Music City Madness: Chapter 80

Melissa locked herself in her tour bus, physically depleted from the rigors of endless preparations and daily rehearsal schedules at the start of her East Coast festival tour. After struggling to reclaim her career, she finally found her stride, regardless of her looming regrets about selling the house to Martin and uprooting her boys from the only home they’d ever known. In her haste to end her relationship with Leland, she had candidly dismissed her own addiction issues and her self-centered views. Now she found herself alone on a custom coach with more accouterments than a five star hotel. She knew the demands of life on the road; how the lure of fame and fortune overshadowed any notion of an honest conversation about the unsettling monotony of the music business mired in poor judgment, bad taste, and chronic indulgence in illegal drugs. She had everything she wanted and more, with no one to blame but herself for feeling rejected at a time when she needed Leland the most.

Leland charged inside the Nashville recreation center to find Principal Hendrix engaged in conversation with a Davidson County Deputy. “Where’s my daughter?” he vented loud enough to draw the principal’s attention. “Abby’s supposed to be here.”
“Mr. Presley—”
“I want to see Abby now!”
Principal Hendrix maintained an aggressive stance with her large frame physically obstructing Leland’s path. “Mr. Presley—”
“Where is she?”
“Abby’s safe. Let’s go somewhere private and talk.”
A vein in Leland’s temple throbbed. “I’m not going anywhere without my daughter. Bring her out here now, or this is going to get ugly.”
Principal Hendrix waved off the deputy sheriff who took offense at Leland’s fighting words. “Mr. Presley, I’m on your side. I realize you’re frustrated. I promise you, Abby is safe.”
“It’s not her safety I’m concerned about.”
Leland followed Principal Hendrix inside a small equipment room. “Whatever it is you think you’re doing to protect my daughter, it’s not helping.”
“Mr. Presley, I’ve worked in education for more than thirty-five years, including most of my summers spent with youth programs like these. I’ve seen a lot in my tenure, and there are two things I know as certain truth: first, I don’t believe you pose any threat to Abby; and second, I wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise.”
“I’m taking Abby home with me.”
“Right now that would do more harm than good.”
“I disagree!”
“You’re not hearing me, Mr. Presley. I’m on Abby’s side. She has issues, of which I am well aware, but abuse at home is not one of them.”
Leland drew a deep breath. “I’m not leaving here without her.”
“Child services has a court order granting the state temporary custody until a hearing can be held to determine—”
“This is wrong! They have no right.”
“They have the law.”
“No law gives them permission to come in here and threaten to take my daughter!”
“It’s not a perfect system.”
Leland lunged for the door when he saw Abby emerge with a sheriff’s deputy and a man in a tie with a government ID around his neck. “Abby!”
“Dad!” Abby screamed.
Leland approached the officer. “My daughter’s coming home with me.”
The officer reached for his taser gun. “Sir, I need you to step back.”
“You said no one would take me away!” Abby cried.
“I’m sorry,” Leland pleaded. “I’ll figure this out. I promise!” He followed Abby and the officer until Principal Hendrix intervened.
“Mr. Presley! You’re no good to your daughter in jail.”
“This isn’t right.”
“You’ll have your day in court.”
Leland stood helplessly as the men ushered Abby from the building to a government sedan outside. He wanted Paula in a straight jacket, and the judge who sided with her case, in jail.
“Go home, Mr. Presley. Meet with your lawyer. If there’s anything I can do to help, I will.”

Sid entered Leland’s house and followed the sound of acoustic guitar played at a heated tempo. “Leland?”
“In here,” he heard Leland call out.
Sid stepped around unpacked boxes and a curious orange tabby who jumped on a window sill for a glimpse at the squirrel festivities outside. “I’m sorry about what happened. I tried to get there before child services arrived.”
Leland stopped playing when Sid entered the room. “They took her away from me.”
“They had a court order.”
“How soon will I get her back?”
“I’m working on it.”
Leland picked at the guitar strings indifferently. “I feel empty inside.”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“I blame my wife!”
“The burden of proof falls on her attorney. Their case is flimsy. I’ve already filed a motion to dismiss.”
“How long will that take?”
“Depends on the court’s schedule. Maybe ten, twelve weeks at most. But there’s no guarantee they’ll grant it.”
“I’m not waiting two months!” Leland set his guitar in the case. “There has to be something more you can do. This is my word against hers. There’s no way the courts would side with Paula. You know she’s lying.”
“Only if we can prove it.”
“You said the burden of proof was on her attorney.”
“And her attorney will make a strong argument that you’re not fit to be Abby’s father.”
“But I am her father.”
“Not biologically, which makes the situation more complicated.”
“Abby needs me.”
“She’ll be safe in the state’s care.”
“Bullshit! I’ve been in the state’s care.”
“We’ll get her back,” Sid assured him.
“I’ll worry about that. You stay close to your phone.”

Leland reached for the bottle of bourbon stashed in the cabinet above the refrigerator. Behind him, the orange tabby sauntered from the hallway to Abby’s room and howled. “She’s not here,” he told the cat and unscrewed the cap. He took a swig and left the open bottle on the counter. He retrieved his guitar and played through a new chord sequence, hoping to find the words to match the music. But every string played sharp or flat, out of tune and out of touch with every melody he composed in his head. Instead of solace in his music, he found emptiness, an emotional void where fear transformed into sadness, sadness devolved into anger, and anger appealed to apathy.
He clenched the guitar neck in both hands and raised the prized possession above his head. Rage swelled within him until he slammed the vintage instrument to the floor, again and again, pounding the handmade Gibson into a pile of splintered wood and broken strings.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *