Chapter 3
FIFTEEN YEARS LEFT
I woke to delicious softness.
The smell of soap and hot cotton. A mug of broth sat on a nightstand, still steaming.
I wondered if I was still dreaming, or if this was some kind of dirt-child heaven.
The bed was the softest I’d ever lain in, and I was wearing a clean white nightgown like a little girl from a book. A lavender housecoat I’d seen in Hess’s closet was draped over a chair next to the bed, and I slipped it on.
Downstairs, I recognized the front room of Mom’s house; it was quiet and dark except for a few lamps lit in the corners.
A plate wrapped in plastic with a little card marked “Lulabelle” sat on the large oak dining table.
There was no silverware and the food was cold, but I didn’t care.
I hunched over the plate and stuffed handfuls of mashed potatoes and fried chicken into my mouth, hoping that no one would walk in.
I packed my gut until I was almost ill. Then I found a bathroom and washed the grease from my face and the clumps of potato from my hair.
With food in my belly, I felt a little more solid, like I might not be some lonely spirit.
But if this was real, then where was everyone? It was late, and it seemed strange for the house to be empty.
Then I heard voices, and I followed them to the back of the house where a door was propped open. I stepped through the illuminated portal to a screened porch glowing with candles.
Hess and another young woman were perched on a couch with guitars under their arms, and an older lady stood in the corner with a fiddle against her chin. A young Black woman sat in a chair with her pumps kicked off to the side, humming a melody.
She sang the first bars of Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” in a low, buttery tone, and I sang the next two lines with her. All eyes went to me, lurking like a barn cat in the doorway.
The music stopped, and Hess jumped up and ushered me over to a seat on the couch next to her. The other women stared at me like a wild animal, except for the older lady, who put down her fiddle and smiled. “Looks like you’re feeling better, m’dear.”
“How did I get here?”
Hess eyed the other girls, then turned to me.
“When you didn’t show on Tuesday, I went to check on you in the shed.
” She paused, sharing a glance with the other guitarist. “Martha saw you going in and out of there a few times. I found you under that big tree half dead with fever, so I brought you here, and we tried to make you comfortable. You’ve been asleep for two days. ”
Another woman, this one with cherry-red hair, sat on the ground in a short yellow dress and high white boots like she was a movie star, and she put her hand on my leg. “Hess hasn’t left your side.”
I avoided Hess’s gaze. She had seen me dirty and wrapped in garbage under that tree, then naked as a jaybird with my birthmark bared for all to see.
She had seen all of that, and yet, she was still tender toward me, and the kindness was frankly overwhelming.
I had never met anyone like her. I didn’t know what to say.
“We should get properly acquainted,” the older lady cut in.
“I’m Mrs. Washburn, but everyone calls me Mom.
” She turned toward the other girls. “Ladies, introduce yourselves to Miss Lulabelle Powers of…?” Mom looked at me curiously, and I remembered the story I’d stewed up on the drive to Nashville.
It had to be as close to the truth as possible, without risking getting caught.
“Near Pigeon Forge, in a little holler.”
Mom nodded and repeated, “Miss Lulabelle Powers of Pigeon Forge.”
It sounded almost dignified.
The singer was named Tima, and she was from the same town in Ohio where Mom had grown up.
Her parents didn’t trust her living with anyone but Mom after she graduated from Fisk nearby.
She worked for a lawyer over on Jefferson Street and had a college degree, so she could have had a real career, but she wanted to be a country star like Hess and me.
I hadn’t spent a lot of time around educated people, and I was immediately self-conscious about the way I spoke in front of her.
The other guitar player was Martha. She was more reserved than the others.
When she failed to provide much detail about herself, Hess cut in and bragged that she was the only female session musician in Nashville.
She could play guitar, bass, pedal steel, and the piano perfectly, and a slew of other instruments if a producer was in a jam.
They still wouldn’t book her for the good gigs, but she worked.
The stylish redhead, Phoebe, worked backstage as a seamstress at the Opry, which mostly consisted of sewing buttons on drunk cowboys and yanking tight dresses off girl singers. “Lots of crotches and girdles,” she said. But it still sounded glamorous to me.
I knew Hess didn’t work in the traditional sense. She came from one of the richest families in Nashville, and though they didn’t approve of her living in Mom’s house and playing “hillbilly music,” it seemed like they still gave her heaps of money to do what she wanted.
I’d have held it against her if she wasn’t the best person I’d ever met.
When they were done, I sat up in my seat. “Well, I don’t know how to thank you for your generosity, but I should be going now. Do you, um, do you know where my clothes went? I didn’t see them in the bedroom.”
Hess looked down at the floor. “Oh, I’m sorry, Lou, but Martha burned them in the backyard.”
The girls looked at me with stricken faces, but I started to laugh. “I reckon they walked into the fire on their own. Good riddance.” The tension broke, and the other girls giggled with me, and for the first time since I’d sat down, I didn’t feel like the barn cat who wandered in.
“But also, Lou, we want you to stay,” Hess continued. I tried to interject, but she put a hand up. “I know you’re concerned about finances,” she said demurely, “but you don’t have to worry about that. Phoebe says they’re looking for help at Darlene’s downtown.”
My first instinct was to say no. But then I looked around the porch at these kind, talented women, and through the window of the house where there was heat and food and a clean bed. And I thought, Who am I to turn down such a gift?
I finally nodded, and Phoebe clapped her hands. “Well, all right, then!”
Martha started a new riff on the guitar, and everyone picked up their instruments, and we improvised a bit with old hymns. Tima’s voice made me hungry, and Mom’s had the kind of strong, clear sound that could really tell a story. The three of us harmonizing together was true magic.
After a while, Mom yawned and said that was her cue for bed.
“We should get ready anyway,” Phoebe added.
“Ready for what?” I asked.
“I have a gig tonight,” Tima explained casually.
“And you’re all going?”
Phoebe smiled. “Of course. Want to come?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. She needs rest,” Hess cautioned, but I stopped her. I’d had so much rest I felt like a limp carrot.
What I needed was music.
Jefferson Street was the Nashville I’d dreamed of. The music could not be contained.
People played and sang in every house and building, and when they ran out of space, they performed on the sidewalks. I’d never seen so much life compressed into one place.
Hess and I walked arm in arm behind Tima and Phoebe, who were regulars.
This was a Black part of town; Fisk was just a few blocks away, and Tima’s law office was somewhere in the row packed with businesses and clubs.
People beeped at her from the cars backed up along the street and waved from front porches, where they shouted for chitlins and fish sandwiches at a dollar and a quarter.
Martha brought up the rear, distracted by the street players. I watched her get lost in one picker’s technique, the movement of his hands mesmerizing.
We arrived at a brick building with a dark-red awning reading CLUB DEL MOROCCO and a swarm of people out front. Tima led us past the line to a man at the door who kissed her hand and let us through with a nod.
We strutted into the small, low-lit bottom level like a pack of alley cats. The place smelled of cigarillos and wood, and the tables were filled with men in suits and women with immaculate hairdos.
At the bar, Tima and Martha ordered Coca-Colas, Phoebe got something pink and fizzy, and Hess asked for a dirty martini. I’d never ordered a cocktail before, so I asked for a Manhattan like I’d seen in a movie.
The drink was cold and amber, and at first it reminded me of the syrup the holler’s granny witch gave me for my stomach pains, like hickory and mountain mint coated in caramel.
But then I tasted the bourbon, and I near gagged.
There was that sinister sweetness, like something hiding in tall, sunlit grass.
The flavor of my uncle’s hot breath in my ear.
I pretended to take small sips and instead held the drink as a prop.
Tima led us over to a table near the middle and disappeared backstage with Martha. A group in the corner beckoned to Phoebe, and she fluttered over in her green mini dress.
Hess and I watched as the club slowly filled with people and a bright, eager energy. I’d been to church dances back home but nothing as glamorous and unrestrained as this place.
The lights dimmed and a hush spread through the crowd.
I held my breath, waiting for the next moment, feeling each second tick by. Sometimes when I focused on each second, a bad feeling crept up on me. My heart raced, and my limbs lost feeling.
Just as I teetered on the edge, there was a beam of light. Tima stood at a microphone with Martha on pedal steel behind her and the rest of the band at the ready. She shimmered like a constellation in her silver pantsuit.
In her smooth, deep voice, she sang to us about a city girl who thought she could protect herself from fools. She was graceful and calm, but with this sense that a greater force stood behind it. You had to keep watching just to see what she would reveal.