Tide King (19 page)

“I'm hungry, Stanley. Do you think we could stop by the diner near the police station?”

“I would, if we had any money.”

“What about them few dollars we had left over?” When he didn't answer, she hit him on his bad shoulder. The pain razored up and down his shoulder and elbow before bottoming out.

“Christ, Cindy—why you gotta do that?” His fingers went white on the steering wheel.

“Because you are the most unreliable SOB I have ever met! Can't you do anything right? I have to save your ass from being killed, nag you into getting a job, you spend all our money on booze…Jesus Christ, Stanley. You're supposed to take care of me.”

“Well, I guess there's nothing I can say about that.” He always knew when to fold them. Cindy stared at the diner, as if willing it to rectify their situation.

“You go to the diner anyway, Stanley,” she said finally. “I got an idea.”

He wondered if he would spend the evening washing dishes in the diner kitchen but instead outside the door she pulled the wool hunter's cap off his head and dropped it open side up. She plopped on the steps of the diner and began to sing.

“Jesus, Cindy—get the hell up.” He grabbed her arm. She shrugged him off. “We don't need no charity.”

“We do when you act like a peckerhead and drink away all our money,” she said while smiling, and continued to sing.

“Christ, I'm not going to take that. You weren't getting shot at overseas. Hell, you weren't even shot by your boyfriend, but you sure plugged me good.”

“Yeah, and if I had a gun I'd plug you again right now.” She stared at him, and her eyes plunged into his chest, extracting the warmth of love and companionship that she had slowly filled it with in the last year. Or perhaps he was mistaken, and his chest was merely a balloon, fooled by the pressure of mere air.

He went back to the truck and sat in the cab, staring at her like a puppy locked inside. He vowed to make things right, to get a job like any self-respecting man. But he did not know if it would be enough. He watched as a tall, soft man in a suit and cowboy hat approach Cindy, reach for his wallet. The man bent his head back as he laughed. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, impervious to the falling thermometer, and bent over and shook Cindy's hand. Stanley strained to see the bill that the man left in his hunting cap. Then he watched Cindy pick up the cap and the money and follow the man inside.

He waited for her to come get him. He kicked at the baseboards of the truck, squirmed in the seat to get warm. He thought about driving away, about not letting a damn woman push him around. He was disappointed he was not that type of man. When she came out, an hour later, she was rosy and warm, carrying a brown paper bag. The man tipped his hat to her and waved to Stanley in the truck before heading up the street.

“Well, I see you still know how to sucker the men out of their money,” he spat when she opened the cab.

“Shut your stupid ass up, Stanley, and help me in the cab.”

“I don't see why I should,” he answered, but he did anyway, secretly happy that she was back, that she didn't walk down the street with the heavyset cowboy man and out of his life forever.

“You wouldn't believe it, Stanley.” Cindy's rubbed her little hands together in the truck as he started the engine. The smell of pot roast filled the car, and he swallowed once, twice. Down the street, the headlights of a sedan traveled through the purple dusk past the doctor's office and over his fingers, dotted with goosebumps. Cindy had made gloves for Stanley from her old wool coat but he stupidly had left them home. “I was singing there on the sidewalk thinking that you were right, that it was a terrible idea, and a man come by and heard me singing. He said I should be on the radio and bought me dinner and gave me his card! He wants me to come down to the radio station and sing a song! You would a known if you hadn't been such a stubborn ass and stayed outside with me.”

“You could have invited me in.”

“I ain't your mother, Stanley. You could have come and at least protected my honor.”

“You shouldn't have been begging in the first place. We got beans at home.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy them while I eat this leftover pot roast, mashed potatoes, and blueberry pie,” she answered. “Now shut up and listen to me. He said he was having tryouts for a radio program like the Grand Ole Opry.” Cindy hit his arm. “Ain't that something, Stanley!”

“Would they pay you?”

“Well, the singers would get ten dollars a week for being on the radio show.”

“We could you get you a new coat.” He guided the truck onto the highway. “And some things for the baby. But is it okay, with you being pregnant and all?”

“I don't know,” she shrugged. “Why not? I sing all the time. Isn't this great, baby? We'll finally have some money.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, tightening and loosening his hands on the steering wheel. “So when you going to do it?”

“Well, he said to come to the station on Saturday. By then, I'll have a bunch of songs practiced and ready.”

“Well, even if it don't turn out to nothing, I'm proud of you, baby. Maybe you'll make a little money to last through the thaw and I can go back to the farm.”

“Hell, maybe this'll be something bigger and we won't be talking about being farmers no more. Earl Wooten—he's the guy who owns the station—said he's hoping to send some of the singers out to his brother Wendell in Nashville for recording contracts.”

“You don't want to be a farmer's wife?”

“I never, ever wanted to be a farmer's wife,” she answered, and took his hand. “I thought it might have been obvious to you by now. Now, hurry up and get home or your food's going to get cold.”

“My food?”

“I asked Earl if he would buy a plate for my poor, proud husband who'd rather freeze to death in the truck than take charity.”

“Well, you know what's wrong with that, right?'

“What? I shouldn't have gotten you any food?”

“No, you shouldn't have called me your husband until I had a chance to make it official.” He pulled the truck to the side of the road and turned to her. “Cynthia Meekins, will you marry me?”

“Well…of course, silly.” She smiled, as if he had brought her some crudely composed painting from elementary school. “You could have asked months ago, or when I got pregnant, even.”

“I was waiting until I could afford a ring.”

“I don't need a ring, Stanley—I just need your word. Besides, we don't need to worry about weddings right now. Maybe I'll be able to buy myself the biggest ole' ring you ever did see if I sing my cards right with Wendell.”

He nodded, but the whole thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, one he could not rid himself of even after a plate of pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, and blueberry pie.

Earl Wooten was a resourceful and unlucky man. At least, that was how he explained his current ownership of WXFB radio in Salisbury to Stanley and Cindy. In his office, Cindy sat in her best dress. They stopped by the department store on the way to WXFB so Cindy could get a free spritz of perfume from the fragrance counter. “Oh, my, aren't you a pretty little girl!” The saleswoman, beaked and boned, leaned over Cindy until Stanley cleared his throat.

“My fiancée would like to try that Shalimar.” He nodded to the bottle.

“Of course.” She reddened. “I'm
so
sorry. Geez.”

“That's okay—thanks so much, ma'am,” Cindy beamed, as she always did—her public persona was finely calibrated to handle any variety of humiliation. But not Stanley's, and Cindy tugged him away from the counter before he considered knocking the other perfumes—the White Sands and Christian Diors that lined the glass counter—onto the floor with a flick of his elbow.

Earl's secretary led them to a wood-paneled, smoke-clouded office with a square glass window to the broadcasting booth. Framed records on the walls hinted at respectability, although they were not names that Stanley had ever heard of. He stood, hands in his pockets as Earl grabbed and kissed Cindy's hand, offered her a faux leather seat with a duck-taped arm.

“You ever gambled, son?” Earl, looking at Stanley, positioned his girth, packed tightly into his six-and-a-half-foot frame, on the edge of his desk with unusual delicacy. He crossed his leg, and Stanley noted his thin ankles, long fingers. “Let's just say I lost a bet and won a radio station. My brother, he's even got worse luck. He lost a bet and won a recording studio! Course, the studio ain't here—it's out in Nashville. Nashville, you're sayin'—why not New York or Chicago or Los Angeles where all the big boys are? Well, let me tell you something—Nashville is hot. Country music is going places, and your little lady here, well, she ain't no bigger than a pushpin, but she got a big voice.”

“So how are you gonna make her a star?”

“Record? Well, let's not get ahead of the game, here.” Earl lit a cigarette. “We're going to let the little lady sing a song live on the air, and if our listeners like it, we'll have her come back in as part of the barn dance ensemble. We got all kinds of radio shows, you see—Jimmy Ray Housin and Betty Dandy. And now we're gettin' together one of them weekly radio barn dances like they got at WLSAM in Chicago.”

“Sounds fair, Stanley.” Cindy nodded, her eyes seeking his approval. “Kind of like the free spritz of perfume—you like it, you might buy it.”

“You know your business, little lady.” Earl grinned, his face squeezed into folds from his cheeks to his forehead, his eyes little black pins under his eyebrows. “I can tell who's doing the thinking in the household. So, are you ready? Stevie over there in the booth's got a guitar, he plays almost anything out there.”

“Does he know ‘Keep on the Sunny Side'?”

“Of course he does, little lady.” Earl guided her through the door. “Stanley, why don't you have a seat? We can listen from here.”

Earl came back and offered Stanley a smoke.

“Is it too much trouble to take two?” Stanley asked. “We've been a little tight for money, especially now Cindy's pregnant.”

“Yep, yep—congratulations, son. It's marvelous what medicine can do these days for, uh, people who…” Earl stared at his lighter. “Well, when I seen her outside the diner, I thought she was the cutest little kid. And I thought, here we've got another little Shirley Temple or Peggy Lee. I was counting my money already! But imagine my surprise when she turned out to be that pint-sized little thing.”

“Yeah, she's pretty gifted singer, I'd say.” Stanley pressed on the balls of his feet.

“It's such a shame. I mean, she could be a star if she were…you know…”

“No, I don't.” Stanley lit his cigarette and leaned forward, ready to jump over the desk. “Maybe you should say what you're really thinking?”

“Well.” Earl exhaled and touched the back of his head with his palm. “I told my brother all about Cindy, how I thought…well, she's got a great voice for radio. But she's no…I mean, what picture you got by your foxhole during the war, Stanley? Betty Grable.”

“You're saying nobody's going to be interested in Cindy because she's a midget?”

“
I
don't think that's true. Like I said, she's a little button. But there's also…well, she's pregnant.” Earl stubbed out his cigarette. “My brother, he runs that side of the business. I'm just on the radio side. It's my responsibility to listen, not to see.”

“Then why the hell is she here, then?” Stanley felt his jaws, his legs tighten.

“Well, I don't go back on my promises. I asked her to come in and sing, and people is gonna hear her, right? I think they're almost ready.” Earl stood up, patting his forehead with his handkerchief, and motioned him to the window. Cindy stood on the radio jockey's chair, her lips close to the microphone.