Outside In (25 page)

“Probably should pick up one of my own,” I say. “Name it after the philosopher?”

“Nah. When I used to play in a band, we had a contest every night who could spot the girl in the crowd with the biggest cans. Referred to her as Emerson, as in ’Em are some big …’” He cups his left pec and shakes it. “Decided to carry on the tradition with this guitar.”

I laugh. This is the most relaxed I’ve seen Caldwell. Not that he’s ever uptight. It’s just usually he’s so serious. I guess even Caldwell lets his hair down at home.

Patting the body of the guitar, he says, “Why don’t you just keep this one? I have two others.”

“That’s too generous.” I unzip the screen flap and enter. “At least let me give you some money.”

“Pay me by practicing.”

I nod in agreement, scanning the campsite. “Nice setup.”

“Gets me through the summer until I can live for free taking care of someone’s cottage for the winter.” He looks at the bruises on my face. “Healing pretty quickly.”

“Black, purple, yellow—one shade closer to normal. Why is it that a person always gets it when it’s not his fault?”

He strums a chord slowly. “Cause and effect are rarely directly related. Justice has a mind of her own.”

“With the way I’ve been living, I know I probably deserved it. Just not then, not from him.”

“When you look back over the past months, what’s the common destructive element?” He plucks each of the strings, listening carefully. “Remove that element.”

I sit in the chair next to him. “Is lesson one tuning the guitar?”

He drops the pick inside the guitar. “Lesson one is how to get the pick out when you drop it inside.” Holding the guitar horizontally in front of him he shakes it, working the pick to the center of the hole. “Maneuver it to where you can see it. Left hand loose on the neck and with the right hand flip it quickly.” Caldwell spins the guitar and the pick falls to the ground. “Got it? Your turn.” He grabs the pick and drops it into the guitar.

“Seems easy enough.” I take the guitar and mirror his actions, but nothing comes out. I try again. Same result.

“Turn with the wrist, not the arm.” He goes inside the camper and returns with another guitar. His long, bony fingers remove the pick woven between the strings and drop it inside the body. “Like this.” With a couple shakes and a spin, the pick falls to the ground.

I extend the guitar in front of me. With a flip of the wrist, the pick drops into the grass.

Caldwell picks it up and drops it back inside. “Again.”

This time I get it on the second try.

“Improving already,” he says. “First chord is a G.” He strums a perfect G. “Sixth string, third fret. Next string, second fret. First string, third fret.”

My hand is a clenched claw around the neck. My fingers struggle to bend in the proper directions.

Caldwell positions my fingers. “Apply pressure without tensing. Now strum.”

I strum awkwardly and the instrument emits a muted, off-key sound. Clumsy and stiff I try again, fumbling the pick into the body. “Fuck. Maybe this isn’t for me.”

“You’re giving up that easy?”

I get the pick out on the first try. “No. It’s just maybe I’m not meant to do this. You make it look so easy.”

“Let me assure you, nothing comes easy to me. It’s all perseverance.” He strums a G. “Do you want to learn?”

I contort my fingers to reach the strings. “Absolutely.”

“Then you’re meant to play.” He holds the G and strums a rhythmic pattern with his right hand. “Down-up, down-up, up, down-up.”

With my left fingers across the neck, my strum hand jerks across the strings. The low G note rings, but the rest is muted and off-key. “At least I got one string right.”

“You can’t bullshit a guitar. You only get better by playing it.”

I pluck each string separately. Five of the six sound. “Practicing won’t be a problem. Got plenty of time now.”

Caldwell adjusts my finger on the bottom-most string. “What’s changed?”

“Me. Just done partying. Time to end my vacation from reality.”

“People go home after vacations.”

“This is my home.”

“Then you’re not on vacation,” he says.

Another sleepless night. Only this time not from withdrawal. I can’t stop thinking about Astrid. Why did I blow it with her? It’s not like I don’t care about her. She is beautiful, smart, fun, and doesn’t take my shit. What am I so afraid of? I need to talk to her. I need to work this out.

Resolving to reach out to Astrid releases me for a few hours of sleep. As with most mornings lately, I am the first one up and out the door, quick and quiet. I take Emerson over to the monument and sit on the seawall to practice.

All the strings now ring on the G chord, and I am able to keep a slow rhythm with my right hand. The waves splashing against the wall offer percussion. The circling seagulls provide the vocals. I think of the many bands I have seen this summer. I have so far
to go before I can reach that level. Maybe I am starting too late in life. Maybe I should devote this energy to solving real problems rather than starting something new. Don’t think. Just play. The brain always gets in the way.

At work I gaze through the park from my usual perch at the entrance. The same show still goes on, but I am no longer a part of the production. I have stepped off the stage and into the audience.

The familiar picture before me is like an abstract painting. The azure sky melts into the leafy trees and back to the blue of the lake before dripping into the lush grass. A couple strolls hand in hand toward the docks. The movement is the only way I know that time is still ticking.

A child kicks a ball and chases it through the park. My eyes follow him down the diagonal sidewalk toward the Jet Express. He passes a lady wearing a red visor that matches her shorts and shoes, just like my mom would wear. Not only must her belt always match her shoes, but her shorts and hat must as well, and her shirt and socks are always color-coded, too. She thinks it looks good because people comment on her outfits. I tell her that’s not necessarily a good thing and that she looks like a candy cane.

I still feel bad from the way we left things my last night in St. Louis. Other than the postcard I sent after first arriving, I haven’t had any contact. I must be feeling guilty now because the guy walking next to the lady, his head buried in a map, reminds me of my dad. I’ve seen him bump into people, benches, and garbage cans; walk into traffic; and even pass right by his destination because he never looks around. He always follows the map, only lifting his head when the directions indicate that a landmark or the destination should be near.

At least I know where I get it from. That’s exactly what I do with my life. I always want a map to navigate the chaos.

The glaring resemblances become specific as the two tread through the park. With each step in my direction, I creep backward until I am inside the Round House watching through the window.

The woman follows a few steps behind the man, who still hasn’t looked up from the map. He stops at the sidewalk on the other side of the street and raises his head, finally speaking to her. My skin goes cold.

Cinch walks over. “You don’t look so good. Maybe you came back too soon.”

“My parents just showed up.” The words sound foreign coming out of my life. How could they just show up unannounced? I stagger backward. “Can you take the front? I need to get out of here.”

His face goes blank. “What do you expect me to do?”

“You’ll think of something.” I rush toward the side door. What the fuck am I going to do?

In the red barn I rummage through the unopened mail on my dresser, stopping on a card in a pink envelope with no return address, but with a St. Louis postmark. My mom never puts her address on any card she sends. She thinks it makes opening the card a surprise, like unwrapping a present. There’s no point in opening this one. The knock on the door tells me what’s inside.

My dad’s voice bellows. “Baaaah! Where’s my shepherd?” When I was a kid, he always bleated to get my attention. Now he only does it when he feels uncomfortable.

“It’s open.” I follow my voice to the living room. “Nice surprise. You could’ve called.”

“We would have, if you had a phone.” My mother’s not with him. His eyes fixate on my bruises. “Occupational hazard?”

“Something like that,” I say, not ready to let up the attack yet. What the hell am I going to do with them for the next few days?

“Your mother sent a card, which you obviously didn’t open. We were worried. You just dropped off the face of the earth.”

“It’s more like you were pissed,” I say. “Mom made this about her like she does everything. She probably got tired of not being able to answer her friends when they asked what I was doing or when I was coming home, so she concocted this surprise attack to get back at me. You went along with it so she wouldn’t turn her wrath on you.”

He looks around the room and nods toward the bong. “Judging from this place and from the looks of you, we should’ve come sooner. It’s a good thing your mom went to the hotel first.”

“Whatever. Let’s go get this over with. We can pretend like everything is okay, just like we have been for years.”

My dad must’ve warned my mom about my face at the hotel, because when they meet me in the Round House, her first words are, “It’s not that bad.”

My dad says, “From what I hear, you should see the other guy.”

Cinch brings over a full bucket. “If I would’ve known VIPs were coming, I would’ve given Brad the night off. Maybe Robin can fill in.”

“He’s off the island,” I say. I’m not even sure if it’s true, but I’m more than happy to stay at work. I turn to my mom. “You’re probably tired from the trip anyway, right?”

She says, “We’ll just stay here. Looks like we have our work
cut out for us with this bucket. Good thing our hotel is right next door.”

As the level of liquid in the bucket drops, the tension dissipates.
Sorry
is never spoken, but it’s exchanged in extended glances throughout the night. At first my mom diverts her eyes when I catch her staring at me. But eventually our eye contact lengthens and we both let go of our anger and hurt. Maybe their coming is a good thing.

After a round of shots during the band break, my mom says, “You’ll have to teach me how to make those purtle hoopers. They sure will liven up our next barbecue.”