Solo

  I’m serious. She gave you up. Let her be.

  I can’t.

  You should talk to Dad first.

  I don’t have anything else to say to him.

  That sounds about right. I’m sure Mom would co-sign that

  attitude if she were alive.

  She would. She’s been trying to tell me something in my

  dreams for a while now.

  Look, Blade, right now you have a father who, despite the

  fact you think is a super freak, loves you, and you have an

  amazing, talented sister . . . the best in the world, really.

  You give up on us, you got nothing.

  Maybe.

  Go talk to him, Blade.

  Where is he?

  Follow the music.

  Down the hall

  past the library

  of sheet music

  and comic books,

  into the foyer

  of statues

  and ghosts,

  the strum of

  memories melts

  into the air

  like a mirage

  of a life

  that was once there.

  The chords are

  unmistakable.

  They belong

  to my mom

  and to him.

  I follow the sound

  out to the pool.

  He is rocking

  back and forth

  weaving a song

  with his fingers.

  The pain in those strings.

  The look on his face

  says love never dies off

  never leaves

  the secret chords

  of the heart.

  Track 5: Sunny

  ROCKER: BOBBY HEBB / ALBUM: SUNNY / LABEL: PHILLIPS / RECORDING DATE: 1966 / STUDIO: BELL SOUND STUDIOS, NEW YORK CITY

  This is the song

  Rutherford played

  between tears

  at her funeral.

  It’s the only

  non-rock song

  I’ve ever heard

  him sing.

  It’s been covered

  hundreds of times

  by everyone from Cher,

  to Leonard Nimoy (Yep,

  Dr. Spock from Star Trek),

  to Bryan Adams,

  to James Brown,

  to that kid, Marvin Gaye Washington,

  on Showtime’s Ray Donovan.

  When Rutherford sings

  “Sunny,”

  it’s like an eruption

  of joy and pain.

  To hear him

  croon

  is to know

  his hurt

  is volcanic

  is to know

  he is capable

  of loving

  even if he refuses

  to ever show it.

  Bobby Hebb

  wrote it

  forty-eight

  hours after

  two tragedies:

  The assassination

  of President Kennedy

  and the murder

  of his older brother,

  Harold, who

  was stabbed

  outside a

  Nashville nightclub.

  Rutherford would never

  record it

  for an album,

  but he loves it

  like it’s his,

  probably because

  he can relate

  to the stinging sorrow.

  But mainly,

  he loves it

  because of

  the title.

  It’s Not Enough

  He finishes.

  Bowed head,

  lowered eyes.

  I’m leaving.

  I found her.

  I fly tomorrow, I say.

  He looks at me,

  defeated,

  says nothing, but

  Sorry.

  Yeah, me too.

  Conversation

  You’re really doing this.

  Bought my ticket, so yeah.

  You’re just gonna pack up and go to Africa.

  Yup.

  What about shots and pills? You could get malaria or

  something.

  I got it covered, Storm.

  She walks over,

  gives me a punch in the arm,

  then a hug.

  I never told you this because

  I thought it would go to your head.

  A lot of girls liked you. I mean A LOT.

  I was always afraid you would change,

  become arrogant and pompous.

  Like you?

  Shut up. I told them all your weird habits.

  What weird habits? I don’t have habits.

  We look at each other.

  Really look at each other.

  Two siblings connected

  through experiences

  that forever changed us

  and now separated

  by our blood

  and the truth.

  Will you call me? Text me?

  I’ll think about it.

  You suck.

  Can you do me a favor?

  What?

  Before I leave

  I want to give Chapel a gift

  to let her know

  she’ll always be

  with me, on my mind,

  and deep inside

  my skin.

  That’s real romantic. Ugh!

  Can you call her house for me? She’s not answering her

  cell.

  Remind her to meet me

  at the park

  tonight, 7:30.

  Sure.

  Uh, like now, please.

  Sure, soon as I finish reading the Report. We’re famous

  again.

  . . . .

  Hollywood Report

  Breaking News: After initial reports, it has now been

  confirmed

  that Rutherford, and his late wife, Sunny, Morrison’s son,

  Blade,

  is not their biological child.

  He was adopted as a newborn.

  According to sources, his birth mother, Linda December,

  lives in Mississippi or Louisiana, and

  gave him up to pursue a singing career.

  How the Morrisons kept this family secret

  out of the press for almost eighteen years

  is nothing short of miraculous.

  Blade Morrison, spotted at the home of his ex-girlfriend,

  is now MIA.

  It’s safe to say that we can all expect the unexpected

  when it comes to the Morrisons.

  I pack up what matters

  A bottle of malaria pills

  Passport

  iPad with 4245 pictures of us,

  most celebrating

  her blue eyes,

  Guitar and guitar pics

  Graduation gift wallet

  Copy of Charlotte’s Web (the one Mom read to me five

  times)

  Storm’s terrrrrible record

  Clothes that smell like here

  A pillow with a thousand tears

  The teddy bear Rutherford gave me

  The unopened letter from Mom

  Sliver of faith.

  And, then I go

  to honor

  Chapel.

  Conversation

  Where do you want it?

  Right here, on my bicep.

  To honor my girl

  and her patience,

  ’cause I’m about to leave town

  and I don’t know

  how long I’ll be gone.

  You look familiar.

  I’m just a small-town boy.

  Show me a picture of what you want done and let’s get

  started.

  I just want her name in a cool font. And maybe a flower.

  How long will it take?

  However long the muse takes. First tat, huh?

&
nbsp; Yeah.

  Buckle up, kid, it may sting a bit.

  A Bit?

  The pain

  is almost instant.

  He begins his work

  and it feels like

  someone’s nails

  scratching the heck

  out of a bad sunburn.

  And I’m just

  begging that

  the muse moves

  a little faster.

  It Feels Permanent

  What if Chapel thinks

  I’m crazy

  for declaring

  my undying love

  this way?

  What if she thinks I’m

  a pathetic freak

  and runs

  in the other direction?

  I remind myself

  how much we’ve been through

  and how we could move

  canyons and seas

  stars and planets

  together.

  But what if she thinks I’m crazy?

  I decide to drive to Robert

  to see what he thinks,

  and to say goodbye.

  Gone, Like He Was Never Really Here

  Goodbye man,

  is what

  I want to say.

  I love you, man

  is another.

  I hope

  we see each other again

  someday.

  But none of these things

  are given voice

  because,

  according to Jimmy,

  Robert left Cali

  on a tour

  three days ago,

  replanted himself

  like a palm

  in another

  distant land.

  Leaving Chapel

  I pull into the park

  and turn off the car

  sit with my windows down

  listening to the teasing sound

  of couples laughing,

  planning their futures.

  It’s the loneliest, cruelest sound

  in the world.

  How do I tell Chapel

  I’m leaving?

  Maybe she will come.

  Maybe she will break out

  of her parents’ prison?

  Text Conversation

  8:33 pm

  Storm, where’s Chapel?

  Did you text her?

  I’m gonna head over.

  8:33 pm

  Yes. Come home first.

  I need to talk with you.

  8:34 pm

  Why?

  What’s up?

  8:35 pm

  Blade, come home, please.

  I imagine

  she jumps into my arms.

  We kiss.

  Our lips

  like two special edition

  book covers

  keeping our

  secret story

  safe inside

  the history book of

  greatest loves.

  I tell her I’m leaving,

  she insists

  she’s going with me.

  And that we’re never

  coming back.

  We’ll compose

  some deep cuts—

  flip the script—

  our B-side

  in a place

  that’s just ours.

  I see

  the lights

  still on

  in Chapel’s bedroom window.

  Why am I so nervous?

  Her parents are at church. I know this because I called

  the church.

  So who is that laughing around back?

  I slowly

  make my way

  around to the giggling

  and see

  her silhouette

  in the dusk.

  My girl

  with—

  Van DeWish

  Tickling each other

  in our hammock.

  Locking lips.

  This. Can’t.

  Possibly. Be.

  Happening.

  They hear the fallen branch

  snap under my feet

  and look straight at me.

  The cruel moon

  decides to

  make an appearance

  right now,

  right over the place

  where we’ve made out.

  Eight Legs and Fangs

  Blade, what are you doing here?

  Van falls out of the hammock, like I’ve done

  a million times before.

  There are no words.

  There is no breathing.

  I wonder if my heart

  is even still beating.

  Oh man, dude. Sorry, it’s just not your year.

  We had a thing first. Remember?

  I rush him.

  Ready to finally knock

  his block off

  like I shoulda done

  at the party.

  Chill, man.

  Chapel steps in front of me,

  sees my new tattoo.

  A tear falls

  from her face.

  Dang, dude, that’s a dope tattoo, Van says.

  I could die right here. Am I still alive?

  I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you in person, Blade, but not

  this way. I know you’re upset.

  He didn’t look upset when Cammie Wood had her tongue

  down his throat.

  I look her in those blue eyes.

  The deep blue sea.

  I’m drowning.

  Blade, say something, please, she says.

  So I do.

  You’re the spider.

  Crying

  Ever heard

  the sound

  of goodbye?

  The way a door closes.

  The way a deer looks.

  The way a busted bird sings.

  The ending of the world.

  The wailing of

  a hollowed heart.

  You’re Excused

  Saturday, late night

  Holding him tight

  Sunday, upset

  Instant regret

  I’m not gonna cry no more

  I’m just gonna laugh at all your tears

  I don’t have to try no more

  Might as well just write off all these years

  And while I’m at it

  Can’t forget it

  I got one more question, Boo

  Is it that easy . . . to get with you?

  Princess weaving

  Hero heaving

  Wicked Chapel

  Poisoned apple

  I’m not gonna cry no more

  I’m just gonna laugh at all your tears

  I don’t have to try no more

  Might as well just write off all these years

  And while I’m at it

  Can’t forget it

  I got one more question, Boo

  Is it that easy to get with you?

  Monday, I said you looked fine and I lied

  Your hair was frizzy

  Tuesday, your breath smelled so bad that I cried

  My eyes grew dizzy

  Wednesday, I wondered if you were still mine

  Man, I was crazy

  Thursday, I bought you those jeans so Divine

  And, girl, you played me

  I’m not gonna cry no more

  I’m just gonna laugh at all your tears

  I don’t have to try no more

  Might as well just write off all these years

  And while I’m at it

  Can’t forget it

  I got one more thing to say

  You’re the freakin’ spider.

  © BLADE MORRISON

  The heart

  is a small

  and lonesome place

  she is a country

  her eyes hold

  the river

  I used to swim

  her skin,

  the morning fruit
/>
  I touched and tasted

  the heart is a small

  and lonesome place

  she is a country

  I no longer live in.

  I decide

  I will not let

  her betrayal

  or theirs

  ruin one more day

  of my screwed-up life.

  If Rutherford and Sunny

  hadn’t been musicians,

  they would have never met,

  or adopted me

  into this circus.

  There would have been

  no encores.

  If I hadn’t gotten drunk

  on love songs,

  I would have never fallen

  for her.

  I’d still be singing,

  not bruised, tattooed, and tattered.

  I take the cause

  of all this pain,

  lift it

  over my head,

  and SLAM.

  SLAM it

  to the ground

  until it hurts.

  Until it can’t hurt anymore.

  I raise a hammer,

  SMASH up

  what’s left

  rip out

  all the strings,

  DESTROY

  all the love

  that was

  once played.

  I am done

  with music,

  rock & roll,

  and LA.

  The End.

  Shattered

  You can’t destroy that guitar!

  Watch me.

  Blade, that’s that one Dad gave you. That’s a Van Halen

  Frankenstrat. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

  I don’t care what it is, or who made it. It’s an anchor

  weighing down my life. It’s a curse.

  She looks at the rage in my eyes and then she sees . . . my

  arm.

  Oh no. What did you do?

  Did you know? TELL ME!

  . . . .

  Why didn’t you tell me?

  I tried to get you to come home so I could—

  I’m outta here. This place is rotten, and I can’t be in this

  stench one more second.

  You’re not right. You shouldn’t go.

  If I stay here, I’ll never be right.

  Don’t do this, Blade!

  I’ll see you, sis.

  Can I take you to the airport?

  No.

  Wrong answer. Plus, I got your keys.

  Storm and I stare

  at the mangled masterpiece

  scattered across

  my room.

  I can’t believe

  I destroyed

  an Eddie Van Halen Frankenstrat.

  Who does that?

  I feel like Frankenstein

  has taken my monster

  of a life,