Coming Home (36 page)

Danny snorted.  “Thus saith the world’s leading authority on
women.”

“We’re not talking here about my track record.  You and Casey are
a fucking institution, for Christ’s sake!  How can you let her go?”

“She doesn’t want me any more.”

“Bullshit!  What she doesn’t want is the flaming asshole you’ve
been for the last few months.  She wants a guy who has something better to do
than sit around feeling sorry for himself.”

Danny scowled.  “Are you finished?  Is there anything else you’d
like to add, since you’ve already got me down for the count?”

Rob hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders.  Might as well get it
over with.  “There is one more thing,” he said.

Danny raised his glass in a mock salute.  “Go ahead.  Make my
day.”

He took a deep breath, then looked Danny directly in the eye. 
“I’ve decided to go solo.”

There was a moment of silence before the explosion.  “You’re
walking?” Danny asked, his voice cracking, disbelief oozing from every pore.

“Ah, shit, I knew you’d take it that way.  Damn it, Dan, it has
nothing to do with you.  I want to try it on my own for a while.  It’s
something I have to do for myself.”  He paused.  “I made a commitment to finish
this album, and I’ll honor it.  But once it’s done, I’m history.”

“If I was sober, I’d probably throttle you, but I’m too wasted. 
How the devil will I ever find anybody who can replace you?”

He grinned.  “Try Clapton.”

“The man has no chops.”

The grin broadened.  “Still love me?”

“Fuck you.”

That’s a healthy attitude, Fiore.  Hang onto it.”

“You’ll go far, MacKenzie.  You’re a better musician than I am.”

“Correction:  more technically proficient.  You’re the one with
the talent.”

“I’m glad to see,” Danny said dryly, “that we’re still each
other’s biggest fan.”

“Yeah, well, old habits are hard to break.”

The three weeks it took them to complete the album were the
longest Rob had ever lived through.  He was tired of it all, tired of the hype,
tired of the parties and the groupies and the drugs.  He and Casey talked on
the phone daily.  He knew the separation was difficult for her, but Casey
avoided talking about her life.  Instead, they talked about his, about his
frustrations and about the idea that was gestating inside his head.  And she
gave him her blessing.

“You gave me a piece of advice once,” she said, “to tell the world
to go to hell and follow my heart.  It was good advice, and because I love you,
I’m giving it back to you now.”

He clutched the phone tighter.  “You don’t think I’m nuts, then?”

“Rob, listen.  I’ve known for years that you wouldn’t be happy
forever playing second fiddle to Danny.  You’re a talented musician.  And if
you have to go off alone in order to straighten out your head, then that’s what
you should do.”

Three days after he heard the final playback of the new album, he
rented a Jeep, packed up his clothes and his guitar and his cat, and headed
north.  With no particular destination in mind, he knew a freedom he’d never
before experienced.  He took his time, exploring the coastal villages, walking
the beaches, studying the flora and fauna.  When he reached San Francisco, he
headed inland, through the verdant Sacramento Valley and into the mountains of
northern California and Oregon.

Here, the air was clear and smog-free, the land a vast wilderness
totally foreign to a man city-born and bred.  The cool mountain streams and
cascading waterfalls beckoned him, as did the lakes and the trees and the
abundant wildlife.  If paradise truly existed, this was it.

He was several days out of L.A. when he stopped for gas at a
rustic general store tucked into the shadow of a towering mountain.  While the
dour-faced attendant filled his tank and checked his oil, he wandered around
inside.  The place held an eclectic collection of goods:  everything from corn
flakes to ammunition; from fishing supplies to a dust-laden copy of
Hustler
tucked away on a back shelf just behind the latest issue of
Rod and Reel
.

The guy was taking his own sweet time with the gas.  Rob picked up
a six-pack of Heineken and a bag of Fritos.  To kill time, he began idly
scanning the notices tacked on the bulletin board near the cash register.  He
saw it almost immediately, hand-scrawled on a yellowed three-by-five index
card. 
Cabin for rent.  See Al for details.

The old guy came back
in and rang up the sale, the stench of unleaded gasoline clinging to his yellow
slicker.  Rob handed him a fifty.  As he was making change, Rob asked, “You
wouldn’t happen to be Al, would you?”

The codger slammed shut the cash drawer.  “Depends on what you
want,” he said.

Rob handed him the fly-specked card.  “This,” he said.

The guy eyed him up and down, taking in the faded jeans, the army
jacket, the riotous blond curls that fell past his shoulders.  “The rent’s
two-fifty a week,” he said.

Rob nodded.  “That sounds reasonable.”

The bushy white brows drew closer together.  “That’s two-hundred
and fifty dollars,” he clarified.

“Money’s not a problem.”

“No partying, no drugs—”

“All I’m looking for is a quiet place where I can rest, play my
guitar, commune with nature.”

The guy looked at him as though he’d just landed from another
planet.  And maybe he had.  This place was a far cry from L.A.  “How long you
planning to stay?” Al asked.

He shrugged.  “Until I get the urge to move on.”

“I have to have the first week’s money up front.  Cash.”

He opened his wallet again and began counting out bills as the old
guy watched, bug-eyed.  “There’s a month’s rent, in advance.”  He looked up and
grinned.  “When can I move in?”

He didn’t have to stay.  He kept reminding himself of that as the
Jeep navigated the rutted road up the mountainside.  Al had given him a door
key and vague directions, and he’d bought enough supplies to get him through
the first week.  His last glimpse of Al had been in his rearview mirror as he
pulled out onto the blacktop road.  The crusty old gent had stood beside the
gas pumps, cap in hand, scratching his head. 
He’s wondering where the money
came from
, Rob thought. 
He’ll probably run right down to the local post
office to see if they have my picture on the wall.

The Jeep crashed over one last bump and the road ended abruptly in
a clearing next to a small cabin.  Ahead of him, the lake shimmered and
sparkled in the afternoon sun.  He stopped the Jeep and got out, and the
profundity of the silence overwhelmed him.  There were no horns honking, no
sirens wailing, no human sounds at all.  It was so quiet, he could hear the
crunching of his own footsteps.

The place smelled musty and unused.  There was a single room,
simply furnished with a table and chairs, a built-in bunk, a small
refrigerator, a wood stove.  He shoved open several windows, and the
pine-scented mountain air rushed in, chasing away the stuffiness.

He went back outside and let Igor out of his carrying case.  The
svelte Siamese slunk, belly to the ground, then dashed for the open cabin
door.  Igor, too, was a city boy.

It took just a few minutes to unload all his gear.  He fiddled
with the small generator in the lean-to behind the cabin for a while before he
got it going.  The refrigerator had the same musty scent as the cabin, but it
was clean and it worked, and he stowed away his groceries while Igor sat
ignoring him elaborately, tail wrapped around his front legs, wearing his
haughtiest Siamese look.

“You’re nobody,” he told Igor, “until you’ve been ignored by a
cat.”  Igor’s ears twitched.  Rob closed the refrigerator.  “Come on, mouse
breath.  Let’s go see what kind of mess we’ve got ourselves into.”

Igor trotted along behind him like a faithful dog, down the hill
to the water.  The weathered dock creaked when he walked on it, but it didn’t
cave in.  From this vantage point, he could see the entire lake, and as far as
he could tell, there were no other humans within miles.  He saw no cabins, no
telltale plumes of smoke rising.  No motor boats, no water skiers, no kids
splashing around wearing orange life preservers.  “Looks like it’s just you and
me and Mother Nature,” he told Igor.

He built a fire in the wood stove and fried hot dogs in the
skillet he’d found hanging on the wall.  Belly full, he sat barefoot on the
dock with Igor and watched the sun set.

Evening came quickly, the darkness seeming to crowd in upon him
without warning.  The night sounds were different from those of day, and he
wondered what the hell he was doing in this godforsaken place.

A good night’s sleep changed his outlook.  He couldn’t remember
when he’d slept so soundly.  He and Igor breakfasted on a MacKenzie Special,
made with eggs and cheese and leftover hotdogs.  Then he got out his razor and
prepared to shave.

The sight that greeted him when he peered into the cracked mirror
above the sink was enough to stop him in his tracks.  His eyes were bloodshot,
his complexion pasty and sickly.  He looked like he’d either gotten drunk last
night or should have.  Grimacing at his reflection, he held up the disposable
razor, looked at it for a moment, then tossed it into the trash.  If he was
going to live like a hermit, he might as well look like one.

He spent most of that first day lying on the dock, absorbing the
sun’s warmth.  By nightfall, the hated freckles had begun to pop out in a light
sprinkling across the bridge of his nose and on his shoulder blades.  He’d
grown to accept the inevitability of the freckles (his mother said it was just
the Irish coming out in him), but he’d never, ever come to like them.  He
comforted himself by remembering how much luckier he was than his sisters, with
their milky-white complexions that turned as red as their hair the minute the
sun hit them.  The hair on his head was blond, but his body hair was several
shades darker, and he knew from experience that the freckles would soon give
way to a rich, mahogany tan.

By his third day of solitude, he’d begun to realize that he truly
was the only human around.  In three days, he hadn’t seen a single sign of
humanity, not even a plane flying overhead.  For the first time in his life, he
was absolutely alone.  He stripped and swam in the frigid depths of the lake,
then lay naked in the sun, its gentle touch nudging him in places he’d never
before exposed.

On Saturday he headed for the store, sporting a week’s growth of
reddish beard and feeling better than he had in years.  He’d slept soundly each
night and spent the days alternating between exploring the area and sunning
himself on the dock.

While Al’s distrustful eyes followed him around the store, he
stocked up on groceries, then bought a rod and reel.  He’d never been fishing
in his life, and he had no idea what to buy for tackle, so he bought one of
everything.  He picked out a half-dozen mysteries from the paperback book rack,
bought batteries for his Walkman, then carried his loot out to the Jeep.

He spent the second week reading Robert B. Parker and learning how
to fish.  He was as excited as a kid when he caught his first bass.  It was
nearly a foot long, and it lay on the wooden dock, flipping and spattering him
with lake water when he tried to remove the hook from its mouth.

That night, he and Igor had fish for supper, and for the first
time Igor seemed to approve of this place he’d been dragged off to.  He sat
contentedly next to Rob on the steps, washing his paws and his face, before
curling up in a ball and purring a final benediction.

That evening, Rob sat on the crumbling dock and played his
guitar.  The Gibson was the first thing he’d bought when the money started
rolling in.  After years of picking away at third-hand, second-rate guitars,
the Gibson was his reward for the virtue of patience.  The sweet vibrato echoed
out across the silent lake and he felt its thrum through his fingertips and all
the way into his soul.  He began working on the tune that had been circling
around in his head for the better part of a week.  Strummed a chord, picked a
few notes, frowned and changed pitch slightly.  Satisfied, he continued on, gaining
momentum as the music began to pour forth from his fingertips, his instrument,
his soul.

And there on that dock, a million miles from the bustle of Los
Angeles, Rob MacKenzie slowly began his journey home.

***

Three days after Rob left L.A., Danny spent the afternoon sitting
on his deck, staring out over the Pacific, smoking cigarettes and sipping
bourbon.  That night, in spite of the booze circulating through his system, the
nightmares poked insidious fingers into his sleep.  The images were blurry and
confused, visions of Vietnam stirred into the pot along with images of Katie,
his Katydid, lying in that tiny white coffin.

He woke up crying, spent the rest of the night battling his demons
at the piano.  With the first light of day, bleary-eyed and exhausted, he
tossed the booze bottles—both full and empty—into the trash.  And then he
packed an overnight bag, locked up the house, and climbed into the car.