Love Mercy (7 page)

“I don’t know what all that means, but I do know old fiddles often play the sweetest,” Rocky said, smiling.

She played the old gospel song, giving it a bluesy sound by throwing in some sharps and flats. After that, she played song after song, losing herself in the notes like she always did when she was scared. She did every fancy slide, hammer-down and pull-off that she knew, just because this old banjo, with all its history, felt so solid and wise. It seemed like only a few minutes went by when he pulled off the exit marked Morro Bay.

“Where to now?” he asked, as he slowed down on the off-ramp curve.

“The Buttercream Café?” It was a place her grandma mentioned in the letter Rett found at the bottom of her mom’s closet last month when she was looking for spare change. She carefully put the banjo back into the lined case.

“What a coincidence! My wife and her best friend own the Buttercream.” A few minutes later, he pulled up in front of a white stucco building set between a bead shop and a store that sold office supplies. A sign in the shape of an old-fashioned butter churn swung in the morning breeze. Yellow gingham curtains framed the large front window. “Good luck,” Rocky said. “You’ll be in my prayers tonight.”

“Thanks.”

“I guess I should say God bless you,” he said, when she stepped out of the truck. “But that has always sounded kind of strange to me. He’ll bless you whether I request it or not.” He smiled and handed her a church bulletin. A round coffee stain haloed the name: Baytown Christian Fellowship. “Drop by if you have a chance. We’re a pretty nice group, if not a little long in the tooth, but we do have a few people around your age.”

She took the bulletin, planning on ditching it later. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Sanchez.”

“Call me Rocky.”

Once inside the café, Rett obeyed the sign and seated herself, choosing a table next to the back wall. While she pretended to scan the menu, she peeked at Rocky’s wife, Magnolia, who looked just like her photograph. She was a good-sized woman, not fat, but definitely substantial. Unlike Rett’s mom, who always freaked when she got bigger than a size six, this woman looked like she couldn’t give a flying flip about what size jeans she wore. She seemed to be in a dozen places at once, firing off orders, talking to the people sitting at the counter, filling people’s coffee cups and greeting new customers by name when they came through the door.

Rett glanced around at the café. On the tables were every kind of weird coffee creamer you could imagine, many of them different types of animals, one an ear of corn. Whoever owned this place—Mrs. Rocky and her best friend—must have bought most of the crazy creamers off eBay. On the wall next to her table, the farm and animal theme was carried out in framed photographs of butter churns, cows and creamers. The photos at first looked normal, until you really studied them. Then you saw that the photographer had a kind of weird sense of humor; the butter churns had odd things hanging off them like frilly wedding garters and spiked dog collars. The creamers, in the shapes of scowling pigs and wild-eyed collie dogs, were posed next to empty whiskey bottles and one-armed Barbie dolls with cornrowed hair wearing tattered wedding dresses and cowboy hats. One photo showed a bunch of plastic cows crowded into a bright red pie pan sitting in the middle of a red-checked table. Rett thought about it for a moment, then smiled.
Cow pie.
They were funny in a lame kind of way.

Today all the framed photos were decorated with red and green garlands for Christmas. A manger scene carved from some kind of light brown wood held a special spot in the big, round communal table in the middle of the café filled with laughing men and women who looked and talked as if they were eating in their own dining room. They all looked really old, like in their sixties.

Mrs. Rocky walked up, pulling a pencil from her thick, curly black hair, fashioned in a loose bun. Her plastic name tag said Magnolia.

“What can I get you, sugar?” Magnolia poised her pencil over a half-used order pad.

Alabama, Rett thought. Down near Mobile. Definitely not Montgomery or the hilly northern part. Rett had a kind of knack for accents, especially Southern ones. Probably because she’d spent so much of her childhood traveling around the South singing at church reunions and revival meetings.

Rett thought quickly, remembering that she needed to be careful with her money in case her grandma was a total whack job and Rett needed to get out of town fast. “Uh, water. And a donut.” She felt her face turn warm. That sounded stupid, like what a kid would order. “No, make it coffee. Just coffee.”

Magnolia stared at her a moment, her blue eyes thoughtful. “You just getting into town?”

Rett stared back at her and nodded.

“Where in the South you from?”

Rett hesitated a moment. Her first instinct was to lie, though one didn’t automatically present itself. Then again, she had nothing to hide. She was here to find her grandma. Maybe this woman could help. Morro Bay wasn’t a big town. It was likely her grandma ate here. The letter she found in her mom’s closet had no envelope, so no return address. And Rett couldn’t find any free information on the Internet about Love Mercy Johnson except a Morro Bay post office box. She didn’t have the money to pay for more information. Luckily, her grandma mentioned the name of this café in the letter.

“Tennessee,” Rett said.

Magnolia’s full bottom lip tightened slightly. “Long ways for a young girl to be traveling all by herself.”

Rett felt the flush start on her neck and work its way slowly up to her cheeks. “I’m eighteen. That’s a legal adult.”

“So they say,” Magnolia said, lifting one eyebrow.

“It is.” Rett heard the stubborn, childlike whine in her voice and cringed. It would have been better if she’d kept her mouth shut. Leave it to her to be in a place only two minutes and already be arguing with some adult.

“So, Miss Legal Adult. How’d you get to Morro Bay from Tennessee?” Magnolia asked.

Rett felt her own lower lip stiffen. “Hitchhiked.” Take that, you nosy old bat.

Magnolia shook her head, obviously disapproving. “You come to Morro Bay for any particular reason?”

Mind your own darn business, Rett wanted to say. The woman’s nosiness was probably the Alabama part of her personality. According to Rocky, his wife was half Southern (that’s the Magnolia part, he’d said), half Italian and all business.

“She keeps me and most of the town on the straight and narrow path,” he said, obviously proud of his strong-willed wife.

Though Rett knew how to fend off a curious Southerner—heaven knows she’d done it often enough—she was less inclined to deliberately antagonize an Italian lady. She’d known one once when they moved to Pensacola with Mom’s second husband, Pete. The woman’s name was Mrs. Coscarelli. She lived next door to them and made these awesome lacy cookies that tasted like Good and Plenty candy. The neighborhood kids learned fast that you didn’t want to make her mad. Once, the boy across the street, Johnny Dillard, picked her pink roses and threw them all over the street just because he was a jerk who was all over messing up things for no reason. Mrs. Coscarelli went totally postal and turned from a nice, cookie-baking old lady to a freaking maniac. She chased him down the street with a rolling pin dusty with flour, which was funny when you thought about it, kind of like those back-in-the-day cartoons:
Heckle and Jeckle
or
Tom and Jerry
.

Rett shifted in her seat, wishing this woman would go find someone else to interrogate. “I’m looking for Love Mercy Johnson. I have some business with her.” That was all she was going to say.

“That right?” Magnolia said. “Well, I happen to know Love Johnson pretty good. I’ll give her a ring and let her know you’re here waitin’ on her. What did you say your name was?”

“Didn’t.”

That shut Rocky’s wife right up and, Rett was guessing, put her on Magnolia’s bad girl list for all eternity. Oh, well, she doubted she’d be in this town for very long. Probably her grandma would let her stay a night or two, then wish her good luck and a nice life. Fine, she’d head down to L.A. The music scene there was supposed to be pretty good.

Magnolia picked up the menu and said with a sharp voice, “You sure you don’t want the lunch special? Or a cannoli to go with your coffee?”

“I’m sure.”

Magnolia’s face softened. “No charge, sugar.”

Rett frowned. She didn’t take charity. “I have money. I’m just not hungry.”

Magnolia shrugged. “Suit yourself.” A few minutes later, she brought Rett a cup of coffee and a little collie dog-shaped pitcher of cream.

Rett stared out the café window and inhaled deeply, trying to ignore the combination of emptiness and anxiety in her stomach. She’d skipped breakfast this morning, her stomach upset by the stress of meeting her grandma. Maybe she should have taken Magnolia’s offer of free food. But she was obviously offering Rett the food out of pity, and Rett hated pity. She didn’t want to be beholden to anyone.

Beholden.
She liked the way the word sounded. It rolled off your tongue like Karo syrup and butter. And it rhymed with
golden
, which was a good songwriting word. She dug through her backpack and found her songwriting notebook, one of those steno kind with the metal spirals across the top.

She wrote down the words
beholden/golden
. A tune was already starting to tickle her brain. That was what it was like, she once told a newspaper reporter in a little town in Arkansas when she and her sisters were being interviewed by the local newspaper. They were singing at a country fair near Mt. Ida, not on the big permanent stage, but the temporary one near the pig races. Sometimes there’d only be five or six people in the audience, usually eating lunch. Her sister Patsy called it singing to the corn dogs. The Son Sisters sing your favorite bluegrass and gospel hits. Free mustard and relish all around.

It killed something inside Rett when they took the stage just to watch people finish their deep-fried Snickers, then stand up and walk away. After their show, they sold—or tried to sell—the only CD they’d recorded. Ten bucks a piece or three for twenty-five dollars. Like anyone would ever want three. One of Mom’s boyfriends paid to have it made when he was so gaga in love with her. That was Mom’s biggest talent for sure, getting men to fall in love with her and do whatever she wanted. For a while, anyway.

“It’s sort of like an itch,” she’d answered the reporter’s question about how she wrote a song. She’d been fifteen at the time and had already written twenty-seven and a half songs, though none of them were recorded on their CD. Mom had only let them cover other people’s songs on the CD, so it would, in Mom’s words, “Have an actual chance of selling.” Her words had cut Rett’s heart like a knife.

“I just have to kind of scratch at it,” Rett told the reporter. “And the words start coming. Sometimes with the music, sometimes not. Sometimes the music comes first, sometimes last. Then I put them together, like a puzzle.”

She still remembered the gagging sound that Patsy made deep in her throat. Rett knew what it meant, that she’d said something totally dumb.

The reporter, who was already all over Patsy like about a zillion guys before him, exchanged a look with her pretty older sister, while he feebly attempted to keep a straight face. Rett could see the laugher in his eyes, how all he was interested in was looking cool to her sister with his phony sophistication, so Rett clammed right up. She let Patsy take over the interview, even though her sister couldn’t write a song to save her life. Though Patsy was only a year older than Rett, she’d figured out early how to say the right thing to both media types and adults, give them the sound bites they wanted to hear. She was definitely the prettiest of the Johnson girls, so photographers always wanted to put her in the forefront of the photo. That part Rett didn’t mind. She tried to hide behind her banjo or guitar whenever she could. And their younger sister, Faith, was mostly in a world of her own, dreaming about dogs and horses and exotic birds. Faith was the type who always went along to get along. She hated any kind of conflict.

Rett inhaled the sweet, toasty scents of the café. The chalkboard next to the cash register read in fancy letters, Italian Day! Man, was she hungry. She glanced over at the table next to her. That plate of lasagna looked killer.

She wished her grandma Johnson would hurry up. She contemplated going outside to wait but quickly squelched that. It was way too cold. She wished she had packed something warmer than this sweatshirt, but she thought California was all sunshine, all the time. That’s sure how they made it look on television.

The pastor’s wife was talking to a dark-haired woman who sat at the long counter. The woman kept giving Rett suspicious glances that she didn’t try to hide, even after Rett gave her the finger, something she kinda regretted. Still, the lady ought to mind her own business and quit staring at her like she was going to steal the sugar or something.

The woman was obviously younger than Magnolia, who looked like she was in her fifties. This other woman looked like she was thirty-something. She wore the cool kind of jeans, cut low and tight. Like Magnolia, she also looked like someone you wouldn’t want to mess with, but in a way that Rett couldn’t put her finger on. Magnolia was like a really tough grandma. This lady she was whispering to sort of reminded Rett of the female studio musicians she’d met a few times. Those women had bones made of steel. They were used to working with men and seemed like they’d just as soon punch you as speak to you. Still, they’d always been real nice to Rett and her sisters. Rett admired them, wished she could be like that: hard but nice. She always felt one sharp word away from crybaby tears when something went totally wrong in her life.

Like all the weird things about her personality, she blamed that on her mom, Karla Rae Murphy Johnson Ryan Wilson, the queen of excess emo. Mama Diva was what Rett and her sisters called their mom behind her back. Maybe this break from her mom and coming out West to see where her dad was raised might bring out his side in her. Not that she knew what that might be. She barely remembered her father, because her mom hardly ever spoke about him. Tommy Cyrus Johnson was a low, laughing voice and a spicy, elusive scent that Rett had been searching for all her life. A couple of times she’d even tried writing a song about him, but she always got stuck after the first few lines.