My Soul to Keep

by Davis Bunn

  The most amazing thing was the people.

  Not the people on the set. People in general.

  Their portable headquarters and the actors’ trailers and the camera rigs and the scaffolding and the buses of extras formed a moving cavalcade. They gave no notice of the next shift because they seldom knew when they’d be finished. Even so, people were there to see them off and there to greet them when they arrived. Small towns poured out to wave them through. By the time the gaffers stepped from the vans, people appeared and offered to help unload. Occasionally Brent caught wind of local announcers telling radio audiences of their progress. Local news teams showed up unannounced. Bobby sent over some of his PR staff, and Brent lassoed them into handling the extras.

  The extras just kept showing up. Candace wrote the scenes larger, then had to write them larger still.

  Brent gave no interviews and spoke to no one outside his team. He had no idea how the peripherals were being handled—just trusted those he knew to handle what he could not.

  The shooting schedule was the beast he fought each and every day. He stared at it the last thing each night. He studied it over the rim of his morning coffee. The pace demanded of them was impossible.

  Somehow, someway, they stayed on time.

  On Sunday, Brent was enjoying a rare bit of downtime when a shadow darkened the doorway of his trailer. “Mr. Stark, you got a minute?”

  Brent had the no loaded onto his tongue. But before he could fire it off, he saw who stood on the threshold. “Sure thing.”

  “Appreciate it.” The trademark Stetson walked in a foot or so ahead of the man. And the man himself was both big and hugely impressive. “Tim Crawford.”

  It was not all that often Brent had to look up to another man. Especially a star of stage and screen. “I love your music.”

  “That makes my visit a whole lot easier.” He eased himself down into the sofa and propped one lizard skin boot on the scarred table. “That coffee I smell?”

  “Four hour dregs. My first morning off in years and I still couldn’t sleep past dawn.”

  “Yeah, I know all about being on the road and wishing I could find my old buddy sleep.”

  “You like, I could put on a fresh pot.”

  “I’ve drunk old coffee before, Mr. Stark.”

  “Call me Brent. How do you take it?”

  “You can’t get it too sweet for me.”

  When Brent returned, he found the Stetson on the sofa beside the singer. A crease rimmed his forehead and hairline. Tim Crawford nodded his thanks for the lukewarm mug and studied the page of Scriptures where Brent’s Bible was opened. “Don’t reckon there’s anything much nicer than a well-worn Word.”

  Brent lowered himself back into his seat. “Sounds like the makings of a good song.”

  Tim Crawford, leading male country vocalist for over a decade, twelve platinum albums and a whole roster of Grammys to his name, spoke to the dark brew in his mug. “Bobby Dupree said it was time to come down here and sound you out. Here’s the thing. I want to do your score. I ain’t never scored a movie before. And if you say no, I’ll still give you a song or two. More, if you’ll have ’em. But I haven’t been able to get this thing outta my head since I first heard what you folks were up to.”

  Crawford set down his mug, rose from the sofa, and crossed to the wall holding the shooting schedule. “I heard tales about where you’ve been and what you’ve been through. I guess you mighta heard I plowed my own furrow in that rocky soil.”

  “I remember when you did that concert at the prison outside Chicago, what you said on the stage. It was about six months after I came to faith. Your statement meant a lot.”

  “The only reason I wasn’t where you were, was I never got caught.” He jammed his hands into the rear pockets of his jeans. “My granny was from just outside Booneville in the Kentucky flatlands. She played the zither. Nothing but gospel. Couldn’t sing a note. But she could make that old music box stand on its hind legs and howl.”

  He turned back to scowl at Brent. So tense, so hungry he looked furious. “I want to score this thing with all the music we let slip through our fingers. Good old gospel, done with country choirs and the specialists we got hidden in these here hills. I want to bring in friends I got in this business, let them sing what they want, long as their songs are based on the old hymns. String that together with music that’d make my granny smile. I want to give a spirit to your film, sir. I want it in my craw.”

  Celia had grown so accustomed to the quiet tapping of Candace’s keys she could fall asleep to it, then wake up to darkness and wonder how the dreamed sound of typing could bring peace to her soul. The Hawaiian woman carried a chieftain’s strength in her lean form and leathery skin. Even when she wore the same plum-colored smudges beneath her eyes they had all grown. The door to their shared RV was open to the day and the birdsong. The weather had stayed with them, raining only four times since filming had begun, and never for more than a few hours at a stretch. It had rained again the previous night, and the breeze drifting through their doorway smelled of awakening earth and the surrounding pines.

  For once, Candace’s computer was off, the folders of notes stowed away, the note cards stacked neatly, the printer cold. When Celia left the larger of the RV’s two bedrooms, she found Candace seated on the padded bench, her bare feet stretched out in front of her. A mug and a nibbled bagel rested on the folddown dining table. A Bible was open on her lap.

  Celia said, “I thought we were supposed to be on deadline around here.”

  “The deadline got the day off.”

  “You read that in the Book you’re holding?”

  “As a matter of fact.” Candace set the Bible on the table. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Fine, except for the nightmare about flubbing my lines.”

  “Sounds like my night, except for the part about how I erased the entire script and nobody bothered to keep a copy.”

  Celia poured herself a mug and slid into the banquette across from the writer. “What’s on for this morning?”

  “Brent is going to give us another talk. He didn’t want to. But the roadies who weigh more than the semi they drive ganged up on him. It was either talk or show up early at the heavenly gates.”

  Celia did not smile. “Brent has been avoiding me.”

  Candace had eyes the color of polished onyx, and just as unreadable. “You two have a fight?”

  “Actually, it was the exact opposite. He said he loved me.”

  “Oh. That.”

  “You don’t sound surprised.”

  “No, Celia.”

  “Does everybody know?”

  “There might be a blind-deaf-mentally challenged extra who just arrived on set this morning who is still clueless. Other than that, yeah, I’d say everybody pretty much knows Brent has a crush on his leading lady.”

  “He’s got a strange way of showing it.”

  Candace gave her a searching look, clearly taking her measure.

  “What?”

  “I was just wondering whether you really wanted to hear what I’m thinking.”

  Celia did her best to hide in her mug. “Go ahead.”

  “It’s not like I’m lifetime friends with the man. But what I’ve seen …” Candace pushed her bagel and coffee and Book to one side, and leaned her elbows on the table. “You can punt it out of the park if you want. But what I think is this isn’t just about love. It’s about you joining him in his faith.”

  “Puleese.”

  “Just give me a minute. Brent loves three things. You, his work, and God. He’s made a mess of the first two and found a lot more than salvation by bringing the Lord into focus. God is the center of his existence now. You can laugh about it, you can disbelieve it. But the truth is, Brent lives for Jesus. He shames me with how intent he is on getting it right.”

  “How can he ask such a thing of me?”

  “He can’t. Why do you think he’s not talking?”

  “Did he
put you up to this?” The instant the question was formed, Celia wanted to take it back. “Sorry. Forget I said it.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “No it’s not. It’s terrible. It’s typical Hollywood trash. Suspecting everybody of talking behind their backs, scheming, conniving, stabbing.”

  “All the things we both love so much about the town and our craft,” Candace said wryly.

  Celia reached across the table and took the remnants of Candace’s bagel. She began nibbling at the edges. “You’re telling me he won’t love me unless I convert?”

  “Wouldn’t life be easy if all the corners matched. No, Celia. He loves you now. He loves you desperately. But he’s hoping you might come to join him.”

  “So why doesn’t he talk to me about it?”

  Candace smiled. “Because he can’t.”

  “You know how much sense that makes? Zero. Zip. Nada.”

  “Stop arguing with a guy who isn’t in the room and think about it, girl. If he talks to you and you do it, are you doing it because you love him or because of God? If it’s for Brent, the action is worse than wrong—it’s a lie, and he’s the man responsible.”

  “Who said anything about me loving Brent?”

  “Let’s focus on the eternal for a second, okay? Brent isn’t talking because he’s hoping for two impossibles. One, that you’ll love him back. Two, that you’ll join him at the altar, and do it for God.”

  Celia walked down the path leading away from what had become an RV park. Camper paradise. It reminded her of home. What a joke that word was. As if the dry-scrabble wasteland of broken lives and beat-up mobile homes outside Reno could ever honestly be called a home. Celia had two sisters. One was raising three kids from two different men and living alone in a trailer and a life cloned from their shared beginnings. The other was tight and angry and fiercely alone, calling herself a winner because she had made it through dental technician school, was earning a decent wage plus benefits, and had never let anybody close enough to do to her what had happened to her mother and her older sister.

  And then there was Celia. The golden girl. The one who had hid a determination of titanium and fury behind a very practiced smile. The one who had sworn to do whatever it took to make it to the top. And she had.

  God had no place in this life.

  Nor, truth be told, did love.

  The clearing they had made into a temporary headquarters was a parking lot for another outdoor museum. Celia was fairly certain they were in Kentucky, but she had no idea of the place’s name. Beyond their RV settlement rose a fort, where the Shawnee and British were going to attack. They had been rehearsing the scene for two days and were scheduled to begin shooting after sundown. Celia kept her head down, gripping the loose sweater tight across her middle as other people joined her on the trail. No one approached her. She realized she had never been bothered as seldom or as gently as on this project. At first, she had simply assumed it was part of her star being on the wane. Now, however, she knew differently. Wherever they went, Candace’s instructions were passed on by the extras and the pastors who shepherded them. The rules might be strange, but these folks respected them anyway.

  She emerged from the forest trail and gasped.

  The clearing was a sea of people.

  The roadies had been busy. They had set up a makeshift soundstage with the fort as a backdrop. Old-time gospel poured from speakers piled to either side of the stage. To her left, trestle tables ran in continuous lines from the chuck wagon to the river, almost lost beneath their load of platters and serving dishes. Washtubs of soft drinks dotted the spaces between tables.

  So many people.

  “Ms. Breach?” a gentle voice beckoned. “We’d count it an honor if you’d take this seat here.”

  She smiled and offered a quiet thanks, and nodded to comments from a man and woman, neither of whom she truly saw. They got the message and left her alone. There was none of the fawning pursuit she normally attracted. Celia sat in a sea of people, utterly alone.

  The same way she had gone through so much of life.

  A murmur rose from the crowd. The woman next to her said, “That’s him, ain’t it?”

  “You been working for Mr. Stark for five days and you don’t know him yet?”

  “Not Brent Stark, you ninny. Him. That singer feller. The one Ida claimed she saw.”

  “Well, I’ll be.”

  “Oh, oh, I seen him a dozen times on TV. What’s his name?”

  Celia lifted her head in time to see Brent and Jerry and Trevor take seats at the back of the stage, and Tim Crawford settle the guitar strap around his neck and let the roadies fiddle with his lead and mikes. He strummed a chord, and the woman next to her said, “I got chills.”

  “Hush, now. This is church.”

  “That don’t matter. Tim Crawford. You wait till our Becky hears about this. She’s gonna be sick she missed it.”

  “Welcome in the name of our Lord,” Tim said. “I thought I’d play us a couple of songs just to get things moving in the right direction. Any of you folks who feel like it, y’all join in.”

  “The Old Rugged Cross” got them all on their feet. “Amazing Grace” resulted in a choir that caused the pines to tremble. After that, Jerry rose and approached the mike and gave them a prayer. Three more songs, and Tim started into “I Surrender All.” After the first two lines, he swung his guitar out of the way, then backed away from the mike. Just letting the people carry the song. I surrender all.

  Celia felt as though she were the only one in a crowd a thousand strong who did not sing.

  Tim leaned into the mike just long enough to give the first few words of the next verse. Then backed away. Letting the crowd move on their own accord. He raised Brent with a gesture. The two men embraced and switched positions.

  When the singing ended and the people settled, Brent said, “The book of Acts is built on two solid foundations: Jesus Christ and personal testimony. That’s what I intend to do today. Tell you a little of how I got to be here, and do my best to love my Lord and Savior for the freedom He has given me.

  “A few weeks back I shared with the crew how I wound up in the internal state that got me into trouble. I imagine most of you know about the accident. I was tried in federal court on two counts. I had crossed a state line with a whole mountain of cocaine, so I was convicted of interstate trafficking. And I had a pistol in my glove box that had been used in a crime in Texas. To this day, I have no idea how the gun got there or whose it was. I could well have bought it myself. That’s how wrecked I was. And I’m not talking about the accident. Or even my physical state that one night. Wrecked. A life in total ruin.”

  A different man. The thought rose unbidden in Celia’s mind and heart. Not merely changed. Completely different. Brent wore the skin of the man she had been drawn to with a passion so wild she would climb into his car when they were both so blind on booze and drugs she could scarcely find the door handle.

  Brent was the same, yet totally singular. This was not merely a man who had suffered through loss and public humiliation and prison. He stood there in a strength and a certainty that shamed her. He had taken the tragedy and grown into a giant. A hero.

  And he loved her.

  Brent went on, “Like everybody entering the system, I was sent to the county jail until a slot in a federal pen opened up for me. Everything you’ve heard bad about being inside exists inside the walls of county jails. That and more. It’s dangerously overcrowded. I was put in a cell meant for two and housing five—a murderer, a poor joke of a student with thirty outstanding traffic warrants, a bipolar nut case going off his meds, a drug runner who spoke no English, and me. The movie star.”

  Love. It was a word to be spoken with a special inflection. A moment to be captured on film where she shone with the softest and most alluring light. The word to be used as part of a verb, as in, to make love. Celia found herself flooded with images from her past. Of moments when she had mocked the concept of lo
ve with her actions. She bowed her head to her knees, clenched her entire body like a fist. The images kept pounding at her.

  “Once inside the federal prison, I learned there were three different ways to do time. Many inmates fed on rage and focused on getting out. Their whole life became dominated by one single laser-strong determination. Get out, and do a better crime. And never, ever let the cops catch him again. They put blinders on. None of this was actually happening. And when reality managed to slip under their defenses, they responded with a rampant frenzy.”

  The truth was, she could not love. It was impossible. The concept mocked her. To give herself freely to a man? To this man? The man who had wrecked her face and her career, left her stranded in a hospital bed, surrounded by the baying hounds of entertainment news? Love him? She had spent months wanting to kill him. Yet even then, she had ached with longing for what she knew he had never offered. How was it possible to be so blind? She had wanted him desperately, dreamed of him, hungered to lock him up and possess him, make a prison of her longing and her so-called love. She was, after all, a star. Who could deny her anything? Then he had robbed her of the only thing she held as important. The only thing that mattered. The reason she lived. Love this man? Trust him? She wanted to stand on her seat and scream curses at him. Shout at him in rage and pain and hurt and fear.

  Yes, fear.

  Because down deep, down where he said his little wounded child lived, she had a secret voice all her own. One that said, Love this man and never let him go.

  If only she could.

  “Most nonviolent offenders took the second approach,” Brent was saying. “They focused on one small item and blew it into the single dominating factor of their daily existence. Dominoes, chess, gym, TV. It could be anything. So long as they were shielded from the horrors of prison life and from the threat of dealing with themselves. Their goal was to avoid the moment. For these guys, when they get out, prison remains a pungent odor. He swears he’ll never go in again. He struggles hard to go straight. But he’s not done anything about what got him inside the first time. And that, brothers and sisters, is why the recidivism rate in this country stands at seventy-eight percent. Four out of five men who are doing time today will be arrested again and sent back to prison. Four out of five.”