The Drowned Forest (9 page)

Remember all those afternoons I sat around and watched you practice, Holly? I thought we were just wasting time. If I was ever impatient with you, I’m sorry. Now? I’d give anything for one more hour, watching you pull music out of your pa-paw’s rumbling old guitar.

The song they try next is called “Cheers.” I sit on the couch beside Britney while Max pulls out a notebook with all his songs in it. The front is covered with pictures of angels drawn in ballpoint pen. He shows the chords to Tyler. When Tyler’s ready, Steve marks time on his snare, and the others fall in. Just as Max opens his mouth to sing, though, Tyler hits the wrong chord. He corrects himself, but now he’s off-time, tripping everybody else up.

“Sorry,” he murmurs in the sudden quiet.

“No problem,” Max says. “Just remember you have to drop to D after the intro.”

Tyler nods. “I know, I just … sorry.”

“No problem.” Max points to Steve, and they start again.

Then again.

Max takes Tyler’s guitar from him and shows him the piece really slowly, then in the correct time, then they start again.

Then again. Under Tyler’s fingers, the song flutters around with one broken wing.

“Tyler, come on, man.” Peeling off his shirt, Steve mops his face with it. Everybody’s tired. Everybody’s hot. With the amps turned on—and the carpeted walls adding an extra layer of insulation—the heat sucks on us like candy.

“Sorr—”

“Stop.” Max cuts him off, annoyed and trying not to show it. “Don’t apologize. Just … it’s back to A for the bridge.”

“I know!”

“If you know, then do it!” Max yells.

“All right, everybody take five,” LeighAnn says, pulling her guitar strap over her head.

“No. I want to get this,” Tyler says.

“No,” LeighAnn answered. “Take five, go get some water or something.”

Tyler sets down his guitar without a word. I try to catch his eye, but he avoids my gaze and walks into the kitchen. I follow him and watch him fill a glass with tap water. I’m not sure what to say, but I know I have to say something.

“I’m having fun listening to you guys practice.”

Tyler snorts. “You didn’t hear me keep screwing up?”

“You got the first songs, no problem.” I shrug.

“Those are easy, three and four easy chords. ‘Cheers,’ it’s got an F barre chord, a bent note right before dropping into A. Then—”

I wave my hands and shake my head. “I don’t know anything about that, about bent bars or anything. I just
know that I used to spend a lot of time listening to Holly
practice, and, um, I’ve missed it. I didn’t really even know how bad I missed it until tonight. So, you know, whatever happens with this one song or with you playing with Stratofortress, I’ve had fun tonight.”

He gives me a fake rock-star grin and shoots a finger-gun at me. “Always looking out for the fans.”

“Stop.” I laugh and push his hand away. “And just, um, I was sort of a B-word yesterday, when I got mad at you for wanting to come by here. But I’m really glad Steve called you after Holly died. And I’m really glad they kept you playing music. They’re pretty good friends.”

Tyler wraps an arm around my middle and heaves me off my feet, squeezing me against his bulk in a one-armed bear hug.

“Ack! You’re all sweaty! Let go, let go!”

Complaining only makes him plant a fat kiss on my cheek before dropping me back down and heading into the living room. At least he seems more confident as he slips his guitar back over his head. Steve counts them off again. The song rises and collapses again. Rise and collapse. Rise and collapse. Rise and … rise! Notes scuttle up the walls like blue-tailed skinks. Britney squeezes my hand. Her feet drum to the beat. My heart thumps to it.

The song falls apart, but we’ve seen how good it can be. “Yay, guys!” Britney cheers. “You’re so close!” Everybody’s hungry for it now, despite the sludgy heat.

Steve launches into the now-familiar intro. Rise and collapse. Rise and … rise … and rise … Holly, they’ve got it!

Frog-slick with sweat, Max sings and bobs to the sound; he knows they’ve got it this time. Tyler bounces along the rhythm Max lays down, pushing and pulling against it. I’m dancing with Britney. We have to dance or we’ll explode.

The last chord shivers to silence, then everybody shrieks, wild and wordless. We rush Tyler. Britney kisses him, and I hug his neck. The three members of Stratofortress lean together for a few seconds, then straighten up. Max says, “All right Tyler, we need a rhythm guitar for Thursday, and you need somewhere for your girlfriend to stay.”

“Girlfriend? No, Jane’s not my—”

“I’m not his girlfriend.”

Max rolls his eyes. “Whatever. But if you want us to help you, you’ve got to help us. So either you’re in the band, or we sell her to a Saudi prince’s pleasure dome.”

I blush pink, but Tyler just snickers. “Fine, fine. I’ll play.”

There are fist-bumps all around. LeighAnn leaves to get more beer. Everybody’s exhausted—even me and Britney somehow. I step out onto the back patio for some fresh air. The summer night feels like temptation itself. The air is as hot as tangled sheets. It smells like magnolia and honeysuckle, like sweet boys just vanished into the dark. Stratofortress’s song is still rattling around behind my breastbone. Even in the quiet, I can feel its rhythm in there, in place of my busted-watch heart. By the time Tyler comes out and sits down beside me, the song has almost faded away. But I’m still smiling, really smiling for the first time in a month.

“Thanks,” he says. “For that pep talk back there.”

I shrug, twisting my bare toes into the cool dust. “Didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

“So tomorrow, want to go look for this Mattie Peake? I mean, Decatur isn’t that big a town. We might get lucky and find somebody who knows her.”

“Sure.” I nod, not bothering to mention that it’s still a Hail Mary play.

“And listen. I’ve got some money saved up. Why don’t you take it.” Opening his wallet, Tyler pulls out several twenties.

“No. Thanks, but I’m okay.”

He persists. “It’s not a big deal. It’s money my grandmother sent me for my birthday.”

“No. I don’t need it.” I push his hand away. I could use the money, but I’m embarrassed to take it.

“Jane. We’re in this together. Whatever I can do to help you, I’m going to do it.”

“Then … ” My hand is still on top of his. His skin is like soft leather, but the muscles underneath are as hard as steel cable. I trace the callouses at the tips of Tyler’s fingers. I want him to help me be happy again, Holly, even if it’s just a few minutes at a time. I want to feel my heart beating again. “Then teach me to play guitar.”

“S-Seriously?”

“Yeah. Will you teach me?”

“Like right now?”

“Right now.”

He shrugs and puts the money away, saying, “Sure. You got it.”

Thirteen

“Can we take this stuff outside? It’s like a furnace in here.”

“Sure, just unplug that amp. Be careful, it’s heavy.”

Isn’t it kinda weird if you think about it, Holly? All those years hanging out with you, and I never learned to play music.

I goofed around with your guitar sometimes, but I never had any time to really learn how to play. There was always too much other stuff to do—church projects, youth group stuff, looking after my brothers and Faye. Besides, I had you. You knew all the songs I could ever want—the rejoicing ones, the gentle ones, the ones pulpy and wet with raw life.

I lug the amp out of the living room. Behind me, Tyler is winding cords around his arm. Max appears in the archway. “Um, you guys robbing us?”

“Jane wants to learn to play.”

“Seriously?” Leaning out the window, Max shouts down the street. “LeighAnn! Jane wants to play guitar!”

“Really?” She starts jogging up the block with a six-pack of beer in each hand. “Give me a second. Don’t let her start yet.”

Suddenly, I’m plagued by experts.

“Here, cinch this up; your arms are shorter than Tyler’s.” Max tightens the guitar strap while Tyler worries with the
little knobs. The light on the back patio has burned out, so
there’s just a string of old Halloween lights to see by—cheap plastic skulls grin down at us.

When Ultimate Steve plugs the amp in, the guitar comes alive, humming, trembling gently against my stomach. I jerk my hand away from the strings, and LeighAnn laughs at me. “Relax, it won’t bite.” She sits in the grass, leaning back on one elbow, beer in the other hand.

Unwinding my grimy bandage, I flex my sweat-soft fingers. “Okay, what should I learn first?”

“Freebird! Whoo!” Britney shouts.

“‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ is kinda the universal first song,” LeighAnn says.

“‘Mary Had a … ’” I roll my eyes, “Come on, that’s lame. Even I know that’s lame.”

Max balks. “Have you ever heard Stevie Ray Vaughn’s version of ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’? It’s baller. It’s so baller, it’s banned in, like, sixteen countries.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Right hand to God. Banned in all those Islamic c
ountries ’cause women kept ripping off their burkas and going nuts.” As Max talks, he presses a thin black pick into my hand and bends my fingers to the frets. It makes me wince; my hand and arm are still covered in scabs from where you grabbed me. “Okay, just strum all the strings, and that’s a G chord,” Tyler says.

I strum the strings. Notes fall thick and flat or buzz strangely. Everybody groans. “What was that? Come on.” The experts swarm again.

“Don’t go straight down with the pick. And stiffen your wrist up.”

“Here. Don’t let your fingertips touch the other strings; that’s where that buzzing came from.”

“Don’t grab the neck like a baseball bat. You want to almost be cupping it in the palm of your hand.”

“Yeah, hold it like a little baby bunny.”

“Okay, okay. Let me try.” Maybe this was a bad idea, but I shoo them back for a second try. Biting my bottom lip, I squeeze the strings against the frets and strum.

The chord comes like bottled thunder, knocking the wind out of me. It startles Hobbit and Cookie. They begin to bark frantically. Stratofortress cheers, and by the time Hobbit and Cookie calm down, other dogs in other yards have picked up their panic, filling the neighborhood with howls. The racket spreads across the night like ripples across water.

Everyone hoots and laughs. I clap my hands over my mouth as hiccupy giggles bubble up. I’d forgotten how much fun it was to be so loud.

Fourteen

G … D seven … G … G … D seven …
Max’s acoustic guitar in my lap, bare feet tucked under me, I work through the chords for “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

I woke up before dawn, Holly, and my head immediately filled with worries about you, worries about my family. I knew I wouldn’t get back to sleep without my Tenex, so I decided to practice instead.

G … D seven … G … G … D seven …

Max and Ultimate Steve wake up and leave for work. In the master bedroom, LeighAnn’s alarm clock goes off. I hear her cuss and slap the snooze button.

G … D seven … G … G … D seven …

Alarm. Cuss. Slap.

G … D seven … G … G … D seven …

Alarm. Cuss. Slap.

G … D seven … G … G … D seven …

Alarm. Cuss. Something smacks against the wall. A few minutes later, I hear the shower running.

G … D seven … G … G … D seven …

LeighAnn shuffles down the hall, mostly dressed, no makeup. I look up and smile. “Good morning.”

“You still here?”

“I made coffee.”

LeighAnn nods and disappears into the kitchen.

G … D seven … G … G … D seven …

LeighAnn reappears with a coffee cup. She’s shaking her head. “You’re hitting that G wrong. You have to arch your middle finger more.” Still bleary eyed from not enough sleep, she yanks my finger into position. “There. Now press down as hard as you can.”

I press down past the point where the steel string hurts my fingertip.
G … D seven … G … G … D seven …

“Better, better, but look, put your fingers here and here.”

“Ow! Stop!” I jerk away. “Fingers don’t bend like that.”

“Sure they do.” Pressing her left fingertips against her right palm, she bends them so far back it makes me a little queasy. “Just have to stretch the ligaments more.”

“But it hurts.”

“Supposed to hurt at first. You’re not doing it right if it doesn’t hurt.”

“It hurts up in my biceps. How is that even possible?”
Shaking cramps out of my fingers, I try again.

“Good. There you go.” She starts putting her earrings in. “So you have any plans today?”

“Me and Tyler are going to look for a woman, an old root-worker who may know something about Holly.”

“Cool.” LeighAnn sips her coffee. I flex my fingers, working out some of the soreness from bending them in strange ways.

The silence starts growing uncomfortable. I try to think of something to crack it. “So, where’d you learn to play music?”

“Muscle Shoals High Marching Band.”

I perk up and grin. “Seriously? Just the regular high school band?”

“Yeah. I played clarinet.”

“I figured it be something more rock ’n’ roll, like Tighty-Whitey and the Banana Hammocks.”

LeighAnn rolls her eyes. “Only Ultimate could come up with something like that. He’s so gross.”

“So how’d you go from clarinet to bass guitar?”

“Well, I was in the marching band, but I really wanted to be in jazz ensemble, right?” She straightens up, eager to tell the story. “But all the clarinet chairs were taken up by seniors, and they always got preference. So I borrowed a friend’s bass, holed up in my room for the summer, and taught myself to play.”

“Awesome. And now you’re a big rock star.”

“Whatever. I’m a bank teller with half a psychology degree.”

“Hey, I’ve see your flyers in the hall. You’re doing real shows and stuff.”

“You see the one that says ‘Stradivarius’?”

“Okay, but still, you’re doing something you love, right? And it’s something nobody else ever could. I mean, even if somebody else played the same song, it could never sound exactly like how you play it.” I’m remembering what your pa-paw told me.

“Yeah. I suppose.”

“No, it’s true. Before Holly died, I never really thought about how much dies with somebody. I mean, I’ll never hear Holly play again. Or how she laughed or anything. It’s hard … thinking about all the stuff that’s gone.”

LeighAnn nods but doesn’t say anything else. I think maybe I’ve gotten too personal. As the silence around us hardens again, she says, “You know, I heard Holly play. She was really good.”

“Really? When?”

“Tyler brought over a recording of her playing at your church. ‘Everybody Hurts,’ that R.E.M. song, and uh, ‘More to This Life.’ Seriously. She was great.”

“Thanks. That means a lot.” And it does. LeighAnn wouldn’t say it unless she meant it.

LeighAnn finishes getting dressed. Grabbing her makeup to put on in the car, she says, “Hey, be careful looking for that root-worker, okay?”

“I will.” I guess we’re friends now. At least in the sense that LeighAnn doesn’t wish me dead.

“And make sure Tyler’s back here by five thirty. We’ve got to practice for the show tomorrow.”

“Five thirty. We’ll be here.”

She throws the devil’s horn sign as
she heads out the door. I try to play some more, but my hand has cramped up so bad I can’t. Instead, I kneel down and pray. I ask God to comfort my family, but I don’t really believe anymore that He’s listening. He’s pulled His hand away from us. He’s left us in the wilderness and won’t even say why.

These days, praying just makes me angrier. So I get back to my feet and go walk the dogs. We go all the way to Tennessee Street this time. Hobbit stops to sniff every tree and crack in the sidewalk. Cookie strains at his leash, always wanting to go faster.

Still waiting for Tyler to find a way to skip school, I move the laundry from the washing machine to the dryer, straighten up the living room, and polish Steve’s drum kit until I can see myself in his cymbals.

When Tyler finally shows up, he has a bag of jelly doughnuts. They make me realize how hungry I am. While I scarf them down, Tyler says, “So, Brooke called me last night.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She’s started a prayer circle for you. She’s really worried about you.”

I snort. “That’s just her way of gossiping without feeling bad about it.” Everybody in the youth group must know I ran away by now. I bet they’re just loving how I finally snapped. My face burns with embarrassment. I want to scream and yank Brooke’s stupid hair. But that won’t help you, Holly, so I grab Max’s guitar instead. “Come on, let’s go.”

Tyler asks, “You’re taking the guitar?”

“Yeah. You drive, I practice.” Just holding it makes me feel better, just knowing I can make the guitar shout for me.

Decatur is upriver from Florence, far away from the dam and lake. Tyler drives past cotton fields, troops of blackbirds watching us from power lines, and houses clinging to Highway 31 like dew on spider silk. I sit in the passenger seat and play “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

Despite the soreness in my fingers, my hand skims across the strings like a water strider. Holly, can you see? Even with a few buzzing notes, the little tune comes through. The string bites right into the blister on my ring finger and I wince, almost yelp. The song shivers to silence.

“Coming along.” Tyler nods. We cross a bridge into downtown Decatur. Swinging into the library parking lot, Tyler says, “Here we go. They must have a phone book.”

They loan us a phone book, but the only Peake is Peake Landscaping. When Tyler calls the number, a man with a Spanish accent tells him he bought the company from James Peake eleven years ago, and no, he doesn’t know where James is now.

Sighing, Tyler says, “Well, let’s look around. If she was as well-known as you say, maybe somebody remembers her.”

Downtown, restaurants and gift shops have moved into old brick warehouses and the train depot. A little bell chimes over the door when we walk into Sweetie Cakes Bakery. The air inside is cool and chocolate-scented.

A woman in an apron is laying out trays of cookies. “Hi. Can I help you?”

“Maybe.” I smile wide. “We’re looking for a woman named Mattie Peake.”

“Sorry, no Matties work here.”

I nod and keep smiling. “Right, but we think she lived around here once. Some people might have called her Auntie Peake.”

The woman shakes her head. “Sorry.”

“She was a, uh, root-worker.”

“A what, honey?”

“She mixed up medicines and, like, charms maybe.”

“I don’t know any root-workers. Y’all need to buy something or get on out.”

It’s the mark of a good Southern upbringing when a woman can make it clear she doesn’t like you and may call the cops while still keeping her voice as bright as birdsong. We thank her and leave.

We’re run out of Momma’s Kountry Kitchen and the Ooh-La-La Gift Shop just as quickly. The guy at Excalibur Vintage and Vinyl thinks we’re playing some joke on him. The man in the Chevron gas station lifts his eyes to the ceiling and scratches his chin. “Hmm … don’t think I know any Peakes. Sorry.”

“She was a root-worker,” Tyler says. “She knew how to make charms and medicines and things.”

The man scowls. “Sounds like some sorta witch.”

“Well, yeah. But she didn’t curse people or anything. She was good. She helped people when they were sick and stuff.”

“No such thing as a good witch. They all get their power from the devil, and their power is nothing but tricks. You kids might know that if you got your tails to church.”

“Okay. Sorry to bother you.” Tyler turns to leave, but I can’t.

“We go to church,” I say.

“Yeah?” He snorts. “Must not be a
real
church if you’re out looking for witches.”

“Come on, Jane.” Tyler plucks at my sleeve.

“We’re trying to help somebody. You don’t know—”

“All I need to know is the word of the Lord, little girl. ‘There shall not be found among you any who practice magic, call on evil spirits for aid, be a fortune-teller, or call forth the spirits of the dead.’”

“No! This isn’t—we’re not—we’re trying to help somebody.”

But the man shakes his head sadly and won’t look at me. Tyler has my wrist now. “Forget it, Jane. Jane, let’s go.”

We leave. The man’s voice chases us out the door. “It’s not too late. ‘
Though your sins are like scarlet, they can be made white as snow
.’”

Stepping back out under the sun’s hard glare, Tyler says, “Forget it. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

I’m too mad to say anything. Shaking my head, I just climb into the truck.

“Jane … come on.”

“I hate this, Tyler.”

“I know.”

“I hate not being able to go to church. I hate Brooke gossiping and who knows what everybody else thinks about me. I hate not knowing if this is right or not.” And I hate praying and feeling like no one’s listening, but I keep that part to myself.

“It’s right. We’re helping Holly, Jane. In your heart, you know it’s the right thing to do.”

“I don’t know anything! Everything’s messed up. Everything’s all wrong. I just want to go home.”

“We’re going to get you home.”

If I could just cry, I’d feel better. But all my sadness and frustration keep building up as heat in the back of my neck, an aching pulse right behind my eye, and I can’t let it go. It just keeps building and building so I can’t think, can’t even see straight.

I grab Max’s guitar. I push some of the frustration down my fingertips, down into
G … D seven … G … G …

Tyler keeps talking. “Besides, we’re not trying to ‘call forth the spirits of the dead.’ We’re trying to put Holly’s spirit to rest. We’re just trying to put things right. And Mattie—”

“Ow! Errrgh!” My blister tears open on one of the guitar strings. I clench my hand to my chest, feeling oily fluid leak between my fingers. “Ow, ow, owww!”

“Blister pop?” Tyler grins.

“Oh, I can’t look. You have a Band-Aid in here?”

“No, no, can’t let it heal. You have to keep playing until it hardens into a callous.”

“I’m bleeding, Tyler. I can’t play, it hurts!”

“I know it hurts. Look.” He shows me his hand. Shiny, crescent-shaped scars crown each finger pad. “But if you stop practicing now, let it heal up, it’ll just blister and pop all over again. You have to keep playing. Let it hurt, let it bleed, let your fingers toughen up.”

I lift the guitar onto my thigh again. Touching the strings, I wince, then shake my hand and blow on it. “Guess the one on my ring finger is going to pop too?”

“Yep.”

I set my fingers back on the strings.
G … D seven …
G … G …
I won’t give up; I don’t care. Clenching my teeth, I let anger push me through the pain. My bloody-gummy fingers smear the strings black.

“Good, good. So, you want to call it a day?” Tyler asks.

I shake my head, still hunched over the guitar, still playing. “We’re here. We do this.” Each note stings like a fire-ant bite, but I won’t stop. Holly, do you see me? I don’t care how much it hurts, I don’t care what we have to do. I won’t stop until we’ve saved you.

Life is supposed to hurt. You’re not doing it right if it doesn’t hurt.

That thought keeps me going as we get back to it, asking about Mattie Peake, people thinking we’re crazy or going to Hell or both. Under every sour stare, I squeeze my fingers into a fist, stroking my grimy blister like the pearl of great price. Blessed are the stubborn, for sooner or later, they shall inherit the earth.

It’s past lunchtime when Tyler yelps, “Penn’s!” and breaks away across the street. The restaurant sign reads
C. F. Penn’s Hamburgers
in neon letters.

“Ever have a Penn’s burger?” Tyler asks after I catch up.

“Uh-uh. Are they good?”

“My dad took me here sometimes, back when he owned that apartment building out here. Come on, I’m buying.”

I follow his wide strides. “So are they good?”

“They’re … kind of an acquired taste, but come on. This place has been around forever, so we should ask them about Mattie Peake anyway.”

The door is propped open to let in a breeze, but the air inside still feels oily. A couple of flies wander across the patched vinyl booths. The waitress and cook both look skinny and scorched dark, like burned french fries.

We climb onto stools at the counter. The waitress smiles. “What can I get you?”