“I’ve got to go to Murphy’s,” I say. “I’m way behind, so get dressed. Please.”
Caroline adjusts her cut-off denim shorts, throws on a light jacket.
“Too chilly for those shorts,” I say, but she just shrugs before stepping outside.
I go down the hall to fetch the broken Telecaster from my music room. Guitars line the far wall, shapely acoustics hang suspended next to electrics with chipped paint, the road-raw and pristine, all preserved in the humidified air. My recording equipment sits in the far corner. It’s an older outfit, everything analog since I’ve never seen the use in upgrading to digital. All I do are mail tapes to Angela. The real treasures are secured in a tall gun safe. Inside, early recordings from my days on the road collect dust. The Gibson that Angela gave me is hidden away here, too. It’s older than either of us, a 1927 model that she signed and sent for one of my birthdays. I’ve memorized the inscription but can’t bring myself to consider the words. Lingering here is dangerous. The memories can overwhelm, so I grab the Telecaster and head outside to meet Caroline.
The sky is gray, the mountains hulking over the valley make noon seem like dusk. Songbirds sing from trees on the hillside and chicken shit wafts heavy on the wind. I own the ten acres on my side of the creek, but like most property in southern West Virginia, the land isn’t good for much. Nearly all the acreage is hillside. I have no claim on the minerals or timber. What little flat land does belong to me is too stony for even a fit man to farm. Caroline tried to start a small garden last summer in the soured earth. After she lost interest, crows ate the abandoned crops. Now nothing is left but dead tomato vines tied to wooden stakes with old rags and rows of wormy, rotten cabbage protected by chicken wire. Near the tree line of softwood sycamores and hard oaks are the charred remains of my father’s church. Fire took it more than a decade ago, but sometimes when the wind blows just right, I can still smell the burnt planks. It’s my favorite scent.
Privacy is a necessity for a man who looks like me, so I’m grateful for small blessings of self-sufficiency like the house and my well. Since I maintain no official writing credits on any of The Troubadours’ albums, there are plenty of rumors about where the money came from. Theft of the proceeds from my father’s congregation, murder of rich outsiders and trafficking narcotics have all been theories floated to explain my meager wealth. The most endearing I’ve heard is that Angela bought the house for me after she became famous. It has a kernel of truth to it, I suppose, but Angela would never give so much without receiving something in return. Perhaps she might have done it when we were children. Time has a way of severing charitable tendencies.
I don’t mind the rumors. A man like me would amass legend in such a small community one way or another. I’m glad it isn’t only over my appearance.
* * *
• • •
I avoid town as much as possible, so it still surprises me to see Coopersville is mostly dark windows now that the mines have all closed. Crooked politicians promised a return to work and some voters sold their souls to those unworthy men, but I think we all knew the days of descending into the earth seeking frozen fire were gone. The few surviving stores look defeated. I take stock of what’s left: the Goodwill, a used bookstore some well-meaning fool opened that won’t last till Christmas, two bakeries in constant rivalry and a jewelry store that’s almost certainly a front. Shift bosses no longer have the means to spoil mistresses and coal wives with diamonds. There’re few people left to shop anyway. Maybe it should hurt more, but town has never meant anything but ridicule to me. My father thought even less of it. Preached hard about the evils found in pavement and streetlights. If The Reverend had lived to see such decline, he’d have proclaimed it God’s punishment.
Caroline turns into Cherry Tree, a stretch known for the ramshackle beer joints and prostitutes who stroll the road looking for rides. Legitimate residents either stay clear or roll through the single stoplight with their windows up. I don’t spot any girls prowling this early, but a few unemployed miners and their wives stand on the side of the road waving picket signs. They’ve been camped out for the last three months protesting the chemical companies that poison our creeks. A few college girls from Marshall or West Virginia University, their skin still bronzed despite an overcast April sky, stand alongside them. Each sign shows mountains with the tops sheared off, banners reading BOYCOTT WATSON CHEMICAL and PROFIT DOESN’T JUSTIFY POLLUTION. I admire the spirit, but the college kids are never in it for the long haul. They always return to campus after a month or so.
The Blackhawk Pawn Shop sits on the right side of a wide turn, its shuttered windows and gated front door closed. A neon sign flashes OPEN and a plastic banner fluttering in the wind reads WE BUY SCRAP GOLD! The building was a dirty bookstore in the town’s more formidable years, but Internet porn and the church crowd caused it to fold. Rumor is the pawnbroker bought out the remaining stock. Most of his revenue comes from a back room of dusty adult novelties sold online. I asked Murphy about it once, but he denied it.
Caroline parks in the lot beside a Pontiac.
“Will you wait here?” I ask. My hands are shaking at the idea of being seen. Some child will point, or an old woman will give me a look. I don’t want Caroline to see that. To be honest, I’m afraid she won’t bother defending me.
“Like hell,” she says.
It’s better not to argue with her. The pills are in full effect now. A cool tingling has replaced the dull throb until all my extremities feel loose. I’m hollowed out like a rotten log. It took three doses this time.
An electronic bell announces our entry. The floors inside are concrete. The center of the room is filled with rows of aluminum shelves covered in leaf blowers, chainsaws, DVD players, even a full set of Ping golf clubs. Mounted animals hang on the walls. Pheasants frozen in midflight and deer with dazed marble eyes. I keep my own eyes low, avoiding the patrons who I’m sure are looking at me. Caroline leans on the display case housing the pawned engagement rings. She taps on the glass that’s trapped all that tarnished love inside.
“Can I help you, miss?” Murphy, the owner, comes forward and rests his arms on the case. He sucks in his gut to look more robust.
“I hope so.” A hint of honey sneaks into Caroline’s voice, but she doesn’t need to pour it on too thick. Some implication in her stare has always let me forget my body. If those eyes can erase my maladies for even a moment, I can’t imagine what they do to the average man.
“Hey, Murphy,” I say, stepping forward. “Busted it good this time.”
“Let me look,” Murphy says. He takes the guitar and turns it in his hands, inspecting the scratched pickguard and checking to see if the pickups wobble inside the frame. He twists a tuning peg and listens for the string to wind tighter.
“At least a week.”
I don’t have a week. If I’m ever getting back to my own writing, I need to finish these songs I owe Angela. I suppose I could record on an acoustic or the hollow body, but that feels too much like half-assing it. Even this close to the end, the tape should sound the way the song is intended.