Going Home

The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place
where we can go as we are and not be questioned.
― Maya Angelou

The Long Road Home

“Want a drink, Hon?”

She’s one of those country bargirls I figure is supporting a lazy boyfriend—and judging by lines around her eyes, she’s close to forty.

“Naw, I’m kinda between gigs.”

She pushes back a stray wisp of blonde hair and I can see she looks pretty.

“I didn’t ask for a job application—it’s on the house—what’s your poison?”

I smirk, “In that case, how about a C. C. Rider?”

She slants me a baleful look. “I take it you mean Canadian Club—you got rich taste for a honky tonk country singer.”

I smile my charming smile and she slaps down a tumbler and pours two fingers of the good stuff I rarely get to drink.

“And don’t go flashing those pearly whites—I’m just being kind cause Cal—well, Cal can be real mean, you know?”

I nod and look repentant—that pose is my one-two punch—gets them every time, if they’re interested, that is.

But she may be kind-hearted cause I see her splash a little extra in an old guy’s drink at the end of the bar.

He looks up bleary-eyed and smiles, “Why thanks, LeAnn!”

I’m not sure that’s her name or he figures she looks like LeAnn Rimes—but if that’s the case, he’s dead wrong—she’s prettier.

Cal finally waddles out from the office in the back—he’s got to be three hundred pounds and has a mean streak more ugly than the jagged scar down his cheek—I’ve seen those tracks and I know broken beer bottles do that.

He sits down beside me wheezing and motions for LeAnn to drop him a drink. He’s sizing me up all the while.

“Caught your set at Hoots Hollow the other night,” he deadpans.

“Don’t say—how’d you like it?”

“Music’s okay, but voice is kinda pitchy—know what I mean? You’re the type doesn’t hit the notes—sort of sing between the keys,” he starts to wheeze and laugh.

“Ha ha, you kinda fall between the cracks in the piano keys.” His eyes are watering.

“Is that a fact? Well, that’s my way—and I like it.”

He looks at me quizzically as Blondie drops his drink.

“How’s that?”

“You see, I sing it real. I sing between the cracks because that’s where the truth settles, like dirt that gets under your finger nails.”

I watch Blondie’s eyes and see her repress a grin.

“So, you’re just like all these old boys around here—not afraid of the soil?”

“That’s me,” I smile.

He tilts his head in my direction and Blondie drops two fingers of CC in my glass.

“Hell, is that what you’re drinking, boy? You’re going need to sing a lot of country blues to pay that bill.”

“I’m available for the week.”

He gets up and grabs his drink. “You’re hired. Tell LeAnn to advance you a coupla hundred and we’ll settle up on Saturday night.”

LeAnn flashes me a thumbs-up. I think I’m going to like it here.

I get a deal on a motel room for the week—Cal’s got some arrangement with the owner.

I spend the morning driving around Bill’s Corners—well, actually, the countryside. The town consists of one stoplight and a few hundred residents, but it’s a truck stop on a busy secondary road, and at night it’s hopping.

After a while the towns all look the same—and the people too. That’s when I start pointing my F150 in the direction of The Big Smoke and Bonnie, and wend my way home.

The way I live is not for everyone—watching towns fade into dust in a rearview mirror. Bonnie hates it, but she’s stayed faithful down through the years.

We’ve been going on ten years now and she keeps waiting for me to grow up—but it’s not just the music—it’s the travelling and the road that’s got my soul.

Besides, I don’t know how it would work—going home. I realized the other day all my memories are melodies—and photos with the GPS turned off.

I’m flying under the radar in more ways than one—leaving women my cell number on rolling papers and not answering when they call.

The women are either wild or sweet like LeAnn, but I always go home.

What I like best though is writing my songs and hanging out with other musicians.

Most people think country singers are cut-throat—like they’d drive over you in an eighteen wheeler if you got in their way—but it’s not like that.

Sometimes we sit around till three or four in the morning jamming and playing our songs—and when I play something good they’ll get thoughtful and cry, or laugh along and be as proud as if it were their own.

That’s the side of country I’ve seen. But lately, I’m getting tired of all the honky tonks and bars and women whose names I forget the moment I leave.

It’s just after two am and the joint’s finally emptied. Cal’s counting his take and LeAnn’s waiting for me to pack up my equipment.

I’m feeling rusty like I’ve had too much of people, and don’t want to go back to the motel with LeAnn—just want to go home to bed.

An aching starts inside me as it always does when I’ve had enough and I know the gig is over.

My cell rings and I check the Caller ID and see it’s Bonnie. A cloud of guilt overshadows me, but I push it away and pick up.

“Hi Babe—it’s kinda late—what’s up?”

“It’s not Bonnie, Charley—it’s Jackie.”

Jackie is Bonnie’s best friend. I feel a tingle of fear start up my spine.

“Jackie—is anything wrong?”

“Yeah, Charley—Bonnie was in an accident coming home from work—she’s in St. Joe’s Hospital in intensive care.”

I’m afraid to ask, but have to. “What’s her condition?”

“Not good, Charley. She’s in a coma. The doctors think you should come.”

“Okay, okay.” My brain’s working at light speed, processing images. I see our entire life pass before me.

“Look,” she says, “I’m going to stay until you get here—how long do you figure that will be?”

I know driving at the limit will take three hours. “I’ll be there just after four," I lie.

“Hey, Charley—don’t kill yourself getting here. I’m with her. Be careful.”

“I will.”

I’m already heading out the door. LeAnn catches my eye and one glance says it all. We’ll be frozen forever in this moment, caught in the amber goo of sin.

“Take care,” she shouts and I nod to acknowledge her words.

Out on the back roads, there’s no limit and no police patrol. I flick on the high beams and set the cruise control to a hundred on roads posted seventy.

Even pushing it, I’ll be lucky to make it to the hospital by five am.

As the miles flow by I start replaying our lives—Bonnie at eighteen, so beautiful, I couldn’t believe my luck.

I was ten years her senior then, and just coming off a bad breakup—five years with Sarah and I was still grieving.

It took me a long five years to put my old relationship behind me, but Bonnie stayed on because she loved me –and maybe the truth is, she simply wanted to win and not be left behind.

A light rain begins to fall and the road goes shiny and blurry, partly from the rain and partly from my tears.

I disable the cruise control, tromp the gas pedal and when I hit Highway 401, open it up and bury the speedometer needle.

At four thirty I make it to the intensive care. Jackie buries her tear-stained face in my shoulder.

“Is she okay?” I ask.

She can barely speak, but nods. “She’s the same—still out.”

The doctor appears and takes me aside.

“She’s stable, but in a coma. The next twelve hours are critical. We stabilized her, but she’s not breathing on her own.”

“What do you think, Doc—what are her chances?”

“It’s too early to make a prognosis—best thing you can do is be with her—talk to her. Sometimes comatose patients can hear loved ones’ voices and it helps.”

My eyes fill up. I can’t speak, just nod. He pats my arm to encourage me.

I want to let out everything inside, but can’t. I’ve got to be there to support Bonnie—be strong—talk to her.

When I go into the room I feel sick. She’s lying there in a green hospital gown hooked up to all these machines graphing lines and making beeps.

I feel overwhelmed.

A nurse comes by and brings me a chair. I sit down in a daze beside the bed. I wait till the nurse goes back out.

I hold Bonnie’s hand and it’s warm and soft. “Hey, Babe. I’m here.”

No response.

“Jackie called. It’s going to be all right. I’m going to stay right here until you wake up.”

No flicker of eyelashes, no faint squeeze of the hand. Nothing.

I feel panic rise inside and push it down—wait till my heart slows.

I have no idea what to do—I’m as helpless as her lying there in the bed opposite me.

I think of that basement apartment we had when we first married. I was so proud of her and so in love.

We’d come home exhausted, tired out from work, and just lie on the bed—and I’d hold her hand—like now.

I’d lie there beside her as she fell asleep. She has this adorable habit of tucking in her thumb—but not now. Now, her hand’s limp and white, and feels like someone else’s hand.

Maybe feels like LeAnn’s.

I squeeze my eyes really tight willing the thought to go away, but it doesn’t, and when I open my eyes she’s still lying motionless in the bed opposite me.

I try talking to her—retelling our life story—confessing my sins, wanting to make amends to her …again.

I can picture her face, as she’d sit there, squint her eyes, and say, Uh huh. That’s Bonnie all right—always saw right through me and didn’t believe a word I said.

Even I realize how futile it all sounds—how weak the excuses are and know there is no way I can make her understand what she really means to me.

Love, oh love, oh careless love.

“It all went south, Babe, when I got out on the road and got lost in that culture. Country music was a language I had to speak and a way to do the things I had to do. I don’t expect you to understand, because I don’t—not really.”

I look over at her face and swear she’s listening. There’s no movement—more like the way cloud shadows flit across a pond and reflect back the mood of the sky. So, I blunder on.

“Sure, maybe you’re right about me being a hopeless romantic, lost in a breakfast cereal commercial of the perfect life—but at least I had half of it—a perfect wife.”

She’d roll her eyes about now, take a deep breath, sigh and shake her head in disbelief that a man could be so dumb.

“Just give me one more chance, Babe—one more chance in a lifetime of chances—hate me if you want, but just breathe!”

She gives a slight gasp and her eyes flutter open—I’m aching so deep I can’t speak.

She pats my hand and whispers, “I heard everything and I’m holding you to it.”

I want her to do that. I need her more than she knows.

There's a stone in my heart that breaks and crumbles...

I let go of the road and come home.

To be continued…

© 2024, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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