Somebody Everybody Listens To (27 page)

The Mockingbird parking lot was packed. Cars were everywhere, and on the marquee out front, there was a big flashing sign—FAN APPRECIATION NIGHT! It was like somebody had let the air out of our balloon. “Oh, no,” Emerson and I said at the very same time.

“Retta! Did you know it was fan appreciation night?” she asked. I shook my head. “You realize what this means?”

“Drunk tourists and no label people,” I said, and swung the car into a spot along the highway. Truth be told, I was somewhat relieved, although I didn't say this to Emerson.

We left the flyers in the car and headed inside. The place was packed with loud, buzzed tourists. They were easy to spot with their Nashville-themed T-shirts and too-white sneakers and sunburned faces. Some poor guy was onstage, but you couldn't hear a word of what he sang, like lip-synching except without the music. Since there were no free tables, Emerson and I hung out by the stage. I was terrified someone would smash into my guitar, so I leaned it against the wall then shielded it with my entire body.

At 6:55, I climbed onstage. The singer right before me hadn't bothered to show up,
or
maybe she'd had enough sense to leave when she saw this crowd. Dixon was nowhere in sight, I noticed. In fact, there didn't even seem to be a stagehand, but what did it matter? As Granny Larky used to say, “This was just one more story for the hard-luck jar.”

I stood there in the middle of the stage and watched Emerson try to shush people—
very librarian-like
, I thought, and smiled—but they kept right on laughing and spilling drinks and making giant fools of themselves. I glanced at the microphone and a wicked idea came to me. I picked up the stand, and moved the whole thing mere inches from the speaker. Then I switched it on.

A seemingly endless screech of ear-stabbing feedback pierced the air—women jumped, men hollered, and the bartenders and waitresses grabbed their ears. Instant silence. Everybody in the place glared at me, including Emerson.
What are you doing?
she mouthed.

I moved the microphone away from the speaker again, but just barely, and it gave off a menacing hum. If they listened, I'd spare them; if not, I'd rupture their eardrums again. Somehow everyone seemed to sense this. I strummed a few chords, shook my hair out a little. “So did y'all see the sights of Nashville today?” I asked. A bachelorette party in the front row nodded obediently. “That's good,” I said. “I've been in Nashville all summer long, and I've barely seen anything. Where should I go first?” Except for the humming noise, there was silence. I kept my mouth shut and stared out into the shawdowy crowd.

“Music Row!” someone yelled finally.

“Music Row? Really? I don't know. Everybody's awfully busy down on Music Row,” I said.

“Country Music Hall of Fame,” someone else tried.

“Now,
that
sounds good. I hear they have Elvis's gold Cadillac. I'd like to see that. And his piano.” I strummed some more, adjusted the tune a little. I had no idea what to sing. Till this very second, I hadn't even thought about it, but for some strange reason I wasn't nervous. These were regular people, after all, just like me and Mama and Daddy and Brenda and Estelle. “So while y'all were snacking on GooGoo Clusters and seeing the sights and getting sunburned noses and blistered feet today, I was attending the funeral of a very good friend of mine.” I stopped strumming. The place was now so quiet I could hear a car door slam out in the parking lot. I moved the microphone to the middle of the stage again.

“The funeral was for my friend Ricky Dean,” I went on. “Ricky was like a second father to me. He fixed my car when it was broken. Gave me a job when things with his other secretary didn't work out. He even let me use the spare room at his auto shop as my temporary home, which was
way
better than sleeping in my car, let me tell you.” I took a deep breath.

“On Wednesday, I went out for a while, and when I got back to Ricky's shop, an ambulance was there. My friend was already gone, suffered a massive heart attack.” Suddenly the song choice seemed obvious. My throat closed in a little, so I strummed some more, then pressed my sweaty palm against the strings to stop the vibrations. A cappella seemed a more fitting tribute. “In honor of Ricky,” I said, and closed my eyes. With all those people listening, I reached down into myself for words and voice and heart.

Some glad morning when this life is o'er, I'll fly away
. . . I began . . .
To that home on God's celestial shore, I'll fly away . . .

When the song was over, they gave me a standing ovation. Even the bartenders and waitresses applauded and whistled. Emerson was jumping up and down, her wild curls loose and flying all over the place. I just stood there and tried to soak up the moment.

I WAS QUIET THE WHOLE DRIVE TO STARLING—no singing to myself or along with the radio. Just the fact that it worked again reminded me of Ricky Dean, so I didn't even turn it on. I'd stayed the night in Emerson's dorm room, slept in a sleeping bag that reeked of bug spray and stale beer on her cement-slab floor, but it was better than my car or spending money on a motel. Emerson had even offered to let me be her roommate when she moved into her duplex over on Natchez. She needed somebody to help pay the rent, after all, but it was out of my price range (as usual), and as much as I liked Emerson and truly appreciated everything she'd done for me, we were very different. I worried I'd be a disappointment if she got to know me too well.
Something will work out,
I told myself on the drive home.
Maybe I'm pressing too hard. Maybe I need patience. Maybe I need faith.

The outskirts of Starling were beginning to show signs of late summer. The produce stand was overloaded with apples and mums now instead of zinnias and strawberries. Before long, big yellow buses would lumber all over town, and last year's juniors would be fighting over homecoming and winter dance themes. In spite of everything, I still didn't miss high school. The real world, even with all its problems, suited me just fine.

Goggy's car made a funny noise when I turned onto Polk Road, so I pulled over and got out to take a look. Thankfully, it wasn't anything, just a stick caught underneath the front bumper. The river smell took me by surprise somehow, so I locked up the car, tucked the keys into my pocket, and tromped through the weeds toward the bank.

Like diamonds, sunlight ricocheted off the water's surface, and I sat down even though the ground was still damp with dew. For a while my mind wandered all around, then it settled back on the river again. I thought about the hundreds of times I'd nestled in this very same spot. For hours and hours, I'd sing and play and struggle so hard to get my imitations just right. It seemed silly to me now, and all along it was so obvious. My sound was this river and Polk Road. It was church and Bluebell's. It was Mama and Daddy. It was my whole town and all its people, even Stinky Stan with those stupid kitchen tongs.

My stomach was rumbling, so I headed back to the car. Maybe I'd go get Daddy, treat him to lunch at Bluebell's. We never ate out anyplace, and it would be nice, unless Stinky Stan hocked a loogey in my BLT. On second thought, maybe I'd make us lunch. Of course, I'd probably have to go to the store and buy the bacon first and the lettuce and the mayo and the bread. My heart sagged, and I thought about Mama, wondered how she'd managed all those boring chores for so many years. And now she was probably doing the exact same things over at King's big house. I would try my best not to make the same mistake. I'd take care of myself instead of expecting someone else to do it for me. And I
could
take care of myself, I knew that now. In one summer I'd learned I was strong. I'd also learned that the minute you think times are tough, they get even harder.

I unlocked the car door and slid behind the wheel, noticed the message light was blinking on my phone. I buckled my seat belt then pressed the retrieve button.

“Message one,” the computerized voice said.

“Hello, Retta, I just spoke with Mrs. Scribner, and she is desperate to have someone at the bookstore. Even if you don't want the job permanently, she says that's okay. She can use you on a temporary basis. Besides that, Retta, she knows a lot of people. And as for the other issue we discussed this morning, the roommate idea . . . please think about it.” She paused. “I know you've had a difficult week, but don't give up.
Transcend!
”

“To delete this message, press seven,” the computerized voice said. “To save this message in the archives, press nine.” I hit seven and waited for the next message.

“Message two,” the computerized voice said.

Silence. More silence.
Finally
. “Retta, this is Chat Snyder.” He cleared his throat. “Call me, please.”

“To delete this message, press—” I hit the number nine then replayed Chat's message. No sarcasm. No bite. And a
please
. I took a deep breath and stared at the number. It was either his home or a cell because it wasn't the Jackson Hotel bar. I chewed a hangnail and waited for my heart to stop pounding. Finally, I dialed, and Chat picked up on the second ring.

“It's Retta,” I said, and got out of the car. I'd need plenty of oxygen for this phone call.

“Did you write “Home” yourself or copy it from somebody? The last thing I need is a copyright scandal, and you have to be an idiot not to give a songwriting credit in this town.”

“Yes, I wrote it myself,” I replied. “
All
by myself.” Instantly, I was angry. “What do you want, Chat?”

“I have studio time tomorrow morning for another project, and the musicians are willing to lay some tracks for you. The demo you have is hid-
e
-ous in terms of sound quality, but . . .” He hesitated. “I saw the Judy Dickenson article. I also heard you at the Mockingbird.”

“So you were there the same night as Judy Dickenson?” I asked. “The night I sang ‘Home'?”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “I was there last night. I listened to your demo this morning.”

“
You
were at the Mockingbird on fan appreciation night?” I laughed and tried to picture Chat with all those drink sloshers.

“Yee-
ees
,” he replied. “We had out-of-town guests, and they thought it would be
fun
.” I could practically hear him rolling his eyes. “You are to meet me in the Jackson Hotel parking lot at seven A.M. You can follow me to the studio since it's rather difficult to find.”

“Are you serious?”

“No, I just called to completely waste my time. When am I ever not serious, Retta?”

“I don't know what to say . . . I mean, this is so—”

“Let me make one thing abundantly clear. I am
not
your friend. I am
not
your mentor. And I am
certainly not
doing this to be nice.”

“Then
why
are you doing this?” I asked.

“Because I think you have something pure. And when you aren't in full-throttle, Las Vegas-impersonator mode, you have . . . potential.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“By the way, an A-and-R guy from LaVista Records will be there, so don't screw up.”

“Who? Someone from—” Before I could even get the question out, Chat hung up. I leaned against Goggy's dusty car and stared at my phone in disbelief. One minute I was off to the store for BLT supplies, the next I was talking about a recording session. No. It couldn't be. Surely I'd gotten it all wrong. It was Chat, after all.

I stood there and waited for the news to sink in, but it floated just out of reach, like the call had never even happened. I checked the list of recent numbers, and Chat's seven digits appeared. I listened to his message again. I was tempted to get excited, but I knew better. My car would break down on the way and I'd be late to meet Chat. Or, he'd get the stomach flu tonight and have to cancel the whole thing.

Or maybe, for once, it would all fall into place. Maybe this one phone call was
my
big break, the thing that would lead to the big dream I'd been carrying around in my heart forever—the Grand Ole Opry and my voice on the radio. I was getting way ahead of myself, I knew.

Wind rippled through the trees, and drops of dew fell from the upper leaves to the lower ones. In a strange way it sounded like applause. I glanced up and up and up, past the treetops, past the clouds, and into the endless blue sky. I thought about Granny Larky and Ricky Dean. Maybe to them the span between birth and death was just an instant now, the blink of an eye. It's amazing when you think about it, all the possibilities, the things that might happen in this one brief life if you're brave enough to try.