A Southern Place (26 page)

The bare, muddy banks folded into a clump of trees—huge live oaks, tall pines, and a scattering of dogwoods in full bloom, treetops touching and filtering out the sun. Just as the trees thinned out and the light began to seep in, I veered closer to the water, stopping at the single, misplaced palm tree that’s always been my favorite.

“What the hell?” laughed Danny. “This is Georgia, and we’re nowhere near the coast. How did this get here?”

“Isn’t it great?” I asked. “It’s been here as long as I can remember. My uncle use to bring us here, me and my mom, we’d have picnics sometimes, or just fish. When I was little, I used to pretend I was on an island, my own island, like Robinson Crusoe. Or Gilligan’s Island. Or some exotic place only rich people knew about. Silly, but I loved it. And I’ve never seen anyone here but my family.”

“Damn,” Danny said. “That is weird. But you have
seen more than just your family here.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m here. Does that make me family?”

I rolled my eyes at him, like a flirty teenager, and then pushed him gently. “Probably not. Depends on how good you can fish.” I used my foot to smooth out the moist dirt and twigs underneath the tree, then sat down. Danny did the same. I opened the carton, pulled out a fat, wriggling worm and hooked him to a line, then handed the baited pole to Danny.

“Don’t expect this next time, but I guess you
are
my guest and all,” I said. Danny took the pole and cast into the water, looking relieved when it went in without a hitch. I baited my own and did the same.

Danny breathed easier when he felt a bite, then pulled in the first fish, a rainbow trout, small but not too small. I would’ve hated to admit it, but I was having a good time watching him out of his element. I liked him better when he wasn’t so cocky and sure of himself. Within the hour, I’d landed two medium catfish and a small bream.

“You’re pretty darn good at this,” he told me. “You and your mom still fish together?” I smiled, thinking of how Mama woulda said Danny was now fishing for more than his dinner.

“My mama died when I was in high school. I’m a family of one, as they say. But I still fish, alone out here. Kinda makes me feel closer to ’em, her and Uncle Cal, both.” I stopped. “I guess that sounds crazy to you.”

“No, it makes sense. Doing things you did together would have to make you feel closer to them, and out here has kind of a magical feeling, anyway. I mean, I can see how you’d pretend it was your own little island. It really does seem isolated from the rest of the world. This place is great—special.”

I placed my hand on his arm, looking into his eyes. “Thanks,” I said, “for not laughing at me. I know I can sound like Ellie Mae, but it’s nice when someone seems to get what I mean. Thanks.”

Danny laid his hand on my knee. “No thanks necessary,” he said. “And I love Ellie Mae—she’s totally hot. Do you have any critters?”

“I have three cats, and maybe five or six more that stop by occasionally for food,” I said.

“No raccoons or possums?”

“I had two dogs,” I said. I pulled my hand away and looked out at the water. “Uncle Cal’s dogs, Hank and Jerry Lee.”

“For Hank Williams and Jerry Lee Lewis?”

“Yeah. I know, crazy—”

“Not crazy. Cool,” said Danny. “My cat’s name is Clapton.”

“Clapton? That’s ridiculous,” I said.

“Okay. You said you
had
two dogs?”

“Yeah. I guess they came with the house. Hank died from a snakebite, the summer after Mama died. I thought I had to be the unluckiest person in the whole world. First Uncle Cal, then Mama, then Hank. Got to where I wouldn’t let Jerry Lee outta my sight, left him inside when I wasn’t at home, watched him like a hawk, treated him like a damned baby. But I was so scared I was gonna lose him, too.”

Danny listened as he pulled in another fish, this one a large mouth bass.

“That’s one a beauty!” I told him.

Danny grinned. “Yeah, he is, but damn if it ain’t weird hearing a girl say it. Anyway, finish telling me, what happened to Jerry Lee?”

“He died in his sleep.”

“How sad,” he said, spearing another worm onto his hook.

“We all gotta go sometime,” I said. “He died this year, on Valentine’s Day. He was sixteen years old; that’s ninety-six in dog years.”

“I guess he did have a pretty good life,” Danny agreed.

We laughed and joked, told stories about our pasts, though Danny asked most of the questions and I filled in the blanks. When we’d caught more fish than we could possibly eat, we gathered them up and headed back to the house.

Together we cleaned the fish. Grabbing a guitar from his car, Danny played Beatles’ songs while I cooked. After dinner and several beers, I broke down and asked him to stay that night.

That was the best part—he said no. Not mean-like, no like he didn’t wanna take advantage. “Not until you’re sure.” That’s what he said. Then he kissed me and was gone, whistling “If I Fell” as he walked down the steps and out of sight.

That did it for me. This was the real thing, and I knew it. He still went slow, and I went along with it, but I knew this was who I wanted to wake up next to, forever.

A month later, I was doing exactly that.

Chapter 18: 1985

Phil

Contrary to his belief, Phil Foster’s trust fund didn’t last forever, and in his last weeks of easy money he was found stabbed but still alive in a New Orleans alley. Waking up in an indigent hospital, the first face he saw was a young priest, reading his last rites.

“Brother Ron?” Phil asked, thinking he was a boy at King’s Academy again, and that this was the kind pastor who’d given him such hope.

“No sir, I’m Father Jeremy, the new assistant chaplain. Father Don will be in on Monday,” he said.

Phil closed his eyes. He wasn’t a kid anymore, and no one could come in and fix things. He hurt all over, had no one to call, and hoped he could simply will himself to die before anything worse happened.

“You gave us a real scare,” the man said. “You’re in God’s hands, and He brought you to a place where you can get better. Don’t be afraid, the Lord’s been with you every step of the way.”

Phil tried not to listen, he had no use for their godly mumbo jumbo, but then he had a flash of memory. Horrible memory, too painful to endure.

Two girls—were they girls? They smelled like patchouli and coconut. Two people at least dressed as girls, offering him—sex? Drugs? He couldn’t remember, he only knew for sure that they offered something and he wanted it. They laughed, drinking from a plastic flask and snorting cheap grade coke from a vial around someone’s neck.

Then he was on the ground, face down. They kicked him, stepped on him with their spiked heels, making holes in his skin through his clothes. They took his wallet, his lighter and his stash, then—

God, the pain. Straight through his back and into his belly. Pain like he didn’t know was possible. He groaned just remembering. “Stop,” he screamed. “Make it stop—”

“It’s okay. Just breathe. God is with you. You’re safe now, no one can hurt you,” the priest said. He sounded—nervous? As though he was grasping for the words as he said them. “Remember, He brought you here. You’re safe.” Phil listened as the kind voice continued.

“Remember the twenty-third psalm,” he said. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He restoreth my soul . . .”

The horrid visions disappeared. He saw green fields, and livestock, and bright blue skies with cottony clouds. He could see tall oaks move in the wind, Spanish moss billowing beneath their branches. Phil cried real tears as the priest held his hand and continued to recite.

“He leadeth me beside the still waters . . .”

A nurse came in and added a vial of something to the bag dripping into Phil’s arm. He began to smell freshly turned earth, stacked bales of hay, sweet green corn about to tassel. The priest gained confidence and momentum as he continued his recitation.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .”

Phil had been there, he knew. The valley of the shadow of death. A real place, though he had to see it to believe it. And yet he was here, in this still, quiet place, with this man holding his hand and reciting these beautiful, soothing words to comfort him. He didn’t deserve this. If the God of all things had sent him here, for this wonderful second chance at life, surely
his
life was worth something.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,” the priest said. Sure, he’d seen a few days without much goodness or mercy, but how much had he given to expect any back? He knew the Bible said nothing about karma, but Phil believed in it, just the same. And if this wasn’t some damned amazing goodness and mercy, what the hell was?

“. . . and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever . . .”

Phil wasn’t seeing a church, but he was connecting with the place he knew he was meant to return. Phil had misinterpreted the story of the prodigal son as a child, confusing his disability with something he had purposely done wrong. He dreamed of making his father love him again, but it didn’t work. Once he realized his mechanical abilities at the farm, he’d again imagined proving himself to his father, another parallel with the parable. This dream didn’t work either. Phillip had opted for the charmed existence of fun and good times to make up for the pain and loneliness in his life, but good times could not buy real happiness.

The valley of the shadow of death,
Phil thought. He’d had to go there to know what he really needed. What he’d had all along.

Though diagnosed with anemia, a necrotic liver, and declared HIV positive, Phil made what seemed a rapid recovery from his near death experience. Connecting with Father Jeremy, he meditated, prayed, and was ready for release in less than two weeks. Phil headed back to his first love—Oakland Plantation—his farm.

Chapter 19: 1985

Mojo

Time moves fast when there’s a lot going on, and those first months with Danny were the best times I’d known. Well, most of the time they were.

It was awkward at first, but I guess all relationships are. I’d never really lived with anyone outside Mama and Uncle Cal, and it was altogether different with someone else’s things in my space. It was hard not to say anything when he set glasses and cans on the furniture with no coaster underneath, but I learned to keep my mouth shut after the second hole in the wall. After a month or so, I don’t think he ever took a dish to the sink, threw a paper in the trash, or picked up his clothes or towels off the bathroom floor, but the other bedroom, which he turned into his studio, looked like a music store showroom. And dear Jesus, the beautiful sounds that came out of that room—I could never be tired of hearing those wonderful sounds.

Maybe it was because we were never there at the same time too much: I worked every night and three mornings a week. Danny practiced weeknights and was gone every weekend. Occasionally we’d end up at the same weekend bar, but those times were more pain than pleasure—I loved to hear him play, but hated pretending to be just a friend, the way we had to for the sake of the crowd.

“Rock bands that want a following can’t have married men,” Danny said, with me all the while saying we weren’t married, so what did it matter.

“When the women see you’re taken, it’s like cutting off your balls. Might as well go back to the Elks’ Club gigs. No one’s filling a local house to see Donny and Marie,” he said.

“Donny and Marie are brother and sister,” I told him. “And they’re not a rock band, playing local jobs. You don’t make any sense.”

“I make plenty of sense,” he’d say. “If women know you’re with me, they’ll put out the word, and you’ll
get no tips. Then they’ll leave and the guys will follow. Then the management will blame the band, and we’ll be looking for another gig. Simple as that.”

“A few pissed-off women can’t take away my tips, or take all the men from the club. You exaggerate,” I said.

“Well maybe that’s not all,” he’d say, raising his left eyebrow, grinning, and looking me up and down that way that always made me weak in the knees. “Maybe there’re things I wanna keep under wraps.” That’s when his hand would caress my butt, or his finger find a nipple, or he’d simply pull me against him, hard and throbbing. And I’d forget about whatever point I was trying to make. Always.

❦

Filling in at Treadway’s finally paid off. Only twenty-four and they offered me the manager’s job. The beat-up Pinto I’d been driving for three years was on its last leg, so I figured having a permanent job, with benefits, was like the Great Almighty saying it was okay go down to the bank and go get in debt like the rest of the world. I was finally growing up.

When I told Danny, he grabbed me in a bear hug, then cradled me in his arms like a baby and carried me to the bedroom, where we kissed and necked and made love like horny teenagers. Afterwards, he told me to dress up, he’d be back in an hour and we were going out. We never went out together, and Tuesday nights weren’t much for the partying scene, but I didn’t care, I was on cloud nine.

We went to Floyd’s Steak & Seafood, a really nice restaurant despite the generic-sounding name. We sat just in front of the huge rock waterfall in the center of the room, and the sound of the water made me think I had to pee every few minutes, but it was still real nice. We ate steak and lobster from each other’s plates, laughing at Big Barney, the three hundred pound crooner behind the cocktail drums, and grooving the sounds of Gary Carter on bass and Steve Hughes on the grand piano, rock and rollers in the highest sense who had obviously sold out. Danny had played with Big Barney, “back in the day,” he said. Big Barney acknowledged Danny but didn’t look too happy to see him.

I wore ankle strap heels and a black satin halter dress I’d bought on sale and been saving forever, and Danny was his usual rock star handsome in a black tee, stonewashed jeans and a tweed blazer.

Stuffed beyond belief, we said no to any dessert, then Teresa, a girl I’d worked with at the Cubbyhole across town, brought over what looked like an old-fashioned soda fountain milkshake, garnished with two pink straws and a cherry on top.

“Compliments of Floyd’s,” she said, “and that fellow at the end table.” She nodded toward a thin, balding fellow with huge ears and black horn-rimmed glasses. His loud patterned plaid coat and exaggerated features made him look like a retired circus clown.

“That’s Milton Garrett,” she said, “the county commissioner.” Her eyes lit up to signify this was someone of real importance, so we tried to look impressed. Neither of us had ever heard of him.

“We make this after dinner drink only for him, he brought in the recipe and we keep it for when he shows up. A family recipe, or whatever. He calls it Mother’s Milk. It has five liqueurs, vodka, brandy and a half-gallon of vanilla ice cream. We always make too much, on purpose, so all the folks working can get a taste, for free. Just thought I’d share the wealth tonight.” We laughed, Danny pulling his chair in closer and putting his arm around my shoulders.

“I ain’t seen you in ages, and you look great. Special occasion?” Teresa asked.

I’m sure I blushed, but before I could say a word, Danny jumped in.

“Absolutely,” he said. “This beautiful lady and I are celebrating a new life together.” I looked at him and wondered what the hell he meant.

“You’re getting married?” Teresa squealed. I was sure they could hear her at the back of the room. I wanted to dig a hole and crawl in, but Danny fixed it—he was ready for her.

“Not right now, but it’s in the plans,” he said, kissing me like he’d never done in a public place.

“Oh my God,” Teresa cried. “It’s always the quiet ones that break down the big studs. Congratulations, honey.” She hugged me, telling Danny, “You’ve got you a damned fine girl.”

“Don’t I know it!” He kissed me again. I don’t remember Teresa leaving, the band playing, or anything but continuous kisses interrupted by quick sips of the most amazing drink I ever tasted. I wondered if even heaven could be this good.

We talked about my new job, how great it would be to have a steady income and give up weeknights in bars. We decided it would be crazy for me to give up weekends, the money was too easy, and maybe I could put the weekend money in savings, for later.

“For things that may show up on down the road,” he said, raising his eyebrow again. Oh God, I wanted to start those things, right then, right there at that very table, though my Mama did raise me better. But if he’d of asked, I’m afraid I’d’ve got butt naked in the middle of that restaurant, just for him, and loved every damned minute of it. Ain’t it just crazy, the things you do for love, in the heat of the moment?

On the way home, we talked about his band; they were signing with an agent, about to start a tour beginning in Tampa and working their way back up the east coast, big clubs with big-name groups, and with a little luck, there could be a recording contract within the year. It killed me to think about being separated that long, but Danny said he’d come back whenever he could, and with my new job I’d be able to take a few days off and go see him sometimes.

“Like little vacations,” he said. “Sunbathe by day, see the band at night, sleep in hotels with room service. All the best for the love of my life.”

It was crazy. Danny only mumbled “I love you” when he was drunk and damned near asleep, and now I was the love of his life. But God, it was wonderful.

Danny was asleep when his head hit the pillow. Sure, I was disappointed, but still so high on life that I didn’t care. I got naked anyway, wrapped myself around his warmth, his hairy chest, the smell/feel/taste of him and drifted away. Heaven.

The next morning we made love, dressed, and headed for the bank. My first bank loan covered a used Les Paul, a Mesa Boogie amp, and a two-year-old customized van for Danny and the band. An investment for our future. I felt like a million bucks.

I never made it to Florida—getting off work was too risky, and the Pinto couldn’t be trusted that far. I did catch the band at Bananas in Macon. Rumor had it that Gregg Allman was coming by and might sit in. I played avid fan in the crowd again, Danny stopping by my table and speaking only once.

I didn’t mind. I had work the next morning anyway, and I’d started cleaning a few houses on the side, for the extra cash.

You do what you have to do, dreaming all the while of the better days ahead.

I just wished to hell the better days would get there soon.

❦

Danny was back in less than two years and mad as hell about being back, but I knew he was more hurt than mad. The mood swings and violent temper were just his manly way of covering up the bawling little boy who’d lost his dream. My heart broke watching him, but he was way too much the “macho man” to admit his pain to me or anyone else, so I helped him out the best I could and waited for better days. Funny, the whole time he was on the road, the “better days” I’d dreamed of were simply the days when he’d be home, but I guess my dreams are a lot simpler than the way things work out in real life.

For the first year, they’d played a circuit: Crown Liquor Lounges and Master Hosts Inns, with a few independent clubs, all within a hundred mile stretch between Tampa and Clearwater. Not exactly the Ritz, since the best he could brag to me was that most of the paying customers were old retired people who came south to die, but they kept the clubs full and making money, and clubs full of rich old men attract girls who want free drinks. Unfortunately for Danny the girls brought the cocaine. Coke seemed to be everyone’s drug of choice then, and Danny’s new vice fell easily into place.

Before the road band, pot was the only drug Danny’d seen on a regular basis. Alcohol was a staple and Georgia marijuana was everywhere, but those were the only crutches he used back then. The popular Quualudes had only made him sleepy, and he’d shied away from needles and the people who used them, but when Devil’s Whiskey signed with an agent to work the Florida coast, he soon found his
drug, and it claimed his heart and soul.

Danny claimed that once cocaine entered his life, he bought what he could afford, but used it stingily and seldom shared. Knowing I’d love him anyway and try my best to understand, he explained to me how he learned to spot the girls most likely to be carrying, and those were the ones he’d let accompany him to his room at night. He’d talk to people all over the club—customers, bouncers, managers, waitresses, bartenders, male and female. From the stage he’d talk to the dance floor, joking with the guys, dedicating songs, making eye contact with girls who enjoyed it. If necessary, he’d hit another club after work, but Danny could usually score before midnight on a weeknight, and always on weekends.

He didn’t share his coke, but he always had liquor—the good stuff—Crown Royal, Smirnoff, Tanqueray, Jose Quervo. Seldom drank it himself, but poured freely for the ladies with the drugs. He followed a game plan. At the girl’s house, he’d:

(1) Do their coke, plying them with as much liquor as possible.

(2) Go back to hotel, work on music ’til the sun came up, or longer.

Of course, that’s the version he told me, but hell, I wasn’t born yesterday. I’d say much more than likely there was always a middle step between those two, which’d be simply “do
them,
” meaning the girls with the coke. Danny was a ladies’ man before he knew me, and I have enough common sense to know when the cat’s away, the mouse will play. If the night’s activity happened in his room, never leaving the hotel, it ain’t rocket science figuring out how that went.

The original
Devil’s Whiskey didn’t last more than three months on the road. Glynn, the drummer Danny’d known since junior high school, had always been their weakest link, but it never mattered in the southern R&R venues they’d played in south Georgia. He was cool and he was loud—what else mattered? Yet Glynn’s bass foot became noticeably slower when playing six nights a week, particularly with the more complicated dinner set tunes they’d added. After several offensive remarks from their agent and a group of waitresses nicknaming him “Leisure Boy” because his leather jacket was cut from a leisure suit pattern, Glynn took a bus home to Albany on a Saturday night. The club’s bartender, who’d heard their repertoire continuously for three weeks, quit his job and started as drummer at their new gig on Monday.

Jimmy left the band before the first year was over. He missed his family and was tired of living out of a suitcase. Their agent quickly found a replacement: A thirty-nine-year-old New Jersey native who had played the Florida coast for fourteen years, this being his sixth band in that time span. His wife and two children lived in Tarpon Springs with her family, and he went home several times a week and could only practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays between eleven and three.

This was the real beginning of the end, Danny complained. The band rarely rehearsed for rehearsal sake, they only got together to learn new tunes now and then, to keep the club owners from complaining. Danny practiced at least two hours daily and usually more. His practice habits were the most popular nightly joke between songs. By the end of their second year, their new drummer had married a widow and “retired,” and the bass player had found a house job nearer his family. Danny and Tommy, his keyboard player and best friend since high school, took two weeks off and restructured.

Together they bought a state of the art rhythm box, a cocktail drum set, and a keyboard bass. They worked up a repertoire of sixty songs, hoping to have enough variety to play small dance venues as well as better paying, elitist supper clubs. They celebrated their first booking by purchasing an 8-ball of fine grade cocaine.

On Saturday night, the police raided Sandy’s by the Sea, finding two illegal immigrants in the kitchen, an underage waitress, two rolled joints in a purse behind the bar, and two ounces of cocaine wedged behind Tommy Fowler’s Leslie speaker. Tommy was taken into custody.

Danny loved me, and he knew it was time to come home. He made no claim to the drug charges, packed up the equipment and left for my house on stilts in Dumas County. My man was home at last.

❦

After a few months in exile, bemoaning the loss of his dream, Danny found a weeknight gig, playing with a band of eighteen-year-olds in an East Albany dive. When his van was in the shop for a new alternator, I dropped him off one night, did some shopping and came back for his last two sets.

Danny played circles around the others, but with his leadership they weren’t that bad. The thing I couldn’t get past was the way he acted; I’d never seen him look so unhappy while playing. Usually, Danny was the type who might be half dead from pain and fever, yet not notice if the music was cooking, especially on his solos. That night was different: he never cracked a smile, and the looks he gave the other musicians made me feel sorry for them. He didn’t talk between songs, and at times he shook his head, directing the others as though beating the notes into them with his guitar. I saw him chug four beers while on stage, during a set.