I&#39ll Be There (30 page)

Clarence Border hated Las Vegas.

One of his many ironies was that he disliked criminals and he hated gamblers. He preferred to be around people who he could trust to do the right thing. Good citizens who didn’t lock their
back doors, and who never thought someone would climb in an open bathroom window, were his kind of people.

But in ten years of crisscrossing the country, Clarence had spent a few dozen nights in the city of neon light. Sam and Riddle had once gotten lost downtown. Riddle had fallen into a fountain.
And a few men had propositioned the handsome young kid that was then Sam, but he hadn’t understood what they even wanted.

Now inhaling the hot, dry air, Sam seemed to remember the smell of the place. And the sounds. He knew he’d been here before.

He just had no idea when and with whom.

Inside the Greyhound bus station, next to the counter that sold coffee and sandwiches, was a T-shirt display. Sam stared at the shirts:
Lost Wages
,
Sin City
,
Capitol of Second Chances
. He was looking for clues now, and small things were helping him piece his past together.

The woman selling the T-shirts smiled wide and asked if he wanted anything. Sam shook his head no and went out the main door into the forty-degree heat. He had fifty-one minutes before the first
bus pulled out for Mexico.

To Sam’s left was the Golden Gate Casino. The sign was eye-popping orange, even in the daylight. Three tall palm trees stood like tired guards flanking the entrance. A street performer,
newly arrived, opened up his guitar case and set it down on the sidewalk in a slice of hot shade in front of the casino.

Sam watched as the man pulled out his guitar and then found a few dollars in his pocket, along with a handful of coins, and tossed it all in the now-empty musical case. He then removed a folding
canvas tripod stool from his knapsack and took a seat.

Sam was riveted.

After a few moments, the man was strumming the guitar and singing. This was something Sam suddenly understood. Completely.

Two songs later, Sam cautiously approached. The man lifted his head, grateful for any recognition. Sam dug into his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. He put it into the open guitar case.
The man smiled, exposing a mouth of small, tobacco-stained teeth. ‘Thanks, man. Much appreciated.’

Sam stayed close, finally saying in a voice filled with apprehension, ‘Do you think . . .’

But he couldn’t finish the sentence. The man waited and then shot back, ‘Yeah? Go on . . .’

It was hot outside, and to Sam it seemed to be getting more difficult to breathe by the moment.

‘I think I play the guitar, but I’m not really sure . . .’

This made the man laugh. ‘I know the feeling.’

But the man looked at Sam and could see that he was completely serious. So he got to his feet and removed the guitar strap from around his neck and handed the instrument to Sam.

‘Go ahead. Play a few chords. You just paid for the right.’

Sam’s shoulder ached, but he turned his head to the side and put the strap around his back. While his left hand cradled the guitar neck, Sam shut his eyes.

And then he softly, tentatively, let his fingers touch the strings.

Sam had learned years before how to make his voice sound like a trumpet. And now, to his own surprise, he played the guitar and made those sounds, in essence becoming two instruments.

And he did it with such fluidity and confidence that people on the sidewalk, intent on getting out of the heat and into the casino, slowed their step. The kid could play.

When Sam’s strumming stopped, a handful of people threw money into the open case. Sam moved to hand the guitar back, but the man didn’t want it.

‘No way. You play. I’ll split the pot.’

The music, a language of its own, was bringing things into focus for Sam. He remembered Las Vegas now. He was here with his brother.

Sam’s eyes were instantly flooded with tears, and he had to lean against one of the palm trees, fearful that he might lose his balance. The street musician put his hand on his arm.
‘Play. You’ll feel better. Go on . . . Get it out, son.’

Sam did as he was told, comforted as his fingers slid up and down the neck of the guitar. He played, as he had in the past, to be transported from reality into another place. He didn’t
just make music. He became the music. And as he played, he remembered what mattered.

His brother. Riddle. Riddle. His little brother.

When he stopped, several hours later, the empty guitar case was filled with money. The sun had disappeared and the bright lights of the neon city chased away the dusk.

‘My name’s Hal. And you’re . . . ?’

Sam turned to look at the man. He opened his mouth and out came the words, ‘I’m Sam. Sam Smith.’

Hal nodded. ‘You are one helluva guitar player, son. So where are you from, Sam Smith?’

Sam was surprised to hear himself say, ‘Nowhere. Everywhere. We move a lot.’

Hal continued his query. ‘You come from a family of musicians, don’t you?’

Sam looked down at his fingers and at the guitar. A family. It was all he ever wanted. For him and for Riddle. Did he come from a family of musicians?

Hadn’t his life changed direction when he’d heard someone sing?

Emily walked home from school. She hadn’t done that in forever. When she came in the back door of the kitchen, she was surprised to see that her father was there making
dinner. He was home early. Tim Bell liked to cook spicy things. This afternoon he was making a big pot of chilli, loudly promoting the fact that it would make great leftovers, since he believed
that it was always the tastiest on the second day.

Her mom was gone. That was unexpected.

Something had come up with some relative, and she’d left town to help. Her father was vague. He didn’t say which relative. Or where she went.

Under ordinary circumstances, Emily would have asked a dozen follow-up questions until she’d gotten to the bottom of the situation.

But now Emily only said, ‘When’s she coming back?’

Tim Bell shrugged. But it was such a cheerful shrug. ‘We don’t know. But we’re hoping tomorrow. I know she wanted to see you and Bobby before you went to the prom.’

Emily tried not to make a face and silently nodded her head. Jared, who was sitting by the window carving a figure out of a bar of soap with a bottle opener, stared at her. ‘Are you going
to marry Bobby?’

Emily blurted out, ‘Good God,
no
! What’s wrong with you?!’

Her father, alarmed, looked up from the cheese grater.

Jared dropped the soap carving and sucked in his lower lip.

And Emily managed to say, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.’

Emily’s cheeks burned red as she walked out of the room. She felt terrible. But what do you do when the person you really need to get away from is yourself?

Sam played while Hal worked the sidewalk, forcing people to listen to the musical prodigy. The lights of the casinos lit up the never-dark Las Vegas sky, and finally Sam had
had enough.

Hal tried to split the money with him, but Sam refused. He’d gotten what he wanted from the hours of playing.

He had lost Riddle, but he’d remembered that there was a family named the Bells. And they had a daughter named Emily. And that was something that eased his heartache.

Playing the guitar, he had been transported. And this time it was back to some kind of understanding of who he was. Clarence had returned to his consciousness. Sam wasn’t sure; maybe he
had killed his father. But he knew his father had tried to kill him. Many times.

And he also knew that he’d lost his Riddle. That’s what he had been really blocking out of his mind. His little brother. He knew he’d never get over it.

Getting to the Bells was the only thing that mattered to him now. As he crossed the busy street back to the Greyhound station, his damaged shoulder was literally throbbing. He would need to
negotiate changing his ticket to Mexico to a fare heading to the Pacific Northwest. But now he had Hal at his side.

And Hal said he knew how to work people behind cash registers.

Debbie Bell didn’t arrive at the dusty little town in Utah until six in the morning.

She went to the Motel Six, checked in, called Tim to say that she’d made it, and was sound asleep eight minutes later.

She’d set the alarm to wake her in three hours, when she planned on going to find her boy.

He was prom king. Emily was his girlfriend. Sort of. She was at least his date for the prom, which was half the battle. And he had a plan.

First he would sit outside in the sun and get some colour on his face. Then he would go to the country club and lift leg weights. Afterward he would eat one of the club’s double-bacon
cheeseburgers. He then would get a haircut.

After that, he’d pick up a corsage for Emily. And then come home to relax. At exactly five o’clock, he’d start getting dressed.

Bobby pulled himself up out of bed, saying in a loud, booming voice, ‘I’m prom king of the world!’

Emily had never been able to sleep in late. And over the years, it was a problem. But things had changed. She now could close her eyes and roll over, only to wake up hours
later to find the afternoon light spilling all over her pillow.

But not today.

She stared at the clock. It was seven in the morning. And it was Saturday. This was crazy. It was the old Emily all over again.

But then suddenly she knew that wasn’t true. The old Emily was gone. She couldn’t get her back. But the new Emily knew a lot more than the old one. The new Emily was going to deal
with it. That’s what Sam would have done. He had never complained about the pain of his life. He had made that choice.

But today was prom day. It was possible that this was going to be the worst day of her life. And then she realised, no, she’d already lived that. A few times now.

She decided in that moment that she would have a regular Saturday. She was not going to have her nails done and not going to get a spray-on tan like half the girls in her class. She was not
going to go to a beauty salon at all. She was not going to buy new shoes or borrow someone’s fancy earrings or buy skimpy lacy underwear.

She wasn’t going to just eat celery and red Jell-O all day so that she’d have a flat, indented stomach, and she wasn’t going to panic and buy a box of whitening strips and try
to make her teeth look like the colour of a sheet of notebook paper.

She decided to start her day by taking the dog for a long walk. Then maybe she’d make pancakes for her little brother so he’d forget how she snapped at him the day before.
She’d send her mom a text telling her she hoped things were going well – wherever her mom was, since she still hadn’t gotten that story.

Emily would finish the book she was reading, and if her dad was working on one of his compositions, maybe she’d go down to the basement and listen for a while.

At the end of the day, she’d take a shower and wash her hair. She’d use the blow-dryer, even though it wasn’t environmentally cool, and then she’d put on her flea-market
dress and somehow get through prom night.

And once the day was over, once it was behind her, she made a promise to herself that she’d never think about it again.

It was mid-morning on prom day, and the weather was sunny and crisp as Bobby took a seat in his backyard on a lawn chair. He put on his sunglasses and closed his eyes. He was
relaxed. He let his mind wander.

When he looked down at his watch, an hour and twenty-five minutes had passed. He must have fallen asleep. He should have had coffee or a cookie or something. Bobby got to his feet and went into
his house. Now he was off his schedule, and he was pissed. And his face felt really hot.

Bobby lifted his glasses and looked at himself in the hallway mirror. He was red. He looked more closely and discovered that he had an outline from his sunglasses and he looked like a raccoon.
Or the opposite of a raccoon. He looked like he was wearing a white eye mask.

This was bad.

He didn’t realise that the sun was so strong and that he didn’t have, how do they call it, a base?

But he did know one thing, he now looked like a total loser.

Bobby Ellis was driving too fast with the radio on too loud. There were two choices. Wear sunglasses to the prom. Or fix the problem. And then he heard a voice from somewhere
say, ‘Pull your car over to the right.’

Bobby answered out loud, ‘What the hell . . . ?’

His eyes darted up to the rearview mirror and he saw a police car. Up the road, a second officer on a motorcycle was writing a ticket to a woman in an enormous cargo van.

It was some kind of speed trap.

Bobby slid his SUV to the kerb, and moments later a policeman had his face at the driver’s side window. ‘I’m going to need your registration and driver’s
license.’

Bobby looked the guy right in the eye. ‘I’m Bobby Ellis. I’m Derrick Ellis’s son. My mom’s Barb Ellis. Do you know my parents?’

Bobby hoped he was striking the right tone. He didn’t want to sound like he was threatening the officer; he just wanted to get the facts on the table. His parents mattered in this town.
The guy should know – right?

Wrong.

The officer edged down his sunglasses to get a better look at the tomato-red teenager. ‘And you’re telling me this about your parents because . . . ?’

Bobby wasn’t sure how to answer that question. So he didn’t answer the question.

The officer leaned closer. ‘Have you been drinking alcohol or smoking an illegal substance?’

Bobby felt his whole body tighten. When he answered, his voice was shrill. ‘
No!
’

The officer didn’t like the intensity of the response. ‘I’d like you to step out of your vehicle.’

Officer Duggan finished writing up the red-haired woman in the cargo van and went to assist Officer Gates, who was now standing on the kerb with Bobby Ellis. The red-haired
woman in the van, clearly rattled, then put her vehicle in reverse instead of drive, and with her foot hard on the gas, backed up right into Bobby Ellis’s SUV.