Long Way Gone

by Charles Martin

“I’ll sing your song back to you.”

  I wrapped my arms around her, cradling her. Twenty years of tears dripped onto my chest. I pressed her head to my chest and whispered, “My father would have loved you.”

  34

  I looked at my watch. Daley’s concert started in less than an hour. When I tried to sit up, the world was spinning like a top. I wasn’t sure how much blood I’d lost in the river, but I had a feeling it was more than usual.

  “We’d better get you to the Falls.”

  “Forget the concert. I’m taking you to a hospital.”

  “Dee, I’ve been to a hospital. There’s nothing they can—”

  The reality was starting to take hold. “So you just live this way? Waiting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll wait with you.”

  “Not a good idea.”

  Her lips tightened. “You don’t scare me, Cooper O’Connor. And I’m not going anywhere.”

  I stood up. Wobbly but upright. The sound in my ears told me that while the storm had passed, I was simply standing in the eye. The other side was coming, and I wouldn’t escape it. I thought it best to create some distance between Daley and myself, but I wasn’t sure how to pull that off.

  “I haven’t been back to the Falls since the night I left. I’d like to see it.” That much was true. “And I’m feeling better. I think it’s passed for now.” While that was not.

  Daley wrapped her arms around me like we were dancing. “Let’s get you some dry clothes first.”

  The Falls was packed. Sold out. Mostly middle-aged couples. Lovers. Hand in hand. Daley’s team was frantic that she’d not shown up sooner. She walked me to the front row, where Big-Big was seated with Mary and several others from Riverview. She set me in a chair next to Mary. “If you get to feeling poorly, just wave and—”

  “I’ll do no such thing.”

  She put a hand on her hip. “How’s this going to work if you don’t ever do what I tell you to?”

  It struck me as she was standing there flirting with me that she seriously thought I’d improve with care. That I could get better. That there was hope. That we could grow old together.

  I would have loved spending my life loving her.

  I forced a smile, and Daley disappeared backstage. The space between Mary’s eyes narrowed and a wrinkle appeared when she turned to look at me. She placed a twitching palm on my cheek. “Cooper?”

  I was shivering. “Just caught a little something.”

  Big-Big looked down at me. Concern in his eyes. “You going to make it?”

  I nodded and wrapped my second Mellie tighter around me. “I’m good.”

  Half an hour passed as members of the choir appeared, but we had yet to see a single member of her band. I saw Daley talking with the guy who I guessed was her new producer. He couldn’t hide the worrisome look on his face. Daley listened, crossed her arms, and walked off slowly, nodding. Ten minutes later I saw them speaking again, and the look on her face had worsened.

  I stood, wobbled, gathered myself, and walked toward them. “What’s up?”

  “Storm in Denver. Socked in the Front Range. My band is sitting in a bus alongside the road. Can’t get out.”

  “You have no band?”

  Daley shook her head. “They’re canceling the show.”

  I glanced out across the amphitheater. “These folks may not like that.”

  She nodded and looked at me. Her McPherson stood upright in the rack on the stage.

  “We could go old-school,” I said.

  She ignored me and pressed her palm to my forehead. “You look pale.”

  “I’ll feel better once we get started.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  I turned to the producer and pointed at the McPherson. “Can you plug a wireless pickup into that?”

  He looked at Daley, wanting an explanation. She said, “He’s offering to fill in for the band.”

  “For the whole band?” He looked dubious. “And just who might you be?”

  Daley spoke for me. “This is Cooper O’Connor. He’s the songwriter.”

  He did not look impressed. “Which song did he write?”

  She looked at me. “All of them.”

  He studied me but spoke to Daley. “He doesn’t look well. Are you sure he can—”

  I answered for myself. “I need five minutes and”—I turned to Daley—“I want a favor.”

  She smiled. “Anything.”

  I told her what I wanted, slung her McPherson around my neck, and started walking toward the bathroom. I doubted it’d do any good, but once there I drank the remainder of a bottle of Pepto and shoved an entire roll of Tums into my mouth.

  Outside I heard audience applause, followed by Daley’s voice on the microphone. She said, “Folks, I have some bad news. My band is stuck in a snowstorm somewhere outside of Denver. My producer suggests we cancel the show.”

  The audience booed loudly and shouted disparaging remarks about the producer’s mother and what he should do to himself.

  Daley laughed. “I told him you’d say that.”

  The audience stopped booing, and a few started clapping and whistling.

  “So we’re going to do something a little different tonight.”

  Sensing all was not lost, the audience began clapping loudly.

  “If you guys can handle it, we’re going to do this entire concert with just a piano, a guitar, and our voices. That way if we really screw it up, you’ll be able to hear all the mistakes.”

  The audience laughed and applauded.

  Big-Big walked into the bathroom and found me with the empty Pepto bottle in one hand and Tums wrappers in the other. He raised a single eyebrow. “You know what you’re doing?”

  “No.” I threw everything in the trash and began washing the blood off my hands. When I finished, I faced him. “I need a favor.”

  “You need to be in bed.”

  I frowned. “You think it’d do any good?”

  “No, but it’d make me feel better. Like I wasn’t so helpless.”

  “If you want to help me . . .”

  Big-Big’s eyes began to water as I told him about the folder from the attorney and that I’d like him to make sure it was handled. Make sure Mary had everything she needed. Tell Frank who his boss was. Visit Jubal and his mom. Take him one of my guitars. And check on Daley from time to time.

  Lastly I said, “If what I think is about to happen, happens . . . don’t let Daley see.” I paused. “It won’t be pretty.”

  “And all those people out there?”

  “Just get me off the stage.”

  He looked away, shook his head in defeat, and then nodded. His voice was deep, gentle, and wound its way to my soul. “Cooper—”

  I turned. His face glowed an amber brown. “Sir?”

  “I been here afore.”

  I smiled. He had. “We had some good times here, didn’t we?”

  “We did. All three of us.” He wiped his face with a handkerchief and said, “I need to tell you something. Something I should’ve told you a long time ago.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope.

  “You had been gone three, maybe fo’ years. It was quiet ’round here. Your father had aged. Wasn’t preaching no mo’. We were sitting one night listening to the radio, sipping coffee like we always done. Then we heard a voice whisper into the microphone. The voice said, ‘Sing my song back to me.’ He knowed right away it was you. Never even finished his coffee. Drove to Nashville that night—”

  “My dad was in Nashville?”

  Big-Big continued, “He rented a motel room and tried to find you. He wuz gone a few weeks. I didn’t hear nothing from him. Then all of a sudden he drives up. Said you were touring around the world with some girl name Daley. He’d bought her record. We sat on the porch many a night listening to your guitar behind her voice. He smiled a lot that year. Then he heard you were back. Cutting a new record. He was so excited he wa
s about to bust. So I say, ‘Why don’t you go see him.’ That was all the encouragement he needs. He drives back down there. Gone a few weeks.

  “Then one morning I’m watching the national news and this beautiful face pops on the screen talking about you and a fire and how they’re not sure you’re going to pull through . . . Next thing I know your dad come driving up the road. He could barely lift hisself out of the truck. And I knowed it by the look on his face. He was bad sick. Limping. Coughing. He fell through the door. I done what I could. Slep’ on a cot in his room. Brought the doctors up. They tended to him best they could. He tried to hold on but he was in a bad way . . .”

  The pieces of my life’s puzzle were slowly coming into focus. “Big-Big?”

  He didn’t answer.

  I asked again, “What killed my dad?”

  He turned, hiding his face.

  “Big-Big, please.”

  “Complications.”

  “From what?”

  Big-Big turned his head and looked at me. “A fire.”

  “A fire?” The word was out of my mouth about the time the truth of it settled in my heart. I managed, “Big-Big?”

  He sucked through his teeth, cleared his throat, and kept talking. “He fought hard. Went up every day and soaked in the creek. Sat there ’til he turned blue. And he wuz getting better too, for a time, ’til the infection took to his lungs. I heard him sitting at his desk one morning. Hacking. All manner of stuff coming up. I knew it’d gotten worse and we needed to get him to a doctor.” Big-Big swallowed and pursed his lips.

  He spoke more softly, his voice muted by memory and pain. “On that day . . . he were in there, sitting at his desk like he do. Writing. But then he started to coughing. Tough time catching his breath. So he got up and came to me. Told me what he wanted. Asked for my word, so I gave it. He handed me a letter and then turned and walked up to the creek. I axe him if he want me to go with him and he just shake his head and smile, so I watch him go. He say he be back directly.”

  Big-Big turned the envelope in his hands. My father’s handwriting was unmistakable.

  “I heard him coughing as he walk up to the creek. Then he quit. Just went quiet. I thought I better go check on him. So I hurried up, but that hill is steep and I’m heavy and I had to stop to catch my breath. By the time I got there, it was too late. He gone. I searched all day. All night. Walked every inch of that creek. Found him two days later.” He pointed toward the Falls. “The current got aholt of him. Took him a lot father’n I thought. Washed him over. I found him resting with his hands folded across his stomach in that pool down yonder at the Falls.”

  I tried to speak, but no words came.

  He nodded knowingly. The tears puddling. “He asked me not to tell. Asked me for my word.”

  “But . . . how could you? All the tears. All the dying you’ve seen me do.”

  He didn’t look at me. “I told him that people should know the truth when it involves they heart. They love.” He leaned down and kissed me on the forehead and said, “Twenty years this has been acid in my gut. Eating me from the inside out.” He spat and forced a laugh. “But you know how he can be.”

  “Why now?”

  “He told me to give this to you only if—”

  “If what?”

  Large tears trickled down Big-Big’s face and fell off his chin. “If your heart was at stake. If knowing the truth might somehow make the difference between life with love . . . and life without.”

  Big-Big’s bottom lip was quivering. “You ain’t the only one been hurting these twenty years. Every time I see you, I see him. And every time I hear you sing . . .” Big-Big shook his head, blew his nose into a white handkerchief, refolded it, and placed it back in his pocket. “I never seen a father love a son the way he love you . . .”

  He suspended the letter in the air between us, his finger resting on something inside the envelope. “He looked for three days. Sunup to sundown. He found it in some rocks where the last few rays of sunlight were reflecting off the water . . .”

  When I opened the letter, my hands were shaking. It was dated the day he died.

  Dear Son,

  As I write this letter, I am not getting better. Some sort of infection in my lungs I can’t shake. Three rounds of antibiotics aren’t touching it. I’ve been working on this letter for a week, but every time I read it, it doesn’t say what my heart wants to say so I tear it up and start over. But time is short. Please allow your old man a few final words.

  I don’t know if you know this, but I came to Nashville. Wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. See your smile, hug your neck, hear your voice. Wanted to tell everyone I met that you’re my son. I tracked you down one night at dinner with Daley. You two were standing in a garden outside the restaurant waiting on a table. I’d never seen you so happy. So grown up. The smile on your face. The laughter in your voice. The tenderness in your touch.

  Then there was Daley. The way she looked at you, held your hand, locked her arms in yours and leaned into you, how she kept admiring the ring you gave her . . . Reminded me of your mother. Your mom was a real touchy-feely person. Her hands were like sonar pings or antennae. She liked to know where she was in relation to me. Said I was her anchor line. It’s easy to see you are that for Daley, and I think your mother would have loved her.

  I got close enough to overhear you two talking about cutting a record at your producer’s studio, fellow by the name of Sam something-

  or-other. I figured I’d let you two enjoy your dinner and we’d meet up another night. I wanted to do something nice before I left, so I paid for your dinner and asked the maître d’ to bring champagne and roses. I’m hopeful he did.

  It wasn’t tough to track down Sam’s house, so I waited until Friday night when I knew you’d be finished working. I was hoping to catch you alone. Give you and me a chance to talk. If you were still angry, I wanted to be able to leave quietly without causing a scene. I saw my chance when you disappeared into that building out back.

  Then I heard the explosion.

  When I got to you, you were covered in blood, your clothes were on fire, and you were pinned beneath one of the rafters. I didn’t think we were going to make it out. Only words coming out of your mouth were, “Dad, I’m so sorry . . .” That’s when I knew I should’ve come to Nashville long ago.

  Son, there’s nothing to forgive. Not one single thing. I forgave you the moment you drove out the drive. You can’t hit me hard enough to make me hate you. Truth is, I’m the one should be sorry.

  I know I can be overbearing and imposing. I know I cast a long shadow. If I made you feel like I was holding you under my thumb, holding you back from your dreams—I’m sorry. Really. Forgive me. That’s not my heart for you. Maybe my way of protecting you and pulling for you wasn’t the best way. Maybe I could’ve done better. Maybe I should’ve done things differently.

  If Big-Big has given you this letter, then something has happened in your life to cause him to think that what I’ve just told you, despite the pain of it, might help you in some way. You should know that I asked him to keep the knowledge of my sickness and cause of my death a secret. Made him give me his word. If this makes you angry, blame me. I was trying to protect you from thinking you were somehow responsible for me. You’re not. And before you start arguing with me, no power on earth could stop me from running through fire for you. Not now. Not ever.

  Now that you know, let me tell you what I’d have told you two at dinner that night. I know—I’ve always known—that what you have—the gift that is in you—is special. Unlike anything I’ve ever heard. Most of my favorite memories center around you playing and singing. Starting with the night of the storm. The sound that comes out of you is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. Something about it is not of this earth. And while music may take you from BV, the Falls is and always will be your musical home. I know it may be tough, but don’t let whatever you’re wrestling with keep you from that. Sometimes we have to sing thr
ough the scars. Sometimes a song is the only thing that heals the broken places in us. Only thing that breaks the chains on the heart. Jimmy taught me that after your mom died. Take care of him.

  If you have found yourself in a storm where the sky is black and lightning has set fire to the world around you, if you are afraid, hurting, or maybe your hope is sucked dry, then remember that fearless kid who emptied himself on the piano bench and . . . let it out. Don’t let the fear of what might be rob you of the promise of what can.

  I love you. Always have. No gone is too far gone.

  Love,

  Dad

  Taped to the bottom of the letter was my oak ring.

  35

  I could not believe Dad had found my ring. How long had he looked? Is that what Big-Big was talking about? Three days? Where did he find it? When I threw that thing off the stage, I threw it with some anger, and when it disappeared out into the night sky, I knew it was gone forever. I slid it on my finger now, and what I felt was not guilt, or shame, or hurt, or pain, but ownership. Identity. Belonging. Holding Dad’s letter in one hand and wearing the ring on the other, I felt something I’d not felt in a long, long time.

  I remembered that dinner. The candlelight. Laughter. It was one of our happiest moments, but I’d always thought Sam had sent the champagne and roses. I felt guilty for giving Sam credit for my father’s kindness.

  Daley walked up onto the stage beneath the spotlight. She was so comfortable before an audience. She wore faded blue jeans and a white button-down. Comfortable in her own skin. No pretension. Take me or leave me, but either way I’m here to give you the best I have.

  She’d hurt awhile, but she’d be okay. She was strong.

  She stepped up to the microphone. “I want to introduce you to the most talented singer-songwriter I know. He wrote every one of my songs that is any good. You might have heard him twenty years ago when I debuted at the Ryman. But to introduce him, I want to ask a man that knows him better than anyone. Mr. Ivory ‘Big-Big’ Johnson.”