Somebody Everybody Listens To Read online

  I nodded, watched the two of them float off across the church parking lot and into Tercell’s Cadillac, thinking how tomorrow I’d probably be filling out an application over at Taco Bell.

  Mama fumed all the way home, and Daddy tried to make conversation, which isn’t at all like Daddy. “So has Goggy had that cateract surgery yet?” he asked. Goggy is my sour great-aunt, and nobody cares for her much.

  “Tuesday,” Mama mumbled.

  “What?” asked Daddy.

  “She’s. Having it. Tuesday!” Mama said again as if we were all deaf.

  “Well, I hope she don’t plan on driving herself,” Daddy replied.

  “Of course she’s not driving her-self,” Mama snapped. “What’s the matter with you? Why do you even care?”

  Daddy glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “So what’s she gonna do with that car of hers?”

  “How should I know, Lyle? I don’t know what her plans are.” Mama turned and glared at me. “Turns out I don’t know anybody’s plans, including my own daughter’s.”

  “Don’t start, Renatta,” Daddy warned.

  “I’ll start whenever I feel like it. What were you thinking quitting that good job, Retta? Huh?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “Any day now your daddy’s back could go out again, and then the Jones family will be without any paycheck, but you weren’t thinkin’ about that, though, were you?” I held my tongue, which was nothing shy of a miracle. In fact, it was right up there with Lazarus coming back from the dead.

  All week long Daddy hadn’t gotten home before nine o’clock at night. Movers and Shakers had the unpleasant, not to mention greasy, job of cleaning out some old machine shop over in Milldale, and he’d worked overtime and then some. When he did finally make it home, he popped four ibuprofens, downed two Buds, and groaned his way to bed. While Daddy was off wrecking his spine (and I was being sexually harassed at Bluebell’s), Mama watched All My Children and worked out with Jane Fonda and spent her afternoons at the Dollar King. Like I said, it was a miracle I didn’t say anything, and Daddy must’ve known it, too, because he kept right on talking, probably just to keep me quiet.

  “Well, if Goggy’s car is just sitting there all that time, the battery will run down,” he went on.

  “Goggy doesn’t have any business driving anyway. She’s eighty-six,” Mama pointed out.

  Daddy eyed me in the mirror again, and suddenly I saw the light.

  dixie chicks:

  Natalie Maines, Emily and Martie Erwin

  BORN: Natalie—October 14, 1974; Emily—August 16, 1972; Martie—October 12, 1969

  JOB: Natalie—waitress at Orlando’s Italian Restaurant in Lubbock, Texas; Emily and Martie (who also happen to be sisters)—busking at small venues and bluegrass festivals.

  BIG BREAK: Natalie’s dad gave her Berklee College of Music audition tape to Emily and Martie, and they asked her to join the band.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  wide open spaces

  BRENDA PICKED ME UP at the crack of dawn the next morning. Thanks to the vo-tech program at Starling High School, she’s a certified medical assistant over at the hospital, so she’s always up and out the door early. Normally, she gives me a ride to Bluebell’s, but today she was dropping me off at Goggy’s.

  “Don’t say a word,” she ordered, and lit up a cigarette. Every window was rolled down, but still the smoke burned my throat. I could only imagine what it was doing to Brenda’s lungs.

  “Thirteen years,” I reminded her.

  “Shut up, Retta.”

  “Fine,” I replied. “But it could’ve been the best thirteen years of your life.”

  “Or, I could’ve lingered on endlessly with Alzheimer’s,” she replied, and took a puff. “You’ll be soiling your Depends, wishing you’d taken up smoking.”

  “I seriously doubt that,” I said. We sat at the red light right in front of Taco Bell, but I refused to glance up at that stupid sign.

  “Retta?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I was you. I know from fi rsthand experience that woman’s mean as a snake.” Goggy was in the hospital a year or so ago with pneumonia, back when Brenda was still just a candy striper. Day after day, Goggy made mean cracks about her makeup. “And I don’t have time to sit in the driveway for hours on end while you’re inside degrading yourself. I’m due at work by seven-thirty.”

  “I know,” I replied. “It’s fine.”

  “But how will you get home?”

  “I’ll walk if I have to. Or I’ll call Daddy or something. I think he’s off today. Don’t worry, okay?”

  “I hate to see you do this, Retta. You’ve already had enough setbacks with your job, and this woman is terrible for a person’s confidence. Seriously, what are the odds she’s just gonna hand over her car?” Brenda turned the radio down.

  “You do not mute the Dixie Chicks,” I said, and turned it back up again. “Wide Open Spaces” was on, and I tried to focus on the lyrics. She needs wide open spaces, room to make her big mistakes . . .

  Brenda pulled up Goggy’s long driveway and stopped right in front of her large white farmhouse. Goggy’s husband died several years back, and since then, she’d lived alone—except for the very brief time when her sister, my Granny Larky, came to spend the end of her days here. Two weeks into the arrangement, they had a falling-out, and Granny Larky decided dying in a nursing home was preferable to living with Goggy.

  “Wish me luck,” I said, and tried to smile. My whole entire future depended on Goggy saying yes, and it was at least eight miles back to Polk Road.

  Brenda pressed her glossy pink lips together and shook her head at me. “Don’t grovel.”

  “I won’t,” I replied, and got out of the car.

  “Good luck,” she added.

  “Go. Okay? Just go.”

  “Call me,” Brenda ordered, then slowly eased down the driveway, as if she expected me to come chasing after her.

  “What do you want?” Goggy snapped, scaring me half to death. I turned around to find her standing on the front porch. “I know you want something because none a y’all ever come around here unless you do.”

  The front door stood wide open. Tinny music played on a distant radio, and I could smell bacon frying. My stomach rumbled. Goggy motioned for me to come on inside, so I made my way up the steps.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been inside Goggy’s sprawling old house. Everything was ancient, like Goggy herself, but neat as a pin—shiny wooden floors, smudge-free windows, and furniture so thoroughly polished I could see my reflection in it. Beneath the fatty aroma of pork was a hint of Pine-Sol. Even at the advanced age of eighty-six, Goggy was completely, totally self-sufficient, I could see that, and Brenda was right. There was no way she was going to let me have her car.

  “Come on into the kitchen,” said Goggy gruffly. I followed her through a dim hallway and into the sunlit room. She switched off the radio. “Sit down,” she said, more order than invitation. Obediently, I pulled out a chair. “That’s my place. Right there,” she said, and pointed to a seat at the opposite side of the table. I sat and watched while Goggy fixed herself a plate—two eggs over easy, two slabs of bacon, two wedges of toast, and one small fruit cup. She poured a cup of coffee, and I noticed there wasn’t a drop more left in the pot. She had this living-alone thing down to a no-nonsense science.

  Goggy chewed her bacon and looked at me expectantly over the top of her thick glasses. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve eased into an awkward conversation like this one with idle chitchat. How’ve you been? That sort of thing. But with Goggy there was no beating around the bush.

  “So, I’m moving to Nashville,” I said, and swallowed hard. Goggy sopped up the runny egg with her toast. “I’ve decided I’m gonna give this music thing a try.” Everybody in town knew I sang, so I decided not to overexplain this part. “I mean, I think I could actually make it as a singer in Nashville. It won’t be easy, I know that, but wi
th hard work and perseverance and hard work—”

  “You said hard work already.” Goggy took a noisy gulp of coffee and set the cup down hard.

  “I was wondering if you’d consider letting me borrow your car.” The words tumbled out. “Just for the summer,” I added quickly.

  “What?”

  “I know it’s a big thing to ask, and if there was any other way, trust me, I wouldn’t bother you with this. But you’re having surgery soon, and I just thought maybe—” I stopped midsentence. Don’t grovel, I heard Brenda say.

  Goggy tilted her head to one side and grinned at me. Not in a good way, mind you, but in that tight-lipped, smug way my teachers used to when I made up excuses for late assignments. She was enjoying watching me squirm. In other circumstances, my temper would’ve flared, but I held my tongue and kept my eye on the prize: a 1987 Chevrolet Caprice Classic.

  “I could have the car back by September first. I wouldn’t need it any longer than that.” Goggy snorted and rolled her eyes. “I just mean that I’ll be settled by then. I’ll have steady work and be able to afford a car of my own. I know it’ll take longer than one summer to establish myself musically. I’m prepared for that. I’ve researched everything carefully.”

  Goggy leaned forward slightly, as if I’d finally said something remotely intelligent. “Establish yourself musically, is that what you said?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied. I looked my great-aunt straight in her cloudy eyes. I wanted to look away, mainly because the pond-scummy film over her pupils was creeping me out, but instead I sat there, my thighs sweat-stuck to the cracked vinyl chair. “It’s not like I think I’m gonna be some big overnight sensation or anything. It’s just—well, you can make a living as a singer. There are backup singers and demo singers, and plenty of opportunities for singing at weddings or in clubs and such. Starling doesn’t have much to offer me, and it would be a shame to waste my—” I hesitated, wondering whether or not to use the word talent. Goggy might think I was conceited.

  “Waste your what?” Goggy asked. “What is it you hope not to waste?”

  “Well, some people think I’m really good,” I said.

  “Like who? That candy striper with the bruised eyelids? Next time you see her tell her I said she needs a washrag and a bar of Ivory soap. That’ll fix her up.”

  “As a matter of fact, Brenda does think I’m good. She’s encouraged me a lot,” I said firmly.

  “Well, I wouldn’t put much stock in her taste,” Goggy said, and stood up from the table. She scuffed toward the sink, turned on the hot water, and scrubbed the utensils as if they’d been used by a leper. For a minute I sat there, watching the steam rise above her stubborn gray head, but there was no point in waiting around; clearly, this conversation was over. While Goggy’s back was turned, I slipped out the door and sprinted down the long driveway.

  Bluebell’s was only a couple of miles from here, and if I ran, I could get there in time to help Estelle finish up the breakfast shift.

  kris kristofferson

  BORN: June 22, 1936; Brownsville, Texas

  JOB:Before becoming a legendary songwriter and singer, Kristofferson worked as a janitor at Columbia Records.

  BIG BREAK: Johnny Cash recorded Kristofferson’s “Sunday Morning Coming Down,” and the song won the Country Music Association’s prestigious Song of the Year award in 1970.

  LIFE EVENTS: Kristofferson was a Rhodes scholar as well as a helicopter pilot. He turned down a teaching position at West Point, and moved to Nashville instead. While sweeping floors and emptying ashtrays, he was also writing songs. His repertoire includes such classics as “For the Good Times,” “Help Me Make It Through the Night,” and “Me and Bobby McGee,” among others.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  me and bobby mcgee

  SMOKY’S MARKET WAS RIGHT UP THE ROAD FROM BLUEBELL’S, and rather than face Stinky Stan all sweaty and red-faced, I decided to go inside and use the restroom to freshen up a bit. I tugged open the heavy door, and a blast of cool air-conditioning hit my face. It felt like heaven.

  “You mind if I use your restroom?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” Mr. Grimes, the owner, replied. He handed me a hunk of wood with a key attached then went back to watching The Price Is Right.

  I glanced up, and coming in the door was Bobby McGee. He didn’t see me at first, and I thought about hiding behind the potato-chip rack just to avoid him. Instead, I stood there in my ratty cut-off shorts and Sundrop Citrus Soda T-shirt and fl ipflops. I glanced down at my feet. They were covered with road dust. So attractive.

  “Hey, Retta,” Bobby said like I was a pleasant surprise.

  “Hey, Bobby.”

  “It sure is hot out there today, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it is.” It was an awkward what-to-say-next moment, so I fi lled it with, “I heard it’s supposed to go up to a hundred today.”

  “Yep,” Bobby agreed. “Typical summer in Tennessee, though, right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  Bobby shifted his weight and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You know, I never got a chance to tell you, but . . . well, you sounded really pretty at graduation. I’ve never heard anybody who could sing the National Anthem like you. I mean, it’s so high and everything, but your voice just soared right up to the rafters. I’ll never forget it,” he added. Bobby was blushing. It was ever so slight, but I could see it creeping over his tan. For a split second, it occurred to me that Brenda might be right. Maybe Bobby secretly liked me, too. My stomach flipped like I was on the Zipper at the county fair.

  “You getting gas, Bobby?” Mr. Grimes called out, his eyes still glued to the television. I could tell by all the clapping and yelling it was the “Showcase Showdown.”

  “Yes, sir. Twenty dollars’ worth.” Bobby laid a bill on the counter, then headed toward the door. He pushed it open and held it there, politely waiting for me to go out first. I still hadn’t gone to the bathroom to fix myself up, but that didn’t seem to matter now. Chivalrous gestures were too rare to pass up, so I put Mr. Grimes’s key on top of Bobby’s cash and headed outside.

  It was steamy, the kind of day that makes everything, my head included, feel thick and lazy. We stood wedged between the outdoor icebox and a wooden crate overloaded with bags of charcoal. Bobby glanced around the parking lot, which was empty except for his shiny red truck. “You need a ride someplace?” he asked.

  I hesitated. It was such a simple, yet complicated question. Did I need a ride? Yes. But to where? Baker’s Point so I could try and steal Bobby away from tacky Tercell? Bluebell’s? Taco Bell? Nashville? I bit my lip, tried to recover my senses, or what was left of them after these last few days.

  “Yes. Actually, I do need a ride,” I said.

  Bobby’s truck was as clean inside as it was out—not a speck of dust on the dashboard, and the floor mats looked brand-new. An evergreen deodorizer hung from the rearview mirror, and on the seat was a stack of schoolbooks with “Used” stickers on the spines. “I’m taking summer classes over at Milldale Community College,” he explained, and shoved them out of the way. While Bobby pumped gas I stole a couple of quick glances at him. He was a rugged, all-boy kind of good-looking—thick, sand-colored hair, squarish lantern jaw, slightly crooked but very white teeth.

  With the tank full, he climbed into the cab next to me. “So where are you headed?” he asked, and started the engine.

  “Just a couple of miles up the road.” I said, and pointed left. “I really do appreciate you giving me a ride.”

  “My pleasure,” Bobby replied. When we were on the highway, he jacked up the air-conditioning, thoughtfully turned one of the vents in my direction.

  All too soon we were pulling up Goggy’s driveway. She was in the front yard and stooped over a half barrel of red petunias. Bobby pushed the gear into park, and I got out. “Thanks,” I said. I smiled up at him. “You were nice to give me a ride.”

  “Nobody should have to walk in this heat. Have a
good summer.”

  “You, too,” I said, and shut the door. I watched his brake lights flicker down the driveway, thought how disappointing it was that this was probably all there’d ever be to me and Bobby McGee.

  “Back so soon?” Goggy didn’t bother to look up. She just kept deadheading the flowers and mumbling under her breath.

  I inhaled deeply, tried to shrug off the awful feeling of complete and total desperation, and walked over to her. “I know I’m asking an awful lot, but I’ve spent my whole life planning for this. Hours and hours. I’ve studied and practiced and written songs. I know what I need to do when I get there. I have to get a steady job first and save up for a demo and some head shots, get a gig someplace, do open-mike nights. Eventually, get representation of some sort, an agent or manager. But I need a way to get there. Nobody will be using your car anyway,” I went on. “It’ll just be sitting here, and the battery will run down.”

  Goggy stood up abruptly and turned to face me. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a set of keys—a plastic Jesus dangled off the ring. I felt my breath catch. Her dry wrinkled hands were encrusted with potting soil. Her eyes reminded me of the river after a storm—all murky and churned up. Right then my great-aunt didn’t look self-sufficient at all; she just looked old and a little sad.

  “You be here at six o’clock tomorrow morning. You can drive me to the hospital. If all goes well, you can drive me back home. And if I die, you can keep the car for good,” she said, and bent over the flowers again.

  dolly parton

  BORN: January 19, 1946; Locust Ridge, Tennessee (one of twelve children)