Jesus Christ, A.D. said, and whistled as a valet in a red suit stood holding his hand out for the keys. I wonder if she got my message. He looked over at the front doorway emblazoned with lights, decorated with a veritable garden of roses and tulips and daisies. I wonder if they’re already here. I didn’t have nothing to tell him on that subject. Anyways, I was already scuffling with a bright young bellhop eager to please us with his gumption, for it was all I could do to keep him from grabbing and making off with our guitars. We were already late and had to hurry, but of course a great many people were standing out there to keep us a bit longer. O there were musicians coming and going, and some were smoking cigarettes and cigars and drinking from glasses of whiskey and bourbon and humming the refrains of songs and pledging oaths to the arts and such. And as they did, a harmonica played somewheres far off, and then a mandolin echoed along some muddy cobblestone, and A.D. and I moved then as if through the eerie contours of a dream.
I looked and thought I saw the Piedmont Pipers in their green and white wool outfits traipsing ahead of us, following some dark shape pushing through the crowd. But when I hurried A.D. along to catch up with them, there was only the outside of the Hillsboro Theater lit up like that burning cross those years ago, the one we seen when we first turned down into Dixie, and a shiver ran through me. The entrance was swarmed with people as cars pulled up and more performers emerged and a few great spotlights scanned the night and I could smell the reedy waters of the Cumberland River close by. The water eternal washing past the city. A humid skin alive with the smell of mud and spring and weeds and rot, and it was as if I’d already passed through this trial before, that this instance was raised to a new center of remembrance, for I seen the backstage door then. It was nondescript and bare beneath a red bulb, and it was easy. I just walked towards it. And before I could reconsider the purchase of whatever event we’d already embarked upon, and that had perhaps been written down ages ago, A.D. and I were inside. The close catacombs of the place and the shadow of the mauve curtain moved with a soft rustling, and the echo of the first performer washed over me as elegiac and lonesome as a passing cloud, and I seen him then out of the corner of my eye—Runnymede—moving on the edge of the dressing rooms. Don’t, I said to A.D., but he hadn’t heard. He’d already wandered on ahead to a chalkboard at the edge of the stage to see the order of performances.
There was a violin then somewheres in the echoing vortex, and the staccato precision of tap shoes working out some timeless rhythm—but then all the other sounds ceased. The refrain of the singing onstage, the clapping and stomping from the audience, even the sad chalky lettering of the stage manager writing our name ebbed into a stillness that washed over me with a presence as close and immediate as what that river would have felt like pressed against my skin. Until only the basic honest core of life remained. This was the core, I knew. I stood at the center of it, and felt a moment arrive like at the track then as Runnymede came closer, walking in a proscribed arc around the backstage props and drum kits and pallets of crated instruments. I looked at the floor and swore he didn’t touch down. Not a once. His feet. They just floated now as around him all those other sycophant musicians and agents moved as a pack of horses might around a great white roan, wavering left and right to each of his intimations, before he finally arrived and stood beside me, looking over my shoulder at the chalkboard.
I sniffed once and the scent of ash was close. I made as if to turn, but couldn’t. A.D. was watching the act onstage, but then looked beyond the act, to scan the crowd for any sign of little Jolie, Ms. Clara May, and Benjamin. But he couldn’t find them, and seemed an anxious mess of a man, shuffling his feet as he strained with his neck to see farther into the dim auditorium. And then, as if made clear above everything else, as if brought out of the entangled code of other happenings, from the inherent living and dying and purchase of the spectacle, I looked at A.D.’s face—at his long, clean profile—and the bright wooden floorboards glowed behind him in all their polished grandeur. Then the great man beside me made a motion, raising his hands in unison as the number finished, and the crowd erupted with applause.
Bravo, he said, bravo, and his minty cologne wafted over me as I turned to his voice and he looked down smiling into my face. A rush of people went past as another act hurried onstage and I found myself pushed up even closer to his powdery blue suit, staring all the while as he smiled and his big barrel chest pressed against the silk edges of my new Western shirt, before the press of people released. I took a step back to appraise him as he addressed me, still smiling. Another moment like that, friend, and we’d have been much more than friends.
I made as if to speak, to deny him my friendship, to denounce him as a fiend or ghoul, but a man appeared beside us with a contract. Brandishing a pen, he turned his back without speaking and bent forward so that Runnymede could place the contract on the flat edge of him and sign it without taking his eyes from me, before the man stood up and was gone. I turned to A.D. as if to show him who was here, to alert him after all our wandering and searching and driving. But he was already absorbed in the next act, absorbed in finding those empty seats filled by his love, by his child, and by his replacement. But there was nothing. He might have been a thousand miles from me then in his mind, even if he was only ten feet.
You don’t remember me, do you? I said. You don’t remember us.
Friend?
You don’t remember what you said? At the racetrack. With what you aim to do to me and A.D.? With what you aim to become?
Runnymede ranged his square chin closer as if calculating the importance of what I’d said, the incongruity, maybe even the need. I aim to do nothing with you, friend. I aim to sing. As always. And to sell records. Then I aim to go forth as before but only bigger, better, stronger. Always stronger, my friend, and more far-reaching, indomitable even. This radio is just the beginning. It’s the beginning of all that follows. For the one true direction is the one I’ll steer with my own hand. But this much I can tell you, friend, you shall not see it. And as he leaned in closer, one of his dark eyes winked at me as I smelled the chalk white dust of his face, the bitter anise rasp of his breath.
You know you said that to me before. You said you wanted to end us and everything we stood for. That you aim to change our rising up ahead of you. Our path.
And I still do, he said standing back up, brushing the shoulders of his crisp blue suit, whoever you are. I mean to end any and all in my way. That belief has never wavered. It’s the one true aim in any competition, wouldn’t you say, in any struggle? To those who’d take what’s rightfully mine, who’d oppose or run counter to my own true bearing. They will be sent down in turn. All will be sent down in turn.
I’m Isaiah Hardy, I said and stood defiant as the quirk of a smile played at the edge of his mouth. I play in the Hardy Family. We’re here to supplant you, sir. To remove you for good.
The Hardy Family? he said and closed his eyes thinking on the resonance and movement of syllable, letting the softness of it tickle his tongue.
The Hardy Family, I said. The Hardy Family. You don’t remember me, do you? How the hell could you not remember me? How could you not know my name?
Runnymede laughed then so loudly, I thought the microphones onstage might have picked it up and sent it out, showering the crowd with a rousing chuckle. But another number had ended and the applause rang out and Runnymede touched his chin looking at me. Ah, I know what it is, he said. Of course, you must have dreamed me.
Sir?
Dreamed me. Everyone does. I can tell just by looking at you. Just by what you say. And at your dark shade of skin. Everyone needs an adversary. Someone to blame for their ineffectual lives. To lay rest their responsibility and fate and failings. No, no. No words now. Just listen. I hear it from everyone. At all times. From poets and prostitutes, singers and dancers, businessman and prophets. Bootleggers too. They all want what I have, don’t they? Don’t you? Then they make me up in their minds as an angel,
a devil, as anything they could never hold or know. They all make me up for themselves to treat exactly as they’d like. To manipulate to no end, to extract some certain satisfaction or leveling. So how’d you treat me, friend? How’d I confound you in the depths of your delusion? Did I taunt you? Did I hurt you that much? And was it the truth? That silly old thing. Did I tell you what you couldn’t bear to hear?
I couldn’t speak. Or breathe. The sense of a shadow loomed above me and was real for I felt it creeping upon my flesh even as he stood there and the music and voices ranged up and reeled in the ether and were sucked back into the voided silence of my throat.
Awww, was it that bad? he said. That you can’t even tell me about it, that you can’t even speak? Pity. I had so hoped someone might stand up to me one day. To have that strength. That conviction. Because I imagine it was something you couldn’t help but hear. Something deep inside that found its way out and honestly, you should be thanking me for giving voice to your fear. To all that desperation. For is it really such a horrible thing to find out now that it was true? After all this. After all the tears and recriminations and trials. That you were wrong. That you were too weak to do anything about it? He was grinning, and leaned down so close, the faintest white sparkle of sugar became distinguishable in the sheer expanse of his face.
It’s not true, I whispered. It’s not. There’s no purchase on life like what you said. There’s no purchase on the deeds of man and time forever.
Nonsense, he said. You don’t know what I said. You don’t know a thing. There are voices divine and decrepit in Man. Voices that hold no limit or edge. That reap and sow and spread their proclivity beyond any reasoning or sense you could know. Beyond even the darkness in me, friend. Yes, I have darkness, and here he leaned close enough that I could feel the raw white heat of each word grace my cheek. You don’t know what I’ve made and broken. You don’t know what I’ve made. You may have dreamed me a monster, a fool, a poison in turn. But let me tell you this, whatever you’ve dreamed, whatever you’ve made up and pictured in your mind, I’m ten times worse and before this night is through I swear by god you’ll know it.
The Hardy Family? The Hardy Family? The stage manager called our name and as the last act rushed off, I turned from the sheer terror of Runnymede’s face to see A.D. already onstage. He was moving out toward the front microphone and had a shiny black guitar around his neck, with his new black fedora inched low enough to keep the glare from blinding him as he stared at those three empty seats in the middle. He then watched perplexed as the tuxedoed emcee must have said something into the microphone for the crowd cheered loudly and laughed as the red neon L I V E sign flashed in the air. As it did, the stage manager implored me with his eyes to follow A.D., and yet—when I looked down, and made as if to step toward the stage—I couldn’t. It was impossible. I looked at my shoes and the soft, polished leather fluttered up as I lifted my toes to check if they still worked. Even my fine tailored suit was free of any entanglement. But when I made to move again, the skin of my left wrist felt singed with a slick heat and when I looked to see its cause, Runnymede’s steely hand tightened ever closer around my arm. He smiled looking over my shoulder at the stage manager and emcee who came blustering off the stage to check.
Well . . . what’s wrong? he said and mopped his brow with a handkerchief he then folded and held as he coughed into his hand.
I don’t think this nigger can go on, Runnymede said and nodded toward me. He’s done. And as he said it, several fellows who’d walked with Runnymede before as he’d come around from his dressing room appeared beside me and the emcee just watched as they laid their hands upon my shoulders and held me down.
XXXIII
A great echoing stillness ~ Play, goddamnit! ~ With my bondage made visible ~ In the high dusty rafters ~ Time that’s bought ~ A recompense ~ His confession ~ Yancey Jakes returns
I SAID I CAN’T PLAY WITHOUT HIM. A.D. was speaking into the microphone as a great echoing stillness came over the theater. The emcee pointed backstage but his voice was muffled for he did not want to be heard over the microphone and even nodded once to the L I V E sign as he spoke. But as A.D. looked and acknowledged the broadcast, he seemed deadset on what he’d already said. Well, we’ll just have to wait until he can come out then, won’t we? Because that’s all there is to it, folks. He’s Isaiah Hardy. It’s his family, and as A.D. chuckled to say it, a round of laughter coursed through the theater. The emcee was shaking now the hem of A.D.’s shirt for he wanted him to either start on his song straight away or come offstage for the airwaves demanded it, some movement one way or the other.
I couldn’t budge. Runnymede had me and laughed as he whispered in my ear, This is it, the extent of all that you’ll do. And all that you’ll ever do, and as one of his fellows took my guitar and carried it away, a part of me seemed to go with it and all the strength I’d felt in watching A.D. flowed out of me to him then— for I at least wanted him to play—to rise up ahead of Runnymede, to overtake everything Runnymede stood for. Play, I said and I was surprised Runnymede let me say it. Play! I cried again, but the stillness of the theater had shifted back already to restlessness and then to unease as more people started calling up for A.D. to do something, to play, to begin, to do anything, and my own cry was taken up into the clamor. If he heard me, I can’t be sure, for A.D. had to shade his eyes even with his hat pulled down to see where I could be. But it was dark backstage, and as he started towards me, Runnymede stepped forward and then all A.D. could see was Runnymede’s smiling face. And Runnymede’s blue suit. And Runnymede’s large white hands clapping as the crowd clapped too, clapping and stomping for him to play play play, until he staggered back still mesmerized by Runnymede’s placid eyes, and turned to the microphone.
I just want to thank you all for inviting us here, he said. It’s been our dream to play at the Opry ever since it started, and I’m glad we could make it. The crowd roared then for they would a roared at anything they were so pumped up to hear him play—to hear anyone play—that the emcee sweated and shifted in the wings as he looked from A.D. to Runnymede who towered above the emcee and touched his shoulder whispering in his ear. I began to sweat my own self as I watched the emcee wave with his hand then to the boxes in the mezzanine. A technician was sitting there with headphones on and must have been running and determining the breaks in the broadcast for advertisements, because he nodded back and raised his thumb and I didn’t think that was a good sign, for there probably wasn’t too much time left for A.D.
Play, goddamnit, I said, play, and my voice must have found a break at the end of the applause, for A.D. turned and finally seen me. Runnymede had just stepped aside from the emcee and I was visible. A.D. stared and stared, his mouth agape to see what had become of me, with my bondage made visible, as it were. Those other fellows still had hold of me and never said nothing the whole time, but would a taken me outside at the drop of a hat if Runnymede had given them the go ahead, but he never did. He never said nothing. I suppose he wanted A.D. to see it all. That there was something already written in this moment, some sign or deliberation. For as A.D. seen me like that, bound and held back by the men who would separate us, separate my kind from his kind, something changed in him. Something that maybe even old Runnymede himself hadn’t figured. Something not written down in indelible ink as Runnymede’s ghost had told me, for a great hesitation come over A.D. Pausing in his breathing (for we could all hear him over the microphone), some final decision must have fluttered up into A.D.’s thinking. Something made real by him right then and there. Looking again to the empty seats for his family, he didn’t see them and shook his head to scour his guitar’s glistening strings, the brass buttons of his fancy new suit, his polished wingtips and argyle socks, before looking back at me and leaning into the microphone. He never strummed a single note. Never turned a wayward eye then from me after that, but just started in on the names:
Jessico Ayles and Old Mossfield Churchwell and Clarence Ashford.
Pee Wee Woodsman and the Appalachian Mayfairs. Bill & Bella Reese and the New Carrolton Singers. Blind Uncle Vecsey and Sister Mary Patton. The Williamson Trio, Doc Ferry Sutters, and Bascomb Teak Nelson. Sleepy John Stack and Mahidabelle Shine. Georgie Black Stevens and the Blue Ridge Charmers. And on and on he went, until the crowd shouted out for songs, or for the next act to be brought on, for something other than this to continue. Of course that had the emcee storming back out as if he might take A.D.’s guitar from him. But A.D. wouldn’t have none of that and nudged him away with the end of it and then played a first shimmering chord of the Misericordia Blues and that seemed to quiet the crowd and even the emcee, who retreated to the wings. But as A.D. spied me again, and then seen them still holding me with their thick white hands—as Runnymede himself glared and stood as still as a statute watching him—he played a second chord but only let it ring out and resonate until the bright notes of it were all that buzzed in the high dusty rafters, before starting in again on the names:
Broken Paul Langetree and Carter Shake Daniels. John Grunt Rutterson and the Shenandoah Boys. Robinson White McTell and the Marshall Two-Tones. Joe John Johnson and the Lincoln-Stith Toppers. Walleye Jenkins and the Haymarket Quintet. Obadiah Bagby and the Cleete Hoyt Hubcaps.
What the hell is this? The emcee had moved from the wings over to Runnymede and tried to reach me, to ask me, but Runnymede stepped in front of him again and just pointed at my skin.
He’s done, Runnymede said. For all time. Can’t you see that? And so is that one, nodding back onstage at A.D.
What the hell does that mean? He’s done? The emcee looked up at Runnymede, blinked, and wiped his face with his handkerchief. But that was about as far as he was willing to take it, for he could see Runnymede weren’t budging in his assertion of my incompetence on account of my obvious skin color. So he just refocused his efforts on the one of us that was onstage. Doesn’t he know he’s on air? he finally said, and turned back to watch A.D. still reciting names into the microphone. Doesn’t he know we can’t just cut out whenever we want? That we got customers? That we got time that’s bought.
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