He caught a couple of glimpses of her during the set.
His eye was drawn to her. He followed her as best he could through the night.
“You always liked that type,” Emily whispered in his ear.
It wasn’t until the encores, until the second run through “Jolene,” that he was sure.
It was almost a Bo Diddley beat, and he could feel it in his sternum as he took the microphone and started to sing. He poured all of himself into the words, and fed off the sound of the crowd singing along.
When he hit the first note on the guitar, the place exploded, and he rode the crowd like a wave. There was no longer any resemblance to the pretty song that Miss Parton sang. This was more like Crazy Horse, a shuffling stomp that they’d still be feeling in their ears come morning.
The crowd bounced in place, punched the air, their faces contorted as they struggled to hear their own singing over the band.
She worked her way to the front, dancing by herself, holding her hands over her head. She moved with an easy, slow grace, a movement of her body that let anyone watching know that she knew how to move it.
Tom was watching.
“She’s just your type, isn’t she?”
With a single motion of his hand he brought the band down for the bridge, Frank tapping lightly on the snare, Billy walking the bass.
He stepped toward the microphone and whispered her name into it.
The crowd roared back
The redhead in front looked at him.
“Jolene.” A little louder.
He let his eyes close, focussing all his energy on the name, on the sound of it on his lips. He repeated it over and over like a prayer, building gradually from a whisper to a full-throated roar, the energy of the crowd buoying him up, all that energy, all that passion, focussed on a single name.
“Jolene!”
The band kicked back in as he opened his eyes. All he could see was her, the pretty redhead in the front row, the one who had been dancing by herself but now just stood, staring at him.
He met her eyes, and she smiled.
“There’s always a Jolene,” Emily Grace whispered.
From The Daily Record (TV transcript):
Interviewer: It’s been five years since the tragic death of your fianceé, Emily Grace. Has it been difficult to move on?
Chesnutt: I do nothin’ but move on. Every night a different town.
Interviewer: But are you able to put that tragedy behind you?
Chesnutt: That’s not how it works. I carry her with me. Everywhere I go, Emily Grace is right there with me.
After the show, the sound of the crowd still echoing, Tom stepped out the back door of the bar, wedging the fire exit open behind him.
His hands were shaking as he lit a cigarette with the Zippo Emily had given him, but it was pure adrenaline. Not the drugs, just the rush of the show.
“Those things are gonna kill you,” Emily said.
She was standing in the alley, looking up at him on the stoop.
He shrugged and took a heavy drag. “Lots of things that might kill me first.”
“Most of them self-inflicted.”
“Funny thing about that. Not a whole lot of things are self-inflicted if you look back far enough.”
“Very profound, Tom. Are you trying to impress me, or just warming up for that pretty girl waiting for you inside?”
“Just feelin’ good. It was a good show tonight.”
She took the steps up to the stoop, laid her hand gently on his cheek. He wished he could feel it. Wished he could touch her again, even just once.
One more for the road.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Tom. You always put on a good show.”
He took another drag off his cigarette, listening to the crackling of the paper as it burned. “I can’t tell if that was a compliment or just you bein’ mean.”
“Oh, Tom. I think we both know the answer to that question.”
He chuckled.
“You tired, Tom?”
He hadn’t noticed it. In the rush after the show, he felt light, almost weightless, vibrating like a plucked string. As soon as she asked, though, the weight of his exhaustion crashed in on him. His knees almost buckled under the weight.
He nodded. “It’s been a couple of nights.”
“I know it has, lover. How’re you holding out?”
He took a last drag, ground out the butt under his boot heel. “I’m all right.” Thinking about the pretty redhead, about what would happen later, the mix of guilt and anticipation turning in his stomach.
“That’s funny. ’Cause from here, you look like ten pounds of shit in a five pound sack.”
They both laughed at that.
“Tonight might be your night, though. That girl had nothin’ but you in her eyes.”
He nodded, his head heavy, spilling over with regret for things he hadn’t done. Yet.
“You’d better get back in, Tom. Don’t want to keep your public waiting.”
From www.thewebmusicguide.com (excerpt):
Tom Chesnutt—Emily’s Song (Spoke Cane Records)
Fittingly, the emotional centrepiece of the album is the title track. As achingly personal and immediate as Neil Young’s “Borrowed Tune,” or Tori Amos’ “Me and A Gun,” “Emily’s Song” is six minutes of unalloyed pain and loss, set to a forlorn acoustic guitar. This is the sound of a heart breaking, the midnight blues of Tom Chesnutt’s dark night of the soul.
“Thanks for comin’ out,” he said as he passed the signed CD back to the middle-aged man across the table.
“Do you say the same thing to everyone?” the pretty redhead asked, picking a CD off the table and pretending to look at the tracklist.
She had waited over by the bar, keeping her eye on the line, gliding over when there were just a couple of people left.
“That wouldn’t be very much fun, would it?”
“I suppose not.”
“Jolene,” Emily whispered.
She was pretty, but not the kind of pretty that would necessarily catch most men’s eyes. Her curly red hair was short above her shoulders, framing a roundish face. She wasn’t tall, but she was curvy in all the right places, wearing a green sundress. Tom could see the straps of a red bra at her shoulders.
She nodded slowly as she pretended to read, the sparkle in her eye a dead giveaway that she knew he was looking.
“I’ll take this one.”
“Good choice.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“You’d win that bet.” He fumbled with the booklet. “And who’s this for?”
“Me,” she said.
He leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows.
“Collette,” she added, blushing a little. “I’m Collette.”
Jolene.
That blush was the prettiest thing Tom had seen in days.
When he looked up again, she was fumbling with her wallet. He shook his head, waved away the twenty she held out to him. “Nah. Let’s not worry about that.” He handed the CD to her, making sure their fingers touched. “This is my gift to you. Because you waited so long in line, and I hate to keep a pretty lady waiting.”
There was that blush again. He could feel it down to his toes.
“Well thank you, Mr. Chesnutt,” she said, genuinely surprised.
“Just don’t call me Mr. Chesnutt,” he said. “That’s all I ask.”
“All right, Tom.” She stressed his name, drawing it out a little, finishing with a little giggle that made him feel like he might just spontaneously combust.
“That’s better.”
“Listen, Tom—” she leaned into the table “—can I make you a drink?”
He looked away from the low neckline of her dress, d
own to his nearly empty glass of bourbon. “Well, they’re taking pretty good care of me. . . .”
“No.” She shook her head. “I was thinking I could make you a drink at my place.”
Tom waited a beat before he even acknowledged having heard her. In that moment, he could see what asking had cost her. She wasn’t the sort that came to every show to hit town, notches in her bedpost or whatever. When she made the offer, she had put herself out there. And here he was, letting her dangle.
“That’d be very kind,” he said slowly, looking up at her. “Fella works up a hell of a thirst doing what I do.”
As she smiled, she seemed to sag a little. Relief, he thought. She’d been holding herself tight, waiting for him to answer. “I’ve got a car, if . . .”
He nodded. “Sure. Listen—” He leaned across the table, and she leaned in to meet him and he could smell the sweat, shampoo, boozy smell of her and it made his head swim.
He waited another beat, until she said, “Yeah?” This time, her voice was playful, flirtatious, and her lips seemed to linger on the single word.
“Do you mind if I bring my guitar?”
From KWAS Television, The News at Five:
Voiceover: Investigators now believe the car was driven by Spokane resident Emily Grace, who apparently was en route to Moses Lake early this morning when her vehicle left the road and plunged down the embankment. Investigators aren’t confirming, but alcohol is believed to have been a factor. . . .
“I thought I’d take a longer route home,” Collette said, a little nervously. “Show you a bit of the city.”
“That sounds fine.” His guitar case was in the back, Emily sitting beside it. Tom was slumped in the passenger seat, watching the lights passing by in blurry streaks of gold, watching her drive. If he kept his head angled just right, he didn’t have to see Emily at all.
“Is there anything you want to listen to?” she asked, flipping down the visor to reveal a CD holder.
“Nope. Anything’s good. So long as it’s not me.” He chuckled.
“You like Nina Simone?”
“Sure.”
There were a few moments of small club applause before the music started.
She mouthed some of the words as Nina sang; it made Tom smile.
“Just your type, isn’t she?”
“So are you from here?” he asked.
“Nah. Nobody’s from Victoria. Everybody just ends up here.”
“So where did you start out?”
“A little town you’ve probably never heard of. Henderson? On the mainland. You don’t have to pretend like you know where it is; most people have never heard of it.”
“Small-town girl.”
“Farm girl,” she corrected him. “My family grew corn, raised beef cattle.”
“Sounds like where I grew up.”
She nodded. “A lot smaller, though.”
He got lost in the way the streetlights fell across her pale skin, the regular flashes of beauty, of softness. He realized that he was drunk, in that comfortable place where you’re warm, where the world is filled with beauty, where every word has meaning.
“You’re feeling pretty good right now, aren’t you?” Emily asked.
“I was actually in Spokane for a little while.”
He pulled himself together enough to respond. “What brought a girl like you to a place like Spokane?”
“I came for the waters,” she said, glancing at him to see if he caught the reference.
“You were misinformed,” he said, playing along.
“That I was,” she said, shaking her head.
“So it was a man?”
“Isn’t it always?”
He shook his head ruefully. “The things we do. . . .”
“I was supposed to marry him.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “I was young. Dumb. In love. I met this cowboy and he swept me off my feet.”
“They do that.”
“Yeah. Anyways, this was almost six years ago now, I guess. I fell madly in love. Would have followed my cowboy anywhere. Ended up following him to Spokane.”
“That’ll learn ya.”
“Yeah.”
She drove in silence for a few moments.
“So did you marry your cowboy?”
“No, I got wise. He introduced me to some of his friends. And their wives. And they were all sweet men, and their wives were lovely. Beautiful and kind. But they all had this look in their eyes, this caged, sort of desperate look. Trapped and they knew they could never admit it.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“That was enough for me. I broke that cowboy’s heart, ended up here.”
As she said the words, she turned the car into the driveway of a rambling three-storey house, killed the engine.
“This place yours?”
“The second floor is. My landlady has the bottom floor, and a friend has the attic. You’d like the place. Full of artists.” She started to open her door.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t hold much truck with artists.” He waited a beat. “What do you do?”
She leaned back into the car. “I’m a waitress.”
He smiled and opened his door. “I get along with waitresses just fine.”
From KWAS Television, The News At Five:
Voiceover: Spokane Police are reporting that this afternoon’s standoff at a downtown bar ended peacefully when country singer Tom Chesnutt surrendered himself to police a few minutes ago. Chesnutt reportedly entered the Creekside Tavern at shortly after one this afternoon with a loaded firearm. A police spokesman says they are not regarding this incident as a hostage-taking.
Interview: Mister Chesnutt made no threats to the staff or clientele of the business. According to eyewitnesses, he was visibly upset, and threatened to take his own life.
Voiceover: Speculation is that this afternoon’s incident is related to the death of Mr. Chesnutt’s fiancée Emily Grace in a car accident earlier this week. Mr. Chesnutt has been taken to a mental health facility for observation. . . .
“Can I get you that drink?” Collette asked as she pushed the door closed behind them.
“No matter how many times you hear them, those words are like music.”
She dropped her purse on the couch, looked back at him over her shoulder in a way that made his stomach drop. “Bourbon, right? Maker’s Mark okay?”
“That’ll do just fine.” He leaned his guitar case against a battered armchair, covered with an old quilt.
“You want anything fancy?”
“An ice cube?”
“I think I can manage that.”
As she went into the kitchen he looked around the room.
She had done her best to keep the place homey, with tapestries and batiks on the walls, a couple of small tables with vintage lamps, a battered couch to match the battered chair. The air smelled faintly of incense and pot smoke. He didn’t see a TV anywhere, but her stereo . . .
He had to get up to get a closer look.
“This is a nice rig,” he said when he heard her feet patting across the floor. She had taken offer her shoes: the sound of bare feet on hardwood. . . .
She pressed the drink into his hand. “Did I get it right?”
He took a swallow as if to test it out. “That tastes just fine.” He clinked his glass against hers.
She turned to the stereo. “It was my father’s,” she explained.
“And he left it to you?”
She choked back a chuckle. “No, he upgraded. He likes his toys and he likes them new.” She shrugged. “It works out well for me.”
He picked up the record sleeve that had been leaning against the amplifier, looked at the picture of himself in full flight at Slim’s. “So you’re the one.�
�
She looked at him quizzically.
“The one who keeps buying vinyl.”
“Nothing else like it.”
He sat in the chair, and she settled on the couch across the coffee table from him, next to Emily Grace, who just stared at him without blinking.
“You’re in fine form tonight,” Emily said.
Collette took another sip from her drink.
“So which guitar did you bring?”
He glanced at the case beside the chair. “My old J-45. Best guitar ever made. I bought it to celebrate my first record deal.”
She nodded appreciatively. “Nice.” Another sip. “Does it play?”
“Not by itself.” He laid the case on his lap, lifted out the Gibson. “Time to sing for my supper, I guess.” He played his fingers across the strings, tightened a couple of the keys so little he might not have done anything at all—he could hear the difference, though.
“Any requests?” he joked.
“Do you know ‘Freebird?’” she asked, not missing a beat.
He chuckled, plucked out the first couple of notes.
“Should I get my lighter?” she asked, with a playful grin. Her lips glistened, thick and wet in the dim light.
He smiled, nodded at the joke, then asked, “Now that you mention it, though: do you mind if I smoke?”
She shook her head. “I’ll just . . .” She bustled around, cracking open a window, bringing him an ashtray. He watched every movement, every breath.
“You like this one, don’t you?”
He sighed, dug his pack of Lucky Strikes out of his pocket.
“But you like all of them, don’t you, Tom? That’s the problem.”
“That should do,” she said, returning to the couch.
“Thanks. I ’preciate that.” He lit the cigarette and took a deep, hot drag.
Seven Crow Stories Page 3