The Achilles Heel (25 page)

The knocker again. “We are digging?” he wrote.

I shooed him away and had finally started making some progress when the current suddenly
kicked up. The coral blew backwards, almost completely lying on its side, and the
sand whirled in circles as a wave pushed past us. Hutch grabbed the shovel out of
my hand and clipped us both to the descending line with a D-ring as I filled my free
hand full of seaweed and held on tight until the series of waves passed; both of us
like plastic bags kicked up by the wind, twirling and dancing under the water.

Hutch was immediately in my face, vigorously giving me the OK and expecting it back.
Once it was over, I thoroughly enjoyed the rush of adrenaline, and was actually having
fun.

The knocker. “Let me,” he wrote, and then held up the shovel in one hand and his oxygen
gauge in the other.

I held up one finger to signify that I had one thousand pounds of air left, about
thirty minutes and again the OK; he went to digging, doing a better job than me.

It seemed like an eternity of bobbing up and down clipped to the line as time drug
slower than a prison sentence, when I finally heard, THUNK, THUNK, THUNK. The density
of the sound was thick and slowly traveled through the water, like someone throwing
dirt onto a casket. I unclipped and threw myself onto the hole that Hutch had made.
He stepped back, resembling an astronaut walking on the moon with sand floating up
around his flippers.

I reached into the hole and fingered around until I found a handle.
Holy shit! Jack, you son of a bitch, what have you got for me?
A surge of power raced through my nervous system.
Screw that dismal woman-child, shriveling on her couch like a Boston fern wearing
the same heinous sweatpants day after day. I’m intelligent and strong, and I will
never wallow in self-pity again. Stay calm, Annie, keep focused!
I reminded myself.

Jiggling the handle back and forth, just like with the box in my basement, I traced
my fingers around the hard rectangle shape. Wiggle-trace, wiggle-trace; I moved in
a measured pattern until I looked down at my air gauge and noticed it was at five
hundred pounds. My air was low because in all the excitement, I’d forgotten to steady
my breathing, and we still had to ascend slowly to the surface to avoid a sickness
called “the bends.” But I’d rather die from the bends than leave this box behind.
Keeping to my sequence, with a small tug later, I freed the box from its watery grave
in the Caribbean.

As I ecstatically pulled some sort of hard case out of the ocean floor, I turned around
to see the expanding whites of Hutch’s bulbous eyes, like two scratch balls from a
pool table had been shoved into his scuba mask. I pointed up and started to ascend,
but he grabbed my wrist tightly and shook his head no. We had to follow the rules
of ascension, and he wore a watch which beeped if we moved to the surface too quickly,
so I let him lead the way.

As we got closer to the waterline, I heard the rain coming down, splattering into
millions of droplets across the water above. It reminded me of the sound a record
player makes when the needle gets to the end of an album, like soft static; it was
beautiful.

When we popped up on the surface, I looked around to make sure we were alone and then
let out a squeal.

“I take it you found what you were looking for?” Hutch asked while spitting water,
unable to control his excitement for me.

“We’ll see.” I giggled.

The swim back to the beach was long, but we were already half way there by the time
we actually surfaced. I held onto the case so tightly, my hand almost fell asleep.
When we finally reached the beach, we both crumbled into sandy piles of exhaustion.
I was physically spent, but also filled with hope. I have found, even if you have
nothing but hope, you somehow find the strength to keep going. However, instead of
pondering the possibilities of the contents of this box, I could only picture Kessler’s
face. This was the most exciting day I’d had, maybe ever, and strangely enough, it
was him I wanted to share the excitement with instead of Jack, and the feeling caught
me off guard.

“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” Hutch asked excitedly.

“Can’t. Don’t have the key,” I said smiling.
Not yet anyway.

“I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t have a fucking clue about today, but it sure
was fun!” he raved, slapping his thighs and gathering our gear.

The drive was pretty quiet until the truck came to a complete stop back at the Soggy
Bottom parking lot, and Hutch turned to me and said, “Annie, we’ve only started to
get acquainted, but I learned a lot about getting a feel for people when I was in
the military; in fact it was my job, and you seem to be good people. I’ve got to tell
you though, I don’t think you have any idea what’s in that box, but you went to an
awful lot of trouble to get it. It’s none of my business; nothing much is, but if
you ever need help with anything, please consider me your ally, and know I’ll do what
I can for you.”

“I appreciate that, Hutch, and I’ll take it to heart. Thank you for taking me out
today. I don’t think you’ll ever know how much you’ve already helped me,” I said,
handing him his payment for the dive, plus a two hundred dollar tip.

KESSLER

R
iver Rock Records is the tallest building on Music Row, with green glass covering
the outside of the partial brick building, giving off a pompous stench that’s frequently
discussed amongst musicians, especially those who were passed up on a record deal.
There is some truth to the gossip though; it just doesn’t fit into the history that
saturates Music Row. On the other hand, it’s a shining example of the kind of future
expected for the Nashville Sound.

Music Row is a ten block radius of interconnecting alleyways that house hundreds of
businesses related to country music, and centered upon two main streets, Sixteenth
and Seventeenth Avenue-Music Square East and Music Square West. It’s the heart that
beats inside the chest of anyone who cranks up the volume to their favorite country
song; they just don’t know it. Record labels, recording studios, licensing firms,
publishing houses and radio stations all come together in this small radius, to entice
you to love a song enough to buy it. Music Row is to country music what Cooperstown
is to baseball. All that said, I have created a wonderful family through ten years
of memories in these ten blocks, and I was sure as hell gonna miss them.

I caught my reflection walking up to the glass double doors, and saw a haggard man
staring back at me. The bags under my eyes, a pastel color to my face, and an overall
slouch in my demeanor was not the way a twenty-five hundred dollar Tom Ford suit is
meant to make you feel. I dressed in it this morning because I usually felt like a
rock star in this baby, but maybe firing your music family is more Big Smith overalls,
rather than a Tom Ford suit kind of day.

Six years ago, I signed a Three Sixty deal with River Rock, and to say that I had
fulfilled my contract is an understatement; I blew it out of the water. I signed an
album deal guaranteeing to record four records with the option to make more if we
both wanted to keep going, otherwise I would be a free agent. In the old days, being
famous was very compartmentalized, but now record companies are offering Three Sixty
deals which are an all-encompassing package, where no job is outsourced; everything
from the album, tour press and online media is handled in-house. With this kind of
deal everyone is on the take, and we all make more money by cutting out the middle
man. I was ready to get off this merry-go-round, and I knew a lot of other people’s
jobs would end with mine. I just needed to rip the Band-Aid and get the hell out of
there, so I asked Wade to meet me at our favorite Mexican dive, SATCO, in an hour.
I didn’t plan on staying any longer than that.

I’ll be goddamned if it wasn’t just business as usual, and then our partnership was
over. It’s not like I expected them to beg me to stay (well, I kind of did) or throw
me a going away party, but I couldn’t help feeling like I’d just been fucked then
kicked out of bed.

That’s it? I’ve been working myself into knots over, “Our lawyers will send over the
paperwork.” Jesus, maybe Mama D was right, and I think too highly of myself, ‘cause
that was a kick in the balls.

I changed into jeans and my favorite LSU hoodie and headed down Twenty-First Avenue
to meet Wade. He was already into his first stack of tacos when I walked onto the
deck and saw him through the window.

San Antonio Taco Company, or SATCO as the locals have dubbed it, is a little Tex-Mex
joint located right next door to Vanderbilt University and Music Row. You order your
tacos like you would sushi, and every time I’m downtown, I never miss an opportunity
to eat here.

“Well, how’d it go? You a free man?” Wade asked, with a mouth full of taco.

“Yeah, I guess so, but I thought you told me they were gonna beg me to stay,” I stated.

“They were, but if your answer is no, then they gotta move on. Shit, man, what do
you care anyway? Isn’t this what you wanted? From what I heard in the living room
yesterday, sounds like you’ve got yourself a little lady problem you should be turning
your attention towards instead,” he said, with a know-it-all smirk across his face.

“Annie,” I crooned, as my face lit up and a smile spread to my cheeks that I couldn’t
have stopped, even if I’d wanted to.

“Oh, shit,” Wade scoffed, shaking his head. “Please
do not
tell me you think you love this girl.”

“I know I do, Wade.”

“As a guy, I’m gonna tell you that you’re acting like a pussy; getting all sloppy
over some chick you barely know, and it’s disgracing our entire gender. As your friend
and someone who talks a big game but’s been faithfully married to the same woman for
twenty years, when you know‌—‌you know. What I don’t understand is, why you’re sitting
at a Mexican dive at eleven o’clock in the morning eating tacos with me, when you
should be high-tailing it back to St. Croix to fuck your brains out for the next two
weeks,” he said with a smile.

“I gotta go, buddy.” I quickly stuffed my uneaten tacos into a bag to take with me,
then stretched my arm across the table and smacked Wade in the mouth. He was right,
and I loved him for his honesty, but mostly, I just wanted to piss him off.

“Now, dammit, I told you to stop slappin’ me!” he hollered, as he threw his taco down
on the table. “If there’s a picture of that in the newspaper, I’m gonna be all kinds
of pissed!” he yelled, but I was already through the doors and sprinting to my car.
I had to run home first, but I could be landing in St. Croix by three o’clock, and
I was overwhelmed with excitement to make it happen.

ANNIE

I
sat stewing in disbelief on my kitchen counter, staring across the room at the black
box that was virtually empty except for a Ziploc bag. The weight of the case fooled
me into thinking treasures would be spilling out of it when I finally got it open,
but there were only two things locked inside‌—‌a picture and of course, another key.
I guess I thought the contents would be a little more exciting. The picture was of
three men and one woman sitting at a table in a café. It was faded and looked like
it was taken at least a decade ago, probably in the nineties, and the only reason
it held my attention was because a young, handsome, and tanned-faced Jack Whitman
was in it. My breath was literally taken away to see him again. After Jack died, I
tried to get my hands on any picture he was in, especially if I had never seen it
before, and they were hard to come by. Jack was never the kind of husband who whipped
out the camera and said, “Let’s take a picture!” I usually had to beg him, and that
always annoyed me, but once again, Jack isn’t smiling at the camera; no one in the
picture was smiling. In fact, it looks like none of these people even knew their picture
was being taken. On the back were two separate lines written in pen, both containing
random numbers.

Enough with the numbers! I was a Parks and Recreation major in college, not a fucking
mathematician.

I researched a Pelican Case on Google and found it is made to be submerged underwater
while protecting the contents; the information didn’t disappoint because the inside
of this box was as dry as crappy merlot. I was one hundred percent sure the key I
found in the lockbox from my basement was going to be the same key that unlocked this
case; I was right. Once again, I didn’t fully understand the contents, but I did know
if this picture needed to be buried in the ocean, I’d better keep it safe.

Every part of my body screamed, “
Stop what you’re doing! This is not a normal day in someone’s life. Let go and move
on!”
But my mind would just continue to spin scenarios until I eventually drove myself
crazy or until someone came looking for this case. I pulled on my shoes and turned
up the music; I needed to run.

Approaching the last hill, which I had dubbed “The Beast,” I was mentally exhausted
with still no real formulation of a plan for myself. I had another key, but no clues
to guide me in the right direction.

What do I do next?
I asked myself over and over as I ran along East End Road.

Once the hill crested, I caught a glimpse of a car in my driveway. My initial reaction
was to turn and run, but honestly, I just didn’t have the energy. I crouched behind
a palm tree to get a better look; it was a red Jeep.

Oh, my God! It can’t be!

My heartbeat felt like stones skipping across a pond, and my face instantly stretched
into a panicked smile, totally forgetting about my little dilemma.

He came back. Holy shit, he came back for me!

I stood at the top of The Beast, pinching my hand to make sure this was really happening
when I saw him; arms folded over his chest and feet kicked out, leaned against his
Jeep, making sexy look effortless. Finding him standing in my driveway felt like seeing
my best friend in a crowd of strangers, and it was confirmed at that moment‌—‌I was
falling for him. He noticed me and started walking towards the edge of the driveway.
I’m not sure what came over me, and I’ve only seen this done in movies, but I took
off into a sprint and jumped into his arms, wrapping my legs tightly around his waist.
He picked my five-five, hundred and twenty pound frame up into the air with such ease;
my heart and body were literally soaring.