mine,” he sang. “He don’t know yet, but he’ll find out in time.” Too nervous for Uncle Bobby, I ripped the new lyrics from Presley’s notebook and pocketed the page. “Come here,” Uncle Bobby said. “I’ll teach you something.” He showed me string bends. The taut steel cut into my soft fingers. The guitar honked like a tone-deaf duck. “I suck,” I said. “It’ll come,” he said. “Trust me. With your blood, it’ll come soon enough.” “That’s what scares me,” Mom said. She smoked in the doorway. Her blond bangs draped her darkened eyes. Her jeans and blouse hung around her body. She’d gotten thin. Presley paged through his notebook. I played the guitar. Uncle Bobby suggested they record one of my mom’s songs. “You know, if Johnny ain’t around.” “He won’t like that.” “He doesn’t have to know,” Uncle Bobby said, his hand around her waist. He turned to us. “You boys keep practicing.” They left us alone. Presley stood over me. “Where are my lyrics?” I shrugged, studying the deep guitar string trenches in my fingers. He whacked me with his notebook. “Where are my lyrics?” “Lyrics?” I said. I’d never heard the word. Presley dug a cigarette from his pocket and smoked. “Dad’s drinking again,” he said. “It’s all over. He’s washed up. This is a waste of time.” “No it’s not,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “You’re mad because stupid Kurt Cobain died.” “You’re right, dude.” Presley stood over me. His knees poked through the frayed holes of his jeans. Lines of blood crossed the skin where he’d given himself paper cuts. “Know a funny thing about the future?” he said, his voice low and cryptic. “It doesn’t care about you.” After he left, I pulled his lyrics from my pocket. Blood smeared some lines. I rolled up my pant leg, but the paper was too wrinkled to cut me. So I strained at the scratchy writing. Some phrases belonged to Nirvana; some were Presley’s. One verse unnerved me: I’ve seen into the future / Seen the world end I watched the sun die / I know we’re all condemned Music played from the studio. I followed. ••• In the control room, Presley smoked on the couch and wrote in his notebook. Music played over the speakers. The Rat and Uncle Carmine chewed cigars and watched the band in the live room. The Rat resembled his namesake: a squat man with beady eyes, pointy nose and thin moustache. Constantly he licked his palm and slicked his wispy black hair. “Don’t touch that,” he yelled at me. I put up my hands. “I didn’t touch anything.” He pressed a stubby finger to his temple. “I hear your thoughts.” “Jackson, my boy.” Uncle Carmine’s hardened face brightened. He bent down, gave me a hug, kissed my cheeks. His trademark rose boutonniere decorated his jacket. Many years later I’d learn the details of Dad’s relationship with Carmine Valenti. Suspicious Minds had played money-maker for the Valenti crime family throughout the ‘70s and ‘80s. They’d released three albums, played Johnny Carson, toured Europe. Nirvana’s “Nevermind” rendered Dad’s music too oldfashioned for MTV and Rolling Stone. Dad drifted until ’94, when Uncle Carmine agreed to finance an album to help my
father pay debts. “When we gonna make your album?” Uncle Carmine asked me. I blushed. “I can’t play anything.” “Give it time.” I started my tape recorder and watched the band. Uncle Bobby strummed his Stratocaster; horn players with shiny trumpets, trombones, and saxophones layered their rich brassiness. My mother played the piano and sang. I noticed, then, the spinning reel-to-reel. They were recording. “Why aren’t we doing her album?” Uncle Carmine said. “Who says we’re not?” said the Rat. “She’s better than Dad,” Presley said. The Rat whipped around. “Watch your mouth, kid. Your old man’s still the champ.” “Nice knowing someone still likes me.” My father shuffled in, favoring one leg, clutching a whiskey bottle. Gray stubble covered his normally shaved face. His unkempt hair fell across his eyes. I hardly recognized him. “Johnny,” Uncle Carmine said. They embraced. “My friend. You look awful.” Dad braced himself against the mixing board, watching the band. “What’s all this?” Uncle Carmine puffed his cigar. “The Rat says you’re in absentia. He needs your vocals. I’ve got journalists and DJs lined up across the East Coast. Suspicious Minds. The ’94 Comeback Special. All you gotta do is sing.” Dad pointed to the band. They’d stopped playing and now listened to my mother explain the song. “You’re taping this?” The Rat whacked the tape machine. It whirred to a stop. “Nobody’s recording nothing,” he said. “They’re warming up for you.” “I was under the impression that we were making my album.” “Mom’s good,” Presley said. “She’s been working hard.” Dad swigged whiskey and turned to Uncle Carmine. “You signed off on this?” Uncle Carmine stared into the glowing end of his cigar. “Your debts won’t pay themselves. Somebody has to sell a record.” “Dad?” I said. “When are you gonna sing?” “Soon,” he said. “I’ll knock ’em dead soon.” He planted a boozy kiss on my forehead, then smashed his bottle over the reel-to-reel. Glittering shards rained on the mixing board. The band kept playing — they didn’t know. Dad left the studio and didn’t come back. Many years passed before I understood his fear. He felt his music had become worthless. He’d been eclipsed not just by the new generation, but his own wife, too. He was a fraud, and everyone was just humoring him. So he crawled back to his one true love. In that washed-out world he felt no pressure. Drunk, he dreamed a child’s dreams, extraordinary fantasies sober men could realize. Swaddled inside alcohol’s warm womb, his dreams were reality. ••• A day passed. Dad still hadn’t returned. My uncles combed the city. Uncle Carmine had a new reel-to-reel delivered. I wandered into the studio where Mom played piano. Something slow, nostalgic, hymn-like. I turned on my tape recorder and thought back on what Presley had said about our father. Mom stopped playing. “How’d you burn your hand, Jackson?” “What hand?” She sighed and patted the piano bench. “Come. Sit. What’s MANKATO MAGAZINE • June 2013 • 25