Dancing With Venus

by Roscoe James

  “Yeah. I know. But I wanted to try and find her. She's gotta have an agent or something.”

  “What do you need to talk to her for?”

  Jessie didn't miss the inflection. She had hoped her sister wouldn't ask. Or, in the worst case, would assume and still not ask.

  “I just need to talk to her. That's all. Don't you know some way to get in touch with her? A cell phone?”

  “She doesn't use a cell phone. Thing went off in the middle of some recital once. She threw it out. You could call her father. I've got the house number and his office number.”

  “No. No. That's okay. I just thought—”

  “She'll be home for Christmas. I could call her father if—”

  “No! Just forget it.”

  The silence drew out, and Jessie was about to say good-bye.

  “I don't believe it.”

  “What?” Jessie just wanted off the phone.

  “You.”

  “Me? What about me?”

  “Somebody finally did it.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Kimmie? Listen, I've gotta go. I get onstage in a couple of hours, and I want to eat early enough it doesn't—”

  “Somebody finally got through to that heart of stone of yours. The psycho woman's in love.”

  The pink elephant waltzed back into Jessie's life and knocked over the crystal with a loud crash.

  “I don't know what the hell you're talking about.” Jessie thought she sounded pretty convincing.

  “Right. Then I guess you wouldn't be interested in her agent's number, would you?”

  “I've gotta go. Catch ya—”

  “Don't you hang up on me, Jessica Butler. Look. It's okay. Really. I wasn't mad at you that day in the hotel because… Well, it was obvious what you two had been up to. It wasn't about that.”

  “Just forget it, Kimmie. Really. I've gotta go.”

  “And what? Run away? That's what you always do. Why change now?”

  “Oh yeah? Then why were you such a bitch?” Jessie had no idea where that question came from. Probably lurking behind the million-dollar sugar daddy who was holding the leash of the pink elephant.

  “Listen, Psycho Woman. I was a bitch because I thought you were trying to mix Marci up in one of your crazy schemes to piss off our mother! I was a bitch because Marci's my friend. Because you'd been gone for a year, God knows where, and I figured you were gonna hurt her just like you did me! Because that's what you do! You hurt people! Especially the ones who love you!” Her sister was yelling.

  “Stop it!” Jessie felt hot, angry, and mean. And she couldn't stop crying. “Stop it! You don't know anything. What would you have done? I mean, there she was, this woman. This Italian, looking all sleek and elegant! The first woman Marci ever loved! Right there in my face! Then Marci chases me out of the restaurant and tells me all I have to do is tell her father. All I have to do is say I love her! That simple! And me? What did I do? You're right, Sis! I'm a psycho woman! And I did what I always do! I ran away! Just like that! I couldn't do it…so I ran away.” Jessie curled into a ball on her boardinghouse bed and cried.

  “Jessie. Hey…” Kimmie called through the phone softly.

  “And then, like some idiot, I go to her dad! What an asshole! But he's right! I'm not worthy! I don't deserve Marci! I don't deserve anyone!”

  “Jessie…”

  “Wait! Then I didn't call this woman back. Yeah. The big break whacks me on the head, and I just burn the fucking contract up!”

  “Jessie!” Her sister was yelling again.

  She sniffed and pulled a corner of the sheet up and wiped her eyes. “What?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  They talked for another hour. Jessie told her story. All of it. She confessed to the next best thing there is in the world to a priest. Her kid sister. Finally Jessie had to get off the phone.

  “Listen, Short Stuff. I'm sorry. About all of it. I'm glad we talked. We'll talk some more. But you have to promise me you won't say anything to Mom and Dad.”

  “Sure, Jessie. But listen, do you want this phone number? Maybe she can tell you how to find Marci.”

  “Sure.” Jessie cabbaged around in her messy room for a pencil and a scrap of paper.

  “Okay. Her name's Judy Lewiston. The number—”

  “Who?”

  “Judy Lewiston. That's Marci's agent. Her number is—”

  “Never mind. I've already got her number.”

  Mr. Dionysius knew the woman better than he let on.

  * * *

  Jessie sat eating a grilled cheese after her first set. She'd had a beer and she asked Johnnie for a Jack on the rocks. The smoky Tennessee whiskey felt good going down. She couldn't remember the last time she'd really laid one on. And just like a fly to cow shit, some idiot in a cowboy hat showed up at her elbow and bought her another. The guy had killer good looks and was fast on the draw.

  “Hey there, Miss Butler. I was wonderin' what you was doin' later on tonight. After you finish. Maybe we can get together or somethin'.”

  Somethin' my rosy red ass.

  “That's awful sweet of you, cowboy. Maybe some other time.”

  He went away with a hangdog expression, and she finished her sandwich. Five minutes later she wandered to the stage carrying her second hit from Mr. Daniel.

  Marci had been haunting her all day. She missed her. She missed her smile, her warmth, her whispered words. Jessie was antsy to get started. To set things straight. To make amends. But she could do nothing but wait.

  The crowd was still clapping after her first number when she grabbed the microphone and pulled it close. “Hey there, Nashville. Are we havin' fun yet?”

  “Hell yes!”

  “Good. You back there, Johnnie? How 'bout another one? I think it's time we get this party goin'!” She grabbed the cowboy's drink, waved it in the air, and downed it in one long chug. Then she went into her next song. The crowd was getting raucous, and the party was definitely getting under way.

  After her next song she noticed the cowboy had moved to a table up by the stage. When she finished she grabbed the microphone and pulled it close again.

  “That's right. A mean, mean woman. That's what every man needs.” Three Jacks and a beer on a grilled cheese sandwich had done its magic. Jessie had a nice buzz going, and it reminded her of another place and another kind of buzz. The buzz of being in Marci's arms. She hugged the microphone stand and shushed the crowd. “Listen! Listen! I gotta say somethin'.”

  The place got as quiet as a dive could get, and Jessie waved her empty glass in the air. Everyone laughed, and another drink magically appeared.

  “Come on, people! Let's party!”

  Beer bottles and glasses shot up, and Jessie downed her fourth Jack. She went into her next song and lost the words somewhere toward the end. She shushed the crowd again and danced with the microphone stand in a slow wobbly sway. The crowd was really getting into her little party.

  “So. I wanna tell everyone a secret. Ya wanna know a secret, Nashville?”

  “Hell yes!”

  Damn! Great fucking crowd tonight.

  “Okay. I'm gonna tell ya jus' as soon as ol' Johnnie gets me a refill.” Jessie blanched when she took a swig of her fifth Jack on the rocks. The glass had iced tea in it. She tried to glare at Johnnie, but the stage lights were too bright. She was about to start her next number when someone yelled, “What's your secret, Jessie?”

  “Shhhhh. Shhhhh. It's a secret!”

  Everyone laughed, and Jessie shushed the crowd again. “Okay. Okay. I'm gonna tell ya. But ya gotta promise not to tell anyone. Nobody! That's an orator… Oops, order.”

  “We promise!” came back from the crowd, and Jessie grinned real big and goofy like drunk people sometimes do.

  “Okay. This is it. This cowboy here, he wants to get together later.” She pointed down at the guy at the table before going on. “I just didn't have the heart to tell him. If he ain't got t
its bigger 'n mine, I ain't interested.”

  The only sound in the place was ice being dropped into a blender. Somewhere in her haze of Jack and beer, Jessie got lost when she tried to figure out why everyone was so quiet.

  “Hell, Jessie. We don't care who you love. Long as you keep singin'.” Somebody whooped, a wall of noise hit her like a wave, the bass and drum player started, and Jessie sang her next tune. When she finally finished her set, she hit the women's restroom like a cannonball shot from a Confederate cannon and puked herself almost sober. She still had a slight list when she walked, but the buzz was definitely gone.

  Johnnie made a face at her when she sidled up to the bar to get a bottle of water. When she went back for her last set, the crowd whooped and hollered. Jessie strapped on her guitar and stepped to the microphone. She was still trying to recall the big secret she'd told the crowd. It came rushing back when she looked down at the cowboy's table. He was gone. Replaced by a blonde and a brunette. The blonde didn't look old enough to be drinking yet, and the brunette looked somewhere north of forty. Both had on cowboy hats and jeans. And both women had bigger tits than Jessie.

  * * *

  Jessie stepped up to the counter and ordered something pretending to be a home-cooked biscuit with sausage and cheese in the middle. She also got the biggest orange juice they had. She was still wearing her Ray-Bans in spite of the steady early morning downpour that was drenching Nashville. She wondered how Merle Haggard ever did it.

  She found a booth and sat down. Someone had left a morning paper, and she stared at the print without reading while she chewed. A picture of Cotton Mouth Lee floated in through her morning hangover, and she took her sunglasses off. There it was. Front page. Some guy who called himself Mississippi Mud would be doing a new record with the blues legend Cotton Mouth Lee. Jessie read the article instead of eating her breakfast. She'd never heard of Mississippi Mud and wondered who the hell the guy was.

  “Nashville,” Jessie mumbled in disgust.

  Cali-fuckin'-fornia could fall into the ocean, and the latest record deal would be front-page news in Nashville.

  She looked twice when her name came up at the end of the article. Miss Butler declined the deal in spite of Cotton Mouth Lee's wishes… At the bottom of the article she found a reference to page three to learn more about Miss Butler.

  She flipped the front page over, and there she was. Big goofy grin. Clinging to a microphone. A picture taken the night before during one of her sets. When she saw the headline, it wasn't difficult to figure out which set—BIGGER THAN MINE.

  Jessie grabbed her sunglasses, put them back on, and looked around the fast-food joint. She nibbled on her sausage and biscuit and managed to read half the article before nervous energy got her moving. Full of great praise for her ability as an artist and singer, they seemed to think the big point was not that she was a woman singing the blues, a predominately male genre. But that she was a gay woman singing the blues. She flipped the front page over and looked at the masthead.

  Shit! My dad reads this newspaper.

  She grabbed the paper and ran for the door.

  * * *

  The rain had let up, and Jessie wandered the streets. She didn't want to go to the Internet café she always used. They knew her there. She didn't want to go back to the boardinghouse either. The lady who owned the place would be sitting in her front room watching TV, and she knew Jessie real well. She got off the backstreets, the real Nashville, and headed for the touristy part of town. She thought she had less chance of being recognized there.

  She ducked into a store and paid too much money for a Stetson knock-off that wouldn't last a month. When she saw a record shop, she went in and walked up and down the aisles without flipping disc covers. On her way out, a life-size cardboard figure caught her eye. She stopped dead in her tracks and stared.

  WHEN I'M IN LOVE was printed across a black backdrop to one side of Marci's head. She sat in her peasant dress and white blouse holding her cello. Her smile was warm and her eyes sparkled. Jessie walked up and grabbed a CD off the stack at the foot of the promotional gimmick. She paid the cashier and wandered back out on the wet sidewalks.

  She had no way to play the CD, but she knew exactly what it would sound like anyway. She leaned against the corner of a building in an alley and ripped cellophane away. A small color book inside the jewel box showed interior and exterior shots of the beautiful old church. The music was listed by composer and time period. There was a small cameo shot of the pianist and four beautiful shots of Marci onstage playing.

  Jessie stuffed everything back in the plastic bag and kept walking. Her sunglasses and the occasional drizzle of rain hid most of her tears.

  Just before she went into the bar to start her night, she pulled out her cell phone and did what she'd been avoiding all day. When her father answered he sounded sleepy. She could see him sitting in his big worn-out easy chair asleep in front of the television.

  “Dad?”

  “Jessie!” There was a silence. “You okay, hon?”

  She didn't need to ask. She could tell he knew.

  “Yeah. I think so, Dad.” Jessie tried not to cry. “You know how it is. Nashville's not the best place to be sometimes.”

  “Well. You know you've always got a place here. Hey. Did you see what they said about your music? One of the top blues performers in the country. I'm real proud of you, Jess. And Cotton Mouth Lee… Wow! Did you really get to perform with him?”

  Only my father.

  Jessie laughed, and they talked for fifteen minutes. She didn't want to hang up but she had to.

  “Listen, Dad. About Mom—”

  “Your mom will be fine. You wanna say hi?”

  “No… I don't think I'm ready. Hey, maybe I'll see you guys at Thanksgiving. Kimmie invited me up.”

  “Okay, Jessie. I'm real proud of you, sweetie. Call me.”

  “Okay, Dad. I will.”

  “Jessie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I ain't just talkin' 'bout your music.”

  * * *

  When Jessie showed up at the bar, the place was packed, and Johnnie was grinning from ear to ear. He got one look at her and the grin disappeared. He cornered her in the back room and asked, “You okay, Jessie? I can get someone else to cover if you can't go on.”

  “No. I'm fine. Just don't send any Jack up onstage even if I beg you for it.”

  They both laughed.

  “Well, I gotta say. I'm not gonna complain. Did you see the place? We're packed. Maybe you can announce you're from the planet Andula tonight. The first alien blues singer.”

  “Asshole. I guess you want me to wear green antennae too.”

  “Hey, they're all here to see you. You can wear a bikini for all I care.”

  “Sure. Every man's wet dream. A blues-singin' dyke in a bikini. I know exactly what they're thinkin' every time I open my mouth and wiggle my tongue.”

  “You better look again. Most of the audience tonight is women.”

  “Shit.”

  “Right. Shit. Maybe I should get you a bodyguard or something.”

  “Cute, Johnnie. Real cute. Well, let's get this show on the road.”

  Her first set was awkward. Stilted. She could feel the audience. They were there for her, but she'd never felt so under the spotlight before in her life. And she could see nothing but women sitting around the stage two tables deep. She chanced a beer in the back room between sets and said the hell with it. Her second set was hot. She was in the sweet spot where the love affair between performer and audience lives. The place was quiet as a church during each song and loud as a barn dance after.

  For her third set she asked her drummer and bass player to stand down. She put a chair on the stage, turned her amplifier down by half, and forgot about the world. She sat at the edge of the stage close to the microphone, her Ray-Bans on, and sang for someone else. By the time she'd finished, her cheeks were wet, and it wasn't because of the single spot that had been bu
rning her forehead for the last hour.

  The audience wouldn't let her leave. After the third encore she waved and called it a night.

  * * *

  Jessie trudged up the stairs of the boardinghouse, searching her pocket for her room key. She was beyond bushed. She was riding a wave of exhaustion that threatened to roll her under and drown her. She fiddled with her lock and pushed her door open.

  She fell onto her bed without any preamble and sobbed until her dreams took her to better places.

  * * *

  “Excuse me. But aren't you Jessie Butler?”

  Jessie shoved her scrambled eggs around and thought about ignoring the man. The restaurant was full and noisy, and she tried to pretend she hadn't heard his question. When he insisted she couldn't find a way to ignore him.

  “Yes, I am.” She forked another mouthful trying to make it clear she was busy.

  “I'm with NMT, the Nashville Music Trade magazine. I wondered if I could ask you a couple of questions.” The man pulled a chair over and took out a notepad and pencil.

  Jessie groaned inwardly. She picked up her napkin and wished the man away. When he didn't retreat she said, “Sure. Why not?”

  “You don't look anything like that picture in the paper yesterday. You look much better in person.”

  Shit! Tits bigger than mine… An invisible rope cranked tight around Jessie's chest, and she struggled not to run.

  “I wanted to ask about Cotton Mouth Lee. Is it true you turned down a chance to make a record with the father of Delta blues?”

  “Well, I didn't really turn it down. I just didn't decide fast enough. They needed to get the project started, and I guess you could say I wasn't available yet.”

  “So you've got nothin' personal against Cotton Mouth?”

  “Of course not. Hell, the man is one of my heroes. Our schedules just didn't work out. That's all.”

  Jessie started to breathe again.

  “I understand this will be Cotton Mouth's last record. What about this Mississippi Mud guy? Do you think he's good enough?”

  “I can't really say. I don't think I've heard the guy sing before. But if Cotton Mouth Lee wants to work with him, I'd guess he's pretty good.”

  “And do you think this will hurt your chances of getting a record deal in the future? Takes a real pair of…well, takes guts to turn down a legend like Cotton Mouth Lee.”