Twang (25 page)

“People change,” I said, after a long, uncertain pause. “It’ll still be country, but it’ll be modern country that crosses genres and has a wider audience!” There, that ought to do it.

Mike set his coffee cup down with a loud thunk. “Both from an artist’s viewpoint and a management perspective, there’s
nothing
worse than abandoning your sound. It would be the end of Jenny Cloud.”

I stared at him, suddenly flustered. The Liza Minnelli woman was gone, but I noticed a couple at the nearest table hanging on our every word. “You don’t know that,” I said.

“Oh, yes I do. It’d be the death knell of your career if you started writing mainstream pop stuff. Your popularity with fans is phenomenal. And when country fans talk, artists have to listen. We’re making a product here! A successful product, and if we change it, it’s all over. I can promise you that.”

I was a product?

All at once I felt very tired. I got to my feet while Mike stared at me with his mouth hanging open for a second before he pushed me back down with his words. “You’re not throwing away all we’ve worked for. What’s it going to take to convince you?”

I ran a hand through the straggly hair poking out from the side of my cap.

“Hey! I know how to convince you!” Mike slapped his thigh. “You know the song ‘Murder on Music Row,’ by Alan Jackson and George Strait, don’t you?”

I nodded. Everybody in country music knew that song. Portions of the catchy lyrics floated through my mind, words about the death of country music as it had always been.

“Then I’m sure you also recall how that song sparked a debate in the country music community about whether or not the traditional country music like you do was dead, dying, or not.” Mike’s eyes were huge. “Went on forever. Do you recall that album of Alan’s called
Like Red on a Rose
that came out back in 2006?”

It was funny to think of the twang king, Alan Jackson, teaming up with bluegrass superstar Alison Krauss for an album of love songs. The soft notes of their ballad “Anywhere on Earth You Are,” gave me a wistful stab. Yes, it was definitely different than Alan’s usual, but I admired how he’d broken out of his shell to try something else. “I liked it,” I said.

There was a long pause, and I thought I’d made my point.

The expression on Mike’s face was impossible to read. “There was a huge outcry from fans who thought he was abandoning his traditional past and aiming toward a mainstream pop sound.” Mike rubbed his chin. “Alan’s no dummy. He’s been around long enough to know that when certain names are mentioned—names like Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Hank Williams—people think hard-core country. He knew he had an image to uphold, too, an image he absolutely had to go back to if he wanted to make his fans happy. And, for his next album, he went back to his previous producer, back to his real country roots.” Mike drew in a deep breath through his nostrils. “You, my girl, are hard-core country when it comes to the females of country music. You
are
twang. And don’t forget it.”

My heart was pounding. “Why do you care? Worried you won’t be able to make any more money off me?”

“Jenny, Jenny,” he said in a disappointed voice, “your career could crash totally, and I’d still be sitting fat. Don’t you remember last year when Dad left me everything?”

I nodded. I’d gone to the funeral of Mike Flint Sr. He’d been a widower and loaded, and Mike Flint Jr., his only heir. When Mike Sr.’s lawyers had everything settled, I recalled Mike taking his family on a big European vacation, then buying a $1.8-million beach home in Florida as well as a ski chalet in Vail. He redid the interior of Flint Recording and bought himself a flashy red Corvette. I was fairly sure he was set for
life and beyond. I knew it wasn’t for the money that he worked so tirelessly at Flint.

“I’m sorry, Mike. It’s just . . .”

“Just what? What’s going on, Jenny?”

“You asked me once, twice actually, about the pressure. From fame, stardom, I’m guessing you meant. At that point I remember I said to you, and I kept saying to anybody who asked because I wanted to believe it, ‘I’m good. I’m coping. Things are A-OK.’ But the truth was,
is
, Mike, there are times when I’m absolutely hanging on to my sanity by a very slim thread. I feel like I’m about to lose it if I don’t change some things.”

Mike stared at me.

“Remember that night I freaked out over ‘Honky-Tonk Tomcat?’ ”

“That was a long time ago. I thought you were over that, Jenny. I thought you were okay.”

“I know. It’s not your fault. I’ve been keeping it all, mostly, inside. But I’m telling you now, Mike, I
despise
looking into my past. Digging all that stuff up to write songs hurts. I adore singing and I adore the stage, and I really, truly love my fans, but the other part, the so-called ‘autobiographical heart-wrenching lyrics,’ well, it makes me so . . . I don’t have . . . it’s killing me is what it is, and I DON’T WANT THE MUSIC TO CALL ME HOME ANYMORE. I DON’T WANT TO GO HOME!”

It seemed the coffee stopped percolating, that everyone in the restaurant stopped breathing. I felt my espresso and cinnamon crunch bagel trying to come up. Mike’s face looked terrified. The next thing I knew, he was crouching beside me, his arms around me. “Jenny, Jenny, calm down now. I believe you need to talk to somebody. A professional, a shrink. We need to get you all fixed before your appearances at the CMA Festival.”

My arms were shaking as I drove home. I’d totally pushed thoughts of the upcoming CMA Festival out of my mind. Held the second week of June each year in downtown Nashville, it’s the music highlight of the year, and I was scheduled to perform at both Riverfront Park and LP Field.

When I walked inside Harmony Hill, I felt a bit unreal and planned to go make a cocoon out of the covers on my bed. But my phone rang and for some crazy reason I answered it.

Aunt Gomer’s voice sped into my mind before I could register who it was. She said she’d been outside feeding chicken manure to her tomatoes when she got the strongest urge to march right into the house to call me and invite me to come eat supper, and, by-the-by, did I like fresh figs?

I couldn’t get my thoughts together quick enough to come up with an excuse, and I hesitated, saying, “Well, I’ve got to um—,” and she cut me off and told me she’d pick me up at four and I ought to come prepared to spend the night up on Cagle Mountain because she had something to show me.

“I want you to see them by dawn’s early light, Jennifer. You would not believe how absolutely gorgeous my light purple Mary Franceses are. They just take your breath away, partickly in the morning light.”

“What?” I was trying to wrap my mind around a woman named Mary Frances who was light purple.

“Irises are the Tennessee state flower.”

“Oh, well, that’s nice, Aunt Gomer. But now that I think about it, I’ve really got a lot of things to tend to and so I better not—”

“You be ready, honey. I need to run because Bobby Lee’s helping me with my seeds and we need to get them out before it gets too late.”

I stood there stunned, the dial tone buzzing in my ear.

The more I thought about it, the idea that someone wanted to share her joy with me was profoundly touching. It made me happy to think of seeing Erastus and Bobby Lee. I could sure use a distraction, and finally, I decided I would go up to Cagle Mountain, but definitely I wouldn’t spend the night.

I spent a couple of hours listening to some new CDs, then turned on daytime television without really connecting to what was on. I looked at the clock—two. I decided to hit Walmart before Aunt Gomer’s arrival.

I slunk through the pet-food aisle in my ball cap, my shapeless top, and jeans and chose a box of Milk-Bones for large breeds. Wheeling my cart through the garden center, I hunted something for Aunt Gomer since she was the one who’d invited me. But as I paused to look at all the different plants, the bags of mulch, and spinner racks of seeds, my mind went blank. Seemed she already had everything in the world when it came to gardening. Finally I saw a floor pallet full of what the sign called “Knockout Roses.” Their cherry red petals were so gorgeous I knew Aunt Gomer would love one even if she already had a few.

In the fishing section, I stood looking at rows and rows of tackle boxes and nets.

“Need some help, ma’am?” A gaunt teenage boy wearing a Walmart smock appeared at my elbow.

“Yes, please,” I said, ducking down under the bill of my cap like a turtle. Something about this kid put me in mind of a country music fan. “Do you have catawba worms?” Bobby Lee had told me that the Indian name for catalpa was Catawba and that a lot of fishing experts referred to the caterpillars as Catawba worms

“Yes, ma’am!” he said with so much enthusiasm I knew he had to be a fisherman. “Insect larvae is choice bait!” His gigantic feet began leading me down an adjacent aisle where he paused to point at a peg holding a cellophane package of worms. “Now, we don’t carry the live ones, you understand. But we got the artificial ones. I hear they’re not as good as the real things,” he said. “But what artificial’s got going for them is they’re a lot cleaner to use, and they’ll last for years in a tackle box.”

Today was one of those beautiful spring mornings that make a body feel the joy of living so strong she wishes she could somehow just stop time, press it in a scrapbook, and climb back into it when things aren’t so pretty. I ate my oatmeal standing out in the garden and soaking up the sun. Then I fed my tomatoes and spent a fair amount of time weeding my cantaloupe patch before I went inside to get Bobby Lee to come out and help me hunt for iris borers.

“I can’t hardly see those pesky little varmints,” I told him after he’d mashed a good dozen between his thumb and forefinger.

“Maybe you need to go get you some new glasses, Aunt Gomer.”

“Oh, pshaw. I don’t need new glasses.” I could feel my neck getting tense and so I changed the subject. “Be time to go fetch our sweet little Jennifer before too long.”

“Jennifer’s coming?” Bobby Lee perked up. Erastus was sitting at the edge of the flower patch, and I swan, when that dog heard Jennifer’s name, he hopped to his feet, trotted over, and laid his chin on Bobby Lee’s knee, smiling and wagging his tail to beat the band.

“Yessir. Called her after I heard this interview on the radio where Big D was talking to the artist of some album debuting at number one on Billboard Country. He asked this gal about what had inspired her to write one of the songs, and she said her sorry daddy had, and then Big D kept calling it a “childhood rocked by emotional ambushes.” I thought I recognized the voice and come to find out it was our own Jennifer!

“So, what I’m figuring, Bobby Lee, is that the Louvin Brothers or maybe Bill Gaither might do the trick.”

“Huh?”

“Our girl needs her some home cooking and gospel music to elevate her spirits. The other morning when I had one of my sinking spells, I turned on the Statler Brothers and listened to “Just a Little Talk with Jesus,” and I declare if I didn’t feel 100 percent better. Gospel music can lift a person right up. Some of those songs are so sweet they make me cry, but in a good way, you know?”

Bobby Lee didn’t look convinced about my plan. He doesn’t listen to gospel music. He doesn’t even go to church. Seems like he blames God for being paralyzed, and if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times, “Motorcycles don’t crash themselves.” Sometimes I remind him what those doctors said about how he’s lucky to still be alive and still be able to use his mind and his hands.

“Let’s go pick the figs that are ready,” I said to him. I like us doing things together because when our hands and eyes are busy, it gives us a chance to talk from our hearts.

“It’s too early for figs, Aunt Gomer,” Bobby Lee said, but he wheeled along beside me to the fig tree at the back door. I examined the figs while he took a twig and poked at the little tiny cans I hang from the tree’s branches with twine to keep the bugs and birds away.

“You get hold of Mr. Pintar about that job down at the recycling center?” I asked after a spell.

Bobby Lee didn’t answer.

“You’ve got to decide you want to be independent, son. Don’t you let your mama tell you you can’t do nothing, because you’re smart and capable. I know Tonilynn’s stubborn, but you’ve got to stand up to her. There’s plenty of people in wheelchairs who are independent.”

He still didn’t say a thing, and I got to feeling so mad I yanked a little green fig off the tree. “I’m going on in the house to cook.”

“Aunt Gomer?”

“Yes?”

“You remember she’s a vegetarian, don’t you?”

I did not, but I changed thinking directions in my meal plans right quick. “ ’Course I do. But I don’t know how a body can live without any meat. Even this fig tree loves its meat. It could no more thrive on a meat-free diet than a human could!” Every evening after we washed the supper dishes, I carried the dishpan full of greasy water and flung it out the backdoor onto the tree’s roots.

“I’m fixing the macaroni and cheese casserole I do at Thanksgiving.” It was comfort food to a T: elbow noodles, eggs, cheese, milk, and cream-of-mushroom soup, with a nice buttery top crust of breadcrumbs and more cheese.