Twang (31 page)

Something else weighing on my mind was how perky I would need to be for my fans, for those long lines of autograph seekers and people who wanted to pose for a picture with me.

I sat there gritting my teeth and thinking:
How many times can I sign “Best, Jenny Cloud” and not lose my mind? Absolutely no way I can get up there on the stage at LP Field and not fall apart. This is not how I want to use my gift of music—dreading what I used to love. So what if my life would be purposeless without music? Purposeless is better than miserable. I’ll never be happy living like this. Never be able to make peace with my past. The only way to keep that shameful incident buried is to bow out now
.

As this realization swept through my mind, it was like something came into Panera Bread and possessed me. From the soles of my feet to the crown of my head, I knew it was time to drop out of the Nashville scene. I’d always had the knowing of it in the back of my mind, that this day would come, and here it was. I sat very still, waiting.

At 8:49 Mike stepped into the restaurant, flashing a smile beneath a cowboy hat dripping with rain. I couldn’t help marveling at him as I always did, at the way his tall, solid body wore khakis and a button-down shirt in what I thought of as “casually rumpled elegance.”

“Hey, beautiful. Sorry to be so late, but you won’t care when you hear what I’ve got to tell you.” Mike sat down, removed his hat and set it on the table between us. “How’s life treating my favorite star today?”

“Okay,” I said, “How are you?”

“I am wonderful, absolutely wonderful.” Mike took a bite of his sandwich, and spoke with his mouth full. “Aren’t you chomping at the bit to know what the exciting news is?”

“Sure.” I lifted my coffee and almost gagged on the cold, bitter slug.

“I was talking with Scott, and he and I both agree your number’s about up for being invited into the Country Music Association’s Hall of Fame.”

A little laugh flew out of me of its own accord. Images of my idols—Patsy Cline, Loretta Lynn, Barbara Mandrell, Emmylou Harris, Dolly Parton, and Tammy Wynette—formed in my mind. Then came Minnie Pearl, Johnny Cash, Glen Campbell, The Statler Brothers, Roy Clark, and Tom T. Hall. Wasn’t Elvis a member?

Surely Mike was teasing! How would
Jennifer Anne Clodfelter
be among those legends in that hallowed institution? I could almost see myself being invited into the Grand Ole Opry,
almost
, a hope birthed in me when Carrie Underwood had been inducted into the Grand Ole Opry by Garth Brooks in 2008. But to be in the Country Music Association’s Hall of Fame seemed unreal.

“Who is this Scott person?” I felt my heart beating fast.

“That would be Scott Borchetta,” Mike said, his eyes twinkling like a kid’s on Christmas morning. “Scott is CEO and President of his own label too. Big Machine Records. That ring a bell?”

I had to nod. Everyone knew Big Machine Records was Taylor Swift’s label. “Is Taylor’s number up too?” The competitive spirit of my question stunned me.

Mike shook his head. “Neither Taylor Swift nor Carrie Underwood are up for being invited into the Hall of Fame.” He took a long drink of tea. “I’m suspecting their work isn’t twangy enough. Not pure country enough.”

A million emotions started zigzagging around inside me. I had a mighty impulse to rise up on my feet, thrust a fist into the air and shout, “Yes! I made it! I’m one of them now!” But of course, I didn’t. Some cold, analytical part of me reached back into my brain for my recent decision and forced myself to remember the pain, that overwhelming fear whenever the memories came. I drew in a long breath. “Well, I’ll tell you something, Mike. It doesn’t really matter to me about that possibility, because I don’t give a fig about the Hall of Fame.”

He stared at me.

“What I mean is, I’m done with the whole entire country music scene. I’m getting out.”

“Getting OUT?” Mike’s eyes bulged, and a little vein throbbed in his temple. “Didn’t you hear me? We’re talking the Country Music Association’s
Hall of Fame
! Are you insane?!”

If I hadn’t been sitting there thinking about this for an hour, preparing my thoughts, I might’ve crumpled under Mike’s fury. “Mike, Mike,” I said wearily. “We’ve discussed it all before. Several times. I just can’t take the pain anymore.”

He stared at me for a long, silent moment. “We discussed you seeing a professional, Jenny,” he said in a barely restrained voice.

I flinched. I wrapped both hands around my mug, but one escaped and found a silky strand of hair at the base of my neck to twirl so hard it hurt.

“ ‘Daddy, Don’t Come Home’ is still number one on the country charts, Jenny. That’s huge! Flint Recording is leaving Big Machine Records in the dust! In the dust! Everyone thinks Taylor Swift is so high and mighty, but now it’s us! It’s Jenny Cloud.
We
are the ones headed to the Country Music Association’s Hall of Fame! Aren’t you excited?”

Mike’s pleading tone hit me in the gut. My goal wasn’t to leave anyone in the dust, was it? His mouth was a grim line
when he spoke again. “Haven’t I given you what you wanted? I seem to remember meeting this little girl at the Bluebird, this green-around-the-gills bumpkin who assured me all she wanted was a chance to make it big in Nashville and she’d be happy.”

My neck tensed. It hurt where I was twisting the hair. I could see that me being inducted into the Country Music Association’s Hall of Fame would be
Mike’s
moment of fame. I pictured myself standing onstage to receive the award, saying, “I owe it all to Mike Flint and Flint Recording,” And rightly so. The man was absolutely tireless when it came to positioning, publicizing, and promoting. My album sales continued to rise, my singles zoomed up the playlists on radio, and Mike had gained phenomenal support and visibility from the digital retailers. He had visibility for us in places where country music normally didn’t even have a presence.

“You can’t jump ship, Jenny!” Mike shook his head. “Especially not now. Your staff’s been talking up your fan club party for months through Twitter, through your website, and I’ve gotten more response than ever for this year’s fan club party. This year we’re offering bonus perks—an exclusive Jenny Cloud T-shirt and an autographed CD if they buy a one-year fan-club membership. I’m even thinking about doing a guitar drop like they did at First and Broadway on New Year’s Eve.” He blew out a gust of air to illustrate his exasperation. “I’ve already ordered pulled pork barbecue from Rippy’s. Got thousands of loaves of gummy white bread scheduled to arrive.”

I just stared at Mike’s intense face.

He pulled out his best weapon. “You wouldn’t disappoint your fans, would you? All those folks who’ve paid their good money to see Jenny Cloud?”

I managed to squeak out “Of course not,” just as a deafening boom of thunder rattled the Panera.

Mike gave his head a quick shake like a dog after a dip in the lake. “Good. Let’s talk about rehearsals.”

Bobby Lee rolled down a narrow footpath to the water’s edge, then a good ways around the perimeter of the lake as I followed behind with Erastus. Strapped to the handles of his wheelchair with crisscrossed bungee cords was a small Coleman cooler that bounced in rhythm to the ruts. Bobby Lee began telling me how Aunt Gomer had woken him up yesterday morning at four, talking about fallen fruit.

“Really?”

“Yeah, she wanted me to get up and help her with the June drop.”

“The what?”

“June drop. When the fruit trees—the apples, pears, peaches, plums, sweet cherries, whatever—drop a lot of fruit. You know, just this natural way trees thin themselves out to a manageable crop size?” Bobby Lee shrugged. “She took a notion it was time to gather, and she started quoting Scripture about a ‘good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit,’ and ‘Ye shall know them by their fruits.’ ”

I couldn’t help smiling. “But it’s not even May yet.”

“Well, I couldn’t convince her of that or to get back in bed. Couldn’t make her get dressed either, so she went outside in her nightgown, her stringy white hair wild. I went along so I could keep an eye on her.”

I swallowed a laugh. “That was sweet of you.”

“Yeah,” Bobby Lee said in an uncertain voice. “Then, when we got outside, she decided she needed to feed Ebenezer.”

“The donkey that died thirty years ago?”

“Yep. She dragged me to the barn, ordering me to put clean, fresh hay in Ebenezer’s stall.”

“What did you do?”

“Well, I made out like I did it.” He turned to look at me. “Know how they say ‘Old age ain’t for sissies’?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Well,
dealing
with old-timer’s ain’t for prissies. I’ve decided that to survive I’m just going to have to hang loose and go with the flow. Makes it easier to deal with all the fallen fruit and the asses.”

We looked at each other and busted out laughing. We laughed so hard my knees gave way, and I sank down into the grass. Just when I thought we were past it, we’d look at each other and start up all over again. That was the best I’d felt in years, it seemed.

“Know what?” Bobby Lee said with a glint in his eye when we’d finally calmed ourselves.

“What?”

“I’m going to have to get me a job so I can get some rest!”

We cracked up all over again.

When we were moving forward, I walked along admiring the sculpted muscles of Bobby Lee’s arms and shoulders, glad he was wearing a tank top. I was jolted from my admiration by Erastus’s sharp bark.

“What ya see, boy?” Bobby Lee came to a stop.

Erastus was rigid, unblinking, staring at the water’s edge. “Woof!”

A bloated armadillo corpse floated on its back, all four legs pointing stiffly toward the sky. By instinct, I stepped back, mouth hanging open ungracefully, looking at this exquisite creature.
Gothic beast
, I thought, my imagination running away with me as I admired the platelets of armor. When I looked
over at Bobby Lee, he smiled and said, “Pretty magnificent, huh?” then quickly admonished Erastus, “Leave it be, boy.”

We moved on down the trail, Bobby Lee maneuvering his way through brambles and roots and wild blackberry bushes, quick and spry as any two-footed man, amazing me with his chivalry, holding branches until I’d passed by. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

We reached a little clearing of sorts, and it was littered with spent bottle rockets, cherry bombs and beer bottles. “Somebody had themselves a little party, hm?” Bobby Lee said, bending to pick up a lapful of debris, then stuffing it all into a small satchel hanging off one side of his chair. “I don’t mind the partying, but I hate it when they litter.”

What a good-hearted man! I couldn’t help admiring someone who cared about the earth the way he did, who was so respectful of animals. I looked at him and thought,
I really like this man. Wonder what he thinks about me? Does he think of me as family like Aunt Gomer says I am? Like a sister to have fun and play outside with?

“Here we are,” he said, coming to a stop on a hard-packed dirt surface I knew had seen lots of fishing. He put his tackle box down beside a stump, reached around and unfastened the fishing rods, and with hardly a pause rolled out into the lake midwheel deep. “C’mon,” he turned to me, smiling. “The water’s perfect.”

“Okay.” I slipped out of my flip-flops and stepped into the warm, murky edge, feeling slimy mud oozing up between my toes when I was out a little ways. I kept my eyes fastened on Bobby Lee’s face and went on until I reached his side.

“Fish oughta be biting real good today.” Bobby Lee’s line sliced through the air. I heard the plop of the artificial catalpa worm as it broke the water’s surface. “Other one’s yours.” He nodded at a blue rod lying across his lap.

I reached for the rod and just held it. “I don’t know how to cast. Only thing I’ve ever used is a piece of bamboo with some fishing line tied on.”

“Watch me,” he said, his muscles flexing beautifully as he drew his right arm back, then forward with a little snap. As his line zipped out again, I focused on his well-defined torso, tight and lean, like art. Much more alluring than Holt Cantrell’s soft, doughy paunch and flabby arms.

I worked at casting for a good fifteen minutes, fantasizing about catching a big one and Bobby Lee admiring me. But this did not happen. It didn’t happen for Bobby Lee either. He cast over and over again, his jaw tightening more each time. Finally I could tell he was throwing in the towel.

“Ain’t nothing like the real thing, baby,” Bobby Lee’s soulful voice rang out across the water, sounding for all the world like Marvin Gaye. He moved close to me, put his hand on my wrist and raised his eyebrows to say, “Is it now?” in a throaty voice that sent electric pulses through me.

I looked into Bobby Lee’s eyes, and my mind supplied another line of the famous love song, and lake water lapped at my knees as I imagined us wrapped in the shelter of one another’s arms, just like in the song. I would’ve paid a million dollars to linger in that moment, a pastel sky above and a breeze rustling the delicate fronds of a nearby willow tree.

“So,” Bobby Lee said, “got a cold six-pack on the bank yonder. What do ya say we have our own private little party?”