Read Miss Me When I'm Gone Online
Authors: Emily Arsenault
I was silent for a moment. Gretchen was right. Bruce did seem to have a great deal of loyalty to Shelly.
“No,” I said.
We were both silent.
“It must have been someone pretty terrible,” I said, “for her not to want Gretchen to find out.”
“Anyone who would do that to a grieving thirteen-year-old girl would have to be pretty terrible,” Bruce said.
“Yeah. But you know, I think Gretchen could’ve handled it. If you told her.”
Bruce’s puffy hair waved gently as he bobbed his head from side to side a few times, considering this. “Hmm. Perhaps. I had that sense. I was thinking about it. On the other hand, I’d made a promise.”
“Forever Yours”
Red Bay Museum
Red Bay, Alabama
The Red Bay Museum in Red Bay, Alabama, isn’t just about Tammy Wynette. While about half of the creaky upstairs is devoted to the First Lady of Country Music, the rest of the museum is about the town of Red Bay itself. Downstairs you can look at the original cashier’s desk from the Bank of Red Bay, the neon sign and re-created lobby from the historic Red Bay Hotel, or a hospital bed from the town’s favorite doctor, who delivered most of the Red Bay babies in recent decades.
The museum is funded, in part, by the profits from the consignment store next door.
The tour guide lets me walk around by myself for about twenty minutes (she has to man the consignment store, which gets far more visitors), then comes to check on me in the Tammy section.
I’ve looked at several of Tammy’s blouses and jackets, several sequined dresses, and her makeup case. I scowl at the donation letter accompanying it, from her last husband, George Richey, explaining that the contents of the case show that Tammy was “in many ways . . . an ordinary woman like many of you.” There is also endless Tammy “fan” paraphernalia: concert posters, ticket stubs, baseball caps with her name on them, Tammy figurines.
When the guide finds me staring at a pair of Tammy Wynette playing cards, she asks me quietly if I’ve ever heard of Tammy Wynette before.
I’m surprised by the question—uncertain what she thought would bring me into this museum and keep me here for longer than five minutes if I hadn’t heard of her. I say that I am a fan, and that’s why I came.
She seems surprised and delighted. Maybe no one of my age and accent ever comes in here claiming to be a Tammy fan.
After I confess that I am one, she opens up. She tells me sheepishly that her husband is one of Tammy’s cousins, and that many of the items here were collected by her family members and old friends. (The bulk of Tammy’s estate is now in the hands of the young widow of Tammy’s final husband, who, sadly, inherited everything of Tammy’s.) She points to a red blouse with fringe in one of the cases, and tells me that it’s her own contribution. It was a hand-me-down from Tammy.
“But I hardly ever wore it,” she confesses. “The neck was too wide for me.”
Gazing into one of the other cases, she says, “It’s kind of sad . . . but . . . anyway. We do the best we can.”
She doesn’t say exactly what’s sad. The collection? Or Tammy’s life?
Either way, it
is
kind of sad. Up here in this attic room, Tammy’s life seems to have happened so long ago. But there is something so sincere about how her memory is preserved.
As we go down the stairs together, the guide asks me where I’m from. I go ahead and tell her Massachusetts. There is an earnestness to this place that makes me want to tell the truth.
Whatever fame Tammy gained or lost, however tragically her life ended, it’s clear here that she was loved, and still is. Maybe that’s all that any of us can ask for after we’ve gone—whatever we’ve accomplished, wherever we’ve failed, whether we’ve achieved success or fame—that there are a few people left behind who wish to honor us in strange and humble ways.
I linger there in the museum for as long as I can. I ask the guide what she thought of the latest Tammy biography. She thought it was decent, but maybe contained a little “too much information.” I think I know what she means. Tammy doesn’t come across so well in parts of it—in the same way none of us likely would under such intense scrutiny.
I hope she’ll tell me a story about Tammy—something that would never appear in any book. Of course she doesn’t. Like family, like a true friend, she knows better than to give a stranger something like that. When she is clearly tired of me, I put several dollars in the donation jar and step out onto the hot sidewalk of downtown Red Bay.
As I start my car, Tammy’s “Forever Yours” comes on. I’d been listening to her album
Stand by Your Man
on my way here, and despite my ambivalence toward the title song, this is a pretty stellar album for Tammy. She’s clearly in top form here, well before everything went to shit. I love this simple song, in which one can appreciate the crystalline power of Tammy’s voice, without the distraction of her cheesier lyrics.
I open my window and blast Tammy on my way out of town. It’s three and a half hours of driving back to my Nashville hotel. The heaviness that accompanies me is not for Tammy. It’s not even for the eerie feeling one gets at leaving a place to which you know you will never return. It’s for the odd look Tammy’s cousin’s wife couldn’t help but give me as I left—and for my own obvious distance from home.
—
Tammyland
I hurried back to the motel because I wanted to listen to Gretchen’s recordings again. In particular, I wanted to listen to the Phil Coleman one.
A family friend. Shelly had known him when she was thirteen. And seventeen, for that matter. And in 1985, she’d let him back into her life. For a good job? For Gretchen’s sake, even? It seemed potentially sick and sad. I felt a wave of sympathy for Shelly. Up till now, I’d perhaps been a little wary of her. What had taken her so long, I’d wondered, to decide she really wanted her daughter in her life? Had she ever considered how that might have damaged Gretchen? Now, though, her ambivalence made sense, sad as it still was. Gretchen was, after all, the child of her abuser.
My motel room had been made up by the time I arrived. I opened the shades and the window so it wouldn’t feel so dank, then propped myself up on some pillows with the recorder. I hit the back button till I got to the first recording—remembering that Phil Coleman was Gretchen’s first recorded interview.
I didn’t know exactly what I was listening for, but I figured I’d know it when I heard it. The first thing I noticed was that Coleman was a little defensive when Gretchen asked him about the wisdom of hiring a former drug abuser for a pharmacy job. Clearly he’d wanted to give Shelly the job because he already knew her and was justifying the decision rather weakly.
But I felt like I knew the real girl, from before all of that. She’d been off the stuff for a year or two at least . . . I had faith in her. I wanted to give her that chance.
The next thing I noticed was that the bulk of their conversation was about Shelly’s snooping—her concern about teenagers and their prescriptions. It seemed to me that Gretchen kept that part of the conversation going just as much as Coleman, if not more. Was she really interested in that subject, or was she trying to manipulate the conversation somehow? And was Coleman’s view of what happened accurate? Was it really in Shelly’s nature to care that much about a bunch of small-town stoner teenagers she didn’t know?
I’d never met Shelly, of course, but on the basis of what Gretchen had given me, it seemed to me the answer was probably no
.
More of a concern for her—as it would be for anyone—would probably be a mistaken prescription given to a sick child. So whose account of the screwup was accurate? Diane’s or Coleman’s? It seemed Coleman had more to lose in telling the mistaken prescription story, if it was true. On the other hand, how ashamed could he really be of the incident—a clerk’s error over twenty years ago?
Or was it
Shelly
who’d knowingly given Coleman a story that sounded kind of clunky? Maybe she’d told Diane about her mistake but told Coleman something else? Maybe he’d caught her rifling through the prescriptions to check on her error, and she’d made up a story offhand to cover it up?
But was any of this indicative of an abusive relationship that began when Shelly was thirteen years old? No. But then, they’d likely both learned to cover that up long ago. I hit play again.
Soon came the awkward moment when Coleman asked Gretchen,
Did you have any other questions?
And then Gretchen, after a particularly lengthy pause, asked about Frank.
This still perplexed me. She hadn’t been afraid to ask Keith straight out, or Bruce. Well, at least as straight out as was possible for Gretchen. With this guy, though, she seemed more reticent. Maybe she thought it would be dangerous to ask. Or maybe the point of their meeting was not to get answers to Gretchen’s spoken questions. Maybe the point, for Gretchen, was to get physically near him and to get information off his clothing, his hair, his mail, or one of his other possessions—samples. As she’d done to Bruce.
The interview ended shortly after that, then skipped to the one with Shelly’s friend Melanie—the one who was as certain that Shelly had had a relationship with Coleman as Judy was that she hadn’t. Who was right? Who knew Shelly better? Diane and Judy? Or Melanie? And if Shelly really revealed to Melanie that she was involved with Coleman, would she have mentioned that it had started in her youth? If it had? Would she feel able to be honest about that in a way she couldn’t with an old friend like Judy? And what was it about her friendship with Diane that made her better able to confess Frank’s abusive treatment to her than to Judy
or
Melanie?
I let the Melanie interview run. Melanie seemed to be honest about what she thought about Shelly and Coleman, and didn’t seem to be holding anything back for Gretchen’s sake.
Near the end of that interview, my mind began to wander. I wondered if this motel had a vending machine. Something salty would be nice right now. I got up from the bed and started rummaging around for some change. My purse, my pockets, the pockets of yesterday’s jeans.
I gathered up about eighty cents and stuck it in my pocket as the Melanie interview ended and the one with Dr. Skinner began. I hoped they had Doritos. Original flavor. Not Cool Ranch. I’ve never quite understood the appeal of Cool Ranch. I paused the recorder, then went to the motel lobby to check out the vending options. They had the original flavor I was so craving. I opened them on my way back to my door.
Walking and munching, I noticed a car at the back of the lot that matched the color of my Doritos: a cute, rusty orange hatchback. Now, who was it who was telling me recently she wanted a car like that? My mother? My boss? My old friend Abby?
Back in the room, I pressed play and tried to pace myself with my tiny bag of Doritos.
Dr. Skinner was saying,
Oh, yes. All of the girls liked to come over and go in the pool.
Diane’s friends, you mean? Judy and Shelly?
Gretchen replied.
Yes, Judy and Shelly. Nice girls, both of them. Shelly was the prettiest, though.
I see.
Something about that exchange made me put down my Doritos bag for a moment. I sat on the bed and listened some more. But of course they were just having the same old circular conversation as in Gretchen’s earlier written interview. I picked up the bag again, half listening until this part:
But she did give me some trouble. When Dr. Platt died, she started giving me trouble.
What kind of trouble?
She wasn’t happy. She wanted me to do something.
What could you do about it?
I don’t know. You’re right. I don’t know. What could I do but take on some of the kids?
I paused the recorder. What was up with that? What was Shelly’s issue with the doctors of Emerson, New Hampshire? Gretchen had clearly picked up on it at some point, as she’d written those pediatricians’ names in one of her most recent Word documents.
I hit play again.
Did she have questions about his death?
No. He had a heart attack. That was that. The man smoked like a chimney and had three rib eyes a week. No one who knew him was surprised.
But Shelly was surprised? Was she close to him, or something?
Close? Uh, not that I know of. Why would she be close with
him
?
I don’t know. I’m just trying to figure out what you’re saying. You mentioned to me last time that you chatted with her a few days before she died. Was this the chat you were talking about?
Yes, dear. What else would it be?
Okay.
It was me she gave a hard time to. She gave me a hard time, when he died.
But why?
Because nothing I said would calm her down. I offered to do this or that to help, but no. Nothing.
Like what else did you offer?
Oh, I don’t know. Everything I could think of. I’m getting a little tired, dear. Forgive me.
But why was Shelly so upset when Dr. Platt died?
Because, then, there weren’t enough doctors.
I don’t understand. Enough doctors for what?
Shelly?
Yes?
There’s nothing to worry about. The kids will be fine.
Why wouldn’t they be?
Exactly. That’s what I said. They’re fine.
Dr. Skinner?
Yes, dear?
Can we talk about the day Shelly died now?
I’d rather not. Forgive me. I’m tired, and it was the saddest day.
Okay.
This is where I’d stopped the recording the first time I’d listened to it. This time, I let it run beyond that.
Okay,
Gretchen said.
Maybe we could talk about something else.
Maybe. Maybe that would be better.
I think you were about to tell me why Shelly was so upset when Dr. Platt died.
Oh. Yes. She was worried there weren’t enough doctors. Because where would all the kids go?
Was there a particular kid she was worried about? Her daughter, or something?
Her daughter? No . . .
Then, who?
Well, all the kids. No. The girls. The teenagers.
So, just the teenagers?
They were sending a lot of the teenagers to me. In the meantime. It really wasn’t too much trouble.
Then why did Shelly care?
She wanted me to say no. No teenagers. No girls.
Why not?
There was a long silence.
Nothing I would say would calm her down. She didn’t even want the money.
And you took those patients?
Oh, yes. Certainly.
I see,
said Gretchen.
And how did that work out?
Fine, fine. Of course. Shelly, there was nothing to worry about, see? You were always different.
How was I different?
Oh, you know.
It’s been so long I’ve forgotten.
“Jesus, Gretchen,” I whispered. “What the hell is going on?”
No, you haven’t, Shelly. You told me you’d never forget.
What
wouldn’t I forget? Just tell me.
How are we doing in here?
A different female voice piped up. She sounded elderly.
Anyone hungry?
I am,
said Dr. Skinner.
Gretchen, I’ve got a chicken roasting in the oven. If I knew you were coming, I’d have made something a little more elegant, but—
Oh, that’s nice of you, but—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just dropped by like—
No, that’s fine. But we never eat the whole thing. The whole chicken, I mean. Can you stay?
Oh . . . no . . . I can’t, but thank you for offering. I should let you two get ready for your dinner.
Oh, it’s about twenty minutes away yet. I think George is up to carving it this evening, right?
Well, it’s just a chicken, dear.
Is that a yes?
Gretchen quickly excused herself again and said her good-byes. After a couple of shuffling noises, the recording stopped.
My Doritos bag floated to the floor. I rubbed my temples, trying to take it all in.
Shelly didn’t care about teenagers faking prescriptions. Or about some mixed-up prescription. What she’d noticed—what disturbed her—was simply who was writing prescriptions for whom. That Dr. Skinner was suddenly treating young girls because another town doctor had died.
That’s
what she was concerned about.
“My God, Gretchen,” I whispered. “That’s horrible.”
Another recording started. I didn’t recognize the voice at first, because of its distance from Gretchen—but recognized the words. It was Frank Grippo, outside of his house. Gretchen seemed to have transcribed the conversation exactly as it unfolded. I skipped it.
Next was Dr. Skinner again, talking endlessly about some fiddler named Vassar Clements. Then Gretchen and Dr. Skinner talking about the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
.
Finally, when Dr. Skinner seemed to lose some steam, Gretchen said,
You said if I came back you’d tell me about the day you tried to save Shelly.
Did I?
Dr. Skinner said.
Yeah. You did. You know, this won’t take long.
I thought you were going to ask me to play a tune on my fiddle. That’s what I thought you were gonna ask.
Let’s do that after.
Okay. Shelly?
Yeah?
Before we get into that . . . I was wondering . . .