Page 50 of And Still Her Voice
“Nope. They obviously thought they had theirman,” River said, crossing his arms over his hairless chest.
“They called the other precincts for me, too,” I said, “but there was no record of River or Levi Smith at any of the stations.”
River moved over and sat next to me, leaning in conspiratorially, “Oh, Honey, you really believe my last name is ‘Smith’?”
“Obviously, I don’t know everything about you, Levi Smith. Whatever your name is.”
“Anyhow, Everett contacted one of the Panther’s lawyers who threatened the cops he’d file some sort of writ of habeas corpus mumbo jumbo,” he said. “I guess they had bigger catfish to fry and so they let me go.” River laughed. “Never did like that Everett. Always talking about how he understood the Brothers and how he respected them in the same struggle. White Boy, don’t understand shit. And now, damn, I owe him. It’s a good thing we’re getting outta dodge.”
I got up and staggered to the lounge at the back of the bus to get something to drink. I gasped when I found Tony sitting on the giant ice chest. A chill ran up my spine.
“Hiya, Honey.” He stood so I could grab a couple of Cokes.
I then careened back up the aisle to my seat. “You need to learn to dance with the bus,” River said as I handed him a drink.
“Hey, what’s Tony doing here?
“Oh yeah, he’s handling the equipment,” River said.
“And whatever else the band needs,” Tony said with a grin as he took a seat behind me. “At your service.”
I had a bad feeling and so did Grandma. “I didn’t think draft dodgers knew anything about service,” she said under my breath.
Grandma! I inhaled deeply, hoping I’d made the right choice about the direction of the next part of the journey on which I was about to embark.
***
Another mile marker ticked by as the bus carried me further away from the only world I’d ever known. I’d never been farther north than San Francisco. Geographically, I’d never been this far from my family. After five hours plowing through fog as thick as oatmeal, we arrived at the hotel in Eureka, still with plenty of time before going on stage. River remained seated as everyoneelse deboarded. “What are you waiting for?” I asked, backpack in hand.
“Why let this perfectly comfortable bus go to waste,” he said. “Besides, I can save some money sleeping here.”
I didn’t have the strength to argue about how the band should cover the cost, and how Tony was supposed to be the one guarding the equipment. I’d learn later that sleeping on the bus was just easier for people like River. “Just let me use the phone,” I said, “and a shower. Then I’m coming back to stay with you.”
In the lobby, I called home again only to get the same recording. I wished I’d gotten to know our neighbors on Fernbrook better, but my mother was always too embarrassed to socialize with any of the white families; it wasn’t just because of the color of her skin, but because Dad was a drunk, an embarrassment, plus she hated our neighbors. I thought about calling the church. Maybe they’d know something.
The church receptionist picked up the phone. She told me she was sorry she wasn’t able to help me, but that she’d ask Father Reynoso after Mass the next morning. She asked if she could take a number where I could be reached. I told her I’d call back later.
Inside the Eureka Municipal Auditorium, River and I warmed up the crowd of about two thousand with me at the piano and him singing songs by Marvin Gaye and Otis Redding. I knew he’d rather be strutting around the stage singing like Etta James or Nina Simone, but this wasn’t that type of crowd. They’d come to see Lazarus Rising, after all. And then, before everyone grew restless, the band came on.
Over the heavy jazz and classical influence, the band had more of a strong folk background. I played keyboard which I liked because I could hide behind it and also watch River on rhythm guitar and John on lead. They were totally in sync. Their swing and twanging tempos sounded like divining rods humming atsome heavenly source. What a high being surrounded by Joe on drums, the amps, the rumbling stage, and the echoing audience.
After the concert, River and I returned to the bus. He shared his Bota bag filled with wine. Grandma, quite chatty, pulsated a yellow aura. “This was almost as thrilling as the time I played for the troops during World War I.” She paused for a moment reminiscing. “Oh, darling, what a magical night. I was in heaven.”
I laughed. “So, why didn’t you stay there?”
***
The next morning, I woke up wishing I could tell my mother about the concert. I could just imagine her face smoothing out around her big, toothy smile. Even though Grandma said I shouldn’t think it’s the “cat’s pajamas” to sing back-up for an all-male ensemble, I was just grateful for the opportunity.
I called the church. There was no information for me other than Father Reynoso had recalled seeing the family last Sunday in the second row, same pew as always where Mom insisted that we all sit tall and proud. They’d all been there, except, of course, Dad and me. Father Reynoso asked if he could relay a message to the family. “Just tell them I’m okay and I love them all . . .” The bus honked. “I’ll try again, soon.” I took comfort in the information Father gave me and boarded the bus headed to Portland.
***
The ride was so smooth that if it weren’t for the difference in the height and density of redwood trees, I’d swear the bus wasn’t moving at all, and even though my seated body was at rest, my train of thoughts drove me crazy. But I’m not on a train, I thought with a laugh. Maybe if I were, my thoughts could connect likelittle boxcars of memories to make some sort of sense of my life. I rested my head on the seatback near the window where my breath fogged up the glass. I drew a smiley face on the clouded glass and then swiped it and closed my eyes, hoping to wipe away the image of me stabbing my father. The stunned look on his face. I wanted him to know I was sorry for what had happened. As for Dilbert Moss, nothing I could do would bring him back from the dead. Sadly, the bus couldn’t outpace the impressions springing up mile after mile. “This is all your fault, Grandma. You’ve ripped me away from home.” And just by whispering her name, she took it as an invitation to speak.
“But you can always go back,” she said. “Although, I believe we’re finally on the right track.” More like Grandma had switched tracks. She loved being on stage again.
I reached into my purse for a pack of cigarettes. Not just drinking, but I’d started smoking as a way to drown out the sound of Grandma or blur her out of existence. How could her voice come through if my ears were numb or if I always had something in my mouth?
