Somebody Everybody Listens To Page 17

  When I arrived at the bookstore, Emerson had already locked the door and flipped the sign to CLOSED. I tapped on the window, and she hurried over to let me inside.

  “I still have to close out the register,” she explained. “It’ll only take a sec.”

  “Oh, I’m not in any rush. Take your time.” I followed her to the counter, watched as she counted out the coins and bills and emptied the register tape. She was all dressed up—stylish pencil skirt, short-sleeved melon-colored cardigan, chunky necklace with shiny glass beads, and lemon-yellow ballet slippers—and I wondered if we were going someplace fancy for our celebration. Hopefully not, I thought, although I didn’t say anything.

  “So did you fly here on cloud nine?” she asked when she’d finished.

  “I could have. All day long it’s all I thought about, and I remember that lady, too. She was sitting right in the front row, but I had no idea who she was.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t have known her, especially being new in town. It’s kind of a strange story, actually. She was just this housewife with a passion for music. Anyway, Nashville Listens was about to go under. They couldn’t give the papers away; it was mostly syndicated columns and national news, information people can get off the Internet. Then the paper was bought out by a Nashville businesswoman, and she changed everything, made it entirely local news. She hired all these area writers and food people and artsy types; a lot of them were smart women from her country club, including Judy Dickerson. I know all about it because she’s a friend of Mrs. Scribner’s, my boss. Anyway, this group of women got the paper going again, and Judy’s column became wildly popular. She can spot real talent, and a lot of the people from her New & Noted column have ended up with record deals.”

  “Record deals?”

  Emerson nodded. “I told you it was big.”

  “Thank you so much for calling me. If you hadn’t, there’s no way I would’ve known. I mean, I don’t usually even read the paper.”

  “Oh, I’d been meaning to call you anyway. It’s just my classes were superbusy and work was nonstop, and then I interviewed for a new job and found an apartment.”

  “A new job?”

  “At the Nashville Public Library. I start next week.”

  “That’s great. Now you can loan books out legally.”

  “I know. Mrs. Scribner actually suggested it. Turns out, she knew I was loaning books out. It’s not like I did it every day or anything, and I kept tabs. If anybody’d failed to return a book or damaged one, I would’ve reimbursed her. But not a single person kept the books. Or damaged them. Isn’t that amazing? I actually wrote a paper about it for one of my classes this summer. It’s called ‘Inherent Good: Hardwired to Do the Right Thing.’”

  “Did you say you were moving, too?”

  “I got a tiny apartment over on Natchez, but yesterday there were complications, and now I’m in a quarrel with my father. Long story,” she said, and waved it off. “So I saved twenty copies of Nashville Listens for you. Is that enough?

  “Twenty? Uh, I think a couple will do. Like you said, I can always make copies of the article. I’ll give you the exact change, so it won’t mess up your closeout.”

  “Sorry. I’d give them to you for free, but I promised—”

  “No, I’m happy to pay for them,” I said, and handed her the money. She stuffed it into a cash bag then tugged open the safe.

  “So you’ve worked retail, too, I take it?”

  “Close enough. At a diner back in my hometown.” I tucked the newspapers under my arm and waited by the door while Emerson switched off the lights and set the alarm, then we headed up the street to a little restaurant called Nacho Mama’s.

  Thankfully, the menu prices were reasonable. We ordered tacos and refried beans and rice and virgin daiquiris, and while we waited for our orders, Emerson spread the newspaper out between us. I could feel her watching me as I read the article.

  NEW & NOTED

  Lately, I’d rather clean out the lint screen on my dryer than go hear another country-my-ass singer, but on Friday night, I was pleasantly surprised when but on Friday night, I was pleasantly surprised when Retta Jones climbed onstage at the Mockingbird. Wearing jeans ready for the Goodwill pile, what I’m quite certain was a boy’s undershirt (I’ve bought my share of Fruit of the Looms for my sons over the years), and a fab pair of sky-blue boots, Ms. Jones was anything but flashy. In fact, she was plain and simple, which made me like her even before she opened her mouth. Even better, I noticed there was mud, real-live D-I-R-T, on the heel of her left boot. A gimmick? If it was it sure fooled me.

  When she opened those ruby lips, the sound was pure as the mountain air, a timbre so rich and crystal clear she could yodel in the Alps, but unlike many of today’s young performers, Ms. Jones actually sang on pitch and stayed on key. (I never thought I’d see the day when this was a big deal in country music, but that’s a rant for another article.)

  It’s tempting to compare Ms. Jones to other classic, true-country artists, but I will refrain from doing so, mainly because in time, Ms. Jones will make a mark of her very own—hopefully, an indelible muddy boot print up and down Music Row.

  You heard it here first. Judy Dickenson.

  “So what do you think?” asked Emerson.

  “I think I’m dreaming. Out of all the people in Nashville to write about and she writes about me? I don’t know what to think.”

  “Do you have any performances lined up?”

  “I’m singing at the Mockingbird again this Saturday. There’s another open-mike night.”

  “Maybe you should take this article around to a few labels, let them know you’re playing. Capitalize.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’ll put my CD in with it, too. I did a demo.”

  “Really? Can I hear it?”

  “Sure. I have some in the car. You can have one to keep; consider it a payback for letting me borrow those books.”

  “Pretty soon I can let you borrow books all the time.” Emerson grinned and held up her glass. “To our success!” she said.

  “To our success,” I replied, and we clinked glasses.

  The two of us spent the rest of the evening getting to know one another. Emerson was an English major and planned to go to graduate school. She was thinking of becoming a librarian someday. Her parents were older, semiretired and living in a golf community, and she had a younger sister who planned to start applying to colleges this fall. She’d left a serious boyfriend back in North Carolina, but this past spring, he’d gotten some girl pregnant; teary-eyed, she explained he was going to marry her next month. Her mother was a breast cancer survivor, five years in remission this coming November. More than anything, Emerson wanted to find something important to do with her life.

  I told her about Brenda and Mama and Daddy (for now, I left out the King Asshole details), and I explained that the noise she’d heard today was Ricky Dean’s tow truck and that I was living in a garage. Emerson didn’t comment, but I could tell by the way her mouth dropped open she was horrified, although she did another toast to “my ability to delay gratification.”

  It was our scowling waitress who finally broke things up. “Can I get y’all anything else?” she asked for what was surely the tenth time.

  I glanced at the clock, realized Nacho Mama’s was ready to close. “No, just the check,” I said. “Sorry if we’ve kept you here late.” The waitress rolled her eyes and hurried off.

  “So would you mind if I came to hear you on Saturday? I haven’t been to the Mockingbird in ages, and now that my summer classes are finished, I have to make up for lost time. Once fall starts I’ll be nose to the grindstone again.”

  “Oh, I’d love it if you came.”

  “Great. We can talk later in the week and firm up our plans.”

  I walked Emerson to her car then she drove me to mine. She hugged me right before I got out, which was slightly awkward. I was used to Brenda, who mostly just lights up a cig and says “See you tomorrow,
lame ass” when she drops me off. I missed Brenda something terrible, though. I couldn’t wait to get back to the Auto Den so I could curl up on my sofa (I’d bought some real sheets, a pillow, and a blanket on sale at Target a few days ago) and call her.

  The whole drive back to the Auto Den, I felt myself latching onto this new life here. I had all the windows rolled down, and it was a pleasant late-summer evening. My back wasn’t even sticking to the seat the way it usually does. And Ricky had fixed my radio. I could listen to music and drive in what was now my very own car. I remembered Goggy suddenly, felt guilty that I hadn’t even stopped by to see her last time I was home. First thing tomorrow, I’d go over to Sam Hill’s Market and pick out a postcard to send to her, if they had anything decent, that is. Most of their postcards were pictures of mudflap girls in thongs or bottles of Jack Daniel’s. On second thought, maybe I’d go elsewhere for a postcard.

  I pulled into Ricky Dean’s parking lot, and at first I didn’t even see the ambulance. No flashing lights. No wailing siren. Just a quiet sign that something was terribly wrong.

  george glenn jones

  BORN: September 12, 1931; Saratoga, Texas

  JOB: As a kid, Jones busked on the streets of nearby Beaumont for tip money.

  BIG BREAK: Jones recorded his first song on Starday Records in 1954. His producer, Pappy Dailey, advised Jones to stop trying to sound like his country idols, Lefty Frizzell, Roy Acuff, and Hank Williams, and start sounding like George Jones. The following year Jones recorded his first top-five Billboard single, “Why Baby Why.”

  LIFE EVENTS: In 2003, Jones received the Medal of Arts from President George W. Bush, the highest honor for artistic excellence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  he stopped loving her today

  RICKY’S TOW TRUCK SAT QUIETLY IN THE DARKNESS, and I slung Goggy’s car in right next to it and switched off the ignition. That “Badonkadonk” song was stuck in my head. It’d been playing on the radio, but I was so lost in happy thoughts I hadn’t minded it. Now the tune made me want to punch something. Everything is fine, I told myself, even though ambulances don’t usually show up for no reason. “Fine,” I whispered, and got out of the car.

  I noticed Ricky hadn’t bothered to turn on the outside security lights. The small crowd of onlookers would’ve defi nitely set off the motion sensors if he had. I recognized several of them: the old lady from next door who complained daily about the tow truck’s noisy muffler; a couple of scrawny stray boys on beat-up bikes; a just-married couple from up the street (the faded tissue-paper wedding bells were still tied to their mailbox) with three kids in tow; and the window-tinting guy from two doors down.

  The shop’s garage doors were shut tight, as was the main entry, so it was impossible to see what was going on inside. I could’ve easily pushed the door open or, if it was locked, used my key. After all, I worked here, lived here. I was entitled, but I stood perfectly still, as if the slightest movement might send me and Ricky careening over a cliff. A cop car pulled in beside the ambulance. The driver’s-side door swung open, and a police officer the size of Charlie Daniels got out. He tugged at his gun belt in that Marshal Matt Dillon-like way (Gunsmoke reruns, I suspected) and strode over to us, cleared his throat importantly, and glanced around. “Uh, anybody here know the next of kin?” he asked.

  The window tinter nudged me. “I work here,” I said.

  “All right then, come on,” he replied, and I followed him, reluctantly. I could hear voices on the other side of the door, low and whispering. Fine. Fine. Fine.

  “You knew this man personally?” the officer confirmed.

  “Knew?” I repeated.

  “Come on,” he said, and pushed the door open then closed it behind us.

  “She the next of kin?” The paramedic whispered to the officer in that gravelly low voice, the one reserved for hospitals and funeral parlors. I stared at the stark white sheet draped over the stretcher, waited for it to rise and fall with Ricky’s breathing, but it was still.

  “She works here,” the police officer replied.

  “I’m sorry to say,” the paramedic began, “well . . . he was already gone when we got here, ma’am. I suspect a heart attack or maybe a stroke, it’s hard to say. He called the ambulance himself. He was in that chair over there. We tried to shock him, but . . .” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head.

  The buzzing sound was back. I glanced at the fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling, but the noise was coming from inside my head. “The Ballad of Curtis Loew,” that was the song Ricky had hummed. When? Five hours ago? Yes. Five hours seems about right. He was standing right over there by the sink. I glanced at his Dale Earnhardt coffee mug. Just this morning I’d rinsed it out for him, turned it upside down, and left it draining on a paper towel, all ready for tomorrow. The officer was saying something. “What?” I asked, and blinked up at him.

  “Do you think you could make a positive identification?”

  I nodded, and watched the paramedic lean over the stretcher. Ever so gently, he lifted the sheet.

  “It’s him,” I whispered without looking.

  “If you’d rather not do this, it’s okay,” the officer said.

  I glanced at Ricky’s face. His skin was pale blue, and it looked so cool, so out of place here in this sweltering room. “It’s Ricky Dean,” I said, and wiped a glob of sweat from my temple.

  “Do you think you could find the names of his loved ones?” the officer asked.

  “I think so.” I was trembling now. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t hide it.

  “Maybe you should sit down a minute,” the paramedic suggested. I glanced at my desk chair, the one Ricky had died in, and shook my head.

  “I’ll get you the number. Just a minute,” I said, and tugged open the file cabinet. The folder was jammed with papers. Personal stuff was mixed in with business. I hadn’t had a chance to clean this one out yet. Now it didn’t matter, I realized, and glanced over at the stretcher again. Shanay’s number was scratched onto the inside of the folder. Surely she would know how to reach Ricky’s son, his ex-wife, his brother.

  The Redneck Rider gleamed under the shop lights as if to remind me that the parts in that car alone were worth a fortune, not to mention all the other valuable things—petty cash, expensive tools, supplies. Maybe calling a jobless alcoholic wasn’t such a good idea. I kept digging.

  Roy Dean’s number was near the back, on a receipt from the Cracker Barrel. “His brother,” I said, and gave it to the officer.

  “Good. You’ve been a big help, young lady.”

  “We’re taking the body to St. Thomas Hospital,” said the paramedic. He handed me a business card. “The information’s all right here.”

  I clutched the card, watched them fling open the garage door, back the beeping ambulance into the shop then hoist Ricky inside. Just like that, Ricky was leaving the Auto Den for the very last time. I glanced around, as if to take it all in for him—the dusty windows, greasy floors, the shot glasses (left over from his drinking days), and tools and spare parts, the old desk and rickety file cabinet. It wasn’t much in the scheme of things, but he’d loved it all just the same.

  When the ambulance was gone, the officer shut the door again, and even though I couldn’t see them, I knew the neighbors were drifting back to their sitcoms and La-Z-Boys, their lives still intact. “Is there someplace I could drive you?” the officer asked.

  “I live here,” I said, and my heart spasmed with dread. I could feel him studying me. “My room’s right over here. See,” I said, and pushed the door open. My Emmylou Harris poster hung on the wall, and she stared at us with those sad brown eyes.

  “How old are you?” the officer asked.

  “Nineteen this October.”

  He took off his cap and scratched his head. “Okay. Well, you lock up tonight. I’m off my shift in a couple hours, but I’ll make sure my replacement keeps an eye on things. You don’t hesitate to call if there’s trouble. This isn’t ex
actly the best neighborhood, and there’s a lot of valuable things in here. People aren’t always nice at times like this.”

  “I know. I’ll take care of it,” I said.

  After the officer left, I bolted all the doors, checked the locks on the windows, and set the alarm. For the night, I was locked in tight, but tomorrow would surely bring something different. Something I wasn’t ready for. To keep my mind occupied, I grabbed a broom and swept till my arms ached. I soaked up the oil spills with paper towels, and wiped down every surface with all the elbow grease I could muster. Anybody peeking through the windows would’ve thought I was scouring a crime scene instead of staving off hard-boiled insanity.

  When exhaustion finally claimed me, I sat down on the stool next to the Redneck Rider and stared at it for a long while. It was a masterpiece, like one of those priceless paintings a great artist does right before he dies, a reminder of what the world will be missing from now on. I willed myself not to cry. What was the point anyway? Crying never did anybody any good, but then I noticed Ricky’s gray coveralls. They waited on a hook by the door, and somehow, even without Ricky in them, they still held his shape.

  It was around three A.M. when I pulled myself together, sort of. I stopped crying at least, went back to my room, and switched on the air conditioner. There was no way I could sleep, though, not tonight. The mold stains were still on the ceiling and driving me crazy suddenly, so I went to find the bottle of Tilex, dragged a ladder into the room, climbed to the top rung, then got all light-headed and had to come back down again. It was weird being here and knowing Ricky wasn’t coming back, not tomorrow, not ever. All this time there’d been a safety net under me; now it was gone.