West Seattle Blues (24 page)

“No idea,” I said happily. I’d worry about that later.

“Hey, you know you had a flat?” he asked.

“What?” I jumped up and started out the door. He was right: the rear tire on the driver’s side of the Tempo. Shit. It could have been Nick. No, I forced myself to think. It could just as easily have been an accident. I stood still and calmed my breathing. Shit happens. But the timing was bad; I’d need to put the spare on before I went out.

“Just leave it,” he said. “Do it tomorrow instead. Take mine.”

“Thanks, I will.”

I put together a stir-fry, something quick, easy and tasty. Then it was cake, Jell-O and ice cream. The things Ian loved best. He and I blew out the candle together while Dustin took photos. It all became a beautiful mess. Ian ended up with cake all over his face and hands. But he was happy and that was the only thing that mattered. A year, I reflected. Time seemed to have speeded up since he’d come into the world. I loved him, with no conditions, no reservations. I loved him with everything I had.

While Dustin put Ian to bed, I dressed for the evening. A black Cordelia’s Dad tee shirt, black jeans, and my old Docs. I began to rat my hair up a little, then combed it down again. My youth had been fun, but I was a year into being a mom and living now was even better. So I could be myself, with no attempt to go all glam. I was happy in my own skin. I just needed to relax and learn to show it.

I parked in Ballard a little after nine, and walked down the street to the Tractor, looking around carefully for any sign of Nick. But there were only the revelers drinking at Hattie’s Hat and people leaving the gym a block away, with sports bags in hand.

The guy on the door at the Tractor waved me on past the short line, giving me a smile and a wink as I entered. It was a big room, split in two by a waist-high wooden wall. One half was filled with a stage, chairs and a bucket load of sound equipment, the other contained a bar that ran most of the length of one wall, offering a place to stand and talk. Unlike the Crocodile and some other places, people came here for the music, not to see and be seen.

The club had built a solid niche for itself. Much of the week there was Celtic music to draw out the drinkers, sprinkled with some of the new country music inspired by Uncle Tupelo. Roots music on both counts. It was a comfortable, friendly venue, better than most of those rock clubs where I’d been groped so many times. A place for adults, not for those who hadn’t grown up yet.

I bought a Henry Weinhard’s and just stood, looking around. No sign of Carson, but a few other familiar faces. I nodded and said hi to them. There were already forty or fifty people around, so it looked as if Carson would have a good crowd. Shows here began early and finished by ten-thirty, just right for people who had the responsibility of jobs and children. I’d spent too many years leaving bars at one-thirty in the morning, after sitting through a pair of terrible support bands until I felt exhausted and numb by the time the headliner finally took the stage at midnight.

I chatted a little, exchanged a little gossip, then found myself a seat near the stage. This was the part I hated, just waiting for something to happen. I glanced around. No Nick anywhere. At least there was that, so I could relax and enjoy

Then the opening act appeared and I forgot about everything else. Michael Shuler had recently moved up from Los Angeles, but he was much more than simply another California transplant hunting the big time in Seattle. He was a singer-songwriter with a hint of country in his sound and the kind of guitar chops most people would kill to possess. A couple people had mentioned his name to me but I’d never heard him play before. There was depth to his music, polished and emotional. A perfect fit for this place.

He played for thirty minutes and I still wanted more. “When Steel Was King” seemed like an ache for America’s past, while “Box Of Shiny Shells” sent shivers through me. It brooded and menaced while it held on with its nails to the edge of emotion, bolted down so hard it threatened to explode. Tomorrow I’d call Tonia at
The Rocket
; I wanted to write about this guy.

It was over all too soon. He seemed surprised at the applause he received, the look of shock turning to a smile as he ambled away. Then the lights came up and there was soon a crush around the bar.

I kept to my seat, knowing one beer was my limit when I was behind the wheel. I watched people mill around in groups, noticing the animation on their faces as they talked, the urgency and laughter in their voices, a couple huddled together, communicating with quiet tones and gentle looks. A small flyer on the stage listed all the upcoming acts for the rest of April. I stood up and grabbed a copy, and began to search through the names. Some I knew, many I didn’t. Discoveries to be made, old favorites to enjoy, and I knew I probably wouldn’t make it out to see any of them.

I was happier sticking close to home. Back when I was pregnant, I had worried that I’d miss this life: all the hanging out, the buzz that a great band could bring. The truth was that it had just been filling a hole in my life. Now I had Ian, that space didn’t even exist. He filled it all. I still liked music, but I went out rarely now. Each gig became an occasion, carefully planned, something special to celebrate.

I started to play with the label on my beer bottle, edging my nail underneath and peeling it away. I was feeling nervous for Carson. I was hoping they’d like him, that he’d sound as good as he had on the little I’d heard back in his house.

People filed back in and sat down. Jim’s mom hadn’t made it here, I noticed. All around, the anticipation was rising. Finally, just before the lights went down, I managed to peel off the label and stuck it back on the bottle, upside down. Five points. A good omen.

He held the old Martin guitar in one hand, limping but with no stick. A clean shirt, a newer pair of jeans and a shine on his cowboy boots. He’d combed his hair, but whatever he did, Carson would always look grizzled, as though he’d looked life square in the face. He took one of the two chairs on the stage, plugged in his instrument and gazed out at us for a moment.

“So this is what people do on a Tuesday evening in Seattle.” He smiled then and the ice was broken. Without another word he began to pick out chords and his rusty, ragged voice started on ‘Idaho Sweetheart.’

I could see a few people begin to smile as they recognized the song, dredging it up from long-ago memories. Stripped back, unsweetened by strings and backing singers, it had real depth. In fact, it ached. He didn’t try anything fancy, just let it speak for itself and that worked. Carson might look like a hick, but he was a professional musician. It was easy to forget that he’d been doing this for more years than most of the audience here had been alive.

He followed it up with something newer and unfamiliar, daring the crowd to follow him. And they did. Then he started on “As The Heart Falls.” He’d originally written the song, but the hit had been someone else’s. This eclipsed the recorded version, coming from some well deep inside him that held his private world of pain.

For the first half of the set, he alternated new and old, throwing in covers of Hank Williams’s “Mansion On The Hill” and Michael Nesmith’s “Propinquity.” After that he turned to one side and tilted his head, smiling as his grandson shuffled onto the stage. The poor guy looked petrified, clutching the Gibson with its beautiful blue inlay close to his chest, eyes darting around the room.

“This is Jim Clark,” Carson announced, letting that country twang flow like warm honey. “He’s my kin, and he’s kind of bashful. I know he’s my grandson and all, but I reckon he’s got something. Want to show ‘em, Jim?”

The kid sang his heart out. He was better now than when I’d heard him down by the water, but he was nowhere near Carson’s league. He knew it, everyone in the room knew it, but he tried anyway, and we all
applauded him for the effort. The silence built again.

Carson licked his lips. “I never knew Jim’s daddy. Hell, I’ve only known my grandson for a few weeks. But my son died four years ago, right downtown. Someone shot him and they never found out who did it.” He paused. Everyone was focused on him in rapt silence. “I don’t have much I can give him, ‘cept some justice if I ever find out who did it. But this is about my boy. I guess you could call it ‘West Seattle Blues’.”

He started the song he’d played me at his house. Jim added a little guitar, but this was all Carson. His voice was quiet, almost meditative, sounding raw and torn over the fingerpicked lines. It was a memorial, a lament. So beautiful, it hurt with its honesty. When he finished and the final note died to silence, there was a pause before the place erupted, the sound of clapping so loud it was painful. Carson looked over at Jim in surprise, then sighed and embraced his grandson.

There was nothing he could do to top that, but the rest of the set was no letdown. He tore through “Call You Sunshine” and “Maybe Darlin’,” turning them into upbeat pleasures. A couple more songs tugged at the fabric of broken hearts, ripping them wider. Toward the end he was simply having fun, running through some Buck Owens, Jimmie Rodgers and Ernest Tubb, telling little tales of Nashville and about life on the road way back when.

Then, with a goodnight and thank you, it was over. He bowed and vanished backstage. But no one was going to let him leave that easily. We were all standing, demanding more. Finally he came back, seeming almost speechless.

“I…I don’t know what to say. You’re very kind.” He sat for a moment, hands poised over the guitar. We all knew there was only one thing that would satisfy, and once more he began to play that song he’d written for his son.

It seemed as if everyone held their breath for three minutes. It was like time stood still, suspended on his words. When he finished there were no more farewells, just a quick shake of his head and he was gone. The house lights came up and people looked around as if they were surprised to find themselves here.

Leaning against the edge of the stage, finishing my beer and smoking a cigarette, I knew exactly what I’d witnessed. It had been one of those perfect evenings. Something to remain in the memory and light it up for years to come. Something every artist wants but rarely achieves.

I was still there fifteen minutes later. Jim had come through, we’d exchanged a few words and smiles, then he headed home. The mics had been put away, the stands folded and the cords all wound. The chairs had been taken away, and Dan the owner was sweeping the butts and debris off the floor. I could hear voices backstage.

It was ten-thirty, past my bedtime but I was still flying on that performance. I’d wanted him to do well but I’d never imagined anything as wonderful as this. Finally he came out, leaning on his cane, bought a bottle of Pabst at the bar, then stood beside me. He looked stunned and drained.

“You did it,” I told him. “That was pretty amazing, Carson.”

He fished in his shirt pocket, took out a pack of Marlboros and lit one.

“Yeah,” he said after a long pause. But the way he spoke the one word held it all. “You know, I waited all my life for a night like this. I just had some guy come up to me and says he wants to write about me for a magazine called
No Depression
. You figure that?”

“That’s great.”

“And there’s someone else back there talking about getting me into a recording studio.” He shook his head, then added, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Taking a chance and doing that piece on me. For being there through all the shit that’s happened.”

Without thinking, I shivered. For two hours I’d felt protected by all the music around me. There’d been nothing else in the world then. Now all that just fell away.

“It’s not over yet,” I said.

“I know it.” He glanced at the cigarette then dropped the butt and crushed it under his sole. “We’ll think about that tomorrow. Come on. We’d better get our asses out of here before they throw us out.”

He closed the hard-shell case on the Martin, making sure its locks were secure, and then we went out the back door. The El Camino was parked in a loading area that was barely large enough for a van.

“You see the bullet holes?” He pointed. “They look worse than they really are, I guess.” Then he said, “Shit.”

“What?” I asked.

“I got a flat.”

The chill I’d had a minute ago came back hard.

“I had one at home. It meant I ended up taking my husband’s car.”

We looked at each other and we didn’t even need to mention the name. He was around here somewhere. I felt as if I could smell him.

“I’ll give you a ride home,” I offered. “You can come back and handle this tomorrow.”

Carson nodded his agreement. I didn’t want to walk back to the car alone, anyway. He hefted the guitar case, and we set off down the alley that led out to Ballard Avenue.

Seventeen

He suddenly stepped out of the shadows. The streetlights were faint here, just reflections and shards, but enough to make out the shape of a gun in his hand.

“Not a bad show,” he said with approval. His voice made my skin crawl.

“What do you want?” Carson asked. He sounded calm and even, with no sign of fear. Nick was no more than six feet away. If he decided to shoot, there was no way he could miss.