Twang

by Julie L. Cannon

  “Well,” I said, getting to my feet again, “it doesn’t feel beautiful to me. Feels like a black hole sucking my soul in, and I’m quitting.”

  “You can’t.” Tonilynn reached across to grab my hand and pulled me back into my seat. “I know some things may be hard, but what would we do without Jenny Cloud? You’re touching people! The world would be so much poorer without your songs. You’ve got to understand, hon, in God’s economy, nothing we experience in this earthly life is wasted! Please let him pour his love out on hurting, vulnerable people through you. He can make something beautiful and good come out of your ugliest experiences, if you’ll just let him! I’m begging you, just ask him to help you dig it all up! You have a message and a mission with your music.”

  It bothered me when Tonilynn started going on and on about this religious stuff like I agreed with her, like we were some little private God-club. I took the first bite of my pizza, but it was sawdust in my mouth.

  “I didn’t even finish high school, Jennifer.” Tonilynn shook her head. “But the Lord helped me get my beauty degree, and while I’m beautifying the outsides of my clients, I share my journey and let him take care of their insides. I’m like one of those full-service gas stations we used to have.”

  Tonilynn paused, and when I didn’t respond it didn’t dampen her zeal.

  “Sometimes I think about having my tattoos removed, but then I think, no, these are my battle scars. They’re a road map of my testimony. See? People can use their pain, Jennifer Anne Clodfelter, and your songs about what you’ve been through are powerful. Combine that with your incredible voice and your looks and the way you can hold an audience in the palm of your hand, and there ain’t nobody who can’t say you don’t have all the perfect ingredients for what I like to call a divinely appointed mission!

  “I’m constantly praying for you, and I know you can triumph if you’ll just reach out and grab hold of his hand.”

  I sat there, blocking out Tonilynn’s voice. When you started listening to someone like her, so persuasive in her simple way, you forgot what it cost. You forgot you were trading pieces of yourself for friendship. I needed some thinking time before I did something I’d regret.

  THIRD VERSE: THE NEW, IMPROVED JENNY CLOUD

  10

  When the Eagle returned me to Nashville three weeks later, I drove straight to Harmony Hill and climbed into bed without unpacking and without undressing any more than slipping my boots off. I didn’t listen to the radio. I didn’t watch television. I didn’t want anything that reminded me of being human. I just lay in bed, looking at the ceiling, the thought of continuing to live like this intolerable.

  I decided to ignore my phone after a flurry of calls from Mike and Tonilynn. They wanted too much, were sucking even more of the life out of me with their chatter and questions. Mike’s words amounted to reports of what a hit our Texas tour had been, that like “Honky-Tonk Tomcat,” “Daddy, Don’t Come Home” was getting tons of drive-time play on radio stations across the country, and had made the Billboard Hot 100. Tonilynn kept offering to come pick me up and carry me out to celebrate. She wanted to take me to the Douglas Corner Café just a short drive from downtown, or to Bobbie’s Dairy Dip on Charlotte Pike, or to Sambuca, a swanky place with lobster enchiladas and live music. I lied and told her I had a lot of work in the studio to tend to.

  “I’ll miss you, hon,” she chirped. “You’ve got my number if you want to talk.”

  Toward the end of the second day of my hibernation, my head began to ache so bad I could hardly keep my eyes open. I got even more irritable. All I wanted was to leave the past in the past, and, boy, did that seem to be a losing battle. I told myself if Tonilynn truly cared, she’d stop saying, “Ask Jesus to help you dig it all up.” Why would anyone in their right mind invite their world to crash down like that?

  If Jesus truly wanted to help me, well, he could take the shovel and whack my father upside the head with it. Put us all out of our misery.

  “Religious nut!” I fussed out loud. “Fanatic!” There was no option but to keep buried every shred of anything that had to do with my sleazebag of a father. I congratulated myself on the fact that I’d been successful in keeping a particular incident buried fairly deep, the one from which the merest hint could send a cold claw walking up my spine.

  I shuffled into the bathroom and leaned against the counter for a while, feeling like I might vomit as I smelled the hibiscus hand soap. When I caught a glimpse of a painting of a cow skull with flowers spilling out of it, a gift from Tonilynn, almost instantly I felt ashamed of myself for fussing about someone who only wanted my good.

  I hobbled downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water, and drank it standing at the kitchen sink. My eyes fell on back issues of Music Row, Country Weekly, and Nashville Scene on top of a pile of junk mail next to the telephone. On a whim I sat down at the breakfast table to leaf through them, pausing at a big splashy photo of blonde-haired, bright-eyed Taylor Swift laughing at something.

  Taylor was from Pennsylvania and had moved to Nashville when she was thirteen. She was a household name like me, and I’d seen and heard plenty about her, including the story of her breakthrough in 2006 with the hit song “Tim McGraw.” Her self-titled debut album had sold more than 3.5 million copies, and her album Fearless produced the hit singles “Love Story” and “You Belong With Me.” Not to mention she’d won Top New Female Vocalist at the 2008 CMT Awards and had been nominated for a Grammy by the Academy of Country Music as best new female vocalist. Besides all the success, it struck me how peaceful Taylor seemed. Where I was all angst and heart-wrenching lyrics, Taylor had a freshness that was appealing. She was light and playful. I didn’t know exactly what to call her, maybe not innocent, but she sure looked happy and carefree.

  All of a sudden, it was like I’d switched on the lamp after a long bad dream. If I could be like Taylor and write upbeat country pop songs, I’d be happy! She was proof that writing lyrics spawned in a troubled past was not a prerequisite for doing well in the country music scene. A change of image was what I needed for my passion and my sanity to coexist.

  When Tonilynn brought up that foolishness about digging up the past, about Jesus and Freud, I’d tell her that the horrors of a person’s reality could actually do them in, that true happiness lay in burying ugly stuff really deep and keeping it there. It was just common sense that a person couldn’t undo what was done to them. In fact, I’d been pondering this idea about self-fulfilling prophecy; simply put, a person will act like who she believes herself to be. I’d heard reimaging referred to as “getting your game on,” and it was, in my opinion, a very sound and effective solution when dealing with terrible things.

  Talk about a makeover! I was a big, blank canvas, and here in these magazines was the inspiration to paint the new Jenny Cloud. I’d model myself after Taylor Swift and Carrie Underwood, another fresh, young country music star. I’d also study up on Reba McEntire, Kellie Pickler, and Faith Hill. Their artistry would fuel my own. I’d pick and choose my attributes; upbeat, sassy, gutsy, chic, giggly, breathless. I’d dream up Jenny Cloud’s happy-girl persona, and shut down, totally and completely, the file marked “ugly episodes in Jenny Cloud’s past.”

  I felt like dancing, like my only limitation was within my own mind. My headache disappeared, and I got up to go take a bubble bath.

  To be the new Jenny Cloud, I needed big blonde hair, cut into flirty layers. And dramatic makeup. No more scrubbed clean, dark silken-locked, angst-ridden, soul-wrenching persona. Good-bye to serious and somber. I’d aim for adjectives like “lighthearted” and “playful.” Speaking of playful, I decided I’d go get some long, acrylic nails, but nixed that idea as soon as I thought about strumming my Washburn.

  I was stepping out of the tub a few minutes later when Tonilynn called.

  “Wow!” she said. “You sure sound better.”

  “I feel better. Hey, mind if I borrow your pink cowgirl boots? I want to see how they look with my
denim miniskirt.” Despite being a good seven inches taller than five-foot Tonilynn, we both had wide, size-eight feet.

  “ ’Course you can. You going out dancing?”

  I laughed. “I’m just bored with my Minnie Pearl crossed with Maybelle Carter look. I want something flirty.”

  “You’re hunting a man.”

  “I’m hunting outfits to wear during my performances. Remember that flouncy little green dress I bought in California, with the spaghetti straps? The one you made me buy in that boutique because you said it brought out my eyes?”

  “The one you’ve never worn?”

  “Yep. How do you think that would look with some really high-heeled black pumps?”

  “I think all the men would be dropping like flies.”

  That helped ease the transition to my next question. “Will you do a more playful hairdo on me?”

  Tonilynn got quiet. “What did you have in mind?” she asked finally.

  “Swingy blonde layers.”

  “Whoa now, Jennifer. I love your long, black silky tresses. You look like an Indian princess.”

  “I don’t want to look like an Indian princess anymore.”

  “Well, okay . . . I reckon we might could do some swingy layers if we get a real powerful styling product. However, your coloring definitely wouldn’t do for blonde.”

  It wasn’t easy to let go of that mental image of myself with a blonde mane, tousled, tumbling as I strummed my guitar wildly, but I knew how stubborn Tonilynn was. “Okay, fine,” I said. “Playful dark layers, then. Listen, I’ve been studying country singers and a lot of them are aiming toward a more mainstream pop sound. I’m sure you’ve heard them talking about ‘the new contemporary country sound that spans genres’? So, I’m thinking it’s time for me to make a change all around and I’m trying to change my image so I’ll look the part.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “I’m remaking my sound, Tonilynn. No more twang. No more of the so-called ‘real country sound’ or ‘tear-in-my-beer’ type music. And I really need your talent and experience in the beauty department. You know, a lighter look to go with my lighter sound?”

  Still she was quiet.

  “Aw, come on, Tonilynn. I want more dramatic makeup too. You know what I’m talking about. Think Miranda Lambert, Taylor Swift, pop-and-country culture. I’ve heard folks saying Taylor’s music is really the rock ’n’ roll of the sixties and seventies.”

  Finally Tonilynn spoke. “You’re not actually serious, are you, hon?”

  “Sure I am.”

  I heard her take a deep breath. “Mike’s going to blow a gasket.”

  “He will not.” I laughed.

  “Bet he will.”

  Mike picked up on the second ring. “Where have you been, Jenny girl? Thought you fell off the earth.”

  My voice was strong as I requested a “business meeting to discuss some things.” He was clearly surprised, but we set a time for the next morning at nine. I loved the feeling of being in charge of my own destiny, and I turned on The Big 98 WSIX so loud I felt the beat of Martina McBride’s “I Just Call You Mine” pulsing up through my bare feet. At the end of the song, while Martina was showing off her vocal prowess, I was inspired to step out the back door to gaze at the sun, a warm gold light streaming through the trees at the distant edge of my property. I let out a long, deep breath, and I knew where I needed to be.

  Driving through the night, I could feel a strong yet gentle tug from downtown Nashville, like some great aunt beckoning me to climb up on the back porch and visit a spell. I smiled as I pictured those sweet days of living in the Best Western, me so eager to immerse myself in this city, to know all about her.

  When the Nashville skyline came into focus, with the stately towers of the sharply lit Batman Building so tall and impressive, I laughed out loud. At the intersection of Music Circle East and Division Street, I felt another familiar pull, this one a powerful magnet drawing me toward the Cumberland. It had been too long, and I couldn’t wait to see her, feel her quiet strength, tell her everything was going to be all right.

  I parked in a lot near the intersection of Broadway and Third Avenue North, and half walked, half jogged to Riverfront Park, then up and across the pedestrian bridge, through the parking lot near LP Field, then down the banks to the cement boat ramp that disappeared into the river. I was out of breath as I knelt and twirled my fingers in the warm water of the Cumberland, watching the reflection of a three-quarter moon glancing off her surface. “I’m good now,” I said to her. “Things are going to be okay.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, I sat by the river, inhaling and exhaling her strength. Feeling whole and strong, I walked back to the Lexus, planning on heading home. But on a whim, I decided to cruise along Broadway, past the honky-tonks, smiling at the memory of my ignorance about cover charges. It wasn’t long before I felt compelled to turn onto Fifth Avenue North.

  I slowed to watch a stream of people filing into the historic Ryman—the Mother Church of Country Music. Somebody big had to be playing tonight. When at last I saw the sign clearly, I knew the reason for the crowd. It was George Jones. I thought of just continuing to cruise along, enjoying the scenic tour of my town from the comfort of my car, but something wouldn’t let me. I wanted to be a member of the adoring masses, enjoying a concert by the legendary Possum.

  I found a parking spot and jogged back to the box office. It was a good thing I was wearing my fool-proof disguise. When I stepped into the Ryman, it was five minutes until showtime, and to me, still a bit dazed from long days and fitful nights spent sequestered and struggling with the emotional fallout from my career, the lights and the energy felt sort of unreal. I climbed up into the balcony and side-stepped along until I came to my row. My seat was three in, past an ancient man and woman, their hands clasped together in her lap. I slid past them carefully, murmuring, “I’m sorry, please excuse me, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not hurting a thing, dear,” the old woman said, smiling up at me as the old man guffawed, looking down at his feet, saying, “Nope, not hurting a thing. I walk on ’em too.” Which confused me until she began giggling, and I realized he was making a joke.

  I sat, waiting in that hundred-plus-year-old sanctuary, aware of the tangible bond of honest, pure affection, the completeness between that couple beside me. From the corner of my eye, I saw she wore a diamond on her frail hand, and I imagined him on bended knee sixty-plus years ago. As a fiddle, a drum, an electric guitar, and a keyboard began making music, a number of people stood up, swaying and clapping, calling out, “We want George! We want George!”

  My elderly couple remained in their seats. The old man turned to me and said, “Reckon they’re worried he won’t show up.”

  “Really?” I asked, although I knew the story.

  “I remember him missing so many booked engagements, they started to calling him No-Show Jones. His drinking had a hold on him.”

  I’d heard about George’s legendary alcohol consumption. The tabloids credited his current wife with rescuing him. At last he strutted out, grinning big, wearing his famous amberlensed glasses and a brown suit with sparkly designs sewn on the shoulders. He had his guitar and without warning launched into, “Why, Baby, Why.” Next he did “Wabash Cannonball,” and then “Golden Ring,” a song he used to sing with then wife Tammy Wynette. The audience knew every word to every song, and sang along raptly, especially when he got to one of the greatest country songs of all time: “He Stopped Loving Her Today.”

  That was when I felt the power of a certain presence in the crowd growing even stronger, a totally encompassing sensation bordering on worship. They’re adoring George Jones, idolizing him, and he enjoys being famous and entertaining them, I thought. And I do too. Guess that’s part of our job description as country music stars. But look at this precious man and woman beside me. Isn’t it better to be loved by just one person who really knows you, heart and soul, than by millions who don’t even know your real na
me?

  Once upon a time, this notion of unconditional, committed love would have depressed me to no end because I was afraid I’d never have it. But now a particular face swam into my thoughts, making every single cell in my body fill up with hope: Bobby Lee.

  For the first time in months, I slept soundly. It felt good to be finally hungry, starving, in fact, holding a cinnamon crunch bagel and hot espresso at Panera Bread. I’d just settled into my chair when Mike breezed in with a pile of reviews. He plopped them on the table, thumped them with his pointer finger, looked at me, smiled, and said, “Girl, this new song of yours is some kind of hit!” Leaving only the faint woodsy trace of Herrera for Men, he headed to the counter.

  I guzzled my espresso and moved my behind to the edge of the chair, ready. Mike returned and began adding packet after packet of raw sugar to his coffee. Finally he took a long swallow, patted his lips with a napkin, and said, “I’ve been talking to some folks about the next CMA Awards, and there’s some talk about Brad Paisley being the host again, and another equally famous, well-known female country music diva being his cohost. Maybe someone we know?” He smiled with one eyebrow raised.

  What a perfect lead-in! As the current Jenny Cloud, there was no way I could picture doing a three-hour show while exchanging funny banter with Brad. Billed as “Country Music’s Biggest Night,” the glittery network television spectacle of the annual CMA Awards was where dozens of country music’s biggest stars would be performing and sharing what they called “backstage stories” and “memorable moments.” It wouldn’t do to carry all that baggage up there, parading it around while trying to perkily introduce singer after singer and answer questions about my own painful songs. An artist who popped into my mind right away was giggly Carrie Underwood. Carrie would be a perky hostess with the mostess—the most smiles and happy comments, unshackled by a dysfunctional past. Or perhaps bubbly Kellie Pickler, a bleached-blonde diva folks were calling a “modern-day Dolly Parton.”