so Rutherford
can rest.
How long do you think it will be, Birdie?
He’ll hallucinate, he’ll vomit, he’ll have fitful sleep, if any
at all. This could take several days. Hard to tell. He’s been
through this a lot, I bet.
That’s an understatement.
I’ll make sure it sticks.
Don’t make promises you can’t keep.
We got his back, says Uncle Stevie.
How about we turn off the camera?
He told me to keep filming, no matter what.
Yeah, but, this is different—
He’s right, Birdie says. Rutherford told him, keep shooting,
or he won’t get paid.
Fine.
I’m catching some zzz’s, Uncle Stevie says, climbing into
the bunk.
I watch Rutherford
toss and turn,
restless as rain
and wonder
if I’ll
ever get out of
this squall
that owns my life
and if I’ll ever
get to her.
Cursed
Each time
I get closer
to meeting
the woman who
brought me
into this world,
something stops me
dead in my tracks.
“Pick up a guitar
and you’ll be cursed,”
is the old joke
told in my house.
But, there’s nothing funny
about this truth.
I am.
I pluck
a few strings
at a time,
like a beginner
beginning again,
strumming
a few chords
here and there,
my fingers crawling
up and down
my new guitar
like I’m trying
to remember.
Diving Back In
After warming up
a few long minutes,
the pain creeps in.
It settles inside like an old friend,
but so does the glory
of knowing I’m good
at something
that can’t die on me
if I don’t let it.
So I dive in,
really dive into the strings
like a skydiver freefalling
into the music,
and it kinda feels like a new
life could be beginning.
But I’m not sure.
A day later
he’s finally
asleep.
My fingers
start to cramp,
but it feels
like the right
kind of pain.
I’ve missed this.
Feeling
every fiber
in my body
vibrate
to the rhythm.
I miss this.
Freedom.
Over the next
three days
Birdie comforts
and feeds
Rutherford.
I haven’t been
this close
to him
this long
since . . .
never.
Storm calls
and speaks
to him,
which makes
him smile
through watery eyes
in between
the delirium
tremens.
Joy checks
on us periodically,
brings us
stews and soups
and joy.
She gives me
a message
that sounds nice
coming from
her lips,
even though
it’s Sia’s words:
Ma wifo. It means “I miss you.”
On the fourth day
I wake
to the laughter
of Rutherford, Sia, and
a dozen kids
standing over me.
Sia holds
a mirror
to my face,
which is painted
like Gene Simmons
from KISS.
Rutherford shouts out, Rock and Roll All Nite, BABY!
Very funny. Very funny, I shout, chasing them off the
bus, relieved that things are back to normal.
Whatever normal is.
The Duo
Before Rutherford arrived
it was all about me.
Now Sia and Rutherford
are a band.
They play together.
They eat together.
They laugh together.
They crash together.
They prank together.
They are happy together.
Texts from Storm
5:19 am
Dad sounds better.
Please take care of him,
Blade. He’s our only
5:19 am
father. Well, mine at
least. Just kidding! Seriously,
though, when are you going
5:20 am
to meet your mother? Can
you hurry up and do that,
so y’all can come home?
5:20 am
I miss you two. Mick
and Jagger miss you
too. Chapel called me
5:20 am
yesterday. I told her
you met someone new.
A model from Africa. She
5:21 am
was JEALOUS! LOL!
Hey, you like the new guitar?
I helped him find it.
5:21 am
And, can you please tell
me about Ghana, besides
it’s beautiful and you’re
5:22 am
in love. Like, try using
an adjective or two.
And, send pics. Hugs!
Texts to Storm
1:21 pm
He’s doing better.
Back to his old antics.
Birdie definitely has him
1:21 pm
on a leash. She’s like
a hawk. Uncle Stevie
pretty much sleeps
1:21 pm
all the time. Stomach
issues. He can’t handle
the food. Haven’t seen
1:22 pm
the camera guy very much,
which is really good
or really bad. Not sure.
1:22 pm
She’s not a model, stupid.
But, we’re just friends.
Don’t mention C@#!? again.
1:22 pm
You want me to
describe Ghana, huh?
Fine, how’s this . . .
Konko
is a village
of brown and green
apron of Mother Earth
gray, puffy sky—
a temperamental sea
that swallows
that keeps me looking and laughing
to the clouds— Today
I saw a sign
near a small lake
that read: No Drowning.
Red and green
buckets of
water travel
miles
suspended
in air
to glorious rhythms
of routine
under hidden sun
of orange fiery promises.
The smiles here
are abundant,
a crest of waves
across faces
young and old
that fly
with wings
of kings and queens
in search of
trees rooted
in ancient ground
history with arms
that reach
and give and give
crowns of flowers
and coconut milk,
the ambrosia
feeding my
wandering soul—it’s brought
the music back to me.
Most gatherings are here
under the big coconut tree.
This place, covered in
brilliant sun
and humbling moon,
captures joy
in song and dance
of women and men
happy to be
singing
and
alive
with sounds
that never sleep,
past the magic
dust dreams.
Here, I can lift
my hands
into sky
pull down
the promises,
into my palms.
In other words, this place is beautiful, Storm . . .
Text from Storm
2:09 pm
Chills.
Conversation
How’s Storm?
She’s good. Says hello.
Can I join you?
Been a free country since 1957.
You like this place.
It’s cool. A lot realer than Hollywood.
Yeah, I like it too. It’s poor, though, kinda sad.
It’s rich in ways you and your camera can’t see.
You never gonna cut me any slack. That’s the Morrison in
you. My dad was like that.
Thing is, I’m not a Morrison.
You are in my book, and I’m proud of you, son.
Save it. So proud you never told me I was adopted? Who
lies to their child like that?
Sunny thought—
There you go, trying to bring Mom into it again.
She loved you like her own. We loved you like our own.
Blood or no blood. We were young and stupid. We just
didn’t think—
That’s the problem, you didn’t think.
. . . .
. . . .
We were gonna tell you. On your eighteenth birthday.
That’s why she wrote the letter. Did you read it?
No.
You should read it.
I don’t know.
There are some things in there she wanted you to know.
What about what I want? Did you ever consider that?
Always.
You’re lying. I WANTED to grow up in a house with
a dad who didn’t leave a string of nannies to raise us.
Who didn’t come in wasted when he was in town. Who
wasn’t plastered all over the tabloids for God knows
what. What I WANTED was not having to spend every
night worrying if you were gonna be arrested or end up
in some hospital. Do you know how tough it was to not
know whether your parent was gonna die? Do you know
how many nights Storm cried herself to sleep?
. . . .
You know what, it doesn’t even matter. I just hope you
can last until you bail on these folks. They don’t deserve
any of it.
You’re right. I just never learned how to live, how to, uh, be
without her, he says, then he gets all teary-eyed, and I feel
like the bad guy. I’m trying to do the right thing, I really
am, Blade. I just miss her.
Yeah, well, we all do, but I already lost one parent—I
don’t want to lose another.
Now he’s full on crying,
and I probably should
hug him or something,
but before
I get the nerve
to do just that,
his ace,
our little princess
Sia,
comes running
up to him,
starts wiping his tears
and winks at him,
repeatedly,
which, of course,
makes us both howl
with laughter.
I’m gonna make it, Blade. I’m gonna beat this. I promise
you. And, if there’s anything I can do to prove to you that
you mean more to me than anything, other than Storm
and this little snickerdoodle, he says, picking Sia up and
swinging her around. Just name it.
There is one favor I need . . .
While he teaches
Sia the words
to “Stairway to Heaven”
under the coconut tree,
she begins to vomit,
then cries
a helpless cry.
Rutherford throws down
the guitar,
looks at me
with horror
in his eyes
like he’s never seen
a kid puke.
Is she okay?
IS SHE OKAY?
Where is the nurse?
She is fine. We will take care of her, one of the nearby
picking Sia up, and whisking her away.
What happened to her? he asks Joy.
I think you should teach her a different song the next time,
she responds, laughing.
She’ll be okay?
She will, Mr. Morrison. She will rest from all the activity.
Like you probably should.
. . . .
Sunday Night
Rutherford calls a meeting.
Life is too short, he exclaims to me, Joy, Uncle Stevie,
Birdie, and the camera dude. We gotta climb the highest
mountain, swim the widest sea . . . before we turn to earth.
I wanna do something. Big. Memorable.
Yeah, because if we really think we have a shot at selling
this reality show, we definitely need more OOOOHS
and AHHHHS, says the camera guy, smiling behind his
camera.
Let’s bring the rock and the roll, but, uh, what exactly
are you talking about, Morrison? says Uncle Stevie,
whose stomach is back to normal—which everyone can
appreciate, since the ventilation on the bus is a little
limited.
Birdie insists I need to exercise, that it will help my body
heal from all the toxins. So, we’re going with Blade.
With Blade? Where?
To find his mother. We’ll climb Kilimanjaro, if we have too.
Kilimanjaro is in East Africa, camera guy says.
No, you’re not. I’m doing this alone. I don’t ne— I don’t
want you there.
It’s a seven-hour trek, Mr. Morrison, are you sure you can—
Joy says.
You don’t think I can handle it. I may be fifty, but I feel
nineteen, he says, winking at her. But, will there be a
mountain for us to climb?
Yes, there is a mountain, plus canopies, plus forest, before
we reach the village.
A canopy? Like a suspension bridge or something? asks the
camera guy, who puts the camera down for the first time.
Yes, says Joy. A provisional bridge. It was built by the
Dutch. Maybe four hundred feet above.
Above what? he asks, looking as frightened as I feel.
Look, you aren’t going. This is not happening. Birdie, he
needs the rest. Tell ’em.
It is kind of long, Rutherford . . . On the other hand, a
little workout will build the endorphins. To heck with it,
let’s all sweat it out.
Then, it’s settled. We head out at first light. Oh, this is
going to rock! Rutherford hollers.
&n
bsp; And roll, Uncle Stevie chimes in.
Uh, I think I’m gonna be sick, says the camera guy.
I’ll double your pay for the day.
I think I’ll be just fine, he says, picking the camera back
up.
Quick question, Joy. Can we bring Sia?
Worth the Chance
Wait up, please, she says, grabbing my arm.
Sorry. I can never get away from him fast enough.
You are very upset. I understand.
This is a disaster. He can’t be with me. This is not about
him.
It is a little. It is about your whole family, is it not?
You’re taking his side? He’s the one who’s been lying to
me.
Sometimes a lie is kinder than the truth.
Kinder for him.
You could give him a chance. Your heart may not feel it,
but it will catch up.
He’s screwed up everything. My graduation. My
girlfriend. My music. My life.
Blade, you cannot build a house for last year’s summer.
. . . .
Perhaps you should look to the future. Start over with him.
Your father might surprise you. Is that not worth it?
. . . .
Plus, I could go too. You will need my protection from the
mountain lions.
I’m not falling for that again.
We are friends, aren’t we?
Yes.
Then trust me. It will be fine. You and he will be better for
it.
. . . .
So you say yes?
I say I hope all this chaos is worth it.
All that is good and accomplished in this world takes work
and a little chaos.
Sia’s not going to take it too well that we’re leaving.
She’s in no condition to travel with us.
Is she getting better?
They will take her to the doctor in town while we are gone.
She’ll be okay though, right?
She will be in good care.
She lets go of my arm
and walks ahead like
she owns the road
and all the moxie
the world’s created.
The next morning
we try
to convince
a fragile Sia
to eat
her porridge,
but she just cries,
begs to come
with us, does not
understand that
she needs
to stay
and rest
so we can play
more pranks,
more card games,
when we return.
We try
to convince her
that this is only
a trip
for old rockers