Lost in NashVegas

by Rachel Hauck

  I feel rather silly waiting around with a garbage bag in my hand, so I tiptoe to the door.

  Mr. Chastain’s voice chases after me. “Don’t go.” I stop short. “Grant, hold on a sec. No, let me call you back.” He drops the phone to the cradle and fishes something out of his laptop case.

  “I believe this is yours.” He hands me a clear jewel case with an unmarked CD inside.

  My pulse races. “I don’t think so.”

  “You didn’t record a song in my studio with Marty Shultz?”

  Oh, crap. See, this is what daredevil actions get me. Purple spots float before my eyes. And fat, arctic-blast goose bumps shiver down my arms and legs. “I’m sorry, we were just—”

  “Goofing around?”

  How many little elves does he have? I lift my chin. “How did you get this?”

  “A recording engineer was dozing in the booth when you snuck in. You seem adept in stealth.”

  “I grew up in the hills.” He doesn’t laugh or even smile. “I apologize, sir. We overstepped our place. I’d be happy to pay for—”

  “Did you write the song?” His tone warns, “Don’t lie to me, girl.”

  Ain’t no flies on James Chastain. I blurt, “Yes, sir.”

  He rubs his chin. “Did you sell it to Emma Rice?”

  “No, sir.”

  His phone rings again. At the same time, a fancy-dressed woman knocks on his door. “James?”

  “Merrillee.” He looks at his watch. “Come in.”

  I hoist the Hefty bag and slip away to the dumpster.

  Lee calls Monday five minutes after I arrive home. “How are you?”

  “Missing you,” I confess.

  “I miss you too,” he says. “I took yesterday to think and pray.”

  “I understand.” Leaning against the kitchen counter, I wrap my arm around my waist, shaking from the cold apartment, but more from anticipation.

  “I’m sorry I sprung the idea of marriage on you so soon.”

  I shake my head. “No, Lee, please . . . I’m the one who should be sorry. Look, I’m not ready for love and marriage talk but I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You won’t. But how will I know you’re ready?”

  I sigh. “Good question.”

  “Got an answer?”

  I think for a moment. “I’ll tell you I love you.”

  27

  The second Sunday in November, I’m sick. Really. My stomach churns, my head pounds, and my toenails ache. True, all true.

  Momma calls from Daddy’s cell. “We’re on our way. We’ll see you at the Bluebird. Did you get snacks for people when we go back to your place?”

  “Turn around, Momma, I’m sick.”

  “For crying out loud, Robin, you are not sick. Are you in bed? Get out of bed—” Her voice trails off and Daddy’s comes on.

  “Robbie, we’re all rooting for you.”

  “But I’m sick.”

  “Tell the truth—are you really?”

  Drat. The old tell-the-truth trick. “No.”

  “Come on, get out of bed, get cleaned up, you’ll feel better. Spend some time in prayer.”

  “You’re gonna knock ’em dead!” Arizona and Eliza cheer from the back of Momma’s van.

  Daddy hangs up, and I crawl out of bed. The clock reads two-thirty, and I’ve successfully spent the day in bed, fretting.

  Over in the corner of my tiny living room, the afternoon light shines on the polished wood of my guitar. My fingers are sore and calloused from practicing all week. I stayed up until two a.m. rehearsing each number, jotting down what I should say between songs, working up smooth transitions from one song to the next. The floor around the kitchen table is littered with all my crumpled up notes.

  I stare at the pile and burrow back under the covers.

  Stand on my head, naked, in Freedom’s town square.

  Eat warm fish guts on Fear Factor.

  Wear baby blue eye shadow.

  Three things I’d rather do than sing at the Bluebird tonight. I feel like one of Granddaddy’s old scratched 78 records when the needle gets stuck. You’re afraid . . . You’re afraid . . . You’re afraid . . .

  Open-mike nights I learned to manage because the expectation is zilch. They expect you to suck. But this is a performance. The audience wants to be entertained and uplifted. I have to be smooth and charming and on key.

  The Bluebird will be packed. Standing-room only. And Sunday night won’t thin out like open-mike nights. I’m dead. So dead. Jesus, help me.

  I sit up with a sudden thought. Maybe, by some miracle, Nashville’s been hit with a natural disaster. Wouldn’t that be great? The Bluebird would be closed.

  I throw on some clothes and run down to Birdie’s.

  The winter of my junior year, I had a huge geometry midterm. I’d studied and studied, but in the end, I couldn’t make myself care one whit about the volume of a cube with a side length of 6 centimeters. I went to bed that night begging God for a favor. “Just a few inches of snow, Lord. Please.”

  Don’t you know? Freedom woke under a half inch of snow. Very rare event. No school for two days. I hung around with friends, ate cookies, drank hot chocolate, and waged a snow-mud-ball war against the boys that is still legend in northern Alabama.

  So maybe, just maybe . . .

  Birdie and Walt are in the kitchen fixing sandwiches. “Well, good afternoon, Princess Robin.”

  “Did Nashville have an earthquake or tornado?”

  Birdie laughs. What nerve.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Just anticipation,” Walt says, pointing his mayo knife at me. “You’ll feel better once you get up on stage.”

  “Right. No natural disaster?”

  “No, songbird, all’s well in Music City.”

  I whirl around to go upstairs, then stop, one foot down the hall. “Did you call me songbird?”

  Birdie thinks for a second. “I suppose I did.”

  “Momma called me that for the first time the other day.”

  “Did she?” Birdie pours me a cup of coffee, but I refuse. I’m hyper enough. “Isn’t that interesting,” she says. “You remind me of a flitting, fluttering, occasionally lost and frightened, but always beautiful songbird.”

  I sneer. “You make me sound like a flake.”

  “I mean it with heartfelt tenderness.” Birdie turns me toward the stairs. “Get ready.”

  Momma slaps her hand on my leg. “Stop jiggling. It’ll only make it worse.”

  I remove her hand by lifting her pinky. “You got your ways, I got mine.”

  So here I am, seated up front as if on the edge of the world, terrified I might fall off. But it’s time to cowgirl up. Just like the night at the Hall when the triplets tumbled.

  On the other side of Momma, Daddy looks amused. “This is a neat place, Robbie,” he says.

  “There must be a bazillion people in here, sucking up all the oxygen. A girl can’t draw a deep breath.”

  Next to me, Lee slips his arm around my shoulders.

  “This place wasn’t here when you came to town, was it, Bit?” Granddaddy asks from the table behind ours.

  Momma’s face tightens so her eyes bug out a little. “No, Daddy, it wasn’t.”

  Grandma and Grandpa McAfee, overdressed in their Sunday best, carry on with Birdie and Walt.

  Arizona and Eliza are two tables over, saving chairs for Skyler and Blaire. And in the back by the wall is Mallory and her new man, Liam somebody. When I catch her eye, she gives me a thumbs up.

  My gaze shifts to the door. Can I get out? I’d have to crash over five tables and knock over ten standing guests, but I think I could do it. I plop my forehead down on the table. I’m a mess.

  A hand runs up and down my back. Lee’s deep whisper comforts me a little. “You can do this, Robin.”

  “Old habits die hard.”

  “Robin, maybe what you’re feeling is anticipation, not anxiety.”

  I lift my head. “Walt s
aid the same thing.”

  He lifts my chin with his finger. “There you go.”

  “Robin.” Momma nudges me. “Reverend Miller and Jenny said they’d be praying for you tonight. He said, ‘Remember Columbia,’ whatever that means.”

  His exhortation makes me feel warm. Facing the Bluebird is way easier than facing guerillas. This is way easier than that.

  What are three things I’d rather do than sing at the Bluebird’s Songwriter’s Night?

  I take a deep breath.

  Well, I’d . . . No that’s gross. Um . . . I’d rather be . . . No, too ridiculous. Well, doggies, my mind is actually blank on this one. Now that I’m here, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.

  The Bluebird’s Sunday-night host, Jeff Pearson, takes the stage. My stomach turns a cartwheel. It’s on now.

  “We have a great show for you all tonight. Remember, this is a listening room, so please no talking while the songwriters perform, and let’s cut off those cell phones.”

  “Robin,” Blaire whispers over my shoulder, “tonight I’m tossing a whole pill.” She winks at me.

  Jeff calls out the order of singers. I’m number ten of twenty. But he’ll do a little intro before each one.

  “We’ll get started here in a few minutes.” Jeff hurries off the stage.

  My stomach churns. Lee’s right. It’s anticipation. I know I can do this.

  Then Momma’s gasp draws my attention. I look over to see James Chastain standing by Walt and Birdie.

  “Good evening everyone,” he says.

  I rise slowly. “Mr. Chastain.”

  “Hello, Robin.” He maneuvers around the tables to shake my hand. “I heard a talented new songwriter was performing here tonight.”

  I shoot a fiery glance at Birdie. She turns her head and rolls her eyes up to the ceiling.

  “Nice to see you again, Bit.” James says.

  “Jim.” Momma doesn’t look at him. She must be embarrassed for running out on her record deal all those years ago.

  Daddy stands. “Dean McAfee. Nice to meet you.”

  James grips Daddy’s hand firmly. “The honor is all mine, believe me.”

  Jeff is back onstage, starting the show, so there’s no time for chitchat. No time to decipher what in Sam Hill brought James Chastain out to hear me sing.

  Momma mutters something to Daddy about how she can’t believe Birdie invited that man . . .

  Lee taps my shoulder and gently nudges me close. “I think he’s the one who broke your mom’s heart.”

  I sneak a peek at Mr. Chastain. Then Momma. “You think?”

  “Good chance.”

  “Sheesh, the way our lives have been going, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  The first songwriter takes the stage. I anticipate being sick-to-my-stomach nervous, but with each singer-songwriter, my excitement grows.

  Something else sticks out to me. These other songwriters are folks made of flesh and blood just like me. Their voices warble and crack. Their legs shake a little. They start songs too fast or too slow.

  After the first few singers perform, a buzz starts about Mr. Chastain being in the room, and several of the songwriters are visibly anxious. A few others show off. It isn’t every night one of the pit bulls of Music Row wanders in to an amateur songwriters night.

  I peek over at him. He really came because Birdie called? What about her blind bluff and losing it all?

  No time to ponder, because Jeff is up at the mike and introducing the next singer. Me.

  Here goes nothing. I run my hands down the sides of my jeans. Granddaddy passes over my guitar and taps over his heart. “Remember, you got it right here.”

  Arizona gives me a thumbs up. Do I peek at James Chastain? Oh, mercy, he has the same amused look as Daddy.

  “This next performer has performed several times at the Bluebird open-mike night.” Jeff smiles at me. “Y’all are gonna love this woman’s music. Put your hands together for Robin McAfee.”

  To the applause and the family’s hoots and whistles (thank you, Arizona), I step up as Jeff steps off. So far, so good.

  All eyes are on me. Pinching my pick, I start strumming on “She Was Only Seventeen.”

  “It’s been a journey to get here. I won’t bore you with the details, but let me just say, whatever you’re facing in life, God is bigger.” I look over at my table. “I wrote this song with my momma.”

  She wipes her eyes.

  The melodies pour out of me and the peace washes over me. And for the first time in twenty-five years, I sincerely exhale.

  28

  Plastic cups and empty chip bags are stacked on the table and kitchen pass-through. Grandma Lukeman starts to clean up, but I stop her.

  “It’s late, and y’all have a long drive. I appreciate you being here.”

  “All right, if you’re sure. I know your granddaddy would like to get on the road.”

  So, a little after midnight the last of the Freedom caravan starts for home. Arizona and Eliza bum a ride back with Grandma and Grandpa McAfee, so only Momma and Daddy are left.

  Momma commences the clean-up detail, but Daddy tells her to stop. “Come sit.”

  “I should help Robin clean,” she says, fidgeting with the wild curl that always falls over her forehead.

  “Leave it, Momma. I’ll get it tomorrow.” I collapse in the club chair, wide awake and over-the-rainbow with my Bluebird triumph. “Isn’t the Bluebird great?” I look at Daddy. “There are other great places in town to play, too, but the Bluebird is—”

  “Robbie, your Momma has something to tell you.” Daddy gestures again for her to come and sit.

  She does, hugging a wadded-up chip bag.

  “Go on, Bit.”

  Momma crushes the bag between her hands. “Don’t push me, Dean. I’ll get to it.”

  I’ve seen terror, I’ve felt terror. Momma is truly terrified. “What’s going on?”

  “Does he have to be here?” Momma hops up from the couch.

  “He who?” I look around. “Lee?”

  “Well, I don’t mean your daddy.”

  “This looks like a private matter, Robin. I’ll just go on home.” Lee takes his jacket from the back of the couch and kisses my cheek. “I’ll call you in the morning. You were magic tonight.”

  When the door closes behind him, I feel agitated. “Why’d you drive Lee out, Momma?”

  “Bit?” Daddy urges.

  “Well, I need to tell you something, Robin, and it ain’t easy. You’re just gonna hate me.” She drops the chip bag onto the coffee table.

  I walk over to her. “I’m not going to hate you. I can’t count the number of times you irritated me, but hate? Never.”

  “She didn’t tell you the whole story about Nashville,” Daddy says.

  Momma gets up with a moan and circles around to the back of the couch.

  “Does this have to do with Mr. Chastain? He’s the one who broke your heart, isn’t he?” I ease down on the edge of the coffee table and face my parents.

  “Yes.” Momma’s voice is liquid with emotion.

  “But it’s been over twenty-five years.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “So the man broke your heart, Momma. Lots of girls get their hearts broke. But it worked out. You married Daddy, had me, Liza, and Steve—”

  “He’s your father.” Momma presses her hands to her cheeks.

  “What?” I look over at Daddy.

  Momma blows her nose on a napkin. “I ran away to Nashville to marry Jim. Two months later I told him I was pregnant, and he walked out.”

  All images in the room fade to black, and there’s only Momma and me. “Y-y-you married James Chastain? H-he’s my father?”

  “Yes, Robin Rae, James Chastain is your father.”

  My old Chevy flies down the highway. The speedometer bobs around the ninety mark. My knuckles ache from gripping the wheel, and my eyes burn.

  James Chastain is my biological father? Not kind, ge
ntle, loving Dean McAfee? Bile stings the base of my throat, and I lean a little harder on the gas.

  Freedom’s Song’s chassis rocks and rolls as the engine whines. The sight of James shaking Daddy’s hand flashes through my mind. The honor is all mine, believe me. Translation: thanks for raising my kid.

  I fly around a car going slow in the left lane. How do I digest this? How do I reckon my life now? I’m not a McAfee. I’m a Chastain.

  Great day in the morning.

  Momma’s scattered explanation rattles around in my brain.

  Children weren’t on his agenda . . . Apparently, long-term commitment wasn’t either. Birdie was furious . . . gave Jim a piece of her mind . . . made him so angry . . . She walked out—cost her a record deal. I ran home . . . Marriage was annulled . . . My heart broken into a million pieces . . . so embarrassed and lost . . . I married your daddy when I was eight months pregnant . . . Birdie tried to keep in touch, but I didn’t want anything to do with memories of Nashville. It hurt too much . . . Never showed anyone our marriage license . . . I really loved Daddy, Robin . . . He was my knight.

  I shake the muddle from my mind. Momma, Momma, Momma. No wonder she’s been tighter than a drum all her life. Pretty, dark-haired, dark-eyed Bit Lukeman grabbed the tiger by the tail and captured a little bird named Robin.

  Enter hero, Dean McAfee, in a ’69 Shelby. “I always loved your mother,” Daddy assured me while I stood there trembling, mumbling unintelligible questions. “You were my daughter from the moment I put eyes on you. So tiny and pretty with hair the color of Alabama clay.”

  My eyes fill with tears, blurring the highway lines. I lift off the gas when I pass the fifty-five speed-limit sign, and the speedometer drifts down to the sixty-five tick. I crack the wheel with my fist. I am the daughter of a man who can’t carry a tune in a bucket. I am Dean McAfee’s.

  Birdie told Jim about you. He knew who you were that day in his office . . . You pointed to a picture and said something about “that woman.”

  So, all the secrets are out, right? Let the universe continue. The stars are in place. The moon is glowing, and I’m the unwanted child of James Chastain. I feel sick.