“Sorry,” the man said, brushing the wrinkles from his dark trousers. “I got to fiddling around down here and didn’t even hear you come in.”
“I was hoping to sell this,” The Reverend said, holding out the guitar. “We need the profits for our church.”
“Is that so?” the man said. He smiled, but I understood these people hadn’t darkened a church door in ages. The girl kept playing, palm muting the strings at the bridge as she strummed power chords.
The salesman led my father across the showroom, and suddenly I was alone with her, trying not to stare as the guitar’s groove cupped the underside of her breast.
“What stuff are you into?” Angela asked.
No one ever asked about my interests, and to be honest, I hadn’t been given the freedom to foster any. My entire life was situated around what the church dictated. With everything I experienced policed by my father, my only real outlet was the guitar. I was jealous of Angela’s freedom. Her ability to sit in the basement and play music all day, to wear the patches of bands on her clothing and paint smoky eyeliner on her lids. She had some level of control over her identity.
“Music?” Angela said when I didn’t answer. “What kind of music do you play?”
When she looked at me, her dark irises neither contracted in confusion nor dilated with fear. I knew she had to have questions about my appearance, but I’d become so used to naked disgust I didn’t know how to respond to her small talk.
“I don’t know.”
“How can you not know what you like to play?”
“I’ve only been playing a few weeks.”
“Dad was a music man, so he started me early.”
A lock of red hair fell into her open mouth. I watched her chew the strand, her fingers absently making chords on the quiet guitar. “You play electric?”
“No,” I said.
“You want to?”
“I better not.”
“Don’t worry about them,” Angela said. She began a slow blues arrangement, her boot tapping in time. “I know who you are, you know?”
I understood how infamous we were in the town. Locals’ gossip abounded about The Reverend’s cult, whispers about the monstrous child he kept hidden in the hills. Normally, I didn’t mind the assumptions, but I hated that it preceded me in this meeting. It hurt thinking she’d never get past the rumors.
“It’s kind of strange meeting you,” Angela said. “I mean, not bad, just different.”
I waited for the questions. Any time things progressed past awe or revulsion at my body, the questions came.
“Why do you guys live out there by yourself? Why don’t you go to school or anything?”
“I’m homeschooled,” I lied. The only teaching I received were readings from the Bible and drills on how to lie to outsiders. What little bit of culture I found came from books my mother had left behind when she escaped my father. Everything from murder mysteries set in strange cities to romance paperbacks. Both showed me what I was missing in isolation, and how different I was from the masses.
“Must get lonely living out there,” Angela said. “You like it?”
“People don’t bother me,” I said.
Angela nodded. “That’s what I like about the basement. I can come down here and just jam.”
Angela stepped closer. Her body smelled like peppermint.
“Here, show me something.” She offered the guitar.
“I’m not very good,” I said, but it was an excuse. I knew what would happen if my father saw me playing with this girl. There would be swift punishment for the rebellion, but despite that I didn’t want to refuse her. This was my first invitation to normalcy, and I wanted to feel just a little bit closer to her by holding the things she’d held.
“I give lessons down here after school. I’ve heard the worst of the worst, believe me.”
I took the guitar and strummed a simple three-chord arrangement. Some G, C, D configuration invented down by the creek. Angela retrieved a hollow body outfitted in golden hardware from the wall and plugged into another amp.
Three notes echoed as she played them over and over. I had never heard the song before, but somehow the tune felt familiar. Later, I would learn that’s the secret power of music. The true songs, the ones that implant themselves deepest inside us, are the ones that we feel like we’ve always known. Each one is different yet offers instinctual comfort like a mother’s voice.
“Crimson and clover,” Angela sang. “Over and over.”
I watched her fingers and began to take up the rhythm. Once I established the backbone of the song, Angela was free to embellish quick licks on her guitar. Soon we were harmonizing, the sound reverberating through the store so loudly that I didn’t hear my father approach.
“Sorry we couldn’t come to a deal,” the mustached man said, “but it’s better this way, I think. Your boy is pretty good.”
“We’re leaving,” The Reverend said.
“Cool jamming with you,” Angela called as he dragged me away. I’ve never wanted more to turn and offer thanks, but I kept reminding myself of the story of Lot’s wife and the consequences of longing.
When we reached the car, my father struck me across the jaw. A quick slap with the back of his hand that busted my bottom lip and clacked my teeth together. The blow didn’t knock me unconscious, but I had a moment of confusion until the tang of blood brought me back. By then, he had his hands around my throat, pulling and pushing me until I thought he might wring my neck like a chicken.
“You said the Lord gave you no talent,” The Reverend said. “Do you want to explain that?”
“I don’t,” I said. “I’m not any good.”
“Good enough to get that jezebel’s attention,” The Reverend said. “Good enough to play blasphemous music.”
I waited for another strike, but my father released me. We drove on in silence with the guitar knocking against my knee. I was scared, so I just looked out the window and thought about Angela Carver. Her fingers with their blackberry-stained nails. What they might feel like prickling up my chest to cover my heart. And in my head the melody was still playing, over and over, just like the lyrics.
THE SHOW
Day One of the Contamination
The signs from the bar cast their neon glow through our truck’s windows, rendering the dashboard an iridescent green. An ace of spades and an ace of hearts have been emblazoned on the bar’s metal door. Just underneath this, another sign proclaims CHEAP BEER & LIVE MUSIC NIGHTLY. Caroline and I watch the couples arrive and climb down from the tall cabs of their pickups. The women are wispy, their men thick around the middle in western shirts with straining snap buttons. Bodies so normal their imperfections make me jealous. The longer we sit, the more I start to grow nauseous at the thought of going inside.