Sweet Thing (31 page)

One warm spring day I made the decision that it was time for closure. Jackson’s ashes were housed in a small redwood box that I’d had engraved with the words
Jackson: My Friend. The Best.
I took the box along with a small garden shovel to Tompkins Square Park, where I discreetly buried it under his favorite tree overlooking the children’s playground. I fell asleep under that tree, thinking back to the way Will treated Jackson, so loving and affectionate, the same way he was toward me. I had so carelessly rejected that warmth and love and I was learning the hard way what happens when you take the people who love you for granted.

After my nap, I was ready for the next step. I went to Kell’s and asked Martha if she could cover the café for the next couple of days.

“I’m taking Pops to Memphis,” I said, struggling to hold it together.

“He’ll love that.” When she began to cry, I wrapped my arms around her.

“I know. Thank you for helping me do this,” I whispered.

“Helping you do what?” she said, dumbfounded.

“Thank you for helping me mourn… live… find myself, and thank you for loving me.”

“Oh, sweetie, like your father, you’re easy to love.” I smiled at the idea of being like him.

“Thank you. I love you.”

Back at my apartment, I opened my father’s metal urn, relieved to find his ashes packed nicely in a velvet bag. It was going to make flying with Pops a lot easier. I packed light, bringing only a few necessities inside the hemp backpack Martha had given me.

I arrived in Memphis in the late afternoon. It started getting dark, so I took a cab straight to Beale Street. I walked to the end and stared out at the Mississippi until the sky darkened and I could no longer see the ripples in the water. It became a black void. The only light came from a tugboat slowly disappearing in the distance. I wondered what sort of magic that dark river had swallowed in its day.

Okay, Pops, time to find the music.

I turned and followed the poignant sound of a Southern blues guitar floating through the thick, spring air. The music lured me to a dive bar right off Beale. The poster read:

Tonight: The Legendary Tommy Ray Booker

When I got inside I looked up to the stage to find a man dressed in a bright red suit, complete with a red fedora and red harmony guitar. He was playing fast blues; everyone in the place was moving to the beat. When he lifted the guitar to his mouth and began plucking the strings with his teeth, the bar went crazy with applause. The saxist got on his knees, belting out the riffs while Tommy Ray continued shredding his vintage guitar. I felt alive, letting the pulse of the town, the patrons of that bar, and Tommy Ray Booker course through my veins.

My father would love it… Will would love it.

“We’re gonna take a little break. Be back in five,” Tommy said to the crowd.

I slowly made my way toward the stage. When it looked like the musicians were getting ready to go back on, I approached the drummer. He was a John-Goodman-looking character, an overweight and disheveled middle-aged man wearing faded jeans and a Hawaiian shirt.

“Excuse me.” I caught his attention right as he was about to climb the first step up to the stage.

“What can I do you for, poppet?”

I giggled at the nickname and then pointed to a very old upright piano sitting to one side of the drum kit. “Is she tuned?”

He appraised me for a long beat. Tommy came into my view at the top of the stairs. Without taking his eyes off me, the drummer said, “Hey Tommy, I think Poppet here wants to play.”

I looked up at Tommy and he smiled and then adjusted the feather in his bright red fedora before speaking. “You got the blues, baby?”

“Just the good kind,” I yelled up to him.

“Well let’s hear it, little girl.”

I climbed the steps and then looked out at the eager crowd. It was the first time I stood on a stage without feeling even slightly nervous. I had Pops with me and I didn’t know a single soul in that bar; it was freeing. That was what Will had talked about so much, playing music for the sake of the music. I turned the piano bench perpendicular and then set my backpack on the space behind me. Tommy started right away with a typical one, four, five blues chord progression; the rest of the musicians joined in, so I followed suit. I kept the tune going while Tommy and the sax player soloed. On the next round I looked back at the drummer and he winked; that was my cue
.
I played my heart out, fingers swirling and fluttering. I even played with my elbows. When I kicked my foot up on the high keys and played like Will had at the wedding, the bassist yelled out, “Get it, girl!” I knew it wasn’t the most ladylike thing to do, but man, the audience loved it.

When the song ended, Tommy went to the microphone. He stretched his arm out in my direction. “That’s our little girl, Poppet, over there on the ivories. Everybody give her a hand.” The crowd clapped and cheered and I smiled from ear to ear. I bowed and then grabbed my backpack and headed offstage. As I passed Tommy I quietly said, “Thank you.”

He gave me a one-armed hug around the shoulders and said, “Anytime. You did great.”

The neon lights from Beale Street glowed in my dark hotel room that night as I dozed off, feeling fulfilled for the first time in a long time.

The next day I found a street fair and browsed the artisan craft stands. I came across a young, homeless man. He had a hiking pack and sleep roll propped against a small folding table with several pieces of silver jewelry laid out. When I got closer I realized the bracelets and rings were all made from bent antique spoon stems.

“Where do you get all the spoons?” I sorted through the bracelets.

“Thrift stores, estate sales, stuff like that,” he said, smiling. He wasn’t bad-looking, but he was very dirty, which made his eyes seem like the brightest green color imaginable. I pulled my hotel key from my pocket and handed it to him. “I have to take off, but I have this room until one p.m. if you want to use it.”

“Really?” he said, eyebrows arched. I nodded. “Wow, thank you so much.”

“Sure.” My eyes were instantly drawn to a bracelet that had the same silver-plate pattern as the spoons from Kell’s. I picked it up. “This is beautiful. How much?”

He reached over and closed my hand around the bracelet. “It’s yours. I want you to have it.” Then he held up the hotel key. “Thank you again for this. I’m dying for a shower.”

I put the bracelet on and then looked up and said, “Thank you
.”

After the street fair I took Pops by Sun Studios, where it all started for Johnny Cash and Elvis. I had a passerby take a picture of me sitting on the bench outside, right in front of the big neon sign. I texted the picture to Jenny with the words
Me and Pops at Sun.

She texted me back,
Love you both. I’m proud of you, Mia.

My last stop was the Memphis Zoo. I spent hours roaming from exhibit to exhibit until it started sprinkling. I saw people hurriedly rushing toward the exit. Looking around at the almost-empty zoo, I said aloud, “To the butterflies!” Inside the enclosure I followed one white butterfly around for several minutes until I noticed a chrysalis. With my hand over my heart, I thought back to my father’s words.
It’s the change that happens in here that matters.
I cried thoroughly until I allowed myself to accept the finality of death and realize that my father’s love was his legacy and it was living on in me. I knew I was changing and that I was finally feeling like the person I wanted to be.

When I landed in New York I went straight to Central Park and decided to release some of my father’s ashes in Turtle Pond. Staring across to the opposite shoreline, I whispered, “Rest in peace, Pops… and thank you.” A cool breeze caressed the still water, forming faint ripples along the surface. I had closure.

I was grateful to my father for the invaluable gift he had given me with the café, my new friends, the music, and ultimately the freedom to be whoever I wanted to be. Kell’s was a remarkable place in that it allowed people to come together and just be, without judgment. I finally saw the value in that, so I decided I wanted the café to remain what my father had made it.

We continued holding poetry nights there; my piano playing became the usual opening act. I always hoped that Will would show up and treat us to one of his sweet prayers or amazing songs, but he never did. One Thursday night after I played some familiar tunes, I decided that it was time to share some of my own words with the crowd.

Everyone cheered when I cleared my throat and hesitantly removed a piece of paper from my pocket. I looked around and absorbed the faces of my eclectic little crew of friends that I had come to know as family. Martha was smiling with peace and reverence like she was channeling my father. Jenny and Tyler looked a little shocked at my newfound courage, but eventually they too smiled, rooting me on.

Sheil wore a look that said she believed in me and it reminded me of how Will and I had looked at each other when we played music together. It’s what faith looks like and I was glad at that moment to finally be able to recognize it. Some of the other members of the poetry group looked on with encouraging smiles. Many of them were essentially strangers, but they were willing to stand up and bare their souls for one visceral moment every Thursday night in the corner of our little café, and for that I owed them.

“Hi, everyone. First of all, I want to say thank you for coming here each week and giving a little piece of yourself through poetry. This is a really beautiful tradition my father started and I want it to continue for a long, long time. Taking the lead from an amazing person I know, I’ve written a little prayer for all of us—it’s actually more like my promise to you and the café. It’s my first crack at this poetry thing, so take it easy on me…

Share Your Coffee
Share your words
Share your music
Share your love, your passion, your fears
Your hopes, and your dreams
Share your precious heart
Share your wild mind
Share your special soul with me
and I promise to
give you all of mine.
Everyone clapped. I smiled shyly and high-fived a few people on my way back to the counter. Jenny looked like she was about to cry as she wrapped her arms around me. “Ahh, Mia, you’re coming along aren’t you?” she whispered. I folded up the paper and handed it to Tyler.

“Shot in the dark, but would you pass that on to Will for me?” He had sympathy in his eyes and I wondered if he thought it was a futile gesture. It didn’t matter to me how Will reacted to the poem. I was sure he had moved on, but I still wanted to give him those words.

Martha stayed with me to close up Kell’s that night. I took my time washing the old mugs my parents had made with love all those years ago. I ran my fingers over their engraved initials as I thought about the mystical alchemy they must have shared, however brief. Martha came over and hugged me around the shoulders. “Full circle, Mia Pia.”

I looked up and gave her a warm smile. “Love you, Martha.”

“Love you, too.”

“Thank you for everything. You can go, I got this.”

“Ok, see you tomorrow.” She stared at me for a minute before turning and leaving.

After she left, my mind wandered aimlessly as I scrubbed away at the dishes. I felt a sense of peace and satisfaction. I was finally able to own the mistakes I made and although I missed Will like crazy, I was happy at the idea of him being happy, playing his music in a dive somewhere, listening to sound of his soul. I hummed a mindless tune while I thought about the next piece of music I would write. What would become the next song in the soundtrack of my life was starting to take shape when the jingling of the café door startled me. I thought Martha would have locked up, but apparently she knew something I didn’t.

“We’re closed!” I yelled from the back as I quickly dried my hands on a towel. When I turned the corner I saw him, leaning against the inside of the doorway. He was wearing dark jeans, Converse, and a plain white T-shirt. He looked healthy and put together; he could have been wearing a paper bag for all I cared, but I was happy to see him looking so well. His head was down, his hands shoved deep in his pockets as he waited. I stood there silently, burning his image into my mind. When he finally looked up, he took a long cleansing breath while he slowly ran his hand through his hair. When he saw me smile, he grinned from ear to ear with that listening-to-God look. His eyes kissed mine; I sucked in a sharp breath at how his gaze made me feel. God, how I missed his handsome face, those soulful, deep eyes that could say everything with just a glance. He mesmerized me, the way he stared at me, the way his face changed when he saw that I was happy.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low but playful.

“Hey,” I breathed. Our eyes remained locked on each other as he walked toward me. I took a step back but opened my arms and leaned against the counter. He buried his face in my neck and pulled me into a hug. I threw my arms around him and whispered, “Never let me go.”

He tightened his grip as his mouth moved to my ear. “Never.”

“Where have you been?”

“Waiting for you.”

“I’ve been here. Why did you go away?”

“You needed to figure things out on your own. I was just waiting for you to come around.”

“God, I’ve missed you,” I said, my voice cracked and pained.