Back to Wando Passo, David Payne [little red riding hood ebook .TXT] 📗

read somewhere that Jagger went there when he came to town. You figured out which fork and spoon to use and ordered some thousand-dollar wines. But deep inside you never felt like you deserved it, so when you reached a certain level, you always made sure to self-destruct, which is what you’re doing now. And it’s a shame, Ransom, because, racist or not, asshole or not, you have a certain genius in you. It comes out when you play guitar, and sometimes in your lyrics, too. There are guitarists I like better, but no one plays like you. When you hear a Ran Hill solo on a good night, it can’t be anybody else. It stays with you. I still remember some of them, and that’s why ‘Talking in My Sleep’ is still kicking after almost twenty years. And the sadness in the music is what stands out the most.

“But however far you’ve traveled, you’re still that hick kid from that jerkwater town, and when you see me—this black guy who grew up with advantages, who went to boarding school and has a cottage on the Vineyard—you just can’t help yourself, it rocks your world. I’m some kind of oddity to you, this Negro Fauntleroy, and you have to pick and jab to see if you can’t get a rise, and maybe you just want to make me hurt as much as you do. I think that’s why you call me ‘nigga,’ Ran. I think it’s why you did it in the old days, and it’s why after eighteen years that has to be the first word from your mouth. And the truth is, you knew I didn’t like it then, and you know I don’t like it now, just like you know I don’t like ‘Cell Phone.’”

“Hey,” said Ran, “you can’t blame me for that.”

“I can and do.”

“Everybody called you that.”

Marcel shook his head. “No one. Ever. Not until I joined your band.”

“Tyrell and James…”

“Tyrell and James picked it up from you. Why wouldn’t they? It was your band. They took their cue from you. And what really pissed me off was that you thought I wasn’t smart enough to get the joke.”

“This is interesting, Marcel,” said Ran. “It’s interesting as hell. What joke was it you thought I thought you wouldn’t get?”

“Come on, Ran, you called me ‘Cell Phone’ because I was so much not the kind of guy who’d ever have a street name of that kind. I was so much not the kind of guy who called his buddies ‘homies’ or went around bustin’ caps or moves. No one in my whole life ever called me ‘dog.’ You called me ‘Cell Phone’ to rub my face in that and plant the subtle implication, Can a guy like Marcel Jones, who comes from what he comes from, be considered a ‘real’ black man? If I consider you a racist, it’s for that.”

“So I guess I can assume you do.”

“Correct,” he said. “I think you’re a racist and a redneck and you have a questing, yearning heart and some great beauties of spirit, and you can also be as mean as hell and lower than a snake. On balance, what I think of you is something you can surmise from the fact that I left RHB eighteen years ago and didn’t choose to stay in touch. And, despite your offer earlier, I don’t think I’m going to be seeing that much of you now, either.”

“Do I get a turn?” said Ran.

“Go ahead.”

“As fantasy, this is semi-interesting, but I think it’s all about the song. RAM covers ‘Talking,’ and suddenly Claire and I have money coming in. It’s stirring up old bitterness about me stealing your labor and knowledge. You’re the black man who grew up with fried chicken as your heritage, and suddenly I’m the Colonel who stole the recipe and is getting rich. And you’re pissed off and want your taste. What do you want for that line, Marcel—my heart? My liver? Will you take a lung? Is one enough, or do you want both? Isn’t this what’s going on?”

“You aren’t even in the ballpark, Ran,” he said. “Yes, you fucked me over. Claire, too. Yes, I thought we were friends, and what you did is something friends don’t do. If our positions had been reversed, I wouldn’t have. Yes, I was pissed. For six months or a year, I was. But that was eighteen years ago. I put all that behind me. I’m not in need financially. I don’t want for anything. If you and Claire have money coming in, I’m glad. In fact, it’s actually a relief.”

“A relief,” said Ran. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“I think you make it awful hard on Claire.”

Ran’s expression emptied. “I make it hard on Claire….”

Marcel held his stare.

“I make it hard on my wife….”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

They held each other’s eyes, and suddenly they were in a different, darker room, one where words were done and something else seemed possible, if not required to finish the transaction.

“Ransom! Cell!” Claire’s cry broke the spell.

Balancing Charlie on a hip and ushering Hope ahead with her free hand, she ran onto the porch. “Come here!” she called. “I need you both. Please come in the house right now!”

SIXTEEN

The rocket streaks skyward, spilling sparks like red confetti, and then it bursts over the river and forms the trailing fronds of a golden willow tree that wink and stay—one second, two, longer than one would expect—before they fade.

Scattered applause and “Ahs” rise from the yard, where the last guests await carriages to bear them off. After a tearful parting with her aunt—who’s staying at Chicora Wood tonight—Addie stands with Harlan at the bedroom window, watching, and the fireworks call to mind the twelfth, when the firing awakened her at four thirty in the morning. At five, Harlan’s carriage rolled up to the curb downstairs.

“My dear, it is improper!” said her aunt Blanche. “I cannot let you