Wisp of a Thing

15

“You’re not bad,” Rob said when she finished the song “See Rock City.”

“Did you expect me to be?” Bliss replied.

“Not at all. I heard you at the roadhouse, remember? So who taught you to play?”

“Mostly my grandfather. He started showing me things when I was about six or seven. Oh, do I remember them snappy black eyes glaring at me when I’d done something wrong or fell back a little bit. But eventually he slowed down and I sped up, and he taught me a lot. What about you?”

“Self-taught. Bought a DVD and sat in my bedroom learning chords and writing songs all through high school. Better than leaving the house and getting beat up.”

“And then you ended up on TV. How did that happen? Unless,” she added quickly, “you’d rather not talk about it.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I had a band. Three other guys, but they were… you know how some people are serious about what they do, but some people just do it because it’s easy and then quit when it turns into work? That was them. Not their fault, but I wanted more. Anyway, whenever I’d complain about how that show just made musicians look stupid and shallow, they’d say I should audition. They were kidding, but one day I was at the mall, the auditions were going on, and I just went in.”

“And you won.”

“Better for everybody if I hadn’t.” He paused. “So what was your first time like?”

“Excuse me?”

“The first time you ever played in public.”

“Oh. Well, let me see. I guess I was about ten years old. I was having a real hard time with the guitar Granddaddy wanted me to play, so Daddy bought me this thing, it was bigger than a ukulele, but smaller than a regular guitar. They called it a tiple; you ever heard of it?”

Rob nodded. Her accent grew stronger when she talked of her family.

“There was a big barn dance coming up,” Bliss continued, “and one of the men who organized it happened to come by the house one day and heard me singing and playing that tiple. He asked me to come down and told me, ‘You don’t have to play but one song.’ And I think I played fifteen songs before they let me off the stage.” She put her hands back on the guitar. “Now let’s play something else.”

As he settled onto the bench across the table from her, she began to play and waited for him to join in. He concentrated on following her melody, and at last he recognized it as an obscure country song called “Calico Plains.” When they finished, he said, “That was great.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “You’re the first person I’ve met who knows that song.”

“That’s not the Pam Tillis version, is it?”

“No, it’s Matraca Berg’s original, off Lying to the Moon. Bought the cassette at a flea market.”

“She’s great, isn’t she?”

“She’s the real deal. Except she says the name wrong on ‘Appalachian Rain.’ The tradition is that it’s ‘latch,’ like throw an ‘apple atcha,’ not ‘apple laycha.’”

“I’ve heard it that way more than the other.”

“That’s true. Maybe eventually that’s how we’ll say it, too. ‘Tradition’ doesn’t mean just passing down the old things, anyway. You also pass down a tradition of creativity, of being alive. Otherwise, it dies on its feet. So I guess if she needs to say it wrong to make the song work, it’s okay.”

“The one song of yours I’ve heard sure isn’t traditional. Sounds like you’re developing your own thing.”

“Oh, I just piddle around with stuff. No one wants anything genuine, anyway. They want the same thing they’ve always heard. Like that TV show of yours. No one cares what the songs are about, as long as the singer can hit the high notes. That sort of thing bores me.”

“The singer, not the song.”

“Who said that?”

“Exactly.”

She looked confused. “What?”

“Sorry, making a joke. Pete Townsend of the Who said that.” He chuckled. “I’m thirsty now.”

“There’s bottled water in the basket. And our food.”

He helped spread the cloth over the table, and they quickly set out her meal. When he bit into the first sandwich, the ham had a deep sugary taste different from any he’d had before. They talked about songs and musicians, and he told her stories of some of the odd people he’d met during his TV tenure.

When they finished eating, she picked up her guitar again. “Okay. This is my favorite Kate Campbell song. And it’s pretty easy to follow, too, so feel free to jump in.”

She began by playing the first verse without singing, so he could pick it up. He got most of it the first time through; as she said, the changes weren’t that complicated. Then she sang:

“This is the chorus,” she said.

“Wow, that’s great,” Rob said as they played the verse again without singing. “Great details.”

“She’s a master of that,” Bliss said. “Now here’s the second verse.”

Rob reached over the table and grabbed the neck of her guitar so hard, his knuckles turned white, silencing the music with a jarring ching! “Why the fuck did you pick this song?” he said, his voice choked.

The rage in his eyes caught her off guard, and she swallowed hard. “I just… we were listening to her in the truck.”

“Yeah, and that was just a fucking coincidence, too, I suppose?”

He got up and came around the table. She scooted away. “Rob, stop it. It’s just a song!”

“That was what he said to me!” he yelled.

“What who said?”

“The man backstage at the Fox! He told me the song I wanted was ‘on a hill, long forgotten, carved in stone’!”

“Rob, I swear, I don’t know anything about that! I just like the song, and—” And it’s been stuck in my head for days, she finished to herself. Now she knew why.

He put his guitar down hard on the table and stalked away, trying to get control of his temper. What the hell was going on?

“Rob?” Bliss asked. She had to be very careful now, to sense the right things to say. She was certain the winds had brought her here for this conversation, this moment.

“If you want to help me,” he snapped, “convince me this is a coincidence. Convince me there’s no connection between what the guy who told me about the Tufa said in Atlanta, and the fact that you drive me out into the middle of nowhere and then tell me the same thing.”

“I didn’t tell you anything, I just played a song,” she said.

“‘On a hill, long forgotten, carved in stone.’ Which is exactly where I found those verses.” He stared out across the valley. Either she was telling the truth, which seemed impossible, or she wasn’t, and he was the focus of an elaborate multi-state conspiracy designed to do… what? Make him read the epitaphs? Who the hell went to that kind of trouble?

He sighed and kicked at the ground. “All right, look, I’m sorry. This is all just a little much.”

She still kept a distance between them. “That’s some temper you’ve got.”

“Yeah. It gets away from me on occasion.” He felt the same hollow, shaky shivers that drove him into the stairwell that night in Atlanta. “I’m okay now. At least, I’m not going to punch anything. Or anyone.”

She moved closer. Suddenly she knew what to say. “I want to ask you something, and I really want you to think about the answer. Okay?”

He nodded.

She looked steadily into his eyes. “Why are you so angry?”

He snorted sarcastically. “Well, let’s see, my girlfriend died, and—”

“No. You were angry before that, and before we played ‘Wrought Iron Fences.’ That ‘whim’ story might fool some people, but a man like you doesn’t go up for that TV show unless he’s angry.” With certainty she said, “You auditioned to make someone eat their words. Who? The guys in your band?”

He shook his head and closed his eyes. “Anna. She was… disappointed with my career progress.”

“She wanted you to quit music?”

“No, she wanted me to reprioritize it. Make it a hobby.” He laughed at the inane cliché of it. “Get a real job.”

“So you thought if you made it on the show, it would prove you had talent.”

He nodded. His chest felt tight, and the back of his throat swelled.

She took his hand. They stood in silence, the wind rustling the trees around them. At last she said, “There’s nothing wrong with feeling regret over this.”

“Oh, it gets better. That surprise visit at the finals? It wasn’t a surprise. She wasn’t going to do it, but the producers were adamant she had to be there. I had to…” He wiped hot liquid from his cheeks. “I begged her to come. Pleaded. Promised her everything. And she came.”

For a long moment there was only the wind around them. At last Bliss said, “That’s a lot of pain to carry around.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I came all this way, why I need to find… that song.”

He couldn’t hold it back then. He began to cry, big gulping sobs bereft of dignity or solace.

Bliss put her arms around him and pulled him close. This pain was real. The night winds could be capricious, even enigmatic, but she’d never known them to be deliberately, truly cruel. Whatever the truth about that night in Atlanta, they’d blown this sad man to her because he needed her help.

She rested one strong, small hand up between his shoulder blades. “Some things a song can’t fix, Rob,” she said softly. And she moved her fingers, making a sign.

He pulled away enough to look into her eyes. She met his gaze expectantly, eyes clear and strong. He was torn between the desire to kiss her right there on the spot, and tenderly protect her from anyone who’d come near her with rough intent. He sensed, though, that neither reaction was quite the appropriate one. Still, he leaned closer.

Their lips almost met. Then he turned away and walked to the edge of the slope. After a few moments she came and stood beside him.

“You didn’t want to kiss me,” she said, not asking but simply stating.

He looked out at the valley, eyes squinted tight from tears and the sun’s glare. “Yes, I did. It just would’ve been the wrong thing, for the wrong reasons. But I do need your help.”

“So what can I do?”

“Help me find the rest of the song. Whether it’s magical or not, I need to do it. For myself, for Anna, and for—” He took a deep breath. “—for all the broken hearts in the world.”

“Okay,” she answered with certainty. The wind rustled the trees, and she knew what to do next. “But if I’m going to help you, there’s someplace else I have to take you.”

“Okay. When?”

“Now. Tonight.”

And before he could say another word, the sun dropped behind the mountains as if the cord holding it up had been cut. They were plunged into twilight.