Blasting force and I can’t hide.
Tumble down,
Rocks below,
Can’t hold back,
Here I go,
Did I say I want adventure?
Want the world to open wide?
Grab on where my songs can take me
And embrace the rising tide.
My songs had taken me away from Lee, in the end. My biggest regret, until now, and yet a choice I’d made with my eyes wide open. I’d had so much luck and loss in the twenty years since, rising and falling in the music world, but Lee had lingered like the fading scent of roses in my head. Now, of course, I’d done far worse than walk away from a man with a kind heart. I’d hit those rocks, and not the ones I expected. I’d dashed another life to bits on them. I wondered, as I played the instrumental bridge and let the words die, if this tide would drown me.
My phone buzzed. I set the guitar aside and reached for it, realizing my fingertips stung.Unknown number.I’d learned to answer those, in this process of navigating courts and laws. Which of course meant I’d answered every telemarketer and sleazeball journalist around. I hung up on a dozen calls a day. I tapped the green. “Who is it?”
“Mr. Griffin Marsh?” a man asked.
“This is he.” My lawyer told me never to say “Yes” to random callers who might record me and misuse the word for fraud.
“I’m Officer Daniels, your assigned parole officer. We need to set up your initial meeting. I’ll explain the rules, and we’ll plan your community service.”
I straightened my shoulders, even though he couldn’t see me. “Yes, of course. When and where?” Apparently, staying onthe good side of your parole officer might mean the difference between pleasant community service and permission to travel, versus two years of cleaning toilets. I was generally good with strangers, but I had a hell of a lot more incentive here. “You name it.”
“Are you currently working?”
“I’m a performer. I have no gigs at the moment.” I’d backed out of almost all my commitments beyond this date. Better to give notice far enough ahead to be replaced, rather than earn a name as a no-show deadbeat criminal. The music biz was all about your reputation, so I’d done the honorable thing.
Except Rocktoberfest. That invitation was far enough out and precious enough I’d kept it, just in case. October. I had no clue what my life would look like three months from now. I told Daniels, “My time’s pretty open.”
“Tomorrow, eleven a.m., then. The sooner we run your plan by the judge, the sooner you can get started on your hours. I’ll text you’re the address and room info.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be there.”
He cut the call without a goodbye. A minute later, my phone pinged with an incoming message.
Tomorrow. One more step in this nightmare journey I’d set into motion in a stupid, careless instant. But was it nightmare enough? Did I deserve a calm if brisk voice on the phone, asking about my prior commitments? I’d cleaned toilets a few times in the dozens of brief jobs I’d held and dropped, quitting when a conflicting gig opened up somewhere. Would I feel better if Daniels did set me to manual labor? Did I deserve to feel better?
The swirl of that repetitive mess in my head made me close my eyes.Don’t think. Don’t think.I should probably eat, but my stomach said a hard no to that.Don’t think.I resettled the guitar on my knees, pressed my tender fingertips to the strings, and played on.
Chapter 2
Lee
“You’re such a kind young man.” Mr. Vincent’s words would’ve been more welcome if they hadn’t come with an attempt to grab my butt. Also if he wasn’t white-haired and forty-plus years older than me, making “young man” a relative term.
I dodged the eighty-three-year-old’s groping fingers and arranged the pillows behind his head. “How does that feel?”
“Divine.” He smiled, his dentures white and perfect in his lined face.
I worried about Mr. Vincent— Jerry, but he preferred to be called by his last name. Maybe because that felt like respect? He was nominally straight, a widower after forty years of marriage to his wife, Shirley. Their oldest daughter, his sole visitor, prayed over him ostentatiously every time she came to the nursing home. But the more confused he got, the more fey his words and tone became and the more his hands wandered. And not toward the female nurses. I could imagine a family crisis coming. I hoped he’d be lucky and his daughter would never notice.
“Do you need more water? Some juice? A few crackers? A cookie?” I lifted his bedside water cup and assessed the contents. Half full and still cool to the touch. We didn’t normally encourage the residents who were able to get up to snack in bed,but more calories would be good for Mr. Vincent. He’d grown frailer as the months passed.
