Page 72 of Night Songs

I was afraid to open my mouth. I didn’t know what would come tumbling out.

“I know that look.” She paused, exhaled. “When I stopped drinking, the hardest part was the time after I got sober and put my life back together, maybe weeks or months later, when I thought I’d get back to where I was before. But all I felt was nothing.”

She looked up at me to see if it was registering. “That right there”—she tapped a finger on the table—“that nothing was the greatest danger.”

I didn’t know she’d had a problem. I’d thought the not drinking was part of her stoic musician persona.

“I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do.” She signaled to the waitress for a cup of coffee. “I’m gonna make a phone call, during which you are gonna stay in that seat and not move.” She eyed me likedon’t fuck with me, girl. “Then we’re gonna sit here and drink our coffee until the sun comes up.”

Later, as we drove away from town, purple light spread across the horizon. I was right on the edge, living moment to moment. One more minute gone. Then another. Just make it to that stop sign. Just make it to that tree. Just make it to wherever Martha was taking us.

We pulled up on a small airstrip in a field miles away from civilization. There were a few baby planes lined up next to a large barn. A man in his forties or so greeted us in the morning chill, and he pulled Martha in for a long hug before he turned to me.

“Good morning, Ms. Powers, I’m Rick.” He was handsome in a quiet, weather-beaten way. “I hear you need a little help.”

I should have been angrier than a hornet—a stranger? Now? But I was grateful for the distraction, and there was something comforting about how much life had worn this man in.

He led me over to a tiny two-seater plane and opened the door. I looked back at Martha, who leaned against her truck, watching us from a distance. She urged me on with her silence.

I climbed in. It smelled like oil and old wool, and I was surprised by the simplicity of the interface. Rick gave me a headset and fiddled with the controls while he explained each action. The engine started, and the propellers whirred. He steered us toward the small runway, the vibration shaking my teeth.

Then he floored it, and we shot down the asphalt, gaining speed, until we lifted up, my stomach twisting, gravity clinging to my body.

As we rose through the air, rising above the sun, the heavy pull evaporated.

I floated, weightless.

When we hit sky, he showed me how to steer the plane, and he let me take over the controls.

I should have been scared, but I wasn’t. I knew when I would die.

The country looked small beneath us as I carved our path toward the horizon. It was safe up there, like nothing could touch you—not the devil, or man, or any of their laws. It was a new kind of nature—one with true open spaces.

A flock of birds came up next to us, and as we flew together, something like a song filled my head—not exactly music, but a feeling so high and colored that it felt like a melody. I spotted a cloud up ahead, outlined in flaring pink gold, and it looked like Heaven must be behind it.

After a while, Rick took over and returned us to the land of the living and the dead. The weight returned, but it was lighter and easier to bear.

Neither of us felt the need to speak as Martha drove us back toward town.

I had felt something up there, and I wanted more of it. Maybe that was the addict talking, but I didn’t care.

I wanted to fly.

24lulabelle

1976

SIX YEARS LEFT

I remember waking that morning to the smell of salt and iron. Tate sat at the edge of the bed with a plate of bacon still hot from the skillet, smiling serenely. His hair was wet from the shower and curling at the ends like a little boy’s.

I was usually in a plane by sunup, getting my hours in for the day. But Rick was busy, and I’d somehow slept the whole night. I felt bruised from lying down for so long, and my mouth watered for the food.

As I ate, we talked about the big trip we were taking south, through Mexico and all those little countries on into South America. Tate wanted to help out at some churches down there, and I wanted to hear Latin music straight from the source. I needed to feel the twist of the instruments, the sound bouncing off the walls of the places they’d been forged, the smells and the heat settling around the strings as the descendants of their makers played. We weren’t rolling in dough because we’d been shit at looking after our money, but we had enough to bum around and travel.

After breakfast, I drove to the travel agency to finalize the details, and Tate headed downtown to volunteer. He and a few of the church folk went out and found junkies to talk them into getting clean. It was funny to imagine those uptight church people trying to talk to someone who’d hadsuch a hard life. But I thought Tate was probably pretty good at it; at least he understood the need.

I went over to Martha’s in the afternoon. She was my only unmarried friend by then—even Tima had married her lawyer beau. I was happy for them, but I longed for the days when we looked out only for each other. I knew they’d always have my back, and I also knew it would never be the same again.