Sly was playing the angriest, most distorted song he could think of. He had the amp turned up to ten, the loudest it could go. He was trying to drown out the thoughts in his head. So far he wasn't succeeding.
Don't think. Don't think. Just move your hands. Sly contorted his hands to the shape of the chords. He banged the strings, he pulled, he raged against them. The notes stabbed the late September air. His hands moved faster and faster, until the music reached a crescendo.
Finally, he couldn't take it anymore, and ripping out the cord that connected it to the amp, he threw his guitar against the wall. Sly felt a kind of perverse pleasure in that. It was broken, just like everything else in his life.
It had been two weeks since he had "broken up" with Emily. It had been hard, even excruciating. There were many times he wanted to see her, talk to her, but he resisted the impulse. If she couldn't be honest, then she couldn't have a place in his life.
And Lucky couldn't either. It killed Sly to even think that. He had always considered Lucky to be his brother. He didn't know what happened, what went so terribly wrong. In a way, he felt sorry for Lucky. Obviously, his time in captivity did even more harm than anyone realized. Sly knew it had to have been horrible enough to make him desperate enough to try to commit suicide. But Sly thought Lucky was working through it. Then came the altercation. He would never have imagined in a million years that Lucky could be that violent. The truth was, maybe the beating would not have been so bad. Sly had taken his share of knocks; he could get over that.
What Lucky said was different. "You know, there was a reason your Grandfather beat you. You deserved it." The words still echoed through Sly's mind. They snuck up on him at the most unexpected moments. Every time he remembered, it was like a blow to his heart. It went against everything that Sly had attempted to teach himself, that he was a good person, worthy of love. But doubts would form and cloud his judgment. The thing he secretly feared the most was that Lucky's words were true.
I can't do this, he thought. I've gotta get out of here. Sly felt a sense of urgency, as if he didn't leave soon, something bad was going to happen. He knew himself well enough to realize that he could quickly spiral into self-destructive mode unless he did something immediately.
He glanced at the clock. Seven p.m. He quickly scribbled something down on a piece of paper, and grabbed a set of keys. He made sure he had money in his wallet, then grabbed a jacket and left the apartment, swiftly descending the stairs. He slipped the note under the kitchen door, and then went into the garage.
He walked over to a car. He carefully removed the cover, revealing a 1964 Thunderbird. He ran his hand along the edge of the door, admiring its smoothness. It was truly a beautiful machine. Sly opened the door and sat in the driver's seat. He opened the garage door with a button, and slowly pulled the car out. He pushed the button again and saw the door return to a closed position. He pulled the car out of the driveway, took a look in the rearview mirror, and left.
Jenny heard the sound of a car pulling away and returned to the kitchen. She noticed a piece of paper on the floor.
Paul walked into the kitchen after Jenny. She sighed. "What is it hun?" he asked.
"It's a note from Sly."
"What does it say?" he asked, peering over her shoulder. Jenny read it aloud.
"Went for a drive."
*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Lucky tossed and turned in his sleep. He moaned softly to himself. His mind was lost in a dream.
Lucky was sitting in the room he had known for the first few weeks of his captivity.
Cesar Faison walked in.
"Young Mister Spencer, I see you have forgotten all that I have taught you."
"What are you talking about?" Lucky asked. His eyes darted around the room, looking for a possible escape route.
"You know that escape is impossible, yet you keep trying."
"You can't hold me down forever, Faison. I'll get out of here eventually."
Faison had a sinister smile. "You may flee from here, but you'll never truly be free."
Lucky's heart began to pound. "You may think so."
"Oh, I know so. The human mind is a strange organ, Mister Spencer. It records all its experiences. Sometimes it buries memories deep in the subconscious, but they are always there, waiting to come out at the right time. You may wish to forget what you have learned here, but rest assured you will not. All it will take is one action, one word. Then it will begin."
Lucky pushed himself away from the table. "You know nothing about me!"
"Ah, that's where you're wrong. I know everything about you, Lucky, things that you're not even aware of. You can hide nothing from us."
Lucky's temper raged, and he rushed up to Faison, slamming him against the wall. "You bastard!" He attempted to hit him, but three burly guards ran in, restraining Lucky.
"Violence will get you nowhere, Mister Spencer." Faison walked up to Lucky, cupping his face with one hand. "Take him to the projection room."
Lucky's eyes held sheer torment. "No!" He tried to fight against the guards, but it was no use. The men dragged him to a small, dark room. They sat him in a chair and tied him down. Lucky tried to fight against the restraints. The guards only tied them tighter. Soon, Lucky was completely immobilized. He struggled to even move his head, but it was held back in something that resembled a metal headband. Two of the guards left, but one remained behind to watch Lucky.
Lucky knew what was coming next. It was the thing he dreaded most.
A video projection began to play on a screen on the wall. Lucky closed his eyes against the images, but the guard yelled at him. "Keep your eyes open, or something may happen to that pretty little family of yours!"
Lucky swallowed hard. He had to protect them. Nothing bad could happen to his family. He opened his eyes and watched the projection.
"I love you, Lucky. I love you. I love you." The words were repeated over and over.
Lucky's heart beat wildly in his chest. Finally, he could take no more and started to scream.
"Help me! Help me, please! Please, God, help me!"
Laura ran into her son's bedroom. She found Lucky writhing on the bed, screaming.
"Help me!" he cried.
Laura's mind raced. He must be dreaming. She sat down on the bed. "Lucky, Lucky! Wake up!" she yelled, grabbing him by the shoulders.
Lucky's eyes flew open. The face of his mother greeted him. He quickly shut his eyes.
Laura was relieved to see him awaken. "Lucky, Lucky you were dreaming. It was just a dream. It wasn't real."
Lucky tried to squeeze out the teardrops that were forming in his eyes. She didn't know what he was dreaming of was all too real. Finally, he could hold his emotions in no longer. He let go of a choking sob. "Why didn't you come for me?" he wailed.
Laura stared at her son. It was one of the first times she had actually seen him cry since he had returned. Still, his words caught her off guard. "What do you mean, Lucky?"
"Why didn't you come to save me? How could you have left me there with them?"
Laura's eyes welled up in complete heartbreak over her son's pain. "We didn't know you were there Lucky. They made us think you were dead."
"You should have known better!" Lucky sat up on the bed, moving away from Laura. "You were supposed to have instincts. A Spencer is supposed to smell a set up from a mile away!" He looked up at her. "We used to be connected. We knew when something was wrong. Do you remember when I got shot? You knew I was in trouble right away. You found me."
Laura remained silent for a moment to let Lucky finish.
"Or when Dad was hurt in Puerto Rico. Everybody else thought he was dead, but not you. You were sure if he had died, you would know. You were right, he was ok." Lucky looked Laura right in the eye. "Then why didn't you know this time? Why did you leave me?"
Laura's heart broke as she looked at Lucky's tear-stained face. "Oh, Lucky. I would never leave you. We didn't know that you were alive. I didn't believe it at first. There was no way you were gone." Laura wiped a tear from his cheek, and she noticed that Lucky flinched slightly. "But the police gave us evidence. It was a match with your dental records and DNA. They found the subway token you used to wear on the body. Everybody believed it was you."
"But it wasn't me! Why didn't you know?" Lucky asked again.
"Don't you think I wasn't asking myself the same questions? When I found out you were alive, I was so happy. It was like someone gave me my heart back." Laura moved just slightly closer to Lucky. "But then I was haunted by questions. Why didn't I realize that you weren't dead? How could I have not had a feeling, an intuition, something? How could I have let you down?" Laura was openly crying by this time.
Lucky looked at Laura. He couldn't believe she just said that. "You admitted it. You said it out loud."
Laura sighed. "I said it because it's the truth. I have let you down, Lucky. I have done it time and time again. I let you down when I believed the lie that Faison sold us when he faked your death. I let you down when you came home and I didn't keep a closer watch on you. I let you down by keeping my distance. And I let you down by somehow not understanding you enough to realize the pain you were in." Laura looked at her son. "For that, I am truly sorry."
Lucky felt a huge sense of relief. He needed to hear her say that, to give credence to the fears and doubts he had felt for so long. He suddenly threw himself into his mother's arms. "You're here now," he whispered.
Laura wrapped her arms around Lucky in a fiercely protective manner. It felt so good to hold him again. She rocked him gently as he shook.
"You've got to help me fight them, Mom. I can't let them win."
"They won't, Lucky. We won't let them. You aren't alone anymore."
*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Way on past the boulevards
Out here underneath the stars
I've been flying past the houses, farms and fields
Sly turned off of the highway in West Virginia. He had been driving for hours.
He had no particular destination, just a need for forward motion. He found himself
taking an unfamiliar rural route. It really didn't matter to him. The T-Bird
knew where to go.
Leaving all I know back there
Rushing through the cold night air
And I'm holding on to nothin' but the wheel
Sly ran his hands along the steering wheel, feeling its smoothness. He had often taken the car out for drives before, ending up in places he'd never heard of, but he had never gone this far. Still, it felt right.
Sly remembered the day Paul brought the car home. Actually, he had it towed home. The car was a mess, rusted and falling apart.
"What is this?" Sly said.
"Our new project. We're going to fix it up until it is brand new again. It'll be the coolest car on the block," Paul smiled.
"Sure," Sly said, eyeing the car suspiciously. "But I know nothing about mechanics."
"Then I'm going to teach you. It'll be fun, Sly. When it's done, we will be able to look back and see how far it's come."
Sly shook his head at the memory. He had not believed that the car could be saved. To Sly's eyes, it looked beyond repair. He wanted nothing to do with it at first. However, Paul kept after Sly, having him come out and take a look at the engine, or learn how to fix the body. Soon, Sly was genuinely interested in working on the car.
The more he thought about it, the more Sly realized that Paul had picked that project for its symbolism. The car seemed permanently damaged, and that was the same way Sly viewed himself. But it slowly began to take shape. Sly and Paul re-bonded, and the day the car was done, Sly stood back to look at it. He surprised himself by starting to cry. He looked over and saw Paul crying, too. The moment was not lost on either of them.
Paul gave Sly the car as a present, and Sly took very good care of it. He would take it out for drives when he could.
There was something about that night that made Sly want to take the T-Bird. If the car symbolized himself, then the trip did too.
Staying clear of the interstate
I'm seeking out those old two lanes
Trying hard to explain the way I feel
Sly was desperately trying to distance himself from everything. He tried not to think about Emily, Lucky, his parents, anything. Sometimes thinking was just too painful. Even if he tried to think of happy memories, a lingering sense of sadness always followed. Something would remind him of a lost relationship, words left unsaid, a wound that was never fully healed.
Till all at once it's half past three
And it's down to just the trucks and me
And I'm holding on to nothin' but the wheel
Sly looked at the sky and tried to judge what time it was. He honestly did not
know. Instead, he focused on the winding road ahead of him. He was rolling through
the mountains. He air was heavy with mist. He had never been to West Virginia
before, but the area was beautiful. He could see thousands of stars hanging
in a tapestry. The full moon observed it all. Sly sighed. Maybe he could bring
Emily here to show her one day. Sly immediately cursed himself. You have
no future with Emily, he thought. It's over.
I've been trying to drive you off my mind
Maybe that way baby I can leave it all behind
Why did she have to lie? Why couldn't she be honest? The questions ran circles in Sly's mind. He caught a glimpse of a sign that read, "Jesus saves." Maybe I'm being too hard on her, he thought. Maybe she has the best of intentions.
And forty-one goes on and on
And the lights go winding in the dawn
And the sky's the color now of polished steel
A hint of twilight colored the sky. Sly realized he had been driving all night. Maybe it would be a good idea to stop for a while.
And the only thing I know for sure
Is if you don't want me anymore
Then I'm holding on to nothin' but the wheel
Sly's arms ached, and it was getting hard to focus his eyes. He pulled off
the road to a little restaurant called The Lovelace Café. Maybe there
he could rest for a while. Sly pulled into a parking spot and turned the car
off. He looked at his hands, which were imprinted by the grooves of the steering
wheel. At least he got to hold something that night.
I'm holding on to nothin' but the wheel
*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Emily groaned as she turned off the alarm clock. Port Charles High had an insanely early start time, so she had to get up extra early to get ready.
She pulled the heavy white down quilt out of the way, and swung her legs over the side of the bed, placing her feet in her warm fuzzy slippers. She held a hand to her pounding head. She had been feeling under the weather the past few days. Then again, she couldn't blame herself. She always got sick the first month going back to school. It had something to do with being exposed to all of those new germs that everyone brought back to school. Plus, she had been up most nights talking to Juan, which dramatically cut into her sleep time.
Juan would often call in the middle of the night, lost in grief. Emily tried to be a supportive listener, a good friend. That's all she thought of Juan anymore, a friend. She had lost all desire to be with him romantically. Perhaps the situation with Sly had helped that, but the truth was, Emily had been drifting from Juan for months.
Luckily, Juan seemed to be handling his grief better. He was less dependent on Emily for help, and that was good. Maybe now she could let him down easily.
That didn't mean that she was going to run to Sly and beg him to take her back. That was the last thing she wanted to do. She had no intention of going back to someone who didn't understand her, or what she felt was right. Maybe she was attracted to him, maybe she even loved him, but sometimes, that wasn't enough. Now the time was right not to be involved with anyone. She needed some time and space to clear her head.
She took a quick look in her full-length mirror. Ugh, I look so pale, she thought. Then again, she was never a morning person. She quickly gathered up the clothes she would wear that day, and then walked into her bathroom.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Sly walked into the Lovelace Café. Its small appearance on the outside belied its roomy interior. Sly needed a place to sit and rest for a while, so he chose a seat at the counter. The place was mostly empty, except for two other customers. He sat on one of the stools and looked at a menu.
Soon a waitress emerged from the kitchen. She carried a plate of pancakes to one of the customers that was sitting a few stools away from Sly. "Here you go, Reverend."
"Thank you," he said. "Did you bring the light syrup?"
She pulled it out from under the counter. "Of course. I wouldn't want to sabotage your diet."
She placed the syrup on the counter, and then pulled a notepad out of her apron. She walked over to Sly. "What would you like?" she asked pleasantly.
"Two scrambled eggs and sausage please. And a cup of very strong coffee."
The waitress looked at him curiously. "Western New York," she said.
Sly looked up at her, puzzled. "Excuse me?"
The woman smiled. "You're from Western New York. I'd know that accent anywhere. But I do detect a hint of another influence. The west coast, maybe?"
Sly looked down. "Yeah, Portland, Oregon."
"So I was on target!" She smiled again. "Sorry, I was a linguist at one time. It was my job to detect accents." She moved to the opening to the kitchen, and put the order on the small raised counter for the cook. She turned and got a coffeepot, and poured Sly a cup. "So what brings you here?"
Sly smiled. "I don't know. I got in the car, and it handled the rest."
"Oh. Just an impulse to drive?"
"You got it." Sly took a sip of his coffee.
"Perhaps the real question is what are you running from?" The man down the counter said, his deep voice resonating in the almost empty diner.
"Oh, Reverend. Always on call?" the waitress teased, and then moved back into the kitchen.
Sly turned to look at the older African-American man. He sat at the counter, a Bible open beside him. Sly sighed. "I'm not running."
"Then why did you drive all night?"
Sly cocked an eyebrow. "How did you know that?"
"I could tell the minute you walked in. You look dead tired, and you sat down with such heaviness. It's obvious you are struggling with something." He continued to eat after he finished his sentence.
Sly felt his defenses rise. What did a complete stranger know about him? He was about to answer when the waitress returned with his food.
"Maybe he doesn't want your advice, Reverend. Not everybody is as open as you." After she placed the food in front of Sly, she moved away and swished back her long black hair, which hung all the way to the end of her back.
"No pressure. Just an observation," the reverend said.
Sly took a few bites of his food, then spoke up. "Memories."
"Hmm?" the waitress said.
"I'm trying to escape from my memories," Sly clarified.
"Ahh, that's a common answer," the Reverend said. "Unfortunately, they have that pesky habit of following us, popping up when they're least wanted."
"That's the truth," the waitress said. "One of my poems addressed the very subject. I'll spare you the actual lines."
"You're a poet?" Sly asked, and then took another bite of his food.
"Yeah, I've even been published. It's just one of my jobs."
"And she's had quite a few," the cook called from the back, eliciting laughs from the people at the counter.
"Returning to the subject at hand, the more you try to run from your memories, the more they haunt you."
"A lesson I've learned the hard way," the Reverend said.
"Well, I've been trying to forget this person back home, but I can't get her off my mind," Sly said wistfully.
"Why are you trying so hard to forget her?" the man asked.
Sly took another sip of his coffee before continuing. "Well, I had a relationship with her, a secret one that we hid from her boyfriend, but then she wouldn't tell anyone the truth about us."
"Deception," the Reverend said, but nothing more.
Sly unconsciously blushed. "She couldn't be honest, so I let her out of my life."
The Reverend took a sip of orange juice before speaking. "So you are angry with her for not being honest, but I think you are missing your own part of this equation. You were deceiving someone as well."
"Yes," Sly said hesitantly.
"Then perhaps you shouldn't be so quick to judge. You are also at fault. If the roles were reversed, wouldn't you wish this other person were more understanding? And why did you even agree to hide it in the first place?"
"I didn't, not really. She's keeping the truth from her boyfriend in a vain attempt to protect him."
"What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive," the waitress said.
Sly grimaced. "Touché."
The Reverend sighed. "It sounds like a very complicated situation. Perhaps you should think about this some more, and try not to rush to judgment. You obviously care for this woman very much. Just think about what's right, where your conscience is leading you. Then you'll know what to do." He put some bills down on the counter. "I wish you luck."
"Thank you, Reverend. You've given me a lot to think about," Sly said sincerely.
"I hope everything works out, son," he smiled. He picked up his Bible, then called to the waitress. "I'll see you soon, Mari."
"Goodbye, Reverend!" she called. Mari poured herself a cup of coffee, then leaned up against the counter. "Well, my shift's almost over, so I guess I can finally relax." She looked at Sly who was staring at his plate. "What's so fascinating about those eggs? Anything interesting?"
"No. It's hard to eat with this horrible feeling of guilt in my stomach."
"The trouble with the truth is it just won't let you rest."
Sly looked up. "Patty Loveless."
"You got me. I'm a sucker for her stuff."
"Me too. But I thought you would have said Crystal Gayle," he said, motioning to her long hair.
Mari laughed. "She's a stylistic influence."
Sly looked up, and threw some money on the counter. "I've got to get out of here. Thanks for the help, and the advice, um…" Sly smiled. "I don't know your name."
"Mari. Mari Morningsky."
"I'll remember that when you're a famous poet."
"You take care of yourself, and feel free to stop by if you ever wander this way again."
"I will. Thanks." Sly walked out of the restaurant and walked up to a payphone. He punched in a phone card code. The other line rang and rang. "Come on, pick up."
*-*-*-*-*-*
The phone rang in Emily's room. She was sitting down styling her hair at a vanity when she heard it. Who would be calling at this hour, she thought. She stood to answer the phone, when she suddenly felt light-headed. She reached out to grip the chair, and felt a wave of nausea pass over her. She ran to the bathroom.
"Hi, this is Emily. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Beep."
"Emily, are you there? If you are please pick up." Sly paused. "I know it's early. I hope I'm not waking you up. Hell, that's not true. I hope I am waking you up. I'm standing here at a payphone, calling you all the way from West Virginia. I drove all this way trying to forget you. I tried, but you were around every corner." Sly sighed. "I've had a lot of time to think tonight. I don't know when it happened, but you took my heart. And I can't live without it. I can't live without you." Sly put his hand on the phone. "I realize now I was being too hard on you. I was underestimating my own role in this mess. I'm also to blame. It's just hard. I never had too much faith in the future. I couldn't let myself think too far ahead. But now, it's different. Now I think I can actually see past tomorrow, and it's because of you. Look, what I'm asking, is well, can you forgive me? Please. I hope you've been listening now. Please pick up." Sly sighed. She isn't there, he thought. "I'll be leaving here soon. I'll be home by tonight. Please call me. I'll be waiting. I'll wait forever."
Sly hung up the payphone, and walked back to the T-Bird. He turned it on, revved the engine, and drove away into the early morning mist.
Song Credit: "Nothin' But the Wheel" by John Scott Sherril. Sung
by Patty Loveless on her album "Only What I Feel."