Ruddy picked me up in his daddy’s truck a little before four. I was wearing a white cotton skirt and a thin cotton blouse with little pink and green flowers all over it. Nana thought the skirt was too short. But Ruddy smiled when he saw me, said I looked real pretty, and then he helped me into his daddy’s truck. We drove a couple of miles without saying anything, my hair blowing in my face. I’d catch Ruddy staring at me and then looking away, shy and yet real curious all at the same time. He finally slowed the truck down and pulled off to the side of the road. He inched a little closer, put his arm around my shoulders, and pointed to a field spotted with Queen Anne’s lace and black-eyed Susans. It looked a lot like the land back behind my house, except now a rooster was crowing in the distance, urging us along.
“That’s Mister Jackson,” Ruddy said with a big grin on his face. “He knows you’re coming. See, down there, that’s my house.” On the other side of the field stood a small yellow house topped with a red tin roof. It looked like a speck of paint from where we were, and even up close it didn’t get much bigger. Ruddy said his mama had been cooking all day. She was real anxious to meet me, so Mister Jackson would have to wait till after supper to make my acquaintance.
The smell of pot roast and green beans filled their tiny house. The windows were wide open, but it was still so hot and sticky inside I could feel the sweat dripping down my back. Three or four pots simmered quietly on the stove, and a pan of biscuits sat warming in the oven, the door left open so they wouldn’t burn. I wondered how Ruddy’s mama stood there cooking all day without fainting from the heat.
The living room and kitchen were one large room, no walls separating one space from the other. The kitchen table was nicely set with a faded blue checked cloth and a handful of that Queen Anne’s lace plunked down in an old glass milk pitcher. As soon as I stepped through the door, everyone’s eyes turned toward me—Ruddy’s mother’s, his father’s, his little sister’s, even their dog’s eyes were fixed on the girl who’d come all the way from Nashville. No one said hello until I did. No one sat at the table until I did or placed his napkin in his lap or picked up his fork, until I did. And somewhere swirling about my head, I could hear Samuel, sitting down by the creek under the cherrybark oaks, calling me a princess.
Mrs. Semple apologized that her meal wasn’t very fancy, like I was surely used to eating back home. I told her it was wonderful, better than anything I’d had in Nashville or anywhere else for that matter, and then took another bite of pot roast. She smiled at me and then at Ruddy and asked if I’d like another biscuit. Mr. Semple took his place at the head of the table without saying a word. He sat there either staring at me like he was trying to recall an old friend or ignoring me altogether, every now and then stopping to look at his plate while he dragged his biscuit through the last bit of gravy. He waited for his wife to clear the dishes from the table and seemed relieved when Ruddy and I finally got up and left.
After supper, Ruddy took me into the front yard and introduced me to Mister Jackson. He stood near the edge of their beaten old barn, beaming like a daddy who’s just been told his baby girl is the prettiest child in town. He clucked like a rooster and then threw Mister Jackson a few kernels of corn. The rooster waddled right up to Ruddy and ate out of his hand. I told him that Mister Jackson was the best-looking bird I’d ever seen, much more handsome than Uncle Thad’s pack of orphaned hens.
We walked back to the house and said our good-byes. Ruddy’s mom told me to come again real soon, that it had been a pleasure meeting me. I assured her that the pleasure had been all mine. His daddy just sat in a tattered old reclining chair reading the newspaper, never once bothering to look our way. Ruddy kissed his mother on the cheek and said he was going to show me the sights. I started to laugh but then realized he meant what he said. We hopped in his daddy’s truck and headed back down the narrow gravel road that led to his house. But he turned left and onto a little dirt path I hadn’t noticed before and shifted down into first gear. He drove real slowly, the lush green growth on either side of the road rubbing up against the truck. A branch popped inside my window, and I squealed and moved closer to Ruddy, resting my head on his shoulder.
“I’ve got a present for you,” he said, pulling off the road and gesturing for me to look out the window. And there, glistening in the remnants of the late evening sun, Old Hickory Lake stood perfectly still, its glassy surface reflecting the tall oaks and cedars that trimmed the water’s edge.
“Oh, it’s absolutely beautiful, Ruddy. You know my mother would say there’s nothing quite like being on the water.”
“That’s not the best part,” he said excitedly. “Come on and I’ll show you. You know your grandparents’ house is just right over there. I’m surprised you’ve never been over here.”
Ruddy jumped out of the truck and practically ran to my door. He reached for my hand and guided me off the seat, giving me time to pull my skirt down before fully revealing my panties. Then he led me through some tall grass and onto a white, sandy beach. We stood there holding hands while our feet instinctively burrowed down into the cool, smooth sand. Ruddy fidgeted for a while and finally pointed to the ground. “This! This is what I wanted to show you.”
“The sand?” I asked, suddenly realizing that it was odd to see a white, sandy beach in the middle of Tennessee.
“Yeah, the beach,” he said excitedly. “The Army Corps of Engineers carried in all this sand last summer so everybody out here could pretend like they were in Florida or Hawaii. I guess they figure most of us aren’t ever gonna get anywhere near a place like that so they decided to bring it to us. I told the Scotts there was no point in them making that long drive to Destin anymore,” he said, and then laughed, pulling me down onto the beach next to him. He said it was the biggest thing that had happened in Mount Juliet in years, next to Mister Jackson winning a blue ribbon at the state fair and Mr. Patterson setting his own house on fire so he could collect the insurance money.
We nestled our bodies next to each other and watched the stars come out, every new spot of light further decorating the night sky. Ruddy said there’d be rain later in the week. I told him that was exactly what my grandfather had said, even though that wasn’t true. He laughed just a bit and wrapped both arms around me, pulling me so close that I could hear his heart beat. He said he’d never met a girl like me and sure hated to think of my leaving soon. Then he stroked my lower lip with his finger before pressing his own mouth against mine, his kiss so warm and perfect that I couldn’t help but wonder if he read Seventeen too. Every time he touched me, I found myself digging my foot deeper and deeper into the sand, as if I was hopelessly trying to bind my body to the earth.
I snuggled deeper into his chest, and without warning or announcement, he reached under my blouse and tried to unfasten my bra. Now Cornelia would say that a man with any experience at all with a girl’s undergarments could unfasten a bra in one swift flick of the wrist. But Ruddy struggled with the clasp, and I finally reached behind my back and helped him with the last hook and eye. He apologized for his clumsy fingers. I told him not to worry about it, that sometimes even I had a hard time getting those hooks undone. He pulled off his own shirt with ease, and I watched him as he carefully unbuttoned mine. Ruddy didn’t seem so shy right now.
My breasts felt warm against his chest and my back cool against the sand. His tongue touched mine, and he kissed me a long time, as if he was trying to pour every ounce of love he had right down my throat. Tommy Blanton and I had never kissed like this. Samuel and I had never kissed like this, like Cornelia had promised I would do someday. A part of me wanted to tell him to stop, that I had been saving this moment for another boy. And a part of me wanted to tell him to move a little faster.
Ruddy rubbed his hand up and down my leg and then into my panties. Nana was right. He had wanted in my pants, but I gently caressed his hand, reassuring him that he was headed in the right direction. Then he led me to a place that I was not familiar with, and he stroked me
until I shook in his arms. He kissed my forehead and my nose and my cheeks and my chin. He whispered in my ear that he wanted to love every inch of my body—someday. I told him that he better not wait too long because I would be leaving soon, and then I tugged at his belt. Ruddy took my hand in his and kissed it over and over again.
“Bezellia, you’re makin’ it real hard, but it just wouldn’t be right, here and all.”
“I didn’t know the location had that much to do with it.”
“I guess the beach is better than doing it in the back of the pickup, but I think you oughta have a ring on that finger before you, uh …” And he hesitated finding it hard to say the word. “You know, before we do everything God intends for a man and woman to do.”
“You don’t think God’s going to have a problem with what we just did?”
“That just ain’t the same thing. Besides, I think God understands that a girl and boy got to have some fun along the way. But the big it, well, that needs to wait till after the wedding. Daddy says you can really make a mess of things if you don’t wait till it’s proper.”
Proper. Suddenly I pictured myself standing at the tiny stove in his tiny house fixing fried chicken for Sunday supper, his mama and daddy sitting on lawn chairs out in the front yard watching Mister Jackson and waiting for me to call them to the table, which was still covered in that same tattered old cloth with a can full of dead Queen Anne’s lace sitting smack-dab in the middle.
An uncomfortable feeling washed over me, one I felt ashamed to claim as my own. I didn’t want to marry Ruddy Semple, and for no better reason than that he was a poor boy from the middle of nowhere. Maybe there was just too much Grove in me after all and not enough courage to marry someone who couldn’t live in the only world I’d ever known—even if it was a world I often didn’t like. Maybe I was more like my mother than my grandfather or Mrs. Scott or even I had imagined.
“Hey, Bezellia, hey, you in there? Hey, girl, you hear me? I got one more thing to show you.” And Ruddy stood up and drew me toward him in one swift, smooth motion. “We’re gonna take us a little walk, so you better button up that pretty little blouse of yours or you’re gonna be giving those cows something to talk about.”
“Walk?” I asked as I straightened my blouse and pulled the hair out of my face, trying to make sense of where we were headed now.
“Daddy always says that if it ain’t worth walking to, then it ain’t worth seeing. C’mon, it’s worth it, I promise.”
We walked at least a mile with nothing but the croaking of the tree frogs reminding us that we were not alone. Sometimes we’d stop in the middle of the road and Ruddy would lean forward and kiss me lightly on the lips, and then we’d start walking again. The moon was fairly bright, and I could see up ahead where the road curved to the left. Beyond that, there was a glow, some kind of light rising up out of nothing. I asked Ruddy if that was where we were headed, toward that light. Instead of answering, he stopped and kissed me on the lips one more time, a reward for faithfully following him into the night.
As we came to the bend in the road, I could see a big red barn all lit up against the dark sky. White letters mounted just below the roofline read Bradley’s Barn. There were probably two dozen cars parked in the driveway. But other than the frogs still singing their songs, there wasn’t a sound to be heard.
“Is this some kind of bar, Ruddy? Like a honky-tonk? I’m not sure we ought to be going in there. Who’s Bradley anyway?”
“Bezellia Grove, damn, girl, do you even know what a honky-tonk is? All that fancy learning of yours and you don’t know a thing about Owen Bradley or his big red barn, do you?” I just gave him a look like why should I? And Ruddy shot me a smart look right back. “Because he’s only one of the greatest record producers ever and that place is full of musicians right now making an album.”
“Country music?” I asked.
“What other kind is there? Lord, it seems that any girl born and raised in Nashville ought to know something about country music. Daddy says it’s our heritage.”
“Not everybody in Nashville picks a guitar, Ruddy,” I said, sounding unkind and defensive. “Besides, my mother always called that hillbilly music. She says it’s not good for the ear.” Truthfully, Mother didn’t listen to much music of any kind, and she certainly never listened to country music. She said she’d had enough of that when she was little. All at once Ruddy’s eyes looked a bit wounded and sad. “I have heard of Johnny Cash,” I said, trying to soften my blow.
“Listen, Bezellia, I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, but your mama don’t know what she’s talking about. And Lord, I sure hope you have heard of Johnny Cash, seeing how he lives just on the other side of this big old lake. One of these days, just so you know, I’m gonna have me a whole bunch of gold albums just like Mr. Cash. And I’m gonna live in a big house on the lake too. Maybe even bigger than his.”
I had heard this dream once before, and I imagined I was going to hear it again. I guess no matter who we are or where we’re starting from, we all want something other than what we’ve got. Maybe that’s what keeps us moving forward, but I’m not sure I fully understood that back then, standing in the middle of that country road in the dead of night.
“Wow, what a special occasion this is,” Ruddy said. “Looks like I’m about to teach the city girl a thing or two she’ll never forget.” And then he took me by the hand and once again led me somewhere I’d never been.
We walked right up to a small door cut into the back wall of the barn, not framed with any kind of trim, making it hard to find in the dark. Ruddy tugged on a long wooden handle, cracking the door just wide enough to wedge his body through the opening, and then he pulled me in behind him.
“Is this okay, being here and all?” I whispered, already feeling a bit anxious and out of place.
“Oh, yeah. I sweep the floors and take out the garbage for Mr. Bradley every Monday morning. He doesn’t mind as long as I’m quiet,” Ruddy said and then paused for a moment, “and he doesn’t know that I’m here.” And he put his finger to his mouth, signaling for me to hush.
We felt our way down one dark hallway and then another. I could barely see my hand outstretched in front of me, holding tightly on to Ruddy’s arm. We stopped behind a heavy curtain that was hanging from the ceiling, its other end dragging on the ground. Ruddy pointed to the floor, now signaling for me to sit down. Then he pulled the curtain back just enough to reveal a small group of people, some sitting on stools, some standing, but all of them together forming a circle around a cluster of silver microphones.
One man was crouched behind a set of drums, a couple of others had guitars strapped over their shoulders, and one real skinny man was holding a shiny red guitar plugged into a big black box. There was another man tuning a banjo and a couple of others with violins tucked against their necks. Ruddy said that out here they were playing fiddles, not violins.
“This ain’t some fancy orchestra, Bezellia.”
And in the middle of all these men was one small, beautiful woman with long black hair cascading down her back. She had a dainty little mouth and a dainty little nose. Even her smile was dainty. But her eyes were a bright, piercing blue. She was standing behind a microphone singing the same line to herself, over and over again, like she was trying to find the right note.
“I’m here to tell ya gal to lay offa my man.
I’m hear to tell ya gal to lay offa my man.”
A gray-headed man was in another room behind a large plate-glass window. He was seated in front of a desk covered with all sorts of knobs and lights, and the minute he positioned the microphone in front of his mouth, all the musicians in the other room grew silent. He directed everyone to stand by. Ruddy kissed the back of my neck while the man with the red guitar counted with his fingers. One, two, three. Music immediately filled the room, and the little woman with the brilliant blue eyes stood up straight and tall in front of her microphone and thrust her chest slightly forward.
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sp; She started singing about some floozy who had been spending too much time with her husband and then bragging too much about their affair. She called her nothing but trash and promised if she didn’t stop “a lovin’” her man, then she would have no choice but to come looking for her. Yes, that tiny little woman was going to punch that tramp right in the face and take her to a place she called “fist city.” And to tell the truth, she sang those lyrics with such power and emotion that I actually believed she could do it too.
“Who is that?” I whispered.
“That’s Mr. Bradley behind the glass.”
“No, I mean who’s singing?”
“That’s Loretta Lynn. You never heard of her either? She grew up poorer than dirt, lived up in the hills of Kentucky somewhere. Now look at her. Just proves anybody can do anything,” Ruddy said with a smile, obviously referring to his own big dreams for the future.
I’d heard Loretta Lynn’s name and seen some pictures of her in the newspaper from time to time, always outfitted in some fancy gown that had too many sequins and too many ruffles on it, at least that’s what Mother said. But I’d never heard her sing. And now, sitting on the floor of that barn, hearing her rich, twangy voice, I felt like I was listening to some wise old sage or prophet. I just wished my own mother would listen to her sing, would find her on the radio, maybe even find the courage to go looking for Mrs. Hunt and take her on a little trip to “fist city.”
After Mrs. Lynn sang the last note, everyone stayed real still and quiet until Mr. Bradley nodded his head. He turned a knob on his desk and then pulled the microphone right up close to his mouth.
Susan Gregg Gilmore Page 11