Music Makers

Neill Lantry walked out the back of the house he grew up in, carrying a guitar case in each hand. He set the cases down as he turned to close the door behind him.
The back porch had been a staple in Neill’s life: He had spent many hours just playing, sitting with his father at the old patio table. The porch floorboards were a faded red, a ghost of the bright, solid color that many years of footsteps had trampled away. The porch looked out on the yard and the cornfield and up into the Maple trees.

Rain was on the wind, maybe an hour away, and a breeze made the cornfield across the road begin to rock side-to-side. The crickets down near the stream started to sing.

Neill grabbed one of the cases and set it on the patio table. He undid the latches on the side and opened the lid. The guitar inside was of the finest craftsmanship. The rosewood pick guard had several small arced scratches from years of play. An envelope was tucked between the strings and the fret board.

He took the envelope in his hands and flipped it end-over-end for a minute. The paper had started to yellow from age. Then, he set the envelope down on the table and pulled the guitar out of the felt-lined case. He sat down with his guitar in his lap. He started to rub his left arm, beginning with his wrist, working his way to his hand, and doing the same routine with his right arm. After he finished, he pulled a pick out of his pocket. His knuckles popped like old firecrackers when he went to play the first lick of the day.

His fingers skimmed down the fret board of the guitar, following the curves as the neck met the body. Neill remembered the days when his fingers could fly without even a slight twinge of pain, only the raw feeling of his callused fingertips. He had had an insatiable appetite for music, devouring any song he heard. He was able to replay any song almost perfectly after a few days of practice. Now, his ability was slowing down. He could still play all the songs he had learned over the years, but it took him longer to learn a song.

He learned to play the guitar with a little help from his father, but for the most part Neill was a natural. Neill remembered the first song he played and where he played it. The song was “American Pie” and he played it right here on the porch with his father, Daniel, watching in awe of his son and his talent. Daniel had heard music coming from the porch while he was coming up the driveway from his walk. He could hear young Neill belting out the lyrics and strumming the chords perfectly. Neill would never forget the look and smile on his father’s face when he walked up the steps and watched as his son played.

Sometimes they would spend whole nights out on the back porch of their house, just playing song after song with nothing but the birds and the crickets to compete with the music they were making. Those countless hours on the back porch were joyous, but came to an end.

Cancer crept into Daniel’s body. Neill remembered every single doctor visit, every chemo treatment, every test, every moment. He remembered the way his father looked with all the tubes and wires running out of his body as he sat there, holding his hand. It was then Daniel had said a peculiar thing.

Daniel opened his eyes and clearly said, “American Pie.”

“What?” Neill said, even though he had no doubt what his father had said.

“You know ‘Bye bye Miss American Pie, drove my Chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry’?”

“Of course, I know it. We’ve only played it a thousand times. What about it?”

“Do you remember the first time you heard that song?”

“Yeah, we were sitting outside, listening to the radio.”

“And you said that you’d bet a thousand dollars that you could learn that song and play it just perfect in about a week.”

“You said it was fairly hard song to learn, that it took you about a month to get it down pat.”

“Took you little over two days, didn’t it?"

“Yeah, something like that.”

“I want you to play it at my funeral, son.”

“Dad, don’t talk like that.”

“Neill, I don’t have much longer, and I’d prefer not to spend that precious time telling lies to myself and to the people I love, okay? So will you play the song?”

“Do you even need to ask? Of course I will.”

“Enough of this dreary talk. How’s the band?”

“Good, we’re doing great. We’re practicing a few new songs that we’re going to play at the Battle of the Bands in a month.”

“Nice. How’s Joanna?”

“She’s doing great. We’ll have been going out for a year on Saturday.”

The conversation leapt from subject to subject: music, guitars, songs, various artists, music, tours, concerts, music. Visiting hours ended, and Neill had to leave. They said their good bye’s and I love you’s.

Four days after that conversation, the call came while the couple was dining at a local Italian restaurant. Before the call ended, he had already paid and they were on their way. Neill arrived just in time to hold his father’s hand while he drew his last few breaths.

Three days later, a black Cadillac pulled into the driveway of Neill’s home, and a man climbed out of the car and came up to the back door of the house. He wore a tailor-made pressed suit and carried a leather briefcase.

“Good morning, sir. Are you Mr. Neill Lantry?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“I’m here on behalf of your father. I’m his lawyer. When he found out that he didn’t have much time to live, he contacted me to write his will. May I come in?”

“Yes, of course.”

After a short conversation, everything came into focus. “This house, everything in it, everything on the property is mine?”

“Yes, that’s correct, along with the fifty thousands dollars from your father’s savings account.”

“Thanks for your time. I appreciate it.”

“It's my job. There’s one last thing. Your father specifically instructed me to give this to you last.” The lawyer said as he handed Neill an envelope. “It was nice meeting you. Once again, my condolences.”

The lawyer left and Neill found himself on the back porch, holding the envelope in his hands. A couple pieces of paper and a small key were inside.

Neill,
If you’re reading this, that must mean I’m dead. I always knew I’d find myself writing a letter of this sort, but I’d hoped it wouldn’t be for another twenty years. Don’t worry if you said good-bye or not because I frankly believe that there are no good byes in this world, only hello’s. I’ve gone on down the path that you can’t follow, son. I have no doubt that someday our paths will once again intertwine. I also have no doubt that you know that I love you. I didn’t say it aloud enough, but hopefully you felt loved. Don’t grieve over me for too long, Neill. Mourn a little and then celebrate my life by living your own. You’ll have to be one and whole for many years to come. You’re a strong young man. Just keep your chin up, your eyes, ears, and mind open, and your feet on the path, and you’ll go far. You’d probably go far without even trying, but being that as it may, that doesn’t give you right to just half-ass life, right? No, I know you know better and you’ll give it your best no matter what. I love you, Neill, and I’m so proud. You’ll go far. I have no doubt. I remember when I stopped doubting you. The day you came out to the back porch, lugging my guitar that was twice your size and you started to play American Pie. From there on in, boy, I believed that you could do anything you set your heart and mind to. You’ll go far. I have no doubt. Lastly, I must pay off the second bet I ever made in my life. You’ll need this key. You’ll know when you see it. It’s not exactly a thousand dollars, but I think you’ll find it satisfactory.
Love,
Dad

Neill had been paralysed with emotion. It had been all so overwhelming. When he looked at the key again, he stood up and went inside the house.

He remembered how his father’s bedroom seemed strange, neat and lifeless. Pictures plastered the walls: graduation pictures, wedding photos, baby pictures. The pictures made everything seem real, which made it worse. Over in the corner, a guitar case was propped up against the dresser. He walked toward the case, slow and steady, careful not to fall over from feeling faint. He used the small key to open the case.

What he saw only brought the tears back. This time the floodgates had been broken and had washed downstream. There would be no more holding back for the next couple days. The guitar inside the case was of the finest make and craftsmanship. Neill ran his fingers across the strings, just to hear their sound.
He had played his father’s song at the funeral with the guitar he gave him. His face had been streamed with tears, but his voice did not waver or quake; his strum never faltered. He had played with his eyes shut, his face lifted towards the ceiling of the funeral home. After the first verse, the whole congregation had been swimming in their own tears. When he finished, they politely applauded as he walked to his seat. Everyone would later tell him and many others that that was the best rendition of American Pie that they had ever heard.

And as he sat there on the back porch, now a grown man, where he and his father had spent so many hours making music, he slowly began to strum the strings. He listened with a careful ear to each string as he played it, checking that they were all in tune. The years had passed since Neill had buried his father. He saw it in his face and his wife’s, Joanna, and his son’s, Danny. He also felt the age in his bones. His fingers were no longer as nimble as they used to be.

“Dad,” his son’s voice snapped him out of his trance.

“What is it, Danny boy?” Neill said.

“Mom says that supper's about ready.”

“Okay, son. I’ll be in a couple minutes.”

“Dad?”

“Yes.”

“What was that song you were just playing before I came out? I heard it from my room.”

“It’s a song called American Pie. It’s much older than you. In fact, it’s even older than me. But it’s one of the best songs ever written.”

“You think I could learn it?”

“Son, if you set your mind and heart on it, I have no doubt you could.”

Danny listened to his father play the song once more with nothing but the crickets and birds to accompany him.