Goin' Back Home Again

"C'mon, man," I heard John say in the background. "You gotta keep it going, Nick. Plough her, dude. You get the job done or I will."

"Yeah, man," I heard Carl say from behind her, "don't let us down again."

Tara's face was a mask of lust, and she popped the cock out of her mouth and reached for her ringing cell phone. "Ethan," she squealed in delight.

Then she turned to face me as she continued. "Yeah, you might as well come over. Nick's not as into it as we thought he'd be, and I have a hole that's going to be open pretty soon."

She clicked the phone shut, but it began ringing again. And again and again and again.

That's where I woke up. I was shivering as the air conditioner cooled the sweat drenching my face and shirt. Shaking the cobwebs, and the still vivid images, from my head, I reached for the cell phone and looked at the read out.

"Hello, Ethan," I said.

"Jesus H. Christ," he said, "where the fuck are you, Nick?"

I wasn't in the mood for anymore of this shit. "I'm not coming back for awhile, Ethan," I said. "You're going to have to take care of this on your own. I'll read it when I get time."

"But we can't do this without you. You know that."

"Just don't sign anything until I read it, okay?" I continued.

He was silent for a minute.

"Nick," he said, speaking slowly, "you saying what I think you're saying?"

I said nothing.

"Jesus, Nick, please tell me you're not really thinkin' about . . . you know . . . doing a runner on us."

"Just don't sign anything, Ethan. Got it?"

"Come on, Nick, we'll get rid of the bastard before we risk losing you," he said. "Bass players are a dime a dozen. Even those as good as Carl."

Shit, I thought. The cat was out of the bag already. No doubt this would be hitting the wires within days rather than weeks.

"We'll talk later," I said. "Do the best you can, but don't sign anything unless I give the go ahead."

I flipped the phone shut before he could say anything more.

It was dark outside now, and the bedside clock told me it was almost ten. I'd slept enough, so I decided to shower and clean up, get into some clean clothes, and get back on the road.

Between the landscape, the nightmares, and the phone call with Ethan, I couldn't get the hell out of Nebraska fast enough.

CHAPTER FIVE

Three and a half hours later, I was in Iowa.

"So you going to quit it all?" Walter said. "The band, the broads, the big bucks?"

"I don't know," I said. And I didn't.

"But you're thinking about it."

I nodded.

"Ethan was right, you know," he continued, staring straight ahead at the occasional pair of oncoming headlights. "If you're too chickenshit to beat the hell out of him, let the band get rid of him. Why should you be the one running away? Then you'll have your band, your money, your fame, and, best of all, your revenge on Carl. I mean, where the hell's he going to go without you?"

"Maybe I was going to quit anyway," I offered.

He snorted.

"Fuck you, Walter," I said. "You remember what it was like, I know you do. You remember being on top of the world after those first few books, then letting it all slide as you got all caught up in the fame and glory of being famous and glorious."

Ooh, I thought, good lyrics. I filed the phrase away in my memory bank of throwaway lines.

Walter was silent for an hour or so, and I was content to let him be and just concentrate on driving. Iowa was little better than Nebraska, but there was at least some roll to the land, which was getting more pronounced as we neared the Mississippi River.

"I got it back, you know," Walter said, interrupting my thoughts.

"I remember," I said. "All too well."

"That wasn't why I left, Nick."

I said nothing.

"It was already over long before I finally took off."

"I guess . . . what was her name? Trudy?" He nodded, and I continued. "Yeah, I guess Trudy just made it a little easier, huh?"

"You're right," he said, staring at me. "I was shit. Everyone knew it. I was like that little piss ant Capote. Wrote a few good things; became a celebrity; decided I liked being a celebrity more than I liked writing. But it was the celebrity that ruined it all, not Trudy."

"I don't really want to relive all of this, if you don't mind."

"That's not the point," Walter said. "The point is, I got it back. My last three books were some of my best work ever, if not the absolute best."

"And all you had to do was abandon your family."

"Goddamnit!" he thundered. "I didn't abandon my family. Your mother and I were already done. And I never was much of a father to you, even when we were together."

I laughed. "You can say that again."

"Don't you see?" he said. "The celebrity, all them fancy dinners and Hollywood starlets and cameras and interviews, they ruined me. I lost my focus, and didn't even realize I'd lost it until my third book in a row missed the bestseller lists. I couldn't stay in Podunk, Nowheresville with you and your mom, and she sure as hell wasn't leaving. And by then I hadn't been much of a husband–or a father, I'll give you that–for too long to remember. Trudy grounded me again. She took me to the mountains, and I got it all back."

"So what're you saying? Dump my wife, move to the mountains, meditate a few hours a day and it'll all come back?"

He sighed. "You should dump your wife because she's a self-centered little tramp, not just to refocus your energies. And I warned you about her before you married her, remember?"

That was our last conversation before he'd died in a rock climbing accident. And that was exactly what he'd said about her, too. I had slammed down the phone in disgust and not spoken to him again. He was dead a year later.

"Anyway," he continued, "dumping her just sheds excess baggage, so it's more of a bonus that it allows you to refocus your energies."

"Is that what we were to you? Me and Mom? Excess baggage?" My voice was low, but I've no doubt he heard the menace in my whisper.

"No, you dumbass. I was the baggage. You just ask her when you see her. Ask Carol. She'll confirm it. And I needed to do it for her–and for you, believe it or not. Afterwards, wallowing in my misery, I promised not to let it all be for naught. I swore I'd become what I'd once been, and I shook the booze and the smokes and the women. Well, except Trudy . . . and then Susan. I settled into that cabin on the lake and started writing again, and it all came back. Not real fast at first, mind you, but I couldn't believe how soon I got it all back."

He was telling the truth. I knew that because I'd read all of his books, even the crappy ones. The first one after he and Mom divorced was about the disintegration of a family. Mom was the hero of the book, and the little boy–presumably me–was the sympathetic figure. The husband was the prick, and Walter had painted himself unflinchingly well. The fault had all been his in the book, and he'd painted only enough flaws into Mom and me to make us seem believable without being at all to blame.

"Okay," I said. "So I dump the excess baggage. Get rid of Tara. You think that'll help? I mean, it's not as if the boys in the band are helping matters any, are they?"

"So Ethan was right," he observed. "You're thinking of quitting altogether, aren't you?"

"I haven't decided," I said. "It's just no fun anymore, you know?"

He nodded.

"Here's your free advice from your old man," he said. "You've got enough money, and God knows you've been busting your ass nonstop for the past ten years. You're lucky. Most people bust their asses for forty or fifty years and never get where you are. But you got lucky. So enjoy the luck."

"How do I do that?"

"Simple," he said. "You want to quit, then quit."

I nodded.

"Just one thing, though," he continued. "Make sure you have something to do with all of your spare time. Take it from someone who knows, okay? You get bored and you'll be hitting the Truman Capote circuit just like I did. And Nick?"

I turned and looked at him, waiting.

"There's nothing more tedious than some old has been telling everybody about how great they used to be. Even if they were great."

CHAPTER SIX

I was finally into Illinois, which I'll grant you is no more exciting than Iowa and only slightly more exciting than Nebraska, when my cell phone rang. I looked at the number and hesitated before flipping it open.

"Nick?" she said. "You there, baby?"

I sighed.

"Nick, please talk to me," she said.

"How long has it been going on, Tara?" I said. Might as well make the first pitch a fastball.

"Let's not talk about that now," she said. Her voice was pouty. You know the sound, little girl whiney mixed with how dare you talk about anything but how wonderful I am.

"You wanted to talk, Tara," I said, "and that's what I want to talk about."

"I don't want to talk about it over the phone," she said. "I want to sit down, together, in the same room. Then we'll talk about it."

"But I don't want to sit down with you right now," I said.

"Where are you, Nick? I could come to you."

"I'm in Illinois," I replied.

"Your Mom's place?"

I looked at my GPS. "I'll be there in a few hours."

"Jesus, Nick, that's . . . well, that's a long ways. Have you slept at all since you left?" It was hard to tell if she actually gave a shit. After all, she was a pretty good actress, and she had two Emmys to show for it.

I ignored her concern. "I don't want you to come here," I said. "I need some time to think things through."

"You can't take a break now, baby. You're in the middle of your new record deal. Carl and the guys are really worried."

"For fuck sake," I yelled into the phone. "I catch you and Carl fucking and all you want to talk about is my obligations to the band? What about your fucking obligations to me? Can we talk about that for a second, Tara?"

"Fuck you," she shot back. "Grow the hell up, Nick. Jesus, you bang your groupies every chance you get, so what the hell is so wrong with me getting a little action on the side? It's not like you don't get me all you want."

"That's bullshit and you know it," I said. "I haven't banged a groupie since our first tour. I didn't even know you then. And I haven't screwed anyone else, for that matter. Not since we first got together. Jesus, Tara, how many times do I have to tell you this?"

"Well what about Tracy then?" she accused, dropping the name of her slightly younger but still legal co-star. "You remember those photos last year in the Enquirer, I know you do. You going to deny that now, too?"

I held my breath, trying to keep from blowing a vein then and there. "We've been over that a hundred times," I said. "Nothing happened. We ran into each other at a club, she was drunk, and some guys were harassing her. I just gave her a lift home. That's all."

"And I'll tell you for the hundredth time," she said. "That's a goddamned lie, and you know it. She was falling all over you."

"She was falling down drunk," I said. "You saw her legs buckling."

"Goddammit, Nick, just get the hell back here," she pleaded. She was crying now, and the tears sounded real. Crying on demand was her sole acting weakness.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I can't do that right now. We'll talk later, okay?"

"Don't hang up on me," she cried out. I did anyway, powering off the cell phone after I did so.

We met backstage at the We The People Festival. LeadFoot was the second to last act of the Festival, leading into about the nineteenth Eagles swear-to-God-this-is-our-last-reunion tour, and Tara was the celebrity du jour tasked with introducing us. That was five years ago, and we were both at the top of our games.

A childhood star, Tara had landed a small role in Campus Life. She turned the bit role of Nikki, the cute undergrad, into a complex leading role in the series. She could act, no doubt about it, and she had the girl next door looks to go with it. The flat-chested little brown-haired tomboy from the childhood series had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, and everyone loved her.

In return, Tara seemed hell bent on loving everyone else. Before the Festival, she had regularly been seen on the arms of every Hollywood young hunk, and some of the photos were a tad bit compromising. The good girl on screen was a bit of a wild child in real life. Still, she didn't do drugs, which is rare, and she rarely drank, which is rarer still. So all told, the tabloids pooh poohed her flings with the meat of the week club, and America stayed glued to their screens every Tuesday night.

An hour and a half into our set at the Festival, we took a fifteen-minute intermission. Time to chug water and catch our breaths before going back out and really killing them. We were tight that night, and the crowd was great. To this day, we all agreed we'd never been better. Of course, we'd been paid three million to put on the show, so we had plenty of incentive to give it our all. I was standing in front of a huge fan, cooling off and drinking my third bottled water in five minutes, when I felt a soft hand glide over my belly.

"Wanna go out after the show?"

I looked down and into the eyes of America's sweetheart. She was gorgeous in tight blue jeans accentuating her bubbly ass, a western shirt cinched at the waist showing just enough belly to know it was taut and just enough cleavage to let you know she had some nice melons. Her soft brown hair was pulled back into a long ponytail, accentuating her square jawline, full lips, and button nose. And those soft brown eyes with thick, long lashes? Sweet Jesus! don't get me started.

"Sure," I muttered.

She pinched my nipple, giving me an innocent smile as she did so. "I'll be waiting," she said.

Inspired, no doubt, by a throbbing erection that just wouldn't quit, we killed them in the second set, ending in a blistering version of "Sausalito City Limits," our recent number one. The crowd went wild, thundering their applause for a full fifteen minutes after we left the stage. By then, though, I was in the backseat of a limo with Tara Boyd, every young man's wet dream, petting heavily and trying to talk her out of skipping the nightclub and settling for drinks at my hotel room.

She wasn't too difficult to convince, and we disappeared into Suite 4101 for three days. From there, we hopped a plane to Fiji and roamed the beaches, hand in hand, for ten more days. I think I fell in love with her on day three, when she showed me how to drink beer through my nose. We were married a year later, and I never suspected a problem until a day and a half ago.

Sure, we'd had arguments. Hell, you try working sixteen-hour days, seven days a week for half the year filming your television series, then spend the other half of the year on the road doing publicity and charity events, talk shows, and movies. Then take your husband, give him the same hours and travel schedule. Mix into all of this the endless joy of people throwing themselves at you twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, buying you drinks, offering you drugs, trying to get a piece of you, and–almost every day away from each other–offering a piece of ass to you. It's hectic to say the least.

I'm not saying my life sucks or anything. Beats the shit out of a nine-to-five at the iron foundry, that's for sure. Still, understand what it's like and the different stresses it puts you under. Try going out to dinner with your wife without getting mobbed by photographers and fans, enjoy your vacations with helicopters of paparazzi hovering over you. Between the endless hoopla and the extended absences, it's a wonder anyone's marriage manages to stay together in either of our professions.

Still, I thought we were doing really well. Better than most, to tell you the truth.

Until a day and a half ago, when my little bubble was burst.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Mom," I called, dragging my duffel bag through the front door. No one locked their doors in Grant City, so my easy entry was not really a sign that anyone was home.

Hearing no response, I leaned my duffel bag against the wall and looked around the living room. I hadn't been here in nearly seven years, since right after the first album hit it big, but it was still the same. I guess a few pieces of furniture had been moved around, and the sofa was definitely new since my last visit. Still, it was comforting to be back home.

"Hello," I heard her call from the top of the stairs.

"Hey, Mom," I called back. "It's Nick."

"Nick?" I heard some shuffling around from the top of the stairs. My eyes went wide and a grin started spreading my cheeks. She wasn't alone, I realized.

"Nick, what're you doing here?" she said, wrapping a robe around herself as she walked down the stairs.

"Catch you at a bad time, Mom?"

"Wipe that smile off your face, young man," she said, knotting the sash before throwing her arms around me and squeezing me tight.

I hugged her back. It had been too long. This was our first hug since I'd dropped her off at the airport more than eighteen months before. She'd spent the week with us in Brentwood, and we'd hugged just like this when I saw her last.

She broke the hug and stood back, eyeing me up and down. "You look like shit, honey."

"Am I interrupting something, Mom? If so, I can get a room at the motel for the night. You know, let you get on with things."

"Bob," she called to the top of the stairs, "get dressed and get on down here. My boy's come to visit his dear old Mama."

"Bob?" I said, raising my eyebrows. "As in Dr. Bob? The chiropractor?"

She smiled.

"But Mom," I said, not knowing whether to be proud of her or embarrassed, "he's fifteen years younger than you."

She nodded. "And thank God he is," she said, "or he wouldn't be able to keep up with me."

"Hey, Nick," Dr. Bob called to me, tucking his shirt in at the top of the stairs. "This is a pleasant surprise."

I looked from him to her then back to him again. "Sorry for the interruption," I said. "Guess I should have called first."

He bounded down the stairs. "Nonsense," he said. "It's great to see you again."

"And besides," Mom cut in, "we were done anyway."

He blushed, but the look he gave her was genuine affection, no doubt about it.

"Come on," Mom said, turning and walking toward the kitchen. "Let me fix you boys something to eat. You look like you could use it, Nick."

The grumble in my stomach told me she was right. Over forty hours since leaving California, and I'd made due with a few candy bars, some bottled water, and a convenience store pre-made turkey sandwich.

Bob and I chatted, catching up on the news in Grant City, while Mom busied herself making grilled cheese and tomato soup. My favorite meal since childhood, no one did it better than Mom. The key was homemade tomato soup, which she always kept in tupperware containers in the freezer.

"So how's Tara?" Bob asked after we were all seated around the small table in the kitchen.

I tried to smile, but failed miserably.

"Problems?" Mom said.

"Her or you?" Bob said. When my look told him I didn't understand, he clarified, "Which one of you's cheating? Her or you? Or both of you, I guess." He laughed. "After all, you're in California now."

"Her," I said. "With Carl."

"Carl Simpson?" Mom said.

I nodded.

"He always was a dickwad," she said, taking a bite from her sandwich.

Bob choked at her characterization, nearly spitting his soup across the table at me.

Mom was always like that. If anyone could be more blunt than Walter, that someone was Mom. I'm pretty sure that's why he loved her so much. That's also why her students loved her: She called a spade a spade, and her literary criticisms fell for none of the tried and true bullshit. She thought Moby Dick sucked, and she'd preach it to all who would hear. Thaddeus Thibodeaux, President of Chadwick College, rarely appreciated her candor, but he found it exceedingly difficult to get rid of a tenured professor so popular with the students and alumni and so well-recognized and respected in the national academic community. All in all, she was a real coup for such a backwater as Chadwick, to Thibodeaux's everlasting regret.