Somebody Everybody Listens To (17 page)

At the end of the third set, I headed toward the stage and gave my name to the guy in charge. “You'll go on after her,” he said, pointing to a tall redhead. The redhead was beautiful—fair skin, thick hair that glowed garnet under the bright lights, and a perfect hourglass figure. Her clothes looked like something Dolly would've worn on
The Porter Wagoner Show
—tight and sequined and brightly colored, but updated and stylish, too. I went to stand next to her, but kept my distance. If I looked at her too much, my self-esteem might hightail it out the door.

When it was the redhead's turn to go on, the audience went wild. They clapped and whistled and shouted out her name—
Lindy Lovelace! Lindy Lovelace! Her family,
I told myself.
Probably dragged every aunt and uncle and third cousin along just to make herself look good
. “Thank you,” she replied coyly. “It's a real pleasure to be here.” She smiled into the lights and squinted slightly, adjusted the microphone, then nodded toward the stage guy to take away the stool. “I like to stand up and move!” she explained, and the audience laughed and clapped again.

Why, why, why does she have to go right before me?
I wondered.

Her voice was sheer power. It sprang from somewhere down around her perfectly shaped calves, and just when you thought the Mockingbird roof would fly right off, she expertly brought the vocals back down to a lullaby level. She took charge of the crowd like they were sitting in her very own living room—pranced around and moved her hips just right so those sequins ricocheted perfectly off the lights. She slung her red hair, threw her head back, thrust her free hand toward the sky. It was Celine Dion gone country, and I was up next.

The audience didn't even notice when I went to stand behind the microphone, and the stage guy was too busy rubbing up against Lindy to remember to put the stool back for me. Instead of sitting, as planned, I stood there, unsure of what to do next.
Ask for the stool? Do without the stool?
And then there was the issue of the microphone. Lindy wasn't a millimeter under five eleven, so the stand was way too tall for me. It took some fumbling and one piercing screech of feedback before I could correct it, and the audience groaned and covered their ears. “Sorry about that,” I said. “Sorry,” I said again, and glanced over toward the bar to see Lindy was sitting down with two men in suits now.
The record executives,
I thought glumly.

“Would you like this?” The stagehand was holding up the stool. He didn't even bother to hide the fact that he was staring at my butt. I nodded and mouthed a
thank you
, sat down, and tried to compose myself.

The faces in the audience seemed dark and flat, a far cry from what they were a few minutes earlier, when Lindy was performing. In fact, they reminded me of the congregation at Starling Methodist every time Tercell and her mama got up to sing. “Uh . . . this is a song . . . that I . . . wrote right after I came to Nashville,” I explained, and strummed a few chords. I wouldn't do the one about Daddy, after all, and the song about Brenda and me seemed juvenile in light of Lindy Lovelace's sophistication. Over at the bar, the record executives were shaking hands with Lindy. I could tell they were getting ready to leave. I was so tempted to launch into Patsy or Dolly, stay safe within my imitation comfort zone, but Chat popped into my head, and I could just see him rolling his eyes at me.

He loves me—she loves me—that much you share,
I began. My voice sounded quivery, not at all like it usually does when I'm rehearsing by myself. The emotion of the song was just out of reach. I closed my eyes, thought back to all the nights I'd lie in my bed, listen to Mama and Daddy yell over nothing and everything. In the third stanza, a guitar string broke, but I kept on going. When things got really bad between them, Daddy would slam the door hard enough to rattle the whole house, then take off in his beat-up truck, the tires throwing gravel as he tore off up Polk Road.

When I finished, I opened my eyes and glanced down at the audience. “Thank you,” I said, and tried to smile, but my dry lips were stuck to my teeth. Clapping thundered in my ears. It wasn't whistling and screaming my name the way they'd done for Lindy, but at least they'd been listening, and I was pretty sure they liked what they heard.

My knees buckled slightly when I stepped down. “Hey there!” said the stagehand, grabbing onto my waist. “Watch your step.”

“Boy, I'm glad that's over,” I said, and let out the breath I'd been holding.

“You were good,” he said and squeezed my shoulder. His cologne was overpowering, like that cheater in the Carrie Underwood song.

“Not as good as Lindy,” I replied, and stifled a sneeze.

“Just different, that's all. I'm Dixon,” he said, and stuck out his hand.

“Retta,” I replied, and shook it. “Thanks for taking care of that stool issue.”

“Not a problem,” Dixon replied, and smiled at me. He was still holding my hand. “It was my pleasure.”

His smell was making my eyes water, so I slipped away then headed to the bar for a Sundrop, hung around for a minute, just in case any leftover record executives wanted to offer
me
a contract, but nobody appeared with complicated legal documents and shiny gold pens. Suddenly I was tired, too tired to stand there another second. “Can I get you another Sundrop?” the waitress asked.

“No thanks,” I said, and headed out into the summer air. Off in the distance, I could see fireworks. Independence Day—almost. There was a big celebration on the Cumberland River—bands, food, crafts, but I didn't feel like going. It wouldn't be much fun alone. Instead, I hopped in Goggy's car and retrieved my messages.

“Hey, Retta. It's Daddy. I got somethin' to tell you, sugar. It don't matter what time you get this. Just call me, okay.”

I pressed speed dial and waited.

“Hello.” It was Daddy, and he sounded like he'd swallowed broken glass.

“What's wrong?” I asked. He cleared his throat noisily. I waited. “Daddy? What's the matter? Is it your back again?”

“I come home today, and everything was gone, Ree Ree.”

“What do you mean everything was gone?” I had visions of the repo man hauling all our crummy furniture away.

“She's done run off with King Wilmsteed.”

“Who ran off? Who's King—”

“Amos King Wilmsteed! The Dollar King! Oh, Retta, what am I gonna do? She packed up all her belongings, left her key in the door, and disappeared. No note. No message. Just gone. I called the Dollar King looking for her, and some girl that works there told me what she'd done. A stranger, Retta, tellin' me about my own marriage.”

Suddenly my whole body went numb, and an odd kind of humming noise filled my ears, like a fluorescent light buzzing, or the sound an electric fence makes if you stand real close and listen. “What do you want me to do?” I asked, even though I already knew what his answer would be.

IT WAS NEARLY TWO A.M. WHEN I PULLED INTO STARLING, and even though it was under the worst kind of circumstances, I felt a twinge of happiness to be home. I drove past Bluebell's. It was closed, of course, but the marquee read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ESTELLE, and I couldn't help but smile. I knew Estelle had put up those letters herself. With no kids and no husband, she relied on her customers to make her day special, and they did—extra tips, flowers, cards, homemade cakes. Every year that sign stayed up a little longer.

I fl icked off the headlights once I got onto Polk Road. I've always liked the way things look in the dark, so I drove along in the dim moonlight. Half a mile or so from home, I stopped Goggy's car and got out, tramped through the tall weeds and down the steep bank to the river. Tercell makes such a big deal about her
riverfront
home, but technically, our house is riverfront, too. You just can't see the water on account of the giant trees and thick brush. According to Tercell, her daddy spent fifty thousand dollars on their pristine view, but I'm not sure I'd appreciate the river as much if I could see it anytime I glanced out the window.

The wind rippled across the black water's surface, and chill bumps raised up on my bare arms. A storm was coming. I could smell it on the air, hear it in the rustling leaves that flashed their silver underbellies. Just a couple of hours ago, I'd been standing on that Mockingbird stage, but now that moment seemed like a part of my distant past. I was home again, all the strides I'd made in Nashville lost to me now.

I took one last look at the water then headed up the bank again. Got into Goggy's car and drove home.

Daddy was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a beer but not drinking it. “Hi, Ree Ree,” he said, groaning as he rose to his feet. “Sure is good to see you.” He squeezed me tight, and it did feel good. My daddy hugs with his heart, too.

“Let's go get your boxes out of the car, then we'll take a ride over to Milldale.”

“You're not lifting a thing,” I replied, and nudged him to sit down again. “It's late, and I'm tired.”

“But what about your mama?”

“Daddy, it's two o'clock in the morning.”

“But she's with
him
! Probably breaking the Seventh Commandment as we speak!”

“Daddy, she probably broke the Seventh Commandment hours ago.” It was a reply I regretted the second it flew out of my mouth. Daddy's face darkened with anger.

“You can set here all you want to, but I'm going over there,” he said in his I-mean-business tone. “I think maybe if you came, too, we could talk some sense into her.” He snatched the keys off the counter and slid his feet into muddy work boots.

 

The whole ride to Milldale, we were quiet. Every once in a while, I'd glance over at Daddy's hands. He gripped the steering wheel like it was the Dollar King's neck, and I tried not to think about what he might do to the man himself when we got there.

The Dollar King owned stores all over Percy County, and you couldn't turn a corner in any speck-size town without being assaulted by one of his big yellow signs. They were shaped like crowns, of course, with a logo that read A DEAL EVERYDAY! It drove the Starling High School English department crazy, and they'd written countless letters over the years, complaining that the signs were grammatically incorrect.
Everyday
should've been two words instead of one.

The Dollar King lived on the outskirts of town in a fancy brick house with big white columns and shutters and a mile-long
paved
driveway. The second I saw that driveway I knew Mama wouldn't be coming home with us, and I think Daddy knew it, too; he just wasn't ready to admit it yet.

Every light was off except for the one on the front porch. Dogs barked, but none of them came up to the car, which meant they were probably hunting dogs and penned up somewhere out back. “I'll be right back, Retta.”

“I'm going with you,” I replied, and hopped out of the truck before he could protest. My heart hammered inside my chest, and my hands had gone all clammy and cold. Daddy rang the bell (at least he didn't bust the door down), and I took a shaky breath. No one answered. After several minutes, he rang it again. Still no answer.

“Renatta! Get out here!” Daddy called. He was losing patience, I could tell.

“Mama! It's
me
!” I shouted.
“Retta!”
I added, like she might've forgotten my name already. I turned to Daddy. “Maybe this house is so big they can't even hear us. We should just go home. You can talk to her in the morning.”

“Oh, they can hear us!” Daddy thundered. “They'll hear
this
!” Before I could stop him, he picked up a fistful of rocks and hurled them at the house. It was too dark to tell if he'd broken any windows. “Open the goddamned door, Amos! Get out here so I can beat your sorry ass! I know y'all can hear me!” The dogs went crazy, and Daddy started kicking the door—so hard I thought he really would knock it down—and I just stood there, hoping his back wouldn't go out again.