I Can't Make You Love Me, but I Can Make You Leave

by Dixie Cash

With the discovery of something in common and Darla Denman’s friendliness, Debbie Sue plopped into her own styling chair and fell into a chat with her new visitor. Darla explained that she was on her way to Midland for an appearance at the annual telethon raising money for Alzheimer’s disease. “You haven’t heard I’m going to be there?” she asked, a troubled expression on her face. “We were told there would be publicity for the event.”

  “Oh, I’m sure there was—er, is,” Debbie Sue said quickly. “But I never read the papers. And since I got my iPod I don’t listen to the radio like I used to. I don’t have time for TV. My husband and I rarely turn the set on.”

  The corners of Darla’s lips tilted into another smile. “Yeah? You’ve got a good marriage?”

  “Lord, yes. Buddy Overstreet and I have been in love with each other since before we knew what it was. He’s a Texas Ranger.”

  “A professional baseball player?” Darla pointed a French-manicured finger at the floor. “And he lives here? In this little town?”

  Debbie Sue’s brow tugged into a frown. “No, ma’am. He’s a law-enforcement officer. Salt Lick’s part of the territory he’s responsible for. You’ve never heard of the Texas Rangers?”

  Darla Denman straightened, sat back in her chair, then laughed. “Oh. Those Texas Rangers. I thought you meant the baseball team. Why, as I live and breathe. Honey, I was born and raised in Texas, but I don’t recall that I’ve ever met a real Texas Ranger.”

  “They’re kind of rare,” Debbie Sue said. “Texas is a big place, you know, and there just aren’t that many of them. Come to think of it, I guess we don’t need many of them. You’ve probably heard that corny old joke, ‘one riot, one Ranger?’ ” Debbie Sue chortled at the well-worn joke, then grew serious. “Besides being my husband and my lover, he’s my best friend.”

  Darla leaned forward and patted her hand. “Keep it that way, darlin’. Don’t let anything, and I mean anything—career, money or your damned ego—change it, either. Best friends are hard to find and one that’s also your lover is a blessing straight from heaven.”

  All at once, the singer paused and her expression changed, as if she became lost in a memory. Then she seemed to snap out of it and went on to talk about the importance of the telethon gig and her ensuing concerts. “I guess this is my grand finale, my swan song.”

  “But you’re too young to quit,” Debbie Sue protested. “You’ve got years to go on singing. Just look at my mom.”

  “Your mom’s a singer?”

  “She’s a songwriter. Lord, she didn’t even start until she was sixty. Now she’s moved to Nashville and she’s famous. She’s even won some awards.”

  “Your mom is a songwriter? Who is she?”

  “Virginia Pratt,” Debbie Sue answered proudly. “One of the songs she wrote is ‘Since You’re Leaving Anyway, Take Out the Trash.’ ”

  Darla Denman gasped. “Oh, my God!”

  “And she wrote ‘She’s Left Lipstick Traces in Too Many Places,’ ” Debbie Sue added. “And Gretchen Wilson recorded it.”

  “I would’ve killed for that song,” the singer said solemnly. “Absolutely killed.”

  “She’ll write another one for you,” Debbie Sue said. “Just ask her.”

  Darla Denman’s lips curved down in a wry grin. “You think an award-winning songwriter wants to write something for a singer everyone thinks is dead? Songwriters have to think of their careers too, you know.”

  “Oh, uh, listen, Darla, I’m sorry I said anything about that dead thing. It’s just that—”

  “Don’t apologize,” Darla said, and laughed with a trace of bitterness. “I’ve been out of the public eye for too long. For the record and according to Wikipedia, I’m fifty-one. In the music business, that’s ancient for a singer. But I’m prepared physically, if not mentally. I’ve been plucked, tucked, and sucked. I’m prepared to go out in style.”

  “Attagirl,” Debbie Sue said as the sound of screeching tires and pea gravel striking the window broke up their conversation. They both shot looks toward the front door. Then Debbie Sue heard the thud of the back door’s doorknob hitting the wall. Edwina made her entrance with the finesse of a marching band. Her hair was plastered to her head like a shiny, wet black cap and her face was snow white. She didn’t look in Debbie Sue’s or Darla Denman’s direction but strode straight to the back room and disappeared behind the doorway’s floral curtain.

  Horrified, Debbie Sue said to Darla, “Excuse me,” and followed Edwina.

  In the back room, Edwina was standing beside the teal green shampoo bowl. She had the spray nozzle in her hand and was testing the water temperature.

  “Ed, what in the hell—”

  “Is she still over there? Did you see her? Bless her heart, I bet she looked like death warmed over.” She dropped the spray nozzle in the sink, sank onto the shampoo chair and placed her neck in the shampoo bowl’s U. “Hurry up, dammit. Wash this shit off my hair. Use the spray nozzle on my face, too, so I can get rid of this mask in a hurry. While my hair’s drying, I’ll put on some makeup.”

  Debbie Sue hadn’t moved from her frozen stance in the doorway.

  “Don’t just stand there, Debbie Sue. Help me!”

  Debbie Sue turned back to the salon and patted her pursed lips with her finger. She motioned for Darla to come to the shampoo room. Then she picked up the spray nozzle and began washing the inky color rinse from Edwina’s hair.

  “I’ve been doing the math in my head,” Edwina said, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Darla Denman has got to be seventy years old. I mean, she was at the top of her game when I was in my teens and we both know how long that’s been. Don’t forget my face, Dippity-do. Just squirt a little bit of water, not much. Just enough to get this mask damp.”

  Debbie Sue was reluctant to spray Edwina’s face with water from the spray nozzle. “I don’t know about that, Ed. This thing’s got enough water pressure to sting bare skin. Aside from that, I could end up dousing this whole damn back room.”

  “Debbie Sue,” Edwina whined. “Just do it.”

  “Okay, okay. But keep your eyes closed.”

  Debbie Sue motioned Darla Denman over and handed the nozzle to her, indicating with her hand what she wanted her to do.

  Getting the joke, Darla hid a giggle behind her hand and nodded.

  She moved to a spot beside the shampoo bowl, took the nozzle in hand and began to carefully release a small stream of water across Edwina’s forehead.

  “Here, hit me here.” Edwina raised her hand to indicate a spot on her face. Her hand struck the spray nozzle Darla held. Darla lost control and drenched the wall behind the shampoo bowl and the two shelves above it.

  “Oh, my God!” She dropped the nozzle into the sink and clapped both hands against her cheeks. The nozzle danced in the bottom of the sink like a hyped-up cobra, erratically squirting everything and everyone within four feet.

  Debbie Sue’s eyes flew wide. She leaped to grab the nozzle before more damage was done. Water dripped off the shelves, even the ceiling, onto the floor and onto the back of the sink.

  And worst of all, off Darla Denman’s chin.

  “Shit,” Debbie Sue said, grabbed a damp shop towel off the shelf and handed it to Darla.

  Darla sniffed and began to blot her face.

  Edwina’s eyes remained tightly closed. “What? What the hell happened?”

  Debbie Sue’s heart was pounding, but she managed to control the water pressure with her thumb. “Nothing, Ed.” She finished rinsing the white mask off Edwina’s face.

  “That feels about right,” Edwina said. “That oughtta do it. Hand me a towel.”

  With her adrenaline ebbing, Debbie Sue reached overhead for another towel, only to find the remaining ones soaked. She handed one to Edwina, who applied it to her face, appearing not to even notice that it was wet. Her eyes still closed, Edwina jutted out her chin. “Check out my face real close. Go ahead and study it. It’s supposed to look smooth as a baby’s butt. D
oes it?”

  Darla retrieved a pair of glasses from her jacket pocket, perched them on her nose, bent forward and studied Edwina’s face. As Debbie Sue bent to look too, Darla stroked Edwina’s cheek with her index finger. “I don’t know about a baby’s butt, but it looks pretty good. But then I’m seventy years old and look like death warmed over, so what do I know?”

  Edwina’s eyes sprang open. She looked into the singer’s hazel eyes just inches from her own. She said nothing, only stared.

  “Ed, can’t you say something?” Debbie Sue asked.

  “Sweet Jesus and all that’s holy. Woman, you look just like Darla Denman.”

  Darla straightened. “I am Darla Denman.”

  “Shit,” Edwina said, sitting up. “I thought you were dead.”

  Darla sighed. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” She continued to dab at her face with the damp towel. “But ladies, I didn’t come in here to discuss my obituary. I need help.”

  Meanwhile, in Hogg’s Drive-In, Roxie Denman admired her reflection in her gold compact mirror before snapping it shut and returning it to her purse. Several men had come into the shithole cafe and cast shy but admiring looks in her direction. She had smiled back boldly, giving them a show. She knew the effect her appearance had on men and used it to the max. Why not? What were her good looks for, if not to make her life easier and more exciting?

  Contemplating the journey that had brought her to this point, she cast a disdainful look across the table at music producer Bob Denman, the man to whom she had been married for two long years, four endless months and twelve boring days. She had met him in a Nashville nightclub known for discovering new talent, where she used to sing three nights a week. He had been single then and came in often with various beautiful women. His reputation in the music business was widely known.

  Roxie had waged an all-out campaign to win his attention, used every trick in the femme fatale handbook. Once she had maneuvered an actual date with him, she let him have a taste of mind-blowing sex, then rationed it. She professed her affection for him, then stepped out with another man. Through the whole process, she had navigated a slippery slope that could have become an avalanche if not properly managed, but she knew what she was doing. Soon she had reeled him in like a big fish. She had his promise of promoting her career and a big diamond ring on her finger and a marriage license, which oddly enough had turned into a pain in her ass.

  Indeed she had won, but lately she wondered what the prize was. The past year the only client Bob spent time with was his ex-wife. He seemed to be obsessed with making her happy and helping her make a comeback.

  Roxie knew better than anyone what her husband denied the loudest—that he still loved Darla Denman. Roxie wasn’t jealous, hell, no. She hadn’t married a man old enough to be her father because he was the last great love of her life. She had married him for what he could do for her life, here and now. She didn’t give a shit who he loved, but she did care that his sappy affection for his ex-wife interfered with Roxie Denman’s grand plan.

  “Where in the hell is she?” she demanded of Bob.

  “Roxie, you know as much as I do. She said she’d be right back and she will. It’s not like we’ve got somewhere to go.”

  “That’s the first thing you’ve said today that was accurate. We’ve got absolutely no fucking place to go.”

  “Please keep your voice down,” Bob said, reaching across the table and covering her hand with his. “Making a scene can only make things worse.”

  Roxie yanked her hand away with enough force to knock the plastic ketchup bottle from the table to the floor, where the lid popped off and splattered ketchup in a four-foot radius.

  “Great,” Bob said, grabbing a handful of napkins. “Look at the mess you made.” He bent and began wiping up the floor.

  Roxie slid from the booth, jammed her fists against her hips and fixed him with a look of pure disgust. “That’s right, Bob. Clean it up. Cleaning up messes is what you do best.”

  With that parting shot, she flounced out of the café.

  Chapter Four

  Debbie Sue was blown away by the proposal Darla Denman had just made, but before she had a chance to react, Edwina sprang to her feet, wrapped her long skinny arms around Darla and pressed her wet cheek to the visiting celebrity’s, whose makeup was slightly smeared and uneven after being dampened by the aberrant spray nozzle and wiped with a wet towel. Hugging the superstar was no easy feat for Edwina. The singer couldn’t be over five-three and was a little on the chunky side, and Edwina, wearing her trademark four-inch platform shoes, towered over her.

  Debbie Sue pried Edwina away. “Miz Denman, I could not have heard you right. Would you mind repeating what you just said?”

  “Please don’t call me Miz Denman, doll. It’s Darla, okay?”

  “Okay, Darla. Please say what you just said again.”

  “Wait a minute.” Wet black hair plastered against her head, Edwina strode out of the shampoo room. Debbie Sue and Darla followed and found her straddling the rolling desk chair behind the payout counter, prowling the interior of her monstrous black-and-white cowhide hobo bag. “Let me get Vic on the phone so he can hear you say it.” Edwina pulled out a tube of mascara and threw it aside, then looked up and flashed an idiot grin that, without the aura of a beehive hairdo, made her face look like a smiley face. “Vic’s my husband. He’s a retired navy SEAL. He liberated Kuwait.”

  Darla smiled wanly. “Well, that’s real nice.”

  “Ed,” Debbie Sue said. “Cool it with the phone and let Miz Den—I’m sorry—let Darla talk.” She turned to Darla, gesturing toward Edwina’s salon chair. “Sit down, Miz Denman. Sorry beauty shop furniture is all we’ve got.”

  Darla reclaimed her former seat in Edwina’s styling chair and Debbie Sue sank to the seat of her own styling chair.

  “What do we have to sign?” Edwina asked. “And where? When do we perform?”

  “Just hold on, Ed,” Debbie Sue said. “You’re getting way ahead of things. You might be on board with this, but I’m not. I’m thinking there’s probably one of our customers who’d like to do it.”

  Edwina’s grin turned to a scowl as she tucked back her chin. “You’re gonna sacrifice this opportunity to one of our customers? Who? Just who do you think would be better at this than we would?”

  “I don’t know. But—”

  “Fine.” Edwina slapped her phone on the counter with a pronounced clack and turned to Darla. “Say it again. I want to be sure I heard you right.”

  Debbie Sue wanted to scream. Darla probably thought she and Edwina were insane. Or at the very least, just plain stupid. And to prove it, she was looking at them as if they were monkeys in a cage.

  “Okay, here it is again,” Darla said slowly. “I need two backup singers”—she held up two fingers—“when I perform at the telethon in Midland on Sunday. Would you two like to give it a try?”

  Edwina squealed, sprang to her feet and did a little jig. She grabbed a can of hair spray and, as if it were a microphone, broke into singing the opening lyrics from one of Darla’s biggest hits from years back. “She may have initials after her name, but I turn you on PDQ.”

  While Darla stared drop-jawed at Edwina’s performance, Debbie Sue reached for her hand. “Try to understand, Miz Den—er, Darla. Ed’s overexcited. With all due respect, is this some kind of publicity stunt? I mean, as you see”—she nodded in Edwina’s direction—“she’s taking your request really serious.”

  “And you aren’t?” Darla asked.

  Flustered, Debbie Sue struggled for the right words. “Yes, I mean, no, I mean . . . surely you have your own. Backup singers, that is. I saw some women coming out of Hogg’s earlier. They weren’t Salt Lick-ites. I know everyone from here and near and I didn’t recognize any of them. So they had to be part of your crowd.”

  “You’re right, darlin’. They were with me, and I do mean were. A small problem has raised its ugly head. It seems the situation we’ve found ourselves i
n caused them to be a little less than loyal.”

  Debbie Sue didn’t want to bluntly declare that the people she had seen leaving Hogg’s were the most pissed-off people she had observed in a while, so she tried for tact. “From the way they were stalking out the door, I’d say it’s more than just a little less. What made them bail on you?”

  Edwina halted her performance. “They bailed? Well, my stars and pass the biscuits.”

  “My, my,” Darla said, giving Debbie Sue a pointed look. “Such perceptive questions. You really are a detective, aren’t you?”

  “I never heard of such disloyalty,” Edwina said. “I can’t imagine anything that would make me run out on you, Miz Denman.”

  Darla cleared her throat. “Well, you see, it seems this little mechanical problem we’ve had with the bus is going to take the last of our funds. We can’t pay anyone until we get back to Nashville.”

  Oops, Debbie Sue thought.

  Edwina’s brow tented into a look of sympathy. “That seems reasonable to me. What I mean is, payday is payday, no matter where it takes place, right?”

  “Well, er . . . it’s a little more complicated than that, you see. Bottom line, ladies, the Darla Denman comeback tour is busted. We couldn’t even afford to get those people back to Nashville. That’s why they hitched a ride with a trucker.”

  “Yikes,” Debbie Sue said.

  “Hell’s bells,” Edwina drawled. “I take back what I just said.”

  “So you’re on the level,” Debbie Sue asked, cocking her head and narrowing her eyes. “You want us? You haven’t even asked if we can sing, which we can’t.”

  Edwina smirked. “Speak for yourself.”

  “Like I said,” Debbie Sue countered. “We can’t sing.”

  Edwina fixed a fist on her hip and seemed about to say something when Darla cut her off. “Not a problem. All my backup music is prerecorded. The only live singing is done by me. We hired the backup singers at the last minute back in Nashville. They don’t even know the words to the songs. I can’t risk that one of them might sing off-key or mumble the words at the wrong time, so we’re using old tapes. All you have to do is move around a little. Keep time with the music and mouth the words. You know, lip-sync.”