Sour Notes, page 13
Something had caused him to drive off the road. Or someone. Then they’d stood in this spot and watched him die.
I dropped to my knees and let the tears flow.
24
As emotional as I was, I wasn’t ready to go back to the house and face my parents. Mom had always been able to read me, to know when I was upset. She would ask me what I’d learned from the sheriff, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell her about visiting the accident site. But I also wasn’t sure I could hide that in my current state. She had always been good at knowing when I was holding something back.
Instead, I turned around and headed back into town. Once there, though, I didn’t know where to go. Everywhere held memories. Few were good.
Xander’s store was out. When I’d left him, he was convinced I wasn’t going to focus on Dean’s wreck. He wasn’t as good as Mom at figuring out what I was up to—after all, he never realized Sarah and I were dating—but I thought I was too emotional to hide from even him at the moment.
Besides, it bugged me he could dismiss the sheriff’s concerns so easily. I didn’t want his judgment. I wanted his support. I had always accepted his eccentricities when we were young, but that bothered me too much right now.
Still, playing music was therapeutic. Other than Xander and Sarah, who certainly wouldn’t be interested, the only other person I could get a jam session going with was Harrison. He was also the one person who hadn’t known Dean or been part of my past in Millerton. Russ and Sarah may not have been wild about me talking to Harrison, but they hadn’t forbidden it. And he had suggested I bring my guitar today.
I found a parking space, slung my guitar over my shoulder, and headed down the trail. If he wasn’t in the meadow, then I could still play even if I was alone.
When I came around the last bend of the trail, the sounds of his music floated through the air. Relief flooded my body. I was surprised how much I was hoping he would be there. Like the day before, I crept up slowly. If he had an audience, I didn’t want to intrude.
But he was alone. Back against the tree. Notebook opened beside him. Strumming his guitar. Pausing now and then to scribble a note.
I knew it well—finding somewhere to write the music that floated in my head. Getting it out was like exorcising a demon. Until I got the notes down on paper, they would bounce around my brain until I went insane.
I waited at the edge of the clearing until he looked up. “Mad Maverick. Two days in a row. And with a guitar.”
I held it up by the neck. “Got it from the store that was our old rehearsal place.”
“The Wicked Centipedes. My mom’s told me all about the band.”
“Good times.”
He cocked his head. “Until you left. Mom told me that too. That you just vanished.”
“I couldn’t stay.” I waited for him to answer, but he just stared. Maybe this had been a mistake. “I just thought we could play together. If you want to.”
He leaned back against the tree and sighed. “If you answer a question.”
That threw me. He acted like he was doing me a favor, not the other way around. And I wasn’t so sure I wanted to be telling him things that weren’t his business. He was, after all, just a kid. “Maybe. What is it?”
“Did some guy in Alabama really pull a gun on you and you took it away?”
I grimaced at the story’s mythical status, told to some newspaper by a bandmate years ago and repeated by others. I had balked at telling Harrison the story a day earlier, but it seemed safe enough to just repeat what had already been printed. “Not really a big deal.”
He gently placed the guitar on the ground, put his hands behind his head, and got comfortable, like a kid wanting a bedtime story. “Sounds like it was. Tell me the story.”
“First, it was Mississippi, not Alabama.”
The band wasn’t much. We were never going big. The lead singer liked girls too much, shacking up with whoever said yes on any given night. The drummer had the same problem, except with guys. And the bass player loved cocaine.
They were too interested in pursuing their vices to practice much, so our music was uneven. What we lacked in talent, we made up for in volume.
Our concert schedule consisted of fraternity and sorority houses and lots of road bars, perfect for those three to chase their demons.
Me? I needed the money. My car had died, so their communal van was my only ride. And it was my bedroom on most nights while they were off doing their deeds.
We were at some hole-in-the-wall in Mississippi. The beer was cheap, the girls were loose, and the guys liked to fight. We got paid a cut of the door and bar receipts, so our job was to make it entertaining so people would hang out and drink.
Snake, our lead singer, had spotted his target for the night. She met all his stringent qualifications by being female and interested in him. That she was married didn’t bother him in the least. We had another town to be in the next night, so we would be long gone by the time any repercussions arose.
Or so we thought.
We were doing our last set. Loud and mostly in tune. The place was hopping, and this lady was dancing around on stage with Snake while he played and sang. He even had her harmonizing with him. Well, somewhat harmonizing. Her singing was bad enough that she could have been in the band.
About that time, a big dude came busting through the crowd. He was huge. Like six feet, six inches and two hundred fifty pounds. Linebacker big. And he was livid. His face was red. His eyes were bugging out of his head. And the muscles in his arms were quivering with anger.
People on the dance floor parted like he was Moses. Well, if Moses grabbed guys and tossed them to the side as he went. His big meaty hands were just slinging dudes, and none of them were fighting back. He was too big and too mean.
He shouted, “That’s my wife!”
We froze. Music stopped. The crowd fell silent. Everyone stared at this mountain of a man.
We could have gotten out of everything right then. I mean, she was just onstage dancing. It wasn’t like Snake had her in bed or anything. But then she threw her arms around Snake’s neck, planted a big sloppy kiss on his lips, and yelled, “Get lost, Bubba. This guy is twice the man you ever were.”
I swear steam rolled out of that man’s ears. He grabbed a table and slung it across the room, jumped up on stage, and whipped out a giant pistol. “He’s about to be twice as dead too.”
Now we could quibble that made little sense, but that was beside the point. This horse was pointing a massive gun right at poor Snake, who was frozen in fear, and squeezing the trigger.
I would have loved to be able to say I thought about what I was going to do next, but I didn’t. If I had, I wouldn’t have used my guitar. That thing was expensive, and I didn’t have enough money to replace it. But that was the only weapon I had, so I grabbed it by the neck like I was Hank Aaron swinging for the cheap seats and crashed it down across his shoulder.
My guitar snapped right in two. Fortunately, I hit him hard enough that the gun clattered to the floor. The bad news was I didn’t really hurt the guy, at least not enough to stop him. He grabbed his shoulder and focused his attention on me. I was defenseless, and my hands were now empty except for half of a broken guitar.
He took a swing at me, but I ducked under it, dove for the floor, and grabbed that pistol. I rolled across the floor, bounded to my feet, and pointed the barrel right between his eyes.
In a fair fight, he would have crushed me, but he couldn’t beat a bullet, and he knew it. I held him at gunpoint just like that until the cops got there and arrested him. As they hauled him away, the crowd cheered. Then we finished our set, packed up, and got out of that town before the big guy could make bail.
“Whatever happened to Snake?”
“Don’t know. I quit that band less than a week later. Got hired on by another group, a better one, and took off with them.”
“And you didn’t stay in touch?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Did you tell them you were leaving? Or did you just disappear on them?”
I tried to remember. I’d left a lot of bands over the years and couldn’t remember the details. “Maybe I said goodbye. I don’t know. It happens a lot in music.”
Harrison rubbed his chin. “It’s just weird you can do that so easy. Leave without saying goodbye. Never reaching out to old friends.”
“Guess it’s just an adult thing or something.”
He twirled the pen in his hand. “Sounds stupid. I’d never do that to my friends.”
“They weren’t exactly my friends.” He didn’t look like he thought that answer was any better, so I changed the subject the only way I knew how. “So, are we going to play now?”
He thought about it for a minute then picked up his guitar. We tuned and played.
25
The house grew quiet as the sun set over the mountains. After checking on Dad, Mom and I settled into the den to watch TV. She stretched across the couch, wrapped up in a blanket, and was soon purring softly. She needed her sleep, so I shut off the TV and went upstairs. Restlessly, I flipped through the scrapbook and poked at Dean’s trophies, but nothing held my interest.
With nothing else to do, I decided to sleep. When I reached to pull the covers down, I instinctively moved slowly, searching for any hidden creatures.
I had Dean to blame for this one, like most of my phobias. He was always fascinated by a wide range of critters. Spiders. Insects. Rodents. Rabbits. And yes, snakes. He’d married that with his other great hobby—tormenting me. In our yin and yang of everything, I was creeped out by all the same things he loved. That, of course, meant he’d surprised me with them as often as he could. I always worried I would find a creature in my drawers, notebook, or just dropped down the back of my shirt.
We were ten when he found the garter snake in the yard and smuggled it into the house. While I was in the bathroom we shared getting ready for bed, he snuck into my room and slipped it into my bed. After my shower, I returned dripping wet with only a towel wrapped around my waist and whipped the cover back. Suddenly exposed to the light, the snake slithered as fast as it could for safety in the shadows of my blankets. I dropped my towel, scrambled on top of my desk, and screamed.
I wasn’t proud of that.
Mom and Dad raced into the room to find me standing naked on the desk, shrieking my head off, and pointing wildly at an empty bed. Dean was doubled over in the hallway, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Mom wore a worried face, but Dad looked like he might join Dean in the hilarity.
When they finally got me calmed down enough to explain, not to mention get me dressed, they made Dean hunt the creature down and take it outside. Then they grounded him for a week, which didn’t really mean much. He still went to school, played sports, and worked around the farm, so that meant just being stuck in his room after dinner—across from me as he plotted his next chance to victimize me.
Besides, he was perpetually grounded.
After I finally felt safe enough to climb into bed and relax, I had overheard my parents talking downstairs. Dad had chuckled. “Boys will be boys.”
Sleep was impossible, but not just because of the fear of hidden, slithering creatures. It was just past nine o’clock at night, which was very early for me. Since I was accustomed to West Coast time, where it was only six o’clock, I could only stare at the ceiling. I got dressed, left Mom a note that I would be back, and took off for a ride. The narrow, two-lane roads were dangerous enough during the day, but they were pitch-black at night. No streetlights existed this far out of town, so only the moon and stars illuminated the way.
Until I pulled into the parking lot of Sammy’s Pub, I hadn’t really thought about where I was going. Except for grabbing a six-pack from a convenience store, getting a beer in Miller County meant going to the Mexican restaurant out by the interstate or Sammy’s, a Millerton institution for decades.
I had only peeked into the place as a teenager, though I knew Dean had snuck in a few times. They served sandwiches and burgers, so it wasn’t strictly a bar and wasn’t illegal for him to be there, but our parents had still forbidden it. Dean, though, enjoyed shooting pool and throwing darts, both of which he was good at, like everything else he tried. That night, I wasn’t after food or games, but a beer sounded good.
When I walked in the front door, I looked around at the sparse weekday crowd. Sammy III, the current owner and grandson of the founder, stood behind the bar with a towel thrown over his shoulder. I settled onto a stool and ordered a beer. The first sip tasted cold and smooth sliding down the back of my throat.
A game of pool broke up in the back. One player came toward the bar while someone else took his place. He held up an empty mug and swayed. Shivers went up my spine in recognition. Blake Torrence.
I tried to look down, but I wasn’t fast enough. Blake saw me and called out, “Freddie McDougal, is that really you?”
Trapped, I had little choice other than to nod. He stumbled around the bar and flopped down onto the stool beside me. Even in a bar, I could smell the alcohol coming off him. Sammy set a fresh mug on the bar in front of him. Blake looked at the bartender and gripped my shoulder. “You know who this is?”
When Sammy shook his head, Blake continued, “This is Dean McDougal’s little brother. You remember Deano, don’t ya?”
Sammy extended his hand and gripped mine in greeting. “How’s Skeeter doing?”
I looked down at my glass. “Not too good.”
“Sorry to hear that. He’s a good man.”
Blake kept his grip on my shoulder and shook me as he spoke, his words slurred. “They’re all good McDougal men. Skeeter. Deano. Little Mac. Put his beer on my tab, Sammy.”
“Oh yeah?” Sammy asked, his eyebrow raised. “You going to ever pay your tab?”
“Payday is coming up.”
“Yeah, well, if you have too many more of those, you’re going to miss work.” Sammy walked away then looked back at Blake. “And you ain’t driving tonight, so you better find a ride.”
Blake’s face turned red as he protested. “Come on, Sammy. I’ve only had a couple.” When all he got was a grunt from the bartender, Blake turned back to me and shrugged. “Usually I can find a ride. If not, I just sleep in my truck. Done it plenty.”
I didn’t know what to say to him, so we sat in silence, nursing our beers. Blake swayed on his stool but managed to stay upright. Finally, he blurted, “I miss Deano. Always figured we’d hang out forever. Him. Me. Russ.”
I could only agree. Not just to be polite but because it was true. The three of them seemed destined to go through life together. We managed to recount a few stories of their antics and laugh about them before the silence took over again. I turned to him. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” He slurred the word.
“I always thought Dean stayed that last night at your house because he was drunk.”
He shook his head vigorously, wobbling on the stool. “He wasn’t drunk.”
“I know that now.” I studied my beer. “Then why did he stay at your house? I thought he only did that when he was too drunk to come home.”
“No. He almost never got drunk. He had fun without it.” Blake’s head turned slowly, and his eyes tried to focus on me. “Back when we were in the tenth grade, we went drinking up at the point. We all got falling-down drunk. Your mom was furious at him. Russ’s parents grounded him for a month. After that, they were a lot more careful. Not saying they didn’t have a beer here or there, but that’s all.”
That made no sense. Dean had a reputation for liking parties. Unless I had that wrong too… “If he wasn’t drunk, then why’d he stay there?”
To my surprise, Blake’s eyes welled with tears. He looked away quickly and took a big gulp of beer. “They did it to protect me.”
“Protect you from…?” As the realization hit, I froze. “I’m sorry. I never realized.”
“I told everybody at school that I got the bruises fighting. I guess that was sort of the truth. But Deano and Russ figured it out.” His head drooped. His voice was so low I could barely hear him. “My old man was a good guy when he was sober…”
“But not when he was drinking,” I finished for him.
Blake gripped his mug, closed his eyes, and shook his head to chase away demons only he could see. He swallowed hard and continued in a shaking voice. “When they took me home, they’d check on him. If he was drunk, one of ’em would stay. He wouldn’t whale on me if they were around. And if he did, then he had to take us all on.”
“So your dad was drunk that night?”
“Yeah. I’d told him before the party that Russ’s dad had hired me on at the farm. Part of the pay was a trailer to live in. Dean and Russ were going to help me move out the next day after church. It made him real mad, and he sat up drinking and waiting on me to get home from that party.”
He sniffled and looked around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. He turned back and leaned toward me, close enough that our shoulders brushed, and spoke in an exaggerated whisper, “Don’t tell anyone, ’kay? My old man died years ago. Ain’t no reason to sully his name.”
I assured him his secret was safe with me and asked him when he finally moved.
“That day. As soon as I heard about Dean. Had to. Big Mac wasn’t there to protect me anymore. Not like I had much stuff, so I threw my clothes in a bag and called Russ to pick me up.”
“And you lived on the farm ever since?”
He nodded. “It’s great. Peaceful. Quiet. And I was never getting married anyway. Wasn’t going to have kids. I read guys treat their own kids the same way they were treated. Wasn’t going to put them through that. No way I’m gonna ever hit a kid.”
I turned and looked at him. Really looked. Probably for the first time in my life. “You wouldn’t have been the same way. You’re different from your dad.”
