by Amy Sorrells
“Whadda you say we make the best of these last three services?” He nodded toward where Noble leaned against the bar, talking to Rosie Fancher, the Onion’s owner. “Maybe ask him to play. Have a picnic and ask folks to share memories. I bet Shelby and Bonnie could put together a scrapbook of mementos if folks want to bring them in.”
“That’s a great idea.” Mike grinned. “I got a few good stories from some of those men’s retreats I could write out.”
“Don’t you dare.” Greg shot him a playful, warning glance.
“Remember when the sparrow got loose in the sanctuary a few years back?” Rich said.
“Good night, if it didn’t pull off Rory Pittman’s wig that one morning and carry it up to the rafters,” Mike laughed.
“And the time you dropped the fifth Lawson baby into the baptismal,” Rich continued.
“And the time Sheriff Tate had to come and arrest Ray Donaldson for stealing from the offering. Man had no shame—he and Jersha were the only money counters. We thought for sure it was Jersha’s counting, but no, it was Donaldson,” James said.
“Yeah.” Jack coughed. “The Baileys saw him down at one of the riverboat casinos, and that’s how we discovered he was addicted to gambling.”
The men went on telling these sorts of stories and laughing until their bellies ached. On the way out, James stopped at the counter, where Noble was still talking to Rosie. Noble’s brother, Eustace, sat next to him playing a game on his smartphone. James was struck by the way, up close, Noble had turned into a young man, wearing a goatee and the rest of his beard grown in enough to look scruffy, as seemed to be the style for his age. He resembled Laurie, pale-blue eyes, gentle smile, his light hair bleached even lighter by the sun.
Noble extended his hand. “Reverend.”
“Nice to see you playing here tonight.” He turned to Eustace and put a hand on his thick shoulder. “Nice to see you, too, young man.”
Eustace didn’t lift his eyes from the screen.
Noble shrugged and grinned, and James noticed a dimple, also like Laurie’s, on the right side of his face.
“S’pose you heard by now about how the church isn’t doing so well.”
“I’ve heard rumblings of the sort, yeah. Sorry to hear that. Somethin’ not right about a church closing.”
“I won’t argue with you.” James raked his hand through his hair. “I don’t suppose you’d consider playing for us these last few services? I know it’s been a while—”
“I’d love to.”
“Yeah? It’s short notice . . .”
“Can’t be easy, the spot you’re in. I’ll do what I can to help.”
The two agreed to work out the details later, and James headed outside to where Jack smoked a cigarette and the others stood still laughing and reminiscing. He was grateful for their good memories. Grateful Noble’d said yes to playing so quick. But as he started his car and headed toward home, James began to feel a slow encroaching shadow of darkness on his own mind.
As he passed the Burdens’ dairy, a red-winged blackbird darted in front of the car, flying alongside him for a second, long enough for him to see the bright yellow and red beneath its ebony wings before flitting off into the fields. He hung his arm out the window to feel the breeze press through his fingers. He saw Laurie sitting on her front porch, the low-hung sun glinting against an aluminum bowl on her lap and a pile of green beans on a newspaper at her side. If she looked up from her snapping, he would wave at her. But she didn’t. He’d been driving past without a thought for so long, she wouldn’t have had a reason to look up anyway. On this day, though, he wished that she had.
12
As Reverend Horton had spoken to him, Noble noticed the lines deeper than ever on the older man’s face. He hadn’t noticed before that the reverend’s hair was at least half-white, especially around the temples, or the way his shoulders fell forward as if fighting against the pull of an overfilled backpack. Horton had grinned slightly when Noble agreed to play for him, but Noble thought it was a sad smile, the sort that you give a person when you’re relieved to see them at a funeral.
“Well, it’s settled, then,” Horton had said. “I know you’re preparing for your show here. We can talk later about the songs. You can pick whatever you’d like, really. No sense spending too much time discussing what’s played, as long as it’s something folks like.”
“Yes, sir.”
Noble could tell the man had things heavy on his mind as he walked away. He was halfway out the door when he turned and waved awkwardly. “Thank ya, Noble. Means a lot.”
Noble turned his attention to the grill, where grease sizzled and the crunchy aroma of food cooking filled the air. Rosie simultaneously lowered baskets of tenderloins and fries into the bubbling oil of the fryers. She turned to where Noble sat, one elbow on the counter and the other arm holding his guitar case against the stool.
“Thanks again for having me, Rosie.”
“One of these days, you’ll listen to me when I say you don’t have to thank me. Sold out of tenderloins and apple cobbler last time you played on a Thursday night. Heck, I don’t even have to offer a special anymore. We have to turn people away every time you play. It’s a mutually beneficial sort of thing.”
“Thanks all the same.”
Rosie pushed a glass of ice water his way and a Coke toward Eustace, who sat on the stool next to him and hunkered down over his smartphone. “Keep that pretty voice of yours hydrated.”
“Will do.” Noble finished the glass as Rosie shifted her attention to three men who had just ambled in. He recognized them as a few of the most respected farmers in the area, survivors of multiple droughts and lean times. They’d been born during the years following the Great Depression, the sort of dying breed of men who knew how to save and conserve and who were not lured by the dazzle of Big Farming, and whose values hadn’t withered under the moral decline of subsequent generations. Their yes meant yes. Their no meant no. And you could pretty much guarantee they lived by the Good Book. Their plaid shirts were buttoned to the top notch under their dress overalls, dungarees saved for such outings, so they were still dark blue and free of mud or any other sign of the work they’d done that day. He knew without looking that their hands were calloused and fingernails stained permanent brown from decades of turning soil.
In the adjoining room where the bar and stage were located, a handful of folks gathered around three pool tables, a half-dozen video game machines, and a full service bar set strategically behind a partition so that underage patrons could come and have a safe place to socialize and enjoy the music. Eustace, who seemed to very much enjoy watching Noble play, sat at a booth by the front window, played a game on his phone, and sipped his Coke. Noble liked having Eustace there where he could keep an eye on him.
He made his way to the far back corner of the room and the triangular-shaped, elevated section of plywood that passed for a stage, featuring a drum set, three microphones, a small amp, and a couple of wooden stools. He centered one of the stools, opened his guitar case and attached the amplifier, then began adjusting the height of his microphone.
He played Thursday nights as often as he could, and occasionally he’d pick up offers to play in Lafayette or Crawfordsville, sometimes Lebanon, if the milking and chores allowed. He drew larger and larger crowds of locals and others from around the area, made good tips, and felt the pleasure of entertaining the crowd, which requested new and old country songs and a few rock and roll. When there weren’t requests, Noble played older country covers of Waylon Jennings, Alabama, and always Johnny Cash, Mama’s favorite. She’d rarely missed one of his gigs, sitting across from Eustace at the table he sat at now. When Noble played, he could see the tears of pride in Mama’s eyes. When she came, she rarely spoke to anyone, crossing and curling her legs up on the seat of the booth, and sipping her Diet Coke. She hadn’t come this night, but he wished she had since he was going to play a new Johnny Cash set. He’d be sure to play it the next ti
me she came.
As Noble fussed with the equipment, a classic rock station out of Lafayette played on the overheads. At the sound board, he turned the radio down to test the mic and amps, leaning forward as he sang:
“Love is a burnin’ thing
And it makes a fiery ring . . .”
He tweaked a few knobs and sliders and adjusted a couple of his guitar strings before singing the rest of the song.
Pete Moore, the bartender, nodded his approval as he dried a freshly washed set of highball glasses. Noble turned the radio station back up, set his guitar against the stool, and sat at the bar waiting for 8:30 p.m., his official start time. The room glowed pink from the sunset, which he’d bet could outdo any on the ocean. Some said the brilliant colors were from dust kicked up by cars flying down gravel roads and plows tending fields. Whatever the reason, Noble loved Indiana sunsets. If he was gonna be stuck in Sycamore all his life, he’d at least be glad for those sunsets.
“’Specting a crowd tonight, Noble?” Pete asked.
“I’m not taking bets. Your Cubbies are on, though. And since Rosie’s running a tenderloin special, you never know.”
Pete was from “the Region,” defined as anywhere within a couple of counties’ distance from Chicago. In reality, he was from South Bend, which was a far cry from a farming community and, if you asked Noble, a little too proud of being the home of Notre Dame. But it was Indiana all the same. Pete was also one of the rare newer residents of Sycamore, having fallen in love with a small-town girl who insisted on settling down in the same town as her parents and returning from Saint Mary’s College, also in South Bend, to be a teacher at the elementary school.
As the sky shifted from pink to orange to indigo and folks trickled in and out for dinner and then for cocktails, Noble began his first set of songs. He loved the connection with the crowd, the way an old farmer tapped his toes, the way that the longer he played, the more the countenances of the patrons relaxed. After nine, the crowd shifted from couples and older folks to younger adults and teens. Noble was well into his second set when Shelby came in, escorted by Cade Canady wearing his letter jacket, and three other couples, obviously older. They settled into a booth and made a ruckus ordering pitchers of beer, splashing it all over the table as they filled each other’s mugs.
Noble tried to focus on his music even when Cade ran his hands up Shelby’s thigh as they were squeezing into their booth. Cade took out his switchblade, which he twirled and flipped through his fingers, a habit he’d had since they were kids.
Too bad a switchblade can’t make up for his deficiencies in the stature department, Noble thought.
One of the guys in the group came back from the bar with yet another pitcher of beer, and Noble glanced at Pete, who shook his head with obvious disdain. Another particularly skinny young man from the posse, whose teeth even from across the room appeared broken and stained, turned to face Noble. He buckled in half with laughter as he hollered, “Hey, cowboy. How ’bout you kick it up a notch. We’re not here for a Hank Williams concert.”
Noble feigned a smile and tried to ignore the obscenities that followed the kid’s snarky comment. He finished the last chord of a George Strait song. “Y’all got a request? I’m happy to take it now.”
The skinny guy started to speak again, but Shelby, who was sitting across from him, seductively squeezed herself out of the booth, chest brushing up against Cade’s face. She sauntered up alongside Noble on the stage and whispered in his ear. “Don’t pay them no mind. Country’s fine with me.”
The smell of alcohol on her breath was so strong he struggled to keep himself from coughing. He put a hand behind her head and whispered back, “You alright, Shelby? You shouldn’t be drinking like this.”
“I’m fine.” The words slurred and she nearly lost her balance turning to face the crowd.
He shook his head. The Shelby he knew, the one who danced across the top of the waterfall at the far end of the creek barefoot, the one he caught singing into a broom handle on her front porch, the one who showed kindness to Eustace like no one else in Sycamore—she didn’t need alcohol to have a good time. She’d seen what it’d done to Noble’s father before he ran off, and she’d sworn she’d never taste the stuff. But he also knew that grief could do crazy things to a person, turn them into someone they never intended to be.
Still, as Shelby cleared her throat preparing to sing, Noble couldn’t help noticing all over again the way her dark curls fell down her neck, the rise of her chest, the line of her chin, the outline of the lips he longed to touch again, to kiss again. Heat rose up inside him as she leaned a little too close to him and whispered the key and a couple of other technical specifics into his ear. He adjusted the frets on his guitar, strummed a few chords, and looked to Shelby for approval.
“That’ll do,” she said to Noble. As she was about to turn back to the crowd, Noble could see tears rise and clear the haze of alcohol from her eyes. She stumbled into him. “I can’t do this, Noble. I can’t . . . I won’t sing. Not without my mom.”
He put his arm around her and gently pressed her head against his shoulder.
Noble saw Cade scowl as his friends in the booth sniggered. Beyond them, everyone in the diner had stopped, their attention fixed on the stage. Suddenly Cade jumped up, knocking over one of the pitchers of beer. He hurdled the booth, stormed the stage, and yanked Shelby away from Noble.
The amplifier wheezed and squawked.
“What do you think you’re doin’? I’ve told you before—you don’t talk to other men, you don’t look at other men, and you sure don’t make out with one on a stage.”
“Hold on there, Cade . . . ,” Noble said, stepping toward him.
Cade put his hand in his pocket. “Careful there, cowboy. Wouldn’t want those strings or something worse to get cut now, would we?”
“I wasn’t . . . ,” Shelby choked out. “I was goin’ to sing for you . . .”
Cade yanked her upper arm again, and she braced herself as if expecting him to hit her, the same way Mama’d braced herself against Dad so many times.
“Yeah, right.” Cade clenched her arm so tight she gasped, then pulled her across the room and toward the door.
“Cade—” Noble called after him.
Cade paused and faced him. “Whatcha gonna do, cowboy? Stop me from leavin’? Like you stopped your old man from leavin’, eh?”
At that, Noble started after him.
But Pete, who by this time, along with Rosie, had approached the stage, pulled him back. “He’s not worth it.”
“Maybe not,” Noble said. “But she is.”
He caught sight of Eustace with a look on his face that reminded Noble of the time he’d found the kittens dead in the haymow. Noble knew how much it disturbed Eustace when someone or something weak was taken advantage of by the strong. He was too docile, too uncertain about how to fight back to ever do anything, which was why Cade picked on him. Felt good to someone like Cade—shorter than a fence post but so full of pride he thought the sun came up just to hear him crow—to pick on someone like Eustace, too big for his own good and too kind to resist.
One of Cade’s friends with blue-tinged hair and nickel-size earlobe expanders appeared somewhat apologetic as he handed Pete a fifty-dollar bill while the others left their mess and followed Cade and Shelby outside. “Sorry, man. Keep the change.”
From the stage, Rosie offered free cobbler to the guests, and Noble struggled to regain enough composure to play on as the headlights of the cars reflected off the walls and they all drove away.
“Sorry, y’all,” Noble said, taking a step backward as the amplifier squealed again with feedback. “That’ll do for me tonight.”
From the booth by the window, Eustace erupted with laughter and clapped his hands.
As if on cue, Pete turned the radio back on to fill the awkward silence that followed.
Noble wound his guitar cord and collected his music charts, and the thought crossed his mind tha
t it was a good thing Reverend Horton left when he did before he caught sight of how Shelby acted onstage and how Cade pulled her off.
“Noble?”
The man who stood next to the stage was unfamiliar and clearly not from Sycamore. His pressed khaki pants and navy sport coat, his salon haircut, and the way he held his shoulders back like someone with no worries about money were all dead giveaways.
“That’s me.”
“Cass Dinsmore.” The man extended his hand toward Noble. “I was pretty impressed with your performance this evening.”
“I appreciate that. Sorry about that last act there.”
“No biggie.” Dinsmore reached into the inside pocket of his sport coat and pulled out a business card, which he offered to Noble. “I work for the Lyric Group. I’m a scouter. I look for new talent to represent, and I’d heard good things about you from a couple of sources up in Lafayette.”
“Yeah?” Noble took the card, forgetting for a moment his anxiety about Shelby.
“From what I’ve heard, and despite that little scuffle—” Dinsmore rolled his eyes—“I’m pretty impressed myself. My e-mail is on there, along with my phone number. Call me early next week. I’ll be back in the office then. I’d like to talk to you about coming down to Nashville for a little visit.”
13
The Sycamore Daily Ledger came out once a week on Fridays, and there it was on the front page:
Sycamore Community Church Slated to Close
The editor, Julie Shaw, had not bothered to contact James or any of the elders for a quote but instead relied solely on information from George Kernodle. Straightforward and without emotion, the article read like the church was any other business that had closed over the past decade, and in many ways, perhaps it was.