Somebody Everybody Listens To (4 page)

“Can't be helped,” he said, and shrugged. His eyes met mine. Normally, I'd be all don't-make-extended-eye-contact-with-another-girl's-boyfriend, but as payback for the Bluebell's comment, I stared right at him. Brenda says your pupils dilate when you're attracted to someone, which meant mine were probably the size of hubcaps.

Tercell cleared her throat. “So I guess you heard what
I'm
doing this summer?”

“Nope, I didn't hear a thing,” I replied, still looking at Bobby. Tercell and her parents were always taking cruises down in the Bahamas or making yet another pilgrimage to Disney World or Dollywood or Six Flags.

“It's not a vacation, though,” said Tercell, reading my mind. Reluctantly, I turned my attention to her again. “I'm going to New York City. I was accepted into the New York Vocal Academy for their summer program.”

“Vocal academy?” I asked. I sensed there was a slam dunk coming.

“I announced it at the party th'other night. Anyway, it's a
really
nice school, and practically everybody who comes out of that place ends up with a recording contract. It says it right on the brochure. Daddy paid the tuition all up front, and I leave tomorrow, which is why
you
have to finish up out at McClellan's quickly,” she said, and pressed her double-D's into Bobby. I felt my cheeks burn. “Say a prayer for me. Okay, Retta?”

I nodded, watched the two of them float off across the church parking lot and into Tercell's Cadillac, thinking how tomorrow I'd probably be filling out an application over at Taco Bell.

Mama fumed all the way home, and Daddy tried to make conversation, which isn't at all like Daddy. “So has Goggy had that cateract surgery yet?” he asked. Goggy is my sour great-aunt, and nobody cares for her much.

“Tuesday,” Mama mumbled.

“What?” asked Daddy.

“She's.
Having it
. Tuesday!” Mama said again as if we were all deaf.

“Well, I hope she don't plan on driving herself,” Daddy replied.

“Of course she's not driving her-
self
,” Mama snapped. “What's the matter with you? Why do you even care?”

Daddy glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “So what's she gonna do with that car of hers?”

“How should I know, Lyle?
I
don't know what her plans are.” Mama turned and glared at me. “Turns out
I
don't know anybody's plans, including my own daughter's.”

“Don't start, Renatta,” Daddy warned.

“I'll start whenever I feel like it. What were you thinking quitting that good job, Retta? Huh?” She didn't wait for my answer. “Any day now your daddy's back could go out again, and then the Jones family will be without any paycheck, but you weren't thinkin' about that, though, were you?” I held my tongue, which was nothing shy of a miracle. In fact, it was right up there with Lazarus coming back from the dead.

All week long Daddy hadn't gotten home before nine o'clock at night. Movers and Shakers had the unpleasant, not to mention greasy, job of cleaning out some old machine shop over in Milldale, and he'd worked overtime and then some. When he did finally make it home, he popped four ibuprofens, downed two Buds, and groaned his way to bed. While Daddy was off wrecking his spine (and I was being sexually harassed at Bluebell's), Mama watched
All My Children
and worked out with Jane Fonda and spent her afternoons at the Dollar King. Like I said, it was a miracle I didn't say anything, and Daddy must've known it, too, because he kept right on talking, probably just to keep me quiet.

“Well, if Goggy's car is just sitting there all that time, the battery will run down,” he went on.

“Goggy doesn't have any business driving anyway. She's eighty-six,” Mama pointed out.

Daddy eyed me in the mirror again, and suddenly I saw the light.

BRENDA PICKED ME UP at the crack of dawn the next morning. Thanks to the vo-tech program at Starling High School, she's a certified medical assistant over at the hospital, so she's always up and out the door early. Normally, she gives me a ride to Bluebell's, but today she was dropping me off at Goggy's.

“Don't say a word,” she ordered, and lit up a cigarette. Every window was rolled down, but still the smoke burned my throat. I could only imagine what it was doing to Brenda's lungs.

“Thirteen years,” I reminded her.

“Shut up, Retta.”

“Fine,” I replied. “But it could've been the best thirteen years of your life.”

“Or, I could've lingered on endlessly with Alzheimer's,” she replied, and took a puff. “You'll be soiling your Depends, wishing you'd taken up smoking.”

“I seriously doubt that,” I said. We sat at the red light right in front of Taco Bell, but I refused to glance up at that stupid sign.

“Retta?”

“Yeah?”

“I wouldn't get my hopes up if I was you. I know from fi rsthand experience that woman's mean as a snake.” Goggy was in the hospital a year or so ago with pneumonia, back when Brenda was still just a candy striper. Day after day, Goggy made mean cracks about her makeup. “And I don't have time to sit in the driveway for hours on end while you're inside degrading yourself. I'm due at work by seven-thirty.”

“I know,” I replied. “It's fine.”

“But how will you get home?”

“I'll walk if I have to. Or I'll call Daddy or something. I think he's off today. Don't worry, okay?”

“I hate to see you do this, Retta. You've already had enough setbacks with your job, and this woman is terrible for a person's confidence. Seriously, what are the odds she's just gonna hand over her car?” Brenda turned the radio down.

“You do not mute the Dixie Chicks,” I said, and turned it back up again. “Wide Open Spaces” was on, and I tried to focus on the lyrics.
She needs wide open spaces, room to make her big mistakes . . .

Brenda pulled up Goggy's long driveway and stopped right in front of her large white farmhouse. Goggy's husband died several years back, and since then, she'd lived alone—except for the
very
brief time when her sister, my Granny Larky, came to spend the end of her days here. Two weeks into the arrangement, they had a falling-out, and Granny Larky decided dying in a nursing home was preferable to living with Goggy.

“Wish me luck,” I said, and tried to smile. My whole entire future depended on Goggy saying yes, and it was at least eight miles back to Polk Road.

Brenda pressed her glossy pink lips together and shook her head at me. “Don't grovel.”

“I won't,” I replied, and got out of the car.

“Good luck,” she added.

“Go. Okay? Just
go
.”

“Call me,” Brenda ordered, then slowly eased down the driveway, as if she expected me to come chasing after her.

“What do
you
want?” Goggy snapped, scaring me half to death. I turned around to find her standing on the front porch. “I know you want something because none a y'all ever come around here unless you do.”

The front door stood wide open. Tinny music played on a distant radio, and I could smell bacon frying. My stomach rumbled. Goggy motioned for me to come on inside, so I made my way up the steps.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd been inside Goggy's sprawling old house. Everything was ancient, like Goggy herself, but neat as a pin—shiny wooden floors, smudge-free windows, and furniture so thoroughly polished I could see my reflection in it. Beneath the fatty aroma of pork was a hint of Pine-Sol. Even at the advanced age of eighty-six, Goggy was completely, totally self-sufficient, I could see that, and Brenda was right. There was no way she was going to let me have her car.

“Come on into the kitchen,” said Goggy gruffly. I followed her through a dim hallway and into the sunlit room. She switched off the radio. “Sit down,” she said, more order than invitation. Obediently, I pulled out a chair. “That's my place. Right there,” she said, and pointed to a seat at the opposite side of the table. I sat and watched while Goggy fixed herself a plate—two eggs over easy, two slabs of bacon, two wedges of toast, and one small fruit cup. She poured a cup of coffee, and I noticed there wasn't a drop more left in the pot. She had this living-alone thing down to a no-nonsense science.

Goggy chewed her bacon and looked at me expectantly over the top of her thick glasses. Under normal circumstances, I would've eased into an awkward conversation like this one with idle chitchat.
How've you been?
That sort of thing. But with Goggy there was no beating around the bush.

“So, I'm moving to Nashville,” I said, and swallowed hard. Goggy sopped up the runny egg with her toast. “I've decided I'm gonna give this music thing a try.” Everybody in town knew I sang, so I decided not to overexplain this part. “I mean, I think I could actually make it as a singer in Nashville. It won't be easy, I know that, but with hard work and perseverance and hard work—”

“You said hard work already.” Goggy took a noisy gulp of coffee and set the cup down hard.

“I was wondering if you'd consider letting me borrow your car.” The words tumbled out. “Just for the summer,” I added quickly.

“I know it's a big thing to ask, and if there was any other way, trust me, I wouldn't bother you with this. But you're having surgery soon, and I just thought maybe—” I stopped midsentence.
Don't grovel,
I heard Brenda say.

Goggy tilted her head to one side and grinned at me. Not in a good way, mind you, but in that tight-lipped, smug way my teachers used to when I made up excuses for late assignments. She was enjoying watching me squirm. In other circumstances, my temper would've flared, but I held my tongue and kept my eye on the prize: a 1987 Chevrolet Caprice Classic.

“I could have the car back by September first. I wouldn't need it any longer than that.” Goggy snorted and rolled her eyes. “I just mean that I'll be settled by then. I'll have steady work and be able to afford a car of my own. I know it'll take longer than one summer to establish myself musically. I'm prepared for that. I've researched everything carefully.”

Goggy leaned forward slightly, as if I'd finally said something remotely intelligent. “
Establish yourself musically
, is that what you said?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I replied. I looked my great-aunt straight in her cloudy eyes. I wanted to look away, mainly because the pond-scummy film over her pupils was creeping me out, but instead I sat there, my thighs sweat-stuck to the cracked vinyl chair. “It's not like I think I'm gonna be some big overnight sensation or anything. It's just—well, you can make a living as a singer. There are backup singers and demo singers, and plenty of opportunities for singing at weddings or in clubs and such. Starling doesn't have much to offer me, and it would be a shame to waste my—” I hesitated, wondering whether or not to use the word
talent
. Goggy might think I was conceited.

“Waste your what?” Goggy asked. “What is it you hope not to waste?”

“Well, some people think I'm really good,” I said.

“Like who? That candy striper with the bruised eyelids? Next time you see her tell her I said she needs a washrag and a bar of Ivory soap. That'll fix her up.”

“As a matter of fact, Brenda does think I'm good. She's encouraged me a lot,” I said firmly.

“Well, I wouldn't put much stock in
her
taste,” Goggy said, and stood up from the table. She scuffed toward the sink, turned on the hot water, and scrubbed the utensils as if they'd been used by a leper. For a minute I sat there, watching the steam rise above her stubborn gray head, but there was no point in waiting around; clearly, this conversation was over. While Goggy's back was turned, I slipped out the door and sprinted down the long driveway.

Bluebell's was only a couple of miles from here, and if I ran, I could get there in time to help Estelle finish up the breakfast shift.