Rock Star

by Roslyn Hardy Holcomb

  Bryan was actually grateful that his voice was so weak; it never would’ve occurred to him to have another voice on the song, and it sounded immeasurably better with Thad. Twist kept teasing them that they had a Simon and Garfunkel type harmony which only made Thad more uncomfortable. Jon had finally put a stop to it, by reminding Twist that they might have to call on him to sing next.

  Bryan smiled genuinely for the first time in a week as he and the band moved onstage. Sometimes the best plans required no planning at all; they simply happened serendipitously. Too bad B.T. had never figured that out.

  * * *

  Callie and Tonya sat on the living room sofa, waiting for Storm Crow’s next number. Callie had already told Tonya about the incident with Chasdity, and Bryan had shared his suspicions about the source of the story with Tonya. They’d both laughed raucously at the Puriti with an “i” sketch. They laughed even harder when Callie recalled her mother’s warning about the mean-spiritedness of hungry people. Callie assumed that Bryan had also told Harley about what had happened and the sketch was the result. By the time it was over, she actually found herself feeling sorry for the poor girl.

  Appalled, Callie commented on Bryan’s physical condition. Tonya dryly replied that they both looked as if they’d been “rode hard and put away wet.” Callie could hardly argue the point. During this past week she’d had occasional glimpses of herself in the mirror. If she’d ever looked worse, she was grateful that she couldn’t recall it. Despite the judicious use of Visine, her eyes had not regained their normal hue, and her skin had lost its wondrous sheen. Even her hair, normally so vibrant and healthy, hung in lackluster strands around her face.

  Bryan’s voice was even hoarser and raspier than usual. Tonya had told her that he had a cold. But despite his condition, Bryan’s fierce masculinity reached out to her just as powerfully as ever. His physical and emotional vulnerability provoked her to the point that she wanted nothing more than to rush to the airport and get to New York as soon as possible. She no longer doubted that he needed her as much as she needed him. Watching him perform, she realized the futility and cruelty of ending their relationship the way she’d planned. She would have to talk to him and tell him her decision and the reasons behind it. However, she wasn’t sure she could actually survive the pain of doing that in person. Certainly she was not up to the task right now.

  Callie leaned against Bartholomew, rubbing his soft fur as she anxiously watched the television. The band had acoustic guitars and sat in the same formation they had used for the tribute concert. She wondered briefly if they were going to do an encore of that performance. Then they began to play, and Callie immediately recognized the melody. It was the song Bryan had played that day he’d asked her to come with him to L.A. She had a brief flashback to the sweet memory of that rainy fall day, and the joy in his eyes when she agreed to go. The tenderness of the music evoked so many painful memories that it literally took her breath away. She began to shake uncontrollably when she realized that the song Bryan was singing was about her and the way their relationship had been destroyed by outside forces and events they couldn’t control. Everything else fell away; there was no one in the room but her and Bryan. It was just as it had been at the tribute concert. Bryan had the power to make a person feel as if he were singing directly to them. That he was making that person privy to emotions that he would not share with anyone else. But in this instance, Callie knew that this song was truly for her ears only. The fact that there were millions of other listeners was irrelevant; this was her song and he was singing it to her. Like the troubadours of old, he’d put his feelings to verse and was serenading his lady. The intimacy of that moment was almost tangible, and she began rocking back and forth as she realized the depth of this man’s love for her. Then Thad joined in, harmonizing on the chorus, his high sweet tenor in stark contrast to the low timbre of Bryan’s voice. The combination of the two voices sent chills down Callie’s spine. She was surprised that Thad was willing to sing on stage because he had seemed so painfully shy and self-conscious. Even now, he didn’t look into the camera once, but kept his eyes lowered to his guitar. Somehow the additional voice elevated the song’s emotional power, and Callie began to sob.

  Tonya looked on in wonder as Bryan told the world how much he loved Callie. Almost paralyzed with astonishment, it was all she could do to move closer to Callie in an attempt to console her. Much to her surprise, tears formed in her own eyes. She’d never expected him to make such a bold declaration. They both stared at the television, transfixed as Bryan finished the song and then looked directly into the camera. His tempestuous blue eyes ablaze, he huskily whispered a proclamation for the entire world. “I love you, Callie.”

  Callie gasped suddenly as the room grayed around the edges. For a moment she was sure she was losing consciousness. His voice sparked memories of those mornings when she’d awakened spooned in his arms, to his whispered declarations of love. His declarations had possessed the same raw emotion and gravely tone. She could almost feel his breath on the back of her neck as he murmured it to her. But he had said it on live television!

  Tonya rocked her friend’s slack body against her own. Damn! Dude really did know how to throw down the gauntlet. If anyone had any doubts about his intentions, he’d disabused them of those notions as patently as possible. Not to mention placing the ball firmly back in Callie’s court.

  Callie raised her head from Tonya’s shoulder. “He really loves me, Tonya. He just told the world that he really loves me.”

  Tonya looked at her friend speculatively. “Yep, I’d say he did. Now the question is, what do you plan to do about it?”

  Chapter 20

  Callie stared at Marjorie Peters’ retreating back as she exited the store. So this was what it felt like to have the whole world all up in your business. Marjorie was the Sunday School teacher at Callie’s church and the biggest gossip in Maple Fork. Actually, some said she was the most prolific scandalmonger in the tri-county area. She truly lived by Alice Roosevelt’s old maxim, “If you don’t have anything good to say, come sit next to me.” Callie shook her head in utter disgust; Marjorie was the umpteenth person to ask her what she intended to do about the situation with Bryan. Was there anybody in the whole damned state who hadn’t watched Saturday Night Live? And didn’t any of these people have lives of their own? If she knew what she was going to do about “the situation with Bryan” would she be standing here in the middle of her store feeling like a hieroglyphic?

  Meanwhile, Bryan seemed to have embarked on the official “Tell the World Their Business Tour,” with appearances on all three late-night talk shows. Somehow he made it seem as though she’d rescued him from the brink of despair and self-destructive grief. Incredulously, she listened to him reveal the whole story with stark honesty.

  To his credit, no one was talking about the story in The Naked Truth anymore. Instead, they were talking about Callie in terms usually reserved for the likes of Mother Teresa. And public opinion, in its usual fickle fashion, had turned against the tabloid. Under attack from what seemed like every celebrity in Hollywood and even some television news pundits, they had issued a formal apology and retraction and had even offered to make a substantial donation to Callie’s favorite charity. Callie chewed her lip; in some ways she actually regretted the tabloid’s quick capitulation. She had enjoyed the assaults on them and regularly watched the tape of Bill O’Reilly’s comments. His voice shaking with righteous indignation, the commentator had upbraided the tabloid for its slanderous attack on a non-celebrity, a regular “working stiff,” and demanded an apology.

  She knew she had achieved true “fallen woman” status when she received a telephone call from celebrity attorney Gloria Allred’s office offering to file suit for a substantial sum against the magazine. The representatives had pointed out to her that in addition to being slanderous, the story was also quite sexist and demeaning to women everywhere. Callie sucked her teeth, tempted to add that it was racist as wel
l. As she had told Bryan, regardless of what went on in California, most people still didn’t like seeing a black woman with a white man. Especially a white man who was as famous as Bryan. The law firm’s offer would give her a chance to get back against a publication that had maliciously tried to ruin her life. Though sorely tempted, years of litigation did not appeal to her. More than anything, she simply wanted to get on with her life, not become entangled in endless legal retribution. Though she’d declined the offer, somehow the story had leaked to the press. She was fairly certain that it was Allred’s potential involvement that had caused The Naked Truth to offer the quick recantation, apology and monetary award. Though she shuddered at the thought of actually taking what she considered to be blood money, she knew that there were several black entrepreneurial organizations that could use the capital. They had been immeasurably helpful to her, and she looked forward to being able to reciprocate.

  For the first time in a long time, Callie was in the store alone. Roshonda had asked for a well-deserved day off, and Tonya was giving her manuscript some desperately needed attention. Tonya’s editor was the only person calling them more often than the tabloids. In all likelihood Tonya would make her deadline, but it would be a near thing. She’d almost stopped writing altogether as she pitched in to help Callie deal with the crisis. Customers were still coming in at a steady clip, mainly to be nosey, but fortunately the reporters hadn’t returned en masse. Generally there were one or two a day, content to snap a quick photograph and then go on their way. Presumably the number of reporters dwindled because they were still covering the disappearance of that poor girl, and while Callie felt terrible for Lainie’s family, she welcomed the reprieve. B.T. had given her a brief primer on how to handle the media last week. He had cautioned her that it was better to simply let them take the picture than to resist and to do her best to ignore them. She’d followed his advice, and for the most part, even the most notorious ones had been only minimally obnoxious.

  Well, except for the one she’d found in the bottom of her closet that morning. She’d originally thought he was a burglar or worse and screamed the house down. Tonya had run in carrying her trusty Louisville Slugger. The guy had cowered there, begging them not to kill him, and presented his press credentials. They quickly determined that, having gained entrance with a credit card, he had been there for only a brief period, and not all night as they’d initially feared. Scared witless, he’d immediately confessed that he only wanted to get pictures of the rooms where the working girls supposedly did their business. Callie had a brief moment of gratitude that he hadn’t gone into Tonya’s room; one glimpse of that Mae West fantasy and nothing would’ve convinced the guy that there weren’t any call girls there. He hadn’t had a chance to take any incriminating photos, but they confiscated his memory card anyway and agreed to let him go. They’d called the locksmith right away to put on a dead-bolt lock on both their doors. Though the situation was bizarre to the extreme, it wasn’t nearly as bad as some of the stories B.T. had related during their conversation the previous week. She couldn’t imagine what it felt like to have paparazzi popping up in the bathroom, or hanging out of helicopters to get photographs. Sometimes they even yelled racial epithets or insults at celebrities to spark a reaction and “juice up” the picture. God, there had to be an easier way to make a living.

  The Saturday Night Live performance had created quite a stir, and the first call after the show had come from Addie and Cynthia. They’d been so excited that they were nearly incoherent. Finally they’d calmed down enough to ask Callie when she was going to New York. They’d been bewildered when she’d assured them that she had no plans to do so.

  “What more can he do?” Cynthia had screeched. “Callie, he told the whole world that he loved you. Isn’t that enough? Even Daddy had to shut up after that! Did you hear him, Callie? Oh, it was so romantic. It gave me goose bumps the way he sang with his voice all bugged out. It was so cool.”

  Callie hadn’t responded to the statement about her father. She was still smarting from his biting criticism two weeks ago. Though he’d come to her home shortly thereafter to apologize, and in his own gruff way had tried very hard to be loving and supportive, she was still hurt by his outbursts. She doubted he’d had a sincere change of heart, but accepted his apology because she didn’t want to be the one to continue the hostilities.

  Callie didn’t know how to answer her sister’s inquiries. She wondered what all these busybodies would say if they knew that Bryan had not called her or Tonya since appearing on the show. The only time either of them had heard him he was either on the radio or television. “Portrait,” better known as “Callie’s Song,” had become an instant hit and was in heavy rotation on the radio stations. It seemed that MTV was broadcasting the SNL performance in a continuous loop. Every channel surfer on the planet had probably seen it at least once. She’d fielded requests from every talk show in existence, including some she’d never heard of. The only one she found even marginally tempting was Oprah. She adored the self-made woman, and would’ve been more than happy to talk with her about any other topic except her love life. With minimal participation from her, the situation was already outlandish. If she actually joined in the media circus it was bound to spin out of control. Besides, she didn’t want to come across like the instant celebrities from all those so-called reality shows. They were famous for being famous, and had never really done anything to justify all the attention. No one would be interested in her if Bryan had been just a regular guy from down the street; she didn’t want to exploit his fame that way.

  Cosmopolitan had called to interview her for a story called, “How to Catch Your Own Rock Star.” Despite her refusal to cooperate, they were apparently rushing the issue to press to take advantage of all the media hype. She couldn’t wait to see how they were going to write a story about her love life without interviewing her. Of course, The Naked Truth had apparently had little difficulty doing so. Why would Cosmo be any different? The telephone calls had tapered off somewhat after Callie made it clear that she wasn’t giving interviews to anyone at any price. So much for her mercenary streak. If she’d taken even half the offers, she could have been a reasonably wealthy woman.

  Just when she thought the situation couldn’t get any worse, Sheriff Pettway had returned with a warrant to search her garbage. What was it going to take to get rid of this guy, a silver bullet? Perplexed, she’d simply stared at the document for a long moment, and though she really didn’t want to know the answer, she had to ask why he wanted to search her garbage.

  “Callie, I know you madams have gone high-tech these days. They tell me y’all even take credit cards. I figure I’ll find the evidence in your trash. Besides, I know you people are big on practicing safe sex. If I find condoms out there, I can use our high-tech techniques to collect DNA evidence,” he blustered self-importantly.

  Callie wondered if Scooter even knew what DNA was. She knew for sure that he couldn’t spell it. How high-tech could his collection methods be? After all, this man had bragged continuously for three weeks when he got a new bug zapper. He’d ceased his crowing only when the mayor threatened to put him in the contraption. Callie shook her head and led Scooter to the back of the store where they disposed of their garbage. Trash was picked up only once per week, so the dumpsters were quite full. She stood there and watched for a while as he and his deputy began pulling out the large trash bags. He had been so smug and superior she refused to tell him that she shredded all her documents, especially credit card receipts. With all the identity theft going on, she couldn’t be too careful.

  She was occasionally surprised however, at comments from people she would previously never have thought to be racist. Made self-conscious by the South’s dismal racial history, the white people tried diligently to couch their opposition to her relationship with Bryan in inoffensive terms. The blacks were much more direct in their approach. The warning shot had come from the extremely Afro-centric leader of the African trib
al dance class they had bi-weekly at the store. Their confrontation had been very heated, and the instructor threatened to cease teaching at the store. Deeply wounded, Callie had calmly told her to do what she felt was right. Thus far, the classes had continued on schedule, but the atmosphere was noticeably frigid between them. On more than one occasion she had been heard to ask how such a conscious-appearing sister had turned into such a monumental sell-out. Quite a few black people had protested losing another one of their best and brightest to “the white man.” As one of the church sisters put it, “It’s bad enough that the first thing black men do when they get a little money is get a white woman. Now black women are doing the same thing. What’s going to happen to the community?” Callie didn’t know what to make of that. Would folks have been less concerned if she had been unattractive and less successful?

  Attending church or any church activities had become almost impossible. Though the pastor of her church remained above the fray, his parishioners had not and some had even spouted the same vitriolic rhetoric she’d heard in other places. They could not be dissuaded, even when Callie protested that she would not be leaving the community for any reason. Dating a white man did not obviate the fact that she’d been black for twenty-nine years and was unlikely to change anytime soon. Most wounding was her eventual realization that all her activism on behalf of the black community apparently meant nothing if she dared violate the most crucial taboo for a black woman: dating a white man. Some of the women she sang with in the choir had been especially hateful. It had been unbearably painful when they whispered “white man’s whore” under their breath as she entered the choir stand. Much to their dismay, Granny heard them and called them on it.

  “Hmmmph, I can’t believe all these supposed-to-be-sanctified folks are up in this church picking on Callie for loving somebody. If the church isn’t about love, what is it about? And y’all know the only reason you got something to say is because you ain’t got no man at all!”