Danny heard it from the street, a hundred feet from the house, the blues music his father loved. That boom-box must be really cranked up, he thought to himself, because he could hear the singing loud and clear even though a cold October wind was blowing. Who was that guy again? Oh, yeah. Howlin' Wolf, one of his father's favorites. Danny had to admit, the guy really could belt it out. Too bad his singing was what his dad chose to have playing when he was drinking, usually heavily.
Danny took a couple of bills from the mailbox before hurrying up the driveway and around to the back door, where he let himself in. The music was so loud that the thundering bass beat was rattling the dishes stacked on the counter and in the sink.
"Dad, I'm home," he yelled and listened. No answer. Worried, he dropped his backpack on the floor and mail on the kitchen table and hurried into the living room.
His father was sprawled on the couch with at least a dozen empty beer cans scattered on the coffee table and floor in front of him. A big ceramic ashtray was filled to overflowing with Marlboro Reds, his dad's favorite brand. It looked like he'd been there a long time, probably all day, given the number of dead butts.
The living room was small and filled with a smoky haze that made everything look grey. On either side of the couch were two ratty, overstuffed chairs, both of them, like the couch, facing the big screen television on the wall, muted and turned to a rerun of a college football game. A single table lamp was turned on, but it was unable to illuminate the gloomy setting. Danny took a burned-out cigarette from his father's hand and placed it in the ashtray. His dad didn't notice because he was dead drunk and passed out.
Danny was eleven years old and in sixth grade. His father, at one time, had been wonderful to him, playing catch and going on bicycle rides together, teaching him to fly a kite, and even helping with his homework (his dad was really good at math). But all of that had changed after he'd returned from his two-year tour of duty fighting in the war in Iraq. He was different now. Quieter. Withdrawn.
Danny's mom had tried to help. They'd gone to counseling, but it hadn't worked. His dad lost his job at the power company, and his mom had to pick up extra hours as a checkout clerk at the local Cub Foods. Even with her working more, money was still tight -- it was what he heard his parents arguing about most often. Things at home weren't getting any better, maybe even worse, so a month earlier, just after school started, Danny had taken it upon himself to do what he could to help.
He looked at the clock. Three-thirty. He had nearly an hour before his brother and sister's bus dropped them off. He'd better get busy.
First, he turned off the boom-box and television. As much as he liked his father's music, the silence was welcome. Then he picked up the beer cans and took them to the kitchen, rinsed them out, and crushed them, getting them ready for recycling. He dumped the butts in the trash and cleaned out the ashtray. Then he used Windex and cleaned the coffee table. He opened the front and back doors to air out the house and then vacuumed the living room floor.
Then he washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen.
When he was done cleaning up, he had nearly fifteen minutes before his brother and sister got home. Good. He sat down next to his father and gently shook him.
"Come on, Dad, wake up. Let's get you upstairs."
"Whaaa? What's going on?"
It took a couple of minutes for his father to come around. When he finally did, Danny helped him to his feet, standing protectively close while he teeter-tottered back and forth before finally finding his balance. To be on the safe side, Danny had him lean against him, then said, "Come on, Dad, let's go."
With his grip firmly around his father's waist, they made their way upstairs to Danny's bedroom. He set his dad on the bed, reached under it, pulled out a guitar case, and took out the old Martin acoustic. It was the one his father had given him to take care of before he had left for Iraq.
"Okay, Dad. Remember where we were last time?"
His father stared at him, slowly beginning to come around and, Danny hoped, starting to remember where they'd left off practicing the day before.
Danny held the guitar and strummed its steel strings.
"Tune it, son," his dad said, blinking his eyes rapidly, starting to sober up.
So, he did.
When he was done, his dad said, "Play, Danny. Play that riff in E Minor.
Danny began to play, just like his dad had taught him, his thin fingers moving confidently up and down the fretboard. When he was finished, his father smiled and said, "That's good, son. Real good." He didn't seem as drunk as he had been.
His father's compliment meant a lot. "Thanks, Dad," Danny said, grinning. "Here, your turn. "
Danny gave the guitar to his father, then sat back and listened while his dad played The Blues. The music came from deep inside him, soulful and heartfelt, full of passion and emotion. After a minute, his father began to sing, his deep voice filling the room with all of the anguish and pain and suffering he'd experienced in the war. It appeared to do him good, it seemed to Danny, like it was some sort of release.
A few minutes later, he heard the front door open. His brother and sister were home. He stood up and went to the doorway. "We're up here," he yelled. "I'll be right down." He turned to his dad. "Steve and Lisa are back from school. I'm going downstairs for a minute. Will you be okay here?"
His dad had already started in on another song. He nodded his head, okay, and only said only one thing, "Hurry back."
"I will, Dad. I will."
Danny raced off to take care of his brother and sister. He'd get them something to eat, see if they had any homework, and help out as best he could. Then he'd return to his father, and they'd play some more songs. When they were making music, his dad seemed better and less wounded. Happier. And that's all he wanted, for his dad to be happy again. Just like before.