Long way to go to, little brother, to find some woman who threw you away.
It’s what I have to do.
Halfway around the world, and you’re not even sure if she’s there.
She’s with an organization that does work in Ghana. I found all the info online.
Yeah, trust the Internets, why don’t you?
Hey, if she’s not there, I’ll just go on safari.
Safari’s in East Africa, Blade.
Oh, well, it’ll be a vacation before I go off to college.
I’m worried about you, Blade.
Really? Well, if you're so “worried” about me, then why didn’t you tell me sooner that I was adopted? How come you knew before me? That’s just not cool.
Ugh. I feel terrible. I overheard Dad and Uncle Stevie talking one night, a coupla years ago, about a special letter Mom had written for you. I asked him why she hadn't written one for me. I wanted to tell you, swear, but he made me promise to keep it a secret, that he was saving the letter for . . .
Whatever. Save your breath. I don’t want you to cry.
Everyone’s been worried.
Too late for that.
We love you, you know?
. . . .
Isn’t it cliché to go looking for your birth parents?
That’s real sensitive, Storm.
I’m serious. She gave you up. Let her be.
I can’t.
You should talk to Dad first.
I don’t have anything else to say to him.
That sounds about right. I’m sure Mom would co-sign that attitude if she were alive.
She would. She’s been trying to tell me something in my dreams for a while now.
Look, Blade, right now you have a father who, despite the fact you think is a super freak, loves you, and you have an amazing, talented sister . . . the best in the world, really.
You give up on us, you got nothing.
Maybe.
Go talk to him, Blade.
Where is he?
Follow the music.
Down the hall
past the library of sheet music and comic books, into the foyer of statues
and ghosts,
the strum of memories melts into the air like a mirage of a life
that was once there.
The chords are unmistakable.
They belong
to my mom
and to him.
I follow the sound out to the pool.
He is rocking back and forth weaving a song with his fingers.
The pain in those strings.
The look on his face says love never dies off never leaves the secret chords of the heart.
Track 5: Sunny
ROCKER: BOBBY HEBB / ALBUM: SUNNY / LABEL: PHILLIPS RECORDING DATE: 1966 STUDIO: BELL SOUND STUDIOS, NEW YORK CITY
This is the song Rutherford played between tears at her funeral.
It’s the only non-rock song I’ve ever heard him sing.
It’s been covered hundreds of times by everyone from Cher, to Leonard Nimoy (Yep, Dr. Spock from Star Trek), to Bryan Adams, to James Brown, to that kid, Marvin Gaye Washington, on Showtime’s Ray Donovan.
When Rutherford sings “Sunny,”
it’s like an eruption of joy and pain.
To hear him
croon
is to know
his hurt
is volcanic
is to know
he is capable of loving even if he refuses to ever show it.
Bobby Hebb
wrote it
forty-eight
hours after
two tragedies: The assassination of President Kennedy and the murder of his older brother, Harold, who
was stabbed
outside a
Nashville nightclub.
Rutherford would never record it
for an album, but he loves it like it’s his, probably because he can relate to the stinging sorrow.
But mainly,
he loves it
because of
the title.
It’s Not Enough
He finishes.
Bowed head,
lowered eyes.
I’m leaving.
I found her.
I fly tomorrow, I say.
He looks at me,
defeated,
says nothing, but
Sorry.
Yeah, me too.
Conversation
You’re really doing this.
Bought my ticket, so yeah.
You’re just gonna pack up and go to Africa.
Yup.
What about shots and pills? You could get malaria or something.
I got it covered, Storm.
She walks over,
gives me a punch in the arm, then a hug.
I never told you this because I thought it would go to your head.
A lot of girls liked you. I mean A LOT.
I was always afraid you would change, become arrogant and pompous.
Like you?
Shut up. I told them all your weird habits.
What weird habits? I don’t have habits.
We look at each other.
Really look at each other.
Two siblings connected through experiences that forever changed us and now separated
by our blood
and the truth.
Will you call me? Text me?
I’ll think about it.
You suck.
Can you do me a favor?
What?
Before I leave
I want to give Chapel a gift to let her know
she’ll always be
with me, on my mind, and deep inside
my skin.
That’s real romantic. Ugh!
Can you call her house for me? She’s not answering her cell.
Remind her to meet me at the park
tonight, 7:30.
Sure.
Uh, like now, please.
Sure, soon as I finish reading the Report. We’re famous again.
. . . .
Hollywood Report
Breaking News: After initial reports, it has now been confirmed
that Rutherford, and his late wife, Sunny, Morrison’s son, Blade,
is not their biological child.
He was adopted as a newborn.
According to sources, his birth mother, Linda December, lives in Mississippi or Louisiana, and gave him up to pursue a singing career.
How the Morrisons kept this family secret out of the press for almost eighteen years is nothing short of miraculous.
Blade Morrison, spotted at the home of his ex-girlfriend, is now MIA.
It’s safe to say that we can all expect the unexpected when it comes to the Morrisons.
I pack up what matters
A bottle of malaria pills Passport
iPad with 4245 pictures of us, most celebrating her blue eyes, Guitar and guitar pics Graduation gift wallet Copy of Charlotte’s Web (the one Mom read to me five times)
Storm’s terrrrrible record Clothes that smell like here A pillow with a thousand tears The teddy bear Rutherford gave me The unopened letter from Mom Sliver of faith.
And, then I go to honor
Chapel.
Conversation
Where do you want it?
Right here, on my bicep.
To honor my girl
and her patience,
’cause I’m about to leave town and I don’t know
how long I’ll be gone.
You look familiar.
I’m just a small-town boy.
Show me a picture of what you want done and let’s get started.
I just want her name in a cool font. And maybe a flower.
How long will it take?
However long the muse takes. First tat, huh?
Yeah.
Buckle up, kid, it may sting a bit.
A Bit?
The pain
is almost instant.
He begins his work
and it feels like
someone’s nails
scratching the heck
out of a bad sunburn.
And I’m just
begging that
the muse moves
a little faster.
It Feels Permanent
What if Chapel thinks I’m crazy
for declaring
my undying love this way?
What if she thinks I’m a pathetic freak and runs
in the other direction?
I remind myself how much we’ve been through and how we could move canyons and seas stars and planets together.
But what if she thinks I’m crazy?
I decide to drive to Robert to see what he thinks, and to say goodbye.
Gone, Like He Was Never Really Here