Somebody Everybody Listens To Read online

  JOB: Parton started working as a singer for a Knoxville radio station at age eleven.

  BIG BREAK: In 1967, Porter Wagoner was looking for a “girl singer” for his TV show, and he hired Parton. She signed with RCA Records the following year, and joined the Opry in 1969.

  LIFE EVENTS: Parton headed to Nashville to pursue her dream of country music one day after graduating from high school in 1964.

  CHAPTER SIX

  down on music row

  GOGGY’S SURGERY WAS QUICK, and I had her home and settled on the sofa with a ham sandwich and a glass of tea just after noon. As I headed back to Polk Road, I made a mental list of all the things I’d need to pack—my ancient boom box, guitar, CDs, songwriting journals, and the few clothes I owned (stuff the Salvation Army would probably reject if I tried to donate it). I wouldn’t wait till tomorrow to leave. Instead, I’d go this very afternoon. Waiting even another second might throw me off track somehow—Goggy would change her mind; Daddy’s back would go out; the roof would cave in. I banged through the front door and ran straight into Mama. She was sitting at the kitchen table, poring over my baby book. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  “Oh, Retta,” she said, and blinked at me. The kitchen was still littered with the remnants of early morning—cold coffee, dirty plates, a sink piled high with pots and pans. This wasn’t at all like Mama.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I already knew.

  “I just can’t believe it’s over,” she choked.

  “What’s over?” To me it was all just beginning.

  “I can tell by the look in your eyes you won’t ever be back.”

  “Mama, I have to be back by September first,” I reminded her. “Goggy’s firm about wanting her car by then.”

  “You won’t be back. I knew it the second you walked out on your Bluebell’s job.” Mama closed up the book, and its musty smell lingered in the air. Even though that book was all about my life, I’d only bothered to look at it once or twice. Unlike Mama, I’d never had the slightest interest in my first step or first tooth or first poop on the potty.

  “Want some help with the dishes?” I asked, glancing around the kitchen. “It won’t take but a minute.”

  “No, you just sit with me,” she said, and patted the chair next to her. Reluctantly, I sat. I was getting that straitjacket feeling again. “So I thought we’d have chicken-and-rice casserole tonight. And a millionaire pie. Your favorites,” she said, and wiped her eyes with the dish towel.

  “Mama, you don’t have to go to all that trouble. And, anyway, I was thinking I’d leave this afternoon. There’s still plenty of daylight left and—”

  Mama looked at me as if I’d just slapped her. “It’s already thawing,” she snapped, and pointed toward a package of chicken breasts. “I can’t put it back in the freezer again.”

  I was dying to get on the road. It was like having a full bladder without a rest stop in sight. I glanced at the chicken breasts and the box of graham crackers. “You know, Nashville’s not all that far,” I said. “Just be glad I’m not going off to New York like Tercell, or joining the army like that Shelton Albright.”

  “The best part of my life is over, Retta. Over. All those mornings when I would fix your hair for school or stand out there at that bus stop alongside you. Or help you with the school projects they were always piling on or baking a birthday cake or getting you all dressed up for Easter Sunday. Hiding eggs out in the yard. Watching you take off on your bicycle, so proud that you could ride it. I enjoyed every minute, but now you’re leaving, and I won’t—”

  “I’ll stay tonight. Okay?” I said it quickly, just to make her stop. “But I’m leaving early tomorrow morning. First thing. No breakfast.” Mama nodded. A part of me wanted to reach out and take her hand, but the other part of me knew if I did, she might never let me go. I sat there quietly and waited for some sign that it was okay to get up and go to my room, put my things in the cardboard boxes I’d picked up over at the liquor store, and load Goggy’s car.

  Supper was quiet, but delicious. The chicken was perfectly moist, the rice cooked just right. The millionaire pie lived up to its name, and Mama and Daddy didn’t exchange one harsh word or irritated expression. The phone rang around seven. Mama snatched it up before I could grab it myself.

  “Hi, Brenda,” Mama said sharply, not at all glad she was calling, I knew. “Just a minute.” She handed me the phone.

  “I’ll pick you up in ten,” said Brenda. “I figured you’d be ready to bust out of your skin by now. Tell her you’re only going out for a little while. I have a surprise, so don’t say no,” she ordered.

  “Okay,” I replied, and hung up.

  When Brenda’s Camaro pulled up in the driveway, I grabbed my purse and quickly, before Mama could protest, headed out the door.

  “She’ll hate me now for sure, taking you away on your last night at home,” Brenda said as I slid into the passenger’s seat.

  “It’s okay,” I replied, and glanced down at the cooler next to my feet. After all the drama of these past few days, I needed a little fun.

  Baker’s Point was hot as blazes, even this time of night. No croaking frogs or humming insects, just the sound of Brenda’s radio. She opened the cooler and grinned at me.

  “You got champagne?”

  “Sparkling cider. Not very festive, I realize, but Barbara was leaving for church camp and wanted her fake ID back.” Barbara was Brenda’s first cousin and wild as could be. Brenda handed me something wrapped in tissue paper. “I was gonna get the champagne flute,” she said as I opened it, “but it was too small to paint on, so I got the hurricane glass instead.” She switched on the overhead light. “There’s an inscription. See?”

  I held up the glass to read it: Retta Lee Jones, star singer and superstar friend. “Brenda, it’s so pretty. And look at the letters and flowers. They’re perfect,” I said, tracing my fingers over the sparkly paint and glued-on plastic stones. “You made this?”

  Brenda nodded. “I got pretty good from all those years of doing our fingernails. Remember in middle school when I used to give us matching mani/pedis with tiny little stars and hearts?”

  “And you’d glue on those beads,” I added.

  “Yeah, but then they always fell right off, and the glue messed up the polish. I used Liquid Nails on this, though. Those beads aren’t going anywhere. I got you something else, too.” She reached into her mammoth pocketbook and handed me a plastic bag. Brenda’s purse is nearly as big as she is, and I’m always amazed at the things she can hide there—a six-pack of Dr Pepper, her entire CD collection, a curling iron. “Now, don’t have a fit when you open it,” she warned.

  I reached inside the bag, and for a second, I stared at the box in disbelief. “Brenda, how much did this cost?”

  “Oh, hardly anything.” I looked at her skeptically. “Listen, this is a special occasion, so don’t ruin it by telling me I shouldn’t have. You’ll need a phone in the city anyways, and I just lied and said you were my sister so we could get a family plan. In return, I expect you to become rich and famous and build us McMansions right out here on Baker’s Point.”

  “It’s a deal,” I said.

  “Not even a week ago, you were whining about never getting to Nashville. Now you’re all set to go. I’ll still hate being left, though.”

  “Then come with me!” I said suddenly. “Seriously, we can both go. We could get a cute apartment someplace and fix it up. You could paint us a whole set of these glasses.” Brenda blinked her purple eyelids at me. “You’d never do it, would you? You’d never leave Starling.”

  “I don’t feel the need to leave Starling, Retta. Everything I want is right here. My family. Wayne. The nursing program over at Milldale Community College. You’ll be the only thing missing.”

  “Just till September,” I reminded her.

  “Maybe,” she said. “But however long you’re gone, at least now we can talk on the phone.”
>
  “Thank you,” I said, and hugged her.

  “Okay, enough with the sappy crap,” Brenda said, and shoved me away.

  The next morning Daddy lingered in front of the news way longer than normal (clearly, he was waiting around so he could see me off), and Mama banged kitchen cabinets and slammed drawers like she was mad at the world. I’d loaded the last box into the trunk, and there was nothing left to do but say official good-byes. I decided to rip the Band-Aid off quickly.

  “I’m leaving now,” I said like I was headed to the store for a loaf of bread.

  Mama turned to look at me, and Daddy shuffled into the kitchen. He leaned on the table with one hand and pressed the other against his spine.

  “You shouldn’t go to work today,” I said. “Did you call the doctor?”

  “And pay him seventy-five dollars so he can tell me my back hurts? No, I didn’t call the doctor. You got that map I put on your dresser, right?” he asked. I nodded. “And you put air in the tires like I told you?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “I checked the oil, and it looks good,” he went on. “Goggy must’ve just had it changed, so you won’t have to worry about that for a while, but there’s a couple extra quarts in the trunk, just in case.”

  “Okay,” I said. I slung my purse over my shoulder and inched toward the door.

  He hugged me hard, then whispered, “I plan on kicking Stan Plummer’s ass when my back gets to feeling better.” Daddy-language for I love you.

  Mama followed me out to the car. She was dry-eyed today, and my baby book was tucked back in the cedar chest at the foot of my bed. I’d noticed it this morning when I was packing up the rest of my things. We stood there looking at one another. Finally, Mama spoke. “I could never do what you’re doing, Retta.” I wondered if this was a compliment or an insult. Sometimes with Mama it’s hard to tell. “All my life I’ve just put one foot in front of the other.”

  Quickly, we hugged, then I got into Goggy’s car and started the engine. As I pulled out of the driveway, I glanced back at Mama, and she gave me The Signal, the one from all those years ago when she put me on the school bus. Hand over her heart and three quick pats for I love you.

  Before I’d reached the end of Polk Road, I was humming an old Dolly song. “Down on Music Row. Down on Music Row. If you want to be a star, that’s where you’ve got to go.” A thrill rippled through my stomach; fear surged along behind it. And I could feel them then—all those queens of country music—cheering me on.

  audrey faith perry

  a.k.a. Faith Hill

  BORN: September 21, 1967; Jackson, Mississippi

  JOB:When Hill first moved to Nashville, she sold T-shirts at Fan Fair (now known as the Country Music Festival).

  BIG BREAK: While singing backup at the Bluebird Cafe in Nashville, Faith was “discovered” by a Warner Bros executive.

  LIFE EVENTS: Hill was adopted by Ted and Edna Perry when she was only one week old. Hill is the mother of three daughters: Gracie, Maggie, and Audrey.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  breathe

  THE TEMPERATURE HAD SOARED TO NEARLY A HUNDRED DEGREES, and Nashville was nothing but a big snarl of traffic. I’d used up a quarter tank of gas just idling, and twice the oil light flashed on in Goggy’s car, which just about gave me a heart attack. Originally, I planned to drive around the city for a while, get my bearings straight, then find a place to stay, but I started thinking about Dolly’s “Down on Music Row” song again. In it, she talks about her very first day in Nashville, how she washed her face in a fountain at the Country Music Hall of Fame. I decided it might bring me good luck to do the very same thing, so I called information and got the phone number.

  “Country Music Hall of Fame,” a woman answered. I was relieved to hear a friendly voice instead of a recording.

  “Hi, I was just calling to get your address.”

  “We’re at 222 Fifth Avenue South,” the woman informed me. “Can I help you with anything else?”

  “Um, no,” I replied, even though I had no idea where Fifth Avenue was. “Actually, there is one thing.” The car next to me had a loose fan belt, and it was making a terrible racket. I cranked up the window so I could hear better. “Where is your fountain exactly? Will I be able to see it from the street?”

  “Oh, no. It’s inside,” the woman said.

  “Inside?” This didn’t seem right. “But I thought it was outside.”

  “No, there’s just one fountain, and it’s indoors. You must be thinking of the old Hall of Fame. There was an outdoor fountain there.”

  “That’s probably it. Do you happen to know the address for the old Hall of Fame?” I reached into my purse for a scrap of paper and a pen. It seemed important to wash my face in the exact same fountain.

  “I’m afraid that place is gone. Nothing but a parking lot now.”

  “A parking lot? Really?” This surprised me. That fountain seemed like hallowed ground somehow.

  “The new Hall of Fame is amazing. You’ll love it,” the woman assured me.

  “I’m sure I will,” I replied. “Thank you very much for your help,” I said, and hung up.

  Now what? I wondered, and tapped the steering wheel. What exactly does a person do on her first day in Nashville? Bang on the doors of record labels? I’d read the biographies of lots and lots of singers, and I was pretty sure I’d never come across anybody who’d hit it big on their first day.

  Just ahead was an exit, and I could see an oversized sign for a place called Leroy’s Pit Stop. I pulled off I-40, parked the car, and went inside, guitar in tow. I probably looked like a big Nashville cliché, but it was better than having my instrument warp in a hot car. The restaurant was by no means spotless, but it was air-conditioned and filled with waitresses who called me hon. I ordered a hamburger and a Sundrop then took out my songwriting journal.

  For a while I stared out the window and thought about everything I’d gone through just to make it to this sticky booth. Silly, I realize, but all of a sudden I got teary-eyed and overly proud of myself, like I should stand up and make an announcement—I’m Retta Lee Jones, and you don’t know me yet, but one day I’m gonna be on the radio. If Brenda had been with me, she would’ve dared me to do it. And, maybe, just maybe, I would have. Instead, I scribbled down the first few lines of a song.

  On a Greyhound bus she came to Nashville—all those years ago.

  Eighteen and full of dreams, she headed to Music Row.

  Washed her face in the fountain—down at the Hall of Fame,

  Had no idea what her future held,

  Just a feeling her life would change.

  Like so many who’ve come before me, I have big dreams inside,

  A yearning for songs and music that will not be denied.

  It’s not the fame and fortune that I’m attracted to.

  Just simple songs and country music seem to always get me

  through . . .

  By the time I finished the rest of the lyrics, it was nearly five o’clock, but I was satisfied. At least I’d commemorated my first day in Nashville with something. I tucked the journal into my purse, grabbed my guitar, and headed out to Goggy’s car again.

  Traffic was even worse this time of day, so I decided to stay off the interstate. Since my road map didn’t include side streets, it was pure luck that I ended up on Music Row. I parked the car and got out, eager to see the place I’d been dreaming about for at least half my life.

  I walked up the street a ways and glanced around, amazed. It wasn’t that the buildings were all that impressive. They were tidy, but cold somehow, more like fortresses than places to create music. Even so, they had all been here at some point. Anybody I had ever admired or listened to or sung along with or studied and imitated had passed up and down this very sidewalk, just yesterday or decades ago. All the way back to my car, I kept hoping for a celebrity sighting, but there were only the regular secretary types and a few paunchy men wearing too much gold jewelry.


  I didn’t even see the parking ticket until I hit the wiper button by accident and a white rectangle slid across my windshield: $45. I stared at the number. Forty-five dollars equals a five-hour shift at Bluebell’s. On a good day, I thought. Forty-five dollars equals a night in a motel or groceries and gas.

  A wave of panic shot through me. Just breathe, I thought, and closed my eyes for a second. It was only a parking ticket, after all, not the end of the world. Breathe. I glanced at the ticket again, decided that one day Country Music Television would include this anecdote in my Internet bio—When Retta Jones first showed up on Music Row, all she got was a lousy parking ticket.

  I stopped again a few miles up the road. If I was going to learn my way around, I’d need a street map. The shopping center had loads of free parking and plenty of stores—most of them looked intimidating, not to mention expensive—but a place called the Book Shelf had a friendly feel to it: a cheerful red awning; large picture window with a colorful beach mural; and a cardboard sign taped inside the glass that said, IT’S HOT OUT THERE, BUT COOL IN HERE.

  The first thing I noticed when I went inside was an entire wall devoted to country music, and even though I had no intention of buying anything other than what I came for, I plucked two hard-backs off the shelf and sat down in one of the cushy red chairs.

  “Are you finding everything you need?” a girl about my age asked. Her teeth were so straight they looked like somebody had lined them up with a ruler, and her hair was Taylor Swift curly, except black instead of blond.

  “Oh, yeah. I was just looking at these.”

  “Normally, I’m all for looking, but we close at six,” she said, and glanced apologetically at the clock.

  “Oh, well, I’ll put them back and be—”

  “Actually, I’d prefer to put them back myself. No offense, but customers tend to get them out of order.”