Chapter 6 #2
Once we were alone, he sat down on a couch against the wall and patted the cushion next to him.
I sat on the other side, keeping my distance.
He started to ask about where I grew up and what my family was like.
I didn’t talk about that with anyone, much less a strange man, and I steered the conversation back toward music.
He kept turning it back to me and asking foolish questions about dresses and boys that I didn’t give a damn about.
While he talked, he crossed and uncrossed his legs and readjusted his jacket, so that with each movement he moved closer to me on the couch.
Eventually, he was practically sitting in my lap.
He had that aging-man smell, the fumes of his rot releasing through the gray stubble on his chin. He might have looked fresh on the outside, but he was going bad on the inside.
When he put his hand on my leg, sweat broke along my hairline where the wig now sat like a weight, holding me down.
I thought of the knife I kept in my corset, but I couldn’t go there yet.
Instead, I flicked through possible actions and their costs, attempting to find an option where we could keep recording music.
I didn’t want to be anyone’s victim. So I searched inside myself for a way to like it.
If I claimed the hand on my leg, I’d be in control.
He let his hand slide into the crease between my legs as if gravity had willed it. I went stiff as he slowly moved it up my thigh beneath my dress. I tried to focus on owning that hand, convincing myself that I was the one moving it up my leg.
Then he leaned over and whispered with his rotten breath, “I want to see how juicy you are.”
Without another thought, I drew my knife and held it up to his neck.
He froze, and I told him in a low, quiet voice, “Take your hand outta my crotch.” He obeyed slowly and placed it in his lap.
I could see sweat beading at his temple, and he shook beneath the blade. Good. Now he knew what it felt like.
I removed the knife from his jugular, and he shot up from the couch, fleeing to the other side of the room. There was a dark stain on his pants where he’d pissed himself. When he saw me looking at it, his face flushed in angry shame, and he stormed out.
I sat there for a moment, pretending we still had a chance.
But I had made my choice.
I could feel the vague outline of regret, like a glimpse into a future where I might wish I had done what it took.
That was quickly pushed aside for clean, practical anger.
I stashed the knife in my bra, packed up our guitars, and left.
There was no sign of Randy in the hallway.
I went from room to room looking for Hess, and with each passing doorway empty of her, I became convinced she was in some secret corner of the building with another hairy hand between her legs.
When I finally found her in the kitchen eating a sandwich alone, I couldn’t help feeling angry.
I told her what happened without mentioning the knife, and since she was Hess, she ignored the accusation in my voice. She was solely focused on getting us the hell out of there.
We passed through the lobby at a near run and were almost to the front doors when I saw Clayton Redd sitting in one of the chairs. Hess pulled at my arm to keep us moving, but I couldn’t help myself. I turned around and walked right up to him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Redd. I saw you in the studio earlier, and I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Lulabelle, and this is Hess. We’re the Walker Sisters.”
Clayton subtly smirked as he took us in.
Hess extended an elegant hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Redd.”
Clayton gently took her hand and then released it. “The pleasure is all mine, young ladies. I hope you didn’t mind me poking my head in. You hear a lot of the same stuff around here. But you all have something special. Miss Lulabelle, you have quite a voice on you.”
I’d been cold and hard up to this point, but now I faltered. Clayton Redd liked my voice. I couldn’t feel my arms.
“She keeps her voice so pretty by conserving it,” Hess said to fill my silence, and the comedy of this helped pull me out of my trance.
“Thank you, Mr. Redd. That is real kind.”
He smiled. “So when can I hear this album?”
The hand on my thigh seemed to belong to another life, where Clayton Redd didn’t like my voice. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. There’s not gonna be any album.”
Clayton studied me, and I noticed there was something different about him. An intensity behind the eyes, and a sort of aloofness that I couldn’t put my finger on.
“I see.” He asked the secretary for a piece of paper and a pen, and he scratched on it and handed it to me.
“I’m about to head out on the county fair circuit, and our girl singer just dropped out.
We like to have a female act in the lineup.
Would you two be interested in coming on the road?
The pay isn’t good and the food’s even worse, but you’ll get some experience and exposure. What do you say?”
Hess and I were speechless. A few minutes ago our career had been over, and now a country legend was asking us on tour.
Clayton gracefully added, “I know you’ve had a long day. Think about it, and call that number when you’re ready. They’ll give you the details.”
We were both strangely quiet in the car on the way home, as if holding our breaths.
Once we shut the door behind us, safe in the womb of Mom’s house, we started talking at the same time, burning through all that this could mean.
Hess said this was how a lot of the big acts got started, working their way through the South and performing for the people who bought the records and drank at the honky-tonk shows.
This wasn’t some grift to get in our pants. It was a real chance.