The Supremes Sing the Happy Heartache Blues

by Edward Kelsey Moore

  “It probably got painted that way to cover up some bad wood. But that didn’t matter to me. I laid eyes on those leopard spots and knew it was a message from my old man that I was headed down the wrong track. I ended up givin’ the pawnshop my old guitar and the last money I had in the world for this baby. Thought my wife was gonna kill me. But she forgave me when I spent the first money I made with the guitar putting her name on it.”

  “So Ruthie was your wife?”

  “Yeah,” El said. He squinted down at the picture of himself and Lily that rested in his lap as if he might see something new in it. Then he said, “What junkies know that other folks don’t is that reality is a mean little mirror. That mirror will show you every nasty thing you ever did to yourself and anybody else, unless you break it.”

  Barbara Jean said, “You told me once that there’s reality and there’s truth. The truth is, everybody makes mistakes. When I went to AA, I learned to forgive myself. I think you should forgive yourself, too.”

  “You’ve got a tender heart. I hope you don’t mind my sayin’ so, but you didn’t get that from Loretta. You must have a lot of your daddy in you.”

  Barbara Jean let out a quick snort. “That might be the case, but I wouldn’t know. I’ve never laid eyes on my father, and Loretta wasn’t what you’d call forthcoming in regard to him.”

  Darlene Lloyd, the nurse on duty that afternoon, entered the room. Her white sneakers squeaked on the tile floor as she walked to El’s bedside with his afternoon pain medication. She said, “Mr. Walker, I’ve got to take a look at your bandage.” She turned to Barbara Jean and added, “Mrs. Carlson, you’re welcome to come back a little later.”

  Barbara Jean said, “It’s time for me to go, anyway.” Then to El: “I’ll see you tomorrow at my friend Clarice’s recital.”

  “We’ll see. I might go, if I’m feelin’ okay.”

  “You’ll go,” Barbara Jean said. “Clarice is incredible, and it’ll do you good to get out of this room. Besides, it’s just downstairs.”

  “I’ll make sure he gets there,” Darlene said.

  Barbara Jean thanked her and waved good-bye.

  As Darlene began to unwrap the bandage on El’s foot, he tossed one of his pills into his mouth and chewed it to hurry the effects. Then he pulled his guitar into his lap.

  El picked out a melody and felt the beginnings of the opiate tingle. Hell, maybe he would go to the concert.

  CHAPTER 13

  The recital hall shared an atrium entrance with the children’s wing of the hospital. That afternoon, the space was filled with well-dressed people chatting and helping themselves to the food and beverages that had been supplied for the crowd by the benefit’s organizers. Barbara Jean and Ray stood in the center of a group of hospital board members whose bowing and scraping around the handsome, wealthy couple made them look like the court of the queen and king of a high school prom. I was deciding whether to walk over to Barbara Jean or make my way toward the mountain of shrimp on a nearby table when Wayne Robinson approached me.

  He wasn’t dead yet, I knew. His death would be big news in Plainview, and I was certain that when he passed, word would get to me within minutes. Also, it was my experience that the spirits of the fully departed appeared more substantial than he looked that day. The man before me was still sketchy at the edges.

  It would be a great exaggeration to say that Wayne Robinson looked happy, but he wore the first smile I’d ever seen on his face as he stood in front of me and said, “Hello, I was hoping we could have a talk.”

  Because James was beside me and several other people were within earshot, I didn’t respond. But right then, James caught Barbara Jean’s eye. They acknowledged each other with a wave, and my husband took a step in Barbara Jean and Ray’s direction. I gestured to James that I was going to head toward the hors d’oeuvres. I made my way to a table and filled a plate with as many shrimp as it would hold. Then I moved to a vacant corner of the atrium where Wayne Robinson and I could speak unobserved.

  He was a short man, just a little taller than me, with a square face and a wide jaw. He was making an effort to be charming, but it didn’t come naturally to him. His strained grin and unblinking eyes made me think of a crocodile. He said, “I recall that you were friends with my son Terry. I was hoping that perhaps you might be able to talk to him. I know how he respected your opinion. You probably know that he and I had a falling-out before he ran away. We both said things we didn’t mean. I’d appreciate it if you could suggest to him that he let bygones be bygones, in case he’s thinking about dredging up the past. It would be better for Terry that way. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Henry?”

  I was surprised that he knew my name. Our only previous conversation had come almost five years earlier, when I’d gone to see him about Terry. His son had shown up on my doorstep with a duffel bag and a sad tale that he was trying to paste a happy face on. When I went to see Wayne Robinson on behalf of his son that day, I got as far as saying, “Hi, Mr. Robinson, you probably don’t remember me, but I knew your wife and I’m a friend of your son Terry.”

  He frowned at me through his front screen and said, “I don’t have a son named Terry.” That was the end of our talk. He didn’t shout or slam the door on me. He just denied that his youngest child existed and walked away. Now he was making nice, wanting to chat with me about that same boy.

  “Mr. Robinson…” I said.

  “Wayne,” he interrupted, still trying to be friendly.

  “Mr. Robinson, I was sorry to hear about your health problems. I’m sure this hasn’t been easy for you or your children, especially since your wife passed not too long ago. But I don’t think it’s my place to tell Terry what to do.” I popped a shrimp into my mouth and wondered if I had time to reload my plate before the recital. I said, “I’m a believer in the power of prayer, and I promise I’ll ask the Lord to heal you so you can talk to Terry yourself.”

  The smile that he was trying to maintain faltered a bit as he said, “That’s the problem, Mrs. Henry. There won’t be a recovery for me. I’ve heard what the doctors are saying. They’re just waiting for my daughter to get back to town and make the final decision.”

  I said, “You never know. They’d given me up for dead five years back, and I’m still here.”

  He raised his voice as he began losing patience with me. “I don’t see why you can’t just have a talk with him. You’ve heard about that nasty thing he said he was going to do. You can’t believe that’s right.”

  I said, “If you were hoping for someone to support the most peaceful and polite way of settling a fight, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong member of the Henry family. My husband is the dove in our house. Unfortunately for you, James doesn’t see ghosts, so you’re stuck with the hawk. And I believe Terry deserves to sort this out whatever way he sees fit.”

  Ray and James walked up to me then. I turned away from Wayne Robinson, who had completely given up on charming me and was now pouting and cussing. I hugged Ray and then I oohed and aahed over the way he looked in his blue pin-striped suit. “Ray,” I said, “you’re a lovely sight in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. But in a suit, you are truly a sweet blessing from God.” We both laughed like I was kidding, but I was dead serious. If I’d kept a “Jump for Joy” calendar like Mama did to write down everyday wonders, I’d have penciled in a note about how beautiful blue-eyed Ray Carlson looked that day.

  Wayne Robinson kept jabbering at me about how unfair I was being. I ignored him while I talked to my husband and my friend. I suppose I could have been nicer, but my spirit-coddling days were done. Besides, he had started off on the wrong foot by telling that lie about Terry running away. A better person might have had more sympathy for this man’s hardship, but it galled me that he would expect any favors from me.

  A chime rang to signal that the auditorium was open and that everyone should move inside. I told James and Ray that I would be right behind them and asked that they save me a seat. Once I was alone, I turn
ed again to Wayne Robinson. I wanted to end my conversation with him on a warmer note than I’d left it earlier, considering his present situation.

  “I really am sorry that I can’t help you. It might be a good thing for you to go back upstairs and fight to stay in that body of yours so maybe you can make peace with your son. Or you might find that it’s time to let go and move on. Sometimes it’s good to know when to walk away from a fight.”

  Wayne Robinson scowled at me and showed me the sour, angry face I remembered from our brief talk through his screen door. He said, “You’re just gonna let him shame me when I’m dead the same way he shamed me when I was living?” He was getting louder and more excited as he spoke. “I deserve better! This isn’t right!” shouted the man who had put his own child out on the street over a few dresses.

  I said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Robinson.” I enjoyed the last shrimp on my plate and walked into the auditorium.

  CHAPTER 14

  Clarice peeked out from behind a maroon velvet curtain and watched her audience assemble. Barbara Jean, Ray, and James sat in the reserved front row, along with several men and women from the hospital board. Odette soon arrived and took the empty seat next to James. Beatrice swept in with Richmond on one arm and Forrest Payne on the other. They were followed by Veronica and her husband, Clement. In an elegant knee-length, pale taupe evening dress, Clarice’s mother was the best-dressed woman in the room. Veronica was a close second. She’d shown up in a floor-length beaded gown that was inappropriate for the occasion, but—Clarice had to admit—beautifully made. Even Beatrice and Veronica couldn’t draw anyone’s gaze away from Forrest Payne’s perfectly fitted yellow tuxedo, though. As usual, Forrest’s only possible competitor was the sun.

  The rest of the seats filled quickly with ticket holders. A dozen or so students from the university’s music school stood against the far wall. Near a ramp connected to the side entrance, Clarice saw Darlene Lloyd pushing in a wheelchair carrying El Walker.

  Until an hour before the performance was scheduled to begin, Clarice had felt more relaxed than she’d been for her other recent concerts. But then her manager, Wendell Albertson, had walked onto the stage as she was warming up. He claimed that he had flown in from New York for business nearby and decided to take in her concert. She thanked him for coming and pretended to be pleased to see him. Yet she couldn’t help but feel that he was there to check in on his investment. The critics had been decidedly less enthusiastic about her more recent performances than they had been about the concerts that had immediately followed her first recordings. Whether Wendell would admit it or not, she was sure he had traveled to the Midwest to see for himself what was happening with her.

  Now, with just a few minutes to go before the start of the program, Clarice felt her pulse begin to race as she watched Wendell talking to her mother in the audience. It crossed her mind that she might send a message to Richmond that he should come backstage for some private time in her dressing room. Then she thought that might be a bit much. It was a Sunday, after all.

  She took a few deep breaths and attempted to calm down. She told herself that she was prepared and she had nothing to worry about. She tried to convince herself that Wendell’s presence was a good thing. She could show him that the last review, in which the critic had described her as an “empty technician,” had been the product of a prickly journalist’s bad mood and not an accurate assessment of her current playing.

  Someone tapped Clarice on her shoulder, and she turned to see the president of the hospital board standing beside her. He said, “I’m about to introduce you. Is there anything you need before we start? Water, maybe?”

  Clarice wanted to say, See that muscular guy sitting between the two overdressed women? Tell him to get backstage and drop his pants right now! Instead she replied, “A bottle of water would be nice.”

  The board president’s introduction was a bit long-winded, but smoothly done. He recounted her childhood musical achievements, making them sound, Clarice thought, more impressive than they had been. Then he quoted the brilliant reviews of her recordings and cherry-picked positive comments from the reviews of her recent live performances. When she took the stage, the audience was primed for something special.

  She was performing three Beethoven sonatas, the same three she would be playing in Chicago. The trouble began almost immediately. She played the first note. Then she couldn’t remember the second. She had learned this piece—opus 23, the Appassionata—when she was a teenager, and she had performed and taught it more times than she could count. But the second note of the piece was gone from her memory.

  For what felt like several seconds—but was, in reality, only two—she waited for the second note to come to her. It didn’t, so she jumped to the third note. Now the know-it-all music students in the back of the auditorium were probably whispering to each other about the colossal mistake they’d just heard from a soloist who should know better. Though she couldn’t see Wendell Albertson’s face, she knew that he must be grimacing.

  The rest of the sonata flew by as Clarice closed her eyes and shut down her brain. When she reached the end, she was breathless and jittery, but there had been no more major missteps. The audience’s applause was loud and immediate—the blessing of having friends and family in attendance. When she glanced up at the clock offstage as she rose to take her bow, she realized that she had rushed the tempos so much that she had shaved a full two minutes from the performance time. No wonder they were impressed, she thought. Panic had caused her to perform a miracle of velocity.

  The next two pieces, which comprised the rest of the program, went slightly better. She wasn’t as flustered, and she was occasionally able to make music. When she struck the final chord of the last sonata, she could actually remember having played the piece, and she believed she had created one or two nice sounds along the way. But the Appassionata had been a disaster, remarkable only in its speed. Clarice knew that she didn’t deserve the standing ovation the crowd gave her. She could tell from her manager’s wrinkled brow and pinched mouth that he knew it, too.

  The audience hushed as she sat at the piano for her encore. Clarice announced, “Variations on ‘The Happy Heartache Blues,’ by El Walker.” Then she began to play.

  When Barbara Jean had asked her to perform El’s song as her encore, Clarice had planned to play only a straightforward transcription. As she’d worked on it, though, the melody had climbed beneath her skin and stayed. From the sheet music Barbara Jean had slipped out of El’s hospital room, Clarice had created a set of variations based on the haunting tune. The arrangement was simple and just under four minutes long, but the effect was powerful. The most appreciative clapping of the afternoon came after the encore.

  Above the noise of the crowd’s response, Clarice acknowledged the composer. “Mr. El Walker,” she called out.

  Darlene Lloyd pushed El’s wheelchair forward and brought him to the front of the hall. Clarice was relieved when he raised his head to look up at her on the stage and mouthed, “Thank you.” His chair was turned so that he faced the applauding crowd, and then Darlene helped him rise from the wheelchair to acknowledge the audience. With clear discomfort and effort, El stood on one foot and executed a movement that somewhat resembled a bow.

  Led by Barbara Jean and Ray, then quickly followed by Odette and James, the audience stood again to honor both Clarice and the old man in hospital scrubs.

  Clarice saw El change as if a switch had been flipped. He went from flashing his tobacco-stained teeth at the appreciative crowd to squeezing his eyes shut against pain that had suddenly become overwhelming. He fell back into his wheelchair and growled, “Get me out of here, dammit,” at the nurse behind him.

  Only Clarice and those in the front couple of rows noticed the quick shift in El’s demeanor, and they weren’t able to observe him for long. Clarice watched the nurse rush El toward the exit. Soon the two of them had disappeared.

  Health crises, large and small, were commonplac
e here. Once El was taken away, the focus quickly shifted back to Clarice, who bowed and smiled as her heart rate, at last, began to slow.

  Soon she was standing before a long line of people, each of whom wanted to personally congratulate her. The president of the hospital board embraced her and said that between donations and ticket sales, they’d made far more money for the hospital than they’d hoped to. Old friends kissed her and raved about how proud of her they were. Strangers who’d come to see her after hearing or reading the tale of the resurrected piano prodigy gripped her hand and told her that she was an inspiration.

  As well-wishers moved forward to deliver their compliments, Clarice began to remember scattered moments of the recital that hadn’t been total failures. The afternoon had been successful as a fund-raiser, so it had succeeded in at least one way. Also, she had performed three major pieces of the piano repertoire. Stunt programming, maybe. But just getting through those three warhorses was worth something, wasn’t it? She would have to meet a higher standard in the weeks to come, but there might be some small part of this day that she could count as a victory.

  Then a group of music professors from the university, with several of their students in tow, stepped up to shake her hand. Each of the students expressed admiration for her dexterity. Did she detect sarcasm? It was hard to tell with young people these days. The Appassionata must have been every bit the trainwreck she’d feared it was.

  Wendell Albertson said, “There were some really lovely moments.” That was no compliment. That was how you described diamonds scattered over a pile of manure.

  Her mother followed Wendell Albertson in the line. Beatrice Jordan Payne congratulated her daughter and reiterated her disappointment that Clarice had chosen to perform on a Sunday, a day reserved for religious contemplation. Then she embraced Clarice and whispered, “Let’s drive to Louisville this week and find you a more flattering dress.”