Tumultus (31 page)

Mac shrugged, his eyes looking into his half full drink glass containing a brand of whiskey the godfather had recommended to him earlier.

“Sure.  I don’t know…maybe it was more a feeling of wanting to see it one last time.  You know, before I got too old.  I do miss it though.  The warm weather.  The smell of the trees, the food and the music.  It wasn’t the perfect place.  We had our problems just like anywhere else, but it was my place.  My home.  My people, and yeah…a part of me always felt like I’d go back.”

The woman who had walked to the stage moments earlier was singing a song she had introduced as “Freight Train” by an artist named Elizabeth Cotton.  The crowd grew quiet as her soft voice strained to carry the lyrics out across to those seated at the nightclub tables.

Freight train, Freight train, run so fast
Please don't tell what train I'm on
They won't know what route I've gone
When I am dead and in my grave
No more good times here I crave
Place the stones at my head and feet
Tell them all that I've gone to sleep.
When I die, Lord, bury me deep
Way down on old Chestnut street
Then I can hear old Number 9
As she comes rolling by.

When the woman finished, the godfather stood up and clapped, bowed toward her and began clapping again.  Soon, most everyone else in the club followed the godfather’s example and began clapping as well.

“That’s Nancy Briggs.  Sweet thing from Long Island New York.  About the shyest little lady you’ll ever meet, but the voice of an angel.  Took me months to get her to sing in front of anyone, but now we can’t keep her off the stage.  Lovely woman.”

Imran tapped the top of the table to get Mac’s attention.

“Mac said he might sing for us tonight.  He plays guitar.”

The godfather smiled down at Mac as he snapped a finger.

“That’s right!  Imran mentioned that to me the other day.  So tell me, Mac, will you do us the honor of singing something for tonight?  Whatever you want – singer’s choice.  Maybe it’ll be the deciding factor in me helping you out with convincing the Russian to take you to Manitoba.  How about it Mac – see if you sing and play as well as you fight?  Maybe a little Dean Martin?”

Mac looked to the stage and then back to the godfather.

“I don’t sing Dean Martin.  No offense – not my style.”

The godfather smiled again as he leaned down to tap Mac’s shoulder.

“That’s ok!  Whatever you want, Mac.  Like I said – singer’s choice.”

Reese urged Mac to sing, and was soon joined by Dublin and Bear.  Even Cooper Wyse added to the request as he tilted his head toward the stage.

“C’mon, Mac.  Let’s see what you got.”

Mac shook his head no.

“Don’t have a guitar.  Can’t sing without a guitar. Sorry.”

The godfather motioned for Marcini to come to the table.

“Marcini, go get Mac the guitar from upstairs.”

Mac began to feel as if he had walked into another trap.

“Yeah…I mean NO.  I play acoustic yes, but I don’t know about singing for everyone.  That was something I did for the people back in Dominatus.  Now…”

Mac’s voice trailed off as the godfather sat down again, his right arm reaching out to grab Mac’s wrist.

“Mr. Walker, I appreciate your uncertainty.  I know this place has to seem odd to you.  I know I seem odd to you, but at the end of the day, we’re just people like you had in Dominatus.  Trying to survive and prosper as much as we can while the world around us chokes on its own brutality.  How about another little side wager between us?  You get your old ass up there and sing a song, and I guarantee you I do my best to ensure you get  use of the train.”

Imran’s eyes locked with Mac’s, urging him to agree to the terms.

Mac looked to the others and found they too were expecting him to accept.

“Oh, hell, fine then.  Get me a guitar and I’ll sing for my supper and that goddamn train ride.”

Marcini returned carrying the guitar the godfather had him retrieve.  Upon seeing it, Mac’s eyes widened as he took the instrument form Marcini’s hands and gently set it on his lap.

“Is this real?  A Gibson L-2?  They stopped making these over a hundred years ago!”

Mac’s hand brushed the guitar strings.

“It’s real.  One of the few things I have left from my family.  Was my grandfather’s.  He brought it to America in 1935 when they fled Italy before the war.  Mr. Walker, I would be honored to have you play it for me.  I, unfortunately…I never learned.”

Mac turned the guitar over in his hands, then began to lightly strum the strings and adjust the tuning before abruptly pausing.

“Is it ok if I tune it?  She needs just a little love.”

The godfather took another sip of his wine while managing to simultaneously nod his head.

“Of course, as long as I get to hear you play it.”

Mac became momentarily lost in the tuning of the guitar.  It was the finest acoustic he had ever touched, let alone had the opportunity to play.  The aged wood had a dull, light colored sheen to it, and it smelled of a world and a way of life too long forgotten in this modern era of global governance.  Mac regretted his earlier judgment against the godfather’s character.  The man wasn’t insane, simply nostalgic – a yearning for a better and simpler time Mac understood all too well himself.  A time when those you once loved were again alive, and well, and still part of your own life.

Mac rose from his seat with the guitar clutched in his right hand as he made the short walk to the stage area.  Even before he put his feet atop the raised platform, the audience inside the nightclub was cheering for him.

Turning to face the microphone, Mac felt a twinge of pain shoot down to his lower back, causing him to wince.

“If it’s ok with all of you, I’d like to sit down here while I play.  That little demonstration we had for you earlier has me all tuckered out.”

Again the people of Wilfrid cheered and clapped for Mac as Marcini placed a stool next to him.

Mac eased himself down onto the stool while resting the guitar on the top of his thighs.

“You know, just a little over an hour ago, I was thinking to myself how insane this place was.  How stupid and silly all the old cars and everything…well…you know how you got this town set up.  I’m starting to get it now, though.  I really am.  When I was younger, I wasn’t much for talking.  Sure as hell not for talking in front of a bunch of people like you.  I’m old enough now though…plenty old enough, that I know I’m running out of time to say the things I want to say.  I kinda wish I had taken that time to say those things to people who deserved to hear it before it was too late.”

Mac paused as he gathered his thoughts, while all of the faces seated in front of him watched intently for what he would say next. 

“You see, you live long enough, you realize just how many people you loved are no longer with you anymore.  Maybe back when they were still around, you let all the other things get in the way of letting them know how much they meant to you.  Or, you let your fears, or arrogance, or resentment, speak for you because the words just seemed like too much trouble.  I don’t know.  I really don’t.  I’m just an old man now, sitting up here, talking nonsense.  Or at least for some of you, it comes off sounding like that.  I promise you though, some day, you’ll understand.  At least some of it – you really will.

“The one you all call the godfather, sitting right there, he promised to help us get where we need to go if I sing you a little song.  Now I ain’t played much since…since Dominatus was blown to hell by the drones a couple years back.  We made them pay a price for that though. We fought back.  I was told most you already heard about that.”

Mac was interrupted by a smattering of applause that soon grew in volume. There was no love for the New United Nations in this room.  He waited for the room to go quiet and then continued.

“Now a long time ago, I was just a kid from a middle class American family in a small, Mississippi River town of Carville, Louisiana.  I grew up riding my bike, and trading baseball cards, and getting into just enough trouble to keep things interesting, while trying to keep out of too much trouble so my dad didn’t take the belt to me.  Back then I sometimes thought how dull and boring my life was.  How annoying and overly strict my parents could be at times.  I dreamed of being free of all that.  Free of them.  Free of that life.

“Now it seems most my dreams are filled with wishing I had that life back…had my parents back.  What I wouldn’t do to see my mom and dad just one more time.  Tell them thanks.  Tell them I loved them.  Goddamn do I miss them something terrible.”

Mac paused again as he looked down at this feet while his fingers began to strum the guitar. When he looked back up, he spotted Dublin wiping tears away from her eyes, and felt a momentary pang of guilt for making her cry.

“I have new family these days though – those of us who walked out of Dominatus alive.  I’m doing my best to protect them, at least as much as a tired, used up old man can.  So I guess I should sing you a song.  Again, I apologize if my playing isn’t so good.  Even at its best, it wasn’t much.  And I know I can’t sing for shit, but whatever.  Here’s a song I remember my dad singing along to in the car on the way to what he called our secret fishing hole just outside Carville.  It was just a small nothing pond tucked away among the trees just off a little gravel road where you could hook into a decent sized catfish now and then.  If we caught some fish, we’d bring ‘em back to Mom and she’d fry them up for dinner while Dad would keep telling her we were eating for free because I’d brought home the catch of the day.  Every time he’d say it, the taste of that fish just got better and better.

“Seems like the older I get, it’s those little memories that grow bigger and bigger in my heart.  I’ve done a hell of a lot of wrong in my life, but it’s those memories that keep reminding me of the right I’ve done too.  Maybe some of you can relate.”

Mac began to pluck more forcefully at the guitar strings, the chords soon enveloping the nightclub.  His eyes closed as he raised his head just slightly, his mind focusing on the lyrics of a song that was much more memory than music to him, his roughened whisper voice reaching back to the people and places of many decades ago as he struggled to inhale enough breath from cancer-laden lungs to sing into the microphone.

There is… a house… in New Orleans,
They call the Rising Sun.
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy,
And God… I know… I'm one.
My mother was a tailor.
She sewed my new blue jeans.
My father was a gamblin' man,
Down… in New… Orleans.
Now the only thing a gambler needs,
Is a suitcase and trunk.

And the only time he's satisfied,
Is when he's on a drunk.
Oh mother, tell your children,
Not to do what I have done.
Spend your lives in sin and misery,
In the House… of the Rising… Sun.
Well, I got one foot on the platform,
The other foot on the train.
I'm goin' back to New Orleans,
To wear… that ball… and chain.
Well, there is… a house… in New Orleans,
They call… the Rising… Sun.
And it's been… the ruin… of many a poor boy,
And God… I know… I'm one…

And God…I know…I’m one…

XXVIII.

Imran arrived at the guest house to take Mac and the others to meet the Russian whose train they hoped would transport them across the many miles of difficult terrain and Muslim-controlled territories of Canada.

All but Cooper were inside the house when Imran arrived.  The rancher had taken Brando to the backyard area so the dog could relieve himself before getting into Imran’s transport vehicle.