## The Call Jack Had Waited Two Years For

Jack stared at the telephone.

For two years, he had imagined this moment.

Sometimes he imagined Frank apologizing.

Sometimes he imagined himself laughing.

Sometimes he imagined simply hanging up.

But now that the phone was actually ringing, Jack felt strangely calm.

He picked it up.

“Hello?”

A familiar voice answered.

“Congratulations.”

Jack leaned back in his chair.

“Thank you.”

Frank paused.

“I heard the record.”

Jack smiled slightly.

“I figured you might.”

Another silence.

Then Frank said something Jack hadn’t expected.

“I was wrong.”

Jack looked through the studio glass.

Musicians were setting up inside.

“I know.”

Frank laughed quietly.

“Still the same Jack.”

“Not exactly.”

Frank didn’t argue.

He told Jack that several major promoters were suddenly asking about him.

There were bigger venues available.

Television appearances.

Money.

Lots of it.

“I can help you manage all of this,” Frank said.

Jack understood.

For the first time, Frank needed him more than he needed Frank.

“You told me I’d never make it.”

“I told you what I believed.”

“And now?”

“Now I believe you’ve got a number-one country record.”

Jack looked at the acoustic guitar resting beside him.

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Frank was quiet.

Finally he said:

“You were willing to lose everything.”

Jack shook his head.

“No.”

He thought about the night at the theater.

Mr. Miller.

The empty seat.

The silence after the song.

“I was trying to figure out what was worth keeping.”

Frank had no answer.

Jack thanked him for calling.

Then he ended the conversation.

Minutes later, he walked into the studio to begin recording his next country album.

There was no leather jacket.

No carefully manufactured image.

Just a plain shirt, worn boots and a guitar.

The musicians waited.

Jack sat down.

Before they began, the producer asked him something.

“Do you ever miss it?”

“What?”

“The rock years.”

Jack thought for a moment.

“Sometimes.”

The producer seemed surprised.

“Then why didn’t you go back?”

Jack looked through the studio window.

“Because missing where you’ve been doesn’t mean you belong there.”

The red recording light turned on.

Jack began to play.