Somebody Everybody Listens To (20 page)

I threw on some shorts and a T-shirt, then slid my feet into flip-flops. Hurriedly, I brushed my teeth and washed my face. Mama would just have to deal with my messy bed head, I decided, and raced out the door.

The whole drive to Milldale, my stomach twisted in knots. Would the Dollar King be there? Would he welcome me with open arms and a 20 percent family discount? And what if he was all mushy with Mama, hugging and kissing on her? I squeezed the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white, but I kept on going.

The Wilmsteed homestead wasn't quite so spectacular in the light of day. It was way nicer than our house, of course, but some of the fencing needed painting, and the paved driveway was cracked in places. The house itself was old, Civil War old, in fact, according to an historic marker alongside the driveway.

Before I could even ring the bell, Mama was at the front door. “Oh, Retta,” she cried, squeezing me tightly.

“Hi, Mama,” I said, and stood there, beads of sweat gathering at my temples. My bad mood felt terminal.

“Come on in. It's nice and cool in here.” I followed Mama through the foyer and into the living room. A wide mirror hung over the mantel, and I caught a glimpse of myself, not a pretty sight. Mama was the picture of perfection, however. She had on white capris and cute sandals—her toenails were the color of tangerines—and she wore an orange linen halter, not the trashy kind either. This one looked like something Emerson might've picked up at the Treasure Trunk. “You want something to drink?” Mama asked. “I made up some sweet tea this morning. Oh, and King brought Sundrops home from the store last night.”

I hardly recognized the woman standing before me—she was so polished and refined, not a hint of Polk Road at all. It was like she'd been living here her whole life. “A Sundrop would be good,” I said.

In the kitchen, Mama poured us drinks and we sat down at the oversized table. It smelled of Lemon Pledge, and in the center was a clear vase filled with pink roses. “The flowers are pretty.”

“Oh, they came from King's garden,” Mama explained proudly. “He
gardens
. Can you believe it?” she said, like this was some kind of bonus prize. I shrugged and pictured Daddy crushing beer cans. “I fried up some bacon this morning. Actually, I microwaved it. There's the kind they sell in the box. It doesn't make a mess at all. The tomatoes are store-bought. I know you like the homegrown ones, but King doesn't grow those. Says he can't stand the smell of them, or the way the leaves feel all prickly.”

“King,” as Mama called him, was sounding weirder and weirder, and I wanted to reach across the table and strangle my mother. It was bad enough that she'd done this, but now she was acting like it was no big deal.

“Are you
happy
?” I asked. “Does being here make you
happy
?” Mama didn't answer, and anger was burning my throat now. “Because in all this mess,
somebody
ought to be happy. Daddy sure isn't happy. And I'm not. So I really hope
you
are!” Mama got up from the table and took her glass to the sink. I waited for her to turn the water on, but she didn't. She just stood there with her back toward me. “He loves you, you know. He's messy and loud and blunt. He's not romantic at all, even
I
can see that. He couldn't grow a ditch lily if his life depended on it, but he loves you.”

Mama turned around. “
You
left, Retta.”

“So this is
my
fault?”

“No, I don't mean that! Of course it's not your fault! But I'm not going back there to that life, and we all might as well get used to the fact. It's hard for me to say these things, especially to you, but you're grown. And gone now,” she added.

“No, I'm not gone! Thanks to you, I had to come back. And anyway, I'm the kid. I'm
supposed
to leave. Didn't you know that? That someday Retta Lee Jones would grow up and just maybe want a life of her own? I'm pretty sure it's in a manual somewhere!”

Mama came back to the table and sat down. “Retta, you've got the rest of your life. You're
young
.” She said the word like it had magical powers. “The whole world is right there, just waiting for you to snatch it up, but I don't have much time left.”

“You watch
way
too many soap operas. Brenda says the average life expectancy is—”

Mama bristled and slammed her fist against the table. “I don't give a damn what Brenda says!” I stood to go. “Sit down, Retta! For
once
in your life, listen to
me
. Everything has always been all about him. ‘Oh, that Retta, she's really a daddy's girl, ain't she?' people always said. But I was living there in that house, too, and in spite of what you or your daddy think, I
was
working. Taking care of not one, but two children, except
you
actually grew up.” Reluctantly, I sat down again.

“You wait till you're my age,” Mama went on. “Till all the excitement is passed. Every day you study your face in the mirror and every day there's a new liver spot or wrinkle. No matter how much Jane Fonda you do, something sags, gives way to the demands of gravity. Life was just a passing me by up there on that hill. Your daddy's a good man in some ways, but we . . . well, we just don't appreciate one another. He doesn't appreciate me and the things I like, and I don't appreciate him either.” Mama's expression was that of a woman facing a roaring freight train; somebody was gonna pull the brake or run her over, but she wasn't getting off this track.

I stared at the fancy papered walls while Mama made the worst BLTs ever. Apparently, another of King's quirks was gluten-free bread, and the boxed bacon was slimy, and the hothouse tomatoes were sickly and pale. I was dying to escape, desperate to get back in my car and race toward Polk Road, but something made me stay. Maybe it was all those times I'd watched Mama put on her makeup, piece together some halfway decent outfit only to have Daddy give his undivided attention to the refrigerator and the TV. And Daddy wasn't the only one guilty of neglecting Mama. I thought of all the nights I'd wolfed down her
Ladies' Home Journal
casseroles without so much as a thank you, ignored the fact that my jeans were clean, my Bluebell's blouse ironed and hanging in my closet, as if nothing could please Mama more than to be my personal washerwoman. Suddenly I realized Mama hadn't ended up here all on her own. In some ways, we'd pushed her, Daddy and me.

After the plates were cleared away, rinsed thoroughly, and stacked in the dishwasher, Mama asked if I wanted to see the rest of the house. “No, I'd better get back.” I'd had about as much as I could take for one day.

“I talked to Goggy yesterday,” said Mama. “I called to tell her about King. Figured it was better if she heard the news from me, but I was too late, of course. Anyway, we had a chat about that car of hers.”

“That's my next stop. I was going to drop it off after I left here.”

“Not necessary,” said Mama.

“What do you mean?”

“It's yours to keep. For good. I promised to take her anyplace she needs to go from now on.

“Penance,” Mama explained.

DADDY AND I WERE JUST FINISHING UP SUPPER when my cell phone rang. “Hello,” I said without even looking at the number.

“Retta?” the voice asked.

“Yeah?” I replied.

“This is your ol' buddy.”

“Buddy?”

“Ricky
Dean
! Ricky Dean at Ricky Dean's Auto Den? You done forgot about me already?” he practically yelled into the phone.

“
No
, not at all,” I said.

“How you been, girl? We ain't seen hide nor hair of ya? I figured I'd hear you on the radio any second now.”

“Not quite. I had to come back home to Starling. Family emergency,” I said, and glanced across the table at Daddy.

Daddy scowled at me. “Who is it?” he grumbled. For days now, we'd been fending off nosy people and their rude questions.

I pressed my hand over the mouthpiece. “It's a friend from Nashville,” I whispered, and went out to the porch for some privacy.

“Aw, I'm sorry to hear that,” said Ricky. “I hope everbody's okay?”

“Yeah. It's a long story.”

“Well, then I reckon my plan's shot.”

“What plan?” I asked.

“Shanay's done run off on a bender. I mean . . . she's
real
bad off. I cain't keep lettin' her work here. Most days she don't show up no ways, but if she does, she's a mess.”

“Sorry to hear about Shanay,” I said.

“Well, it-uz bound to come to this. And I got to thankin' maybe I'm just what they call
enabling
her. Anyways, business has picked up, and I just cain't do everthang myself. I need a secretary. How does twelve a hour sound?” asked Ricky.

My eyes popped open. “Twelve dollars an hour? Are you
serious
?”

“Like I said, business has picked up.”

I sat down on the top step, pulled my already-stretched-out T-shirt over my knees, and stared down the hill. It was a pretty evening—a cool breeze blowing, a tree frog warming up his vocal cords. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, let the smell of summer sink into every sinew. “Ricky, I'd love to come back to Nashville and work for you, but I can't leave my daddy right now.”

“Aw, I understand. Family comes first. I'll find somebody, Retta. When you get back to town, come see me, though.” “I will,” I said, wondering if I'd ever get back.

After Ricky and I hung up, I stayed on the porch, listened to Daddy banging around in the kitchen. Mama'd been gone almost a week, and he still couldn't fend for himself in the domestic department. Of course, it probably didn't help that I was doing all his laundry and cooking his meals. Maybe when it comes down to it, we're all enablers.

For a split second, I thought about calling Ricky back; instead, I just sat there, breathing in and breathing out.
The pull of home will always be here. Running fast or moving slow. It's the place to get away from, the place I long to go. I can hear it in the treetops, feel it whispering against my skin. It's the air I breathe, the way I am. Home is my beginning and my end
.

Quickly, before I forgot the song trying to take shape in my head, I ran inside for my journal and guitar. For over an hour I sat on the front porch, working out the chords, jotting down a couple of rough verses. I strummed the opening and put my voice to it, closed my eyes, and tried to
see
the music. Miss Stem taught me this. She always said the very best singers could picture what they were singing.

“That's good, Ree Ree.” I turned around. Daddy was standing in the doorway, clutching a mug of steamy coffee. He eased himself down on the step.

“You all right?” I asked.

“I'm fine,” he lied.

“Well, you probably won't be if you drink that coffee. You actually made it
yourself
?”

“Why, you're a real comedian, Ree Ree. Maybe you ought to switch from singin' to stand-up comedy, like that Jeff Foxworthy.” Daddy smiled, and the lines deepened around his eyes and mouth. He was ruggedly handsome, way better looking than Amos Wilmsteed (his cheesy picture loomed over the checkout lines in all the Dollar King stores, although I'd never actually seen the man in person). “Where'd you learn that song you's singing?”

“I made it up.”

“Hmm,” Daddy said, and took a sip of his coffee. I could tell by his expression it tasted awful. “So who was on the phone?” My instinct was to tell him nobody. Daddy wouldn't be crazy about the fact that his eighteen-year-old daughter had worked for a tow-truck driver. “Was it a
boyfriend
?” he teased.

“No, Daddy, it was not a boyfriend. In case you haven't noticed, I don't
have
a boyfriend. My first night in Nashville I had a little mishap with Goggy's car. I didn't tell you and Mama because I didn't want you to worry.”