The guitar’s a green-grey beauty, tropical scene airbrushed on the back in vivid red and black, intricate lace-like soundboard shining holey and singing rich and sharp to the ear. When the brass slide and fingerpicks start workin’ on the steel strings, the steady plunk-and-keen should connote relaxation, or sheer, unadulterated laziness. But that guitar gives me the willies.

Dad’s steel guitar whines and sings with him in the dusky kitchen. He’s barefoot, leaning against the blue counters. An iced coffee sweats next to him. I’m six, just back from Michael Godeck’s house and a screening of “Nightmare on Elm Street,” the first scary movie I’ve ever seen. I’m shivering in August, sure that a wraith will jump from behind the bathroom door. The evening light isn’t a respite from the heat like normal-it’s the portico of night and harbinger of further terror. Dad’s deep in his playing, and I approach him gingerly to stand by his side, leaning against his hip in the crook of his elbow. I try to communicate my terror silently, hoping he’ll feel it through my skin. But he keeps playing the green-grey steel guitar as I shiver in the dim kitchen.