Somebody Everybody Listens To Page 2

  I tiptoed up the porch steps, avoiding the creaky spots, and sat down. Even though I had to work bright and early the next morning, I couldn’t seem to drag myself to bed. There was a storm brewing, I could smell it on the air, hear it rustling in the leaves. In the few hours we’d sat out on Baker’s Point, the night had gone from bright and starry to inky black. The river would be starting to whitecap right about now.

  There was a storm churning inside my head, too, and it had been raging for weeks. So many thoughts, and all of them coming at once—Starling High School and the way I’d always felt there, like nobody took me seriously, which they didn’t. Bluebell’s Diner with its awful greasy smell and Stinky Stan, my creepy letch manager (every time he looked at me, I felt like I needed a scalding hot shower), and Mama and Daddy and the tired bitterness between them.

  And I thought about all the times I’d held myself back—not studied for a test, not done my homework. More than once it had occurred to me that maybe I couldn’t be trusted with a big dream.

  patsy cline

  BORN: September 8, 1932; Winchester, Virginia

  JOB: Gaunt’s Drug Store, waitress behind the soda fountain.

  BIG BREAK: Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts program, New York City, 1957.

  LIFE EVENTS: Head-on car crash that nearly killed her in June 1961.

  DIED: March 5, 1963, near Camden, Tennessee, plane crash. She was thirty.

  CHAPTER TWO

  crazy

  NORMALLY, Bluebell’s Diner doesn’t start hopping before eight A.M., but by seven-thirty it was jam-packed. The electricity on Polk Road was working just fine, but last night’s storm had left folks in other parts of town without power on this hot June morning. The counter was lined with a string of old men drinking coffee. The booths were crowded with moms and dads and their hungry kids. Scattered here and there were a few out-of-towners, the folks who breezed through Starling on their way fi shing or waterskiing. People like that just loved Bluebell’s, said it was filled with country charm.

  I felt like telling them about Stinky Stan and his habit of not washing his hands properly or digging in his crotch or dropping the occasional biscuit on the gritty floor and plopping it right back on a plate. Charming, my butt, I thought, and set down a piping-hot cup of coffee. “You want sugar with that?” Even though I was in a terrible mood, I smiled and waited for the reply I knew would come.

  Just like clockwork, the harmless old man said, “I’d love a little sugar,” then he puckered up his wrinkled lips. I pretended it was the funniest joke I’d ever heard and slid the container of sweetener his way.

  “Don’t you just love how amused they are with theirselves?” Estelle mumbled in my ear. “Like we ain’t heard that shit a million times before.” Estelle had been working at Bluebell’s since the year she graduated high school, two decades and then some.

  “Well, at least he’s the first one who’s said it today,” I replied, and grabbed two plates off the warmer.

  “Hey, I asked you for a bottle of steak sauce ten minutes ago!” a fiftyish man in a baseball cap shouted at me.

  “I’ll be right with you,” I said, and plunked down two creamy chipped beef specials in front of a nice-looking couple. Clearly, they were from out of town, the owners of that shiny Volvo in the parking lot, no doubt. “Can I get y’all anything else?”

  “No, thank you.” The woman smiled up at me politely.

  “I’m good,” her husband replied.

  “Well, just let me know if you need anything else,” I said, deliberately making the rude man wait.

  “Do I have to get the steak sauce myself or what?” he yelled.

  I glanced up and noticed Estelle making a beeline straight for him, a bottle of Heinz 57 raised so high it appeared she might bludgeon him to death with it.

  During my break, I sat down on the back stoop and took a long, slow swig of sweet tea. My head was pounding, and my stomach felt like I’d had cockleburs for breakfast instead of toast and eggs. I pulled out my order pad and wrote down a number: $514.76—my life savings. Brenda’s pep talk was still fresh in my mind. On the bright side, $514.76 was more than enough for a bus ticket. Way more, in fact. But once I got to Nashville, then what? I’d need a place to stay and food and more bus money. And that didn’t even count the unexpected expenses.

  Estelle poked her head out the door. “Stinky’s on the warpath, Retta. You better get back to work.” She narrowed her eyes. “What’s the matter with you? You ain’t been right all morning.” She came outside, sat down on the stoop next to me. “Did you go to Tercell’s party last night?”

  I shook my head and took a sip of tea.

  “You sad about graduatin’?” she asked.

  “No,” I replied firmly.

  Suddenly the door swung open, and Stan’s round, Buddha face scowled down at us. “Y’all better get back in here. We got customers,” he said.

  “Me and Retta are entitled to a break,” Estelle snapped. Stan ignored her and slammed the door.

  “I hate that man,” I said.

  “Oh, honey, don’t waste your precious energy hatin’ him. He ain’t worth it.”

  The afternoon wore on and on and on. Around three, a group of very sunburned, slightly buzzed college kids came staggering through the door demanding silver-dollar pancakes and hash browns. Estelle set them straight on the breakfast menu hours, and they settled for turkey club sandwiches instead. Usually, Bluebell’s is dead this time of day, which is why Faye, the short-order cook, left early for a doctor’s appointment, and Stan slipped off to the back somewhere.

  While Estelle took care of the orders, I tossed a couple of hamburgers on the griddle. Neither of us had eaten a bite for hours, and I was starving. Greasy heat filled the kitchen; sweat trickled down the sides of my face. All afternoon I’d been humming Patsy Cline in my head. It was the Patsy from a YouTube video I’d watched a million times in the Starling High School library when I should’ve been studying. With nobody around to hear me, I let the words to “Crazy” slide off my tongue. I strived to get her signature sound just right—the swooping glissandos, that slight catch in her voice, the achy sadness.

  Right then the faintest twinge of happy washed over me, but it was shattered instantly when something bit my right butt cheek—hard. I whirled around, half expecting to find a rabid dog or a king cobra, but it was only Stan. He was laughing hysterically and snapping a pair of kitchen tongs like they were castanets. “I couldn’t resist,” he said.

  I glared at him. My butt was throbbing, and I’d have a bruise with Stan Plummer’s name on it, which was too disgusting for words. A greasy, hot spatula sat on the griddle. “Say you’re sorry,” I said, and snatched it up.

  Just then Estelle came through the door with an overloaded tray. “Y’all stop it,” she ordered. “Retta, put that down before you hurt somebody.”

  My temper was in charge now. “Say. You’re. Sorry!”

  “Retta, please,” Estelle tried.

  “I ain’t sorry,” Stan said. “It was just a joke is all, and you’re about as likely to hit me with that spatula as you are to make a hit record.”

  The thwack was louder than I’d expected, and truth be told, it was his hit-record comment that made me do it.

  “Ow!” Stan yelped, and pressed his palm to his face. “Ice! Ice! Get me some ice!” Ugly red welts were rising up on his cheek. I’d burned myself on that hot griddle at least a hundred times over the past three years, and I knew that later Stan’s wound would blister then ooze. “Don’t just stand there!” he screamed. “Get me some ice, dammit!”

  “Get it yourself, butt breath,” Estelle replied. She slammed her tray down, and plastic cups clattered to the floor. “All’s you had to do was say sorry. Five little letters, Stan. When are you gonna learn to keep your hands to yourself? Huh? I guess Retta here taught you a lesson.”

  “Retta’s crazy!” Stan hollered. “She’s just crazy!”

  The word jumped out at me. I untied my
apron. This place was making me crazy. This whole town was making me crazy. All of a sudden it was like being tied up in a straitjacket; somehow I had to get out. My purse was under the counter. I grabbed it, slung it over my shoulder.

  “Retta, don’t do this. Don’t let him run you off,” Estelle tried.

  “I’ll call you later,” I said.

  “You better go!” Stan yelled at my back. “I ought to call the law! Have you arrested for assault!” I didn’t turn around. I just marched out the door and toward the highway.

  It was six sweaty miles to Polk Road, but I wasn’t going home, not yet. Daddy would have a fit if he heard what Stinky Stan had done with those tongs, and Mama would have a fit when she found out I’d quit my job. Instead, I decided to stop off at Baker’s Point, which was only three miles or so from the diner. I’d hang out by myself for a while, think things over before I walked the rest of the way home.

  Baker’s Point was always pretty this time of day—glistening water, nice breeze, sunny skies. The calm after the storm. Boats buzzed across the water, and a pair of dragonflies danced right in front of me. The ground was still a little damp from last night’s storm, but I didn’t care. I lay back and stared up at the summer sky, thought of all those kids I’d gone to school with: Marlena Blackstone was pregnant, but refused to tell anybody who the father was (of course, if her reputation was any indication, the baby would need a blood test before Marlena knew herself). A lifetime of WIC-funded Pampers and Similac awaited them both for sure. Sissy Rummage and Lloyd Thomas were getting married tomorrow. Desiree Gibbons was leaving Monday for some summer program at her college. I couldn’t even remember where she was going, which was strange because it was all she’d talked about for four years.

  I sat up and chewed a hangnail. The $514.76 number churned in my head again. It was all I had. Now it was all I was gonna have, at least for a while. And last night, the roof leaked—there was the tiniest brown stain on my ceiling this morning when I woke up. It was only a matter of time before somebody’d have to pay to fix it.

  charlie daniels

  BORN: October 28, 1936; Wilmington, North Carolina

  JOB: Inspector at the Taylor Colquitt Creosoting Company.

  BIG BREAK: Epic Records picks up “Jaguar” (a Charlie Daniels Band instrumental) for national distribution, Fort Worth, Texas, 1959.

  LIFE EVENTS: While still in high school and building the set for the senior play, Daniels cut off his right-hand ring finger; Daniels is proficient on guitar, mandolin, fiddle, and banjo, but even with only half his ring finger, he can pick chords just fine.

  CHAPTER THREE

  i saw the light

  IT WAS SURE TO BE MY DAY OF RECKONING. Appropriate, I guess, since it was Sunday. On Friday I had stayed down at the river then come home at the usual time. Mama didn’t suspect a thing. And Saturday is my day off, so it was normal for me to sleep late and eat strawberry Pop-Tarts at noon. But today at church somebody would say something about my little spatula episode. Like the song says, word gets around in a small, small town, and as I adjusted my tired blue A-line skirt and buttoned the sweat-stained white blouse, I tried to figure out how I’d respond.

  “Y’all come on! We’re gonna be late!” Mama called, and hurried out the front door. Within seconds she was in the car and laying on the horn. My stomach lurched, and I could hear Daddy cursing under his breath down the hall.

  “Mornin’, Ree Ree,” he said as I emerged from my bedroom.

  “Morning, Daddy,” I replied.

  Daddy drove. Mama fussed about Daddy’s driving. And I stared out the window and tried not to notice the TEAM MEMBER WANTED sign on the Taco Bell marquee.

  It wasn’t until we got out of the car and headed up the front steps of the Starling Methodist Church that I noticed Mama, really noticed her. Her lips were bright red and her hair was twisted up into an elegant French knot. She wore a Fashion Bug wrap dress that accentuated her perfect figure and a pair of rhinestone hoop earrings I’d never seen before. Of the three of us, Mama is the only one who ever seems to have anything new, and at times I wonder if she’s giving herself a five-finger discount over at the Dollar King.

  Mama dragged Daddy toward the front, but I slipped into the back pew. If you sit toward the front, you get caught in church traffic—a bunch of chatty old women who ask lots of questions about your personal life and clog up the aisle with their walkers and oxygen tanks. Cranky old Mr. Shackleford came in late and slid into the space next to me, although I didn’t mind. He was only cranky on the surface; underneath he was kindhearted, and also a good tipper.

  All through the sermon, I stared four rows ahead at the back of Tercell Blount’s big hair. She sat in the pew with her parents and Bobby McGee (after his granddaddy, not the song), and I couldn’t help but feel jealous. As far as I could tell, she had everything: more clothes than one girl could possibly wear, a nice car, and any kind of future she wanted. The irony was she’d never worked a day in her life. Mr. Blount runs a successful trucking business, and Mrs. Blount sells riverfront real estate. The Blounts have plenty of money, a fact Tercell always manages to brag about just when the electric company is threatening to shut off our lights again or our phone number has that embarrassing “This number has been temporarily disconnected” recording.

  After a lengthy sermon on the miracle of Lazarus, Tercell and her mama clicked toward the altar to sing what I prayed would be just one hymn. Mrs. James, the preacher’s elderly mother, twisted around in her seat and half shouted, “Why ain’t you singing today, Retta?” I shrugged. I sang in church all the time, and it seemed only fair that someone else have a chance, even if it was the tone-deaf Blount women. “Well, I hope they ain’t singing but one song,” Mrs. James said much too loudly, and snatched the hearing aid out of her ear.

  Brother James hooked up the microphone, and the Blounts began. They started off with “Blessed Assurance” then “Praise Ye the Triune God” then “Give Me Jesus,” and just when I thought they never would stop, they ended with “I Saw the Light,” a number so far off tempo Mrs. Dempsey couldn’t keep up on the organ.

  “That-uz mighty good,” said Brother James when they finished.

  “My foot,” Mrs. James whispered over her shoulder. “Times like this I wish I was completely deaf.”

  “I got to go feed my cows,” Mr. Shackleford grumbled. Noisily, he left—even before Communion—and let the heavy, wooden door bang shut behind him. This didn’t faze Mrs. Blount or Tercell, however. The two of them beamed like they’d been nominated for a Grammy.

  By the time the service was over, my palms were sweating. The backs of my knees were sweating. Nervously, I glanced around, wondering who would be the first to say something. I decided it would be better if Mama and Daddy heard the news without me around, so I made a fast break for the Chrysler.

  “Retta! Hey, Retta!” It was Tercell coming up behind me. I stopped in my tracks, drew in a deep breath, and turned to face her. “We sure did miss you and Brenda at the graduation party.” I could tell by the way she said it she hadn’t missed us one bit.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry about not making it. I’m sure it was fun.” “Oh, it was. We had steak.” She said the word like I’d never heard of it before. “And chocolate fondue. And Daddy bought two thousand dollars’ worth of fireworks and set them off right over the river. It was spectacular. Way better than the Fourth of July down at the marina.”

  “Well, I’m glad y’all had fun,” I said, and turned to go. Two thousand dollars. What a bunch of idiots.

  “You’re in a big hurry today, although I don’t know why,” Tercell said to my back. “Your mama’s in there talking up a storm. You shoulda seen the look on her face when Daddy teased her about your little run-in with Stan Plummer. I mean, I think it’s hysterical, but your mama didn’t appear very amused.” I stopped and turned around again. “You’re lucky he doesn’t file assault charges or something. That’d be just like him, don’t you think so? Personally, I don’t know
how you could stand working there all these years. I would die if I had to wait tables.”

  Bobby walked up just then, and Tercell hooked her arm through his. “Wouldn’t you, Bobby?” she asked, and blinked up at him.

  “Wouldn’t I what? Hey, Retta,” he said in that slightly hoarse, sexy voice of his.

  I smiled and felt my heart speed up a little. Bobby’s so cute it kills me. Plus, he’s also nice and smart. His only flaw, as far as I can tell, is his taste in girlfriends.

  “Die if you had to wait tables.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with waiting tables. Speaking of work, I’ve got to help clean up out at McClellan’s this afternoon.”

  “Aw, Bobby. It’s Sunday,” Tercell complained.

  “Can’t be helped,” he said, and shrugged. His eyes met mine. Normally, I’d be all don’t-make-extended-eye-contact-with-another-girl’s-boyfriend, but as payback for the Bluebell’s comment, I stared right at him. Brenda says your pupils dilate when you’re attracted to someone, which meant mine were probably the size of hubcaps.

  Tercell cleared her throat. “So I guess you heard what I’m doing this summer?”

  “Nope, I didn’t hear a thing,” I replied, still looking at Bobby. Tercell and her parents were always taking cruises down in the Bahamas or making yet another pilgrimage to Disney World or Dollywood or Six Flags.

  “It’s not a vacation, though,” said Tercell, reading my mind. Reluctantly, I turned my attention to her again. “I’m going to New York City. I was accepted into the New York Vocal Academy for their summer program.”

  “Vocal academy?” I asked. I sensed there was a slam dunk coming.

  “I announced it at the party th’other night. Anyway, it’s a really nice school, and practically everybody who comes out of that place ends up with a recording contract. It says it right on the brochure. Daddy paid the tuition all up front, and I leave tomorrow, which is why you have to finish up out at McClellan’s quickly,” she said, and pressed her double-D’s into Bobby. I felt my cheeks burn. “Say a prayer for me. Okay, Retta?”