Cherry Jam

by DONNA YATES

The blue pick-up drove slowly down the dusty country road and came to a stop at a deserted railroad crossing. The woman behind the steering wheel put the truck into park, turned off the radio, and stared at the empty railroad tracks in front of her. In a gesture so old she didn’t even notice it anymore, she ran her left hand through her long brown hair, half straightening, half mussing it and lifting it away from her face. Her hair had started turning gray years ago, but she hardly noticed that, anymore.

The little girl, sitting beside her, had short, fire-engine-red hair, but the same green-gray, penetrating eyes as the woman.

They both sat quietly for a few moments, until the little girl asked, “Do you think we missed it?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe it was early.”

The woman snorted softly before answering,

”That train ain’t never been early, miss Susie-Q.”

The little girl started to speak again, but the woman held up her hand for silence.

“Shhhhh”

She pressed a button by her armrest and both windows descended into their respective doors, allowing the desert heat into the truck cab. She turned off the truck and they both sat silently, listening to the ticking of the cooling engine.

“It’s coming,” the woman muttered. “Feel it.”

“You’re high!” the little girl squealed and started to laugh. Her laughter was cut short by the almost imperceptible rumble of the ground beneath the wheels of the truck.

“Oh, Grandma, here it comes!” she shouted.

They both could feel and hear the train now. It was fast and heavy, maybe 300 cars long. As it approached the crossing, giving the familiar two long and two short blasts of the whistle, the woman and girl both leaned back in their seat and closed their eyes. Rolling past them at 60 miles per hour, the clacking of the wheels was a fast staccato of sound and vibration.

Without opening her eyes, the woman reached over and gave the little girl’s hand a soft squeeze and smiled a sweet, secret smile as she, once again, remembered that magical night almost 30 years ago.

*************************************************

Both girls were 17 that fall and both were trying very hard to make themselves look 21 in the restroom mirror at the Sunoco gas station. Terry and Rob had become engaged shortly after graduation and the wedding was planned for the first week in November. This was Robs’ week to work the evening shift at the mill, so Linda and her boyfriend, Carl, had decided to give Terry a big night out, complete with stage passes and front seats at the most popular jazz club in Kansas City.

Terry didn’t know how Carl got the passes. Carl always had a way of getting what he wanted, and she secretly admired him for his confidence. He had often treated her like a kid sister, and teased her horribly about her shyness. Maybe that was why she had decided to go along with the whole crazy idea in the first place. It would be her last chance to show Carl and Linda that she really did have the nerve to take chances. What they didn’t know was what she’d be risking if Rob ever found out.

She didn’t especially like jazz or blues and she was terrified of crowds, but tonight she was bound and determined to have a good time.

The girls gave themselves one last approving look in the mirror and, turning to leave the restroom, Terry gave her habitual head shake, flinging her hair forward and partially covering her face. Linda touched her friend’s arm and loudly cleared her throat. “Terry, you promised.”

Terry raised her head and ran her left hand through her hair, half straightening and half mussing it, lifting it off her face to reveal piercing green-gray eyes and a stunning smile.

“Better?”

“Better. Now you look 21.” Linda hugged her friend and they headed out the door toward Carl’s car at the gas pump.

When they came around the corner of the gas station, Carl, leaning against the car door, made the obligatory wolf whistle at both girls. But seeing Terry in Linda’s clothes and make-up with her hair like that gave him a jolt. No wonder Rob was so possessive of her. He must have seen the jewel that everyone else had missed.

They all got into Carl’s car and drove the last 30 miles to Kansas City with the radio blasting and a spectacular sunset behind them.

*********************************************

When they drove into the club parking lot, it was already getting dark and a line had formed outside the club doors. Both girls had started getting nervous again about appearing twenty-one, when Carl held up three white tickets with “V.I.P.” clearly stamped on the front.

“Follow me, ladies.” Carl grinned, as he put an arm around the shoulders of each girl and herded them through a side door being held open by the bouncer.

Soon, the three of them were seated at a tiny little table directly in front of the stage and Carl was ordering them all beer. Terry took one of Linda’s cigarettes from the pack and tried to light it without showing how much her hands were shaking. The club was getting loud and crowded as people packed in to see the band that was to play that night. Terry’s chair was constantly being bumped or jostled and a slight feeling of panic was beginning to grow inside her.

Suddenly, her chair was hit so hard that she nearly fell across the table in front of her, but large gentle hands grabbed her shoulders from behind and stopped her fall, and helped her to regain her balance. A man’s voice in her ear quietly apologized for bumping her. She smiled and nodded, but did not turn around to see his face. His hands were no longer on her shoulders, but no one was bumping her anymore so she assumed he must still be there, behind her.

There was a last quick shuffling of chairs, and the five band members walked out from the back of the club and mounted the stage. The audience exploded with applause and whistles and the stamping of feet at the first sight of the band. All of the band members wore scruffy boots, faded blue jeans and white t-shirts, except for the lead guitarist, who wore a faded denim workshirt. He had a full red beard and a red ponytail hung halfway down his back. He was the only band member to wear a blue bandana around his head, Indian-style. He carried his guitar with him as he crossed the stage and sat down on a stool directly across from Terry.

There was the sound of amplifiers going on. A few stray chords were played for a quick warm-up, and then the lead guitarist cleared his throat and spoke into the mike.

“We’re Dan’s Blues Band. We hope you enjoy the show.”

The lights in the club snapped off, and suddenly the sound that assaulted Terry was not only deafening, but hit her entire body like a fist. She had the urge to hide her head and cover her ears with her hands as waves of the loud, almost discordant, music washed over her. Instead, she sat as if paralyzed, as everyone around her clapped their hands and wildly danced.

The second song was not as jarring as the first had been. During an organ solo, Terry found herself beginning to relax and to hear the sound surrounding her as real music.

During the third song, her body began to move and she found that her right heel was beating on the floor of its own accord.

By the fifth song, she decided she liked the way the drums and stand-up bass made a thumping sensation inside her chest, and the beat was beginning to make her feel like dancing.

Sometime, during the seventh or eighth song, she grew aware that the large, gentle hands were back on her shoulders. She had no idea how long they had been there. The thumbs that lightly rubbed her second and third vertebrae, instead of frightening her, made her feel warm and safe. They were a part of the music that surrounded her.

By the ninth and tenth songs, she had allowed the sound to enter her blood and bones and she felt the pulsing deep within her. With eyes closed, her whole body moved to the beat and rhythm of the music.

Between the tenth and eleventh songs, there was a brief pause while the rhythm guitarist put down his guitar and picked up a harmonica.

Terry was reaching for a cigarette when the hands on her shoulders slid down her arms and curved themselves over the backs of her hands. His hands took her own and gently tucked her fingers between her blue-jeaned legs at her crotch. Then his hands left hers there and returned to her shoulders.

“This next piece is the last number of the set,” the voice in her ear whispered. “It’s also the best thing they’ve ever done. Don’t just listen to it. Feel it. Live it. Know the message in the music.”

Before she can respond or ask him what he means, she hears the bass start, low and quiet. She hears the soft beat and hum of a far-off locomotive. The drum starts a beat reminiscent of the click-click of train wheels on a track. The harmonica plays the lonesome wail of a train whistle at night. The guitar begins to play a haunting rhythm that ties it all together.

She feels it vibrate, first on the floor at her feet, then steadily moving up her legs. The music builds and her fingers, lightly touching her crotch through her blue jeans, feel its vibrations. Her whole body has become the beating drum, moving and swaying with its rhythm.

The music intensifies. The train comes closer, it’s low moan being carried now by both the harmonica and the guitar. The energy and vibration are constantly moving and swelling. Now it has moved up, up into her belly, burning, lighting a fire that has never existed before. She is vaguely aware that she is holding her breath, for how long, she doesn’t know.

“Breathe!” the voice hisses into her ear.

She suddenly exhales the held air. She breathes in hard, heavy, as the organ scales up and down, calling in a million demons, a million wrecked souls laying a thousand miles of railroad track across an angry desert.

The energy jumps into her chest.

The guitar, now playing above the organ and harmonica, screams of lives lost or changed: the buffalo gone, trees cut to feed the engine fires, displaced Indians, lonely widows, starving children.

The energy is in her throat.

Still, the train continues to grow, coming closer, becoming a life of its own, totally out of control. Harmonica wailing, guitar screaming, organ dancing on unseen graves, the constant progress, the rhythm of loss and salvation building and building, all meeting in a cacophony of good and bad, laughing and screaming. All playing together, all playing separately.

She throws her head back as her body explodes with an intensity never before known. Every nerve, every fiber, are exploding in unison. She is pulsing, beating, flowing with the sound of the crying guitar and the sad harmonica, and the train is here. Here now in all of its glory and all of its vastness. Here and then suddenly gone, taking with it all of the light and energy of that single moment. Fading away until only the faraway moan of a distant locomotive is heard. That, and the sound of one young woman’s ragged breaths, coming in gulps.

And then, silence.

The audience is on its feet, clapping, whistling, yelling. She sits for a moment, then slowly opens her eyes to find she is looking straight into the knowing eyes of the lead guitarist. He holds her gaze for what feels like forever, then he smiles and looks down at his hands, holding the guitar. He knows that she has heard, truly heard, the song that he wrote for tonight’s appearance. He nods, almost imperceptibly, unplugs the amp from his guitar, stands, turns his back on the audience and walks off the stage

********************************************

Terry stands, holding onto the little table until her knees stop trembling. The lights are up as she turns to look behind her. People are moving around, but nowhere is the man she expected to see. The man and the chair that were behind her are both gone.

She walks to the front door of the club and pushes through the crowd until she is finally outside in the cool, clear night. The autumn air immediately dries the sweat from her body and sends a shiver down her spine. She walks away from the crowd in the parking lot, leaving the murmur of voices behind her. At the edge of the lot, by the road, she can just make out a few stars in the night sky.

Smiling, she runs her fingers through her hair on top of her head, half straightening, half mussing it, revealing her face. Somewhere, in a far off desert, she thinks she can just barely hear the two long, two short whistle blasts of a locomotive as it approaches a deserted crossing.