Forever Finley

by Holly Schindler

  He needed to breathe; there wasn’t enough air in all of Finley for him to take a full, clean breath.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Michael jumped in surprise when a hand covered in blue veins pushed a wad of dollar bills across the counter at Cuppa. “Mary,” he said. She never came into Cuppa. Well. She never came into Cuppa during a non-celebratory day. She came for Cuppa-hosted art exhibits with her neighbors or for engagement parties with family. She didn’t come on random Tuesdays.

  “Are you going to come write a song?” she asked.

  Michael’s hands instantly began to sweat. He glanced around the shop, looking for Damien. Or some other relative. Someone he could wave down to come save him from having to deal with Mary, who did not seem to understand anything he told her.

  His eyes roved back toward her, still standing on the opposite side of the counter, still waiting patiently for his response.

  “I told you. I’m not the songwriter. I’m the backup singer.”

  Mary frowned. “You have a gadget.”

  Michael had no idea what she was talking about.

  “A gadget!” she repeated. “Gary gave you one. At my house. At the rehearsal. I saw him.”

  Michael’s head spun. Gary’d given him an old 4-track recorder. The kind of thing that used tapes. Not that Michael knew where he’d find replacement blank tapes anymore. The machine would be useless the minute he filled the tape inside. He’d mostly just accepted the thing to be polite. Gary said he’d found the recorder online after Norma’d given him a few pointers on where he could pick up cheap vintage electronics. Anyone who talked to Gary longer than forty-five seconds knew he swore by vintage amps. And the same style and age of large silver microphones that usually showed up in black and white photos of Elvis.

  “Do you want to hear Gary’s song again? The one he wrote for the fundraiser?” Michael asked. Gary was in the process of recording it on one of his ancient contraptions as a pre-wedding gift for Natalie and Damien.

  Mary frowned, shook her head. “I want you to write—”

  “No, I told you. Gary wrote that song for Natalie and Damien.”

  “I’m not some silly old woman.” Mary spoke calmly, and with the kind of intelligence and authority that any nightly newscaster would use to read the day’s top headline. The clarity startled him far more than any of her good nights ever had.

  “I need you to come to my house,” she said, her milky eyes zeroed right in on him. “With that gadget.”

  Damien appeared behind Mary’s shoulder. “You sure caffeine is good for you? Maybe some green tea.”

  At which point, Mary sighed as though she knew this was the kind of ridiculous suggestion she would have to endure on a daily basis once Damien and Natalie moved in permanently.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  It was the sigh that drew Michael to Mary’s place. There was just something familiar about it—he understood it, that disappointed, hemmed-in sound.

  He couldn’t get it out of his head, actually. For the rest of the day, he heard it. That sigh became the sound his own heart was making with every exhale. So when he untied his apron the next afternoon, he went home only long enough to grab the Tascam and lie to Ashley about another rehearsal session with Gary—a private one, in the back room of Norma’s closed antique shop.

  It was a stupid lie. Ashley’s raised eyebrow said so. Still, it gave Michael space to wiggle out the front door.

  He carried his Tascam to Mary’s front step on the palm of his hand, like a Cuppa waiter with a full tray of drinks.

  “Good,” Mary said, stepping outside before Michael even had a chance to knock.

  A sign rippled from the spot where it had been taped to the porch railing. Michael half-expected it to be one of the flyers for the fundraiser that had popped up all over town. Instead, he found a hand-drawn stick figure of a cat on construction paper, with a giant “Missing” in childlike letters. Michael wondered how long they were all going to let Hannah cling to hope.

  Maybe as long as everyone in Finley was going to let him cling to his music, he thought, eyeing the recorder.

  You’re the one that has to pull it, he reminded himself. No one else can do it. You’ve got to work up the guts to yank.

  “This way.” Mary led him behind the house, forced a rusty, antique camping kerosene lantern into his free hand, and pointed. “It’s over there. Behind the grove of slippery elm trees.”

  “What is?”

  “The cave.” He’d know that tone anywhere. The same one that teachers and principals and even his wife, on occasion, had used on him. Pure, undiluted exasperation.

  “Why would I want to be inside a cave?”

  “Because the river narrows just before flowing right into it.”

  Michael stared at her, confused.

  “The river,” Mary repeated.

  Michael followed her pointing finger. What was it with her and that river lately? Was it because a member of her family had been named after it? Did she have family on the brain lately, what with getting ready to relinquish her home—Finley’s home—to Damien and Natalie?

  “Everything about that river is powerful,” she informed him. “Even the rocks along the bed, worn smooth over time. I put them on my joints. They help. With stiffness.”

  “Like a hot stone massage?”

  Mary “Pfft”ed. “No. Because the rocks have power. The river has power. It’s the dividing line.”

  Michael fought to hold back a groan of disbelief. Not this again. The line between the living and the dead. What a bunch of hogwash. Nutty stuff.

  “What do you want me to do with this?” he blurted, motioning with the Tascam.

  Mary sighed so loudly, she nearly growled. “Record on it. In the cave,” she said through gritted teeth.

  Michel coughed a laugh. “I’m not the one who’s talented—it’s Gary. He’s the one.”

  “You don’t believe that. You brought your guitar with you, didn’t you?” She grinned and wagged a finger at him before heading back toward her house.

  Michael shook his head. “Record on it,” he repeated, and chuckled.

  He should leave. He knew it. This was silly. Only…

  He really had brought his guitar. How had Mary known? Was he that predictable? He wasn’t entirely sure. But he did carry both the Tascam and the lantern to his car. Popped the trunk. Removed his guitar. And headed out in the direction Mary’d pointed, straight through the small grove of slippery elms.

  He found the cave easily enough. The river led him straight to it, after all. He found the spot where it narrowed down to a slice in the ground barely big enough to be called a creek. He hopped across it, figuring the river went completely underground close by. Rivers were like that—they traveled overground only so long before they dipped underground, through sinkholes, then popped back up again. Kind of like life, he mused: up and down, up and down…

  He paused, thinking the entrance to the cave looked like an open mouth, and that at any minute, he was likely to hear a song pour forth.

  Maybe Mary thought the same thing. Maybe that was why the cave had made her think of music. But why him? Him and not Gary? It didn’t make sense.

  Still, he lit Mary’s lantern and stepped inside.

  It was cool inside—much cooler than the September afternoon he’d left at the cave’s entrance. The place smelled of yesterdays. Stalactites and stalagmites made for a rough-looking interior, as if the whole place were filled with spikes. A constant dripping sound attacked his ears. He raised the lantern to watch a few drops (of what? Condensation? Cave sweat?) fall from the ceiling into the small still pool below.

  Nothing about this place encouraged him to play anything. He found a stone-covered dry stretch and stood, staring at the recorder he still held in one hand.

  “Lucky this thing works on batteries,” he muttered, his voice sounding surprisingly smooth. And he smiled at himself. “Lucky,” he repeated. What was with him? The rantings of a century-plus-old wom
an had somehow become a mission he was compelled to complete? He flicked the “gadget” on. Stared at the flashing lights. Fiddled with the dials. Finally, he opened his guitar case. And started to play.

  His voice vibrated in a completely new way inside the cave. As did his guitar. The same way that a shower could magically make even the worst voice sound better. Only here, the results were more magnified. As his voice bounced off the walls, the echo created a harmonizing effect.

  But it wasn’t just the acoustics of the cave that were different. Michael was different. Strangely freer—more willing to experiment. The longer he played, the farther away the outside world began to feel. Until it seemed to him that it had disappeared completely. No more two weeks, no regrets, no what-if. Just Michael. And his music.

  After a few verses, his voice dissolved into laughter. He lifted his fingers from the strings, and hugged the body of his guitar as he rocked slightly, his laughter intensifying. When the laughter finally turned to a kind of happy stillness, he just listened to the sounds of the cave: high-pitched dripping and mid-range water sloshing and low-toned unidentified groanings.

  He let his Tascam continue to record while he picked up his lantern and walked deeper into the belly of the cave. Before him, in shadowy light, two names appeared scratched into one of the dark brown stone walls: Amos. Finley.

  He tilted his head. Had this been a secret sweethearts’ hideaway? Had they snuck inside to carve their names? Or had someone else done it? Someone else intent on keeping that whole Amos and Finley story alive? Did people even do that back then, back in the time of Civil War—carve their initials into trees or desktops? Seemed a more modern teenage activity, somehow.

  He suddenly became uneasy—like he had intruded where he shouldn’t have.

  He grabbed his Tascam and ran.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Michael blinked the first harsh sun rays from his eyes only to find he wasn’t alone. A man with dark slicked-back hair stood near the entrance of the cave, wearing somewhat heavy looking pants and a long-sleeved, pressed shirt. He’d folded a jacket and draped it over his right forearm, like he expected it to get colder later.

  “George Hargrove,” the man said, extending a hand.

  A handshake? That, too, seemed strangely formal out here in the field. Hadn’t handshakes become a corporate kind of hello? Surprised, Michael accepted it.

  “Have you seen Natalie?” George asked.

  “Not—today,” Michael managed. Why would George expect to see Natalie out here, right now? “The fundraiser for her and Damien is Friday.”

  George smiled, nodded. “I love the fact that everyone’s pitching in for Natalie. So, so kind.”

  “Old friends?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You—grew up with Natalie? From her hometown?” It would explain why Michael didn’t recognize him. The Tascam and the guitar and the lantern were starting to get heavy and awkward.

  “No,” George said. “First friend she made here in town. She lives near the veteran’s cemetery. I spend a lot of time there.”

  “Vet yourself?”

  “Yes. And—I’m close to the caretaker. He’s family.”

  “Yeah, my family’s all here in Finley, too,” Michael admitted. “Parents, wife…”

  George nodded, squinting off into the distance. “I’ve never been on the other side of the river.”

  “Never—?”

  “Not since I returned.”

  Michael wasn’t sure what to say. He settled on, “Now’s your chance.” And pointed to the river running right beside their feet.

  George grimaced. “No—see, this side of the river, this one where we’re standing, that’s the Hargrove side. That side is Finley’s old side. The Powell place.”

  It seemed something of a ridiculous distinction. “But the river’s so tiny here. You can hop right over it.”

  George ignored this observation. “I wanted to tell you thanks for helping Natalie. She’s special.”

  Michael nodded. He didn’t really know her. No more than he knew this George person.

  “You’re special, too, I hear.”

  Michael scoffed. It sounded silly: you’re special. Like something Damien would tell his kindergarten students.

  “Things that’re special shouldn’t be kept underground,” George told him.

  Michael had no idea what that meant. The man was talking in riddles.

  “Is that the only bridge?” George asked, pointing in the direction of the old single-lane bridge that stretched across the meandering Finley River at one of its wider points, connecting Founders Park to the road that headed straight to the town square.

  “Yeah.”

  George sighed sadly. “That explains a lot. It’ll never do.”

  Michael was utterly confused. What did he mean? The bridge had maybe seen better days, but it was solid. It was single-lane, but traffic wasn’t exactly bustling out this way. Never do for what? The busiest he ever saw the bridge was when the town marched across it, decorations in hand, ready to deck out the entirety of Founders Park in red, pink, and white hearts before Valentine’s Day. He’d heard tales of kids—teenagers—jumping from the bridge straight to the river below to relieve summertime boredom. He wasn’t sure if that was even true—especially since he could think of no tales of injury or death surrounding that bridge. And besides, wasn’t it illegal to jump from bridges like that?

  “You know about bridges, right?” George asked.

  “Know about—?” But Michael couldn’t finish his question. George was gone. Maybe off in search of another way to the square. Maybe he was headed back in the other direction, toward Natalie’s apartment. It was an awfully strange way to leave a conversation, just darting off like that.

  The meeting nagged at Michael, all the way back to his car and during the drive home. It kept him awake. It made his hand uncharacteristically unsteady the next day as he drew his latte art. And Natalie didn’t show to Cuppa that day at all—no chance to ask her about her strange friend. He found himself drawn back to Mary’s property.

  But if Michael were to be honest, the strange sighting wasn’t the only thing drawing him. Sure, he hoped he’d run into George again. Find out what he’d meant about bridges. Mostly, though, what was drawing him was what he’d heard when he’d played back what he’d recorded on his Tascam. He’d never sounded like that before. Ever.

  Mary was sitting on her porch knitting when he arrived. His appearance obviously pleased her. She grinned and pointed in the direction of the cave in a hurry, hurry kind of way. “They never did get together, you know,” she shouted after him.

  “Who?”

  “Amos and Finley. They never got together. She died of pleurisy before the war was over. Before he could even return! And then—they never—”

  But Michael already knew this story. He had no patience for repetition. Not now. He waved and raced forward toward the cave.

  Inside, his disinterest in repetition remained every bit as strong. He didn’t want to sing a song he’d played a hundred times before. A song written by someone else—that made him nothing more than an echo.

  He began to fiddle around on his guitar—humming and trying out a new melody—crafting a brand-new song. Trusting himself to write. His voice vibrated in a new way—and so did his heart. His mind. He was no longer thinking the same thoughts over and over—failure, longing…He wasn’t thinking about the past. The only thing that existed was the current beat of that very moment.

  After that, Mary’s cave became something of an addiction. He needed it, far more desperately than the customers at Cuppa claimed they needed their daily cup of joe.

  On his fourth return, a feeling of not being alone overtook him. He was being helped.

  Help. The word came to him out of nowhere. By what—or whom?

  Another word came to him shortly thereafter: Bridges. It resonated so strongly that he began to sing about them. They were everywhere—why hadn’t he noti
ced that before? A bridge over the river; a bridge on his guitar, holding the strings. Songs had bridges, too. Lyrically and musically different from any other part of the song. And that’s exactly what being in the cave felt like. Inside it, he was lyrically and musically different than he was anywhere else. He sang, his voice resonating, building to a final crescendo. He was finally connected. A bridge—one side of him to the other. Dream to reality. He was whole. He was—

  Michael stood, still holding his guitar. As he did, he kicked the Tascam into the nearby pool of water. It snapped, like a plugged-in toaster that had been thrown into a sink full of water.

  The pool began to glow a strange yellow. And not just in the spot the Tascam had disappeared, but all the way down the length of the cave.

  Michael raced to the cave’s mouth, blinking again into the harsh sun. The entire Finley River glowed the same strange yellow.

  And the man was back. The same strange man who’d been looking for Natalie.

  “George!” Michael called out.

  He swiveled only long enough to shake his head at Michael. “You’re underground,” he chastised. “It shouldn’t stay underground.” And then he turned and hurried on ahead.

  Michael broke into a jog, but George was already so far ahead of him—it looked like he had already passed the statue of Amos Hargrove. How could he have gotten there so fast?

  George paused at the river’s edge, seeming to test the water with his toe. Only, he was wearing a dress shoe. Why would he chance getting it wet?

  “George!” Michael shouted again. But the man stepped onto a large river stone.

  And then he was gone.

  He couldn’t have disappeared completely, Michael told himself.

  Afraid that George might have fallen into the river, Michael raced to its edge. George was nowhere to be seen. For the briefest moment, the trees on the opposite side of the river rustled. Michael shaded his eyes with his hand as the movement—and the breeze—ceased.

  The river darkened. The yellow glow died.

  Michael was concerned that he had somehow polluted the Finley by dropping the recorder. The river that had remained so clear and blue—the reason for Amos’s and Finley’s families to settle here. What had he done?