Chapter 9 #2
Overhead, the announcer intoned, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the stage: the grand dame of country, our hometown sweetheart, our lady in black, Heeeeeess Walker!”
She stuck out her tongue at me before plastering on a smile and walking out onstage.
The crowd screamed for her, and she waved back at them like a good-natured beauty queen.
As she launched into her set, I thought about what Clayton had said about my mother valuing freedom above all else.
With each new fact I learned about her, I tried to color in her image a bit more.
But it was hard to piece such disparate, sometimes abstract impressions of a person into a cohesive picture—the result was more Frankenstein’s monster than mother.
It was easier to imagine her as different people, as I had as a child.
This new mother was a person who followed their own desires no matter the consequences. Who couldn’t be tied down. I wondered what it was like for such a person to be a mother. Could they ever be happy? Or did it only trap them?
Out onstage, I heard Hess break off a verse and tilt her head away from the mic, gasping for breath. The back of her suit was drenched in sweat, and her hair was matted to her forehead. I waited for someone from the crew to rush on to help, but no one moved.
Without a thought, I ran out to her and put a hand on her arm to support her. I whispered, “Are you okay?” in her ear, and she nodded weakly.
“Are you sick? Should I call 911?”
She shook her head and whispered, “No. It’s just a hot flash.”
I only knew what menopause was from watching Fried Green Tomatoes with Shelli, but I understood enough. It had something to do with hormones, and it could make you feel hot and sort of crazy.
“I just need a moment.” She picked up the water bottle by her feet and chugged.
I looked out on the crowd staring at us, some in confusion, others in concern. I heard a few boos echo through the mass, and I figured I should say something.
“Hi, everyone.” The boom of my voice through the mic made me jump.
The people continued to stare, and the boos increased in volume.
“My name is Rhea…” I had to say something they would actually care about. “And Belle Powers was my mother.”
At the mention of her name, the crowd broke into a roar. I glanced over at Hess, who was still red-faced and catching her breath. I needed to kill more time.
“Hess asked me to come out and help her sing one of Belle’s songs. My favorite from early in her career, called ‘Pretty Little Lady.’ ”
The crowd roared again.
“Will you get us started?” I asked them.
They screeched in response, and it was like communicating with an enormous sentient being who spoke only in guttural excitement.
I turned back toward the band, who began to play the song, and I thrust the microphone toward the crowd, praying they knew the words. They screamed:
When we met, you called me pretty little lady
You loved how I fit in your palm
At the church, they called me pretty little lady
In my sweet little white gown
I heard Hess chuckle next to me, and I whispered, “Are you all right now? Can you sing?”
She straightened. “Yes, I’m good. Let’s do this.”
She pulled the microphone back and began to sing with the crowd:
In the kitch’n, you called me pretty little lady
As I sweated over open flame
In the delivery, you called me pretty little lady
As the big bouncing baby came
Now that the emergency had passed, I stood there terrified, wondering what the hell I was doing in front of all these people. When it was time for the chorus, Hess pulled me into the mic, and I belted:
We’re just pretty little ladies
Like a flower bloomin’ all year long
We’re just pretty little ladies
It’s a miracle we can sing this song
Awash with adrenaline, I finished the song with Hess and the thousands of singers in the crowd.
When it was over, they wailed like lunatics.
Hess took my hand, and we stepped forward and bowed.
I thought my heart might explode, and when she released me, I ran from the stage to the safety of the wing.
Once I was out of view, a crew member handed me a water bottle, and I tried to drink it while hunched over my knees.
“That was very brave,” came a smooth voice above me. I looked up to see Clayton standing there, eyes twinkling.
“I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“It looked like you saved the day.”
I smiled gratefully, still focused on catching my breath.
“I wonder if there’s something here. An album, maybe. ‘Greatest hits of Belle Powers as performed by her daughter.’ Could be big if that crowd is any indication.”
“But I’m not really a singer,” I said, wondering if he might challenge me.
Maybe I had a better voice than I thought, and I only needed the right person to spot it.
Part of me still wondered if there was a remnant of Belle’s talent lurking somewhere in me, just waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.
He furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. “Oh, that doesn’t matter. We’d pair you with artists from that era for most of the songs. And nowadays you can take any voice and make it passable. Computers are remarkable things.”
Deflated, I considered how to respond. It seemed like something I should be excited about, but the idea made me a bit queasy.
Perhaps that was just the adrenaline leaving my body.
I arranged my expression to one of enthusiasm.
“I could sing some of my father’s songs, too. A few of the big ones he wrote.”
Clayton stiffened and looked away. “I mean no disrespect, but I have no interest in memorializing your father.”
I bristled. Was this jealousy after so many years? It didn’t seem like Clayton to hold on to such petty emotions.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Please, it’s no matter.” He took a card out and placed it in my hand. “Give me a call, and we’ll talk about the album. I can really see it.” He looked me up and down and said, “You could even dress up like her for the cover.”
As he walked away, I glanced at myself in the mirror used for touch-ups at the edge of the stage.
I’d worn one of Belle’s old dresses from the ’70s in a lime polyester, and it strained across the middle and at my thighs.
My hair, bleached to a red gold from the sun and teased up for more volume, had fallen since the morning.
My eyeliner ran from the heat, and my hot-pink lipstick had faded, blurring the outline of my mouth.
I looked like a bad Halloween version of Belle—a night-worn, shameless imitation stumbling home late from a party.
I suddenly felt the tight itch of the polyester against my skin, like I was trapped in the dress. My chest constricted, and my stomach roiled. Instead of sinking into the heat, it smothered me now. I needed some air.
I left the stage area and walked through the searing neon fairground to meet Micah, as loud country pop pounded against my head and the smell of fried dough pressed against my nose like a thick blanket. I still felt like I couldn’t take a full breath.
When I finally saw Micah at the Ferris wheel, he took one look at me and grimaced. “Are you okay?”
His beautiful face made my stomach turn even more.
“I don’t feel very good,” I answered. “I think it’s the heat.
” It didn’t help that whenever he was close, I felt like I was going slightly insane.
I couldn’t stand another night of watching him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he’d try to kiss me.
“I’m sorry, I just need to get out of here. ”
I staggered toward the exit, but he said, “Wait,” and caught my arm. We rarely touched, and an electricity passed between us.
I stopped and turned back to him.
“I know a place we can go.”
We drove to a large row house a few doors down from Micah’s hostel, and he led me through a gate to a swimming pool glowing oceanically in the dark. He began stripping off his clothes, and I couldn’t help but stare at his lean, compact body.
“Whose pool is this?” I asked.
He smirked at me. “Not sure. But they haven’t been home all summer. Someone might as well enjoy it.” He backed up toward the edge in his boxers and let himself fall backward into the water.
I watched him paddle around for a while in the stifling heat, until I finally kicked off my boots, shimmied out of my dress, and jumped in.
God, it was so good. I could feel the sweat and makeup and hairspray rinsing away, and my summer muscles pounding furiously against the water. I surfaced, washed clean of that artifice, once again my unadorned, tortured self.