A million emotions started zigzagging around inside me. I had a mighty impulse to rise up on my feet, thrust a fist into the air and shout, “Yes! I made it! I’m one of them now!” But of course, I didn’t. Some cold, analytical part of me reached back into my brain for my recent decision and forced myself to remember the pain, that overwhelming fear whenever the memories came. I drew in a long breath. “Well, I’ll tell you something, Mike. It doesn’t really matter to me about that possibility, because I don’t give a fig about the Hall of Fame.”
He stared at me.
“What I mean is, I’m done with the whole entire country music scene. I’m getting out.”
“Getting OUT?” Mike’s eyes bulged, and a little vein throbbed in his temple. “Didn’t you hear me? We’re talking the Country Music Association’s Hall of Fame! Are you insane?!”
If I hadn’t been sitting there thinking about this for an hour, preparing my thoughts, I might’ve crumpled under Mike’s fury. “Mike, Mike,” I said wearily. “We’ve discussed it all before. Several times. I just can’t take the pain anymore.”
He stared at me for a long, silent moment. “We discussed you seeing a professional, Jenny,” he said in a barely restrained voice.
I flinched. I wrapped both hands around my mug, but one escaped and found a silky strand of hair at the base of my neck to twirl so hard it hurt.
“ ‘Daddy, Don’t Come Home’ is still number one on the country charts, Jenny. That’s huge! Flint Recording is leaving Big Machine Records in the dust! In the dust! Everyone thinks Taylor Swift is so high and mighty, but now it’s us! It’s Jenny Cloud. We are the ones headed to the Country Music Association’s Hall of Fame! Aren’t you excited?”
Mike’s pleading tone hit me in the gut. My goal wasn’t to leave anyone in the dust, was it? His mouth was a grim line when he spoke again. “Haven’t I given you what you wanted? I seem to remember meeting this little girl at the Bluebird, this green-around-the-gills bumpkin who assured me all she wanted was a chance to make it big in Nashville and she’d be happy.”
My neck tensed. It hurt where I was twisting the hair. I could see that me being inducted into the Country Music Association’s Hall of Fame would be Mike’s moment of fame. I pictured myself standing onstage to receive the award, saying, “I owe it all to Mike Flint and Flint Recording,” And rightly so. The man was absolutely tireless when it came to positioning, publicizing, and promoting. My album sales continued to rise, my singles zoomed up the playlists on radio, and Mike had gained phenomenal support and visibility from the digital retailers. He had visibility for us in places where country music normally didn’t even have a presence.
“You can’t jump ship, Jenny!” Mike shook his head. “Especially not now. Your staff’s been talking up your fan club party for months through Twitter, through your website, and I’ve gotten more response than ever for this year’s fan club party. This year we’re offering bonus perks—an exclusive Jenny Cloud T-shirt and an autographed CD if they buy a one-year fan-club membership. I’m even thinking about doing a guitar drop like they did at First and Broadway on New Year’s Eve.” He blew out a gust of air to illustrate his exasperation. “I’ve already ordered pulled pork barbecue from Rippy’s. Got thousands of loaves of gummy white bread scheduled to arrive.”
I just stared at Mike’s intense face.
He pulled out his best weapon. “You wouldn’t disappoint your fans, would you? All those folks who’ve paid their good money to see Jenny Cloud?”
I managed to squeak out “Of course not,” just as a deafening boom of thunder rattled the Panera.
Mike gave his head a quick shake like a dog after a dip in the lake. “Good. Let’s talk about rehearsals.”
Bobby Lee rolled down a narrow footpath to the water’s edge, then a good ways around the perimeter of the lake as I followed behind with Erastus. Strapped to the handles of his wheelchair with crisscrossed bungee cords was a small Coleman cooler that bounced in rhythm to the ruts. Bobby Lee began telling me how Aunt Gomer had woken him up yesterday morning at four, talking about fallen fruit.
“Really?”
“Yeah, she wanted me to get up and help her with the June drop.”
“The what?”
“June drop. When the fruit trees—the apples, pears, peaches, plums, sweet cherries, whatever—drop a lot of fruit. You know, just this natural way trees thin themselves out to a manageable crop size?” Bobby Lee shrugged. “She took a notion it was time to gather, and she started quoting Scripture about a ‘good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit,’ and ‘Ye shall know them by their fruits.’ ”
I couldn’t help smiling. “But it’s not even May yet.”
“Well, I couldn’t convince her of that or to get back in bed. Couldn’t make her get dressed either, so she went outside in her nightgown, her stringy white hair wild. I went along so I could keep an eye on her.”
I swallowed a laugh. “That was sweet of you.”
“Yeah,” Bobby Lee said in an uncertain voice. “Then, when we got outside, she decided she needed to feed Ebenezer.”
“The donkey that died thirty years ago?”
“Yep. She dragged me to the barn, ordering me to put clean, fresh hay in Ebenezer’s stall.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, I made out like I did it.” He turned to look at me. “Know how they say ‘Old age ain’t for sissies’?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Well, dealing with old-timer’s ain’t for prissies. I’ve decided that to survive I’m just going to have to hang loose and go with the flow. Makes it easier to deal with all the fallen fruit and the asses.”
We looked at each other and busted out laughing. We laughed so hard my knees gave way, and I sank down into the grass. Just when I thought we were past it, we’d look at each other and start up all over again. That was the best I’d felt in years, it seemed.
“Know what?” Bobby Lee said with a glint in his eye when we’d finally calmed ourselves.
“What?”
“I’m going to have to get me a job so I can get some rest!”
We cracked up all over again.
When we were moving forward, I walked along admiring the sculpted muscles of Bobby Lee’s arms and shoulders, glad he was wearing a tank top. I was jolted from my admiration by Erastus’s sharp bark.
“What ya see, boy?” Bobby Lee came to a stop.
Erastus was rigid, unblinking, staring at the water’s edge. “Woof!”
A bloated armadillo corpse floated on its back, all four legs pointing stiffly toward the sky. By instinct, I stepped back, mouth hanging open ungracefully, looking at this exquisite creature. Gothic beast, I thought, my imagination running away with me as I admired the platelets of armor. When I looked over at Bobby Lee, he smiled and said, “Pretty magnificent, huh?” then quickly admonished Erastus, “Leave it be, boy.”
We moved on down the trail, Bobby Lee maneuvering his way through brambles and roots and wild blackberry bushes, quick and spry as any two-footed man, amazing me with his chivalry, holding branches until I’d passed by. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
We reached a little clearing of sorts, and it was littered with spent bottle rockets, cherry bombs and beer bottles. “Somebody had themselves a little party, hm?” Bobby Lee said, bending to pick up a lapful of debris, then stuffing it all into a small satchel hanging off one side of his chair. “I don’t mind the partying, but I hate it when they litter.”
What a good-hearted man! I couldn’t help admiring someone who cared about the earth the way he did, who was so respectful of animals. I looked at him and thought, I really like this man. Wonder what he thinks about me? Does he think of me as family like Aunt Gomer says I am? Like a sister to have fun and play outside with?
“Here we are,” he said, coming to a stop on a hard-packed dirt surface I knew had seen lots of fishing. He put his tackle box down beside a stump, reached around and unfastened the f
ishing rods, and with hardly a pause rolled out into the lake midwheel deep. “C’mon,” he turned to me, smiling. “The water’s perfect.”
“Okay.” I slipped out of my flip-flops and stepped into the warm, murky edge, feeling slimy mud oozing up between my toes when I was out a little ways. I kept my eyes fastened on Bobby Lee’s face and went on until I reached his side.
“Fish oughta be biting real good today.” Bobby Lee’s line sliced through the air. I heard the plop of the artificial catalpa worm as it broke the water’s surface. “Other one’s yours.” He nodded at a blue rod lying across his lap.
I reached for the rod and just held it. “I don’t know how to cast. Only thing I’ve ever used is a piece of bamboo with some fishing line tied on.”
“Watch me,” he said, his muscles flexing beautifully as he drew his right arm back, then forward with a little snap. As his line zipped out again, I focused on his well-defined torso, tight and lean, like art. Much more alluring than Holt Cantrell’s soft, doughy paunch and flabby arms.
I worked at casting for a good fifteen minutes, fantasizing about catching a big one and Bobby Lee admiring me. But this did not happen. It didn’t happen for Bobby Lee either. He cast over and over again, his jaw tightening more each time. Finally I could tell he was throwing in the towel.
“Ain’t nothing like the real thing, baby,” Bobby Lee’s soulful voice rang out across the water, sounding for all the world like Marvin Gaye. He moved close to me, put his hand on my wrist and raised his eyebrows to say, “Is it now?” in a throaty voice that sent electric pulses through me.
I looked into Bobby Lee’s eyes, and my mind supplied another line of the famous love song, and lake water lapped at my knees as I imagined us wrapped in the shelter of one another’s arms, just like in the song. I would’ve paid a million dollars to linger in that moment, a pastel sky above and a breeze rustling the delicate fronds of a nearby willow tree.
“So,” Bobby Lee said, “got a cold six-pack on the bank yonder. What do ya say we have our own private little party?”
My dream evaporated instantly. I knew nothing, really, about this man. Could he hold his liquor? Was he a mean drunk? A womanizer when he got loaded? I watched him wheel out of the lake, slinging water as he made his way toward the cooler.
“No, thank you!” I called in a shrill, tight voice.
Bobby Lee raised his eyebrows, smiled that nice, wide smile of his, and while watching me, lifted the lid off the Coleman, pulling out a half-dozen unmistakable red, white, and blue cans of Pepsi-Cola. “Oh, no. Looks like I’m gonna have to party all by myself.”
I was speechless for a bit, then broke down laughing. “Save one for me, Bobby Lee!”
We drank our Pepsis sitting in the shade, birds singing in the background, bugs buzzing nearby. Somewhere across the lake a bullfrog sang a series of bass notes that sounded like “jug-o-rum.”
“Looking for a babe, huh, Jeremiah?” Bobby Lee called. He turned to me, “That’s my buddy. He’s jealous. Wants himself a beautiful lady frog to hang with.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded and stared out across the water while Bobby Lee launched into a long discourse on the benefits of live bait. “What’s new in your world?” he asked finally, popping the top on another Pepsi.
I didn’t want to ruin the mood by mentioning the CMA Festival in five weeks. “Well, let’s see, it’s Saturday, and usually I spend some of the day at Riverfront Park.”
“Ah, yes. That’s right. Mom says you’ve got this thing for the Cumberland.”
“Gotta get my fix. Same as you with fishing.”
“Birds of a feather.” Bobby Lee stretched his arms above his head. “I love it out here, at the water’s edge. Just something about it.”
It pleased me that he compared us. I knew he understood my need, and I didn’t feel self-conscious when I said, “It’s like the river pulls all the bad stuff from me and carries it away. I feel so new, so peaceful when I leave there. It’s my sanctuary.”
“Yeah, sanctuary,” Bobby Lee said, the word lingering between us. And before I knew it he was leaning in to hold my cheeks with his fingertips, in a tentative way like he might kiss me. It surprised me so that I laughed a little bit. Then I looked at Bobby Lee’s eyes in that beautiful face, and all I could think about was kissing him. I swallowed and moved closer, my lips softening. But then, this tug-of-war began in my head. I felt like maybe I could trust this man with my soul. He knew some things about me, some places where I was wounded, but not all. I imagined sharing my innermost heart, my hurts, for that is what I knew it would take to have a real relationship. And it was then I realized I just wasn’t capable of that.
I pulled away from Bobby Lee using the pretense of swiping at a bug. Then we just sat there on the bank, drinking our Pepsis and watching Erastus play.
13
It was the last day of April, a Friday, almost a week since I’d fished with Bobby Lee. I hadn’t seen him since, but we’d talked on the phone several times, and he was a wonderful conversationalist. I was tons more open with him than I’d been with Holt, but still very careful not to mention the dilemma with my career. The CMA Festival was almost upon us, and I kept telling myself that once that long weekend had come and gone, I would do as I darn well pleased. I had enough to live a very comfortable existence if I never sang for money again. What good was being in the Country Music Association’s Hall of Fame if you were miserable?
Looking out the window, I could see the day was beautiful, but I felt nauseated, dreading the interview/photo shoot Mike had scheduled for the afternoon. I didn’t want to paste on another smile, or answer one more question about “Daddy, Don’t Come Home.”
At a quarter ’til nine I heard the beep and hit the button to let Tonilynn’s Pontiac through the gate. She breezed in the door pulling her big beauty suitcase and holding what I thought was a bowling ball. She leaned in to give me a hug. “Morning, hon!”
“Morning.” I sniffed what I thought to be her new musky perfume. “You smell good.”
“That’s not me.” She sounded exasperated. “It’s this cantaloupe Aunt Gomer insisted on sending. Pitched a fit to get out in the garden this morning while it was still dark as Egypt and pick the very first one of the year for you. I don’t even think they’re all-the-way ripe yet.”
“That was sweet.”
Tonilynn sighed and sat down heavily on a stool at the counter, beckoning me to sit in my usual chair for her to work her makeup magic. “Yeah, sweet, I reckon, but she’s driving me crazy with all her craziness. The hard thing is how unpredictable she can be. She’ll be just fine for days, I mean, like you’d never know she had the old-timer’s, but then all of a sudden she’ll take a notion about a certain thing and there’s no way you can tell her any different.”
“Oh, that’s not good,” I said, but my mind was on the fragrant cantaloupe, and my mouth was watering. I loved cantaloupe. It was my favorite of all the melons, delicious sprinkled with black pepper. I smiled over at that netted golden globe on the table, one side with this bleached-out looking oval patch on it like the sun had kissed it with hot lips. I have people who love me, I thought, I have people who care about me and send me things.
“Hey, what was Mike going on about so much last week when we were in the studio?” Tonilynn steadied the heel of one hand with the fingers of her other hand to stroke on my eyeliner.
“Ah, nothing,” I said, hoping she’d let the subject go.
“Come on. Tell Tonilynn.”
I knew she wouldn’t hush until I told her. “He said I might, might be getting an invitation to be inducted into the Country Music Association’s Hall of Fame.”
“Get out!” Tonilynn’s jaw dropped. She started bouncing around on her tiptoes, laughing and waving the mascara wand like a sparkler. Then she hugged me. “That’s awesome, girl! What more could you want?”
That question went around and around in my head as I stared at the cantaloupe and listened
to myself breathing.
Tonilynn looked into my face. “You all right?”
I shook my head. “What I want. What I want is something a lot of people get for no reason at all. Just by luck. I want it more than anything in this world! But I can’t get it by being in the Hall of Fame, Tonilynn. I can’t get it by singing, by making tons of money. It’s not something you can buy or earn. And people who have it don’t know how priceless it is.”
Tonilynn laughed, high and breathless. “You’re full of riddles. What is it?”
“Why? I can’t ever have it.”
“Yes, you can! I’ll help you get it.”
“I’D GLADLY TRADE BEING IN THE HALL OF FAME FOR A HAPPY CHILDHOOD!”
Tonilynn flinched, then closed her eyes, lifted her face, her mouth moving silently for several long minutes as I sat waiting. Finally she looked at me. “It’s never too late to have a happy childhood, Jennifer. However . . .” she paused dramatically, “the second one is up to you. I just did what you call an intercessory prayer, and again, the Lord told me you just need to grab his hand and go with him back there to your childhood to pull all that painful stuff up and deal with it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Nope. Just ask Jesus to give you the strength.”
I sat there in shock, and then I surprised myself. “Stop cramming all this Jesus-is-going-to-fix-everything crap down my throat! If he’s so all-fired up to make me happy, maybe he should’ve thought about it earlier and given me a different father!”
When Tonilynn had been quiet too long, I swallowed hard and said, “I’m sorry. I just can’t stand to hear you talking about letting God do this or that anymore. About how good God is.”
She didn’t respond right away. She clamped her top teeth on her bottom lip, worked on my eyebrows a bit until suddenly, she jerked bolt upright, put her hands on her hips and shouted, “I rebuke you, Satan, in the name of Jesus Christ, by the power of his blood! I command you to get behind us. Leave us alone! You know you’ve been overcome by the blood of the Lamb, so git! Go to hell, where you belong!”
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