Somebody Everybody Listens To (6 page)

I held up the glass to read it:
Retta Lee Jones, star singer and superstar friend
. “Brenda, it's so pretty. And look at the letters and flowers. They're perfect,” I said, tracing my fingers over the sparkly paint and glued-on plastic stones. “You made this?”

Brenda nodded. “I got pretty good from all those years of doing our fingernails. Remember in middle school when I used to give us matching mani/pedis with tiny little stars and hearts?”

“And you'd glue on those beads,” I added.

“Yeah, but then they always fell right off, and the glue messed up the polish. I used Liquid Nails on this, though. Those beads aren't going anywhere. I got you something else, too.” She reached into her mammoth pocketbook and handed me a plastic bag. Brenda's purse is nearly as big as she is, and I'm always amazed at the things she can hide there—a six-pack of Dr Pepper, her entire CD collection, a curling iron. “Now, don't have a fit when you open it,” she warned.

I reached inside the bag, and for a second, I stared at the box in disbelief. “Brenda, how much did this cost?”

“Oh, hardly anything.” I looked at her skeptically. “Listen, this is a special occasion, so don't ruin it by telling me I shouldn't have. You'll need a phone in the city anyways, and I just lied and said you were my sister so we could get a family plan. In return, I expect you to become rich and famous and build us McMansions right out here on Baker's Point.”

“It's a deal,” I said.

“Not even a week ago, you were whining about never getting to Nashville. Now you're all set to go. I'll still hate being left, though.”

“Then come with me!” I said suddenly. “Seriously, we can both go. We could get a cute apartment someplace and fix it up. You could paint us a whole set of these glasses.” Brenda blinked her purple eyelids at me. “You'd never do it, would you? You'd never leave Starling.”

“I don't feel the need to leave Starling, Retta. Everything I want is right here. My family. Wayne. The nursing program over at Milldale Community College. You'll be the only thing missing.”

“Just till September,” I reminded her.

“Maybe,” she said. “But however long you're gone, at least now we can talk on the phone.”

“Thank you,” I said, and hugged her.

“Okay, enough with the sappy crap,” Brenda said, and shoved me away.

 

The next morning Daddy lingered in front of the news way longer than normal (clearly, he was waiting around so he could see me off), and Mama banged kitchen cabinets and slammed drawers like she was mad at the world. I'd loaded the last box into the trunk, and there was nothing left to do but say official good-byes. I decided to rip the Band-Aid off quickly.

“I'm leaving now,” I said like I was headed to the store for a loaf of bread.

Mama turned to look at me, and Daddy shuffled into the kitchen. He leaned on the table with one hand and pressed the other against his spine.

“You shouldn't go to work today,” I said. “Did you call the doctor?”

“And pay him seventy-five dollars so he can tell me my back hurts? No, I didn't call the doctor. You got that map I put on your dresser, right?” he asked. I nodded. “And you put air in the tires like I told you?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“I checked the oil, and it looks good,” he went on. “Goggy must've just had it changed, so you won't have to worry about that for a while, but there's a couple extra quarts in the trunk, just in case.”

“Okay,” I said. I slung my purse over my shoulder and inched toward the door.

He hugged me hard, then whispered, “I plan on kicking Stan Plummer's ass when my back gets to feeling better.” Daddy-language for
I love you
.

Mama followed me out to the car. She was dry-eyed today, and my baby book was tucked back in the cedar chest at the foot of my bed. I'd noticed it this morning when I was packing up the rest of my things. We stood there looking at one another. Finally, Mama spoke. “I could never do what you're doing, Retta.” I wondered if this was a compliment or an insult. Sometimes with Mama it's hard to tell. “All my life I've just put one foot in front of the other.”

Quickly, we hugged, then I got into Goggy's car and started the engine. As I pulled out of the driveway, I glanced back at Mama, and she gave me The Signal, the one from all those years ago when she put me on the school bus. Hand over her heart and three quick pats for
I love you
.

Before I'd reached the end of Polk Road, I was humming an old Dolly song. “Down on Music Row. Down on Music Row. If you want to be a star, that's where you've got to go.” A thrill rippled through my stomach; fear surged along behind it. And I could feel them then—all those queens of country music—cheering me on.

THE TEMPERATURE HAD SOARED TO NEARLY A HUNDRED DEGREES, and Nashville was nothing but a big snarl of traffic. I'd used up a quarter tank of gas just idling, and twice the oil light flashed on in Goggy's car, which just about gave me a heart attack. Originally, I planned to drive around the city for a while, get my bearings straight, then find a place to stay, but I started thinking about Dolly's “Down on Music Row” song again. In it, she talks about her very first day in Nashville, how she washed her face in a fountain at the Country Music Hall of Fame. I decided it might bring me good luck to do the very same thing, so I called information and got the phone number.

“Country Music Hall of Fame,” a woman answered. I was relieved to hear a friendly voice instead of a recording.

“Hi, I was just calling to get your address.”

“We're at 222 Fifth Avenue South,” the woman informed me. “Can I help you with anything else?”

“Um, no,” I replied, even though I had no idea where Fifth Avenue was. “Actually, there is one thing.” The car next to me had a loose fan belt, and it was making a terrible racket. I cranked up the window so I could hear better. “Where is your fountain exactly? Will I be able to see it from the street?”

“Oh, no. It's inside,” the woman said.

“Inside?” This didn't seem right. “But I thought it was outside.”

“No, there's just one fountain, and it's indoors. You must be thinking of the old Hall of Fame. There was an outdoor fountain there.”

“That's probably it. Do you happen to know the address for the
old
Hall of Fame?” I reached into my purse for a scrap of paper and a pen. It seemed important to wash my face in the exact same fountain.

“I'm afraid that place is gone. Nothing but a parking lot now.”

“A parking lot? Really?” This surprised me. That fountain seemed like hallowed ground somehow.

“The new Hall of Fame is amazing. You'll love it,” the woman assured me.

“I'm sure I will,” I replied. “Thank you very much for your help,” I said, and hung up.

Now what?
I wondered, and tapped the steering wheel.
What exactly does a person do on her first day in Nashville? Bang on the doors of record labels?
I'd read the biographies of lots and lots of singers, and I was pretty sure I'd never come across anybody who'd hit it big on their first day.

Just ahead was an exit, and I could see an oversized sign for a place called Leroy's Pit Stop. I pulled off I-40, parked the car, and went inside, guitar in tow. I probably looked like a big Nashville cliché, but it was better than having my instrument warp in a hot car. The restaurant was by no means spotless, but it was air-conditioned and filled with waitresses who called me hon. I ordered a hamburger and a Sundrop then took out my songwriting journal.

For a while I stared out the window and thought about everything I'd gone through just to make it to this sticky booth. Silly, I realize, but all of a sudden I got teary-eyed and overly proud of myself, like I should stand up and make an announcement—
I'm Retta Lee Jones, and you don't know me yet, but one day I'm gonna be on the radio.
If Brenda had been with me, she would've dared me to do it. And, maybe, just maybe, I would have. Instead, I scribbled down the first few lines of a song.

 

 

By the time I finished the rest of the lyrics, it was nearly five o'clock, but I was satisfied. At least I'd commemorated my first day in Nashville with something. I tucked the journal into my purse, grabbed my guitar, and headed out to Goggy's car again.

Traffic was even worse this time of day, so I decided to stay off the interstate. Since my road map didn't include side streets, it was pure luck that I ended up on Music Row. I parked the car and got out, eager to see the place I'd been dreaming about for at least half my life.

I walked up the street a ways and glanced around, amazed. It wasn't that the buildings were all that impressive. They were tidy, but cold somehow, more like fortresses than places to create music. Even so, they had
all
been here at some point. Anybody I had ever admired or listened to or sung along with or studied and imitated had passed up and down this very sidewalk, just yesterday or decades ago. All the way back to my car, I kept hoping for a celebrity sighting, but there were only the regular secretary types and a few paunchy men wearing too much gold jewelry.

I didn't even see the parking ticket until I hit the wiper button by accident and a white rectangle slid across my windshield:
$45.
I stared at the number.
Forty-five dollars equals a five-hour shift at Bluebell's. On a good day
, I thought.
Forty-five dollars equals a night in a motel or groceries and gas.

A wave of panic shot through me.
Just breathe,
I thought, and closed my eyes for a second. It was only a parking ticket, after all, not the end of the world.
Breathe
. I glanced at the ticket again, decided that one day Country Music Television would include this anecdote in my Internet bio—
When Retta Jones first showed up on Music Row, all she got was a lousy parking ticket.

I stopped again a few miles up the road. If I was going to learn my way around, I'd need a street map. The shopping center had loads of free parking and plenty of stores—most of them looked intimidating, not to mention expensive—but a place called the Book Shelf had a friendly feel to it: a cheerful red awning; large picture window with a colorful beach mural; and a cardboard sign taped inside the glass that said, IT'S HOT OUT THERE, BUT COOL IN HERE.

The first thing I noticed when I went inside was an entire wall devoted to country music, and even though I had no intention of buying anything other than what I came for, I plucked two hard-backs off the shelf and sat down in one of the cushy red chairs.

“Are you finding everything you need?” a girl about my age asked. Her teeth were so straight they looked like somebody had lined them up with a ruler, and her hair was Taylor Swift curly, except black instead of blond.

“Oh, yeah. I was just looking at these.”

“Normally, I'm all for looking, but we close at six,” she said, and glanced apologetically at the clock.

“Oh, well, I'll put them back and be—”

“Actually, I'd prefer to put them back myself. No offense, but customers tend to get them out of order.”

“Okay,” I said, and handed them over. I stood up and tugged at my shorts.

“You're interested in the music business?” the girl asked.

“I'm a singer,” I said, and the confession made me feel shy all of a sudden. In a place like Nashville, probably everyone claimed to be a singer.