by Thomas Cobb
“Seems right to me. He don’t like Communists, I don’t like Communists. I guess I’ll vote for him.”
“What’s he going to do about Communists?”
“Stop the little fuckers. I mean, they’re breeding like fleas now. I mean, first it was China and Vietnam, now they’re in South America. Like a swarm of fleas. Somebody’s got to stop them. Hell, you want them living that close to you?”
“Well, no.”
“There it is. Congress won’t do squat to stop them. I think it’s time for some new blood.”
“Cuba’s closer than South America, ain’t it?”
“So?”
“That don’t really bother me, that’s all. I mean, the Communists in Cuba. I never think about it.”
“Maybe you better. They’re like fleas, tough to get rid of when they get a hold somewhere.”
“So you think this Rounds guy is O.K.?”
“Yeah, I think so. Why?”
“Nothing. Just wondering.”
They drift at anchor, sipping their drinks and smoking. From the shore, the sound of crickets and cicadas rises and falls.
“So,” Wayne says at last, “you called your son.”
“I called my son.”
“And he said?”
“I told you. He didn’t want to talk to me. And I can’t blame him. He’s right. I had no right to call him. I should have just left him alone. I was wrong.”
“You were wrong twenty years ago. And you’ve been wrong since, because you didn’t call him. But you weren’t wrong when you did. He was wrong, not you.”
“Wayne, I went twenty years without trying to find him. He’s right. It’s too little, too late. It’s the same damn old story.”
“But that’s just it. It’s not the same old story. The same old story is not calling. This time you did it. You were late, real late, but you did the right thing. What you’re blaming yourself for is not calling him, but for all the years you didn’t. That’s over now. You changed it. You called him. Don’t give up now that you’re on the right track. Keep after him.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“The way I figure it, you don’t have a lot of rights here. You gave them up a long time ago. But you got the right to talk to him. Don’t you be like that damn fish there, hanging in with a hook in its jaw, hoping it was going to go away.”
“When he was just little, I was gone most of the time. I was on the road, or I was off on a tear. And when I’d come home, he was there, happy to see me. Marge might be cold enough to crack a tractor block, but Stevie was always happy to see me. He’d come running and give me a hug and want to know what I brought him. And I always brought him something. Even on those vicious benders. I might give away my car, but when I got sober, I got him something. I always had something for him.”
“Sure you did.”
“Hold it. Just shut up for a minute. The last time, the time I came home and they were gone, I’d stopped along the way, and I’d bought him this jeep. And I stood outside the house, just holding that jeep. I mean, it was big, big enough for him to ride in, and I just stood there trying to figure it all out, holding on to that jeep. I took it with me when I went to L.A., and when I came back to Nashville I brought it with me. And somewhere down the line, somewhere, I lost it. I lost the damn jeep. How could I lose the fucking jeep?”
“Stop kicking your own butt for what’s past. You’re doing the right thing now. Don’t let what you can’t help fuck it up.”
He has the catfish filleted, breaded and in the frying pan along with a couple of hush puppies from the left-over breading, when the phone rings.
“Hi. You all right?” Jean asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine. How about you?”
“Oh, fine. I called you last night.”
“I was fishing.”
“Fishing?”
He holds the phone down near where the fish is popping and crackling in the skillet. “Six-pound catfish,” he says.
“I was worried. You sounded so depressed the last time I talked to you.”
“Well, I went fishing, and tonight I go back to work. I feel better now. How’s Buddy?”
“He’s still playing with the cars you sent. He’s having a great time.”
“Yeah, I know how to pick those toys. He’s a real boy, and I know what real boys like.”
“Real girls?”
“Sooner or later.”
“You still want me to come to Houston?”
“Oh God. Yes, I want you to come to Houston.”
“I’ve got a little time coming. I can take off at the end of the month. And, well, I’m kind of lonesome here. I’d like to come.”
“What are the dates? I work Wednesday through Saturday night. Sunday through Tuesday I’m off.”
“The twenty-eighth through the second. I already made the reservations. On Western. Oh, and I have to bring Buddy.”
“Of course. Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Then it’s all O.K.?”
“Goddamn. Goddamn right it’s O.K. Hold it.” He runs back to turn off the fish, which has begun to smoke. “Goddamn. You bet it’s O.K. I’ll be so damned glad to see you all.”
“I am real glad to see you all here again,” he tells the audience, most of them regulars, but mixed with a lot of new ones the radio ads have brought in. “Since the last time I saw you, I’ve been on the road. Came back with a broke ankle, a new bass player you all are going to really like, and a big case of homesickness I’m going to cure tonight with my band, and all my friends out there.”
The stool he has to sit on limits what he can do in terms of stage movement, but it makes him more conscious of the guitar. He starts his own flat-picked bluegrass intro to “Wildwood Flower” and lets the band catch up to him. On the breaks, he feels both more deliberate with the melody and at the same time more free to improvise, holding the guitar up on his knee and closer than it is when it’s strung across his neck.
At the first break between sets, he stays where he is and lets people come up to talk to him. The rest of the band goes out into the bar to talk with wives and friends, to sit and drink. Most of the people who come to talk with him are regulars, old friends who have been coming to the club over the five years he has been there. He gets requests, but not for the standards. Instead, these people want to hear the odd stuff he doesn’t get to play very often. The regulars work at coming up with new requests, trying to catch him up on a song he doesn’t know. Most of them he does.
It is a relief to get away from a play list. Even with the addition of Al, the band knows four or five times more numbers than they will be able to play tonight. He will keep bringing up new songs for Al during the Thursday rehearsals, and when Al has settled well, he won’t hesitate to call songs that they haven’t rehearsed together, knowing that the band will be tight and familiar enough to pull Al through any rough spots.
“What do you think of the new bass player?” he asks Tiny and a few of the other regulars. Everyone says the same thing. He is fine, though he doesn’t have that thump Dave had. “It’ll come,” he tells them. “It’ll come,” he says, “it’ll come.”
By the last set, he is tired. On the road, he plays for two, sometimes three hours. At home, he plays five. Even with long breaks, going on thirty minutes, he is tired of sitting. The odd posture has thrown a strain on his back and shoulders, and his butt aches. He is sweating hard and running out of voice by the time they pack it up for last call. It takes a week or two to get back into shape after the road, though in the last couple of years it seems it takes a little longer each time.
“You pulled it off real well up there on that stool,” Wayne says.
“How’d we do?”
“I can’t tell until I close out the registers, but I ordered an extra twenty cases over the usual. We got maybe a half a dozen left. I’d say we had ourselves a real fine night. The band sounds as good as it ever did.”
“If I didn’t
know you didn’t have any kind of an ear at all, I’d take that as an insult, but it’s coming together. It won’t be too much longer until we’re back where we should be.”
“You want to take me to breakfast?” Kim asks.
“Not tonight, darlin’. I’ve had it for tonight.”
“I’ll take you to breakfast.”
“No, really, darlin’. I’m tired. I’m sure someone else will be glad to go.”
“You’re really pissed, aren’t you?”
“No. Sorry to tell you this, darlin’, but I’m not pissed in the least.”
He is onstage, the Ryman Auditorium, in the middle of a number. Tommy Sweet is behind him, Will Samuels is on drums. When he begins the chorus, Marge joins in on the harmony. But then it is Jean and then Marge again. When the chorus is over and they move into the bridge, he realizes he doesn’t remember how to play this bridge, or any other one. He just looks at the guitar around his neck, and the singers and the band stop and wait.
Chapter Thirteen
The phone keeps ringing. He can’t remember what day this is, or why he is getting up. When he finds the phone and answers it, he can’t make out what the person is saying.
“Who is this?” he asks.
“Steven.”
There is a pause while that registers and then jolts him wide awake. “Steven. How are you?”
“O.K. I’ve been thinking over what you said the other night. I guess maybe I do want to talk to you.”
“Sure. Hell yes. When? Where?”
“Well, I don’t have any vacation or sick leave coming. I could come to Houston next weekend, or you could come here.”
“What the hell time is it?”
“Seven ours. I guess nine yours?”
“O.K. What are you doing this afternoon?”
“Watching football, I guess.”
“I’ll be there. I’ll call you back in about an hour or so from the airport and tell you when to come to get me.”
“This afternoon?”
“I don’t have to be at work until Wednesday. I’m coming.”
He parks in the private lot off I-45 and takes the shuttle into Intercontinental Airport. It is eleven forty-five. He has thirty minutes until the Continental twelve-thirty boards. He has a shoulder bag with two clean shirts, underwear, shaving kit, and an extra boot. Getting up the escalator on crutches is more difficult than he thought it would be. He can’t seem to find the timing for the next step, and he knows if he misses it, he is going to fall when the step rises fully. “Aw, for crap sake,” the guy behind him says, and puts his arm around Bad’s back. Together, they step onto the escalator. “I’m afraid I’m going to have trouble getting off, too,” Bad explains. “Shit,” the guy says, “there are elevators here, you know.” But at the top, he takes Bad’s arm and guides him off.
The rest of it is easy. People make way as he crutches his way to the ticket window and an agent takes his MasterCard and gets his ticket while he sits down and smokes. His crutches set off the metal detector on the concourse, and he has to stand while they sweep him with a hand-held detector. But by the time he has called Steven in L.A., it is boarding time, and he gets to board with the kids and old people.
The flight takes off at twelve-thirty, and lands in Los Angeles at one-thirty. Flying time is three hours, but in clock time it is only one hour. The kid next to him, who looks about college age, in polo shirt and jeans, keeps fiddling with the switch on the music headset. “What’s good?” Bad asks him.
“Nothing really,” the kid says. “It’s all about the same. The R and B on channel two is O.K. Four is just country crap.”
Bad points up at his hat. “It’s fine, I’m used to it.” But when he switches to channel four, he gets Kenny Rogers, followed by the Gatlin Brothers. “Just country crap,” he agrees.
He buys two little bottles of Jack Daniel’s and a cup of ice for five dollars. He considers dumping both bottles in at once, while the ice is still hard, but figures that by doing that, the drink will go quicker and inflict even more time on him. He sips at his drink and looks out the window.
Steven is twenty-four, was twenty-four in April. The night he was born, in Vanderbilt University Hospital because Bad Blake, by God, could afford the very best, Bad was in Joplin, Missouri, playing with the boys. Word came while he was onstage, a phone call from Marge’s mother, who had been flown down from Lima, Ohio, to be with her. The message had been passed from stagehand to road manager to Will Samuels, who left his drum kit at the end of “Cheatin’ Night Tonight,” to announce that Bad was the father of an eight-pound-three-ounce boy. Two thousand people cheered in the auditorium; Bad Blake smiled, tipped his hat and went right into the introduction to “Lost Highway.”
After the show, Bad called Marge and then took the band to dinner, stood them to rounds of drinks and bought cigars and passed them out to everyone in the restaurant, announcing, “Don’t you all go home and put those away for a souvenir. When Bad Blake buys smokes, by God, they get smoked.” Later, in the hotel, he held a party in his room for the band, and when that was done, feeling paternal and righteous, he went to bed alone, the first time he had done that at a hotel stop during the whole tour.
Steven was three weeks old the first time Bad saw him, the smallest thing Bad had seen in his life, too small, it seemed, to hold. Later that afternoon, he invited the press to the house and posed out by the pool, holding Steven, who in the most famous picture is holding the fringe at the yoke of Bad’s shirt in a tiny fist. The label wanted to use that picture on the Slow Boat album, but Bad thought it was the wrong image and went with the shot of him with his guitar on the front fender of his black Cadillac.
He tries to remember the last time he saw Steven. He may have been playing cars in the dirt or hiding in the bushes playing soldier, but Bad can’t remember, though he has images of both. Either would explain why he came home with a jeep.
Though he was the first one on the plane, he is the last one off. The flight attendants will not even take his crutches from aft storage until the rest of the passengers are off the plane. An attendant escorts him off the plane and up the jet walk to the terminal. He assumes that this is to protect the airline against a lawsuit if he falls, but he is actually grateful for the help. His hands are sweating so hard he is afraid they are going to slip on the grips of the crutches.
When he is suddenly through the door and out in the terminal itself, he searches the faces, unsure who exactly he is looking for, but sure he will recognize him. He feels a touch at his sleeve and a voice says either “Bad” or “Dad,” he is not sure which since it happens so fast. When he turns his head slightly left he is looking at the man who must be Steven.
He is as tall as Bad, taller than Bad hunched over his crutches. His hair is dark, nearly black, like Bad’s at his age. He is thinner than Bad ever was and dressed in an open-collared striped shirt and khaki trousers. He smiles tentatively and offers his hand. “I recognized you from your pictures,” he says.
“You don’t look like any of the pictures I have of you,” Bad says, “but I recognized you.”
“Let me take your bag.”
“It’s O.K. I can manage.”
“What happened to your leg?”
Bad waits outside the terminal, fighting off cabdrivers who want to take his bag and load him in. Steven has gone to get the car. Bad lights a cigarette and looks around. It has been nearly twenty years since he was in L.A. Even from the airport it looks too damned big, too much like what Houston is becoming. The crowding is intense. No one looks twice at a big old man in a cowboy hat and one white boot.
There is honking to his right, and Steven steps out of a little tan car. Bad moves toward him. “It might be a tight fit with the crutches,” Steven apologizes.
As they drive out of the airport, Bad has his first chance to really look at him. If he took thirty years off himself, they would be close, but not quite a match. There is something of Marge in the eyes and the mouth. His hands
, on the wheel, are large, but the fingers are not as long or as graceful as Bad’s. “I hope this won’t be too uncomfortable. We’ve got a way to go yet.” Steven’s voice is higher and softer than Bad’s, probably close to what Bad’s would be without the years of singing, whiskey and cigarettes.
“No,” Bad lies, “this is just fine. Nice cozy little car. I like it.” He can’t get his left leg fully stretched and there is already painful pressure on his shin from the cast.
“You don’t remember my cowskin Cadillac, do you?” Bad asks.
“No.”
“You used to love to ride in that. You drove. I’d put you on the seat between my legs and you’d put your hands on the wheel and you’d steer as much as I’d let you, and you’d honk the horn. You’d make it moo.”
“Moo?”
“Yeah. The damned thing had a horn that mooed like a cow. It had cowhide seat covers and silver dollars worked into the dashboard. It was a black fifty-nine Cadillac convertible.”
“Black-and-white seat covers? With hair?”
“Yeah, sure as hell.”
“God, I do remember the hairy seat covers.”
“I’d say, ‘You want to go for a ride, pard?’ and no matter what you were doing, you’d put it down and take off for that car. Maybe it was more yours than mine. What else do you remember?”
“Not much, scattered things.”
“Do you remember the house?”
“A little. I remember flowers, lots of those. And I remember the leg of something—a coffee table, maybe? It was curved and gold.”
“Yeah, we had gold on all the furniture. There was a coffee table. Do you remember the sofa?”
“No.”
“It was ten feet long, custom made in blue velvet. A real monster, but your mother liked it.”
“You live in Houston.”
“For the past twelve years.”
“Why Houston, why not Nashville?”
“I was in Houston in the mid-fifties, before I met your mother. It was hotter than hell, but I liked it. I just sort of drifted back and stayed. It was nice when I got there, then it got big, something like this.”