Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [65]
By midnight, three distinct groups had developed. The first had passed out and lay sprawled along the beach, a second group had retreated to their blankets and were snuggling around the fires—a few were making s’mores—while the third stood milling around, whispering, drinking or sitting in the water and letting the warm flow roll past them. All eyes were on Link. He hadn’t said a word in nearly three hours. Finally, he stopped picking and began tapping the face of his guitar. His eyes were lost somewhere in the sand in front of him. Folks gathered in close. The guy next to me whispered, “Last song. Usually Zeppelin.”
The crowd on the beach pulled in closer toward the fire—and him. Golden flames grew up out of white coals, chased the smoke and licked the air, lighting his face and the sweat that trickled down.
He tapped several beats, sounding out a hollow drum. Then he looked across the smoke and sand to me and Abbie, and his eyes lost themselves somewhere over my shoulder.
After a few moments, he spoke. “In 1991, Eric Clapton’s son, Conor, fell from a fifty-third-story window. Forty-nine floors later he landed on the roof of a four-story building. A year later, Clapton released a tribute—‘Tears in Heaven.’ People wanted someone to blame, but at the end of the day, it was just a tragic accident.” He shrugged. “Life is hard and sometimes it hurts. And sometimes those reasons ain’t real clear.”
A guy next to the fire pointed his bottle at the heavens and said, “I heard dat’s right.”
Link continued. “The song won most every award, as did his Unplugged album.” He picked quietly. “It’s difficult to pick the greatest tribute song. It’s as if they have their own place outside auditoriums and awards dinners. They don’t classify too easily. Critics nibble at them but I doubt it really matters. After 9/11, a lot of folks wrote songs but none captured what I was feeling like Alan Jackson’s ‘Where Were You.’” Couples around the fire leaned back-to-chest and melted into each other. “In 1977, Robert Plant’s son Karac died suddenly of a stomach infection. Plant was on tour. Out of that, he wrote a song that many have said inspired Clapton.” Link studied the neck of his guitar and his fingers delicately tapped the strings. “It’s my favorite Zeppelin tune. It’s called ‘All My Love.’” He began playing an intro. “I don’t normally dedicate songs. Just ain’t my thing. The song speaks for itself, but…this one’s for…everyone who’s ever stood…where the river ends.”
I lifted Abbie off her bed and swayed slowly above the sand, the water and the fire’s reflection. She clutched my shoulders, pressed her head to my neck and held me as we twirled above the beach.
When he finished, even the woods around us were quiet. Abbie pulled on me and whispered, “How about an encore?”
The harmonics of his last notes were echoing off the river when I stopped him. “Link?” Everyone looked at me—the no-name stranger paddling the gaunt ghost downriver. I cleared my throat. “Would you play that one more time? Please?”
The crowd around him parted and somebody set a five-gallon bucket upside down in between us and the fire. Link rested his foot on the bucket, closed his eyes and poured himself into the song. The tail end of the last notes had yet to fade before they were met by the first.
When he finished, Abbie pressed her forehead to mine. I was drenched. Sweat was dripping off my nose and my shirt was vacuum-sealed to my back. We stayed there a minute. Finally, I walked down into the water and knelt in the flow. She pulled on my ear and managed a smile. “About time you learned to dance.”
I laid her in the canoe, thanked Link, and we pulled of the beach at midnight. If people were talking about us, I wanted to get as much river under our belt after dark as I could. We could sleep in the middle of the