THIRD VERSE: THE NEW, IMPROVED JENNY CLOUD
10
When the Eagle returned me to Nashville three weeks later, I drove straight to Harmony Hill and climbed into bed without unpacking and without undressing any more than slipping my boots off. I didn’t listen to the radio. I didn’t watch television. I didn’t want anything that reminded me of being human. I just lay in bed, looking at the ceiling, the thought of continuing to live like this intolerable.
I decided to ignore my phone after a flurry of calls from Mike and Tonilynn. They wanted too much, were sucking even more of the life out of me with their chatter and questions. Mike’s words amounted to reports of what a hit our Texas tour had been, that like “Honky-Tonk Tomcat,” “Daddy, Don’t Come Home” was getting tons of drive-time play on radio stations across the country, and had made the Billboard Hot 100. Tonilynn kept offering to come pick me up and carry me out to celebrate. She wanted to take me to the Douglas Corner Café just a short drive from downtown, or to Bobbie’s Dairy Dip on Charlotte Pike, or to Sambuca, a swanky place with lobster enchiladas and live music. I lied and told her I had a lot of work in the studio to tend to.
“I’ll miss you, hon,” she chirped. “You’ve got my number if you want to talk.”
Toward the end of the second day of my hibernation, my head began to ache so bad I could hardly keep my eyes open. I got even more irritable. All I wanted was to leave the past in the past, and, boy, did that seem to be a losing battle. I told myself if Tonilynn truly cared, she’d stop saying, “Ask Jesus to help you dig it all up.” Why would anyone in their right mind invite their world to crash down like that?
If Jesus truly wanted to help me, well, he could take the shovel and whack my father upside the head with it. Put us all out of our misery.
“Religious nut!” I fussed out loud. “Fanatic!” There was no option but to keep buried every shred of anything that had to do with my sleazebag of a father. I congratulated myself on the fact that I’d been successful in keeping a particular incident buried fairly deep, the one from which the merest hint could send a cold claw walking up my spine.
I shuffled into the bathroom and leaned against the counter for a while, feeling like I might vomit as I smelled the hibiscus hand soap. When I caught a glimpse of a painting of a cow skull with flowers spilling out of it, a gift from Tonilynn, almost instantly I felt ashamed of myself for fussing about someone who only wanted my good.
I hobbled downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water, and drank it standing at the kitchen sink. My eyes fell on back issues of Music Row, Country Weekly, and Nashville Scene on top of a pile of junk mail next to the telephone. On a whim I sat down at the breakfast table to leaf through them, pausing at a big splashy photo of blonde-haired, bright-eyed Taylor Swift laughing at something.
Taylor was from Pennsylvania and had moved to Nashville when she was thirteen. She was a household name like me, and I’d seen and heard plenty about her, including the story of her breakthrough in 2006 with the hit song “Tim McGraw.” Her self-titled debut album had sold more than 3.5 million copies, and her album Fearless produced the hit singles “Love Story” and “You Belong With Me.” Not to mention she’d won Top New Female Vocalist at the 2008 CMT Awards and had been nominated for a Grammy by the Academy of Country Music as best new female vocalist. Besides all the success, it struck me how peaceful Taylor seemed. Where I was all angst and heart-wrenching lyrics, Taylor had a freshness that was appealing. She was light and playful. I didn’t know exactly what to call her, maybe not innocent, but she sure looked happy and carefree.
All of a sudden, it was like I’d switched on the lamp after a long bad dream. If I could be like Taylor and write upbeat country pop songs, I’d be happy! She was proof that writing lyrics spawned in a troubled past was not a prerequisite for doing well in the country music scene. A change of image was what I needed for my passion and my sanity to coexist.
When Tonilynn brought up that foolishness about digging up the past, about Jesus and Freud, I’d tell her that the horrors of a person’s reality could actually do them in, that true happiness lay in burying ugly stuff really deep and keeping it there. It was just common sense that a person couldn’t undo what was done to them. In fact, I’d been pondering this idea about self-fulfilling prophecy; simply put, a person will act like who she believes herself to be. I’d heard reimaging referred to as “getting your game on,” and it was, in my opinion, a very sound and effective solution when dealing with terrible things.
Talk about a makeover! I was a big, blank canvas, and here in these magazines was the inspiration to paint the new Jenny Cloud. I’d model myself after Taylor Swift and Carrie Underwood, another fresh, young country music star. I’d also study up on Reba McEntire, Kellie Pickler, and Faith Hill. Their artistry would fuel my own. I’d pick and choose my attributes; upbeat, sassy, gutsy, chic, giggly, breathless. I’d dream up Jenny Cloud’s happy-girl persona, and shut down, totally and completely, the file marked “ugly episodes in Jenny Cloud’s past.”
I felt like dancing, like my only limitation was within my own mind. My headache disappeared, and I got up to go take a bubble bath.
To be the new Jenny Cloud, I needed big blonde hair, cut into flirty layers. And dramatic makeup. No more scrubbed clean, dark silken-locked, angst-ridden, soul-wrenching persona. Good-bye to serious and somber. I’d aim for adjectives like “lighthearted” and “playful.” Speaking of playful, I decided I’d go get some long, acrylic nails, but nixed that idea as soon as I thought about strumming my Washburn.
I was stepping out of the tub a few minutes later when Tonilynn called.
“Wow!” she said. “You sure sound better.”
“I feel better. Hey, mind if I borrow your pink cowgirl boots? I want to see how they look with my denim miniskirt.” Despite being a good seven inches taller than five-foot Tonilynn, we both had wide, size-eight feet.
“ ’Course you can. You going out dancing?”
I laughed. “I’m just bored with my Minnie Pearl crossed with Maybelle Carter look. I want something flirty.”
“You’re hunting a man.”
“I’m hunting outfits to wear during my performances. Remember that flouncy little green dress I bought in California, with the spaghetti straps? The one you made me buy in that boutique because you said it brought out my eyes?”
“The one you’ve never worn?”
“Yep. How do you think that would look with some really high-heeled black pumps?”
“I think all the men would be dropping like flies.”
That helped ease the transition to my next question. “Will you do a more playful hairdo on me?”
Tonilynn got quiet. “What did you have in mind?” she asked finally.
“Swingy blonde layers.”
“Whoa now, Jennifer. I love your long, black silky tresses. You look like an Indian princess.”
“I don’t want to look like an Indian princess anymore.”
“Well, okay . . . I reckon we might could do some swingy layers if we get a real powerful styling product. However, your coloring definitely wouldn’t do for blonde.”
It wasn’t easy to let go of that mental image of myself with a blonde mane, tousled, tumbling as I strummed my guitar wildly, but I knew how stubborn Tonilynn was. “Okay, fine,” I said. “Playful dark layers, then. Listen, I’ve been studying country singers and a lot of them are aiming toward a more mainstream pop sound. I’m sure you’ve heard them talking about ‘the new contemporary country sound that spans genres’? So, I’m thinking it’s time for me to make a change all around and I’m trying to change my image so I’ll look the part.”
She didn’t respond.
“I’m remaking my sound, Tonilynn. No more twang. No more of the so-called ‘real country sound’ or ‘tear-in-my-beer’ type music. And I really need your talent and experience in the beauty department. You know, a lighter look to go with my lighter sound?”
Still she was quiet.
“Aw, come on, Tonilynn. I want more dramatic makeup too. You know what I’m talking about. Think Miranda Lambert, Taylor Swift, pop-and-country culture. I’ve heard folks saying Taylor’s music is really the rock ’n’ roll of the sixties and seventies.”
Finally Tonilynn spoke. “You’re not actually serious, are you, hon?”
“Sure I am.”
I heard her take a deep breath. “Mike’s going to blow a gasket.”
“He will not.” I laughed.
“Bet he will.”
Mike picked up on the second ring. “Where have you been, Jenny girl? Thought you fell off the earth.”
My voice was strong as I requested a “business meeting to discuss some things.” He was clearly surprised, but we set a time for the next morning at nine. I loved the feeling of being in charge of my own destiny, and I turned on The Big 98 WSIX so loud I felt the beat of Martina McBride’s “I Just Call You Mine” pulsing up through my bare feet. At the end of the song, while Martina was showing off her vocal prowess, I was inspired to step out the back door to gaze at the sun, a warm gold light streaming through the trees at the distant edge of my property. I let out a long, deep breath, and I knew where I needed to be.
Driving through the night, I could feel a strong yet gentle tug from downtown Nashville, like some great aunt beckoning me to climb up on the back porch and visit a spell. I smiled as I pictured those sweet days of living in the Best Western, me so eager to immerse myself in this city, to know all about her.
When the Nashville skyline came into focus, with the stately towers of the sharply lit Batman Building so tall and impressive, I laughed out loud. At the intersection of Music Circle East and Division Street, I felt another familiar pull, this one a powerful magnet drawing me toward the Cumberland. It had been too long, and I couldn’t wait to see her, feel her quiet strength, tell her everything was going to be all right.
I parked in a lot near the intersection of Broadway and Third Avenue North, and half walked, half jogged to Riverfront Park, then up and across the pedestrian bridge, through the parking lot near LP Field, then down the banks to the cement boat ramp that disappeared into the river. I was out of breath as I knelt and twirled my fingers in the warm water of the Cumberland, watching the reflection of a three-quarter moon glancing off her surface. “I’m good now,” I said to her. “Things are going to be okay.”
For the next fifteen minutes, I sat by the river, inhaling and exhaling her strength. Feeling whole and strong, I walked back to the Lexus, planning on heading home. But on a whim, I decided to cruise along Broadway, past the honky-tonks, smiling at the memory of my ignorance about cover charges. It wasn’t long before I felt compelled to turn onto Fifth Avenue North.
I slowed to watch a stream of people filing into the historic Ryman—the Mother Church of Country Music. Somebody big had to be playing tonight. When at last I saw the sign clearly, I knew the reason for the crowd. It was George Jones. I thought of just continuing to cruise along, enjoying the scenic tour of my town from the comfort of my car, but something wouldn’t let me. I wanted to be a member of the adoring masses, enjoying a concert by the legendary Possum.
I found a parking spot and jogged back to the box office. It was a good thing I was wearing my fool-proof disguise. When I stepped into the Ryman, it was five minutes until showtime, and to me, still a bit dazed from long days and fitful nights spent sequestered and struggling with the emotional fallout from my career, the lights and the energy felt sort of unreal. I climbed up into the balcony and side-stepped along until I came to my row. My seat was three in, past an ancient man and woman, their hands clasped together in her lap. I slid past them carefully, murmuring, “I’m sorry, please excuse me, I’m sorry.”
“You’re not hurting a thing, dear,” the old woman said, smiling up at me as the old man guffawed, looking down at his feet, saying, “Nope, not hurting a thing. I walk on ’em too.” Which confused me until she began giggling, and I realized he was making a joke.
I sat, waiting in that hundred-plus-year-old sanctuary, aware of the tangible bond of honest, pure affection, the completeness between that couple beside me. From the corner of my eye, I saw she wore a diamond on her frail hand, and I imagined him on bended knee sixty-plus years ago. As a fiddle, a drum, an electric guitar, and a keyboard began making music, a number of people stood up, swaying and clapping, calling out, “We want George! We want George!”
My elderly couple remained in their seats. The old man turned to me and said, “Reckon they’re worried he won’t show up.”
“Really?” I asked, although I knew the story.
“I remember him missing so many booked engagements, they started to calling him No-Show Jones. His drinking had a hold on him.”
I’d heard about George’s legendary alcohol consumption. The tabloids credited his current wife with rescuing him. At last he strutted out, grinning big, wearing his famous amberlensed glasses and a brown suit with sparkly designs sewn on the shoulders. He had his guitar and without warning launched into, “Why, Baby, Why.” Next he did “Wabash Cannonball,” and then “Golden Ring,” a song he used to sing with then wife Tammy Wynette. The audience knew every word to every song, and sang along raptly, especially when he got to one of the greatest country songs of all time: “He Stopped Loving Her Today.”
That was when I felt the power of a certain presence in the crowd growing even stronger, a totally encompassing sensation bordering on worship. They’re adoring George Jones, idolizing him, and he enjoys being famous and entertaining them, I thought. And I do too. Guess that’s part of our job description as country music stars. But look at this precious man and woman beside me. Isn’t it better to be loved by just one person who really knows you, heart and soul, than by millions who don’t even know your real name?
Once upon a time, this notion of unconditional, committed love would have depressed me to no end because I was afraid I’d never have it. But now a particular face swam into my thoughts, making every single cell in my body fill up with hope: Bobby Lee.
For the first time in months, I slept soundly. It felt good to be finally hungry, starving, in fact, holding a cinnamon crunch bagel and hot espresso at Panera Bread. I’d just settled into my chair when Mike breezed in with a pile of reviews. He plopped them on the table, thumped them with his pointer finger, looked at me, smiled, and said, “Girl, this new song of yours is some kind of hit!” Leaving only the faint woodsy trace of Herrera for Men, he headed to the counter.
I guzzled my espresso and moved my behind to the edge of the chair, ready. Mike returned and began adding packet after packet of raw sugar to his coffee. Finally he took a long swallow, patted his lips with a napkin, and said, “I’ve been talking to some folks about the next CMA Awards, and there’s some talk about Brad Paisley being the host again, and another equally famous, well-known female country music diva being his cohost. Maybe someone we know?” He smiled with one eyebrow raised.
What a perfect lead-in! As the current Jenny Cloud, there was no way I could picture doing a three-hour show while exchanging funny banter with Brad. Billed as “Country Music’s Biggest Night,” the glittery network television spectacle of the annual CMA Awards was where dozens of country music’s biggest stars would be performing and sharing what they called “backstage stories” and “memorable moments.” It wouldn’t do to carry all that baggage up there, parading it around while trying to perkily introduce singer after singer and answer questions about my own painful songs. An artist who popped into my mind right away was giggly Carrie Underwood. Carrie would be a perky hostess with the mostess—the most smiles and happy comments, unshackled by a dysfunctional past. Or perhaps bubbly Kellie Pickler, a bleached-blonde diva folks were calling a “modern-day Dolly Parton.”
“So what do you think?” Mike prompted when I’d held my thoughts a little too long.
“I’m thinking the producers would rather go with one of the more contemporary artists,” I said. “You know? The so-called new country sound?” I threw those terms out there quickly to judge his reaction. “Somebody like Carrie or Kellie or Taylor? Get more crossover fans that way. Bigger audience, and isn’t that the goal?”
Mike swallowed his coffee down the wrong pipe. “What?” he sputtered. “You ought to be jumping up and down at the thought of being a cohost for the CMA Awards!”
My words obeyed my brain and rolled off my tongue like well-aimed BBs. “I called this meeting because I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, Mike, and I’ve decided to change my image. I want my songs to say, ‘This is a gal who doesn’t take life too seriously.’ I want fun songs with silly lyrics, more of a mainstream-pop sound. From now on, I’m gonna be the happy-go-lucky country diva. Tonilynn said she’ll do big hair and heavy makeup, and I’ll wear flirty minidresses with cowgirl boots.”
Mike laughed, a humorless little snort. “This is crazy. You’re not the big hair, heavy makeup, and minidresses type.”
“I can be,” I shot back. “I don’t want to pay the high price for ‘lyrics that touch my audience’s souls’ anymore. I don’t want ‘the music to call me home’ anymore. No more so-called ‘reflections about her troubled past.’ ” I was on a roll. “I can’t change the past, but I can choose what I sing about, and I’m going to focus on upbeat songs with catchy, fun choruses. I’m going to reinvent myself as pop-country. No more twangy tunes for this gal.”
Mike took a deep breath. “Jenny, you are steel guitardrenched, old-school country, tear-in-your-ear ballads. You are twang.”
“I’m tired of tears, Mike. When I started out in this business, you decided who you wanted me to be. You pigeonholed me into this angst-ridden singer with the dysfunctional past.”
“You had no part in it? Aren’t all these songs carved from your experiences? I didn’t make them up out of thin air.”
“I’m saying I was ignorant about a lot of things. You can’t sit there and tell me all you Music Row executives don’t have your own agendas!”
“Jenny, Jenny, this is extremely serious. You’ve got intensely loyal fans who think they know you, who expect pain inflected, slice-of-life snapshots like “Honky-Tonk Tomcat,” and “Daddy, Don’t Come Home.” You can’t just go and decide to recreate yourself. Like it or not, those are the ramifications of life spent in the public eye.”
Those words life spent in the public eye circled in my head like angry bees as I ripped a bite of bagel with my teeth.
“Please tell me you’re joking,” Mike pleaded. “Don’t you listen to the television talk shows? Don’t you read the magazines, the Internet? ‘Jenny Cloud lives out her songs.’ ”
I didn’t answer.
He stabbed a finger toward the stack of reviews. “ ‘Jenny Cloud’s lingering vocals and world-weary sound as she grapples with the memories of her Southern roots!’ ” His loud voice was causing a stout woman with a Liza Minnelli hairdo to stare open-mouthed at us. I pulled the bill of my hat even lower. She looked like a talker, maybe even a gossip columnist.
“Get a clue, Jenny! Don’t you know we’re hit-makers here?” Mike made a fist and pounded the table. “Three consecutive albums debuting at number one on both Billboard 200 and Billboard Country! You want to give all that up? Throw it away?” His face flared beet-red.
I lowered my voice, pleading with him. “Please, Mike, listen to me. I’m not talking about giving up singing. Music’s who I am, and I couldn’t run away from it even if I wanted to. But I don’t want to live like this anymore. I can’t live like this because my sanity’s important to me. Those songs hurt me to write, are hurting me to sing. A person doesn’t have to live out the pain in their songs to sing them.” What could I say to explain my precarious mental state? Mike knew I didn’t have a pleasant childhood, but he had no idea the extent of what I’d endured.
“People change,” I said, after a long, uncertain pause. “It’ll still be country, but it’ll be modern country that crosses genres and has a wider audience!” There, that ought to do it.
Mike set his coffee cup down with a loud thunk. “Both from an artist’s viewpoint and a management perspective, there’s nothing worse than abandoning your sound. It would be the end of Jenny Cloud.”
I stared at him, suddenly flustered. The Liza Minnelli woman was gone, but I noticed a couple at the nearest table hanging on our every word. “You don’t know that,” I said.
“Oh, yes I do. It’d be the death knell of your career if you started writing mainstream pop stuff. Your popularity with fans is phenomenal. And when country fans talk, artists have to listen. We’re making a product here! A successful product, and if we change it, it’s all over. I can promise you that.”
I was a product?
All at once I felt very tired. I got to my feet while Mike stared at me with his mouth hanging open for a second before he pushed me back down with his words. “You’re not throwing away all we’ve worked for. What’s it going to take to convince you?”
I ran a hand through the straggly hair poking out from the side of my cap.
“Hey! I know how to convince you!” Mike slapped his thigh. “You know the song ‘Murder on Music Row,’ by Alan Jackson and George Strait, don’t you?”
I nodded. Everybody in country music knew that song. Portions of the catchy lyrics floated through my mind, words about the death of country music as it had always been.
“Then I’m sure you also recall how that song sparked a debate in the country music community about whether or not the traditional country music like you do was dead, dying, or not.” Mike’s eyes were huge. “Went on forever. Do you recall that album of Alan’s called Like Red on a Rose that came out back in 2006?”
It was funny to think of the twang king, Alan Jackson, teaming up with bluegrass superstar Alison Krauss for an album of love songs. The soft notes of their ballad “Anywhere on Earth You Are,” gave me a wistful stab. Yes, it was definitely different than Alan’s usual, but I admired how he’d broken out of his shell to try something else. “I liked it,” I said.
There was a long pause, and I thought I’d made my point.
The expression on Mike’s face was impossible to read. “There was a huge outcry from fans who thought he was abandoning his traditional past and aiming toward a mainstream pop sound.” Mike rubbed his chin. “Alan’s no dummy. He’s been around long enough to know that when certain names are mentioned—names like Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Hank Williams—people think hard-core country. He knew he had an image to uphold, too, an image he absolutely had to go back to if he wanted to make his fans happy. And, for his next album, he went back to his previous producer, back to his real country roots.” Mike drew in a deep breath through his nostrils. “You, my girl, are hard-core country when it comes to the females of country music. You are twang. And don’t forget it.”
My heart was pounding. “Why do you care? Worried you won’t be able to make any more money off me?”
“Jenny, Jenny,” he said in a disappointed voice, “your career could crash totally, and I’d still be sitting fat. Don’t you remember last year when Dad left me everything?”
I nodded. I’d gone to the funeral of Mike Flint Sr. He’d been a widower and loaded, and Mike Flint Jr., his only heir. When Mike Sr.’s lawyers had everything settled, I recalled Mike taking his family on a big European vacation, then buying a $1.8-million beach home in Florida as well as a ski chalet in Vail. He redid the interior of Flint Recording and bought himself a flashy red Corvette. I was fairly sure he was set for life and beyond. I knew it wasn’t for the money that he worked so tirelessly at Flint.
“I’m sorry, Mike. It’s just . . .”
“Just what? What’s going on, Jenny?”
“You asked me once, twice actually, about the pressure. From fame, stardom, I’m guessing you meant. At that point I remember I said to you, and I kept saying to anybody who asked because I wanted to believe it, ‘I’m good. I’m coping. Things are A-OK.’ But the truth was, is, Mike, there are times when I’m absolutely hanging on to my sanity by a very slim thread. I feel like I’m about to lose it if I don’t change some things.”
Mike stared at me.
“Remember that night I freaked out over ‘Honky-Tonk Tomcat?’ ”
“That was a long time ago. I thought you were over that, Jenny. I thought you were okay.”
“I know. It’s not your fault. I’ve been keeping it all, mostly, inside. But I’m telling you now, Mike, I despise looking into my past. Digging all that stuff up to write songs hurts. I adore singing and I adore the stage, and I really, truly love my fans, but the other part, the so-called ‘autobiographical heart-wrenching lyrics,’ well, it makes me so . . . I don’t have . . . it’s killing me is what it is, and I DON’T WANT THE MUSIC TO CALL ME HOME ANYMORE. I DON’T WANT TO GO HOME!”
It seemed the coffee stopped percolating, that everyone in the restaurant stopped breathing. I felt my espresso and cinnamon crunch bagel trying to come up. Mike’s face looked terrified. The next thing I knew, he was crouching beside me, his arms around me. “Jenny, Jenny, calm down now. I believe you need to talk to somebody. A professional, a shrink. We need to get you all fixed before your appearances at the CMA Festival.”
My arms were shaking as I drove home. I’d totally pushed thoughts of the upcoming CMA Festival out of my mind. Held the second week of June each year in downtown Nashville, it’s the music highlight of the year, and I was scheduled to perform at both Riverfront Park and LP Field.
When I walked inside Harmony Hill, I felt a bit unreal and planned to go make a cocoon out of the covers on my bed. But my phone rang and for some crazy reason I answered it.
Aunt Gomer’s voice sped into my mind before I could register who it was. She said she’d been outside feeding chicken manure to her tomatoes when she got the strongest urge to march right into the house to call me and invite me to come eat supper, and, by-the-by, did I like fresh figs?
I couldn’t get my thoughts together quick enough to come up with an excuse, and I hesitated, saying, “Well, I’ve got to um—,” and she cut me off and told me she’d pick me up at four and I ought to come prepared to spend the night up on Cagle Mountain because she had something to show me.
“I want you to see them by dawn’s early light, Jennifer. You would not believe how absolutely gorgeous my light purple Mary Franceses are. They just take your breath away, partickly in the morning light.”
“What?” I was trying to wrap my mind around a woman named Mary Frances who was light purple.
“Irises are the Tennessee state flower.”
“Oh, well, that’s nice, Aunt Gomer. But now that I think about it, I’ve really got a lot of things to tend to and so I better not—”
“You be ready, honey. I need to run because Bobby Lee’s helping me with my seeds and we need to get them out before it gets too late.”
I stood there stunned, the dial tone buzzing in my ear.
The more I thought about it, the idea that someone wanted to share her joy with me was profoundly touching. It made me happy to think of seeing Erastus and Bobby Lee. I could sure use a distraction, and finally, I decided I would go up to Cagle Mountain, but definitely I wouldn’t spend the night.
I spent a couple of hours listening to some new CDs, then turned on daytime television without really connecting to what was on. I looked at the clock—two. I decided to hit Walmart before Aunt Gomer’s arrival.
I slunk through the pet-food aisle in my ball cap, my shapeless top, and jeans and chose a box of Milk-Bones for large breeds. Wheeling my cart through the garden center, I hunted something for Aunt Gomer since she was the one who’d invited me. But as I paused to look at all the different plants, the bags of mulch, and spinner racks of seeds, my mind went blank. Seemed she already had everything in the world when it came to gardening. Finally I saw a floor pallet full of what the sign called “Knockout Roses.” Their cherry red petals were so gorgeous I knew Aunt Gomer would love one even if she already had a few.
In the fishing section, I stood looking at rows and rows of tackle boxes and nets.
“Need some help, ma’am?” A gaunt teenage boy wearing a Walmart smock appeared at my elbow.
“Yes, please,” I said, ducking down under the bill of my cap like a turtle. Something about this kid put me in mind of a country music fan. “Do you have catawba worms?” Bobby Lee had told me that the Indian name for catalpa was Catawba and that a lot of fishing experts referred to the caterpillars as Catawba worms
“Yes, ma’am!” he said with so much enthusiasm I knew he had to be a fisherman. “Insect larvae is choice bait!” His gigantic feet began leading me down an adjacent aisle where he paused to point at a peg holding a cellophane package of worms. “Now, we don’t carry the live ones, you understand. But we got the artificial ones. I hear they’re not as good as the real things,” he said. “But what artificial’s got going for them is they’re a lot cleaner to use, and they’ll last for years in a tackle box.”
Bridge: Aunt Gomer
Today was one of those beautiful spring mornings that make a body feel the joy of living so strong she wishes she could somehow just stop time, press it in a scrapbook, and climb back into it when things aren’t so pretty. I ate my oatmeal standing out in the garden and soaking up the sun. Then I fed my tomatoes and spent a fair amount of time weeding my cantaloupe patch before I went inside to get Bobby Lee to come out and help me hunt for iris borers.
“I can’t hardly see those pesky little varmints,” I told him after he’d mashed a good dozen between his thumb and forefinger.
“Maybe you need to go get you some new glasses, Aunt Gomer.”
“Oh, pshaw. I don’t need new glasses.” I could feel my neck getting tense and so I changed the subject. “Be time to go fetch our sweet little Jennifer before too long.”
“Jennifer’s coming?” Bobby Lee perked up. Erastus was sitting at the edge of the flower patch, and I swan, when that dog heard Jennifer’s name, he hopped to his feet, trotted over, and laid his chin on Bobby Lee’s knee, smiling and wagging his tail to beat the band.
“Yessir. Called her after I heard this interview on the radio where Big D was talking to the artist of some album debuting at number one on Billboard Country. He asked this gal about what had inspired her to write one of the songs, and she said her sorry daddy had, and then Big D kept calling it a “childhood rocked by emotional ambushes.” I thought I recognized the voice and come to find out it was our own Jennifer!
“So, what I’m figuring, Bobby Lee, is that the Louvin Brothers or maybe Bill Gaither might do the trick.”
“Huh?”
“Our girl needs her some home cooking and gospel music to elevate her spirits. The other morning when I had one of my sinking spells, I turned on the Statler Brothers and listened to “Just a Little Talk with Jesus,” and I declare if I didn’t feel 100 percent better. Gospel music can lift a person right up. Some of those songs are so sweet they make me cry, but in a good way, you know?”
Bobby Lee didn’t look convinced about my plan. He doesn’t listen to gospel music. He doesn’t even go to church. Seems like he blames God for being paralyzed, and if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times, “Motorcycles don’t crash themselves.” Sometimes I remind him what those doctors said about how he’s lucky to still be alive and still be able to use his mind and his hands.
“Let’s go pick the figs that are ready,” I said to him. I like us doing things together because when our hands and eyes are busy, it gives us a chance to talk from our hearts.
“It’s too early for figs, Aunt Gomer,” Bobby Lee said, but he wheeled along beside me to the fig tree at the back door. I examined the figs while he took a twig and poked at the little tiny cans I hang from the tree’s branches with twine to keep the bugs and birds away.
“You get hold of Mr. Pintar about that job down at the recycling center?” I asked after a spell.
Bobby Lee didn’t answer.
“You’ve got to decide you want to be independent, son. Don’t you let your mama tell you you can’t do nothing, because you’re smart and capable. I know Tonilynn’s stubborn, but you’ve got to stand up to her. There’s plenty of people in wheelchairs who are independent.”
He still didn’t say a thing, and I got to feeling so mad I yanked a little green fig off the tree. “I’m going on in the house to cook.”
“Aunt Gomer?”
“Yes?”
“You remember she’s a vegetarian, don’t you?”
I did not, but I changed thinking directions in my meal plans right quick. “ ’Course I do. But I don’t know how a body can live without any meat. Even this fig tree loves its meat. It could no more thrive on a meat-free diet than a human could!” Every evening after we washed the supper dishes, I carried the dishpan full of greasy water and flung it out the backdoor onto the tree’s roots.
“I’m fixing the macaroni and cheese casserole I do at Thanksgiving.” It was comfort food to a T: elbow noodles, eggs, cheese, milk, and cream-of-mushroom soup, with a nice buttery top crust of breadcrumbs and more cheese.
Bobby Lee was sitting in the middle of the den when we got home. His hair was shiny clean, and he had on a fresh T-shirt. Every lamp was turned on, and there were flowers everywhere. Daffodils spilled out of a milk jug on the telephone table, and a bouquet of calla lilies and phlox was nestled in a bucket on the hearth. Irises in Mason jars lined the mantel and the windowsills and sat on the kitchen countertops.
“Ohhhh,” sighed Jennifer. “This is beautiful.” She was holding a Walmart bag, twirling around with her green eyes wide.
“Glad you like it,” Bobby Lee said. I was shocked that he’d done all this, and for a moment I had the sensation of being inside a dream, one about a funeral home, but maybe that’s because I was holding a pot of roses Jennifer had given me and they had that heavy, sweet scent of burying folks. I set them down on top of the tin box where we keep the kindling.
“It is mighty pretty,” I said. “Every cloud has a silver lining, and this here’s our reward for all that rain that kept us indoors.”
Erastus scampered over to put his nose on Jennifer’s knees. “There you are, sweetie pie!” she squealed, kneeling down. “I brought you something.” And then she leaned over and actually kissed that dog on top of his head! It wasn’t just a little air peck, either.
“Where’s your mother?” I asked Bobby Lee, but he didn’t answer so I went on in the kitchen to put my casserole in the oven and mix up the biscuits. I’d already put bacon drippings in the butterbeans, so all I had to do was heat them and the beets. The tea was made, and I’d bought a bag of Pecan Sandies for dessert. I could hardly wait until we were sitting around the table, eating my good casserole.
While I was kneading the dough, I made up my mind to conduct my own interview with Jennifer about her new song. Seemed like every time Bobby Lee put on The Big 98, there she was, singing about a father who’d crushed his little girl’s heart. The song made out like the girl triumphed in the end by cutting him right out of her life, but every time I heard it, I remembered Jennifer’s voice trembling and pitiful as she answered Big D’s questions.
Once the biscuits were in the oven, I showed her the guest room at the end of the hall. “I put a washrag and a towel on your bed, hon, and soap and such is in the shower. Just help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”
“Thanks. But I don’t believe I’ll—”
“I generally rise at six, but I had a mind that tomorrow we’d . . .” Now it seemed there was something I needed to tell the girl. Something to do with the morning, but all I could think of at the moment was making sure I kept a close eye on the biscuits. I tried to think of things to do with the morning to see if that wouldn’t jar my memory—feed chickens, make coffee, let Erastus out the back door. Coffee . . . Chickens . . . Erastus . . . I was getting mighty frustrated. I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth hurt, and finally, as I was stirring the butterbeans, it came to me.
“I have a splendid idea!” I called to Jennifer. “In the morning we can get up early and sit outside to have our coffee and watch the sun coming up on the Mary Franceses. Irises are the state flower. Did you know?”
“Um, yes,” she said, coming into the kitchen to wash her hands. “I believe I’ve heard that somewhere.”
I began breathing a little easier now that matter was settled. I figured the odd expression on the girl’s face came from the fact that she was just stunned at all the good things coming her way all at once. I peeled the tinfoil off the casserole to sprinkle on the last half cup of cheddar and a bowl of crushed Ritz crackers mixed with melted margarine. When it was back in the oven, the kitchen started smelling like hot buttery cheese.
Tonilynn had come home, and she stood in the den talking a mile a minute. It sounded like she was real surprised to see Jennifer. I poked my head in to tell Bobby Lee to go ahead and put on some gospel music. He was just as agreeable as he could be, scooting right over to the cabinet where my albums and the record player stay. “This one?” he asked, holding up my Louvin Brothers album called Satan is Real.
“Yessir.” That one has such a pretty cover I wouldn’t mind hanging it on the wall. Charles and Ira Louvin are wearing white suits and they’re surrounded by big bright flames to look like hell, and behind them is a huge, cross-eyed statue of the devil. Every time I see it, I am struck by how sneaky the devil is.
I set out forks and knives to the beautiful harmonies of the Louvin brothers singing, “The River of Jordan.” When they got to “The Angels Rejoiced Last Night,” I had to run in the den and hush everybody. “This is one of my favorites,” I told them. “And I want y’all to hear the words.” The reason I said this is that the song is about a father who holds Satan’s hand, gambling and treading down the path of sin. Finally, when the mother dies, she asks him to raise those children right, and he accepts Jesus as his savior.
“Wasn’t that uplifting?” I said when it was over. I touched Jennifer’s wrist and she jumped. “Did you know Charles and Ira Louvin write most of their own songs like you?” I encouraged. “I heard you talking to Big D about your new song.”
“Oh.”
Bobby Lee cleared his throat. “When’s supper, Aunt Gomer?”
“Reckon we’ll eat in fifteen minutes or so. Plenty of time to visit.”
“Jennifer brought me a present.” Bobby Lee held up a little plastic bag.
“That’s real nice,” I said. “Candy?”
“No. It’s fishing lures—rubber catalpa worms.”
“Fake worms? You don’t need fake worms!”
“I do too!” Bobby Lee was practically shouting. “I’ve been itching to see how they compare! I told you the other day I wanted to get me some artificial catalpa worms and compare them to the real thing.”
Well, I didn’t remember that, but there were plenty of times I didn’t remember where I put my handbag or what I’d eaten for supper the evening before. When I told it to Myrtice, my prayer partner at church, she said everybody did that, even young folks, and it was nothing to worry about. They were all looking at me, waiting. “Well,” I said, “those folks in China can make just about anything they set their minds to.”
Little Jennifer sat there biting her lip. Soon as the Louvin Brothers started singing “There’s a Higher Power,” I managed to get my thoughts back on track. “Whenever I’m feeling down, I get out my gospel albums, and I turn up the volume and close my eyes and listen until I’m lifted right up out of my troubles. ‘Just a Little Talk,’ and ‘Fourth Man’ by the Statler Brothers make me feel like I’m walking on clouds. It’s powerful stuff. Do you listen to gospel music, hon?”
Jennifer blinked. “Sometimes.”
“Well, that’s good. Partickly if folks have trampled your dreams like you said on the radio.”
“Aunt Gomer,” Bobby Lee said in this dark tone. He shook his head.
“I’m just telling her what helps get me through my trials and tribulations. I knew when I heard Big D doing that exclusive interview about ‘never-before-heard stories behind the songs’ and Jennifer was telling about her inspiration for ‘Daddy, Don’t Come Home,’ she needed something to elevate her spirits.”
Bobby Lee grimaced, but I ignored him.
“You’re more than welcome to borrow any of my albums, hon. It just broke my heart to hear you so sad on the radio. Just broke my heart.”
“Thank you. I’ll remember that.” Jennifer twisted her hands together in her lap.
“You’re more than welcome. I’m going to pray and ask the Lord to carry you through your hurts. He’s helped me deal with a lot of hurt in my life, and as the Good Book says, he’s no respecter of persons. Your Heavenly Father’ll help you deal with the issues you have with your earthly father. Didn’t you tell us one time you wanted him dead? Or did I just dream that?”
“She told Big D she’s managed to cut her father out of her heart entirely.” Bobby Lee said through his teeth.
“Her words may’ve said that, but her voice certainly did not.”
“Look, Aunt Gomer, if you’re so smart, you ought to know there are some things that don’t make for pleasant conversation.”
“Tonilynn,” I said, “are you going to allow Bobby Lee to talk to me like this in front of our guest?”
“Far as I’m concerned, he’s right, Aunt Gomer. You’re meddling in stuff that isn’t your business.”
I was so embarrassed I couldn’t think of a thing. The Louvin Brothers were singing the last song on the album, “I’m Ready to Go Home,” and that’s exactly how I felt.
“Please y’all,” Jennifer said after a bit. “Stop fighting, and I’ll tell you the real story about ‘Daddy, Don’t Come Home.’ ” She took a shaky breath and closed her eyes. “The lyrics, everything I said to Big D about the song, was the honest-to-goodness truth. At one point anyway. I thought I’d managed to cut my father out of my heart because I never let myself think of him. For a long time, I did pretty good.
“But then, and this is the awful part, when I started digging up memories to write the song, the hurts came flooding back fresh. And I got furious all over again.
“I try to tell myself that I’m my own woman now. That I’m strong and I ought to rise above it all. The way he did me ought just to be fuel on the fire of my ambition! I don’t need his or my mother’s approval in my life! I’m a million times richer than they are.
“I just don’t understand,” she continued with this trembly voice, “why my mother never saw the bad things about my father. Why she can’t see them now! I guess she’ll deny them to her dying day. She doesn’t care about me.” Jennifer’s face crumpled, and Tonilynn tugged a tissue from her handbag on the floor and pressed it into her hand.
I could feel my heart clench up just like a muscle cramp. “Oh, child,” I said. “That must’ve been awful.”
“Yeah, it was. Is.”
“I remember you telling us you didn’t have nobody you could turn to. Well, you’ve got us now.”
For a moment Jennifer said nothing. I think she was trying to decide if she should continue her story. Finally she said, “Thank you, Aunt Gomer. But I wasn’t completely honest with you earlier, because I did have someone.”
“Is that a fact?”
“When I got to high school I met a wonderful man. At first, I would shuffle into the music room, so anxious and awkward and pathetic I couldn’t hardly swallow, and each day I’d leave a little stronger. My teacher, Mr. Anglin, said stuff that transformed my crazy self into something that made sense. I absolutely lived for chorus.
“In tenth grade, I still didn’t have any friends my own age, but I didn’t care anymore because Mr. Anglin was my teacher, my best friend, my parent, and my mentor, all rolled into one. But he didn’t seem like a grown-up. He was slim like a teenage boy, and he had this head full of wild, curly hair with no gray, and he didn’t grump around drinking coffee in the teacher’s lounge like all the rest of the teachers did. Every day me and him talked after class because it was my last period.
“One day, we were sitting on the stage to one side of the chorus room, and we could hear feet moving fast on the gym floor next door because the boys’ basketball team was practicing. There were tons of loud hoots and hollers. Boys just letting off steam after being in class all day, and Mr. Anglin said to me, ‘If we could bottle some of that testosterone, we’d be rich.’ I was sort of shocked, because besides when he was singing or playing the piano, Mr. Anglin was a pretty meek, mild kind of man. Then he shocked me even more. ‘Speaking of getting rich, Jennifer, I’m on fire to help you get ten songs absolutely perfect. We’ll make a demo, and we’ll take them to the record labels in Nashville, Tennessee. I knew the first time I heard you that you were destined for something bigger than Blue Ridge. You’re born for stardom.’
“This was my dream, you see, and I could hardly believe I had somebody dreaming it with me! I got brave and started carrying my song notebook to school, and Mr. Anglin helped me polish stanza after stanza, shine up choruses.
“Sometimes an idea for a new song or a tune would hit me during history or algebra, would make me want to literally jump out of my skin. My hand could hardly get the lyrics down fast enough. I’d be humming melodies during class.”
She paused, and Bobby Lee said, “I’m curious. Do you get the words or the melody first?”
“Most times, I hear the words first, and then I get the music. Back then, it was like Mr. Anglin’s faith in me was literally pulling songs out whole. Words and melodies were pouring out constantly. It was almost scary.”
Jennifer stopped and I realized I’d forgotten to breathe. Tonilynn and Bobby Lee were sitting up on the edge of their seats too. “So, what happened?”
“Well, I focused on that spotlight shining on the stage of the Ryman where Mr. Anglin told me I’d be standing. Every school day, we’d work on my songs, on the demos, and I just knew my dreams were going to become reality.
“One day I came home from school feeling, well, the only word I can come up with that fits is ecstatic. Mr. Anglin and I had just finished recording my demo. He’d pronounced it absolutely perfect, and it felt like nothing could go wrong.”
When Jennifer paused this time, I about couldn’t stand it. She nestled her hands down into Erastus’s neck fur, laid her head on his back and sighed from the depths of her soul, as they say. Thankfully, after a minute, she sat up and continued. “Mother warned me to keep my voice down soon as I came skipping through the front door with a song on my lips. ‘Your father’s home,’ she whispered. ‘He’s out back.’
“I just shrugged. You’ve got to understand I had absolutely no urge to gallop out there to say ‘Welcome home, Daddy.’ We didn’t have that kind of a relationship. But mother grabbed my arm and pulled me into a chair at the table. ‘Jennifer, just stay inside and let him have a chance to calm down. He’s not himself.’
“I didn’t have to ask what she meant by ‘not himself,’ but it was still hard to sit there, feeling about to burst with my news. Usually when I got home from school I went outside to visit with my cat or walk along the creek. That particular day, it took a minute for reality to set in because my father’d been gone off for one of his longer stretches, over six months, and I guess I’d gotten forgetful about how he could be, you know, I was used to doing what I wanted?
“At any rate, I sat there while Mother peeled and sliced potatoes for supper, mixed up some cornbread, and swept the floor. I could tell she was tiptoeing on cornflakes. After a while, I couldn’t stand it anymore. ‘Got to use the bathroom,’ I said, and she turned from the stove where she was stirring potatoes and whisper-yelled, ‘Be careful!’
“Our toilet was in an outhouse behind the cabin, so I went skipping toward the back door, and literally stopped dead in my tracks when I heard something.”
Jennifer sighed and looked down at her hands. The rest of us sat looking at each other for what seemed like forever.
“Tell us what you heard,” Tonilynn patted the girl’s wrist.
“Well, I thought when my mother said my father was not himself, he’d be knee-walking drunk, but he was sitting sort of upright. He’d dragged a kitchen chair out onto the cement off the back of the cabin, and he had a radio going near his feet. He didn’t have a shirt on, and his hair was in this greasy hank over one shoulder, and he almost looked like a painting the way the afternoon sun was on him. His eyes were closed and he was singing along with Merle Haggard to ‘Okie from Muskogee.’ But here’s the thing.” Jennifer paused a bit and her eyes got big. “His voice was absolutely magnificent, this really gorgeous baritone singing ‘We still wave Old Glory down at the courthouse.’ I’m not kidding when I say I could literally picture him up on the stage at the Ryman, the audience totally lost in his voice.
“I’m not lying when I say I could hardly get a breath down in my lungs. I just stood there, absolutely paralyzed. I’d never heard my father sing before, and I had no earthly idea he was so phenomenal! People who write reviews about singing would call it ‘lush, pained notes of a rich timbre’ or something like that.
“I realized we had this beautiful connection. I was thinking I got my singing from him, along with the Indian looks!”
Jennifer paused again. I felt my heart hammering, and it looked like Bobby Lee was in a trance. “So, what happened?” I poked her a little bit in her side. She jumped but then she took right off with the story.
“Well, apparently I made some kind of noise because my father flinched a little, turned his head, opened his eyes, and I could see this sort of slightly unfocused look in them. He held up a floppy arm, and I saw an empty liquor bottle lying on its side at the edge of the cement. If I hadn’t had this urge to connect with the man, I probably would’ve listened to my mother and beat it. I mean, I knew what alcohol did to him, but it was like some magnet pulling me out onto that warm cement.
“ ‘You’re an awesome singer,’ I told him. ‘You sound exactly like Merle Haggard. No, you sound better than Merle Haggard.’
“He just said ‘Whoop-tee-do’ and twirled his finger in the air.
“ ‘Seriously, you’re really good. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sing before. I’m good at it too. I love to sing. I sing all the time. It’s my most favorite thing in the entire world, and I’m going to be a country music star. Mr. Anglin said so.’
“ ‘Country music star?’
“I stepped closer to him because I not only thought I’d finally found a connection between us but also thought it could help him make money. We never had enough money. ‘Yeah. You could be a star too. We could be a father-daughter group. You know, like The Crist Family, or The Nelons, or Jeff & Sheri Easter? We could call ourselves The Singing Clodfelters.’
“He didn’t say anything, and his cigarette burned down to near nothing so I thought it must be scorching his fingers. Finally he flicked it away into the grass. Then he coughed and spat in the yard. ‘Who’s this Mr. Anglin?’
“ ‘My teacher. He says he’s never heard anybody who has such a natural ability to write the words, hear the melody, and sing like I do.’
“For a spell I thought he wasn’t going to respond, then he cursed and spat. ‘That’s stupid, Jen. He’s probably just a horny old coot trying everything to get in your pants.’
“I’d forgotten how he called me Jen, and I absolutely hated that, because in my mind’s eye, I saw it spelled out like g-i-n. I’d asked him a million times to please call me Jennifer, and every time he just laughed. But then I realized what he was saying about dear Mr. Anglin, and his words made me sick to my stomach. ‘Liar!’ I screamed at him. ‘Mr. Anglin’s never laid a hand on me!’ It was true. He’d never made me feel what we had together was anything more than two souls who shared a love of music.
“My father threw back his head and laughed. That was when I knew this definitely wasn’t going to be like I’d imagined. My heart was pounding, so I tried to calm myself by taking deep breaths. ‘Mr. Anglin is a good man,’ I said. ‘A nice Christian man, and I’m not going to waste my life. I’m going to do like he says and go to Nashville and be somebody!’
“For a drunk, my father was on his feet quick. ‘A kid like you don’t know nothin’ about wasting life. Don’t know nothin’ about nothin’ and I’m gonna tell you something, there ain’t a thing wrong with fixing cars, or hauling logs, or toting scrap metal for a living! Who do you s’pose it is that feeds your ungrateful mouth? Tell me that, Jen.’
“I thought I could slide past him and run to the woods. I didn’t think he could say anything worse than what he already had.”
Jennifer turned so pale I thought she might pass out.
“Take yourself a nice, deep breath, hon,” I said to her real soft. “Everything’s all right. You’re with people who love you now.”
“Yes, we love you,” said Tonilynn and Bobby Lee at the same time.
At last Jennifer cleared her throat. “He stepped toward me with this crazy sort of smile and said, ‘I’m gonna give you some real wisdom, some fatherly advice. You don’t need to be singing or worrying about making money. You don’t need to worry about working on nothing but a big chest and pleasing the men. Then you’ll get everything else in life you want. Females got it easy, ’cause when I see me a fine piece with a rack like Dolly’s, I ain’t got no problem whatsoever emptying my pockets out for her, buying her anything her little heart desires.’
“I started shaking. Felt like bending over and vomiting my guts out. ‘You make me sick,’ I said. It was only a whisper, but he heard me.
“ ‘What’d you say?’ My father’s eyes were wide and scary as he moved toward me, trying to unbuckle his belt. ‘You need to learn some respect for your elders! Ain’t a thing wrong with a man enjoying the finer things in this life! Girl wants jewelry, a big house, fancy clothes, vacations, in exchange for what she can give me, why not? You ain’t gonna turn into a killjoy like your saintly mother, are you?’
“He was too drunk to unfasten his belt, but it didn’t matter. The things he’d said were a million times worse than a whipping. The air went out of me and I couldn’t run. But I kept my head down so he wouldn’t see me crying.”
I have to say you really could have heard a pin drop for a spell up there on Cagle Mountain. I’d never heard such a story in my life, and I didn’t feel too much Christian love in my heart for that man.
“What happened then?” This was Bobby Lee, with his face like he’d seen a ghost.
“That night I lay down in my pallet on the screen porch, and I put my radio up next to my ear, and I tried and tried to return to living high on my dream. I even pretended I was Mr. Anglin’s daughter, but I could not conjure up a single picture of me in Nashville. The sun was coming up before I finally fell asleep, and when I did crawl out of bed, I knew one thing. I wasn’t going back to high school.”
Jennifer squeezed Erastus so tight, his eyes bulged, but he didn’t complain. “And that,” she said, “unfortunately, was the real inspiration for ‘Daddy, Don’t Come Home.’ ”
“Heavens,” I said after a long quiet moment. “Sometimes I wonder how the Good Lord lets certain folks live the way they do. Did Mr. Angel drive you to Nashville with your music demos?”
“No. Actually, um . . . what happened is . . . I . . . um . . . I . . .” That poor child’s words got all clotted in her throat like spoiled buttermilk. I hopped to my feet to pat her back and help them out, but it was to no avail.
“Eat your heart out, Big D,” I said in a bright voice. “You’re always crowing about your ‘exclusive, never-before-heard stories behind the songs,’ but us folks up here on Cagle Mountain, we’ve got the story behind the story behind the song. And now, I believe it’s time to celebrate with some good home cooking.”
We gathered at the table, I asked the Lord’s blessing and passed around my perfectly browned biscuits. Jennifer helped herself to a biscuit and some butterbeans and said, “Thank you for fixing such a nice supper and inviting me, Aunt Gomer.”
“It’s my pleasure,” I said. “Won’t be long until we get our first ripe tomato out of the garden, and that’s the day I’m waiting for. You’ll have to come eat tomatoes fresh off the vine with us. I’ve made many a meal on tomatoes and biscuits. I believe I could eat tomatoes every single day of my life and never get tired of them. What’s your favorite food?”
“Depends on if I’m at home or on tour. Usually I have cereal or a PowerBar if I’m at home.”
Tonilynn started talking about some restaurant they liked to eat at that made soup bowls out of bread, and I got to wondering how in heaven’s name it could hold soup without leaking.
“I don’t know what I’d do without my fried bologna sandwiches,” Bobby Lee said. “That and a Pepsi to wash it down.”
Jennifer smiled. “I’ve got to have black coffee the instant I get out of bed.”
“Well, I’m addicted to Diet Cokes.” Tonilynn laughed and hefted up the big Pyrex casserole dish and helped herself to the first corner. “Mercy me, this is heavy,” she said, grunting as she passed it to Bobby Lee.
I ate my beets and recalled a time when I was a little girl, no older than ten, when Mama fixed beets for supper and I was so hungry I must’ve eaten a gallon of them. That next morning when I went out to the outhouse to do my business, I thought I was bleeding internally, and I just knew for sure and certain I was fixing to meet my Maker. I decided there were some sins on my heavenly account I needed to confess, and I went running back to the house. I told my sister about cutting up her paper dolls, and my cousin, Delphine, about stealing an orange from her Christmas stocking, and my great-grandmother about switching out her vanilla ice cream with mashed potatoes, and finally I felt like my soul was clean, and I lay down to die. Mama knew something was up, and when I told her I’d made out a list of who was to get what of my earthly possessions, she put two and two together and explained to me about how beets can color your movement like nothing else. Well, I just about never lived that down, and after I got older, it was funny to me too. However, I decided it wasn’t a good story to tell at the supper table.
Nobody said anything for a while. Forks and knives were clinking on the plates, and it was real satisfying. I looked across the table at Jennifer, and I thought she looked fairly happy and that made me happy. I was trying to think up something interesting to say, as the hostess, when Tonilynn hopped up like she’d seen a snake. She was jumping on her tiptoes, and she grabbed Jennifer’s wrist and started shouting, “Don’t! Stop! Put that down!”
I followed Tonilynn’s line of vision to the end of Jennifer’s fork, where inches from her mouth was hovering a bite of my delicious casserole. I was what you call dumbstruck as Tonilynn continued, saying, “I swear it’s got tiny little faces! It’s got tiny little faces!” Bobby Lee and Jennifer sat there like statues, and I’ll be honest, it flashed through my mind that Tonilynn was crazy, or maybe possessed. I’d never allowed swearing at my table.
“Tell me that’s not the body of a worm curled around those fork tines!” she said. “Tell me those aren’t eyes!”
My heart was racing a mile a minute as I peered down into my casserole. I bent over closer. “That’s not eyes! That’s parsley on the end of a macaroni noodle! The recipe calls for parsley.”
“Is too eyes,” Tonilynn said, and then her chest started heaving and she was holding her stomach like she was fixing to vomit. Then so help me, Bobby Lee and Jennifer started heaving, too, and it wasn’t long until Tonilynn was bent over the kitchen sink spilling her supper and Bobby Lee had upchucked onto his plate and little Jennifer onto the floor by her feet. Then everybody was up, swishing out their mouths with tea and spitting into the sink.
I could tell everyone believed Tonilynn’s story. She was rifling like a madwoman through the trashcan underneath the sink and then through a pile of empty Glad containers in the sink, waving a fairly big rectangular one, saying to Bobby Lee, “Ain’t this what you put your worms in to freeze them?” and he was bug-eyed, nodding. It was like a scene from a horror show. Several minutes passed with no one talking, and the only creature that seemed happy was Erastus as he was enjoying licking the floor clean.
I sat there feeling pretty mad. Thinking if someone had fixed me supper out of the goodness of their heart, and I’d seen a hair or something in the food, or I just didn’t like the way something tasted, I definitely wouldn’t mention it. I would just quietly spit it into a napkin or slide it to the edge of my plate. That’s just good manners, and I thought I’d instilled good manners into Tonilynn. I don’t have no use for rudeness. Finally, Jennifer sat down, never said a word, and Bobby Lee kept saying, “Wow, man. Wow,” and shaking his head. I knew I had to say something. I didn’t care if she was forty-eight years old.
“First off, Tonilynn, even if it is worms in there, and I said if, which I do not believe it is, it’s been blessed, and blessed food is food that’s good for the body. Says so in the Bible. Furthermore, I saw on PBS, or maybe it was a National Geographic show, there are some societies what eat rats and grubs, and if rats and grubs are good enough for them, and let me tell you, they sure looked healthy to me, then I don’t see what the fuss is. Thirdly, it is rude to complain about something somebody has fixed for you. It’s bad manners to point out anybody’s shortcomings.”
Tonilynn was sitting there twisting her gold bracelet around on her wrist. Jennifer’s eyes were cast down and Bobby Lee was texting away on his cell phone. When no apology was forthcoming, I looked directly into Tonilynn’s eyes and said, “Don’t you think there’s something you need to say to me?”
She reached across the table to pat my hand. “Please forgive me, Aunt Gomer. I didn’t go to insult your cooking or hurt your feelings. Jennifer’s a vegetarian, as you know, and I didn’t want her to offend her own conscience.”
Well, I must say I felt right good about that explanation, though I cannot for the life of me understand why a person would want to be a vegetarian. And then, what about Tonilynn and Bobby Lee’s excuse? But the Bible says to forgive and forget, so I said, “Bobby Lee, put that casserole dish down for Erastus, and I’ll go perk us a pot of coffee.”
While I was waiting on the coffee, I shook the Pecan Sandies out onto a nice plate and carried them to the table. Then I felt like a waitress at the Waffle House, serving mugs of coffee and cream and sugar on my silver tray. I was worried that the mood was broken, but we all sat around the table laughing and visiting until after eight and polished off that whole bag of cookies.