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Steve left work Friday afternoon with an unexpected burst of excited energy. It had been a long time since he’d seen his family and friends, and Lord knows he was looking forward to it. While he packed, he called Lena to remind her that he was going out of town. She only said that she remembered and that she was busy. There’s a warm and fuzzy for you. She didn’t even tell him to be careful or to have a nice visit. In Steve’s family, neglect of that sort of simple hospitality earned you an ass whupping. Lena’s disregard for Southern courtesy hurt his feelings to boot.
After he crammed a few things into his suitcase with unnecessary force, Steve began to realize that Lena just didn’t get it. Couldn’t get it. Couldn’t get him. He wondered if any woman possibly could. He decided to give it a little more time nonetheless. He had to think about all this before he could decide what to do; but he was pretty certain of the decision he would ultimately make.
In the meantime, Steve pushed Lena, his job, his evil deputy editor, and his bad heart all to the back of his mind. This was a vacation, damn it. He headed northeast toward the voice of the mountains – the voice that constantly rang in his ears. With every mile, Steve felt layers of filth, stress, and soot shucked from around him and left behind. His chest unwound from the constant knot it had been tied in lately, and he finally felt like he could relax.
Thirty miles out of metro Atlanta, Steve lit a cigarette, smiled contentedly and rolled his window all the way down. He inhaled the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle and fresh mountain air. He cranked his stereo up at the first strains of one of his favorite songs. He felt the friendly beat all the way to his boots and a sudden wave of ecstasy hit him as he glanced the surrounding hills and trees. The wind caressed his face as he drummed, danced, and sang along with Ryan Adams at the top of his lungs:<BR>
Someplace on the moon
Where they moved the drive-in theater
Where I left the car that I can’t find
But I still got the keys to
Let it ride
Let it ride easy down the road
Let it ride
Let it take away all of this darkness
Let it ride
Let it rock me in the arms of stranger’s angels
Until it brings me home
Let it ride, let it roll, let it go.<BR>
He laughed and let out a rebel yell. “Damn straight! Just let it ride!” He continued to laugh at himself. Lord, it was good not to care about propriety for a change. Here he knew himself: in his car by himself, embracing life and all its music. He felt free for the first time in months. “Why did I ever leave?” He frowned and reminded himself that he had a dream job and that he really did enjoy living in the city – except for the traffic. This was just a visit, and he could come back any weekend he wanted: even if he sometimes wondered if a weekend was ever enough.
But he was here now. Every hairpin turn and every overpass brought some memory or tweak in his DNA that made him ache for home. Blurs of green and ocher replaced stoic grays and tacky pastels. These were the colors he was at home with: green, sky blue, deep brown, burnt yellow.
Closer to Kinney – about ten minutes from the city limits – Steve came to his favorite overpass. He pulled over, unable to resist. He parked in the wide lane that curved away from the main road and toward a postcard view of the green valley below. Steve got out of his SUV and took a seat on the guardrail. He released a sigh of relief and awe. It was something out of someone’s imagination. No, beyond that. Sunset had overtaken the valley in a symphony of deep reds, blazing oranges, warm yellows, and eloquent purples. Steve’s Cherokee/Christian soul saw God. His blood hummed, his skin tingled, his mind was alive and at peace. His Grandmother Kinney would have called it Cherokee meditation. Steve just called it home. Everything came together to bring out all that was good in his spirit. For a long moment, he felt complete.
Mist settled around a tiny farmhouse in the valley, entwined itself in the trees and caressed the surface of a cow pond. He heard it whisper its love for all it touched. A breeze rushed into Steve’s face and tousled his hair in an earnest welcome home.
“It’s good to be home,” he whispered in reply. “Thank you.”
He stayed at the overpass for at least thirty minutes to watch the fog settle around the valley farmland. The colors of the sunset faded and darkened, but Steve was unable to move for fear of everything ending. He jotted notes in the memo pad he always kept on hand to record his thoughts and ideas for columns. He had just finished writing something about a need to reconnect with the land when someone intruded on his conversation with his home. He had half-heard the vehicle stop and heard the footsteps on the gravel, but he was startled when a stranger said, “Great view, huh?”
Steve turned to see a middle aged man standing a few feet down the guardrail. The man was tall with neatly groomed gray hair. He regarded the view as if it were merely an inanimate painting. “Yeah,” Steve answered, certain the dapper gentleman was a weekender like himself.
“You live around here?” the elegant man asked.
“I was born here,” Steve answered. “But I live in Atlanta now.”
“Can’t blame you. Not much to do around here. But it is pretty, isn’t it? Perfect place for a relaxing weekend. It’d be better if there was more for entertainment.” The man paused and turned to face Steve more directly. “Why don’t they develop more up here? Blue Ridge and Ellijay are catering more and more to weekend tourists like us. Why don’t they do it here? They’d make a mint.”
“ ‘Cause the mountains are priceless,” Steve answered with the tiniest touch of venom. “Round here, we like to focus on the land and the history.” He took a moment to quietly contain the flash of temper that erupted with the very thought of some developer bulldozing his mountains. He saw that the weekender looked a little uncomfortable, and continued more evenly, “Anyway, there’s plenty to entertain you if you know where to look.”
“Like what?”
“Depends on your taste,” Steve answered. “Talula Falls has bluegrass every Saturday evening in the summer. Sometimes my brothers go up there to play. Stuart Mountain does a lot of guided wildflower hikes and such. They’ve also got a horse trail and a Cherokee site. There’s bluegrass, mountain music, and some rock bands at the Valley Highway Roadhouse pretty much every night. Lots of museums and historical sites. McMarion’s Cairn is pretty near smack in the middle of Kinney. Couple Bed and Breakfasts and antique stores too.”
“Where’s a good place to eat?”
“Fancy or down home?” Steve asked without realizing how easily he had slipped back into his mountain accent.
The stranger looked at Steve with a curl of humor in his lip, then rather condescendingly answered, “Fancy, I suppose.”
Steve suppressed a growl at the belittling lilt in the man’s voice before he said, “Go on up the road, down the other side of the mountain. You’ll see a sign for Lip of the Valley pointing to a driveway. You can’t miss it.”
“What kind of food do they serve?”
“Usual bar and grill type stuff, but if you’re a little more adventurous, you can try some of the Cherokee-inspired stuff. I recommend the Corn and Pumpkin Cakes or anything with sunflower gravy.”
The man was intrigued. “Hm. Sounds interesting.”
“Good stuff, my friend,” Steve continued. “My brother’s fiancée is the manager. Her name’s Sarah. Tell her I sent you and she’ll get you a good table on the terrace. But treat her nice, or she’ll get snippy - at me.”
The weekender laughed, but was cut short by a persistent honk from his classic Corvette convertible. He held up a placating hand to the impatient blond in the passenger’s seat. “Thanks. And who should I say sent me?”
“Steve Larson,” he answered. “Or brother number three, whichever you…”
“Wait,” the guy said, stunned. “You’re Steve Larson? The columnist for the AJC? ‘The Observationist’ right? That’s your column?”
Despite the fact that he was flattered that his reputation preceded him, Steve was a bit disturbed by the man’s complete one eighty after hearing his name. Condescension and conceit had instantly become recognition and respect. Disturbed or not, Steve remained cool and forced a smile. “Yes sir. That’s me.”
“Great work,” the man said reverently. “I read your column every week.” He paused to give Steve an incredulous look. “I had no idea you were so young. How old are you?”
“Twenty-six,” Steve answered.
“No way. And you’re from here?” The amazement in the man’s voice was a mite annoying.
“Country wisdom, my friend. They start us out early ‘round here.”
Again, the persistent honk and the pacifying hand. “Well, I’d better get going.” The weekender offered his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Steve shook his hand and nodded. He indicated the woman in the car. “You’d best warn her about Sarah.”
The man chuckled nervously and nodded, then turned and walked to the car. Steve shook his head as he watched the weekender drive off. Danged city slickers trying to take over his mountains. But the fact of the matter hit him as got into this 4-Runner and headed back down the road. He was one of them. If he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into that arrogant walking mid-life crisis too. And he’d end up with a woman like that one. The kind Sarah called a Collagen Queen. He shuddered at the very thought. Married to a Collagen Queen? Me? He could see the plastic surgery bills far more clearly than he would have liked when he thought of Lena. He shuddered again at the picture forming in his head, and forced himself to drive it from his mind. Lena wasn’t that bad…was she?
By the time he reached the city limits, Steve had managed to shake the feeling of uneasiness surrounding any and all thoughts of Lena, and he had come full circle back to anticipation. He missed his brothers more than he would ever admit, and he knew that any problem that seemed too great would shrink under the careful eyes of Keith and Marty.
As he passed the entrance to Stuart Mountain State Park, Steve suddenly realized that nobody knew he was in town: not that it mattered. He just wasn’t sure who’d be where. He weighed the odds and turned onto Neilson Pike Road. It was Friday night in Kinney. More likely than not, most everyone he wanted to see would be at Marty’s house playing guitars and drinking beer. Steve smiled and cracked his knuckles. His fingers absolutely itched to touch the strings of his banjo. It had been too long since he’d enjoyed the sound of Marty’s fiddle and Keith’s mandolin. It’d been even longer since he’d joined in. But now the prospect of a drunk guitar circle had Steve so excited, he marveled at how anyone could not be in love with his family and friends. Lena had no idea of what she was missing.
Marty and his wife Mary lived in a simple, functional, slightly rustic one-story house about halfway up Blackberry Mountain. It was a large lot that was also home to Marty’s cabinet shop. The house itself invoked a feeling of comfortable disorder with its natural wood siding and squeaky screen doors. It was one of the few places where Steve really felt at home. When he pulled into the dirt and gravel driveway of Chez Marty, he knew he’d hit the jackpot. The wide driveway was choked with cars. He chuckled. Marty and Mary were having a full-blown ho-down. “Hell yeah,” Steve said as he managed to find a place to park. “Perfect timing.” Despite the fact that he would certainly have to wait until Saturday to see his precious little niece, Olivia, Steve knew that this was just the welcome home he needed.
Steve stepped out of his 4-Runner with his banjo case and immediately felt the bluegrass vibrations that delighted every cell in his body. He thanked God Lena wasn’t with him. If she felt uncomfortable with Marty, Mary, Keith, and Sarah, she’d never be able to handle a Larson Boys party. Steve trotted on up to the front door and knocked loud. “Who’s thar?!” Marty’s deep, robust voice boomed through the front door.
“The third and final chapter of the trilogy!” Steve hollered through the door as he heard Marty’s booted footsteps coming nearer the door. “The one that resolves the problems introduced in the first two!”
The door flew open to Marty: outfitted with his standard Bill Elliot T-Shirt, worn-out jeans and cowboy boots; carrying his fiddle and wearing a toothy grin. A tall, muscular fellow, Marty looked very much like Steve. Although, at 35, Marty had begun to go a little gray and had a bit of a beer belly, he had always been regarded as the most handsome of the brothers. His hair was black, curly, and barely reached his ears. His blue eyes saw, understood, and laughed at everything. The family’s Cherokee blood was only slightly more apparent in Marty’s face than Steve’s: it showed in their high cheekbones, tanned skin, and lack of any significant facial hair. He was a master carpenter with a sharp mind, a gregarious manner, and a land-loving soul, so he was one of Kinney’s darlings.
Marty let out one of his most boisterous laughs and exclaimed, “Baby Brother! Holy crap, boy, get y’ur butt in here with that banjer! I’ll be damned if you didn’t show up on the best night a th’ year!”
“Big Brother!” Steve exclaimed back as they embraced in a brotherly hug. “Who all’s here? A bunch of your redneck friends?”
“Yeah, and some a yourn too, Baby Brother!” Marty shot back. “Come on, Stevie, an’ see for y’self!”
Steve walked into Marty’s large living room and couldn’t help smiling at the scene. At least fifteen people were crammed into a circle of couches, folding chairs, beanbags, and beer coolers. About half of them held an instrument – guitars, bongos, a Dobro, Keith and his mandolin. Even Mary balanced her prized dulcimer on her knees. Steve’s soul trilled at it. A string somewhere inside him always resonated when he saw something so beautiful. Every face was happy, every smile was sincere, every laugh was musical.
“Hey folks, look whut the cat done drug in!” Marty boomed. “Reckon we oughtter hang on to it?”
“Get that nasty thang outta my house!” Mary exclaimed with a beautiful smile as she jumped out of her chair and set her dulcimer on her seat. She bounded up to Steve and hugged him until he thought his eyeballs would pop out. Mary was a dark-headed beauty with deep brown doe eyes that looked upon everyone with motherly grace. It still amazed Steve that such a kindly little woman had agreed to marry Marty – but it really didn’t. “How’s my favorite brother-in-law?” she asked before she kissed his cheek and released him.
“Hey now, I thought I was your favorite!” Keith exclaimed as he stepped up.
“I see you all th’ time, so right now, Stevie’s my favorite.”
The room laughed at this as Keith clapped Steve on the shoulder and smiled wide. “I’ll let ‘im be everybody’s favorite for now. How ‘bout that, Ms. Mary?”
“But only on the understanding that everyone will go back to worshipping The Keith when I leave, right?” Steve asked facetiously.
The room laughed again as Keith chuckled and embraced Steve in another brotherly hug. “Little Brother,” Keith grinned. “I sure am glad to see you, man. I was wonderin’ if you was still alive.”
“I deserve that, I know,” Steve sighed good-naturedly. “Sorry Brother Keith. I been busy.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Keith taunted. “Now get you a drink an’ come jam with us. We been needin’ a banjer all night.”
“Yessir,” Steve replied, and watched Keith step away to start making the rounds again. Keith was a diplomat as most middle siblings tend to be. His love for people and his town was very profound. He tried to take care of everybody and everyone at once, and (amazingly) succeeded. He was a DJ at the local radio station and saw himself as a public servant. The tallest of the Larson brothers, Keith stood a gangly six feet four inches tall. Where Marty and Steve had inherited the Cherokee hair color, Keith got the stock straight texture. He had dark red hair and favored their father so much that it was haunting. His angular face and incisive toffee brown eyes would have made him an intimidating, towering figure if he weren’t so friendly and goofy.
Steve found a bottle of Jack Daniels on the kitchen counter and poured himself a big glass of straight whiskey. Paused in the doorway between the kitchen and the great-room to sip his drink and light a cigarette, he scanned the room. Almost everyone he loved was there, and his sick heart didn’t feel so sick anymore. Sarah was missing, but he was sure that she would come by after she closed the restaurant. Mary’s sister Tammy and her husband Dale sat beside Mary and Marty. Lisa O’Reilly and her British husband Kevin sat laughing at something Keith had said. Brent and Simone Carbondale held hands and whispered to each other in the love seat like newly wedded turtledoves. Elise Ashley sat in a folding chair listening intently to a song the dreadlocked mulatto man beside her was playing. As usual, Steve had difficulty tearing his eyes away from Elise, but succeeded in continuing his survey of the guitar circle. Patrick Ung, Robert Shaw, and Marcus Henderson sat laughing and drinking in a row on the hearth like the happy bachelors they were.
When Steve had completed the circle, he was vaguely aware that someone else was missing. He always had that feeling when he came home. He used to think it was the absence of his father, but he knew that wasn’t it. Someone was definitely missing – had been for a while. But, like everything else, he pushed it to the back of his mind.
“Stevie!” Marty called from his seat in one of three rocking chairs set in a row. “When we gonna get t’ pickin’?!”
Steve swallowed a hefty slurp of Jack Daniels and answered, “Right now, Brother Marty.” He bolted to his banjo case and took the instrument from it. He sat in the last vacant rocking chair between Keith and Marty. The three brothers in a row presented quite a sight as they jumped right into a chaotic reel. The brothers musically sparred as they erupted into fits of laughter and let their fingers and hands do their own thing. Steve loved it when he could let loose and play – it happened so rarely now. So he played for all he was worth. Every musician in the circle followed the Larsons and did his or her best to keep up. The only ones who seemed to have it easy were Mary and Elise’s friend, Terrance. The mysterious mulatto man tore it up on his guitar right along with the musically gifted Larsons. All three of them shouted their approval across the room, which Terrance accepted humbly and quietly.
Everyone took a solo and the circle even managed to coax Steve into singing “Spanish Pipedream” by John Prine. As shy as he was of singing, Steve loved it. He loved every second of it. He hadn’t felt so good since…well…since the last time he’d been home.
After an hour and a half of straight jamming and drinking and laughing, the brothers ended up on Marty’s back porch. The night air was cool and carried all the fragrance of a young summer. The lightening bugs were out in droves, dancing and blinking in competition with the stars. A tiny smile tugged at the corners of Steve’s mouth as he lifted his third glass of Jack Daniels to his lips. He swallowed his sip and couldn’t help thinking of a verse in that Drive-By Truckers song. He also couldn’t resist amusing his brothers by singing:<BR>
Let the night air cool you off
Tilt your head back and try to cough
Don’t say nothing ‘bout the things you never saw
Let the night air cool you off.<BR>
“I swear man, you always could sing,” Marty chuckled. “Mighty nice to hear it again.”
Steve smiled and chuckled lazily. “Thanks man.”
Keith laughed and commented, “Stevie, I swear you get more country, the drunker you get. You ‘bout sound right again.”
“Har de har, Brother Keith,” Steve answered. “Anyway, as Yankee as I sound t’ y’all, folks in the city still think I sound like a hick.”
The brothers shared a chuckle until Keith strolled from his spot near the door to lean against the porch railing next to Marty. The result was a wall of elder Larsons facing the youngest Larson on the porch swing. The looks on his brothers’ faces told Steve that the inquisition was coming. Keith struck first. “Where’s Lena?”
Steve snorted as he began to gently swing. “She couldn’t take it this weekend. Reckon we ain’t cool enough for her.” He looked at Marty and grinned. “I think your parties scare her, Marty.”
“Well, too bad,” Marty scoffed. “I ain’t gonna half-ass nothin’ for no spoilt little snot of a girl.”
“Yeah, I know,” Steve replied as he lit a cigarette. He sighed the first drag out of his lungs and closed his eyes to enjoy another cool, fragrant breeze. He wondered if any woman could make him feel as good as that breeze. As the breath of it died away, Steve felt eyes on him. He opened his own eyes to Keith’s. “What?”
“Reckon she’s cool enough for you if we ain’t cool enough for her?” Keith asked importantly.
“I’m beginning to think not,” Steve admitted. “It ain’t the same anymore. I dunno what happened…”
“Yeah y’ do, Baby Brother,” Marty interjected. He regarded his youngest brother for a moment and glanced at Keith. “See whut I mean, Little Brother?”
Keith nodded.
“What…” Steve began. Marty again interrupted.
“Stevie, I’m lookin’ at you an’ I’m seein’ a man who don’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.”
“You’re gettin’ better, but you’re still not being our brother,” Keith added.
“What happened to our crazy little brother?” Marty asked. “Our crazy brother who used t’ talk about writin’ novels and startin’ magazines? Our crazy little brother who used t’go a-skinny dippin’ an’ hikin’ up on Stuart Mountain!” A flash of disappointed anger lit Marty’s eyes as he continued, “Our crazy brother who loves his home! Yer startin’ to get a little sense about y’, but you’re still lost, Stevie.”
“Your brother’s still here,” Steve replied a little defensively. He thumped his own chest a couple times with his thumb. “He’s still here. He might be lost and hard to see, but he’s here, y’all. He’s just a little beset by reality right now.”
“Reality?” Keith asked.
“I can’t do what I want with my career up here, my brothers,” Steve answered emphatically as he inched toward the edge of the porch swing. “There’s too much I gotta do. I still love home. I still love y’all and Mama and all those crazy punks in your living room and then some. But there’s things I gotta do.”
“Stevie…”
“I had another spell Tuesday,” Steve continued, too fired up to stop. “That’s two in three weeks, y’all.” He paused to sigh, contain his somewhat short temper, and drag his cigarette. “I gotta get where I wanna go quick before something happens. That’s reality.”
“Stevie, you’re killin’ y’self, boy,” Marty growled. “You ain’t doin’ y’self no favors thinkin’ and talkin’ crap like that. And you ain’t doin’ y’self no favors runnin’ all over Atlanter for that paper of yourn. There’s gotta be a…”
“What do y’all want me to do, Marty?!” Steve asked abrasively, that temper trying its damnedest to erupt at the conversation that always took place when he visited Kinney. “How else am I supposed to get the clout I need?!”
“Need or want, Ezra?” Marty asked critically, addressing Steve by his first name to punctuate his point.
“Stevie, what do we keep tellin’ you?” Keith added. “You’d best watch that ambition a’ yours. You gotta ask yourself if you really think you’re runnin’ out of time. And you gotta ask yourself if you’d rather have that ‘clout’ or twenty more years of livin’ a good life.”
“You’d best think hard, Ezra,” Marty added almost threateningly. “Y’ ought’ter come home an’ stay home where folks’ll damn near put their lives down to help y’ out. Where you’d live a lot longer than you think y’ will. There’s a happy medium somewhere, man.”
The shadow of an older version of himself drove Steve to sigh rather than scream. He couldn’t catch himself before he said, “Sometimes I wish I could come home. But…” he trailed off into a deep sigh and just shook his dark head. “I don’t know…” he whispered as he flicked his cigarette butt aside. He looked back up at his two brothers. “Something makes me beg for credibility. Something forces me to work my ass off for…well…something. The magazine plan? My brothers, that’s just one ‘a my crazy dreams. Failure is imminent there, and I can’t handle failure. If anything could kill me quicker than the Long Q-T, it’d be failure, not ambition. If y’all want me to live longer, I’ll slow down. I’ll talk to Charlotte – see if she’ll ease up on me some. I’ve been thinking about that anyway. There’s the happy medium, Brother Marty.”
Steve was rescued from further reaming by Sarah Curtis’s exclamation of “Well looky here! We got all three!”
Keith’s expression immediately changed at seeing his fiancée. “Hey Baby!” he said as he embraced and kissed her. “Mm. How was work?”
“I’m gonna kill your little brother, Honey,” Sarah said. “Why did you send me that Collagen Queen and her punk husband, Ezra Larson? I ain’t been so annoyed since I caught Lucy Sharpe gettin’ down with my former head chef on the prep table.”
“Sorry Sarah,” Steve chuckled. “But I figured they’d spend some exorbitant amount of money. What’d they do? I warned ‘em not to piss you off.”
“Lady whined and moaned about the mosquitoes and flies on the terrace, so we had to move ‘em inside, then they had a problem with the cornbread.”
“What the hell problem did they have with y’all’s cornbread?” Keith asked, appalled.
“They thought it’d gone bad or something,” Sarah answered. “My poor server kept tryin’ to explain to ‘em that it’s fire baked until she was near tears and come bawlin’ to me. Then, that Collagen Queen ripped into me when I told ‘er we didn’t have some specific kind of wine.”
“Sorry Miss Sarah,” Steve repeated as he hugged her. “The guy seemed okay. Snotty, but okay.”
“No offense, Stevie, but snooty yuppies like that tick me off thinkin’ they need special treatment just ‘cause they drive a Mercedes.”
“No offense taken,” Steve answered. He smiled as Sarah continued to recount funny stories from her day. Keith was completely attentive as usual. She was a good girl, and Keith more than deserved a good woman like Sarah. She wasn’t a grand delicate beauty like Mary, but she had a level of grace unparalleled by any woman Steve had ever met. She wore her long brown hair in a neat French braid that would have looked dated on anyone else. Her carriage and profile were every bit as proud as the woman herself. Despite her sometimes abrasive manner, her gray eyes held a softness that showed more clearly with age. It was even clearer still when Keith was around. She was tall and athletic, but soft curves left no doubt that she was every inch a woman. Surely, it was this package of outward pride and internal softness that attracted Keith to her. All the Larson men liked their women feisty.
“Now are we gonna have to club your butt and tie it to that oak tree yonder to keep you in town, Ezra?” Sarah asked abruptly.
“ ‘Fraid so, Miss Sarah,” Steve answered.
“We’ll wear you down,” she said slyly. A slow grin crept across her face. She looked up at Keith and said, “Baby, I think it’s time to bring out the big guns.”
Keith laughed and nodded. “Yeah, I think it may be.”
“What th’ hell are y’all talkin’ about?” Steve asked.
“Reveal our secret weapon? Shoot no!” Sarah laughed.
“Ah man,” Steve grumbled. “If you’re talkin’ ‘bout Mama…”
“Nope,” Sarah answered. “You’ll just have t’ wait and see, Baby.”
“Freakin’ A,” Steve sighed impatiently. “Come on, ya’ll. I’m on vacation here. Could y’all please lay off and let me relax for a change. Let’s get back in there and break it down Larson style.”
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Submission Name: The Art of Calm (Submission Possibility 1)
