Misty Blue
Misty Blue
Song: Misty Blue, by Dorothy Moore
Chapter 10
“Fine, go,” he shrugged.
She stared at him, silent at first. He was biting his lips, knuckles white, gripping the counter, sun-kissed face suddenly pale, the chin thrust stubbornly forward, defiant.
Perhaps this morning wasn’t so perfect after all.
She nodded slowly and got up. He watched her, saying nothing.
“I am sorry, Caleb,” she said softly. “You are right, I do love you. And I think you feel the same. But I stand by what I said—I will not be a kept woman, and neither will I be the cause of your band’s demise. At the end, you will fault me for it, and you will never forgive me. We both know that. So unless you change your mind, I think we might have to part our ways.”
“You won’t leave me,” he said bluntly. “You can’t. And you won’t.”
She didn’t know whether it was his ego speaking, or whether he genuinely didn’t believe that she was capable of disappearing from his life. She wasn’t sure herself, and she hated herself for ever starting this stupid conversation. But there was no going back now. Deep down though, she was sure that she was correct—she knew Caleb well enough, and knew what the band meant for him. It was his life’s work, his means of escape and release, his way of making something of himself. He mentioned to her that he’d want to be a preacher instead of a singer, just like his father, or even a chef, but she didn’t always believe him. He already had gotten used to the better things in life, the good food, the fine wine, the financial comforts that the money he had earned brought him. Going back to the purple Oldsmobile of the Followill childhood, the Hooptie, as they called it, wasn’t so appealing anymore.
Caleb snapped out of it and said,
“All right, let’s not lose our heads here. No one is leaving anybody. It will boil over.”
“Will it?” she insisted.
He looked sharply at her and said,
“Enough of talking about this. It’s getting old. I’ll decide myself what to do with this band of mine. Not you. If you want to stand your ground and get involved, you might as well go. I am not fucking begging.”
She got up and silently went to her Target bags, where she had clothes.
“Turn around,” she told him, not looking at him.
Angry, he stalked out of the kitchen, without looking at her. She got dressed quickly, found her bag and all the things that Nacho had brought. Caleb didn’t come down. She waited, dressed, swallowing her silent tears. He’s been always so kind to her, considerate, gentle. He had never upset her, or intentionally hurt her. But his damned pride was getting the best of him. He wanted her to come begging. But she wasn’t going to do that. Not even to keep him.
Barefoot, she padded down the hallway, passing by the wall against which they had just made love less than an hour ago. Never did she imagine that it would be completely over, so soon after.
Quietly, she opened the door and stepped into the balmy heat. The trees that lined the street swayed gently in the breeze. A lattice made of leaves and their shadow spread over the asphalt. She put on her shoes and closed the door behind her. Tears flowed down her face, but no one was walking down the empty street, so she felt no need to wipe her soaked face. She didn’t turn around, and therefore didn’t see Caleb’s shadow in the window.
…The next day, she saw her car parked next to her apartment building.
…It wasn’t a long relationship, so there was no reason for her heart to hurt so bad, so long. But she couldn’t get him out of her mind and everything reminded her of him—every man with long hair, every man with blue eyes, anyone who ever nervously tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, or sported a silver crucifix, or possessed that familiar spare frame, with the big hands and feet, and a ridiculously narrow waist. There were many of them—the boys who reminded her of Caleb—in Tennessee. And her friend pointed out that “guys like these are dime a dozen”. She couldn’t even disagree…What was so special about him? A cranky, common-looking boy, with an affinity towards the bottle and many other vices—that’s all he was. But every time she drove by Caleb’s Creek going to Clarksville, her world collapsed again and again.
Fall came, and with it, her birthday and Thanksgiving, and then Christmas season was upon them. Busy time didn’t expel thoughts of Caleb out of her mind. She purposely avoided Googling anything about him, or Kings of Leon, and didn’t even know if the band still existed. She donated all the clothes that she had bought that fateful night at Target to Goodwill, so no memory would ever be triggered by the sight of them. She gave her mother the gold bracelet that Caleb presented her with, a delicate, gem-encrusted jewel, which she fell in love with instantly, as soon as he put it on her wrist. But under no circumstances would she permit herself to keep it, so she lied and said that it was fake. Her mom loved it though. Out went “Youth and Young Manhood” and “Aha Shake Heartbreak”, and all Townes van Zandt and The Band albums were deleted from her IPod. There was no more Neil Young, or Bob Dylan, or My Morning Jacket anywhere in her life. But sanitizing her life, as thorough as she tried to be, was never enough. Just when she thought that she was doing well with expunging all traces of Caleb from her memory, she found a note that he had written and hid in her bag. It was a stupid, dirty joke, and it made her laugh, when she read it, but then she was a tearful mess for the rest of the week. For days, she struggled with the temptation to keep the paper, to have something of him, something he touched, thought of, something that made him laugh, and something that bore his surprisingly lovely penmanship…At the end, unable to physically destroy it, she let the scrap of paper fly away on a windy day. She watched it swirl back and forth, and return towards her repeatedly, but she refused to pick it up, watching it fly away eventually, out of her life.
Dutifully, she threw herself into course work, enrolling in too many classes, but knowing that the pressure of homework would keep her mind occupied. But it didn’t necessarily help.
One day she read a story—after the waters of the Great Flood subsided, out into the world quietly spilled Love and dissolved into the air. And from then on, people everywhere breathed in the strange scent, and thinking that they breathe just simple air, unknown to them, they caught the breath of another person, whose heart was beating to the same rhythm as their own. And afterward, their souls wandered aimlessly, seeking each other and their voices sang in unison even when they didn’t know, and together they stumbled on the edge of Eternity, until they met at last at the crossroads of their lives.
She should’ve begged, and she should’ve stayed…That’s all she ever thought of. She should’ve said “yes” to whatever he was asking of her. She should’ve stayed, for their future, for a few more days, or months…or even years. Let him have his pride. She should’ve been wiser.
She wanted to be with him. She simply wanted to be with him, and no one else.
Often, when she walked—she took a liking to purposeless walks as of late—she looked into the faces of passersby and wondered how they could not have Caleb and continue on living. It was unfathomable to her.
…”Hey!”
She heard her name, and since it wasn’t particularly common, she turned around.
It was a cold, blustery day, with a dusting of snow on the ground. Christmas lights decorated the parking lot and dusk was falling on the short day. Laden with wrapped boxes, she hurried towards her car, when she turned around.
“I thought it was you!”
It was a man, but she couldn’t place him, even though his face looked familiar.
“How are you?” he asked, but seeing her confusion, he exclaimed, “I am Darren! Forgot already?”
“Oh, Darren! Of course,” she smiled, “how are you?”
One of Followill roadies. She had seen him frequently at the farm, usually semi-drunk.
“Can I help?” he asked, nodding towards the pile of gifts in her cart. She nodded and opened the trunk.
“So…what you’ve been up to?” he inquired, “you just disappeared one day. No word. No one saw you again.”
“Ah…you know how it is…” she answered vaguely, cursing him for being here. He was a nice man, but she didn’t want to see him.
He began unloading the cart, and placing the bags and boxes in the trunk. She shivered and wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck.
“Rough weather,” he commented.
Not knowing what to talk about, she asked the obvious,
“How are you? The Followills? BettyAnn?”
“Everyone is doing good. They are back in town for the holidays, and then touring again, in Europe.”
“Ah…So I guess the band is still together?”
“Sure is,” he looked at her in confusion. “After you disappeared Caleb and Nathan had some hard times between them. Don’t know what about exactly. It lasted a while, but then it was tour time, so they had to patch things up.”
“That’s great! I am glad that the band is still here. It’s good news.”
“And you? What you’ve been up to?”
“Oh, just school and work—nothing exciting.”
He sized her up, and though he never struck her as a bright guy, he said, closing the trunk,
“He took it hard…when you left. He sure aint back 100% still…and he drinks a lot. More than he should. Who am I to talk, but he’s been hitting the bottle like he did back in the days—when he’d be pissing out of windows and throwing bottles at people’s heads. Nobody missed that guy. The asshole Rooster…I am sure you are familiar with that.”
“Never came face to face with Rooster,” she smiled crookedly.
“Good for you! But he’s been reverting to his old days. I think maybe because of you. You got under his skin—everyone’s been noticing it. How much better he did when you were around, and what a mess he is now.”
“He isn’t back on drugs, is he?” he asked quickly, instantly realising how much of her concern was obvious.
Darren shook his head.
“No. But he’s been boozing like the devil. And he’s been falling down drunk a lot, so now his shoulder keeps slipping out of socket. He can hardly hold the guitar for the duration of the concert.”
“Has he gone to the doctor?” she immediately slipped into her worried-mother mode.
“I think so. I don’t know. He doesn’t exactly report to me.”
He glanced at his watch.
“Well, gotta go. Nice seeing you again. Have a merry Christmas.”
“You as well. Merry Christmas.”
Huddling in his coat against the bitter wind, Darren hurried towards his car, disappearing in the darkness. She stood unmoving, watching him. He was a thread that momentarily connected her to Caleb, and she savoured every second of that connection. Breathing the same air…Same air that was mixed with love.
Freezing, she finally got into the car and turned the ignition on.
Van Zandt’s “Be Here to Love Me Today” flooded the space around her, his kind voice coming from the radio, the gentle melody and the brilliant lyrics hitting her like a hammer. That day, that hot, humid day, when she went to pick up all the things that her mother forgot or ran out of, and the day she spotted a curious looking young man by the fish counter who had helped her with the groceries, that day the same song was playing on her radio, and she remembered thinking—beautiful Caleb, just say you’ll be here to love me.
She’s lost Caleb and he would never be here, to love her. And she burst into tears.
