Long Way Gone Read Online Free PDF Page B

So when Daley opened her mouth, the question for me was simple. It wasn’t “What song is she singing?” but rather “What key is she singing in?” Said another way, “Where is she in do-re-mi?”
    My job was not to compete, not to show her what I knew, not to show her how good I was or had become. My job was to create a shelf, a platform. Scaffolding. To fill the air around her with a structure. Something safe.
    Daley smiled. Leaving Dusty Springfield behind, she slapped her right thigh with both hands, creating a chain-gang rhythm, and dropped into a Johnny Cash tune called “God’s Gonna Cut You Down.” Lower. Deeper. Gravel mixed with soda water.
    I smiled and modulated to a new key right along with her. Anytime you start singing Johnny Cash, you’re walking on hallowed ground. The thought was not lost on me that the Man in Black most often played a Martin D-35.
    She seemed amused. A kid on a playground. Having evidently thought of someplace else she wanted to go, she raised her chin and slipped sideways musically. I softened my touch and listened, wanting to hear where she was going. So started a rather interesting game of musical cat and mouse.
    Her voice became softer, less gravel, more gold. My second-favorite Elvis tune, “In the Ghetto.” Anyone who tackles Elvis has got some chutzpah. But not nearly as much as someone who attempts Michael Jackson. I had just caught up with her when she crossed the stratosphere again and lifted out the dross. This time there were no impurities. Mere mortals don’t sing “I’ll Be There.” That’s like stepping into the ring with Godzilla. You’re about to have your lunch handed to you.
    Apparently no one had ever informed Daley of this. With all the care and weight of someone filing their nails with an emery board, she opened her mouth and, so help me, I thought the King of Pop himself had hopped up on the hood of the Jeep. No sooner had she sung the chorus than she reached way back, maybe 1930-something, and belted out Robert Johnson’s “Sweet Home Chicago . ” By the time I had caught up with her, she’d tired of that and jumped trains midtrack to Hank Williams’s “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.” And while she sounded lonesome, I doubted whether a whip-poor-will ever sounded that hauntingly pure.
    People passing on the sidewalk stopped to listen as we traveled through the Allman Brothers’ “Midnight Rider,” Lynyrd Skynyrd’s southern anthem, and Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry.” By the time she broke into Marvin Gaye’s “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” a loose crowd had gathered. No bother. If I thought she was enjoying singing for me, the addition of an audience added another dimension. From John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High” to Ray Charles’s “Georgia on My Mind,” she finally let loose with CCR’s “Fortunate Son.”
    To say she still had vocal range would be an understatement of biblical proportions. The melody and the medley were magical. The only thing more magical was how she so effortlessly made each song her own. You know you’re in the company of someone pretty gifted when the cover they’re singing can compete with the original. When she finished, she simply closed her mouth and folded her good hand across the Aircast. She wasn’t even breathing hard—and Buena Vista sits at almost eight thousand feet.
    In twenty minutes of “play that tune,” the trick for me was to be good while not too good. I wanted her to think I could play alongside her in a bar. Nothing more. I throttled back, bringing little attention to myself. Never leading.
    She paused a minute, tapping her top lip with her index finger and squinting one eye. I knew she was searching for the next song, and I thought to myself, This ought to be good.
    A sly smile spread across her face as she sat back, crossed her arms, and launched into Patsy Cline’s “I Fall to Pieces” with the same ease as a kid singing “I Dig Dirt.”
    At this point a