“No. And all my other kids like me—they hug me and call me ‘Miss Dixie,’ which is really sweet. But he just averts his eyes and keeps his gaze on everything but me.”
Her mouth does the quirky turn-down thing it does when she’s about to cry. Hearing her call them “my kids” helps me to appreciate how important giving lessons is to her. It’s about more than filling her time. It’s her way of sharing her gift even though she’s not performing much right now.
“Maybe he just doesn’t want the lessons but he isn’t sure where else to go. Maybe you’re the first smiling face he’s ever seen.” The sad truth is, that’s pretty much how I ended up on her porch all those years ago. And why I kept coming back.
She appears only mildly comforted by my words. “I am pretty fun. We play games and I give out candy. I even made him cookies. Special ones, just for him. I even put his name on them in icing.”
She’s a persistent one, my Bluebird. She will make you love her one way or another if it’s the last thing she does. Poor kid doesn’t stand a chance.
“Cookies, huh? You never made me cookies with my name on them.”
“Gav . . . I’m serious. I don’t get it. He’s like, I don’t know, afraid of me . . . or something. I don’t know why he keeps his shield up all the time but I can’t reach him no matter what I do and it breaks my heart.”
I break her heart, too. And I’m about to again because the very minute we pull up to her driveway I see the beat-up blue Ford pickup and beside the driver’s door Carl Andrews is slapping the shit out of his kid. I see red and then blinding white.
Somehow, I throw the truck in park. Somehow I get out and get to Carl before he can land another blow to the back of his kid’s head.
They always hit you in the back of the head because marking your face up will get social services called. It’s like they have a special seminar for child abusers.
One minute I’m there, in the moment, and the next thing I know I’m transported back in time to when one of the dealers my mom used to let crash with us used me as a punching bag and Carl’s face transforms into his.
Devlan was his name and I was sure he was the devil himself.
I can hear her screaming from somewhere behind me. Begging me to stop.
I know it’s because of me, but I can’t stop.
I just can’t.
When the police pull me off Carl he isn’t moving.
And I can’t feel my hands.
17 | Dixie
“HE MADE BAIL. I had to call a bondsman,” I tell my brother over the phone. For the first time I’m grateful that Katrina Garrison got arrested during Austin MusicFest and I knew what to do because I’d gone with Gavin to bail her out.
“They’re going to charge him with assault,” Dallas says evenly. “He has an attorney from . . . previous stuff. I just talked to her.”
“Previous stuff?” After seeing the side of Gavin I saw tonight and now this, I feel like maybe I don’t know him at all. Maybe he’s always kept a part of himself hidden from me and I’m starting to understand why.
“Long story. And one he should tell you.”
I sigh. Bro code. Those two have always kept secrets from me for as long as we’ve known each other and, frankly, it’s getting old.
“According to the arresting officer, Carl regained consciousness in the ambulance and said Gavin had assaulted him before. Do you know anything about that?”
Dallas sighs loudly and I know I’m not going to get an answer.
I huff out a breath right back. “Look, I know you have the nursery to finish, and Robyn probably needs you, but I . . . I can deal with getting him out I just . . .”
“I’ll be there in under an hour. Promise.”
“Thanks, Dallas.”
“Hey, Dix?”
“Yeah?”
“Gavin’s hands . . . are they majorly fucked-up?”
It takes me a second to realize why this is even an issue worth discussing at a time like this. Musicians have to be careful with their hands, especially if they use them to make a living. They can be as important as any instrument.