Chapter 35
FOUR DAYS LEFT
For the last sixty hours, I’ve sat on this train streaking east.
For most of it, I was the only one awake in the quiet car; the passengers even slept silently here, their mouths closed and their bodies still as corpses. I haven’t slept so much as sat in a trance for the last three days, reliving the past.
I noticed a soft, fuzzy sound like whispering coming from somewhere nearby, and I imagined a renegade passenger hunched in their seat, murmuring to themselves just so they could hear their own voice.
I put on my special noise-canceling headphones and selected “Let Me Out” from The Cursed Woman album on my iPod. The opening riff twisted like a snake over the houses passing through the window.
She sat in the room, watchin’ the tree,
Waitin’ for someone to set her free
I had made the same mistake. I had waited for people to free me, but I had since learned that no one could set you free. You had to do it yourself.
By any means necessary.
Let me out, Lord
Let me be free
Let me out, Lord
Who will I be?
The last line lingered in my mind, and I realized I had missed something in the song. This decision to set yourself free made you a new person, perhaps even a stranger.
I reached for my phone, and I saw the date glowing from the screen.
6.09.2010
Four days until I turned 33.
I wasn’t entirely free. Not yet.
But I would be.
My head suddenly went light, and I saw my hands were shaking around the phone. It was time for food. In the dining car, I ordered a cheeseburger, and I watched the attendant microwave it inside a plastic wrapper. When he handed it to me, a cancerous steam filled the bag. I ate the chips instead.
Back at my seat, I saw the sun coming up over the green fields whizzing by. I opened the small vent of the window and inhaled.
Tennessee.
The land of my birth, and the place I’d fallen in love. I smelled the earthy sweetness in the air, and a sense of organic belonging sprouted inside me, like a native plant recognizing its soil.
Here I would find answers.
A few hours later, we arrived in Nashville.
I walked eight blocks in the warm evening to the closest public library and found an open computer. I searched my name and the word “missing.” The first entry was a local news article about a man with my last name murdering a woman with my first name.
I imagined myself splitting into two, one part of me stabbing the other with a kitchen knife.
There were no relevant results. The news wasn’t out yet.
I found a taxi outside the library, and we streaked west past the city, where the hills rolled and the houses became small farms.
After about an hour, we pulled up to a nondescript cattle gate surrounded by green. I lowered the window and pressed the button on a communication box.
“How can I help you?” came a garbled voice.
“My name is Rhea Larsen. I’d like to speak to Mr. Redd.”
There was silence on the other end, and then: “I’m sorry, that won’t be possible.”
“Please, I’ve come a long way, if you could just ask him—”
“Ma’am, this is private property. If you don’t leave, I’ll have to call the police.”
I could feel the driver studying me in the rearview, calculating how he might dislodge this crazy woman from his car. I had made him my unwitting accomplice.
“Look, I’m Belle Powers’s daughter. And I really need to speak to him. It’s very important. A matter of life and death.”
Silence again. Then: “All right. Come on through.”
We meandered down a long drive before coming upon a house at the end that was modern and sparkling against the farmland surrounding it.
Clayton met me in the front entry in cream seersucker, and when he smiled, his forehead remained taut and shining. He looked older than when I last saw him, but he was remarkably well preserved for a man in his early eighties.
“Well, if it isn’t Rhea Larsen,” he said.
I smiled back uncertainly. “Thank you for letting me in. I’m sorry for dropping by like this, but you haven’t returned any of my calls, and I didn’t know what else to do.”
His brow furrowed. “I’m the one who should apologize. I had no idea you were trying to get in touch with me. I don’t really handle my own phone anymore—I rely on my assistant for that. She should have given me your messages.”
I watched him take me in head to toe, and I rushed to say, “I’m sorry for being such a mess—I spent the night on the train.”
He cocked an eyebrow, then waved it away. “Are you all right? You said it was a serious matter?”
“Oh, yes, I’m fine. I just need to speak with you about something.”
He nodded. “I was just about to have my lunch. You can join me.”
On the back patio, a table was set with barbecued chicken and vegetables grilled whole.
“So how can I help you, dear?”
“I was hoping you could answer some questions about my mother.”
He nodded. “I assumed that’s why you came.” He put his fork down and folded his hands. “What do you want to know?”
“What was her real name?”
The twinkle in his eye dimmed, and his brow furrowed again. “Well, it was Lulabelle Powers, of course. That’s widely known.” He caught my gaze across the table.
“I mean her real name. The one on her birth certificate.”
His expression deepened, and the lines on his face finally emerged. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Lulabelle Powers was a fake name.” I watched him closely. “Did you really not know that?”
He bristled. “I was not aware.”
“You were married to her.”
I watched his body still and his face flatten to something unreadable. “Pardon me, miss, but I’m not going to be interrogated.”
“Okay, I’m sorry—”
“It might be best if you leave.”
“Please,” I begged softly. “I’m sorry.”
We sat in silence for a moment, and I felt like a child awaiting punishment. Finally, he said, “I was not aware, but… I’m not surprised. She had her secrets, and I had mine.” It seemed like he wanted to say more, but he left it at that.
“Do you know where she grew up?” I asked gently. “The name of the town?”
“No, not the name. I think it was close to Amos, where I’m from, but there are lots of little communities in the mountains. Some so small they don’t show up on maps.”
Here was something. “Do you know anything about a town with a cave church in that area?”
“A cave church?”
“Like a church where they held services in a cave? I don’t know if they held all their services in the cave, or just special ones.”
He looked out over the land and squinted with one eye. “No, I don’t think so.”
I wondered if he was telling the truth, or if he was still keeping her secrets after all these years.
“Did she record any songs before she died? Anything that was never released, that she might have left unfinished or kept private for some reason?”
He shifted his gaze back to me. “Why do you ask?”
“Hess mentioned something about secret songs, and I thought you might know, being her producer.”
He paused, running his lips over his knuckles. “Are you sure you want to go down this road?”
“Yes.”
He was silent for a moment, giving away nothing. “All right. I have something to show you.”
We made our way to the east wing where the walls were lined with gold and platinum records in frames.
At the end of the hall, there was a studio with a professional soundboard and a vocal booth with instruments scattered about.
He went to a safe the size of a refrigerator in the corner, pressed in a code, and the thick door popped open.
I could see from across the room that it contained rows of glossy tapes with tiny, illegible labels on the sides.
He pulled one from its slot, closed the safe, and sat at the soundboard. He stared down at the tape in his hand as if it were a haunted relic.
“A few months before she died, Lou and I started recording this project she called Night Songs that she didn’t want anyone to know about.
Not even Martha or Hess. Usually, Martha was part of the composing, and Hess weighed in on the songs as they were coming together.
But this time they weren’t allowed in the studio. Only me and Lou.”
He looked up at the microphone dangling behind the glass in front of us. “She would show up at my place in the evening, and she’d want to record all night. Lou could be impulsive and didn’t sleep very much, so that part didn’t seem too strange. But the music—that had a different feel.”
He pulled the tape from its case and popped it into a machine to the right of the soundboard. “Lou made me promise never to show this tape to anyone, and I’ve kept my word all these years. It was the least I could do for her. But I don’t think she’d mind if I played it for you.”
He pressed a button, and the machine whirred.
We waited in silence for a few beats, and then sound oozed from the speakers, like an animal moaning in pain. I thought it must be a guitar, but I’d never heard someone play like that.
Then Belle’s voice came in as a grating whisper, the sound like ice crunching against my molars:
I roll down my beloved Broadway
Seedy clubs where music used to play
Shadows in the corner booth
Nashville is rottin’ at the tooth
My head is tuned to a different channel
From Almighty God to the crafty Devil
Songs about a woman dying
And when I hear them, I can’t help crying,
Save me, Lord, save my child
Save us from the cursed wild
The song went on, describing the many ways she might die:
Onstage, being electrocuted through her microphone; a stage light crushing her skull; asphyxiating on a gas leak; a disastrous house fire leaving only her wigs behind.
And throughout the song, she kept begging.
Save me, Lord, save my child
Save us from the cursed wild
They reminded me of the visions I had, too, of the various ways I saw myself dying.
The song degraded, so that the lyrics were unintelligible, and the music sounded like the watery notes of a broken record, dissolving into nothing but the tap, tap, tapping of no disc.
Beneath the tapping, in a voice so close it felt she was right behind my ear, I heard,
Remember this.
Remember what I am about to tell you.
…
You are cursed.