Rhythm and Bluegrass

by Molly Harper

  “God bless Joe Bob.” I sighed, gulping down the cold soda as I climbed out of the car. It was actually cooler outside the car than it was inside, though the heat radiating from the blacktop provided a sweaty contrast.

  “You are in an awful hurry to get back into town,” she noted, leaning against the FrankenBug.

  “I may have rushed my return, considering I have no idea where I’m sleeping tonight,” I mused, wondering whether the hamburger counter at the music hall would be comfortable enough to double as a bed. “Threw myself right into a situation without thinking. Totally unlike me.”

  She grinned at me. “Oh, no worries about that. I have strict instructions to take you to your new lodgings.”

  “I can’t wait to find out where that will be,” I muttered into my can of soda.

  “So, I hear you and Will are sleeping together,” she said, making me spray root beer all over her face.

  “Clearly, it was your poise and graceful manners that drew him to you,” she added as she wiped the sticky fizz from her sunglasses.

  “Why—what—why— Why would you say that?” I stammered.

  “Well, Fred picked you up from your walk of shame at Will’s house the other morning,” she said. “And Fred’s wife, Nancy, has a big mouth. Word gets around.”

  “There was no shame. We didn’t . . . shame,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Good. I don’t think there should be any shame in two consenting adults doing the horizontal bop. But, in the interest of full disclosure, Will and I used to be a thing,” she told me. “A pretty serious thing.”

  “I didn’t realize Will had ‘things’ with anybody.”

  Jenny Lee shrugged. “He didn’t always. Could you please stop pacing? Look, we were engaged once upon a time,” she said. “Right after high school. I hurt him. Badly. I got a wild hair to leave town, go to college, find myself, all that bullshit.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Well, I assumed that Will wanted the same things, which just goes to prove what happens when you assume. And when I got into Ohio State, he was shocked and hurt that I wanted to leave. Like I wasn’t just leaving town, I was choosing to leave him. He proposed, thinking that would help, somehow. We tried to do the long-distance thing that fall, but it didn’t work out. I graduated with my criminal justice degree. I married my Roy. Will ended up changing his plans a little, but he never dated anyone seriously again. He ended up taking over the small repair business that belonged to his mom’s brother. And that was that.”

  I drained the last of the soda from the can. “I’m having a really hard time understanding what this has to do with me.”

  “My point is that I still care for Will, a lot. I want him to be happy. And if you’re just planning to pull up stakes and take off the minute your project is finished, you should leave Will alone. He doesn’t show it, but gettin’ left hurts him. And if you do hurt him, I will destroy you and everything you ever loved, slowly, deliberately, and with relish.”

  I pursed my lips and nodded. “I understand. I can appreciate a healthy destructive urge just like the next girl. But again, I did not have sex with Will.”

  “Well, you’re going to have a hard time convincing any adult in Mud Creek with full hearing capacity otherwise.”

  I thunked my head back against the car. “I’m going to have to sew a big red A on all of my clothes.”

  Jenny Lee shoved my slutty behind in my car and led me to a house hidden behind a cache of live oaks off Main Street. If she hadn’t led me to it, I never would have found it. The three-story Victorian was old but stately. It reminded me of a moldering wedding cake, faded white covered in a fine layer of grayish-green, like something from Miss Havisham’s bridal feast. Jenny helped me carry my spare bag to the porch, where a thin woman with broad shoulders and graying blond hair waited.

  “Martha Smallwood, this is Bonnie Turkle.” Miss Martha was not pretty—more like formidable. She had even, handsome features not at all softened by the short, mannish haircut or the little beauty mark at the corner of her mouth. She wore an oversize denim button-up shirt over baggy khakis and men’s work boots. Her bifocals hung on a chain around her neck. She extended a bony hand to me and I shook it, wincing under the power of her iron grip.

  “Bonnie Turkle, this is Miss Martha,” Jenny Lee said, adding, “your landlady.”

  Miss Martha opened the door, her expression just a bit more sympathetic. “Jenny Lee called me about you. Will and his boys have done everything they can to set the trailer to rights, but the insurance companies only move so fast, you know.”

  “I was hoping that you might have some other property I could rent?”

  “Nope, they’re all taken, I’m afraid.” Miss Martha looked to Jenny Lee, confused. “You haven’t told her yet?”

  Jenny Lee shook her head, looking sheepish.

  Miss Martha snorted. “Well, don’t just stand there, letting out all the bought air.”

  “What is she talking about?” I asked Jenny Lee.

  “Will wanted to make sure you were in a safe, reputable location, and those are sort of few and far between in this town. So Miss Martha has generously agreed to let you live here in her house as a boarder.”

  “What?” I yelped. “But, Miss Martha, you don’t even know me!”

  “Eh.” Miss Martha took my bag from Jenny Lee without the wincing or straining involved when I tried to lift it. “Your credit score and criminal check came back clear.”

  “You ran a background check on me?” I gasped.

  “Jenny Lee’s my niece. She owed me a favor.” She ushered us both into an old-fashioned parlor with a fireplace, mauve velvet settees, and a massive sewing machine in the corner. One entire wall was covered in a carefully stacked rainbow of fabric bolts. Miss Martha appeared to be a very organized textile hoarder.

  I turned on Jenny Lee. “I thought we were friends.”

  “She’s blood,” Jenny Lee said quietly. “And she got me out of hosting Thanksgiving last year. I did owe her. Oh, speaking of which, I’ll be right back.” With that, Jenny Lee jogged back to her cruiser and began fishing around in the backseat.

  “You’ll have an upstairs bedroom and an attached bath all to yourself,” Miss Martha told me.

  “Well, as long as the house is right side up, I can’t really complain,” I said, making Miss Martha snort.

  Jenny Lee emerged from her squad car with a laundry basket stuffed with towels, socks, Mud Creek Mustangs sweatshirts, laundry detergent, a spare toothbrush, and other toiletries. “Florence down at the Dinner Bell put this together for you. A couple of the customers chipped in what they could.”

  “Really?” I cried, squeezing the basket to my chest.

  “Well, you were the only one in town to get waylaid by the storm,” she said.

  I pressed my cheek against one of the secondhand towels, which smelled pleasantly like spring meadow fabric softener. I blinked back the moisture that was gathering in the corners of my eyes.

  “Are you crying on me already, girlie?” Miss Martha demanded.

  “No,” I sniffled, wiping at my eyes. I patted the towel back into place in the basket. It was such a nice gesture. It was so sweet that people who were struggling to get by themselves were sharing what they had. I felt welcomed, like I was a part of Mud Creek. Even if I was bouncing around town like a Ping-Pong ball, I might actually be able to call it home for a while.

  “Well, you’re a little thin-skinned, but I could use the company and someone who can climb a footstool without ending up calling the ambulance. And it will be nice having someone in the house to talk to. I never did have the patience for a cat.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “So I’m your surrogate cat in this scenario?”

  “Take the victory while you can, sweetie.”

  Grunting, I dragged the fallen t
ree limb across the gravel parking lot of McBride’s. Well, I tried to, but with my pitiful upper body strength, it was more tugging uselessly and stomping my feet. Normally I would have left this sort of thing to burly workmen, but the limb was blocking the side entrance. I figured I would need that door eventually.

  My head turned as Will’s old truck crunched over the gravel and slid to a stop right in front of me. His official duties helping the townsfolk recover from the storm had kept me from seeing him in the two days since my midmorning walk of undeserved shame.

  “Will.” I sighed as the truck door opened. “Thank goodness. I have the upper body strength of a T. rex. I need your manly arms.”

  It took me a few seconds to recognize that the usual boyish charm was all but gone from Will’s expression as he slammed his truck door. Without preamble, he said, “I got a very interesting phone call this morning, from the manager over at Mud Creek Savings and Loan. Apparently the National Parks Service has requested a review of the deed to the music hall because it’s being considered for designation as a historic landmark.”

  Even though my stomach seemed to be dropping through my feet, all I could think was, Wow, when a park ranger says she’ll fast-track something, she doesn’t kid around.

  But what I said was, “I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure it was going to go through.”

  “So you were just going to let me go on with my silly little plans to invite a major manufacturer here to create the jobs needed to save my town. Do you have any idea what this does to my credibility with the people at ComfyCheeks? Or any other manufacturer who’s going to hear this when it gets around?” he demanded as I peeled off my work gloves and led him inside the music hall. “You were only here because you were going to clean out a bunch of old junk. And now you want the whole building? Why?”

  “It’s going to be a museum,” I told him, showing him a copy of the floor plan I’d come up with for the exhibits. “And it’s going to be a great one. My handwriting analyst confirmed that those lyrics were written by Louis Gray. It’s highly likely that he wrote the original draft for ‘Lurlene, Lurlene’ while he was playing here. This building will be a time capsule containing some of the great musical moments in our history, including the composition of one of the most beautiful, poignant pieces of music in the American songbook. This place deserves to be saved for other people to enjoy, Will! It would be a terrible waste to just tear it down. I know you’re upset with me, but I don’t see how we’re on different teams here. All I want to do is preserve a little bit of your history. How can you protect your town and not care about your own family identity?”

  “First of all, don’t pretend you belong anywhere near my team,” he shot back, edging close enough to tower over me. “You don’t know what it was like, growin’ up here. I know you’re supposed to remember your childhood in a hazy, golden sort of glow, but mine was special. Mud Creek was just awesome. All of the empty buildings?” He gestured toward the front window, toward the abandoned highway. “Main Street was filled with thrivin’ businesses. Hank’s Barber Shop, Reilly’s Pharmacy, the Dinner Bell. The houses were newer. People actually seemed to care about the town. And then the dog food plant closed. My mom said, ‘Don’t worry, we still have the mill.’ And when the mill closed, we still thought we were okay, because by then the GPS plant was up and runnin’. But you know how that turned out. People started gettin’ nervous, leavin’ town and movin’ to bigger cities or wherever they could find work that wasn’t being yanked out from under them every few years.

  “I’m pissed it turned out this way because a handful of people who never set foot within city limits made decisions that hurt all of us. I’m pissed because this used to be a pretty great place to live and through no fault of our own, it’s not that way anymore. I’m pissed because I’m not sure I know how to fix it, or if it can be fixed. But I’m damn sure not goin’ to let somethin’ like sentiment get in the way. I’ve got to make it better for the people who are still here because they either can’t or won’t leave. Mostly can’t.”

  My stomach sank. This wasn’t just a case of stubbornness or hurt feelings. Will was scared, and that was my fault. “I’m not trying to mess that up for you. Really, I’m not. I’m just saying that you need to diversify a little. When an entire town invests its existence in a single employer, that ride is going to come to an end. You’re only setting yourself up for this same cycle in another twenty or thirty years, if you’re lucky.”

  He scoffed. “So you’re sayin’ we should reject the offer from ComfyCheeks?”

  “No, I’m saying you shouldn’t put all of your eggs in one basket. Have you considered that the museum will bring jobs to the community? Between the renovations to the music hall and the increased tourism—”

  “You’re talkin’ about a handful of jobs. I need hundreds. And pinnin’ all of our hopes on tourism is a brilliant strategy. That’s never gone wrong before,” he retorted. “All it would take is one bad season and we’d be right back where we started. We’ve never had tourist traffic in Mud Creek. Hell, since the interstate opened, we barely get any traffic at all. Trust me, no one is gonna drive all this way to go to some museum.”

  “Because you’ve never had tourist attractions here before,” I insisted. “People came here from states away for the music hall. You don’t know that they wouldn’t do it again to see the museum.”

  “History doesn’t put bread on the table, honey. Jobs do. Now, I’d love to sit around and talk about how awesome my family’s place was, back before it stopped makin’ money, like everything else in this town, but I’ve got other fish to fry.”

  “Do you really want to spend the rest of your life making underwear?”

  “It’s a good, honest job. And how would you like it if some perky little outsider came barreling in without an invitation and told you she was going to do you this huge favor that you don’t want, then tells you that you’re basically a terrible person for not wanting it?”

  “I never said that!” I exclaimed.

  “The ‘you’re a terrible person’ was silent.”

  I reached behind the bar and pulled out a copy of the list of sponsors I’d contacted so far. “Look, I have a plan in place. This is a list of sponsors. I’ve asked half of them for help starting up the museum and the others for contributions to put toward renovations and moving costs. All I have to do is get enough contributions from these sponsors to move the building to another lot.”

  “Which you don’t own,” he snorted, sticking the list in his pocket.

  “Well, no, I haven’t found one yet. But again, if I could get enough sponsors—”

  “So we’re supposed to just hope that you can get this all worked out in just a few months?”

  “I can do this, Will,” I swore. “I know I can do this if you’ll just trust me.”

  “Trust you?” he exclaimed. “You’ve pretty much guaranteed that will never happen again. I’ve spent too much time trusting crazy dreamers and their half-baked plans. I don’t need promises. I need real solutions. I’ve got real problems. And you just became one of them.”

  With that, he stomped out of the music hall and brought his truck roaring to life. I winced as gravel spun out from under his tires and peppered the front window.

  I wished Will hadn’t touched a nerve. I wished that his theories on my do-gooderism didn’t hurt my feelings. I wished I was as optimistic as I pretended to be.

  10

  In Which My Butt Catches the Bull by the Horns

  Miss Martha was an attentive, if inconsistent, hostess. While she lived simply and didn’t seem to care much for the antiques in her home, her family had clearly had money at some point. My guest room was an opulent oriental-themed dream room circa 1956. The walls were papered in elaborate cherry blossom designs. My dressing table had a huge round stylized mirror with classic scrollwork, not to mention the sculpture
of a young Japanese woman reclining on a bench. I slept in a dark maple four-poster with a shockingly small mattress. Between the size and the fact that the mattress sank down into the frame as I slept, I felt like I was sleeping in a dresser drawer. Clearly, beds were sized differently in the “old days.”

  Miss Martha had small hips and shoulders that were slightly stooped, from a lifetime of bending over a sewing machine, I imagined. A pair of heavy black glasses hung from a beaded chain around her neck. The only makeup she wore was a raisin-colored lipstick, and that was only on special occasions. She believed in big Southern-standard meals: chicken-fried steak, tuna noodle casseroles, and smothered pork chops, served with vegetables that had lost their nutritional content long before they reached the table. And all meals were immediately followed by unfiltered cigarettes on the back porch. She was pretty nice about my not joining her in smoking.

  Miss Martha was always sewing some project, usually something small she could keep in her lap while we talked. It was always something different; blue satin one day, black velveteen the next. And there seemed to be a lot of plastic boning involved. I never saw the completed projects, but I figured if she wanted to share them with me, she would. And I think she appreciated the fact that I didn’t pry.

  I mostly kept to my room when I was home, so my time with Miss Martha was usually limited to mealtimes and late evenings after I got back from the music hall. I was working like a dog at McBride’s. I cleaned. I scrapped debris after I determined it had no historical value. I smuggled two student volunteers from a local community college history class and had them scrubbing the hamburger counter for extra credit, until the stainless steel was so clean we could have used it for food service again. I contacted Sadie’s approved fabricators to discuss designs for the displays. I placed orders for the TV screens and digital displays I would need. I hired a contractor to rewire the building to allow for the increased electrical use without an actual fire. I carefully removed posters from the walls and arranged for them to be shipped to my framers, along with whatever photos I could salvage. Featured photos and documents would go under specially lit Plexiglas cases. I catalogued artifacts as I found them and sketched out where they would be placed in the displays. I cleaned everything meticulously. I took note of every initial and heart I found carved in the paneling and made plans to frame and highlight them. “HH ♥ GS” and “LG loves EM.” And in the back of my head, I tried to shape these plans so I could pick them up and move them to another location.