ChapterSeven
Stevie’s fourth day on the road had her deciding this trip had been the most emotional and spiritual of her life, a time of belting out songs, of talking to ex-lovers and ex-friends both in her head and aloud in a sort of performance.She pretended that they were in the car with her, that they were studying the directions on their phone, and that they finally had time to unravel what had gone wrong between them and figure out how to move on.Out the window, she saw the grand expanse of the American continent: mountains, rivers, grand pine trees, and jagged cliffs.It took her breath away to imagine how many people lived in these nowhere places across the world.Maybe she should have raised her daughter in one of these small towns.Perhaps she should have learned a craft or skill, like carpentry or blacksmithing, and found happiness in a simpler life.
It was fun to fantasize about all the lives she might have lived.
The Sunday night after her departure, Stevie rolled into Chicago, surprising herself with her decision to park on the outskirts of the city and take the train to a cool-looking jazz bar.Since she’d left Los Angeles, she’d holed up in ratty motels, watched bad television, and hardly talked to a living soul.Now, she felt ready to experience something lively, the desperate gasp of jazz and blues.Chicago was supposed to be one of the most essential hearts of American music.Weirdly, she’d never been.
When Stevie walked into the jazz club that night, she was led to a little table in the corner, where she ordered a half pint of beer and watched a saxophonist leave his heart on the stage.Tears filled her eyes.It wasn’t hard to imagine that the saxophonist had just lost someone and was having the hardest day of his life.But Stevie knew she felt this way because he was just that good.He knew how to manipulate his audience.That was an art form.
When he finished his last solo before a break, Stevie clapped joyfully and got to her feet.To her surprise, the saxophonist caught her eye and smiled.Stevie’s heart fluttered.She didn’t feel especially beautiful, not after four days of sitting down in a car, but she wanted to be open to new friends and new conversations.She was tired of hashing out conversations in her car with ghosts.
The saxophonist put his instrument down.Jazz music came through the speakers, a recording from some other forgotten time.A bartender brought the saxophonist a drink, and the man thanked him and then made a beeline straight for Stevie.He smiled at her.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a dead ringer for Stevie Nicks?”he asked.
Stevie laughed.“Who’s that?”
The saxophonist threw his head back.“I know.You’ve heard it a thousand times, if not more.Mind if I sit down for a second?”
“Be my guest.”Stevie was touched that he wanted to hang out, but nervous that she’d say the wrong thing to such a marvelous musician.“You’re extraordinary.You know that?”
The man raised his glass.“Thank you for saying so.I think I’d die if I couldn’t get on stage a few times a week.I hope they let me play here till the end of my life.”
Stevie remembered a time she’d felt like that, too.She’d thought her life would end if she didn’t sing in front of an audience.And then, decades of her life had passed.
“What’s your name?”Stevie asked because she’d missed his introduction.
“My name is James Mackie.”He shook her hand.“And yours?”
“Stevie.”She laughed.“Stevie Franklin.My mother looked more like her than me.I think she wanted me to carry on the genes.”
“And you’ve done just what she wanted you to do,” James said.“That’s a rare thing for a daughter to do.Most daughters disappoint their mothers over and over again.”
Stevie felt a stab of sorrow, thinking about her own daughter.“They also amaze us,” she said.“They surprise us and break our hearts.”
James raised his finger.“I take it you have a daughter yourself?”
“I do.”Stevie bowed her head.Her beer was nearly empty, and James alerted the bartender to bring her another.“She’s my world,” Stevie continued.“But she was always difficult.I don’t know if we ever saw eye to eye.”
James’s secretive and wise expression was wonderful.“It’s hard for future generations to understand the ones that came before.How old is she?”
“She’s twenty-five,” Stevie said.
“You had her young,” James said.
“I had her before I knew who I was,” Stevie agreed.“Or I thought I knew who I was.And then everything changed.”
“That’s what children do for us.”James shook his head.
Stevie knew this was her opening, her chance to say more about her daughter and what had gone wrong.But her throat felt too thick with sorrow.
James went on.“My daughter lives down in Indianapolis with a husband that I can’t say a good thing about, save for the fact that he’s the father of my grandchildren.”
“Did you tell her not to marry him?”Stevie asked.
“Oh no.I did not do that.”James cackled.“I wanted to.Trust me.I went over and over it with my wife, who forbade me from saying anything like that.Now, we see them on Thanksgivings and Christmases and Easters and so on, and I grin and bear it and ask him questions.Mostly, I try to get my daughter to myself.I like to ask her what’s on her mind.I like to make sure she’s still herself.”
“Is she still herself?”Stevie asked.
