Twang (6 page)

“Good, good. We want our guests to have a real nice experience. So, tell me, what you been doing in Nashville? I want to hear all about it. Every last detail.”

My expected payment for the coming meal would be lively banter. I twirled a strand of hair around my finger awhile, not used to off-the-cuff conversation. “I um . . . on Thursday night I went to Broadway and looked around,” I offered, and was grateful that Roy was perceptive enough to begin asking leading questions.

“You did? Well, that was a mighty fine idea. What did you think of beautiful Broadway?”

I omitted the part about the nasty-minded doorman, told him how I’d felt Willie Nelson’s presence at Tootsie’s, and how I ultimately wound up at the Station Inn. “I heard Raul Malo live,” I said. “He was really good, and I stayed until they closed.” I didn’t tell Roy I’d spent the whole time pining to be up onstage, singing.

“I imagine old Raul really got that crowd going,” Roy said, shaking his head in delighted wonder. “He was with the Mavericks for years, you know, but he left because they got so big they weren’t leaving him any room for his spontaneity. Boy likes twanging his guitars like a madman.” He pantomimed strumming an electric guitar.

“You do anything touristy?” Roy asked after a bit. “The Ryman, the Grand Ole Opry, or the Country Music Hall of Fame?”

I sat up straighter in my chair. I didn’t want to sound poor or seem like I was hinting for charity. “Nah,” I said. “Saturday I just hung around here, and today I spent at Riverfront Park. I’m more the outdoor type.”

“Yep. I knew you were a tomboy the first time I laid eyes on you.” He chuckled. “Let me warn you, though, there’s some places around here a young gal ought not go alone. When you’re going along the Gay Street Connector that runs right along the river, be sure you don’t go beyond the Woodland Street Bridge. Plus, the Cumberland sure ain’t no river to swim in. Got a fast top current, as you probably noticed, but there’s also a strong, deep current you don’t want to mess with. And I wouldn’t even wade in it without getting a tetanus shot first.”

I nodded, but inside I didn’t take those warnings to heart. Being raised in the country had its advantages.

“What’d you do on Friday?”

“On Friday.” I drew in a long breath. “I spent the entire day going up and down Music Row to all the record labels.”

Roy pantomimed removing a hat. “You don’t say! How’d it go?”

“Um, don’t know yet. I left demos at a bunch of them. But I went to this place called Bobby’s for a rest and met this really nice man, a musician, and he told me I ought to go to the Bluebird tomorrow evening for their open mic.”

“Now, why didn’t I think of that!” Roy slapped the counter with his palm.

“I don’t know.” I smiled at him.

“You don’t by any chance need a ride to the Bluebird, do you?”

“Yeah, I guess I do. Thanks.”

“My pleasure. Can’t stay and give a listen as I’ve got to be somewhere by six and then back to my throne here by seven, but I’m tickled to get you there. Know what you’re gonna sing?”

“I’m still trying to decide,” I said. I’d been fairly certain I’d sing a song called “Spooky Moon” I wrote when I was nine, except I was beginning to feel queasy inside as I thought about it. Some part of me was afraid my subconscious would betray me and I’d end up with a soul-wrenching memory leaking out, the beginning of a crack in the dam holding back unmentionable times.

Roy nodded. “Yep. Sometimes it’s hard to decide what you’re gonna sing. But if I was you, I’d choose a song you could sing in your sleep. I remember back when I was still playing and singing, I always . . .” He trailed off and his body seemed to deflate a little.

“You okay, Mr. Durden?” I asked after a long, uncomfortable moment.

He nodded, ran a hand through his white cloud of hair. “Yeah, I’m okay. Forgive me. I promised myself I wasn’t going to bring up my musical career.”

“That’s all right,” I said, “I
want
to hear about it,” and I did. For several reasons. Anything about a career in the music industry was fascinating to me, and also I felt that he
needed
to share this, and finally, not the least, I thought it would spare me from any more talk about my song choice for tomorrow night.

Roy shifted his position on the stool, stretched his fat, short arms overhead, situated his enormous belly, then rested his open palms on his thighs. “Twenty-one years ago this September,” he began, and with that his shoulders slumped even lower, “I had me a gig in Arkansas with the Born Again Boys. Before I took off that morning, I kissed the kids; my boy, Carter—he was two—and Maygan—she wasn’t but three months—then me and Angie knelt and prayed for traveling mercies, you know, on account of I would be on the road so long?”

I nodded.

“Well, the last words I said to Angie as I left out the door were, ‘See you Sunday evening, Honey-bunch. Remember now, when we sing “God Gave Me You,” it’ll be you I’m thinking of.’ ”

There was a long moment of silence. Roy closed his eyes, and took in a deep breath. I sat there waiting, my heart knocking in my chest until he spoke again. “We didn’t even get settled into the Holiday Inn good when news came that there’d been a car wreck back home. Thought I was literally gonna
die
when I learned all three of my people had died instantly.”

I felt my throat tightening and my eyelids tingling. “I’m sorry,” I said, so softly it was only a breath.

Roy turned to look over at me, his wet, pink lips trembling. “When you lose your people, Jennifer—the folks you love more
than life itself—all kinds of things get shook up. You simply got to redefine yourself.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“ ’Specially you got to redefine what it is you believe in,” he said. “Gotta take a good, hard look at what you believe about us having this benevolent creator who cares about us down here on this planet.”

I said nothing.

“I got to the point where I decided that if God’s gonna do a person like he did me, he don’t deserve to be worshiped, prayed to, served, whatever.”

“Hmmm.”

“I’ll tell you when I’ll listen to what he has to say.”

“Okay.”

“When he brings Angie and Carter and Maygan back.”

I didn’t know what to say. Finally I reached out to pat his wrist. “That must have been awful.”

“Yep. Awful. I couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t enjoy a single breath for over three solid months. I’d lived my whole life with this deep faith. You know, praying without ceasing and measuring everything by this heavenly yardstick. Tried my best to walk uprightly. Even singing and playing gospel music with the Born Again Boys was my way of trying to keep on the narrow path. I was living for God, and I thought he’d take care of me.” Roy slapped his thigh. “What a load of crap!”

I was awed by such irreverence spoken aloud.

“Now, some folks
need
that kind of stuff, Jennifer,” Roy continued. “They need themselves a crutch to lean on. And some just get indoctrinated as they grow up. Especially growing up down South, you know, in the Bible Belt. That was me. I was raised on ‘The Lord loves you, and the Lord’s got a plan for you.’ ” His gaze on mine was steady, intense. “In fact, Nashville’s called the city of churches. There are more
churches per capita here than in any other city. Southern Gospel and country music, they go together like a hand in a glove. You know?”

“Yeah,” I breathed.

“But you know what?” Roy’s voice was matter-of-fact. “I’m free now. I live life on my own terms. Way I wish I had from the very beginning.” His blue eyes were intense.

“Really?”

“Really. I do what I want, when I want. I live without constantly thinking, ‘Is this wrong? Shouldn’t I be—?’ ”

A crowd of folks walked through the lobby, talking and laughing loud. Roy paused to take a swallow from his Dr Pepper. “I use to be, oh, what’s that word I’m looking for? Repressed! I was repressed, or maybe oppressed is a better word. I didn’t do a blasted thing without looking at it through this religious filter. I lived like there was this gigantic magnifying glass sticking out of the clouds, hovering right over me, and you know what? It cramped my style.”

He smiled when he saw me looking so hard at him.

“God doesn’t give a flying fig about us, Jennifer. If he did, why would he allow me to lose my family? Why doesn’t he do anything about all the pain and evil in this world? Sometimes I even wonder if he doesn’t get some sort of perverse pleasure out of watching us squirm down here.”

I nodded, even though I was a little scared to think a thought like that. I’d been taught to believe in a being who, even if I had no warm fuzzy feelings toward or urge to pray to, was at least someone to be afraid of, to respect. But if what Roy was saying was true, it certainly would be freeing. I looked away, realizing that a moment like this was where my mother would operate on blind faith. She’d say something like, “Oh, the Lord has a purpose in it all. We’ll see his purpose by and by.” That was the moment I decided to hang my hat on
the freedom of Roy’s philosophy. I would be free and live life on my own terms. I felt like a baby bird cracking out of her shell, all wide-eyed and shaky, stretching her wings after tight confinement, right before the mother bird pushes her out to fall a ways before she soars up high, through lavender skies and golden afternoons.

I laughed then, just as the front doors opened and a skinny guy in a white apron zipped in holding two Styrofoam take-out boxes. Roy flipped up the lid on the one set before him. “My, my!” he said, looking up to beam at our server. “You outdid yourself again, Colin. This looks absolutely dee-licious!” He handed him two twenty dollar bills, waving a hand and saying, “Keep the change,” as Colin bowed slightly and hustled back outside.

“Mmmm, this is to die for,” Roy’s voice cracked with emotion as he bit into his burger. I looked over at him as I took a bite, expecting to see tears streaming down his cheeks. But he was smiling around his mouthful, and so was I. I hadn’t had a real, complete meal in more than a week.

Roy Durden was a serious eater. I watched his eyes literally roll back in his head as he scarfed down the burger, the fries, and the coleslaw. He slurped the last of his tea noisily, released a satisfied sigh, sat back, and focused on me. “Tell me about your music,” he asked after a soft belch.

I literally jumped. I couldn’t swallow my bite of burger until I told myself Roy had not asked about my childhood, nor my family. Just my music. “Well,” I choked out after I’d finally swallowed, “music comes as naturally to me as breathing. Even when I was little I could sing other artists’ songs after hearing them a couple of times. I started composing songs when I was around six. I’d be hanging out the wash, feeding the chickens, riding my bike, sitting in church, walking down
the hallway at school, and it was like they just came through me, you know?”

He nodded.

“I’d be in the middle of something and I’d literally think up a bridge, or a hook, or a prechorus, and I’d have to stop to scribble it down. I practiced singing constantly.”

“A natural,” he mused. “What I really want to hear about is your first time.”

“What?” My voice came out shrill because I thought for a split-second Roy was referring to sexual intercourse and I’d been going with my gut instinct that he wasn’t the lecherous type.

“You know,” he answered, chuckling, “the first time you sang for an audience. A real audience that wasn’t family or friends.”

Too much baggage, I thought, after mentally tiptoeing over a scene as carefully and quickly as if it were fiery coals. Finally, I squeezed my hands into fists and launched in. “Um, okay . . . I was six, and my mother and I were at church one night during revival week in the summer. There were lots of visitors there—folks who’d come to hear this new young preacher—and the woman who was supposed to sing a solo didn’t show up.”

“Really?” Roy encouraged. “Well, that’s certainly interesting. She didn’t show up. Did you get up there and fill in for her?”

“Um, yeah . . . the preacher asked if anyone in the congregation ‘had a pretty voice they was willing to share,’ because he’d been counting on Ms. Turlette to sing ‘Love Lifted Me’ to set the tone for his sermon. Normally I was hiding in my mother’s skirts, but I shocked myself when I hopped up from the pew, ran to the microphone, and started belting out Dolly Parton’s ‘The Golden Streets of Glory.’ ”

The next part seemed a strange thing to share with Mr. Durden, but for some reason, I did. “I actually felt like Dolly
was right there beside me that night, like her hand was on my shoulder and she was smiling at me while I sang.

“I mean, it amazes me even now how calm and confident I was with that sea of eyeballs zoomed in on me. Normally I was scared of my own shadow. But it was like I’d found my place in life, and I started strutting up and down in a little puddle of light from overhead, basking in those beaming smiles and nodding heads, singing pitch perfect. I could’ve stayed up there forever. The applause, the whistles, in
church
, made it feel like this out-of-body experience.

“In fact, that night was when the stage began her siren song for me. After that, I could never turn down a microphone, and anytime I’d sing—at church, at school, at local festivals and fairs—afterward people would flock up to me saying, ‘That was incredible, Jennifer!’ and ‘You’re truly amazing!’ with these breathless voices, and I thought,
Okay, here’s something I was born to do. I may get nervous in crowds, be tongue-tied in social situations, I may not be the brightest at math, but I can sing songs that make people smile.”

“Six years old,” Roy mused, “that’s mighty young. How old are you now if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Twenty-two,” I answered.

“Sixteen years of experience, hmm?” The twinkle in Roy’s eye let me know I was safe with him. “Bet you got a heck of a lot of songs, don’t you, missy?”

I nodded. “After that night in church I wrote a song called ‘Dolly, Hold My Hand,’ and I kept it in a shoebox with other songs I’d write. This may sound weird, Roy, but I’d curl up in my bed at night, mash my face into the pillow, and practice saying stuff like, ‘Ladies and gentleman, let’s welcome Jennifer Anne Clodfelter to our stage tonight!’ ”