Vena placed three dozen candles around the room, then filled small vases with wild roses she’d found growing in the field behind the Honk.
When everything was ready, Bui set the tables with cups and saucers, Caney turned down the lights, Vena lit the candles and Molly O took a nerve pill.
By seven-thirty, only a handful of regulars had arrived which sent her into a tailspin, but only fifteen minutes later, the tables were full, all the stools at the counter were taken and people were still drifting in.
By eight, the Honk was packed. But Brenda still wasn’t there.
“Well, where is the Nashville recording star?” Wanda Sue asked, her voice oozing accusation.
“Oh, she’ll be here,” Molly O said with all the assurance she could muster, then she retreated to the kitchen to fan the flames of a hot flash that was wilting her hair.
She didn’t want to imagine what was going on at the trailer, but couldn’t stop the picture playing in her head. She could see Brenda, arms folded, face set in a scowl, as she shook her head, refusing to budge, while Hamp . . .
The dining room erupted with applause as Brenda and Hamp stepped through the door.
“Thank you, Jesus,” Molly O whispered as she dabbed at her damp forehead and tried to puff up her hair.
She found a place to stand at the end of the counter beside Life, watching as Brenda gave Caney a kiss, then, making her way through the crowd, was stopped again and again by a touch, a hug from people who’d known her all her life.
When she and Hamp reached the stage and removed their guitars from their cases, Bui turned on the spotlight, causing Brenda to look up in surprise and shade her eyes for a moment.
She was wearing the new outfit Molly O had bought her. The skirt, a size six, was a bit loose around her tiny waist, but Molly O
had to guess at the size since Brenda had lost so much weight.
Her face was still pale, but now, with a touch of color on her lips and cheeks, her clear, smooth skin looked iridescent beneath the light above her. And her eyes, dull and clouded for these past few weeks, sparkled with excitement.
Her hair, freshly washed and shining, fell across her shoulders in soft, loose curls the color of cinnamon, and when she tilted her head, Molly O could see she was wearing the earrings she’d bought her.
“She’s a beautiful girl,” Life said. “A real beautiful girl.”
“Well, thank you, Life.” Molly O patted his arm. “I think she is, too.”
While Brenda tuned her guitar, Hamp whispered something that made her laugh. Then, a moment later, when she looked out into the audience, the room grew quiet.
“Good evening,” she said. “It sure is nice to see you all here tonight. I’m Brenda O’Keefe and this is Hamp Rothrock, but I think most of you know us.”
Hamp strummed a chord.
“This first tune we’re going to do is one I wrote a few days ago.
It’s called ‘Lost Love and Heartbreak.’ I hope you all like it.”
When I was young, I didn’t care for love songs
I thought all that despair was just for show
But I’d never felt a broken heart in those days And you have to feel it for yourself to know When Brenda began to sing, no one in the audience made a sound. No clink of cups against saucers, no whispered conversations, no shuffling of feet or scraping of chairs.
This is a song of lost love and heartbreak
For all those who’ve been put back on the shelf And if you don’t feel like feeling sorry for me Hope you don’t mind if I feel sorry for myself They were entranced by this girl, by her clear, true voice, touched in a place they kept closed and guarded. But now, for these few moments, they let themselves remember, feel again the sweet pain of first love.
With all the problems in this world to sing of
I have some nerve to sing about my own
But my problems seem worse than the rest right now Do broken hearts hurt more than broken bones Brenda kept her eyes on her fingers as they found their place on the frets, but she couldn’t hide the pain that played across her face.
I tried to write a happy song
But I’ll be damned if I could
’Cause this song is a song of love
And love ain’t always good
As the last sound of the song softened to silence, Brenda lowered her head and the room settled into a stillness like suspended breath. Then one, then another, then more began to applaud, gently at first, as if too much sound might break the spell, then louder and louder until the air was charged with their rhythm.
Caney caught Molly O’s eye and winked at her as Brenda started her next song, a folk song about a fisherman who, after thirty years of trying, finally catches “Old Willy,” but can’t bring himself to keep it, which made Hooks Red Eagle cry.
Between numbers Vena and Bui refilled coffee and served soft drinks and beer. By the time Brenda finished another love song, Bilbo Porter, usually not much of a drinker, had downed three bottles of Miller and was starting on his fourth.
After two more ballads, Brenda changed the mood when she sang an upbeat song she’d written called “Stop the Presses.”
Listen up, I’m warning you
’bout a new subversive plot
To discredit the fine reporting
in the newspaper you bought
If you don’t read the papers
how the hell you gonna know
If the ghost of Old Abe Lincoln’s
in bed with Molly O
The crowd, hooting and laughing, turned to look at Molly O, whose eyes widened in surprise at hearing her name in Brenda’s song.
Man, if you don’t think that’s news
I’ve got some news for you
You ain’t gonna read ’bout talking bears
in the
Saturday Review
Stop the presses,
we don’t need no more pills
If we’d all try Oprah’s diet
it’d be the cure for all our ills
Soldier Starr shook his finger at Wanda Sue, a loud and long-winded fan of Oprah’s diet, which had, over an eight-month period, enabled her to lose two pounds.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe
in everything I read
But I don’t want to overlook
some info I might need
If The Boss is getting married
I think I got a right to know
Just who it is I’m losing to
and where they’re gonna go
Bilbo, inspired by both music and beer, jumped up and broke into a jig he called the Beedoe Shuffle which caused his arms to jump and twist like the jointed legs of a wooden puppet. And the crowd went wild.
I’m always keeping up
with foreign policy and stuff
But well-rounded readers know
That
Newsweek
ain’t enough
What intellectual college boy
could ever ask for more
Than to read the gospel truth
in line at the grocery store
Still shuffling, Bilbo let out a whoop that later he would claim was required when performing the Beedoe.
So stop the presses
How can I sleep in peace
If Loni Anderson’s selling arms
in the Middle East
Stop the presses
let me get my thrills
A man from outer space
is paying all Joan Collins’ bills
*
When the song ended, the Honk exploded with cheers as Bilbo collapsed into his chair beside Peg and took a quick hit of her oxygen before he had a coughing fit and ordered another beer.
Brenda and Hamp played for nearly an hour. She stopped to sip water a couple of times, but her voice never sounded tired or thin.
When she announced her last song, the audience moaned with disappointment.
“Thanks for your encouragement,” she said, “but a good rule in show business is to quit while you’re ahead. And me and Hamp seem to be ahead right now, so we’re gonna close with a song I call ‘I Knew I Could Count on You.’ ”
I’ve never known more certainly
Just what I wanted in my life
But you gave me no room to wonder
I knew that lovin’ you was right
Brenda smiled at Hamp as he joined her in the chorus.
I knew I could count on you
To push and pull me through
I knew I could count on you
To count on me, too
Vena, who had moved in beside Caney, felt him reach for her hand, and she gave it.
God saw me in my despair
Saw that I needed someone to care
I needed you to make everything right
And bring some love into my life
Everyone waited until Hamp struck the final note; then, leap-ing to their feet, they clapped, cheered and whistled.
Brenda stood and blew them a kiss. Hamp, nodding shyly when someone called out his name, tried to back away to let Brenda have her moment, but before he was beyond her reach, she slipped her arm around his waist and pulled him in beside her, then, together, they bowed.
Molly O, her eyes fixed on her daughter, was crying quietly as she whispered, “Oh, Dewey. I wish you were here tonight.”
V
ENA HAD BEEN FIGHTING off the fear that she was pregnant for over a month. In the beginning, she tried to tell herself she was worrying over nothing. After all, her periods had been erratic since the abortion when she was seventeen, so being late wasn’t unusual for her. Sometimes she went seven or eight weeks without starting, but this time there was something else, something she couldn’t quite grab hold of.
But she thought it might be connected to the dreams.
They started that first night she’d been with Caney, but they didn’t have anything to do with him or with a baby. They were always about Helen.
In the dreams, she and Helen were at the home place, a tacky ranch eighteen miles from Thorndale, Texas, where their father worked as a well digger when he could find work, sold and traded horses when he couldn’t.
He’d always liked calling their place the Takes Horse spread, but it didn’t spread very far . . . six acres of scrub oak with a gray four-room house, barn and chicken coop, a shallow creek and a dozen junkers—mostly pickups wrecked on the central Texas farm roads. Bashed-up, burned-out hulls lined up like rotten teeth against a fence that sagged like a frown.
But in Vena’s dream, it always looked better.
She would see herself, a child, walking across a neat lawn toward the house, a white house now with green shutters, windowboxes brilliant with flowers of yellows and reds, and on the porch, Helen, an adult, wearing a heavy coat and a man’s hat pulled low on her forehead.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Vena,” she would say as she came out to meet her. “I’ve got something for you.”
Then Helen would take her hand to lead her to the pet cemetery out back where they had buried Helen’s animals, the ones too sick or injured for Vena to save, and others found dead on the road or in the fields.
“I think it’s here.” Helen would point to the graves, mounds of dirt with tiny wooden crosses on which she had carved the names she’d given to the animals buried there.
Then she’d begin to dig with her hands, scooping out dirt quickly until she uncovered a squirrel or bird, cat or possum, dog, raccoon.
“Not here,” she’d say, moving on to another grave, her digging becoming more frenzied with each one.
Then the dream would shift somehow and Helen would be in the barn, searching through the horse stalls, the tack room, the hayloft. By then she was panicked, bolting from place to place.
When she ran from the barn to the chicken coop, Vena followed, but more slowly now, her legs beginning to feel heavy, her feet weighted. With chickens flying, Helen tore into their nests, crying now and calling to Vena, “I think it’s here,” but her hands always came up empty.
Then she was galloping across a field planted in corn, but the crop was dead, the stalks so dry they rattled, dust swirling around her in dark clouds as she raced on. Vena, falling farther and farther behind, could hear Helen shouting from the distance, “Hurry, Vena!”
She could see Helen far ahead, but the dust, thicker and black, smelled of smoke that choked off her breath. If only, she thought, she could make it to the creek.
Then suddenly, the field burst into flame, the cornstalks blazing as, still, Helen called, “Hurry! Hurry!”
Vena tried to shout a warning as the fire spread before her, but it was too late. She could see flames begin to lick at the tail of Helen’s coat, then, catching, crawl upward across her back, her shoulders, her hair.
And the last thing Vena would see was the hat Helen wore as fire flashed through the crown.
*
“Mr. Chaney,” Bui said, starting out the back door with a load of trash, “is bus for you?”
“What?” Caney was dipping chili into a plastic bowl.
“Bus.”
Caney looked up to see Bui pointing through the door.
“Yeah. I used to drive it to rodeos.”
“Bus can go?”
“Nah. It was shot when I parked it there. And that was fourteen years ago.”
“What wrong with bus?”
“Oh, the carburetor’s bad, it needs a new brake drum. Grease pan’s got a hole in it.”
“I fix.”
“Hell, Bui. It’d cost more money than it’s worth. It’d have to have some tires, a new muffler . . .”
“Cost is free.”
Caney clapped a lid on the bowl of chili, then turned to Bui.
“How’s that?”
“My friend have other bus, some pieces still good.”
“Parts, you mean?”
“Yes. Some parts can use for fix your bus. Can trade old for new.
Bad for bester. I fix bus for no money, I think so.”
“Well, if that’s what you want to do, it’s okay by me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chaney. Good to have bus go.”
“What the devil you gonna do with it? Start your own bus line?”
“Yes, but only Sunday. My bus be a Sunday bus.” Bui smiled, then went through the door, the screen slamming behind him.
Caney wheeled out front where Wilma, talking to Molly O, was waiting for the chili.
“Well, I thought she was great, just great,” Wilma said. “I mean she is
so
talented, Molly O. I had no idea.”
Molly O beamed. “Yeah, it was a good night, wasn’t it?”
“Good? Why, it was wonderful. You know, when she goes back to Nashville—”