Where the Heart Is (21 page)

“Highway Patrol saw the Mississippi plate. Stopped them over in Adair County, on the Arkansas line.

Americus, her body shuddering with cold and terror, had cried herself tearless. And though her breath convulsed for air, she sobbed almost without sound.

“Admitted they took her. Said they left her here, right here in this manger.

Novalee scooped Americus into her arms and pressed her to her chest, one heart pounding against another.

“Said God told ’em to do it. Told ’em to take her to a church . . .

Americus, warming, curling into familiar flesh, finding comfort in some old knowing of smell and voice, hiccoughed air and snuffled breath . . . testing safety.

“Said God told ’em to take her to a church and baptize her. And that’s what they did. They baptized this baby!”

Forney stepped over Mary and around a fallen angel, then made his way into the stable and to Novalee’s side. He tried to speak, but could find no sound, so, instead, he bent and kissed Americus, tasting straw and tears and lips . . . as she tested happiness again.

WHEN THE GREYHOUND pulled into the station, Willy Jack was the first one out. He grabbed Finny’s suitcase and the Martin, then flagged a taxi. His pocket was full of Claire’s money and he’d had enough of buses to last a while.

Willy Jack didn’t realize it then, but Claire Hudson had finally sent her Finny to Nashville, the place she knew he belonged.

The taxi driver delivered Willy Jack to the Plantation Hotel where he picked up a hooker in blue spandex and steered her to his room.

He spent the next three days and nights forgetting about prison, but it took some Wild Turkey and woolly women to get it done.

On the fourth morning, when Willy Jack slipped out the service entrance of the Plantation, he left behind a sleeping whore and a hotel bill of over three hundred dollars, but he took with him a headache, a pain in his gut and a dose of clap he wouldn’t know about for another week.

When he checked into a Budget Inn a few hours later, he decided it was time to get his career off the ground. He uncorked a new fifth of Turkey, tuned up the Martin, then ran through several songs he would play at auditions, concentrating on “The Beat of a Heart,” the song he had written in prison.

He had studied the videotapes Claire had supplied, concert performances by Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson, Grand Ole Opry films with Chet Atkins and Roy Clark, and TV clips of Johnny Cash and George Strait. And after Claire bought the Walkman, Willy Jack kept tapes playing even while he went to sleep.

He had spent hours posing in front of a full-length mirror in Claire’s office where he practiced his stance, his moves and his bow. He taught himself how to caress a guitar and fondle a mike and he learned when to tilt his head so that his thick dark curls fell forward and covered his eyes.

At the end of a year in prison, he had the stage presence of a pro.

He had won two talent contests and played at the dedication of the new maximum security annex. Several times he got out to perform because Claire pulled some strings. He sang the national anthem at the state football playoffs in Roswell and at the Socorro rodeo. He sang “Amazing Grace” at the warden’s father’s funeral in Moriarty and played for the Punta de Ague prom. Once he even played in Santa Fe for a prison reform conference chaired by the governor.

By the time he landed in Nashville, he was ready for bigger things.

He hit the top agencies first—Monterey Artists, William Morris, Buddy Lee Attractions—the swanky places on Sixteenth and Seventeenth Avenues where they had lobbies with gold records and Grammys, framed pictures of Hank Williams and Bob Wills and Patsy Cline . . . offices with genuine leather couches and ankle-deep carpets, places where real live stars hung out. At Monterey, Willy Jack was sure that when he walked in, Brenda Lee walked out.

But walking in, it seemed, was the easy part. Willy Jack never got beyond the receptionists at the front desks, the thirty-something women in dark tailored suits who invited him to leave his card, his picture, his tape . . . women who smiled and said they were sorry, but their bosses were in meetings, out of town, at auditions, in taping sessions, on vacations—unavailable.

Willy Jack ran every bluff he could think of—the boss was his cousin, his uncle, his brother-in-law. He was there to deliver a personal message, to pick up a contract, to work on the telephones. But nothing he said got him more than a smile and an invitation to have a nice day.

Once, when he decided to push it, he got an escort to the sidewalk by security, brothers who sang backup on a Roy Acuff record twenty-five years ago.

Two days and two bottles of grain alcohol later, Willy Jack tried the recording companies, but with a different approach. He went to RCA with a recommendation from Dolly Parton, and was sent to Warner Brothers by Roy Orbison. MCA’s head recording engineer was waiting for him to deliver a tape and Arista’s director of production wanted one of his songs for Kenny Rogers’ new album. But Willy Jack’s stories never clicked. He couldn’t get in to see the janitor.

He spent his nights hanging out in the Hall of Fame Bar and Douglas Corner down in Music Square. One night he signed up to sing at the Bluebird Cafe, but by the time his turn came, he was too drunk to tune the Martin.

After ten days in Nashville, he had ducked out of two hotels and two motels and was holed up in a flophouse on Lafayette. He had given up Wild Turkey for Mad Dog Twenty-Twenty—and T-bones Where the Heart Is

for corndogs and fries. He could no longer afford the cheap prostitutes, so he had to settle for tired women who would give it away for a beer and a smoke or a free bed. He had called Claire Hudson twice for money, but hadn’t caught her at a phone.

By the time he walked into the old Boston Building on Jefferson, he had one cigarette in his shirt and two dollars and change in his pants. And he was hungry, dirty and tired.

The building, a six-story brick with a frayed awning over the front door, smelled like stale coffee and old books. An out-of-order sign on the elevator had yellowed with age.

The two-line ad in the paper hadn’t promised much—auditions for bookings in local clubs—but it was the best offer Willy Jack had seen. He climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and found the Ruth Meyers Agency at the end of the hall, next to the men’s room.

When he stepped into a dusty gray office not much bigger than a Dumpster, no one seemed to notice. A middle-aged man sat in a corner, hunkered into his harmonica, his eyes closed in concentration.

A teenage redhead in a Western-fringed miniskirt, a fiddle case clamped between her thighs, teased her frizzy hair into a four-inch pomp.

The white-haired receptionist looked surprised when she hung up the phone and saw Willy Jack at her desk.

“Hi. Are you here to see Ruth Meyers or Nellie?”

“I saw an ad in the paper and—”

“Then you want to see Ruth Meyers. Just go on in,” she said as she pointed to a door marked PRIVATE.

Willy Jack didn’t knock, just barged in, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the gloom in the large, high-ceilinged room. The only light came through the grimy panes of two windows.

The room was a jumble of amplifiers, filing cabinets, pianos, stereos, speakers, microphones, drums and a massive conference table a foot deep in dead plants, take-out cartons, straw hats, sheet music, violin cases and an empty birdcage.

“Jesus Christ. Another guitar player.”

She stood up then and walked around the table, came to stand against him, her hard round belly pressed to his chest.

“What’s your name?”

“Willy Jack Pickens.”

“And you didn’t even have to make that up, did you?”

“What?”

She was tall, over six feet, and she smelled of Vicks. She wore a black velvet skirt with half the hem pulled loose and a satin blouse stapled together where buttons should have been. Her stockings were rolled down to her ankles and the toes of her felt houseshoes were cut out.

“Well, do you just carry that guitar around for balance?”

“You want me to play?”

“What the fuck you think I want you to do? Call bingo?”

Willy Jack opened the case, took out the Martin, then slid onto the conference table, sending a doughnut box sailing to the floor. While he tuned up, the woman pulled a jar of Vicks from her pocket and rubbed some just under her nose.

“One tune,” she said without interest. “Your best shot.”

Willy Jack cleared his throat, then began playing “The Beat of a Heart,” while the woman searched through the pile of debris on the table.

Just as he started to sing, she found what she was looking for—a can of Diet Pepsi.

“No matter how lonely you are

There’s someone in this world who loves you She lifted sheet music from the top of a dead begonia, then poured a dollop of Pepsi over it.

“No matter what troubles you have

There’s someone in the world who cares She walked the length of the table pouring Pepsi onto blackened ferns and leafless ivies.

“And if God really loves you

He’s not the only one

Her gardening done, she uncapped a package of Alka-Seltzer, popped two of them in her mouth, then downed them with the last of the Pepsi.

When the white-haired receptionist opened the door and stuck her head inside, Ruth Meyers held up her hand, a signal to be quiet.

“Just feel it in the beat of a heart”

After the sound of the last note died away, the room was still for several moments, then: “It’s gonna cost me a thousand dollars to get you cleaned up,” she growled. “Pictures will be another two hundred.”

Then, to the receptionist, “Jenny,” she boomed, “type up a note for twelve hundred bucks, then call Doc Frazier. He can work us in.

Cancel the trio from Fort Smith and set up the bluegrass singer for Friday afternoon.”

“Wait just a damned minute,” Willy Jack said as he slid off the table.

“My name’s Ruth Meyers. Call me Ruth Meyers.”

“Then let me ask you something, Ruth, what’s this about—”

“Goddammit! Can’t you hear? I said to call me Ruth Meyers. Not Ruth. Not Meyers. You call me Ruth Meyers!”

“Okay, Ruth Meyers! What the hell is this twelve-hundred-dollar note? And who’s this doctor?”

“Dentist. Doc’s a dentist. You’ve got a cavity the size of a raisin between your two front teeth. And you’re gonna get ’em cleaned.

They’re green,” she said as she made a face.

“I’ll be the one who decides—”

“Jenny, call Preston’s. Tell them we’ll be in this afternoon for a fitting. And I want Jake Gooden or we’ll go to Newman’s. Jacket, trousers, shirts . . . the works. We’ll go to Tooby’s for boots.” Then to Willy Jack, “What’s your shoe size?”

“Nine, but—”

“Tell Tooby we want two-inch heels. Then get in touch with Nina at the Cut-n-Curl. He’ll need a style and color.” Ruth Meyers checked her watch. “We can be there by four. He needs a manicure, too.”

Willy Jack said, “Now, by God . . .” but he never got to finish.

“Now here’s the deal.” Ruth Meyers slashed another shot of Vicks beneath her nose. “You’ll sign the note and a contract. I take fifteen percent of everything you make. You’ll start tomorrow night at Buffy’s out on Hermitage. It pays a hundred a night. You’ll work clubs until we’re ready for a record deal.”

“Well, that don’t sound bad, but—”

“If you came to Nashville to be a star, if that’s what you want, then I’ll see you get it.”

“That’s damned sure what I want.”

“And that name? One Willie in the business is enough. You’re Billy Shadow now.”

“Billy Shadow,” Willy Jack said, trying it out. “Billy Shadow.”

Then he nodded his head and grinned. “Yeah. That’ll do.”

Ruth Meyers leaned across the table, right in Willy Jack’s face.

“There’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Never . . . ever . . . lie to me.”

“Sure, Ruth . . . Ruth Meyers. You got a deal.”

THREE YEARS LATER than when she had started, Novalee was going west. Not to Bakersfield, but to Santa Fe. Not with Willy Jack, not in a Plymouth with a hole in the floor and not to live in a house with a balcony, but Novalee was finally going to go west.

When the letter had come, back in August, she had prepared herself for disappointment. But when she opened it and read, “such stunning work,” her breath came fast. As her eyes raced ahead to

“pleased to announce,” her fingers trembled. And by the time she saw “first place winner,” she was jumping up and down, sending a tremor through the trailer that caused Sister Husband to rush out of the bathroom in a panic.

“What is it? What happened?”

“The Kodak contest! The Greater Southwest! I won! My picture won!”

“The boy on Rattlesnake Ridge?”

“Yes!” Novalee screamed, then grabbed Sister and danced her around the room. They took wide, prancing steps, tossing their heads like flamenco dancers. Then they collapsed on the couch, giggling and breathless as girls.

“Darlin’,” Sister asked as she struggled for air, “what did you win?” a question that set them laughing again.

“A weekend in Santa Fe.”

“Oh, my word. Just listen to that.”

“And they’re going to put my picture in an exhibit.”

“Why Novalee, you’re going to be famous,” Sister said, suddenly struck by the gravity of the news.

In the days that followed, Sister’s prediction came true, at least in Sequoyah County. Novalee’s picture was in the paper with a caption that read, LOCAL PHOTOGRAPHER ACCLAIMED.

She was named Employee of the Week at Wal-Mart, the First National Bank sent a card of congratulations, and the art teacher at the high school asked her to come to his classes to speak.

Dixie Mullins, confusing New Mexico with the Old, offered her a Spanish phrase book. Henry and Leona gave her luggage, but couldn’t agree on color or brand, so she got a red suitbag by American Tourister and a blue duffel made in Taiwan.

Lexie Coop and the children took Novalee and Americus to dinner at the Pizza Hut, where all the Coops ate standing up, Lexie’s latest method of combating obesity.