A Song for the Road

Mickey looks down into a pair of bright, beseeching amber eyes as Piper circles by the door of the campervan, giving him the look. With a sigh, Mickey switches on the blinker and lumbers over into the shoulder lane.

Once the door is opened, Piper zooms out, intent upon her business. She disappears into the line of underbrush, stretching the retractable leash to its full length. Leaning against the hood of his dear Great West, Mickey pulls out a road map. Moving his finger along the red-markered line, he traces their progress.

“Memphis is just a hundred more miles,” he says aloud. “I’ll get more gas there and we'll head our way, won’t we girl?” he resumes, stuffing the map back into his pocket. With a sharp whistle, he calls the little Aussie back. Piper trots out of the shrubbery, tongue lolling out of her little black jaws.

Mickey stoops down and pats her head fondly before they continue on.

Content at last, Piper curls up into a tight ball on the passenger seat. Soon enough, the sounds of her gentle puppy-snores fill the main cabin.

The hot, late-August sunshine pours over the highway, making the horizon look like a hazy half-dream as the old Great West bumps along I-40. Swiping a handkerchief across his forehead, Mickey starts to wonder why he didn’t fix the air conditioning when it first broke. But how could he have known that he would be needing it so soon?

A shudder runs up and down his spine at the thought, defiantly cold.

His gnarled fingers grip the steering wheel as a wave of images and memories crashes his mind’s eye. A face resurfaces out of the vault, vague and elusive at first, but as he recalls each freckled constellation, it becomes more and more real, alive even, but that can’t be possible. Not anymore.

“Oh, Lily, what have you done?”

* * *

After the fifteenth mile, Jack stops just behind the forest’s edge. The relentless morning sun blazes down on the boy as the pungent scent of nettles and sappy bark hangs stiff in the air. Leaning against a young sapling, Jack breathes it in: the scent of freedom.

It’s been almost five hours since he left the little settlement of Humnoke, Arkansas, far behind him.

Just three days of this and I’ll be in Nashville.

He runs a hand through a thick mop of tawny hair, making it stand up on end.

But he won’t walk the whole way. No, he’ll catch a ride someplace, especially on a day like this. Picking up his guitar case, he turns and heads north, pushing through the thin pine trunks and low, sweeping boughs.

A few minutes later, Jack breaks out of the little outcrop of trees to find himself in a vast expanse of dry grass. Cracked pavement spreads out in either direction, the only sign of the highway. Hunching his shoulders, Jack sets his eyes to the far horizon, searching desperately for another soul. Far off in the distance, he spots fencing and the murky shapes of grazing cattle, the only things populating the emptiness.

“Great.”

With legs fit to collapse, he turns, marching on.

A strange sound filters through Jack's ears, almost like the purring of a sick cat Grandma took in once. It slowly wakes him up. He must have fallen asleep, curled up in the discarded office chair he found in the ditch. Though spongy with mildew and spider webs, it provides rest, regardless. As the purring grows louder, he slits his eyes open just enough to see. A few miles down the road, the afternoon sun catches on something metallic. A tiny speck of white and blue, slowly trundling his way.

With a start, Jack leaps to his feet, hardly daring to hope.

Slowly the metallic speck grows. Headlights appear, and a patchy bumper. Piece by piece the vehicle becomes more and more visible until a campervan rolls into full view.

Jack sprints to the edge of the road, waving his arms.

With a grind of brakes, the van stops at his feet.

The door creaks open and a thin old man peers down at Jack. His snowy hair hangs damp from heat around a weathered but kind face. Pale blue eyes shine in brave contrast to his browned skin.

He seems speechless, so Jack pounces on the chance to speak first. “Howdy, sir,”

The man blinks down shyly. “I saw you looking for a ride, where are you headed?”

“Nashville.”

The old man shifts his weight, leaning his hands on his hips. “Well,” he drawls, looking up at the sky. “I’d like to know what a twelve-year-old boy is doing hitch-hiking his way out of the state?” He says each word measuredly.

Jack sets his chin, standing up to his full height. He’d prepared for this.

“Sir,” he says, just as carefully, “I’m sixteen and a half years old, well man enough to travel by myself, don’t you think? Besides,” glancing back the way he came. “I’m going up to see my parents. School starts up soon and they’ll hardly expect me till next week. It’s a surprise.”

“A surprise?” The man looks him up and down. His eyes flicker to Jack’s case and his expression melts into a friendly grin. “Then lucky for your mama I’m headed to Clarksville. Nash won’t be much of a detour,” he holds out his hand, “I’m Mickey St. James.”

Jack shakes it, “Jack Buford.”

A fluffy black head pokes around Mickey’s leg, staring up at Jack with two fiery orbs. The dog's ears perk and the tip of its nose twitches excitedly. She yips a mix between a playful bark and an impatient growl.

“I was getting to you, missy.” Mickey catches hold of her collar and motions for Jack to step closer. “This is Piper. Don’t worry, she’s all bark and no bite.”

Jack inches forward, hand held limp in front of him as Piper sniffs over his fingers, lapping up his sweaty palms. When her short tail starts wagging loosely, Mickey lets her go and steps aside.

“Hop in.”

* * *

Through all of his years as a linesman, Mickey’s seen countless hitchhikers. He isn’t sure why he stopped, then, for this Jack Buford. Maybe it’s because he’s so young, about the age Lily was, or maybe it’s because of the guitar case tucked behind his seat. Either way, he’s glad he did— the boy looks exhausted.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey hazards a look at him, leaning out the passenger window. The boy’s skin is flushed and red, the beginnings of a sunburn, and thorn-scratches trace up and down his legs. His dusty clothes appear well-kept, as though recently washed.

I wonder how long he’s been out.

Tapping the steering wheel thoughtfully, Mickey ventures a “Where’re you from?”

“A few miles south of here. I stay with my grandma during the summer.” Jack responds guardedly.

Mickey nods his head, “Sounds nice, being close to family like that.”

“Yeah, it is.” a pause, “How ‘bout you?”

“Fort Worth.”

Jack’s eyes glow with interest. “That’s right outside of Dallas, right? What’s it like, being so close to a big city?”

Mickey shrugs his shoulders. “I dunno. Lots of traffic, I guess, and people buzzing like bees.”

For a few minutes, Jack seems to fall into a deep reverie. In the next moment he perks up, asking if he could turn on the radio.

Mickey waves a hand at him, “Fine, but don’t call me ‘sir’. I’m just plain Mickey.”

“Okay, thanks, Mickey.” Fiddling with the channel, Jack tunes into a country station.

Nimble-fingered strings and a low, rusty voice fill the cabin at an unaccustomed volume. Nodding his head in satisfaction, Jack returns to the window. Once his ears adjust to the loud thrums and vocals, Mickey finds himself nodding along too. It’s been ages since he’s listened to music like this. A long time since he could even stomach it.

“He’s good,” Jack remarks, changing the station, “But I like Bruce Lesley better.”

“You’re a country fan?”

“I practically breathe music itself.” Jack says, suddenly aglow. “Have you heard one of Lesley’s songs before?”

“No,” Mickey tilts his head away, training his eyes on the road ahead. “I knew someone who went to one of his concerts. My sister.”

“Cool,” Jack rests his hands behind his head, letting out a long, low whistle. Piper perks up her ears. “He’s on tour around here. I wonder if we’ll get to see him.”

* * *

The Great West shuttles over a deep pothole with a jerk, jolting Jack awake. They’re pulling into a gas station and Piper’s turning tight circles by the door. With a yawn, Jack stretches his arms up and out luxuriously. Surprisingly, the old tin-can makes a fine bed.

Mickey points a callused finger to the ditch along the highway sign. “Mind taking Piper out?”

“Sure thing, boss.” Jack grins, clipping on her leash.

Jack watches the Aussie fondly once outside. Piper yips at the birds pecking the dirt, trying to herd them together. The birds squawk and shoot into the air, their wingbeats creating an orchestra of their own.

As Jack listens, gently holding the leash, an idea hits him.

Jack runs back to the van with Piper bounding after him.

Mickey’s nowhere to be seen, so he runs inside and retrieves his case. Gently, he lays it on the ground and opens the lid. Reverently, he stoops down and pulls back a thin layer of velvety cloth to reveal the shining neck of an acoustic guitar. The polished wood shimmers in the bright sunlight dazzlingly.

He slips it onto his lap and plucks gently at the cords. A soft but strong tremor sounds from his fingertips. Piper sits down next to him, cocking her head and watching him intently. Closing his eyes, Jack begins. Slowly but surely a bright melody flows out of the instrument. Jack closes his eyes, embracing the song like an old friend.

When the last string fades out, wisping away on the breeze, a heavy hand falls on his shoulder.

Jack turns, grinning shyly. “Already back, Mickey?”

A long face with dark, hooded eyes looks down into his. The stranger is tall and lanky with chestnut waves flowing in stages around his head.

Instantly recognizing him from an album cover, Jack gasps. “Bruce Lesley!”

A thin smile spreads across Bruce’s lips as Jack scrambles to his feet. “That was mighty fine playing I just heard. You should be proud.” Bruce says, shaking hands heartily. “What type of wood is that? Mahogany, oak?”

“It’s maple.” Jack stammers.

“Ah, the good stuff, I should have known. Now what’s your name, son?”

“I’m Jack, uh, Jack Buford.”

Bruce raises his eyebrows, and he beams. “Son of William Buford, by chance?”

Jack pauses, unsure. It’s been a long time since he’s heard or even spoken Dad’s name. It’s been a long time since the accident.

Finally, “Yes, he taught me how to play.”

“He was a great musician…” Bruce frowns, “I am very sorry for your loss. Willy was a good man, and I bet a wonderful father and husband, too.”

Hanging his head, Jack tries to control the memories that rush forward. But they don’t listen. Flashes of lights and sirens, the big oil tanker lying on its belly like a beached whale and Dad trapped. Helplessly pinned beneath the weight of twisted metal and iron.

Stooping down to his level, Bruce wraps an arm over Jack’s shoulder, but Jack wipes his eyes fiercely. Really? Crying in front of Bruce Lesley? “I’m not.” he mutters.

Bruce laughs. “Alright then,” he looks over his shoulder, towards the gas station store, then down at his watch. “Now, I don’t have much time, but I’d like to ask you something,” Jack nods, awestruck. “You have a lot of potential, and I don’t want to see you wasting away. I worked closely with your father, once, and I see a close resemblance between the two of you, in looks and talent.”

Jack’s eyes widen in shock.

Bruce knew Dad?

He’d never mentioned it before but, then again, Dad was always so secretive about his ideas. Mom said it was because he was scared people would laugh at him, but Jack always believed that it was because Dad was too ahead of his time.

“So, what if we strike up a deal? You show me what you can do, really do, and I’ll pull some strings and see what I can do. What do you think, Mr. Buford?”

Jack tries to respond, but his tongue lies dry and lifeless.

Could this really be happening? Could his dreams really be turning into a reality? Finally, after some effort, he manages to open his mouth.

But in a moment Mickey’s by his side, his eyes boring holes into Bruce.

Bruce, taking it in stride, offers Mickey his hand, “Afternoon, sir, I’m Bru—”

Mickey’s soft voice pelts out the words, “I know exactly who you are and I want you out of my face.”

In a flash he packs Jack and Piper back into the Great West and slams the door shut with a bang. The engine roars to life and he releases the brake. After regaining his wits, Jack grabs Mickey’s arms and faces him, eyes like hot coals.

“Hey, what’re you doing?” he explodes. “That’s Bruce Lesley and he was offering me work!”

Mickey ignores him flatly.

They pull out of the station, tires squealing, and head back onto the highway.

Bruce waves goodbye, a dark look crossing his face.

* * *

“I don’t believe it,” Jack shouts, kicking the dashboard. “A chance at my dream, at actually being something, someone, burnt to a crisp.”

“I saved your hide.”

He whips around. “First of all, from what, exactly, and secondly, what do you care?”

Though every inch of him cringes at each shout, Mickey stands firm. “Your Bruce Lesley is a bad man, bloodthirsty scum.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Something deep, deep down snaps, like a plank of wood that bolts a door. Warmth floods through every bone in Mickey’s body, burning hot. With a screech of tires and smoke, he hauls the Great West to a dead stop on the roadside. Pinpricks of black cloud his vision as he rocks back and forth, clutching the wheel.

Mickey finally turns to Jack. “Yes, I do.”

His voice is raw and crackles with age, or perhaps emotion. “I know better than anyone what he can do.” Jack opens his mouth to protest, but Mickey starts again; the river growing unstoppable. “My sister, Lily, was a lot like you. She lived and breathed music, a born singer. At eighteen she hightailed to Nashville, wanting to make it big. That’s where she met Lesley. He said he’d make her a star.” a shuddering breath, then, “Overworked, unkempt, he killed her more like it. He wouldn’t let her call home, we all thought she’d died. For six years he used her, that beast, until he was done.” Mickey stops, sobbing, and leaning his forehead against his hands.

Piper licks at Mickey’s knees and Jack stares blankly.

“Lily vanished after that. Then, a few days ago, I got a letter from her landlady that she’d… that…” after a struggle, the next words come softly, like a whisper. “That Lily had died.”

Silence, thick as fog, falls, smothering every sound. Slowly, the river runs out, and Mickey manages to shut and bolt the door again. Wordlessly, he switches on the blinker, merging back into traffic.

* * *

As evening falls, neither of them says a word. The sky is a perfect mural of gold and purple. Armies of indigo clouds hover by the horizon, the scent of rain filling Jack’s lungs as he strokes Piper’s fur.

How is it possible that his hero did that to someone?

Though he can hardly believe the truth, he trusts Mickey. Anger flares up in his veins like bubbling lava as he pictures Lily, bone-weary and scarred. He can almost see that grinning scum’s face as he bends over the poor girl, clubbing music out of her throat like she’s some machine.

And that almost happened to me…

He looks over at Mickey. The old man’s wrinkles have deepened, and his hair seems as white as Grandma’s. Thinking about them, his family, the hatred inside begins to cool.

I shouldn’t have left them.

The sign for Nashville zooms over their heads, and Mickey begins turning down the off-ramp.

Jack’s heartbeat thuds as he makes his decision.

He reaches across the aisle, grips the wheel, and swerves them out of the lane. Pebbles fly over the wheel arches and horns blare.

“What are you doing?” Mickey yells, shoving him out of the way.

But it’s too late, they’ve missed their exit. The row of pine trees separating the two highways close over, thick and green.

“I’m not going.” Jack says firmly. “I’m going with you to see your sister.”

Mickey’s eyes widen, but he remains silent. He draws a hand to his face, covering his mouth. One word manages to squeeze out of the pressed fingertips: “Why?”

“I owe it to you. You saved my life, Mickey.” Jack pauses for a moment, thinking how best to put it. “I wasn’t going to my parents’. I was running away to make it in Nashville. I’d planned to send money home to my Mom and Grandma, but I didn’t realize, I never would’ve thought—”

“I know.”

Jack starts, taken aback, wondering if he means…

Mickey smiles weakly. “You’re not the first boy to hitchhike I-40, but you are the first to have made the best of it.”

A crackling chuckle escapes Mickey’s throat. Soon it grows into a rolling laugh. It’s contagious and Jack begins laughing, too. Their voices rise, brimming the cabin full of a sound it hasn’t heard in some long, long years.

“I’ll take you home after?”

Jack smiles, wiping at tears. “Yeah, sure.”