Goin' Back Home Again

So I'd spent the next three months talking to Walter when no one else was around. That's the only time he appears, by the way: When I'm alone. Then the whole thing got too creepy for me. Despite Walter's repeated protests that I wasn't crazy, I decided to see a doctor.

The first few, assuming all that tabloid bullshit was true, told me to lay off the drugs and sauce. When I told them that was in my past, they told me it was probably residual effects.

Still unhappy, and still seeing a protesting Walter a couple of times a week, I finally found someone to give me the full battery of tests. Thank God I wasn't schizophrenic, but Dr. Salomon still couldn't find anything wrong with me. Four months of therapy followed, all explained away to Tara as just needing someone to help me deal with stress. (Little did I know she saw nothing unusual in seeing a therapist, which was all too commonplace among the whole acting crowd and, if anything, a sign of true sensitivity and self-realization.) At the end of the therapy, Dr. Salomon flipped his notebook shut, got out from behind his desk, and sat in the chair beside me.

"I'm going to tell you what I think it is," he said, a bemused grin on his face.

"And what's that, Doc?"

"Nick," he said, "I think you're being visited by a ghost."

At the look of surprise on my face, he rushed to continue. "Maybe not a real ghost, but a ghost of your past. You need someone to talk to, someone who understands you. It helps you deal with the pressures. It's how your mind copes with everything. Your best friends, the ones that know you best, they're also your fellow band members, and they're part of what's putting all of the extra demands on you. So they're not part of the solution to helping you cope. Instead, they're part of the problem you need to cope with. No, Nick, you know who knows you best and can best help you deal with all of this?"

"Walter?" I guessed.

He smiled and shook his head. "No, Nick. It's you. You're the one who can best help you deal with your problems."

"So I'm . . . Walter's a . . . it's just me seeing things?"

He shrugged. "I'll admit, this is quite rare, and the images rarely persist for such a duration. Still, I think you've got a lot of unresolved issues with your father, and I think you always wanted him to help you while you were growing up. Now, though, when you really need the help, he's gone. So yes, I think your subconscious creates an image with whom you can work out your own problems. And, since your father was the one you always most wanted to be that person, I think the image your self-conscious created was Walter."

I nodded. Made sense.

"So is there anything to worry about?"

Dr. Salomon smiled. "No, Nick. Frankly, though unusual, I think it's a very healthy way of dealing with the stresses you're under. And I think that once this has all sunk in, you'll start seeing less and less of Walter and just have these little conversations inside your head free of the images."

I felt better until Walter appeared the next afternoon while I was struggling over some lyrics.

"Have you ever heard such a bunch of bullshit in your entire life?" he said.

"I'm not listening to me right now," I said, my eyes staying on the lyrics.

"I'm not you, you dumbass," he said. "I'm me, your dad, and I'll prove it to you."

I looked up, skepticism written all over my face.

"I'm going to tell you something you don't know," he said. "Something you've never known and something no one else ever knew, either. Will that do the trick?"

I laughed at him, and he proceeded to make Dr. Salomon look like a blithering idiot.

Walter's final, long lost manuscript–the one hidden in a fake log in the cabin I'd never been in–was published a eight months later to great fanfare.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A few beers, good conversation, and a late night walk–oh, and a bacon cheeseburger the size of a black bear's ass that I'd barely managed to finish half of–made for a great night of sleep. When I awoke on Friday morning, the sun had long been up and the house was silent. The clock beside my bed told me it was almost nine, and I stretched lazily as a smile came over my face.

Holy shit, I thought, looking at my cheery face in the mirror while shaving, where the hell have you been? Where's the normally cheery Nick been hiding lately? If this was all it took, I should've come home to re-charge ages ago. Not even the twenty-three voice mail messages on my cell phone–all of which I deleted on sight–took the smile away.

Hopping down the steps, I grabbed a yogurt from the refrigerator and chowed down. Then I made a fresh pot of coffee (only bad thing about Grant City so far was no Starbucks) and, while it brewed, went out to the driveway and brought my guitars and the rocking chair in from the Escalade. For the first time in a year, I was really in the mood to write some music, and I wasn't going to let this opportunity pass.

And write I did, for almost eleven hours. Bob dropped by at lunchtime, but I declined anything and kept plugging away. I was in a zone I hadn't been in for a couple of years, the zone when fresh ideas come hot and heavy, and I filled half of my notebook with interesting chord progressions and notes on tempo, melody line, and other basic thoughts.

I read somewhere about Lennon and McCartney writing "Hard Day's Night." The story went that Ringo, on the set while filming the movie, suggested the movie's title based on one of his pithy lines. The director liked the title, but noted there was no song to go with it. No problem there. Lennon and McCartney went to work that night and, by the next morning, had the whole song–chords, melody, lyrics, and tempo–all written out. That's the zone, and it comes and goes. Unless, of course, you're Lennon and McCartney; those dickheads stayed in the zone for decades.

When Mom and Bob left to go out for fish fry, I declined and finished up the basic melody line of a second song. It wasn't quite there, but I knew it was close. I also knew my energy was flagging, and further efforts would only end up being changed on the morrow. Ergo, time to quit, get some food in my belly, and see if Teddy's band was worth a shit.

It took me longer to get ready than I thought, and the walk from Mom's house to the bar took another twenty minutes. By the time I got to The Hitching Rail, the music had already started. When I walked in, the bar was wall to wall people, and the dining room was packed. The band, unseen somewhere in the far corner, was in the middle of the old Ernest Tubb number "Walking the Floor Over You," and they were doing a pretty good job of it. They were putting a nice, upbeat spin on an old classic, and the song was being driven by a really catchy piano line.

"You came back," Victoria whispered in my ear from behind.

I turned, smiled at her, and looked over her shoulder into the dining room. "How long you figure for a table, dear?"

She just laughed, grabbed my arm, and pulled me along and into the kitchen.

"Guess who's back?" Victoria shouted as she pushed through the door and into the kitchen.

I saw Ron and Aimee talking, but their conversation stopped and Aimee turned away when I peeked out from behind Victoria.

"Ron," she ordered, "make Nicky something to eat, will you?"

He smiled. "Too crowded out there?" he asked, not waiting for an answer before asking me what I wanted. I ordered a grilled chicken breast sandwich and some fruit.

"California pussies," he muttered. "They've gone and ruined a perfectly normal boy."

I grinned, then turned to look at Aimee. When our eyes met, she blushed and again turned away.

"Aimee, dear," Victoria said, "could you please fetch Nicky a beer from the bar?"

Aimee nodded and muttered, "Sure." Then she bolted out the door around me.

Her body trailed a breeze of shampoo and a citrusy perfume, and my eyes followed her as she darted through the dining room and into the bar.

"Told you," Victoria said.

I turned. They were both watching me, and now it was my turn to stammer.

"She's . . . ah . . . well, looking pretty good, don't you think?"

Victoria beamed, and Ron turned his eyes to the heavens and pleaded, "Will you please help him grow a pair?"

I laughed.

I ate my sandwich and fruit and drank my beer in the kitchen, bullshitting with Ron as he and the boys sent out a few last minute orders and appetizers while cleaning all of the equipment and dirty dishes.

Finished with the meal, I left them to finish with their cleaning. Back at the bar, I noticed Jimmy Schultz leaning against a wall chatting with Jenny Cooper nee Leyden. She'd changed very little, maybe put on ten or fifteen pounds and had a few lines across her face. Otherwise, she looked much as she had when we went to the Prom. She was swaying to the music, her eyes on the stage and her ear taking in whatever Jimmy was saying.

"Buy you folks a drink?" I said, approaching them as the song ended.

"Nick!" Jenny screeched, jumping into me and hugging me. "Jimmy said you were back."

I looked at him over her shoulder and he nodded his greetings.

"I'll get the drinks," he said. "You're gonna be busy."

"So when did you hear?" I asked when she finally loosened her grip.

"While Teddy and the fellas were setting up," she said. Her eyes turned to the stage, and Teddy was watching us, a bemused look on his face. Then he raised his chin in greeting, and I raised by beer in return. "Nick," Jenny said, "he wants to know if you'll play a song with them. Three of the fellas are in college, and he says it would make their lives complete to play on the stage with you. Will you do it? For old time's sake?"

She had those pleading puppy dog eyes. Between that and the memories of her beautiful breasts spilling out of that prom dress, which I now noticed had grown a little but still seemed to be pointing well upwards, I couldn't refuse.

"Sure, Jenny," I said, pecking her on the forehead, "you tell him I'll play something with them whenever they're ready."

Before I could react, she'd spun out of my arms. "He says he'll do it, Teddy!"

Suddenly, all eyes in the joint were on me.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen," Teddy said, "you're all in for a real treat tonight."

I looked around and took in the looks. Those who knew who I was, which seemed to be most of them, had a look of surprised anticipation on their faces.

"That's right," Teddy continued. "An old wind has blown back into town, and he's here tonight."

A few people whistled, and a couple of the women were clapping.

"I've heard told this . . . well, this fella can adequately handle a guitar," Teddy said, and I could hear the humor in his voice. "Hell, some folks even think he knows how to sing, though I'm not one of them folks."

The crowd was laughing and clapping now.

"So maybe if we ask him real nice, we'll convince him to come up here and share a song or two." Teddy waved his arm over his guitar and toward me. "What do you say, people? Anyone want to see if Nick Harlan can still play the old songs?"

The crowd erupted, and I damned near broke into tears. It had been ten years since I'd played for any of these people, and, except for television appearances, nine years since I'd played before fewer than fifteen thousand shrieking fans. At that moment, I'd have given up every damned arena in the country for another standing ovation from these people I'd known my entire life.

"Now will you look at that," Teddy teased as I made my way to the stage, wiping a tear from my eyes. "He's nervous."

I hopped up onto the crowded little platform stage and leaned into Teddy. "You prick," I said. Then I hugged him over his guitar, and he hugged me back with an energy that damned near burst my heart with shame. Why hadn't we spoken in so long?

The crowd started chanting for us to play something, and Teddy whispered, "Maybe we should drop this little lovefest for awhile before they tar and feather us."

I laughed, broke the hug, and picked up an acoustic guitar. Looking around for the patch chord, the bass player rushed over to help me. "Here you are, Mr. Harlan," he said, looking nervous as hell and excited at the same time.

I smiled. "It's Nick," I said, plugging the chord into the guitar. "Mixing board balanced for this?" I said to Teddy.

He nodded. "Had a feeling when we heard you were back that we'd better be prepared for another instrument. So what you in the mood for?"

I smiled. "'Two Angels.'"

Teddy's smile went ear to ear, and I wonder if he had the same memory of it I had. "You heard him, boys," he shouted, then turned to me and said, "Piano's going to lead us into it." And it did, joined soon by my strumming rhythm, and, simultaneously, the drums, bass, and Teddy's mournful slide guitar line. Once the vocals started, Teddy and I shared a microphone the whole time, keeping our guitars out of the way of each other. Then we took off on an extended instrumental that, in a new twist on the arrangement, showed off the kid on piano to great effect.

By the end of the song, listening to the crowd whooping and hollering for more, it was like we'd never been apart. Teddy was, if anything, better than ever on lead, and his voice had far more range than I remembered. Suddenly, I wanted to see just how good these guys were, see if this was really Teddy's hobby or if was still his passion.

When the cheering died down, Teddy waved his arm at me. "Ladies and gentlemen, please help me thank Nick Harlan for coming on up here."

I bowed in response to the clapping, then turned to Teddy. "I'd like to stay up here for awhile if it's okay with you," I whispered.

Teddy gave me a lazy smile. "I think I'd like that." He turned to the rest of the band. "Think you can keep up with us?"

They all nodded, and Teddy turned back to me. "So what's next?"

So we tore into Bob Dylan's much-maligned "Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts." It was a nine-minute number, and we–they, really–improvised the backing arrangement. The drummer, bassist, and I all kept the basic rhythm going, but Teddy improvised some neat little licks throughout, and that kid on piano was outstanding. By the time we finished, people were streaming through the door, and there was little room left in the dance area.

I stayed up there for the rest of the show, sitting with the band during breaks and signing autographs for anyone who asked. We did mostly country-rock covers, "Return of the Grievous Angel" by Gram Parsons, "Angel is the Devil" by Steve Earle, quite a bit of John Hiatt and Jayhawks, and "Dead Flowers" by the Rolling Stones. We only did two LeadFoot songs, both of which Teddy and I had written together. By the last hour of the show, word had gotten out and cars were lining the street for blocks and you couldn't move in the entire building. At one twenty, we finished with a tight, sweet, 4-part harmony version of the old Poco classic "Keep on Tryin'." The crowd went nuts, and we'd have played longer, but that song pretty much finished our voices for the night.

I helped the band tear down and lug shit out to their cars and vans, accepting free beers from the crowd and tons of claps on the back. By the time we finished, the bar was closed and the bartenders were sweeping up and wiping up spilt beer from floor and tables.

A few of us were sitting around the bar, drinking one last beer in the dim barroom. There was Ron, Victoria, Jenny, Teddy, the remainder of the band, and me, and Ron was telling us that we needed to do this a little more often so he could retire one of these days.

Then I heard a quiet yet clear voice behind me. "Now I guess I understand what all the fuss is about."

I turned. It was Aimee, and her eyes met mine and held there. I was speechless.

"Cat got your tongue, Nick?" Jenny teased.

I heard a few snickers, also, but I was speechless. My eyes locked with hers and stayed there, lost in those deep blue seas. Her face betrayed no emotion, but she didn't break the eye contact, either. We just stared at each other for what seemed forever but was probably only thirty seconds or so.

"California pussy," Ron muttered loud enough for everyone to hear.

That broke it, and Aimee gave a brief smile before saying, "Anyway, you were really good up there." Looking at Teddy, she added, "Both of you."

She walked out the door before I could respond.

"Still got a thing for her, don't you?" Teddy said.

"Of course he does," Victoria answered.

"Just too 'fraid to do anything about it," Ron said. "California's gone and ruined him."

I just smiled. "You know," I said, "that's the most she's ever said to me. Ever."

"Yeah," Teddy said. "Let me tell you, though. You get to know her, she's a friggin' magpie. Just takes awhile to get to know her is all."

"But you really shouldn't," Jenny said. "You're married, and we don't want to see her getting too close to . . . ."

Teddy finished the thought. "We don't want to see her get hurt. She's been through enough."

Victoria was staring at me. I had tried to hide it, but I know I winced at least a little at the mention of my marriage, and Victoria had seen it.

She whispered something to her husband, and Ron just nodded. He'd seen the look, too. I'm pretty sure he'd already figured out I had problems, so the wince undoubtedly only served to confirm his suspicions.

"What're you doing tomorrow?" Teddy asked.

I shrugged. "Probably just writing," I said. "I'm in the zone and don't want to waste it."

He nodded, understanding what I was talking about. Then he turned to Jenny and raised his eyebrows.

She saw the look and turned to me. "We want you to come out to the house for a cookout," she said. "About one. We've got about thirty people coming over, and the band's going to practice for their entertainment. Why don't you grab a guitar and join in?"

When I didn't answer immediately, Jenny leaned over and put her hand atop mine. "We really want you to meet our little girls," she said. "And Aimee will be there with her little boy, too."

That sold it, and the smile I tried to hide told them all I'd be there.

Standing to leave, Teddy said, "Do you some good to hang out with some normal folks for a change. Enjoy just another typical, small-town get together."

If only we'd all known at the time just how wrong Teddy was. The next day would prove to be anything but typical in Grant City, Illinois.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I slept in until nearly eleven on Saturday. I'd have slept in later, and probably have been late to the cookout, except Mom's voice was carrying loud and through over the din of the crowd outside.

"Get the hell off my lawn," she was yelling. "You hurt those roses and I'll hurt your hides."

I lay there, frozen. I'd been in this situation a million times before, and I knew what that din was she was shouting over. A quick peek out the window confirmed my suspicions.

"There he is," an astute cameraman shouted, and I ducked back.

My body now went into full-blown automatic. I quickly shaved, showered, brushed my teeth, and got dressed in some casual yet stylish clothes. Show up in front of the press looking any less than a star and they'd crucify you. Your doting fans never pictured you with bed head. If they and the press actually saw you looking like the normal joe you were, then–GASP!–you must be on a drug binge or something.

Fifteen minutes later, I trotted down the stairs, out the door, and stood next to Mom on the front porch.

"I'll handle this," I said, smiling at her before turning my face to the twelve or so reporters and cameramen.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen," I said. "Get off the lawn and onto the sidewalk. Then come on up here and we'll have this little interview, okay?"

They obeyed as I knew they would. If they wanted an interview, they'd have to play ball to at least some degree.