“Well, it’s still more than we had yesterday. Maybe we can get in touch with her. Maybe she can tell us what’s going on.”
I nod just as we hear the front gate swinging open again. It’s Max and Steve. We go inside through the sliding glass door and meet them in the kitchen. They’re both sweaty and flushed, wearing Florence Utilities work shirts. Steve carries a grocery sack. “How you doing, Jane?”
“Good. Just trying to think of a less rock ’n’ roll name than ‘Osgood.’”
“Robert Zimmerman,” Max answers.
“Who?”
Opening the grocery sack, Steve pulls out some gas station fried chicken and a large order of home fries. “Come on, you guys hungry?”
We eat around the cable spool. Max and Steve drink beer, me and Tyler have sweet tea. Steve wants to hear all about the catfish and last night.
“Where’s her ring? Can I see it?”
Tyler shakes his head. “I must’ve left it on the houseboat. It sunk.”
“This whole thing … ” Steve finishes his fries, wiping his hands on his jeans. “The whole thing … just … whoa, you know?”
“Ever hear anything like it?” Tyler asks.
“Nuh-uh. I’ve seen the ghosts over at Forks of Cypress. But they just looked like real pale light, nothing solid. But you know, the Devil’s Circle is near the lake,” Steve says. “Maybe that has something to do with all this.”
Max shakes his head. “The Devil’s Circle is way out, off of Wilson Highway.”
Tyler says, “No, it’s just past the embankment, real close to downtown. It’s on private land, and the owners keep it quiet in case they ever want to sell.”
Max keeps shaking his head. “I’m telling you, Twitchy went—” His phone rings, and he pulls it out. “Hey! How’s it going? Where are you guys?” He carries the phone into the living room. The rest of us keep talking about ghosts.
Everybody knows the story of the Devil’s Circle, even if nobody’s sure where it is. Long ago, there was a kid who played banjo better than almost anybody around here. One night the Devil showed up to dance. The boy was too scared to stop playing, so he played all night while the Devil swirled around and around. Finally, the boy just collapsed from exhaustion. The next morning, he found a boot stuffed with money and a wide circle where nothing would grow. No animals would get close to it, not even the best-trained horses or hunting dogs. The boy never picked up the banjo again, and the Devil’s Circle is still like that today.
The Forks of Cypress plantation house burned down a century ago. The great white columns still mark where it stood, though. Terrified ghosts still glimmer above the foundations some nights, and kids with cars dare each other to drive out there, rush up, and touch the columns.
We talk about Crybaby Bridge, the face in the Pickens County Courthouse window, and Gabriel’s Hounds tearing through the woods every Good Friday. They’re just scraps of stories, told and retold, parts lost and patched up with spare parts from fairy tales and movies. I wonder if the people from the holler knew the truth about them—the people like Mattie Peake, who’d lived there before the dam, far away from town, down where nights were as black as sin and fevers disguised themselves as toads.
Just as LeighAnn comes home, Max reappears and kisses her. “Guess what? Against the Dawn are playing the Bandito Burrito on Thursday.”
“Awesome!”
“That was Jessie on the phone. She wanted to know if they could crash here. I went ahead and said yes.”
LeighAnn gives a thumbs-up. “Gonna be like college again, except we won’t go to class the next morning. ’Course, we didn’t go to class when we were in college, so it’ll be like college again!”
“And also, she wanted us for their opening act.”
LeighAnn sighs. “Oh, well. You tell her Patterson was gone?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Tyler can fill in,” Steve says. Max and LeighAnn both look at Tyler.
Tyler shakes his head and concentrates on his chicken leg. “Come on, Ultimate, I told you, I’m not looking to be in a band right now.”
“You’re the only person who already knows all our songs.”
“Barely. Not nearly as good as Patterson.”
Max says, “How about you just stay for practice tonight, see how it goes?”
Tyler nods. “We’ll see how it goes.”
Ultimate Steve claps him on the back. LeighAnn goes to change out of her skirt suit. While she’s in the bedroom, that sketchy girl who was hanging on Steve the other day appears—I didn’t even hear the front door open. The first thing she does is hug Steve, pressing her face to his sweaty, mucky work shirt and breathing deep.
“Hey Britney. How’s it going?”
“Hey, sweetness.” She stands on her tip-toes to kiss him.
The guys head into the living room and start getting ready. Britney isn’t in the band, so she just sits on the couch and plays with Steve’s hair. LeighAnn returns, wearing cutoffs and a tee, no shoes. Microwaving a chicken thigh, she glances around the kitchen and says, “You cleaned.”
“A little. Also, I walked the dogs.”
“Great. Were they good boys?”
“Sure were.”
“So you still feeling bad for calling me nasty names?” Her voice is calm, conversational, just like it was this morning.
“A little.” My face starts burning, and I focus hard at the floor.
LeighAnn punches me in the chest, stepping into it like a pitcher. Icicles stab down to my elbows. They freeze muscles, and I can’t get a breath. Clutching my chest, I drop to my knees on the freshly swept linoleum.
“How about now?” she asks.
“Think I’m over it,” I croak.
“Awesome.” The microwave dings. She gets her chicken, then steps over me. Walking into the living room, she yells, “All right! I’m feeling all Motörhead tonight. Let’s set it off!”
They sit and stand in a half circle, starting with a song called “Catatonic State Marching Band.” They play fast and loud, first Max singing, then everybody joining in more or less together. They make the window panes rattle in their frames, and I think I know why a neighbor took a baseball bat to their mailbox.
In between practicing the song, they sip beer, talk about other bands, and joke around, filling the night with laughter. Of course, while Tyler’s playing, we’re not doing anything to help you, Holly. We’re not getting any closer to figuring out what’s going on. I’m not any closer to getting to go home. Tyler will see his parents, sleep in his own bed tonight, so what does he care about me?
They start into the same song again. Ultimate Steve bangs his drums, sweat flying from his hair and beard. He holds his drumsticks with the scarred stump of his finger sticking out like he’s sipping tea with the Queen of England.
What was that Banana Hammocks song, Holly? “Chainsaw Girl.” No, “Chainsaw Heartbreak”? Something stupid like that. And then one time Steve decided to add a chainsaw solo, revving it in rhythm to the song. I bet the audience loved that right up until he cut off his finger.
The next day you told me about it. “Then he picks it up off the stage and just sticks it in the cooler.” Your eyes were wide and all your words rushed together. “Just down in the ice with the drinks. Then he goes back and finishes the gig.”
“Gross, gross! How could he do that? That’s so gross.”
“But he finished the gig! They did, like, four more songs, and Steve never missed a beat! He had blood running all down his—”
“Ew, don’t tell me. Why didn’t Tyler and them take him to the ER?”
“They did afterward, but it was too late. Doctor couldn’t reattach it.”
“So wait, if he’d gone to the ER right away, they could have?”
“Well, yeah. Maybe. But … ” We stared at each other, neither und
erstanding the other. We might as well have been speaking different languages. “Jane, he finished the gig! Just sticks it in the cooler and sits back down at his kit and counts off the next song. Blood running all down his arm, and he never missed a beat.”
And somehow that made him a titan of rock, not a total lunatic. Somehow that made him the Ultimate Steve—all other Steves mere imitations. And somehow I wound up hiding here with these losers.
Quit, quit it. I’m being nice.
Still, the noise fills the whole house. It fills me, every boom-cha-boom rattling my bones. I wish he’d chopped off his whole hand, not just a finger.
Nice. Be nice.
After an hour or so, Stratofortress switches to a new song, “Poppy Red, Moth White.” It’s a twangy little song about a girl who never stays in any one place for long. Standing in the doorway, I watch Tyler’s fingers on the strings. I watch Max’s Adam’s apple quiver up and down as he sings; LeighAnn, her whole body swaying back and forth like a metronome.
The fear and frustration that have held me tight all day—the worry about you, about my parents—starts to slide away. There’s something hypnotic about watching musicians play, following their small, certain motions as they find that groove. They carry you into the groove without you realizing it, without you really even wanting to. I look down and see I’m tapping my foot.
Remember all those afternoons I sat around and watched you practice, Holly? I thought we were just wasting time. If I was ever impatient with you, I’m sorry. Now? I’d give anything for one more hour, watching you pull music out of your pa-paw’s rumbling old guitar.
The song they try next is called “Cheers.” I sit on the couch beside Britney while Max pulls out a notebook with all his songs in it. The front is covered with pictures of angels drawn in ballpoint pen. He shows the chords to Tyler. When Tyler’s ready, Steve marks time on his snare, and the others fall in. Just as Max opens his mouth to sing, though, Tyler hits the wrong chord. He corrects himself, but now he’s off-time, tripping everybody else up.
“Sorry,” he murmurs in the sudden quiet.
“No problem,” Max says. “Just remember you have to drop to D after the intro.”
Tyler nods. “I know, I just … sorry.”
“No problem.” Max points to Steve, and they start again.
Then again.
Max takes Tyler’s guitar from him and shows him the piece really slowly, then in the correct time, then they start again.
Then again. Under Tyler’s fingers, the song flutters around with one broken wing.
“Tyler, come on, man.” Peeling off his shirt, Steve mops his face with it. Everybody’s tired. Everybody’s hot. With the amps turned on—and the carpeted walls adding an extra layer of insulation—the heat sucks on us like candy.
“Sorr—”
“Stop.” Max cuts him off, annoyed and trying not to show it. “Don’t apologize. Just … it’s back to A for the bridge.”
“I know!”
“If you know, then do it!” Max yells.
“All right, everybody take five,” LeighAnn says, pulling her guitar strap over her head.
“No. I want to get this,” Tyler says.
“No,” LeighAnn answered. “Take five, go get some water or something.”
Tyler sets down his guitar without a word. I try to catch his eye, but he avoids my gaze and walks into the kitchen. I follow him and watch him fill a glass with tap water. I’m not sure what to say, but I know I have to say something.
“I’m having fun listening to you guys practice.”
Tyler snorts. “You didn’t hear me keep screwing up?”
“You got the first songs, no problem.” I shrug.
“Those are easy, three and four easy chords. ‘Cheers,’ it’s got an F barre chord, a bent note right before dropping into A. Then—”
I wave my hands and shake my head. “I don’t know anything about that, about bent bars or anything. I just know that I used to spend a lot of time listening to Holly practice, and, um, I’ve missed it. I didn’t really even know how bad I missed it until tonight. So, you know, whatever happens with this one song or with you playing with Stratofortress, I’ve had fun tonight.”
He gives me a fake rock-star grin and shoots a finger-gun at me. “Always looking out for the fans.”
“Stop.” I laugh and push his hand away. “And just, um, I was sort of a B-word yesterday, when I got mad at you for wanting to come by here. But I’m really glad Steve called you after Holly died. And I’m really glad they kept you playing music. They’re pretty good friends.”
Tyler wraps an arm around my middle and heaves me off my feet, squeezing me against his bulk in a one-armed bear hug.
“Ack! You’re all sweaty! Let go, let go!”
Complaining only makes him plant a fat kiss on my cheek before dropping me back down and heading into the living room. At least he seems more confident as he slips his guitar back over his head. Steve counts them off again. The song rises and collapses again. Rise and collapse. Rise and collapse. Rise and … rise! Notes scuttle up the walls like blue-tailed skinks. Britney squeezes my hand. Her feet drum to the beat. My heart thumps to it.
The song falls apart, but we’ve seen how good it can be. “Yay, guys!” Britney cheers. “You’re so close!” Everybody’s hungry for it now, despite the sludgy heat.
Steve launches into the now-familiar intro. Rise and collapse. Rise and … rise … and rise … Holly, they’ve got it!
Frog-slick with sweat, Max sings and bobs to the sound; he knows they’ve got it this time. Tyler bounces along the rhythm Max lays down, pushing and pulling against it. I’m dancing with Britney. We have to dance or we’ll explode.
The last chord shivers to silence, then everybody shrieks, wild and wordless. We rush Tyler. Britney kisses him, and I hug his neck. The three members of Stratofortress lean together for a few seconds, then straighten up. Max says, “All right Tyler, we need a rhythm guitar for Thursday, and you need somewhere for your girlfriend to stay.”
“Girlfriend? No, Jane’s not my—”
“I’m not his girlfriend.”
Max rolls his eyes. “Whatever. But if you want us to help you, you’ve got to help us. So either you’re in the band, or we sell her to a Saudi prince’s pleasure dome.”
I blush pink, but Tyler just snickers. “Fine, fine. I’ll play.”
There are fist-bumps all around. LeighAnn leaves to get more beer. Everybody’s exhausted—even me and Britney somehow. I step out onto the back patio for some fresh air. The summer night feels like temptation itself. The air is as hot as tangled sheets. It smells like magnolia and honeysuckle, like sweet boys just vanished into the dark. Stratofortress’s song is still rattling around behind my breastbone. Even in the quiet, I can feel its rhythm in there, in place of my busted-watch heart. By the time Tyler comes out and sits down beside me, the song has almost faded away. But I’m still smiling, really smiling for the first time in a month.
“Thanks,” he says. “For that pep talk back there.”
I shrug, twisting my bare toes into the cool dust. “Didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”
“So tomorrow, want to go look for this Mattie Peake? I mean, Decatur isn’t that big a town. We might get lucky and find somebody who knows her.”
“Sure.” I nod, not bothering to mention that it’s still a Hail Mary play.
“And listen. I’ve got some money saved up. Why don’t you take it.” Opening his wallet, Tyler pulls out several twenties.
“No. Thanks, but I’m okay.”
He persists. “It’s not a big deal. It’s money my grandmother sent me for my birthday.”
“No. I don’t need it.” I push his hand away. I could use the money, but I’m embarrassed to take it.
“Jane. We’re in this together. Whatever I can do to he
lp you, I’m going to do it.”
“Then … ” My hand is still on top of his. His skin is like soft leather, but the muscles underneath are as hard as steel cable. I trace the callouses at the tips of Tyler’s fingers. I want him to help me be happy again, Holly, even if it’s just a few minutes at a time. I want to feel my heart beating again. “Then teach me to play guitar.”
“S-Seriously?”
“Yeah. Will you teach me?”
“Like right now?”
“Right now.”
He shrugs and puts the money away, saying, “Sure. You got it.”
Thirteen
“Can we take this stuff outside? It’s like a furnace in here.”
“Sure, just unplug that amp. Be careful, it’s heavy.”
Isn’t it kinda weird if you think about it, Holly? All those years hanging out with you, and I never learned to play music.
I goofed around with your guitar sometimes, but I never had any time to really learn how to play. There was always too much other stuff to do—church projects, youth group stuff, looking after my brothers and Faye. Besides, I had you. You knew all the songs I could ever want—the rejoicing ones, the gentle ones, the ones pulpy and wet with raw life.
I lug the amp out of the living room. Behind me, Tyler is winding cords around his arm. Max appears in the archway. “Um, you guys robbing us?”
“Jane wants to learn to play.”
“Seriously?” Leaning out the window, Max shouts down the street. “LeighAnn! Jane wants to play guitar!”
“Really?” She starts jogging up the block with a six-pack of beer in each hand. “Give me a second. Don’t let her start yet.”
Suddenly, I’m plagued by experts.
“Here, cinch this up; your arms are shorter than Tyler’s.” Max tightens the guitar strap while Tyler worries with the little knobs. The light on the back patio has burned out, so there’s just a string of old Halloween lights to see by—cheap plastic skulls grin down at us.
When Ultimate Steve plugs the amp in, the guitar comes alive, humming, trembling gently against my stomach. I jerk my hand away from the strings, and LeighAnn laughs at me. “Relax, it won’t bite.” She sits in the grass, leaning back on one elbow, beer in the other hand.
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