A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones)(36)

"If I couldn't make it work with your mother, I wouldn't have a prayer with anyone else," Blue said.

"So you've lived alone for almost thirty years?" Dylan asked.

"Had a cat once," Blue said with a shrug. "But he ran off a while back."

Another painful similarity. Apparently, they were both incapable of  nurturing a living being as low-maintenance as a simple house cat.  "Sorry to hear that," Dylan muttered.

"Just as well," Blue said. "I'm probably better off by myself, anyway."  He regarded Dylan for a moment. "You got anyone serious in your life?"

Dylan didn't know how to answer that. Prior to Melody, his answer would  have been an unequivocal ‘no.' Outside of the guys in the band, Dylan  avoided attachments of any kind. What he had with Melody had changed  that; all he seemed to want these days was to be as attached to her as  possible. Yet calling them ‘serious' implied a level of commitment that  the two of them hadn't discussed; a level of commitment he was afraid to  discuss.

"It's still new," Dylan said. "But before her, no. Nothing serious."

"Hmm," Blue said neutrally. "You're probably better off that way, too."  He reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table, his hand shaking  slightly. Detox shakes, Dylan thought, recognizing the signs.

"When's the last time you had a drink?' Dylan asked.

"You can get the hell out of my house if you're gonna start that twelve  steps bullshit," Blue said bluntly, his words muffled around the butt of  a cigarette as he placed it between his lips and lit it.

"I won't even trouble you with one step," Dylan promised. "I was just curious."

"Last night," Blue grumbled. "Had a couple to help me sleep."

Dylan vaguely remembered that excuse. Blue had told it to Dylan's mother  a hundred times. Looking for work is stressful. I need a drink to help  me sleep. To get through the day. And Dylan had developed the same bad  habits, the same lame excuses. When he was drinking, he didn't feel any  pain.

"So, how have you been? Enjoying the life of a rock star?" Blue asked.

"Well, as far as appearances are concerned, yeah, things are great. And yet there's something missing."

"You just realized that after so many years?"

Dylan nodded.

"Is that why you're here? To find what's missing?"

"I want to know why you left us," Dylan said, cutting right to the  chase. It was the question he most wanted answered, though it was the  answer he was most afraid of hearing.

Blue shrugged. "I was a bad husband. A bad father. I didn't mean to be,  but sooner or later, I fucked everything up. Either because I'd been  drinking or because I just didn't have the head for it, I guess."

Dylan swallowed. That was a far more honest and self-defeating answer  than he'd expected. "I remember you were always looking for work," he  said slowly.

"Yeah." Blue's laugh was bitter this time. "I wanted to be a writer. A  poet. I actually published a book of poems a long time ago. You can  probably still find a copy in some shitty used book store. You know how  it is. Always singing for your supper."

His dad was a poet. Dylan didn't know how to reconcile that vision of  him with the gruff, distant man he remembered from his childhood. He  didn't know how to reconcile it with the lost, broken man in front of  him now.

"Do you still write?" he asked.

"Don't be an idiot," Blue said. "My dreams are long dead and buried. I  heard your writing, though. I was listening to the radio and you were  singing about words and birds and songs."

Their first hit. Blue had been aware of Dylan's success almost from the beginning.

"I wrote to you, hoping … I don't know what I hoped for. I needed money, I  won't bullshit either of us by saying I didn't. I still do. But I was  also hoping … well. Don't suppose it matters now."

Of course it matters. I'm here. I know it's late, but you're my goddamn father. It's your job to be the bigger man.

"How much do you need?" Dylan asked. Money was the one thing he had no problem getting his hands on.

His father looked at him for a moment. "I could use a few grand," he said.

Dylan nodded slowly. "Sure. I could-"

"Ten," Blue said, his eyes wide and eager. "Ten would help me out a lot."

Something cold began to gnaw at the center of Dylan's chest. It worked  its way through his system as he reached for his checkbook.         

     



 

With the money issue settled, it was time for the hard question, the  answer he feared. Dylan found that he almost wanted that answer now. At  least it would put him out of his misery.

"Why didn't you come back?" he asked hoarsely. "Why was it so easy to stay away?"

"Your mother was better off without me," Blue mumbled. "Hell, you know  how it is. I've seen how you live, exactly the way I lived before I met  your mother. I thought she was my salvation, but it turns out I was just  her damnation. Men like us? We hurt women. Don't mean to, don't want  to. But they end up hurt anyway. I hurt your mother over and over, ‘til I  realized it was up to me to put a stop to it. There's two kinds of  women in this world: the kind who leave you...and the kind who drown  trying to save you. If you're smart, you realize that and get out before  it's too late. The reality is that you're just like me, Dylan. And  people like us are better as lifetime bachelors. No attachments, no  emotions, no big problems. Otherwise, you'll end up in misery with  miserable kids, just like your mother and I." He stood up from the  table. "Fuck. I need a drink."

He wandered off, shuffling around, trying to find a bottle that still  had something left in it. Dylan remained where he was, staring at the  empty chair his father had just deserted.

That was the answer he had been dreading, because his father was right.  About all of it. Dylan had had it wrong this whole time. He was  terrified that Melody would leave, but she had sworn time and again that  she wouldn't, and she always kept her promises.

No, Melody would hold onto him, his dead weight pulling her under until  it was too late, just as Dylan's mother had held onto his father. The  fear he'd had for weeks was suddenly a living, breathing thing in the  room.

He heard the crunch of tires in the driveway. She was back. And he knew what he had to do.

Melody was his salvation, because for the first time in his life, he was going to do the right thing.





11


Melody was acting like a coward. It was bad enough that she'd fled the  house earlier, leaving Dylan alone with the father he hadn't seen in  over two decades. It had taken her all of ten minutes to drive the short  distance to the small grocery store and purchase eggs, bread, milk, and  a pound of bacon, but she had stalled, driving slowly around the small  town to delay her return.

She was still stalling, hiding in the car now as it idled in the  driveway. She was gripped by an icy fear she couldn't explain. One thing  was abundantly clear: coming here had been a horrible mistake.

Blue wasn't sorry. Or he wasn't sorry enough. He was lost. When she  looked into his eyes, Melody didn't see the sort of complicated angst  she often glimpsed in Dylan's. Dylan had his faults, but his heart was  bigger than he knew. He'd given it fully to his sister, to little Emma,  to his brothers in the band. He had the propensity for selfish behavior,  but he was not inherently selfish. Blue, on the other hand, was. Melody  had known it within thirty seconds of meeting the man.

She didn't want to go back inside. She dreaded what she would find there.

Stop dicking around, Hopkins. Time to face the music before the milk spoils.

Her inner voice had always sounded a lot like her dad. That was the  relationship she wanted for Dylan-that had been the closure she'd wanted  him to find. She knew now that it had been a naïve hope, and that no  closure would come from Blue. Melody pulled out her phone and texted her  own father.

I love you so much, dad. Please be nicer to Dylan. He needs it. Never tell him I said so.

She shut her phone off as soon as she had sent it, because that was the  kind of text message that would make Craig Hopkins call immediately to  check up on his little girl. The last time they'd spoken had been after  Emma's death. He had been shaken by the news, sending condolences along,  and explaining to Melody that the only reason he had yelled at her  about her involvement with Dylan was because she would always be nine  years old to her father.

Melody had understood the sentiment, a little. It was a love thing, but  it was mostly a parental-love thing. Perhaps she would understand better  if she ever had children of her own.

Finally, knowing that there was no more use delaying-they were sure to  have noticed she had returned by now-Melody gathered the groceries and  got out of the car. She was halfway up the drive when the door of the  house opened and Dylan walked out slowly. The expression on his face was  unreadable.