Ghosts of Christmas Past

by Laura Briggs

  She opened her eyes, her head rolling sideways towards the empty passenger seat. At this moment, even a hallucination would be more comfort than the silence. So long as the voice of God was silent above, she had nothing else to occupy her mind except fear and pain.

  Is this how I end up, God? Bitter regrets instead of my big chance? Libby’s hands wrapped themselves around her coat lapels, drawing it closed tightly around her body.

  A light appeared in the dark windshield, penetrating the layer of snow as if bright headlights were concentrated just ahead. Her car engine sprang to life again in the cold, the windshield wipers sweeping back and forth slowly to clear a space of visibility.

  On the other side, the headlights illuminated not a fir tree’s branches, but a long, high platform outfitted with performance lights at the base. Red velvet curtains were strung behind it, cascading down in elaborate curves from the ceiling above, stained glass windows glowing from the walls. In the center of all this stood a woman at a microphone.

  The stage was the Ryman Auditorium, home of the Grand Old Opry in Nashville. The woman before the mic was Libby’s childhood hero Patty Craye.

  13

  Patty Craye’s slender figure was encased in the same dress as her album cover from 1955, Libby’s favorite from the singer’s portfolio. She wore a pink lace dress woven with silver metallic threads, layered spread skirts and a fitted bodice. Her wavy brown hair curled around a smooth oval face, red lipstick in contrast with her porcelain skin and pearls.

  If Patty Craye were alive at this moment, she would be almost eighty-nine years old. But Patty had died in a car crash over sixty years ago. That was the first thought to enter Libby’s dazed mind as she stared at the woman onstage.

  The sound of a band playing music drifted from an unseen location, the opening notes to the original cut of “Midnight Madness.” Patty Craye’s lips parted on cue. “I go a little crazy, without you here. This midnight hour’s ticking by so slow...”

  Nashville critics had described her voice as the ultimate sound of loneliness. That ache was what Libby had strived to create in her own after hours of listening to the records, mimicking the movement of Patty’s lips and hands, the way her head tilted with eyes half-closed.

  Libby was aware now that her head had stopped pounding. The windshield between her and the stage had vanished, along with the car’s interior, leaving her in a plush auditorium seat in the third row, gazing up with astonishment at the heroine who died almost three decades before Libby was born.

  “Hello, Libby Taylor.” The voice at her elbow made her jerk her head to the side, where Patty Craye was now seated, so close that her hand could touch the arm protruding from the pink cap sleeve.

  “Hello.” Libby’s own voice was faint in response.

  The woman’s eyes crinkled slightly around the edges as she smiled, a knowing expression on her face.

  “So what do you think?” she asked. “You always wanted to sit in the Ryman’s audience and watch me. You used to dream about it when you were a little girl.”

  “I did,” Libby answered. “I suppose that’s how we got here right now. Isn’t it?” Her reaction to this imaginary figure was different from the others, a sense of awe pervading the tinge of panic.

  “Maybe so,” Patty answered. “Either way, you’re here now. And I think you know why.”

  Libby groaned. “Please,” she said. “Stop saying that. Whatever’s in my head, I don’t understand it, trust me. Old regrets, maybe some guilt for wanting to live out my dreams.”

  “Who said anything about your dreams? The way you’re living’s got nothing to do with dreams, little girl. But it has a lot to do with bitterness and ambition.” Patty nodded towards the empty stage before them, the microphone standing alone front and center. “What would you give to be up there?” she asked. “Your faith? Your happiness? Maybe even your life?” She glanced at Libby, waiting for an answer. “Better still,” Patty corrected, “what have you given?”

  “Is this some kind of mental trick? This is just guilt talking. It has nothing to do with what’s ahead in my life.” Her tone was cowed slightly by the look on Patty’s face, a look of patient disappointment. “I would give...” Libby paused. “I don’t know. Work, dedication, whatever. But as for my son,” she continued, blinking back tears, “there wasn’t a choice, then. I couldn’t keep him. I couldn’t keep me in those circumstances. And I always knew—”

  “Always knew what, Libby? That you were gonna end up in this moment, on the verge of the big time? Going to fix all those little mistakes in the past with one bold move?”

  Reaching over, she took Libby’s hand. “How much do you have to regret right now?” she asked. “Because I don’t think a contract in Nashville is going to fix all those choices.”

  Libby gazed into the singer’s blue eyes as if Patty’s voice was drawing her into a trance. From the direction of the stage, a new song drifted from a new singer’s voice. Breaking her gaze from Patty’s face, she turned to see not the stage of the Ryman, but the interior of a bar and grill in Tennessee where the Blue Persuasion sometimes played. Where they were playing at this moment in her imagination, herself at the microphone with the band behind her.

  “Sweet dreams keep haunting me,” she sang, “let me be free of all these cares...” A smattering of applause and a whistle from the listeners who recognized one of Craye’s signature songs. A smile appeared on the face of its performer, her dark hair swept back in an elegant knot above her collar.

  “You look the part,” Patty observed. “And you have my voice down nicely. A compliment, as I take it.” The woman gave a sideways glance and smiled at the Libby beside her. “But what about the rest, Libby?” she asked.

  Libby frowned. “The rest of what?” she asked.

  Patty closed her eyes, the look of patience returning. “The rest of me,” she said. “I think you have a few more things to learn. Not the least of which is over in that corner.” Her gaze traveled in the direction of a figure out of sight of the audience, seated on a stool near the sound operator. A familiar boy in red galoshes and an oversized shirt, who only had eyes for the band onstage.

  ****

  Libby first noticed Will’s admiration for her in the weeks following their first gig on the road. The sight of a small face trained on her through the windows of the bar, a puppy-dog pleading glance cast in her direction whenever his father ushered him back to the camper. Other than that, Will remained largely invisible to Libby at first, as if his father read the discomfort in her body language whenever she saw the boy lingering in the back of bars or clubs during their morning practice.

  Or perhaps it was the more direct method that tipped him off—like the time Libby pulled him aside and told him in no uncertain terms to send Will back to the camper.

  “How many times do I have to tell you that this is no place for a kid?” Her hands were planted on her hips as she faced off with Jake, whose head nodded agreement.

  “I know,” he answered. “It’s just”—he sighed—”he finishes his assignments and chores and gets curious. It’s the music, I guess from all those years on the road.”

  “Well, get him a guitar and let him play in your trailer,” she shot back. “But he’s not hanging out here while we work. Got it?” Her finger stopped short of jabbing him in the shoulder. With one final glance at the sad little face in the back of the restaurant, she turned and marched away.

  She tried to banish her guilt over the next few days, reminding herself that it was important that Will spend extra time with his schoolwork instead of his father. From the bus windows, she watched Jake disappear inside the camping trailer in the evenings; through the lit windows, he was visible going over textbooks with his son, sometimes with a guitar propped on his lap.

  So long as she avoided them, she would be fine.

  Jake was her guitarist, not necessarily a friend. Now that she knew about his son, there was no possibility of anything more.

  In the mon
ths following, she did her best to keep things just the same in her relationship with Jake and his son. Will no longer popped up at their practices before the show. A few times, she caught a glimpse of him outside before morning practices, but there was no more figure in old sneakers or red galoshes parked in a nearby corner.

  When she saw the boy’s face pressed against the window, all she had to do was send a meaningful glance in Jake’s direction and the face disappeared. Despite their words previously on the subject, nothing in Jake’s attitude seemed different during their rehearsals.

  “Do you want to go over tonight’s set?” Libby asked him at the rehearsal break. “I made some changes to the lineup. We open with a Dixie Daughters tune, then move on to the rework of the Jimmy Crile cover.” She took a long draught from her bottle of water beside the stage, all too aware of Jake’s close proximity as he reached for his own, his arm brushing hers with the movement.

  “Sure,” he answered. “I’ll take a look.” His voice sounded normal, but something in his gaze was different on occasions where she pushed Will away. Jake’s gaze avoided hers above his half-hearted smile. He capped the bottle and moved towards the list on the sheet music pile.

  Releasing a long sigh, Libby moved to the bar windows and gazed out at the parking lot. Pushing open the door, she stepped outside and almost crushed the hand of a small boy seated on the steps.

  “What are you doing here?” she snapped, recognizing Will’s upturned face. “I’ll call your dad,” she threatened, reaching for the door handle. The sight of tears on his cheeks made her freeze.

  “I just wanted to watch,” he begged. “I used to watch my dad play everywhere. Even when mom was dead and he only played at church, I always got to watch him.” He hugged his knees close, as if he were cold, crouched on the cement surface.

  “Why won’t you let me sit in the back?” he asked. “I promise, I won’t interrupt you guys. Not for anything. I won’t make any noise.”

  She sighed. “Listen, it’s about more than just you being there. You’re supposed to be studying, not hanging out in places like this.” She neglected to say aloud what kind of place this was, where she hired his father to play before listeners who were sometimes drunk or angry.

  “If I do all my homework, can I come?” he asked.

  She pressed her fingers against her forehead, eyes closed to block out the sight of his dark hair and youthful features. Her own son would look like this, wherever he was.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you back to your trailer.” Reaching down, she took hold of his hand and pulled him to his feet. Then walked him towards the trailer parked behind Jake’s truck.

  The dingy little trailer was brown and white, its windows decorated with childish stickers undoubtedly applied by Will’s little hands. As she pushed open the door, she glimpsed a jumble of schoolbooks on the floor, science and math volumes open to multiplication problems and lessons on volcanoes. A knitted afghan covered the worn built-in sofa on one side, a bed pillow tucked against the arm.

  “Nice,” she said, boosting him inside with every intention of leaving. “Lock the door behind me, OK?”

  He tugged at her sleeve. “I like your music, Libby,” he said. “I mean, I think you have a really pretty voice.” He stood beaming up at her as she absorbed this, before adding, “Would you like to see something?”

  Libby hesitated. “Look, Will, I don’t—” Before she could finish, he raced off towards the adjoining room.

  “It’s in here,” he called.

  Reluctantly she followed down a narrow hallway with moss green carpet, a crooked picture suspended on the wall by a wire. It was a family portrait of Jake and a smiling woman with dark hair, a toddler in corduroy seated on her lap.

  In the other room, she heard the sound of a drawer being tugged open. She pushed open a half-ajar door taped over with crayon pictures of music notes, airplanes, and bulldozers. On the other side was a cramped bed covered in a faded comforter depicting superheroes, a child’s poster of the Good Shepherd and his sheep above the bed.

  On the wall across from it was one of her glossy promotional photos, pinned up beside other artwork real and hand-drawn by childish fingers. Surrounding it were concert clippings from the places they played, feature ads from clubs and bars announcing the talent of the Blue Persuasion featuring Libby Taylor. A shrine to her career made up of small paper scraps and meaningless clippings.

  “You saved all of these?” she asked, feeling strange in the presence of so many mementos of her career, more than she owned herself. More than probably even her mother scrounged up over the years since they last spoke.

  “Dad saved some for me and I cut out the rest myself. I like your songs you wrote. The one ‘Lost Tonight’ is just like the radio songs.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “When did you hear my songs?” she asked. “We don’t rehearse them, usually.” She racked her brain for the last morning session where they played “Lost Tonight,” one of the few she still performed in the years since she stopped writing songs of her own.

  He was standing on the drawer, struggling to unpin her photo from its thumbtack. “Dad has a tape of them,” he said. “Of one of the nights you played in the Blue Moon Lounge. It’s just you and him, though—after the show. Dad played guitar.”

  Jake recorded her singing? The thought floored her, as if discovering he had a secret crush on her, although the distinction of that feeling seemed to belong entirely to Will.

  With a final tug, the tack fell to the floor, the photo held tight in the boy’s hand.

  “I want you to sign it,” he said. “Please, Libby.” He held it out, along with a magic marker from a pile on the floor.

  She shrank back from the offer. “I don’t think you need my autograph,” she answered.

  His face fell. “But you’ll be famous someday,” he said. “Then you’ll be signing hundreds of them, maybe more.”

  Despite herself, she laughed. “All right. Just this once.” With a sigh, she took the photo and scrawled her signature along the bottom, hoping this would give her an excuse to escape.

  On the wall above was a row of clippings from magazines and newspapers, mostly of famous country singers. A few legends were mixed in among them, such as Jimmy Crile, with a photo nearby that Libby didn’t recognize.

  It was a black and white shot of a woman in a cotton dress and long braid, barefoot as she posed on the porch of an old house. The picture was a professional photo with the air of moody glamour, despite the woman’s smile.

  “Who’s that?” she asked, imagining the boy taking a photo from a performer’s signing table, at a music festival where Jake played before leaving the road.

  “That’s my mom,” he answered, busy tacking her signed photo in place again as she reached for the image on the wall.

  “She was pretty,” said Libby.

  “Yup,” Will answered, growing chattier now that Libby was no longer edging towards the door. “She was gonna be a famous country music star until she died.”

  Libby noticed other photos now, taped near the end of the wall. The same woman in a western fringe jacket and cowboy hat, in jeans and a flannel shirt as she rode a horse. One was signed, the name Lucy Dillard scrawled along the bottom.

  “She and Dad played a lot of places until she got sick,” said Will. “I used to sit with a lady married to Mom’s drummer. She let me eat cookies sometimes while we watched them play. When we stayed in the trailer, she used to play board games with me.”

  Libby was silent, imagining the life he described. A toddler playing Chutes and Ladders with his babysitter, while his parents entertained audiences at music festivals and fairs. Waiting for their big break.

  “What happened to your mom?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “She got real sick. It was an infection. It didn’t get better when the doctors gave her medicine, so she went to Heaven.” In his voice, something was hidden, a pain buried beneath the words like the piles of drawings an
d toys all over the bedroom floor.

  To her surprise, Libby’s hand moved towards him, brushing his shoulder with her fingers. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice was gentle, the emotions behind it awkward, as if her own pain was bleeding through, expressing more than just her feelings on his mother’s death. “I should go now.” With that, she drew away, opening the door to the trailer’s hall.

  “You could stay, Libby,” he said, following her. “Do you want a soda?”

  “I’m supposed to be practicing,” she answered. “I have to go. Stay here and lock the door, OK?” Her fingers turned the knob to the trailer’s door as it was yanked out of her hand by Jake on the other side.

  He stared at her, plainly surprised. “Libby,” he said.

  “Hi, Dad.” Behind her, Will was holding a box of animal crackers. “Libby says you guys have to go back to practice.” He held out a cookie for his father, who took it after a moment’s pause.

  “I’ll meet you back at the bar,” said Libby. She brushed past him into the parking lot outside. She could hear Will’s voice chatting to his father, Jake saying something in reply.

  Her feet moved swiftly towards the bar’s glass door, putting distance between herself and Jake’s family, something she meant to keep there always. The look on Will’s face as he showed her his collection of clippings, his mother’s photos, those were the kind of reminders she didn’t need. Not from a boy whose face would only remind her of the child in her past.

  “Libby.” She heard Jake say her name again, his hand grasping her shoulder as he caught up.

  “What?” she asked, turning around. In his eyes she read gratitude.

  “Thanks,” he said. “For talking to him.” His hand rubbed the back of his neck, his head swiveling in the direction of the trailer, where Will was visible through the window with one of his textbooks.