Long Black Curl

by Alex Bledsoe

  “No.”

  It took him a moment to get the implication. “Ah. I guess … I ain’t never been able to do that. Had to get my uncle to drop me off. In his truck, not … the other way.”

  “You’re young. It’ll come. Just keep listening and playing.”

  “Why didn’t you do it the other night when you were lost, then?”

  “I didn’t need to. You came along first.” She looked back down at her guitar once more, blushing again. Suddenly she was entirely twelve years old, and sitting beside a boy she liked, the first boy she liked “that way.”

  Luke looked away as well, but he smiled. He took out his own guitar, an old Sunburst with a cracked body. He positioned it across his lap and said, “What you want to play?”

  “You pick.”

  “How ’bout ‘Lost Highway’?”

  “The Hank song?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The way he played it, or like Jason and the Scorchers?”

  “I ain’t never heard that, so I reckon like Hank.”

  “You need to hear Jason. But you picked the song, so you start.”

  He did, strumming the chords with big nervous strokes. She picked a simple lead, trying very hard not to show him up. He was a beginner; she had more musical experience to draw on than he could possibly imagine.

  He sang with a plainspoken earnestness that more than made up for any problems with his still-changing voice. Somehow even at his tender age he found a way to connect to the aching sense of doom Hank put in the song.

  Mandalay knew that Hank had once played that song on this very spot, when he got lost driving between gigs and had no money to pay for his drinks. The people here hadn’t believed it was him until his voice echoed off these same walls; then they’d listened, rapt, aware that this was one of those times that would be passed down through generations, each teller tasked with bringing it to life for the next listener.

  Luke couldn’t know that, of course, except maybe by rumor. The Somervilles hadn’t been present that night, and even if they had, she doubted old Seaton Somerville, Luke’s grandfather, was open enough to take in what had happened. He would’ve only seen a drunken, prematurely old man with a twisted spine, not the angel that Hank became when he sang.

  “Not bad,” Luke said when they finished.

  “No, it almost sounded like a song.”

  “You can sure pick a little, for a girl,” he teased.

  “And you sing pretty good, for a boy. Want to try something I like?”

  “Sure.”

  “I need the piano. Come on.”

  She led him over to the piano in the corner, beneath the big industrial heater that hung from the ceiling. Since the air blew out and away, it was actually cooler there than in the rest of the stuffy room. It was also much dimmer, since the light fixture that hung beside the heater always blew its bulbs in winter.

  The piano was an old Schiller upright, the finish worn in places and the white keys stained from decades of use. The instrument’s workings, though, were pristine; at the Pair-A-Dice, instruments simply didn’t wear out. Mandalay sat on the bench, lifted the cover from the keys, and positioned her feet on the pedals. Her big snow boots made it awkward at first.

  With no preamble, she began to play. Although she’d never played this song on the piano, she had a flawless ear, and could pretty much re-create any song she’d heard. Her hands pressed the keys firmly but gently, creating a rolling sound that propelled the melody.

  When she got to the last verse, she realized at least one reason why this song haunted her. She couldn’t look at Luke as she sang:

  You’re making me nervous

  Stop standing so close

  Do I deserve this

  Or is this a hoax

  You’re like a mystery

  That’s hard to avoid

  Either you’re out to get me

  Or I’m just paranoid.…

  When she finished, she sat back and waited for Luke’s reaction.

  “What’s that called?” he asked.

  “‘Paranoid.’”

  “You write it?”

  “No. Woman named Alice Peacock, from over in Nashville.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “She’s probably never heard of you, either.”

  He laughed, and she felt an unexpected rush at the realization that she could tease him. It was something she’d always wanted but never found: a friend unintimidated enough to accept teasing, and give it right back.

  “Where’d you hear it?” he asked.

  “On YouTube. They got a channel on there where a bunch of women songwriters have to write a new song every week for a year, based on what they call a ‘prompt.’”

  “That don’t sound like too much fun.”

  “You ever written a song?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then, you don’t know, do you?”

  “I figure you cain’t write a song until you’re in the right mood. And I know a good song when I hear it.”

  “I hope so, because this is a good song.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, it is.”

  “Does it bother you to admit that?”

  “Well, we’ve been taught that everything from Garth Brooks on ain’t real music, it’s just commercials to sell you things.”

  “Rockhouse’s idea?”

  “Yeah, but my daddy bought the program. He won’t let us listen to the radio because of it, we have to play CDs or even old records he’s still got.”

  She looked at him seriously. “That’s not right, Luke. There’s good music everywhere, from every time. Sure, it may take a little work to find it now, since the radio don’t play anything good anymore, but it’s out there.” She paused, aware that her next words would irrevocably change her relationship with Luke. “Would you like me to burn some stuff off on a CD for you?”

  Luke shrugged as if it were no big deal. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.” But he blushed.

  She felt yet another blush creep up her cheeks, too. “Okay, I will.”

  * * *

  Bo-Kate looked out the passenger window as they approached the Pair-A-Dice. The place looked no different than it had the last time she’d seen it, so long ago. A few of the vehicles parked out front were newer, but many were not; and when they got out and walked across the frozen gravel parking lot toward the building, she heard the music bleeding through as always: someone playing the old piano with skill and heart.

  “Are we to burn this down, too?” Nigel asked dryly.

  “Ha. No, smart-ass, we’re just here to visit.”

  How long will this take?” Nigel asked.

  “Not long. Just need to start announcing myself to people, now that Rockhouse is off the stage.”

  “Don’t you think they know you’re around by now?”

  “But they don’t know why yet.”

  “What if they don’t like your announcement?”

  “Is that what you’re worried about?”

  “Not entirely. I’m also worried if it’s safe for a gentleman of my complexion to enter this place. I see no windows, and only one door.”

  “Are you the fire marshal?” she shot back.

  “No, I’m a black person in the American South walking into a bar most likely filled with Caucasian people from the lower echelons of education and socioeconomics. It’s not exactly Morehouse College.”

  She laughed and kissed his cheek. “Ten minutes, loverboy. I promise. Just be quiet and look pretty.”

  The door squeaked loudly as they entered. Instantly they were struck by heat, and the smell of accumulated bodies and unwashed clothes. It was a musty, distinctive odor, and Nigel recalled something similar from his visit to a homeless shelter soup kitchen when he was a teen living on the streets. It brought back feelings he tried very hard to keep buried: the helplessness, the gnawing hunger, and the determination to make his life better. He liked people to think he’d always been the way he was now.

  Coats were
hung three deep on the hooks just inside. Bo-Kate took off hers, but Nigel kept his brown leather jacket on. If he didn’t smile, it made him quite intimidating, and he was sure he’d need as much of that as possible.

  He observed the crowd seated at the tables talking and drinking. They all had the same black hair and dusky complexion, like part of some giant extended family. When they all turned to look at Bo-Kate, the resemblance was even more pronounced. He’d always assumed the rumors of inbreeding in the mountains were just that, rumors. But he might have to reevaluate.

  Like a slow wave, quiet spread through the crowd. Even the cook and two waitresses stopped serving. The only sounds were the hum of the big heater in the corner and the squeak of chairs as people shifted their weight.

  “Well, ain’t y’all a big scary bunch,” Bo-Kate said loudly. “All of you staring and glaring at me. Reckon I should pee my panties and run away, Nigel?”

  “I don’t … reckon you should,” he said, the unfamiliar word awkward on his tongue.

  “Nah, me, neither. In fact, I think I need to stay around. How would y’all feel about that?”

  No one replied.

  She pulled an empty chair away from a table and propped one foot on it. “I suppose y’all know I’ve been busy since I’ve been here. We won’t get into that; what’s done is done. Here’s my offer. We’ve been two tribes forever. And as a smart guy named Frankie said, when two tribes go to war, a point is all that you can score. All the skirmishes, all the fighting and feuding, where has it gotten us? I mean, look at us. Most of us are on food stamps, ain’t got no insurance, drive cars older than our children, and farm this damn rocky-ass soil just to stay alive. Shouldn’t we be able to do better?”

  “We do just fine,” someone muttered.

  “Because we’ve never thought we deserved any more,” she said emphatically. “When y’all kicked me out, I had to make my own way. I saw the world, more than any of you ever have. I saw what I was capable of, and what all the Tufa are capable of. Every damn one of you could be as good a session musician as anyone in Nashville or L.A. And once we start spreading out to those places and word gets around, we’ll be able to bring the big names here, to work with us. Just like Muscle Shoals.”

  She paused to let that sink in, and watched confusion give way to guarded consideration.

  “Come on, you know I’m right,” she pressed. “Remember when the Blair Family used to travel around singing in the summer? Everybody for a hundred miles in any direction would be sorry to see them go, because when they left, they took the music with them. We can do that to the whole damn world. And I only ask one little thing of you.”

  She let that settle. The worried expressions delighted her. She continued, “It’s a real treat to see you shiver with antici.…” She looked back at Nigel.

  “… Pation,” he finished flatly.

  “So you want to know what it is?” she asked.

  No one nodded, but they all watched her intently.

  “I want you to change the name of this town from Needsville to Scarborough.”

  Everyone sat back and looked around, startled by this unexpectedly arbitrary request. Even Nigel was taken aback; she’d never mentioned this to him.

  Bo-Kate glanced back at Nigel and winked.

  * * *

  Hidden in the dark corner in the shadow of the heater, Mandalay clenched her fists in anger. She realized Bo-Kate had no idea she was there.

  Luke asked softly, “Who is that?”

  “Bo-Kate Wisby.”

  Luke did not seem to know the name. “Is she important?”

  “She’s trying to be.”

  “You gonna stop her?”

  “Not while she’s Blofelding,” Mandalay said. It was her father’s term for villains who told captured heroes all their evil plans. “Might as well find out what she’s got in mind.”

  He nodded, and scooted closer to her on the bench. She found the gesture both comforting and oddly empowering.

  * * *

  “Think about it,” Bo-Kate said. “Nobody’s going to come to a town with ‘Needy’ right there in its name. But Scarborough: ‘Are you going to Scarborough Studios?’ That would work on T-shirts, flyers, banner ads online, key chains, anything. We could get anyone to come here. Even Garth Brooks.”

  “Garth Brooks,” the crowd repeated reverently. To many, he was the last true country singer star, one whose physical appearance didn’t matter, only his music.

  “I’ve got the industry connections. I’ve got the wherewithal to make the initial investment, and the marketing savvy to get out the word. That’s why I want to take over for Rockhouse. More than that, I want to be in charge of all of Cloud County. I shouldn’t have to run all my decisions by some tween girl, should I?”

  There were murmurs of assent. Then Junior Damo said loudly, “Maybe we got someone already in mind.”

  Bo-Kate laughed contemptuously. “Who’s that, Junior? You?”

  “Why not let Mandalay take over everything?” Whizdom said loudly. “Least she wasn’t never sung out because she was dangerous as a rabid coral snake.”

  “She’s a child, that’s why,” Bo-Kate said, ignoring the insult. “She’s a little girl. She might have more history in her head than a dozen of us put together, but all she’s got to filter it through is some little kid’s brain filled up with The Hunger Games and One Direction. What sort of decisions will that let her make?” She walked over to Whizdom and looked down at him in his chair. “Admit it, my idea sounds good.” Then she turned and looked straight at Mandalay in the shadows. A slow, predatory smile spread across her face. “Doesn’t it, Mandalay?”

  * * *

  Mandalay felt a sudden jolt of an unfamiliar emotion as her gaze met Bo-Kate’s: terror. Her heart thudded, sweat trickled down from her hairline, and she could hardly catch her breath. She had been worried in the past, even apprehensive, but never this thoroughly scared. And despite everyone turning to look at her, she couldn’t get a word out in response.

  Luke saw it, too. He knew exactly what she was feeling. Fear was an old friend to him, the first emotion he remembered feeling, and the last one he expected to feel before he died. He reached down, took her hand, and squeezed it once.

  The connection to the boy sent a grounding, cooling sensation through her. The terror receded, and she rose from the piano bench fully in control once again. She stepped out of the shadows and said, “Bo-Kate, the last time you were here, you left a trail of dead behind you. Planning to do that again if you don’t get your way?”

  Bo-Kate bowed her head in a mocking gesture of respect. “Mandalay, that was a long time ago. A long time. I was impatient and immature. Since then, I’ve grown up, mastered both myself and the world. And now…” She grinned, showing off her perfect Tufa teeth. “I’m perfectly willing to accept your surrender in front of these people.”

  Now everyone else was frightened, looking from the woman to the girl and back. No one came to the Pair-A-Dice expecting to be caught between Armageddon and Apocalypse, yet here they were.

  Mandalay was calm. “I’m not a warrior, Bo-Kate. I can’t ‘surrender’ to you. I have a job, and I’ll keep doing it until my time is done.”

  “And if your time is done now?”

  “I don’t think it is. And I’d know.”

  “Because you’re so damn smart?”

  “Yes.”

  “Smarter than me?”

  “I see farther than you. And I always will.”

  “Maybe that’s why you can’t see what’s right in front of you.”

  “Good thing I can, then,” a new voice said. “And I am a warrior.”

  Everyone turned. Bronwyn Hyatt and Bliss Overbay stood just inside the doorway. Both women were angry, but only Bronwyn gave her fury voice.

  “I see a murdering, treacherous bitch,” Bronwyn continued. “One who was lucky to walk out alive when she got in trouble before, when she should’ve been finished once and for all. And that kind o
f luck doesn’t strike twice.”

  “Careful, darlin’, don’t get too wrought up,” Bo-Kate shot back. “With that belly, you look like you’re about to shit a pumpkin.”

  Bliss moved between Bronwyn and Bo-Kate. “Say something to me, Bo-Kate.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  “Really? I just assumed, since you burned down my house, you might have a few choice words. I know I do.”

  Bo-Kate showed no sign of fear. “Let’s hear them, then.”

  “Go home, Bo-Kate. Pack your stuff and go back to Nashville where you belong. This all needs to stop.”

  “But I don’t want it to stop, Bliss,” she taunted. “I want it to keep going, until this adorable little Munchkin sees the light and steps aside. It doesn’t have to affect you anymore, or Miss Fertility there at all; when my plans all work out, I’m sure the new stores will need salesclerks. And cocktail bars can always use waitresses, if she gets her figure back.”

  “That’s generous of you,” Bliss said evenly, through clenched teeth. “But it’s not going to happen.”

  Bo-Kate shrugged. “Then I’ll just have to find people more loyal. Shouldn’t be too hard, once folks realize how much better off they’d be. And remember that, everybody. Nobody has to be poor. There’s a way out, and I’ve got the map. Think about it.”

  She turned and winked at Mandalay, then took Nigel by the arm and led him out. As they passed, Bronwyn and Nigel exchanged a look. Bo-Kate did not see it, but Bliss did.

  * * *

  After they were gone, Mandalay joined Bliss and Bronwyn at the door. “What was that about?” Bliss asked Bronwyn.

  “What?”

  “The way you and that black guy looked at each other.”

  “I don’t know. I just wanted to intimidate him, so I gave him the hairy eyeball. But I don’t think he’s as much into this as she thinks he is.”

  “He’s having second thoughts,” Mandalay said with certainty.

  “So what do we do?” Bronwyn asked.

  “I have an idea,” Mandalay said. “But I need to think it through.”

  “Just so you know, being pregnant doesn’t affect my shooting,” Bronwyn said.

  “I think your hormones are affecting your judgment, though,” Bliss said with a little smile. “And if anyone has a right to wipe that little smirk off her face, it’s me.”