by Laura Briggs
“He’s hired,” she said.
She phoned him later that night, using the number on his application. The phone rang several times before he answered it, a slightly muffled male voice saying, “Hello?”
“This is Libby Taylor,” she said. “I’m calling to congratulate Jake Dillard on his audition this afternoon. He’s hired if he wants the gig.” On the other side, she heard a shuffling sound, as if the phone was being shifted into another position.
“I’m hired,” the man repeated. “All right, then. Tell me where to be and what time to be there.”
“We play a gig at the Coyote tomorrow night, so eight AM is rehearsal time,” she said. “A little early, I know, but this is your first day. Can’t have all the benefits of road life right away, can you?”
She pictured him packing his things, saying goodbye to a girlfriend or two. A guy with his looks was bound to have someone in his past and present. She didn’t allow herself to picture the possibility of something between the two of them, although she suspected that was the reason behind her urge to hire him.
That, and his ability to make Patty Craye’s classic sound like something completely new.
“See you at eight,” said Jake.
She heard the muffled sound of another voice in the background, a small, child-like voice. It left her with a twinge of jealousy at the thought of a female companion.
The next morning, he pushed open the door to the bar, and hoisted his guitar onto the bar’s platform stage. He exchanged hearty handshakes with Greg and Bob, the only two band members present at the moment. From a few tables away, Libby watched him as she sifted through the latest purchase of sheet music, a cheap cover song that was in the top forty.
She could see by the looks on her band’s faces that they accepted him immediately. The easygoing smile, the casual confidence—he would be no trouble at all to integrate into the Blue Persuasion’s machinery.
As he approached the table, he held out his hand. “Thanks,” he said, “for taking a chance on me.” He tucked his free hand in the pocket of his jeans. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been out on the road with a band. Can’t say I missed the life, but I sure missed the music.”
“You’re welcome,” she answered. “We pull out this weekend, but there’s room on the bus—”
“I got my own wheels. I’ll be fine. Just tell me when and where.” He lifted a page from the sheet music in front of her.
“Doing this one?” he asked. “Not much to it, is there?”
She shrugged. “Give people what they want and they’ll let you give them what you want, right?”
He didn’t answer. “This the first piece in the set?”
Libby nodded, watching as he carried it towards the stage, where his guitar case waited.
The first few songs sounded perfect. Jake was better than her last guitarist, Libby decided, since Peter’s work tended to be influenced by too many beers the night before. Jake’s music had clear tones and a serious drive beneath its notes.
In the corner of the bar, she noticed a child seated in the booth, knees drawn to his chest as he watched them. A pair of bright red galoshes covered his feet. A raincoat two sizes too big draped his body.
Until now, she had been listening to the band practice the instrumental section of Alecia Allard’s “Blaze and Burn.” Shifting from her position at the foot of the stage, she moved towards the boy.
“Are you supposed to be here?” she asked, staring into a pale, upturned face beneath a shock of dark hair. He looked eight, maybe older. Old enough to be in school, way too young to be left unsupervised.
“I’m watching my dad play,” he answered, gazing up at her with evident fascination.
“Who’s your dad?” she asked, slowly.
The boy’s finger emerged from beneath the rain slicker’s sleeve, pointing towards the stage where Jake stood, strumming the final chord of the song.
9
“I was going to tell you about him.” Those were Jake’s first words as she confronted him in the back room of the Wild Coyote Bar.
“When? When we were pulling out on the road? When we were curious about the second passenger in your car whose head doesn’t reach the dash?” Sarcasm crept into her voice.
He sighed. “Look, I know it seems like it won’t work, but it will. When I decided to go into the music business again, I made all the arrangements. Will is homeschooled. I make sure he keeps his grades up. I bought a camping trailer with enough room—”
She held up her hand, stopping him. “This isn’t going to work,” she said. “Leave him with your ex-wife, your mother, whoever. But you can’t take him on the road.”
Jake wet his lips. “That your final answer?” he asked. “Either I leave my son here or I don’t get the job?” He met her eyes, a steady gaze that made her uncomfortable.
“I don’t see what the problem is,” she shrugged, “Can’t you just redraw the custody papers?” she asked.
“No,” he answered, his voice tight. “There’s no ex-wife. Me and Will are on our own.” His gaze moved away from hers, as if hiding the emotions in their depths.
For a moment, Libby had nothing to say. She stared at the floor, feeling embarrassed. The possibility that he had something in his past other than an ex had never occurred to her.
“Would you care to discuss this issue further?” she asked. “Maybe we can work something out if we have time to talk about it.” Without raising her gaze, she was aware that his posture had changed.
“When and where?” he asked.
“Dinner,” she answered. “Tonight.” When she looked up, a faint smile was visible, tugging at the corners of his mouth.
****
The Skycloud Cafe was crowded at five o’ clock, but since the show was at eight, Libby wanted to avoid last-minute meals. Seated across from Jake, she found reasons not to regret this decision. He looked attractive in his button-down blue shirt, his hair tousled around his face.
After bringing their drinks and menus, the waitress departed, leaving the two of them alone. Libby peeled the paper from her straw, debating the right words to say. She didn’t want to fire him, but she didn’t want his son on the road with them, either. Not a reminder of the one thing she could never have after that long-ago Christmas.
“So, how long have you been in the music business?” she asked. “I noticed your application said you’d played with the Wandering Hearts. I’m a big fan.” She took a sip from her straw.
He toyed with salt and pepper shakers. “Yeah, they were quite a band. Things were different back then. I guess you could say I was a little wilder in those days.” He gave her a grin as he glanced up.
“A little wilder,” she responded. “Just in music?” She tried to keep her voice playful as she made her selection on the menu, a burger and fries.
“In a lot of things. Back in the day before Will’s mom. Before I was a dad...” He trailed off.
“I used to play in a band in high school,” he said. “Just a garage group, but we landed a gig or two after we played at a wedding. Went all the way to Memphis to cut a demo record once.”
She laughed. “That sounds like true devotion to the music. Even in my early years, I never dreamed of running off to cut a demo.”
Running off to join a band, however, hadn’t been out of the picture.
“I wasn’t a big fan of the Nashville sound back then,” he said. “More blues for me. Lot of great guitarists in blues, in the jazz scenes. When I was in Memphis, I heard a couple of guys who were better than some of the recording artists, but just spent their lives on street corners playing for spare change.”
The waitress slid their plates onto the table. “Ketchup, anyone?” she asked, brandishing a bottle from her apron pocket.
Libby shook her head.
“I’m guessing you must’ve grown up a fan of the classics,” said Jake. “Judging by what you asked me to play at audition. Half the selection pool was doing country pop, the other half the top forty’
s fastest climbers. But you wanted Patty Craye.”
It was her turn to shrug. “When I was a little girl, I used to dream about being her. I had every one of her records—vinyl, no cassettes or CDs. I played ‘Midnight Madness’ until it wore out. For me, it was always classics. Tina Wiley, a little Jimmy Crile—”
“And a lot less rock,” guessed Jake.
She picked at her french fries. “Life on the road is no place for a kid, Jake. Trust me. It may have been awhile since you’ve been there, but I’ve seen it every day for…for a long time.” Her voice was gentle, her hand edging closer to his own. “There’s things a kid shouldn’t see. Not to mention the hours, the tough atmosphere, the fact that there’s no babysitter available for him when you’re onstage.” She shrugged. “Maybe you didn’t think about all that when you decided to go on the road again.”
Jake gazed down at his burger. “Before I took this job, I worked nights in a factory. It was the only job I could find, and one that made it pretty hard to look after Will sometimes. It was after his mother died and I stopped going out on the road.” He reached for the pepper, shook a generous portion over his fries. “Before that, the three of us had gone out together. I was part of a band. Me and my wife educated Will together. Everything was great. But when it was over,” he paused for a moment, “I couldn’t go back to it for a while. I told myself that it was better to have a stable job and a school for Will.”
“But it wasn’t?” she asked.
“No, not really. I guess I felt…called to go back. And when I saw your flyer, something clicked. For both me and Will.”
Crossing his arms, he leaned forward. “Will is my responsibility. Nobody else’s. I don’t have a choice except to take him with me, and I don’t think that’s wrong. I want to raise my son, and I want to do what I’m called to do.”
The determination in his dark eyes had already half-persuaded her. There was a warmth in his voice, a sense of passion in his words that made her skin tingle with electricity. Maybe there was a possibility that something more could come from a relationship with a man like this. Something more sincere than the one-track minds that pursued her in bars and clubs.
So you think music’s your calling?” She leaned forward to close the distance between them.
“Yeah,” he answered. “I do. I think God calls everybody to something in life.”
These words caused her to draw back slightly. “You mean like a missionary?” She raised her eyebrows, finding the words—and the thought—distasteful.
He looked perplexed, but still smiled. “Don’t you believe in God?”
“That’s not the point. I’m just...not comfortable with the concept of people treating their careers like some kind of religious experience.”
Why she wasn’t comfortable was uncertain. She felt threatened by this sudden turn in the conversation. She pictured Jake with a prudish stare and a judgmental eye when he learned about her past.
Jake frowned in response. “I’m not trying to preach to you,” he said. “I just sensed that you might be a believer. There was just something about you that made me feel connected.”
“Did it ever occur to you maybe it was just that I’m a woman?” Her tone had taken on a slightly irritated edge. She shoved aside her plate, suddenly losing her taste for the burger. “Look, I’m not comfortable with talking about God, OK? If you want to stay in the band, then keep it to yourself.”
Peeling off a few bills from a wad in her pocket, she dropped them on the table. Even the edge of concern in his voice didn’t make her turn around as she pushed open the door to the cafe.
What did he care about her eternal soul? He should be grateful she wasn’t firing him.
10
Since that day in the cafe, Jake had stayed on as the band’s guitarist. True to his word, he kept the religious talk to a minimum. The same was true when he figured out the effect Will’s presence had on her temper. After the years they had worked together, she sometimes felt he could read her mind on sensitive issues.
At this moment, she wished there truly was a psychic bond between them, so his sixth sense would inspire him to call for help. In reality, she knew he was crammed in his little camping trailer with Will, celebrating Christmas. He was unaware that regardless of whether she survived this, she had already planned not to see him again.
The atmosphere in the car was growing colder. Her fingers fumbled with the door handle trying to lift it. It was stuck again, like the seat belt strap was in the bar parking lot. Unless rescue workers would appear to cut it loose and help her to freedom — but this was something she didn’t want to think about.
Her vision blurred as she struggled to push against the door again. The desire to lean forward and let her head rest against the dashboard seemed overwhelming for a moment. There was silence in the car, no music, no voices in her head. Nothing except the painful voices in her heart.
“Did you feel guilty when you blew Jake off? Or just a sense of annoyance that he wasn’t everything you dreamed he’d be?” The voice was not Tina’s, belonging to someone less familiar.
She turned in the direction of the seat next to her, chill bumps rising with a sense of fear as much as cold. In the seat next to her was a woman in a black satin party dress with a multi-pleated skirt that went out of style twenty years ago. A heavy faux-fur wrap draped around her body, below glowing red hair that was almost pink in its garish, dyed condition. Painted toenails protruded from open-toed heels.
“Don’t you recognize me?” Something about the woman’s face, sullen beneath its heavy makeup, seemed familiar, more so than the sharp, almost sarcastic voice that accompanied them.
“No,” said Libby, faintly, wondering if the cold was forcing her mind to make up stories now, instead of cobbling together random images from the past.
The woman rolled her eyes. “Think a little harder. It was nineteen eighty-five. Music videos were just becoming popular...” She trailed off as realization dawned on Libby.
“Alecia,” Libby breathed. “Alecia Allard. I saw your record in the store downtown—”
“In a bargain bin. Yeah, I know this part,” said Alecia. “The eighties were over, but you had a thing for artists whose prime was before you graduated out of Mary Jane shoes. I can’t believe you didn’t recognize my trademark pout.” She pulled her face into a defiant glare.
It was the sullen face on the sophomore album cover, Alecia’s short pink-tinted hair spilling over her face. The backdrop of a white surface was splattered with colored paint.
“I used to watch your videos when I was growing up. My mom would turn them off.” She remembered watching the music video retrospectives, the commercials for the top hits of the eighties. And Alecia’s top hit “You Know” was featured every time.
“Step outside for a moment,” said Alecia, interrupting Libby’s memories.
“What?” she gasped in reply. “It’s cold. I’m bleeding. I must be insane to—” It was then she realized that she felt neither cold nor weak at this moment. In fact, she felt nothing except astonishment over Alecia’s words. Touching her forehead, she fingered strands of dark hair brushing her face.
“Follow me,” said Alecia, popping open the car door and sliding out.
As if in a trance, Libby reached for the driver’s side handle and lifted it. The door opened with ease, no burst of cold from the outside.
There was no icy highway, no snowdrifts, no fir tree with a rental car merged with its trunk. Instead of the rental, a sporty red model was parked in the middle of a film set, its white walls splattered with bold shades of paint.
Alecia was perched in a director’s chair, her name emblazoned across the back in pink glitter. “Remember this place?” she asked. “My first music video.” The white faux wrap slipped to the floor.
“The video to ‘You Know,’” said Libby. “It was groundbreaking in its day. The first time a country performer had done something so…so...” She fumbled for words as her fingers touched
the paint-splattered walls. It almost felt real, as if her imagination had come to life.
“So edgy. So pop. I’ve heard it all. This was the highlight of my career.” Alecia laughed. “Of course after this, we all know where it went.” She blew a raspberry, finger descending towards the floor.
“But you had hits after this. Didn’t you? ‘Blaze and Burn,’ ‘You are the Reason,’ and a few others.” She racked her brain, trying to remember something more about Alecia than the most obvious detail, the short span of her career.
“Hits?” Alecia snorted. “I guess you could call them that. By then, I was so busy partying, I didn’t care. I just needed another number one hit, and I didn’t get it. That’s how I ended up broke in California.”
One album more, and her career was over, as Libby recalled. No more records, no more concerts, not even a marriage or family to replace her career.
“You could have given up the lifestyle,” Libby argued. “You could have gone on making records even after they cut your contract.”
Alecia laughed. “But I wouldn’t have made money. You’re talking about music. After I got a taste of the lifestyle, that was all I cared about. Music, principles, career quality—zilch, zip, gone.”
She rose from the sparkling chair. “What do you think is on the other side of these walls, Libby?”
Libby stared at her. “How would I know?” Her voice faltered slightly.
Alecia’s tone was quiet. “Why don’t you go find out?” She nodded towards a door in the paint-splattered wall, a knob visible where the wall had once been solid.
Libby crossed the set and reached for it, pushing open the door and stepping through to the other side, where the sound of music and voices laughing was audible.
****
On the other side of the door was a place Libby hadn’t seen in over twelve years. A bar in New Mexico, a Tex-Mex themed junction where bands sometimes played all night. Years later, she heard they tore it down for a new parking lot, but here it was in all the glory she remembered at sixteen.