When life stumped Charlie, he retreated into music. That’s what he wanted to do now. He stood fidgeting in the feathered shade of the cedars at the edge of the creek and sniffed the sun-splattered earth. Water breaking over the rocks struck five distinct tones, the first three and fifth and sixth pitches of the B-flat scale. The sound reached his ear in random variations, never the same order of tones, never the same rhythm, patterns blurring into patterns. He closed his eyes and shook his head.
There you go again. Admit it. You’re stumped.
From behind him came the plink plink (F-sharp) of Boyd pounding in tent pegs. Boyd, his beautiful son, was so unlike Steve, his strong son, that sometimes Charlie wondered if their mother, Evelyn . . . Don’t get off on that.
He meandered back through the trees, ducking low beech branches heavy with June’s fresh growth. Ashes from campfires lit for countless years in this spot greyed the red Maryland earth. The smell of burned wood, male sweat, and the untroubled Catoctin forest made him grin. He saw dirty feet and skinned knees and pint-size swim suits hung on limbs to dry. They’d started coming here when the boys were little because it was the only vacation he could afford. They’d never stopped.
Once past the clearing where Boyd, cross-legged and barefoot, was tapping in the last stake, Charlie stopped by Steve’s car, a rented candy-apple red Thunderbird. Sweet car. He opened the door to his own ’83 Ford pickup of no particular color and took his acoustic Martin from behind the seat. He sat on the folding chair by the camp table and plucked.
Boyd looked up and smiled. The Bible had it wrong. It should have said, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a beautiful man to enter into the kingdom of heaven.” Boyd was beautiful. Too beautiful for the word “handsome.” He was tall and angular with the kind of grace that always made Charlie think of an eagle full to the wind, yet thick enough from working out that his body was manly. His hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes were the color of tarnished brass, his skin just tawny enough (granted, from sun lamps) to look robust, his wide-set eyes a May-sky blue.
Charlie picked a slow B-flat scale and compared the tones to those from the creek. His relative pitches were truer, but he’d tuned a hair sharp. He damped the strings and blew the air from his lungs. This wasn’t getting him anywhere. What was he going to do?
When he’d gone by the efficiency apartment that morning to pick Boyd up, Boyd had apologized. “Sheila didn’t have time to clean up before she left. Told her I’d take care of it.”
But he hadn’t. Charlie ignored the dirty coffee cups, a saucer with the hardened residue of Timmy’s soft-boiled egg, a milk glass, and a cereal bowl on the dinette. The kitchen floor was sticky.
“Sheila took the car?” Charlie asked.
Boyd fumbled for an answer. “Yeah, she did.” He stepped over shoes into the closet. “That way she can head back whenever she wants. Where’d I leave my boots?”
“What did Sheila tell them at work?”
“Whatever.” Boyd emerged with the boots and gave Charlie a grin that made the whole room shimmer. He sat on the bed and unlaced the boots. “Grab my keys from the work table.”
harlie found the table behind the electronic keyboard, the amp, the speakers, and a music stand shedding its hand-written manuscript sheets to the floor. Wires ran from the amp to the guitar laid across the table. He pawed through the dust on the table’s surface, through scraps and sheets and pens and pencils and guitar picks. No keys. Beneath the guitar and a stack of manuscript paper, gritty to the touch, he found a stack of envelopes. The top one, from Potomac Electric, was stamped in large red letters, “Fourth and Final Notice.” Under it an envelope from MasterCard. “Overdue” was printed in blue above the address. Six or seven other bills were beneath the first two. None had been opened.
Charlie strummed a B-flat chord and frowned up through the cedar branches to the darkening sky. Boyd and Sheila were in trouble again. Charlie was still in debt from the last time. Had Boyd told Steve? Not likely. Charlie laid the Martin on the camp table. Decision made. He didn’t know where he’d get the money, but he couldn’t allow Boyd to go through bankruptcy.
Steve, all muscle and hair, came huffing out of the woods carrying more dead limbs and branches than Boyd could lift. He dropped them next to the fire pit and mopped his forehead with his bandana. “Think this’ll be enough?”
“It’ll get us through breakfast,” Boyd said.
Charlie poked through the woodpile. “Need kindling. Boyd—”
Boyd pulled on his boots.
“Don’t get your hands dirty,” Steve said.
Boyd gave him the finger. “I’ll wear gloves.” He disappeared into the woods.
Charlie broke a limb over his knee. “Quit trying to pick a fight.”
Steve dragged a branch to the pit. “He’s the smart ass.”
“He’s got big problems right now.”
“Boyd always has big problems.”
“Lay off him.”
Steve dropped the branch by the pit. “He’s always taking advantage of you. I get pissed.”
“He’s not taking advantage.”
“Where did he disappear to when it was time to pay for the gas? Where was he when we were in the grocery store?”
“He’s between gigs. Doesn’t have any money.”
“And his credit’s shot. And another baby on the way.”
Charlie dropped the limb.
“Didn’t tell you, huh?” Steve said. “Sheila’s due in October. The Starlight doesn’t like their cocktail waitresses to look pregnant. Let her go. You going to bail him out again?”
Charlie stood straight. “None of your fucking business.”
Steve leaned a limb on the stone by the pit and stomped. With a loud crack, its upper half went flying. He moved the limb up and stomped again.
“Look,” Charlie said, “the whole idea of this trip is to let Boyd unwind for a couple of days while Sheila and Timmy are in Philadelphia.”
“Thought it was so Boyd and me could spend some time together while I’m east. That’s why I rented the car and followed you up here.”
“That, too.”
Steve took a beer from the cooler and slumped at the camp table. “Dad, when are you going to stop running interference for him?”
Charlie reached for a beer and sat next to him. “He’s my son.”
“So am I.”
“You did fine. You’re hardheaded. A loner. Like your mother.”
Steve laughed. “So the one who did fine gets yelled at.”
“You’ve got no complaints coming.”
“It’s just that he—” Steve took a slug of beer. “I feel ashamed for him.”
Charlie stood so fast that his beer fell over. “Ashamed?”
Rustling and swishing. Boyd came through the trees dragging a large, dead limb. “This’ll be plenty when we break it up.”
While Steve got the fire going, Charlie opened the spaghetti can and dumped it into a scorched pot. Boyd improvised chords and riffs on Charlie’s guitar. Soon he was singing softly over a repeated pattern of three chords.
“What’s that?” Charlie said.
“New tune. Trying to get the bridge to work.”
Charlie started coffee. Same three chords—D, E, A— in the bridge. Same key. Only the melody was different. Then the refrain came back. The song ended with a coda that sounded like an afterthought.
“What’s it called?” Charlie said.
“‘Freedom Rock.’ Like you always taught us. ‘Go for life. Go for love. Don’t sell your soul for money.’”
“Nice work if you can get it,” Steve said.
Boyd went on playing.
“Steve’s got a point,” Charlie said.
Boyd stopped. “That’s not what you used to say.”
“Never was able to live up to my own philosophy. Always wanted you boys to have things better than I did.”
Boyd strummed an A, then damped the strings with his palm. “I never understood why you settled for so little after Mom left. Why didn’t you just say ‘fuck it,’ play music, and have a ball?”
“And let you boys starve?”
Boyd started playing again. Same three-chord pattern.
“What’re the words?” Charlie asked.
Boyd strummed an intro of eight bars, four-four, then began the refrain.
When you’ve had it up to your neck with the nine-to-five,
And you can’t see your way out of the tunnel,
When you wake up at dawn not sure you’re alive,
And your life’s being forced into the corporate funnel,
The time has come, my friend, to run free.
It’s none too soon, my friend, to run free.
’Fore death comes ’long, my friend, run free.
Boyd played the three chords twice more and stopped. He looked at Charlie.
“Nice,” Charlie said, stirring the spaghetti.
Boyd cleared his throat and stood. “I’ll set the table.” He put the guitar back in the pickup and laid plastic forks and paper napkins on the camp table. Charlie spooned the spaghetti onto paper plates.
As they sat down, Steve smiled. “Spaghetti.”
“Guess I’m set in my ways,” Charlie said. “Cheap and healthy. Like camping.”
“Haven’t eaten spaghetti since I got married,” Steve said. “But I take the kids camping. They love it.”
Boyd’s smile faded. “I used to love it.”
Charlie picked up his fork. “Not any more?”
“Not when everybody’s getting on my case.”
“Steve’s got your best interest at heart, Boyd,” Charlie said.
Boyd shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t see it his way. The daily routine isn’t for me and Sheila.”
Charlie nodded and ate a forkful of spaghetti. “I know how you feel. But—”
Boyd tightened. “But it keeps the wolf from the door.”
Charlie put down his fork and stared at his plate. “Maybe you should set some limits. Maybe you should say, ‘Okay, I’ll give it another five years. If I don’t make it by then—’”
Boyd grunted. “Jesus. You, too?”
“You’ve been at it almost twelve years, Boyd,” Steve said. “Maybe it’s time to get it out of your system.”
Boyd pushed his plate away and sat back. “I’m just not a desk jockey. I’d suffocate.” He ran his hand through his burnished hair. “You don’t understand, Steve. Some things you can’t get out of your system. Ever since the first time I saw Dad play and saw all those people watching him like he was magic or something, ever since then, I’ve had this vision of being up there with the lights and the mikes and the sound equipment and my group behind me. And then the crowd going crazy.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You never had dreams like that.”
“How do you know?” Steve said. “I had them, all right. But not the same as you. I saw myself building computers and trackers and radars and missiles. I saw myself with a nice house and a woman I loved and kids who would run out in the yard every night when I got home and yell, ‘Daddy!’” He finished his last mouthful of spaghetti. “I worked my ass off to make it happen. Had to do it by myself.”
Charlie winced.
Boyd sipped his coffee. “It’s not the same. Right, Dad?”
“I don’t know, Boyd,” Charlie said. “I can’t see inside either of you. I can only see inside myself, and not too clearly at that.”
“What did you want?” Boyd said.
“Something sort of like you. I wanted to bury myself in music, eat it, dream it, sleep it. But when your mother left, I learned that sometimes the people you love are more important than your dreams.” Charlie swallowed the last morsel of spaghetti. “Selling shoes pays the rent.”
Steve gave Boyd an I-told-you-so look, then went to the fire and poured them coffee. “You have any health insurance?”
Boyd shook his head without looking up.
“Sheila have any?” Steve said.
Boyd shook his head again.
“How’re you going to pay for the baby?”
“Goddamn you, Steve,” Boyd said.
“I told Dad,” Steve said. “Why didn’t you?”
“I was going to. While we’re up here.” He gave Charlie a quick look. “Baby’s not due until fall. By then, I should have a regular set of gigs.”
“And if you don’t?” Steve said.
“I can do some modeling.”
“Thought you said they were looking for young kids.”
“I can always go back to waiting tables.”
Steve spat. “How the hell are you going to make enough to pay the doctor and the hospital and the lab fees and anesthetist—”
“That’s enough,” Charlie said. “We didn’t come up here to fight. I told you to quit picking on him.”
Boyd put their plates and napkins in the fire. He dumped the forks in the garbage bag, then looked at the sky through the trees. “Getting dark. Want to sit down by the creek with our coffee?”
Charlie awoke to the sound of the creek scolding in B-flat and birds chattering polytonally in the trees. When he opened his eyes he saw the roof of the tent dim above him. He turned his head. Boyd was asleep on his stomach, his arms embracing his pillow, his hair falling over his face. Steve’s sleeping bag was empty. Charlie struggled to his knees and found his clothes. He crawled from the tent on all fours, stood upright, stretched his unwilling legs, and sat on the log to put on his jeans. The sharp blue of the sky told him the sun was above the horizon. He knelt by the creek, splashed water on his face, listened to the rapids, then shuffled to the fire pit. A small fire was burning. A pot of coffee sat on the rocks.
Steve came through the trees with a load of logs in burlap on one shoulder. He wore dark slacks and a button down, long-sleeve plaid sport shirt with creases still in the arms and chest. He let the logs fall into the woodpile.
“You’re all dressed up,” Charlie said.
“Thought I’d get things started for you guys before I shove off.”
Charlie’s stomach clenched. “You leaving?”
Steve nodded. “The kid’s driving me crazy.”
“Stop calling him the kid. He’s almost thirty.”
“Someone’s got to level with him.”
Charlie swallowed hard. “Barely had any time with you. You flying out Monday? Why the hell can’t you two get along?”
“He makes me ashamed.”
“Stop it.” Charlie turned to the fire pit.
“Come see us after the baby’s born,” Steve said.
Charlie shook his head.
Steve put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “I’ll pay for it.”
Charlie tried to speak, but the lump in his throat stopped him. He closed his eyes.
“Love you, Dad.”
Steve’s hand left Charlie’s shoulder. Footsteps, then a car door. An engine started.
Charlie’s chest hurt. He’d let Steve down again. It was just that—Charlie kicked the dirt. Steve could always take care of himself. Boyd couldn’t. When Evelyn left, Boyd needed a lot of help. Steve just got real quiet. Went off by himself all the time. Steve had been on his own since he was ten.
He had the sausage cooking by the time Boyd stumbled from the tent in his boxer shorts. He sat at the table and pulled on his jeans. Charlie poured him coffee.
“Where’s Steve?”
“Headed back early.”
Boyd nodded and sipped. “I’d like to hike up to Wolf Rock.”
“Suits me.”
As the sun climbed and the heat of the day settled on the earth, they trudged up the trail that looped back and forth across the eastern side of the mountain. They made their way over roots big as Charlie’s wrist, around boulders that would have dwarfed the pickup. Toward the top, the trees grew thicker, the leaves greener.
“Got anyone to look after Timmy while Sheila’s in the hospital?” Charlie said when they were finally able to walk side by side.
“Me.”
“None of my business, Boyd, but how are you paying the doctor?”
“Sheila’s folks.”
“Jesus.”
“I always figured,” Boyd said, “that by the time we had another kid, I’d have made it. But this one sort of took us by surprise.”
Charlie took a deep breath. “Got anything in the works?”
“Looked like Cheap Thrills was going to take me on to play bass. Fell through. Guess I can still play once at week at the Starlight. Except in September. They’ve already booked. I’ve been looking into doing the sound set-up for other groups.”
Charlie was surprised, as always, how Wolf Rock appeared out of nowhere just beyond the wall of oaks and ashes. “Want to go to the top?”
Boyd grinned. “Don’t we always?”
Boyd climbed first. Thirty feet up, he disappeared onto the long flat top of the formation. Charlie followed him, pulled himself over the edge, and stood. The uneven and broken top of the rock table extended a hundred feet to their left and fifty feet to their right.
“Why do they call it Wolf Rock?” Boyd said. “Sounds like a song title.”
“You always ask that. I don’t know. Guess there used to be wolves up here.”
Boyd laughed. “The first time you told me that, you scared me to death. I expected to find a wolf around every corner.” He clapped Charlie on the shoulder. “But I knew you’d protect me.”
They turned left and walked along the expanse of rock. As they approached the end, they stopped and looked in all directions.
“Steve left because of me?” Boyd said. “Steve just doesn’t get it. He’s no artist.”
“Keep your mouth off Steve.”
Boyd’s eyebrows went up and his mouth opened. He pursed his lips and shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Want to eat?”
They went back by a different route, as they always had, down the steeper path on the western side of the mountain. Hot, tough going. The trail was steep, embedded with worn, slippery stones. Trees were wide spaced and small, symptom of the forest fire here some years back. By the time they reached Jeopardy Rock half-way down, the sun was reaching toward the top of the mountain opposite them. They rested on the rock shelf and watched darkness fill the valley and start up their mountain. Wind swept up the slope, cool and lively. It caught the saplings on both sides of them. Branches swayed, trunks leaned to one side and then the other, and leaves twirled in the slanting rays from the sun.
“When are Sheila and Timmy coming back?” Charlie said.
Boyd lay back, closed his eyes, and pointed his face into the sunshine. “They might stay in Philadelphia a while.”
Boyd turned his head without raising it and looked at Charlie. “Guess you might as well know it all. She’s left me, Dad.” The morning hurt returned to Charlie’s chest. Boyd turned his face back to the sun and closed his eyes. “Said she and Timmy will come back when we have a place to live. We’re being evicted.” Boyd laughed. “Can’t even live in the car. It’s been repossessed. After the first, I’m on the street.”
Charlie closed his eyes and turned his face away.
“Fact is her folks can’t pay,” Boyd said. “Sheila’s on Medicaid.”
Charlie flinched.
“So I wanted to ask . . .” Boyd sat up. “Could you lend me a three or four thousand? I’ll pay it back when things pick up.” Boyd wore his crooked smile, but his eyes weren’t smiling.
The wind whispered in Charlie’s ears. He tried to hear its pitches. Instead, he saw Boyd hunkered on a curb, reaching out his hand.
“Steve knows?” Charlie said.
Boyd studied his boots.
The sun touched the top of the mountain to the west. The valley was black. The shadow reached toward them. The wind died, and calm settled over the land like a cool hand.
“It’s getting dark,” Boyd said.
When Charlie got to his feet, he realized how tired he was.
“What about the money, Dad?”
“Give me a while to let this sink in.” Charlie shook his head. “You don’t know, do you?” He studied the motionless black. “That’s why your mother left me.”
They stumbled down the trail into the shadow. Charlie glanced at the sky. The blue was turning to the mottled color of ripe peaches. He could hear Boyd’s breathing behind him.
Twilight still hung in the air when they reached the camp. Boyd emptied the backpack of their lunch trash. Charlie sat at the camp table and listened to the creek.
“Boyd,” Charlie said. “Bring us each a beer and sit for minute.”
Boyd opened the cooler and took out two beers. He sat and handed one to Charlie.
“Boyd,” Charlie said, “I’m not going to give you the money this time.”
The smile on Boyd’s face didn’t change.
“It’s time for you—” Charlie began.
Boyd turned toward the creek. The smile disappeared. He sat back, took a swallow of beer, and stretched. His eyes swept the sky. “Gets so quiet after dark. So quiet.”
Charlie sighed and stood. “I’m going to see about dinner.”
“Dad,” Boyd said. Charlie stopped. Boyd put his elbows on the table and folded his hands. “What you say we break camp? We could be back before ten.”
Charlie watched him. “You sure?”
Boyd nodded.
They drove without speaking. Boyd strummed and plucked. As they approached the city limits, he turned to Charlie. “You’re a great dad. Always have been. I hope my problems won’t change anything.” He turned his gaze to the darkened horizon. “In my dream, when I was up on the stage and the crowd was going wild, I always looked through the faces for yours. I knew you’d be smiling and nodding.” Boyd’s voice wobbled. “I always wanted, more than anything in the world, for you to be proud of me.”
Charlie wanted to cry. He looked at the stars hanging over the city ahead of them. He watched the orange arc lights whipping past with a slow rhythm all their own. He smelled the highway and the cars and Boyd and his own sweat. He listened to the tires singing on the pavement, a wavering A-flat.
