“Do they jump around when they sing? Anything vulgar?”
“Oh, no. I dropped in the other day while they were practicing. They sound very good, in fact. They do nice harmony. And that Benfield has turned into a real nice young man. The one they did that newspaper article on. He’s a darn good bricklayer, too.”
“I talked to him at church the other day,” says Ted. “He goes to Mt. Gilead, you know. And he’s there every Sunday. How are those blacks working out, by the way? In the band.”
“Fine. Far as I can tell. There are two of them. They‘re supposed to play on ‘The Good Morning Charlie Show’ one morning this week.”
“That’s what I heard,” says Coach.
“I think it might be this morning, in fact,” says Ned.
Ted presses his intercom button. “Mysteria, do you—”
“This morning. They’re on now. I got it turned on. WRBR. Mrs. White left that message yesterday for you to listen in.”
“Oh yes. Turn that radio on over there, Coach.” Ted tilts back in his high-back leather office chair and folds his hands under his chin.
When Good Morning Charlie arrives, the band is waiting in the studio, sitting around a long, battered table with four microphones.
“Good morning, folks,” says Charlie. He’s tall and thin and wears a straw hat and white shoes. His face is too full and red for his thin body. He drops a manila folder on the table, sets his briefcase in the corner. “This the gospel group?”
“The Noble Defenders of the Word,” says Sherri.
Charlie sits down in his swivel chair at the panel, picks up the clipboard from a small table beside him. “Let’s see,” he says, “we’ve got an extra here. I only count four on the program brief here.”
“She’s with me,” says Larry.
“Could I ask you to sit back against the wall there, ma’am, if you don’t mind,” Charlie says to Shanita, “so I don’t get confused about who I’m talking to.”
“Fine with me,” says Shanita. You red-faced-queer-fag-honky-cracker shit.
“Well, gang, I’m sure Jake has covered it all,” says Charlie. “In about, ah, one minute thirty—” Charlie presses a button. “Jake, did you set the clock?”
“Check.”
“Yes or no?”
“Check—yes.”
“In about one minute and ten seconds I’ll hit the music switch, theme song will come on, and we’ll be on the air.” He reaches to the wall, flips a switch and a red ON THE IR light comes on over the door.
Jake’s voice comes in over two speakers, up on the wall: “How do you read?”
“Loud and clear,” says Charlie.
“. . . two, one, zero.”
An instrumental version of “Nothing Could Be Finer Than to Be in Carolina in the Morning” comes over the speakers.
“Morning out there, fine neighbors, this is Good Morning Charlie, bringing you ‘The Good Morning Charlie Show,’ from WRBR, 1310 on your radio dial, straight from the outskirts of Summerlin, North Carolina, the field pea capital of the South. We’ve got a fine gospel group with us today that you’ve heard of for sure. The Noble Defenders of the Work. If you haven’t heard of them, it’s oooonly a matter of time.”
Charlie’s shoulders are twitching. He’s spraying the words, thinking ahead, getting the timing, the intonation, the rhythm all moving together. He picks up an index card. “Speaking of field peas, Pickett’s grocery is the place to pick up all those fresh items on your grocery list. Mr. Pickett packs them in daily from local farms only. If you don’t want those old cardboard tomatoes, cucumbers, and green peppers from who knows where, then you shop at Pickett’s, where quality and local freshness make the difference.” He slips a tape into a tape recorder. “And now, before our first number from the Noble Defenders of the Work, a message from Bethel Hardware.” He hits a button and the commercial starts.
“These mikes are cold now,” he says.
“It’s‘Word,’” says Sherri.
“Excuse me?”
“Noble Defenders of the Word.”
“Oh, it says ‘Work’ here. Let me change that. Now, let me just see if I can pronounce these names.” He picks up the clipboard: “Sherri Gold, Ben Ashley, Wesley Benfield, and Larry Ledford. Easy enough.”
The commercial is over. Charlie hits a switch. “Remember,” he says into his microphone, “if you’ve got a question for the Noble Defenders this morning, or a song request, or if you’ve got a recipe to share, or an item for sale, or if you’re looking for a special item of interest to purchase, give us a buzz at 667-6627. That’s 667-6627. We’d love to hear from you. All lines are open. . . . All lines are open. And now let’s hear from the Noble Defenders of the Word. We’ve got them right here in our studio—WRBR, 1310 on that radio dial and don’t you touch it. Now. Our guests. Welcome to ‘The Good Morning Charlie Show,’ folks,” Charlie says to the band. “First I’d like to ask—”
The phone rings.
“Wup, hey, we’ve got a call—already.”
Ben looks at Wesley, rolls his eyes.
Charlie picks up the receiver. “Stand tall, reach high, look far. This is Good Morning Charlie with the, the, ah”—he finds his clipboard— “Noble Defenders of the Word.”
The voice comes clearly over the speakers. It sounds like a woman without teeth. “I’ve got a whole batch of tomatoes that didn’t seal, you know, when I was canning them, and I, and I want to sell them.”
“Okeedoekee. What’s that name and number?”
“Erma Phillips. 667-4831”
“Okay, Erma. That’s 667-4831 for those of you who didn’t have a pencil ready—which has already happened to me once this morning. Several jars of tomatoes that didn’t seal. And how much are you asking per jar, Erma?”
“Oh, about fifty cents. ’Cept they’ll have to pick them up.”
“Okeedoekee. Give Erma Phillips a call at 667-4831 for some freshly canned tomatoes that didn’t seal. She’ll tell you how to find her house. Thanks much, Erma.”
“You’re welcome. I. . . I would have give them to my mother and them but they’ve all gone to the beach for two weeks. Myrtle Beach.”
“Right, Erma. Thanks for your call. And good luck with your tomatoes.”
“I don’t know why they didn’t go to Caro—”
Charlie presses the phone receiver button. “Wups. Mrs. Phillips? Sorry Mrs. Phillips. We lost Mrs. Phillips there, but you give us a call at 667-6627. ‘The Good Morning Charlie Show,’ straight to you from WRBR. 1310 on your dial. And we’ll be back in one minute with more from the Defenders of the World, a gospel quartet from the Summerlin area.” He picks up an index card. “But first a word from Husky Pesticides. Husky. The strong but safe pesticide. ‘Acts against the pest, but doesn’t hurt the rest.’ Strong, quick relief from corn-ear worms, soybean pod worms, cotton boll worms, and tobacco bud worms.”
Sherri fingers her little two-holed pitch pipe. “We might not get to sing at all,” she says to Wesley.
Charlie swings around in his swivel chair, his index finger to his lips. Wesley notices tiny blue blood vessels all over his nose.
After the commercial, Charlie introduces the band and they sing, uninterrupted by a call. After “Never Turn Back,” and two commercials, they sing “Time Ain’t Long,” and then “Twelve Gates,” which is interrupted by two calls. One is for a car for sale, the other is a request for “The Old Rugged Cross,” which the band doesn’t know.
“They sound almost professional,” says Ted, his hands still folded under his chin. “Do you think you could get them to learn ‘The Old Rugged Cross’?” he says to Ned.
“I don’t see why not.”
Ted thinks about the possibility of a Ballard University-sponsored gospel band. There is a formal link-up with BOTA House now—Project Promise. He could funnel a little piece of the Project Promise grant to cover expenses. He catches sight of himself in the gold-framed mirror on the opposite wall. “Here’s an idea,” he says. “What
if we sent these people on a little tour here in North Carolina. A little tour, inexpensive. We could see about using the BOTA House van—Ned, you could check with Rittner at Prisons. Maybe send Mrs. White along. ‘The Noble whatever-it-was—from Ballard University.’ We could more or less sponsor them—and downplay the halfway house thing until the Benfield boy gives his testimony in the middle of the performance, say, or at the end. Check with Legal, Ned, and see how much we can do of this and still not be liable for any, you know, problems that might arise. But anyway, this Benfield boy could represent what we’re doing here for the underprivileged. The boy is intelligent. I’ve talked to him.”
“What about a grammar class for him?” says Ned.
“Yes. Get on that, but even if he comes across a little underprivileged in that department, that might not hurt.”
Charlie takes off his headphones, turns and looks at the band members—a moment of pleasure. He’s been in the business twenty-eight years. He’s come in here at seven fifty-five A.M. five mornings a week for the last twelve years. He’s had winners from the National Hollering Contest, banjo pickers who couldn’t pick banjo, barbershop quartets, whole Baptist choirs, one Methodist choir, a cassette tape from the Episcopal choir, declamation contest winners from the high school, the junior high, and the elementary school, giving their speeches. He’s had students on the show talking about their science projects, people calling in to say they don’t know what the hell the students are talking about. He’s had a man on who had his eye taken out. That man’s daughter was along and she said, “He had his eye took out on the same day I had my cyst took out.”
And then here, suddenly, one Monday morning, is raw talent. He’s had a part in a real discovery. He could almost . . . almost weep.
“A tour is just the thing,” says Ted. “With this lab set-up at Social Work, we should be able to use some of the grant money —or even use the recruitment budget,” says Ted. “There’s plenty in there for something like that, isn’t there, Don?”
“Oh, yes sir, but that’s what we usually do with the choral group on the Hawaiian trip.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“I see what you mean,” says Coach. “We got these criminals over there, and these Negroes, blacks, and we’re working with them directly now.”
“Well, we’d focus in on the Benfield boy. He’s already gotten some good press. Then too, it’ll be obvious that these people in the band are getting second chances through BOTA House, with our lab program and everything. But the safe one, since he’s a Christian, is Benfield. It’s a powerful image. A young member of the Ballard family who’s been given a second chance. We could send them to a few churches, schools first time out—cater to the youth. And then to finish it off they could play for the Eastern LinkComm Christmas luncheon —you know, for the nursing home people. Snaps has been wanting us to help them make a bigger event out of that anyway.”
Stan raises his hand, weakly. “Who is Snaps?”
“He’s the president over at Eastern LinkComm. A good friend of the university. And—”
“Mr. President,” says Mysteria over the intercom. “You asked me to mention about Leroy Yates.”
“Oh, yes. Y’all heard about Leroy’s passing away. Twenty-five years in maintenance, wasn’t it, Ned?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Fine worker. Never complained once about the first thing. Always had a smile, a good word. No problems of any kind. Put his heart into his work. Don, did you send the family something?”
“A dozen roses and some chicken.”
Ted frowns, looks at Big Don. “I thought we usually sent just one or the other.”
“Better make a note of that,” Ned says to Big Don.
Ted swings his chair back straight ahead, drops it forward, quickly checks his hair in the window reflection, puts his arms on his desk. “Now, let’s see, I guess that’s about it. We do have one more little item which we need to cover in executive session, so, ah, Stan. . . .”
“Sir?”
“We need just a brief huddle on an unrelated matter—you can wait outside or head on back to your office.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Stan leaves. Mysteria is not at her desk. If he waits here, maybe he could hear some of what they’re saying, he thinks. As he starts to sit, Mysteria comes in from the hall and Ned closes the inside office door. Stan says bye to Mysteria and leaves.
In the inner office, Ted says to the men remaining, “I’ve been talking to Snaps. He needs an airport and he was going to buy the Thornburg property but they wouldn’t sell. I told him they wouldn’t before he asked them. Anyway, he’s asked me if we can expand our little airstrip. He’s wanting to get his own jet—well, it would be LinkComm’s—and our field would be the perfect place for it if we expanded and repaved the runway and so on. He’s dealing with some companies that have their own jets too, and if we expanded, it would make life simpler for him.”
“What about finances?” asks Big Don.
“That’s settled. He’s willing to donate to us whatever the expansion would cost, plus some. Plus a good bit, in fact. So we can’t lose, and we’ll be sitting pretty if we ever find ourselves in the position of needing a jet ourselves.”
“Right,” says Ned. “Sure thing.”
“We could get a turbo-prop for a while,” says Coach. “They’re cheaper.”
“In any case, our whole Washington connection will be enhanced with an expansion,” says Ted. “So we need to get Legal in on this, Ned, and let’s keep it under our hats.”
Jake Davis’s door is closed as the band members leave the WRBR building. The door opens as they file pass, and Jake sticks his head out. “Sherri, could you step in here just a second.” He closes the door behind her, goes around behind his desk, picks up a cigarette off his desk as he sits, lights it, blows smoke. “Darned impressive,” he says. “Darned impressive. Have a seat and let’s talk for a minute.”
Wesley is outside the door when Sherri comes out. The others are in the van, waiting. “What’d he want?” asks Wesley as they go through the door, on outside.
“It’s big news. Big,” says Sherri, clenching her fist, pulling her elbow to her side. “Album. A-L-B-U-M.”
As soon as Sherri is in the van, she turns around from the front passenger seat, her eyes wide. “Listen, guys, listen. This Jake guy has got connections with BirdSwim Records. Bird-Swim! He’s getting the ball rolling on an album, this very minute! It’ll be gospel, but it’ll be a great set-up for another one, blues, then another one and on and on.”
“Yeah,” says Ben, cranking the van, “and when I see the green, I’ll know what you mean.”
“He said we sounded great. He’s going to get on the phone. I tell you, it’s going to happen.”
“Yeah,” says Larry, “sure, but the problem was that ending to ‘Time Ain’t Long.’ Somebody didn’t make that chord change at the end.” Larry has four gold chains around his neck this morning—three with medallions.
Ben says, “Somebody’s going to cut off your head and steal them chains.”
“How did you think it sounded, Shanita?” Sherri asks.
“Fine.”
Wesley sees himself in a record studio, standing behind a microphone with the National Steel around his neck, looking through a plate glass window at several producers behind a board with hundreds, maybe thousands of dials. Phoebe is sitting nearby, holding a dozen roses, watching him.
Sherri sees lights on a marquee—in San Francisco or Chicago: “Sherri Gold and the Fat City Band.” She sees hands, holding slips of paper and pens, reaching out to her as she’s jostled and pushed by a crowd. She sees a white tablecloth, wine, a rose in a clear vase, a man . . . a man owning a beach house, a British racing green Jaguar, and a big boat—one of them that has a lot of rooms in it.
Chapter 9
Wesley tells Phoebe about Holister and the auto shop, the National Steel—what it’s like, the little Hawaiian figures brushed on the chromed
aluminum body. About how he’s put strings on it. How it sounds.
They’re sitting on their bench at the mall. He’s cute when he gets excited, Phoebe thinks. That little red spot on his neck heats up. And he gets excited rather often. And he has been so many things—an orphan, a somewhat-thief for awhile, then on the mend—and a college student at the community college. It’s so intriguing, almost exotic in a way. He might even be a genius—and after all, a genius might get carried away, telling about a medical problem and not really mean anything by it. Thank goodness he called and apologized. Thank goodness he realized his mistake.
And there’s his guitar and all. Phoebe has heard a tape of Wesley’s band. Gospel music. And he’s written several songs himself. He’s actually a composer. And now it looks like he might be in an album. He’s invited her to band practice.
But I’m not sure I want to be around the black men in the band, she thinks. I’ve never been around black men and I’m not sure what they might say about my weight. People have made awful remarks. But now Wesley has asked me to be with him in front of his friends. He’s passed that test. Pete and Randy would take me straight somewhere to park. And then there’d be a tussle. They never wanted me for me. All they wanted was the same thing every other girl in America has. I think Wesley is different maybe.
Just after dark, Wesley and Phoebe pull into the upper parking lot at Lake Blanca. Wesley’s just finished a Big Mac and Phoebe an Oriental chicken salad. They are in Phoebe’s dark green Chevrolet Citation and Phoebe is driving.
The moon is low and reflects from the water. “What time do you have to be in?” asks Phoebe.
“Nine-thirty. I got thirty extra minutes because I didn’t get any demerits for two weeks.”
“They’re kind of loose over there, aren’t they?”
“Some people are more restricted than others. Everybody has to go to all the meetings and the group counseling, and we split up chores, but after that it pretty much depends on demerits and what the judge said—or whoever it was put you in there.”
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