Unwinding my grimy bandage, I flex my sweat-soft fingers. “Okay, what should I learn first?”
“Freebird! Whoo!” Britney shouts.
“‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ is kinda the universal first song,” LeighAnn says.
“‘Mary Had a … ’” I roll my eyes, “Come on, that’s lame. Even I know that’s lame.”
Max balks. “Have you ever heard Stevie Ray Vaughn’s version of ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’? It’s baller. It’s so baller, it’s banned in, like, sixteen countries.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Right hand to God. Banned in all those Islamic countries ’cause women kept ripping off their burkas and going nuts.” As Max talks, he presses a thin black pick into my hand and bends my fingers to the frets. It makes me wince; my hand and arm are still covered in scabs from where you grabbed me. “Okay, just strum all the strings, and that’s a G chord,” Tyler says.
I strum the strings. Notes fall thick and flat or buzz strangely. Everybody groans. “What was that? Come on.” The experts swarm again.
“Don’t go straight down with the pick. And stiffen your wrist up.”
“Here. Don’t let your fingertips touch the other strings; that’s where that buzzing came from.”
“Don’t grab the neck like a baseball bat. You want to almost be cupping it in the palm of your hand.”
“Yeah, hold it like a little baby bunny.”
“Okay, okay. Let me try.” Maybe this was a bad idea, but I shoo them back for a second try. Biting my bottom lip, I squeeze the strings against the frets and strum.
The chord comes like bottled thunder, knocking the wind out of me. It startles Hobbit and Cookie. They begin to bark frantically. Stratofortress cheers, and by the time Hobbit and Cookie calm down, other dogs in other yards have picked up their panic, filling the neighborhood with howls. The racket spreads across the night like ripples across water.
Everyone hoots and laughs. I clap my hands over my mouth as hiccupy giggles bubble up. I’d forgotten how much fun it was to be so loud.
Fourteen
G … D seven … G … G … D seven … Max’s acoustic guitar in my lap, bare feet tucked under me, I work through the chords for “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
I woke up before dawn, Holly, and my head immediately filled with worries about you, worries about my family. I knew I wouldn’t get back to sleep without my Tenex, so I decided to practice instead.
G … D seven … G … G … D seven …
Max and Ultimate Steve wake up and leave for work. In the master bedroom, LeighAnn’s alarm clock goes off. I hear her cuss and slap the snooze button.
G … D seven … G … G … D seven …
Alarm. Cuss. Slap.
G … D seven … G … G … D seven …
Alarm. Cuss. Slap.
G … D seven … G … G … D seven …
Alarm. Cuss. Something smacks against the wall. A few minutes later, I hear the shower running.
G … D seven … G … G … D seven …
LeighAnn shuffles down the hall, mostly dressed, no makeup. I look up and smile. “Good morning.”
“You still here?”
“I made coffee.”
LeighAnn nods and disappears into the kitchen.
G … D seven … G … G … D seven …
LeighAnn reappears with a coffee cup. She’s shaking her head. “You’re hitting that G wrong. You have to arch your middle finger more.” Still bleary eyed from not enough sleep, she yanks my finger into position. “There. Now press down as hard as you can.”
I press down past the point where the steel string hurts my fingertip. G … D seven … G … G … D seven …
“Better, better, but look, put your fingers here and here.”
“Ow! Stop!” I jerk away. “Fingers don’t bend like that.”
“Sure they do.” Pressing her left fingertips against her right palm, she bends them so far back it makes me a little queasy. “Just have to stretch the ligaments more.”
“But it hurts.”
“Supposed to hurt at first. You’re not doing it right if it doesn’t hurt.”
“It hurts up in my biceps. How is that even possible?” Shaking cramps out of my fingers, I try again.
“Good. There you go.” She starts putting her earrings in. “So you have any plans today?”
“Me and Tyler are going to look for a woman, an old root-worker who may know something about Holly.”
“Cool.” LeighAnn sips her coffee. I flex my fingers, working out some of the soreness from bending them in strange ways.
The silence starts growing uncomfortable. I try to think of something to crack it. “So, where’d you learn to play music?”
“Muscle Shoals High Marching Band.”
I perk up and grin. “Seriously? Just the regular high school band?”
“Yeah. I played clarinet.”
“I figured it be something more rock ’n’ roll, like Tighty-Whitey and the Banana Hammocks.”
LeighAnn rolls her eyes. “Only Ultimate could come up with something like that. He’s so gross.”
“So how’d you go from clarinet to bass guitar?”
“Well, I was in the marching band, but I really wanted to be in jazz ensemble, right?” She straightens up, eager to tell the story. “But all the clarinet chairs were taken up by seniors, and they always got preference. So I borrowed a friend’s bass, holed up in my room for the summer, and taught myself to play.”
“Awesome. And now you’re a big rock star.”
“Whatever. I’m a bank teller with half a psychology degree.”
“Hey, I’ve see your flyers in the hall. You’re doing real shows and stuff.”
“You see the one that says ‘Stradivarius’?”
“Okay, but still, you’re doing something you love, right? And it’s something nobody else ever could. I mean, even if somebody else played the same song, it could never sound exactly like how you play it.” I’m remembering what your pa-paw told me.
“Yeah. I suppose.”
“No, it’s true. Before Holly died, I never really thought about how much dies with somebody. I mean, I’ll never hear Holly play again. Or how she laughed or anything. It’s hard … thinking about all the stuff that’s gone.”
LeighAnn nods but doesn’t say anything else. I think maybe I’ve gotten too personal. As the silence around us hardens again, she says, “You know, I heard Holly play. She was really good.”
“Really? When?”
“Tyler brought over a recording of her playing at your church. ‘Everybody Hurts,’ that R.E.M. song, and uh, ‘More to This Life.’ Seriously. She was great.”
“Thanks. That means a lot.” And it does. LeighAnn wouldn’t say it unless she meant it.
LeighAnn finishes getting dressed. Grabbing her makeup to put on in the car, she says, “Hey, be careful looking for that root-worker, okay?”
“I will.” I guess we’re friends now. At least in the sense that LeighAnn doesn’t wish me dead.
“And make sure Tyler’s back here by five thirty. We’ve got to practice for the show tomorrow.”
“Five thirty. We’ll be here.”
She throws the devil’s horn sign as she heads out the door. I try to play some more, but my hand has cramped up so bad I can’t. Instead, I kneel down and pray. I ask God to comfort my family, but I don’t really believe anymore that He’s listening. He’s pulled His hand away from us. He’s left us in the wilderness and won’t even say why.
These days, praying just makes me angrier. So I get back to my feet and go walk the dogs. We go all the way to Tennessee Street this time. Hobbit stops to sniff every tree and crack in the sidewalk. Cookie strains at his leash, always wanting to go faster.
Still waiting for Tyler to find a way to skip
school, I move the laundry from the washing machine to the dryer, straighten up the living room, and polish Steve’s drum kit until I can see myself in his cymbals.
When Tyler finally shows up, he has a bag of jelly doughnuts. They make me realize how hungry I am. While I scarf them down, Tyler says, “So, Brooke called me last night.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. She’s started a prayer circle for you. She’s really worried about you.”
I snort. “That’s just her way of gossiping without feeling bad about it.” Everybody in the youth group must know I ran away by now. I bet they’re just loving how I finally snapped. My face burns with embarrassment. I want to scream and yank Brooke’s stupid hair. But that won’t help you, Holly, so I grab Max’s guitar instead. “Come on, let’s go.”
Tyler asks, “You’re taking the guitar?”
“Yeah. You drive, I practice.” Just holding it makes me feel better, just knowing I can make the guitar shout for me.
Decatur is upriver from Florence, far away from the dam and lake. Tyler drives past cotton fields, troops of blackbirds watching us from power lines, and houses clinging to Highway 31 like dew on spider silk. I sit in the passenger seat and play “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
Despite the soreness in my fingers, my hand skims across the strings like a water strider. Holly, can you see? Even with a few buzzing notes, the little tune comes through. The string bites right into the blister on my ring finger and I wince, almost yelp. The song shivers to silence.
“Coming along.” Tyler nods. We cross a bridge into downtown Decatur. Swinging into the library parking lot, Tyler says, “Here we go. They must have a phone book.”
They loan us a phone book, but the only Peake is Peake Landscaping. When Tyler calls the number, a man with a Spanish accent tells him he bought the company from James Peake eleven years ago, and no, he doesn’t know where James is now.
Sighing, Tyler says, “Well, let’s look around. If she was as well-known as you say, maybe somebody remembers her.”
Downtown, restaurants and gift shops have moved into old brick warehouses and the train depot. A little bell chimes over the door when we walk into Sweetie Cakes Bakery. The air inside is cool and chocolate-scented.
A woman in an apron is laying out trays of cookies. “Hi. Can I help you?”
“Maybe.” I smile wide. “We’re looking for a woman named Mattie Peake.”
“Sorry, no Matties work here.”
I nod and keep smiling. “Right, but we think she lived around here once. Some people might have called her Auntie Peake.”
The woman shakes her head. “Sorry.”
“She was a, uh, root-worker.”
“A what, honey?”
“She mixed up medicines and, like, charms maybe.”
“I don’t know any root-workers. Y’all need to buy something or get on out.”
It’s the mark of a good Southern upbringing when a woman can make it clear she doesn’t like you and may call the cops while still keeping her voice as bright as birdsong. We thank her and leave.
We’re run out of Momma’s Kountry Kitchen and the Ooh-La-La Gift Shop just as quickly. The guy at Excalibur Vintage and Vinyl thinks we’re playing some joke on him. The man in the Chevron gas station lifts his eyes to the ceiling and scratches his chin. “Hmm … don’t think I know any Peakes. Sorry.”
“She was a root-worker,” Tyler says. “She knew how to make charms and medicines and things.”
The man scowls. “Sounds like some sorta witch.”
“Well, yeah. But she didn’t curse people or anything. She was good. She helped people when they were sick and stuff.”
“No such thing as a good witch. They all get their power from the devil, and their power is nothing but tricks. You kids might know that if you got your tails to church.”
“Okay. Sorry to bother you.” Tyler turns to leave, but I can’t.
“We go to church,” I say.
“Yeah?” He snorts. “Must not be a real church if you’re out looking for witches.”
“Come on, Jane.” Tyler plucks at my sleeve.
“We’re trying to help somebody. You don’t know—”
“All I need to know is the word of the Lord, little girl. ‘There shall not be found among you any who practice magic, call on evil spirits for aid, be a fortune-teller, or call forth the spirits of the dead.’”
“No! This isn’t—we’re not—we’re trying to help somebody.”
But the man shakes his head sadly and won’t look at me. Tyler has my wrist now. “Forget it, Jane. Jane, let’s go.”
We leave. The man’s voice chases us out the door. “It’s not too late. ‘Though your sins are like scarlet, they can be made white as snow.’”
Stepping back out under the sun’s hard glare, Tyler says, “Forget it. Don’t worry about it, okay?”
I’m too mad to say anything. Shaking my head, I just climb into the truck.
“Jane … come on.”
“I hate this, Tyler.”
“I know.”
“I hate not being able to go to church. I hate Brooke gossiping and who knows what everybody else thinks about me. I hate not knowing if this is right or not.” And I hate praying and feeling like no one’s listening, but I keep that part to myself.
“It’s right. We’re helping Holly, Jane. In your heart, you know it’s the right thing to do.”
“I don’t know anything! Everything’s messed up. Everything’s all wrong. I just want to go home.”
“We’re going to get you home.”
If I could just cry, I’d feel better. But all my sadness and frustration keep building up as heat in the back of my neck, an aching pulse right behind my eye, and I can’t let it go. It just keeps building and building so I can’t think, can’t even see straight.
I grab Max’s guitar. I push some of the frustration down my fingertips, down into G … D seven … G … G …
Tyler keeps talking. “Besides, we’re not trying to ‘call forth the spirits of the dead.’ We’re trying to put Holly’s spirit to rest. We’re just trying to put things right. And Mattie—”
“Ow! Errrgh!” My blister tears open on one of the guitar strings. I clench my hand to my chest, feeling oily fluid leak between my fingers. “Ow, ow, owww!”
“Blister pop?” Tyler grins.
“Oh, I can’t look. You have a Band-Aid in here?”
“No, no, can’t let it heal. You have to keep playing until it hardens into a callous.”
“I’m bleeding, Tyler. I can’t play, it hurts!”
“I know it hurts. Look.” He shows me his hand. Shiny, crescent-shaped scars crown each finger pad. “But if you stop practicing now, let it heal up, it’ll just blister and pop all over again. You have to keep playing. Let it hurt, let it bleed, let your fingers toughen up.”
I lift the guitar onto my thigh again. Touching the strings, I wince, then shake my hand and blow on it. “Guess the one on my ring finger is going to pop too?”
“Yep.”
I set my fingers back on the strings. G … D seven …
G … G … I won’t give up; I don’t care. Clenching my teeth, I let anger push me through the pain. My bloody-gummy fingers smear the strings black.
“Good, good. So, you want to call it a day?” Tyler asks.
I shake my head, still hunched over the guitar, still playing. “We’re here. We do this.” Each note stings like a fire-ant bite, but I won’t stop. Holly, do you see me? I don’t care how much it hurts, I don’t care what we have to do. I won’t stop until we’ve saved you.
Life is supposed to hurt. You’re not doing it right if it doesn’t hurt.
That thought keeps me going as we get back to it, asking about Mattie Peake, people thinking we’re crazy or going to Hell or both. Under every sour
stare, I squeeze my fingers into a fist, stroking my grimy blister like the pearl of great price. Blessed are the stubborn, for sooner or later, they shall inherit the earth.
It’s past lunchtime when Tyler yelps, “Penn’s!” and breaks away across the street. The restaurant sign reads
C. F. Penn’s Hamburgers in neon letters.
“Ever have a Penn’s burger?” Tyler asks after I catch up.
“Uh-uh. Are they good?”
“My dad took me here sometimes, back when he owned that apartment building out here. Come on, I’m buying.”
I follow his wide strides. “So are they good?”
“They’re … kind of an acquired taste, but come on. This place has been around forever, so we should ask them about Mattie Peake anyway.”
The door is propped open to let in a breeze, but the air inside still feels oily. A couple of flies wander across the patched vinyl booths. The waitress and cook both look skinny and scorched dark, like burned french fries.
We climb onto stools at the counter. The waitress smiles. “What can I get you?”
“Give us two double cheeseburgers with the works—”
“Uh, just a single for me.”
“Sure?” Tyler asks.
I nod.
“Okay. One double, one single. The works on both. And onion rings and Cokes.” Tyler swivels on his stool.
“Got it.” The waitress calls out our ticket to the cook. Taking three patties from an under-the-counter fridge, he drops them into the seething oil of the fryer.
“He’s deep fat frying our burgers?” I hiss to Tyler.
“Give it a try. You’ll like it.”
The “works” are mustard, tomato, and lettuce. The bun tastes buttery from the grease, and the whole thing sort of dissolves in my mouth and slithers down my throat. I take two bites, and I’m done. At least the Coke is cool and sweet.
The waitress heads for the door with a cigarette in her hand. As she passes by, I say, “Excuse me. We were wondering, do you know anybody named Mattie Peake?”
She twiddles the cigarette between her fingers. “Don’t think so. Sorry.”
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