Songs for a Long Drive in the Dark

It’s July 1st and it’s raining for the first time in weeks. Lightfoot stares out the window at the rain lashing against the trees in the backyard as she pours herself the first cup of coffee of the day. She’s lost in thought for a moment and then, suddenly, she hears his name coming from the TV in the living room.

“Grammy-winner Jude Cooper is reportedly canceling the rest of his summer tour and heading home to the bluegrass after a very public meltdown last week. Fans were in uproar after the singer-songwriter cursed out the crowd at a concert in Minneapolis and then walked offstage last Thursday. Cooper only made it through half of his opening song, then – according to concert-goers – flew into a rage after he broke a guitar string. Audience members speculate that Cooper seemed to be intoxicated. Live Nation issued refunds for all ticket sales for the concert date, but it may take more than a refund to restore fans’ faith.”

Lightfoot stands in the doorway staring at the TV screen long after the reporter moves on to a story about a panda in a zoo somewhere. Daniel looks up and sees her standing there, holding her coffee cup close as she stares into space.

“Babe? You okay?”

She snaps out of her daze, glancing sideways at Daniel as she sits down at the end of the couch. “Yes. I’m fine.” She starts to ask a question, stops herself, and then asks it anyway. “Did you hear what they just said about Jude?”

“Yeah.”

“What all did he say, exactly? At that concert?”

“I don’t know, baby. Don’t worry about it.”

“But it’s Jude.”

“Used to be,” says Daniel. He takes a sip of his coffee and glances over at her with a grim look. “You know what fame does to people. You haven’t even spoken to him in what, four years now? Or is it five?”

Lightfoot says nothing. She drinks her coffee in silence and wonders where he is now--if he really is back in town, like that newscaster claims he is. She wonders how things got so bad that he turned his back on his music, his career--the only thing he had ever wanted.

Later that night, Daniel takes her out to dinner and he proposes to her. All Lightfoot can think about when she sees the diamond sparkling in that tiny box is how her mother always says only fools get married; and she remembers that postcard from last year, the one with no return address that just said, “Please don’t settle for him.”

But she pushes all those thoughts aside and she says yes. Daniel smiles bigger than she has ever seen him smile – even bigger than when they won the state football tournament in his senior year of high school.

It keeps on raining outside and on the drive home, Daniel talks about how bad the crops needed the rain, but Lightfoot’s not really listening: she’s remembering that time she played in the creek with Jude while it rained all night. She scraped her elbow and ruined her dress and the water was way too cold for summer, but she never remembers that part of it these days; she only remembers the way it felt when he pushed her wet hair out of her face to kiss her for the very first time. She was sixteen then.

Now she is twenty-two years old and too old to play in creeks. But she can’t help but wonder if Jude’s out there somewhere now, waiting for her in a flooded creek bed.

-----

The cave was set back into one of the cliffs that looked out over the lake. It was small--maybe only twenty feet deep, with a ceiling so low you had to crouch once you were inside--and so obscured by the trees that grew up up around it that Lightfoot wasn’t sure how Jude had ever spotted it at all. With the ease of old habit, he climbed from rock to rock until he had pulled himself up into the mouth of the cave. It was only maybe twenty feet up, but Lightfoot stood down on the bank below, staring up at him with apprehension.

“Come on,” said Jude. “I know it looks scary but it’s easy. I promise.” When she still looked skeptical, he leaned down and held out a hand. “Here, hold my hand. I won’t let you fall.”

And even though she had only just met him, she believed him.

Clumsily, and little by little, she scaled the cliff--although it was more a process of him dragging her steadily upwards while she braced herself against the rock wall more than anything. When she finally reached the top, he let go of her hand to place both hands on her waist and pull her up to sit next to him.

“See? Wasn’t so bad.” He grinned boyishly at her for a moment, then saw that she was blushing. Suddenly embarrassed, he looked away too. “C’mon, lets go inside.”

They crawled further into the cave and he sat against one wall and she sat against the other. It was cool and damp and very very dark. He dug around in his pocket for something, and a moment later produced a match with the spark of a flame burning away at its tip.

“Here,” he said, holding the lit match out to her.

She took it from him. He lit another for himself. It lit up his face nicely and she found herself admiring the dark gleam of his eyes.

He stared right back at her through the semi-darkness, and suddenly he said, “How old are you?”

For a moment, she considered lying, but she knew she would never get away with it. “Thirteen.”

He nodded as if that made some sort of sense and stared to look out the mouth of the cave. Outside, the sun was setting; beyond the trees crowding the shore, a mist was settling over the water. “I remember when I was thirteen. Worst year of my life.”

“Gee, thanks for the encouragement.”

“I got beat up a lot in the seventh grade. I didn’t really have friends. I just read all these crazy sci-fi books non-stop. But the eighth grade was worse.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I got in a lot of fights. I broke this kid’s jaw and they almost sent me to juvie.”

“Why?”

“Why?” He laughed humorlessly. “Because the kid was in the hospital for five days. Almost died.”

“No, I mean--why did you beat him up?”

“He made a joke about my brother.”

Lightfoot waited for an explanation, but none came. “I’m sorry...I don’t--”

“My brother died when I was thirteen,” he said. He looked her straight in the eye. “It was a car accident. He was seventeen. He was drunk.”

“Oh my God...I--”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.” He leaned his head back against the stone cave wall and closed his eyes, slowly, the way Lightfoot’s mother did sometimes when she had a migraine. “Please.”

“Okay.”

The silence that followed was the most complete and perfect silence she had ever heard. There was a steady dripping somewhere faraway, but it didn’t interrupt the stillness--if anything, it intensified it somehow.

“I see why you like to come here,” she whispered.

A little half smile lighted on his lips. “It’s great, isn’t it?” He turned his head to stare into the dark depths of the cave where the opening shrunk away into nothing. “It’s crazy to think about the Earth. The outside is cool, only warmed by the sun, but the inside is just a ball of fire. All liquid, always changing and bubbling. All the time.”

Lightfoot didn’t know what to say.

He turned his gaze on her again. “So what’s your sob story?”

She shrugged.

“C’mon. Everybody’s got one.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Okay. So what do you want to talk about?”

She hesitated, and then asked, “How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“You’re in high school?”

“Yeah. Freshman.”

“How’s that?”

“Terrible. But don’t worry,” he said, smiling, “It’s still a lot better than seventh and eighth grade. You can only go up from here, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” said Lightfoot bitterly. Her uncles called her that.

“Sure you are. You’re only thirteen.”

“You’re only fifteen.”

“Touche.”

Smiling at each other through the dim, flickering light, they both sensed that this was the beginning of something--something they had both needed for a long time.