Where the River Ends

by Charles Martin

“I don’t care what trash the world throws at you, don’t let it muddy your reflection. You hear me?”

“Life ain’t easy. Most the time, it’s hard. It seldom makes sense and it ain’t never wrapped up in a neat little bow. Seems like the older you get the more it trips you up, breaks you down and bloodies you…”

I’m no sage. I don’t pretend to have this all figured out, but I know this: some live well, some die well, but few love well. Why? I don’t know if I can answer that. We all live, we all die—there is no get-out-of-jail-free card, but it’s the part in between that matters. To love well…that’s something else. It’s a choosing—something done again and again and again. No matter what. And in my experience, if you so choose, you better be willing to suffer hell.

Long pause. “I rented this place eight months ago with the hopes that the storefront would allow me to sell my work.” I waved my hand across the room. “I’ve yet to sell the first piece. Making jokes helps me…in truth, it’s the curtain I hide behind so folks like you won’t see that the emperor’s food taster has no clothes.”

and while outsiders drive across the bridge and see little more than a bunch of drunk rednecks, they’d do well to never confuse cultural difference with ignorance or stupidity. Beneath the twangy exterior, they value common sense, make do with less, laugh easily and will give you the shirt off their backs—they are the salt of the earth. When you’re not in a hurry, pull up a chair and you will find your stomach full and that laughter has creased your face with wrinkles.

Here was a guy who looked like he ought to be driving a tractor or mucking manure out of stalls and yet he was by far the most talented musician I’d ever seen. He blazed through blue grass, country, Southern rock and classical. If there were limits to his repertoire, we never saw them.

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.”

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.”

She dropped the can to her feet. “You know, if you can’t say it with Krylon, then you just can’t say it.”

Fear is the primary mode of transportation for cancer because cancer is the one six-letter word none of us ever wanted to hear. And if I had any doubts before, a quick look around the room confirmed what I’d already suspected. Cancer is the ultimate identity theft. It’s a vulture—it doesn’t care how old you are, where you’re from, who your daddy is, how much money you have or how important you think you are. It is no respecter of persons.

I’m no expert on women and their feelings but I think they have two unspoken, fundamental wants that occur as soon as they open their eyes. They want to be pursued and they want to know that they are beautiful.

If there is one plus, it is this: For someone with cancer, life is more real. They feel more. It’s like having the senses of a blind and deaf man and yet you can hear and see just fine. Abbie says it’s like the difference between a six-inch black-and-white TV and an IMAX.

“Cancer can do a lot. It can wreck your life, steal that which you hold dear, shatter dreams, crack your confidence, sever your soul and leave you wasted and wrung out. It can rob you of hope, whisper lies you learn to believe and dim the lights along the river. It’ll rob your voice, your health and your image of yourself. It’ll feed you with nausea, and cause you to know the difference between tired and fatigued. And when you think you can’t cope, and can’t think, it pours despair in like a blanket. Soon, it covers and colors everything. It’s an absolute bona fide hell. But—” I found myself standing, pounding on the table. I sat down and spoke softly, “Hopelessness is a disease, more powerful than the one that stole Abbie’s life. Because it affects the heart…There is no vaccine, no one is immune. And only one weapon can battle it.” He looked up at me. “It is the weapon that says I will walk through hell with you—no matter what.” My echo settled across the room. “In the end, cancer only steals what you give it. I may die right here or in some prison not too far away, but I’ll die knowing this: I never gave it Abbie. And I never gave it us. Senator, there are worse things than dying.” He laughed, the anger palpable. “Like what!” “Like…living dead.”