Somebody Everybody Listens To (5 page)

SMOKY'S MARKET WAS RIGHT UP THE ROAD FROM BLUEBELL'S, and rather than face Stinky Stan all sweaty and red-faced, I decided to go inside and use the restroom to freshen up a bit. I tugged open the heavy door, and a blast of cool air-conditioning hit my face. It felt like heaven.

“You mind if I use your restroom?” I asked.

“Not at all,” Mr. Grimes, the owner, replied. He handed me a hunk of wood with a key attached then went back to watching
The Price Is Right
.

I glanced up, and coming in the door was Bobby McGee. He didn't see me at first, and I thought about hiding behind the potato-chip rack just to avoid him. Instead, I stood there in my ratty cut-off shorts and Sundrop Citrus Soda T-shirt and fl ipflops. I glanced down at my feet. They were covered with road dust.
So attractive
.

“Hey, Retta,” Bobby said like I was a pleasant surprise.

“Hey, Bobby.”

“It sure is hot out there today, isn't it?”

“Yeah, it is.” It was an awkward what-to-say-next moment, so I fi lled it with, “I heard it's supposed to go up to a hundred today.”

“Yep,” Bobby agreed. “Typical summer in Tennessee, though, right?”

“Right,” I said.

Bobby shifted his weight and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You know, I never got a chance to tell you, but . . . well, you sounded really pretty at graduation. I've never heard anybody who could sing the National Anthem like you. I mean, it's so high and everything, but your voice just soared right up to the rafters. I'll never forget it,” he added. Bobby was blushing. It was ever so slight, but I could see it creeping over his tan. For a split second, it occurred to me that Brenda might be right. Maybe Bobby secretly liked me, too. My stomach flipped like I was on the Zipper at the county fair.

“You getting gas, Bobby?” Mr. Grimes called out, his eyes still glued to the television. I could tell by all the clapping and yelling it was the “Showcase Showdown.”

“Yes, sir. Twenty dollars' worth.” Bobby laid a bill on the counter, then headed toward the door. He pushed it open and held it there, politely waiting for me to go out first. I still hadn't gone to the bathroom to fix myself up, but that didn't seem to matter now. Chivalrous gestures were too rare to pass up, so I put Mr. Grimes's key on top of Bobby's cash and headed outside.

It was steamy, the kind of day that makes everything, my head included, feel thick and lazy. We stood wedged between the outdoor icebox and a wooden crate overloaded with bags of charcoal. Bobby glanced around the parking lot, which was empty except for his shiny red truck. “You need a ride someplace?” he asked.

I hesitated. It was such a simple, yet complicated question. Did I need a ride? Yes. But to where? Baker's Point so I could try and steal Bobby away from tacky Tercell? Bluebell's? Taco Bell? Nashville? I bit my lip, tried to recover my senses, or what was left of them after these last few days.

“Yes. Actually, I do need a ride,” I said.

Bobby's truck was as clean inside as it was out—not a speck of dust on the dashboard, and the floor mats looked brand-new. An evergreen deodorizer hung from the rearview mirror, and on the seat was a stack of schoolbooks with “Used” stickers on the spines. “I'm taking summer classes over at Milldale Community College,” he explained, and shoved them out of the way. While Bobby pumped gas I stole a couple of quick glances at him. He was a rugged, all-boy kind of good-looking—thick, sand-colored hair, squarish lantern jaw, slightly crooked but very white teeth.

With the tank full, he climbed into the cab next to me. “So where are you headed?” he asked, and started the engine.

“Just a couple of miles up the road.” I said, and pointed left. “I really do appreciate you giving me a ride.”

“My pleasure,” Bobby replied. When we were on the highway, he jacked up the air-conditioning, thoughtfully turned one of the vents in my direction.

All too soon we were pulling up Goggy's driveway. She was in the front yard and stooped over a half barrel of red petunias. Bobby pushed the gear into park, and I got out. “Thanks,” I said. I smiled up at him. “You were nice to give me a ride.”

“Nobody should have to walk in this heat. Have a good summer.”

“You, too,” I said, and shut the door. I watched his brake lights flicker down the driveway, thought how disappointing it was that this was probably all there'd ever be to me and Bobby McGee.

“Back so soon?” Goggy didn't bother to look up. She just kept deadheading the flowers and mumbling under her breath.

I inhaled deeply, tried to shrug off the awful feeling of complete and total desperation, and walked over to her. “I know I'm asking an awful lot, but I've spent my whole life planning for this. Hours and hours. I've studied and practiced and written songs. I know what I need to do when I get there. I have to get a steady job first and save up for a demo and some head shots, get a gig someplace, do open-mike nights. Eventually, get representation of some sort, an agent or manager. But I need a
way
to get there. Nobody will be using your car anyway,” I went on. “It'll just be sitting here, and the battery will run down.”

Goggy stood up abruptly and turned to face me. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a set of keys—a plastic Jesus dangled off the ring. I felt my breath catch. Her dry wrinkled hands were encrusted with potting soil. Her eyes reminded me of the river after a storm—all murky and churned up. Right then my great-aunt didn't look self-sufficient at all; she just looked old and a little sad.

“You be here at six o'clock tomorrow morning. You can drive me to the hospital. If all goes well, you can drive me back home. And if I die, you can keep the car for good,” she said, and bent over the flowers again.

GOGGY'S SURGERY WAS QUICK, and I had her home and settled on the sofa with a ham sandwich and a glass of tea just after noon. As I headed back to Polk Road, I made a mental list of all the things I'd need to pack—my ancient boom box, guitar, CDs, songwriting journals, and the few clothes I owned (stuff the Salvation Army would probably reject if I tried to donate it). I wouldn't wait till tomorrow to leave. Instead, I'd go this very afternoon. Waiting even another second might throw me off track somehow—Goggy would change her mind; Daddy's back would go out; the roof would cave in. I banged through the front door and ran straight into Mama. She was sitting at the kitchen table, poring over my baby book. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“Oh, Retta,” she said, and blinked at me. The kitchen was still littered with the remnants of early morning—cold coffee, dirty plates, a sink piled high with pots and pans. This wasn't at all like Mama.

“What's the matter?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I already knew.

“I just can't believe it's over,” she choked.

“What's over?” To me it was all just beginning.

“I can tell by the look in your eyes you won't ever be back.”

“Mama, I have to be back by September first,” I reminded her. “Goggy's firm about wanting her car by then.”

“You won't be back. I knew it the second you walked out on your Bluebell's job.” Mama closed up the book, and its musty smell lingered in the air. Even though that book was all about my life, I'd only bothered to look at it once or twice. Unlike Mama, I'd never had the slightest interest in my first step or first tooth or first poop on the potty.

“Want some help with the dishes?” I asked, glancing around the kitchen. “It won't take but a minute.”

“No, you just sit with me,” she said, and patted the chair next to her. Reluctantly, I sat. I was getting that straitjacket feeling again. “So I thought we'd have chicken-and-rice casserole tonight. And a millionaire pie. Your favorites,” she said, and wiped her eyes with the dish towel.

“Mama, you don't have to go to all that trouble. And, anyway, I was thinking I'd leave this afternoon. There's still plenty of daylight left and—”

Mama looked at me as if I'd just slapped her. “It's already thawing,” she snapped, and pointed toward a package of chicken breasts. “I
can't
put it back in the freezer again.”

I was dying to get on the road. It was like having a full bladder without a rest stop in sight. I glanced at the chicken breasts and the box of graham crackers. “You know, Nashville's not all that far,” I said. “Just be glad I'm not going off to New York like Tercell, or joining the army like that Shelton Albright.”

“The best part of my life is over, Retta. Over. All those mornings when I would fix your hair for school or stand out there at that bus stop alongside you. Or help you with the school projects they were always piling on or baking a birthday cake or getting you all dressed up for Easter Sunday. Hiding eggs out in the yard. Watching you take off on your bicycle, so proud that you could ride it. I enjoyed every minute, but now you're leaving, and I won't—”

“I'll stay tonight. Okay?” I said it quickly, just to make her stop. “But I'm leaving early tomorrow morning. First thing. No breakfast.” Mama nodded. A part of me wanted to reach out and take her hand, but the other part of me knew if I did, she might never let me go. I sat there quietly and waited for some sign that it was okay to get up and go to my room, put my things in the cardboard boxes I'd picked up over at the liquor store, and load Goggy's car.

 

Supper was quiet, but delicious. The chicken was perfectly moist, the rice cooked just right. The millionaire pie lived up to its name, and Mama and Daddy didn't exchange one harsh word or irritated expression. The phone rang around seven. Mama snatched it up before I could grab it myself.

“Hi, Brenda,” Mama said sharply, not at all glad she was calling, I knew. “Just a minute.” She handed me the phone.

“I'll pick you up in ten,” said Brenda. “I figured you'd be ready to bust out of your skin by now. Tell her you're only going out for a little while. I have a surprise, so don't say no,” she ordered.

“Okay,” I replied, and hung up.

When Brenda's Camaro pulled up in the driveway, I grabbed my purse and quickly, before Mama could protest, headed out the door.

“She'll hate me now for sure, taking you away on your last night at home,” Brenda said as I slid into the passenger's seat.

“It's okay,” I replied, and glanced down at the cooler next to my feet. After all the drama of these past few days, I needed a little fun.

Baker's Point was hot as blazes, even this time of night. No croaking frogs or humming insects, just the sound of Brenda's radio. She opened the cooler and grinned at me.

“You got
champagne
?”

“Sparkling cider. Not very festive, I realize, but Barbara was leaving for church camp and wanted her fake ID back.” Barbara was Brenda's first cousin and wild as could be. Brenda handed me something wrapped in tissue paper. “I was gonna get the champagne flute,” she said as I opened it, “but it was too small to paint on, so I got the hurricane glass instead.” She switched on the overhead light. “There's an inscription. See?”