Ricky’s parking lot was darker than usual. One of the outside security lights had burned out, probably a good thing, since my bladder was ready to burst. At least in the pitch black no one would see me. I got out of Goggy’s car and headed toward the bushes. The Jackson Hotel might not be very fancy, but surely it would be better than squatting in weeds and sleeping in a car. Maybe once I established myself there, they’d give me a discount on a hotel room, a weekly rate or something. Maybe if I did a really good job they’d let me stay for free even.
Carefully, I rinsed my hands under the outdoor spigot then headed back to Goggy’s car. The tuna was oily, not exactly appetizing, but I scooped it up with the plastic fork I’d somehow remembered to swipe from the Kroger salad bar and ate every bite. I also polished off the apple and banana, but I was still hungry for something else—one of Mama’s BLTs or the apple pie over at Bluebell’s. Faye always served it up warm, so that by the time Estelle or I got it to the customer’s table, the ice cream was dribbling down the sides. The very thought of it made my heart ache.
Even though the message light wasn’t blinking, I checked my phone. Twice. No missed calls. Mama hadn’t bothered to call back. Maybe it was Chat’s criticism coming back to haunt me, but I was feeling insecure all of a sudden, like maybe nobody really even cared that I’d gone. I decided to call Brenda.
Her cell phone rang and rang, and I was just about to hang up when I heard a guy (not Wayne) say hello.
“Sorry, I’ve got the wrong number,” I said. There was giggling in the background.
“Give me the phone! Retta?” It was Brenda’s voice.
“Who was that?”
“Hold on a sec.” There was lots of rustling around. The phone clattered to the floor, then a door slammed. “Okay, I can talk now,” Brenda whispered. I could tell she was lighting a cigarette. She took a drag then exhaled. “That was Bobby. And guess what?” she whisper-squealed. “They broke up!”
“Who broke up?”
“What do you mean, who? Tercell and Bobby, of course.”
“Why was he answering your phone?”
“He was all down in the dumps, so Wayne asked him to come waterskiing with us. Now we’re playing poker in Wayne’s basement. You know, to take his mind off things. Till you get home and cheer him up for good, that is. God, the four of us would have such a good time. Y’all are perfect for one another, Retta.”
I was quiet. I could just see them down in Wayne’s basement—the poker table littered with junk food, Brenda and Wayne teasing one another, and good-looking Bobby with those broad shoulders and big hands. I thought about the dream I’d had. It was all there, this other life, just waiting for me to give up on music and come home.
“What’s the matter, Retta? Is everything okay? I thought you’d be thrilled to death to hear about Bobby and Tercell.”
“I had my first singing job tonight.”
“You did? That’s great, Retta! Where?”
“It wasn’t great. Nobody showed up. Not a single person, except for some jerk bartender who told me I was unoriginal.”
“Well, screw him. He probably wouldn’t know talent if it punched him in the nose.”
“Yeah, probably.” I didn’t believe this, however. Chat looked like the type who knew a lot of things.
“Wayne, stop it. I’ll be inside in a minute.”
“What?”
“Oh, that was Wayne. He tried to sneak up behind me so he could peek at my cards.”
“Did not!” Wayne shouted in the background. “Hey, Retta!”
“Wayne says hi. Go on, Wayne, I’ll be there in a second.” Brenda paused, and I heard the door close. “Listen, Retta, you’re the best, you got that? And September will be here before you know it. And don’t worry about Bobby. We’ll keep him occupied till you get back. Besides, there’s not another girl in Starling good enough for him. Except for me, of course, but I’m taken,” she teased. “Seriously, it’ll all still be here waiting when you get back, so you hang in there. And tell that jerk bartender to go suck it.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow when you get off work,” I promised.
“Okay. Bye, sweetie,” she said, and dropped the phone again. I could hear her cursing as she picked it up and hit the off button.
I curled up in the seat and closed my eyes, thought about a song Daddy used to sing when I was little and he’d tuck me in at night. If teardrops were pennies and heartaches were gold, I’d have all the riches my pockets would hold. Daddy didn’t have a bad have all the riches my pockets would hold. Daddy didn’t have a bad voice, except he never could remember all the lyrics, so he’d start making stuff up. We’d lie in my bed, stare up at the stick-on stars on my ceiling, and laugh until Mama came in and reminded us it was a school night.
Carl Butler wrote that song and Dolly Parton recorded it with Porter Wagoner. Kitty Wells and Carl Smith recorded it, too, not as a duet, though. But it was Patty Loveless’s version I liked best because somehow I just knew she’d loved her daddy the exact same way I love mine. And she had to sit back and watch him do a job that would kill him in the end, all the while knowing there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop it.
Instead of going to sleep with visions of psycho killers or Chat’s mean words in my head, I went to sleep thinking about Daddy and Patty Loveless and Mr. Ramey, her daddy, and all the things that make people keep doing what they’ve got to do, no matter how much it might cost them in the end.
toby keith covel
BORN: July 8, 1961, Clinton, Oklahoma
JOB: Before hitting the big time in country music, Keith had a variety of jobs: while still in high school, he worked as a rodeo hand; after graduation he took a job in the nearby oil fields; and he even played semipro football for a while.
BIG BREAK: Keith’s demo tape ended up in the capable hands of Harold Shedd, the former producer of Alabama, and Shedd helped Keith secure a contract with Mercury Records.
LIFE EVENTS: Toby Keith and his daughter, Krystal, rerecorded the hit “Mockingbird,” for Keith’s Greatest
Hits, Volume 2 album. Krystal was only nineteen at the time.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
mockingbird
THURSDAY WAS MY LAST DAY AT RICKY DEAN’S AUTO DEN, and even though I’d only known him a few days, I hated to leave. I got the feeling Ricky hated seeing me go, too. The Auto Den looked way better than it did when I fi rst got here. The floors were swept clean, and the bathroom was scoured and smelled like Lysol now instead of mildew. The piles of clutter in Ricky’s back office were pretty much gone, and I’d even bought plastic bins (with Ricky’s money, of course) for all his supplies and old receipts and car magazines.
“So, Retta, I got you a little going-away present,” Ricky said right after lunch. He stood beside my (Shanay’s) desk, and I could tell he had something behind his back. “Which hand?” he asked, and winked at me.
“That one,” I replied, pointing to his left.
He hesitated, teasing me, then extended his country-ham-size fist. “Two tickets to the Mockingbird,” he said, and grinned so wide I could see every gold tooth in his head. “One ticket for you and one for a friend. Or two tickets for you. Whichever you want.”
I stared at him. “The Mockingbird?”
“Well, there ain’t but one Mockingbird, darlin’, and anybody who wants to be a singer in this town has got to go. It’s a rule, I reckon.”
“I know, but. . . Oh, Ricky, thank you,” I said, all embarrassed. He’d already bought me the Variety Big Box meal from KFC for what he called my going away luncheon.
“Them tickets ain’t free, though.” He shoved his hands into his coverall pockets.
“You want me to sing something?” I asked, reading his mind. He nodded. “A special request?”
“Oh, surprise me,” he replied.
Ricky slid under a Pontiac, and I took out my guitar and adjusted the tuners. While I was making up my mind about which song to sing, I thought about Chat and his comments. In
fact, Chat was pretty much all I’d thought about these last few days. Like an annoying commercial jingle, his words were stuck in my head: You’ll be sleeping in your car permanently unless you scrape together some originality. I decided to go with one of my own songs instead of someone else’s. I’d written it right out in Ricky’s parking lot, although I wouldn’t tell Ricky this, of course.
He watches reruns in the spare bedroom
She washes dishes, wants me asleep soon
No talking or laughing, good times to remember
Outside it’s June, but in here it’s December
She’s slamming one door; he slams another
Out back, she’s crying to the stars in the sky
He’s on the front porch, cussing the day that he met her
I’m in my room, locking my worst fears inside
Just me in the middle, wondering who I should love
Just me in the middle, wondering who I should love
He loves me—she loves me
That much you share
But the fighting and fussing, if you ask me it ain’t fair.
I’m just nine years old, not ready to decide
Which one to choose in your it’s-over ride
Just me in the middle, wondering who I should love
Just me in the middle, wondering who I should love
He left this morning, and I watched from the window
You looked so sad as he drove away
I know I’m too young. I don’t understand
Why the people I love can’t keep God’s commands
Now I see him every Wednesday and on the weekends.
He met a lady, and she’s my new friend
You say I shouldn’t get too attached
She’s just a rebound, and it sure won’t last
Just me in the middle, wondering who I should love
Just me in the middle, wondering who I should love
He loves me—she loves me
That much you share
But the fighting and fussing, if you ask me it ain’t fair.
I’m just nine years old, not ready to decide
Which one to choose in your it’s-over ride.
When I finished, it was quiet under the Pontiac. Ricky didn’t yell “Bravo!” the way he usually does when I sing, and he didn’t roll out from under the car and give me a grease-smudged grin and a thumbs-up. All at once I feared he’d gone and had himself another heart attack, or maybe he agreed with Chat. “Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yeah, Retta,” Ricky replied hoarsely. “That-uz good. The best one yet.”
That afternoon when it was time to go, Ricky followed me out to Goggy’s car. “You know I’d hire you permanent if I could,” he said. “It’s just I feel like Shanay . . . well, I explained that already.”
“It’s okay, Ricky.”
“I just ain’t got the budget for two secretaries. Besides that, you won’t never be no big star workin’ for me. You’ll stop by, though? Let me know how you are?”
“Definitely,” I replied. “Tell Shanay I said bye.”
“I will.” Ricky took out his wallet and removed a crisp hundred-dollar bill. As tempting as it was, I shook my head. Ricky dropped the money at my feet. “Retta, that money’s gonna blow away if you don’t take it. You’re a good hard worker and you earned every penny and then some. Go on, pick it up,” he ordered.
“Thanks, Ricky. Thanks for everything,” I said, and stooped to grab the bill. Something inside my tight chest loosened up a little, made it easier to breathe.
“When you get to playing somewhere, you need to let ol’ Ricky know, hear?”
I hesitated and wondered if I should mention Jackson’s, but decided against it. If Ricky showed up one night and there was nobody there, we’d both be embarrassed. Instead, Ricky and I exchanged cell-phone numbers and shook hands.
It was too early to go to Jackson’s, so I stopped off at Sam Hill’s to wash my hair and put on some lipstick. I also needed to change my clothes. Instead of my usual jeans, which were too dirty to wear now, I put on my navy church skirt and a blouse that was so old I was pretty sure it counted as vintage. I wore Mama’s earrings, too, of course. On the way out, I bought an ice-cold Sundrop and a bag of peanuts, which made me feel like I was sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner. Funny how having nothing makes you appreciate every little thing. And the cashier even smiled at me when I left.
Around 7:25, I pulled into Jackson’s parking lot, and there on the enormous marquee was my name:Buy one Long Island Tea, get the second free!
Special 4 Ladies Only!
Retta Jones Appearing at Jackson’s Tonight!
I stood in the lobby and glanced around for Mrs. Farley, the manager, or Riley, her son. I hadn’t been paid for the last two nights, and I wanted to get this situation straightened out. Did she plan to pay me each night? On a weekly basis?
“Hi, Retta,” said Riley, popping up like a jack-in-the-box from behind the desk.
“Riley! You scared me half to death,” I scolded. He snickered and tugged at his oversize T-shirt, which said Pick Me! (in great big letters) and I’m a Booger (in tiny ones). “Is your mama here?” I asked, doing my best to ignore his “fashion don’t,” as Brenda would call it. He shook his head. “Well, I really need to talk to her. When do you think she’ll be back?” Riley shrugged.
Just then a van pulled up out front. There were big swirly letters on the side—GOLD WATCH RETIREMENT VILLAGE.
“They’re coming to see you,” said Riley. “They tip,” he added.
“Oh, well, then I better go,” I said, and took off. “Tell your mama I need to talk to her,” I called over my shoulder.
Quickly, I climbed onstage and sat down. The best approach, I decided, was to launch into song the minute the old people got settled. Otherwise, they’d start talking and I’d have to play and sing over them. After seven nights in my car and three nights of nothing but Chat eye rolls for feedback, I was determined to have my ego stroked. These grandparent types seemed like the ones to do it.
While Chat took their drink orders, I studied their lined faces and counted backward. Country classics from the 1960s seemed about right. They would’ve been young then, and everybody loves the music of their youth. I started with “I Fall To Pieces” and watched their faces light up, then moved on to every other oldie I could think of. They tapped their feet, nodded their gray heads, and smiled up at me. When the first set was over, a man came up and kissed my hand, then slipped me a twenty. By the end of the night, I had a total of $48.37 in my guitar case, and a request to play from six to ten from now on because, as the Gold Watchers put it, “midnight was too damn late for a bunch of old farts.”
After they were gone, I packed up and headed toward the bar, where Chat was stacking up freshly washed glasses. “Hey, Chat?” I asked, feeling brave.
“Ye-es,” he replied. He’s the only person I know who can make a plain old yes sound sarcastic, but he can.
“Have you seen Mrs. Farley? She owes me for three nights, and I was hoping to get my money before I leave. She promised a free meal, too, now that I think about it.”
“Well, good luck with all that,” said Chat. He smirked and wiped the rim of a wineglass.
“What do you mean good luck?”
“I’m busy.”
“Is there something I should know?”
He let out a long, irritated sigh. “You should know that what Mrs. Farley says and what she does are two different things entirely. Now run along,” he said, and shooed me away with his bar towel. I turned to go and heard Chat rattle off what sounded like a grocery list—milk toast, vanilla ice cream, white bread.
“What?” I asked.
“If I were a music critic, that would be my description of your performance tonight. Bland. Uninteresting. Predictable.”
“Who are you? Simon Cowell?” I asked. “They were old people! Of course they wanted to hear the music that’s familiar to them. It reminds them of
when they were young.”
“Very good,” he said, and applauded. “That philosophy will get you a permanent gig at the Roadway Inn in East Jesus, Tennessee.”
“Vanilla ice cream happens to come from an exotic part of the world!” I shouted on my way out. I recalled Daddy telling me this once when we were having Blizzards at the Dairy Queen, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember which exotic place he’d said.
Out in the lobby, Riley was perched on a stool behind the front desk, eating Red Hots. As soon as he saw me coming, he hopped down. “Those old people liked your show,” he said, and smiled at me with pink teeth. “You should’ve heard them talking on the way out the door. They want you to start early from now on. Six o’clock, I think.”
“I know. They told me. Where’s your mama, Riley? I need to ask her about something.” I’d had enough of sleeping in Goggy’s car and eating tuna fish out of a can. And if Mrs. Farley would pay me the money she owed, I could afford to stay here for the night without depleting my cash supply too much. I could get a shower, curl up in a bed.
“Chat get you all worked up?” Riley asked. I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. “I wouldn’t worry too much about him if I was you. He’s just a bacon strip. Every singer we’ve ever had, he’s tortured them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, a bacon strip is when your underwear gets—”
“I don’t mean that! I mean about Chat torturing singers.”
“He says awful things about their music, insults the way they look. I asked him one time why he was such a anus, and you know what he said?”
“What?” I replied wearily.
“He says it’s people that can take harsh criticism that’ll make it in this business. He’s just testing you out. That and he’s all the time pissed off anyway.”
“Why is he pissed?”
“Because we’ll probably be closed up before the end of the year.”
“Really?” I asked. Riley nodded. “So why wouldn’t he just get a bartending job someplace else? Things aren’t exactly booming here,” I pointed out.
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