When he didn’t reply by the time I hit the frame of the door to go into the hall, I stopped and turned back.
He hadn’t moved except to shift in a way that he was facing me.
“Deke,” I prompted.
“Milk, not much, one spoon of sugar.”
I grinned at him, said, “Right,” and took off.
I brought him his coffee while he was hauling some things in from outside.
As I was setting it down on a blanketed cabinet, he spoke.
“Get as much done as I can, Jus.”
My gaze shot to him when he used my name.
“Do my best to get it all,” he continued. “Shouldn’t be a problem, though can’t get the rafters without another man here. Even so, means at night you can fire up the furnace. I tested it earlier. You’re not home by the time I take off, I’ll set it before I go.”
“That would be…that’d be…” Why couldn’t I handle him being a decent human being? “That’d be great, Deke. Thanks,” I finally got out.
“You got one, leave me a key and your number,” he ordered. “I’ll lock up before I go, you’re not back. Call you if there’s anything needs reporting.”
I nodded.
He watched me nod then walked right back out the door, presumably to get more stuff.
I smiled to myself as I went to my bedroom, got one of the extra keys Joni had given me on closing, wrote my number on a Post-it and took them back out to set them by his coffee.
“Have fun insulating,” I called to him as he walked back in with more stuff and I was walking back to my bedroom.
Apparently reaching the end of his ability to be a decent human being, Deke said nothing.
* * * * *
I stood in one of the two convenience stores that somehow the small town of Carnal seemed to be able to keep alive and stared, grinning at the cover of Twang magazine.
Lacey was on the front. Just Lacey against a gray background, though standing at her right foot was a male peacock, its tail fanned out behind Lace in full glory.
Her stance was wide. Her short but shapely legs oiled. A tiny dress made entirely of a peacock array of sequins barely covering her petite body. Her hair teased high just at the top, falling stick straight down the back. Her hands on her hips like she was Wonder Woman.
At the bottom, next to her silver-sandal-stiletto, it declared,
Lacey Town
Paints Her Tour Peacock
Oh yeah, I was sure she was, seeing as Peacock, the title to her latest album as well as her current tour, went platinum the day it released, the tour sold out in ten countries.
I yanked the magazine out of its rack and flipped through until I saw the article.
More pictures of Lacey, posed as well as mid-dance move, mouth open, mic curled around her cheek onstage.
Also one of her with her dad, Terrence Town, drummer and half of the decades-long partnership of songwriters of the still-touring (except in its fifth incarnation), multi-platinum R&B group, Heaven’s Gate.
I flipped the page and drew in a sharp breath.
And another photo, with me, after one of my shows five years earlier, our arms around each other, smiling big at the camera, my dad standing close and looking proud, the caption reading, With longtime friend, acclaimed rock balladeer, Justice Lonesome, and her father, the recently sadly passed legend, Johnny Lonesome, two of the strong line of Lonesomes spawned by the late, great, mythical rock god, Jerry Lonesome.
I remembered that show. It’d been in Louisville. A smallish venue but a hometown crowd. One of two sold-out, back-to-back nights. The best vibe I’d felt in my life, and there had been some good ones, before and after. But none better.
On top of the world yet sinking down in the mire.
I stared at my father, looking so proud.
Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Tammy both had careers. They were good, still toured, cut records, put themselves out there, made beautiful music that was appreciated by many, ticket sales strong, venues not arenas but nothing to sneeze at.
Neither were as good as Dad. Dad’s career rivaled Grandpa Jerry’s. Everyone said that. Even Grandpa Jerry before he died, and when he did, he said it with pride.
To the end, Dad was the closing act at festivals, teeming crowds as far as the eye could see shouting the words to his songs back at him. He rocked football stadiums, not arenas, never anything less after he hit with his first album.
Dad did nothing but soar.
Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Tammy also both had kids, but none of them had inherited what they needed to carry on the legacy. My cousin Rudy had tried, and failed, and let it make him bitter which led him off the deep end, so even Aunt Tammy didn’t see her son anymore. But he’d expected the name Lonesome (which he’d taken on, his father’s name was actually Smith—he was still a Lonesome though), would pave his way.
It hadn’t.
That life didn’t accept imposters or anyone riding coattails. You might ride for a while, but you had to demonstrate you were the genuine article and had staying power or it’d cut you out so fast, you’d wonder if it was a dream you ever got in.
Dad had been beside himself with happiness I’d entered the life.
He’d been devastated I’d decided to leave it behind.
But he’d let me leave. He’d seen the life chew people up and spit them out, his nephew not being the first, or the last, and after all that had gone down on my tour, he didn’t want to see that happen to me.
I had it, though. That’s what he said. What the critics said. What the folks who bought my album said. What Grandad said, and that was the good thing.
Granddad got to see me do it before he died.
And I didn’t end it until after he was gone.
I closed the magazine, grabbed the rest of them and went up to the cashier with them, my can of WD-40 and my bag of bite-size Baby Ruth bars (the latter the real reason I’d come in, perfect for nighttime munching while reading in bed and not requiring fridge, stove or microwave).
The cashier gave me a look when she saw the magazines.
“Lacey Town fan?” she asked.
“Big time,” I answered.
Her next look took in my clothes. It registered surprise, for Lacey was not rock or folk or alternative, she was R&B, like her dad, but the cashier said no more and stuffed my purchases in a plastic bag.
I headed out of the store, hit my truck, dumped the bag and then made the rounds. I had time to kill before I went home and now I had a mission that would kill some of it.
Small grocery store in the middle of the town that did have a magazine rack, but that rack didn’t carry Twang. All the way down to the other end of town, doing this window shopping, getting used to my new place. I hit that convenience store and went through almost the same conversation with the male cashier as I bought out their Twang.
I did this even knowing people would eventually know who I was.
So why I was doing this, I didn’t know. It wasn’t like I’d window shop every day, hang out in Carnal, become a fixture like Jim-Billy clearly was at Bubba’s and have my identity discovered (perhaps) within moments.
But I’d be around. They’d see. And someone would remember me. The cat would get out of the bag, I knew it. And in getting to know the people around me, forming relationships eventually (I hoped), I’d have to come clean.
I just didn’t want to be Justice Lonesome for a while.
Just a while.
It’d be soon enough when I had no choice but again to be me.
I was walking back with my plastic bag filled with Twang when I noticed the red Camaro I saw parked outside of Bubba’s was sitting in a parking spot not outside of Bubba’s but outside what looked to be a tailor that specialized in sewing patches on leather (if the plethora of announcements sharing that fact that were taped to the windows all around the door were anything to go by).
I would have ignored the Camaro except it wasn’t parked and empty.
A pregnant 70�
��s pinup was sitting behind the wheel, hands wrapped around it, the car not on, her eyes staring vacantly out the windshield.
I passed the front of the car, holding my bag close to my chest with one arm, waving at Krystal with the other hand.
Krystal didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Even though I walked right in front of her, it was like she didn’t see me.
This made me stop and slowly approach, still waving.
Only then did she move, but not because she saw me. Because her head dropped down in a disturbing manner to rest on the wheel between her hands.
Damn, something was wrong.
I thought quick, made a decision, moved to the passenger side and rapped on the window.
“Hey, Krys!” I called.
Her head shot up and she turned it to me.
Mascara running, just beginning, not yet a mess but on its way—she’d dropped her head to start crying.
Shit.
I’d been around her once and you would blow me over with a feather if you’d told me she was a crier.
This did not say good things.
She did not call back a greeting. Instead, her hand went to the ignition.
Shit, shit.
I pulled open the door.
She again jerked her head my way.
“What’re you doin’?” she demanded to know as I angled my ass into the seat.
I slammed the door and turned to her.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” she totally lied.
She’d done a quick swipe as I got in, this I knew because she had mascara wings at the sides of her eyes.
“You’re crying,” I pointed out.
“I don’t cry,” she retorted.
I looked to her temples and said softly, “I saw you, Krys.”
Her lips thinned, probably in order not to confirm or lie again.
I shrugged one shoulder. “You want me to go, I’ll go. I get needing your space when something is up. You don’t know me very well and I get you wouldn’t want to lay anything on me if something is going on that’s deep or heavy. But you’re also pregnant, upset, you’re a sister and I don’t want you driving until you’re together. So you can take this time to get it together and then I’ll leave you alone so you can go where you’re going. Or you can take this time to lay it on me and I’ll listen and then leave you alone.”
She stared at me.
I stared back.
Eventually, she snapped, “I’m pregnant.”
“I know,” I replied.
“Pregnant bitches do stupid shit, like cryin’ for no reason.”
“I’ve never been pregnant,” I told her. “But I’ve heard that. Let’s just not let you do more stupid shit when you don’t have it together and you’re behind a wheel.”
“I can drive my own ass home,” she declared crabbily.
“I’ve never been in a car with you so I don’t know that for certain, but I’m guessing it to be true. Still, I think I need about another two minutes of you being nasty for me to know you’re all good so I can let you drive home.”
She glared at me until all of a sudden the glare melted and a tear washed a black streak halfway down her cheek.
“Krys,” I whispered.
“I’m pregnant,” she whispered back.
“I know,” I repeated what I’d said before, but this time did it gently.
“Got no call to have a baby,” she shared, her voice unravelling.
Where did that come from?
I leaned forward a bit and asked, “Why on earth would you say that?”
“My momma was a bitch. Fucked-up, crazy-ass, selfish bitch. Treated me like shit, total shit, you would not believe. I didn’t even fuckin’ believe it, until I had no choice. That is, she treated me like shit when she remembered I was breathin’.”
I nodded, said nothing but felt a lot, pissed and sad that Krystal had gone through that.
“That’s what she taught me,” she declared.
Ah.
There we go.
“You’re not your mother,” I replied.
“I’m fucked-up, crazy-ass and selfish and there are few in these parts who would shy away from using the b-word when it comes to me too.”
This, I did not doubt.
I also didn’t confirm it.
What I did was think of Tate Jackson watching Bubba and Krystal while they played their roles of local good ole boy and hard-ass bitch and doing that watching with obvious affection.
“You babysit?” I asked.
“What?” she snapped.
“You said your man volunteers you two to babysit your friends’ kids all the time. Do you do it?”
“Of course,” she answered immediately.
And still, she did not see.
“You a fucked-up, crazy-ass bitch to your friends’ kids?” I pushed.
“They aren’t mine twenty-four-fuckin’-seven,” she informed me.
“Babe,” I said quietly, leaning closer. “Just the fact that you’re a good enough friend to babysit your friends’ kids says everything about you. Hell, the fact you have friends says everything about you and that isn’t getting into the fact that they want you to babysit. Your mother do anything like that?”
She looked to the windshield.
I didn’t know her as far as I could throw her.
But I still guessed that meant no.
“You acted like a fucked-up, crazy-ass bitch when I met you,” I shared and her eyes shot back to me, squinty, but she was in a vulnerable place and couldn’t quite hide the hurt even if she had to know I spoke truth. “But, girl, when you touched your belly, it was like you were stroking the miracle you know that’s growing inside you. You give it good, I’ll give you that,” I told her, nodding my head. “That wall you got around you is built tall and edged in razor wire, keeping anyone out that might cause you harm. Thing is, you built that wall, let your man live back there with you, and you’re gonna have your baby behind it with the two of you. I think you’ve made a good start.”
She dropped a hand to her belly, looking down at it, and saying, “What if I fuck this up?”
“You sitting alone in your car, my guess, tough as nails, yet worried to the point of tears, I’m not thinking that’s gonna be a problem.”
She looked again to me but didn’t move her hand from her belly.
“Shit like that can rear up, you don’t even know it.”
“Don’t let it,” I returned.
The impatient snap was back. “Simple as that, you think?”
“I don’t think anything about parenthood is simple and, I don’t want to fuck with your head, girl, but even if you get beyond thinking stupid shit like this, you’re still gonna have other stuff rear up.”
The snap was now angry. “This shit isn’t stupid.”
I leaned close and hissed, “Yes it is. Because, Krystal, if you can build that wall to protect yourself, what are you gonna do for your child? Whatever happened with your mom did not break you. You’re still standing. You got a bar. You got friends. You got a man. You got a baby on the way. You’re hot. You’re crazy, but you’re funny. You don’t take any shit and got the balls to give it. Not sure a baby doctor would list all those things in the pro column of how to be a good mother and live your life in a way you teach your child valuable lessons of how to be a survivor. But the way this world runs and all the fucked-up, crazy-ass shit in it a parent has to shield their kid from the best they can, especially in this burg, which seems like a magnet for it, I’d say that doctor didn’t know shit from Shinola.”
She’d tucked her chin in her neck as I spoke but when I was done, it came out and she declared, “Jesus, girlfriend, don’t beat around the bush.”
“I don’t like to see women crying in their cars and being down on themselves. And for future reference, even though you won’t need it, just so you know, I can be sensitive. It’s that I’m just as good, swinging both ways.”
“Well, if
you’d swing your ass out of my car, I could get home before the ice cream melts and ruins my trunk.”
I grinned.
It was all good now.
She lifted her eyebrows as a prompt to exit said vehicle.
I grinned bigger and opened the door.
I’d swung out but hadn’t cleared the door before I heard her call, “Jus.”
I bent down to look at her.
“Thanks,” she muttered, but she did it looking me right in the eye.
“Don’t mention it, Krys, but do put me on your babysitting list. I love babies.”
She rolled her eyes, turned forward and kept muttering as she said, “Whatever.”
I grinned again but only because I saw her lips were quirked up.
Then I moved out of the door, shut it and made my way to the sidewalk.
I didn’t watch her pull out and drive away but I saw her go as I made my way back to my truck.
I threw my plastic bag in and then wondered how to kill more time while Deke blew insulation into the walls of my house.
I got in my truck and wondered why I wondered how to kill time.
There were two always ready answers, just one that required the right time of the day.
That being booze.
The other was food.
So I got right back out of my truck and headed to the diner.
* * * * *
It was dark by the time I got home since I moved from food to booze and spent the afternoon and early evening shooting the breeze in Bubba’s with Jim-Billy, meeting Izzy, another bartender, and the female-mullet-haired Twyla—who did make Krys look like a friendly Girl Scout selling cookies—and eventually talking Jim-Billy into going to dinner at the Italian place with me (my treat, which meant talking him into it took two seconds).
The afternoon and dinner with Jim-Billy was awesome. He was a hoot, a sweet-as-heck guy, and I learned quickly why everyone looked at him and talked about him with such affection.
Now, I was home and I couldn’t see much because I didn’t have any light in the main space because I had no working outlets in there.
What I had was moonlight dimmed by tall pine.
And warmth.
I could see the creamy white foam in the walls.
Bounty Page 8