Her Wild Oats (23 page)

*

Stephanie dipped the last strawberry in crème freche and cognac, and stuffed it into Jerry’s mouth. He closed his eyes and smiled.

“Come on, baby, we need to get going,” she sighed. “Want the first shower?”

“Nah, you go ahead.”

“Come in with me.”

He rolled over and started snoring again.

They’d had a terrific couple of days doing all the romantic things lovers can do in San Francisco: dinner at Farralon, drinks and dancing at the Top of the Mark. They strolled through North Beach, heard Steve Lucky & The Rhumba Bums at Biscuits and Blues, and sat in the shock box for a gender-bent performance of Pearls Over Shanghai at a quirky place called the Hypnodrome. They ate crab salad on Fisherman’s Wharf and dim sum in Chinatown. But most of their adventures had taken place in room 432 at the Four Seasons Hotel. Stephanie showered and dressed slowly, enjoying the huge mirror, smooth plumbing, endless hot water, and vast counter space in their luxurious bathroom, wishing she could have a setup like this at home.

“Come on, you jerk!” She threw a pillow at the snoring Jerry, hitting him squarely on the head. “We gotta get going.”

“Bitch,” he mumbled. But he finally opened his eyes and lurched toward the shower.

There was no getting around the fact that it was time to hit the road and re-enter real life, whatever the future held.

*

Charlotte Crenshaw parked her car in the driveway of her upscale ranch house in a Nashville suburb, lifted the heavy wheelchair out of the back seat, and unfolded it with a strong and practiced hand. She then unbuckled Valerie’s seat restraint and folded her sleeping daughter into the wheelchair. Valerie was small for twelve, but still too big to carry easily. Charlotte had been working out diligently, increasing the weight she could bench-press to keep up with Valerie, but lifting a weight on a mat at the gym was a little different than lifting eighty pounds of sleepy, heavy, pre-teen girl out of a car seat.

Charlotte wheeled Valerie and the chair up the walk and opened her mailbox to find some bills, a party invitation, and a couple of magazines. She found herself hoping for a letter from Bobby Lee on tour, though she knew that was a silly idea. They were in daily contact via phone and email; no need for letters anymore. But she was nostalgic for those long-ago days when something would be waiting in the mailbox when she came home from work. The romance of reading a letter over and over again, folding it up and saving it in a pretty box, maybe even reading parts out loud to a girlfriend, was something email couldn’t duplicate. She loved Bobby Lee and a lot about their life together, but if there was one thing missing these days it was romance.

She rolled the chair up the ramp, juggling briefcase and mail, and stopped at the front door to reach into her purse and fumble for her keys.

“Let me help with that,” said a deep voice from the shadows of the porch.

Startled, Charlotte dropped her mail and her briefcase.

“What? Who’s there?” she said.

Dickie Jaspers stepped out from the shadows and stooped to collect Charlotte’s armload of stuff.

“Dickie, what’s the matter? Aren’t you supposed to be out with the guys?”

“Supposed to doesn’t mean is,” the guitar player said cryptically. “We had a little setback, a few days’ layover, so I thought I’d pop on back to check my mail, and while I was at it, check on you.”

Charlotte thought this was incredibly weird. She had never much liked Dickie Jaspers, but put up with him because he was practically family. He and Bobby Lee had grown up together, learned to play guitar together. But Dickie had turned sour at some point, and become a heavy drinker. She wondered why Bobby Lee kept him around.

“I guess I’m just a loyal kind of guy,” Bobby Lee would say when asked. “How would you like it if you got dumped by your oldest pal just because you’d hit some skids? I believe in giving everyone the benefit of the doubt. Plus he’s a damn good picker.”

There had been too few benefits and too many doubts in recent years, if you asked Charlotte, but there was no way in the world she would dream of interfering in Bobby Lee’s band. It would be like him trying to tell her how to write her graduate thesis.

“So,” Dickie smiled, “aren’t you going to offer a guy a drink after I came all this way to see the prettiest woman in Nashville?”

“Sure, come on in.” Charlotte sighed. “Give me a minute while I get Valerie situated. I have to warn you I don’t have much time, though. There’s a sitter coming and I have to go to a show in a little while; a benefit for Tammy Lynn Jones’ family. She’s just another country star who was somehow too broke to have health insurance. Seems like I’m going to two of those a week these days.” Charlotte realized she was babbling, but Dickie was making her uncomfortable, leaning in close, staring at her with a puzzling intensity.

She got Valerie settled in her special chair and opened a can of soup to give her for dinner.

“Want some split pea? I can open another can,” she offered.

“No ma’am,” Dickie drawled. “I believe I’d just like a sip of whiskey if you don’t mind.”

“You know where we keep it, help yourself. There’s ice in the fridge if you want it.”

Dickie poured himself a drink and settled in on the sofa to watch his friend’s wife multitask after her long day. She listened to the messages on her answering machine while heating Valerie’s dinner, then opened mail while expertly feeding the girl with a small spoon. Valerie, an exquisite child, had Rett syndrome. She could not walk, talk, or feed herself, but she was capable of communicating with her eyes, and as she stared across the room at Dickie he got the uncomfortable feeling that she didn’t like or trust him.

Charlotte, busy with her evening routine, seemed oblivious to the hate-beams Dickie felt Valerie was sending his way. She finished feeding her daughter, washed a few dishes, and glanced at the clock.

“Oh my god, Dickie, it’s later than I thought. Hey listen, I don’t know why my sitter’s not here yet, but could you do me a favor? I have got to be at this event in less than an hour—I’m on the committee—and need to shower and change. Could you watch Val for a few minutes? I won’t be long, I promise.”

Dickie sipped his drink and nodded, so Charlotte went back to her bedroom and ran the shower. While waiting for the water to heat up she selected her outfit and jewelry for the evening—a simple black dress, the gold hoop earrings Bobby Lee had given her on her last birthday, a small pendant on a thin gold chain. As she stepped out of her jeans and opened the shower door, she thought she saw something move in the bathroom mirror, and turned around, startled to see Dickie standing in the doorway, wearing a drunken smile and unzipping his jeans.

“Come here, beautiful,” he said.

“Aw, Dickie, you’re such a kidder,” she replied, trying to sound way more casual than she felt as she reached for a towel.

“You don’t need that, sweetheart. You’re a beautiful woman, Charlotte, and you must be horny and lonely with your man gone all the time. Come over here and let me take care of you, baby.”

“Uh, Dickie…I don’t think so.”

Dickie walked over and gently but firmly took the towel out of Charlotte’s hand. He looked at her with drunken adoration while she assessed the situation, trying to remember all the things she’d read about what to do to prevent getting raped.

Scream and fight, one article had said. But who would hear her? Valerie was unable to help and the sitter hadn’t arrived. Rape is about violence, not sex, another article had advised, stay calm. And then there was the advice her mother had always given her: Pretend you’re into it. Stall for time, say you need to get your diaphragm and turn off the phone—whatever it takes to calm him down so you can call for help.

“Look, Dickie,” she tried again. “This is crazy. Let’s not do something we’ll both regret tomorrow. I’m a married woman, and not only that I’m married to your lifelong friend. As tempted as we may be, it’s just plain wrong.”

“Baby, he doesn’t ever have to know. I just can’t stand to see you so lonely night after night, while your man is living it up on the road.”

Dickie leaned in even closer and began stroking Charlotte’s long, black hair while his other hand cupped her breast. “So pretty,” he whispered. “Such a fucking waste of pretty.”

She pushed him away. “Stop it, Dickie. Just stop right now. This is really crazy, honey.”

Dickie backed away, looking down in apparent remorse.

“Please, Charlotte,” he said. “There’s so much you don’t know; so much you don’t know about the road. I’ve always had a thing for you, haven’t you felt our chemistry? Don’t you want me too, baby?”

“Uh, Dickie…” Charlotte said as she racked her brain for any hint of a memory of ever having led him on.

He walked over to her and grabbed one of her wrists in each hand, forcing her to look up at him as her towel dropped to the floor. He was sobbing, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“You don’t, you can’t know what it’s like out there.”

“I’m sure there are a lot of things I don’t know, but I have a big life here. I don’t need to police my husband’s tour. And if there’s been some indiscretion here and there, I’d rather not know. You need to worry about your own relationships, not mine.”

Dickie’s grip grew stronger as he grabbed one of her wrists in each hand and forced them behind her back.

“I don’t think you understand, Charlotte,” he sobbed. “There are so many things you don’t understand.” His grip tightened on her wrists, still behind her back, as he rubbed up against her naked skin, pressing her to the bathroom wall. Charlotte closed her eyes and tried to stay calm.

“You’re drunk,” she said. “Come on. Let me get dressed and we’ll go downstairs and make some coffee…”

“I may have had a few, but I’m not too drunk to know I have it bad for you,” he growled. “Come on, baby, relax. Let go. Let me take you to the moon.”

Dickie was a strong man and a slim, petite woman like Charlotte should have been no match for him. But he hadn’t accounted for the strength training she’d been doing in order to lift Valerie out of her wheelchair. Charlotte pretended to give in to Dickie’s restraints and slumped backwards to allow herself some room to maneuver. Then she took a deep, full breath and howled, while pushing his hands away and simultaneously kneeing him in the groin.

“I’ll send you to the moon, asshole! Get away from me and get the fuck out of my house!” she shouted, as he lay groaning on the floor.

“You bitch,” he whimpered. “You fucking bitch—if you only knew what I know about your precious Bobby Lee.”

“Just get up and get out,” she said through clenched teeth. “Now. If you haven’t cleared out of here in five minutes I’m calling the co—”

A door slammed downstairs.

“Hi, Mrs. C., sorry I’m late,” a perky voice shouted from the hallway.

“Hey, Emily,” Charlotte called back, aware of the effort it took to make her voice sound normal. “I’m just getting dressed. Valerie’s been fed, and I rented a couple of DVDs for you two to watch. They’re in my bag right by the door.”

“OK,” she whispered to Dickie. “You are going to get out of my house. If you don’t, I’ll scream and Emily will dial 911. Got me, cowboy?”

“Yup,” Dickie whined as he rubbed his tender groin. Charlotte got dressed, her hands shaking, running her hands through her hair trying to make herself look as normal as possible. By the time she was ready, Dickie was sitting on the bed, putting on his boots.

“Come with me,” she ordered. You’re my cousin from Duluth.”

They walked down the hall together, and Charlotte made brief introductions before she motioned to Dickie to follow her out the door. She walked over to her car, relieved to see that the Kropffs across the street were sitting on their front porch, and the next-door neighbor was mowing his lawn in the dwindling evening light.

“Dickie, I never want to see you in this house again unless Bobby Lee is here,” she said sternly. “Ever.”

“You know that kid who’s on the tour? The boy from up in Northern California?”

“Sure, Sarah Jean’s son. I’ve known his parents for years.”

“That’s for damn sure, at least one of ’em,” Dickie snorted.

“What?”

He leaned over. She flinched as he drew closer and whispered something into her ear, then turned on his heels and disappeared, laughing, into the deepening twilight.

Oats Brings Down the House

18

There’s something magical about that little bit of time between sound check and the show. That night before his last show with the band, Oats smelled barbeque and beer and as a fresh California breeze blew the day’s heat away, he began to feel the excitement that always came before a show, no matter how bad things were.

People in different bands end up doing different things with this time. Back home at the Dewdrop Inn, he’d sound check and then likely as not have to go finish his homework. On the Lollipopalooza tour the kids would usually play during the day, so they’d sound check in the morning, then all go get some lunch before the show. With Bobby Lee’s band, everyone spent this time differently. Dickie and Willie would hit the bar; Jeremy and Rascal usually went off by themselves to call their families before the kids went to bed; and Bobby Lee and Billy were always hunched over the set list trying to figure out if “Train to Memphis” should go before “Grandstand of Love” or after. Without Pete around, Oats was left to his own devices, and his devices usually led him in a straight beeline to the garlic fries.

That fourth of July evening, he took Eddie, Hank Wilson, Melody, and her friends along. The girls were gushing over how good Oats had sounded on stage. He didn’t mind, really, but there was a part of him that was worried. The old saying, “bad dress rehearsal, good show,” came to mind. What this meant was that you shouldn’t worry if you screw up at sound check.

“You see, Oats,” his grandmother used to say, “each performer is given a finite number of mistakes when he or she is born. The tricky thing is, none of us know how many mistakes we get. But one thing I do know is this: the more mistakes you make in rehearsal, the fewer you will make when the real show rolls around. It’s just the way things are.”