Nitro Mountain (25 page)

When it comes, the water's just what he needed, bringing him a little closer back to the world of the living. To warm up his throat he sings a couple by Hank, an Ernest Tubb, an early Haggard, and ends with his favorite Lefty:
I can't stand to see a good man go to waste…

All right. Now he's ready to go into his own stuff.

He flatpicks a lead into the new song, and this time it's more than just seeing the words on the paper; it's diving down and living in them:

If I had my way I'd leave here tomorrow

Hitch up a ride and ride on down to Mexico

But there's just one thing I gotta do

And I don't want murder on my soul

The melody slides off the strings without him thinking about it. The sound system works nice for what he's doing; you can hear the boom in his strum.

Some folks say there's two roads to follow

One leads to glory and the other down below

I tell you right now I see only one way

And if I stay here it's my grave

He leans back for another solo but doesn't take it, just chugs, and behind his rhythm, he can hear the old band.

Sometimes at night I wake up in your arms

Sometimes I feel your fingers on my skin

Every single night I wake up dreaming

Thinking where you are and who you're with

I don't want murder on my soul

I don't want murder on my soul

Just one thing I gotta do

And I don't want murder on my soul

He ends on a big chord and lets it ring out, listening to all the other instruments inside his own as the volume fades and the overtones mix.

Then the man at the bar yells, “That ain't yours, is it?”

“It is long as you like it.”

More people start showing up. Behind him, the dartboard that Larry turned into a clock reads ten after eight. They're sitting around tables now, or in the corners or huddled around Tiff at the bar. Two hours to go.

The crowd keeps thickening—no thanks to his music, just the hour—and though most folks are talking over him, he knows a few out there are listening. Always will be. He rolls through half his set, playing most of his originals and a few favorite standards. He checks his watch and it's time for a break. Let's go walk around and see who's here.

He's wedging his pick between the strings when Larry steps up onto the stage. “Sounded good,” he says.

“Man, I need to apologize.”

“I wanted you around tonight to make sure you're okay.” He's not looking at Jones while he talks to him, and because of this Jones knows he's for real. “And you're drinking water. That's good.”

Larry glances around the room and Jones can tell he's thinking of something else.

“That boy,” Larry says. “Leon. That was his body up there.”

There's nothing to say. It's impossible. But why does Jones feel like he knew all along? Maybe there's a song in it somewhere. But he ought to feel ashamed for even thinking like that.

“Get it done and get off,” Larry says. “No more messing around. Don't take a break. You're sleeping at my place tonight.”

“I still got to pay off my tab.”

“Shoot, I was just joking about that.”

“Tiff thought you were serious. She about dragged me over here.”

He follows Larry back to his house through the open country. With the far-off houses and the smell of Hickory Lake in the air, it should be a friendly night to be out in this warm valley, but he can't stop thinking about Leon, about Arnett, about the truth of how people live around here, how such ugly shit happens in this beautiful place. This county, his home, no longer feels like home. And that makes him feel at home.

He parks in the driveway next to Larry's Chevy and gets out of the van. The heat tonight, you can taste it. Wildflowers and black pepper. Countless miles of honeysuckle and kudzu vines twisting for life and strangling each other out at the same time.

“I should've grabbed some smokes on the way,” he says.

“I've got some stashed. Come on in. Let's talk about your music, what you plan on doing with yourself. How the hell you're going to get out there and out of here.”

In the kitchen, Larry pours two cups of coffee and hands one to Jones. “I'm talking about that heavier, darker stuff you're playing. You know? Not them antiques you're polishing but that low muck you like.
Murder on my soul
. Get it recorded. That song's worth more than your whole demo. Is it yours?”

“No.”

“Bullshit. I can tell when you're lying.”

“I wrote it. But.”

“But
fuck
. It's yours. Deal with it.”

“Look,” Jones says. “If talking about that song helps keep your mind off what's been going on around here, that's cool with me.”

“I don't think it's too far removed from what's going on around here. When you write it?”

“Recently.”

“Maybe last night? Because I swear, some of it really hits home.”

“No, before any of this stuff happened. Least before I heard about it.”

“God Lord Jesus and whoever the fuck else is up there working with him—well, this too shall pass, won't it?” He drums his fingers against the coffee mug. “It's a song that puts you in the flow. You're at that age. Hold on to it as long as you can.” He opens a toolbox beneath the sink and takes out a yellow pack of American Spirits.

“I don't know if that song's good,” Jones says. “I started just singing and it came out from under what I was already writing.”

“That's what I'm talking about. The flow. There's an undercurrent.” Larry hands him a cigarette.

He never heard Larry talk the mystical talk before, but he knew he had it in him. Deep down, Jones is excited about the song too, how it might get better as he plays it out more. Plus he's flattered to death. He keeps his face straight.

“You know, those Jaguars,” Larry says, “they're about to hit the road, going places nobody goes.”

“Except for me.”

“Even you haven't been there. These are big places. The Bluebird—”

“I
been
there. I
played
there.”

“One song for an open mic. I remember, I got you that gig. The Jags have a featured spot. Friday night. And their label just got them a bus.”

“Fuck
all
that shit. They'll be paying it off the rest of their lives. Or no, they won't, because they'll burn out broke. I'm tired of running around all over the place. Right here is where my songs come from.”

“Don't give me that Woody Guthrie squaktalk.”

“This's all I really know, Larry. Sure, I could go to Nashville or L.A. or New York and hustle my ass off, but I wouldn't get nothing done.”

“Nashville,” Larry says. “None of the others. I set up that show for the Jaguars and I'd be happy to put you on it. We got too much talent around here not to be sending it out. You're some of it. Now that the coal's gone, music's our only damn export.” He turns around and looks out the kitchen window. “You like the Jags the other night?”

“I did. They're vintage.”

“They're smart, too. They won't ever have to be sleeping in vans again. Guarantee you that.”

“Where all they going?”

“South, mostly. That Nashville show's yours if you want it.”

“No, man. No chance.”

“I'm happy to put you on it. I'd love to get you out by yourself. Like you were tonight.”

“I'd rather be here.”

“Bars burning down, booze-dick cheating.” Larry holds his hands out like he's weighing two meaningless things. “You know what, you're right. It's a little piece of heaven around here.” Larry looks at him until Jones looks down. “A boy died over this trifling bullshit. And you still like it here?”

“I'm sorry. But I do. You do too.”

“Shit,” Larry says. “Help yourself to more coffee and let's just go into the living room. Bring them smokes.”

Larry lights the candles arranged on top of the cast-iron woodstove, and he and Jones sit down on the leather couch.

“I like those,” Jones says.

“That's Sharon's thing.”

Framed LPs of local bands that Larry's booked and promoted are hung on the knotty pine walls like family photos. Jones recognizes some. Admires one or two.

Sharon comes floating halfway down the stairs in a pink tent-shaped nightgown. When she sees who else is here, she tells Larry, “Don't stay up too late.”

“Be up soon.”

“Er or later,” she says.

She drifts back upstairs and Jones hears the bedroom door shut.

“So,” he says, “old dogs can learn new tricks.”

“I'm a lucky man.” Larry bows his head. “First love, music,” he says. “Second, that lady.”

A candle pops and a line of wax draws down its side. They put their feet up on the coffee table. Jones could never stand living in a nest like this. But it's nice right now.

“You look worried,” Larry says. He's sunk in the recliner section, a mug of coffee balanced on his belly.

“It's nothing.”

“Jones. You couldn't have stopped any of this.”

“That supposed to be good news?”

There was one time he and Leon were quiet together, a fall night after they had played at Misty's. Jones was driving him back to his parents' place when he noticed the moon. A full round ember. “Let's stop and watch it,” he said.

“No matter to me,” Leon said.

Jones parked the van in the middle of the road on the Turkey Chunk bridge. They got out and sat on the railing.

The moon seemed to be sending out smoke. They sat there for a long time, Jones looking up, Leon looking down.

“You're missing it all,” Jones said.

“It's down there too,” Leon said. And when Jones looked down into the creek the light was pulsing off the water like mercury. A creek on fire in the moonlight. It felt dangerous to be sitting above it. And it was impossible to tell what Leon was thinking.

Larry goes into the kitchen and calls to Jones to go through the records and put something on. Larry's got hundreds of LPs leaning in the same direction along a board mounted to the wall, bookended by old torpedo-shaped window weights made of solid lead. Jones takes down some records that Larry taught him with—the Stanleys, Bill Monroe, Blue Sky Boys, the Lilly Brothers, Flatt and Scruggs. He pulls black vinyl out of a Hylo Brown sleeve and studies its grooves.

“That's a good one.” Larry points, sits down and dumps a few green buds into his palm from a plastic film container. “A little piece of the rain forest,” he says, then mixes it with some tobacco and rolls a spliff.

Jones puts on the record and they toke up, the sticky smoke curling into the air. Larry brings them more coffee, and Jones's mind eases into a comfortable place he knows and likes.

After “Lost to a Stranger” Larry gets up and lifts the needle. “Doesn't get better than that.”

“I know it,” Jones says. “I'd like to start doing that one myself.”

“But that's the problem. It's been done so many times, perfected to a point of imperfection. If you polish it any more you'll wear a hole right through.” Larry's stoned, on a roll. “All those songs? Antique furniture.”

The weed's working on Jones too. “I hear you,” he says. “But that's what I learned on. Hell, you taught me most of them.”

Larry holds up his left hand. “I didn't teach you nothing. I just let you listen. You're better now than I ever was.”

“Bull. I wouldn't know the first thing if it wasn't for those songs.”

“Then keep playing them. Just not onstage. They can't carry you as far as you're looking to go.”

“What makes you think you know how far I'm looking to go?”

“I'm not talking about you, Jones. I'm talking about your
songs
.”

“Well,” he says. “Maybe you're smart.”

“Listen to this one.” Larry puts on a classic
.

Jones nods along to Hank's guitar chuck. He likes this song, but then there's this line:
It's hard to know another's lips will kiss you, and hold you close—.
“Now see, listen, right there.” Jones points. “That line. There's something wrong in it.”

“Sounds good to me,” Larry says, and right then Jones feels his gut drop: he's gone past the only man who believes in him, who saw him through it all and still wants to. Listen to that verse. It's good, but it's a little off. Maybe Larry can't help him with these bigger things anymore.

He waits for Larry to answer, then realizes he hasn't even asked a question. “Well,” he says, taking a sip from the mug and holding it against his chest. “I think fire, when it's hot enough, lets off a kind of release. Like there's this lowness that opens.” He has no idea what he's talking about.

“You need to get out of here for a little while, Jones. What're you planning to do for money?”

“I don't know. Haul trash. Sell blood.”

“Tell you what. I got a basement full of junk that I'll pay you to make disappear. And then you need to get on the tour circuit.”

“Me and that van can work all kinds of trash magic.”

“Good, then,” Larry says. “We got a plan. Shit, I'm falling asleep here. I'll see you in the morning.”

When Larry goes upstairs, Jones blows the candles out and lies on the couch, his mind racing over song ideas and all the different ways you can arrange a verse. He sees Nitro Mountain through the window. Barely visible, but there. A bump in the night with a little red light at the top. He'll never get to sleep looking at that.