refurbishment changed the color a little.

  Jake sold a lot of guitars on consignment and he was good at it. If the guitar itself wasn’t enough to entice the
buyer, Jake was a masterful storyteller who would "embellish" the details just enough to make the collector want it as a conversation piece if not as a musical instrument. The only problem was that this particular guitar was not there on consignment. It belonged to the Charles family and everyone knew it was all they had left of their son. The only things that came back from Afghanistan when he was killed were his dog tags and his broken body, so they held onto his old guitar.

  The clerk still recalled the day Clint had dropped it off to be fixed up. He almost didn’t let it go, but Jake was a very convincing man. Now it was lost or stolen, and the New York collector and the Tennessee farmer were both out of luck. This was a disaster all the way around. The search was called off a few minutes later when Mr. Jay Warrington walked in. He looked around the store like a general inspecting his troops—a decidedly unimpressed general.

  “I’m here to see Jake Fabler and I’ve come a long way.”

  Annie walked toward the back door and pretended to keep looking for the guitar. Her grandfather smiled and shook the man’s hand. No one knew what would happen next, and even though everybody tried to look busy, they couldn’t quite look away.

  “Mr. Warrington, what a pleasure to meet you.” Jake flashed a giant grin.

  Good grief, thought Annie, my grandpa has turned into a used car salesman!

  “Come right this way. Here is the special little beauty you have come so far to meet.” He'd found it? No way. Annie was the one person in the whole store who knew that simply was not possible. Relieved as she was that the guitar wouldn’t go to a collector, she was sick over the fact that the guitar they were looking for must be the same one she had practically given away a few weeks ago.

  An hour later Mr. Warrington was insisting they call him Jay, and thankfully Grandpa was acting like his old self again. The whole used car salesman thing must have been some kind of nervous reaction, Annie thought. You know, like a rash. The guitar Grandpa sold him was a limited-edition acoustic that had once belonged to Johnny Cash, maybe or sort of. Well, technically Johnny Cash might have only played it once while he was in the store, but Grandpa liked to say that any instrument played once by a true legend belonged to that legend forever. Jay was thrilled and Jake and his professional reputation were still intact, so all in all, it was a pretty good day.